[Ruarc o’Conaill] The woods. Ruarc had cried and cursed when he saw these ’woods’ for the first time. 65 acres were tiny. It was barely a patch. But it had to be enough. So he had grabbed Rory when he found her. There si that to be said for the Rover. Some things you cannot do without for too long. The feast he had in mind was one such thing. It struck him that Rory might never have been a part of one of these. He hoped it wasn’t the case, but just to make sure he brought some extra woad paint even though he had asked her to bring it. It had been a simple matter to make it after all. The mead was in its wooden kegs. The spiritually enhanced brew was guaranteed to send them into a stupor.
There is a small bonfire built up. Some extra dry wood off to the side. There is a small music player, the MP3 kind, connected to a pair of speakers. A pack of extra batteries on the rickety table beside the player. He also had his instruments with him and he had asked Rory to bring the guitar. They would play themselves before they got to the serious drinking and when they decided it was time for dance they would have music from the music player.
It was far from perfect. But it was as good as the full moon could arrange for himself and the other Fianna. The moon is dark above their heads, completely hidden by Gaia’s shadow. Their blood was a distant song. Rage always there but cool now, almost shivering.
So Ruarc waits, crouched by the bonfire, poking at it with a thick stick as it begins to catch, crackling and lighting up the small clearing he had chosen. There is a small stream a dozen yards away, deep enough to allow for a dip if needed, clear and cool in the late summer weather.
[Rory] Woad paint. She’d never heard of such a thing, and the frustration of not being able to find it, or figure out what it is, is still writ furrowed across her brow. She could, however, easily bring the guitar. Truth be told it rarely leaves her side. She even sent Marc to go get it when he insisted that she stay with him until she was well.
And well she is – fast metabolism and Gaia’s blessings having erased the marks from the recent battle from her skin. She is whole, now, and dressed in tattered jeans and a tank top, a sweater tied around her waist, guitar in hand. She’s not necessarily at home in the woods, but then again, she’s not necessarily at home anywhere.
She arrives in the small clearing, and sees Ruarc by the bonfire, and makes her way there, steps near silent, carefully laid in ways that won’t betray her approach – she’s practiced long and hard to be a True Child of Fox. Even so, as he is friend, not foe, she clears her throat as she gets closer, and instantly confesses..
“…i couldn’t figure out what poad waint was…” her voice and stance betrays her worry, as she hugs the guitar case close to her chest..
[Ruarc o’Conaill] He looks up from the fire, eyesbrows raised slightly.
“Lass! I did’nae hear ye approach. Glad tae see ye made it.. and have nae fear. I brought some extra. Come on over.”
He stands up and moves over to the table, motioning for her to follow him to it.
“Ye don’nae know woad paint? It is a traditional paint o’ our ancestors. Here…”
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small clay jar. Opening it to reveal the bright blue pigment inside. It has an edgy smell to it. He leaves it on the table.
“I brought some extra. These be th’ t’ing we will be wearin when we dance In a bit. But first! Welcome.”
And he pours some of the dark mead into the two tankards he had scrounged up from somewhere. Mismatched, but both are woods even if one seems to be in the german style with a metal lid and the other a simple wooden one, unadorned. He gives her the fancy one. The mead smells rich, the dark liquid smelling of honey and sweet fruit and other things.
Ruarc raises his mug to her with a wide smile.
“Fianna mead fer us… Learned tae make it in me home sept. T’is ha s agood kick tae it, so don’nae be drinkin to rushed now, ye hear?”
And then he is drinking deeply from the mug, seemingly not caring for his own advice, or not beliving that to be considered drinking in a rushed way.
[Rory] He admits to not having heard her coming, and she flushes with pleasure at the unintended compliment. She ducks her head, a little smile playing about her lips, hidden behind the fall of her hair. That, and the fact he has some of the paint he asked her to bring, erases the worry from her brow. Curiosity brings her to the table with him, to see ti woad paint. Traditional, apparently – unfortunately her upbringing left little time for traditional teaching.
She lifts the jar and sniffs at it, wrinkling her nose as she puts it back on the table. “…dancing?” She looks worried, but then has to turn to set the guitar down, to catch the mug of mead being thrust at her. She tips her head, slighly, and sniffs this much as she had the paint, curious. Ray had shown her several different wines, a couple of beers, and she finds that – true to her blood – she likes them all. this, however, is new too.
She lifts her mug and takes a sip first – wary of the ‘kick’ – and savors the taste. She tips her head, slightly, watching him and then mimics his longer drink, though not QUITE as deeply as the experienced Ruarc.
