[Joss Lehrer] As promised, when Thomas returned from the quest with Joe, he’d set up a time for this meeting. It’s something Joss has looked forward too – though her spirits are not near as high as they were when it was suggested.
It’s been a long couple of weeks for the Godi, and it’s taken it’s toll.
Regardless, she is here sitting by the edge of Maelstrom, having arrived early. She is centered, her eyes are closed, her hands resting lightly on her thighs as the ever present wind plays about her dreads, tugs at her skirts, plucks at her as if to ask to play. She doesn’t bow to the temptation though, and instead simply… breathes.
[…one….two….three…]
Those who have seen her, know she has taken Evan’s death extremely hard. She suffers a survivor’s guilt of sorts, believing that she could have acted faster, been stronger, done more to save him, and Ylva as well. There is an emptiness she has never felt before, and a longing to do better, to learn more, to be more.
[six…seven…eight…]
But all that is gone right now – all that matters right now is the simple ebb and flow of her breath, of the communion with Gaia herself, in all her bounty. She is often seen like this, meditating, centering herself, strengthening her bound with Gaia, with Maelstrom, with the spirits of the Chicago area so that they will know her, and come when she asks them too. (They come… they always come.) There is no war, there is no battle, there is no love, no loss.
Right now, there is only breath.
[…ten…eleven….twelve…]
[Thomas] …The synch of the Godi with the world around her, is at once deafening and precise. So much to keep track of and so much to ignore all at once. The swirl of Maelstrom no doubt helped the process, meditative zen at the cost of your personal thoughts, reasons and constraints. Let it all boil and dissipate. Flow down the tunnel of forget that was Maelstrom’s devouring maw. Nothing of memory until you’re ready to re-surface, renewed and solid and whole.
…His is a deep breath behind her. Not far enough to warrant a ‘Come closer’ nor close enough to invade the space. A Skald knew distance like a Skald knew oration; timing, space, energy was everything and he had found the times to respect space and the times to obliterate it with your point years ago. He doesn’t clear his throat or offer up a vocal ‘nudge’ for Joss’ to give him her attention. That would be impatient. That would be an interruption. Most of all, that would tell the Godi that his wants and needs were more important then her place in Gaia’s rivers.
He waits and should Joss’ turn to regard, she will find him dressed in a simple black hoodie and cargo pants, a pair of dark green converse sneakers, eyeing the Moon above with narrowed eyes, lines that form a scowl and fists curled almost into a threat. Not quite, but almost.
[Joss Lehrer] [….thirteen….]
She takes another, final breath, and opens her eyes slowly, feeling centered, content, and for the moment at peace with that which rages inside her skin. She flexes her fingers, then slides them over her thighs. Her shoulders roll and she arches her back, before she turns to look unerringly at Thomas, as if she knew he was there, the moment he arrived, alerted by some subtle shift of presence, some tug of wind. That she maintained focus to finish the rite is testament to the strength of the Godi, the determination she holds deep in her core.
She smiles, but it is not the bright young happy smile that is normal for her, that is what folks have come to expect from the strange little godi. It is a smile that is at once calm, yet tinged with the sadness she still holds close, unable to let it go completely. Bit it is still warm, and still welcoming.
“Hello, Thomas.”
[Thomas] “Gossamer~Wing~Rhya.”
It is at once a greeting and tell of respect, the Skald’s gaze turning down from the Moon that hangs above their heads, the warning of the waxing Gibbous, to greet her features with that same head-tilted scrutiny one might expect from his Auspice and Tribe. The Fists uncurl…and then re-curl again, almost a reflexive gesture that pulls taut the wiry muscle beneath the cloth. His lips flicker, something drifting under the surface, the writhe of a beast below chopping waves.
“…Will this be fine?” He nods, eyeing around the area not far from Maelstrom’s thrum.
[Joss Lehrer] She nods with that same smile. “Of course. Wherever you’re comfortable.”
She’s an oddity in more ways than one, the little Godi, the antithesis of what most expect her tribe to be – where Thomas is the tribe: intensity, power, muscle, rage. That’s not to say she has none of that, for she does – she has proved herself Fenrir many times over. It is when she no longer smiles that others flee.
But she is comfortable most anywhere, and here near Maelstrom she is more comfortable than most. It has become her second home, a place where she can simply… be.
