http://forums.woddenver.com/ Mon, 13 Apr 2026 17:04:25 +0000 MyBB http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1088 Tue, 15 Mar 2016 09:26:30 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1088
Blind Eye of Justice was one such Garou.  Even though the Adren Child of Gaia couldn't be very much older than Avery herself, she insisted on sending spirits with the messages instead.  Often dove or swift spirits, carrying scrolls on their ankles or whispers in their feathers.

She'd been in touch with Avery, for proximity and compatibility of Rank and Moon, in regards to the Silver Fang's station in the Nation.  Her name had weight and recognition, she'd been Fostern for some time now and had been there with the Garou of Denver, steadfast and devout, since the very start of All This Strangeness.  Radiant Honor was ready to Challenge, and this was who she was told to speak with.  A Garou at the Sept associated with Yellowstone National Park.

The latest message was simple:

We are prepared.  I have a challenge ready for you.  Come as soon as you are able.  Bring your pack with you, they will be required.  Make arrangements, for you may be gone for some time.]]>
Blind Eye of Justice was one such Garou.  Even though the Adren Child of Gaia couldn't be very much older than Avery herself, she insisted on sending spirits with the messages instead.  Often dove or swift spirits, carrying scrolls on their ankles or whispers in their feathers.

She'd been in touch with Avery, for proximity and compatibility of Rank and Moon, in regards to the Silver Fang's station in the Nation.  Her name had weight and recognition, she'd been Fostern for some time now and had been there with the Garou of Denver, steadfast and devout, since the very start of All This Strangeness.  Radiant Honor was ready to Challenge, and this was who she was told to speak with.  A Garou at the Sept associated with Yellowstone National Park.

The latest message was simple:

We are prepared.  I have a challenge ready for you.  Come as soon as you are able.  Bring your pack with you, they will be required.  Make arrangements, for you may be gone for some time.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1053 Fri, 01 Jan 2016 21:59:17 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1053  Enjoy.]


There's nothing to cleanse on the box, thankfully.  The Theurge takes one look at it and touches it, shakes his head, shrugs.  It's got not a trace of the Wyrm on it.  Nothing else weird he can see about it, either.  Just a box.  So back in the car they go, and back to the park, looking for the ghost wolf who showed them the way.

He's still there.  Paler than before though, and much of the fog is gone.  He's almost gone, too.  He wags his tail to see them, 'sniffs' all around them.  Wags some more.  And they want to know if they can open it, or should.  He wants them to: they can feel it.  These were his, when he lived.  And when he died, other things found them, tried to keep them away.  Now they belong to the ones who redeemed them.

The Scourge opens the box.  Inside are three items.  One is actually rather mundane-looking: a leather satchel, a rectangular cross-body bag that looks about big enough to hold a tablet, maybe a small makeup kit, some keys, a wallet.  But its owner tells them the truth: it's a spider's satchel, a magpie spirit bound to it, and it can hold three times what it appears to.  Including complex Weaver objects like guns, tablets, cell phones.

There is also a dagger, heavy and ugly, made of cold black iron.  Its edge doesn't seem very sharp, but the point is.  This one, their ghostly friend explains, is for tracking down stolen items.  If they know the name of the thief, they can find the thief as well.  The dagger hums with anger of a very specific, bitter sort: vengeance.  That spirit lives in it, hungry for retribution.

Finally, there is a gem -- a large phantom quartz, which wouldn't look out of place in the home of a hippy or a witch.  There's a spirit of cuckoo in there, and the ghost wolf calls it a 'dream stealer'; he said he got it only a little while before he died, and did not get to use it.

These belong to the three of them, now, he says.  Rests his muzzle over their hands, saying thank you.  Saying goodbye.  And then fading away.]]>  Enjoy.]


There's nothing to cleanse on the box, thankfully.  The Theurge takes one look at it and touches it, shakes his head, shrugs.  It's got not a trace of the Wyrm on it.  Nothing else weird he can see about it, either.  Just a box.  So back in the car they go, and back to the park, looking for the ghost wolf who showed them the way.

He's still there.  Paler than before though, and much of the fog is gone.  He's almost gone, too.  He wags his tail to see them, 'sniffs' all around them.  Wags some more.  And they want to know if they can open it, or should.  He wants them to: they can feel it.  These were his, when he lived.  And when he died, other things found them, tried to keep them away.  Now they belong to the ones who redeemed them.

The Scourge opens the box.  Inside are three items.  One is actually rather mundane-looking: a leather satchel, a rectangular cross-body bag that looks about big enough to hold a tablet, maybe a small makeup kit, some keys, a wallet.  But its owner tells them the truth: it's a spider's satchel, a magpie spirit bound to it, and it can hold three times what it appears to.  Including complex Weaver objects like guns, tablets, cell phones.

There is also a dagger, heavy and ugly, made of cold black iron.  Its edge doesn't seem very sharp, but the point is.  This one, their ghostly friend explains, is for tracking down stolen items.  If they know the name of the thief, they can find the thief as well.  The dagger hums with anger of a very specific, bitter sort: vengeance.  That spirit lives in it, hungry for retribution.

Finally, there is a gem -- a large phantom quartz, which wouldn't look out of place in the home of a hippy or a witch.  There's a spirit of cuckoo in there, and the ghost wolf calls it a 'dream stealer'; he said he got it only a little while before he died, and did not get to use it.

These belong to the three of them, now, he says.  Rests his muzzle over their hands, saying thank you.  Saying goodbye.  And then fading away.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1044 Fri, 11 Dec 2015 19:03:02 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1044 London, England
Cyberlock Offices, London Division

Benton Archer hated paperwork.

He especially disliked it on a Friday night while London spun herself in glorious riots of color and noise outside his windows. This paperwork however, was especially distasteful. His expression reflected this as he frowned down at the pages in his hands and flicked them over, pale eyes scanning the following page with growing irritation.

Across from him, a young woman sat in expectant silence, a small device in her hands. Her hair was cropped short, an icy blonde that was almost white and her eyes were wide and long lashed, doll like. She tapped occasionally at the screen in her hands with one long fingernail, they were painted varying shades of purple. It emitted tiny beeps at intervals that would otherwise have driven Benton mad except that what he was reading was distraction enough.

"And this is the latest we have on the situation?"
"Yes, Sir. Came in an hour ago."

One name in particular jumped out at him and the tin of pens on his desk rattled as his fist thumped down against it and he growled in frustration. "Damn it, Gregory was here for ten years. I personally picked him to head up things in Colorado." Benton's fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, he could feel a headache gathering momentum behind his eyes. He waved a hand toward the figure seated across from him. "Find me Croft, would you Tina? Tell her I need to see her before dawn."

"Ms Croft is on her final patrol, Sir. Should I - " His glare stopped her short.
"Just - get her here. Whatever it takes."

-

Benton Archer stood at the window with his hands neatly folded at the small of his back. His assistant had finally left to track down the Fostern Ragabash and he narrowed his gaze as it swept out over the city below. He'd spent a long time working his way to the position he held now, at the cost of relationships with his cousins and his reputation outside the nation. Friends had been hard to come by, trustworthy ones even more so but Gregory Pierce had been one of the few he considered such.

A tall, skinny man with round glasses and a propensity for laughter when anxious, Pierce had also been a truly gifted programmer and essential to Cyberlock's initial successes in the online marketplace. He'd also been weak willed and easily intimidated, Archer mentally added with a deepening scowl and turned away from the window with a sigh.

If the Wyrm could get to someone as deep inside the company as Gregory Pierce, the contamination was worse than any of them had previously thought.

-

The Glass Walker that entered his office an hour later was deceptively slight. It often threw Benton to think this woman that barely reached 5'3 in heels was a Garou beneath the skin. There was something about the eyes though, that told him all he really needed to know. Beyond the prickling awareness of Rage, there was just something vaguely predatory about Lois Croft's gaze that even a smart wool suit and briefcase couldn't conceal.

He supposed that her small size made her more effective as a scout, though. At least, all his reports reflected it and if there was something Benton didn't question, it was the data.


"How's the packing going?"
"All set, you'd be surprised how quickly one can uproot their lives when need be."
"We've got your paperwork for the transfer. You'll be met at the other end and the American branch will hold your ID badge for you at reception."

There she went with the eyes again, they flicked over him and he felt his spine stiffen. "Something else, Sir?" The cool manner she offered the last rankled. He'd never warmed to the woman, she was too composed, too calm and focused and utterly certain of her skills. Benton was no traitor to the Nation or his tribe - but he liked the Garou to be what they were - monsters. Lois Croft tidied hers away beneath makeup and suits.

"Yes. Well, something worth mentioning. We've had word they captured a spy at Cyberlock's US headquarters. An infiltrator. It may mean some data has been compromised. They're still assessing the fallout. I want you to keep your ear to the ground while you're there, Croft. The last damn thing this organization needs is for wind of this to get out. If you see or hear anything that has the potential to touch us - you bring it to me. My eyes only, you understand?"

There was a pause, the Garou's expression was guarded as she regarded her employer. She had the power to overrule him, of course, her rank, if nothing else, gave her that right. "Of course."

-

Denver International Airport
Colorado

Babysitting duty, that's what this was. He was being punished for falling asleep for five seconds on the job and was now resigned to standing at the international gate with a little sign waiting for some British transfer to the company to arrive. He hoped his scowl was enough to drive the woman back on the plane, it would serve his superiors right. How was he to have known the damn spy would choose his shift to cause trouble?

A stream of passengers began to disembark from the plane and with a sigh and adjustment of his cap Anton held the sign up against his chest and plastered his best professional smile in place. It felt like over warmed taffy, slowing melting away and making his cheeks hurt to hold while it did. His eyes traveled over those exiting the long tunnel from the plane, you could always tell the first classers, they had a well rested look about them that progressively declined as the stream devolved into the regular folks relegated to uncomfortable, cramped seating and crappy service.

Anton smirked.

Then jumped, as a crisp voice spoke into his ear. "You're waiting for me, then." He turned and blinked, remembering only after a moment of gawking to close his mouth and scramble to tuck the card under his arm. The woman, Eloise Croft, his assignment had named her, was shorter than he was expecting and rather neatly dressed for having been stuck on an airplane for several hours, the slacks and blouse barely registering any wrinkles, a suit jacket folded over an arm. The accent was cultured and she had striking green eyes set into a round face, framed with straight, shoulder length hair.

"I - er - yes. Yes, Ma'am, that is. I am. You - er - only have one bag?" He scrambled around beneath her gaze like a worm on a hook before settling on the small suitcase she'd wheeled out behind her. Her eyes dropped to consider it with a slight arch of brows, the pull of her mouth upward into a smile didn't make the sweat building under his collar diminish. "Apparently so.

Come along." She began to move away from the terminal, wheeling the small suitcase and Anton jumped against his better intentions and hastened to follow, feeling infuriatingly rattled. They always managed to get under his skin.

"Er - " He started, carefully weaving around people milling in the airport. The brunette stopped and turned to face him in a neat arc, head tilted.
"Yes, - I'm sorry, we weren't introduced. How unbecoming. I'm Lois."
"Anton Telford, Ma'am. Security for Cyberlock."
"Yes, Mr Telford?"

Nobody called him Mr Telford, not even the big boss. He fidgeted on the spot. "You should let me take that for you."

The Garou seemed surprised as she thrummed her fingertips over handle. "How gallant of you. I believe I can manage however. Not to worry, though. There's plenty of heavy lifting to be had at the baggage terminal. Off we go, Mr Telford."

Anton frowned after her as she began to move down the walkway. He lifted his cap to scratch his hands over his scalp and doffed it again, tucking it down and rounding his shoulders as he started after the Fostern. He wasn't sure how she'd managed it, but he suddenly felt the unwelcome sense someone was babysitting all right, it just wasn't him.

-

Fort Collins

The motorcycle wound through the darkened streets and carefully pulled in from the flow of evening traffic, the rider drawing the vehicle to a halt on a grassy strip and lifting the visor on her helmet. Across from her the impressive grounds of Colorado State University began, it was a leafy campus, combining the best of its location against the mountains with modern architecture. She'd never seen it outside of pictures but it drove an unfamiliar sliver of unease through the female's frame - this was the last place her sister had been seen.

