Log edited with Logedit 2.6.6pl on Sat Jan 4 22:03:10 EST 1997
Using configuration file /turquoise/homes/ammer/.logeditrc
Editing out: arrive/left @mail ANSI tf-messages
Regexp stripping: Queue, Semaphore, ^Huh\? +Type, ^I don't see that
Word-wrapping at 72, 0, 2
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The journey into the Umbra is somewhat aimless at its outset; there is
no definitive means of entrance into the Realm you seek, and so you
are forced to wander -- a means of questing that's become all too
familiar to the entire pack these past few weeks. You move past the
Penumbra into the Near Umbra, wandering Moon Paths that are in poor
repair so late in Luna's monthly passage.
At some point in the journey, Cassandra sighs and drops down into lupus,
perhaps to make the walking easier.
Patrick shifts down to keep up with his packmates.
Quiet glances from packmate to packmate, after a time of long wandering.
Her eyes at last settle on Whitestreak. The words come raggedly.
~There are experiences I can call on, that may make the realm call to
me. If I act irresponsibly, you are alpha.~
Patrick thought he was supposed to be the irresponsible one, but he
agrees.
Mark-Of-Thorns's manner suggests she devoutly hopes that doesn't happen
as she turns to follow, her mood dark.
Quiet's trance lasts a long, long time; indeed, it lasts a good ways
into the Umbral day, when unrelenting blackness obscures the land. It
is when the first tears spring unbidden to her eyes that the choking
darkness abates slightly, and the Garou find themselves standing in
the middle of a blasted landscape of grey clay and sparse,
unhealthy-looking grasses. From this ground, extending up into the
black mists of the sky and extending to the left and the right as far
as the eye can see, is a stone wall.
Mark-Of-Thorns stares up at the stone wall, then turns her head to
Quiet. Is this it?
Whitestreak snorts. Likely. And forbidding.
Faint etchings can be seen on the wall, but only to about twenty feet
up. Beyond that the wall is blank.
Quiet's answer is slow in coming, the despondant mood she has called to
her spirit not being quick to again release its claws. She looks
around silently with shadowed eyes, then gives an affirmative.
Mark-Of-Thorns sneezes, then shakes her ruff. That is doubtless the
idea. She pads closer, pering at the etchings. As she looks at them
for a moment, her nose slowly lowers, her mood quickly matching
Quiet's.
Patrick, the least absorbed in the monolithic construction and therefore
the most immediately alert, notices a break in the bleak terrain:
perhaps a mile or so away, some kind of nomadic dwellings seem to dot
the bleak landscape.
Whitestreak barks sharply, the sound very much out of place in this
landscape. Break. That way.
Quiet says softly, ~Waters would be here. He died before he could pack,
turned away by the other children of Raccoon.~ She shakes her ruff
with an effort, making a visible attempt to focus on Whitestreak. Her
attention goes the way he indicates.
Mark-Of-Thorns's lowered tail swishes back and forth. There are too many
to name. She looks up, ears half-perked in teh direction that
Whitestreak indicates. We should move on.
As the Garou move in the direction of the structures, it becomes clear
that they're settlers' wagons, the kind that were used to tame the
West back a hundred years and more. These few are drawn in a tight
circle, and strains of wistful music, and of hushed conversation,
reach the ears of the pack on a slight breeze. Scents of pine, of
horses, of people, and of sizzling meat also ride this wind.
Whitestreak gives Quiet a quick Look, his mild irritation unconcealable
in this form, as the group heads down to the wagons. Should we
approach like this?
Mark-Of-Thorns hesitates for a moment, then looks for a place where she
could be out of sight long enough to shift up to homid without being
seen by teh settlement.
Quiet thinks not. Though....well, if worse comes to worse... The theurge
switches to the mental link and says through the pack totem: If they
take notice of Cassie's dark skin, I suppose we can claim her as a
slave. Though who knows. They may be so caught in whatever cycle they
live within that they will take no notice. Even as she speaks, the
theurge attempts to help the others find a place to shift.
Mark-Of-Thorns, occupied with searching out a place to shift in privacy,
doesn't catch the slave remark.
There is precious little concealment in the blasted expanse, but some of
the bigger clumps of grasses suffice provided the shifter stays close
to the ground. The only obvious sentry for the encampment is, in fact,
a black man: he's dressed in clothing contemporaneous with the wagon,
and he's got what appears to be a vintage Winchester rifle cradled
across his lap.