She is eager, and it shows in her eyes as she rearranges to stretch her legs out briefly, then pull them back under her skirts, her fingers sliding with familiarity over the scars across her thighs.
[Thomas] (Ancestors 3. WP)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 5, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8) [WP]
[Thomas] Thomas nods. Simply that and nothing more, for this was no story to be told, but a Memory to be brought and it was all the Skald needed to be:
Thomas’ eyes close and his body tenses. Not the taught spasm you would expect from a seizure, or the racing curl of Battle to be joined. This is a slow locking of muscle, fists curling inward and mind falling away from the precipice of conscious day and into the pools and puddles of blood that make up the past. Lives and experiences that came before, where his world was in the blood of Legends and Heroes. Monsters and Mayhem. Snows and Frost to tear the breath from lungs, freeze it in the space before your eyes and crush it under a howl so thick, one would die choking on it’s echoes.
A moment, is all it takes.
The Muscles relax again and the Skald…ceases to exist:
His body moulds itself into someone else, subtle cues and signs in the way his back arches (curving slightly forward, pushing a hunch into drooping shoulders), limbs dangle (fingers no longer curl to fists, but seize into claw-like appendages) and head bows off to one side (as if he could no longer straighten the spine, forced to view everything askew). The eyes flutter, flicker, dance…
…And Still, cracking open to reveal the dull coal black of Thomas’ appearance, tinted a vague blue, like frosts in the Old Lands. He stares at the ground between Joss and Thomas’ frame, jaws widening, clapping together slowly as if he were re-discovering taste. A tongue lolls out, pink and young, to run across the lower lip which curls inward eventually to skate that pink appendage across the chin. A moment’s confusion runs those features, brow furrowing dark and expressive (Aged and weathered, despite the youth there), a hand rising, gnarled and twisted to clutch at a beard not there.
“…Damn…” It comes out all gravel and avalanches, the sort of thing that rides the spine and makes of it a ruckus. An annoyance to listen to, but then that was probably the point. Endure and Learn.
The eyes flick. Swifter then the age portrayed in the Skald’s features, jaws clapping again experimentally, the neck twisted to the left, that the head remain tilted in the eye’s scrutiny.
“…Ayyyyeee…” A pause. “…The Lad Mentioned you, Girl…”
[Joss Lehrer] She’s fascinated. Utterly and completely lost in watching the transformation, transfixed in the way it works. She’s heard many who hold their ancestors, though this is the first opportunity she’s ever had to speak directly to one.
By the time the transformation is completely, she has managed to pick her jaw up from the ground, snapping it closed when she realizes she’s staring open mouthed. She doesn’t quite manage to quit staring though, even as her mouth twists into a familiar and long absent grin of pure delight. To be a Godi is to be a curious creature, to thrill in the unexpected, to search all paths for knowledge of how things work, how to do more, how to be more, simply more. This is, in a word, awesome.
And he knows of her.
She grins, and lowers her gaze in respect, before looking up at him again. “I am honored that you’ve chosen to speak with me. I am Joss Lehrer, Gossamer-Wing, Fostern Godi, Theurge Elder of Maelstrom and Eagle.”
One gets the feeling that if she were standing, she wouldn’t quite be able to resist a curtsy at the end of the introduction.
[Thomas] Not-Thomas has some semblance of courtesy to allow Joss’ to finish but not by much. A hairsbredth after she’s finished her introduction, he pipes in with that hard gravel voice.
“Wanna know the best part about getting older ‘n bein’ old, Girl?” He doesn’t so much shamble as he does take his time. For all the display of gnarl and twist to Thomas’ youthful frame, the Elder’s motions look as if they were a sidewinder in action: fluid efforts take advantage of Thomas’ normally efficient framework, the dexterity of the young seeming used, experienced and perfected in the mind and shape of the Old. A vicious combination here, that is at once unsaid in the ‘Godi’s features and utterly obvious in the back and forth swim of his head and body as he makes his way toward the edge of the Wharf.
It is a good chunk of time between his question and the answer he gives, but not once during that space, is there a hint that it’s anything but rhetorical.
