http://forums.woddenver.com/ Mon, 13 Apr 2026 20:01:15 +0000 MyBB http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=923 Thu, 29 Jan 2015 20:51:24 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=923 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=922 Thu, 29 Jan 2015 20:48:41 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=922 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=921 Thu, 29 Jan 2015 20:47:08 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=921
A smile touches Avery's face. A radiant-cut diamond glints, as it has for some months now, on her left hand. She carries a rib-bone. It is small. Even in Avery's hands it seems delicate. It is a human's. Or was once a human's. What cased it was not human by the time she killed it. It is bleached white now though, cleaned to perfection. Her servant Colin still... does not mind tidying up these things. Yes, that's how we put it. He does not mind.

There is a snap, a glassy crack, as she snaps the rib. Cracks it just enough to fracture, not enough to cleave.

"The bone is cracked," she says, and this is clear, carrying, steady. "What has been held inside must come out. What has been silenced must be spoken. When we keep ourselves to ourselves, we feel control. We feel power. And we tear ourselves to bits. Just as rage explodes if it is never released, our thoughts grow warped if they are not spoken. Bring your truths and lay it bare." Her eyes scan. "Newcomers, speak your name rather than skulk at the edges of our sept, untrusting and untrusted. Lone wolves, stand forward and seek bonds with your people so you do not lose yourselves in the wasteland of isolation.

"We are many tribes and we are different auspices but we are one people, with a common purpose and a common nature. A common nation. When you speak of grievance with another, you must do so in honor of that nation. When you call another before the sept for rebuke or for recognition, you must do so in honor of this nation. When you speak to your people, under the brightest moon and in a sacred rite, you speak in honor of our nation."

"Our nation!" Avery repeats, louder, forcefully. "Our people!"

She does not seek a rallying cry. This is not the revel or the songs and tales, for goodness' sake. She lets the words hang in silence for only a moment, and then she turns, bowing her head to the Great Alpha. He declines, as do most of the elder ranked. Eventually the bone passes from her hand to that of Vigor and Rigor, now Athro and still the Moonwalker between the Great Alpha and Cold Crescent -- de facto leader, alongside the new Warder of Cold Crescent.

He walks forward, holding the fractured rib, and addresses the assembly. For a new moon, he has grown into the role a bit. He is more serious than most of his auspice. He always has been, but acting as the liaison between caern and city-sept has aged him a trifle. Quieted him.

"Cold Crescent is without a Master of Rites," he informs those gathered. "Reverence of Dawn," he indicates Avery, standing to the side, "will officiate the challenge for those who wish to take up the position. You will need to work closely with the current Keeper of the Land, Still Waters, as well as Shieldwind-yuf and the Guardians to ensure that the warding rites and fetishes are maintained and that guards for the Pit are trained properly for their duties. Speak now. This isn't a role we can keep empty for long."

It's in him to toss the bone back to Avery. But he thinks better of it a moment after, and does not.

The bone continues: Adrens, Fosterns.

Avery herself steps forward, in between two others. She smiles again. That ineffable smile. "As many of you know," she says, speaking as herself and not as Master of Challenges, not as Truthcatcher, "my former packmate, Anubis-Sight-yuf, recently departed, as his nature led him to do."

Those who know that her former packmate was a Silent Strider nod, understanding.

"Though I can be quite solitary at times, I do not wish to live overlong without packmates. I am seeking those who would bind themselves with me to a spirit of respect or..." she seems to realize this as she is saying it, "a totem of war, perhaps." She smiles again, as though bashful, but she isn't. Not really. She shines, in her way, and her moments of modesty are not affectations. She merely seems strangely pleased with herself to have discovered this inclination in her soul. Her eyes flick across those gathered. "I would like to talk to anyone who is interested, after the revel, or perhaps tomorrow morning." A beat, a touch of awkwardness: "We can have brunch."

Avery pauses there. And then she opens the floor to other Fosterns, and then of course the Cliaths.]]>
A smile touches Avery's face. A radiant-cut diamond glints, as it has for some months now, on her left hand. She carries a rib-bone. It is small. Even in Avery's hands it seems delicate. It is a human's. Or was once a human's. What cased it was not human by the time she killed it. It is bleached white now though, cleaned to perfection. Her servant Colin still... does not mind tidying up these things. Yes, that's how we put it. He does not mind.