She coughs a bit, after, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “s’good..”
[Ruarc o’Conaill] The mead is strong. It could probably peel paint from a ship’s hull. Then again, that could be because of the spirit’s essence bound into it during its making. It has a kick that simply ignores such things as regeneration or tolerance. It is made to leave you with glazed eyes and a funny smile on your lips and feeling real good. Of course, it takes a little more for it to reach quite that level, but for the two of them? The barrel he has will do more then well. This should be an interesting night.
“I know, right? ‘s th’ best drink tae be had away from th’ court. But we use what we can lass and we ‘ave fun wi’ it.”
He is smiling wide as he talks to her.
“An’ ye can bet ye sweet tail we be dancing tonite. The moon is dark, th’ eye o’ Bain Sii bright on us it is. If’n we drink an’ dance well enough she might come tae bless us, an’ if we have shade in ou’ hearts, she be comin tae curse us she is. But we be Fianna! Nae such a t’ing as shade in these hearts.”
Punctuated by striking hsis broad chest hard right over his heart.
“But first, we play an’ we sing lass. Come on… I hear th’ whispers ye be a devil tae play ‘Danny Boy’ on that thee’e guitar. Time tae play fer th’ piper it be.”
[Rory] She stands there, and blinks. Something like a deer caught in the headlights she is, as she tries to work through everything he says, and keeps coming up with some blanks. She takes another drink, and tips her head slightly.
“Sain Bii?” she’s confused… clearly. Though she lifts a hand to place it over her heart, as if suddenly worried that hers might have shade, even if she’s confused about the whole concept…
But he shifts to the guitar, and that he’s heard whispers about her playing, and she’s flushing with delight again as she sinks to a crouch in order to open the guitar case. She’s clearly taken very good care of the instrument, her fingers slide over the gleaming wood before she takes it out of the case with a reverence and clear delight. He’s trusted her with his guitar, and she’s cared for it as if it were a prized possession of her own.
Not that she has many of those…
Even as she sits down though, and pulls the instrument over her knee, and tests the tune of the strings, adjusting slightly as needed, she protests. “I san’t cing…”
She can barely talk, after all…
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”aye lass, Bain Sii… It is a spirit o’ th’ old country. It follows th’ worthy Fianna to bless o’ Curse them as it sees fit. It thrives near streams.. If’n ye ever see an old crone o’ a young lass near a stream, washing bloody cloth, then ye know… Them be th’ Bain Sii. They enjoy the dance an’ song o’ th’ tribe an’ will offer th’ blessing freely tae Fiann with pure hearts an’ good intent. They give good fortune to us they do.”
Ruarc moves to sit next to Rory with a smile.
“An’ ye play, I’ll sing lass. One step at a time after all.”
He waits until she starts playing, taking another sip of the mead and watching her closely. The bonfire casting them both in its warm light. Perhaps it is the mead but it feels as if spirits are close now, as if the gauntlet is just that much thinner here.
[Rory] He says they’re near streams, and her eyes dart immediately toward the little stream nearby, tipping her head slightly, searching the banks for the spirits he speaks of. There’s a brief flicker of worry, that she would not be worthy enough to be blessed or cursed – it flashes almost visibly across her features, until she nods, and looks down at the guitar, and her fingers on the strings.
He sits next to her, and agrees that he’ll sing for her, and she peeks up through her curls and offers him a brief (grateful) smile. Then, she takes a breath, and strikes the first chord, flowing easily into the song she’s practiced over and over and over again… enough that she’s clearly better than the last time they saw each other…
It feels as if the spirits are close, there is something like anticipation in the air, tangling with the nerves of the young ahroun, who’s so very clearly new to this type of ritual, rite, tradition…
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Don’nae worry Lass… I doubt ye ‘ave a treacherous bone in ye body. Th’ spirit know ye heart better then yeself, I can promise ye.”
His voice is low as she begins to play and then he begins to sing. He has a deep and very nice baritone voice. He uses it wellsinging Danny boy for her, for the spirits that slowly gather near the thinning gauntlet to watch and listen. Woodland spirits and Fianna spirits. Ruarc has deep connections to the ancestors of their tribe and they listen to his song now, to Rory’s music.
Once the song is done, Ruarc takes a deep swig of the mead and reaches to wipe at his eye with the back of his hand, offering Rory a wide grin.
“Ye be getting good lass. Real good. If’n ye keep it up ye be putting me out’tae a job ye be!Now drink! Plenty o’ mead tae go around an’ I will be taking up th’ pipes fer a tune o’ two.”