“It’s being able to wave off those stupid honourifics and praises from the young, that are supposed to remind me how venerable I am, when all they do is tell me that I’m old and wasting while still being polite about it. Knock it off…” A gnarled hand rises and snaps at the air between them, dismissive and rather final about it.
“…The Boy here” He taps the side of Thomas’ head “Knows me by my Deeds. Dread~Hollows~the~Weak, Godi, Adren to Fenris’, but you go callin’ me that now or ever ‘n I’ll throw yer pretty ass in tah meet The Skirlin’ ‘imself[b]…” He slashes at the air where Maelstrom haunts the waters, turning in place to settle upon a chunk of broken metal, a grimace and a grunt following the steady motion, ending with a deep and deflating exhale that has him shrinking into his hoodie, the cowl pulled up to shadow features, leaving little but those coal and blue tinted eyes to regard Joss’ with the sort of frankness one might expect from a Grandfather.
“…[b]Said you ‘ad Questions, girls. Said you had answers to. Said you wuz wise ‘n that there might be benefit to talkin’…” Another pause. Or rather a completion. He waits.
[Thomas] Not-Thomas has some semblance of courtesy to allow Joss’ to finish but not by much. A hairsbredth after she’s finished her introduction, he pipes in with that hard gravel voice.
“Wanna know the best part about getting older ‘n bein’ old, Girl?” He doesn’t so much shamble as he does take his time. For all the display of gnarl and twist to Thomas’ youthful frame, the Elder’s motions look as if they were a sidewinder in action: fluid efforts take advantage of Thomas’ normally efficient framework, the dexterity of the young seeming used, experienced and perfected in the mind and shape of the Old. A vicious combination here, that is at once unsaid in the ‘Godi’s features and utterly obvious in the back and forth swim of his head and body as he makes his way toward the edge of the Wharf.
It is a good chunk of time between his question and the answer he gives, but not once during that space, is there a hint that it’s anything but rhetorical.
“It’s being able to wave off those stupid honourifics and praises from the young, that are supposed to remind me how venerable I am, when all they do is tell me that I’m old and wasting while still being polite about it. Knock it off…” A gnarled hand rises and snaps at the air between them, dismissive and rather final about it.
“…The Boy here” He taps the side of Thomas’ head “Knows me by my Deeds. Dread~Hollows~the~Weak, Godi, Adren to Fenris’, but you go callin’ me that now or ever ‘n I’ll throw yer pretty ass in tah meet The Skirlin’ ‘imself…” He slashes at the air where Maelstrom haunts the waters, turning in place to settle upon a chunk of broken metal, a grimace and a grunt following the steady motion, ending with a deep and deflating exhale that has him shrinking into his hoodie, the cowl pulled up to shadow features, leaving little but those coal and blue tinted eyes to regard Joss’ with the sort of frankness one might expect from a Grandfather.
“…Said you ‘ad Questions, girls. Said you had answers to. Said you wuz wise ‘n that there might be benefit to talkin’…” Another pause. Or rather a completion. He waits.
[Joss Lehrer] He asks his question, and she tips her head, slightly, dreads falling to slide over her shoulder as she does so, her fingers lifting automatically to play with the beaded edges. She listens, and her smile warms, grows, and soon she’s laughing softly. It’s not a mocking laugh – but one of pure delight.
“I? Think you and I are gonna get along JUST fine. I still can’t get Thomas to simply call me Joss.” She throws up her hands, and just grins.
She chews on her lip a moment and then nods. “I have SO many questions, and if I can provide answers, I’d be delighted to do so. It’s finding where to start.” She wrinkles her nose, and then just dives in – likely not with what she originally was going to ask, but current events change everything. “I’ve.. I lost a packmate recently. It’s… well, part of me thinks it’s my fault, because i wasn’t enough. I am Godi, I am Fenrir, and I am strong – but when it came to the split decision to attack or heal – I chose to attack, and he fell, and could not rise to fight again.” Her brow furrows, the weight of guilt marring the sensitive and young skin. “It’s not a question of what I could have done, or should have done – but what I can do next time to do better. I seek… a gift, a talen, SOMETHING that allows me to use both healing touch and battle savvy so that I do not lose another who is close to me so soon… I’m not sure where to start, where to look. What would you advise?”
