February: Opening Howl / Inner Sky
It's unseasonably warm for February. Not two weeks ago it was seventy-five in the middle of a late January day. That's how it is in Colorado, some say. You get used to how changeable it is, if that's something it's really possible to get used to... since it's always changing. Others feel the warmth and their minds turn to the rising temperatures of the oceans, the alterations in migratory patterns, the inevitable consequences of days that live like a memory of summer in the dead center of winter. Today it was in the fifties. Sunny. But it drops when the sun goes down. Moon comes out. Rises full and swollen in a clear, ink-colored sky.

A year ago this moon, King and Pawn was a fostern, and he stood to call the Garou together. He howled, and he summoned Earth and Thunder and the broods of the tribal totems, and they gave of themselves to feed the caern. But that was a year ago. He has a scar now that he did not have then. He is an Adren of his tribe now. And standing in the shadows of the red fountain formations in Forgotten Questions is the newly-minted Cliath he has been mentoring, a skinny whip of a thing only recently named Fallen Star.

A bizarrely beautiful name for a rather awkward young man, if we're honest.

It is dark where he stands. Past his feet is the moonlight, dim and changeable. He opens his arms to either side and begins to howl. Slowly he shifts to glabro when his voice threatens to give out, and slowly then to crinos. He howls his throat raw and after that, he sends the impression of his voice into the talons of spirit-crows, flying to the Garou here and in the city, summoning them, though most are already on their way. Travelers passing nearby hear the howl and turn their feet toward Denver, realizing they are just a few miles -- a short run -- from something that will feed their spirit and possibly keep them safe another night.

As they gather, spirits begin to emerge from those shadows. A heavy rock creature rumbles up and stomps into the fire that King and Pawn tends. The sky overhead cracks with thunder though no clouds block the light, no storm is on its way. The visage of mighty Fenris, the gallop of Pegasus, the writhe of Chimera. Winged creatures and scuttling ones all play with the shadows, run forward into the flame, making it grow. They are called to give blessing and they give it in sacrifice. This is the way of things.

This is how the Garou live. And how they recognize the spirits that they protect.
my whole life is thunder.
Avery is there, but she is no longer packed with any wolf. Javed's cub he was mentoring has moved on. Javed, too: they said their goodbyes, and they thanked Falcon for his patronage and dismantled their shrine in the most respectful way. But it means that though for the past year or so she has stood as one of two, she now stands alone. If this bothers her she refuses to let it show.

She comes early and is one of the first there. She is an officer (as she likes to call it) of the moot this month. She is a leader of the Sept of the Cold Crescent, Master of Challenges. She is a Fostern of her Tribe. She is proud. She is not ashamed to be a lone wolf.

When she howls, it is in lupus, her fur thick with winter and just as white as the snow that refuses to fall. She gives a hop of delight and joy when she sees a falcon's shadow join the other spirits in their mad whirl to and around and into the flames. As always, she is pleased to be here, under the full moon, among her people.
my whole life is thunder.
Morgan's there, of course. It probably goes without saying she is -- she's yet to miss a gathering, the tall redhead. In her wolf skin she's a long limbed red creature with strikingly clear eyes. A machine of destruction, according to some. Probably built to become something entirely more fearsome some day, if you asked others, if Gaia permit it.

If she lasted that long. It was the lament of the full moon; their legacy to be things of glory but only fleetingly so. Here for the briefest of forays before they passed on. Firebrand has no true affiliation as of yet, but she mingles amongst the other wolves without hesitation; brushes against sides; snaps her teeth playfully at others. Takes up her decided position and howls with the solemnity and reverence of a Garou who knew too well, already, the cost of their War.

The fine thread they clung to, survival on the raggedy edge.
Many lone wolves tonight, it seems. One more joins the howls. Pelt of stark white marks his tribe. Eyes of feral gold marks his nature. Wolf howls with his brethren, long and mournful yet full of fire, as befits a moot on the cusp between winter and spring.

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