[Evan McCollach] (Not it)
[Sinclair] (Not It Part 2)
[Joss Lehrer] By the tempestuous swirl of Maelstrom’s waters, the Godi has been hard at work. She’s still exhausted, still drained, and still very much disillusioned – but she’s also the Theurge Elder, and if she does not uphold her chimiage promises – who will? Thus, she’s here on the banks of the mighty totem. She’s meditated, she’s regaining her strengths, but she still has wounds unhealed, a body broken.
It doesn’t stop her.
She has a book laying open beside her, a large wooden base she’s built and positioned near the edge of Maelstrom, where the light of the moon will shine on whatever it is she is building. In a bucket by her side, a compound of some sort, and surrounding her a multitude of shattered glass. Carefully, piece by piece, she’s building a mosaic glass wall intending to use every last sliver.
She’s dressed as always – skirts spread about her where she kneels. A tank top – as it is warm, which shows the bulk of bandages around her torso. Her sweater is off to the side with her Godi Bag and shoes, still stained and damp with her blood.
She ignore the pain, ignores the seeping wounds, and works steadily. The mosaic is already 12 inches high. It should be over three feet before she is finished, from the looks of the glass pieces by her feet. She’s not the craftiest of folks – but she gives it everything she has, as she does in everything she attempts.
[Evan McCollach] Maybe he had not thought through the judgment on Hatchet quite as well as he figured. Beta of Eagle’s chosen was a demanding position. Philodox Elder had him pushing on further issues, needed to attend the Grand Elder’s side a bit more often, learning more of the punishment rites and the judgments of the Sept. His cub was becoming more of a terror than one could handle and Randi had another little one on the way. Now with the Master of Challenges his strength was sapped a great deal more.
He needed to be at the Caern grounds a great deal more, talk to the Warder and his pack over the grounds. Learn as Balance Without Fault’s left hand meant learning everything about the Sept. And if challenges needed to be mended, that had to be taken care of.
But the link Eagle shared between them, drew him to his packmate, hard at work as she was. He could feel her pain through that link, and it irked him a little. But he was indeed proud that she did not relinquish her duties because of some “minor” wounds.
“Hard at work as always miss?”
He smirked as he approached her workings, watching what she did.
[Joss Lehrer] She looks up as he nears, having felt him come closer. A pierced brow arches at the ‘miss’ before she just smiles. It’s not a smile of her usual radiance, her typical exuberance. Something has her down, something has upset her – or she’s just tired, and in pain. He’s seen her bouncing still even at almost incap – so there’s something clearly… off. But she smiles for him, so there’s that.
“Miss? You get yourself the MOC position an suddenly your all formal? I should spike your shampoo again for that…”
Ah, there’s a hint of her little mischievous grin. She places another piece of glass carefully. “Chimiage. These guys broke willingly to set the Electric elementals free so they could help us fight that Thresher the other night. I promised them the shine of the moon reflected on Maelstrom for their help.”
[Evan McCollach] (Percept+Empathy: Cause I know shiznit)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Evan McCollach] (Who needs Truth of Gaia with a dice pool like that *score*)
[Joss Lehrer] (….holy hell. *L*)
[Sinclair] The current Alpha of the Storm Chasers, current Alpha of the Glass Walkers, current Galliard of note and Garou About Town is carrying a bag across the caern grounds towards the same area where Joss is currently working at her mosaic. The bag is large enough that it looks comical against her athletic frame. She could not carry it if she were not Garou. If she didn’t belong to Twister.
The bag is not, thankfully, seeping blood, despite the grisly contents.
There are many battles noted on the Wyrmpole where her name is left off. The werewolves she’s fought with know she’s taken trophies, but they have not gone onto the pole. They’re in that bag. God only knows where she was keeping them til now. Maybe the back of her car.
