Ornature

[Resistance] She is decidedly more effeminate than she likes to think about. Her hair is down, though today she is decidedly jewelry free. It's not something people normally see- those wirethin burnmarks are more pronounced, easier to see against her skin. Boots are on, tank top on, and in a skirt.

She could run in a skirt. She didn't plan on running, though.

Kora asks if they're ready. Her attention flickers-

"I'm ready," she says.

[Roman Turner] He had never done this before and that fact made his belly tight with nerves and somewhere in the back of his head was a worried thought that maybe the belly cramps was the results of nerves combined with burrito and taco. This could be so embarrassing.

"Yessum."

He couldn't help but stare at the Ritemistress because he had yet to figure out exactly what happened to her to make her like she was now. So he stood there with a belly in knots and his eyes shadowed by the brim of his Stetson. As usual he was in stiff Wranglers that looked like they might stand in a corner all on their own.

[Sorrow] The rite is sacred, as all Garou rites are. The Ritesmistress performs it with the sort of reverence humans might reserve for pilgrimages to Rome, to Mecca, to the Ganges, to breathe in the dust of centuries, to dream their holiest dreams, to be purified in some enduring flame beyond the flesh.

The Garou - this mismatched trio, the pair of Gaian cousins and the lone Fenrir Skald, older than both but still cliath for all that - stand in their human skins in a place paved by humans, abandoned by humans, rediscovered by the Garou just a handful of years ago, where this endless, unknowable Maelstrom churns constantly, stained by the blood of the sacrifices made by them, by their brethern, and by their dead. They wear clothing stitched by human hands, decorate themselves in human ways - Fate in his stetson, Resistance in her skirts, Sorrow in her boots - as the world around them shifts.

It is ninety degrees in the shade this evening, even with the setting of the sun.

The Ritemistress finishes the rite and steps back. She tells them that their guide will come soon, and they will know to follow. And then she steps back further, her pale eyes on the glimmering north.

It is ninety degrees in the shade this evening -

- and the temperature is dropping around them. Fate is the first to feel the bite of the north wind. The first flakes of sifting snow.

---

In an eyeblink, Sorrow has dropped to the ground - her slender lupus form, eyes bright, her dark nose to the wind, the familiar hint of winter in the air.

[Roman Turner] "Well I'll be a three eyed pig, I see snow in August."

The words were spoken softly. His full attention was towards the North. No idea what was about to happen, though he greatly appreciated the air-conditioning blowing their way.

[Resistance] She's a subtle sledgehammer. Whatever she's thinking about, whatever comes across flickers through her eyes.

Their guide will come, and there is something that will come from the north. She might not be the most communicative of creatures, or the most deceptive, but it works well in her favor. She looks to the north, feels the cold, and seems almost out of place.

No, she does feel out of place. She's not the most in-tune with her wolf (she spent so much time hating it, accepting it now still seemed a little strange), but... we digress. She looks at Roman, catches Sorrow on all fours, in lupus, "c'mon..."

She takes her time, and she shifts down. They had to track something.

[Sorrow] They stand at the edge of the lake in the hottest season of the summer. The shallows are warm as bathwater, lapping quietly at the lakeshore, the soft slap of the minor waves - the wake of some passing ferry, some pleasure ship.

Then, the water is unmoving. Or rather, the sound of it recedes. The air conditioning becomes sharper and colder, and the lake begins to solidified, this narrow path of ice, snow collecting on it, wending north east and away from the lakeshore, out into the gathering darkness.

Roman says, Well, I'll be a three eyed pig and his Fenrir would-be Alpha nips at this heels as he stands and watches the shifting storm come in. It extends no more than three feet in either direction around them, but just here, in the midst of it, the temperature has dropped precipitously around them, from hot to warm to cool to frigid.

Resistance shifts into her lupus form - strange, she spent so much time hating it - and Sorrow brushes past her, both greeting and appreciation, feral and familiar. Her breath is steaming from her nostrils now, and the fur is a welcome addition to the flesh. The world changes, becomes pinpoint and immediate. They can all smell the horseflesh somewhere ahead, the outrider whose shadow they saw against the snow, blood and cinders in the air, cinders and blood.

Somewhere there, out on the lake, where the faintly solid path has coalesced, where snow swirls in faint, drifting squalls before being blown away into the lake on either side.

---


Sorrow takes the first steps onto the semi-solid lake. Her paws leave prints behind her in the snow, and her scent, which is both female and strong, is sharp in the air. The lake holds underneath her and she begins down the path, keeping to the middle road.

Somewhere, fifty or a hundred yards, three hundred, more - out in the midst of the lake, the path begins to rise away from the lake, peels away from the city, rising into the sky like every moonpath they've ever run.

Except colder.

[Roman Turner] He was the slow one, that one that clung to his birth form longest. When Sorrow nipped at his heels he did a modified two step to try and avoid those sharp teeth.

"I'm a coming, I'm a coming. Don't get your britches in a bunch."

Logic had it that his wolf form would weight less than his human and he really wasn't in to falling in to the water. So he began the shift and was assaulted with all his heightened senses brought to him at once. Keen hearing had his ears twitching like twin radar disks. So many scents had his nostrils flaring. He pulled himself together enough from the new wonders to follow the pair out on to the ice path. Thickly padded paw pads kept his feet from freezing to the ice and helped with his footing.

[Sorrow] [Stamina + athletics - Kora]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Roman Turner] stam+ath
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 3, 3, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Sorrow] [Stamina + Athletics - Kora]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Sorrow] [Stamina + Athletics - Kora]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Roman Turner] stam+ath
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Roman Turner] stam+ath
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 5, 5, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Roman Turner] stam+ath
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]

[Resistance] [stamina+athletics: roll 1]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 6, 6, 6, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Resistance] [Roll 2?]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Resistance] [roll three!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 4, 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Resistance] [COME ON, REALLY?]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]

[Sorrow] The outrider ahead keeps a steady pace at first, as the path peels away from the human city like a strip of flesh, like a torn ribbon flung out against the dark night sky. They rise from the earth the way a jet climbs into the night for a long, transoceanic flight, from one end of the world to another.

Except they are going higher than the world, and all its tears. Ahead, the scent of horseflesh, the iron-cold promise of war. The stars wheel and change above them as they run, shifting points of light in the blanket of the sky.

Roman and Resistance are behind her, but she has run this path before. Or another, like it, in the wake of her alpha and his beta, the former dead, the latter fled. The path changes, and the city disappears. There are stars, and the stars are bright, pointillistic, just glimpsed between the snow squalls.

They run for what feels like a day and a night and a day again, as the path opens beneath them. They are cushioned in darkness, punished by the cold. If Roman welcomed the air conditioning as he stood at the edge of the lake, he will perhaps think differently of winter after this run.

Sorrow does not flag, dogged and sure, night and day and night again. Fate finds himself falling behind once, his legs sore, his body aching from the neverending effort, his lungs burning with the cold. He could stop here, lay down, rest and renew himself. Resistance runs and runs, sure and unfailing - slowly losing pace with her to-be Alpha. At the last, she throws herself into it with the same determination that Fate finds inside his feral mind, sinking every more deeply into the rich, immediate world of instinct and motion.

Instead, he digs inside himself and pushes onward, surging forward, struggling through the moment of flagging failure to find his stride again.

--

Hours later. Days maybe - time is such a strange and elastic thing in the spirit realm - they see ahead of them some shore of dazzling white. It reminds Roman of some family trip to the white beaches of the southern Gulf Coast, the glittering blue ocean, so fine does it seem. Closer, closer, closer still though, and his dreams of white sand beaches dissolve into something else as the icepath underneath them lowers gradually to this new earth.

Not sand, but snow - this expanse of white, trackless and nearly formless except for the constant swirl of some howling storm.

Sorrow is the first to pass from path to realm, her paws sinking into the deep, shifting snow. The winds send drifting snow in every direction, swallowing her tracks moments after she leaves them. She does not go far, but waits for the others instead, her dark nose to the air.

The outrider cannot be seen through the squall, and his tracks disappear almost as soon as he makes them. He's out there, though. Sorrow circles her packmates to be and nudges Fate forward. No-Moon she tells him, in brief, short yips and barks. - track our prey.

[Roman Turner] He was freezing his cajolies off. His sides heaved with each frozen breath that came out of him on a white cloud. His spittle had formed to ice in the fur around his mouth where his tongue had lolled out. And when they finally hit the beach that turned out to be more snow, that same snow collected like dander on his chestnut pelt. They got snow at home, but they seldom got much and it was seldom this damned cold.

Track our Prey.

The order came and it had him sticking his nose to the ground where each labored breath puffed the snow like blowing against powder.

Per+PU
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8 (Success x 6 at target 6) [WP]

[Resistance] There's something to be said about thinking too much.

It's thought about movement, and finally just throwing herself into it. In the end, she catches up. In the end, she commits.Funny, when she actually transitions, makes the slip, she is there. Her eyes hit the sky, and her tail swishes from one side to the other. Slowly. One side... to the other side...

Sorrow doesn't flag, days pass.

There is snow.

She's all tawny browns and greys, and she doesn't quite blend into this scenery. She doesn't seem to notice... or care. They need to hunt something. Track our prey, she says. Sparrow waits- Roman will find it. If there is prey to be found, he'll find it.

[Roman Turner] His dark nose was to the ground a matter of a heart beat before he lifted his muzzle and sounded the call to send them racing off again. It was the chase that kept him going when his muscles said rest.

[Sorrow] [Stamina + Athletics]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 6, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Resistance] [Run!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 5, 7, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Roman Turner] stam+ath
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Sorrow] This is a quest. There is no rest. They run through the sky like an arrow unleashed from the earth, and land on other shores. There is an ocean behind them, dark and bound in ice. The wind scours in across the formless white expanse from behind them, bitter, and they will be lost if they stray too far, if they range away from the pack and steal off into the dark, cold night alone. Instead, Sorrow, spins in the trackless waste and nuzzles them, Fate and Resistance, feeding them her scent and stealing their own so that the they can rely on all their other senses to feel each other, running close like a pack, through the quickened howl of the gathering storm.

Then Roman has his nose in the cold drifting snow. He has never tracked prey in such circumstances, but he finds the trail immediately, and leaps off. He has the scent and will not lose it, though they will run for hours. So sharp are his feral senses that he brings them close enough to glimpse the outrider ahead - the flash of iron hooves running so fast they seem to cast sparks where they hit the odd rib of rock.

