A subtle undulation of the land forms an curious, natural spiral in the open ground. One side of the formation rises to create a half-circle or crescent of earth surrounding and encompassing the spiral. The ground is littered with rock and flagstones, both large and small. Someone has carefully gathered up a trove of these and erected a clear fire pit. Flagstones with smooth surfaces have been laid along the upper lip of half circle of earth around the fire pit, turning it into a nice seating area. All debris and flammable material's been removed from within the spiral, and a fire has been laid. Just beyond the spiral's edge, wood has been collected and piled for future use. Surrounding this, the rugged walls of the canyon have been half buried by the Wyld surge, making the upper slope of the valley more gentle than it was before. Stands of Douglas fir and white pines mix with hemlock, lodgepole pines, and western larch trees to fill much of the open space, but the trees here are not nearly as dense as they are in the surrounding forests of the bawn. The sparse woods allows a partial view of the sky, and both sun and moonlight filter down to create enigmatic and beautiful shadow patterns on the forest floor. That floor is blanketed with a thick, soft rug of shed pine needles, lichen and leaf debris. The moss-covered relics of old, dead trees occasionally mark a place where once great sentinels loomed above.
The caern expands in two directions from here. The escarpment wall and raised dais form one point of the new triangle, while the center of the caern and its gigantic, Wyld-influenced tree marks the other. The only obvious way out of the caern is the valley slope that leads to the central bawn.
Compact is the word for him: wiry, maybe 5'6" in his beat-up black combat boots, with a sense of compressed energy and imminence like a coiled spring -- or a cocked gun. Never quite still for long, balance flowing through the balls of his feet. There's a striking intensity to his narrow blue-green eyes, the colour contrasting with his fair skin and spiky copper hair; just below the left is what at first appears to be a faint mole, but closer inspection reveals as a small, long-healed scar. His features are appealing, with high cheekbones and a good jawline, but it's the confident mien and roguish smile that most often seem to draw people in.
He's in a well-worn biker jacket of the traditional sort, all fairly closely fit black leather and silvery zippers and snaps. Beneath it, he's got nicely-fitting dark indigo jeans with a plain white tank, its ribbed cotton skimming close enough to hint at the musculature beneath. Over that, he's wearing a long-sleeved, navy blue shirt, unbuttoned; judging by the white-on-red number patches on the left arm, the flag patch on the right shoulder, and the round fleur-de-lis patch to the left of the collar, it was once part of someone's Scout uniform... probably not his. Okay, the 'Boy Scouts of the USA' patch over the right pocket's a hint, too. There's a couple leather-and-bead bracelets on one wrist and a length of ball-chain disappearing beneath his collar; his nails were apparently painted black some time ago, since they're starting to show chips. Late teens, most likely, and when he speaks it's in a mellifluous, southern-accented baritone voice.
It's eight or so feet of muscle and sinew, coated in thick fur, topped off with vicious claws and teeth, sharp as knives and almost as long. It's got a huge, ferociously snarling canine head, massive paws, long arms as thick as telephone poles, and a murderous look in its eye. It's at least a quarter-ton of the kind of power designed to rend, rip, tear, devour, and generally destroy, and when they handed out ugly, it must've gone back for seconds. There's something deeply, severely primal about the creature that just grabs a person right at the base of the spinal column, sending screams from the collective consciousness of humanity directly to the most basic areas of the brain. Chances are incredibly good that wherever this thing is, most folks really, really don't want to be there too.
Shaggy brown hair and darker brown eyes frames this man's face. Justin has a slightly tanned complexion with a hint of Puerto Rican from his mother's side, Caucasian from his father's. He has a fairly lanky build, but underneath his clothes is a body fitted with new muscle. He wears loose fitted 'destroyed' blue jeans, simple tank tops, and worn down sneakers that are about five months in need of replacement. During the cold, a thick green military jacket from his Grandpa. After a mishap with a monster, he was aged roughly five years forward and now looks like a young man in his early 20's. Now at 6'2, he has finally hit the rest of his growth spurt.
The monster of a werewolf looks more dog than wolf. A giant German Shepherd with wolven features with thick silver and white fur is splattered upon his hunched forward body. Dark eyes shine with anger. Sharp black talons protrude from his fingers. His tail is a thick bushy wire of gray fur with a slight curve to it.
