Maddox and Kate, mismatched wolves if ever there were a pair, run and run and run. They are tireless, their physiologies shaped by evolution for just this sort of thing. The miles fall away and the little earth-gaffling remains silent; Maddox can only conclude that this means he should just keep going
and going
and going.
Yards turn to miles, minutes to hours. They follow the north branch of the river, more or less - cutting across prairies and forestlands, unspoiled lands that within a hundred years will look nothing like this. Where suburban tracts lie in 2011 are thick deciduous forests; where O'Hare sprawls in 2011 is a vast, open grassland.
As Maddox passes it, still running northwest, he begins to pick up scents. Perhaps some part of him is instinctively unwilling to go to this area. In 2011, this area is a forest preserve, almost unchanged from the way it is now. It looked -- will look -- clean and pristine then, too, but those quiet glades and shimmering streams hid the very heart of darkness. It's hard to make himself believe there isn't a Hive here yet, but the scents he catches are not those of the Wyrm. Just wolves and men, and wolf-men: his distant kin, the Fianna that claimed the Caern of the Mishibizhiw. Bold scents, aggressive: a fearless staking of claim on land that is theirs now by might.
Earth does not direct him into the Caern, though. The gaffling shifts on Maddox's shoulder, bits of debris trickling down through the Theurge's thin summer-fur. We go left. Leftleftleftleftleft, be slow down, carefulcareful now. Quiet.
The woods are almost impassably thick before him.
Sidewalk's EndThe distance traveled grows, and the miles fall away behind them. Still there is that connection to his packmates, on their own hunt for Billy Bourne elsewhere. Maddox updates them on their progress, which isn't much. Still going. No, still going. Haven't found them yet. Kate is a ghost nearby, adding her own thoughts, what have you.
Weaving through the densely growing trees and undergrowth, Maddox's lip curls when he catches the scents of other wolves and men and wolf-men. The Fianna of this Caern are said to be mean and vicious. He's got some experience with those kind of tribesmates, especially the bawdy Irishmen. Especially when they get drunk. Large ears prick, and he listens. One ear swivels back to Earth, clinging to his thin back, shifting with the movement of his shoulders.
He signals to Kate that it's time to slow down, go slow, be careful. Dropping to a walk, he lowers himself, tries to be quiet. It's not easy. If it didn't have to do with talking to spirits, Maddox didn't bother learning it. Scouting is the realm of the Ragabashes. If left to his own devices, he'd do what he did, summon a spirit to scout for him and report back. That's just not possible now. It's up to the Philodox and the skinny Theurge to find the source of the taint.
Careful to step as lightly as he can, Maddox makes his way as far as he can through the underbrush, listening for direction from his elemental friend.
-retelling-[let's have a dex + ath roll to get through stubborn underbrush!]
Sidewalk's End[dex + ath *hails the dice gods!*]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )
-retelling-Like living things, the brambles and thorns in the undergrowth catch at Maddox as he attempts to wriggle forward. Distantly, his sensitive ears can hear the beating of bodhrans; distant voices when the wind blows right. That's coming from behind him, though, from the direction of the Caern. The deeper into the forest he goes, the dimmer those sounds get.
Gradually, he grows aware of a different sound. A dull, pulsating hum, so low it's at the very edge of perception. It is a wholly unnatural noise.
[another dex+ath! diff 7 now!]
Sidewalk's End[please please please]
Dice: 4 d10 TN7 (1, 1, 2, 5) ( fail ) [WP]
-retelling-[roll dex + stealth vs diff 8 to not make noise!]
Sidewalk's End[dex + stealth, diff 8 (Maddox is not stealthy) O_O]
Dice: 4 d10 TN8 (1, 5, 6, 10) ( success x 1 ) [WP]
-retelling-When Maddox tries to edge forward again, he finds himself caught - a thorn jabbing painfully into his ribs, preventing him from moving unless he wants to give himself a new hole. Pain makes him flinch by instinct. It's only sheer willpower that keeps him from snapping the brambles that have entangled him.
The hum goes on. Now he can make out voices as well. Not the ones of the Fianna. Different voices ahead of him, muffled by distance. He hasn't made any progress, but at least he hasn't been discovered yet.
Forward?
Sidewalk's EndForward? To rip his precious lovely hide? Not to mention his low pain tolerance, and the fact that his eyes are already watering from the pain of that one obnoxious thorn. No, forward is for bullheaded young Ahrouns to rage against in their haste to get at their enemies throats. Maddox would like to live a little longer.
Carefully, he steps back, trying to untangle himself. Ears pricked toward the sound of voices in case someone's noticed his presence, he opts instead to find another way closer. Maybe one with fewer brambles.