They run again. The landscape that seemed formless changes around them, rising from the lowlands at the edge of the icelocked sea by slow degrees to a tableland cracked by deep, running fissures they must leap over or - with the widest, deepest ones - forge their way through, picking their way down over steep pathway, scrambling back up over frozen cliffs.

The land rises ahead again. The scent of outrider - which is blood and iron, cinders and cold, nothing but war - sharpens with each strider. Roman finds him first, closing, this feral surge of triumph as he closes on that which he tracks at a promontory overlooking a vast plain.

This then, is their prey - a plain looking man with a mane of blonde hair riding a huge warhorse larger than any hispo Garou, whose coat is iron and whose mane seemes made of plumed white snow. He stands at the edges of the cliffs overlooking the vast pains opening below. The man - the Jotunn, for though his skin seems human, he is as large as a war-formed Garou, larger even - wears a thick mantle of furs, and sports a heavily braided beared. Beads reamed from carven bone cap each of his many warbraids, and he watches not the small pack but the distant horizon as their scramble up the last few feet to the headland.

You have come this far - he says. His eyes are on the tracking no-moon, but he addresses Sorrow. There seems to be an echo underlying his voice, this resonance that cannot come entirely from within. If Roman and Sparrow think that they hear an edge of surprise underneath the outrider's resonant voice, they would not be wrong. and your no-moon tracks like a Rotagar. The host is ahead, daughter of Fenris. Who will be your champion?

Wordlessly, Sorrow nudges Resistance forward. They should be spent, but there is a renewed energy buzzing underneath their skin. They can hear the distance wardrums, feel the stirring pulse of rage within the cages of their chests.

Resistance Sorrow yips, circling the outrider to stand at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the wide plateau below.

Daughter of Gaia the outrider says, turning to the Ahroun. will your stand the challenge to come? There is a subtle edge of doubt remaining in the Jotunn's voice. Can you hold your own against a warrior of Fenris?

[Roman Turner] His tongue was hanging out the side of his mouth in a constantly moving pink wave that pulsed up and down with each breath. And each of those breaths was announced in a white cloud as moist heated exhale met freezing air. His tail was held straight out, showing his intense focus. And there was no doubt that when his cousin was nudged forward his own tension rose. He wanted to go with her, it was clear in every line of his body. He wanted to fight as a Pack, as family. And this anxiousness came out on an anxious whine as he began to pace and circle.

[Resistance] She is, if nothing else, more perceptive of these things when she's not in homid. The subtle hints and edges in words. There is doubt there, doubt that she can't hold her own. Doubt is a powerful thing, and even though the moon wasn't full, there is a bristling of her fur, a tension in her muscles. Admittedly, looking at her? Resistance is not the most impressive of figures.

"I will stand this challenge," she replies to the outrider, "and I will hold my own."

Let it be said that what she lacks in being physically impressive, she makes up for in the fact that she is almost fearless. That she's stubborn as Hell. That she will do something she sets out to do. She stepped forward- she should be tired. And she is, but hiding that fact (playing through the pain, coach), is the only lie she can tell.

Sparrow steps forward.

[Sorrow] In the plains below, a teeming host made of all manner of monsters. There are giants and fire giants, dire wolves and great, craggy monsters that seem to have been made from the iron-gray bedrock somewhere underneath their feet. Frost-wraiths and Valkyries, on winged steeds to lead them. From a distance, the host seems like a carpet, moving just, woven tightly into the background, dark against white, smoke against the sky from the cookfires, bright points where the pennants flap and the trophies are raised on broken trees like banners against the darkness, promise and warning, together, to whoever would oppose them. From a distance, it seems like a carpet, some moving monolith, some singular thing.

The host is fractious, though - contentious and violent, boasting and prideful - gathered on the plains, fighting and casting lots, boasting and drinking and fighting and fighting and fighting as it awaits the call to war.

--


They stand in a small clearing, here. The remains of an old fire are evident now, in the sheltered lee of some nob of rock. Strange it is, that when Resistance steps forward, the natural circle just - forms amidst the snow and rock.

Roman paces, a high whine in the back of his throat. Sorrow pushes against his flank to still him and hold him back. She remains close to him, her tail thumping heavily against his flank, immediacy and reassurance as the pair stand just outside the forming circle in the snow.

We will see, daughter of Gaia, if you have the strength to follow one of Odin's sons. The outrider responds, shrugging off his mantle of furs onto the back of his massive steed. From somewhere underneath them, he produces a massive warhammer, the head worked in runes that seem to shift and move like worms underneath the skin.

You face me.

[Resistance] [Initiative: 9+1d10]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10

[Sorrow] 8
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Roman Turner] Oh great the guy had a big ole war hammer. No fair!

Sorrow pushed against him and he nipped at her cheek and wound around her like a slinky. How could he hold still when he wanted to rip at the guy's hamstrings because he just pulled out a big ass hammer with every intent of braining his cousin?

[Sorrow] Resistance: 19
Outrider: 10

Outrider: 1. Hammer Sparrow. 2. Hammer Sparrow. 3. Bodyslam Sparrow.

[Resistance] [Action!: -1 rage (yay hispo!), -1 WP (resist pain)
1a: Falling touch for Mr. Outrider man
1b: biiiite hiiiiiim
R1: Seriously.
R2: I mean it!]

[Sorrow] (Note: Resistance can take hispo without spending rage to do so.)

[Resistance] [Dex4+hispo2+medicine3=9 - 2 = 7, diff 7]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 3, 5, 6, 7 (Failure at target 7)

[Resistance] [dex4+hispo2+brawl3= 9 - 3 = 6, diff 5. Bitiiiiing (freakin' failures!)]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 6, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Resistance] [This is embarrassing. str2+hispo3+hispobite2+1=8, diff 6]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Sorrow] Soak!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Sorrow] Hammer!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 7)

[Sorrow] Damage!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 2, 4, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Resistance] [Soak?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 7, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Resistance] [Rar?]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 5) Re-rolls: 2

[Resistance] [Str2+hispo3+hispobite2+6=13]
Dice Rolled:[ 13 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Sorrow] Soak!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 4, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Sorrow] Hammer!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7)

[Sorrow] Damage!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Resistance] [Oww!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Resistance] [Rage 2: Go again!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 2, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 10 at target 5) Re-rolls: 3

[Resistance] [[Str2+hispo3+hispobite 2: 7]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Resistance] [Damage: part 2]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6)

[Sorrow] Soak!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Sorrow] The battle is brief and ferocious. Resistance surges at the Jotunn, tearing into him again and again after her full-moon's trick fails her, her rage fed by the failure. He hits her once, then twice, each great swing of the war-hammer ringing through the clearing, her body shuddering with the impact. Then, at last, she frees herself from the last loops and whorls of her inhibitions, her human self inside the wolfskin, the girl who wore a skirt to a totemquest, who wears bangles and tries to live above, around, underneath her rage - launches herself at him, seizes, tears, opening him from neck to pelvis, a great torrent of hot blood, slithering organs, all unleashed as she tears into him. The outrider falls to his knees, and the ground cracks under his weight. Nerveless fingers release the haft of his hammer, it slips to the ground with a deep, ringing sound.

Through all the blood, he smiles, beard parting in this fierce expression that gives rise to a savage, abiding sort of laugh.

"The way," he says to Sorrow, struggling to hold in the loops and whorls of his intestines, all his glistening viscera, "is clear. Be sure they know what they seek."

[Roman Turner] His cousin ripped the rider open and suddenly his concern went from his cousin to the being gutted that still smiled. His head cocked, ears flicking forward and then he yipped out.

"Hammers are slow, they require a wide swing, leaving your gut wide open."

[Resistance] There is blood everywhere. Everywhere, mostly the outrider's. And, mostly? It's on her. It makes her eyes stand out, and strangely enough? Makes her fit more into this landscape. Through all the blood, the outrider smiles. He'll be fine. Sparrow? Doesn't feel a thing except a pang of accomplishment. There's no jingling of bangles. There is no swish of fabric, just the moment. Satisfaction. Be sure they know what they seek.

[Sorrow] Some stories cannot be told in wolfskin. While the outrider pulls closed his terrible wounds, Sorrow shifts to Crinos. There is no pure blood in her, but her markings are the same as most of her tribe, iron-gray with black guard hairs, and a paler gray undercoat.

She leads them to the edge of the cliff, gestures to the host spread out over the plains. Now they can smell the meat on the cookfires, hear the ring of metal on metal, the roar of laughter as someone makes good on some reckless boast. The louder roar as another fails to make good on an even more reckless boast.

And so on.

"Baldr," Sorrow tells them, "was the loveliest and most beloved of Odin's sons. In the time before time, though, he was troubled by dark dreams of the world gone mad, the Wyrm risen, circling around Yggdrasil, swallowing the world-tree branch by branch by branch, until the canopy died, and the roots were dislodged, and the end of all things came.

"They stories say that Odin was so troubled by his favored son's sleeplessness that he traveled to the ends of the earth to find a witch who spoke only in riddles, and who read the truth of the future in the mirrors of the dead, in the pattern of blood on the snow. He brought her sacrifices nine times nine, and she promised him four questions and four answers, but so terrible was the last that she refused him it, and swallowed all her prophecy like a bitter tongue, disappearing into a crack in the earth.

"What he learned was that his son would die, never to be seen again until the end of the world.

"Neither Odin nor Frigg could bear to lose their best son. Together, all the Aesir traveled the world, extracting promising from all the made-things and the thought-things, all the growing-things and the dying-things never to harm Baldr, best of all things, the god of light. The Aesir traveled day and night, seeking out everything in the world, from the lowliest worm to the mightiest Frost and Fire Giants, and all pledged that they would never harm Baldr. But one thing did they overlook: mistletoe, so small and dependent, wrapped around the oaks like a parasite that none dreamed it might ever cause harm to the lowliest of the worms, let alone the greatest of the gods.

"They did not recken with the work of the Undoer-of-things, however.

"When the work was finished, the Aesir gathered on the plains to celebrate. Baldr called for all the assembled to attack him. With sword and hammer and shield, with dagger and club and greataxe, the great host of the gods attacked Baldr, one by one by one, but nothing on earth would harm him, and still he stood, unbent, unbroken, unbowed."

[Sorrow] "Then the undoer, wearing the guise of Loki, whispered into the ear of blind Hodr, Bladr's brother, the gentle giant, weak and dumb. He took Hodr's arrows of ash and gave him arrows of mistletoe, bade him unleash them at Baldr, who was safe from all things of the world.

