sheridan.

Marrick
Joss and Marrick made it to the brotherhood. The two came as a pair; the Fury didn't take the time to wash up. Her hair was a mess, and her nerves were raw. There was no herald of rage to announce her presence. Nothing more than footsteps. With a degree of grim determination, she glances at Joss and sighs. Her shoulders don't fall, and her composure- though tenuously held- does not break.

She knocked on Lukas' door, and waited back with the theurge elder.


Lukas
The door opens before long. Lukas has a book in his hand, his finger inserted to hold the page. He looks at Marrick for a beat, his face closed. Then his eyes flicker to Joss, and there's a trace of puzzlement in the blue.

"What's going on?" he asks, simply.


Marrick
Marrick Fisher inhaled- she was not injured. Scars were not bared, but she was bloodied. The aftermath of the battle stained her hair strawberry blonde in some places, red in others. She holds herself with as much authority as her position warrants her.

There is little preamble.

"Sheridan Payne has fallen in battle. She fought well," she told him.

Shoulders do not fall, and there is dignity in the statement. Sheridan Payne has fallen in battle. Nothing maudlin, no weeping for the Gnawer. No wailing, no lying and telling him that the Galliard probably felt nothing. Only that she has fallen in battle, and that she fought well. As a warrior should.


Lukas
Lukas is getting tired, sorely tired, of finding out about his packmates' deaths while standing in this very room.

There, right there on the bed, is where he woke to the realization that Mrena was gone. There, right there at the desk, is where he felt Sampson's link snap like rubber stretched too far.

Here, right here, is where he finds out that Sheridan Payne, Walks the Tracks, who was a prospective of this pack and a damn fine Galliard of the Nation, died in battle.

Consternation and anger and pain chase one another across the Shadow Lord's face in quick succession. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, bringing one hand up to mop quickly over his face.

"I see," he says. And automatically, "Thanks for telling me."

A pause.

"What happened?"


Marrick
This is the second time that Marrick Fisher has come to Lukas' door to tell him that someone had died. The first time, though difficult to remember, was within her first month of being here. The first time that Marrick Fisher remembered meeting Wyrmbreaker was walking into this room and telling him that his packmate's wife had died, but that she had been avenged. She had come because of her concern for the theurge.

That was a much different time, though, and good graces and first impressions had faded since then. She did not seem her eighteen years; as much as she hated to think of it, Marrick Fisher had a fair amount of experience in delivering such news.

"Spiral pack," she tells him, "Sheridan and I were out doin' recon. Trail led us to a junk yard and we were attacked. Four of them, two of us. They were organized, they were discussing plans, and said that this place had a lot of potential."

A pause.

"She was amazing, rhya. She took down two before anything ever touched her. It was an honor to fight beside her."

A pang of regret there. It was an honor to fight beside her, but it was the last time it would have happened.


Joss
Joss is there primarily for support, at the request of the Ahroun Elder, and her friend. She breaks her silence now.

"I answered the call for help, but was too far away, and came upon the scene too late. I could not save Sheridan, though Marrick had done everything she could to bring her back. It was simply too late. I aided in the clean up, and helped take the remains of your prospective packmate to the Caern, where she awaits her Gathering."


Lukas
Good graces have faded. First, and positive impressions have been replaced by later, more numerous, and more damaging ones.

When Lukas looks at Marrick now, his eyes grow opaque and his face grows impassive. It's hard not to think of the way he looked, just like that, just the same, when he laid out for her all the reasons he's lost trust in her. Lost faith in her. Lost respect for her. And it's hard for Lukas, listening to Marrick speak of the odds, the battle, not to think of

the night he fought alongside la Familia on Familia turf; the night Marrick was felled by a fomor scarcely stronger than a human; the night Boy picked her up and ran from battle with her, leaving their allies to fight or die as they might.

Marrick gets as far as she was amazing and a sudden rage flares up in Lukas. "Enough," he says, very low. His hand is a fist on the doorframe. He closes his eyes.