Quiet's pack 'voice' takes on a bit more of its normal wry flavor as the
group inadvertantly scouts further in looking for a place to shift. Or
perhaps they will not care.
Pack> Whitestreak sends through the link, in imitation of Timon: It
starts.
Pack> Mark-Of-Thorns's response threough the link holds the tone of
gallows humor. It started when we got here. Mebbe we oughta stay
wolves, jsut to make 'em piss their pants.
The best place to shift shapes seems to be in the shadow of the wagons
themselves; the sentry's doing his best to keep awake, but from the
looks of his lean and hungry frame and the rips and frays in his
clothing, fatigue and hunger are probably dulling his wits, and he
doesn't notice the pack's approach.
Pack> Quiet returns that she is more concerned that we will be shot out
of hand.
Pack> Whitestreak replies: Give that woman the kewpie doll.
The closer the pack comes to the wagons, the more can be heard from
within their circle: the occasional nicker or neigh of a draft horse,
a laugh, some muted conversation -- most of it with stereotypically
southern accents, the crackle of a fire.
Pack> Mark-Of-Thorns says "No kidding."
Quiet goes into the shadows and shifts, falling into homid with the ease
of birthform. She waits for the rest of the pack, half-crouching as
she adjusts to the change of senses.
Quiet contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
You shift into Homid form.
Whitestreak shifts without looking particularly pleased.
Whitestreak contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Mark-Of-Thorns follows suit, sneezing once at the change in smell.
Mark-Of-Thorns contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
Pack> Patrick sends over the link: Wanna keep someone out, just in case?
Patrick shifts into Homid form.
Mark-Of-Thorns shifts into Homid form.
Pack> Cassandra hmms. Might be smart. Who?
The noise of the sneeze catches the sentry's attention, and he jumps to
his feet while shouldering the rifle at the pack. "You there!" he
shouts; immediately, the noise inside the circle of wagons ceases, and
a good deal of scrambling and panicked shouts can be heard. "Whaddaya
want?"
Pack> Andrea says "I don't know. Patrick would be wise, because of his
fetish, but...never mind."
Pack> Cassandra mumbles over the pack link: Damn. So we all coming or
what?
Andrea says in a reassuring tone. "I'm sorry. We're lost, and we saw
your camp." She steps out of the shadows, hands up in an obviously
empty position. The only possible weapon visible in this form is a
jawbone that hangs from a tie on her bag.
Pack> Patrick sends, "Bet they say something about how we're dressed."
After just a moment's hesitation, the sentry's dark face splits in a
wide grin that displays white teeth. "C'mon in, then," he says,
shifting his aim off the Garou. "I don't think we got much to share,
but we'll share what we can." Back into the wagons, he calls, "Guests
comin' in! We got any a' that rabbit left?"
Sighs of relief immediate emanate from within, and the Garou are greeted
by three or four families: most are black, but a few are Irish. The
womenfolk offer blankets and usher the Garou close to the fire.
"Welcome in," says one of the black men, a middle-aged fellow with
hair of steel grey. "We've got a little of dinner left, but we'll
share. Sorry there ain't more, but we wouldn't turn away hungry and
lost folks."
Pack> Cassandra snorts agreement. First word about women's place is
gonna be a smear on that wall.
Patrick grins. "Thanks. Lost and hungry certainly applies, sir."
Cassandra trails behind the other two, but smiles and accepts a seat and
a blanket as well.
Andrea also smiles in thanks. Her eyes continue to watch the shadows,
but she sits with her packmates at the fire.
The settlers are all pleasant sorts; none of them have the overt
manifest destiny that history tends to ascribe to these kinds of folk.
They're tired and hungry travellers on the road West, hoping for a
chance to settle down on some land that they can call their own. They
share what they have, which is probably more than what they can
afford.
It's only after an hour or so of getting to know these people that the
first sign of trouble comes; the sentry, the good-natured man so
willing to welcome strangers into the camp, pitches forward off his
wagon with a long arrow piercing through his throat. He's dead before
he hits the ground, and as he falls the first few war-cries echo
towards the camp. The settlers immediately spring to arms, but by the
sounds of things, they're hopelessly outnumbered.
Pack> Patrick sends through the link, very acridly: Shit. Atrocity.
