October: Cracking the Bone
The Truthcatcher for this month is a young Philodox of the Children of Gaia. His name is Second Chance, and he knows that this name does not bring him much honor outside his own tribe. The bone he has chosen for tonight is a skull. It is the skull of a human being.

He knows that this, too, may cast its shadow over his renown, but there is purpose to it. When the last howls have slowly been silenced, like candle flames snuffed out as each spirit was released from its blessing, Second Chance walks forward, also in crinos, carrying the skull of a full-grown human. It looks so small against him in this form. One could mistake it for a child's, if one doesn't know better.

He tells them that they are monsters. They are animals. And they are humans. He holds the skull aloft and tells, briefly, its history: it is the bone of an enemy, a fomor whose shape changed and changed and changed but never lost its ability to appear human. He tells them that when the flesh was stripped, a human skeleton remained, indistinguishable from any other. He knows that not everyone will take his meaning; he knows that those who do may look sidelong at him from this day forward.

He knows, and he follows his heart and mind anyway. As easily as cracking an egg, his claws pierce the crown of the skull he holds.

"I see new faces," he says, looking out among the gathered Garou. "When the elders have spoken, name yourselves to us. Name your protectorates, challenge for your ground here. Speak, and let us know you among our number."
my whole life is thunder.
The Fianna had chosen to adopt her wolf skin for much of the Moot. It was not that Morgan had any issue with her birth form but rather that she'd always felt an odd assortment of long limbs and awkward graces as a female growing up. At eighteen she had all the particular curves and allurements required to be considered appealing but perhaps it was the monster under her skin that made Garou culture, the simplicity of war, the complication of peace and forging an enduring place for herself in the chronicles of their kind seem so much easier than most things.

When you are a born a beast of the fullest moon, there are few things that bring clarity as surely as talk of death and glory. Of words thrown clear into the air like monsters and men and the fullest corruption the enemy could muster.

The truth was, really, at the crux of it, Morgan felt good at being a monster. She wasn't sure if part of her recoiled in horror at that truth, or felt a huge sense of comfort from it. This is what she was. Like a drumbeat set into rhythm the moment she turned. This was who she was. The spirit of the Moot, the fragrance of earth and fire and blood. It was surely told enough in her bloodline, it was there when it came to her turn to rise and take that form she found at times so uncertain. To grip that shattered skull in her palms and rotate it, feeling the bumps and slivers in bone that had made up the roadmap of one life and raise her eyes to greet the collected Garou.

"M'name's Morgan Roche, known as Firebrand." She shifted a little on the spot, her hair fanning around her shoulders as if in response to that deedname, hues of fiery red in the evening light. "Came to Denver this month to join your fight." There's a pause where her brows knit together as if she struggled to remember her wording.

"I'm a Cliath full moon o'Stag," she bristled, lifted her chin with a little smile. Sharp and pointed under that moon. "'Course that part's obvious. I haven't got much to claim for but my teeth and claws are yours."

She sets the bone down.
Once the elders have their chance to speak, the cracked human skull makes its way to the hands of the less experienced. There's some new faces that need to introduce themselves, and the Child of Gaia called them out right from the beginning. They were to name themselves, name their protectorate (what's a protectorate? shit I don't get reception out here I can't check dictionary.com), and challenge for their ground.

Goldie herself didn't have any ground that she really wanted to challenge for-- that challenge circle hadn't been thoroughly inspected and she felt slight and out of place here. Her eyes wandered to the sparse trees and how they grew thicker the further out they went from the gathering. She imagined how it would be to sit out in those branches, a Corax ally to the Caern sitting in on a meeting of Wolves.

But Goldie was a Goldie Wolf, not a Goldie Bird. And soon the skull was in the hands of a redhead classic of a Fianna Ahroun, who was introducing herself as Firebrand and teeth/claws for the cause. Next up was Goldie.

She stood in black boots with loose laces and bounced the skull idly between her small hands as she addressed the Wolves of Roxborough.

