[Wrenboys Rhyme] ((1-2-3 NOT IT! *fingertip on nose*))
[Rory] (not it!)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ((Welcome to Posting-First-Ville, punkin. Population: You))
[Riddle Me This] *There is nothing subtle about the umbral realm over Carbini Green. Towering concrete housing “projects” loom ominous over cracked and blood stained streets, everything crumbles with neglect and decay. Spiders are fewer here, driven away by the mobs of scrags and wyrmhounds that stalk the streets. The wind spirits here reek of garbage, tainted, whipping litter at those who pass. Only Rat is stubborn enough to remain, waging war from the shadows, The vermin lord in his element.
Riddle Me This hated coming to this place. It was dangerous, and the spirits worth talking to were hostile indeed. Still, smoke on the horizon had a knowing and dangerous curiosity unsettling his stomach. Smoke on the air. Burned flesh and blood on the back of his tongue. Paranoid, he traveled in hispo tonight, a long lean beast, black and grey mottled fur long and slick – without much in the way of undercoat to keep the prowling muscles beneath warm. Green eyes shine lambent in the grey-dark shadow of the projects, well beneath the towering prisons for the poor.*
[Riddle Me This] [NIGHTMARES!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 5, 7, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Rory] She is not often in the Green. Well, not as often as she is in other places – Chinatown, Bronzeville, so on and so forth. But tonight, she has wandered far from home, long legs eating the ground, studying the umbral landscape, looking for telltale signs of corruption – and finding more than enough.
In short, the sweet young girl no one ever notices was spoiling for a fight. She’d found one, somewhere, for all her rage still boils and bleeds – though, as always, it is well under her control. The signs are there though: blood on her clothing, dripping from her curls, striped across her face. She is wholey uninjured, though, which makes one wonder just how one so sweet and innocent can do so much damage.
A walking contradiction, our Rory.
[Wrenboys Rhyme] Another large beast-wolf lopes ahead of Riddle, black-furred with baleful green eyes that likewise glow in the surrounding darkness. If an observer were to base his opinion on the green orbs floating in pairs through the shadows, he would likely assume they were somehow related. If not the same litter then at least the same bloodline. But the eyes and dark fur are the end of the similarities between the packmates.
Michael is noticably less comfortable in the realm of spirits than his packmate. His pink tongue lolls out of his mouth, flicking occasionally to taste the air around them. The shining green eyes move continously, searching every direction for the first hint of danger. He is no coward, but he will not be caught unawares if he can help it.
[Riddle Me This] *There is a clinging mist here, a hybrid of smoke and fog that sticks to the inside of mouths and eyes and nostrils, stale old smoke and fresh warm blood. Those that travel through the cracked streets disturb it with every careful step. The Metis strides two legged, the homids on four, and Owen’s chuff of recognition sends hazy whorls of red mist swirling away from his muzzle. He had no doubt Wrenboy saw the bloody ginger-kid ahead of them, and was sparing only the gruffest of greetings as he padded around jagged shards of concrete, thrust up from the ground like the clutching fingers of a vengeful titan. There is a corner half a block up, where the mist grows thick. Where a light seems to bob and dance in the haze, too inviting to be good. The theurge looks from Wrenboy to Rory, settling on his haunches to inquire of the more martial auspices.*
~I want to know what that is. How do we approach it?~
[Rory] Two hispo run up to a redhead…
If it were anyone else, there would be a joke there. Rory, of course, would be the butt of it, as that is her lot in life for being born as she is. Regardless, she smiles shyly as the two lope up, dwarfing her slender homid form. It is odd that few see her in her birth form. Hispo, yes. Homid yes. Sometimes the others, but never. ever. Crinos. Not if she can help it.
But that is not important. What is important now is that Riddle Me This has stopped, and asked a question. Rory tips her head, slightly, and studies the mist where it grows thick. Her brow furrows, slightly, and she chews on her lower lip.
As is proper, she awaits Wrenboy’s Rhyme’s ideas.
[Wrenboys Rhyme] If it were anyone else, it likely wouldn’t be a very amusing joke. Fortunately for Rory, she is as much (if not moreso) a killing machine as the pair of monstrous wolves. Rhyme dips his snout in greeting to the woman, vaguely remembering her from the Moot earlier in the year. Riddle poses a question.
How to approach a suspicious light in the Umbra.
“I’m guessin’ y’ mean without it or anythin’ around it seein’ us.” He fixes his gaze on the glowing light. “I only know one way t’ do that, and it involves me goin’ ahead alone. Th’ pair o’ you could stay back here, let me try t’ circle ’round. That way if there’s trouble, we at least got th’ thing flanked.”