Indian massacre. This one's mine. You wanna take the next group, Cass?
Pack> Andrea sends back: We'll back you up.
Pack> Cassandra's response comes through the link, half-snarling, "Yeah.
Do we stop it or what?"
Pack> Patrick replies to Andrea: Nothing I can *do*, probably. Just
saying that this one is because I'm here. I'll do what I can.
Patrick, not having a gun or anything, does what should seem natural: he
hides. Or, rather, he ducks under a wagon, into the shadows, and
shifts up into the warform.
Patrick contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Patrick shifts into Crinos form.
Cassandra grumbles a colorful oath and jumps to her feet, glancing
quickly at Andrea, then at where Patrick was.
Andrea struggles against herself. She answers aloud to Cassandra among
the screams and dying as she moves after Patrick, "Useless, but how
can we not try?" Her shift starts before she even gets fully under the
wagon, but she manages to get to cover before anyone could notice in
the fray.
Andrea contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
Pack> Cassandra mutters over the link: So much for the evil settlers.
You shift into Hispo form.
The massacre, for massacre it truly is, happens regardless of any
intervention by Ouroborous: the war-party of angry Native Americans
simply rolls right over them, overturning wagons to get into the camp
and then butchering men, women, and children alike. Here a cruel-faced
warrior slashes open throat of an infant girl with a long knife; there
another wields a rifle like a club as he bashes in the skull of the
settlers' leader. Individual horrors can be prevented, but the
atrocity itself proceeds inviolate, as true to the original bloodshed
that spawned this echo in the Umbra. It is as the last of the settlers
fall that the dark shapes of banes, far too many of them to fight,
appear, feeding visibly on the death-agonies of the victims. For the
moment, they appear to lack interest in the pack.
Quiet, splashed with the blood of victim and attacker alike, trembles
with hatred as she watches the banes feed.
Cassandra's hift is almost too late, and uses the overturned wagon to
hide itself. The huge ebony form jumps atop the wagon, watching and
fighting an urge to destroy the blackness she sees before her.
Cassandra contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
Cassandra shifts into Crinos form.
The warriors who ride painted horses away from the slaughter take with
them the scalps of their kills; it is as they begin to depart into the
night that a bit of moonlight illuminates their features: one of them,
by the looks of him, is unmistakably an ancestor of Patrick's, for
they share the same nose, the same eyes, the same chin.
Whitestreak, covered in blood, very little of it his own, looks around
almost dispassionately. ~We continue. This is where we wanted to be.~
Quiet does not press the ragabash, recognizing this mood. She turns from
the carnage with an effort and walks up the next hill. The pace turns
into a lope, as if she would flee the thoughts that trouble her.
The timbers of the wagon creak and finally give way under
Mark-Of-Thorns' Crinos weight, and she growls softly as she stands up,
covered in splinters. ~Nobody said we -wanted- to be here, but we
are.~ She jumps out of the hole after a moment and follows.
Behind the pack, the moonlight touches on the Wall; the names there seem
to glow for a moment with a silvery light. Abruptly the landscape
around them shifts: the banes are absent, and the pack stands on a
landscape among Garou familiar only to Mark-of-Thorns. They play out a
scene of victimization as well, as a stocky, dark-furred crinos
attacks a younger representation of Mark-of-Thorns from behind while
she grapples with an enemy.
A soft, pained whurf comes from the Fury as she watches, held by only
her own mind. She seems unware of her packmates, and she drops to her
belly instinctively.
Mark-Of-Thorns's thoughts come unbidden to the pack, through Jade.
~Piotr...Marcus, you fool!~ The thoughts are barely coherent, snarled.
Whitestreak watches the scene closely as it plays out, all emotions
still driven from his mind for the time being. Instead, he coldly
watches, looking at the crinos who stabs the Fury, committing those
features to memory.
Before Mark-of-Thorns can be helped to her feet, the landscape warps
again: now the field is one of ice and snow, upon which a lone figure
cloaked in robes walks. This is familiar ground to him, it seems, but
he walks it with a world-weary demeanor. Nearby, by the sounds of
things, a battle clashes, but it is not his to fight this night,
apparently. The moon is full as it shines down on the tall man and
bathes him in its radiance.
Quiet moves over to touch her with her muzzle. ~This is the past. You
are no longer a victim. You are with friends.~ The tone of the alpha's
words grow sharper and louder as the Fury howls and the scene shifts
with a stomach-sickening warp.
