August: Opening Howl / Inner Sky
The call comes out at midnight, drifting through the park. There is a hazy, lazy sensation in the air: a rising heat, shiftless and slow to react. The howl seems easy to ignore at first,

til it pulls,

and pulls,

slipping in slowly and cleanly, wrapping itself around the heart, drawing the Garou to the circle to join in the song.
my whole life is thunder.
Erich, with his packmates, comes down out of the mountains for the moot. They come down from the mountains, they come closer to the city -- but not <i>that</i> close, not at all -- and they go into the drylands and the scrublands and the cracked-earth-lands of Forgotten Questions.

Erich, a large dappled wolf today, mostly grey, mostly iron-grey the way his ancestors were iron-grey, but also white and black and perhaps a bit of brown and golden here and there, lopes a long lazy lope as he approaches the epicenter,

the howls,

the rising tension gathering through the night. When he howls, there are already a multitude of voices in the air. He joins them: concordantly discordant, howling while running, running beside his white-pale-moon-water-sylph of a sister.
White though she is, no one would ever miss take her for a ghost, not even here in the shadow of her packbrother. Sylph, yes. The moon-made-flesh and given form to walk the earth for a baking summer night, oh yes.

There is a darting tension about her even in her lupine form that makes her feel finely drawn, taut, intense.

Or maybe that intensity is coming from elsewhere. Rising, building, pooling - in and around the ancient ground, shot through with memories both lingering and faded and forgotten, tasting of summer, the ache of high summer, where the earth bakes but the sun has started to turn away its face and the everything is verdant and the prey is fat and getting fatter,

all in preparation for the winter-to-come.


Small and slight and fine and fast. Too much tension - in the air, below the skin - for them to be playful as they run, but they are wolves and there is always a kind of vying.

They run. In this they are almost physically matched. Even beneath the vying they move with the thoughtless concert of pack.


When they come to the place where they have been called - like the rest, they howl.

Part of the rising, eerie, tangled dissonance rising across the land.
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
She's been quiet and busy for the last several months. With school out, Keisha Ballard has been spending her time thrown fully into her work as Keeper of the Land, and it's rare that you don't find a day when she's not in the Cold Crescent performing her duties. Well...we should say, it's either rare or it's the night of a Moot.

She comes as she always does, in her birth form. The dark-skinned woman approaches in a plain white dress, her hair loose and free and her feet unshod. She is quiet and peaceful as she approaches, giving little smiles her and there. For many the moot is a time to be rambunctious...and for Keisha there will be time for that too, during the Revel. But in the beginning--as she always is unless she's leading the opening howl--she is reflective and open the spiritual energies.


Javed, on the other hand, approaches on four legs. He will take his birth form when the reach the final place and he is by his packmate's side, but before they reach that point he knows the value of discretion. So a jackal slips its way across the park, smaller than his fellow wolves but no less fierce. He relies on smell more than sight thanks to that one milky eye, and only when they have arrived at the final point does he melt up into Crinos to take his seat next to his Silver Fang packmate.
"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."
Avery is with Javed, one of them lean and dark, the other thick-furred, silvery white. They approach together, howl together. They are seldom seen together, but there is a steady solidarity when they are. Some doubt. A few may know: one of the reasons they are packmates at all is that they can each bear the separation. They each appreciate some measure of solitude as equally as they value the camaraderie.

He moves into crinos to sit beside her, and she remains in lupus, tail thumping on the ground.
my whole life is thunder.

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