She lowered the visor and drew back into the flow of traffic, weaving through the cars.

-

Nobody noticed the blurred creature that streaked across the campus. The security cameras wouldn't capture the reason behind the broken lock on the door to the Metford Lab. It would be chalked up to vandals.

-

Downtown Denver

The email was encrypted. The sender address bounced around several fake domains. It had two recipients (the Sept of Cold Crescent and GWNet) and careful decryption provided a simple, efficient introduction:

Greetings -

I am Lois Croft. Alias Exit Protocol. Fostern No Moon Glass Walker. I am in your city.

I am not a threat.

Correspondence welcomed. Return via address, will intercept.

LC]]> London, England
Cyberlock Offices, London Division

Benton Archer hated paperwork.

He especially disliked it on a Friday night while London spun herself in glorious riots of color and noise outside his windows. This paperwork however, was especially distasteful. His expression reflected this as he frowned down at the pages in his hands and flicked them over, pale eyes scanning the following page with growing irritation.

Across from him, a young woman sat in expectant silence, a small device in her hands. Her hair was cropped short, an icy blonde that was almost white and her eyes were wide and long lashed, doll like. She tapped occasionally at the screen in her hands with one long fingernail, they were painted varying shades of purple. It emitted tiny beeps at intervals that would otherwise have driven Benton mad except that what he was reading was distraction enough.

"And this is the latest we have on the situation?"
"Yes, Sir. Came in an hour ago."

One name in particular jumped out at him and the tin of pens on his desk rattled as his fist thumped down against it and he growled in frustration. "Damn it, Gregory was here for ten years. I personally picked him to head up things in Colorado." Benton's fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, he could feel a headache gathering momentum behind his eyes. He waved a hand toward the figure seated across from him. "Find me Croft, would you Tina? Tell her I need to see her before dawn."

"Ms Croft is on her final patrol, Sir. Should I - " His glare stopped her short.
"Just - get her here. Whatever it takes."

-

Benton Archer stood at the window with his hands neatly folded at the small of his back. His assistant had finally left to track down the Fostern Ragabash and he narrowed his gaze as it swept out over the city below. He'd spent a long time working his way to the position he held now, at the cost of relationships with his cousins and his reputation outside the nation. Friends had been hard to come by, trustworthy ones even more so but Gregory Pierce had been one of the few he considered such.

A tall, skinny man with round glasses and a propensity for laughter when anxious, Pierce had also been a truly gifted programmer and essential to Cyberlock's initial successes in the online marketplace. He'd also been weak willed and easily intimidated, Archer mentally added with a deepening scowl and turned away from the window with a sigh.

If the Wyrm could get to someone as deep inside the company as Gregory Pierce, the contamination was worse than any of them had previously thought.

-

The Glass Walker that entered his office an hour later was deceptively slight. It often threw Benton to think this woman that barely reached 5'3 in heels was a Garou beneath the skin. There was something about the eyes though, that told him all he really needed to know. Beyond the prickling awareness of Rage, there was just something vaguely predatory about Lois Croft's gaze that even a smart wool suit and briefcase couldn't conceal.

He supposed that her small size made her more effective as a scout, though. At least, all his reports reflected it and if there was something Benton didn't question, it was the data.


"How's the packing going?"
"All set, you'd be surprised how quickly one can uproot their lives when need be."
"We've got your paperwork for the transfer. You'll be met at the other end and the American branch will hold your ID badge for you at reception."

There she went with the eyes again, they flicked over him and he felt his spine stiffen. "Something else, Sir?" The cool manner she offered the last rankled. He'd never warmed to the woman, she was too composed, too calm and focused and utterly certain of her skills. Benton was no traitor to the Nation or his tribe - but he liked the Garou to be what they were - monsters. Lois Croft tidied hers away beneath makeup and suits.

"Yes. Well, something worth mentioning. We've had word they captured a spy at Cyberlock's US headquarters. An infiltrator. It may mean some data has been compromised. They're still assessing the fallout. I want you to keep your ear to the ground while you're there, Croft. The last damn thing this organization needs is for wind of this to get out. If you see or hear anything that has the potential to touch us - you bring it to me. My eyes only, you understand?"

There was a pause, the Garou's expression was guarded as she regarded her employer. She had the power to overrule him, of course, her rank, if nothing else, gave her that right. "Of course."

-

Denver International Airport
Colorado

Babysitting duty, that's what this was. He was being punished for falling asleep for five seconds on the job and was now resigned to standing at the international gate with a little sign waiting for some British transfer to the company to arrive. He hoped his scowl was enough to drive the woman back on the plane, it would serve his superiors right. How was he to have known the damn spy would choose his shift to cause trouble?

A stream of passengers began to disembark from the plane and with a sigh and adjustment of his cap Anton held the sign up against his chest and plastered his best professional smile in place. It felt like over warmed taffy, slowing melting away and making his cheeks hurt to hold while it did. His eyes traveled over those exiting the long tunnel from the plane, you could always tell the first classers, they had a well rested look about them that progressively declined as the stream devolved into the regular folks relegated to uncomfortable, cramped seating and crappy service.

Anton smirked.

Then jumped, as a crisp voice spoke into his ear. "You're waiting for me, then." He turned and blinked, remembering only after a moment of gawking to close his mouth and scramble to tuck the card under his arm. The woman, Eloise Croft, his assignment had named her, was shorter than he was expecting and rather neatly dressed for having been stuck on an airplane for several hours, the slacks and blouse barely registering any wrinkles, a suit jacket folded over an arm. The accent was cultured and she had striking green eyes set into a round face, framed with straight, shoulder length hair.

"I - er - yes. Yes, Ma'am, that is. I am. You - er - only have one bag?" He scrambled around beneath her gaze like a worm on a hook before settling on the small suitcase she'd wheeled out behind her. Her eyes dropped to consider it with a slight arch of brows, the pull of her mouth upward into a smile didn't make the sweat building under his collar diminish. "Apparently so.

Come along." She began to move away from the terminal, wheeling the small suitcase and Anton jumped against his better intentions and hastened to follow, feeling infuriatingly rattled. They always managed to get under his skin.

"Er - " He started, carefully weaving around people milling in the airport. The brunette stopped and turned to face him in a neat arc, head tilted.
"Yes, - I'm sorry, we weren't introduced. How unbecoming. I'm Lois."
"Anton Telford, Ma'am. Security for Cyberlock."
"Yes, Mr Telford?"

Nobody called him Mr Telford, not even the big boss. He fidgeted on the spot. "You should let me take that for you."

The Garou seemed surprised as she thrummed her fingertips over handle. "How gallant of you. I believe I can manage however. Not to worry, though. There's plenty of heavy lifting to be had at the baggage terminal. Off we go, Mr Telford."

Anton frowned after her as she began to move down the walkway. He lifted his cap to scratch his hands over his scalp and doffed it again, tucking it down and rounding his shoulders as he started after the Fostern. He wasn't sure how she'd managed it, but he suddenly felt the unwelcome sense someone was babysitting all right, it just wasn't him.

-

Fort Collins

The motorcycle wound through the darkened streets and carefully pulled in from the flow of evening traffic, the rider drawing the vehicle to a halt on a grassy strip and lifting the visor on her helmet. Across from her the impressive grounds of Colorado State University began, it was a leafy campus, combining the best of its location against the mountains with modern architecture. She'd never seen it outside of pictures but it drove an unfamiliar sliver of unease through the female's frame - this was the last place her sister had been seen.

She lowered the visor and drew back into the flow of traffic, weaving through the cars.

-

Nobody noticed the blurred creature that streaked across the campus. The security cameras wouldn't capture the reason behind the broken lock on the door to the Metford Lab. It would be chalked up to vandals.

-

Downtown Denver

The email was encrypted. The sender address bounced around several fake domains. It had two recipients (the Sept of Cold Crescent and GWNet) and careful decryption provided a simple, efficient introduction:

Greetings -

I am Lois Croft. Alias Exit Protocol. Fostern No Moon Glass Walker. I am in your city.

I am not a threat.

Correspondence welcomed. Return via address, will intercept.

LC]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1045 Tue, 08 Dec 2015 16:45:34 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=1045 June 20th, 2015
New York City, USA

The sky was never black here.

The man observed this quietly to himself with his head tipped back and eyes to the heavens.  It was what made him miss the Carpathians the most.  The stars there pierced their way through space so sharply that locals believed they actually cut through from the Umbra on the highest peaks.  When storm clouds built against the cliffs and worked their way over the land, the thunder was so ferocious that your bones shook and you knew Grandfather Thunder staked that territory as his own.

Here, though, the sky was pink.  The light pollution against the clouds had the sky looking like spun sugars.  No wonder he looked as though he never slept.

"Scourge."

The man's head turned, attention called by the word (the accusation?) like it were a name.  He blinked black eyes through the shadows of the parking lot he was standing beside, furrowed a heavy brow while trying to distinguish who was approaching.  It was a woman in her early thirties with pretty wide-set features and a mane of brown hair worn up off her neck.  Recognition had that brow relaxing, and the rest of the man's posture as well.  He nodded and spoke only when she was near enough to hear him without his having to call out across pavement.

"Good evening, Becca."  His expression was flat, but it softened up with gratitude when he was offered a to-go package of wet wipes.  He withdrew his hands from his pockets to accept them, revealing in the dim light that they were caked with sludgy black blood.  He took his time and used the whole pack, scraping out from under his fingernails and into his nailbeds.  As he cleansed the filth from his hands in this world (and later tonight, the next), they spoke.

"I heard that you're going to be leaving."  Becca's voice was smooth and deep like a rich tone of amber, and drew the ear effortlessly.  Much of the command in her tone was taught by the man that she was speaking with.

At first he only grunted, but after a few moments of chill silence from the woman's part he added:  "To the Sept of Forgotten Questions."

"There?  Why?"

"To help."
"You're flipping a money pit in Denver, Arthur."
"Oh?  You know this for certain, do you?"

The look that he was fixed with by his packmate cracked a small smirk onto the man's face.  Finished with the wet wipes, now brown-and-red instead of white, he wadded them up and tossed them into a green iron public wastebin fixed to the bus stop nearby.

"You are being reluctant of work, Hangman Jury.  The more sweat and blood you put into the earth, the sweeter the fruits it bears."

A still-damp hand clapped onto her shoulder and stayed there-- he turned her about so that they could walk up the sidewalk with his arm across her back.  "You will all simply need to learn to survive without me."


December 1st, 2015
Lakewood, Colorado

Bringhurst Lane was quiet and affluent, with well-manicured lawns and mature trees to gather the frost on this first morning of December.  Some flowerbeds were covered while others simply wilted into hibernation.  The sun hadn't quite crested the eastern horizon just yet, but the sky was going pale where the morning was beginning to form.  In some driveways expensive cars idled to defrost-- BMWs and Porches and even one H2 (owned by the man that nobody in the neighborhood much cared for).  The birds that stuck around through the winter fluffed for warmth in tree branches and chirped every so often to one another.

In the center of the neighborhood block was a large two-story house, painted soft yellow with white trim and a white picket fence around the front yard to boot.  No car idled in the driveway, for the resident there was a wealthy widow and never needed to work a day in her life.  Somewhere behind those walls, according to the latest gossip, lived a monster.

No, not a monster.  It was her son, but he was a terrible thug.  If you looked at him wrong he would beat you into the pavement and come after anybody who tried to call the police on him.  He had great lawyers and never spent a day in jail but he would certainly come after you in the night if ever you tried.

They said that he preyed on children.  On housewives.  That was how he came to live at Mrs. Gaspar's house, he had seduced the old woman and would no doubt smother her in her sleep one of these nights to claim her fortune.

The children believed that he was a vampire.  One kid insisted werewolf, but nobody listens to children.