Mark-Of-Thorns closesd her eyes gainst vertigo and shifts down to lupus,
both to make herself less noticeable and give her something else to
think about for a moment.
Mark-Of-Thorns contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
Mark-Of-Thorns shifts into Lupus form.
Whitestreak shakes his head to fight off the vertigo accompanying the
scene shift, then blinks a few times at another seemingly harmless
scene. After he sees the robed figure, though, his attention is
immediately sharpened, and he scans the surrounding area for any
threats before looking back towards the other.
The man walks alone, and briefly tilts his head back to stare up at the
moon. This illuminates the sharp features so familiar to Quiet and
Whitestreak, and the eyepatch and the scar that he bore since his
return from Malfeas.
Quiet stops dead in her tracks, as if she hadn't truly believed that the
pack would find him. She gives one more nosebump to the Fury, and
turns to Horus even as the moonlight touches his features. She shifts
upwards as she walks toward the figure, slipping back into a form that
even this spirit-form might recognize.
Quiet contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
You shift into Homid form.
The man doesn't drop his eye from the moon. "I am wondering,
Moon-Laughs-Quiet," he says after a few moments. "This thing you have
done in coming here. Why?"
Pack> Whitestreak sends over the link: Oh, shit. You change things now,
and it's all for nothing.
Pack> Mark-Of-Thorns sends a somewhat puzzled impression. Is this the
boy we've been looking for?
Andrea,'s answer is simple, direct. "Your death is a mystery I was
charged to solve."
Pack> Whitestreak replies simply, "Bingo."
The old Strider sighs softly. "It is not a thing you may wish to see."
Pack> Mark-Of-Thorns grumbles softly, her tone still dark and somewhat
shadowed. This had better be it.
"There is nothing here that Garou still of Gaia would wish to see,"
answers the theurge. "That does not mean no one should know, and
remember."
Pack> Whitestreak replies softly over the link, "We didn't *want* to see
that damn Indian raid, either. There are some things that *should* be
seen, want or no."
Horus nods a little, accepting this. He glances briefly towards
Whitestreak and Mark-of-Thorns, and the rest of the pack that has come
this far. "Once you have seen this thing," he says now, "you will know
more than even some of the Silent Striders. That is a heavy burden for
the young to carry."
Pack> Mark-Of-Thorns's manner is mostly-joking. Get out of my head,
Whitestreak. There's only room for one of us in here.
Andrea bows her head. She says, "We have chosen to follow Uktena. Even
if I was not set this task, our way will always be the bearing of dark
knowledge, as much as it is the retrieving of what has been stolen."
Mark-Of-Thorns flicks an ear in acceptance. As Moon-Laughs-Quiet has
said. If this one were not willing, she would never have come so far.
Whitestreak replies softly, ~There are some things that *should* be
known, want or no.~
With another curt nod of acceptance, the old man turns back to face the
moon. "This thing that will happen, happens now," he says; as the last
syllable passes his lips, half a dozen dark forms skulk out of the
undergrowth nearby. They are Garou, for they all walk in Crinos, and
though their bodies are the archetypical jackal shape most often
associated with the Silent Striders, they may as well be formed of
pure shadow, so black and indistinct are they.
Andrea backs up a few paces, her eyes holding the fascinated horror that
humans only begin to approach in their adoration of slasher movies.
Mark-Of-Thorns sidesteps a pace to nosebump her packmate in a silent
reminder of her presence.
The scene that follows might not be entirely out of place if it were
set, rather than on an icy field, in the Roman Senate: Horus does not
resist the six silver blades that his assassins plunge again and again
into his body. He merely looks upon his killers with something akin to
pity. When the deed is done, and the murderers have begun to strip the
flesh from his bones and pull his body apart, the banes return,
feeding upon the release of emotion of the moment.
Andrea forgets herself, moving forward to attempt to clamp her human
hand around the arm of one of those faceless assassians. Her voice is
a harsh whisper, raw in a human throat, ~Why?~
Mark-Of-Thorns's reaction is the lupine equivalent of a human wince as
she watches in somewhat less horrified fascination.
Whitestreak continues watching, the lack of emotion on his face speaking
volumes. As Andrea grabs the arm of one of the assassins, his facade
cracks for a moment and he simultaneously winces and tenses.