He stands even as he is speaking, moving over to his bag. He gets out the large bagpipe, checking it over and moving back to sit next to Rory once more.
“So, how ye been lass? Nae been seein ye around tae much. Everythin going alright with ye?”
There is genuine curiosity in the large ahroun. Perhaps it is a form of lonliness, missing the feel of another Fianna. Whatever the reason, he seems truly glad to have Rory join him for the night.
[Rory] He assures her that she hasn’t a treacherous bone in her body, and she blushes, again, right on cue. Then she concentrates on making her playing worthy of his voice, playing carefully yet with a confidence that’s grown as she gets better. It may be the only song she really knows, but she’s quite good at it, and of course, willing to learn others.
She near glows happily at his praise when they’re done, and reaches for her mug when he tells her to drink. She does so, swallowing once, twice, and then a daring three times, before she sets the mug down again, and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and then turning it over to cover a belch that’s far from delicate. Her eyes widen in surprise, and she ducks to hide behind her curls.
..but not for long, as he pulls out the bagpipes, and curiosity gets the best of her. She watches as he sits and checks them over, drinking in every detail of the pipes themselves and the way he settles them about his larger form. She blinks, realizing he’s asked her something, and then reaches up to rub absently at the side of her nose, admitting.
“Heen bealing for a week or so. Marc made me stay hith wim. He worries. Wasn’t bo sad, only almost died.”
Ahhh, seems she’s tapping into her Fianna roots easier now with that shy boast.
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Only almost huh? Well, I don’nae rightly know who Marc is, but I am glad he was takin care o’ ye… He ye fella?”
Ruarc start filling the bag with air, his gaze on Rory and still smiling.
“An’ why did ye nae use some healin talens or ask a theurge tae tend ye? Seems a long time tae go injured during a war if’n ye ask me….”
He creases hs brows a little and continues filling the bag.
[Rory] Her blush deepens, as he asks if Marc’s her fella, and shakes her head vigorously. “Oh no… I han’t cave a mate.” Though even as she blushes, and squirms, some part of her longs for exactly that. She’s lost Ray, she will soon enough be told not to touch Marc too – but some secret part of her hopes that some day she’ll find someone who doesn’t care about the rules…
“Delmar, packmate – ce hame and healed up a little, so we could get Marc home. Finished off the gecond suy that almost finished me. I owe him two talens, but…” A soft sigh, admitting.. “knon’t dow how…”
As for asking a Theurge, she shakes her head. “Other duties are more important. Can meal hyself.” Clearly repetition of something she’s heard far too often in her life.
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Ye don’nae know how? Lass why did ye nae say? I will teach ye. Not tonite… Tomorrow when we wake up an’ after I ‘ave a bath in th’ stream tae clear me head…”
It would certainly be needed.
“Then I will teach ye how tae bind th’ spirits intae talens if’n ye like. Heal yeself nonsense… ye a warrior o’ Gaia. It be ye duty tae fight an’ it be their duty tae look tae ye wounds if’n ye be hurt, don’t ye be thinkin nothing else, ye hear?”
And then he brings the first tones from the bag-pipe and those haunting sounds are like nothing else. A unique instrument. IT draws the spirits closer and sends the wild animals fleeing away from the clearing.
“Now then… Let start wi’ a nice ol’ classic shall we? Refill me mug an’ ye own as well lass while I get these ol’ pipes warmed up good an’ proper…”
And he begins playing a spirited tune from the old country.
[Rory] She ducks her head as he asks why she didn’t tell him, and offers to teach her, shifting uncomfortably even though it’s clear he’s offering out of goodness, and he believes she should know these things. It’s hard, the hardest lesson that she’s still trying to learn, to realize she is worthy, and worth more than those who kept her locked away lead her to believe.
Fortunately, he gives her a task, and she jumps up to do his bidding instantly. She takes his mug, empty, and her own – not quite so – and heads to the barrel to fill them up again. Then he starts playing, and she turns and simply… stares. Her grip tightens on the mugs so that she doesn’t risk dropping them, and she allows herself to be lost in the haunting sounds of the pipes.
The tune is spirited, and haunting, and rollicking fun, and very very new to her. She tips her head, slightly, and then she can’t hide the smile of delight, childish and filled with wonder, as she regains her legs and the ability to join him and sit by his side again.