"I'm Goldie Lennox, a Fianna as well, but no relation, like you can probably tell." This, with a gesture after Morgan, because there was very clearly no relation between the two (for Morgan's blood was given to her by heroes of the tribe, and Goldie could've belonged anywhere by the look and smell of her). She also looked a little pleased with her own rhyme before continuing. "Cliath Ragabash. I heard that you guys have boogymen in the basement at Broadway, so I'm here to help.

"As far as protectorates go, I'm not really sure what that means because I'm not procreating anytime soon, but I do suppose I should make it pretty clear--," she cut herself off for a second, leaned to the side to whisper something to the wolf standing nearest to her. His charcoal-fuzz ears picked up on her question pretty clearly, but he didn't so much answer her as look at her funny and tell her to get on with it. Nodding and smiling graciously as though the wolf was a huge help and provided her with the details she wanted, Goldie continued on.

"Well, there's a Kinsman in town with me. We came in together, we're pretty much family. So if you all see what looks to be a Hero of Old in a beanie with 5 o' clock shadow rusting onto his jaws, that'll be Matthew Murphy. I don't think he's a protectorate, but he is Kin, so...."

She let that trail off, and looked down to find her fingers in the sinus cavity of the skull, wriggling about in there idly and thoughtlessly as she spoke. How her fingers hooked in there meant she could hold the skull like a bowling ball, and she posed as though she would roll it back to the Truthcatcher for a second before grinning a buck-toothed grin and muttering a 'Naw I'm just playing with ya pal' before handing it back gentle and respectful-like.
Mary introduces herself.

Her player writes the introduction up pretty-like and full of character flavor, but later tonight, and this will remind her to do it. Huzzah, Mary's player!


"Alas, poor Yorick," Mary says, once she takes the human being's skull. "Did we know him well?"

Look. Some Ragabash who did it. Mary is happy to provide a service. This isn't her sole reasoning for taking the bone. Now that she has it she stands straight and tall in her woman-shape, generous curves and generous hair and generous generous generous, and didn't just such mythic Hero of the nation look-so on the eve of a battle against impossible odds somehow. Mary is a composite picture made from all the greatness that has been and (once and future kings [queens]) might be again. Mary herself, well.

One must judge.
Hopefully, not entirely on a Hamlet joke.

"I am Glory's Shadow, Honor's Thorn. Ragabash of the Silver Fangs." (Of course that's obvious. But the name Silver Fang must still be spoken worn smooth like a stone like a rosary-bead.) "My home is," and a neighborhood is mentioned, perhaps a pair of cross streets. "I watch that street. Henry Smythe is mine. Juliet Smythe is mine. The name Mary is also mine."

"And, listen, I have a call to put out for a pack or individuals ready to act as a pack for Gaia's sake. I am new. You know that. Duty doesn't care whether or not you're new. What does that mean for the rank system?" A glance toward -- the elders, maybe. "Does it make sense, for one to say 'that's a duty for a Cliath' or 'that's a job for a Fostern'?"

Rhetorical. Deep breath.

Mary idly fingers the skull's jaw-edge and if it still has a jaw one is sorry to report that she has it talk with her (energy energy energy) for a sentence or two. "I've been doing my duty. And when I met Little Uproar," the human jaw flaps toward the Fianna, shaking its head like it's full of glee, "who has introduced herself as Goldie Lennox, I asked her to add her eyes to mine. Together we have uncovered a house which needs the attention of a pack or individuals ready to act as pack for the cleansing of this Wyrm-ridden den of trouble. The call goes out to theurges who are wise and the call goes out to other Garou who are ready to fight the mist with their claws and bite through foulest evanescence I've smelled in some time.

"A kinsman disappeared some months ago, and it was into this house, and so have, we believe, other campers. Only the other night we observed the House, the state of the House, and what we believe is at the heart of the trouble. We have ideas about what it is and now it needs to be rooted out, so we come to you. It's old and it's evil."

"If you have kin who might know how to figure out who might have tampered with or filed missing person reports, somebody with the influence to figure out who's got the influence, come to myself and Little Uproar and tell us."

"We've got information for you."

[ooc: THIS IS KENNA'S ONE SHOT. Go go enjoy.]

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