Walking over to Maelstrom, she spies the Philodox and Theurge Elders, both members of Eagle’s Chosen, and gives them a distance that is on the generous edge of respectful, which is still quite a ways from wary. And she sets the bag down with a heavy thunk.
[Evan McCollach] He watched her a couple of moments as she paused from her work. It was easy to see that she was not in her normal state of mind. She was in pain, wounded and still bleeding. But he could feel that was not even the surface of the matter.
“You think you can answer your cell phone from within your stomach?”
He looked at the chimiage that she was working on, the glass work was coming along slowly, but it is probably because she did not rest before going to it, or healing herself.
“Besides that not the best way to get me to heal you. I am sure your work will go smoother afterwards.”
[Joss Lehrer] She laughs. Briefly, before wincing as it sends aftershocks through her torn belly, and she falls still, holding perfectly still while she fights her breath, bringing it back from sharp to even and still. Her grip on the glass slices her palm, a pinprick that doesn’t register at all. A slow careful breath, and she looks up at him with the small smile still in place. “Depends, you gonna make me swallow my fingers too?”
She looks at the mosaic, and then up at Sinclare as she sets her bag down. Joss lifts a chin – greeting – and then back to Evan.
“It would. I wasn’t gonna ask, ya know…” He should know. She rarely asks. “But if ya would – I’d appreciate it.”
[Evan McCollach] Evan looks over at Sinclair as the heavy thud of her bag comes into contact with the ground. He had never fought with Sinclair personally, but he had heard some tales about the fights she gets into. Then again Twister is a powerful totem.
“I know, I know… Fernir don’t need no healing, we are all tough.. rawr and what not. But it doesn’t hurt to get yourself ready for whatever else is coming next.”
He smirked a little as he moved over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder as called up Unicorn’s soothing powers. Trying to keep the wounds from seeping.
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 2)
[Evan McCollach] (30 minute warning)
[Sinclair] The blonde down the way gives an upward flick of her head back to the Eagle who greets her. None of her piercings are facial. Nor are any of her tattoos. In fact, with her hair down and her body as covered up as it is right now, the Walker looks like one of her tribe’s more office-worthy members. Or would, if she were wearing something like slacks and a sweater, or a pencil skirt and a button-down shirt. Sinclair is not.
Sinclair is wearing so much black eye makeup it manages to obscure the unusual softness of her eyes, smoky and shadowed now. Her blue irises are so pale that by contrast they look almost clear. She doesn’t bother with lipgloss. She isn’t dressed in slacks or skirt, cowled collar sweater or lady’s oxford. She is dressed in thick black tights and a pair of boots, a wool miniskirt, and a dingy white thermal shirt under an old Nine Inch Nails tee. Once upon a time, she cut thumb-holes in the thermal, keeping it over her hands. She doesn’t bother to push those sleeves up before digging around in the bag, which explains some of the bloodstains on the cuffs.
She looks over at the two Eagles again as she pulls out some bits and pieces of Weaver-crafted metal. She’s tossing them into Maelstrom to be torn apart and swallowed as Evan is healing the Theurge.
“Weeoo,” Sinclair says softly to herself, as the metal goes splash and Maelstrom eats it. It was a good throw. She nearly made the center.
[Joss Lehrer] He touches her shoulder, and she reaches up to touch his hand as the soothing powers pull together her wounds, healing them from the inside out until she can finally breathe deeply again.
Once it is over, she takes her first full breath in over 24 hours, and lets it go slowly. “Thanks.”
She nods, and goes picks up another piece of class and covers the edges in the cementing compound. “Much better. Of course – the Fenrir is what did this to me… the current Jarl is..” and she waits a beat – all about the drama… “War-Handed. Until Silence returns.”
[Evan McCollach] He nods when she speaks about War-Handed. The way the words roll off her tongue, the way her body, healed together now, seems to relax or tense. No that was not what was bothering her.
“I see you tried to throw your hat into the ring, as the saying goes. So then, what seems to be plaguing your thoughts Joss? If it is not the chimiage, not your new tribal leader and not the wounds that were inflicted on you.”