The assassin doesn't answer, but rather thrusts the silver blade covered
with Horus' blood straight into Andrea's belly; with a Crinos'
strength behind such a blow, the wound inflicted is easily a mortal
one, and Andrea slides lifelessly to the ground.
That appears to be it for Mark-Of-Thorns, with a snarl that speaks
volumes, she immediately leaps at the assassin that killed her
packmated, jaws aiming for his throat.
Andrea contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
Center of the Great Wheel
This circular clearing is about 40 yards in diameter and completely
bounded by the Wheel of Nature inscribed in the ground. Soft green
grasses cover much of the ground, but several paths have been worn to
bare dirt over time. The only landmark within the Wheel is the low
Table Stone at the center, but four important landmarks make up
sections of the Wheel: the windy spot to the southwest, a small pool
to the southeast, a firepit to the northeast, and a large mound of
earth to the northwest.
Contents:
Stormcloud
Sky's Mantle
Table Stone
Stormcloud flicks an ear quizzically. Bane-come-across. This one has
heard not of it. He sits back on his haunches. Only when this one is
gone.... He stops himself as Quiet appears.
Quiet appears from nowhere, not even a shimmer of light that would have
indicated a bridge. Her dark eyes are senseless as she dives from
Stormcloud in a flurry of teeth and claws.
Stormcloud is caught, not surprisingly, by surprise. He attempts to
dodge to the best of his ability.
On the southern curve, Orion comes in from the woodland to the south.
Mark-Of-Thorns shifts into Crinos form.
Whitestreak's head goes back in a pained howl as he materializes in the
Realm, grasping his sides.
On the southern curve, Orion comes into view from the south, head down
and ducked into his collar against the cold.
Mark-Of-Thorns appears from nowhere, a solid eight-foot and furry block
of raging hell as she charges for the nearest moving thing, obviously
beyond all reason.
Sky's Mantle leaps to his feet an immediately gives voice to a howl from
deep in his heart, channeling Luna to aid his speed in flashing to
Crinos.
Sky's Mantle contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Sky's Mantle knots his Lupus's muscles and he undergoes a dramatic
change. He moves through a form fleetingly recognisable as Hispo and
then assumes his Crinos
Stormcloud contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Stormcloud shifts into Hispo form.
On the southern curve, Robert comes in from the woodland to the south.
On the southern curve, Robert rushes into the caern,and looks around.
"What the ... oh, shit."
The first thing to catch the frenzied Fury's eyes is her own pack alpha,
locked in struggle with something she hasn't noticed yet. It moves, is
that important thing. She leaps at it with all the Crinos strength she
can muster.
Klaive of Night howls to summon Garou from the woods into the near-empty
Wheel, as he sets upon what appears to be Moon Laughs quiet.
Whitestreak drops to his knees, still howling in anguish. It is
definitely not very refined, but all the more eloquent in expression
of depth of emotion for all that.
The Talon's shoulder explodes in a gush of blood as he shifts with the
speed of rage. The two graple; the crinos rakes the back of the Talon
even as his teeth find solid purchase in her guts. The Fury behind
Quiet rips her back to the bone with her first hit, and the Shadow
Lord joins in from one side. Under the three Garou, even a fostern
ahroun would not take long to go down. And ahroun the Voice is not.
She falls.
On the northern curve, Mark stops at the northern edge and tries to
figure out what's going on in the center.
On the southern curve, Scott comes in from the woodland to the south.
On the southern curve, Robert yells out authoritatively, ~THAT'S
ENOUGH!~
On the southern curve, Scott makes his way quietly into the wheel, and
blinks as he hears Robert. Instinctively, he take one and then a
second step back from the Athro Ahroun, and then looks over the wheel
with narrowed eyes.
Quiet is completely hidden in the press of bodies, though the smell of
blood is heavy in the air. The torn snow around the group is sprayed a
deep red.
On the southern curve, Orion freezes in place, bright eyes wide as he
takes in all the action at once. Robert's voice startles him back to
motion, though, and he steps quickly toward a squat pine - out of the
way.
Klaive of Night stoops, one long Crinos arm reaching to take a
cautionary grip on Moon Laughs quiet's throat. Even as he does so,
however, he urgently howls, ~Healer!~
Stormcloud stands off of Quiet, eyeing Mark-of-Thjorns warily, ready to
defend himself again should she not calm herself.