There is a snap, a glassy crack, as she snaps the rib. Cracks it just enough to fracture, not enough to cleave.

"The bone is cracked," she says, and this is clear, carrying, steady. "What has been held inside must come out. What has been silenced must be spoken. When we keep ourselves to ourselves, we feel control. We feel power. And we tear ourselves to bits. Just as rage explodes if it is never released, our thoughts grow warped if they are not spoken. Bring your truths and lay it bare." Her eyes scan. "Newcomers, speak your name rather than skulk at the edges of our sept, untrusting and untrusted. Lone wolves, stand forward and seek bonds with your people so you do not lose yourselves in the wasteland of isolation.

"We are many tribes and we are different auspices but we are one people, with a common purpose and a common nature. A common nation. When you speak of grievance with another, you must do so in honor of that nation. When you call another before the sept for rebuke or for recognition, you must do so in honor of this nation. When you speak to your people, under the brightest moon and in a sacred rite, you speak in honor of our nation."

"Our nation!" Avery repeats, louder, forcefully. "Our people!"

She does not seek a rallying cry. This is not the revel or the songs and tales, for goodness' sake. She lets the words hang in silence for only a moment, and then she turns, bowing her head to the Great Alpha. He declines, as do most of the elder ranked. Eventually the bone passes from her hand to that of Vigor and Rigor, now Athro and still the Moonwalker between the Great Alpha and Cold Crescent -- de facto leader, alongside the new Warder of Cold Crescent.

He walks forward, holding the fractured rib, and addresses the assembly. For a new moon, he has grown into the role a bit. He is more serious than most of his auspice. He always has been, but acting as the liaison between caern and city-sept has aged him a trifle. Quieted him.

"Cold Crescent is without a Master of Rites," he informs those gathered. "Reverence of Dawn," he indicates Avery, standing to the side, "will officiate the challenge for those who wish to take up the position. You will need to work closely with the current Keeper of the Land, Still Waters, as well as Shieldwind-yuf and the Guardians to ensure that the warding rites and fetishes are maintained and that guards for the Pit are trained properly for their duties. Speak now. This isn't a role we can keep empty for long."

It's in him to toss the bone back to Avery. But he thinks better of it a moment after, and does not.

The bone continues: Adrens, Fosterns.

Avery herself steps forward, in between two others. She smiles again. That ineffable smile. "As many of you know," she says, speaking as herself and not as Master of Challenges, not as Truthcatcher, "my former packmate, Anubis-Sight-yuf, recently departed, as his nature led him to do."

Those who know that her former packmate was a Silent Strider nod, understanding.

"Though I can be quite solitary at times, I do not wish to live overlong without packmates. I am seeking those who would bind themselves with me to a spirit of respect or..." she seems to realize this as she is saying it, "a totem of war, perhaps." She smiles again, as though bashful, but she isn't. Not really. She shines, in her way, and her moments of modesty are not affectations. She merely seems strangely pleased with herself to have discovered this inclination in her soul. Her eyes flick across those gathered. "I would like to talk to anyone who is interested, after the revel, or perhaps tomorrow morning." A beat, a touch of awkwardness: "We can have brunch."

Avery pauses there. And then she opens the floor to other Fosterns, and then of course the Cliaths.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=920 Thu, 29 Jan 2015 20:14:18 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=920
A year ago this moon, King and Pawn was a fostern, and he stood to call the Garou together. He howled, and he summoned Earth and Thunder and the broods of the tribal totems, and they gave of themselves to feed the caern. But that was a year ago. He has a scar now that he did not have then. He is an Adren of his tribe now. And standing in the shadows of the red fountain formations in Forgotten Questions is the newly-minted Cliath he has been mentoring, a skinny whip of a thing only recently named Fallen Star.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is how the Garou live. And how they recognize the spirits that they protect.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=823 Mon, 29 Sep 2014 10:41:57 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=823
Those murmurs sound like Wyrm. Wyrm. Wyrm. to the gathered. He looks at the Great Alpha as he takes the center: he nods in respect, and the Great Alpha merely stares, golden eyes steady. This has been arranged.