-retelling-[percep + survival to find a better path! diff 7]
Sidewalk's End[percept + survival WHY DID I MAKE YOU SO USELESS?!]
Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (2, 4, 5) ( fail )
-retelling-Maddox is making no progress at all. He backs carefully out, he noses around, he even tries to dig - quietly - under the brambles. No luck. And quite likely he nearly jumps out of his skin when Honor's Compass whispers into his mind, You're a Theurge, not a Ragabash. Stop pretending to be one! There must be something else you can do.
And in the distance, the hum goes on.
Sidewalk's EndHe does nearly jump out of his skin when he hears Kate's voice, and for a moment he stares at the Philodox blankly. Sitting on his haunches, he cocks his head, thinking.
"Do you have any brilliant ideas?" he whispers to Earth.
-retelling-Earth has, by this time, compressed itself to a tiny, hardpacked ball of dirt. Even the blade of grass atop its head seems to have shrunk down. Asked for ideas - here, so close to an evil it could feel more keenly than anything flesh or half-flesh creature could - it can only unleash a small torrent of negatory sounds.
It seems like Sidewalk's End is on his own for this one.
Sidewalk's EndHe didn't really think Earth would have much to offer by way of ideas, but it was worth a shot. Rising to all fours, he takes a few steps, and stops, looks at Kate.
In the absence of a proper Ragabash, I s'pose our best option is to go and find one, eh? The Fianna will want to know they've got unwanted guests on their doorstep, if they don't know already.
-retelling-The moon is very nearly full - bright enough that even this thicket sees some light. In it, Katherine is ghostly and splendid, her white fur silver-laced. She looks at Sidewalk's End with cool blue eyes and whuffs assent.
Let us reunite with our brother and sister, then. Perhaps this Billy Bourne they seek will have a Ragabash handy, hm?
Sidewalk's EndMaddox looks beyond her, in the direction of the sounds of his Fianna kin. I was thinking of starting a bit closer. Sinclair said there's a Ragabash alpha at the sept. Bloody-Smiles, sounds like a real chum. And who knows, he stands in front of her, maybe we can pave the road to these blokes gettin' along with those at the village. We can at least try.
-retelling-That is an option. Honor's Compass turns, padding away from the thicket and the hum. Shall I accompany you, then?
Sidewalk's EndHe pauses to consider that, just long enough that he has to hurry to catch up. Yeh, but not all the way, luv. If they're driving everyone else off their territory, I'd rather not set them off as soon as we get there. But, maybe they'll listen to one've their own. After they've beaten me to a bloody pulp, because that's never happened before.
-retelling-I will be close, then. Be wary, brother.
It's not a long run to the edge of the Caern. When they can smell the Fianna cooking-fires, Katherine peels off from Maddox, a sleek silver shadow flashing into the night. Earth, emboldened by the new distance from the Dancers, grows a little looser again, scattering debris as Maddox runs.
In a world like this, the Gauntlet is so low that he doesn't notice immediately when he crosses into the bawn. The sensation is still there, though -- that ripple down the spine, the feeling of a breath of fresh air drawn. Not that Maddox has much time to enjoy it. He's ten feet into the bawn when a harsh bark challenges him:
Who dares set foot on our land! Speak!
Sidewalk's EndMaddox doesn't make it that far into the bawn. When he feels that tingle down his spine and feels that breath of fresh air, he stops. Believe it or not, he knows that there are protocols to follow, even if he didn't follow each and every one in Chicago of his time. In the urban environment, a lot of the old ways have been abandoned.
But, Maddox is Fianna. He was taught the old ways before he picked up the new. Here in the past, he suspects they need to be followed far more strictly. When he feels that barrier crossed, he stops and opens his mouth to howl to announce his presence.
The challenge rings out before he can do more than draw breath. Ears pricked, he faces the direction of the voice, feet braced, tail down. He's scrawny and slight, with no breeding to announce his affiliation, and there's a clod of dirt resting on his back. Maddox is even less impressive to behold than he is when he hasn't just fought a desperate battle and run several miles to get caught in some bushes.
Still, he has an air of confidence about him as he stands straight.
"End of the Road, Cliath Fianna Theurge. I seek Bloody Smiles."
-retelling-A beat or two of silence. Then out of the shadows melt one... two... three Garou. Two are in Homid, a man and a woman. The third is in Hispo, hulking, suspicious.
"Well, well, well." It's the man that speaks first. His clothes are rough and muddy. His hat is battered, set back on his head. His hair is dark and messy, falling into his eyes, and there's a rifle cocked over his shoulder. "If it isn't one o' our fine American cousins come ta pay respects to the real Fianna. Good evenin' to ye, lovely miss." And he bows to Maddox, elaborately, before pretending to do a double take. "Why -- ye're no miss! Deepest apologies, sir! I mistook ye fer account o' yer distinct lack o' ballocks!"
