tales, songs and bone cracking [attn: lucky, charlotte, garou at moot, etc.]
#1
Another month. Another Moot. Always something to be discussed. Lain out before the gathered wolves and dissected. Considered and contemplated. Sometimes -- argued over. The Cracking of the Bone was not always an affair without violence; the simmer and burn of so many creatures born of the moon, graced with her power; blessed with the strength of many men.

Gaia's warriors gathered under an orb round and bright; casting illumination down on their raised heads as they came together and howled; voices rising up and melding in one perfect instance of unity. A tangled web of harmony; one striking moment where there was no dissonance; no difference between wolf and man but one heart; one hope; one determination.

To live; to honor; to preserve. To endure and fight.

--

It's after the initial cracking commences; the stirring words; the splintering of bone apart in massive Crinos claws that the fiery redhead gets to her feet. She's wearing the hints of a battle. It's in her scent; in the dried gore still touching her hair; marring that otherwise brilliant mane that's spun gold and red in the crack and burn of the bonfire.

There's a sack at the Ahroun's feet, she takes up the bone; runs her hands over it and shapes the edges of it; picking and turning over words in her head before she begins. Morgan's no great orator; she's not a Galliard; to thrill with a word or send shivers down a spine. She talks in facts. Hard, blunt, impacting if only because she's so young and yet speaks with the authority that one day might make her a leader.

Blood of the Fae in her; strength of her moon behind her. Firebrand gathers herself; squares her shoulders. Her jaw firms.

"Earlier tonight, before we gathered, we ran into t'Wyrm downtown. Myself and a Fostern o'the Silver Fangs, a No Moon called Lucky," her eyes hunt out those who had been with her, point them out if they're present. "Also one o'my own tribe's Kinsman. It was - really gross." There's a beat, a teenage moment, a breath where Morgan re-centers herself. "Like it w'made of what it'd been eatin'. We killed it. It spewed somethin' toxic, burned some o'us badly. We found these after the fight."

The bag is collected; she tosses it a few feet into the centre of the gathering. Something knocks together within hollowly. When loosened and opened, there's bottles inside; they look like they once held water. "Lucky-yuf found 'em, they're tainted with Wyrm. Says they're called Nutri-Pro, made by the makers of EnerJam." She stops there, the Ahroun - a weighted moment; perhaps there's a mumur of recognition; there certainly had been at the time they discovered them. "Ma-My Kinsman, he recognized 'em, said he's gonna do some diggin'. Said he knows people he can tap for information on them. It."

Firebrand's eyes track to the Elders present. "Whatever it was, it was strong and it'd been there a while. Feedin'. Getting fat. Whatever these are, it ain't somethin' we want anyone drinkin'."

That's all she offers, the Ahroun. Passes the bone on, lets Charlotte or Lucky add details in; recollections or advice if the others have some to impart.

--

At the Revel, then. Later. Tales and Songs. Laments on those struck down and those worthy of honor. She gets up again; a little cleaner than before but still; worn down. Rumpled and dirt-smeared. Takes a minute and clears her throat, makes some venture at composing herself and jumps right in.

"It had eyes everywhere.

Exploded righ' outta the quad in t'middle of the campus like it had been squatting there, under the ground, just waitin' for the right moment to burst out." She stops; eyes animated. Swings around and takes the measure of those gathered.

Lets the drum of her heart be her time keeper; keep her words focused. Makes a bard out of the daughter of Stag in the moment. Fire branded, by name and nature alike. "There wasn't a moment to think or question, we just ran at it. Radiant Honor-rhya, her packmate Anubis-Sight-rhya and me while it threw its weight around, tried to tear the ground out from under us.

I'm an Ahroun." She's proud of that; what she is. If only for the fact she understands what it means, even as it contains some private anguish for her she doesn't share aloud. Not here, not amongst her peers. Those who understand what it means to sink your teeth into a monster and hope to hear them crunch bone; who remember the taste of blood in their throats and have felt the lance of pain; have raged back from the brink. Who bear the scars of their battle against the Wyrm.

"I was built to fight. I don't shy away from goin' first or standin' last. I don't expect to have respect if I haven't earned it. Not from anyone. Not from a higher rankin' Garou, anyway. But Anubis-Sight-rhya, who didn't know me from a lick of sand, he took blows for me that night. One of them could have been my death. They weren't but - it means somethin', I think. Worth standin' here and telling you all to say we killed that thing and maybe Anubis-Sight-rhya takin' blows for me, for Radiant Honor-rhya - maybe that's what helped us get there.

I thought - I mean," She looks around at the gathered. "Figured it was a story worth tellin'. That we tore that thing apart. That Radiant Honor-rhya looked like she was some kinda Silver Fang hero from the Legends doing it. That Fosterns could lay down their lives for one Cliath.

Makes me remember it's a war but, one we're in together. No matter where our blood comes from." She looks down; cants her head. Shrugs a shoulder and with the simplicity belaying her auspice finishes with: "That's it."
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