Linnaea is a petite young woman, just under five feet in height when she stands fully straight. Once medium-dark hair with auburn and even lighter blond highlights hangs in many small braids that are all gathered into one braid at the moment, with stray hairs and one stray braid that escape to form bangs and frame her face, and hazel brown eyes. The lower half of her hair, from her ears down, is dyed in a variety of rainbow tones ranging from pastel to bright to nearly as dark as her hair. Her skin is fair but tanned, with freckles across her cheeks, and features that are not delicate so much as they are strong and simply there.
Today, theurge is wearing a pair of black and silver fishnet tights underneath knee length black denim shorts, and a lightweight black cable pullover sweater with the sleeves rolled up part way. There's a silver chain peeking out from underneath the collar. Her shoes, however, plain black slip-ons, look like they have seen better times.
This crinos is shy of seven and a half feet tall. The beast-of-war seems lithe and sleek more than massive, although sharp claws and teeth glint just as dangerously. Her fur is a light brown and grey, dappled with white, and there's a calm and comfortableness to her bearing contrary to the dangerous impression. Her eyes are light brown and glint with intelligence. There's a long scar down her back, and several precise scars along her legs, as well as a more jagged scar of claw marks along one hip, all places where fur no longer grows, but there's certainty and confidence to her movement.
At first glance, there isn't a great deal about this woman that clambors for attention. Though possessing attractive features - a subtly angular face with high cheek bones, steel blue eyes conservatively accented with dark eyeliner, and darker complexion (possibly denoting some Sicilian heritage) all complimented by black, short-cropped hair that's parted off to one side - they're not particularly striking. True, her six feet of height may earn some stray glances, but she isn't going out of her way to draw much more than a cursory appraisal.
Nothing exemplifies this more than her preferred wardrobe. Clearly something of a tomboy (though 'butch' might be a more age-appropriate description, if somewhat frowned upon if stated out loud), she wears an untucked, button down, olive drab flannel, the sleeves rolled up to her biceps. Under that is a sleeveless white shirt that, though clean, has clearly seen better days, the material just form-fitting enough to give the impression of a decently athletic physique. Continuing the motif is a faded pair of jeans, the cuffs of which are tucked into a pair of black workboots that ride up to the lower slopes of her calves.
But while the clothing - offset by a single platinum hoop in her right ear, and a dash of subtle lipstick - is largely worn and weathered, the occasional smudge of oil that failed to come out in the morning wash a nod to what's most likely a blue collar profession, she clearly puts enough time into grooming and overall cleanliness to make a decent impression, even if it's not a lasting one.
However lithe or graceful this creature happens to be, anything that stands at nearly eight feet in height and casts a silhouette that outlandish is probably worth avoiding.
To those who recognize her for what she is, however, her comparitive strength is noted as easily in her slender frame as her tribal lineage is in her predominantly black fur. Though bulky and clearly capable of dealing (and, for that matter, taking) significant damage in the right set of circumstances, she appears to be built more for speed and precision than she is for brute strength. But while the remnant curvature of her human form and its nods to muted femininity may speak of a delicate nature to some, the willful gaze and attention to detail that, at times, borders on the obsessive warn against underestimating her so easily.
Beyond that, there are other nods, here and there, to the woman this she-wolf has effectively left behind. There is, of course, the bipidal frame, and functional hands, but there's also a noticeable platinum ring in her right ear, as well as her hair, the dark tresses blending seamlessly into a thick black mane that covers the length of her neck. Decidedly more tousled, it still manages to stay parted off to one side, either by virtue of sheer luck, or a steadfast dedication to style (though one would hope its the former).
All that aside, her coat is what stands out the most. With a greater emphasis on darker shades, beginning with a dark band of fur racing up along the bridge of her muzzle, reaching out into her hairline and the outer edges of her cheek ruffs, there are dashes of white and silver that can be seen in any setting. White, meanwhile, covers the remainder of her muzzle, bleeds out over her cheeks - save a thin band of dark fur accenting her cheekbones - provides a frame for her pale amber eyes, and terminates just a couple inches down her throat. At her sternum is a white locket, marking the point where her dark mane gradiates into a dusky silver that spreads partway down her arms, covers her ribcage, and flares out over her hips.