"And Baldr fell, for mistletoe had been overlooked - too young, too weak, too clinging to be remembered, overlooked by all but the undoer. The mistletoe arrow pierced his heart, and Baldr feel, and a great darkness overcame the host. The sons of men and the children of the Aesir wept, so great was the sorrow of the world that the stars did not move in the sky for three times three days and three times three nights. Instead they remained fixed, glittering the trackless sky, weeping stardust back to the deepest folds of the earth.

"Frigg stood forward and called out to the assembled host, demanding that one among them go to Hel to free her favorite son. No matter the tears that slipped down her ageless face, none of the assembled giants, wolves and heroes stepped forward to her call, except for Hermóðr.

"While the gods built Baldr's funeral pyre, Hermóðr mounted Sleipnir to follow the Hel-reid, the road to the lands of the dead.

"For nine nights, Hermóðr rode down the dark road to the land of the dead, through a valley so deep he never saw the son. Unflagging, he continued through the darkness until he came to the bridge Gjallarbrú over the river Gjöll.

"There he met Móðguðr, the maiden who guarded the bridge. She noticed that the bridge creaked more under Hermóðr's weight than it had when five battalions of dead men crossed the day before, and concluded that Hermóðr was not yet dead. She refused to let him pass, for she guarded the way, but Hermóðr'd account of the grief of the gods moved her as she had never before been moved, and she opened the way. And so he rode, until he came to the gates guarding Hel, and there he did not slow, but spurred Sleipnir to leap the gates.

"And so he came to the lands of the dead.

"Hermóðr pleaded with Hel until she agreed to release Baldr to the lands of the living; but she would do so only when all the things of the earth wept for his return. Hermóðr stood watch as Baldr arrived in the lands of the dead, and visited his palace there, drinking the mead of poetry, the óðr-rerir, which means, battle-mover, and returned to the lands of the living with a heavy heart.

"The Aesir again scattered to all the ends of the earth, pleading with all living things to weep for Baldr, that he might be freed, but both Odin and Hermóðr knew too well the words of the seeress - that Baldr will not be freed until all the world weeps, until the world is seized by violence and the hosts gather. The gates of Hel will open when Ragnarok comes, and Baldr's halls will shine again only after the final battle, the world-ending Ragnarok, when the world will drown in darkness, or be reborn in Baldr's - and Gaia's - shining light."

[Note: somehow I failed to transcript, so this doesn't include the conversations Sorrow, Joe and Gut-Song had via their totem connection. :( ]

[Joe Holst] It is an odd change, when Joe is at rest, his attention bent inward. The boy is a creature of waiting violence, made of brutality and its many expressions. Knee jerk reactions. Tunnel vision bigotries. At least one can say he's never a halfway sort.

Now though, the boy seems- really- thoughtful. His expression smoothed from effort. Shoulders relaxed. His attention on the blood spattered dust and gleams of bone shards mixed with the sand in the challenge circle. His arms are crossed over a formidable chest, the muscles along his forearm twisting like snakes as he squeezes his hand absently into a fist, over and over again.

Nah- that's not ritual. That's a tic. A problem with many Modi, really. Taught to use bodily control to keep a grip on their rage, the body- some motion of it- is needed to think.

Eventually his eyes slice at Blood Summons like razors. Pre-emptive aggression meant to cover up what is obviously more than a little unease. A cover for doubts. Its not easy, leveling a challenge at one's elders.

"We aint gonna fight. Kemp-rhya taught me dat's only paht of bein' Jarl. An' yew don' needa fight like a Modi ta know how ta tell us ta go fight sumpfin else, yeah?" Joe grits his teeth briefly, nods to Blood Summons, then continues.

"He said leadahship is best tested fah dis." Joe's eyes skate left and right, embarassed to be doing this like... like...

well.. it certainly doesn't taste like a Fenrir way of things in his mouth. But then, Kemp had been an Adren.. it is not for cliaths to assume they know more. Just to try hard.

"Sah weah gonna staht widda Staredown. Self control is foyst in leadahship. Den, I'mma test yew on yowah knowledge uh how ta guide Modi. An' den, yew test me on how ta guide Godi in what dey dew. My questions is all gonna be mostly logistics, not da tactics of fighting. Yew don' gotta outfight us ta know how ta use us, like I said."

You're wandering, Joe. Finish up.

He clears his throat. "I'd appreciate it if yew dew da same fah me. 'Cause I'll be th' foyst ta tell ya I dunno shit about da Spirits demselves..."

Joe's thick neck swings toward Trudy

"Dat soun' like a goodt way ta dew t'ings ta yew?"

[Blood Summons] After the Revel, most of the Sept's warriors are starting to slog back towards their territories, to their Kinfolk or their beds or a combination of the two, to drink and to eat and to continue celebrating their having survived another passage of the moon.

The Fenrir, though, have unsettled business.

Blood Summons, despite his recent travails in the Umbra, despite the depletion of the Revel and the hunting of the Englings led by the Ahroun Elder rather than a Wyrmfoe--there is no Wyrmfoe now, not since Truth in Frenzy died, not since sklora-Myrgen followed him--holds himself as though he has energy left in his body, as though he has pride yet. It's unusual to see such strength of purpose in a sin-born, almost as unusual as seeing one of his breed having attained the rank that he has.

Seeing a Full Moon, let alone a Modi, fidgeting when having to do something other than fight, when his Rage is burning bright to match the face of Luna overhead, is not so unusual. Whereas the Godi can stand still and focus, he does not appear to think any less of the Modi for not being able to do likewise.

This is a Modi he has followed into battle before, who he has charged with leadership of a mission because he believed in his capabilities as a warrior. War-Handed is the greater fighter; Blood Summons is the greater thinker. As the Modi says, there is more to leading a tribe than fighting. Blood Summons does not argue with him. He just listens: to the conditions of the challenge, to the steps they will take to determine who will emerge victorious.

If he has any qualms about the challenge, if he disagrees with anything, he knows it is not his place as the challenger to contest them. He had named the place and time, at the challenge circle after business was concluded. Now he looks to the newcomer, the only Forseti their comparatively large tribe has, and waits for her verdict.

[Trudy Adler] Fistful of Reason stands with the two Fenrir challenging over the leadership of the Tribe. She stands at ease, wearing dark gray sweatpants, a simple t.shirt and a pair of sneakers, all that have seen better days, but are loose and comfortable when the moon rises high and full.

She looks between them both with eyes that are not blue but a drab olive green, sharp and intelligent.

Joe speaks and she listens to him, carefully - his accent demanding it, and when her opinion is asked, she gives it.

"Since your Tribe here has a representation of more then Godi and Modi, I suggest you both tell, or show, how you're going to lead the Tribe, as a whole. Jarl is leadership of us all, and each of us, at the end of this, will be following you in a time of War. Our lives will be in your hands. I am no Godi, and," - pointing to some of the others, "-that is no Modi."

"It's good to question how you would best lead one another, but this is a challenge that affects us all War-Handed, Blood-Summons. Lets incorporate that." It's her opinion, but she leaves the current Jarl, the challenged, to decide ultimately.

[Sorrow] Sorrow stands outside the challenge circle, watching. She is a tall creature, long-limbed and loose-jointed, her eyes bright from the hunt, gleaming in the pale light, her hair pulled back sharply from her face in a loose French braid. Like most of them, she wears ordinary, well-worn clothes shot-through with her spirit - a black t-shirt, proclaiming her love for late '80s indie rock (PIXIES across it, in white-ish letters), worn, well-fitted jeans, scuffed Doc Marten's, bracelets at her wrists, a black choker around her neck, leather, braided and thin. Her arms are loose, her fingers tucked into the front pockets of her jeans, the posture is easy - but alert, her attention swinging from her Alpha, to Blood Summons, and ultimately to the Forseti who stands with them now, intent and watchful.

[Joey] Joey watches from beyond the circle. She watches thoughtfully as the young Modi speaks of their fallen Jarl and the words of wisdom he left behind. She listens to the Forseti standing over the challenge. Her gaze flicks to she who offers sorrow, but ultimately, it comes to rest on the challengers.

Challengers who will not be combatants. The corner of her mouth twitches at that. The tall, athletic, leanly muscled Rotagar is dressed in dark clothing. A black and grey raglan, the sleeves pushed to her elbows, fitted jeans of a dark wash, sneakers. Her blonde hair is down, sweaty from the hunt, her bangs pushed back from her forehead.

Eventually, she crouches outside the circle, elbows on knees, hands dangling between them.

[Joe Holst] A drawn out exhale as Trudy's offering to the challenge complicates things further. Nevertheless, the bullish Modi can see through his embarassment to the wisdom in the words. A bare glance at Blood Summons- Joe's bright eyes stabbing again at the Fostern's face before he looks back to Trudy.

"We'll have a third part then. Yew ovahsee dat one yahself. Yew ask yowah own questions."

Joe's weight shifts from foot to foot. The Beast under the skin insists that this isn't right. Not the correct way at all. Threaten to name the Sword a coward.. Putting aside his reservations, Joe fixes his attention on Blood Summons again.

"Ready?"

[Silence] After the moot: the fires burned down low. The dawn staining the east.

He was alone at the moot, and he's alone now, far from the rest of his tribesmen. In his direwolf form, hulking and savage, his paws are planted wide, head level with his shoulders. He looks terrible. Taut, feral, unhinged. Like he hasn't eaten for a week. Like he's eating himself up, rage consumed by rage.

He interrupts, a low snarl:

"What Tribe are we?"

[Trudy Adler] Trudy looks from Joe to Blood Summons and then over to Silence.

"Are you challenging Silence-rhya?"

It would be a lie to say that her heart does not beat harder and faster in the presence of the insane Garou.

[Joe Holst] Joe's posture buckles with the shift. Folding, then growing again into something murderous and grey. High Tongue is to be met with High Tongue, so Joe snaps into hispo himself.

We are the Get of Fenris.

[Blood Summons] This is the first time that Blood Summons has been close enough to Silence to feel how powerful his Rage burns, the first real time that he has even been in his presence since his arrival in the city. The Godi's head swivels to level his eyes on the much higher ranked Fenrir when he skulks over, feeling like the Apocalypse on four legs, and in an instant War-Handed is shifting into his dire wolf form to meet the Athro.