[Joss Lehrer] She laughs softly. “I challenged Kemp.” That would explain the viciousness of the wound, and she had expected it. No, she’s not upset over the Fenrir challenge. She’d thrown herself at it because she is Fenrir, and it was expected, no matter how weakened she was at the time. She was beat, fair and square. Accepting defeat gracefully is as important as winning the same way.
But he keeps asking. And she can’t say it over totemphone – and he reads her like a book. “I’m angry.” It’s simple as that, but oh so much more. Her voice is soft, pitched so as not to carry to Sinclair as she tosses her trophies into Maelstrom. “It’s my opinion that Andrew will bring us down. I was asked for my opinion I was asked to try him as a prospective, as Theurge Elder. He’s not ready, in so many ways.” She rubs her cheek, her forehead, and then drops her hand. “But mostly, it’s discovering that when I’m asked for my opinion? It doesn’t matter at all. Why bother even asking? And the very next day he disobeyed a direct order from Silence during combat. And somehow -and the end of it all? I was to blame for something I did not even do – and he was not even adressed.”
She shakes her head, and looks up at Evan. “I may just be tired. I’m definitely frustrated. And I’m not quite sure what to do about it.”
[Wyrmbreaker] “Those are sacrifices, right?” Wyrmbreaker’s footsteps crunch up the sandy soil of Maelstrom’s seat in the heart of the caern. “I heard Evens the Odds tossed someone in a few weeks ago for frivilous offerings.”
It’s not a real warning, though. The Shadow Lord is smiling when he comes up beside the Glass Walker, distant enough to give her room. In contrast to Sinclair’s urban chic, if it could be called that, Lukas’s clothing is subtly sharp. It’s cool enough for jackets now, and his is leather suede, unadorned. Both it and his jeans are so dark they appear black in this light, though one is actually brown; the other actually grey.
He crouches at the totem’s edge, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. What looks like water from afar is not; it has a certain slippery viscosity and an electric shimmer, a way of clinging to the shore, a way of occasionally seeming to defy gravity. Wyrmbreaker watches the totem swallow Sinclair’s offerings.
[Sinclair] Next is a trio of tiny heads from creatures that were probably somewhat wormlike to begin with. They don’t really have necks. They have no hair. They were blind in life and certainly blind now. Sinclair whistles a bit as she tosses them, one by one, like oversized softballs.
[Evan McCollach] “So you think that Andrew will ruin the pack then? You think that he will destroy what so many of the wyrm’s minions could not? There have been many Eagle’s that have come and gone, some by way of passing through, some by passing on, some by being kicked out. None of the Eagle believed I would make it when I first came to the pack, but proving oneself is part of the trial.”
He kneels down by Joss side, the mosaic still at work before her. But a split mind did not make for a good chimiage in his opinion.
“What makes you so sure that he is not ready?”
[Sinclair] [I love sending out posts that shouldn’t be finished. I love it as much as I love somehow missing the latest post on the screen. *GENIUS. PURE GENIUS.*]
Sinclair glances at Wyrmbreaker as he approaches, bending to reach into the bag again. There’s a trophy from the fight in the park that he might remember. She offered it to him, first. It was a show of submission. It came concurrent to Marrick’s attempt at belated leadership.
“Well,” she says, hauling out the skull pig’s head; it’s missing a tusk, but the tusk is rattling around in the bag somewhere, “sort of. You hear about that whole thing where I got tainted by the Wyrm?”
Her voice is flatter than his. She’s not smiling as she does this. She heaves the skull pig’s massive head into Maelstrom. This does not get tossed like a softball. Or make the center. It sinks with an enormous splash. Sinclair bends to get the tusk out to follow it. “They’re sacrifices of my glory and my name in this sept to repair what I took from our entire people due to my foolishness,” she says. “If they went to the Wyrmpole they’d share space with my packmates and septmates. They’d serve as signs that I belong here, that I belong with the others. They’d be reminders, for me at least, of what I have to be proud of.”