[Ruarc o’Conaill] He watches her reaction to the pipes and the tune and it makes him smile. She might be raised like an animal but she is a Fianna. Some things are in her blood, hard wired into her with that wasted purity that shines in her.
He plays on, swaying as he does. He even manages to take the mug from her when she returns without breaking the melody, taking a quick sip of the strong mead and then continuing. Soon enough the first melody is done.
“alright… fer the next one, take th’ guitar again lass… ‘Danny Boy’ but ye can follow me lead an’ speed fer it.”
And then he starts playing ‘Danny Boy’ on the bag pipes with her playing the guitar to accompany him. IT gives a depth to the song neither instrument can reach on its own and Ruarc sings with it, working the bag and pipes between verses that are given slightly longer breaks so he has time to refill the bag fully between them.
[Rory] He manages to take his mug, drink and play all at the same time, and she’s clearly impressed – and delighted at the same time. She takes a swallow of the mead, blinking a bit as it’s clearly started to spread it’s warmth through her. She’s not without hesitation though, not yet – even when he asks her to join on the guitar. But that hesitation is brief – he is her teacher, and he wishes her to play, so she will.
Fortunately, he sings.
She settles in easily enough, and does her best to follow his lead, messing up once or twice, but all in all, gaining confidence and blending in wel enough. She bites her lower lip in concentration, her attention full and complete on the things he teaches her, without even trying.
She may have been raised an animal, but she is gentled by the willingness of others to allow her to join them in things like this, things so easily gained by others.
only when the last notes linger in the air does she dare speak and risk breaking the spell…
“…wow.” some words are easier than others…
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Aye, I know. Ye be gettin real good wi’them strings lass…”
He takes a long drink of the mead. By now it should be hitting him as well even if he is used to it. Still plenty left in the barrel however and the night is early still.
“So this be ye fist orgy then I take it? Once th’ night wears on, the’e be time fer dancing and feastin and more song an’ play an’ all manner o’ celebration. Ye up fer it are ye lass?”
He says wit with a smile as if he is convinced that no Fianna could turn down a proper orgy even if it was just the two of them. The need to feast and celebreate is in their blood after all.
“We got a lot o’ t’ings tae teach ye lass. An’ as I understand it, ye be th’ elder o’ th’ tribe now ye be! One more reason tae celebrate innit?”
[Rory] Her eyes widen, as she hides behind her mug, and takes another drink – one so deep she almost chokes on it. Then… “…orgy? But…” Ray told her what an orgy was… and well, there’s only the two of them and they’re both born true, and well… she’s definitely squirming now, even as he speaks more of dancing and feasting and such…
But is she up for it? She blinks, and then reaches up to rub the side of her nose, absently, before offering him a shy smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Which might just be the clearest ‘yes’ she’s ever spoken. Even if she’s a bit scared of the prospects.
And then he drops the bombshell and her eyes widen and her jaw drops as she openly gapes at him… the elder? how in the world did such a thing happen? But all that she manages to squeak out is…
“….ME?”
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Aye lass, would seem tae be th’ case, innit?”
He chuckles and raises his mug to her with a happy smile and a wink.
“An’ ye soon be Fostern tae boot. Seems we got reason enough tae celebreate an’ enjoy th’ eve, don’t ye t’ink?”
The bagpipe squeezed under his arm as he takes another drink. It gives of some strange sounds since he isn’t controlling it properly.
[Rory] She’s… shocked, really. Startled isn’t even the half of it. She never considered herself the leader of ANYTHING, let alone the whole TRIBE, even if there are few of them around. And he’s the second to bring up that she’s nearing Fostern, too, and that startles her as well. She doesn’t FEEL any different, any closer to some rank, not even close to a leader of anything. She was told she’d never survive, she was berated because she dared to do so anyway… and now, here…
…well. Things are different.
(and frightening, too)
“..mut be? Why me?”
She’s distracted from her distress by the odd sounds of the bagpipes though, and reaches out to touch the airbag curiously. But then, with that same shy smile, and another swallow from her mug, she offers… “…reason enough…” despite it all being so very new.
[Ruarc o’Conaill] When she reaches to touch the bag, he grins wide at her. He reaches down to give it a squeeze, making it squeak some more.
“After ye learn tae play th’ guitar proper, I can show ye how tae play th’ pipes, but ye don’nae begin with th’ bagpipes lass. Ye begin wi’ th’ flute ye do. But one instrument at a time, ye hear?”
He stands up and places the pipes beside Rory on the ground, then moves to the bonfire. He adds some more fuel to it before turning to face Rory with a wide grin on his face.
