[Sorrow] They are gathered in an outbuilding near the Caern's heart. The metal hanger once served as a warehouse, storage for containers offloaded from the docks, for smaller vessels drydocked for repairs. Now, it is an expansive space, ribs of metal like flying buttresses supporting the roof, which rises at a steady pitch to a slender metal spine down the middle. The skylights had been burst out, and sections of the metal roof have been pulled away from the skin of the building like bark from a birch tree. Shafts of sunlight dart through the ceiling, down through the close, warm darkness to pool on the concrete floor.
Sorrow waited outside the hanger for Adamidas and the Philodox Elder, her hands in her front pockets, her body a lean, tight line inside her worn old clothes. Her hair is pulled back into a French braid, revealing the sharp planes of her cheek and jaw, the long line of her neck. Her t-shirt is black, impractical for the heat. Midsummer, she will bake in it. It is not quite midsummer yet, but the day is warm enough that a fine sheen of sweat touches her pale features, dampens her cotton tee.
Adamidas arrives first. Sorrow offers the young theurge the edge of a familiar half-smile, and a low quiet - "Hey."
The moon is full. This night last a pair of Fenrir fought in the bawn. It is daylight, and the moon is half a world away - but they can feel it, crawling underneath the skin of the earth, the promise of another full fat moon to come. The greetings are brief. They all know why they are here. In the close darkness of the hanger's expanse, they stand. Sorrow briefs Honor's Compass quickly and quietly on the challenge, and the terms set by Adamidas: the test of judgment, the test of vision, the test of rage.
Both Adamidas and Sorrow listen quietly as Kate offers the test of judgment:
There is a Garou who has been accused by another of holding a Kinfolk against her will. The Kinfolk belongs to the accuser's tribe yet the Garou in question insists the Kin is there by their own free will. The Accusing Garou says the Kinfolk's mental state is unfit to judge as its been abused and altered. How do you sort out who is in the right, how do you extricate the Kinfolk while tending to their best interests?
Whom of the Garou should be punished? How do you judge? Why?
The scenario laid out, Sorrow looks to Adamidas, waiting for her consent or clarification to the test suggested by Honor's Compasse.
[Rain of Brass Petals] She is all strength and composure. It is hard to think of her as such, because these two have seen her remembering and reliving her worst. They've seen her afterward, they ahve seen her grow. They've never seen her conducting tribal matters, but there she is.
She waits with Kora, and she smiles. Her hair is down and comes into ringed spirals, loose curls. She speaks again, "hey."
Familiar. Neither angry nor antagonistic.
Katherine lays the clarification wide. Adam nods.
"That follows the spirit of the matter nicely," she says, she consents.
[Honor's Compass] Honor's Compass looks between the pair. Her fair waves are held back from her face, stylishly scooped in a clip and lain across one shoulder. As ever, the Philodox Elder looks as though she had been called from a country club, her white pearls coiled around her throat, her blouse silk, and as expensive as it appeared.
She stands prim; her hands folded before her as she lays out the challenge stipulations; and when Rain of Brass Petals agrees to the terms, inclines her head and returns pale eyes to Kora. "Proceed to answer, She Who Brings Sorrow."
[Honor's Compass] (er, offers! not brings. ugh. typos.)
[Joe War- Handed] He said he'd be there.
He'd warned Kora.. he's more likely to be on the witch's side. She'd asked again. He swore, he refused, he railed against the Skald. In the end though, battered boots crunch against the shrapnel left in the wake of long- ago rust, and sooner rather than later, Joe's formidable form emerges from the halogen haunted gloom of the dockyards. Face drawn and pensive. Disgust flickers about the edges of savage, and recently battered features.
An oddly deferential note enters the mindlessly confident rhythm of his gait, and as Joe approaches the front of the dockhouse his glacial eyes flick to Katherine and remain there.. his steps slow.. he never looks away from her-
-and the moment her face begins to tighten, indeed, as soon as there is any sign at all in the philodox that he'd come far enough he stops precisely as far away as she indicates, and his attention swings to Adamidas and Kora.
[Sorrow] Sorrow's features are neutral, now. Her eyes are dark, and her mouth is still as she considers both Adamidas and Honor's Compass. "First, free the kinfolk from the one who holds her. As I understand your scenario, he is neither born of her blood, nor has he won her through honorable challenge." There is a brief, twist of her mouth, as if she were tasting the pith of a bitter fruit.
"If you wish to keep peace in the Sept, require the Garou holding the kinswoman to return her to her tribe before moonrise. Bar his access to the Caern until he has complied with the order. If he still refuses to return her, her tribe should find her and claim her, and haul him back to the Sept for swift judgment." The if he survives goes unspoken.
Sorrow glance away, then - over at Joe War-Handed, her dark eyes briefly resting on her the hard lines of her Alpha's youthful features. Here is the edge of her smile, halved, as she turns her attention back to Kate, and then directly to Adamidas, speaking plainly and frankly. "Fenrir have little tolerance for weakness in ourselves or in our kinfolk - we will not tolerate weakness that is bred and borne in the marrow of a creature, but injuries - injuries to the body or the mind that can be healed should be healed.
Sorrow offers the faintest natural little shrug. "Bring the kinswoman to the ritemistress when she has been recovered from the one who holds her. Bleeding-Heartrhya is a Child of Gaia, a skilled healer, and a theurge of the first water. She above all others would know whether the kinswoman was sick and injured, altered through threat or abuse. She would know whether she could be cured - by gifts, by human medicine, by time - and could, perhaps, cure whatever injuries had been done to her. Or recommend the human treatment necessary to see her whole.
"If the kinswoman has been injured, she should be healed. If she has not been injured or altered, bring her before a philodox and have the truth of it from her.
"If the kinswoman has been harmed, the Garou in question should be punished - and the punishment should be based on the harm he has done - to the kinswoman and to her tribe. Until you know the truth of it, you cannot assign punishment."
"If the kinswoman has not been harmed, the one who held her must still return her to her tribe. If he still wishes to claim her, tell him to challenge her tribal elder to stand as her guardian or as her mate. The accuser could challenge for her as well. The tribal elder has the right to accept either challenge, or both. He has the right to refuse both challenges too, and to hold and care for his kin as he sees fit.
"That is my answer." Sorrow glances first at Kate, then at Adamidas.
[Honor's Compass] The Silver Fang cuts a sharp glance at War Handed as he approaches the edge of the challenge circle. The look is measuring, though there is a degree of warning contained within it as he draws near. When he ceases before crossing it the Fostern's attention returns to Sorrow. She listens, Truth's Meridian, without the flicker of anything near to agreement, or outright disagreement to the Fenrir's response.
When she is finished; Katherine turns and addresses Adamidas.
"Has she satisfied you with this answer, Brass Petals? Has she proven her judgment is sound?"
[Rain of Brass Petals] "Before I have passed my ruling on her judgment as it would please Pegasus, I need to ask a few questions," there's a key phrase there. As it would please Pegasus. Know where the theurge's loyalties and logic lies.
"First: what is harm? What is abuse?"
She takes a second, and she stands and thinks through this delivered testimony. The Fury listens, as though she is a proxy for a higher being. Voice of a higher court, "tell me what weakness is."
[Joe War- Handed] A few yards away, there is a hollow thrumming noise as Joe drops to sit on a ground down chunk of metal. Blinking, he looks from Kora to Adamidas... his eyes are narrowed and he seems intent on their conversation- though its substance seems to escape him for the most part. It seems a cultural barrier, rather than an inellectual one.