This monster of a man didn't socialize at all, but he'd been spied coming and going every so often.  He was a swarthy man, thick curly black hair tall on his head and broad features on his face.  One man swore he was a terrorist and that he was building pipe bombs in the garage to go blow up the airport, but he never had the gall to do anything besides gossip about this concern.  Others called him a racist-- Mrs. Shilby who lived on the edge of the cul-de-sac corrected him:  "No, I heard him when I called Mrs. Gaspar-- he's Eastern European."

Yeah?  Well he could still be a Muslim.

In truth, only one voice in that entire garble was correct, and that was 4-year-old McKenzie Franc.

He was a werewolf.  Garou.  The Scourge of the Shadow Lords.  Adren, a transplant from Europe-- England or France or something like that, according to the Cliaths that gossiped instead.  He was coming to grip the Grand Elder's balls in his fist and take the place by Storm, for Storm.  He had led many a coalition of packs into victory, seen Septs brought back up to glory before.  He was a Fixer, and he was coming to Fix Denver too, apparently.

Resentment spat poisonous on those tongues.  Fix us, they growled.  The fuck does he even know.

The Scourge knew one truth, at least.  That the sunrises in Denver were better by far than they were in New York City, and that Mrs. Gaspar had perfected the art of an early morning brew of strong black coffee.  And the view from her front porch would make the Rocky Mountains seem at least close to what the Carpathians had impressed in his heart.

Steam licked out from a mug that he held while seated out on the front porch, watching the sunrise in the southeastern sky.  He sipped to keep warm in the chill dawn morning and conceded to himself.

Perhaps this could be the place.]]> June 20th, 2015
New York City, USA

The sky was never black here.

The man observed this quietly to himself with his head tipped back and eyes to the heavens.  It was what made him miss the Carpathians the most.  The stars there pierced their way through space so sharply that locals believed they actually cut through from the Umbra on the highest peaks.  When storm clouds built against the cliffs and worked their way over the land, the thunder was so ferocious that your bones shook and you knew Grandfather Thunder staked that territory as his own.

Here, though, the sky was pink.  The light pollution against the clouds had the sky looking like spun sugars.  No wonder he looked as though he never slept.

"Scourge."

The man's head turned, attention called by the word (the accusation?) like it were a name.  He blinked black eyes through the shadows of the parking lot he was standing beside, furrowed a heavy brow while trying to distinguish who was approaching.  It was a woman in her early thirties with pretty wide-set features and a mane of brown hair worn up off her neck.  Recognition had that brow relaxing, and the rest of the man's posture as well.  He nodded and spoke only when she was near enough to hear him without his having to call out across pavement.

"Good evening, Becca."  His expression was flat, but it softened up with gratitude when he was offered a to-go package of wet wipes.  He withdrew his hands from his pockets to accept them, revealing in the dim light that they were caked with sludgy black blood.  He took his time and used the whole pack, scraping out from under his fingernails and into his nailbeds.  As he cleansed the filth from his hands in this world (and later tonight, the next), they spoke.

"I heard that you're going to be leaving."  Becca's voice was smooth and deep like a rich tone of amber, and drew the ear effortlessly.  Much of the command in her tone was taught by the man that she was speaking with.

At first he only grunted, but after a few moments of chill silence from the woman's part he added:  "To the Sept of Forgotten Questions."

"There?  Why?"

"To help."
"You're flipping a money pit in Denver, Arthur."
"Oh?  You know this for certain, do you?"

The look that he was fixed with by his packmate cracked a small smirk onto the man's face.  Finished with the wet wipes, now brown-and-red instead of white, he wadded them up and tossed them into a green iron public wastebin fixed to the bus stop nearby.

"You are being reluctant of work, Hangman Jury.  The more sweat and blood you put into the earth, the sweeter the fruits it bears."

A still-damp hand clapped onto her shoulder and stayed there-- he turned her about so that they could walk up the sidewalk with his arm across her back.  "You will all simply need to learn to survive without me."


December 1st, 2015
Lakewood, Colorado

Bringhurst Lane was quiet and affluent, with well-manicured lawns and mature trees to gather the frost on this first morning of December.  Some flowerbeds were covered while others simply wilted into hibernation.  The sun hadn't quite crested the eastern horizon just yet, but the sky was going pale where the morning was beginning to form.  In some driveways expensive cars idled to defrost-- BMWs and Porches and even one H2 (owned by the man that nobody in the neighborhood much cared for).  The birds that stuck around through the winter fluffed for warmth in tree branches and chirped every so often to one another.

In the center of the neighborhood block was a large two-story house, painted soft yellow with white trim and a white picket fence around the front yard to boot.  No car idled in the driveway, for the resident there was a wealthy widow and never needed to work a day in her life.  Somewhere behind those walls, according to the latest gossip, lived a monster.

No, not a monster.  It was her son, but he was a terrible thug.  If you looked at him wrong he would beat you into the pavement and come after anybody who tried to call the police on him.  He had great lawyers and never spent a day in jail but he would certainly come after you in the night if ever you tried.

They said that he preyed on children.  On housewives.  That was how he came to live at Mrs. Gaspar's house, he had seduced the old woman and would no doubt smother her in her sleep one of these nights to claim her fortune.

The children believed that he was a vampire.  One kid insisted werewolf, but nobody listens to children.

This monster of a man didn't socialize at all, but he'd been spied coming and going every so often.  He was a swarthy man, thick curly black hair tall on his head and broad features on his face.  One man swore he was a terrorist and that he was building pipe bombs in the garage to go blow up the airport, but he never had the gall to do anything besides gossip about this concern.  Others called him a racist-- Mrs. Shilby who lived on the edge of the cul-de-sac corrected him:  "No, I heard him when I called Mrs. Gaspar-- he's Eastern European."

Yeah?  Well he could still be a Muslim.

In truth, only one voice in that entire garble was correct, and that was 4-year-old McKenzie Franc.

He was a werewolf.  Garou.  The Scourge of the Shadow Lords.  Adren, a transplant from Europe-- England or France or something like that, according to the Cliaths that gossiped instead.  He was coming to grip the Grand Elder's balls in his fist and take the place by Storm, for Storm.  He had led many a coalition of packs into victory, seen Septs brought back up to glory before.  He was a Fixer, and he was coming to Fix Denver too, apparently.

Resentment spat poisonous on those tongues.  Fix us, they growled.  The fuck does he even know.

The Scourge knew one truth, at least.  That the sunrises in Denver were better by far than they were in New York City, and that Mrs. Gaspar had perfected the art of an early morning brew of strong black coffee.  And the view from her front porch would make the Rocky Mountains seem at least close to what the Carpathians had impressed in his heart.

Steam licked out from a mug that he held while seated out on the front porch, watching the sunrise in the southeastern sky.  He sipped to keep warm in the chill dawn morning and conceded to himself.

Perhaps this could be the place.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=870 Sat, 06 Dec 2014 06:11:37 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=870
And in the silence bred by a Ragabash and an Ahroun of Stag quitting the house to attend a sacred rite of their people Matthew Murphy who feels like something sacred in his own right sits down at the computer in his living room and takes a couple tokes off of a cannabis pipe before he starts to ask the Internet what it knows about EnerJam.

In the morning or perhaps the morning after depending on the severity of his hangover he will call a woman who works for a local environmental law firm. Her name is Theresa Cohen. She has not heard from him since the night before he landed himself in Bellevue Hospital. That is a whole other story. He isn't thinking about Theresa as he rubs his eyes and sets down the pipe and conducts his own ritual.

Beer bottles multiply over the course of the four hours that he sits on the couch hunched over the computer. He hasn't spent this long doing anything other than running or getting high or fornicating since. Well. Since the last time he saw Theresa. Life is funny that way.

When the girls return from the moot he's full-dressed and fast asleep on the couch in the living room.

---

Go go Gadget underachiever!

Matthew @ 6:55AM
[int + computer!]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

Matthew @ 6:56AM
[int + investigation!]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

Matthew @ 7:03AM
[LOL extending the computer roll]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

Matthew @ 7:03AM
[♪ one more time ♪]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 4, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

Translation: 3 successes on Int + Computer at diff 6, 5 successes on Investigation at diff 6. Per the rules on p. 284 Matt spent his Stamina rating (4) in hours researching.]]>
And in the silence bred by a Ragabash and an Ahroun of Stag quitting the house to attend a sacred rite of their people Matthew Murphy who feels like something sacred in his own right sits down at the computer in his living room and takes a couple tokes off of a cannabis pipe before he starts to ask the Internet what it knows about EnerJam.

In the morning or perhaps the morning after depending on the severity of his hangover he will call a woman who works for a local environmental law firm. Her name is Theresa Cohen. She has not heard from him since the night before he landed himself in Bellevue Hospital. That is a whole other story. He isn't thinking about Theresa as he rubs his eyes and sets down the pipe and conducts his own ritual.

Beer bottles multiply over the course of the four hours that he sits on the couch hunched over the computer. He hasn't spent this long doing anything other than running or getting high or fornicating since. Well. Since the last time he saw Theresa. Life is funny that way.

When the girls return from the moot he's full-dressed and fast asleep on the couch in the living room.

---

Go go Gadget underachiever!

Matthew @ 6:55AM
[int + computer!]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

Matthew @ 6:56AM
[int + investigation!]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

Matthew @ 7:03AM
[LOL extending the computer roll]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

Matthew @ 7:03AM
[♪ one more time ♪]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 4, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

Translation: 3 successes on Int + Computer at diff 6, 5 successes on Investigation at diff 6. Per the rules on p. 284 Matt spent his Stamina rating (4) in hours researching.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=869 Sat, 06 Dec 2014 01:21:25 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=869 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."]]> 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."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=858 Mon, 10 Nov 2014 20:58:14 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=858
It's a weird thing to be good at, when it comes right down to it. Morgan Roche, pretty little barely legal thing, all height and curves and awkward graces but heck of a fighter when you put her in a corner against some ungodly wyrm of a thing.

Sometimes she wonders what they'll say over her grave. Late at night, early before sunrise, roaming the borders of Forgotten Questions. What will the life of Firebrand trickle down to, like sand pouring out between someone's fingers. Tiny micro moments where she shone or fucked up or figured out what came next.

She's young in the eyes of the Nation, held accountable now in the eyes of mortal man but just barely. Not old enough for everything but she's old enough to remember what it felt like to kill a man. To wake up, shaking and blood stained and terrified of your own body. It's an impossible thing to chronicle, that kind of fear. Intangible but there, she'd tried to articulate it once, to her grandfather. Sitting on the steps of the family house with insects buzzing in the air around a light. Drawn to it over and over until they forgot what it was to want anything but that damn light.

And then, at some point, they died. You found them, on the ground. Curled up and dried out as if that desire, that infernal longing for the light sucked every last drop of life out of them. She thinks she's a moth now and that Rage she feels coursing through her veins, pounding like a drum in her ears is the light. I don't wanna be a killer, she'd said, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and sniffing because crying felt like the thing to do, all things considered.

The family celebrated another true born in the line and she felt like she'd been sentenced to death.

Gaia's blessed ye, he'd told her. Yer special now, Morgan Roche.

She didn't think Gaia's blessings were much to be grateful for then and she's in a mixed mind about them now. Though there are bright spots, little moments where it's not so bad. Where she does something and someone tells her she did well, did right. Nights when the sky clears up and she can sit out under the stars and count them in her head. Sometimes she stops by Matthew Murphy's bar and sits in the corner, even when he's not behind it just for the sake of being there. She doesn't think she has a lot to offer a Kinfolk, but she has her Rage, tickling away under her skin.

She's good at killing and maybe, she's okay at protecting, too, when it comes right down to it.]]>
It's a weird thing to be good at, when it comes right down to it. Morgan Roche, pretty little barely legal thing, all height and curves and awkward graces but heck of a fighter when you put her in a corner against some ungodly wyrm of a thing.

Sometimes she wonders what they'll say over her grave. Late at night, early before sunrise, roaming the borders of Forgotten Questions. What will the life of Firebrand trickle down to, like sand pouring out between someone's fingers. Tiny micro moments where she shone or fucked up or figured out what came next.