“I know ye don’nae wish tae sing lass… But how ye feel ‘bout dancing hmm?”
[Rory] She wrinkles her nose, and blushes, her hands falling back to the guitar in her lap, fingertips sliding over the gleaming wood, stroking the strings. She’s more than content with the first instrument, with being given the chance to learn something so totally foreign and new to the shy metis. Her captors would have a fit if they saw her now…
Then he’s standin, and asking her to dance, and she ducks her head to hide behind her curls. She’s only ever danced once, and that was with Ray. While on the battle field she is completely at ease, in her element, strong and graceful – in things like this? She feels hopelessly uncoordinated..
But, as she’d said before, she was here and ready to learn the ways of her Tribe, things she had never been allowed to particpate in before… so she sets the guitar aside gently, before she stands, and brushes the dirt from the seat of her pants. Then she steps forward, and shrugs a little, offering him another shy smile. “I’m not gery vood at it..”
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Nae one is very good at it tae start wi’ lass. All ye have tae do is be willing tae learn.”
He winks at her, then moves to the small table that holds the items he brought along. He opens the small jars with blue paint, then reaches to the small music player. He clicks play and music starts to play. Irish pub classics, mostly instrumental.
Then he starts undressing. Lifting the shirt over his head, throwing it to the side, then stepping out of his boots and his pants and his briefs. He takes in a deep breath and then takes a hearty swig of the brew before refilling his mug. He looks over at Rory and nods for her to join him.
“Since this be ye first time, I will help ye wi’ th’ paint lass, but pay attention. Ye should’ve learned this as a cub already an’ nae be needin a hand wi’ it now. Tell me… O’ th’ three virtues, which do ye feel most strongly hmm?”
He grabs one of the containers with the rich blue paint and waits for Rory.
[Rory] She follows him as he moves, and peeks curiously at the paint, but is thoroughly distracted for a moment by the music he turns on instead.
…then he starts to undress, and her eyes widen and she ducks her head to hide behind her curls, though she can’t resist a little peek, mentally comparing him to those she’s seen unclothed before – all two of them. He nods for her to join him, and she blinks, before she reaches for her mug and takes a swig, and mimics his movements and strips from her clothing. Oddly enough, she isn’t modest about her own form. The clothing comes off – and she seems not to notice a difference. She is still just learning to see the human body as arrousing, as something to be treasured, something to be hidden away except for special times, special people – and as such, she stands there, unclothed, and completely unconcerned that he can now tell that her freckles number thousands, and cover her completely…
Instead, she looks at the paint, and then bites her lower lip as he asks which of the virtues she feels strongly… and hesitates before asking softly, almost flinching… “…virtues?”
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Oy…”
He blinks and looks at her.
“Ye serious aintcha? If’n I ever find th’ ones who raised ye, I be putting me foot up their ass, I promise ye.”
He mutters and takes a swig, looking thoughtful.
“Alright… Fer th’ Fiann, there be three virtues from which we carry ou’selves, right? They be Hospitality, Generosity an’ Bravery. Now while all th’ Garou can be said tae work wi’ Bravery, we Fiann take good and proper pride in th’ first two. An’ all people, knowing or nae follow th’ Virtues tae lesser o’ greater degree, if’n they be good.”
He points at her, hand helk like it is a gun.
“So, which o’ th’ three would ye say ye resemble the most strongly? Which o’ th’ three would ye say describes ye best? An’ don’t ye be sayin ye aint none o’ those t’ings, cause ive seen all three in ye. T’ink an’ t’ink hard lass.”
[Rory] She flushes as he mentions her lack of knowledge, her upbringing which isn’t much of an upbringing at all. It’s a shock that she has survived, that she made it through her youth to not only gain rank, but to simply escape.
To her credit though, she listens, and she learns, and she does both well. She starts to deny having any, but he cuts her off and she flushes, caught in the act, as it were. She runs her fingers along her arm, rubbing her bicep absently as she gives the question the thought it deserves.
To her, in her own thinking, she is none of them. She is skittish and shy, but for in battle. She has nothing monetary to be generous with, though she would give the clothing off her back if someone needed it, without thinking. She has no place of her own in order to extend hospitality,though she would give up ehr bed to another without hesitation. She chews her lower lip absently as she thinks, long and hard, as he says to…
Then… softly… “Bravery. I home cere, alone, without knowing anything but battle, and learn. Is scary to be alone, to ste bupid in ways others know brom firth. But I stay, and I try.” A fierce look of determination flashes briefly across her face, before she blushes again, and peeks up through her curls at him… murmuring “Shy isn’t always weak.”