It's an unkind thought, but he can't help it: he can't help but wonder if, while Sheridan fought and died, Marrick had turned and r--

a sharp shake of the head. Lukas opens his eyes; cutting and blue. They skate between the two Elders, Ahroun and Theurge, settling on the latter.

"The Unbroken's theurge is away on an umbral quest. We would be grateful, Yuf, if you would lead the Gathering for the Departed." Lukas straightens up in the doorway, dropping his hands to his sides. "My pack will be gathered and ready within the hour."


Joss
She nods, slightly. "Of course, Wyrmbreaker. Marrick, if you'll aid me in the preparations, please?"

And with that she turns to take her leave.


Marrick
She gives a solid nod, and turns to take her leave with the Theurge Elder. The Fury doesn't say a word.

She does, however, stop and look at the two of them. "There's a theurge named Doodle who came to this town because of her. She meant a lot to him. He's a potential packmate of mine, and I think that he deserves to be there for her last rites."


Joss
Joss nods, slightly. A Gathering is for the sept as a whole, though focus is on pack members of the last. Her voice is soft and firm.

"All sept members, those who knew her especially, are welcome for the last rites. Alert him and your pack. I will meet you at the Caern."

--

Joss
After leaving the Brotherhood, where the news had been delivered to one who was to be her Alpha, Gossamer Wing and Bones to Dust return to the Caern proper, where they had left the body of Sheridan Payne.

Joss, having agreed to lead the Gathering in an hour, puts Marrick to tasks so that Joss can prepare.

Alert her La Familia - for one of them knew the departed.
Gather Sheridan's belongings.
Clean the body of all blood, gore.
Dress the body in clean clothing - her own if found.
Gather food for her journey.

To Even's the Odds, and his packmates, she requests that they dig the grave. For Fenrir, it is customary to have a Funeral Pyre, but Sheridan was a child of the Rat, and she honors their ways.

Then Joss begins her own preparations. First, she kneels at the banks of Maelstrom, and centers herself, preparing to make the call. She bares her thighs, and begins the tapping of a beat across the gnarled scares of her Spirit Drum, then falls easily into the summoning of the spirits. On the winged breath of Gafflings, she sends the message forth, echoed in the howl as she shifts to Crinos and lets loose the call into the umbral sky.