She's young in the eyes of the Nation, held accountable now in the eyes of mortal man but just barely. Not old enough for everything but she's old enough to remember what it felt like to kill a man. To wake up, shaking and blood stained and terrified of your own body. It's an impossible thing to chronicle, that kind of fear. Intangible but there, she'd tried to articulate it once, to her grandfather. Sitting on the steps of the family house with insects buzzing in the air around a light. Drawn to it over and over until they forgot what it was to want anything but that damn light.

And then, at some point, they died. You found them, on the ground. Curled up and dried out as if that desire, that infernal longing for the light sucked every last drop of life out of them. She thinks she's a moth now and that Rage she feels coursing through her veins, pounding like a drum in her ears is the light. I don't wanna be a killer, she'd said, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and sniffing because crying felt like the thing to do, all things considered.

The family celebrated another true born in the line and she felt like she'd been sentenced to death.

Gaia's blessed ye, he'd told her. Yer special now, Morgan Roche.

She didn't think Gaia's blessings were much to be grateful for then and she's in a mixed mind about them now. Though there are bright spots, little moments where it's not so bad. Where she does something and someone tells her she did well, did right. Nights when the sky clears up and she can sit out under the stars and count them in her head. Sometimes she stops by Matthew Murphy's bar and sits in the corner, even when he's not behind it just for the sake of being there. She doesn't think she has a lot to offer a Kinfolk, but she has her Rage, tickling away under her skin.

She's good at killing and maybe, she's okay at protecting, too, when it comes right down to it.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=855 Sun, 02 Nov 2014 15:58:30 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=855
Set to it, the Ahroun in charge had growled to the Ragabash guide.

Hold the line was the order for the rest. Erich Son of Rage stood along with Avery Radiant Honor and Morgan Firebrand, all known in the city for their unforgiving strength in battle, some names older and more iron than others (but a new roar of flame was a roar heard all the same, yes?).

They held the line, all right. As green-skinned slime-slicked soldiers with bulging black eyes and black needles for teeth and claws came to defend the nest the two Ahrouns and Philodox tore through them with ease. Their blood was dark dark dark, and seemed green only when the light pouring from the chest of the Radiant Honor hit it just right. It coated the walls and staircase entirely.

Meanwhile, as the great Gaian warriors ripped through bodies limb and torso alike, Little Uproar rushed upon a cluster of pods. They were glued together by the sludge that stuck them against the wall and floor alike, and those that hadn't already burst open bulged barely transparent enough to see the shapes of the monstrosities that grew within. She was to ruin them, to take advantage of their helpless state and ensure that they wouldn't join their brothers and sisters in battle to defend this Hell House in the mountains. Trusty knife grasped in one big gold-furred hand, she had sliced two pods open in one clean swipe.

Then, pop!-pop!, twin explosions of astounding force that set off a chain reaction of force through the nest. The job had been done quickly, no more of these Pod People would arise, but the cost had been a full-force explosion of sickly clumping yellow-green waste that scalded and burned whatever it touched. The frontline warriors were fine, but the Fianna Ragabash had been burned savagely by the acidic flood, along her front and neck and mouth.

Saved by a Queenly Silver Fang, an Angel radiating Luna's Light (a talen, gifted by Avery), the Fianna was soon back on her feet, and the assault continued up through the house.

Upstairs, where poor Morgan had snatched up a Pod Person in her jaws and in her enthusiasm to throw him terribly had instead flung herself into the wall and doorframe entering the second level of the home. Her embarrassment would be astounding-- no young Ahroun liked to lay dizzy and Rage-hot with shame while their ranking superior stood over them and took hits from the enemy on their behalf. She would have time to process that embarrassment later, though. There were still more enemies within, Erich would report through his link with Gaia and the awareness that granted.

There had been four more PodPeople upstairs total, and all of them were torn through as easily as the rest. They had no doubt done a wonderful job of keeping wandering human adventurers and officials at bay from investigating the mystery of this terrible old house, but they were no match against a seasoned Garou mission pack.

Ultimately, they found themselves in what was once a formal dining room with no more foes to be seen, the remains of the last two slime-skined soldiers at their feet. Erich could tell, he knew there was one more left somewhere in the house, but he couldn't tell where. All was silent, they'd have to span out.

--------------------------------

[Okay you guys! Let's get some posts from here-- to see what they'd plan for a search of the house for the last remaining enemy, where they'd check, so on and so on. I'll probably request actual searching dice here in a round or so!]]]>
Set to it, the Ahroun in charge had growled to the Ragabash guide.

Hold the line was the order for the rest. Erich Son of Rage stood along with Avery Radiant Honor and Morgan Firebrand, all known in the city for their unforgiving strength in battle, some names older and more iron than others (but a new roar of flame was a roar heard all the same, yes?).

They held the line, all right. As green-skinned slime-slicked soldiers with bulging black eyes and black needles for teeth and claws came to defend the nest the two Ahrouns and Philodox tore through them with ease. Their blood was dark dark dark, and seemed green only when the light pouring from the chest of the Radiant Honor hit it just right. It coated the walls and staircase entirely.

Meanwhile, as the great Gaian warriors ripped through bodies limb and torso alike, Little Uproar rushed upon a cluster of pods. They were glued together by the sludge that stuck them against the wall and floor alike, and those that hadn't already burst open bulged barely transparent enough to see the shapes of the monstrosities that grew within. She was to ruin them, to take advantage of their helpless state and ensure that they wouldn't join their brothers and sisters in battle to defend this Hell House in the mountains. Trusty knife grasped in one big gold-furred hand, she had sliced two pods open in one clean swipe.

Then, pop!-pop!, twin explosions of astounding force that set off a chain reaction of force through the nest. The job had been done quickly, no more of these Pod People would arise, but the cost had been a full-force explosion of sickly clumping yellow-green waste that scalded and burned whatever it touched. The frontline warriors were fine, but the Fianna Ragabash had been burned savagely by the acidic flood, along her front and neck and mouth.

Saved by a Queenly Silver Fang, an Angel radiating Luna's Light (a talen, gifted by Avery), the Fianna was soon back on her feet, and the assault continued up through the house.

Upstairs, where poor Morgan had snatched up a Pod Person in her jaws and in her enthusiasm to throw him terribly had instead flung herself into the wall and doorframe entering the second level of the home. Her embarrassment would be astounding-- no young Ahroun liked to lay dizzy and Rage-hot with shame while their ranking superior stood over them and took hits from the enemy on their behalf. She would have time to process that embarrassment later, though. There were still more enemies within, Erich would report through his link with Gaia and the awareness that granted.

There had been four more PodPeople upstairs total, and all of them were torn through as easily as the rest. They had no doubt done a wonderful job of keeping wandering human adventurers and officials at bay from investigating the mystery of this terrible old house, but they were no match against a seasoned Garou mission pack.

Ultimately, they found themselves in what was once a formal dining room with no more foes to be seen, the remains of the last two slime-skined soldiers at their feet. Erich could tell, he knew there was one more left somewhere in the house, but he couldn't tell where. All was silent, they'd have to span out.

--------------------------------

[Okay you guys! Let's get some posts from here-- to see what they'd plan for a search of the house for the last remaining enemy, where they'd check, so on and so on. I'll probably request actual searching dice here in a round or so!]]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=833 Tue, 07 Oct 2014 13:13:27 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=833
Human senses were a poor tool for such a task. As soon as they were safely out of sight, Will shifted to his breed form. He stretched up to his full height and closed his eyes, feeling the brisk October wind ruffle through his fur. It'd been too long since he was able to walk in his native skin.

When Lucky indicated that he was ready, they stepped into the umbra. And Will leaned down and snapped his teeth delicately (playfully) beside his pack-mate's ear.

Race you.

Will hated introductions. Perhaps he was trying to distract himself. But they were fast here - so much faster than on the physical plane - and Will's paws practically flew over the ground (like hooves; like starlight.)

It didn't matter which of them got there first. Probably they reached the Bawn together, panting and laughing as they pulled to a stop. Will grew quiet then, sensing that their approach would soon be noticed (if it had not been already.) He was the moondancer. He ought to howl first. But he didn't. Instead he waited for Lucky to call out to the Sept. Then, after a beat of hesitation, he howled his own introduction.

Ghost Song. Cliath Galliard of the Children of Gaia. Twice claimed by Unicorn. This pack: Solace, greets you.

When they were greeted by the guards, Will followed quietly in their wake, taking in the details of the Bawn as they walked. When they reached the Caern, his posture and body language shifted to one of awe and respect.

They were there to pay chiminage. The Caern spirit asked for a memory. Will sat down on the earth, folding his legs and his paws beneath him. He closed his eyes.

"Rain."

He remembered the smell of it. And the sensation of drops wetting his fur. He remembered the way the water mixed with the scent of the trees and the loamy earth in the forest. Will's voice was low and rhythmic as he sang, recalling the details of his earliest memory. He didn't know how old he was or what he'd been doing, but he remembered the rain, and he remembered the details that it had etched into his animal senses. (He remembered them in a way a human would not. As though smell could paint a picture.)

And then he remembered his mother lifting him. And he remembered her hair falling on his face. And he remembered the scent of her too (warm earth and leather and sweat and home) and the sweet murmur of her voice.

When he was done, Will listened as Lucky gave his own memory. He was quiet and attentive. And they remained at the Caern for the rest of the evening, offering help if any was needed. They didn't know yet if this place was to be their new home, but they would treat it as such while they were here.]]>
Human senses were a poor tool for such a task. As soon as they were safely out of sight, Will shifted to his breed form. He stretched up to his full height and closed his eyes, feeling the brisk October wind ruffle through his fur. It'd been too long since he was able to walk in his native skin.

When Lucky indicated that he was ready, they stepped into the umbra. And Will leaned down and snapped his teeth delicately (playfully) beside his pack-mate's ear.

Race you.

Will hated introductions. Perhaps he was trying to distract himself. But they were fast here - so much faster than on the physical plane - and Will's paws practically flew over the ground (like hooves; like starlight.)

It didn't matter which of them got there first. Probably they reached the Bawn together, panting and laughing as they pulled to a stop. Will grew quiet then, sensing that their approach would soon be noticed (if it had not been already.) He was the moondancer. He ought to howl first. But he didn't. Instead he waited for Lucky to call out to the Sept. Then, after a beat of hesitation, he howled his own introduction.

Ghost Song. Cliath Galliard of the Children of Gaia. Twice claimed by Unicorn. This pack: Solace, greets you.

When they were greeted by the guards, Will followed quietly in their wake, taking in the details of the Bawn as they walked. When they reached the Caern, his posture and body language shifted to one of awe and respect.

They were there to pay chiminage. The Caern spirit asked for a memory. Will sat down on the earth, folding his legs and his paws beneath him. He closed his eyes.

"Rain."

He remembered the smell of it. And the sensation of drops wetting his fur. He remembered the way the water mixed with the scent of the trees and the loamy earth in the forest. Will's voice was low and rhythmic as he sang, recalling the details of his earliest memory. He didn't know how old he was or what he'd been doing, but he remembered the rain, and he remembered the details that it had etched into his animal senses. (He remembered them in a way a human would not. As though smell could paint a picture.)

And then he remembered his mother lifting him. And he remembered her hair falling on his face. And he remembered the scent of her too (warm earth and leather and sweat and home) and the sweet murmur of her voice.

When he was done, Will listened as Lucky gave his own memory. He was quiet and attentive. And they remained at the Caern for the rest of the evening, offering help if any was needed. They didn't know yet if this place was to be their new home, but they would treat it as such while they were here.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=816 Fri, 26 Sep 2014 05:05:46 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=816 You don't raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they'll turn out to be heroes, even if it's just in your own eyes. ~Walter M. Schirra, Sr.

He cut through the herd of humans in a direct line for his son, dodging suitcases and overnight bags. The airport was filled with an incessant chatter of white noise, changing frequency with the occasional multicultural tongue and emotional re-union outburst. Even the announcements contained a muffled edge, blurring words into a monotonous drone, obscuring the English language. Aiden’s mop of blonde hair was lighter than Otto remembered, grown from dark roots to Helios kissed streaks. The overgrown strands hid the boy’s downcast gaze, falling across pale brows and the high rise of cheekbone that had cut free of childhood fat.