His companion elbows him hard. "Be serious, Seamus." She raises her voice, "This is the Caern o' the Great Water Lynx, praise be to th' goddamn finicky totem, an' this is Fiann land. Ye claim our tribe, but ye're not of our Sept, so don't think ye're on equal footin' wit' us, hear? Now, what do ye want wit' Lorccán, stranger?"
-retelling-[ my ass is totally gonna use horrible stereotypical gaelic names in this SL. *LOL* ]
Sidewalk's EndThe one called Seamus brays like an ass, and Maddox merely stares at him with utterly unimpressed dark eyes. Irishmen, he thinks with disdain, which isn't very fair. He's known a few from the emerald isle who haven't been all that bad. Of course in his lupus form his accent is lost, among other things. Like his time period inappropriate clothing and accessories. This could be tricky.
His gaze levels on the woman. Aware of the hulking threat of the Hispo wolf, he focuses on the one who has decided to show any measure of respect.
"I bring warning. Spirals are camped in the woods to the west, corrupting the land and its spirits." His head cants at the woman. "Thought you should know."
-retelling-A long silence. Perhaps he's shocked them. Perhaps he's rattled them enough that they'll spring into action now, go crush the Dancers, change the whole course of history --
and then Seamus bursts into laughter. Huge, hooting, braying gales of laughter. The hispo's ears flick; he snorts. Even the woman, most serious of the lot, can't help a little smirk. Then she lifts her chin and addresses Maddox.
"Well now. That's quite a story ye've got. Traitor Picts all th' way over in America, an' camped on our doorstep besides. Maybe ye wouldn't mind fillin' in a few details, hm? Tell us where these Spirals o' yours are. Their numbers, their strength, their formation an' purpose. Tell us how ye came by this information, Cliath, an' better yet -- tell us how it is tha' you know o' this information tha' Lorccán himself, mighty Adren scout tha' he is, somehow missed."
Sidewalk's EndThey laugh, and still Maddox appears unphased, as if he expected this. Maybe he did. And truthfully he did, but only a little. Here comes a scrawny cliath crescent moon telling them what their scouts should have been able to see for themselves. Disbelief he expected. That they seem unwilling to at least verify for themselves, though, that he didn't.
He continues to ignore the others, focusing only on the woman. Lowering his head to her, his respect now exaggerated, mocking, he says, "I am no scout, madam, so cannot give precise numbers. They are west, in the woods. I found them because I can speak to spirits, and the spirits tell me things. Why your scoutmaster has not found them I cannot say." And it takes every ounce of will he has to remind himself that he hoped to smooth the way toward peace with Billy Bourne, and stop from suggesting where this Adren Ragabash can look for Spirals.
"As for purpose, they are Wyrm. We are Gaian. If you need reminding of what they do, my sister is a Galliard. She could tell you stories."
All throughout he keeps his tone, his barks, his movements subdued, or as much as he can make them. He's not here to challenge them, but that they claim to be Fianna and refuse to offer hospitality to even one of their own annoys him. Just a little.
-retelling-"Your sister?" Every last bit of humor -- even if it's at Maddox's expense -- drops off the female's face. She takes a step forward, eyes narrowed, flashing through the darkness behind Maddox. Behind her, the big Hispo growls. "There's more than one o' ye, is there? Where are they?"
Sidewalk's End"Not here," he replies smoothly. "We heard of your 'hospitality,'" the word rumbles with a growl, "and thought it better to send the Stag in first."
-retelling-[ just to clarify - this is happening about 30 miles away from Chicago and Maddox ran all the way there, so Maddox's half of the scene is occurring at about Day 1 Moonrise + 6-7 hrs (we'll say they showed up at Moonrise + 3 hrs).
Sinclair and Lukas - and soon, Ms. Duquesne - are still at about Moonrise + 4 hours. ]
-retelling-The Hispo's growl rumbles louder. It takes a menacing step forward while Seamus snorts aloud. "Did ye hear tha', Maeve? Not only is our little American miss spittin' on our hospitality, she's runnin' wit' the bastard tribes. Next thing ye know, she'll be squattin' our land an' tellin' us we oughta let th' fookin' Injuns back in so we can all dance aroun' in feathers."
'Maeve's' eyes are cold. "Hush, Seamus. You, stranger. Watch where ye tongue wags on another's land. Especially when ye're showin' up out o' the black night wit' bastard tribes at ye back. We thank ye fer the information. We'll pass it on ta Bloody Smile, but I think ye best be leavin' now."
As though to back that assertion up, the Hispo looses a vicious snarling bark.
-retelling-Meanwhile...