A Gathering of the Departed has been called. Honor our Fallen.

~~~~~~

Precisely an hour passes. Joss has cleaned up herself, and changed her clothing, and rinsed out her dreads, braided the three at her temple and added the ceremonial feathers and beads of her Tribe, of her Family. Red, for the blood her family has shed in the war for Gaia, Green for the family Lehrer, Blue - the gift from her Grandmother on her firsting. An owl feather for wisdom and an Eagle feather for her Totem. Her dress is long, white, and clings to her torso like a second skin, only to fall in voluminous waves about her bare feet. She has no staff, and her hands are folded instead about a dagger given to her by her father, a Godi of great renown, the man - the monster - in who's steps she strives to follow. It is with this blade that she had carved the glyphs into the wooden disk she holds - Bone Gnawer, Galliard and Fostern.

She appears, quite simply, savagely beautiful.

Marrick stands nearby, before the table of items gathered: the wordly belongings of Walks The Tracks, the food to send her on her journey.

Gossamer says nothing as the Sept gathers - The Unbroken, La Familia, The Guardians, The Grand Elder and his pack, others who answered the call. She waits patiently, unmoving, immovable, until it seems that all who will come, have. Only then does she speak - as the umbral winds tug at her skirts, and carry her words, soft yet powerful, to those gathered.

"Sheridan Payne, Walks the Tracks, Fostern Galliard, Bone Gnawer.

Walks the Tracks had not walked with us long, but her deeds and sacrifices to Maelstrom cannot - and will not - be ignored. I am no Skald, but I have been asked to lead this Gathering. This is my story, as told to me by the rats who feasted that night.

Walks the Tracks had come into town just an hour prior. She swung down from the bus, and within an hour dove into a War Zone. She, alongside one of our own, Muerte Fria, and Kinfolk of the Eagles, Imogen Slaughter, joined in battle to bring down minions of the Wyrm. Though throated, Walks the Tracks continued to fight, and through their determination, Gaia triumphed once again. Not even an hour without our City, within our protectorate, and Walks the Tracks put her life on the line to protect what we call ours.

Tonight, Walks the Tracks fell in battle. There is no shame in this. There is no fault in giving one's all, and finding it not enough. Walks the Tracks died with Honor, in Glory, and tonight we celebrate the life she led among us.

Tonight we celebrate a warrior fallen in battle, and tell of her deeds, of her accomplishments, of what we have learned of Sheridan Payne, so that she may remember them when she rejoins our battle. Maelstrom is a Caern of Sacrifice, that demands our all - from our first visit, to our dying blood.

To each of you I lay this charge. Come to the table, gather an item, and lay it with what remains of Walks the Tracks, to take with her on this final journey. If you've words for her, a story to share, please state it for all of us to know, so that she may teach us what final lessons she has for the Sept of Maelstrom.

When we are finished, we will lay her body to rest, and celebrate her fully. We will then Howl for her, for her life, for her sacrifice, for her death. Make it count."

And with that, she lays the wooden disk over Sheridan's heart, then steps back to allow the others to speak, to join, silently standing watch.


Marrick
"The only time I had th'honor've standing beside Sheridan in battle was her last. She heard rumor that somethin' was coming. This was what she did. It's what she was good at, an' she came t'me to investigate a potential threat to th' caern.

"Led us to a dump out on the southside. Place was like a damn maze, heard a sound once we were in th' heart of the place an' took cover. We heard voices, said they had "a great opportunity here."

"We kept cover. Sheridan was ready for battle. An we might'a tried t'keep cover, but it didn't do any good. Turns out we were wrong on our numbers. There were four of them- a whole damned pack of Spirals.

"Anyone who's had the benefit of seein' Walks the Tracks in battle knows she was fast. Faster than fast- without th' help of any gift 'er blessing other than what Gaia gave her at birth. In one bite, she damned near tore the spiral in half. In two bites, she killed him.


"We worked in tandem. Bit and clawed at the enemy like a unit; Sheridan Payne made battle into an artform... an' I'm pretty sure that if she were alive t'hear me say that, that Galliard'd kick my ass fer usin' th' cliche. Don't make for a good story.

"She was untouchable. I ain't a Galliard, so I can't do her th' justice she deserves, but she bit another. She was all tawny fur and righteous anger an' she tore through the second like he was wet newsprint. Like he was nothing more than a bad memory. Until the only thing that kept 'im goin' was just hatred an' anger."

