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October: Revel
#1
[It's all you, Javed!]
my whole life is thunder.
#2
The time for stories and songs is done; the bone has been cracked and business for the septs, challenges and disputes and announcements, have been handled. The moot is drawing to a close and one Garou, who has remained in his breed form this whole time, has remained quiet throughout but for the Howl, not speaking up during the Songs, the Cracking or any other point. Javed Anubis-Sight has stayed silent in his spot next to his packmate, holding his own building tension in check. There has been no release for him throughout, no moment of song nor words to let himself diffuse the knot of pressure boiling at his core.

It is not an understatement to say that tension has been running very high throughout the two septs of Denver and they've reached a new pitch over the last month. Elders from the one sept have gone in and blunt-force removed the elders from the other, one by one until none remained. Garou from both septs are here, side by side, and that division can likely be felt stronger than ever before, in the way the one has encroached on the other. This is a moment that the Garou of Denver need. And Anubis-Sight, this child of one bird of prey who is packed under another, has an intrinsic understanding of that.

So when the business of the moot is resolved and the Great Alpha draws the Cracking of the Bone to a close, the one-eyed metis rises to his feet, a low growl emanating forth. The sound is distinctly raw in its primordial nature, beginning deep in the Ahroun's throat as he steps to the center of the gathering. He cultivates the sound, turning his attention to those whose eyes have come to rest upon him now.

The edge of his muzzle rises up as he turns to his packmate, one of two people he can specifically identify in this moment (the other being the imposing Hispo of the Great Elder himself). One baleful eye stares at her, the rumble in his chest reverberating as he draws close. It is an action that could be interpreted as a near-challenge to lose control, turns what is likely to be discomfort into something different. Something deeper and more primal.

And just like that he's whirled away, stalking toward Celduin. He circles around them, never showing his back with the low growl raising in pitch and volume. Echoes of the Lost and Cinder Song, who sang of them all during the Stories and Songs…they see claws flex, shoulders hunch but the Ahroun moves to quickly around for them to ever be able to fully face him. The lupus Law in War is not free from this either; they are circled as one unit, the Fostern treating the pack as a single entity to be goaded. Not with whoops and hollers, because that is not the Strider's way. He is not an exuberant creature, but one of a Rage deep enough that it is felt throughout his being at all times, held back with his restraint and Honor. Both wear thin as he stalks around the children of Fog, anticipation slowly building.

And so it continues, as he moves to another pack, and another. He invades the personal space of one pack, forcing them to shed their notions of human semblance and remember what burns deep inside of them—not humanity, but a fury born of Gaia and the spiritual core that makes them so much more than human or wolf. The non-packed Garou get special attention; the Strider gets directly in the face of Thunder’s Cry Echoes From the Sea and issues a low snarl. Pokes the Mind's Eye, the newly-arrived Ragabash, is next and he leans in close blasts air through his nostrils, and gnashes his teeth.

And so it goes. No pack avoids being targeted; the duo of Baklava Republik and the Theurges of the Desert Oracles are treated as one pack, circled and snapped at as one to force them together and use whatever tension may remain between them to drive their Rage higher and (consequently) drive them ever together. The Philodox and Ragabash from Stone Cold are woven between, forcing them apart for a moment as the jackal-headed war form of the Strider snaps at one, then the other. There are other packs as well, goaded and wordlessly threatened and, as the fever pitch of the tension rises, barked and snarled at.

And finally, he is back up at front and he stares out among the Garou of both septs, whipped up and at the height of their passion and he

Roars.

