February: Opening Howl / Inner Sky
King and Pawn, Fostern Theurge of the Shadow Lords, calls the garou together in a cold that so recently felt like madness. Somehow the full moon's light makes it seem all the colder.

He brings them together near Persse Place, the place where not too long ago the leaders of Cold Crescent were punished, but they do not stand in its physical location. They gather in the penumbra, where the spirit of the place is strong enough to ward off some of that cold and some of that aching loneliness that makes winter bite at one's bones and soul all at once. There is no visible hearthfire but one keeps catching it flickering through the ghostly windows.

Outside the walls where the garou come together, King and Pawn howls for a long, long time, his voice undulating through the reflected night until the whole of the two septs have joined him... and onward, still, as his throat issues ever higher and even deeper pitches, the flow of the howling more erratic, summoning spirit after spirit.

Earth rumbles. Thunder booms. The essences of the broods of the tribal totems lend their voices one after the other, some easily recognizable as a whinny or a growl or a shriek. Others are so alien, so indescribable, that only the children of those tribes quite recognize them.

Gnosis rises from them as one, pale light much easier seen in the penumbra, sometimes colored with the mood or personality of the giver. There are so many of them. They offer of themselves, and Earth soaks it up like rain,

like blood,

drinking their strength into itself.
my whole life is thunder.
On the Caern lands, Siren of Persephone slips into the penumbra as easily as taking one step and then another, the Gauntlet is so thin and her spiritual acuity so great. She walks with her sister, her tall frame wrapped in thick winter clothing, not bundled so thoroughly that she's unrecognizable, but still it is so. damn. cold.

Once across and in the gathering place surrounded by the Garou of Cold Crescent and the Garou of Forgotten Questions and all those who move easily between the two septs, Phoebe sheds her human skin, her figure soaring upward into Crinos, her fur thick and glossy black except for the line that cuts a path over her right shoulder and along her side.

From somewhere she hears the piercing whinny of Pegasus, the crackle of its mighty wings, the thunder of its hooves upon the ground. She feels its power in her blood and in her bones and in her spirit.

Lifting her muzzle to the bright disk of the moon, she adds her siren song of a howl to the cacophony living and spiritual voices, and she pours her Gnosis into the Caern, adding her strength to its power, helping to grant it good health for another turn of the moon.


Somewhere in the mix there is another slight dark shape. Dances With the Hurricane doesn't stand with any pack, nor with any particular group of packless wolves. In her slender, graceful lupus from, she howls, alone but not really. She has her sept and her people, her comrades. For her that is more than enough.
Avery is with the other Falcon plus the cub who has no pack at all but is as good as. Since she can't stand with all those she considers allies and friends at once if they insist on scattering themselves about, she essentially herds them together while the howl is still going on. There are the Oracles, two who are just as good as four, really, they can stand right there, and if Baklava Republik would be so good to stand riiiight in this spot, then Avery will be satisfied, and surrounded by brilliant Theurges and terrifying Ahrouns and it's wonderful, really, just wonderful.

She is dressed all in white, her fair hair covered by a white hood, a gold-threaded scarf around her throat, metallic gold gloves upon her hands, a large white bag hung over her shoulder, carrying the bone for tonight's Cracking.

But for the howl, Avery shifts to lupus. Her otherwise pure white fur seems to sheen silver in places where dedicated items rest on her form, but it is a ghostly presence, deceiving to the eye, disruptive to certainty. She howls happily, unable to stop herself despite the fact that the howl does have a distinctly otherworldly, almost sepulchral feel to it tonight. It just pleases her, more than she can quite bear, when they all come together like this.

It's wonderful. Just wonderful.
my whole life is thunder.
Erich howls! With Charlotte to one side, with Avery to the other, surrounded by otherfriends and otherwolves and maybe even that one Ahroun he met wayyyy early on contesting the Wyrmfoe position -- tail high and wagging, savage joy bursting from his throat,

he howls.
Charlotte paces her way through the winter-bound Caern, earth sunk all jagged and forgotten and forgetting and remembering beneath its skin of ice. She is white as new-fallen snow, fur sheaning silver where the light catches it, like the horizon at dawn, like the moon on water, an adolescent wolf, light-footed and fine, who seems to drift across the snow rather than sinking in, rather than crunching through its layers. Fur thick and heavy, luxurious for the season, eyes bright as first-frost.