There was pride in her voice, something akin to awe to talk about the dead Galliard. Sheridan Payne had fought valiantly, she had killed and cut a swath through her enemies, the likes of which the Fury could appreciate and admire.

But, she remembers that Sheridan Payne is dead. She remembers how this story ends, but she continues anyway.

"And it was hatred an' anger that cut her down. Th' Dancer watched as she cut down his packmates, an' it was blind fury an dumb luck that landed the bite. He growled, turned his attentions elsewhere an' bit her 'fore I could do anything. Bones cracked, an' he tore her open. He bit again and she fell."

A pause.

"I came from a Bone Gnawer sept 'fore I got here. Me an' Boy both did. And I learned a lot from them. That Bone Gnawers are resilient. That they're strong an' tough an' it takes more than a couple bites to keep a Gnawer down for the count."

There was renewed fervor in that statement, and she continued.

"It wasn't enough t'bite her. The Dancer mighta taken her down, but she wasn't gonna stay down. Walks the Tracks came back. She didn't stay down, an' she fought until the end.

"An' even if two stayed standing after she fell, she terrified them. And even then, aren't we all still standing? Aren't we still talkin' about her, tellin' her stories an' rememberin' her? It's impossible to kill a Galliard, 'cus they are our memories. The only real way to kill them is to forget, to lessen her sacrifice an' glory with excuses an' slander. She was willin' to lay it all on the line for a sept she'd just come into.

"And now, she'll be with our heroes. The ones who helped raise this place. It was an honor to fight beside her. She's a credit to Maelstrom"

She cleared her throat, then nodded.


Doodle
He stood with his Pack and watched the proceedings, a vague numbness cast over his features. He'd been hard to find after the news, little more then a blubbering boy, sitting among a horde of Rats that had been lapping at a puddle of bluish liquid scattered out infront of him. Legs spread to either side and army bag sitting near a wall, the contents spilled out almost negligently around it.

Shoebox.
Water bottles.
Sketchbooks.
Grief.

Doodle's whole life these days. He'd sniffed loudly and coughed, nearly choking on the excess emotion that swarms down his throat, wiping at tears that were replaced in moments, small damp patches around the collar of his sweater and coat. He'd been rocking back and forth and trying to sustain some semblance of coherency throughout sobs but thus far had only managed a crackling and tainted little husk of a

"S'not fair..." Followed by renewed weeping.

That had been hours ago.

He stood now, eyes redshot and hair hanging in damp tendrils about his head. His gaze remained on the grave marker and his eyes gathered up the tokens those had left behind, lower jaw trembling and steeling back to stillness every half minute into the proceedings. It isn't until Marrick has finished her story and returned to her place with the pack, that Doodle takes a step forward and only after a few heartbeats have passed.

He reaches into his jacket and tugs free with some small amount of difficulty, an odd piece of parchment, not creased or folded (any longer) and looking as pristine and new as the day it was first pressed. He marches forward and huddles close to the grave, a moment's pause given, before falling into a sitting position and laying the picture atop the stones:

The Picture:

Sheridan is laughing. Her head is tilted back and her hair is not one scraggled mess, but a curtain of rain-soaked tendrils, dangling about her cheeks and coiling around her neck almost affectionately. Her eyes are closed and her face is tilted up toward a heaven pouring rain (the tiniest cartoon rain cloud hovering in the space six inches over her head, a quizzical sort of frown in it's puffy white outline). Her teeth are broad and her mouth is a dark cavern of mirth and sound. Tucked into the lower right corner is a small penmanship mark. A sort of artistic take on the Bone Gnawer glyph, more stylized confusion then anything else unless you knew what to look for.

The picture would stay in place, not bothering by winds and perform the most peculiar of things; with each shift of perspective and out of the peripheral view, you might catch a glimpse of the Gnawer woman's expression changing briefly: A winking 'Anytime'. A nose wrinkled 'What's that?'. A bug-eyed 'You're too serious'. A feral 'Test me'. It was there for a moment, and then gone again when you looked back, leaving behind that laughing visage to be admired.

The Spirit of the picture was happy to be awake. Happy to be comforting to all eyes that found this site.

...And Doodle?