Thirty miles away, two hours ago, Lukas and Sinclair descend from Joseph and Maryanne's porch. Sinclair shifts, leaving her clothes behind. Lukas, thinking they might be useful later -- or perhaps simply liking how he looks in undyed cotton and roughspun wool -- strips out of his, but holds them in his teeth as he shifts himself. It'll just make my night if a farmer sees us now, he thinks to Sinclair. Wolf shot while stealing clothes. This is how red riding hood tales originate.
Lupus-form, he stretches into a steady, heavy lope, not nearly so effortlessly athletic as his sister. Nevertheless, they make do, noses to the ground and occasionally to the night wind, running into the darkness.
The trail takes them north. North, and west -- more or less following Maddox's, though not so far. The moon rises higher as they go, casting their shadows dark upon the ground. The prairies are blue-white and ghostly in this light. The stars are infinite and brilliant, and truth be told, even though Lukas knows this is serious business, even though he knows very well the future of a Caern and a city rides on their shoulders,
he lets himself run. And there's a wild joy in that running, racing under the moon over unspoiled land; the wildgrass whipping his flanks, breaking across his chest.
And then - abruptly - he stops. Four feet planted. Head high, ears forward, alert. Joseph's scent is strong now, but they're not there yet. Wyrmbreaker has stopped for a different reason. There's a small wagon caravan ahead of them. A campfire burning. Humans, perhaps. On the goddamn Oregon Trail for all Lukas knows. Except ... no. There's the scent of wolves here, too.
Garou in that camp, he thinks. Not the bunch in town, either. These could be the Fianna. I don't think so, but ... be on your guard.
Sidewalk's EndMaddox whuffs when Seamus says he's spitting on their hospitality. Hospitality? What nearly sets him off, though, is bastard tribes. Those are his brother and sister they're sneering at. It ruffles, but he lets it wash over him because they are filthy hillbillies, and they are ignorant. This are what his tribe was like in this place and these times. Could he let them go blindly to their fate, just because they're assholes? No, and not just because changing history could save his sept.
He looks at the woman Maeve, who is and never has been any better than the rest of them just because she talked to him when the others just laughed. For all he knows, in this day and age that was as much an insult as anything. His eyes, black in the darkness, regard her impassively.
"Should I have waited until dawn, when your lands are ruin, kin taken, Caern defiled? If my pack makes my information suspicious, go now. See for yourself. I can save time, lead you to them."
Ms. Duquesne"Now why the Hell did y'all decide to bring her along?" some wire-thin teenager said. The wagon was parked, the fire was roaring. There were maybe four people there at best. Two females, two males, and what appears to be a wolf by a fire. The wolf is disinterested, the better-rounded female is cooking.
"Now, Jimmy, you know damn good and well I ain't gonna leave Mary anywhere I can't see her," one of the other males chided.
"Naw, I didn't mean Mary. I get Mary. I meant Charlotte."
"Now, Jimmy, you know damn good and well Charlotte ain't no woman neither. You ever eat anything she cooked? Weren't ever a woman alive that cooked so bad as Charlotte Duquesne, that's why she ain't got no mate- she'd poison the poor bastard an' the whole tribe knows it."
There's laughter at the camp, followed by a possibly too-heavy smack on the back of the head for the teenager. Hell, even the other female laughed. the one who was cooking seemed to keep her attention on the pot. They're all seated in a semi-circle around the fire. The lights outside are much brighter than they would be in the modern times.
Presumably, the woman who popped the thin teenager (Jimmy) on the back of the head is Charlotte.
"You better be careful, Jimmy," she tells him, "we start takin' in prospects you might have t'live with a Fury an' I don' think they'd take too kindly to yer woman hatin'."
"Now Ms. Dusquesne where did you get the idea that I don' like women? I looooove women," Jimmy replies.
"Funny, that ain't what the spirits're sayin'."
She raises an eyebrow and there's more laughter. The wolf stands and cocks its head to the side. Tail hangs low and it sniffs the air.
Technically, that's very true. Only you're missing the added sprinkle of Puritanical sexual repression and the perpetuation of Western rape culture during the expansion of North America, Sinclair says back, and she is, little history geek that she is, both partly serious and totally right. Try to avoid anything that looks like a basket of goodies and we should be exempt from inadvertently starting new and exciting werewolf myths. Not that it wouldn't be something of an honor, but it might cause a typhoon in Montana in our time or something.
She wags her tail once, quickly, and takes off alongside him. Her feet are light when she runs, skimming the ground. She takes her clothes, too, able to speak and run without needing to bark and growl. The smell of the clothes' owner sticks in her nostrils, making tracking difficult sometimes, but they manage. The smell of Joseph's sweat is in her memory, and in Lukas's.