[Riddle Me This] *The fog is cloying. Aggravating. Suffocating without asphyxiating. Irritating the eyes, and all exposed proud flesh as the three settle to discuss a safe? distance away. Owen shakes his head, snorting to clear his nose, bringing a razorred paw to his ear to rub at the sting there. Grumbling in his chest*
~Things aren’t always what they seem. Be careful.~
[Rory] She furrow’s her brow, slightly, as he suggests going in alone. She studies the light, and shifts her feet slightly, weight sliding from one hip to the other, as she hefts her pack up higher on her back. Then, with a slight shrug, she points to herself…
“Me, maybe.” A beat, and she rubs the side of her nose with her free hand, which might help them decipher the rest. “So nent.” That is, if they’ve heard tales of the Metis who no one can smell…
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ~If I were careful I’d be back at th’ house w’ a pint in one hand and m’ pipe in th’ other.~
The response is growled out as he comes to his feet, followed by a round of chuffing as he sneezes away the fog. Rory’s suggestion is carefully mulled over. Flashing green eyes move from his fellow Fianna to the Theurge, and back again. He was no tactician, and certainly no expert on the Umbra.
~How are y’ at remaining unseen?~
[Rory] She wrinkles her nose, and shrugs a little. She followed fox, once, you see, and it is well known her previous pack was a bunch of sneaky ass bastards – shadowlords, and one of the best sneaks in the land as her alpha. But she isn’t the best. She’s good – but not the best.
“Ok.”
She is honest, at least.
[Riddle Me This] *Owen waits, his eyes narrowing to glowing slits, focussed on the bobbing orb in the distance. The mist coils round the trio, and hips lips draw back in a half snarl of distaste. Indecision and banter, and that ..thing.. was still right there. Watching them, for all he knew….. *
[Everyone roll WP!]
[Rory] [wp!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 3, 5, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (Same!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Riddle Me This] [wp]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 5, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Riddle Me This] [Rory is the shiny new owner of! +1 rage!! Owen is just getting snappish and irritated, and Wrenboy – is just fine!]
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (*L* Aw, Lessa! It’s too early to be rolling fails! Save that for when it’s life or death.))
[Rory] [dear sweet gaia – do you KNOW HOW MUCH RAGE SHE ALREADY HAS?! *L*]
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ~I’ll take th’ lead then. Y’ could try movin’ t’ form a circle wi’ me and Riddle, just don’t close in. But y’ hear me yelpin’, come runnin’~
Considering the plan settled, he focuses for a moment, calling on a trick known by many No-Moons, before setting off along the thinnest edge of crimson mist. His posture is held low to the ground, practically dragging his massive chest along the ground.
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (Blur of the Milky Eye! Man + Stealth diff 8)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7 (Failure at target 8)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (Balls)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (Sneaky sneaky!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (Gah, should’ve just sent Rory *g*)
[Rory] She shifts her position again, irritation settling in, twisting about her spine. Her rage is no small thing. It keeps other’s at bay, it causes those who know what it is to wonder at the docile young girl who holds it in such control, wondering how she does it, how she manages so easily. Truth is – it was beat into her, early and often. Her control is one of legend, one of stories, one that…
..is slowly notching upwards… bit by bit by bit…
he directs her, and she nods. Pacing is better than staying still, and her body aches for movement. She takes a breath, and moves to circle around… sneaky sneaky like…
[SNEAKY! LIKE A FOX Dex+stealth]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 6, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Riddle Me This] [Am I sneaky? Dex alone!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ( I mean…seriously? *L*))
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (OH!I Rolled MAN not DEX)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (Can a brother get a reroll based on my stupidity?)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ((Reroll! Forgive me! NINJA!))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ((Better. *satisfied*))
[Riddle Me This] *Owen was light of foot, if not terribly skilled in the art of stealth. Rory on the other hand, slides her slender form through the mist and disappears almost entirely from the other garou’s view. Owen has to squint to keep near her in the mist, following the Ragabash and Ahroun at a distance.
The orb, as Wrenboy nears, wobbles excitedly, lighter and lighter as he approaches the streetcorner where it rests. The mist surrounding it stings, bites, hateful and inciting to violence and paranoia, and that copper taste only grows in the mouths of all involved. Blood. Hot blood. Wrenboy creeps forward, flanked by the others, and would find himself sneaking up on – a glowing, baleful eye/street light. Some hateful amalgan of the two. It’s sign reads only “Death’s Corner”.*
[Wrenboys Rhyme] He stares up at the street sign, feeling the press of hatred and violence that fills the crimson fog in all directions. Rorys Rage is hard not to notice, even in this tainted place. His packmates irritation can be felt through the bond they share. Perhaps he is not an expert on the Umbra, but he certainly knows a fucked situation when he’s presented with one.
~Close ranks. It’s some sort o’ street sign. Where are we, in comparison t’ th’ physical realm?~
[Rory] She tastes blood.
Red. Hot. Coppery.