[Thomas] Joss goes on and as she does, the Elder Godi offers his bits of advice, interspersed so effortlessly with her imaginings and offerings that the younger Godi’s train of thought might seem uninterrupted, despite the voice speaking under, over and throughout hers at times
Part of me thinks it’s my fault
“…It is. Grow stronger…”
But when it came to the split decision to attack or heal
“…Packmate was strong enough to stand beside a Fenrir and a Godi that says she’s strong, then he did so knowing you made the right choice. Don’t make his death one of doubt by feeding yours uncertainty…”
It’s not a question of what I could–
“…Nothing…”
Should–
“…Nothing.”
And finally Thomas’ shape deflates a little more, not in defeat or fatalistic despair but in grudging irritation. A snarl under his breath some might call it, when it actuality it is simply a certain level of impatience. Joss’ is searching for a means to ensure this doesn’t happen again. That she has more options. That there are methods and ways to-
“Enough, enough-” Again he is waving, the air that would normally play at the Younger Godi, dispelled with that motion and for once, the pair are left untouched as Maelstrom continues to churn in the lake waters.
“…You speak like Fenris never chose you, Girl. All doubts and uncertainties. You shame your fallen packmate by insisting you could have done more to protect him. Help him. If he was strong enough to run with, then he was strong enough to fall and strong enough to earn his place by Gaia’s side again. More you worry, weaker you get and if you insist on coddling those around you with this nonsense, then you may as well tell the rest of your pack that you’re going to fail them to…”
He grunts again, stretching Thomas’ back, setting the crackle of vertebrae to a vicious sort of symphony that barely brings a wince to the Youth’s face.
“…Next time, you Fight. Next time you make a choice and know it’s the one you should have made. Next time, the Norns step forth to take a Warrior you don’t doubt their decree or Gaia’s. Next time you dig out the eyes of the creature that did it and would do it again and hang them at your neck that they may watch as you do it. Again and again and again to those that would do before. When you’ve done that, collect the new pair and hang those as well. A Godi collects knowledge. A Godi collects thought” A rippling growl, lips peeling back and away from Thomas’ teeth with the sound sort of fury you might expect from one used to using it.
“…A Godi is Terror, Girl. Terror like no Modi could hope to summon. Like no Skald could hope to sing or Forseti decree. Only the Rotagar has a hint of this and he keeps it hidden well and truly. For He collects an enemies eyes, that they may continue to watch you dismember and destroy all their brothers and sisters and cousins and friends. All his fathers and mothers and the bastard sin that spawned him…”
He hawks a wad of mucus off to one side, wiping the spittle that dribbles past his chin away with a gnarled fist.
“…Do it enough times and the spirits will follow your deeds and slay the enemy for you, if only to bring them the mercy of blindness and black that comes with Death…”
[Joss Lehrer] It becomes a rapidfire conversation, and then falls into the lecture of one older and wiser. He says ‘enough’ and she snaps her lips closed, and tips her head, and listens. She truely listens, in the ways that so many others don’t. It’s evident in the slight lean forward, the flicker of intelligence in her eyes, the expressions and reactions that flow over her face as ceaselessly as the waters of Maelstrom churn. She reacts in parts, in pieces, appalled that she would act as if she were not chosen – not only was she chosen she was born and bred and prepared from the day she was born. Shamed that she would shame her packmate, that flows into pride that he did INDEED deserve to run with Fenrir, more so than any other Coggie she has ever met. Loss, that it did not last longer. Gratefulness that she had the opportunity to run with him as long as she had, and determination to do better. Grow stronger.
Make Eagle Proud. Fenrir proud. Hang the eyes of her enemies so that they may watch her destroy their numbers.
By the end, her back has straightened, something of her fire has returned to snap in her eyes. Though the image of someone being scared of the Giggling Godi is worth a grin, one that softens her face again as she drops her gaze to her hands, flexes them then folds them together. She is as she ever is – calm, again.
“I will think well and long on your words.” She glances at the wyrmpole, briefly wondering if the eyes still remain – if only for a literal reminder of the words of wisdom she was just beaten with. She wrenches her gaze back to the old Godi, and offers him a lopsided grin. Sometimes it’s so very easy to see that she is only 18, despite all that she’s accomplished in her short years. “You remind me of my dad. He’d have smacked me around some too.”