Blood Summons remains in his alien human skin, arms at his sides, respectful but not outwardly fearful. Fistful of Reason asks Silence if he would like to challenge, and the metis's eyes flick to War-Handed as he answers the question.

He watches the two of them without speaking, still within the drawn line in the sand.

[Silence] Silence does not snap his jaws at Trudy. He does not growl at her, or snarl at her, or leap at her and pin her to the sandy ground.

He -- quite simply -- ignores her altogether.

When Joe answers, the response is instantaneous: "LIES!"

His eyes are pale in this form, utterly devoid of color, chips of ice glittering in his face. Beneath a pelt still heavy with winter, his musculature bunches and releases, absorbs his weight and passes it on. He paces around the drawn circle, legs stiff, hackles up, tail low and saber-curved.

"What Tribe are we, that we settle our leadership bloodlessly?" He's reached Joey. He sniffs at her, pushing his muzzle into her ruff, snorting. "Children of Gaia?" Sorrow: sniffing at the backs of her knees, snapping at her heels. "Bone Gnawers? Glass Walkers?

"What Tribe are you, imposters of Fenris?"

[Trudy Adler] Her tongue licks across her front teeth as the Athro continues to rant over top of them all.

[Joe Holst] (Rage: uuh.. I think its perm you roll. Guh-bye, Joe!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 8, 8
[Joe Holst] The elder names the sin.. lays it out in the open. Bloodless. Nothing given or taken. The exchange of Other Tribes brought to their own. It proves too much for Joe's already thinly stretched sense of dignity. The shame of it overwhelms him, and the boy explodes forward in Crinos. His eyes blaze with the unseeing Frenzy that only the Wyrm ever gives. In a moment Joe becomes a slave to Beast-of-War, and means to eat the Messenger.

[Joe Holst] (Inits! Put em up! ....ath...ro..>.>) +8
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5

[Silence] [dice! inits +20]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Sorrow] +6 in homid!
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3

[Blood Summons] [+7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Joey] [I hate you all
+7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5

[Trudy Adler] 6
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3

[Silence] [init order:
silence 29
blood summons 16
joe 13
joey 12
sorrow/trudy 9]

[Sorrow] [1 WP - Resist Pain; 1 Rage - snapshift to Crinos.

1a. Grapple Joe
1b. Block Joe's attack
Rage 1: Block Joe's attack]

[Trudy Adler] [Willpower - Resist Pain. Rage - Hispo.

Bodyslam Joe. ]

[Joey] [1WP Resist Pain, 1R snapshift to Crinos
1a: Body slam Sorrow
R: Held]

[Joe Holst] (SORRY!)

1a: bite decker
1b: bite decker

1r: bite decker
2r: bite heem some mo'

[Blood Summons] The Godi remains in his human skin and does not move forward, but his voice is no less monstrous when it comes out in something like a roar.

[Reflexive: "Cliaths, stand down!"
Action: Held.]

[Joe Holst] (Or like- no splits. Because he's frenzied.)

[Silence] [-1WP: preemptive resist-urge-to-flip-lid WP.
1a. jump on top of Joe!
b. jawlock
R1/R2/R3 - held.]

[Silence] [thaaat's assuming all the cliaths stand down, btw]

[Trudy Adler] [Changing action: Blood Summons is wise; let the Modi make the mistake - Standing down, in Hispo.]

[Sorrow] [Changing action: Sorrow will stand down; reserve the right to block Joe's attacks if Silence doesn't succeed in jumping on top of him.]

[Joey] [Since the other Cliaths are standing down, so does Joey]

[Silence] [folks -- okay with everyone if lessa is mod? speak now or forever hold peace!]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 9 at target 3) Re-rolls: 1

[Silence] [whoops. errrr. YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT.]

[Blood Summons] [*gibbers*]

[.fly.] [Willing to mod if folks agree - but mostly that means I'll step in if you mess up. All of you know what you're doing. *L* And I'm tired and cranky and hurt all over. So. Be nice. :) ]

[Trudy Adler] (ooc: I'm fine with it.)

[Joey] [i'm cool with it]

[Blood Summons] [I'm totally down with it.]

[Joe Holst] (mod it up.)

[Sorrow] (fine w/me)

[.fly.] [puts on hat, answers Damon's question, gestures to continue on. :) ]

[and I really love ya'll. honest. :) ]

[Silence] [okay -- lessa called a long jump, which means i actually don't have to reroll (str+ath-2(split) works out).

b. jaw lock! dex+brawl+2(hispo)-3(split)]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Silence] [jaw locking: resisted str + ath roll.

str + ath + 3 (hispo) +3 (eagle) + 4 (succ)]
Dice Rolled:[ 17 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6) Re-rolls: 3

[Joe Holst] (str/ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)

[Joe Holst] (WAIT, REROLLS)
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 4 (Failure at target 6)

[Joe Holst] (yew may pro-ceed)

[Joe Holst] (Str/ath, diff is 9. NINE. The number. *glares*)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9 (Failure at target 9)

[Joe Holst] (roll should have been strength/brawl? but its the same number.)

[.fly.] (its... yes. *waves absently* continue!)

[Joe Holst] (uhhh.. still my go? Joe's got a total of 3 actions, the two rage will switch to attempts at escaping. I don't know how long he ought to stay frenzied or anything, but his stamina spec is tireless, so it could be a while.)

[.fly.] (you dont' have a split - that's it for you for round one. Anyone else or is everyone standing down?)

[Silence] [joe has 2 rage actions! should i roll to resist the failed escape roll, btw?]

[.fly.] He failed - he's locked. No need to resist the failed roll (cuz that makes no sense. *L*)


And I'm aware he has rage actions - they just need to go in order. If you're just holding on - then yes, joe, you're up again. (assuming everyone else remains standing down...)

[Joey] [standing down]

[Silence] [question: is it an action to resist an escape attempt, or is it reflexive?]

[.fly.] [Action]

[Silence] [continuing to hold rage actions to resist getaway attempts then!]

[Joe Holst] (looked at a foal real quick. back now. same thing- trying to escape. Roll is str/brawl diff 9)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 9) Re-rolls: 2

[Joe Holst] (and again for when its...relevant.)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 9) Re-rolls: 1

[Joe Holst] Ignore those rerolls- the spec doesn't apply.)

[.fly.] [as they're added in, and could be your success - reroll it.]

[Joe Holst] (sure. banging out both real quick)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 3, 3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 9)

[Joe Holst]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 3, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Failure at target 9)

[Silence] [R1]
Dice Rolled:[ 16 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 13 at target 5) Re-rolls: 4

[.fly.] [I'm pretty sure Joe be stayin right where he is. *L* Any actions left?]

[Silence] All I feel, he said to Imogen, is anger or nothing. He feels anger right now. He's bleeding fury -- outraged at his younger tribesmen, outraged at their challenge, outraged that a Cliath is attacking him,

outraged because he knows he's not fit to lead like this,

outraged because he knows Kemp was. And Kemp is dead now.

As War-Handed comes at him, eyes empty, jaws slavering, the world crystallizes around him in his rage. Everything seems vivid, frozen, already-seen. He feels like he's fought so many battles. He feels like he can predict every last wolf's actions down to the millimeter before they twitch a muscle. He feels an almost-irresistible tug to slip phantomlike amongst that tapestry of frozen strands -- and cut them all down.

Just destroy. Just kill. Just tear the pup to shreds, and then the one next to him, and the next, and the next, not because that would sate his anger, but because that would feed it. And that would give him something to feel. Something to fill the thundering chambers of his heart.

He thinks: it would be easy.
He thinks: I'm on an ill path.


It takes will to do what he does instead. It takes will, and his will is not quite up to the task anymore. His will is iron, but his rage is white-hot flame, and his will melts before it like butter. It takes will that he can ill afford to hold back from the urge to destroy, and though killing would be so easy, this is hard.

It's hard for him to draw himself back to the present. To draws his legs under him and leap forward, upward, arcing over the younger wolf to land squarely on his back and seize him by the scruff of the neck --

firmly, unshakably, but what passes for gently between the Fenrir

-- and force him to the ground. To hold him there without biting down.

It's hard for Silence to muster the will to do this. But he does it. And he waits for the frenzy to pass, as all storms eventually must.

[Joe Holst] The world eventually thaws from the scatter of red- wrought shapes and the shine of bloodlust. That mad kaleidoscope- becomes sand in Joe's mouth and the grit of pebbles under his fingernails.

Nothing is left of that savage burn in his chest. The fierce, hungry joy that can drag worlds down with him. The feeling is not unlike rising from a warm bath only to drop on cold tiles afterward. His muscles are slack, feel unhitched from his limbs..

No. Something remains. A shred of black to mark the passing of a denied Beast-of-War. A foul, hidden mark on the skinhead's soul. Slowly his eyes open, and even that is hard. Joe's lips- for he has lips now, tossed from the hot sea of urge to the shoreline, he's left in homid. Left in homid seething.

Its a whisper. One so quiet it only just reaches Silence's ears. Finality in it. Hatred. Hatred as a shield against shame.

"Don't yew dare.. Don' yew dare name me Urrah den ack like dat aint a woyd feh killin."

[Joe Holst] (Yeah so the aforementioned lips. They move. Right. As opposed to just being his lips. Sheesh.)

[Joey] It takes will to hold still when Silence stalks behind her, presses his nose to the back of her neck like some hugely oversized dog in a moment of curiosity. Feeding her arm to a Fimbul wolf was nothing compared to the feel of Silence's nose, the whuff of air as he snorts against her hair. But Joey holds still until he passes.

And she continues to watch events unfold. She listens to the Athro condemn them all, the challengers for their combatless challenge, the witnesses for simply watching, holding their tongues and waiting. As if this were normal. As if the Get of Fenris could do anything without it leading to violence.

It erupts from the Cliath Modi, already standing tall and war formed and vicious. The other Cliaths explode upward. Kora to defend her packmate, her alpha. Trudy to likewise interfere. Joey hasn't even started in the Skald's direction when the Godi calls the Cliaths to hold back. And watch, as Silence doesn't simply throat the Cliath.

He might now, though. Abruptly, where there stood a grey and white furred monster, scars across her stomach and crisscrossing her throat, one eye dark and intent while the other gleams white, there is now a blonde woman.

Joey doesn't speak up. She doesn't move to the side of any of the other Fenrir. She stands there, watching, fists clenched at her sides, jaw tight.

