09-29-2014, 11:24 AM
This moon's Caller of the Wyld and Master of the Howl sends out a rich, clear note on the wind the night of the full moon. It rebounds to every limit of the bawn. It is heard in the upper floors of Cold Crescent, in fact, the sound carried by spirits to the peripheral awareness of the Garou in the city. The call begins at sunset, and carries, and carries, and carries
them to the gathering place, a meadow full of low trees that are sparse here, and then will cluster so thickly that paths have been carved out from them. Even this late in the year there are bullfrogs in this meadow, heard but not seen except in the penumbra. But this moon, at least, the Garou gather under the open sky, in the physical realm.
They begin coming when they hear the first call, and continue coming, singly and in pairs and in groups, as the sun sinks and night falls. They take many forms. The Great Alpha lays his massive direwolf form down on the ground, as is his tendency. Every new howl that joins lifts the song higher, until the last Garou to arrive hear a cacophony of voices in their ears long before they find themselves in the meadow.
There it becomes evident that each howl is an echo, long past already. The wind snatches each new voice that joins, taking it to the spirit world. The meadow itself is silent. The sky is darkness itself, and the full moon has risen to defy that darkness.
There is no fire this night, not in the dry grass of the meadow. Just that deep physical silence, while a song rages on in their ears, in their spirits.
The Caller stands in the middle of a circle that formed around him as the sun went down. He has been there for hours, in crinos, handpaws outstretched and palms lifted upward. Dust moves in those enormous paws, swirled by wind into one shape after another: here is Stag, here is Luna, here is Thunder, there Unicorn, there Pegasus, now Fenris, each tribal totem in turn asked to bless them as the howl rages and rages in the spirit world around the circle.
As for Earth, always present in the caern, it only rumbles slowly in answer, a heavy bass note underlining their own stolen voices.
them to the gathering place, a meadow full of low trees that are sparse here, and then will cluster so thickly that paths have been carved out from them. Even this late in the year there are bullfrogs in this meadow, heard but not seen except in the penumbra. But this moon, at least, the Garou gather under the open sky, in the physical realm.
They begin coming when they hear the first call, and continue coming, singly and in pairs and in groups, as the sun sinks and night falls. They take many forms. The Great Alpha lays his massive direwolf form down on the ground, as is his tendency. Every new howl that joins lifts the song higher, until the last Garou to arrive hear a cacophony of voices in their ears long before they find themselves in the meadow.
There it becomes evident that each howl is an echo, long past already. The wind snatches each new voice that joins, taking it to the spirit world. The meadow itself is silent. The sky is darkness itself, and the full moon has risen to defy that darkness.
There is no fire this night, not in the dry grass of the meadow. Just that deep physical silence, while a song rages on in their ears, in their spirits.
The Caller stands in the middle of a circle that formed around him as the sun went down. He has been there for hours, in crinos, handpaws outstretched and palms lifted upward. Dust moves in those enormous paws, swirled by wind into one shape after another: here is Stag, here is Luna, here is Thunder, there Unicorn, there Pegasus, now Fenris, each tribal totem in turn asked to bless them as the howl rages and rages in the spirit world around the circle.
As for Earth, always present in the caern, it only rumbles slowly in answer, a heavy bass note underlining their own stolen voices.
my whole life is thunder.