She nods, and then flips the beaded dread she was fingering back over her shoulder. “It is odd, being here with such a mixture of tribe and talent. Everyday is a test. I will not fail again.” Or when she does, she’ll push past instead. Be stronger.
“Have you heard of one called The Valet? We recently battled him and his little minion, The Master, who was attacking us in our dreams from the Realm of Pain. I haven’t been able to find him again – do you know of anything about him? He robbed us of our victory over The Master, and I’d VERY much like to rend him limb from limb for his part in it.”
[Thomas] “…Tell yer Da ya Love ’em for that strength, next time ya see ’em…”
Thomas shape stretches again, a deep breath flexing the youth out of his features, wizened, gray and grim flooding the lines that are so evident in the Eighteen year Old’s face. The snarls are beginning to reveal themselves as common sounds, not unlike a sniff from or a fidget in the younger. Small sounds that rumble free of the mouth and jaws and drift through nasal passages with an effortlessness born of age. Joss’ speaks of The Valet and The Master and the Elder Godi looks through Thomas’ eyes at her, almost quizzically.
“…The Names ring no bells. Arrogant lot though for claiming such. I’ve come across many a Master ‘n his bootlicks in my age, Girl and so ‘ave many a’fore me. More ‘n likely keepin’ his real name to ‘imself, to keep you from bringing ’em to yourself for a lesson in Terror. Find the name. Summon it. Bind it to your boot heel ‘n let ’em taste the shit you wade through next time you wander into battle.” It wasn’t so much advice as it was expectation. Joss would find him. Would deal with him. Would explain to him why and what Fenris did and then she would dispose of the body and make an example of the Spirit. The Elder Godi would have nothing less.
All that in his tone.
“…Now then, Girl. Tell me somethin’…” He leans forward, one eye closing, the other leveling on Joss with the sort of grizzled expectation one expects from the Elderly. Answer, don’t think.
“…What’s it like bein’ Fenrir ‘n this day ‘n age? Ya ain’t got Dragons ‘ere or Forests for miles. Oceans ain’t a mystery ‘n the Weaver ain’t just some preacher boy ya toss out ‘n tha’ snow every other sun’ay…”
[Joss Lehrer] She smiles brightly. She had an upbringing so different than most. She was loved, and learned to love easily and openly in return. “I will.”
She nods, slightly, her brow furrowing in thought, this time, as she summons to the forefront of her mind everything she learned of the Master and the Valet. She’ll figure it out, somehow. The Elder Godi expects it – but no less so than she expects it of herself.
Then its his turn to ask his question, and she grins when it comes. “Our dragons just have different names, our forests are built of stone and plastic and glass, instead of wood and leaves – and I could use a preacher boy now and again…”
That grin? Pure mischief. Then…
“Time changes all facets of the War, but for one thing – the War remains. Enemies are different, and bring something new to each battle, and because of it we grow stronger, forced to adapt or die, forced to think quickly on our feet, and use all things available to us. The spirits sing a different song, but they are strong in their own right when you learn to respect their differences, and summon their strengths. Though they also have their own minds, built from years of change and molding – determined little shits. I’ve an Electric Elemental that refuses to be freed because he adores the shine of an Eagle Kinswomen’s hair.” She tosses up her hands in exasperation. “So he stays, and adores her from the skin of a toy car.” Much to Imogen’s chagrin, of course – and Joss’ endless amusement.
“To be Fenrir is the same as it ever was, to be the face of the war, the hammer that drives fear and destruction into the enemy, to stand firm where so many fall. Our enemies have changed, grown, adapted and we have been forced to do the same. At times it is not the tooth and claw that bring down the enemy, but something so subtle as commanding water, metal and oxygen to form rust and take down an hulking metal monstrosity from the inside, so that we can crush him under our heels.”
She tips her head, her eyes shine with the intensity of any and every Fenrir. Even Joe has not seen her quite so animated, Thomas would likely be shocked, and Silence? Impatient, because that is how Silence is.
“In the scab, we rely on our kinfolk more than in the forests of home. There they tend hearth and home, here they are often called to fight in their own right, and more often called to cover up incidences that cannot be erased completely from the mortal mind. We must guard the veil zealously in ways those of old were saved due to the vastness of the forests, the divides created by Oceans. There are so MANY who must be protected, and kept in the dark, that it is at times a daunting task. Our dragons are no less fierce and destructive, our will no less determined, our footing no less sure. We fight with tooth and claw and MIND, our whole selves…”
She pauses, and she grins, the fierce edge of a warrior seen clearly. “It is – in a word – Exhilarating.”