From the bag, the Ahroun silently draws what looks like some sort of clothing made of vinyl. A black suit of sorts, with long skinny arms and long skinny legs that end in long, skinny

claws.

It is not a suit. It is the skin of something awful, the stench of it and its blood wretched. Snarls begin to echo. Werewolves begin to change shape. The Adren turns, looking at all of them.

"Come," he says, voice booming. "Take the scent of your prey. This creature's mate and brood have fled their nest. But they will not get far tonight."

He grins, white teeth slashing through past red lips curling back, black fur blending into the night.]]>
Those murmurs sound like Wyrm. Wyrm. Wyrm. to the gathered. He looks at the Great Alpha as he takes the center: he nods in respect, and the Great Alpha merely stares, golden eyes steady. This has been arranged.

From the bag, the Ahroun silently draws what looks like some sort of clothing made of vinyl. A black suit of sorts, with long skinny arms and long skinny legs that end in long, skinny

claws.

It is not a suit. It is the skin of something awful, the stench of it and its blood wretched. Snarls begin to echo. Werewolves begin to change shape. The Adren turns, looking at all of them.

"Come," he says, voice booming. "Take the scent of your prey. This creature's mate and brood have fled their nest. But they will not get far tonight."

He grins, white teeth slashing through past red lips curling back, black fur blending into the night.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=822 Mon, 29 Sep 2014 10:34:59 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=822
It is a riddle.

No one guesses it.

This delights her, and makes the Great Alpha chuff an annoyed breath behind her. But after the Talesinger has told the first tale of the night, full of numbers and full of spirits without name and doubling back on itself a dozen times leaving more than a couple of Ahrouns with headaches and leaving more than a few Philodoxes puzzling it out for the next week, she yields the center of the circle to the next storyteller, and the next.]]>
It is a riddle.

No one guesses it.

This delights her, and makes the Great Alpha chuff an annoyed breath behind her. But after the Talesinger has told the first tale of the night, full of numbers and full of spirits without name and doubling back on itself a dozen times leaving more than a couple of Ahrouns with headaches and leaving more than a few Philodoxes puzzling it out for the next week, she yields the center of the circle to the next storyteller, and the next.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=821 Mon, 29 Sep 2014 10:32:08 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=821
He knows that this, too, may cast its shadow over his renown, but there is purpose to it. When the last howls have slowly been silenced, like candle flames snuffed out as each spirit was released from its blessing, Second Chance walks forward, also in crinos, carrying the skull of a full-grown human. It looks so small against him in this form. One could mistake it for a child's, if one doesn't know better.

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

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

"I see new faces," he says, looking out among the gathered Garou. "When the elders have spoken, name yourselves to us. Name your protectorates, challenge for your ground here. Speak, and let us know you among our number."]]>
He knows that this, too, may cast its shadow over his renown, but there is purpose to it. When the last howls have slowly been silenced, like candle flames snuffed out as each spirit was released from its blessing, Second Chance walks forward, also in crinos, carrying the skull of a full-grown human. It looks so small against him in this form. One could mistake it for a child's, if one doesn't know better.

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

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

"I see new faces," he says, looking out among the gathered Garou. "When the elders have spoken, name yourselves to us. Name your protectorates, challenge for your ground here. Speak, and let us know you among our number."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=820 Mon, 29 Sep 2014 10:24:13 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=820
them to the gathering place, a meadow full of low trees that are sparse here, and then will cluster so thickly that paths have been carved out from them. Even this late in the year there are bullfrogs in this meadow, heard but not seen except in the penumbra. But this moon, at least, the Garou gather under the open sky, in the physical realm.

They begin coming when they hear the first call, and continue coming, singly and in pairs and in groups, as the sun sinks and night falls. They take many forms. The Great Alpha lays his massive direwolf form down on the ground, as is his tendency. Every new howl that joins lifts the song higher, until the last Garou to arrive hear a cacophony of voices in their ears long before they find themselves in the meadow.

There it becomes evident that each howl is an echo, long past already. The wind snatches each new voice that joins, taking it to the spirit world. The meadow itself is silent. The sky is darkness itself, and the full moon has risen to defy that darkness.

There is no fire this night, not in the dry grass of the meadow. Just that deep physical silence, while a song rages on in their ears, in their spirits.