She manages to hit the center of Maelstrom with the tusk. Sinclair has a good arm. She wipes her hands on her skirt’s hips. “So yeah, they’re sacrifices. Fulfillment of promises, because I do try to keep my word. And payback. And penance. You could probably find a lot of words for it.”
Finally she looks at him a second time. “I talked to Joey. She’s willing to check you guys out, but she doesn’t think we’ll mesh.” A beat. “I don’t think she’s going to join the Unbroken.”
[Joss Lehrer] She holds up a hand “Bring us down – not ruin.” She knows her Eagle history. Nothing can ruin the Eagles for long.
She sighs though, and lifts a hand to push back her dreads behind her shoulder. “I understand that he is wolfborn – but I feel to him it is.. a crutch used to not learn more. We learn Garou ways, we learn wolf ways, we stretch and grow. He is immobile, despite years spent with us. He has no respect for any but Silence – because Silence is physically stronger. I am not. I have bested him as Theurge elder and every other Theurge of the Sept, but he disagreed with the Master of Challenge, and thus ignores anything I say. He demands that I prove myself to him – when I have already. He says words are not enough – but my name is on that fucking pole just as much as any – through Godi works and tooth and claw as well. Silence says as Fenrir I should just kick his ass. ” She huffs a breath, a long sigh.
“I’m frustrated. It seems my hero is just as fallible as he said he would be. I do not want my days filled with fighting against my pack, but I do not accept this decision willingly. He may have proved himself to Silence, but he has so much more to prove to me.”
[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas’s smile fades when the proverbial name of the beast is mentioned. He nods once: yes, he’s heard. Everyone’s heard. Which, for a proud creature like Sinclair, may be hard to stomach. Then again, perhaps it isn’t. She’s here now, tossing — quite literally — her glory and her honor into Maelstrom as penance. Or sacrifice. Or reparations. Or her word kept. Or a reminder, in a way, of her own inglory and failure.
Failure, to a Shadow Lord, is a flaw and a sin. Recognition of failure, however, is something wholly different; closer to a virtue.
“I see,” he says. And he looks at the totem as well.
The skull pig’s head sinks. The liquid is limitlessly clear; yet for all that, the artifact grows more and more indistinct, as though its very substance were being steadily and uniformly eroded away. Soon it’s gone, and the Shadow Lord looks at Sinclair again.
“Where will she go?”
[Evan McCollach] “I am no Fernir, I cannot say that the best course of action would be to just kick his… well overpower him. Andrew is indeed a strong warrior, I have heard some even call him lacking in his duties to the spirits in this manner. But that was a long time ago.”
He watched her frustration start to color her mood more and more.
“So then prove that your position is deserved, both in pack and as Theurge Elder. If he does not respect Buried Hatchet’s decision, then show him why you are worthy indeed. Prove to him that you are his greater in stature among the pack. Strength does not come from claw and tooth alone. Muscle and swiftness does not answer all things.”
He taps her forehead with his two fingers.
“If you feel that he uses his wolf nature as a crutch, as a weakness than use it against him. Even a mountain can be moved, if pushed hard enough. Help him to learn beyond that.”
[Sinclair] “Don’t know,” Sinclair answers simply, her mouth rounding around the identical vowels in each word. It makes it sound thoughtful in a backwater way, as though she’s revealing or affecting an accent utterly unlike the west coast one usually tainting her speech. She’s either already given other trophies to Maelstrom or has no more to offer; her bag is empty and she stands beside its limp canvas shape on the ground. She watches Maelstrom churn now, tips her head to the side.
“Maybe the Sentinels. Maybe she’ll hold onto Twister and recruit some others. She likes Twister a lot.” A beat. “So do I.”