...completely absorbed in the proceedings, it takes him several moments to become aware of the stark and abrupt noise he'd made. The youthful Modi's heavy hands drop into his pockets, rummaging for gum as he stares at the ground, face reddening rapidly. Whoops.
He's very still for a time. Church mouse quiet.
[Sorrow] Except for the subtle spasm in a band of tendon that cuts from cheek to jaw, Sorrow's features are still. She looks from Adamidas to Honor's Compass, and then back to Adamidas. This time, the creature's dark eyes - the color lost in the shadows of the vast hanger - are intent, fixed on the smaller theurge.
"Rain of Brass Petals-yuf," Sorrow begins, her features calm and still, despite the pulse of the moon on the other side of the world, somewhere beyond the horizon, somewhere beneath their feet. "Honor's Compass-rhya asked me to answer a concrete question. I have answered it. Told her how I would retrieve the kinswoman, attempting to preserve first the peace of the Sept, and what the step would be thereafter, if such peace could not be preserved, how I would ensure the kinswoman's welfare, and how I would seek the truth underlying the dispute between the accuser and the one-who-is-accused.
"Now you ask me abstract questions - what is harm, what is abuse, what is weakness? They are words, shallow vessels that we use to hold concepts that expand beyond the limits of their containers. Harm has half-a hundred definitions. It has a thousand. If I kick you, if I wound you, if I cut off your arm, I have harmed you. If I slander your name, if I lie to your tribe, if I taint you, or tempt you to dark thoughts or dark deeds, I have harmed you. If I support your weakness, or sap your strength, I have harmed you. If I pull you up when you could have stood straight on your own - when you should have stood straight on your own - I have harmed you. If I inflate your sense of self-worth beyond the reasonable, encourage you to delusions of grandeur, I have harmed you. If I stoke bitterness and resentment in you, I have harmed you. And if I do any of these things - cause you harm - because it gives me pleasure to see you in pain, to see you weakened, incapable of caring for yourself, because it gives me pleasure to see you humiliated, or frightened without cause, again and again, I have abused you.
"There are a hundred more definitions. Unless I know what was done to the kinswoman, I cannot tell you whether she was harmed. Unless I know what the Ritesmistress would say, what the philodox would say, what her story was, I cannot tell you whether she was abused.
"And weakness, weakness is that which saps our strength. Pride can be a strength; overweening pride, weakness. Rage brings us back from the brink of death. When we are ruled by it, it is weakness. Weakness is found both in cowardice, and in overconfidence. Weakness is that which turns us from our duty - which is first to Gaia, to the earth beneath our feet, to the war we fight every day, with ever breath in our lungs and every fiber in our bodies. It is weak to refuse good counsel, and weak to bathe yourself in counsel until you cannot walk out of the room without asking which direction might be best."
"I can tell you a thousand stories of weakness, Rain of Brass Petals, and never get to the heart of it."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She clears her throat, and whatever words she had, whatever tongues she spoke in, were held for the time being. Spirits came, spirits went. Time passed and she considered.
Was she satisfied, though? That was a strong question, a harder question than she had originally anticipated. The Fury looks at Kora, listens to her words, her tone, and notes that she isn't patronizing. That she is right there, in the moment with her questions. And she speaks of abstractions- a language that this spacey creature understands.
She nods, once up, once down.
"She who offers sorrow-yuf, you have answered her question as presented... we can move on to the next part of this challenge," she replies.
[Sorrow] "Trent has no close Garou relatives; not within living memory and although he knows how he was raised and the beliefs of his tribe, he does not know the names or deeds of his ancestors. Still, he descends from heroes.
"It is not an unbroken line. There are names that are lost, and names that forgotten. There are kinfolk who have gone unnoticed and unremembered by the tribe and the Nation, and there are men - trueborn - who have been given over to other tribes, because Black Furies will not accept them in their ranks.
"êüñç ôïõ Ýùò" carefully, Sorrow says the words carefully. The first one sounds like her name, the one her mother gave her. Kora. Kore. The daughter, who disappears into the underworld, who returns changed, and dangerous. Kore. She says the words carefully because the sounds are alien. Sorrow speaks a handful of languages fluently - some learned before her change, when she was a human with the kernal of a monster in her - and others learned after. Greek is not among them. Still, she is a Skald, multilingual, careful with the shape of words, attentive to their formation, and the accent is correct, if perhaps a bit overprecise.
" - Daughter of the Dawn was the greatest of the Garou in his direct line. The spirits do not remember her human name, but they that she was born under the light of the waxing full moon, at the first hour of the morning. That her mother dreamed her greatness, and that - like Cassandra - none of her sisters believed her, for the child rushed to meet her moon, and was born early, sickly and small, and the theurge who performed the rites to determine whether she was born true failed to gleam the truth of it."
The story continues. The particulars are lost in the mists of time, which erodes history until it is cool and white and solid, like bone. Daughter of the Dawn rose to the rank of Adren following a renowned philodox - philodox she says, reminding herself of the shape of the word the other tribes use to name the half-moons among them - who fell. They were sisters, close as the plaits in a braid, close as the chambers of a beating heart, who fought together and bled together and died together. And the legends say that the alpha, whose name has been written out of history - fell, stumbled - that taint entered her body and her mind, coiled itself around the base of her spine, subtle, insatiable, unendurable.
Theurges could not expunge it from her body. Her sisters performed rite after rite of cleansing - to no avail. The pack drifted away. Some were killed fighting to save some mythic beast, some precious hope of a cure, and others left, their faith lost, their hearts heavy. Kill me. Abandon me. Flay the skin from my bones and burn it clean, burn whatever is inside me out until I can sleep beneath the earth, the Alpha told Daughter of the Dawn - leave me here.
Daughter of the Dawn would not leave her sister to die in the dark, without hope of redemption, her soul burdened by the taint that riddled, the dream of her tribal homelands lost. Instead, she dragged her sister to Erebus, and threw her in the silver waters, held her there until she had been burned clean and burned pure, until her shrouded soul was cleansed, until - until the flesh melted from her bones. Until the skin sloughed off the full-moon-daughter's hands, leaving them charred husks, a fusion of skin and blood and bone. She pulled her dying sister from the waters, then, and cradled her as she died, heedless of the way the silver waters ran off her sister's broken body, scored and marked her own skin, held her sister until she died, cleansed, freed from the taint that had engulfed her.
There are more stories, but this is the one that Sorrow chooses to tell. Death and rebirth, faith against all odds - redemption and sacrifice.
[Joe War- Handed] Joe watches, he listens, and remains a silent, stoic bulwark behind his sister. Suspicion remains plain on his face.. his misgivings too. But he plainly doesn't intend to interrupt.
[Sorrow] In the aftermath of the storytelling, Sorrow is falls silent. There is a serenity to her face, a certain stillness as she relates the history and deeds of the long-dead Black Fury.
Then, at last, she shifts and continues, "You asked me, Rain of Brass Petals-yuf, to tell you how the Get of Fenris and Black Furies are different, and how we are similar. The differences are too numerous to name - from the gods we remember to the names we give ourselves, from the spirits we honor to the deeds we deem right and true and honorable. You honor the sacred feminine, remember the rites of the seasons, the tri-partite goddess, mirror it in your selves and in your mythos. We remember the deeds of the northern gods, follow Fenris-wolf who commands of us only strength, strength and honor. You protect the weak and succor the Wyld. We fight in preparation for Ragnarok, the last battle - we fight so that we may win the last battle, defeat Jormungandr, and bring an end to strife in a new age.