Well, Doodle would remain sitting by the grave, hands in his lap, elbows in the crook of his hips, head held low and watchful of the picture, whilst words were made well above his head in honour of a Great Warrior.


Wyrmbreaker
Wyrmbreaker tries to hold to an honorable creed. He tries to take the higher path when he can. He tries to remember why they're fighting, and how they're all on the same side in the end, and how no one can be perfect and...

...and it's hard for him, the entire time that Joss speaks, the entire time that Marrick speaks, for him not to simply glare at the Black Fury. It's hard for him not to leap across the space between and grasp her by the shoulders, shake her, ask if it wasn't her duty to protect her allies, demand to know why she's alive while Sheridan lies dead, snarl at her to confess, confess, confess that her weakness and her failure led to this end.

It's hard for him not to doubt.
It's hard for him not to hate.

So he stares at Sheridan's body instead. He keeps his eyes fixed there, tries to remember he's here to pay respect to the glorious dead. Tries to remember he's here to help remember her life, though he hadn't known her long enough to truly do that. Tries to remember he's here to give honor to one he would have taken into his pack, into his hearth and home, into his circle.

Once or twice, while Marrick speaks, the Shadow Lord's hackles rise visibly. Rage bakes off him like heat, invisible and fierce.

When she's finished, he closes his eyes briefly. He steps forward, looks at the paltry belongings of a fallen warrior. The anger clears for a second. He wonders briefly what they would find to remember him with when he falls. Then it's back, throbbing and livid and irrational, and he has to clench his teeth to hold back a growl.

In the end, he reaches blindly for the first thing at his fingertips. It turns out to be a comb, a few strands of the dead Galliard's hair still caught on the teeth. He clutches it in his massive handpaw and searches for something to say.

"I would have been proud to call Walks the Tracks a sister in life," he growls finally, low and soft as distant thunder. "That does not change with her death. I mourn her as a sister. I bury her as a sister."

A beat. He stares directly at Marrick.

"And I will not profane her Gathering with recriminations and fury any more than your presence already has. But it turns my stomach to see you here, Bones to Dust, speaking as though you took part in a glorious and honorable deed. And there will be a reckoning."

The last word is bitten off. Wyrmbreaker's eyes burn into the Black Fury's for another second. Then he turns away and lays the comb gently between Sheridan's cold hands.


Joss
Lukas speaks.

And I will not profane her Gathering with recriminations and fury any more than your presence already has. But it turns my stomach

And he is cut off, definitively, decisively.

"ENOUGH."

She meets his gaze steadily, should he tear away from his ire, her voice soft, yet powerful. There is no doubting the rank, the wisdom of the Godi he asked to perform this rite - a duty she takes seriously.

"This is a gathering. This is not the time. Do not dishonor our dead, Wyrmbreaker. This is about the one you would call sister. Keep it so."


Wyrmbreaker
Cut off, the Ahroun's rage immediately spikes -- a sharp and deadly beat of fury. His eyes snap to the Fenrir's. They hold for a moment, then flick back to Marrick.

"Her very presence dishonors the dead she was totem-bound to protect," he says. Softly. "I want her and her BULLSHIT" his voice snaps suddenly into a roaring shout, into fury, then dies down just as fast, "gone."

A beat. He looks back at Joss.

"She's said her piece. She's had her chance to play the hero. Let me mourn my packmate properly. Without her."


Joss
Her voice does not raise, as she steps closer. She is fiercely beautiful in this light, in this her calling. Her breath heaves in her chest, her eyes snap with fire, her slender frame vibrates with the call she will soon make - at. his. request - to honor the fallen.

"How many have you let fall of your own,Wyrmbreaker? How is it your Circle is no longer unbroken? How is it you remain unsullied by your own actions yet sling accusations about at this time, at THIS moment, in THIS place?"

Her rage snaps, even the wind itself whips about her in a frenzy, twisting her skirts, until this vision in white is naught but storm-tossed rage and fury.

"HOW DARE YOU DEFILE THIS RITE, THIS RITUAL THAT I PERFORM ON YOUR BEHALF. You dishonor me. You dishonor your fallen. You dishonor your pack, your sept. You. Dishonor. Maelstrom. Cease acting like a cub and pay the proper respects. Your problems with Bones To Dust will be attended to at another time, another date. NOT HERE. NOT WHILE I HOLD THE SPIRIT OF THIS RITUAL."

Here her voice lowers again, dangerously. There is no doubt that she is Fenrir, that she is Furious, that she is GODI. "Do not force my hand, Wyrmbreaker. Do not."