[Thomas] “…Electric…” There’s a pause of confusion at the word.
“…Warders use that sometimes. Talk ’bout their lenses ‘n tel’scopes, seeing far ‘n pullin’ down Gaia’s good light from the skies…” His head careens off to one side, ducking and putting what could only be described as an unbelievable curve in Thomas’ neck, gaze sailing out across Maelstrom’s depths, the scowl a flood of emotions hard to read in the Elder’s demeanor, despite the seemingly effortless expression Thomas’ offers in the make.
“…Time changes all facets of War, Aye…” He curls a lip, gaze narrowing further, the flicker of something in the air about them, curling and dancing closer, until it is a wisp of nothing only visible by the reaction from Thomas’ form (Flap of the zipper tag, brief indent in the hoodie material), haunting just before the Not~Skald’s features.
“…Never used to be such, Girl. Not during my times. You fought the Wyrm, bled with your brothers, mourned the dead for the moments it took them to get from their bodies to tha’ ‘alls a’ Valhalla ‘n get right back to loving yer kin, giving ’em fat babes ‘n taking the war back to the Snows and Frosts his coils thought to make black…”
He turns slightly to level a bent and crooked arm, seemingly incapable of straightening even in the youthful visage, out toward Chicago’s skylines.
“…Now you got yerself ogres a Glass ‘n metal. Spirits wrapped up ‘n tha’ Weaver’s newfound-” A shard of something like hatred, only old and deeper in grudge, curdles the youthful face “-Science ‘n tha saving graces a’ Gaia barely felt ‘cept next tah tha’ Caern ‘eart. Ain’t no replacin’ wood ‘n leaf. Snow ‘n ice, pure and blue beneath the white” And with a sudden fierceness, the Elder Godi turns Thomas’ to face Joss again, eyes open and cradled by upturned cheeks, feral lips and a furrowed brow.
“Ya haunt the dens a’ man, skulkin’ ‘n keepin’ quiet what needs be kept. Their bodies stuff holes of it so thick, their own shit backs up on ’em and spills out onto tha’ rest o’ Gaia. How do you find her here, Girl?” A deep breath that nearly breaks the bend in Thomas’ back. “Fenris’ unseen tits, the Boy struggles for a touch a’ her Sweetness every time he inhales ‘n looks tah Luna ‘alf the time like she’s tah Blame…”
[Joss Lehrer] She smiles, softly, and her expression softens just the same. There is no doubt that she is Fenrir – there never is. It boils deeply within her, forcing notice, forcing the attention of all others. It sings through her howl, through the power of claws and jaw, through the strength of her connection to the very ice and snow and forests he stirs in her memory.
Even as she bites back a laugh at the casual curse. She’s SO using that one at Sandman, next time she can work it into conversation.
“Gaia remains, for all that she is harder to see under all of…” She gestures. “this. But one thing the Boy, that Thomas, has not yet learned, which comes with time, with experience, is something every Godi knows. To find Her, to find Gaia and feel her sweetness, to rest in the warmth of her glow, we only have to look inside ourselves. We, the children of Fenris carry her in our belly, where she fuels our fire, where she gives us breath to fight again. To find her, here, we must find ourselves, and revel in who we are. We are Modi, Godi, Skald. We are Rotegar, Foresti. We are the backbone of the nation, the Sword of Truth that fears nothing, that lives on the front line. We are the War. And we are Gaia’s own.”
She gathers some of the dirt from the ground she sits on, and sifts it through her fingers. “We are earth and fire and force and cause and effect. And to reach Gaia, to touch her soul, to feel her breath upon our face – it is to center ourselves, and remember the flow of dirt between our fingers, of water over our skin, of the crunch of snow beneath our feet. It is in the hand of a mate, the laugh of a child, the song of a bird, the buzz of a bee. It is in the sing of Metal pounded and molded to our will, the laughter of plastic as it ripples and molds, the shatter of glass to free Fire to do your will.”
