December: Revel
[Threads for the December 2013 moot will open on December 8th and close on December 17th. In character, the moot occurs on the night of December 17th, the full moon.

Dazzle me, Hector!]
my whole life is thunder.

Here he comes. The Galliard who earlier beat the crap out of an Ahroun who thought she was going to be Wyrmfoe this month. Honorable challenge, not-so-humble challenge winner. This isn't about humble. He's punching and shoving and hollering at everybody he passes from the circle where the Talesinger once stood. Slapping the youngest or mildest-mannered of them over the backs of the head like they haven't been paying attention.


This isn't an approximation of what a Hollywood drill sergeant looks like though. He isn't approximating anything. This isn't a joke to him. The Uktena is fucking furious.

Already he's snapped his human jaws at stronger warriors who knocked him into the dirt that he had to get back up. Already he's snapped his teeth at unpacked Crinos and Hispo wolves. Now he pushes smaller less battle-hardened Cliaths like Over Sea Under Stone and Poke's the Minds Eye so hard they stumble or fall into the dirt if they were not expecting the blows.


His hair is in his face and his eyes are flashing fire as he shoulder-checks Still Waters hard enough she needs to use her staff to catch herself. Shoves Treads the Ashen Path with his hands, feints at her a second time like he has to rattle her memories and her songs just as hard as he rattles her.


This right at his own pack. Right at Cinder Song who came down here from Winnipeg with him, right at Thunder's Cry Echoes from the Sea who still can't smell old blood without going pale and shutting down. Right at the people he'd lay down his own stupid life protecting if he thought it would keep them safe.


Poor Black Sheep. He stops right in front of her and maybe he was about to knock her skinny ass onto the ground too. Even in her war form she'd be thin enough for him to knock down. Hector just says, quieter though everybody within a mile can practically hear him hollering: "You won't."

Whips around to find the rest of her pack, the one who came down here. The one the Galliard recognizes as the alpha wolf. The one whose words he's bolstering. Gets right up in Storm's Teeth's face doesn't matter that he may as well breathe moonlight and pump Rage through his blood and he says to him like he doesn't know like he wasn't the one charging through the darkness after the survivors while the blood ceased flowing:

"I know you won't, you fucking lunatic."

Pushes him two hands on the solid man's chest and turns to find the pack of Fosterns the pack of Falcons the pack of leaders and beacons and by the time he gets to them he at least is so wound up he's losing the ability to form coherent sentences so as he walks he shifts into his wolf skin steam rising up out of his jaws and snout like a warning of fire and he gets right up in their faces same as he got right up in everybody else's faces the entire way down here and then he growls a warning growl meant for the Wyrm not meant for them but it's in their face all the same.

Yips at Reverence of Dawn. Sharp and angry. Barks at Anubis-Sight. Come on come on.

Beloved Horror is out there. They will chase Beloved Horror. They will. Last of all the Garou he harries this night he runs up on Siren of Persephone runs back past everyone he already shoved and stared into and screamed at just so he can find her nip her snarl at her there's nothing here to chase there's nothing here to kill and then he jumps back plants his feet throws back his head.

Howls an anthem. Howls an alarm. Sharp and deadly as their fangs and claws all of them and it keeps up until all the air has gone out of his lungs faded up into the sky as a ringing memory of their fury and their losses and their futures all the reasons they fight and have no purpose but to fight.

And Echoes of the Lost goes tearing off into the woods then. Nipping at everyone he passes. Drawing blood where he thinks he needs to draw blood.

Maybe Siren of Persephone will summon the spirit they need to chase. Maybe her whole pack will. Maybe they will just have to chase him until they find enough unwitting beasts to tear to shreds and cleanse the Bawn for a moon.