Reaching out, Otto touched a hunched, bony shoulder, and slid his hand to the flat blade of his Aiden’s back. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t touch me,” his son hissed through a flash of white teeth, jerking away.

The warmth he’d felt through the cotton of the boy’s polo instantly faded, replaced with the unfamiliar cool of rejection. Flexing his fingers closed, he shoved them into his slacks pockets, and walked after the young teen. He let distance develop between them but not enough to lose sight.

Outside, the chorus of idling engines and impatient horns took over the chatter. The volume rose, reigning chaos on the eardrums. He watched Aiden pause on the fringe of the sidewalk, one hand wrapped around the handle of a suitcase over half his size, and the other palming back the overnight bag that kept swinging forward. The boy watched a cab zoom past, ignoring the pedestrian walkway and flashing lights, and cussed under his breath. Otto caught the tail end of it before a pair of iron eyes stared back at him. He thought twice about reprimanding before deciding that it wasn’t worth the battle over minor infractions.

Although his son had rapidly changed since he last saw him, Otto still knew some of those expressions - notably the similarities between the way the boy struggled with his wolf and the way he grappled with his luggage. He answered before the question was asked, recognising the rise of frustration and eagerness to get out. “The car’s parked on level two, row J.”

Aiden strode ahead and Otto let him, following in a slow stroll that allowed enough time for him to absorb the radical difference that six months can make. To be fair it had really been longer than that. Vacations, a week or a couple of days at a time, and impersonal Skype calls could hardly be considered quality time. Lengthy conversations and heated discussions were still not enough to prepare him to accept his role and the expectations. It was hard to swallow the idea that his first born, who once fit along the entire length of a single forearm, would, within a few short years, if not sooner, become a towering, monstrous beast capable of many great and terrible things.

A father couldn’t be blamed for trying to prolong the inevitable but it still does not make it cease to exist, or any less real. It had, instead, hunted across land and oceans to come tearing down his door, demanding to be heard, acknowledged, and to claim its rightful place.

The drive to the house had started with the announcement of every street and turn, the GPS a well-versed tour guide, until the boy had mumbled, “Please shut it off.” Otto attributed the surprising politeness to the combination of jetlag and the hypnotic sound of a well-oiled engine and cruising tires across asphalt, a sound that is renowned for putting tired children to sleep. From then, they drove in silence and tolerable tension. The boy slept, dozed with his head lolled against the cool of the tinted window pane, and the father watched the unfamiliar roads with frequent glances to the mounted, mute system of changing roadmaps that lead him through the maze to their new home.

He unpacked the car himself and, leaving the overnight bag for Aiden to grab, wheeled the luggage to the front door to let them in. He glanced back once, watching tension leak from the boys upturned face, before he walked inside and left the swaying tree branches, and flora scented air, work its magic.

It was some time before Aiden reappeared to walk the house and discover the whereabouts of his new room. Otto hadn’t sat around waiting, but had left the luggage just inside the boy’s room and went to return a few calls he’d missed while preoccupied at the airport. He listened to the quiet footsteps trudging through the hallways, moving back and forth through a small section of the house, familiarising himself with the notion of sharing his space again. The pitter-patter of small feet was half a lifetime ago, a distant memory renewed, bringing to life a colourful array of flashbacks that rolled, one after another, like some dusty movie reel. Most of the images were faded and grainy, missing little snippets, and leaving the imagination to fill the gaps. It felt like another time, another place, foreign enough that it may as well have happened to someone else.

“Farsan?” Aiden stood in the doorway, towel in hand. “I’m having a shower and going to bed.”

Otto nodded, rising from the chair as if he had to take some part in it. Run the bath, fetch a towel, but that was an invading recollection, a displaced delusion. Already the boy had left, disappearing down the hallway, leaving him standing there like some dumbstruck mute. He eased back into the kitchen chair and looked at the opened, filled planner and the vibrating smartphone next to it.

The world around him shifted, ignited in him a sudden need for a stiff drink and the desire to book a flight to some remote place off the grid. He thought about that, fantasised really, while the shower ran well beyond a conservative and environmentally conscience limit, and knew that, no matter how fast o far he could run, they’d always catch up. At the heart, he was well aware of his responsibilities and didn’t want to shirk them, but even he, with all his success and proactive nature, was concerned about how he was going to approach the biggest challenge of his lifetime.

When the shower shut off and, shortly after, a closing door signalled the end of a reunion, Otto reached for his phone and scoured the numbers. He was going to need a contingency plan and, like it or not, it was going to involve getting cosy with the other half of the Silver Fangs. If he wanted to rebuild and maintain a healthy relationship with his first-born heir, and keep some semblance of hierarchy in the family, he was going to have to get back in the game.]]> You don't raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they'll turn out to be heroes, even if it's just in your own eyes. ~Walter M. Schirra, Sr.

He cut through the herd of humans in a direct line for his son, dodging suitcases and overnight bags. The airport was filled with an incessant chatter of white noise, changing frequency with the occasional multicultural tongue and emotional re-union outburst. Even the announcements contained a muffled edge, blurring words into a monotonous drone, obscuring the English language. Aiden’s mop of blonde hair was lighter than Otto remembered, grown from dark roots to Helios kissed streaks. The overgrown strands hid the boy’s downcast gaze, falling across pale brows and the high rise of cheekbone that had cut free of childhood fat.

Reaching out, Otto touched a hunched, bony shoulder, and slid his hand to the flat blade of his Aiden’s back. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t touch me,” his son hissed through a flash of white teeth, jerking away.

The warmth he’d felt through the cotton of the boy’s polo instantly faded, replaced with the unfamiliar cool of rejection. Flexing his fingers closed, he shoved them into his slacks pockets, and walked after the young teen. He let distance develop between them but not enough to lose sight.

Outside, the chorus of idling engines and impatient horns took over the chatter. The volume rose, reigning chaos on the eardrums. He watched Aiden pause on the fringe of the sidewalk, one hand wrapped around the handle of a suitcase over half his size, and the other palming back the overnight bag that kept swinging forward. The boy watched a cab zoom past, ignoring the pedestrian walkway and flashing lights, and cussed under his breath. Otto caught the tail end of it before a pair of iron eyes stared back at him. He thought twice about reprimanding before deciding that it wasn’t worth the battle over minor infractions.

Although his son had rapidly changed since he last saw him, Otto still knew some of those expressions - notably the similarities between the way the boy struggled with his wolf and the way he grappled with his luggage. He answered before the question was asked, recognising the rise of frustration and eagerness to get out. “The car’s parked on level two, row J.”

Aiden strode ahead and Otto let him, following in a slow stroll that allowed enough time for him to absorb the radical difference that six months can make. To be fair it had really been longer than that. Vacations, a week or a couple of days at a time, and impersonal Skype calls could hardly be considered quality time. Lengthy conversations and heated discussions were still not enough to prepare him to accept his role and the expectations. It was hard to swallow the idea that his first born, who once fit along the entire length of a single forearm, would, within a few short years, if not sooner, become a towering, monstrous beast capable of many great and terrible things.

A father couldn’t be blamed for trying to prolong the inevitable but it still does not make it cease to exist, or any less real. It had, instead, hunted across land and oceans to come tearing down his door, demanding to be heard, acknowledged, and to claim its rightful place.

The drive to the house had started with the announcement of every street and turn, the GPS a well-versed tour guide, until the boy had mumbled, “Please shut it off.” Otto attributed the surprising politeness to the combination of jetlag and the hypnotic sound of a well-oiled engine and cruising tires across asphalt, a sound that is renowned for putting tired children to sleep. From then, they drove in silence and tolerable tension. The boy slept, dozed with his head lolled against the cool of the tinted window pane, and the father watched the unfamiliar roads with frequent glances to the mounted, mute system of changing roadmaps that lead him through the maze to their new home.

He unpacked the car himself and, leaving the overnight bag for Aiden to grab, wheeled the luggage to the front door to let them in. He glanced back once, watching tension leak from the boys upturned face, before he walked inside and left the swaying tree branches, and flora scented air, work its magic.

It was some time before Aiden reappeared to walk the house and discover the whereabouts of his new room. Otto hadn’t sat around waiting, but had left the luggage just inside the boy’s room and went to return a few calls he’d missed while preoccupied at the airport. He listened to the quiet footsteps trudging through the hallways, moving back and forth through a small section of the house, familiarising himself with the notion of sharing his space again. The pitter-patter of small feet was half a lifetime ago, a distant memory renewed, bringing to life a colourful array of flashbacks that rolled, one after another, like some dusty movie reel. Most of the images were faded and grainy, missing little snippets, and leaving the imagination to fill the gaps. It felt like another time, another place, foreign enough that it may as well have happened to someone else.

“Farsan?” Aiden stood in the doorway, towel in hand. “I’m having a shower and going to bed.”

Otto nodded, rising from the chair as if he had to take some part in it. Run the bath, fetch a towel, but that was an invading recollection, a displaced delusion. Already the boy had left, disappearing down the hallway, leaving him standing there like some dumbstruck mute. He eased back into the kitchen chair and looked at the opened, filled planner and the vibrating smartphone next to it.

The world around him shifted, ignited in him a sudden need for a stiff drink and the desire to book a flight to some remote place off the grid. He thought about that, fantasised really, while the shower ran well beyond a conservative and environmentally conscience limit, and knew that, no matter how fast o far he could run, they’d always catch up. At the heart, he was well aware of his responsibilities and didn’t want to shirk them, but even he, with all his success and proactive nature, was concerned about how he was going to approach the biggest challenge of his lifetime.

When the shower shut off and, shortly after, a closing door signalled the end of a reunion, Otto reached for his phone and scoured the numbers. He was going to need a contingency plan and, like it or not, it was going to involve getting cosy with the other half of the Silver Fangs. If he wanted to rebuild and maintain a healthy relationship with his first-born heir, and keep some semblance of hierarchy in the family, he was going to have to get back in the game.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=796 Fri, 05 Sep 2014 01:38:53 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=796 Portland, Maine
Two Weeks Ago

It's mid morning when the Ahroun finds the Guardian working on the docks, winding rope around his arm and stacking empty lobster cages on the pier ready to be packed back onto the small fishing trawler tied amongst a mish mash of other boats; some broader, others narrower still than the rusted green and black vessel several Kinfolk of the Sept are working aboard, their voices cutting through the distant sounds of a fishing precinct hard at work.

Gulls circle high above, calling out as early morning hauls are unloaded, fish poured into great containers and packed tight with ice, ever vigilant for the morsels tossed aside; guts and discards ripe for the scavenging. The Sept kept a steady watch on the comings and goings of the harbor and it was duty as much as lifelong exposure that had the Adren working long into the morning; sweat gathering on the back of his neck, on arms still strong despite advancing years.

Stands at Dawn had seen enough younger Garou born screaming only to perish the same way, his own flesh and blood included, it was perhaps why he was, as his deedname suggested, always the first to work, the last to rest. He'd told as many stories of glory as of disgrace and as he straightened and sniffed, wiping a gloved hand across his face, the subject of many a recent discourse regarding both advanced across the docks, her hair a brilliant beacon in the sunlight.

There was a duffle bag over one of the Ahroun's shoulders and the elder Garou tossed aside another length of rope at her approach.

"Someplace to be, Morgan Roche that finds you on my dock so early?"

The Ahroun's features were marred by healing cuts, the corner of her lip, a bruise blooming in gorgeous shades across a cheekbone; purple mottling around the base of her neck, all standing in starker regard against an otherwise fair complexion.

"'m headin' out."

She's tall, for a woman, for her line, for her age. Her brother carrying only the briefest two inches on her, less, in heels. Though for all the contemplation the Theurge offers daily, there is, in his sister, as she bears her subdued displeasure, the same enduring spark of irritation trembling just under her skin. Only difference between the siblings their grandfather has ever seen is a willingness to give over to emotion.

