[Doomsday] It’s perhaps fitting that 2009, that two of the bloodiest in terms of sheer loss-of-life months, end with a blue moon. Under this moon, things are supposed to happen that are wondrous strange. Under this moon, rarity is supposed to be briefly glimpsed and touchable. Under this moon, things can happen. At least: it washes the snow as pale as bones, as chalk writing withered and ashing so fine and rare.
To see in the new year, to see the rarest moon of all (and perhaps to honor it, because she was so touched by its burning whiteness), Lila Daws left the city she’d just come to and hitchhiked to the nearest human-tamed woods. They aren’t quiet, today; there’s a bonfire on by some drunken college kids, pre-Med, and they’re raucous and loud, huddling under blankets and sleeping bags, playing in the snow. They saw Lila for a second, all gold as the first gold of spring, came out of nowhere and asked for a beer, asked for some meat, this air about her (suppressed) that made them, for a moment, wary. She told them a story as she ate the meat with her fingers, which began to shine all stickysticky with grease. She took another skewer of meat, another beer, and she wandered off, and it took them quite a while before they realized she hadn’t wandered off with anyone in particular, nobody was getting laid, and she was gone as gone can be.
Unless, of course, you’re far and away deep into Tekakwitha — where the blonde is (human, still; not for long) looking up at a tree, her hand against its bark, and her eyes unblinking. No: she’s not looking up at the tree. She’s looking up, and up, and up, at the moon rising.
[Curl of Talons Hither] *Stealth. Let other grinning moons stumble about noisily in the physical, alerting others to their presence and giving up the advantages of surprise and concealment. Curl of Talons Hither had been slinking through the underbrush, hot footpads leaving dull tracks atop glittering hard crusted snow. The constant freeze/thaw of the unseasonably warm winter had made Tekakwitha a frozen wonderland of ice and moisture rich hoar frost, sparkling with the eerie light of the blue moon. The coarse furred shadowlord is already frosted with ice crystals, though he’s been realm side few short hours. Most of his time in the umbra spent bartering and dominating the strange and squirrelly spirits he encountered as he looked for higher and higher ground. A rarity like this moon not a thing to be passed up on, when one might curry with rare spirits for favors unknown. He’s nothing if not predatory as he prowls back towards civilization, nostrils flaring at the faint scent of greasy meat, and …ugh… Unicorn. His lip twitches, claws scratching noisily as he pads closer. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Rat. tat-tat-tat-tat.*
[Doomsday] Wolves are quiet. Wolves are ghosts. That’s the thing about wolves in winter, and why (before the Imperigum, even) they garnered so many myths of their own: so much awe. There you were, all alone in the deep dark woods; then you look up, and there they are, standing between the trees, an apparition of possible death, an apparition of watchfulness and vision. This is to say, Lila doesn’t hear Curl of Talons Hither as hither-he-prowls. At least: not at first. Her ears are human, small. No: what Lila does is breathe in, and breathe out, and her warm breath touches the air’s heart, makes it briefly visible; she does it again, and again, quiet, and still more quiet, as if this were a ritual, as if this were a rite. Then: -tat-tat-tat. Lila, who still has yet to blink, whose eyelashes one suspects may very well soon be fringed by snow, finally turns away from Luna and the tree, and she measures the space between shadows, as wary as ever any unicorn in myth was, all first tension and (there is a joy in the hunt and in the slow and callous heart of winter) poised-to-move.
[Curl of Talons Hither] *Rat. tatatatat. Rat. tatatatat. There he is in a clearing suddenly, stalking forward through the snow, shadowlord breeding somehow far more noticeable in this form. A grandchild of Thunder cast indomitable and surreal in the wan blue of the moon. Lean, long, and jet black to the very end of his tail tip, Curl of Talon’s Hither is a medium sized wolf. Low to the ground, restless, paws shifting constantly beneath a stark, angular frame. Sharp wirey fur waves untamed off of scarred and pointed hackles, and black eyes gleam darkly on the coggie, manic and strange, rife with ill intent. Fangs flash stark along his muzzle. Claws tap. He moves with pointed snout held low, tufted ears brightly forward, sly and predatory.*
~Unicorn-child. You reek of grease and human. Why do you come?~
[Gossamer Wing] New Year’s Eve.
A Blue Moon
It’s a night of possibilities, it’s a night of new births, it’s a night to wash oneself clean from the previous stains of the past days, weeks, months, year – and prepare oneself for the days to come, the battles that need won, the infinite moments of everything in between that reminds them what they live for… why they fight.