Mark-Of-Thorns, about to turn on Klaive of Night, stops as the energy of
frenxy seemingly drained from her body. She drops to her knees, her
homid form reasserting itself as she bursts into uncontrollable
sobbing.
Mark-Of-Thorns contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
Mark-Of-Thorns shifts into Homid form.
Whitestreak breaks off from his howling and starts merely sobbing
uncontrollably
On the southern curve, Robert moves toward the center with relative
rapidity, keeping an eye on the Fury, and ignoring the Uktena
entirely. At the center, he kneels beside the Gaian theurge.
On the southern curve, Robert heads into the center.
On the southern curve, Scott cautiously makes his way towards the center
as well, obviously trying to put some rhyme or reason to the scene
before him by the look of his dark expression. He keeps some distance
from all those there, but moves a bit closer to his pack-mate.
On the northern curve, Anpwhotep emerges from the thin treeline to the
north.
On the southern curve, Scott heads into the center.
On the northern curve, Mark heads into the center.
On the northern curve, Anpwhotep runs in from the north and his ears
scan.
On the northern curve, Anpwhotep heads into the center.
Mark stops at the edge of the mass of garou.
Anpwhotep sniffs and snorts in irritation.
Anpwhotep contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Anpwhotep shifts into Homid form.
Quiet's breath is an agonized gurgling noise, her guts steaming in the
cold air. Blood continues to pump out the wound in her back, and her
arm is at a crooked angle where the Lord subdued her.
Stormcloud, a muscle twitching under his left eye in iritation, backs
away from the throng of people to let the healers and whatnot do their
work.
Klaive of Night relinquishes his grip and spreads his arms wide as he
backs off to give the Gaian Athro room, hopefully nudging back the
other Garou as he himself withdraws a couple of paces.
Scott askes Robert quietly and respectfully,"Do you know any of the
gifts of healing, rhya, or shall I howl and run to see if I can find
one that does?"
Michael Powers looks to see who's healing and who's still in need.
The rest of Ouroboros are all lost in emotion, far beyond any attempt at
reason right now.
On the northern curve, Thunder's Claws emerges from the thin treeline to
the north.
Michael Powers shakes his head and moves in. "All right. Let's see what
can be done."
On the northern curve, Thunder's Claws comes in from the north, and
automatically looks toward his packmate.
Robert mutters a soft invocation to Grandmother Earth, and his hand
glows a soft green. Under his touch, Quiet's tortured body knits
itself somewhat, at least enough that she is no longer at death's
door. He looks up at the Strider and says, "Anything more you can do
would be appreciated." He then stands and looks over at the sobbing
Garou.
Mark looks around without any sign of having a clue as to what is going
on.
On the southern curve, Orion remains distanced, watching, wondering, but
keeping out of the picture.
Stormcloud looks at Quiet's pack members, ignoring for now the rakes on
his back and shoulders. He waits until they have regained some
faculties until speaking up.
Scott furrows his brow, and moves closer to Klaive of Night. He blinks,
and then nods to the Klaive of Night.
Michael Powers moves in and looks over Quiet. "She'll live. That's as
much as I could do."
On the northern curve, Thunder's Claws cocks his head as if listening to
something for a moment then makes his way toward the center.
On the northern curve, Thunder's Claws heads into the center.
Klaive of Night's breath billows out in clouds of steam as his gaze
darts over the Garou nearby, in case of further unexpected danger.
Quiet's breath indeed has lost the gasping rattle that made the others
call for a healer so urgently. Her back still bleeds, but more
sluggishly. The theurge gains half-consciousness, moaning something in
a tongue that is not English. The words are all but lost anyway, in
the press of people and voices.
Thunder's Claws looks around at the wounded Garou and wonders if anyone
else is in dangery of dying?
Scott's eyes narrow just a bit as he looks around, taking in a deep
breath.
The rest of Ouroboros appear to be crumpled on teh grass not far from
Quiet, mostly unharmed but sobbing uncontrollably, far beyond all
reason.
Mark says "What happened?"
Klaive of Night reports, ~A Rage-filled attack, out of nowhere.~
Michael Powers notes that the other injured seem to be recovering and
examines Quiet more closely.
Mark forwns and moves closer to Quiet, cocking his head to try and
listen to her.