She looks up at him again, and her smile is nothing short of beautiful, savagely so. “Gaia is never hard to find, when you remember she is the fire in your belly, and the breath in your lungs, the shine of Luna on your face. You do not need to see the wind to know that it is there, you do not need to touch the fire to know that it burns, you do not need to see the spirits to know that they are near. Gaia burns within us all. Only our wavering faith makes it seem as if she hides.”
[Joss Lehrer] Per+emp diff 4
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 4)
[Thomas] “…Mmmmm…” And he leans forward to pat her knee with a gnarled hand, the trouble failing to leave his features as he gazes back out into Maelstrom’s depths.
“…Good Girl.” Distracted pride, like a Father of expectation would be. Should be. Is.
“…You be sure to remember those words, next time you see the Boy ‘re any other Fenrir falter…” In those youthful features, an Old Man sits, patient, weathered and worn. Powerful, steeled and born of hard crusts of experience, circumstance and force. What years Joss’ can claim are wise ones and yet, before her sits the experience of decades swarming under youthful flesh. One has to wonder why the spirit still clings to his old movements and twinges, in the youthful shape. The spirit bows to no faults or flaws of the physical any longer and still, the memory. Still the movements slow and aged.
“You’ve years more left for the teaching ‘n years yet to learn…” Another deep inhale, struggling through Thomas’ nostrils, before the Elder Godi spits another wad of mucus off to the side and returns a hardened face to Joss’ “…What’s next Girl?”
[Joss Lehrer] He pats her knee, and she flushes, pleased that she was able to answer and answer well, the student pleasing the teacher. She studies him, watching the efforts of the old man’s memory settling into a younger man’s form, the way he clings to the things of memory, bowing to things that were, but aren’t any longer.
Then there’s a switch, and he asks what is next, and she tips her head, and closes her eyes and then. “OH!” She snaps her fingers – she knew she had something important to ask, forgotten for a moment in the discussion of other things.
She looks back at him, and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she talks. “We have a kinfolk, Moira, who’s blood runs pure. Not only that, but she holds gnosis within her form, and the ability to heal via the Touch of the Mother, though it exhausts her to do so. However, she also is under the thrall of a geas, a curse. She is unable to harm any garou – at all. She is unsure if this involves those who have fallen to the Wyrm, but knows that it bars her from doing any harm, and sometimes from protecting herself. Is there a way I can help her break the curse, and remove the Gaesa, yet retain the gifts she was given?”
[Thomas] The Elder Godi settles in, Thomas’ growing still as oak. Whatever was playing at and around him has quieted again, settling into a radial buzz around the pair of Godi, with little evidence of it’s presence beyond the flush of winds off the lake being countered by some unseen presence. It is a haunting, a witness and a companion all at once. When Joss’ finishes, the Elder Godi doesn’t move Thomas’ much but to narrow his eyes in an even regard.
“…A kin gifted the Healer’s lot and warned from the Harm of True…” A simple repetition of Joss’ exclaim. He leans back, eyes closing, head shaking slightly at the mention. “…Never ‘ad I ‘eard of such a’fore. Kin come with that sort a’ regard ‘ere treated different ‘n my age, Girl. Witches ‘n stones went together like Fire ‘n Pyres. Gaia blessed ‘er Warriors to stand and tend, not the kin. Such a one given blessing ‘n curse both is either a creature a’ taint ‘er a Fated ‘un…” Neither choice sounded particularly enticing from the Elder Godi’s tone of voice.
“…But yer time is different. Yer age bares these things as such signs and omens go whenst straddlin’ the Apocalypse so. Ask and answer yerself of these: Does the Girl bare markings about her flesh? Those of the ancient and old ways? Does she carry with her voices that haunt her mind and head? Does she bare the bones of fate and cast them with any accuracy? Has her geas been tested and tried?” A brief pause given, the old Godi’s eyes slipping from Joss to dance in the waters of Maelstrom again.