"These are hollow words, though. You know them as well as I do, and they are truths so quotidian that they seem little more than stereotypes.
"There are as many differences as there are definitions of weakness. There are more.
"I can tell you," she continues, pausing, quiet. " - rather more succinctly how we are the same, if you will walk with me."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She looks at her, and there is a moment. It's hard to tell what she is thinking, for once. And they need to walk, and they need to talk, and she needs a change of scenery. Her muscles have stayed tense for too long, her grame has remained taut and she has looked, and listened, rather openly. Whether she heard what the woman said might have been a different matter, but that made no difference at that moment.
She was hearing her now.
She was listening, now.
And they could both die tomorrow; now was all they really had.
Will you walk with me? In a roundabout way. She takes a step, and her hips move. She's getting them, now- hips, that is. She had them before, but she never quite seemed filled in. She looks taller, sometimes. Maybe she'll grow another inch or two, top out at five six instead of the meager and average five feet four that she is now.
"Let's walk, Sorrow," she says. There's a tinge of warmth there.
[Sorrow] Sorrow leads them from the hanger, out into the warm afternoon. The sunlight is brilliant, the sunlight - after the deep shadows of the hanger - is blinding. It gilds the length of Sorrow's pale hair, pulls out threads of gold and wheat and amber and emphasizes the northern pallor of her skin. She walks quickly, that long-legged gait confident and sure, leading them from the hanger to the graves.
Some are new. Too many are new. The earth is still mounded, slowly settling back into itself, raw wounds in the torn-up tarmac. Sorrow walks past the newest graves, sparing a single glance for that of her Alpha. She walks past the newest graves, to the top of the row - the oldest graves, the first ones dug into the damp earth of the lakeshore, torn from the cracked, weed-riddled tarmac, stops there and sinks to her haunches, forward just on the balls of her feet. The air smells of the lakeshore here, and sunlight on the turned earth.
She cants a look back up at Adamidas, the sunlight glinting in the dark discs of her eyes. There is a smile on her mouth. It is a ghost-thing, all sorrow.
"Kadin Ignacios," she says, lifting her chin in a gesture toward the nearly forgotten marker. " - kin to the Black Furies. He died raising the Caern. I can tell you his story. And, there - " just beyond this grave, another. "Lexi Jonsen, kin to the Get of Fenris. She died, too, raising the Caern. They fought together, fought an enemy they could not see, for the truth of a thing they could not name. They carried guns against creatures of nightmare, and died for spirits they could never see, died for their faith, the faith we hold in trust for them now. Here are our kin under the earth.
Sorrow straightens, then, dusts off her hands on her thighs, touches the meager marker for the nearly forgotten kinsman with a passing them, and circles the rest of the graves. Here is Fierce Hammer. Here is Eyes Like Flint. Here is Lights Out. Here is Bones to Dust. Here is Gossamer Wing. Here is Truth-in-Frenzy. She points out each grave, speaks each name with a quiet sort of reverance as she passes them.
They complete a full circuit of the graves, returning to the first: Kadin Ignacios, kin to the Black Furies. Sorrow finishes, then,
"This is how we are the same."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She knows these Furies. Knows Lights Out because Joey had loved him, once. Knows him because his pack had loved him, once. Knows bones to Dust as just that- dust, but a daughter of the wyld. Wonders about her sometimes- wonders if she was anything like Irene. Just like she wonders about Lights Out.
She doesn't know that they have similar eyes. Similar hair colors and skin tones. Doesn't know that, if she stood next to the deceased metis that he could have been her brother. She would have found it chilling.
There is Truth in Frenzy, who she had paid her respects to- another name she had never known, but treated with reverence. Adam comes by sometimes. Picks weeds by his name marker, as though the body would appreciate it. It's best that Alethea Adamidas never knew these fallen few. She doesn't know about Gossamer Wing, has no idea that she might have liked her. Might have respected her, even, had the fates been more kind. Another girl. Another edging close to high achievements as such a young, young age. She listened to Kora, completed the circuit, as all things do-
A Cycle. A circle. Back to the beginning. To Kadin and Lexi. Kinfolk. Arguably, the beginning.
Quietly, she speaks, as though she is afraid of waking the dead.
"This is sufficient," she says, "we have a third task to complete."
A guide through a journey.Virgil Alethea guides them on.
[Sorrow] "We do," Sorrow agrees, her voice is always low - the tone saturated, alive with color, the pitch deep, the volume quiet - and so it is now. She turns and matches her pace to Adamidas' own, for all that she is head and shoulders taller than the younger girl. Her stride is long, her gait easy, comfortable, she lives easily inside her own skin, her worn clothes, the echo of voices of the long-lost past in her head, lives inside herself easily, as if there were no other way to live.
The sun has shifted in the sky. The pattern of sunlight amidst the dark shadows has changed inside the large hanger where they met as the day has worn on. The moon is moving, beneath their feet, on the other side of the world, the rhythm of it written into the beating of their chambered hearts.
They end where they began, in the challenge circle, with Honor's Compass standing as witness and guide. Sorrow stands before Adamidas, ready.
"The test of rage," Sorrow says, her eyes on Adamidas, ready.
[Sorrow] Facedown: roll 1!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [Aaand 3-2-1-LOOK!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1
[Sorrow] Facedown: roll 2!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [Again again?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 7)
[Sorrow] Roll 3!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [One more time!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Sorrow] Roll 4!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [*covets Kora's WP*]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Sorrow] (covets adamidas' intimidation and charisma!)
[Sorrow] The Black Fury and the daughter of Fenris stand in the middle of the challenge circle, and lock eyes. This is a test of will and control as much as rage - a test of dominance. Both stare intently for long moments. The seconds tick by, marked by the beating of their hearts, the rhythm of breath, the tick of something in the wall, somewhere. Something released by the heat of the sun, something lulled by the motion of the lake against the shore. The seconds push themselves together, fuse. They stare and they stare - there are no sparks of rage, no suggesting of spiking fury as too often happens in such contests - and there is a moment - a singular moment - when each finds that she must start digging into the stuff of herself to hold the others' gaze, that she must expend herself to hold the eye contact, push herself beyond, force herself to keep going by will alone.
It is a close thing. Both are breathing more heavily, now, tension riding in their shoulders and spines. Sorrow's hands curve into fists at her side, but they remain still.
Adamidas looks away first. The gesture is subtle, minute, just a flicker of her deep brown eyes away. Sorrow grits her teeth, molars grinding against molars, and remembers, in that moment, to breathe, remembers the function of her lungs - stares a moment longer, then looks away, too, breathing heavily now, for all that they were stock-still throughout the facedown.
[Rain of Brass Petals] “I chose this challenge for its cultural significance,” she says, “because every cub who petitions Pegasus must undergo challenges that test their judgment as an avenger, their vision, and their fury. Your judgment, I have found, is sound but very much that of a child of Fenris.”
A beat.
“I do not view this as a bad thing.
“You answered, first, by answering exactly what was asked of you. You used the information presented to you, as it was presented to you. You did not ask for more, and you did not ask for clarification. Sometimes, we are given limited means in which we can establish truth and dispense justice. You acknowledged that what damages are done should be healed, tried to hand it off to someone who could do the job.