By the light of a full moon, Morgan had that in spades.

"Lookin' to be persuaded to stay, or add another reason to go by tellin' me so to my face?" There's something there, a firming of her jaw, a slight hardening of storm-grey eyes before the answer. "I think I have enough reasons on my own, -rhya."

Her chin lifts incrementally.

A smile surfaces, familiar and well worn on the Galliard's face as he leans against a crate; crossing arms over a broad chest. "I bet you got a whole bunch of 'em, Morgan, I don't doubt it a second." He weighs her resolve, the Ahroun holds his stare long enough to be impudent, then hefts her bag against her shoulder and drops her eyes to the ground, jaw working.

"I can't change wha' happened. He's dead."
"Yes, he is." The exchange is hard, blunt. Sliced to the bone. "Well and truly. So why leave?"
"I can't stay here."
"Or you won't."

The Kin on the boat are watching, eyes downcast for the prickling of rage in the air but their movements slower for the interest in the exchange between the two Garou on the dock. The female breathes out harshly and turns to leave. The male allows it for several steps then calls her to halt. Says her name.

Morgan turns, her profile silhouetted against the heat of the sun. Her hair is unbound and the breeze plays with the strands, sending them sliding around her shoulders.

"Give 'em hell."
There's a lightening of the girl's features. A brief, darting smile.

Stands at Dawn watches the girl leave for a moment before returning to his task, his refocused attention scattering the others back to formation.

Present Day

Under a heavy moon, climbing toward full, is when the Ahroun finds the Sept.

Hitching hadn't been a problem, she's young, pretty and aside from the heaping unease she sets into the bones of most, an easy passenger to ferry the miles it takes to discover the Caern buried away in the heart of Roxborough Park. She finds her way beyond the gate, unmanned in the twilight and hikes further in.

She shifts down when she's close, clothing melting down into fur, a blur of red darting through the dust and low lying plantlife; scaring birds out of their nests, sending frightened rabbits panicking out of the way. On a low rise, the blood of Stag finally comes to a rest, tips her head back and howls her greetings.

[FYI, this is just a sort of general 'hey, I'm here' post, but if anyone feels like replying, you're quite welcome to!]]]> Portland, Maine
Two Weeks Ago

It's mid morning when the Ahroun finds the Guardian working on the docks, winding rope around his arm and stacking empty lobster cages on the pier ready to be packed back onto the small fishing trawler tied amongst a mish mash of other boats; some broader, others narrower still than the rusted green and black vessel several Kinfolk of the Sept are working aboard, their voices cutting through the distant sounds of a fishing precinct hard at work.

Gulls circle high above, calling out as early morning hauls are unloaded, fish poured into great containers and packed tight with ice, ever vigilant for the morsels tossed aside; guts and discards ripe for the scavenging. The Sept kept a steady watch on the comings and goings of the harbor and it was duty as much as lifelong exposure that had the Adren working long into the morning; sweat gathering on the back of his neck, on arms still strong despite advancing years.

Stands at Dawn had seen enough younger Garou born screaming only to perish the same way, his own flesh and blood included, it was perhaps why he was, as his deedname suggested, always the first to work, the last to rest. He'd told as many stories of glory as of disgrace and as he straightened and sniffed, wiping a gloved hand across his face, the subject of many a recent discourse regarding both advanced across the docks, her hair a brilliant beacon in the sunlight.

There was a duffle bag over one of the Ahroun's shoulders and the elder Garou tossed aside another length of rope at her approach.

"Someplace to be, Morgan Roche that finds you on my dock so early?"

The Ahroun's features were marred by healing cuts, the corner of her lip, a bruise blooming in gorgeous shades across a cheekbone; purple mottling around the base of her neck, all standing in starker regard against an otherwise fair complexion.

"'m headin' out."

She's tall, for a woman, for her line, for her age. Her brother carrying only the briefest two inches on her, less, in heels. Though for all the contemplation the Theurge offers daily, there is, in his sister, as she bears her subdued displeasure, the same enduring spark of irritation trembling just under her skin. Only difference between the siblings their grandfather has ever seen is a willingness to give over to emotion.

By the light of a full moon, Morgan had that in spades.

"Lookin' to be persuaded to stay, or add another reason to go by tellin' me so to my face?" There's something there, a firming of her jaw, a slight hardening of storm-grey eyes before the answer. "I think I have enough reasons on my own, -rhya."

Her chin lifts incrementally.

A smile surfaces, familiar and well worn on the Galliard's face as he leans against a crate; crossing arms over a broad chest. "I bet you got a whole bunch of 'em, Morgan, I don't doubt it a second." He weighs her resolve, the Ahroun holds his stare long enough to be impudent, then hefts her bag against her shoulder and drops her eyes to the ground, jaw working.

"I can't change wha' happened. He's dead."
"Yes, he is." The exchange is hard, blunt. Sliced to the bone. "Well and truly. So why leave?"
"I can't stay here."
"Or you won't."

The Kin on the boat are watching, eyes downcast for the prickling of rage in the air but their movements slower for the interest in the exchange between the two Garou on the dock. The female breathes out harshly and turns to leave. The male allows it for several steps then calls her to halt. Says her name.

Morgan turns, her profile silhouetted against the heat of the sun. Her hair is unbound and the breeze plays with the strands, sending them sliding around her shoulders.

"Give 'em hell."
There's a lightening of the girl's features. A brief, darting smile.

Stands at Dawn watches the girl leave for a moment before returning to his task, his refocused attention scattering the others back to formation.

Present Day

Under a heavy moon, climbing toward full, is when the Ahroun finds the Sept.

Hitching hadn't been a problem, she's young, pretty and aside from the heaping unease she sets into the bones of most, an easy passenger to ferry the miles it takes to discover the Caern buried away in the heart of Roxborough Park. She finds her way beyond the gate, unmanned in the twilight and hikes further in.

She shifts down when she's close, clothing melting down into fur, a blur of red darting through the dust and low lying plantlife; scaring birds out of their nests, sending frightened rabbits panicking out of the way. On a low rise, the blood of Stag finally comes to a rest, tips her head back and howls her greetings.

[FYI, this is just a sort of general 'hey, I'm here' post, but if anyone feels like replying, you're quite welcome to!]]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=781 Wed, 27 Aug 2014 18:14:35 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=781 C-6"

The new green and black sign was raised high above the brick commercial rental. Beyond the sleek glass doors, the word recycle is really shown. The tables out of glass and cardboard architectural tubing. The stairs are old wooden pallets and the railings reclaimed pipes. Plants hang from old black gas lamps - taken from the far off streets of London. Wheel-less skateboards and decommissioned snowboards utilized as shelves. Patches of grass rose from clean squares cut upon the wine cork floor.

And the front sign itself sporting the C-6 insignia was made entirely out of solar panels; the energy channeled to the inside architecture firm.

Anna was one of five partners and one of three currently at the new Denver office. Just off of rotation from South Africa, the jet-lag showed in her eyes. She was in simple black jeans and a clean white blouse that had Ebola-Free embroidered on the front breast pocket.

With a small smile, she turned to head inside and wait for the finishing wires to be connected to supply power. It was a simple day really; no phone calls to make, no bullets to dodge, no papers to push. Just a set up. And after the release? She could take a nice long walk out of the depression of the new city.]]> C-6"

The new green and black sign was raised high above the brick commercial rental. Beyond the sleek glass doors, the word recycle is really shown. The tables out of glass and cardboard architectural tubing. The stairs are old wooden pallets and the railings reclaimed pipes. Plants hang from old black gas lamps - taken from the far off streets of London. Wheel-less skateboards and decommissioned snowboards utilized as shelves. Patches of grass rose from clean squares cut upon the wine cork floor.

And the front sign itself sporting the C-6 insignia was made entirely out of solar panels; the energy channeled to the inside architecture firm.

Anna was one of five partners and one of three currently at the new Denver office. Just off of rotation from South Africa, the jet-lag showed in her eyes. She was in simple black jeans and a clean white blouse that had Ebola-Free embroidered on the front breast pocket.

With a small smile, she turned to head inside and wait for the finishing wires to be connected to supply power. It was a simple day really; no phone calls to make, no bullets to dodge, no papers to push. Just a set up. And after the release? She could take a nice long walk out of the depression of the new city.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=730 Fri, 04 Jul 2014 00:08:21 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=730
Still, hot is hot and the temperatures keep climbing up and sometimes past the 90 degree mark. Despite this, a stranger-wolf appears at the boundary of Forgotten Questions. He is in the Umbra and he is wearing his fur - sometimes (but not terribly) patched with a few scars here and there - and when he gets to that boundary he lets out a yip-yip-awoo? question of a greeting. Hello hello, is anybody ther-

Of course there is. A Guardian melts out of the shadows and though her appearance obviously makes the stranger-wolf happy - see his tail wag, his mouth threaten to drop open in a wolf-smile - he drops to the dirt. Doesn't wriggle and squirm with submission (not unless it looks like he should), but he does show deference. Tail swooshing in the dirt as he lowers his muzzle atop his front paws.

Thus does Freefall come to say hello. When it's time to rise he pops up. Now when I say he pops up that doesn't mean he makes his way quickly to his feet, I mean he leaps! Up! Four feet leave the ground, two feet meet it again, and in place of the wolf is a tall, muscular, bearded man.

He asks about chiminage to the Caern totem and he asks about The Games, yes, The Games. Perhaps he caught wind of the Fianna troupe and followed it here or perhaps he wandered into Denver for other reasons and then discovered their presence. Who ever knows with a Ragabash, and a Bone Gnawer besides.

And he goes to make that chiminage, but before that. The first time his eyes rest their gaze on those tall, glorious, gorgeous red sandstone formations, he claps his meaty hands over his mouth and drags them down down down, eyes widening and glistening all of a sudden. He looks like he's just seen heaven and like he's contemplating just what he'll need to climb right up to the tippy top when-

"No." Someone, a Guardian, saw that look and guessed what it meant.
"But-"
"No." And if that were the end of it, Freefall would wait and sneak and climb up anyway. But that's not the end of it. The Guardian educates him about the delicate nature of those sandstone formations. How his touch could cause it to crumble, how the oils of his skin could ruin everything forever. Freefall groans, head lolling all the way back before rolling over his shoulder, blatant, childlike disappointment carved into every line of his body.

But he doesn't try to climb (even though he totally could). He is an honorable Garou, and respectful, too. Denied the opportunity to climb to the top, he climbs to someplace lower, to the hole in the formations where Earth's heart beats to offer his...memories? That's what it wants? His earliest memories? Well, that's tough, so he gives the earliest memories he can think of, which aren't his earliest memories, but those are a bit buried, see. He feeds Earth a memory of a grubby, gravely lot behind an orphanage in Los Angeles. There were big kids playing basketball and smaller kids riding bikes and playing with a couple of old and worn out toys. He doesn't remember much more than that, so he dusts off his hands and hop-hop-hops his way back down to ground level. Then he wanders off in search of other business.

=======

Later. Later, the moon is high and bright and the sky is dark over the city of Denver. The breeze is stronger and the air is cooler and Freefall makes his way into the Sept of the Cold Crescent. The elevator gives him the all-clear and he makes his way up. Someone at Forgotten Questions told him the sept in the city is not a Caern but that it does have a weird pit beneath it. Interesting. Weird, but interesting.

He says his hellos to a few people. He has a gift for the Warder (a watch that he won in a bet), maybe checks out the sleeping arrangements but in the end decides not to stay. He'll find a place somewhere, don't you worry.

Hellos given, Freefall wanders off to find something stupid to do. Like maybe try to have dinner at a buffet restaurant he won't ever actually eat at.]]>
Still, hot is hot and the temperatures keep climbing up and sometimes past the 90 degree mark. Despite this, a stranger-wolf appears at the boundary of Forgotten Questions. He is in the Umbra and he is wearing his fur - sometimes (but not terribly) patched with a few scars here and there - and when he gets to that boundary he lets out a yip-yip-awoo? question of a greeting. Hello hello, is anybody ther-

Of course there is. A Guardian melts out of the shadows and though her appearance obviously makes the stranger-wolf happy - see his tail wag, his mouth threaten to drop open in a wolf-smile - he drops to the dirt. Doesn't wriggle and squirm with submission (not unless it looks like he should), but he does show deference. Tail swooshing in the dirt as he lowers his muzzle atop his front paws.