When he begins to run, just to run, her mind gives a little leap of familiarity and delight, and she darts forward ahead of him. He overtakes her, she overtakes him, back and forth. Sweat builds and is expended, and the night air whisks across their furs, cooling them and caressing them.
They stop, dead, at the same instant. Sinclair built up enough speed to have to turn her body slightly to stop as neatly as she does, her head up, her ears cocked with alertness, her body quite still, her tail held down and out.
I know, she says, or rather: what Lukas says about the scents is in her mind, too, as though they're sharing the scent at once, smelling it at once. She cocks her head. Early white Garou settlers? We stroll in in lupus carrying sets of clothes, I think we'll be good. But, in the interest of being neighborly --
Sinclair drops the bundle of gingham and muddy leather from her maw and lifts her head, letting out a soft, ululating howl, the sort of roo roo roo! of greeting and information-sharing rather than the blasting AWROO of so many other communications.
We are Woe of Triumph and -- Savage Oracle, howls Sinclair, that moment of hesitation a moment when she is equally hit by inspiration. Adren Ahroun of Thunder and Fostern Galliard of the Iron Riders, bound to a storm god of the old world. We offer you news you have not heard and prophecy you must heed if you share your fire and the news we have not heard. She does not promise that they mean them no harm. She doesn't know yet.
-retelling-All at once the Hispo is in Maddox's face. Two inches away, close enough that Maddox can see himself reflected in the beast's yellow eyes, close enough that he can smell its breath, feel it fanning over his face as the beast snarls, snaps, growls.
SILENCE! GET OFF OUR LAND, PUP, BEFORE I TEAR YOU IN TWO!
Behind him, Seamus snickers. "Oooh. Looks like ye got Brendan's knickers all in a twist. Best do as he says, missy, or I'll be in fer a good show tonight."
"Oh, shut up, Seamus!" Maeve grips the Hispo from the ruff, forcibly pulling him back. When she regains the foremost position, she shakes her head at Maddox. "An' you too. How many times do ye need t' hear it? Watch how ye tongue wags when ya stand on another's land.
"I told ye already. I'll send word to Lorccán. He'll investigate an' we'll put an end to the threat if it's there. If you're here for the purpose ye say, then you should be satisfied with what ye've accomplished. If you're here for some other purpose, which I am sincerely beginnin' t' suspect, then know this.
"I will not allow you to come snoopin' around our land under some pretext o' leadin' us to a Wyrm threat. I will not follow ye into the dark. I will not trust ye blindly like that. I don't know ye. I don't know where you're from. I don't know anything about ye but that ye don't smell right an' you've got friends in the dark that won't show their faces. Now if ye keep insistin', then either you know nothin' of the laws o' host an' guest that you try t' throw in our teeth, or else ye're covetin' our land an' tryin' to lead us into ambush. An' I don't take kindly t' that.
"We take care of our own land, stranger. We didn't need your help to take it, an' we don't need your help to hold it. We thank ye for the information, but it is time for you to leave."
Ms. DuquesneThe wolf hears the howl, as do the rest of the pack follows suit. The woman who is cooking conveniently heads off to the wagon to presumably do whatever it is the lone woman (and not the lone female) do in wagon trains and wait for this all to start making sense. The howl of introduction is met with one in kind from the wolf who is padding out before his pack.
We are The Road to Hell, coyote's-
"Second!" Jimmy yells and half interrupts the wolf.
The wolf resists the urge to growl at him, but it takes the creature a second to recover, favorite children. If you come with news for is, we are willing to hear them. And our fire is yours, provided our hospitality is not forsaken. I am Song of the West Wind- son of Owl, fostern gibbous moon.
There is silence among the pack, but Lukas and Sinclair can tell there is some kind of unspoken conversation going on there. Tey're all far too still and far too quiet.
-retelling-Woe of Triumph, I like that, Lukas approves across the totemlink. As they draw nearer, he lengthens his stride to emerge from the darkness a half-beat before Sinclair. He doesn't bother to shift. Large and black-furred, he is clearly what Sinclair declared him to be and, amongst this pair at least, the less unusual of the two.
We thank you for your hospitality, he whuffs, and regret that we bring no gifts to your fire.
A moment later, Sinclair is in sight as well. Wyrmbreaker stands calmly and solidly, letting his packmate and Galliard speak.
Brutal RevelationIn homid, wearing that gingham, Sinclair could cover her piercings with her hair. In lupus, the one on her arm is mostly hidden, as are the tattoos, but several titanitum rings stil gleam in her ears. Earrings aren't that uncommon even now, but four in one ear and a bar through the other looks strange. Looks very strange indeed, but Sinclair is, in a way, hoping for that. She walks forward with Lukas, giving a little mental smirk. Of course he likes the names she chose. She's a Galliard. And an awesome one.
