09-05-2014, 02:38 AM
Portland, Maine
Two Weeks Ago
It's mid morning when the Ahroun finds the Guardian working on the docks, winding rope around his arm and stacking empty lobster cages on the pier ready to be packed back onto the small fishing trawler tied amongst a mish mash of other boats; some broader, others narrower still than the rusted green and black vessel several Kinfolk of the Sept are working aboard, their voices cutting through the distant sounds of a fishing precinct hard at work.
Gulls circle high above, calling out as early morning hauls are unloaded, fish poured into great containers and packed tight with ice, ever vigilant for the morsels tossed aside; guts and discards ripe for the scavenging. The Sept kept a steady watch on the comings and goings of the harbor and it was duty as much as lifelong exposure that had the Adren working long into the morning; sweat gathering on the back of his neck, on arms still strong despite advancing years.
Stands at Dawn had seen enough younger Garou born screaming only to perish the same way, his own flesh and blood included, it was perhaps why he was, as his deedname suggested, always the first to work, the last to rest. He'd told as many stories of glory as of disgrace and as he straightened and sniffed, wiping a gloved hand across his face, the subject of many a recent discourse regarding both advanced across the docks, her hair a brilliant beacon in the sunlight.
There was a duffle bag over one of the Ahroun's shoulders and the elder Garou tossed aside another length of rope at her approach.
"Someplace to be, Morgan Roche that finds you on my dock so early?"
The Ahroun's features were marred by healing cuts, the corner of her lip, a bruise blooming in gorgeous shades across a cheekbone; purple mottling around the base of her neck, all standing in starker regard against an otherwise fair complexion.
"'m headin' out."
She's tall, for a woman, for her line, for her age. Her brother carrying only the briefest two inches on her, less, in heels. Though for all the contemplation the Theurge offers daily, there is, in his sister, as she bears her subdued displeasure, the same enduring spark of irritation trembling just under her skin. Only difference between the siblings their grandfather has ever seen is a willingness to give over to emotion.
By the light of a full moon, Morgan had that in spades.
"Lookin' to be persuaded to stay, or add another reason to go by tellin' me so to my face?" There's something there, a firming of her jaw, a slight hardening of storm-grey eyes before the answer. "I think I have enough reasons on my own, -rhya."
Her chin lifts incrementally.
A smile surfaces, familiar and well worn on the Galliard's face as he leans against a crate; crossing arms over a broad chest. "I bet you got a whole bunch of 'em, Morgan, I don't doubt it a second." He weighs her resolve, the Ahroun holds his stare long enough to be impudent, then hefts her bag against her shoulder and drops her eyes to the ground, jaw working.
"I can't change wha' happened. He's dead."
"Yes, he is." The exchange is hard, blunt. Sliced to the bone. "Well and truly. So why leave?"
"I can't stay here."
"Or you won't."
The Kin on the boat are watching, eyes downcast for the prickling of rage in the air but their movements slower for the interest in the exchange between the two Garou on the dock. The female breathes out harshly and turns to leave. The male allows it for several steps then calls her to halt. Says her name.
Morgan turns, her profile silhouetted against the heat of the sun. Her hair is unbound and the breeze plays with the strands, sending them sliding around her shoulders.
"Give 'em hell."
There's a lightening of the girl's features. A brief, darting smile.
Stands at Dawn watches the girl leave for a moment before returning to his task, his refocused attention scattering the others back to formation.
Present Day
Under a heavy moon, climbing toward full, is when the Ahroun finds the Sept.
Hitching hadn't been a problem, she's young, pretty and aside from the heaping unease she sets into the bones of most, an easy passenger to ferry the miles it takes to discover the Caern buried away in the heart of Roxborough Park. She finds her way beyond the gate, unmanned in the twilight and hikes further in.
She shifts down when she's close, clothing melting down into fur, a blur of red darting through the dust and low lying plantlife; scaring birds out of their nests, sending frightened rabbits panicking out of the way. On a low rise, the blood of Stag finally comes to a rest, tips her head back and howls her greetings.
[FYI, this is just a sort of general 'hey, I'm here' post, but if anyone feels like replying, you're quite welcome to!]