[Sorrow] (OOC: Just a correction given the narrative in Joey's post. Kora's intent was to stop Joe's attacks on Silence, not to defend him. Her declared blocks were meant to be blocking Joe's attacks on Silence. So that everyone who read her intent gets it, and her declared grapple was again, to stop Joe from attacking Silence, not to defend Joe from Silence's attacks. :) )

[Blood Summons] [Primal-Urge+Perception: Hmm...]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 9 (Failure at target 8)

[Joey] [oops, that's right, her declares were blocks. pretend i didn't say defend in that post!]

[Sorrow] (ooc: perfect! thanks. :) )

[Blood Summons] [*rerolls*]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 7, 7, 10 (Failure at target 9) [WP]

[Trudy Adler] Everywhere there is an explosion of fur and fangs, an instant reaction to an opinion that were taken as insults. Reason is also in that fray, her human form becomes the great Direwolf meant for violence and war, and her intention had been to knock Joe off course. But Blood Summons yells for them to halt, his voice commanding enough to jerk her more sensible reasoning - let the Athro handle it; which had come after her instinct to follow a direct command.

She waits, breathing heavier, focused on Silence and War-Handed.

[Silence] As the hispo becomes a homid, Silence's teeth relent by slow degrees. He stands over War Handed a moment longer -- long enough to hear those quiet words.

It rouses a low growl in his chest, the first sound he's made since mocking them all for bone gnawers, for children of gaia. It's a slow rumble, so deep that it's more felt than heard, more pressure than sound. He steps over the younger Modi, circles around before him. His tongue licks between his bared teeth once.

"It was," the word-thoughts are conveyed clearly, unflinchingly, "wrong of me to mock my brothers and sisters as pretenders to the Tribe. Fenris chose every one of you. It is not my place to deny him."

An exhale, a growl beneath the breath.

"But the Fenrir do not choose their Jarls by talking. The wisest and most honorable Garou are nothing when they lie dead on the battlefield."

[Silence] [percep+pu: does he notice joe was flipped?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 10 (Failure at target 8)

[Joey] [percept + PU: does ANYONE notice?!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 10 (Failure at target 8)

[.fly.] [Lessa TOTALLY notices...]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8)

[.fly.] (HAHAHAH! TAKE THAT)

[cricket] [the cricket said to the fly, that dude is so tainted, man.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 8)

[Sorrow] Sorrow: Per + Primal-Urge
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Failure at target 8)

[vikthya] [I WANNA ROLL SHIT.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 6, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8)

[Sorrow] Again! THAT IS MY PACKMATE.
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 1 at target 9) [WP]

[Blood Summons] Were he a son of any other tribal spirit, the metis would have tried to stop the Cliath Full Moon from attacking the Athro. Were he a Child of Gaia, or a Bone Gnawer, or a Glass Walker, his first instinct might have been to protect the lower-ranked warrior from certain death. He would have recognized Rage madness when he saw it and sought to keep yet another of their blood from staining the sand tonight. He would not have told the Cliath's own packmate not to try and stop him from attacking the Athro. He might have encouraged her to, even commanded her.

The Cliaths are not Children of Gaia, or Bone Gnawers, or Glass Walkers. Maybe it isn't his tribe that has him nearly snarling out that order for the Rotagar, the Forseti, and the Skald to stay their hands and let the Modi handle the Modi. Maybe it's wisdom, or recognition, or being his own brand of insane.

What facts there are stand thusly: Silence provoked War-Handed, War-Handed gave into the Wyrm, and the only one physically capable of putting him down without being torn to ribbons in the process is the one who is too out of his mind to lead them anywhere but down an inwardly-reaching path.

Blood Summons is the last one standing in homid when the dust has settled, and his hearing is not acute enough to pick up the whisper that slips out of War-Handed's throat as he lies pinned beneath the great purebred Athro. He is not out of breath from panic or indecision or even that roar he had loosed earlier. The Rotagar soon joins him.

His blue eyes flick to she who offers sorrow, the only one of War-Handed's packmates present tonight. He has no idea that what just occurred was the fault of the Eater-of-Souls. It was over much too quickly for him to view anything more in the quickness of his claws and the slavering of his jaws than what he did see.

That is what he had been hoping for: rapid resolution.

The Godi reaches up to rub at his chin, then stays his tongue as the Athro issues an admission of fault to precede his point: that the challenge was not indicative of worth on the battlefield. That's where they are now. The entire city is a goddamn war zone. His nostrils flare, once, and his brow furrows, but he says nothing yet.

[Sorrow] When her Alpha returns to his humanskin, so, too, does Sorrow. Her dark eyes flick to Silence when he speaks, watchful, alert; and then, quickly return to her packmate. There is a neat knitting of her brow, a certain gleam in her dark eyes. The calm, quiet blank-face that marks internal communication.

[Joe Holst] The minor tics and spastic muscular hitches are things anyone who's ever frenzied would understand too easily for any to really catch the eye. A twitch of the thick Modi's jaw. The flutter at the corner of one eyelid. Fingers tweaking over and over again. Not to the palm. Not the motion of a man recovering strength of limb and sureness of form. Joe's fingers flick outward. Lend room to claws that are for now not even present.

The bleak hunger in his eyes gives it away.

Joe doesn't argue with Silence. Opens his mouth once- the knee- jerk reaction of the youthful. An offering of reasons why. Explanations. All learned recently at the shoulder of a Garou now dead. It all feels like ashes in his mouth- none of the reasons are his, so he closes his mouth again. Breathes deeply, his attention resting at the bridge of Silence's nose.

Irritation flashes across Joe's face then, and he flicks a glare at Sorrow.

[Sorrow] Sorrow does not flinch from Joe's glare. She looks back at him; direct and sure. In this, she gives nothing. The body language between the packmates is clear, the thread of internal tension that is knitted between them.

[Joe Holst] This won't work. This standing and waiting. This doesn't feel right either. Joe's weight shifts from foot to foot, he chews something bitter, then spits in the sand.

"Yew gonna be owah Jarl again?" He resents, but it sounds like the fading echo of Bone Gnawer to attentive ears. Joe rolls his shoulders and watches Silence with deadened eyes.

[Joe Holst] (That was not clear. Translation: Joe sounds churlish and angry. But its not a kid whining. He's still smarting from the comparison with grody other tribes.)

[Trudy Adler] (ooc: so, I have to go. If someone would be so kind to send me the transcript later, or give me a run-down, I'd appreciate it. Thanks for the scene.)

[Silence] It's no small thing for any Garou to admit fault. Much less a Fenrir. Much less an Athro amongst Cliaths and Fosterns. Much less this Garou, who has lost precisely one battle in his entire life, and who did not lose this one.

Nevertheless: there it was. Spoken plainly; moved past. Now they're all silent, watching, waiting to see what he'll do next, and deep in the core of him a pilot light of fury flickers back on. Flames. He doesn't care that Joe flipped his goddamn lid over being called a Bone Gnawer. He doesn't care that this smacks of weakness, that it's something he should care about, should do something about as an Athro. As his elder. He doesn't care about any of that.

He cares only that they're standing there. Like sheep. Staring. Waiting for instruction. He's a second from roaring at them to say something, do something when Joe speaks again.

The great wolf turns to look at the younger Modi. Their eyes meet like a thunderclap; like a force of nature. Instability at the core of the elder Modi. Rage almost beyond his grasp. His head lowers after a moment; tension, thought. Rises again.

"No. I don't want to." Flat, that. Blunt and unmerciful. A moment later, something more of an admission, "And I am not worthy to lead like this."

[Joe Holst] Alarm flickers across Joe's face, and the resentment is wiped away in its wake. The boy nearly rocks on his heels, like a boxer tagged on the jaw just enough to take the weight out of his knees. Bloodless Challenge.. that had been dangerous territory enough. Something alien to his nature and his schooling. A splinter of wisdom planted in his brain by his dead alpha.

This is something even greater in magnitude. Joe had felt something awfully like relief when Silence's wintry voice had filled the circle. He'd known, way down, that the rumored madness had been just a rumor. That the world would return to something expected. Put right again.

Bitter hate still boils up in the kid's chest. A new and secret sort of shame he was going to have to address. His eyes flick to Sorrow again, perhaps a touch more accepting. That will have to wait. This is the world on its ear, and Joe scrambles inwardly to keep up.

"You'll get bettah." He says it like a forgone conclusion. Like he's trying to ram the idea into his tribesmates. His gaze swivels, colored with threat, amongst them.

"When ya dew, we'll dew dis again." He chews thoughtfully. Nods.

[Blood Summons] Inaction is just as huge of an affront in their culture as weakness is. One could say that inaction is a form of weakness, that choosing to stay silent when one could just as easily speak up is choosing to be a coward. The Fostern, who is only a few years younger than Silence yet eclipsed when it comes to rank, has not opened his mouth since he made a decision for the Cliaths. He's been standing there, looking for all the world as though he is waiting to see what happens; or, worse, watching, which is about as effective as walking away would have been.

He didn't acquire a reputation for being a wise man because he shoots off at the mouth, though, because he speaks before he thinks. If anything, the Garou of this Sept would say that he needs to do more of that: speaking. His attempts at communication are largely nonverbal, and when he does speak it is after periods of silence where it's hard to tell if there's anything going on inside of his skull.

The man--monster--cannot tell that Silence is growing irate with the younger members of his tribe's refusal or unwillingness to speak. What he sees, though, is a respected elder of their tribe struggling to contain his Rage even after he's burnt so much of it off. What he sees is loss. What he sees is anger without an outlet.

"You were worthy enough when you saw an unfit challenge," the metis says. Not 'to speak up' or 'to interrupt' or 'to lead.' "Was that the Rage driving you then, or was that you?"

[Silence] The rumored madness is, indeed, just a rumor. It's something worse than madness that grips the Modi. It's apathy. It's detachment. It's not a flaw in the mind, but in the spirit: something come undone. Ripped loose.

Anyone who looks can see it. All that remains is inconsolable anger and what thin fibers of will remain to bind it.

The direwolf's eyes meet the younger Modi's eyes silently, unflinchingly. He says nothing. When Blood Summons speaks, his head whips sharply toward him and his teeth bare with every snarl.

"There is no difference." There it is again: anger spiking again and again. He takes a step back. Then another. A pivot then, a fluid, flawless turn on his haunches. "Finish your [fucking] challenge."