"What troubled me in this portion of the challenge, however, was that you never said that you would check claimant garou's motives or intentions. The blame was solely placed on the accused- not very balanced or seeing to the heart of a matter. Though, you did state that you wished to see to the heart of the matter, which I do applaud.
"What troubled me more, though... was that you never once in your answer acknowledged the wishes of this particular kinswoman, nor did you ever ask her if she was alright or any of her testimony on the matter. Instead, throughout this, you allowed this woman to become the victim instead of a survivor. And your answer did not, in my opinion, sufficiently address the potential danger this woman could be in not just now, but in the future as well."
She takes a second, and muses. Oh, does she muse.
"However, when I asked my questions, it became more clear to me that you understand the concepts and ideas that are vital to exercising judgment that would not offend our totem. Your answer demonstrated that you know that harm is many things, real or perceived. Harm is damage, real or imagined, intentional or unintentional, done to a being. You understand that its definition depends on the situation, on the individual. You knew what weakness was, and that it is just as flexible as harm. That it is different from injury, that it can be intentionally tended or unintentionally tended. You understood that. All of it.
"Which is what made it troubling to me that your answer was lacking in the way that it was. Whether or not the kinswoman was harmed, in your answer, seemed to rest solely on the perception of others and not herself. What you might not have seen as harmful? Could have been the thing that injured her the most, and could not have been healed. Could have bloomed into weakness. Could have taken the potential for strength. Your understanding of a Fury's judgment is strong, but the application is lacking... Your judgment was soundly that of a daughter of Fenris."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She takes a second, and she smiles. It's genuine.
"You found his ancestors. You told a beautiful story... you made me proud. What's more important, however, was that you not only found his garou ancestors, but mentioned that there were trueborn males in his line. That there were kinfolk forgotten, and the understated.
"You and I both know what kind of tragedy that is," more solemn there.
"And you are correct, we have differences, many differences. I believe you were wrong, however, in some of these differences that you've seen and a perception of this tribe. We protect the helpless, not the weak. The helpless are not weak. We teach the weak, so that they may be strong. So that they may stand on their own. That we may make survivors out of victims. Do you not do the same? It's not a hand up for you, it's a kick in the ass- stand up and do better. Do Fenrir not also protect their young?
"Do Furies not prepare for the end of days? Do we not fight the wyrm? Does Pegasus not also demand strength and honor? Is Gaia not so sacred that Fenris commands his followers to lay down everything for her?"
She takes a second, she looks at Kora. The Fury wears blasphemy well- bitter tribal feuds aside, the Fury standing and saying we aren't that different.
"Our priorities are different. To dumb it down... which is, I believe, the heart of what you were saying."
The Fury thinks, again, and responds, "our differences only scratched the surface, and I believe that time and experience will reveal the similarities and differences more profound than the ones just mentioned. A Galliard once told me that tribe is more than accident of birth. It's important to understand what a Fury holds true and dear to her heart to understand where your mate came from, and what his children could be born to.
"It's important to know how we are the same, to know what common thread you hold. What values are universally sacred."
[Rain of Brass Petals] There's silence.
She grins.
"You didn't flip your shit."
She looks at her again.
"I wanted to know if you would persist. And you did. I wanted to know if you would stand your ground, but I wanted to know if you could control your rage, or if it controlled you. There are times that you will be faced with great adversity, around those you care about. You could trip on a roller skate in the middle of the night, you could come back from battle or a fight and your mate just tweaks that one wrong nerve... or pushes you the wrong way, or says the wrong thing.
"And you could hurt them.
"And you could kill them. We all could. It's a valid concern. One moment, bliss, the next we're picking our loved ones from our teeth. Or your packmates, and it's imperative that others know that you are the one who controls your rage. That you are the one who makes the decisions, not a waxing moon in the sky or an invisible voice that whispers nasty, terrible things in your ear."
A beat.
"I don't need to tell you that, but that was the purpose. To show that, even if you didn't have mastery over your rage, that your will was strong enough to combat it."
[Rain of Brass Petals] "What it comes down to, is this: you are who and what you are. And there is no fault in that, and no greater prestige in that. You have done what you must, and you have challenged for someone outside of your tribe...
"I find your judgment questionable. I see a schism in you between that which is humane and that which is practical, and I believe you may mistake mercy for coddling. And that you may confuse an unforgivable act for a passing mistake... I believe, however, that you understand a Fury's role as an avenger on a conceptual level."
A beat.
"We can work on that."
She continues.
"I found your unstanding of Trent's lineage to be exemplary, and inspiring. However, the correlations between our two tribes were lacking and spoke of a lack of understanding.... your control, however, is astounding.
"I do not fear you losing your temper and hurting him as I would others."
She pauses, and tastes her words as she says them. it is not bitter, it is not sweet. It is what it is, and that flavor is hard to describe, "your reason for challenging upset me incredibly. You have protected him, as though his sisters and his tribemates could not and do not. You said that you would die for him, but would not say that you loved him."
She drops her voice, and it is quiet and still for a second or so.Whatever she says is for Kora's ears alone.
"You would not say that you love him, and said that, instead, love is a human thing as though this is bad... but we are partially human, as we are also partially wolf, part flesh, part spirit and blood, and it is all the same. There is a schism in you between these parts- one embraced more readily than the other by means of rejecting something so vital. You would not ignore your spirit, and you would not leave your wolf to starve... do not forsake your humanity because you are different now.
"You are whole now. Embrace it all."
She stops for a second.
"If there is one thing that would bar you from this challenge it is that you are fragmented. The lost can recognize their own, Kora. Endeavor to change this, and I will anchor myself more readily and solidly in the physical realm. Just as you must be reminded you are part human, I must remember that we are all half flesh."
She stops, and speaks more openly now.
"I am giving you this man under these conditions, and if you fail to meet them, expect me to challenge accordingly. First, your answers in your test of judgment and your test of vision relayed that, while you understand what a Fury does, you do not fully understand where he has come from, and I admittedly do not understand enough of Fenrir culture to know exactly what I am agreeing to.
"As such, I will instruct you on matters regarding Trent's cultural heritage and I expect that you should do the same for both of us."
She looks at her, and she smiles, but there's something in there, ticking and touching the edges, bleeding into the fine print, "may you have many true born sons, Kora."
Because it would break my heart should you have daughters.
[Rain of Brass Petals] "Do you accept these conditions?"
[Sorrow] Sorrow stands with her arms cross low over her torso, her spine straight, her posture tense, alert. Her dark eyes remain on Adamidas' face as the Black Fury gives her judgment. There is a sort of unyielding patience in Sorrow as she listens well and listens long. As she listens, her mouth closed, her features still.
In the end, Sorrow offers Adamidas a brief, sharp nod. "I accept the conditions, Rain of Brass Petals-yuf."
[Rain of Brass Petals] [What are you thinking, Koralove?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]
[Rain of Brass Petals] "Then we are settled," she says, she announces loud and projects well. She nods again and this time, she sounds almost... tired, "I'll tell my sisters the news."
[Sorrow] By the time they are finished, it is dusk. The shafts of sunlight have moved, cutting bands across the floor, sinking the hanger into an even deeper gloom. Adamidas says that they are settled, that she will tell her sisters, and Sorrow looks up, once - nodding agreement without remembering entirely why.