Sinclair, who has no other name they know but Warcry, which is perhaps closer to the truth of who she us than a full birth certificate, social security card, driver’s license sort of name could be, turns and looks down at the crouching Shadow Lord. “Actually, I like breaking shit so much that it was something the Wyrm used as a hook. Good times,” she adds, with flat sarcasm, and reaches down for the bag.
[Joss Lehrer] She chuckles softly as he says he’s no Fenrir – because sometimes, sometimes she wonders. She has seen him in battle, in challenge, in many ways. WHat is is, though, beyond Tribe – is smart.
She nods, slightly – as she gives what he says the thought deserved. She doesn’t even flinch away from the tap on her forehead, though she does wrinkle her nose, slightly. After a few moments, she nods, and takes a slow breath. “Ok. I haven’t the faintest idea how to do any of that, but ok. You know me – I give everything I have in everything I do… Sometimes it just doesn’t seem like it’s enough. Even when it should be.”
It’s harder than she though -the young girl with such wide eyed hope and dreams. Losing a hero is hard. “So when’d you get so smart, anyway…”
[Katherine Bellamonte] Two of her pack-mates were buried here.
One had seemingly fled the city after his fall from grace and the other had been expelled from the pack. Another had been called from their sides by family obligation and had yet to send word of a possible return. Of all those that had fallen and had now been returned to the earth here, the grave that Truth’s Meridian appeared to tend to the most, wordlessly, with a dedication that would surprise many, perhaps even a sort of humility as she tended weeds and cleaned the stone — was Mrena Armstrong’s, known as White Eyes.
The Theurge had been perhaps Katherine’s closest ally within the pack second only to her elder brother during his reign as Alpha and it was not a completely uncommon sight to find the Philodox of the Unbroken kneeling before the grave, sometimes with a palm pressed to the cool stone and eyes closed.
Presently, Truth’s Meridian was humming a lullaby taught her during her own childhood, and carefully cleaning the stones, her voice carrying across the limits of the Caern, as if she were lulling the entire area to peaceful slumber, and not simply comforting a fallen comrade.
“Tout le monde est sage
Dans le voisinage
Il est l’heure d’aller dormir
Le sommeil va bientôt venir.”
[Evan McCollach] “Use some of that wisdom you are renown for, the brain that earned you the title of Theurge Elder. I am sure you will think of something to prove to him that you are his better in the pack. If not, then you better get used to taking orders from him. Or I am sure eye drops in his food would do wonders.”
He stood up as he took notice of Height of Mountains someplace off in the distance of the Caern, there was something he needed to speak with him about. But before he left he took a deep breath and slowed his thoughts for a second. A slight pain across his eyes, gone in a flash.
“Silly girl, I am a child of Gaia rejected by Falcon from a mostly Silver Fang Sept. Claws, teeth and muscle would get me no where. Now if you will excuse me. I must speak with someone, something that I need to prepare before the next Moot.”
He nods to Joss as he smiles to her once more. Letting her think over his words and get back to her mosaic, if possible.
[Joss Lehrer] He gets to eyedrops in his food and she laughs – the first real full one he’s heard from her in a while. “Eye drops? Child’s play, Pinky.”
He stands, and goes to move off, and she reaches up to grasp his hand briefly. “Thanks, Evan. And tell Randi I said hello, and thanks – the Van runs like a dream.”
She watches him go, and then takes a slow breath, holding it, and letting it go slowly. Centering herself, before she begins to work on the mosaic once again, piece by piece, shard by shard. At least now she can breathe…
[Boy] Normal people didn’t run half way across town. Not even normal werewolves do. And if they do, its usually because there’s something chasing after them. There’s nothing chasing Boy. No snarling snot filled wyrm creature that has routed him from his patrol in Lincoln Park and sent him scurrying to the caern in search of aid. But he comes running nonetheless, and from quite a distance away if the lolling tongue of his wolf form is any indication.
