hunt.

[apotheosis] There's three male Garou and one pile of talens waiting for Wyrmbreaker when he comes back into the camper. Not shockingly, they have some Avian Spies. There's rope, lights, matches, the sort of things you think you might need, who knows if you really will. But that's the point: you never know when you'll need a length of rope.

Key, Threnody, and Sunthief have little to say. The sense that he's an outsider has only increased now, but that could be his imagination, his assumption. Or simple truth: they have secrets. They are sons and daughter of Crow, attracted to secrets, distrustful of outsiders, clinging to their leaders, even the ones that are missing. Even the ones who seem to have a chokehold on what truths are told, what submission to Lukas actually means.

They seem to accept his apology, though, but Threnody is watching him, watching every word that comes out of his mouth. They get down to business. And this is where he sees how they work together, beyond what Threnody said of their arrangements during battle. Much is made of making sure the 'weaker' members of the pack are safe: Wane, Sunthief, Key. Threnody seems to have taken on the mantle of protector with the Ahroun gone, organizing who gets what. Key takes a back of the arrow killer dust, examining it thoughtfully. They have what some in Chicago call 'gnosis batteries'. Threnody has warpaint, but it's not sure at first if it's a talen or just ritual to him.

He hears most of their discussions in his mind now. Sunthief's thoughts are surprisingly serious in tone, Threnody's a bit more relaxed. Key is as careful as ever, but his mind is as firm as a lockbox. Wane is hard to listen to, mentally. She trails off. Her distraction is almost infectious. But there's something comforting in that, sharing this with them as they prepare: some of that earlier feeling fades. They say things in his 'hearing' that they don't have to. They say things aloud that aren't necessary.

If Key suspects why Wane was sent away so Istok could talk to Lukas privately, he doesn't seem to let it show. He's warm with his packmates in his mind. He cares about them. He doesn't want them to be torn apart by the loss of Stormstrike.

Soon enough, with Lukas coming off of a full day, a full night, going nonstop since he left Chicago, they're ready to go into the hills. Sunthief looks like he's about to head forward, then pauses and looks at Lukas. "So... should I be scouting ahead or you want me back here with you guys?"

[Wyrmbreaker] "Where do you work best?" comes his answer -- and then, assuming Sunthief chooses his usual position, Lukas gives his permission.

They proceed cautiously. That's Lukas's predominant presence in their minds: caution, and a sort of assurance of strength. He is not quite the dark, warm presence he is with his own packmates. His true packmates. That trust, no matter what he says, is not really there. It's quite possible that even if he tried, he could not force himself to develop that sort of bond, that sort of rapport, so quickly with these wolves.

Still, for what it's worth, he tries for unity. A unified purpose. He accepts Threnody's self-appointed role of guardian, and puts the Galliard in the back as the rearguard. It's faintly bittersweet; that's where he'd put Sinclair, his own Galliard. Lukas himself moves at the fore of the main group, Key and Wane behind him. Sunthief ranges far ahead, in the shadows, almost out of sight.

Lead us as close to the last place you saw Starfall as you can, Lukas thinks across the bond. For his part, the Ahroun has kept his preparation to a soak talen, a bloody bandage -- that shining armor Luna bestows has not yet frosted over his fur. He remains night-black, quiet himself, his stealth more a matter of diligence and care than of any natural talent.

[apotheosis] The truth is, in the back of Lukas's mind he can likely sense how his packmates -- his true packmates -- would feel about those he's running with now. Sinclair would probably like Threnody, be amused by him. He would grind his teeth to deal with her, clench his jaw and submit honorably to her eldership. Katherine likely would steamroll Wane without even trying, without even needing rank to grant her authority over that muddle-headed thing. He can likely guess what each of them would say in terms of advice concerning Key. He can probably picture Katherine's sniff, Sinclair's fist, in reaction to Sunthief.

They are far, far way. Bright white and pulsing red, but distant even in his mind, as though even across the bond of Perun they know he cannot come to them now. They wait, and here and there he hears their conversations flitting through his mind, snatches of meaning in the darkness behind him, so very different than the darkness ahead of him.

It is quite dark, even with the celestial lights in the sky flickering down at them through the trees. Sunthief blurred out of sight when they set out. Even for his own packmates it seems hard to find where he went; he is a good scout, at least. They all walk quietly, and his mind subconsciously ranks them: Wane is shockingly quiet, seeming to make herself even smaller as she slinks behind him. Threnody tries, but his energy and rage preceeds him and here and there he missteps, louder than the others despite his diligence. Key has an uncanny, confident grace to him and is near-silent in step, but none of Threnody's effort or Wane's natural talent nor Sunthief's pure skill.

Up into the hills, winding through the trees, over fallen logs and across streams. This far north the cold is a quick and bitter thing, and the winds pick up the farther on they go. That wind carries a scent towards Sunthief long before it reaches the others. He reappears in front of them, forepaws on a stone and hind legs all but quivering from spent speed, tongue lolling.