The Caller stands in the middle of a circle that formed around him as the sun went down. He has been there for hours, in crinos, handpaws outstretched and palms lifted upward. Dust moves in those enormous paws, swirled by wind into one shape after another: here is Stag, here is Luna, here is Thunder, there Unicorn, there Pegasus, now Fenris, each tribal totem in turn asked to bless them as the howl rages and rages in the spirit world around the circle.

As for Earth, always present in the caern, it only rumbles slowly in answer, a heavy bass note underlining their own stolen voices.]]>
them to the gathering place, a meadow full of low trees that are sparse here, and then will cluster so thickly that paths have been carved out from them. Even this late in the year there are bullfrogs in this meadow, heard but not seen except in the penumbra. But this moon, at least, the Garou gather under the open sky, in the physical realm.

They begin coming when they hear the first call, and continue coming, singly and in pairs and in groups, as the sun sinks and night falls. They take many forms. The Great Alpha lays his massive direwolf form down on the ground, as is his tendency. Every new howl that joins lifts the song higher, until the last Garou to arrive hear a cacophony of voices in their ears long before they find themselves in the meadow.

There it becomes evident that each howl is an echo, long past already. The wind snatches each new voice that joins, taking it to the spirit world. The meadow itself is silent. The sky is darkness itself, and the full moon has risen to defy that darkness.

There is no fire this night, not in the dry grass of the meadow. Just that deep physical silence, while a song rages on in their ears, in their spirits.

The Caller stands in the middle of a circle that formed around him as the sun went down. He has been there for hours, in crinos, handpaws outstretched and palms lifted upward. Dust moves in those enormous paws, swirled by wind into one shape after another: here is Stag, here is Luna, here is Thunder, there Unicorn, there Pegasus, now Fenris, each tribal totem in turn asked to bless them as the howl rages and rages in the spirit world around the circle.

As for Earth, always present in the caern, it only rumbles slowly in answer, a heavy bass note underlining their own stolen voices.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=759 Fri, 01 Aug 2014 23:01:45 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=759
Some can see whisps in the shadows of these spirits, hints and flashes of dim life, settling on the shoulders of the gathered wolves. This they remember, these hints of spiritual existence, before everything else that transpires fades from their minds.

But there is this: when they wake up, wherever they wake up, with whomever they wake up, there is something more there in place of memory of the actual revel, the hunt, the fight, the party, whatever it was.

Something forgotten is returned: maybe as small as a childhood memory that had no reason to surface. Maybe as vital as a name or a place or a face or a strand of a song for those poor wolves who lost all memory when they changed. But everyone who participates in the revel this August comes away from it holding something in their mind that had, previously, been lost.]]>
Some can see whisps in the shadows of these spirits, hints and flashes of dim life, settling on the shoulders of the gathered wolves. This they remember, these hints of spiritual existence, before everything else that transpires fades from their minds.

But there is this: when they wake up, wherever they wake up, with whomever they wake up, there is something more there in place of memory of the actual revel, the hunt, the fight, the party, whatever it was.

Something forgotten is returned: maybe as small as a childhood memory that had no reason to surface. Maybe as vital as a name or a place or a face or a strand of a song for those poor wolves who lost all memory when they changed. But everyone who participates in the revel this August comes away from it holding something in their mind that had, previously, been lost.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=758 Fri, 01 Aug 2014 22:56:40 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=758
the warform is so large, so terrible in the firelight. The wolf seems impossibly small, too fast to follow, the movements nonsensical. The human is awkward, going too slowly, often moving right into the path of his packmates without regard to their trajectory.

They weave, and dance, and it is terrible and nonsensical and awkward and

familiar and lovely,

but it begins going quite fast. Hard to tell who begins it, who steps out of the beat coming from a fourth packmate's drum off to the side. Maybe they all fall out of turn at once. Maybe someone throws a stone that trips them. But fall they do, each one, til the wolf is all but chasing his tail, and the human is barely moving at all, and the Talesinger is taking brands from the fire, sticks aflame in her paws, and throwing them into the crowd.

She is howling as she does so. She is screaming as she does so. Embers hit dirt and scatter, Garou dash water from canteens or Gifts onto anything catching alight, but the Talesinger seems to have lost her mind. She looks on the verge of frenzy,

may be frenzied.