Either way Earth gluts itself on their spirit tonight.


jamie @ 10:49AM
[stam + empathy: call of the wyld lupus style]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 4, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 4 ) [WP] VALID

There were like two people in the OOC room when I rolled this but nobody said "WITNESSED" so I hope this is legit?
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
[I was there I call witness! And will post up proper-like tomorrow!]
Avery snaps her jaws at Hector when he comes near her. She shifts the bulk of her hunting form slightly in front of the cub that she and her packmate have been flanking at the moot, curling her lips back to snarl at the Uktena. As delighted as she was during the songs and tales to hear about the little Wyldling that was adopted into Cold Crescent, as high as her energy got during the Cracking, she is a live wire of energy that is nearly manic at this point. She all but vibrates with it.

It is easy to forget, when one has only seen her lead, heard her speak, watched her smile or laugh and toss her hair, that she is a creature born of rage. That she lives with the madness that preys on all of her tribemates, knowing it can only get worse, knowing that what clarity she owns now has a short, brutal lifespan. She has felt the edge of that sword on the back of her neck since she was an adolescent, and though for Avery it has only made her stand straighter, taller, speak up louder, she knows one day it will start to draw her blood.

Who wouldn't be angry?

Her eyes flash at the Wyrmfoe. Her teeth take some of his fur. She was born for the sunlight, and they are in the darkest time of the year. The growl she issues starts in the pit of her belly, like a fire sparking and slowly building.

Then not slowly doing anything.


When the howl snaps through the crowd, Avery is off like a shot. She wants to slaughter something tonight.

Maybe she will.
my whole life is thunder.
Phoebe was a bit uneasy that a Galliard would be leading the Revel. Sure Hector does a pretty damn fine job rousing the masses when he and his packmates tell their stories, but this? This is a different thing.

Immediately that uneasiness dissipates in a flare of Rage.

Hector makes his way through the ranks toward Desert Oracle, but when he tries to shove the Theurges he finds himself before a wall of black fur. Even in the warform Siren of Persephone is tall and too skinny, but this form is roped with lean muscle. Her claws are just about as sharp as anyone's, her fangs just as capable of tearing out Hector's throat.

The Oracles are all women grown. They are all warriors of Gaia. They can take care of themselves. But Phoebe is their leader, and so when Hector goes for Winona her Alpha's teeth snap so close to Hector's face he can feel the hot steam of her breath blown across his skin. He shoves at Keisha and Phoebe lowers herself to all fours, an awkward position in a humanoid form. She sinks her claws into the hardpacked earth, digs great gouges, hackles rising as she snarls. Phoebe chose this high exposed location because the Garou of Denver have been disparate for too long. Just as she showed in her first challenge for Caller, they may be wild and untamed. They may be city-bridled. But deep down (or riding on the surface of their skin, rippling through the bristle of their fur) they are all Garou. They needed to be brought together, to stand together, to be united.

Echoes of the Lost completes the rite Phoebe started. He builds up their Rage and soon they will run together, Rage together, roar and howl and hunt together. They will chase down an epiphling summoned for the purpose, by Phoebe or her sisters or some other Theurge in the snarling, growling crowd.

The howl goes up. When Phoebe joins in it is not the lovely captivating melodious voice they all know she has, but short and harsh and angry. Then she's off, running on hands and and then four legs as she shifts to something made for speed and power and slaughter.
All of the lunging and snapping and Echoes of the Lost baiting him with the one thing that always, always bothers him sets his fur standing up and sets him on edge and he bares his teeth some. He does not growl, he does not snap his teeth at his alpha, but when they are finally released to hunt he goes charging forward without hesitation.
Cinder Song, Furious Lament is relieved once the Tales and Songs have come and gone. No longer her responsibility. No longer her need to drive the stories forward push and pull The People into remembering, and it'd be silly to think that's all Galliards are. Storytellers. It'd be silly to think that's all Cinder Song, Furious Lament was, so she is perhaps a bit too happy when it's Hector's time to be Wyrmfoe and lead the whole damned Sept in a wild chase through the darkness. Who better than an Uktena, though? An Uktena Galliard, to drum up some Wyrm-thing, to lead the pursuit after darkness --