Even in dim lighting, this gradiant throughout her coat is noticeable, the bulk of her fur a light silver at the roots, and a near-black at the tips. What patterning can be seen is reminiscent of that of a timber or tundra wolf, those parts of her that are truly black mimicking the thick saddle seen in both species, the pigment beginning between her shoulders, and narrowing to a halt at the base of her tail. There is some subtle darkening at her extremeties as well, beginning at the midpoint of her forearms, calves, and tail.
Trace stands six feet in height, with a confidence and certainty to his bearing that makes him seem a little taller, but still the last vestiges of the awkward gangliness of teenagerhood as well. A hint of five o'clock shadow frames a tanned face, hazel-green eyes under perpetually messy hair that reaches just past his ears. The man is dressed neatly, but the clothing is designed to give him ease of movement-- jeans, black leather converse shoes, and a worn leather bomber jacket that's never far from his person over a plain dark blue button-down shirt with a button-down collar worn with enough buttons open to see the white a-shirt underneath and the hint of a tattoo on one shoulder. Today the sleeves are rolled up, nearly to his elbows.
Standing over nine feet tall, Six-Shooter is a figure out of legend. Or perhaps nightmare, more accurately. The monstrous figure is that of man and wolf combined, with a canine head and long fangs, clawed hands, and a tightly controlled, dangerous manner about him. His form speaks of obvious strength, and of having seen battle, with clearly visible scarring on his right arm and shoulder. His fur fades from dark grey on his back and head to lighter gray on his chest and limbs, white a darker mask on his muzzle. The crinos is made of hulking strength and behind that composure, there is single-purposed anger.
It can take a minute to properly identify just what this canine is. To those in the know, though, his species isn't quite so vague. As a coywolf, Watcher physically resembles his coyote heritage more than his wolf as a whole. He's smaller and leaner than a wolf, with the longer ears and lighter build one would expect to see on a coyote. He's got a thick coat, though, and it lends him a bit of false bulk that usually makes him just look a bit shabby. His paws are also larger, ending with curving claws. His muzzle is a bit broader though not so heavy as a wolf but contains the same array of sharp teeth. Overall, he's a tawny grey-ticked coloration with a darker saddle. His undersides are lighter and he has yellow eyes.
In his Hispo form, Watcher's coywolf heritage is far less noticeable. He's far bigger than a wolf and dwarfs a coyote, resembling some primitive creature or an oversized hybrid of wolf, dog, and bear. As a whole, though, he still physically resembles his coyote heritage more than his wolf as a whole. He's smaller and leaner than most Hispo, with the longer ears and a lighter build. He's got a thick coat, though, and it lends him a bit of false bulk that usually makes him just look a bit shabby. His muzzle is a bit broader though not so heavy as a wolf, though in Hispo it hardly matters. Those jaws are massive, his paws and claws even more so. Overall, he's a tawny grey-ticked coloration with a darker saddle. His undersides are lighter and he has yellow eyes.
An arrangement had been made between the leaders of one sept and the other. Thane arranged for a Fury who knew the Great Hunt rite to come to the caern to perform it and teach it to someone, in exchange for a future favor in return. The timing would be tight, and--worryingly--the emissary was late. Very late. Nearly too late. Her howl goes up, introducing herself, and adding that she's headed for the caern at full speed with a cliath in tow. The clock ticks. Time is nearly up.
Trace has been here-- and waiting-- with his packmates. The howl, however, gets a sigh of relief and a glance over towards them, and then the Glass Walker spins his revolver on his finger like he has already done so many times recently, and slides it back into the holster.
Spinning about an aluminum baseball bat with razor wire wrapped about it is Justin. He is kicked back a tree and letting out a loud and bored yawn. At the sound of the howl, he straightens up and clears his throat. "Looks like we gotta be on our best behavior. I'm not looking to get kicked in my nuts."
Felix does not appear to have brought any weapons, or if he has, they're hidden somewhere. However, it's fair to guess he may also have gotten a bit bored, since he's wandering and currently singing (rather better than the song deserves), "...an' it's moose, moose! I like a moose! I've never had anythin' quite like a moose!" He cuts off at the sound of the howl, with a head movement like ears perking, and grins. "Kick ass, 'bout fuckin' time."