Eventually there is nothing left to fuel the fire. There are only embers, glowing, fervent, but ultimately doomed.

Eventually, there is nothing left of the light. There is only dead darkness among them, cold and silvery under the full moon. There is only the human standing motionless, the wolf spasming as though in seizure on the ground, and the form of rage itself standing over everything, chest and shoulders heaving, each breath a snarl of warning, eyes glowing in the aftermath of destruction,

still not satisfied.]]>
the warform is so large, so terrible in the firelight. The wolf seems impossibly small, too fast to follow, the movements nonsensical. The human is awkward, going too slowly, often moving right into the path of his packmates without regard to their trajectory.

They weave, and dance, and it is terrible and nonsensical and awkward and

familiar and lovely,

but it begins going quite fast. Hard to tell who begins it, who steps out of the beat coming from a fourth packmate's drum off to the side. Maybe they all fall out of turn at once. Maybe someone throws a stone that trips them. But fall they do, each one, til the wolf is all but chasing his tail, and the human is barely moving at all, and the Talesinger is taking brands from the fire, sticks aflame in her paws, and throwing them into the crowd.

She is howling as she does so. She is screaming as she does so. Embers hit dirt and scatter, Garou dash water from canteens or Gifts onto anything catching alight, but the Talesinger seems to have lost her mind. She looks on the verge of frenzy,

may be frenzied.

Eventually there is nothing left to fuel the fire. There are only embers, glowing, fervent, but ultimately doomed.

Eventually, there is nothing left of the light. There is only dead darkness among them, cold and silvery under the full moon. There is only the human standing motionless, the wolf spasming as though in seizure on the ground, and the form of rage itself standing over everything, chest and shoulders heaving, each breath a snarl of warning, eyes glowing in the aftermath of destruction,

still not satisfied.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=757 Fri, 01 Aug 2014 22:41:11 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=757 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=756 Fri, 01 Aug 2014 22:39:49 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=756
til it pulls,

and pulls,

slipping in slowly and cleanly, wrapping itself around the heart, drawing the Garou to the circle to join in the song.]]>
til it pulls,

and pulls,

slipping in slowly and cleanly, wrapping itself around the heart, drawing the Garou to the circle to join in the song.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=621 Sun, 06 Apr 2014 22:18:12 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=621 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=620 Sun, 06 Apr 2014 22:17:18 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=620 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=619 Sun, 06 Apr 2014 22:16:49 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=619
The fair-haired Silver Fang is dressed in linen again, and his hair is shorter than it used to be, and his eyes still look like silver.

"Welcome," he says to the gathering, his voice level. He doesn't give an 'agenda' this time. There is warmth in his welcome. "Speak the truth," he says. "Seek the truth," he also says. There is a pause. "Here is mine: this is the last moot that I will see you all at unless I am given special permission. I have decided to accept Shieldwind-rhya's generous offer to join his pack and become a Guardian of Cold Crescent."

Eternal Reassurance pauses there. His new Alpha is not there; his new Alpha is the Warder of Cold Crescent, and remains there. He breathes in and turns to the Elders among them, offering the bone upon both hands to them.]]>
The fair-haired Silver Fang is dressed in linen again, and his hair is shorter than it used to be, and his eyes still look like silver.

"Welcome," he says to the gathering, his voice level. He doesn't give an 'agenda' this time. There is warmth in his welcome. "Speak the truth," he says. "Seek the truth," he also says. There is a pause. "Here is mine: this is the last moot that I will see you all at unless I am given special permission. I have decided to accept Shieldwind-rhya's generous offer to join his pack and become a Guardian of Cold Crescent."

Eternal Reassurance pauses there. His new Alpha is not there; his new Alpha is the Warder of Cold Crescent, and remains there. He breathes in and turns to the Elders among them, offering the bone upon both hands to them.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=618 Sun, 06 Apr 2014 22:09:29 -0700 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=618 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=551 Thu, 06 Feb 2014 09:20:18 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=551
Her black Adidas track jacket is zipped all the way up, the tip of the collar obscuring her jaw, covering her throat. She walks out after Bright Spear has brought the songs and tales to a close, looks out over those gathered,

then pins her eyes on another Fostern. Someone a bit bigger than her but someone that everyone there knows she could take in a raw fight, someone with a Real Purty Face, someone she knows is well-liked enough that no one is going to take this well.