There is a glance for Honor's Compass, a quiet thanks. One follows to her Alpha, still watchful, still furious over her choice. Then, still quiet, "Thanks, Adam." her voice bruised - from use, or being. Or tension, or emotion. "I'll tell him."
Sorrow waited outside the hanger for Adamidas and the Philodox Elder, her hands in her front pockets, her body a lean, tight line inside her worn old clothes. Her hair is pulled back into a French braid, revealing the sharp planes of her cheek and jaw, the long line of her neck. Her t-shirt is black, impractical for the heat. Midsummer, she will bake in it. It is not quite midsummer yet, but the day is warm enough that a fine sheen of sweat touches her pale features, dampens her cotton tee.
Adamidas arrives first. Sorrow offers the young theurge the edge of a familiar half-smile, and a low quiet - "Hey."
The moon is full. This night last a pair of Fenrir fought in the bawn. It is daylight, and the moon is half a world away - but they can feel it, crawling underneath the skin of the earth, the promise of another full fat moon to come. The greetings are brief. They all know why they are here. In the close darkness of the hanger's expanse, they stand. Sorrow briefs Honor's Compass quickly and quietly on the challenge, and the terms set by Adamidas: the test of judgment, the test of vision, the test of rage.
Both Adamidas and Sorrow listen quietly as Kate offers the test of judgment:
There is a Garou who has been accused by another of holding a Kinfolk against her will. The Kinfolk belongs to the accuser's tribe yet the Garou in question insists the Kin is there by their own free will. The Accusing Garou says the Kinfolk's mental state is unfit to judge as its been abused and altered. How do you sort out who is in the right, how do you extricate the Kinfolk while tending to their best interests?
Whom of the Garou should be punished? How do you judge? Why?
The scenario laid out, Sorrow looks to Adamidas, waiting for her consent or clarification to the test suggested by Honor's Compasse.
[Rain of Brass Petals] She is all strength and composure. It is hard to think of her as such, because these two have seen her remembering and reliving her worst. They've seen her afterward, they ahve seen her grow. They've never seen her conducting tribal matters, but there she is.
She waits with Kora, and she smiles. Her hair is down and comes into ringed spirals, loose curls. She speaks again, "hey."
Familiar. Neither angry nor antagonistic.
Katherine lays the clarification wide. Adam nods.
"That follows the spirit of the matter nicely," she says, she consents.
[Honor's Compass] Honor's Compass looks between the pair. Her fair waves are held back from her face, stylishly scooped in a clip and lain across one shoulder. As ever, the Philodox Elder looks as though she had been called from a country club, her white pearls coiled around her throat, her blouse silk, and as expensive as it appeared.
She stands prim; her hands folded before her as she lays out the challenge stipulations; and when Rain of Brass Petals agrees to the terms, inclines her head and returns pale eyes to Kora. "Proceed to answer, She Who Brings Sorrow."
[Honor's Compass] (er, offers! not brings. ugh. typos.)
[Joe War- Handed] He said he'd be there.
He'd warned Kora.. he's more likely to be on the witch's side. She'd asked again. He swore, he refused, he railed against the Skald. In the end though, battered boots crunch against the shrapnel left in the wake of long- ago rust, and sooner rather than later, Joe's formidable form emerges from the halogen haunted gloom of the dockyards. Face drawn and pensive. Disgust flickers about the edges of savage, and recently battered features.
An oddly deferential note enters the mindlessly confident rhythm of his gait, and as Joe approaches the front of the dockhouse his glacial eyes flick to Katherine and remain there.. his steps slow.. he never looks away from her-
-and the moment her face begins to tighten, indeed, as soon as there is any sign at all in the philodox that he'd come far enough he stops precisely as far away as she indicates, and his attention swings to Adamidas and Kora.
[Sorrow] Sorrow's features are neutral, now. Her eyes are dark, and her mouth is still as she considers both Adamidas and Honor's Compass. "First, free the kinfolk from the one who holds her. As I understand your scenario, he is neither born of her blood, nor has he won her through honorable challenge." There is a brief, twist of her mouth, as if she were tasting the pith of a bitter fruit.
"If you wish to keep peace in the Sept, require the Garou holding the kinswoman to return her to her tribe before moonrise. Bar his access to the Caern until he has complied with the order. If he still refuses to return her, her tribe should find her and claim her, and haul him back to the Sept for swift judgment." The if he survives goes unspoken.
Sorrow glance away, then - over at Joe War-Handed, her dark eyes briefly resting on her the hard lines of her Alpha's youthful features. Here is the edge of her smile, halved, as she turns her attention back to Kate, and then directly to Adamidas, speaking plainly and frankly. "Fenrir have little tolerance for weakness in ourselves or in our kinfolk - we will not tolerate weakness that is bred and borne in the marrow of a creature, but injuries - injuries to the body or the mind that can be healed should be healed.
Sorrow offers the faintest natural little shrug. "Bring the kinswoman to the ritemistress when she has been recovered from the one who holds her. Bleeding-Heartrhya is a Child of Gaia, a skilled healer, and a theurge of the first water. She above all others would know whether the kinswoman was sick and injured, altered through threat or abuse. She would know whether she could be cured - by gifts, by human medicine, by time - and could, perhaps, cure whatever injuries had been done to her. Or recommend the human treatment necessary to see her whole.
"If the kinswoman has been injured, she should be healed. If she has not been injured or altered, bring her before a philodox and have the truth of it from her.
"If the kinswoman has been harmed, the Garou in question should be punished - and the punishment should be based on the harm he has done - to the kinswoman and to her tribe. Until you know the truth of it, you cannot assign punishment."
"If the kinswoman has not been harmed, the one who held her must still return her to her tribe. If he still wishes to claim her, tell him to challenge her tribal elder to stand as her guardian or as her mate. The accuser could challenge for her as well. The tribal elder has the right to accept either challenge, or both. He has the right to refuse both challenges too, and to hold and care for his kin as he sees fit.
"That is my answer." Sorrow glances first at Kate, then at Adamidas.
[Honor's Compass] The Silver Fang cuts a sharp glance at War Handed as he approaches the edge of the challenge circle. The look is measuring, though there is a degree of warning contained within it as he draws near. When he ceases before crossing it the Fostern's attention returns to Sorrow. She listens, Truth's Meridian, without the flicker of anything near to agreement, or outright disagreement to the Fenrir's response.
When she is finished; Katherine turns and addresses Adamidas.
"Has she satisfied you with this answer, Brass Petals? Has she proven her judgment is sound?"
[Rain of Brass Petals] "Before I have passed my ruling on her judgment as it would please Pegasus, I need to ask a few questions," there's a key phrase there. As it would please Pegasus. Know where the theurge's loyalties and logic lies.
"First: what is harm? What is abuse?"
She takes a second, and she stands and thinks through this delivered testimony. The Fury listens, as though she is a proxy for a higher being. Voice of a higher court, "tell me what weakness is."
[Joe War- Handed] A few yards away, there is a hollow thrumming noise as Joe drops to sit on a ground down chunk of metal. Blinking, he looks from Kora to Adamidas... his eyes are narrowed and he seems intent on their conversation- though its substance seems to escape him for the most part. It seems a cultural barrier, rather than an inellectual one.
...completely absorbed in the proceedings, it takes him several moments to become aware of the stark and abrupt noise he'd made. The youthful Modi's heavy hands drop into his pockets, rummaging for gum as he stares at the ground, face reddening rapidly. Whoops.