The grey and brown wolf hardly looked up or around. Hardly registered the presence of anyone else around here. Unless you counted the occassional lifts of his muzzle to the air, and the hesitation it takes to pick one scent out from a multitude of others.
And then he’s off again. Looking for someone, it seems.
[Evan McCollach] (Thanks for the scenage, night everyone)
[Joss Lehrer] (thanks Clark, night!)
[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker’s packmate is in the Caern as well. His spirit senses this, so surely and unwaveringly that his conscious mind is only barely aware of it. Mostly, the sense of pack, of not alone, manifests only as a certain calm and security, so subtle that it may as well be imperceptible.
It’s not quite the same, this, and the sort of soul-drenching, bone-deep sense of belonging when he lies beside or lays with his mate. The pack-bond is subtler, but as natural and ubiquitous to what he is as his rage, or his gnosis. The other is — different. Not a certainty, not something intrinsic to his nature. A phenomenon, not promised to him but given, a gift that he did not hope to have, or even think of. Precious.
Lukas doesn’t turn to look in the direction of the Graves. He doesn’t greeting Katherine, and he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t disrupt her commune with Mrena’s memorial.
Instead, he listens to Sinclair, his eyes keen and unwavering on her. Moments have passed, but he’s still crouched on the balls of his feet, as balanced and relaxed as if he could remain like this all day, all night, forever. He thinks for a moment, and then he nods again.
“So long as she finds a pack, I’m all right with it.”
Sinclair reaches for her bag. Lukas watches with a sort of idle curiosity: what will mary poppins produce next? He waits until she’s dropped it in, waits until it’s vanished, before he speaks again.
“The Wyrm’s got a lot of hooks. It’s part of a pack’s duty to protect each other, and protection includes watching out for each other to make sure no one’s biting.” The Ahroun reaches down, drags his fingers through the fine, sandy soil. Lifts a handful. Lets it fall, a veil of particles blowing in the lakeside breeze. The enormous penumbral moon, brilliant even as thin as it is tonight, picks out every mote, every puncta, makes it all glitter like mica, or silver. “That’s always been my opinion, anyway.
“So what about you, Warcry? Are you with us or not?”
[Sinclair] An eyebrow quirks when he says he’s all right with it so long as Joey finds a pack. “What are you, her babysitter? She’s not Ahroun or Shadow Lord, Wyrmbreaker-rhya. Of the people chatting by the totem right now, one of us has way more of a responsibility to make sure Laughs in the Face of Death isn’t abandoned to twist in the wind alone. Guess which one of us that is?”
There’s a mild poetry to the mention of twisting in the wind. Sinclair is aware of it. She doesn’t dwell on it.
She bends for the bag, picks up its limp shapelesness, and begins balling it up, folding it messily. “Though if leaving her a lone wolf means you retract your invitation to me, then it’d be good to know that sooner rather than later.”
He goes on to talk about the Wyrm’s various hooks, or he doesn’t. If he does, something about what he says causes a flash of Rage in the Galliard, a clenching of her jaw. She doesn’t try to hide it. Probably couldn’t, even if she did.
[Wyrmbreaker] (EMPATHEE)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Joss Lehrer] Wyrmbreaker and Sinclair continue to speak behind her, and for her part, she keeps working, soon falling into a rhythm that she’d not been able to achieve while still injured. Her thoughts are clearer, and though still upset – she’s something to focus, some words of wisdom to ponder.
Sometimes it’s easier than others to see the 18 year old girl, who’s only know this – who’s trained all her life for one purpose. When she is confident, she is unstoppable. When she is unsure, her footing is more prone to stumble. She has gotten this far, however, and will not falter from her primary objective.
The pieces fall together easier now, the mosaic of broken glass coming together into a larger, beautiful whole. There’s an economy of movement, and even a soft hum under the Godi’s breath as she works.
(Exit Joss. They weren’t paying attention anyway. :) )