Silhouette of Clouds, February Wyrmfoe, walks across the gathering to Siren of Persephone, gives her a sharp nod, says:

"Yuf," by way of greeting,

then punches her in the face. It's a solid blow to Siren's jaw, lightning-fast as one might expect from a Fostern Ahroun, so quickly delivered and so powerfully done that it comes as a shock and lands with an audible CRACK.

And that is how the brawl starts: in homid, with probably more than one wolf leaping at the Wyrmfoe to punch her rightback. Eventually some may shapeshift, but those who take crinos or hispo soon find the Wyrmfoe in their face, snarling a warning, snapping her jaws. That doesn't mean it's a bloodless fight. It doesn't mean it isn't dangerous to do something like this, but Silhouette is one of a few who makes sure to keep moving throughout the gathering as its going on. The moon is full and some of the garou here are young; more than few will wake tomorrow with injuries laid on them by those who had to put them down.

There's a lot of room for 'accidents', but Silhouette recruited several Ahrouns and others, some even Guardians, to help her keep watch over this Revel. They sacrifice their chance to completely let go so that everyone else can.

That doesn't mean they don't get into the bare-knuckled brawl a bit, though. At one point, the Wyrmfoe has leapt on the back of Thunder's Cry and clocks him upside the head before turning tail and bolting away -- cackling -- from the rest of Celduin, who may very well try to eat her.]]>
Her black Adidas track jacket is zipped all the way up, the tip of the collar obscuring her jaw, covering her throat. She walks out after Bright Spear has brought the songs and tales to a close, looks out over those gathered,

then pins her eyes on another Fostern. Someone a bit bigger than her but someone that everyone there knows she could take in a raw fight, someone with a Real Purty Face, someone she knows is well-liked enough that no one is going to take this well.

Silhouette of Clouds, February Wyrmfoe, walks across the gathering to Siren of Persephone, gives her a sharp nod, says:

"Yuf," by way of greeting,

then punches her in the face. It's a solid blow to Siren's jaw, lightning-fast as one might expect from a Fostern Ahroun, so quickly delivered and so powerfully done that it comes as a shock and lands with an audible CRACK.

And that is how the brawl starts: in homid, with probably more than one wolf leaping at the Wyrmfoe to punch her rightback. Eventually some may shapeshift, but those who take crinos or hispo soon find the Wyrmfoe in their face, snarling a warning, snapping her jaws. That doesn't mean it's a bloodless fight. It doesn't mean it isn't dangerous to do something like this, but Silhouette is one of a few who makes sure to keep moving throughout the gathering as its going on. The moon is full and some of the garou here are young; more than few will wake tomorrow with injuries laid on them by those who had to put them down.

There's a lot of room for 'accidents', but Silhouette recruited several Ahrouns and others, some even Guardians, to help her keep watch over this Revel. They sacrifice their chance to completely let go so that everyone else can.

That doesn't mean they don't get into the bare-knuckled brawl a bit, though. At one point, the Wyrmfoe has leapt on the back of Thunder's Cry and clocks him upside the head before turning tail and bolting away -- cackling -- from the rest of Celduin, who may very well try to eat her.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=550 Thu, 06 Feb 2014 08:53:08 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=550
When she follows up the Cracking of the Bone by walking into the Gathering, she gleefully high-fives Avery. Avery just grins, and it's obvious the two have some friendship outside of this, a mutual fondness. Some who know Avery know that Bright Spear attended and accompanied her on her Fostern challenge, in part because Bright Spear really likes to talk about getting to go to Vegas.

Today she's not chewing gum and yammering about that trip. She's carrying an acoustic guitar slung over her shoulder with an embroidered strap, and she's already tuned it so in her very thick sweatshirt and her somewhat muddy jeans, she clears her throat and gets right to it.

It's a song that was written almost half a century before she was born, but it's one she grew up with. She's nervous when she starts playing, but there isn't much of an intro before she starts singing a song about re-purposing tools of labor for the good of the people typically enslaved by them, reminding listeners that they already have everything they need to change things. It's a song that changed in meaning over the decades to encompass the civil rights movement, and it's a song that Bright Spear sort of just wants to sing because she grew up with it and she was actually pretty sad when she found out -- not so long ago, since she doesn't exactly have Twitter -- that the song's writer had died.