He's very still for a time. Church mouse quiet.
[Sorrow] Except for the subtle spasm in a band of tendon that cuts from cheek to jaw, Sorrow's features are still. She looks from Adamidas to Honor's Compass, and then back to Adamidas. This time, the creature's dark eyes - the color lost in the shadows of the vast hanger - are intent, fixed on the smaller theurge.
"Rain of Brass Petals-yuf," Sorrow begins, her features calm and still, despite the pulse of the moon on the other side of the world, somewhere beyond the horizon, somewhere beneath their feet. "Honor's Compass-rhya asked me to answer a concrete question. I have answered it. Told her how I would retrieve the kinswoman, attempting to preserve first the peace of the Sept, and what the step would be thereafter, if such peace could not be preserved, how I would ensure the kinswoman's welfare, and how I would seek the truth underlying the dispute between the accuser and the one-who-is-accused.
"Now you ask me abstract questions - what is harm, what is abuse, what is weakness? They are words, shallow vessels that we use to hold concepts that expand beyond the limits of their containers. Harm has half-a hundred definitions. It has a thousand. If I kick you, if I wound you, if I cut off your arm, I have harmed you. If I slander your name, if I lie to your tribe, if I taint you, or tempt you to dark thoughts or dark deeds, I have harmed you. If I support your weakness, or sap your strength, I have harmed you. If I pull you up when you could have stood straight on your own - when you should have stood straight on your own - I have harmed you. If I inflate your sense of self-worth beyond the reasonable, encourage you to delusions of grandeur, I have harmed you. If I stoke bitterness and resentment in you, I have harmed you. And if I do any of these things - cause you harm - because it gives me pleasure to see you in pain, to see you weakened, incapable of caring for yourself, because it gives me pleasure to see you humiliated, or frightened without cause, again and again, I have abused you.
"There are a hundred more definitions. Unless I know what was done to the kinswoman, I cannot tell you whether she was harmed. Unless I know what the Ritesmistress would say, what the philodox would say, what her story was, I cannot tell you whether she was abused.
"And weakness, weakness is that which saps our strength. Pride can be a strength; overweening pride, weakness. Rage brings us back from the brink of death. When we are ruled by it, it is weakness. Weakness is found both in cowardice, and in overconfidence. Weakness is that which turns us from our duty - which is first to Gaia, to the earth beneath our feet, to the war we fight every day, with ever breath in our lungs and every fiber in our bodies. It is weak to refuse good counsel, and weak to bathe yourself in counsel until you cannot walk out of the room without asking which direction might be best."
"I can tell you a thousand stories of weakness, Rain of Brass Petals, and never get to the heart of it."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She clears her throat, and whatever words she had, whatever tongues she spoke in, were held for the time being. Spirits came, spirits went. Time passed and she considered.
Was she satisfied, though? That was a strong question, a harder question than she had originally anticipated. The Fury looks at Kora, listens to her words, her tone, and notes that she isn't patronizing. That she is right there, in the moment with her questions. And she speaks of abstractions- a language that this spacey creature understands.
She nods, once up, once down.
"She who offers sorrow-yuf, you have answered her question as presented... we can move on to the next part of this challenge," she replies.
[Sorrow] "Trent has no close Garou relatives; not within living memory and although he knows how he was raised and the beliefs of his tribe, he does not know the names or deeds of his ancestors. Still, he descends from heroes.
"It is not an unbroken line. There are names that are lost, and names that forgotten. There are kinfolk who have gone unnoticed and unremembered by the tribe and the Nation, and there are men - trueborn - who have been given over to other tribes, because Black Furies will not accept them in their ranks.
"êüñç ôïõ Ýùò" carefully, Sorrow says the words carefully. The first one sounds like her name, the one her mother gave her. Kora. Kore. The daughter, who disappears into the underworld, who returns changed, and dangerous. Kore. She says the words carefully because the sounds are alien. Sorrow speaks a handful of languages fluently - some learned before her change, when she was a human with the kernal of a monster in her - and others learned after. Greek is not among them. Still, she is a Skald, multilingual, careful with the shape of words, attentive to their formation, and the accent is correct, if perhaps a bit overprecise.
" - Daughter of the Dawn was the greatest of the Garou in his direct line. The spirits do not remember her human name, but they that she was born under the light of the waxing full moon, at the first hour of the morning. That her mother dreamed her greatness, and that - like Cassandra - none of her sisters believed her, for the child rushed to meet her moon, and was born early, sickly and small, and the theurge who performed the rites to determine whether she was born true failed to gleam the truth of it."
The story continues. The particulars are lost in the mists of time, which erodes history until it is cool and white and solid, like bone. Daughter of the Dawn rose to the rank of Adren following a renowned philodox - philodox she says, reminding herself of the shape of the word the other tribes use to name the half-moons among them - who fell. They were sisters, close as the plaits in a braid, close as the chambers of a beating heart, who fought together and bled together and died together. And the legends say that the alpha, whose name has been written out of history - fell, stumbled - that taint entered her body and her mind, coiled itself around the base of her spine, subtle, insatiable, unendurable.
Theurges could not expunge it from her body. Her sisters performed rite after rite of cleansing - to no avail. The pack drifted away. Some were killed fighting to save some mythic beast, some precious hope of a cure, and others left, their faith lost, their hearts heavy. Kill me. Abandon me. Flay the skin from my bones and burn it clean, burn whatever is inside me out until I can sleep beneath the earth, the Alpha told Daughter of the Dawn - leave me here.
Daughter of the Dawn would not leave her sister to die in the dark, without hope of redemption, her soul burdened by the taint that riddled, the dream of her tribal homelands lost. Instead, she dragged her sister to Erebus, and threw her in the silver waters, held her there until she had been burned clean and burned pure, until her shrouded soul was cleansed, until - until the flesh melted from her bones. Until the skin sloughed off the full-moon-daughter's hands, leaving them charred husks, a fusion of skin and blood and bone. She pulled her dying sister from the waters, then, and cradled her as she died, heedless of the way the silver waters ran off her sister's broken body, scored and marked her own skin, held her sister until she died, cleansed, freed from the taint that had engulfed her.
There are more stories, but this is the one that Sorrow chooses to tell. Death and rebirth, faith against all odds - redemption and sacrifice.
[Joe War- Handed] Joe watches, he listens, and remains a silent, stoic bulwark behind his sister. Suspicion remains plain on his face.. his misgivings too. But he plainly doesn't intend to interrupt.
[Sorrow] In the aftermath of the storytelling, Sorrow is falls silent. There is a serenity to her face, a certain stillness as she relates the history and deeds of the long-dead Black Fury.
Then, at last, she shifts and continues, "You asked me, Rain of Brass Petals-yuf, to tell you how the Get of Fenris and Black Furies are different, and how we are similar. The differences are too numerous to name - from the gods we remember to the names we give ourselves, from the spirits we honor to the deeds we deem right and true and honorable. You honor the sacred feminine, remember the rites of the seasons, the tri-partite goddess, mirror it in your selves and in your mythos. We remember the deeds of the northern gods, follow Fenris-wolf who commands of us only strength, strength and honor. You protect the weak and succor the Wyld. We fight in preparation for Ragnarok, the last battle - we fight so that we may win the last battle, defeat Jormungandr, and bring an end to strife in a new age.