That's how Tamsin'll probably tell it. Because while it would be a silly to think all Galliards do is tell stories, Tamsin is nothing if not a storyteller. If not a vocal creature. So that's how she'll probably tell it, that moot when Echoes of the Lost went chasing the echo down through the darkness and our teeth went for his fur but he was too fast and our Rage crackled high logs in heat but no fire the fire deep inside and --

The point is Tamsin's too happy to be angry, at least immediately. So she pretends. She grins at Hector then pretends to be riled up and when she howls it's a pretending persuading c'mon this is a time for blood and I am not happy and I am not relieved this mood this ambience this is a thing that is happening now and, until what she's pretending becomes real, she pretends perfectly. That howl is bloodthirsty; it wants for something. It wants for its foes. It wants to destroy its foes; it wants to squash their echoes and tear their shadows with their teeth.

And Rage doesn't care about anger, doesn't care about happiness, doesn't care about anything but itself, even if there are sparks, and finally and eventually Tamsin just flings herself into pursuit, flings herself into Rage-kindled racing, hunting, finding, hungering

because it's the Cold Moon, and the only thing that'll warm the Cold Moon

is hot blood.

The pretending Just for fun! Jamie was the witness.
Lux @ 8:49PM
[Quick, a lying roll for Tamsin!]
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 6 ) Re-rolls: 2 VALID
Nate @ 8:52PM
[WHAT THE FUCK witnessed]
Javed, in his terse, matter-of-fact way, had explained all of the moot rites to her before -- prepared her for what was coming, and what her role would be.

So, she'd been prepared for this rite. Javed, as usual, made everything sound so wholesome. This is the time when they become as one pack, united, casting off human notions of being separate. This is the time when they embrace their natures, and cleanse the sept.

If there is one thing, however, that Ruby does not wish to do, it is to embrace her nature. She holds on to rage with a vice-grip, keeping it in at all costs, because she is so afraid that to let go is to hand the reins over to something else that will use her, will only allow her to peer through her eyes as her puppeted body does terrible things.

She'd been prepared for the rite, but not for herself.

Hector challenges everyone, but it's not her fight, it's theirs. He's not talking about her. She tries to hold on, but she can feel it, rising in the air like static, the way the tension builds. The man can no longer be a man, and growls instead of shouts, yipping and barking at the wolves to her sides, and she almost leaps out at him, teeth bared, paradoxically enraged that he would bait her into anger -- except that Avery gets there first.

And, just there... it becomes apparent as to why she has been sandwiched between these two the whole night. It's Avery's place to get there first, and for Ruby to follow. They won't let her get anything wrong.

It is acceptable, in this place, at this time, to feel -- to want to hunt, and drip blood between her claws, and belong in a place, lowly as hers might be.

The howl slips through them all like the release a bolt of lightning must feel on its way down. And they are as one, even Ruby, reckless, for the first time in too long.
When Avery snaps her jaws at Hector, she does not do so alone. The Falcons, they are a pack and while they do not share their thoughts, they can be (and are) of one mind far more often than people might think. Of course, in this case it isn't difficult for them to do so, with Hector pushing and provoking and riling them up.

Javed's righteous anger, granted to him by Gaia, is prodigious. He holds it back, but it is no small feat. And it is oh so easy to let go, let that deceptively thin facade crumble away and leave a snarling beast behind. He's already in Crinos--he remains in such throughout moots unless he has reason to speak at the Cracking of the Bone. It is his breed form, after all. And that jackal's head, it snarls and it stares with a fire of anger burning behind the one good eye.

His student, the cub, holds back, but can only do so for so long. Javed...his only holding back is to keep from rushing before the howl. Once it has begun, he's right alongside his packmate and his student, charging ahead to seek and destroy.
"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."

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