She knows she's going to catch so much shit for this song when all is said and done, because she's a Guardian, she's not exactly a peacenik, she's certainly not a Child of Gaia but y'know what, the other Guardians and fresh Cliaths and stuff can just make fun of her, because this song reminds her of her grandpa so they can all just go screw themselves this is totally applicable and stuff to the garou.

"If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning,
I'd hammer in the evening, all over this land
I'd hammer out danger, I'd hammer out a warning,
I'd hammer out love between my brothers and sisters,
All over this land..."]]>
When she follows up the Cracking of the Bone by walking into the Gathering, she gleefully high-fives Avery. Avery just grins, and it's obvious the two have some friendship outside of this, a mutual fondness. Some who know Avery know that Bright Spear attended and accompanied her on her Fostern challenge, in part because Bright Spear really likes to talk about getting to go to Vegas.

Today she's not chewing gum and yammering about that trip. She's carrying an acoustic guitar slung over her shoulder with an embroidered strap, and she's already tuned it so in her very thick sweatshirt and her somewhat muddy jeans, she clears her throat and gets right to it.

It's a song that was written almost half a century before she was born, but it's one she grew up with. She's nervous when she starts playing, but there isn't much of an intro before she starts singing a song about re-purposing tools of labor for the good of the people typically enslaved by them, reminding listeners that they already have everything they need to change things. It's a song that changed in meaning over the decades to encompass the civil rights movement, and it's a song that Bright Spear sort of just wants to sing because she grew up with it and she was actually pretty sad when she found out -- not so long ago, since she doesn't exactly have Twitter -- that the song's writer had died.

She knows she's going to catch so much shit for this song when all is said and done, because she's a Guardian, she's not exactly a peacenik, she's certainly not a Child of Gaia but y'know what, the other Guardians and fresh Cliaths and stuff can just make fun of her, because this song reminds her of her grandpa so they can all just go screw themselves this is totally applicable and stuff to the garou.

"If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning,
I'd hammer in the evening, all over this land
I'd hammer out danger, I'd hammer out a warning,
I'd hammer out love between my brothers and sisters,
All over this land..."]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=549 Thu, 06 Feb 2014 08:13:10 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=549
That manservant's name is Colin, and Colin does not shy from doing things like cleaning bones, scouring and bleaching human skulls, or even tanning leather from the flesh of a man turned fomor. Colin is a precious, dark-spirited young man, and it satisfies some strange need in him to pull flesh from bone, right down to swabbing in between teeth with a Q-tip. It settles him. It fulfills some horrible hunger he feels. And it lets him help his lady sometimes. She does not shout at him or beat him or shut him away in a closet for being fascinated with these things.

He is not as mad as a full-blooded Silver Fang. But they are all a bit mad, in their own little ways.

It is the jawbone of a lion. The fair white hood that covered her head when she came to the moot has been pulled off, letting the wind occasionally lift her hair. Avery smiles at those gathered. She feels alive tonight, every inch of her skin and every tiny hair on her body somehow alert. She feels triumphant.

When she speaks to the garou, she reminds them to speak according to their station. She reminds them that all have a voice, though the youngest must exercise the most patience. And first, she turns to the Great Alpha.

--

In recent months, the Great Alpha has spoken more to the septs than he has in some entire years. Maybe the massive wolf, almost always seen in hispo, often known only in the penumbra of the caern, is getting used to it. As before, he shapeshifts the cords of his throat and the arrangement of his tongue to speak to them in the language they hold most in common.

But he speaks, at first, only to the Truthcatcher, who is turned to face him, turned to offer him the bone. She looks surprised for a moment, then addresses the rest of the garou as the Great Alpha returns to his place.

"Our Great Alpha has told me that we will address the discussion of Cold Crescent's destiny," and boy can you ever tell that these were not his exact words, if only because the tenor of her phrasing is so distinctly Avery, "at the conclusion of other matters."