"These are hollow words, though. You know them as well as I do, and they are truths so quotidian that they seem little more than stereotypes.
"There are as many differences as there are definitions of weakness. There are more.
"I can tell you," she continues, pausing, quiet. " - rather more succinctly how we are the same, if you will walk with me."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She looks at her, and there is a moment. It's hard to tell what she is thinking, for once. And they need to walk, and they need to talk, and she needs a change of scenery. Her muscles have stayed tense for too long, her grame has remained taut and she has looked, and listened, rather openly. Whether she heard what the woman said might have been a different matter, but that made no difference at that moment.
She was hearing her now.
She was listening, now.
And they could both die tomorrow; now was all they really had.
Will you walk with me? In a roundabout way. She takes a step, and her hips move. She's getting them, now- hips, that is. She had them before, but she never quite seemed filled in. She looks taller, sometimes. Maybe she'll grow another inch or two, top out at five six instead of the meager and average five feet four that she is now.
"Let's walk, Sorrow," she says. There's a tinge of warmth there.
[Sorrow] Sorrow leads them from the hanger, out into the warm afternoon. The sunlight is brilliant, the sunlight - after the deep shadows of the hanger - is blinding. It gilds the length of Sorrow's pale hair, pulls out threads of gold and wheat and amber and emphasizes the northern pallor of her skin. She walks quickly, that long-legged gait confident and sure, leading them from the hanger to the graves.
Some are new. Too many are new. The earth is still mounded, slowly settling back into itself, raw wounds in the torn-up tarmac. Sorrow walks past the newest graves, sparing a single glance for that of her Alpha. She walks past the newest graves, to the top of the row - the oldest graves, the first ones dug into the damp earth of the lakeshore, torn from the cracked, weed-riddled tarmac, stops there and sinks to her haunches, forward just on the balls of her feet. The air smells of the lakeshore here, and sunlight on the turned earth.
She cants a look back up at Adamidas, the sunlight glinting in the dark discs of her eyes. There is a smile on her mouth. It is a ghost-thing, all sorrow.
"Kadin Ignacios," she says, lifting her chin in a gesture toward the nearly forgotten marker. " - kin to the Black Furies. He died raising the Caern. I can tell you his story. And, there - " just beyond this grave, another. "Lexi Jonsen, kin to the Get of Fenris. She died, too, raising the Caern. They fought together, fought an enemy they could not see, for the truth of a thing they could not name. They carried guns against creatures of nightmare, and died for spirits they could never see, died for their faith, the faith we hold in trust for them now. Here are our kin under the earth.
Sorrow straightens, then, dusts off her hands on her thighs, touches the meager marker for the nearly forgotten kinsman with a passing them, and circles the rest of the graves. Here is Fierce Hammer. Here is Eyes Like Flint. Here is Lights Out. Here is Bones to Dust. Here is Gossamer Wing. Here is Truth-in-Frenzy. She points out each grave, speaks each name with a quiet sort of reverance as she passes them.
They complete a full circuit of the graves, returning to the first: Kadin Ignacios, kin to the Black Furies. Sorrow finishes, then,
"This is how we are the same."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She knows these Furies. Knows Lights Out because Joey had loved him, once. Knows him because his pack had loved him, once. Knows bones to Dust as just that- dust, but a daughter of the wyld. Wonders about her sometimes- wonders if she was anything like Irene. Just like she wonders about Lights Out.
She doesn't know that they have similar eyes. Similar hair colors and skin tones. Doesn't know that, if she stood next to the deceased metis that he could have been her brother. She would have found it chilling.
There is Truth in Frenzy, who she had paid her respects to- another name she had never known, but treated with reverence. Adam comes by sometimes. Picks weeds by his name marker, as though the body would appreciate it. It's best that Alethea Adamidas never knew these fallen few. She doesn't know about Gossamer Wing, has no idea that she might have liked her. Might have respected her, even, had the fates been more kind. Another girl. Another edging close to high achievements as such a young, young age. She listened to Kora, completed the circuit, as all things do-
A Cycle. A circle. Back to the beginning. To Kadin and Lexi. Kinfolk. Arguably, the beginning.
Quietly, she speaks, as though she is afraid of waking the dead.
"This is sufficient," she says, "we have a third task to complete."
A guide through a journey.
[Sorrow] "We do," Sorrow agrees, her voice is always low - the tone saturated, alive with color, the pitch deep, the volume quiet - and so it is now. She turns and matches her pace to Adamidas' own, for all that she is head and shoulders taller than the younger girl. Her stride is long, her gait easy, comfortable, she lives easily inside her own skin, her worn clothes, the echo of voices of the long-lost past in her head, lives inside herself easily, as if there were no other way to live.
The sun has shifted in the sky. The pattern of sunlight amidst the dark shadows has changed inside the large hanger where they met as the day has worn on. The moon is moving, beneath their feet, on the other side of the world, the rhythm of it written into the beating of their chambered hearts.
They end where they began, in the challenge circle, with Honor's Compass standing as witness and guide. Sorrow stands before Adamidas, ready.
"The test of rage," Sorrow says, her eyes on Adamidas, ready.
[Sorrow] Facedown: roll 1!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [Aaand 3-2-1-LOOK!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1
[Sorrow] Facedown: roll 2!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [Again again?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 7)
[Sorrow] Roll 3!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [One more time!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Sorrow] Roll 4!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)
[Rain of Brass Petals] [*covets Kora's WP*]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Sorrow] (covets adamidas' intimidation and charisma!)
[Sorrow] The Black Fury and the daughter of Fenris stand in the middle of the challenge circle, and lock eyes. This is a test of will and control as much as rage - a test of dominance. Both stare intently for long moments. The seconds tick by, marked by the beating of their hearts, the rhythm of breath, the tick of something in the wall, somewhere. Something released by the heat of the sun, something lulled by the motion of the lake against the shore. The seconds push themselves together, fuse. They stare and they stare - there are no sparks of rage, no suggesting of spiking fury as too often happens in such contests - and there is a moment - a singular moment - when each finds that she must start digging into the stuff of herself to hold the others' gaze, that she must expend herself to hold the eye contact, push herself beyond, force herself to keep going by will alone.
It is a close thing. Both are breathing more heavily, now, tension riding in their shoulders and spines. Sorrow's hands curve into fists at her side, but they remain still.
Adamidas looks away first. The gesture is subtle, minute, just a flicker of her deep brown eyes away. Sorrow grits her teeth, molars grinding against molars, and remembers, in that moment, to breathe, remembers the function of her lungs - stares a moment longer, then looks away, too, breathing heavily now, for all that they were stock-still throughout the facedown.
[Rain of Brass Petals] “I chose this challenge for its cultural significance,” she says, “because every cub who petitions Pegasus must undergo challenges that test their judgment as an avenger, their vision, and their fury. Your judgment, I have found, is sound but very much that of a child of Fenris.”
A beat.
“I do not view this as a bad thing.
“You answered, first, by answering exactly what was asked of you. You used the information presented to you, as it was presented to you. You did not ask for more, and you did not ask for clarification. Sometimes, we are given limited means in which we can establish truth and dispense justice. You acknowledged that what damages are done should be healed, tried to hand it off to someone who could do the job.
"What troubled me in this portion of the challenge, however, was that you never said that you would check claimant garou's motives or intentions. The blame was solely placed on the accused- not very balanced or seeing to the heart of a matter. Though, you did state that you wished to see to the heart of the matter, which I do applaud.
