Loot [attn Kenna, Jamie, Damon]
[Putting the last post of the scene here so you three can discuss IC/OOC who gets what.  Thanks to all of you for joining in this (and being patient for the conclusion).  Here is your reward for helping me get WtA started again. Smile  Enjoy.]

There's nothing to cleanse on the box, thankfully.  The Theurge takes one look at it and touches it, shakes his head, shrugs.  It's got not a trace of the Wyrm on it.  Nothing else weird he can see about it, either.  Just a box.  So back in the car they go, and back to the park, looking for the ghost wolf who showed them the way.

He's still there.  Paler than before though, and much of the fog is gone.  He's almost gone, too.  He wags his tail to see them, 'sniffs' all around them.  Wags some more.  And they want to know if they can open it, or should.  He wants them to: they can feel it.  These were his, when he lived.  And when he died, other things found them, tried to keep them away.  Now they belong to the ones who redeemed them.

The Scourge opens the box.  Inside are three items.  One is actually rather mundane-looking: a leather satchel, a rectangular cross-body bag that looks about big enough to hold a tablet, maybe a small makeup kit, some keys, a wallet.  But its owner tells them the truth: it's a spider's satchel, a magpie spirit bound to it, and it can hold three times what it appears to.  Including complex Weaver objects like guns, tablets, cell phones.

There is also a dagger, heavy and ugly, made of cold black iron.  Its edge doesn't seem very sharp, but the point is.  This one, their ghostly friend explains, is for tracking down stolen items.  If they know the name of the thief, they can find the thief as well.  The dagger hums with anger of a very specific, bitter sort: vengeance.  That spirit lives in it, hungry for retribution.

Finally, there is a gem -- a large phantom quartz, which wouldn't look out of place in the home of a hippy or a witch.  There's a spirit of cuckoo in there, and the ghost wolf calls it a 'dream stealer'; he said he got it only a little while before he died, and did not get to use it.

These belong to the three of them, now, he says.  Rests his muzzle over their hands, saying thank you.  Saying goodbye.  And then fading away.
my whole life is thunder.
Stoic gruff beast that he is, wouldn't imagine much making the wolf sad. Wouldn't imagine him showing it much. Latter might be true enough, but former isn't: he feels sadness, profoundly, when the ghost wolf rests his muzzle against them. There's no real contact. That sail has sailed. There's only the intimation of it, the memory of it, along with gratitude. And goodbye.

The last of the fog lifts, and the phantom is gone. Left in its wake, wolf straightens up. Flexes the hand that the ghost had tried to touch. Looks down at the box, and the last belongings of their fallen brother. Realizes he didn't know that wolf's name, either.

Three gifts for the three of them. Three dead things who'd stolen this, and whose lives paid for its return. Somewhere in that thick skull of his he has some modicum of courtesy; some memory of the laws of their people. He doesn't immediately reach in.

Flicks a glance at the Adren instead. "First share to greatest rank," he mutters.
The Scourge had insisted they see a Theurge, and one was tracked down (likely by the connected nature of Glass Walkers with modern technology).  By the time they found her the effects of his wards against pain had worn off and he was sweating and gritting teeth and favoring his left side, but otherwise not making a show of it.  He seemed to be patiently waiting for the opportunity to lay low in wolfskin and heal up.  The Theurge may have offered to help heal him further, or perhaps they didn't.  Whether in better health or not, The Scourge followed the mission through and brought the box back to the park to present to the Ghost Wolf.

Open it! the wolf had urged.

The Scourge held the box balanced on the broad flat palm of one hand, held it out for one of the other two Garou to pull the lid open.

Inside:  a mystical satchel, a knife that sought out thieves, and a gemstone of yet-undiscovered gifts.

The Scourge seemed less concerned with the bounty in tangible ways, but more wrapped up in the courtesy of the Ghost Wolf who was presenting it to them.  He was dead, thankful that they recovered the loot from non-Gaian hands, and now able to rest.  The Shadow Lord was gracious and expressed that the treasures would be well cared for.  He did no sort of inspection or divvying or claiming until the Wolf had moved on.

When that time had come, Rafael muttered a verse from the Litany in the Adren's direction.  The weathered looking Galliard smiled through a grimace of pain.  He couldn't be older than 35, but for a Wartime Garou that may as well be 65.  It was apparent that the gesture of respect was appreciated (as opposed to simply expected).

Blunt fingers, still crusty with dried blood (almost exclusively his own) plucked the gem from the box.  He would leave the satchel and knife for the Glass Walker and Silver Fang to decide upon themselves.
One might think the Glass Walker would want the spider's satchel but she is not in the business of carrying a third of what would normally fit in that bag around with her on a normal night let alone three times what could possibly fit. Her sharp eyes watch her former alpha as he chooses the object the ghost-wolf had not had the opportunity to use before his passing. The dream-stealer.

A moment to consider the Ahroun before the Fostern picks up the iron dagger in her left hand and tests the weight. She has no proficiency with it as a weapon but as a fetish she can make use of it.

So Hangman Jury tucks the sheath between her belt and the waistband of her jeans. Offers her hand in a silent farewell to the ghost-wolf as it fades into oblivion. Into the Homelands, they can hope.
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon
Left with the satchel, one might expect the wolf -- Ahroun that he is -- to be disappointed. It's so unwarlike a thing, after all. A glorified <i>sack</i>. Yet the perceptive can the faintest flit of a smile at the corners of his mouth as it is left to him. He's pleased with his spoils; maybe was even hoping for it. Regardless, he reaches in unhesitatingly and picks it up, slinging it across his hefty torso.

"I'll take the box to the Caern," he says. "Maybe someone can figure out who he was. Let his people know." Thinks a moment. "Give you guys a ride there if you want."
[Awesome! All of your sheets have been updated with your new toys!]
my whole life is thunder.

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