Thane Consumes-Shadows stands in his Crinos form atop the dais. The dark-furred, one-eyed Shadow Lord looks three shades from bona fide pissed off. The howl only serves to elicit a low, displeased growl from him which is enough to set Song-of-Ashes, who's loitering with his pack, to shink down a little closer to the ground and paw restlessly at the ground. The Sept Alpha lifts his head to return the howl, declaring himself and his permission in curt quickness.
In time, a panting black wolf with grey fringe and white accents appears at the edge of the caern, at a run. ~Don't shoot,~ she urges as she slows, shifts to homid, and a small bookbag on her back emerges with the transition. "Mona," she says curtly with a glance towards the wolf following her. "Binds-the-Demons," she says, probably referencing her own name as she dumps the pack on the ground, unzips, and pulls out an earthen bowl with a smooth and unadorned interior and an exterior riddled with garou glyphs. "Car crashed," she explains her delay as she grabs at the dirt from the caern and, using her fingers, grinds the soil into the bowl. "Quickly! Add your blood to the bowl!"
Linnaea is late too. The Gaian scrambles her way down towards the others from the trees, a bow and quiver of arrows in one hand, and looking a little more grounded than she usually does. Her hair is also sporting a new colour, dyed in rainbow. She looks over towards the others, and takes her place in time to do as instructed.
There is a nod that follows from Trace, and he pulls a knife from one pocket and slashes across the back of his hand, holding it in the space above the bowl, before offering the knife in turn towards his packmates.
Though the older woman's companion takes some time to regain herself, all she needs to hear is 'quickly' to return to her native form, even if the effort does seem to knock the wind out of her a second time. But, breathless, and mindful of all the new faces, smells, and sights surrounding her - especially that of the towering crinos that had called back to them - she takes a quick look around, and pulls a swiss army knife from the pocket of her jeans. "Not the best time for introductions, is it?" she says, offering an apologetic smile to those assembled, her gaze venturing off again to rest on Linnaea-- or, more specifically, the bow she carries. "I, ah-- I have something for you," she says. "Or, for her, rather," she adds, nodding to the theurge.
Felix pulls out his own pocket knife about the same time as Trace, and makes a slash across his hand without hesitation, letting his blood fall into the bowl as well. He glances to his packmates, and then to Lin, to see if any of them need the knife; it's Song-of-Ashes who gets the most focus first, given the lupus's current lack of opposable thumbs.
Consumes-Shadows looks over the arrivals with his severe expression lightening some given the 'valid' excuse, though it's clear the full moon and event has the Ahroun on edge. ~I will be staying behind, as Alpha and Warder, to see to the caern's defense. Others of the sept are grouped to watch over the bawn. If healing is required, our Rite Mistress is at the sept compound. Either seek her or howl. ~
When their turn comes up, both Justin and Song-of-Ashes moves for the bowl. The Bone Gnawer makes quick work of using the knife to open his skin and add his blood before taking up the offered paw of the lupus Uktena for the same.
Linnaea accepts the knife from Felix and hands it back right after, with a grateful, quiet nod. Mona, however, gets a bit of a 'huh', though all that Lin eventually says is, "Later?"
The elder Fury leans back, panting, heavily winded to the point where flecks of her own blood grace her lips. She's pushed herself beyond what her body ought to be capable of doing without injury. As the sept's garou finish adding their blood to the mix... "You too, Mona," she indicates towards the bowl. "And give the one with the bow your chiminage after you bleed." She begins stirring the thick, red mixture with a finger and, after everyone has added their blood, pulls her finger from the bowl and draw a swipe of blood from her temple down her nose, and a second swipe is made horizontally from beneath her left eye and to her ear. "Use a finger. Paint yourself with your septmates' blood and the earth of the caern you defend. Then you will feel the pull of the hunt."
"Actually--" Mona hesitates, easily cut off from any further insistence by the old Fury she accompanies. "Right," she says under her breath, and - with a hint of reticence - flicks open the knife to slice into the meat of her palm, her blood allowed to add to that of the others.