Found last place. He turns in a rapid circle, expending excitement that is neither gleeful nor shocked. Processing, really. Flickers of thought fly through their minds: bones sticking out of the ground, the scent of fire, the sense of something sinister. Facing them again, his wired voice comes through their thoughts: Come. See. Nobody alive there, I looked. I looked! It not ambush. Come see.

[Wyrmbreaker] Some twenty or thirty meters behind, the Ahroun stops, one forepaw lifted, as an unfamiliar presence speaks into his mind. It's different. Everything about this is different: these wolves, their style, the land, even the nature of the bond. After a moment he gives his head a shake, thick fur riffling, and then places his foot down. Paces forward.

Moments later, he emerges into that trampled clearing already half-familiar in his mind, seen through another's eyes. He paces carefully, sniffing at those bones, the charred remnants of fire; snorts at the scent of something unwholesome, dark, underlying it all.

If Caleb were here, he thinks suddenly, he would have Caleb look across the umbra. Talk to the spirits. But the only Theurge he has now is Key of Heaven, who he cannot quite trust. What bitter irony that the one wolf he trusts less is his exact foil: strong in all the areas he himself is weak.

Wyrmbreaker lifts his head. He looks about, scans the trees, the undergrowth. He lets his eyes defocus -- peers across the Gauntlet.

[apotheosis] For what it's worth, the others do not instantly head forward when Sunthief tells them come, come. They look at Wyrmbreaker, scanning his posture, til he moves ahead. Even the Ragabash does not instantly dart away to lead them there until that first step from the Fostern Ahroun standing in for their Alpha. But as soon as Lukas indicates -- wordlessly -- that he's going to follow the scout, Sunthief wheels about and heads forward.

He goes much slower than he can, and he does not hide himself from their sight or scent. It tells Wyrmbreaker something about him that they are traveling for some time before they enter that barely-glimpsed spot in the woods that is not quite clearing, not quite thicket, but

graveyard.

Bones do indeed stick up out of the ground, half-unearthed corpses not so much rotted for years and reduced to bleached skeletons but the barren remnants of a feast. Through the charred bits he can see toothmarks, heavy fanged gouges in the bone. Whatever ate this was closer to his current form than his human one. The bones themselves, though, are human enough.

Killed, eaten, burnt, buried, and now unearthed, it's hard to tell how many full bodies there once were. The dug-up patches of dirt are loose and intermittent, and it would all seem aimless and careless but for the fact that there's a message spelled out in the bones, laid out on the ground in ribs and at least one femur, a jawbone over there:

WATCHING YOU.


Stormstrike-rhya's scent here, Sunthief is telling them, as the pack is drifting into the spot where monster-eaten humans were buried then desecrated to send a message. Recent. But watching, not watching -- none around now. Scent goes that way, he adds, and points his nose in the direction of heavier woods, northeasterly.

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker takes his time with the charred bones, the defiled -- graves? No; not graves. Midden-heaps, more like: burial of waste after all the good flesh, the edible, rich meat, is gone.

Human bones. Dug up again now, spelling human words.

When he's done sniffing, investigating, he paws the words deliberately asunder. He doesn't bother taking time to rebury them all. Silently he meets the ragabash's eyes, falling in just behind him. Lead the way, his body language says.

[apotheosis] They are not a chatty group, not right now. Not while stalking their lost Alpha like long-gone prey. Their tensions are higher now, though, nerves on edge. Watching you

watching you

watching you

is like a chant behind them. It's underfoot as they help Lukas brush the words away. Not all the bones get buried -- there is a ripple of wariness there, of concern, of questioning that is never voiced -- but they seem to understand why he doesn't bother to linger there. Lukas's attention is on the bones, on the Ragabash leading them through the woods.

Lead the way, he says, and WATCHING YOU say the scattered remains of those who died screaming, clawing for a half-second of salvation before bones cracked and blood burst out of a cluster of instant wounds in their throat, one puncture for each fang.

The ground quivers slightly underfoot with what they just left behind, though that is likely just their imagination.


Sunthief leads them along the trail left by Stormstrike, Starfalls's scent, and that trail leads them a wide, hollow tree. An old, dead thing, its branches twist through the air. It has no family in common with the trees around it, as though it was transplanted there out of a myth. He could shift to crinos and not get his arms all the way around its trunk. From among the roots opens a broad crack, a split where lightning may have struck or where some sickness may have torn it asunder from within.

Doesn't matter now, really. It's dead, creaking in winter and standing up out of sheer stubbornness.

It's Wane's thin voice in their minds now, stating what the impressions of the others' minds tells him to be the truth:

That wasn't there before.

And there, descending into the black earth packed around that crack, Starfall's scent comes to a cold end.

[Wyrmbreaker] An old, dead tree twists into the sky. WATCHING YOU, say the remains of the dead. The five wolves, one for each moon, step under the umbrella of its gnarled branches -- so shorn of twigs and leaves now that the sky is clear and cold through their weave. Wyrmbreaker is in the larger of his two lupine forms now, the one with just enough human expressivity in the brow, in the eyes, to be disconcerting. Visibly intelligent.

He rears onto his hind legs, sniffing at the higher branches. Comes down heavily but softly, big paws cushioning the fall.