[Blood Summons] If there is anything to be done for Silence, it isn't to be done in this moment, this sliver of time that they have when they're all exhausted. Exhaustion has never stopped any proper Fenrir. A lot of things have never stopped any proper Fenrir. A lot of things have ended proper Fenrir.

One such proper Fenrir has been turned to ash and interred into the Graves of Hallowed Heroes to lie there until the Apocalypse comes to claim the rest of them, felled by, of all things, a Bane and his subordinates' blind trust. A few of those subordinates are gone now, either departed for the west or departed for the homelands.

Blood Summons doesn't know Silence from any of the other heroes manning any of the other Septs in any of the other states he has never been to before. Before tonight, before he took the bone and introduced himself, Silence had never seen Blood Summons before. There is doubt as to whether he saw him then, whether he saw anything that took place tonight that didn't involve running, killing, vainly attempting to burn off anger stronger than anything any of his Septmates have ever felt before.

He should stop him, attempt to counsel him, attempt to steer him away from that path of darkness he's heading down. What words a stranger could offer a stranger, though, are inadequate. Without a pack, without distinction between his Rage and his self, without anything other than solitude and fury, words are nothing more than flies at his flank.

The Godi takes a breath as the Modi turns away, but ultimately says nothing. He doesn't watch him go. He turns back to War-Handed, and he raises his eyebrows.

[Joe War- Handed] Joe also watches as Silence moves, a monstrous shadow stomping its way back into the near- dark of the dockyards beyond the challenge circle. For a moment or two Joe's attention remains along the other's path. Something stricken creases his face for a moment before it is wiped away. It hadn't been sympathy. Not even close. It is rather the look of someone watching the departure of some oracular event. Deep meaning and no small amount of consternation.

The bullish kid's thick neck swings back to Blood Summons, his attention flicking across the Godi's face. It occurs to Joe that he wants to know the Fostern's thoughts. The moment passes and Joe starts to nod in unspoken agreement. High Tongue ripples across the Modi's form. Shifts hackles like iron knives back and forth along his Hispo ruff.

I think so too, Blood Summons- rhya.

Scraping of claws against the grit and sand of the circle. That's all the warning the Godi recieves. Though he'd needed far less than that.

(inits time!)

[Blood Summons] [Reflexive: Rage-shift to Hispo.
+9]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7

[Joe War- Handed] (+9)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7

[Gut Song] ...Somewhere in the darkness, a standing Skald is waiting out the crush of the Moon's afterbirth. She has risen to her pinnacle, shown pregnant the power of her sway and only now begins to wane steadily back toward her nights of rest under the comforts of the Shadow mask. Until such times, the air is brittle where she stares and the lands awash in the tribute due her. Along the rail of his favourite perch, the Skald stands in regard of that test in the sky, reeling vaguely from the flashfry of the Totemlink as it frayed to static under the onslaught of the Modi's descent into furious madness.

It was enough to bring the Skald 'round and sliding down decks, even as the Totemlink slowly re-established itself and Hermodr's voice was once more a clarion call at the back of his mind. A ripple of unease travels the link between packmates, emanating from Thomas...

...And soon enough, sooner yet, he is a wraith on the outskirts of the Challenge circle, stepping into view with slow, measured comfort. This night would be a settling of grudges, scores and places. The tribe was fractured with losses of body, mind and spirit. There needed a reckoning, a letting of blood, to ease away the bad blood and air and bring about something more. New. Other.

He watches from the edge of the Hangar doors, a silhouette with arms crossed and a shoulder set to the frame.

[Joe War- Handed] (tiebreak)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Blood Summons] [Don't start, Kahseeno.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7

[Joe War- Handed] (reflexive: resist pain)
1a: bite, called shot, neck.
1b: bite, called shot, neck.

1r: bite

[Joe War- Handed] (by the way, all damage held at incap for entire fight.)

[Holds the Line] A midnight black crinos also crouches there, a few measured paces back from the circle. Glacial blue eyes fixed on the two in the center. The Rotagar who had taken the bone at the moot had stayed quiet, listening, waiting.

The purity of his blood, strength of his lineage is clear in his perfect form. Claws flex as the first lightning quick strikes are made.

[Blood Summons] [Reflexive: -1WP, Resist Pain.
1a: Hamstring.
1b: Bite!

R1: Bite!
R2: Bite!]

[Blood Summons] [1a: Brawl+Dexterity (+2): Hamstring! -2 pool (split).]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 8) [WP]

[Joey] Joey is still there. Still standing in her Homid skin, clothing dark, blonde hair slightly askew. Her left eye is a blank, staring white orb in her freckled face. The right eye, the brown one, is dark and intense as she watches the combatants. There's disappointment, vague and clouded, but she keeps out of the way. And she watches.

[Blood Summons] [Damage: Strength +3 (Hispo) +2 (bite) +2 (suxx). Pulling at incap if necessary.] [A]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] (Soak pool current= 8)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 5, 7, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [1b: Brawl+Dexterity (+2): Bite! -3 pool (split).]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Blood Summons] [Damage: Strength +3 (Hispo) +2 (bite) +3 (suxx). Same!] [A]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] (soak)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] 1a: bite= 9-2 first action, diff 5 for bite +1 for called shot=6)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 5, 5, 6, 6, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] (damage: str 7+2teeth+2called shot+4 sux=15)
Dice Rolled:[ 15 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 6 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [Pfffft!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 7, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] (curses! Bite the metis again. same pool-1 more dice for split=6 @diff 6)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] (damage: str7+2teeth+2called shot+1 measley sux)
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 5, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 9 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [Gonna be rerolling damage, called shot is actually +2.]

[Joe War- Handed] First attack: str7+2teeth+2called shot+2 sux)
Dice Rolled:[ 13 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 5, 6, 6, 6, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] second: same but no added sux= str7+2teeth+2called shot)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 7 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [Second soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [Reflexive: -1R, ignore stun.

R1: Brawl+Dexterity (+2): Chomp!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 5)

[Blood Summons] [Damage: Strength +3 (Hispo) +2 (bite) +4 (suxx). Pulling at incap.] [A]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] (soak)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 5, 6, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] (r1: bite, don't think its a called shot this time. diff@5 pool@9)
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 6, 7, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 5)

[Joe War- Handed] (damage: pulling at Incap, str7+2teeth+5sux=14)
Dice Rolled:[ 14 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [Hahahahaha... hah.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Joe War- Handed] Such fights are always a brief story later. Difficult to finish even one beer before the tale is done, the news spread.. speed of violence carries the day. Nearly mindless in application.

This time was almost different. There will be more than one 'almost' to the telling of this story later. Wisdom, rather than speed almost carried the day, for one. No sooner had the two Hispo clashed than Blood Summons snapped Jaws almost delicately around the thick tendons coupling War- Handed's hind leg to the rest of his body. The thing hangs useless, the greater part of the cliath's mobility robbed in one sweep.

The Modi had been a block of frustrated anger then. Unable to seek angles, to swirl around Blood Summons as he'd desperately wanted to. Instead, he was a ripe, if forbidding, target. A second and third time Bob's teeth had clamped around various bits of Joe's war- stained and scarred anatomy, the second had been telling as well- but the third shrugged from thick hide.

Joe lunged then- part of the momentum long since robbed, he nevertheless manages to rip at Blood Summons' throat badly. Once, then again. The Fenrir allow no weaknesses in their own though, and strength is found readily in their Godi as well- Bob doesn't even reel back- but swings back on the attack- unfortunately, it doesn't prove enough.

Joe takes advantage of the moment, the glimpse of neck ruff at the corner of his glassy vision, and bites into it again. This time is the last, and the same Jarl will leave the challenge as entered it.

[Holds the Line] For someone who doesn't know. For someone who sees Garou truly fight for the very first time? It is nothing more then blood and fur in a lightning flurry.

For the Garou watching the challenge, who has seen similar things perhaps many times?

It is not much better. Swift, decisive in its brutality. Holds the Line rises to his full height and watches the Jarl and the challenger. Breath drawn in. [I]Blood-Scent[/] and the Rotagar turns from the circle.

Matter settled.

[Trudy Adler] Fistful of Reason watches, standing in (now) her Crinos form. It happens all very quickly, growls, snarls with fur torn and blood spilled. She watches in a crouch, waiting for the victor, and she doesn't have to wait long. War-Handed leaves a bloodied Blood-Summons, bleeding from the throat.

She doesn't call for a healer, nor does she interfere in any way.

But waits and watches some more.

[Sorrow] Sorrow has retaken her humanskin. She remains standing outside the challenge circle, her left arm loose at her side, the fingers of her right hand tucked into the hip pocket of her jeans. The blood in the air under the weight of the promise of a full moon is a sharp goad to the beast underneath the skin, but hers is well controlled. She breathes in, watching, following the back and forth not because she wishes to tell a blow-by-blow account, but because she watches such things, attentively - not simply the way the blows are landed, but the arc of blood spatter;l the patterns dotting the ground beneath their feet.

[Gut Song] The Skald moves forward with measured steps, arms crossed, hands cupping either elbow, gaze on the proceedings before. There is a murmured coiling to his lips, as if something were haunting the edge of his voice, but seemed restrained for a moment. As the blood begins to pool and puddle around the feet of the gathered in the circle, the Skald's eyes follow it's trail and path. A moment (seconds) and then, as feet touch the edge of the scribbled circle and ring of watching individuals, his head lifts and his voice unhinges from it's prison.

"...Let the Fenrir of Maelstrom recognize and witness, War-handed~yuf, Modi, Cliath in service to Mighty Fenris, stands as Jarl..."

[Blood Summons] The greater part of Wisdom is preparation. It's a willingness to stop and think before taking action, to use cunning and intelligence before using anything else. The Godi has no time to prepare before the fight commences, has only the lunging of the gray-furred dire wolf to alert him to the start of battle, yet he fights like someone born out of blood, out of Rage, like someone who hasn't ever known anything but fighting.

It isn't enough.

Even after his throat has been torn out, even after an injury that should have had him standing dumb-eyed and starry-headed, there's a surge of Rage that keeps Blood Summons moving. He isn't as strong as War-Handed, isn't built to take steel-jawed bites from comrades, yet there's a toughness in him, a refusal to back down and accept what has been done to his body. Even after his blood has absolutely saturated the sand beneath their paws, he keeps coming until the last grasp of teeth sends him collapsing to the ground, exploding outward in a surge of muscles and a bristling of fur that leaves him in the form that he will be buried in.