So achingly pure that madness must skim as neatly through her veins as the promise of power.


Charlotte, with Erich, with Avery. Hers is a winter howl, an ice-bound howl, a crescent-howl not a full-moon howl, but of course she was born under a cheshire moon. What other song could she hope to sing.
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.

- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
Sophia's presence would be made known as she stood alone for the first time since coming to this place. She lets out a howl that announces she was among them, present and accounted for. Her howl sang a soft and haunting song, something that would be expected from one of her background and lineage.


Milton's howl was simpler, and far less practiced, playing wolf was not his strong suit, he tried it now and again, but he vastly preferred his human form, lack of opposable thumbs made things difficult for him so he didn't have as much practice in his wolfen form, as someone might expect from a Glasswalker.
Keisha is there, of course. The Desert Oracle shows in simple white dress, dreadlocks falling free down her back and feet bare with her staff at her side. She appears with Phoebe, the two of them making their way in together. She is less reserved that she has been for the past several moots, with the spectre of the dark events that occured at the Beloved Horror finding increasing distance in the rear view mirror. She is not the young, overly naive Child of Gaia that she once was, but she is getting there. Or, perhaps, to a new equilibrium.

Once they are cross the Gauntlet into penumbra, Keisha ripples up into her Crinos form. The presence of the spirits makes her brighter, more ethereal and yet more present as well. She raises her head as one with the others and lets go her howl, a song of unity as her spiritual essence flows to help bolster the caern.


Javed Anubis-Sight is, as much as he stands with the others, alone. And that's not really true, of course; in fact, it can be argued that it isn't even a little true. He does not feel isolated from his Philodox packmate as she positions the other Garou she knows around them into a large group. He does not even have a sense of solitude in terms of his pack, with his student Ruby at his side. Rather, he is calm on this night, as he holds himself most nights. He is an island--an island connected to others in inextricable ways, all part of one larger system. But he has no mental link to Avery (which is the way they both prefer it to be), and he stands tall in his hulking, jackal-headed natural form amidst the others, keeping his words and thoughts largely to himself. Each of them contribute to a greater purpose, yet each are individual as well. A beach may look like one entity, but each grain of sand is individual and sees themselve as such.

His words are short and brief; his greetings to others are largely nods and he speaks quietly to Ruby to remind her of the intricacies of the proceedings. It is reinforcement of what she already knows, so that it may sink in and become second nature without her having to think about it.

When it is time to howl, he is already in the right form. And his howl, guttural and ragged as his voice is gravelly, echoes among the many others that night.
"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."
A second time in a row, the lonesome Get of Fenris showed his face within the gathering. This time he wasn't so much on the outskirts, but rather more in the middle of the crowd. He would appear to be blending in were it not for how physically large his form. He was in Lupus, and his pelt was a pale sort of gray that was pristine enough you'd expect to sense some European tribe's breeding in him. There is none, though, nothing to be found.

When the howl rose, the big shaggy head threw back and his deep-throated cry joined the rest.
Thomas comes to join the gathering in lupus, all the better for coming out in the cold and particularly for howling. Without Hector there to chase him into the clearing or to take any cues from or go bounding back to after he greets people, Thomas is subdued again. He doesn't make nearly so much of finding space as he did before he joined Celduin, because months ago when that was something he wanted this wasn't his home.

He greets those he knows, but he doesn't stay where Avery gathers up Baklava Republik and the two remaining Oracles any longer than it takes for greetings. Instead, he leaves them their space and stays quiet until they are

Thomas does love that part. He is not subdued about the howling. He goes quiet and nearly motionless afterward until it is time for stories. But for a few minutes he is lost in being part of their howling.
HOWL HOWL HOWL HOWL HOWL HOWL HOWL from Tamsin who harasses Thomas obviously keep that boy in line but is rather gleefully shepherded by Avery.

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