Robert adds, "Quite literally out of nowhere. Not really a breaching of
the Wards, but they were just *here*, without having passed though
normally."
Mark looked at you...
Thunder's Claws doesn't come near Quiet, since she seems to be
surrounded enough, and no one else seems to need to be healed very
badly. He turns to listen to the explanations.
Mark says "Something has her pretty upset. She's still not over it
either."
Stormcloud pads slowly over towards Cassandra and Whitestreak, his eye
still twitching even though he seems in control. He says nothing of
the matter just yet.
Whitestreak continues sobbing, though it's slowing down into more of a
matter of ocasional sobs interspersed with more attempts at breathing
and a ew hiccups between.
Quiet's eyes snap open. They don't have the sightlessness of a frenzy,
but she seems pushed into madness, as she was after the deaths of
Thorn and Waters. She switches to Garou, screaming, ~Stop, you
bastards!~ At least, she tries to scream. Her voice hitches, catches,
and she rolls over and begins retching blood.
Mark jumps back.
Robert says calmly, "Galliard? Someone who can go in and see?"
Stormcloud peers briefly at Quiet, but immediately returns his gaze to
her packmates to see their response.
On the northern curve, Heidi emerges from the thin treeline to the
north.
On the northern curve, Heidi heads into the center.
Klaive of Night's ears go falt at Quiet's scream, and he has to control
his hand not to pull his Klaive.
Cassandra's sobbing begins to abate, slowly, into shuddering breaths and
a few occasional hiccups not unlike Whitestreak's, but as she curls up
into a fetal position, her right leg is left ebhind, as she makes no
apparent attempt to move it.
Thunder's Claws gives Scott a Look.
Stormcloud, seeing Cassandra go fetal, looks at Whitestreak, wondering
aloud if he is well enough to speak yet.
Heidi wanders into view from the north, jacket hugged tight about her as
she takes in the scene with a grim expression, not yet making sense of
the doings. She hangs back at a respectful distance.
Scott's frowns a bit more deeply, obviously not really understanding
what is going on beyond the obvious. He looks over to Robert, and
says,"I do not know that gift, myself. I know the Fury Adren does, and
the Fianna Fostern gibbous moon knows it as well, I think. I don't
know if either are nearby, by I will search for them, if you wish. Or
howl to call for antoher who knows the gift."
Whitestreak's sobbing slows, though he continues staring silently, his
eyes not focused on anything.
Mark says "It looks like they're in some kind of shock."
Quiet stains the snow a bright red. She leans over in her own vomit,
sobbing with dry painful sounds.
Michael Powers crouches in front of Quiet and murmurs.
Michael Powers says "Quiet. Look at me."
Robert shakes his head at Scott's offer, looking over at Cassandra.
"Shock. Post-traumatic. VOlunteers to care for them, at least for the
night?"
Quiet doesn't seem to hear Tep. She continues to cry, the sounds
rarely--if ever--heard coming from a crinos.
Stormcloud looks around at the number of Gaurdians and elders. This one
has no duties to this Caern that are pressing in the least. This one
will help watch if allowed.
Mark says "If we could get them all out of crinos we could keep them
somewhere around the farmhouse until they start recovering."
Robert adds, "Or the compound. It's closer, and I'd *rather* not have
them around any cubs in their current state."
Michael Powers sighs and places his hands on Quiet's shoulders, making
an educated guess as to internal injuries based on the coughing up
blood and begins to chant.
Heidi looks on quietly, then removes her glasses, tucking them away in a
pocket and shaking her head, expression going from grim to grimmer.
She idly glances at Thunder's Claws, as if to see what his reaction to
all of this is.
Michael Powers's hands glow blue as he chants, calling in a calm of
absolute certainty in his strange language.
Whitestreak continues staring silently into the night.
Stormcloud moves to face Whitestreak, meeting his unfocused gaze, trying
to find, well, anything telling in his eyes.
Thunder's Claws seems to be keeping himself as detached as possible from
the whole affair.
Cassandra's eyes are shut tight, and is except for her right leg curled
up into a fetal ball in teh crimson snow. She shivers uncontrollably,
whether from the snow or from something else is hard to tell.
Quiet seems to still under Michael Power's hands. Either his healing has
sealed the broken thing inside her, or she has simply exhausted what
energy she had left. Almost without volition, her form shrinks to that
more commonly seen around the Wheel.