And with that sound, the sound of a warrior calling to scour and hunt and drive prey away, he takes off to lead those creatures of war, destruction, passion and Rage, the perfect killing machines, on a race through the Sept to drive it free…ostensibly of any little remnants of taint that may have infected this area, but in truth what they are driving out is the human notions of division and individuality, the identity and foibles and hurt feelings that make them separate. Wherever they end the Revel, whatever prey they have caught and killed or driven away to make this place ever more sanctified, the most important things that they've driven away—if they're lucky—are those walls that divide them and the reasons that they refer to the other Sept, the other packs, the other Auspices, breeds, tribes as them. That night, at the end, it is us.
"The anger of a good man is not a problem. Good men have too many rules."
"Good men don't need rules. And today's not the day to find out why I have so many."
#3
The Strider comes for the Theurges and Baklava Republik and Phoebe ripples upward into the Hispo form. She is not so big as the Ahroun, not so stout, not so agile, but the fur all along her back bristles. The teeth of the Fury show pale bright against the jet black of her fur and she snarls back, ears flattening as she steps back, back, not away, not cowering but

joining with Erich, wherever he is. Side by side, back to back, however they end up, the Alphas stand together with their packs joined as one, united in this purpose.

=====

Tries. Anubis Sight tries to weave between the wolves of Stone Cold but Ingrid is a watchful woman with a predator's grace and instinct. Before he even reaches the duo, she has shifted smoothly up her warform. She is quick in all her forms, lissome. In a form that's made for brutal devastation, Dances With the Hurricane moves with an unnatural grace as she meets Javed wherever he goes, teeth snapping, muscles flexing, her own growl growing in her throat. The intent, the truth is this: Ingrid will not be separated from this Garou. Javed will not find this pack divided.

=====

And soon enough Dances With the Hurricane and Siren of Persephone join with the others, moving together or perhaps finally splitting up and separating. Running chasing biting biting biting, united with the septs and with the other packs. Howling their discordant unity into the night until, run down and worn out, their fonts of Rage tapped completely, they drop wherever they end up.
#4
Let's get one thing straight.

The Falcons are dedicated to leadership. To honor. To grace and courage under fire. Who ushered kin and garou alike out of the warmoot when two other wolves were in conflict? It was not one but both of the Falcons. They are two fosterns in concert, in union, and they both speak with patience and wisdom even when they feel their rage and frustration licking at their bones.

But here is what you must remember: they do feel that rage. They are honorable leaders but by god the are warriors, as any who have seen either of them in battle readily attests. They are veritably fearless in the face of their enemy, both of them willing to throw themselves at that sickening opposition wholly, entirely, without reservation. They are wolves.

And like any wolves, particularly wolves whose tribal totems and pack totem are hunters both day and night, they both have a streak of dominance and violence in them that runs very, very deep. They have their own tensions, held in check by politeness and good manners, by self-restraint, by control, by love for Gaia, by respect for the Nation, by so many motivating factors it hardly bears listing them all. They have reasons, good ones, for rising above what is petty or momentary for the sake of the greater, more long-term good. But that doesn't mean they don't feel tension sometimes, that they don't sometimes disagree or step on each other's toes or feel the urge to react with ground-scorching fury.

They don't.

They save it for the enemy.

And for the revel.

--

Avery is in lupus where Javed is in crinos. He begins growling while he is still beside her, rising to that enormous height. Avery bares her teeth, fur bristling, and as the flames of the moot are extinguished into trailing smoke against the moonlit night sky, she grows from a sleek silver wolf to a white creature of myth and nightmare, snarling low and steady as he turns to her.

Javed leans in. This is how it begins: that flint and that steel, coming so very close to scraping against each other and igniting. Avery growls back at him, snaps her jaws at her own packmate, slipping very easily with him into what could, yes, become a challenge, become a frenzy, become all the things they are in their hearts: animal. Monstrous. Savage.

He wheels around and that same instinct that sees her mind momentarily painted with blood causes her to not leap on his back but instantly see whatever he turns to as the enemy. She claws at the ground with her forepaws, snorting and snarling a warning. By the time that Javed stalks around Desert Oracle and Baklava Republik, Avery is on the verge of leaping on the first wolf who brushes against her to start fighting them, just to fight something.

Then he roars, and it ripples through her like a sudden flood, making her shudder, making her begin roaring and snarling, full-throated and mad, mad, mad, mad, mad. She snaps forward like the speed has already built up in her, waiting for this, waiting for anything, and takes off after Javed, kicking up dirt behind her, biting at the heels of cubs and cliaths, running pace to pace with the rest.
my whole life is thunder.


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