She is slightly smaller alongside him, carrying her clothes again until they reach the edge of the caravan. They make no hesitation about their coming, rustling through the grass now that they've been welcomed to the Strider's camp. Lukas thanks them for their hospitality, and mentally Sinclair nudges him:
We do brings chiminage, she reminds him. Especially to a child of Owl and a pack of Coyote and a Gibbous moon, words and tales are as welcome as any gift of meat or or trinkets. Maybe even more valuable. A beat. You so silly.
She sets down her clothes and stands where the firelight can glint on their lupus-blue eyes, the metal in her ears. Aloud she whuffles and play-growls to them: "This is my Alpha. Our brother and sister are to the northwest tracking the truth of the news we've heard, but we seek Difficult Current and his allies. Do you know of him?"
Sidewalk's EndWhen the Hispo is upon him, Maddox flinches back. Who wouldn't? He's a scrawny lupus Theurge, and there's a huge Hispo something snarling in his face. He startles back a few steps, ears back, tail down, and waits for it to either end or lead to teeth ripping his throat asunder.
When it doesn't come, just more derisive comments from Seamus and the anger of Maeve, Maddox straightens, but otherwise doesn't move from his position. He listens to her, and he wishes so dearly to just go back to his spirits. Spirits are easy.
When she's finished, he just looks at her. "We do not want your land, only to fight the Wyrm where it dwells and breeds. If I have any ulterior motive, it is to convince you to open yourselves to work with others. Or you will die," he says, lifting his head to her before he turns away, a clod of earth on his back like a misshapen hump.
-retelling-The Fianna don't even give Maddox the honor of watching him go. As soon as the Theurge turns away, so do they - Seamus leaping on Brendan's back, Brendan growling and snapping at him, in no mood to roughhouse. Maeve is the last to leave, lingering only a moment longer before she, too, turns.
Maddox has no idea if they'll tell Bloody-Smile what he's told them. He has no idea if they'll keep their word, or if they'll heed his warning. It was an unpleasant encounter to say the least, and sensing it, even the earth-gaffling is silent as he heads back.
A mile or so from the Caern, Katherine rejoins him. We should rejoin the others, she thinks, and leads the way back.
-retelling-Words and tales are not meat and prey, Lukas grumps. You may be right, but I'd prefer a nice bloody steak.
Then Sinclair is speaking to the Garou of the 19th century again, this pack of tricksters and wanderers. Wyrmbreaker's ears swivel forward. He too sets his borrowed clothes down, listening.
Sidewalk's EndThis time there are no protests or clarifications. By the time Maddox reaches Kate he's already informed the others of his encounter with the Fianna. He suggests they err on the side of caution, and assume that these people will do nothing. They won't heed his warning, or attempt to converse with anyone outside of their Caern.
He brushes against Kate's side, conscious of which side of him has the earth elemental so that for once he doesn't accidentally dirty her pristine white fur.
He feels weary and hollow with his Gnosis and his will depleted and weakened, and for the first time he worries for their success. Can they find another way to keep those stupid fuckwit arseholes from falling to the Spirals? Or will they be stuck here in this place for the rest of their lives?
I want to go home, he thinks. I need to rest, is what he says.
Ms. DuquesneThe wolf's tail ticks from side to side and his ears perk forward. Sinclair is a galliard. Sinclair is a good Galliard at that, so West Wind is more than happy to take the words that she's given and keep them. This child of owl, this pack of coyote craves words. The road makes them stale. The isolation eats at you. You need new stories. You need new blood.
The wolf sits down, but the lanky teenager can't keep his mouth shut, "Well darlin' you're in luck! we're lookin' fer him-" and he's met with a stern look from the other male there. The thin female rolls her eyes and the wolf, if he knew how to face palm he might just do it right now.
"I swear t'Gaia, Jimmy, if you piss off our tribe mate," she sighs, "we are currently looking to meet up with Difficult Current and his band. We haven't quite met up with them yet."
Maddox did say there were buffalo. Maybe we could go catch us a nice adolescent as a pack later. Would that make you happy, boo-boo? She bumps against his side familiarly, even as they approach Coyote's pack.
The one in question seems to have already decided to like Sinclair based on a couple of lines of howls, and Sinclair picks up on the warm welcome quickly. She remains guarded. There is no way that the Unbroken can do anything but. They have so much riding on this. There are so many ways they could fail. And failure means so much death. Vicious, humiliating deaths.
Her head cocks at the youngin' that blurts out the answer to her question, then swivels back to the female. She pauses a moment. "Then why have you stopped?"
-retelling-"Our prophecy's coming down on us fast," Wyrmbreaker adds. "We won't fault you if you and your kin need to rest, but we must press on. And we might need your help."