Quiet contorts and blurs as she is transformed.
You shift into Lupus form.
Klaive of Night stands stalwartly at the Centre, stock still save for
his head as he still looks around with a fixed grim expression,
unwitting of quite what has passed.
Michael Powers looks down at the lupus Quiet. "Quiet. Speak to me."
Quiet looks up at the Strider. Her voice is broken. ~I'm sorry, rhya. I
couldn't stop it.~ She closes her eyes and trembles, saying nothing
more.
Scott watches quietly, crossing his arms. His dark expressions softens a
little, but he remains still, seeming unknowing of what, if any aid he
could offer.
Michael Powers crouches and murmurs, "What must we watch for,
Quiet-yuf?"
Cassandra finally exhausts her energy reserves entirely and, still
shivering, drops perhaps mercifully into a deep, almost catatonic
sleep.
Quiet does not answer. She has retreated deep inside herself.
Robert looks over at Michael Poewrs. "You. Please take her to the
compound. Make certain she's comfortable. I'll be by in a little
while." To Stormcloud, he says, "Take one of the others." Lastly, to
Mark, "You, take a third."
Thunder's Claws looks around, attention focussing on each person in the
Wheel briefly before he makes his way over toward Klaive of Night.
Mark nods and moves over to Cassandra.
Michael Powers nods to the big Gaian.
Michael Powers contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Michael Powers shifts into Lupus form.
Anpwhotep nudges Quiet. Walk with me, yuf.
Stormcloud, already in front of Whitestreak, shifts to crinos to better
lift him.
Quiet does not move, or open her eyes.
Stormcloud contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Stormcloud shifts into Crinos form.
Heidi sighs, quietly, watching the proceedings, seemingly content to be
ignored for the time being.
Mark contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Mark shifts into Glabro form.
Klaive of Night takes in Thunder's Claws' lupine comment and his eyes go
over to appraise the slight, pale young woman just outside the cluster
around the Table Stone. He nods to her slowly and with meaning, but
makes no move to attend to formalities just yet.
Mark crouches down to scoop up Cassandra and moves towards the south
with her.
Anpwhotep sees that Quiet is not responding, shakes his head, and shifts
up.
Anpwhotep contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Anpwhotep shifts into Glabro form.
The Jackal crouches and murmurs in Quiet's ear.
The Jackal whispers "If you don't walk with me, I'll have to carry you."
Mark heads south, away from the center of the Wheel.
Stormcloud scoops up Whitestreak up with ease and gentleness, odd in a
crinos, and carries him easily off to the Compound.
On the southern curve, Mark heads south, out of the Wheel and into the
forest.
Quiet continues to breath shallowly. The bloodied slush around the
tablestone begins to be covered by fresh white drifts.
Stormcloud heads south, away from the center of the Wheel.
On the southern curve, Stormcloud heads south, out of the Wheel and into
the forest.
Heidi returns the nod of the dark-furred Crinos, but makes no move to
stray from her position, taking the events in with quiet eyes.
The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)
This clearing has recently undergone a bit of construction, though it
seems that at least some attempt has been made to keep the new
structures harmonious with the landscape around them. The central area
is dominated by a cookfire; in the southwest corner a shelter has been
dug into the earth and covered, while to the northwest, an open-air
cabin of sorts has been built. Except for the area around the fire, it
seems nature has been allowed to take its course.
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.
Contents:
The Jackal
Whitestreak
Stormcloud
Mark
Large Raven
Current Compound Residents (Updated: Dec 4)
Windchimes
Obvious exits:
Mark contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Mark shifts into Homid form.
The Jackal crouches and lays Quiet in the softest spot he can find near
the fire.
Stormcloud settles down onto his haunches, retaining the war-form for
now.
Quiet will probably appreciate such attention when she comes back to
herself, but for the time being the theurge merely lies limply where
placed. She soon falls into something approximating sleep.
The Jackal gently strokes Quiet's fur and watches over her until she's
deeply asleep.
Mark looks at Quiet. "Sounded like she was speaking in Gaellic earlier."
Stormcloud turns to The Jackal, speaking in his low, rumbling voice.
~This one returns and finds this place all strangeness.~
Whitestreak continues staring for much of the night, finally closing
them near sunrise.
Stormcloud bends to lick his own wounds.
Home Main Log Index Quiet Log Index Ouro Log Index