[Ruarc o’Conaill] ”Did’nae say ye was weak lass. Far from it.”
He steps up close to her and dips two fingers in the paint.
“Fer now, Bravery it is. Three stripes across th’ chest tae symbolize the courage.”
He draws three thick blue lines over her chest, fingers following the curves of her breasts. The second line draws right over her nipples. He looks thoughtful, head slightly tilted, then he continues to paint her body. Fingers dipping into the small container with paint every so often.
“Watch careful. Ye know th’ glyph o’ ou’ tribe an’ ye auspice an’ ye birth. This circle wi’ th’ squiggly bit ‘ere…”
He paints a circle with a squiggly bit on her stomach, the squiggly bit running down her left side, down to her thigh.
“Is tae guide th’ spirits. An’ this ‘ere cross wi’ them circle son it be a sign o’ ye faith in ye pack.”
He turns her around and paits a cross on her lower back, moving her hair out of the way as needed. Then he continues painting on her, celtic and gaelic symbols old and new.
Once she is done, he begins on himself. For himself, he draws two circles that intersect over his chest, almost a sign of infinity, but a little too thick.
“Ye feel like helpin me wi’ th’ back?”
He holds out one of the containers for her with raised brows.
[Rory] She bites her lower lip as his fingers slide over her skin, spreading the paint into a vibrant blue pattern across her skin, nipples crinkling as his fingers drift over them, her body reacting without her conscious direction to do so…. she watches carefully as he draws symbols on her body, picking up the nuances of how they’re drawn, making sure that she remembers them for later.. so many symbols, so many new things.
He begins on himself, and she watches just as intently, tipping her head slightly as she reaches to touch the symbol on his chest, looking up at him, curiosity written easily across her features…
Then, when he hands her the paint, and turns, she mimics what he has done for her along his back as well. She is a quick study, far more intelligent than those that raised her ever gave credit for… when she finishes she offers him the paint back, shyly.
“Thank you… tor feaching me…”
[Ruarc o’Conaill] When she touches the symbol on his chest he chuckles a little.
“Generosity. It be th’ virtue I try tae follow wi’ every breath. I teach if’n I can, an’ I will give anyone who be needin anything I have. The two circles joined is just that. Sharin wi’ another.”
When she helps him he smiles, watching her, not the work she does. He trusts her it seems. When he gets the paint back he continues to paint himself with near enough the same symbols she wears. Once he is done, he puts the paint aside and reaches for the mug, holding it up for her with a wink and taking a deep swig of it. He shakes his head and nods towards the fire.
“Now, it be time tae dance fer th’ spirits. Don’t worry yeself about nae knowin th’ steps. I will show ye the paired dance an’ the jig an’ then ye will get tae listen tae ye own body an’ ye will dance fer th’ spirits wi’out guidance lass. But nae yet… come”
He holds out his hand for her to take. Once she does, he swings her into a dance around the bonfire in beat with the music.
[Rory] She blushes, and takes a long drink from her mug, her skin flushed with the warmth of the alcohol, as well as the company and the experience itself. She only hesitates a moment when he offers her his hand, before sliding her own into his, allowing her slender fragile looking fingers be swallowed by his own.
He swings her into the dance, following the beat of the music, and she finds herself overwhelmed, but once again – a quick study. She has a natural rhythm, a comfort within her skin – even this monkey skin- that gives her an edge when it comes to dancing… she watches, she learns, and soon enough she abandons herself to the experience that he shows her…
She even laughs – a soft, yet somehow freeing sound as she’s twirled about the fire… her head tipped back, her throat bared, her trust in him complete….
[Ruarc o’Conaill] She laughs and so does he. This is an easy dance, a happy thing meant for joy and elation. Perhaps Rory will learn that there are more then one type of orgy in the world. And this one? Is all fun and drunken dancing and music. The spiritually enhanced brew soon takes them over fully and the dancing turns into a blur of shape and form and closeness. This is not the closeness of pack or lovers. This is the heart of the Fianna, the celebration of spirit and life. The feast before the battle, the night before the blood-misted morning.
This, is freedom.
And like all freedom, it comes to an end somewhere between the darkest night and the sun rising, and the Fianna would wake to face the wrath of the mornings light trying to batter their eyes into oblivion. Naked, blue and with misty memories at best of an evening spent laughing, dancing and drinking.
There are worse ways to celebrate your tribe and the life.
[Rory] [and fade!]