Ms. Duquesne"We need to know what this prophecy is before we can lend you our assistance," the lone female replies.
Brutal RevelationAt that, Sinclair steps in again. She pads forward. "There was no disrespect meant in the question, West Wind. We can share what we know but we will not stop for long. Your aid is welcome if it is offered once we've told what we can, but I ask you: why have you stopped? Is the trail cold?"
Ms. DuquesneThe pack alpha replies and looks at the female in his pack. Charlotte then takes a step back and runs a hand through her hair. It's half-deference and half embarrassment. West Wind seems pleased to take the reigns before the rest of his pack can do what they do best- which is to say this: run their ever-loving mouthes.
"Our kin need rest," he replies, "while our needs are great, I would not push her further than necessary."
Brutal RevelationSinclair gives a small nod -- her urgency is palpable, unabated since they landed in this time period. She's not interested in stopping in Maryanne's cabin for the night, seeing her children at breakfast. She doesn't want to sleep with these wanderers, sit and sup with them. Three days pounds like a drumbeat in her head, three days to turn around what is already done, what seems inevitable to her future-mind, because it was. It is. Right now it's happening, and as much as they joke about butterflies and hurricanes, she wonders how much of a dent they can make.
She remains in lupus. As potent as scent-memory is, an idle sketch of a human face passed down from Galliard to Galliard -- especially a face like hers, all her piercings and tattoos and the things that make her so unique -- could be a disaster. She's wary. That shows, too, and she doesn't try to hide it. Nor does she apologize for her urgency.
"The news you have not heard is that the Wyrm is growing strong here. The spirits of Earth speak to our pack's Theurge and tell him that they are being poisoned near the sept held by the Fianna. The Spirals lurk in these lands.
"The prophecy you must heed is this: I have seen the Spirals overtake that caern. I have heard future songs of how it became a hive to the Wyrm. There is hope, and a new caern on the horizon of another year, but the hive -- the deaths to Garou and kin alike, the corruption it brings -- is coming. It is almost here. We seek Difficult Current because he seeks peace with the Fianna. We seek aid because visions knot my stomach tighter each day, now each hour: the Wyrm is coming, and if the Garou do not stand together, Gaia loses another piece of her soul to the Spirals."
It is heavy. She does not hesitate in her words. She remembers the stories of true prophets, she wonders if they were time travelers, she knows they speak of severe abdominal pain. Headaches and nosebleeds, sometimes, too, auras and the smell of sulfur in their nostrils, but the one thing she remembers from tales of prophecy is the stomach pain, particularly in female oracles, as though Gaia herself is rending their wombs to share her pain, to warn them of the danger. Sinclair stands very tall, the strangest Iron Rider they've likely ever seen, and one who chooses lupus to boot.
"We know the Fianna to the northwest rebuke other Garou who come near. What we do not know is what Difficult Current is doing, or can do, or if he knows how close danger is. We will press on to find him alone if we must, but first: what you know, whatever you know -- will you share it with us? We cannot hunt the Wyrm on prophecy alone, or find peace without other tribes' aid."
Ms. DuquesneWest Wind seems to think heavily on this. his ears lay back and his tail is still. the air feels cold, the wind blows in homage and the cicaedas bray on. Charlotte looks at the Silent Strider. She folds her thin arms across her non-existent chest. In a modern world she could walk a runway, because she's somewhat awkward looking. She's too thin to bear sons, and deceptively delicat-looking. There's no place for a body like that in the west.
The wolf's ears are too long, but his body looks strong. He is still. they do not know where Difficult Current is just yet, nor what he is doing at the moment.
Charlotte raises her eyebrows. Words are exchanged without the words being said aloud. Sinclair speaks of the Fianna to the northwest and the silent one, the male who seemed content to not say much of anything since the other two garou arrived, tightens his jaw and he exhales. There is more silence and they start to gather things up. The silent male and the skinny teenage boy go to gather dirt to extinguish the fire.
"No good comes from failing to heed earth's warnings. we'll share with you what we know, and we'll do what we can for you."
-retelling-A couple years ago, when Sinclair tore out of Vegas with her brand-spankin'-new pack, she probably never for a moment imagined she'd be a prophet one day. She probably never thought she'd slingshot back a hundred eighty years. She probably never thought she'd see the fall of her own Caern.
Yet here she stands, and all these things have come to pass. And though she claims the rank of Fostern, the spirits whisper Adren when they speak of her. That same rank is in her voice, resonating in the very hearts of those who listen.
Even Wyrmbreaker is silent. He knows the story already. Hasn't merely heard it but saw it himself. Even so: silent. Determined. Charged again with the urgency, the immensity of their task.
After a moment, one of the small group steps forward. The one that hasn't spoken yet; the quiet Garou who never strays very far from the sole kinswoman in their band.