Sinclair
The Unbroken do not speak to each across their totem bond. They must use words.

All this time, Sinclair has been standing near Wyrmbreaker, her arms crossed over her chest. Though it's cold, her arms are bared, revealing the metal and ink that adorns them. Her hair is down. Her voice has been silent thus far, odd in a rite devoted to one of her auspice.

When Joss screams at Lukas about how he dishonors his pack and the entire sept, her teeth go on edge, but then she speaks up, interrupting the two Fosterns, possibly to her detriment.

"This is not about us."

Her voice is level, and low, but it's clear.

"If we were human, and if our spirits did Gaia knows what after our deaths, this rite would be for the sake of our grief. It is not. Walks the Tracks is on her way back to her ancestral homelands, and this rite is for her benefit. Not the Unbroken's. Not the sept's."

She looks at Wyrmbreaker. "She has spoken against our pack and that must be answered. But she is right to tell you that now is not the time for your grief. This is not about US."


Wyrmbreaker
Joss doesn't get past of your own before Wyrmbreaker's aggression is leaping to the forefront.

None of the gathered, unless Katherine is in fact in attendance, know how uncharacteristic it is for Wyrmbreaker to be so blindly angry, so out of control, that he cannot keep to the strictures of courtesy, of politeness -- and, more importantly, of honor. None of them know him well enough, though they may have heard rumors and hearsay and stories, to know how rigidly he holds himself to a personal code of conduct, an austere standard of honor.

It is possible that after tonight, none of them will believe the stories. It is possible that forever hence, Wyrmbreaker will be, in their minds, reckless, dishonorable, furious.

There's a saying that the humans have: that a reputation takes a lifetime to build and a moment to ruin.

Here's his moment. The flaring of his hackles. The peeling back of his lips. The terrible snarl that leaves his deep chest, as though in an instant he would be upon the Godi, tearing her to shreds over the not-yet-stiff body of his would-be packmate.

But then the Glass Walker speaks. And with visible, strenuous effort, Wyrmbreaker tears his eyes from Gossamer-Wing, tears his eyes from Bones to Dust, fixes them on Warcry.

There's a growl on every breath. But he listens. And when she's finished, several seconds, several breaths, several growls go by. Each is softer than the last.

Then there's only silence. And he turns back to Gossamer Wing.

"For dishonoring Walks the Track's Gathering, and for disrespecting Walks the Tracks-yuf, I apologize."

A few more breaths, whuffing quietly out into the cooling autumn night. His rage still hangs electric over the air, like the promise of a storm. But when he speaks, it's slow, soft. He controls himself the way he controls his rage.

"Please continue."


Joss
She does not back down. He all but loses control and she stands her ground. Her eyes, blue and cold as eyes hold his even as his prospective packmate speaks, even as she reminds him of the very things Joss has said, the very things he should know.

He apologizes for his disrespect, only to the proceedings, to the fallen. The set of her jaw, the fury in her eyes does not miss that, does not mistake the disrepect still there for her, for the sept, for all in attendance. She misses nothing.

She also says nothing. Not for a long, long moment. Her fingers white-knuckled tight around the hilt of the dagger in her hand, her teeth clenched in the heat and passion of the moment, in the center of a Rite defiled. She turns the blade in her hand, then SLAMS the tip into the table with a sound that reverberates through the sudden silence. She takes a breath. And a second. And a third. Then...

"To honor the fallen, we continue."

But there is a threat there too, woven under the words, a warning to those who hear it. She will tolerate no other disrespect, no further dishonor. And he owes her far more than respect for the proceedings, now.

She steps back, her arms crossed over her chest, the winds tugging at her clothing, her hair, her very being, as she awaits any others who will continue with the stories.


And, in the end. When the stories are told, when the offerings are done, when they have done all they can to aid Walks the Tracks in her travels now, so that she can return to them, with memories intact, then Joss leads them in the final Howl, the final call to their Sept-mate and Pack mate.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Posting this now, so that it doesn't get forgotten)

Gathering of the Departed Roll

Char+rituals =6, difficulty 8 minus 2 for rank=6WP.
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]

(she's no Skald, and still pissed off. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)