"What troubled me more, though... was that you never once in your answer acknowledged the wishes of this particular kinswoman, nor did you ever ask her if she was alright or any of her testimony on the matter. Instead, throughout this, you allowed this woman to become the victim instead of a survivor. And your answer did not, in my opinion, sufficiently address the potential danger this woman could be in not just now, but in the future as well."
She takes a second, and muses. Oh, does she muse.
"However, when I asked my questions, it became more clear to me that you understand the concepts and ideas that are vital to exercising judgment that would not offend our totem. Your answer demonstrated that you know that harm is many things, real or perceived. Harm is damage, real or imagined, intentional or unintentional, done to a being. You understand that its definition depends on the situation, on the individual. You knew what weakness was, and that it is just as flexible as harm. That it is different from injury, that it can be intentionally tended or unintentionally tended. You understood that. All of it.
"Which is what made it troubling to me that your answer was lacking in the way that it was. Whether or not the kinswoman was harmed, in your answer, seemed to rest solely on the perception of others and not herself. What you might not have seen as harmful? Could have been the thing that injured her the most, and could not have been healed. Could have bloomed into weakness. Could have taken the potential for strength. Your understanding of a Fury's judgment is strong, but the application is lacking... Your judgment was soundly that of a daughter of Fenris."
[Rain of Brass Petals] She takes a second, and she smiles. It's genuine.
"You found his ancestors. You told a beautiful story... you made me proud. What's more important, however, was that you not only found his garou ancestors, but mentioned that there were trueborn males in his line. That there were kinfolk forgotten, and the understated.
"You and I both know what kind of tragedy that is," more solemn there.
"And you are correct, we have differences, many differences. I believe you were wrong, however, in some of these differences that you've seen and a perception of this tribe. We protect the helpless, not the weak. The helpless are not weak. We teach the weak, so that they may be strong. So that they may stand on their own. That we may make survivors out of victims. Do you not do the same? It's not a hand up for you, it's a kick in the ass- stand up and do better. Do Fenrir not also protect their young?
"Do Furies not prepare for the end of days? Do we not fight the wyrm? Does Pegasus not also demand strength and honor? Is Gaia not so sacred that Fenris commands his followers to lay down everything for her?"
She takes a second, she looks at Kora. The Fury wears blasphemy well- bitter tribal feuds aside, the Fury standing and saying we aren't that different.
"Our priorities are different. To dumb it down... which is, I believe, the heart of what you were saying."
The Fury thinks, again, and responds, "our differences only scratched the surface, and I believe that time and experience will reveal the similarities and differences more profound than the ones just mentioned. A Galliard once told me that tribe is more than accident of birth. It's important to understand what a Fury holds true and dear to her heart to understand where your mate came from, and what his children could be born to.
"It's important to know how we are the same, to know what common thread you hold. What values are universally sacred."
[Rain of Brass Petals] There's silence.
She grins.
"You didn't flip your shit."
She looks at her again.
"I wanted to know if you would persist. And you did. I wanted to know if you would stand your ground, but I wanted to know if you could control your rage, or if it controlled you. There are times that you will be faced with great adversity, around those you care about. You could trip on a roller skate in the middle of the night, you could come back from battle or a fight and your mate just tweaks that one wrong nerve... or pushes you the wrong way, or says the wrong thing.
"And you could hurt them.
"And you could kill them. We all could. It's a valid concern. One moment, bliss, the next we're picking our loved ones from our teeth. Or your packmates, and it's imperative that others know that you are the one who controls your rage. That you are the one who makes the decisions, not a waxing moon in the sky or an invisible voice that whispers nasty, terrible things in your ear."
A beat.
"I don't need to tell you that, but that was the purpose. To show that, even if you didn't have mastery over your rage, that your will was strong enough to combat it."
[Rain of Brass Petals] "What it comes down to, is this: you are who and what you are. And there is no fault in that, and no greater prestige in that. You have done what you must, and you have challenged for someone outside of your tribe...
"I find your judgment questionable. I see a schism in you between that which is humane and that which is practical, and I believe you may mistake mercy for coddling. And that you may confuse an unforgivable act for a passing mistake... I believe, however, that you understand a Fury's role as an avenger on a conceptual level."
A beat.
"We can work on that."
She continues.
"I found your unstanding of Trent's lineage to be exemplary, and inspiring. However, the correlations between our two tribes were lacking and spoke of a lack of understanding.... your control, however, is astounding.
"I do not fear you losing your temper and hurting him as I would others."
She pauses, and tastes her words as she says them. it is not bitter, it is not sweet. It is what it is, and that flavor is hard to describe, "your reason for challenging upset me incredibly. You have protected him, as though his sisters and his tribemates could not and do not. You said that you would die for him, but would not say that you loved him."
She drops her voice, and it is quiet and still for a second or so.Whatever she says is for Kora's ears alone.
"You would not say that you love him, and said that, instead, love is a human thing as though this is bad... but we are partially human, as we are also partially wolf, part flesh, part spirit and blood, and it is all the same. There is a schism in you between these parts- one embraced more readily than the other by means of rejecting something so vital. You would not ignore your spirit, and you would not leave your wolf to starve... do not forsake your humanity because you are different now.
"You are whole now. Embrace it all."
She stops for a second.
"If there is one thing that would bar you from this challenge it is that you are fragmented. The lost can recognize their own, Kora. Endeavor to change this, and I will anchor myself more readily and solidly in the physical realm. Just as you must be reminded you are part human, I must remember that we are all half flesh."
She stops, and speaks more openly now.
"I am giving you this man under these conditions, and if you fail to meet them, expect me to challenge accordingly. First, your answers in your test of judgment and your test of vision relayed that, while you understand what a Fury does, you do not fully understand where he has come from, and I admittedly do not understand enough of Fenrir culture to know exactly what I am agreeing to.
"As such, I will instruct you on matters regarding Trent's cultural heritage and I expect that you should do the same for both of us."
She looks at her, and she smiles, but there's something in there, ticking and touching the edges, bleeding into the fine print, "may you have many true born sons, Kora."
Because it would break my heart should you have daughters.
[Rain of Brass Petals] "Do you accept these conditions?"
[Sorrow] Sorrow stands with her arms cross low over her torso, her spine straight, her posture tense, alert. Her dark eyes remain on Adamidas' face as the Black Fury gives her judgment. There is a sort of unyielding patience in Sorrow as she listens well and listens long. As she listens, her mouth closed, her features still.
In the end, Sorrow offers Adamidas a brief, sharp nod. "I accept the conditions, Rain of Brass Petals-yuf."
[Rain of Brass Petals] [What are you thinking, Koralove?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]
[Rain of Brass Petals] "Then we are settled," she says, she announces loud and projects well. She nods again and this time, she sounds almost... tired, "I'll tell my sisters the news."
[Sorrow] By the time they are finished, it is dusk. The shafts of sunlight have moved, cutting bands across the floor, sinking the hanger into an even deeper gloom. Adamidas says that they are settled, that she will tell her sisters, and Sorrow looks up, once - nodding agreement without remembering entirely why.
There is a glance for Honor's Compass, a quiet thanks. One follows to her Alpha, still watchful, still furious over her choice. Then, still quiet, "Thanks, Adam." her voice bruised - from use, or being. Or tension, or emotion. "I'll tell him."
Post a Comment