Two Weeks Ago
It's mid morning when the Ahroun finds the Guardian working on the docks, winding rope around his arm and stacking empty lobster cages on the pier ready to be packed back onto the small fishing trawler tied amongst a mish mash of other boats; some broader, others narrower still than the rusted green and black vessel several Kinfolk of the Sept are working aboard, their voices cutting through the distant sounds of a fishing precinct hard at work.
Gulls circle high above, calling out as early morning hauls are unloaded, fish poured into great containers and packed tight with ice, ever vigilant for the morsels tossed aside; guts and discards ripe for the scavenging. The Sept kept a steady watch on the comings and goings of the harbor and it was duty as much as lifelong exposure that had the Adren working long into the morning; sweat gathering on the back of his neck, on arms still strong despite advancing years.
Stands at Dawn had seen enough younger Garou born screaming only to perish the same way, his own flesh and blood included, it was perhaps why he was, as his deedname suggested, always the first to work, the last to rest. He'd told as many stories of glory as of disgrace and as he straightened and sniffed, wiping a gloved hand across his face, the subject of many a recent discourse regarding both advanced across the docks, her hair a brilliant beacon in the sunlight.
There was a duffle bag over one of the Ahroun's shoulders and the elder Garou tossed aside another length of rope at her approach.
"Someplace to be, Morgan Roche that finds you on my dock so early?"
The Ahroun's features were marred by healing cuts, the corner of her lip, a bruise blooming in gorgeous shades across a cheekbone; purple mottling around the base of her neck, all standing in starker regard against an otherwise fair complexion.
"'m headin' out."
She's tall, for a woman, for her line, for her age. Her brother carrying only the briefest two inches on her, less, in heels. Though for all the contemplation the Theurge offers daily, there is, in his sister, as she bears her subdued displeasure, the same enduring spark of irritation trembling just under her skin. Only difference between the siblings their grandfather has ever seen is a willingness to give over to emotion.
By the light of a full moon, Morgan had that in spades.
"Lookin' to be persuaded to stay, or add another reason to go by tellin' me so to my face?" There's something there, a firming of her jaw, a slight hardening of storm-grey eyes before the answer. "I think I have enough reasons on my own, -rhya."
Her chin lifts incrementally.
A smile surfaces, familiar and well worn on the Galliard's face as he leans against a crate; crossing arms over a broad chest. "I bet you got a whole bunch of 'em, Morgan, I don't doubt it a second." He weighs her resolve, the Ahroun holds his stare long enough to be impudent, then hefts her bag against her shoulder and drops her eyes to the ground, jaw working.
"I can't change wha' happened. He's dead."
"Yes, he is." The exchange is hard, blunt. Sliced to the bone. "Well and truly. So why leave?"
"I can't stay here."
"Or you won't."
The Kin on the boat are watching, eyes downcast for the prickling of rage in the air but their movements slower for the interest in the exchange between the two Garou on the dock. The female breathes out harshly and turns to leave. The male allows it for several steps then calls her to halt. Says her name.
Morgan turns, her profile silhouetted against the heat of the sun. Her hair is unbound and the breeze plays with the strands, sending them sliding around her shoulders.
"Give 'em hell."
There's a lightening of the girl's features. A brief, darting smile.
Stands at Dawn watches the girl leave for a moment before returning to his task, his refocused attention scattering the others back to formation.
Present Day
Under a heavy moon, climbing toward full, is when the Ahroun finds the Sept.
Hitching hadn't been a problem, she's young, pretty and aside from the heaping unease she sets into the bones of most, an easy passenger to ferry the miles it takes to discover the Caern buried away in the heart of Roxborough Park. She finds her way beyond the gate, unmanned in the twilight and hikes further in.
She shifts down when she's close, clothing melting down into fur, a blur of red darting through the dust and low lying plantlife; scaring birds out of their nests, sending frightened rabbits panicking out of the way. On a low rise, the blood of Stag finally comes to a rest, tips her head back and howls her greetings.
[FYI, this is just a sort of general 'hey, I'm here' post, but if anyone feels like replying, you're quite welcome to!]