October: Opening Howl / Inner Sky
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.
my whole life is thunder.
The Ahroun known as Firebrand is a flicker-flame of vibrant red amongst the shadows as the Moot is called. It's her first and under her own moon, her impressive coat ruffled by the evening breeze as she finds a suitable spot to join in the cacophony of howls rising up into the night sky.

There are more stars here than she's used to and the great red wolf accounts for them as she joins the reverie to Luna, sounding up the reminder that they are still here, they endure.
Among the wolves there is a gleaming one. She is not the only one who shines so, and she does not even shine the brightest, but something about her carriage is arresting. She enters the gathering in hispo, her fur white from snout to tail-tip, her eyes a fierce blue. She has arrived alone, and seeks out her packmate with those clear eyes, watching for him. Since the spot of the moot shifts month to month, full moon to full moon, they do not always have an agreed-upon place to stand, but she knows she will sense him when he arrives.

Just as she will find Charlotte, if the other Silver Fang comes tonight, and give her a fond nudge of her heavy lupine body in hello. Just as she will nip and growl-whine in greeting at the Fenrir-blooded Shadow Lord who is Charlotte's packmate. Just as she will bark at the Oracles -- her fellow leaders at the sept -- from across the circle, wagging her tail. Just as she will look curiously upon the golden-furred Fianna whom she does not know but may recognize from Cold Crescent, or the other new Fianna whose voice she hears in the spirit-winds as the Caller of the Wyld snatches their howls from their very lips to offer to the spirits.

Other Garou look to Avery without entirely meaning to. It is not just her breeding, for -- as we have mentioned -- there are others who are more pure. There is just something about her that demands to be attended to, as though the air itself is simply waiting for her to speak.

She doesn't. She just looks happy to be here, this night.
my whole life is thunder.
Word finds its way around the area-- through Garou, through a bulletin board at the city-Sept building perhaps-- that the Moot will take place on the October full moon. Be there or be square. Be where? A location wouldn't be too hard to find, if you knew where to look for it.

Goldie Lennox kept to her breed form at this gathering for the most part. A wolf's pelt may have been warmer in the autumn evening chill, but her clothes did the job just as well. Jeans, torn up at the knees and hems (but probably purchased that way, knowing kids these days), flannel and a jacket, a hat and a scarf, maybe even some mittens in her pockets just in case and she was all set. She'd arrived as a lean-limbed petite thing, her round face unfamiliar to many but recognizable to a couple.

One of them Fianna that blew in recently.
Did they come together?
I don't know, maybe.

There's no pack that she joins up with. No flanks that she pats or brushes against. Hands in pockets, she may have chattered at a familiar face or two while waiting for things to kick off, but when they did she stood with the group but unbound to any totem or brotherhood.

When the time came to howl, she'd change to a gold-furred (perfectly predicted by her parents, clearly) lupine and pitch her voice into the sky to be carried away with the rest.
Phoebe arrives, tall and willowy beside her sister. She is dressed simply in a dark turquoise t-shirt with loose lines that outline a Paris skyline and dark skinny jeans tucked into a pair of hiking boots. There was once a time when she was a tall and skinny clumsy creature. Tonight, however, it's obvious that the Fury's figure is beginning to shift and change. Becoming more strong, more solid. Her posture is straighter, even though she moves beside Still Waters with ease and a friendly smile.

When Desert Oracle finds a place, Phoebe looks around as more and more and more gather around them, filling in the spaces between bodies. Across the distance, on the other side of the Caller from where they stand, she sees the familiar gleam of Radiant Honor and lifts her hand in a wave.

Then she shifts, down into her lean and long-limbed, black-furred lupus, rests back on her haunches, and calls out a ululating howl to the heavens. When Siren's song is snatched from her muzzle she does not start or stammer to a halt, but keeps howling.
Somewhat late to the gathering, skidding in on large paws just as the howl begins to lift from one, two, a multitude of throats: an Erich-wolf, shaggy and thick-furred with the encroaching cold. He stands beside his sister, whose size is smaller, whose blood is purer, whose fur isn't nearly the mishmash of greys and blacks and whites that Erich's is. No; Charlotte is pure white, pure silver. They are different as can be in lupine form, but in homid you would think them brother and sister even were you human.

Never mind. None of that matters. They stand together, and together with their Sept. They howl.
Mary howls.

Glory's Shadow, Honor's Thorn. But couldn't she be a hero out of story, the pale milk-and-shadow dappled thing? Doesn't she look like and doesn't she bear in mind and isn't there a certain shining and and and

Mary howls howls all werewolves howl monsters howl murderous Rage-y things howl hello moon turned your face when Mary was born shut your silver shining off to tell her take a look around HOWL

howl howl.

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