"We don't know a whole lot," he admits, his drawl soft and easy, "seein' as how we're mighty new in town ourselves. But we came here 'cause we heard from the spirits that sh-- that trouble's brewin'. And we came to make ourselves useful. Truth be told, I was gonna try'n make contact with tha Caern here, seein' as how they're my people. They weren't too friendly though. Spat on my Alpha 'n my packmates fer not bein' Fianna. Spat on me fer not bein' true Fianna 'r some such thing. Anyway, we came back ta town, 'n we heard about Difficult Current.
"Seems he was born to tha Injun tribe the Fianna drove out. Stayed behind on account of his daddy bein' white, so he ain't look too red. His blood runs with Uktena, but he chose the path'a Unicorn instead. Preaches a lotta good stuff 'bout makin' peace 'n comin' together. Last we heard he was gonna try'n negotiate some sorta treaty where non-Fianna Garou could share the Caern 'n defend it, so maybe he's had wind'a trouble brewin' himself. But after meetin' that lot up north -- well. Maybe Difficult Current's got a sweeter tongue'n me. We sure as hell hope so, if he's gonna stand any chance.
"Then again, sentiment back in town was, if tha Fianna won't make nice, then maybe we'll just rally on Difficult Current-rhya 'n make our own damn Sept. Plenty'a Septs don't have Caerns ta call their own. Don't mean we can't come together and do somethin' about what's comin'. And we figure even if the Fianna decide we jus' ain't good enough fer 'em, we can't go wrong formin' up with our own.
"'s about all we know, Rhyas."
As though sudden conscious and self-conscious of his longwindedness, Donovan ducks his head and sits back down. Beside Sinclair, Wyrmbreaker shifts his weight, then answers.
"Thank you. Our time is short, and we need to press on. We won't demand your aid, but you heard Savage Oracle. This is dire, and it is desperate. If you can spare a few of your number -- or even one -- we would be glad for the help."
Brutal RevelationSinclair cocks her head to the side. "Many septs live without a caern. But caerns do not live without a sept. And two isolationist packs do not make a sept. They make a dozen unsung deaths, a dozen unmarked graves, and a hive that grows in power almost unchecked for over a hundred and fifty years." This is all but a growl. Her anger is at the Spirals. It is palpable in the sound of her voice, as is her strength.
She is called, to these Garou, Savage Oracle. They can understand why now. Eyes that see the future, ears that hear songs not written yet, and claws and fangs bloodied by war. If she were a Talon, a Native, a Fenrir, they could likely understand her. But she claims the Iron Riders. She is a wild iconoclast, if she's one of those.
"We combat the Wyrm wherever it dwells and whenever it breeds. There is no room to try, fail, and then give up. There is only success in this endeavor or unabated corruption. If the Fianna would lose their caern due to blindness and pride, and if the Riders and Children and Striders and all others would let it fall because they can always walk away to make their own sept, then I will find all their songs and their names as history goes forward and tear them from the memory of our people!"
This last is a roar, barking, enough to frighten the kin, enough to echo briefly across the plains. Her fur is bristled. Somehow there is both challenge and inspiration in her words to the caravan, even though there is also warning and threat. Wyrmbreaker -- Woe of Triumph -- is more diplomatic. The Fostern beside him settles her fur, dropping her hackles, her breath steaming in the night air that grows colder with the wind off of the lake, even in late summer.
"I am sorry. I see deaths that have not come. I see a new caern, and I see new lives and a strong sept, but I see so much death, too. I would not wish an end like that to any Garou, or a life remembering the death-shudders of a caern, no matter their sins." She is very still a moment, and drops her head in respect to Coyote's pack. "We go to find Difficult Current. Those of you that must stay to ward your kin, do so with honor and our thanks. Those of you that can be spared, please add your voices and your strength to the prophecy, which is fragile and will be forgotten if carried by only a few."
With those words, she lifts her bundle of clothes and wheels from the circle of the caravan, moving with her Alpha back into the dark to catch Joseph's scent once again.
-retelling-That roar rings across the dark plains. It makes the kin flinch; it makes the youngest Garou blink. Chicago's barely even a glimmer of an idea right now. The towering skyrises, the brilliant boulevards spreading like the Weaver's web from the edge of the lake -- all that is in the future. Right now, there's nothing but wind, and night, and a savage prophecy brought back through time.
The Adren and the near-Adren depart. They lope into the night, holding their stolen clothes in their jaws. And when they leave the campfires behind, they find two others shadowing them. Another half-hour or hour, and the rest of the Unbroken rally to their packmates. Six wolves now: Lukas and Sinclair and Katherine and Maddox and Charlotte and Donovan, running swiftly beneath the growing moon. And the scent they follow grows stronger with every step.