Thus does Freefall come to say hello. When it's time to rise he pops up. Now when I say he pops up that doesn't mean he makes his way quickly to his feet, I mean he leaps! Up! Four feet leave the ground, two feet meet it again, and in place of the wolf is a tall, muscular, bearded man.

He asks about chiminage to the Caern totem and he asks about The Games, yes, The Games. Perhaps he caught wind of the Fianna troupe and followed it here or perhaps he wandered into Denver for other reasons and then discovered their presence. Who ever knows with a Ragabash, and a Bone Gnawer besides.

And he goes to make that chiminage, but before that. The first time his eyes rest their gaze on those tall, glorious, gorgeous red sandstone formations, he claps his meaty hands over his mouth and drags them down down down, eyes widening and glistening all of a sudden. He looks like he's just seen heaven and like he's contemplating just what he'll need to climb right up to the tippy top when-

"No." Someone, a Guardian, saw that look and guessed what it meant.
"But-"
"No." And if that were the end of it, Freefall would wait and sneak and climb up anyway. But that's not the end of it. The Guardian educates him about the delicate nature of those sandstone formations. How his touch could cause it to crumble, how the oils of his skin could ruin everything forever. Freefall groans, head lolling all the way back before rolling over his shoulder, blatant, childlike disappointment carved into every line of his body.

But he doesn't try to climb (even though he totally could). He is an honorable Garou, and respectful, too. Denied the opportunity to climb to the top, he climbs to someplace lower, to the hole in the formations where Earth's heart beats to offer his...memories? That's what it wants? His earliest memories? Well, that's tough, so he gives the earliest memories he can think of, which aren't his earliest memories, but those are a bit buried, see. He feeds Earth a memory of a grubby, gravely lot behind an orphanage in Los Angeles. There were big kids playing basketball and smaller kids riding bikes and playing with a couple of old and worn out toys. He doesn't remember much more than that, so he dusts off his hands and hop-hop-hops his way back down to ground level. Then he wanders off in search of other business.

=======

Later. Later, the moon is high and bright and the sky is dark over the city of Denver. The breeze is stronger and the air is cooler and Freefall makes his way into the Sept of the Cold Crescent. The elevator gives him the all-clear and he makes his way up. Someone at Forgotten Questions told him the sept in the city is not a Caern but that it does have a weird pit beneath it. Interesting. Weird, but interesting.

He says his hellos to a few people. He has a gift for the Warder (a watch that he won in a bet), maybe checks out the sleeping arrangements but in the end decides not to stay. He'll find a place somewhere, don't you worry.

Hellos given, Freefall wanders off to find something stupid to do. Like maybe try to have dinner at a buffet restaurant he won't ever actually eat at.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=713 Tue, 17 Jun 2014 15:37:44 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=713
Guardians begin to emerge from the shadows and brambles and the penumbra near the visitor's center as the cars (and trucks and bus and van and so on) pull to their stops and turn off their engines, as lights go dim, as doors open.

Garou and Kinfolk alike tumble out of the automobiles, some bursting from doors and others yawning, waking up in the back seats, coming more slowly. A curvy woman with red-gold hair and creamy skin gets out of the Infiniti, wearing colorful clothes and carrying a mint-green bag. There are a few children with them, and they look as most children do after long travels: their faces a little dirty, their hair a bit matted, their cheeks pink from sleep and their eyes wide to absorb a new place. A few of them are already starting to run, eager to stretch their legs, even if they're just bolting for the bathrooms in the visitor's center in the waning moonlight. They are fearless, young and old, and they are noisy.

Noisiest of all are the Garou who come climbing out of the brightly painted no-longer-a-school bus. Tall and broad of shoulder, long of limb, and each one with their own shade of ginger hair or auburn fur, they are the ones who walk and lope and stride to meet the Guardians.

There is sniffing.

There are a few protracted looks of wariness.

Then, after some talking, there is arm clasping, there is greeting. The Fianna and their caravan meet and meld with the Garou of Forgotten Questions, already getting down to practical business: where they're staying, where they'll park, patrol shifts they'll take.

It takes a few days, after the June moot has closed with its revel, but soon word has spread through both Forgotten Questions and Cold Crescent: they have guests, a whole troupe of guests, who can't wait to test the mettle of their hosts.






["SL" intro post! And for those of you who don't get the subject line: http://youtu.be/_B0CyOAO8y0 ]]]>
Guardians begin to emerge from the shadows and brambles and the penumbra near the visitor's center as the cars (and trucks and bus and van and so on) pull to their stops and turn off their engines, as lights go dim, as doors open.

Garou and Kinfolk alike tumble out of the automobiles, some bursting from doors and others yawning, waking up in the back seats, coming more slowly. A curvy woman with red-gold hair and creamy skin gets out of the Infiniti, wearing colorful clothes and carrying a mint-green bag. There are a few children with them, and they look as most children do after long travels: their faces a little dirty, their hair a bit matted, their cheeks pink from sleep and their eyes wide to absorb a new place. A few of them are already starting to run, eager to stretch their legs, even if they're just bolting for the bathrooms in the visitor's center in the waning moonlight. They are fearless, young and old, and they are noisy.

Noisiest of all are the Garou who come climbing out of the brightly painted no-longer-a-school bus. Tall and broad of shoulder, long of limb, and each one with their own shade of ginger hair or auburn fur, they are the ones who walk and lope and stride to meet the Guardians.

There is sniffing.

There are a few protracted looks of wariness.

Then, after some talking, there is arm clasping, there is greeting. The Fianna and their caravan meet and meld with the Garou of Forgotten Questions, already getting down to practical business: where they're staying, where they'll park, patrol shifts they'll take.

It takes a few days, after the June moot has closed with its revel, but soon word has spread through both Forgotten Questions and Cold Crescent: they have guests, a whole troupe of guests, who can't wait to test the mettle of their hosts.






["SL" intro post! And for those of you who don't get the subject line: http://youtu.be/_B0CyOAO8y0 ]]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=658 Thu, 01 May 2014 06:45:09 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=658 created rather than lived.

Now.

Now.

Nothing but the now.

And they become familiar or maddening or comforting-strange. They become ritual. They become - perhaps - a sort of hollow home.

It would be easy to drift into them. To live only here, in the strange exactitude of dawn-or-dusk, with the sky and the silent woods. The wheeling birds, dark against the sky. The upright and righteous clapboard buildings, the frizzle of snow on the bare dark earth. The smoke in the sky.

--

And it all continues, changing only when they change it, when they move the dreams forward, when the dreams move forward, until, one night,

April 30 into May 1 to be exact,

each and every one of them hears echoed across the wintry-dawn,

"You RUINED it. You RUINED it. You RUINED it. You ALL RUINED it.

"Just GO."

---

A choice. A choice. A choice.]]> created rather than lived.

Now.

Now.

Nothing but the now.

And they become familiar or maddening or comforting-strange. They become ritual. They become - perhaps - a sort of hollow home.

It would be easy to drift into them. To live only here, in the strange exactitude of dawn-or-dusk, with the sky and the silent woods. The wheeling birds, dark against the sky. The upright and righteous clapboard buildings, the frizzle of snow on the bare dark earth. The smoke in the sky.

--

And it all continues, changing only when they change it, when they move the dreams forward, when the dreams move forward, until, one night,

April 30 into May 1 to be exact,

each and every one of them hears echoed across the wintry-dawn,

"You RUINED it. You RUINED it. You RUINED it. You ALL RUINED it.

"Just GO."

---

A choice. A choice. A choice.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=639 Wed, 16 Apr 2014 09:04:33 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=639
He has to be careful because things are different in a place like Denver. The technology is better, surveillance is wider and the streets are patrolled to remain safe. This makes every change and every movement more complicated. Invisible becomes more difficult and he has learned what his brethren have not....it's either retreat or adapt. So he is called Urrah and his kind tread lightly in the shadow of man.

There's a small nitch of an area between two buildings across the street from this park and that's where he watches downwind, where the dogs won't catch his predators scent. Lying on his belly he watches the twenty something woman help the little blond girl up on the slide and his tail begins to thump slow then fast. Ears perk with interest and he shifts from his belly to sitting on his haunches.

They play for thirty or forty minutes, the woman never engaging the other mom's. She even forgoes petting the dogs despite their whines for attention.

He watches her pack up the little girl and leave and only then does North do the same.]]>
He has to be careful because things are different in a place like Denver. The technology is better, surveillance is wider and the streets are patrolled to remain safe. This makes every change and every movement more complicated. Invisible becomes more difficult and he has learned what his brethren have not....it's either retreat or adapt. So he is called Urrah and his kind tread lightly in the shadow of man.

There's a small nitch of an area between two buildings across the street from this park and that's where he watches downwind, where the dogs won't catch his predators scent. Lying on his belly he watches the twenty something woman help the little blond girl up on the slide and his tail begins to thump slow then fast. Ears perk with interest and he shifts from his belly to sitting on his haunches.

They play for thirty or forty minutes, the woman never engaging the other mom's. She even forgoes petting the dogs despite their whines for attention.

He watches her pack up the little girl and leave and only then does North do the same.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=600 Wed, 26 Mar 2014 20:33:33 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=600 Man Killed in Single Car Accident on US 6
Fiery Crash Closes Road for Hours in Both Directions

Golden, CO
Rex Holter, 41, of Golden, CO died in a single car accident on US 6 outside of Golden Thursday night. The attorney and father of two is believed to have fallen asleep behind the wheel and was killed when his car struck a tree and burst into flames.]]> Man Killed in Single Car Accident on US 6
Fiery Crash Closes Road for Hours in Both Directions

Golden, CO
Rex Holter, 41, of Golden, CO died in a single car accident on US 6 outside of Golden Thursday night. The attorney and father of two is believed to have fallen asleep behind the wheel and was killed when his car struck a tree and burst into flames.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=598 Mon, 24 Mar 2014 11:27:47 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=598
Time will tell if she'll be sweeping through the city or if she'll settle in a bit, but regardless, one must always make their proper introductions when visiting a new sept, particularly one with a Caern and a Grand Elder and all the traditional trappings and such.

So Sora makes her way to Roxborough Park, and she slips across the Umbra somewhere outside its gates, and she shifts into her lupus form to trot to the borders of the sept.

And there she parks herself, but not for long. Sora is not a young wolf by their people's standards, or she's certainly not a young Cliath. She is past her middle twenties, but there is a spirit in this Fenrir woman. She sits at the border's edge and her bushy grey tail swish swish swishes in the dust and dirt of the penumbral reflection and her hole body twitches as she gets ready to introduce herself.

Lifting her muzzle to the sky she closes her one good eye - the other covered by a large black patch she wears in all of her forms - presses her ears back!

and she howls

and she howls

and she HOWLS!

A slow building growing paean of jubilant introduction that has her finally lifting her front paws from the ground with the force of the call.

"SORA LUNDGREN, EYE OF MUNINN, WANDERING CLIATH SKALD OF FENRIS!"

She includes her lineage but only back two generations. From what she understands this is not a Fenrir sept and so there are probably more people here that don't care as much about such things than there are people who do.

Everyone who hears that long, spirited, howl of HELLO HELLO HELLO I'M HERE I'M HERE SORA'S HERE! They feel their spirits lifted a little. Or no, not lifted. They feel Sora's spirit, infectious thing that it is, worm its way into their ears and try to make its way into their hearts.

A Guardian finds her returned to homid not long after, and to them she requests to make her to make chiminage to the Caern's spirit. What is required of her?

A memory, they say, and point her in the direction she must go.

A memory? is the reply, with a rakish grin. She gives Earth the earliest memory she can think of, which may not even be her own. But she gives it quietly, intimately to the spirit of this place. Because she is capable of rousing hearts to battle fury and she's capable of rousing them to hope, and she is capable of quiet things, too.