We dig, he sends into their minds. And then, hindlegs planted, he begins to do just that. His big forepaws send scoop after scoop of hardpacked, cold earth flying -- too frozen to be moist.

[apotheosis] The tree groans under Wyrmbreaker's weight, audible enough to be like stepping on the body of a wounded soldier. It gasps as he relents, taking his paws back. The branches overhead shudder, and flakes of bark flutter off of its sides like shedding skin, hair falling away from a cancer patient, ash wicking away from burning

(bone)

wood.

Wait,

and that's a voice he's not as familiar with, coming through his mind as he says they dig. Wait, Key says again, but only if necessary. He's sniffing at the ground, coming up alongside Lukas, his fur bristling. The Gauntlet is weak here. His breath steams, obscuring Lukas's peripheral vision. So thin.

[Wyrmbreaker] Wait, he is told, and wait he does -- stopping, already wrist-deep in cold dirt. He cocks his head at the Theurge, his eyes ice-pale in the uncertain light.

And you're worried we might dig through? Or that something might come across?

[apotheosis] No.

If Caleb were here, if even Theron were here, they might be more helpful than this. Babble incoherently, maybe. They might just answer. Key of Heaven doesn't say a word, barely makes a sound even with his breathing, as he stares into the darkness where Lukas began to dig. They're all on edge, now Key most of all. His nose is twitching as he scents the ground.

No reason for it to be this thin here, in this one spot.

He sticks his neck forward, sniffing further. Not sure you will get anywhere by digging. Just more earth. His teeth bare, and a few seconds later: Trap.

We're strong, bristles Threnody, his voice a snarling shimmer shared by them all.

Thought that last time, too, chimes in the Ragabash, coming back from his circuit around the tree. Want to lose visiting Alpha this time? Or maybe switch up, lose Omega? You ass.

[Wyrmbreaker] We're not losing anyone. That carries some of the same intonation as I don't care who started it, I'm stopping it. Wyrmbreaker steps backward out of the widening hole he's dug.

Sunthief, scout around. See if you can find anything else, any other trail or sign or entrance or scent. Threnody, you shadow him. Key of Heaven, try to figure out why the Gauntlet is thin here. Wane and I will watch your back.

If we don't find any new answers, we keep digging. Her scent goes underground here. That's all we have right now.

[apotheosis] There's nothing but a chuffing laughter from Sunthief, circuiting back around the other side of the tree again, checking out its roots. Threnody and Key seem to shrug him off. Wane...

looks at the darkness where her Beta and sudden Alpha are standing together. Threnody remains near the back, guarding all of them without word, without making a point of it. Just there. Strong, broad-shouldered, patient.

Sunthief obeys, at least. He goes around the tree and then is... gone. A rustle of underbrush, but then nothing. Threnody grunts, then trots off in that direction, drawn by some generous mental trail left by his packbrother. Wane's eyes grow wide, the dark one and the clouded one, as Lukas informs Key that they'll be watching Key's back. She doesn't say anything at first, but as Wyrmbreaker pulls back a bit, she slinks over to him.

Not underground. Just gone. I think we have to go through.

Even as his eyes go pale blue with lack of focus, even as his fur stands on end as Key connects with something the rest of them can't sense, he bristles mentally at her words. He does not want that. It's a trap, he said. Trap, trap, trap. Watching you. Follow the breadcrumbs.

Enter the hollow tree.

Come underground, like the bones.

Watching you, watching you, burnt and rattling and speaking to them from devoured death.


Time passes. A bit. Sunthief is out there somewhere, shadowed by his brother. Key of Heaven is distant, his fur relaxing slowly as he tries to puzzle out an impossible question. Why, when there's no reason. Why here, where their lost Alpha's scent came back only to tease them right into the cold cold ground, wet with winter moisture? He stares up at the tree, and the night cycles overhead, inching towards a far-off dawn.

Nothing, Sunthief tells them occasionally, ranging farther and farther, circling around them. Not up, not down. Not north or south or west or east.

After awhile, just an echo here and there: Nothing.

Nothing.


Key of Heaven rolls his shoulders back when he rises off his haunches, turning his head to look at Wyrmbreaker. It's been awhile. None of this is natural. This tree was not here before, but its ghost is ancient. The membrane is thin because it was torn and is not yet knitted back together again. She came this way.

I do not think she would leave such a message for us. And that is why I think it's a trap.

[Wyrmbreaker] While Sunthief ranges farther and farther, while Key of Heaven drifts deeper and deeper, Wyrmbreaker sits on his haunches, patient and silent and still. His ears are up, flicking now and then. His eyes are alert. He sits back to back with Wane, and the implication is clear: he entrusts that entire swath of the world, that entire hundred and eighty degrees of field-of-vision -- as well as his own back -- to Wane. Half-blind, oblivious Wane.

Nothing, comes the echo, ever more distant, like a ping of radar. Nothing. Nothing.

At last, when Key of Heaven relents from his own search, Wyrmbreaker stirs to look at him. I don't deny that it may be a trap, he replies, his mind-voice level. But we have searched and found nothing. No other trail. No other choice.

Come back, this, to those who have ranged far. We follow.