He's unconscious for several seconds after War-Handed is finished with him, the Modi still carrying the wounds that the physically weaker spirit-talker inflicted upon him but unlikely to even feel them yet. When he comes to, he tries to speak. What comes out is a wet gurgling of air leaving the wound in his already-scarred throat, not Garou speech. Not speech of any language. There's intent, though, and as Gut Song declares War-Handed the Jarl, the Godi pushes himself upright and makes eye contact with his lesser, with his better.

He bows his head, blood seeping from the wound in his throat, and slowly gets to his feet.

[Joey] Joey waits outside the challenge circle, arms loose at her side, expectant. Watchful. Waiting. Almost impatient.

She is a healer, and there is a body lying prone within the circle, blood oozing from his throat. Logic tells her to just walk away. He's a metis, and a Godi. He'll be on his feet in no time. They are Fenrir, and he's not her packmate. He'll refuse her healing anyway. These thoughts are at war with her instincts, however. The instinct to fix the tears in Blood Summons' flesh, make it right, make it better.

When Thomas declares Joe to be Jarl still and again, Joey's one-eyed gaze flicks to him, then goes to rest on the fallen Godi. She waits until she sees him climb to his feet. Then, and only then, does the Rotagar turn on her heel and begin to walk away.

[Sorrow] Sorrow's pale face has a certain intensity, now. Her brow is drawn together, her mouth set into its usual neutral curve. It would be easy to assume that the Skald is smiling.

She is not smiling; instead, her eyes are on the modi, her Alpha, the Jarl, flicking now and again to Gut-Song, back and forth. Silence communication between the pack clear in the undercurrents.

[Joe War- Handed] Hispo lips peel back from wicked teeth- he would howl, but for the threads of corruption that threaten to rise from his throat, to mingle their greasy notes with the clarion that announces him. That is not right. Not Fenrir. Joe's lips slam closed over a sound unsung, instead he cuts a glance across all the gathered faces. Meeting each, looking for any sign of challenge.

...his eyes remain longest on Joey's departing form, and narrow dangerously.

Today my luck held, Blood Summons-rhya. He considers the tall form of the Godi for a moment, searching for words to assign to the strange sort of thanks that wells inside him.

You prove me. The savage hispo head ducks for a moment, then he tosses his head toward Kora.

My packmate stands ready to heal your wounds, if you will take the offer..

[Blood Summons] There is a knapsack, stuffed full with articles that the average human being wouldn't have the foggiest idea what to make of, let alone what to do with, lying on the sand by the water. It is filled with small clay gourds, with feathers and candles and little satchels of powder and needle-sharp blades of grass, and it is towards that knapsack that the Crinos wolf with the wide sneer torn into his neck would have headed were not for the Jarl's offer.

He stands tall, stands period despite the injuries he has taken, and chuffs, the sound inundated yet purposeful. It's acquiescence.

[Sorrow] Sorrow too has a bag, left hanging in the near distant, from a hook in a corrugated wall. It is not a knapsack, but is rather a brown corduroy messenger bag, half-sized. Close to but not quick a square, just wider than it is long. She jogs off to grab it, then returns, the bag slung across her body, the strap bisecting her torso diagonally, distorting the text on her t-shirt so that, squinting, one might dream it read PI ES rather than PIXIES.

She has a gourd in hand by the time she has returned, too. She holds it carefully, like a waterballoon, cupped in her palm as she approaches the Godi. There is a moment when she closes her eyes, the sense of her spirit in the air a silver thing, that momentary sense of spun moonlight alive in the air around her, channeled through her hands. Then, she breaks the gourd over Blood Summons, that sense of lightness in the air again.

[Sorrow] [1 Gnosis to activate! Be healed!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 2, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 8) [WP]

[Blood Summons] As Sorrow moves off to retrieve her messenger bag, the war-formed metis shrinks, first becoming a near-human abomination with bulging muscles and knobby joints before returning to his decidedly rough human skin. The wound is even more telling when he is six feet tall and mortal-seeming, seems to bleed more even, bubbles and spits as he breathes. The female Skald breaks a spirit-bound gourd over the wound, and it fuses shut, the rasping ceasing and the blood slowing. Blood Summons clears his throat, turns his head to spit a great wad of crimson into the already-stained sand, and looks to the daughter of Hermodr.

"Thank you, Sorrow," he tells her, his voice even more strained than usual. He does not feel the protestation of his throat as he works it despite its limitations. To Trudy: "Thank you, Forseti, for your service tonight."

It's as much dismissal as it is a show of gratitude, as though she's free to leave now that the matter has been settled. Karl has already turned away, and Joey has already started off, her back turned to the narrow-eyed Modi. Aesir's Call is left behind, War-Handed still in his dire wolf form.

"Jarl, if you have a moment?"

[Joe War- Handed] Joe doesn't speak until his own form had buckled into Crinos, then drifts back into Homid in a boil of fur-become-flesh and the mundane addition of clothing.

All of the Modi's considerable weight is balanced on the remaining good leg. One boot scrapes in the sand like a lifeless fish as he brings his feet together, immense arms held out for balance. Then he fixes Blood Summons with a broad, gap- toothed grin, and that horrible Jersey bray grinds from his mouth.

"Guess I couldt take a sec outta my joggin' time tanight." Another flash of a smile, war- edged and gleaming with teeth.. then the young Fenrir seems to remember himself, his hands drop to his sides and his eyes snap to Bob's chin. He clears his throat.

"Shuwah, eldah. Um.. Got a.. bit uh sumpfin' ta tell ya myself. Buh yew go ahead."

[Gut Song] ...The Skald, Gut~Song regards the procession with little words, offered or withheld. His brow is vaguely furrowed, an expression all too familiar on his features, though less pronounced then it often is. Blood~Summons calls for Joe's attention and this in turn pulls the Skald out from alongside his Alpha, joining Sorrow's opposite edge as Fostern and Jarl are given his attention.

[Trudy Adler] "Service?" Her body melds into her human skin. "I hadn't so much said a word." She's seething herself, not at all happy with the events along the night, and the full moon overhead does not help any Garou's temperament.

But she leaves, not so much because someone 'dismissed' her, but because she had no desire to stay. Anger wasn't going to get her anywhere here tonight.

[Blood Summons] [WP -4]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 4)

[Blood Summons] Tightness writes itself into the musculature of the Fostern's mouth and neck as Joe briefly bares his teeth, but it dissipates as the young human-born Modi catches himself and returns his eyes to the Godi's chin. His eyes roll skyward when Trudy corrects him, as though he's asking for some sort of divine intervention, but his Rage is almost completely depleted. He does not snap at her, tell her to watch her tongue lest he remove it from her throat as he has told a female from another tribe recently, or act on whatever desire to put her in her place he might be feeling at the moment.

He sighs through his nostrils, says, "I must be fuckin' hearing things then," and returns his gaze to Joe.

"Our people's histories are filled with stories of leadership revealing itself in ways other than shows of brute strength," he says. "You tried to honor a brave, wise warrior tonight by attempting something... unconventional. It didn't fit, maybe, but it showed me a willingness to listen and think that any great leader ought to possess. Feel no shame in that."

[Gut Song] ...Blood~Summons is perhaps more forgiving then most. A Godi's wisdom is not something to be questioned, but accepted. That the Fostern allows the Forseti to turn from the circle with nary a backwards glance and barely a sarcastic remark is a testament to the Metis' will, even after such trying circumstances.

Gut~Song is no Godi and bares nothing of composure wrought in the Godi.

The Jarl and Fostern continue their discussion and the Skald...turns and moves across the sands, distancing himself from the pair of Garou, footfalls light and lengthy to catch the wake of the retreating Forseti, a dark cloud of lines marring the average cast of his features.

"Your name." Trudy could hear him. Easily. His voice carries and his demeanor is that of the orator. The storyteller. The War-singer.

[Trudy Adler] "You weren't paying attention at the moot, Gut Song?" Trudy stops when the Skald comes across to her, her voice flat, fierce, much like the look she has in her eye.

[Gut Song] The Skald's gaze narrows in kind, a few more steps carrying him distant from the gathered, to stand within a six foot distance of the Forseti. His hands fall to his sides, the hoodie and tattered remains of a pair of jeans, dangling off him like so much loose scrap.

"...A Skald asks your name and you answer with a question. Obviously your grasp of tradition is lacking, Sister."

[Holds the Line] Karl has turned away from the circle. He remains there, but his attention turned away from the Fostern and the Jarl, giving them privacy, in a matter of speaking. However, the Godi and forseti are not spared. Those glacial eyes turn on them, and the midnight crinos watches them.

Eyes narrowed, the Rotagar remains where he is, remains silent. Lips pulled back just slightly to reveal razor's smile.

[Trudy Adler] "I'd laugh if I had any humour tonight, brother." Her heart beats harder in her chest. It's been a trying night for the Cliath. "Obviously your sense of tradition is lacking, Skald, since you can't answer a question of a Forseti. So is your attention to detail."

[Joe War- Handed] Joe's lips draw thin and hard at Trudy's words, frustration writ in the smooth, hairless planes of his face. The young Fenrir's teeth grind together as he considers the wild, but fiercely devout differences in the opinions offered tonight on the nature of the challenge. His attention swings to the departing Forseti, perhaps to tell her to wait, or to snarl- maybe to ask for her council as well.

His eyes swing back to Blood Summons quickly though. Many a time Stone~Tooth's heavy paw had brought Joe's wayward attention back to the gritty old Godi.. and once he'd woken up, Joe had been plenty ready to listen. The boy's eyes narrow again, frown creasing his features as he listens to the Godi speak.

He leans forward slightly. Eyes cast left and right- a flicker only, before he lowers his voice, his gaze reaching in earnest for Blood Summons' own.

"Sah... was I right owah wrong?" A slight shake of his head, as though casting about for the right path through opposing truths.

"He was.. a lot moah den me, see? Done moah."

[Gut Song] "...Perhaps not tradition then. Perhaps it's deeds you wish to keep secret. Or the lack thereof..."

He's leaning forward, body hunched slightly as if to creep forward, head canted to an odd angle, staring at her features and frame from one eye more then the other. His dig into the pockets of the hoodie. A scrutiny. A study. His head shakes in minute pieces.

"...Pack? Totem? Brothers? Sisters in arms and war?" A hand bobs left to right, ejected almost from it's pocket place. "...If I am so unattentive, then correct my error, simple as it may have been. What creature does Fenris send amongst us that walks stiff and secret of her violence? Keeps truths to herself so?"