=====
niko @ 12:09PM
Someone please witness this

[charisma (infectious spirit) + expression + PB: HELOOOOOOOO]
Roll: 10 d10 TN4 (1, 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 8 ) Re-rolls: 2 VALID

ixphaelaeon @ 12:09PM
Witnessed!!!

Samael @ 12:09PM
JESUS CHRIST Witnessed.

niko @ 12:09PM
Thank you!]]>
Time will tell if she'll be sweeping through the city or if she'll settle in a bit, but regardless, one must always make their proper introductions when visiting a new sept, particularly one with a Caern and a Grand Elder and all the traditional trappings and such.

So Sora makes her way to Roxborough Park, and she slips across the Umbra somewhere outside its gates, and she shifts into her lupus form to trot to the borders of the sept.

And there she parks herself, but not for long. Sora is not a young wolf by their people's standards, or she's certainly not a young Cliath. She is past her middle twenties, but there is a spirit in this Fenrir woman. She sits at the border's edge and her bushy grey tail swish swish swishes in the dust and dirt of the penumbral reflection and her hole body twitches as she gets ready to introduce herself.

Lifting her muzzle to the sky she closes her one good eye - the other covered by a large black patch she wears in all of her forms - presses her ears back!

and she howls

and she howls

and she HOWLS!

A slow building growing paean of jubilant introduction that has her finally lifting her front paws from the ground with the force of the call.

"SORA LUNDGREN, EYE OF MUNINN, WANDERING CLIATH SKALD OF FENRIS!"

She includes her lineage but only back two generations. From what she understands this is not a Fenrir sept and so there are probably more people here that don't care as much about such things than there are people who do.

Everyone who hears that long, spirited, howl of HELLO HELLO HELLO I'M HERE I'M HERE SORA'S HERE! They feel their spirits lifted a little. Or no, not lifted. They feel Sora's spirit, infectious thing that it is, worm its way into their ears and try to make its way into their hearts.

A Guardian finds her returned to homid not long after, and to them she requests to make her to make chiminage to the Caern's spirit. What is required of her?

A memory, they say, and point her in the direction she must go.

A memory? is the reply, with a rakish grin. She gives Earth the earliest memory she can think of, which may not even be her own. But she gives it quietly, intimately to the spirit of this place. Because she is capable of rousing hearts to battle fury and she's capable of rousing them to hope, and she is capable of quiet things, too.

=====
niko @ 12:09PM
Someone please witness this

[charisma (infectious spirit) + expression + PB: HELOOOOOOOO]
Roll: 10 d10 TN4 (1, 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 8 ) Re-rolls: 2 VALID

ixphaelaeon @ 12:09PM
Witnessed!!!

Samael @ 12:09PM
JESUS CHRIST Witnessed.

niko @ 12:09PM
Thank you!]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=596 Sun, 23 Mar 2014 10:48:57 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=596
- at what? Something outside, waiting for him. Someone, maybe. Something he does not know and has never remembered.

And on, and on. Melantha at the edge of the woods, something ritual, something funereal in the air. She can read the circuit of dark birds against the dawning sky. She can read the patterns in the smoke and the change in the wind. She can read the loss at the back of her throat; which is familiar, familiar, and strange, strange.

Tamsin always expects salt when she comes here. Salt in the air and salt on her skin and there is no salt anywhere, just the road that hugs the curve of the mountain, which is not merely a mountain but a Mountain and has the shape and the shadow of a thing that has not erupted and then eroded over the course of millennia, but has Always Been. There is no salt, she knows that before she breathes. There is no salt, just a sort of sweetness on against her skin.

Thomas, through that door. Dawn behind and the shadows of an as-yet unlit room in front of him. And he knows it will be a simple place, made of plain, planed boards, hand-hewn and handworked and handfitted. Bows of long use in the sturdy stairs, and there is work to be done but it is good work, solid work, true work. Not this madness of war. Work that can be done, you see, all day and every day for fifty years or more without ever tiring of it, because there are places where work is a prayer and prayer is an exercise in meditative understanding that this is where we were meant to be. And yet: just that door, just that ceiling. He wakes every morning and remembers that door and that ceiling and he imagines he must have something in hand,

But he never, never once remembers what it might be.

The blood is soaked into the wood. The wood is shorn. It is solid and it is splinted and it is shorn; here is where the axe hits. Here is where the head falls. Here, Keisha, is where something is severed. And that insistence, that space between spaces, that ruminative certainty of the thing itself, is all she has and all she knows. For days and days and days, and she wakes up, night after night, morning after morning, with a keen awareness of blood and iron, though a memory, only, of wood.]]>
- at what? Something outside, waiting for him. Someone, maybe. Something he does not know and has never remembered.

And on, and on. Melantha at the edge of the woods, something ritual, something funereal in the air. She can read the circuit of dark birds against the dawning sky. She can read the patterns in the smoke and the change in the wind. She can read the loss at the back of her throat; which is familiar, familiar, and strange, strange.

Tamsin always expects salt when she comes here. Salt in the air and salt on her skin and there is no salt anywhere, just the road that hugs the curve of the mountain, which is not merely a mountain but a Mountain and has the shape and the shadow of a thing that has not erupted and then eroded over the course of millennia, but has Always Been. There is no salt, she knows that before she breathes. There is no salt, just a sort of sweetness on against her skin.

Thomas, through that door. Dawn behind and the shadows of an as-yet unlit room in front of him. And he knows it will be a simple place, made of plain, planed boards, hand-hewn and handworked and handfitted. Bows of long use in the sturdy stairs, and there is work to be done but it is good work, solid work, true work. Not this madness of war. Work that can be done, you see, all day and every day for fifty years or more without ever tiring of it, because there are places where work is a prayer and prayer is an exercise in meditative understanding that this is where we were meant to be. And yet: just that door, just that ceiling. He wakes every morning and remembers that door and that ceiling and he imagines he must have something in hand,

But he never, never once remembers what it might be.

The blood is soaked into the wood. The wood is shorn. It is solid and it is splinted and it is shorn; here is where the axe hits. Here is where the head falls. Here, Keisha, is where something is severed. And that insistence, that space between spaces, that ruminative certainty of the thing itself, is all she has and all she knows. For days and days and days, and she wakes up, night after night, morning after morning, with a keen awareness of blood and iron, though a memory, only, of wood.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=594 Fri, 21 Mar 2014 17:50:21 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=594 “Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

---

The last time Samantha Evans saw Tamsin Hall the Fianna Galliard was something of a hot mess. The kinswoman did what she could to soothe her, letting her talk about ideas for Hector's surprise party and other things. Then the night ended with the petite kinswoman holding the Garou until she'd gotten out everything she needed to get out.

Tamsin didn't seem inclined to discuss the reason for the outburst and Sam isn't the type to press - not with Garou, not with her infant son in another room. It is simply not the wise thing to do. So, there were tears and there were hugs and there were s'mores and talk of elves and such, and then Tamsin slept.

And life continued on for everyone.

They met up sometime after to go junkyard trawling. Samantha had been recruited to construct weapons or maybe tiaras or oh but maybe could she maybe make Andúril or something like it? The two scavenged where they could for a while, finding the things that they needed, but Sam went away with more than just bits and pieces from which to forge legendary weapons. She came away with things to make a plethora of other things as well, things she might sell at the art walk or to send away thanks to an Etsy shop.

Some pieces, though, were kept for a particular purpose. Samantha is busy pretty much all the time. It's what happens when one has an infant child, a full time job, and about a hundred things they like to do in their off time like pretend they are capable of keeping a social calendar of events. And somewhere in between things, the kinswoman has worked on a special project.

It is a few weeks later when she's able to contact the Galliard and ask to meet her somewhere. They meet in some in-between place, a park or a parking lot somewhere that is somewhere near the center of where each of them started off.

Just like the time Samantha presented the Galliard with the typewriter bird, she has a small, plain box of recycled materials that she's holding in both hands. This box she holds out to Tamsin when the Galliard arrives. And, just like last time, when Tamsin opens the box there is inside a little mechanical wonder.

It is a dragonfly, and it looks much more delicate than the typewriter bird. It is made of brassy pieces and wire and metal netting and other things. There is a little winding crank on it - like what you'd find on the bottom of a jewelry box - that when wound makes the delicate wings flutter-flutter-flutter wildly. It is, alas, too heavy to take flight, but perhaps if Tamsin has a place where she can hang it up it can make itself swing at the end of a chain.

When the Galliard has it in hand, Sam watches her expectantly. She does not say, "I hope this cheers you up," mostly because it's been a month since Tamsin came by and Sam hopes she's not still distraught. But, well it was made with cheering up the Galliard in mind regardless, even if all it does is cheer her from an otherwise perfectly acceptable day. Tamsin is her friend, and Sam doesn't want her to be sad if she can help it.

=====


niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 10) ( success x 1 ) VALID

niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 5 ) VALID

niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 6, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID

niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID

niko @ 3:13PM
[and some int+tech]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 5, 9, 9) ( success x 2 ) VALID

niko @ 3:13PM
Done!

Samael @ 3:14PM
Witnessed!

niko @ 3:14PM
danke!]]> “Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

---

The last time Samantha Evans saw Tamsin Hall the Fianna Galliard was something of a hot mess. The kinswoman did what she could to soothe her, letting her talk about ideas for Hector's surprise party and other things. Then the night ended with the petite kinswoman holding the Garou until she'd gotten out everything she needed to get out.

Tamsin didn't seem inclined to discuss the reason for the outburst and Sam isn't the type to press - not with Garou, not with her infant son in another room. It is simply not the wise thing to do. So, there were tears and there were hugs and there were s'mores and talk of elves and such, and then Tamsin slept.

And life continued on for everyone.

They met up sometime after to go junkyard trawling. Samantha had been recruited to construct weapons or maybe tiaras or oh but maybe could she maybe make Andúril or something like it? The two scavenged where they could for a while, finding the things that they needed, but Sam went away with more than just bits and pieces from which to forge legendary weapons. She came away with things to make a plethora of other things as well, things she might sell at the art walk or to send away thanks to an Etsy shop.

Some pieces, though, were kept for a particular purpose. Samantha is busy pretty much all the time. It's what happens when one has an infant child, a full time job, and about a hundred things they like to do in their off time like pretend they are capable of keeping a social calendar of events. And somewhere in between things, the kinswoman has worked on a special project.

It is a few weeks later when she's able to contact the Galliard and ask to meet her somewhere. They meet in some in-between place, a park or a parking lot somewhere that is somewhere near the center of where each of them started off.

Just like the time Samantha presented the Galliard with the typewriter bird, she has a small, plain box of recycled materials that she's holding in both hands. This box she holds out to Tamsin when the Galliard arrives. And, just like last time, when Tamsin opens the box there is inside a little mechanical wonder.

It is a dragonfly, and it looks much more delicate than the typewriter bird. It is made of brassy pieces and wire and metal netting and other things. There is a little winding crank on it - like what you'd find on the bottom of a jewelry box - that when wound makes the delicate wings flutter-flutter-flutter wildly. It is, alas, too heavy to take flight, but perhaps if Tamsin has a place where she can hang it up it can make itself swing at the end of a chain.

When the Galliard has it in hand, Sam watches her expectantly. She does not say, "I hope this cheers you up," mostly because it's been a month since Tamsin came by and Sam hopes she's not still distraught. But, well it was made with cheering up the Galliard in mind regardless, even if all it does is cheer her from an otherwise perfectly acceptable day. Tamsin is her friend, and Sam doesn't want her to be sad if she can help it.

=====


niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 10) ( success x 1 ) VALID

niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 5 ) VALID

niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 6, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID

niko @ 3:12PM
[dex+crafts, let's just roll a lot and see what happens]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID

niko @ 3:13PM
[and some int+tech]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 5, 9, 9) ( success x 2 ) VALID

niko @ 3:13PM
Done!

Samael @ 3:14PM
Witnessed!

niko @ 3:14PM
danke!]]>