“…Find ‘er Ancestors. The ones done her blood wrong, Girl. Gaia paid the youngin’ a mighty need with such a thing and expects somethin’ of ‘er someday ‘re sometime. Bes’ you find the source o’ the Wicked ‘n the Worship in ‘er breast, back through her Line ‘n where it went wrong. Despite the love that blesses ‘er hands, a True gone ‘n made ‘n error in her History to warrant such a thing gifted to the wrong side of the Bloodline…”
[Joss Lehrer] She listens, intently, as he speaks, as she has to their entire conversation, though perhaps even more so now. This is something she asks for another, a mystery to be solved, a curiosity to be helped and a kinfolk to be aided. This is what she does, why she was given such curiosity to solve the mysteries of her tribe. And this is an elder with more experience than she can ever hope to gain.
She chews absently on her lower lip as he rattles off questions, asking them herself in her mind to cement them there, to ask Moira when she seeks her out next. Markings in her flesh of old ways, haunting voices, casting bones, tested and tried. And then a path to set her feet on, and she nods, slightly. “Find her Ancestors.” Easier said than done, of course, as it’s highly doubtful that they reside in Thomas’s head too. But at least it is a plan, and something to move forward with.
“I’ll do that, and find the truth behind the deed, and act accordingly.” She rubs her hand along the line of her jaw, and then nods again, and her smile returns. “It’s a place to start. I’ve never seen a kinfolk like her, before, though I’ve heard of some with gifts, just none with the gnosis to back it up”
[Thomas] “…Aye, ya live in Strange times and lands, Girl. Strange times ‘n lands…”
And the night would press onward with Tales from Both:
The Elder would press for more signs and omens, foreshadowing and foretelling of the past, distinct understanding of the way Joss’ world worked and how it played on the ancient traditions of the Garou Nation. He’d asked afer the Tribes and what the Fenrir thought of them, if the Silver Fangs still held dominance as they did during his day and age. Of the Shadowlords and their trickery, bred from cruel inceptions. He’d seek knowledge of the Pure Land Tribes, a mystery to the ancient Godi, all the while offering little of his own opinions about these things and peoples and creatures during his time. Long past. Ages gone. Forgotten but for the tongue of the Skald he spoke through and at this moment in this time? That Skald was silent.
In return? Joss’ would learn.
She would learn of the Rituals of the Fenrir. How they demanded from their Ritemaster (or Mistress) and how every inch of Gaia was paid for in blood, from Fenris’ freely given and sacrificed. He would teach her the beginnings of the Ritual kind, that she had learned long ago during her Cub-hood, over again and in fresh detail and explore the deeper avenues of those Rites that sang beyond the mundane and normal. Beyond the casual and comfortable, the Rites only Godi would dare to move into. He would touch upon the distant message in the Runes, both of their carving, painstaking and brutal and their casting, often times horrific in their insight.
…As as Midnight climbed into their conversation, the weather Elder showing no signs of fatigue in Thomas’ shape, he would begin to explain to her the cusp of where she stood in her learnings. The Ideas and considerations of Rituals not just as a Ritemistress but as a Leader of Spirit. A Godi was responsible for dedicating the lives and existences of her fellow Tribesmates. Of showing the Fenrir how to step and move to please the spirits and in no way was this more felt then through the participation in the Hallowed Rites. The blessings of Gaia. A Gift any Garou could learn, but it took a special mind and a special heart to truly know the depth a Ritual could take one.
He explained the importance of adherence to the Laws, how each rite made of itself a brutal song, imprinted on the mind of their participants and that the strong and more fantastic the Ritual? The More people would need to remember and perform. Each time. Every time. Practice was never a word overused. Patience, never a concept outdone. In the Rites that all Godi sought to expand their knowledge and in the Defense of all they held dear, one could call themselves a Dabbler and be content with Summoning Totems, Binding Fetishes and Talens, seeking Visions of the Past and Future.
…Or one could reach forward within the masses, bind them to their cause and lead them in the Hiding of Caerns, the Bringing of Rains that scalded Corruption. For each Step the Godi took, she bade ten more to do as she did. For each Ritual she led, she brought ten voices to follow and strengthen. By the Time the Sun would rise the next morning and the Elder would see her off with little more then a-
“…There’s a Good Girl…”
…Leaving behind the Bleary-eyed Skald, to bow his head in exhaustion and ache for the bends and torques the Elder had put his body through, Joss would have the keys and tools to fashion of herself a Spirit Warden. A Ritemistress. All that was left to do was Time. Time, Patience and Understanding.
[Joss Lehrer] (and thatssa wrap! Whee!)