A hill, a rise, a clearing atop, and in it, the slender form of the Godi that once giggled with abandon, the Godi searching for her smile, searching for rhyme and reason in a world that has none. It’s here, in this clearing, surrounded by trees where she is found. The weather is cold, so cold, but this Daughter of Fenris is made of hardy stock, raised to appreciate the cold sucking the breath from her lungs as soon as it’s formed, to enjoy the crystal clarity that only the ice can bring as it floods the senses, following the flow of blood as it retreats from extremities to pulsate within the core…
It is here that Rite and Ritual have power, under the Blue Moon, on the eve of the New Year. And it here that she has been for a time, settled, sitting indian style on the fur spread across the snow, her dreads falling over her shoulders, her slender form bare to the biting cold… cold that has brushed her skin red, then leached it pale as she mediates under the light of the Full Moon.
…the godi is weird…
[Doomsday] And there he is. A dark menace; a shadow. The tension ebbs into something with more (and less) purpose while the Shadow Lord prowls forward, his teeth a flash of menace, and so too his eyes, and so too his heart, and so too. The (not) woman’s regard is quiet, is searching; is as far from Curl of Talons Hither’s regard as could be daydreamed by someone who’s been under it once too often. She has yet to blink, and it is in that, really, that her inhumanity may be read.
“Thunder’s Grandchild,” she says, after taking a moment to choose her words. The title is lent a queer sort’ve grace by dint of the way it leaves her tongue; the way she holds her head as she says it, the way she looks at him, judges his blood, marks him by it and names him. There is noone here to see the blonde woman talking to a black wolf, and that is all for the good. “Your teeth are bright, but nothing else about you is; why are you here and where are you going?”
There is a Joss, skyclad and reddening, freezing in a clearing that is visible from the little clearing the Child of Gaia and Shadow Lord are in: “Do you know the woman over there?” she asks, after an even moment, if it seems auspicious.
[Curl of Talons Hither] *Something faint and half frozen on the wind. It tugs at his frayed and manic attention, but does not draw his eyes. Those are cast on the Child of the Consort, who’s voice is bright and warm in the cold and dark. His posture wary, a rasping rumble of amusement. A chuckle, in so much as he can, cagey and unpleasant. Claws scuff incessantly on hard snow.*
~You’re bright enough for the both of us. Easiest to peg in the dark. I come to get away from humanity.~
*Though one glance at the oily theurge in this form draws the question as to whether he had any humanity himself to speak of. He’s wild furred and strange, more a spectre than a creature of the physical tonight. A slow lowering of his head in respect to station, blink and you’ll miss it, before he back a step and slants eyes towards the Godi atop her hill. This city seemed to attract Fenrir like a corpse drew flies. Baleful eyes glint back to Doomsday. At least it wasn’t a Child of –wait was that fenrir naked? Its a moment before the shadowlord answers DoomsDay’s question with a gruff motion to the negative, before he’s prowling in the Godi’s direction.*
[Gossamer Wing] Connection. Contrition. Control.
…just be…
There is the pile of her clothing nearby, though she does not reach for them. Her rage warms her, flooding the senses, heating her from the inside with Gaia’s fury at the wrongs done, with a Godi’s delight in communing with the spirits of Luna herself, with the breeze that batters her form, with the icey chill that’s sinking through her skin.
…just breathe…
She stands with a fluidity that betrays the beast beneath the skin, not so much standing as unfolding, unfurling, opening her arms to the sky, arching her back, welcoming the light of the Blue Moon across her skin, embracing the frigid breeze that washes over her… and she moves…
…just move…
Her slender form is not without mark, without scar. There are two of note: Exploding in the middle of her back, the exit wound that marks the entrance in the front, just under her breast bone, where she was gored with an Impaler’s Talon in the midst of battle, and on her thighs a perfectly matched pair of jagged claw marks, bound by spirit, sealed by the Rite of Fetish… a gift. There are piercings in her lip, her brow, her ears. There is a single tattoo, small dual bats just below her collarbone.
She dances, she spins, she moves to a beat only she can hear. She is graceful, her movements fluid, her body sliding in undulating flow as though she was born to this, born to dance under the moon, commune with Luna as did the Spirit Talkers of Old.