Blood.
The sensation twists along her spine, bites at her senses, her lips curling into a snarl, her body tightening, desperate to shift, change, rend, break destroy…
She blinks, though, and tips her head, as she comes through the mist, flanking the orb… closing ranks as ordered, her rage bursting at the seams, leaking from her senses, her fists clenching tighttighttight around the straps of her backpack…
[Riddle Me This] *Owen’s hackles are up, from the ahroun beside him and the strange sign as well. He pads closer as instructed, gruffing in a half snarl, eyes wary on the font of rage to his left.*
~I’ll look. I’ll be blind here. Give me a second. ~
*Then green eyes go strange and hazy – the way they did all too often in the physical realm.*
[Looking across the gauntlet]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 8)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] Waiting for Riddles answer, he paces around the corner uneasily, keenly aware of their surroundings. Hostility is everywhere, and it couldn’t possibly be much longer before one of his companions…or even he, himself…would be pushed too far by the onslaught of raw hatred. Someone would snap.
[Riddle Me This] Locust Ave and Sedgewick St.
*Gruffs the theurge, rubbing his snout on the ground to clear stinging mist from his nostrils. A snarl as he does so.*
Its the same, minus mist and eye. Ribbons and crosses around the sign. Street is crawling with thugs.
*There’s a gooey shreik that has Owen backpeddling so fast he bumps into Rory and nearly takes out her legs, as the eye spews forth a – pomegranate.*
{everyone roll WP!]
[Wrenboys Rhyme] (WP)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Rory] She’s quivering. She aches. Her blood boils in a way she’s unused too – she does not even call upon her Primal Anger except when depleted far beyond normal levels, only in life or death situations… but here… there’s too much raw fury for her skin… too much tomuchtoomuchtoomuch….
She paces. Tight little circles… waiting… eyes on the light…
Then Owen is backpeddling and running into her and she snaps, her arm back to swing… just as the eye spews forth something.. halting her motion…
[good thing, as that would hurt]
[WP!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Riddle Me This] [NooO! WP!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ~So is this thing drawin’ out all the violence in th’ neighborhood, or is it-.~
A shriek pierces the air and Owen backpeddles. Rory prepares to strike. And the edgy Ragabash leaps a solid foot, both backwards and vertically, as the pomegranate pops out of the eye. His tail stands straight up, a bottle brush attatched to the South end of a monster.
~What in th’ fuck?~
[Riddle Me This] *There’s a duck of a broad lupine head. A snarl that rises and is cut short – as a fruit rolls along cracked pavement, barely visible beneath the mist that begs them each to violence for its own sake.
Riddle Me This has such a name for a reason, and he approaches the fruit, hair bristling with the tension of muscles beneath. Lips pulled back to display teeth.*
~Might be. Its not.. doing anything… ~
*That said, he prods the pommegranite with a heavy paw – when in doubt – a theurge was best to Poke It. The fruit doesn’t roll or rock as it should.
It Rots, as though someone had hit fast forward on decay that should take weeks, but it doesn’t even rot as it should. Instead dissolving into what looks suspiciously like a lump blood clot. A clot with gold seeds within.
Or perhaps not seeds.
Perhaps teeth.*
[Rory] “I lon’t dike this” muttered, under her breath, as she forces her arm down, forces her reactions back under her skin, where it quivers and quakes and begs for relief, for violence, for pain brought by her own slender, fragile, breakable hands…
He pokes at it, and ti rots, quickly and disgustingly, and she tips her head, a curious movement, her green eyes snapping with barely controlled rage….
“…teeth?!”
[Riddle Me This] ~Nor I. ~
*Its sharp. Too sharp, as is the rage of the ahroun beside him. The rage that grates at his own control, his own fury – greater than one generally finds on a spirit speaker. Huge feet scratch along the pavement as the hispo backs up warily. Chuffing through a mouthful of grit teeth.*
~Rhyme. Twister. We know where it is. It looks linked to the corner. I think.. we can just keep an eye on it. …. C’mon.~
*The Glasswalker begins backing away through the mist and away from the baleful eye and its tainted offerings. Unwilling to turn his back on it, and yet all too happy to leave.*
[Wrenboys Rhyme] He follows closely behind his packmate, casting distrustful looks over his shoulder at the rage-fueled lamppost. There would be another time to examine this mystery. For now, he could use a pint and a smoke.
[Wrenboys Rhyme] ((Ok, I’m DONE. I’m so worthless right now. I’ll gab at y’all later, and thanks for the scene!))
to Riddle Me This, Rory
[Rory] She nods, sharply, once. She has to burn off some of this rage…. and not against her current companions.
[Riddle Me This] [and fade! Thanks you all. SOrry for short ending. brain just up and died on me. ]
[Rory] [no worries! thanks for the arpees!]