February: Revel
When the howls have quieted and the bone is cracked and the last of the stories has met its raucous applause (or laughter, or groans, or tears), tonight's Wyrmfoe steps forward. She is a slight young woman, dark-haired, with a smattering of freckles, bright eyes, and veritably dripping with Shadow Lord breeding. More than a few deride her for her forthrightness, and plenty have said that she'd make a better kinswoman than wolf, but all the same, she is a Fostern Ahroun of her tribe.

Her black Adidas track jacket is zipped all the way up, the tip of the collar obscuring her jaw, covering her throat. She walks out after Bright Spear has brought the songs and tales to a close, looks out over those gathered,

then pins her eyes on another Fostern. Someone a bit bigger than her but someone that everyone there knows she could take in a raw fight, someone with a Real Purty Face, someone she knows is well-liked enough that no one is going to take this well.

Silhouette of Clouds, February Wyrmfoe, walks across the gathering to Siren of Persephone, gives her a sharp nod, says:

"Yuf," by way of greeting,

then punches her in the face. It's a solid blow to Siren's jaw, lightning-fast as one might expect from a Fostern Ahroun, so quickly delivered and so powerfully done that it comes as a shock and lands with an audible CRACK.

And that is how the brawl starts: in homid, with probably more than one wolf leaping at the Wyrmfoe to punch her rightback. Eventually some may shapeshift, but those who take crinos or hispo soon find the Wyrmfoe in their face, snarling a warning, snapping her jaws. That doesn't mean it's a bloodless fight. It doesn't mean it isn't dangerous to do something like this, but Silhouette is one of a few who makes sure to keep moving throughout the gathering as its going on. The moon is full and some of the garou here are young; more than few will wake tomorrow with injuries laid on them by those who had to put them down.

There's a lot of room for 'accidents', but Silhouette recruited several Ahrouns and others, some even Guardians, to help her keep watch over this Revel. They sacrifice their chance to completely let go so that everyone else can.

That doesn't mean they don't get into the bare-knuckled brawl a bit, though. At one point, the Wyrmfoe has leapt on the back of Thunder's Cry and clocks him upside the head before turning tail and bolting away -- cackling -- from the rest of Celduin, who may very well try to eat her.
my whole life is thunder.



She's not standing too far away from Phoebe, and she hears the way it sounds when those battle-hardened knuckles make contact with that perfection of bone structure known as Phoebe Stavros's jaw. Avery's own jaw has dropped, her eyes widened, and she simply looks stunned for a moment.

Yet how many times has she regretted that her brother cannot rough-house with her anymore, because he cannot help that gleam of terror in his eyes when he sees an equal gleam or rage or savagery in hers? How many times has she felt an almost embarrassing joy mingled with an even more embarrassing sorrow when fighting the enemy, wishing she didn't have to kill them so quickly because it's just such a relief to hit something, tear at something, bite and rip and thrash and claw at something?

She joins the fray. After that initial moment of shock, after that polite pretense of humanity, Avery lets herself go. Because here, and now, she can.
my whole life is thunder.
Phoebe is ready for something. It's the time of the Revel, and each month it's been a little different. The result is the same, though, an outpouring of Rage in a hunt, a chase, a release of grief and now Silhouette of Clouds is walking right up to her. Is she going to ask her to summon up something for them to chase? Is she going to pass her by? Is she


The blow hits her so hard Phoebe's head rocks back and she takes a step back to catch herself. For a moment she sees little blasts of bright white light clouding up her vision. Then the stars and the moon come back into focus and Phoebe is standing up straight. By now someone (someones?) has surely lunged for the Fostern Ahroun, and the brawl has begun in earnest and it's time to join the fray.

She lets go. Eventually she does shift, but only up to Glabro. It happens without conscious thought, one moment she's trying and failing to hit Hector and the next she's half a foot taller and trying to grab some other Galliard by the hair.

Yes, there is hair pulling. And stomping on someone's in-step. Once or twice (more, really) Phoebe finds herself knocked to the ground but rolls herself back up to her feet again, ready to hit back, fight back, grrr rar grr! She lasts a little longer in this form than she might have otherwise, but she is not so adept at fighting as most of the others.

Eventually she wakes up in her breed form, collapsed atop one or two other wolves with someone else's body pinning her legs.


Elsewhere, a graceful little Ragabash slips through the tumult of the brawl. Ingrid is not made for brawls, or rather she is not made for getting hit. This is why she didn't try to protect anyone with her body out in the airport, but rather took advantage of any time a reptilian creature lunged for or latched onto a comrade. She is a creature of speed, grace, and precision.

At some point, Erich finds her ducking beneath his arm, slipping into his personal space to strike him in the side before dancing out of his reach again. Just one hit, a sign that bygones are bygone, friendship on again, et cetera et cetera? Probably not, but the past is the past and somehow other Garou have heard of their falling out and have gotten the idea that Ingrid (and Erich too one supposes) are so unprofessional that they can't be trusted to work together. And that needs to stop immediately.

For all her unnaturally graceful, predatory agility, the place is a mess of frenzied fighting. Someone manages to clock her in the side of the head and the world goes dark.
It's Valentine's Day, it's a full moon, and Ruby had to get up today and see people anyway. In other words, the normally holding-it-all-in Ruby's having difficulties with that already.

The first person she had to get up and see today was transparent. He was in bed with her, telling her how dead he was, and what was she going to do about it? As though she knows.

It's a good thing she's basically here to be seen and not heard, huh? They don't really want to hear from a cub, and that's all fine with Ruby, when the words likely to come out of her mouth threaten to betray more than a little of her mental state. Sometimes, it can be difficult to determine the sarcasm from the true statement when it comes to her, but when she says something like "Yeah, it's a fucking peachy day today," it's not at all difficult.

The part of these ceremonies that she waits for, the part that she dreads, is this part. The time when her will will be tested and thoroughly broken. Part of her likes losing control, oh yes it does. Part of her has to remind herself that it's okay to do so sometimes. Part of her doesn't believe that last bit at all.

It's always somewhat bittersweet, the release. It always brings back bad memories -- of watching powerless as her body does things outside of her own control, as though that were an excuse.

This time, there is no wind-up per se. The Wyrmfoe just up and hits someone. It starts as chaos. It will end in chaos. There will be blood on her hands again tonight, she thinks with her only remaining sensible thoughts.

She gives and gives and gives, this cub does. She may not have the others' gifts, but she has training and a fearless ferocity to her. And she's not afraid to die. At all. Eventually, throwing herself at the fray like that ends up with a thrown fist or rock (hard to tell, honestly) going headside, and all is blessedly quiet again.

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