With that, she begins passing the bone to the ranking garou and watching it circle through their number. The same old announcements, questions, claimings, and disputes. Cold Crescent may be one of the most important things to discuss this evening, but especially to those who do not call it home, it is certainly not the only thing.]]>
That manservant's name is Colin, and Colin does not shy from doing things like cleaning bones, scouring and bleaching human skulls, or even tanning leather from the flesh of a man turned fomor. Colin is a precious, dark-spirited young man, and it satisfies some strange need in him to pull flesh from bone, right down to swabbing in between teeth with a Q-tip. It settles him. It fulfills some horrible hunger he feels. And it lets him help his lady sometimes. She does not shout at him or beat him or shut him away in a closet for being fascinated with these things.

He is not as mad as a full-blooded Silver Fang. But they are all a bit mad, in their own little ways.

It is the jawbone of a lion. The fair white hood that covered her head when she came to the moot has been pulled off, letting the wind occasionally lift her hair. Avery smiles at those gathered. She feels alive tonight, every inch of her skin and every tiny hair on her body somehow alert. She feels triumphant.

When she speaks to the garou, she reminds them to speak according to their station. She reminds them that all have a voice, though the youngest must exercise the most patience. And first, she turns to the Great Alpha.

--

In recent months, the Great Alpha has spoken more to the septs than he has in some entire years. Maybe the massive wolf, almost always seen in hispo, often known only in the penumbra of the caern, is getting used to it. As before, he shapeshifts the cords of his throat and the arrangement of his tongue to speak to them in the language they hold most in common.

But he speaks, at first, only to the Truthcatcher, who is turned to face him, turned to offer him the bone. She looks surprised for a moment, then addresses the rest of the garou as the Great Alpha returns to his place.

"Our Great Alpha has told me that we will address the discussion of Cold Crescent's destiny," and boy can you ever tell that these were not his exact words, if only because the tenor of her phrasing is so distinctly Avery, "at the conclusion of other matters."

With that, she begins passing the bone to the ranking garou and watching it circle through their number. The same old announcements, questions, claimings, and disputes. Cold Crescent may be one of the most important things to discuss this evening, but especially to those who do not call it home, it is certainly not the only thing.]]> http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=548 Thu, 06 Feb 2014 07:42:33 -0800 http://forums.woddenver.com/showthread.php?tid=548
He brings them together near Persse Place, the place where not too long ago the leaders of Cold Crescent were punished, but they do not stand in its physical location. They gather in the penumbra, where the spirit of the place is strong enough to ward off some of that cold and some of that aching loneliness that makes winter bite at one's bones and soul all at once. There is no visible hearthfire but one keeps catching it flickering through the ghostly windows.

Outside the walls where the garou come together, King and Pawn howls for a long, long time, his voice undulating through the reflected night until the whole of the two septs have joined him... and onward, still, as his throat issues ever higher and even deeper pitches, the flow of the howling more erratic, summoning spirit after spirit.

Earth rumbles. Thunder booms. The essences of the broods of the tribal totems lend their voices one after the other, some easily recognizable as a whinny or a growl or a shriek. Others are so alien, so indescribable, that only the children of those tribes quite recognize them.

Gnosis rises from them as one, pale light much easier seen in the penumbra, sometimes colored with the mood or personality of the giver. There are so many of them. They offer of themselves, and Earth soaks it up like rain,

like blood,

drinking their strength into itself.]]>
He brings them together near Persse Place, the place where not too long ago the leaders of Cold Crescent were punished, but they do not stand in its physical location. They gather in the penumbra, where the spirit of the place is strong enough to ward off some of that cold and some of that aching loneliness that makes winter bite at one's bones and soul all at once. There is no visible hearthfire but one keeps catching it flickering through the ghostly windows.

Outside the walls where the garou come together, King and Pawn howls for a long, long time, his voice undulating through the reflected night until the whole of the two septs have joined him... and onward, still, as his throat issues ever higher and even deeper pitches, the flow of the howling more erratic, summoning spirit after spirit.

Earth rumbles. Thunder booms. The essences of the broods of the tribal totems lend their voices one after the other, some easily recognizable as a whinny or a growl or a shriek. Others are so alien, so indescribable, that only the children of those tribes quite recognize them.

Gnosis rises from them as one, pale light much easier seen in the penumbra, sometimes colored with the mood or personality of the giver. There are so many of them. They offer of themselves, and Earth soaks it up like rain,

like blood,

drinking their strength into itself.]]>