In a gathering this large, the loss of two dozen Guardians is a dent -- but not a hole. Not visibly. Not in the mass of fur and skin and voices, but
in hearts? Oh, yes. There is not a tribe represented here tonight who did not have some kind of connection to the Guardians of Cold Crescent. Some were blood kin. Some were tribemates. They fought together, they fought with each other, they were packs, they were brothers and sisters and -- yes, sometimes -- simply friends. The sting of what was done goes deeper than the loss of life, though. The shame. The fear. Even now, some can smell the death, feel the taint of that violation like a film over their skins.
The Elders and Athros are quiet tonight, as they often are at moots. Adrens speak, mostly packs forming or new members joining, a challenge of grievance here or there, the guardianship of kinfolk changing hands. In fact, that takes up quite a bit of time in the moot at the start: the Guardians of Cold Crescent by and large did not claim protectorates and families of kin, but some did, or some did by default. Those kinfolk need to be looked out for, and for some time, there are discussions and even a few arguments around this, but they are rather tidily dealt with by tribal elders and the Master of Challenges. Avery's contribution to this largely consists of stepping in when things get heated and suggesting that a simple challenge be taken, rather than a lengthy argument that can only devolve into rage and recriminations.
And then the Fosterns and Cliaths have their turn. And Ingrid, like many, has the sickness of Cold Crescent's attack riding high under her skin. It was like a current underneath every discussion about the surviving family members of dead Guardians. It intensified every aspect of every discussion.
So, skipping the lines of rank and striding forward and holding out her hand. Avery looks at her, knowing what is coming, and gives her a deep nod in return before she hands over the staff-like bone.
--
Ingrid's questioning is apt, and on point, and unexpected. It is also not taken seriously by a solid half of the garou she faces. But frankly: fuck them. It's taken seriously by the wolves who were at the makeshift warmoot in the hotel earlier this month, and it's taken seriously enough that the cliaths and fosterns of the septs take that question and run with it.
Many of higher ranks stand back while the Fool manages the Cracking. Avery herself hangs back, silent, listening to the answers, and listening to the tenor of the gathering: is the rage growing too high? Is the honor of the moot being besmirched? Her arms are crossed over her chest. She longs to join the discussion, but it is not her place. Not this month.
Still Waters brings up history: the attacks on Forgotten Questions, nothing special. Years later, attacks on Cold Crescent with sickening rituals, where the Beloved Horror was halved and retreated. Now this. Now the Guardians have been destroyed. Now the sept's shrines have been violated. She says: this location means something to them.
There is a stirring across the way from a few garou who have been here longer than Cold Crescent has stood.
She closes with conjectures. It's personal. It can't just be a change in strategy. Oh and: what if the rituals they're performing give them extra power?
--
Behind Avery, Forgotten Warder stands a hulking black beast, and her enormous handpaw folds in on itself, clenching, then slowly releasing. A flex.
--
Ingrid gets no answer to her question from the elders, not right away. She takes her turn as a cliath to say: I am sorry. Maybe not in those exact words. But she admits what she and the others have done, and around the circle there is the Master of Rites of Forgotten Questions, a clear-eyed Theurge who lost his left arm in a battle a long time ago, his long black hair in a firm braid down his back. Many mistake him for a war vet when he goes into towns; he is, but not of any of their wars. Those clear eyes of his flicker slightly as Ingrid, Keisha and Thomas all
kneel.
They seem very small in the forms they wear, among many garou who stand in hispo, even more who come to moots in crinos. They kneel because they do not have the rite to supplicate themselves. Ingrid, for her part, offers her services as a Guardian, or perhaps simply informs Forgotten Questions that she will go to the Warder of Cold Crescent and do so... if he will even see her. But they are young, each of them, and they witnessed firsthand one of the most appalling attacks any of these garou have seen in their lives.
It is the Ritemaster who walks forward, his brow furrowed and his stride long. His right arm reaches out, and Avery -- with a startled blink -- hands it over without thinking. That's the authority he moves with, and his rank shows as clearly as an aura gleaming around him. Or, better put: like his wisdom is down to the very marrow of his bones, his honor sewn into the sinew and muscle of every form he can take. The bone looks right in his hand. Standing in the circle of those gathered, he looks like he belongs there. Like no one else could.
"Get up," he says to the three Cliaths. And by god, if they don't obey him. His voice is like a storm. When they have risen, he addresses them directly, gesturing with the bone as though it is a staff; he looks as comfortable with it as though he could fight with it, if he had to. Keisha recognizes that familiarity.
And then he stops talking to them at all. He looks at the elders -- his own pack, of a sort. The Great Alpha. The Forgotten Warder. The Master of Challenges. All those who hold highest rank and greatest sway within Forgotten Questions.
"Where are the elders of Cold Crescent? Why are they not kneeling before their people?"
Now that is a rhetorical question.
"Because I would tear the throat out of Warning Threshold if he got on his knees in this circle!" shouts the Master of Rites, and even in homid it is nearly a growl. And a surprising burst of rage from a Theurge, even one of his rank and age. The Glass Walkers who have attended tonight stir, but bite their tongues.
"Who should have found Champion of Honor? Who should have cleansed him and searched his mind and soul? Who programs" and he spits the word out, literally spits a small pocket of saliva from his lips at the word, "the fetish they rely on in that building to tell them whose soul is tainted and whose is clean? Who failed to watch him when he rose from his bed, and who failed to follow him? Who failed to notice that the Guardians were all in the sept instead of protecting their territory? Who dishonors themselves and Gaia by not even showing their faces tonight?"
He has, without seeming to notice, shifted into glabro, quite a bit taller and broader of shoulder, his hand ending in neat but fragile claws that dig into the enormous rib-bone he holds. His voice comes from behind sharpened teeth.
"They. Have. FAILED!" he roars.
"Now two dozen of our best are disgraced and buried, we do not know how or why, and only three Cliaths have the honor to hold themselves accountable for their part in those deaths." This time when his hand flexes on the bone, there is a loud cracking sound as it splinters a bit in his grip. His chest is heaving. He wants to say more, and perhaps there is more to say, but he throws the bone back at Avery, who rushes to catch it before it hits the ground, and stalks back to those of his rank, fury lashing the air around him.
She takes a moment to recover, and swallows, and straightens herself up. Others ask for the bone: those who will search for information, those who will guard. Avery smiles a bit at Javed at those words and, when he is done and Hector has also spoken, Avery holds the bone and informs the septs:
"For those of you who have not met me, my name is Avery Chase, Reverence of Dawn, From Whom the Stars Shall Not Be Hidden by Sunlight. I will join those who guard the territory around the Sept of the Cold Crescent."
--
The moot continues. A cub gets a chance to scramble forward and request a Rite of Passage. The Cracking is winding down, and Avery moves forward to bring her segment to a close, only to have the Great Alpha walk forward, a massive direwolf with hulking shoulders and heavy paws leaving dents in the earth. She pauses a moment, then lays down the bone at his feet. She does not stay in the center of the circle as she has all through the Cracking. Sensing that his voice will be the last heard for this part of the moot, Avery simply walks away, rejoining those of her rank, her tribe, watching to hear what he says.
In the end, it is very little. His voice is human, coming slowly from that heavy throat, pushing along a wolf's tongue and teeth, and it resonates palpably through the caern's penumbral air.
"The leaders,"
he does not call them elders. They are not his elders.
"of Cold Crescent
will be
dealt with."
He crushes the center of the bone under one dangerously clawed paw, snapping it in half, and returns to his place, settling down once more, belly to the earth.
my whole life is thunder.