If she notes those that approach, that question her [sanity] identity, it is not apparent. She is lost to the ritual of her motion, the shedding of this past year, of all that holds her back, that weighs her down. Her steps are light as her slender form sways, her dreads spreading in a halo around her as she spins…
…just dance…
[Doomsday] “Hm.” The wideeyed woman is watching the Shadow Lord still when he slants his eyes toward the Godi atop her hill. Chicago is cold, and the cold is drawing the blood close to the surface of Lila’s cheeks; is heightening the lucent green of her eyes, smoking them into just-before-fireseason gold. Finally, she blnks once, heavily; her eyelids ache. “Do you walk so closely with your humanity when you are elsewhere, Shadow Lord?” The tone of her voice is a wondering thing, and still quiet.
He answers negative, and it’s a body language thing; the shape he wears doesn’t lend itself well to speech although somehow the lupus can communicate with the homid and vice versa in whatsoever form they wear. Language is important. Language makes them fierce, makes them lasting as stars last — at least, at least, Lila might say so. Might, may. Everything has a voice, but not everything can use it to purpose.
She pats the tree. Curl of Talons Hither begins to prowl toward the Godi, and in his wake, Lila: curious as ever.
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Doomsday] ooc: Uh… (takes the dice back)
[Curl of Talons Hither] ~Of course. Humanity needs kept in check. Lest it overrun and make a mess.~
*Like it had done with the entirety of the Coggie tribe, weeping for humans and preaching mercy. Never did mercy prepare a soul for evil. Equality another word for mediocrity. His words unvoiced, a jagged rasp of discontent as Ezra moves away from the child of gaia. He approaches the whirling godi with a yawn, tasting her scent in every ice crystal that melts on a hot pink tongue. Each footfall brings Curl of Talons Hither closer to a decision. Closer to the delicate She was dancing. No. She was naked. No. She was Fenrir. No. It was a Blue Moon! Once in a Blue Moon! Come on! ….No. There’s a slow dissipation of his form, and Ezra is gone from the physical clearing, and running headlong into the Umbra.*
[wp spent! – and I’m out!]
[Curl of Talons Hither] (Typo – “closer to the delicate + girl undulating in the moonlight”)
[Gossamer Wing] Sounds, sounds through the underbrush and the Godi is pulled back, drawn closer to reality, the sensations, the chill, the subtle shift in the air as Ezra disappears from the clearing that resonate within the atmosphere… it draws her back, pulls her back, and she slows to a stop, her weight simply shifting from foot to foot, before she turns to face the couple that approaches.
Or rather, the one that remains, as one escapes to the Umbra.
She simply studies the Child of Gaia that approaches, curious as ever, unphased whatsoever by her current state of undress, though she does reach for her clothing – more for their comfort than her own. She pulls her sweater on first, tugging it down over her hips, then her slips, followed by her skirts, which she gives a little shake so that they fall into place. Only then does she settle back to her fur, and reach for her knit hat and tug it down over her ears.
And she smiles. “Hi.”
[Doomsday] Curl of Talons Hither takes passage from one world to its reflection [its spiritual heart] and Lila does not follow him into the umbra. He, before he vanishes, gets a faint furrow between her slender eyebrows. The naked Fenrir is putting on her clothing, and the woman sheaths the frown again; lets it not be seen. Instead, she says: “Hi,” also. The golden haired creature’s eyes are wide, and she appears to be oh so calm, although winter isn’t her season; one wants to see her in spring, with flowers. She isn’t blinking, not very often. “The Shadow Lord disappeared, but I am — I am still here. He said he came here to get away from humanity: you, too?”
[Gossamer Wing] She laughs softly, easily. “I felt him go – but didn’t see him. Did you know him?” and then, the question is answered as she pulls on a pair of socks, and her flats. “I came to commune with the Spirits of Luna, of course. It’s a Blue Moon. I couldn’t resist the pull…”
Simple enough. Maybe.
“I’m Joss.”
[Doomsday] “I’m Waking Dream,” she says, also simply.
She hasn’t smiled yet, but that isn’t because she’s dour or grim or sad. It’s because she’s listening, because she’s paying attention, because this is something to pay attention to. She reaches up, gathering her hair into a loose tail, then twists that around her fist, tilting her head to the side. “I have beer; it came from college boys. Would you like some? I would like to drink with you. I think,” a pause, and her gaze goes distant, then re-shapes, re-transmutes into something more present, brushed with naked curiosity, “that I would like that very much.”
[Doomsday] “And no, I don’t know him.”
[Gossamer Wing] Her smile widens and she nods. “I would love a beer. From the boys at the bonfire? I saw them when I arrived..” She scoots over to the side, and pats the fur pelt she’s sitting on in invitation for Waking Dream to join her.
She winks at Waking dream with a laugh. “The fact that they’re not here is proof they didn’t see me, I suppose.” at least, not while she was nude.