[Trudy Adler] "One that knows that there is a place and a time for everything, and that is not tonight." Her answer is simple. The rest she lets lay low for now, it was goading her anger, making her nostrils flare softly. They, too, weren't going to get her anywhere tonight.

[Blood Summons] "He lived a full life for one so young."

That's only stories, only words. Only. As though the stories, the words, of those who fought alongside Truth in Frenzy, those who bled with him, those who called him 'brother,' could be called 'only.' Those Skalds, those brothers and sisters, had poured their souls and their truth and their memory into the retelling not only at the Gathering but at the Moot tonight. The Adren lives on despite his body's being reduced to ash, lives on in minds, in deeds that will still stand testament to his strength long after all those in attendance tonight have followed him to Valhalla.

Blood Summons does not say what he sees when he looks at the Modi. What he'd said was that he'd seen willingness, that he'd seen wisdom. That hadn't answered a fundamental question for the Full Moon: whether he'd made the right choice. The Godi's mouth flattens into a straight line as he considers his tongue, and he pushes his hands into the pockets of his trousers. In the distance, a train whistle blows. Dawn is fast approaching, a fog lifting over the lake and draping itself upon the city like a blanket.

They cannot make out Luna's face anymore. She left them hours ago.

"Did you do what you thought was right, or what you thought he would have expected from you?"

[Gut Song] "...Yes, of course..."

He pauses and steps back in one abrupt motion, peeling away from this momentary confrontation, unblinking eyes and flicking fingers as if to be rid of something that clung to their tips.

"...Forseti honour. Say nothing that does not soothe your ire. Nothing unless it does you some good and better." The upper lip trembles slightly, threatening a snap on the cusp of that word 'good' before it's dismissed with a swallow and a turning shoulder toward the others once more.

[Trudy Adler] And gone.

[Joe War- Handed] The scowl remains. Bright blues travel back and forth across Blood Summons' chest as Joe chews on his answer.

"I took sumpfin' he said ta me once, an' tried ta' apply it. See if it woyks. I sorta figured I'd know whethah it was right owah wrong aftawoyd." It takes a minute, but Joe does realize he's not answering the Godi's question.

Answer the Godi's question. Now.

His voice sounds final when he looks back up to Blood Summons.

"He'd want me ta test it. Dat's why I did it."

[Holds the Line] Holds the Line watches the forseti slink away. There is no better word for it. The hulking crinos follows her form until she is far enough away to simply be shadows. Then that gaze returns to Gut song. He watches the Skald for a moment, then steps forward. His shift is easy, smooth, between one step and the next. It would have looked funny, if it want for the fact it also looked natural.

The man, dressed ina simple tee, dark jeans and a well worn leather jacket steps to Gut songs side, casting another glance after Trudy before speaking.
"You run with Jarl War-Handed?"
Simple enough question.

[Gut Song] "...War-handed~yuf is my Alpha."

A simple clarification, a placement of positions and a confirmation all at once, the Skald's gaze remains with Blood~Summons and Joe for a moment after he's spoken, gaze slightly narrowed, before turning to look up at the broad Rotagar now beside him, graceful and effortless.

"Does his place as Jarl give you unease, Holds~yuf?"

[Blood Summons] The Godi's patience is not infinite, not by a long shot, yet he has a better command of his Rage than many of them do, even on days when it has exceeded his ceiling and threatened to overtake his self-control. His typical store of Rage is not the Rage he was born with; yet he has carried it for most of his life, has learned by now what he can take and what will cause it to soar ever higher.

Waiting for a Cliath Modi to compose his thoughts and get to his point is not one of those things. Blood Summons, perhaps more forgiving and merciful than many of their tribe, just waits, breathing in and out through his nose, his respirations rattling as they pass through his throat.

When he looks back up, Joe finds Bob's gaze to be impassive. He is not testing him now, is not attempting to prove his mettle or his worth. It's hard to tell what he's doing, exactly, aside from attempting to guide the younger creature.

"'Right' and 'wrong' are words I didn't know until I started living among humans," he says. He doesn't say how long that took, how long ago that was. "Words that I wouldn't use when speaking of the validity of a challenge. You were respectful of the laws of our people, and you were loyal to the ideals of your departed Alpha. Find your ideals, though, and stick to them."

[Holds the Line] Holds gaze is drawn to the Modi and Godi as they discuss privately. Watching them for a moment before the Rotagar shakes his head.
ìNo.î

He looks back to Gut, silent for a moment.
ìI reserve my right to question after I know more.î
The Rotagar watches Gut. Those glacial eyes so cold. Honesty does not seem to be an enemy to the Fenrir.

[Gut Song] "...I would not seek to take the duty of another's Moon from them."

A vague line of tension ceases in the young Skald's features and shoulders. A wiry thing, little more then 5'8 and barely a 140 pounds at that, his frame is slim muscle and tendon, visible in the way hoodie and jeans hang off him sparingly. His features are lined, the average cut, ruined by the depth they house, so used to a snarl or a scowl. Natural the way they curve around maw and under eye. Yet as tension eases, something of the boy comes through. Eighteen if a day, Thomas watches Jarl and Godi once more.

"...That you find no unease in this situation tells me that should any other find doubt about this moment then they may come find you for reassurance, even if that reassurance is, itself, brief."

[Holds the Line] îThe challenge was beyond question. The Jarl had the choice of challenge, and he played to his strength. Blood Summons-rhya have experience to compensate.î

He to looks to the two others as he goes on, voice low.

ìAs for Silence-rhya, I amÖ Surprised. Yet I do not know the full story. Yet.î

[Joe War- Handed] Decisiveness, then.. a lack of it is the problem. Not one thing over another?

Joe's gaze is tight and sharp. Riveted against the facade of humanity the Metis chooses to show for now. He nods slowly, the gesture one of confirmation- that Joe had heard and will think about it.

"Sorta figurin' dat out as I go, Eldah." He pauses, face solemn. "T'anks feh yah council."

Something jangles along the totem. A reminder. Joe's neck swivel's to Gut~Song for a moment, pass with some interest across Holds the Line's shadowy bulk.

"Theah's.. a problem." An admission. Pride an obstacle evident in his voice. "When I lost my head at Silence-rhya... I uh.. I lost it big." The bullish Modi swipes a hand under his nose, face and neck reddening furiously. "S'like when we went ta da woods feh th' scout on da farm."

[Gut Song] "...Silence~rhya."

There is something there. An undercurrent of asymetry. Something the Skald is withholding or simply disregarding. If any two auspices understand the need for careful phrasing, honesty and it's ultimate designs it is these two, Gibbous and No Moon.

"An exception and an oddity. The Tribe here bares his weight and learns from his deeds, even if the example he sets is a difficult one to understand. He is Athro. He is Modi. That much is the lodestone to which can be adhered. Remember this simplicity and you'll not err." Joe's glance is given a meeting of one in kind, Gut~Song's body seeming to loosen suddenly as if the conversation he was holding with the Rotagar had been dismissive of muscle and shape and been purely vocal.

A flicker on the Totemline pulls him forward, a half step that has him drawing closer to the Fostern and the Jarl. Present without being intrusive.

[Holds the Line] Holds the Line remains where he stood, watching the interaction between the metis and the Jarl, as well as the alpha and his packmate.
ìAs I understand it, his renown speaks for itself. A true LÂngtand.î

The Rotagar falls silent then. Despite his moon, he has a rage within him to match many Modi, and surpass most others of the other auspices. An oddity himself, if perhaps a lesse one then their tribal elder.

[Blood Summons] The metis nods his head when Joe thanks him for the council, grunting low in his throat, the sound gargling a bit, like water splashing over river stones. There had been human shows of gratitude when he had spoken to the Skald and the Forseti, and he has been holding onto this alien form the entire time they've been speaking; despite his restraint, despite his words, though, the evening crawling towards morning has the distant siren call of a place to sleep reaching out for him.

And then Joe says there's a problem.

Blood Summons' eyes narrow, his brow furrows, his gaze constricts so that everything other than the Modi becomes unimportant. He can hear that hesitation in his voice, that something tripping it up. It's that element so inherent to their tribe as a whole, let alone to those born under a full moon. It's pride. It's something the metis wasn't born with, any more than he was born with concepts of moral polarity.

His water-colored eyes flick across the Modi's chest, neck and face when he says he lost it big, as though attempting to glean from deeper the meaning behind his words. What he hadn't been able to tell earlier is that the Corrupter had gotten in. That seems to dawn on him now when he says that it was like when they went to the woods. More like it, when they left the woods, when they came back.

The Godi takes a breath, then pulls his hands out of his pockets and takes a few steps out of the broken challenge circle to retrieve his knapsack. He doesn't immediately rustle through it. He picks it up, slings it over his shoulder, and gives a jerk of his head towards one of the secluded hangars in the distance.

"Come with me," he says.

[Joe War- Handed] Joe nods to Blood Summons, knots of tension slowly unbuckling themselves from around wrecking ball shoulders. He falls in step with the Fostern, slightly behind, slightly to the side. Before he's gone far, however, his attention swings back to Holds the Line. His voice is a brazen thing, and carries easily over the short distance.

"I wanna tawk ta yew, heah inna bit. awright? Don' go far, cousin."

Joe nods for punctuation, then moves off to join Blood Summons. Before anything, he's got to be clean again, free from Beast-of-War, and the foul taint left in the bullish Modi's chest.. Again

[Joe War- Handed] Slowly. Moves off slowly with Blood Summons. One foot drags, the leg hesitant to take his weight. In combat he'd be all but crippled- but there is enough muscle wrapping the limb to allow for the scantiest of forward motion.

[Blood Summons] [This is the Jamie Is Brain Dead portion of the evening's transcript!

Gnosis: Piercing the Gauntlet!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 4 at target 4)

[Blood Summons] [Rituals+Wits: Summon Cuckoo Jaggling!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Blood Summons] [Gnosis: How Happy Are We?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [-1WP: Activate Command Spirit.
Leadership+Charisma: PLZ TO BE CLEANSING?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Blood Summons] [Cuckoo
Gnosis: CLEANSE]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 8 (Failure at target 7)

[Holds the Line] The Rotagar simply nods in Acquiescence and crouches down in homid form, watching the retreating figure of Blood Summons and War-Handed.

[Blood Summons] [Reroll!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Blood Summons] [Cleansed!]