Song-of-Ashes twitches his nose at mention of a finger and takes to the Crinos form so he can dip a taloned digit into the mixture. A line is drawn from the tip of his nose to between his brows and from the bottom of each ear to the outer edge of his eye to connect the three senses. The coywolf looks towards his packmates, tongue lolling out in an enthusiastic pant. ~We'll hunt good tonight!~
Trace steps forward to take one finger, and he touches his finger to his chest beneath his shirt, not so much with any distinct part to it as much as simply doing. There's a nod to Song-of-Ashes, and a smile with far too much teeth to be otherwise polite. "We will!"
Linnaea looks, if anything, even more confused, and then quickly shakes her head a few times. "Not me. I'm not..." Then a moment more, she continues. "Later," she repeats herself as she dips her finger into the bowl, a distinct British accent coming out in the word. The theurge quickly and quietly traces the blood in a line, from forehead down to collarbone.
After adding his own blood and then smearing it on his face in the form of war paint, the Gnawer Ahroun shifts into the crinos form and folds his arms over his chest. The metal baseball bat is still clutched in one large fuzzy paw, teetering gently up and down in his fingers.
Felix wipes his blade on the thigh of his jeans after Linnaea hands it back, then flicks the knife closed in a practiced movement and slips it back into the pocket from whence it came. The interaction between Mona, Lin, and Binds-the-Demons gets some interest, but no comment. He takes his turn with the bowl, dipping a finger and drawing a line down the center of his face, and two shorter angled ones at each cheekbone. The grin he gives his packmates is rather a lot like Trace's. "Damn straight," he agrees.
The elder Fury begins chanting rapidly and intently,clearly fixated fully on the ritual component now. Those with bloody warpaint can feel it beginning to burn and tingle, though there's no direction quite yet. Maybe.... Maybe a slight pull north? Or east? Hard to say.
There's a certain amount of uneasiness that goes into Mona's actions, the sense that she's very much out of her element clear enough to be frustrating. Still, she follows suit with what she's told, extending her fingers to the bowl to gather up what she can once Song-of-Ashes has done the same, the blood added haphazardly to trace either of her cheekbones, a third line added down the middle of her throat as an afterthought. "I think-- I'm supposed to do this before I do anything else," she says to the shorter woman softly, keeping her voice low so as to be mindful of the chanting, though she makes it a point to keep track of any unhappy looks this might earn her. "They're--" she reaches for the bundle tied to her belt, and begins to unwrap it, the black tips of two arrows quickly visible. "Well," she says, quietly handing the both of them over to Linnaea, "they seem relevant."
Linnaea moves over to Mona, and furrows her brow. "I'm not your elder!" she whispers, furiously. "I'm not even... I'm not even your tribemate?" She sighs, looking at the bane arrows, and then nods, taking them with what ends up being a gracious nod, and then tucks them into her quiver, which she's already sliding onto her belt. "You'll talk to Charlene-rhya or the alpha, later when we get back."
Consumes-Shadows watches the two Furies closely though doesn't seem to oppose what either does. ~May Gaia and Luna look favorably on us tonight. Good hunting, you're carrying the future of this sept with you. You all - most of you - know the severity of what's waiting for us. Bring us back some hope.~ No pressure.
Song-Of-Ashes follows the faint twinge on his face, nose and ears turning this way and that as the coywolf tries to pinpoint the direction of the pull.
"I was planning on it," Mona replies gently, her head inclined towards Binds-the-Demon as if to say 'this wasn't my idea,' one of her hands raising to absently scratch at one of the marks on her face before she realizes what she's doing, and pulls her hand back.
Mouse-Trap rumbles deeply to his packmates as he gives them a firm nod, then lobs the baseball bat to the side on the ground. Eyeing the pair of Furies for a moment to memorize them, he lumbers off with a grunt. ~Let's go and kick some ass.~ He says, then lurches forward as he picks up speed, looking to take the lead.
Binds-the-Demons continues her strained, forced chantings in some alien tongue. Hell, it might even be utter gibberish. But then the indecisive, wavering pull that doesn't seem to indicate any certain direction... indicates northeast, headfirst into the wind. And everyone with blood on their face knows--/knows/--the threat is in that direction and in the realm instead of the umbra.
Trace takes off running and keeping pace with his pack alpha, shifting up into crinos as he does so. Six=Shooter simply gives a low growl, no further sound at the moment.
Linnaea isn't so quick, and remains in her birth form as she heads after the Coyote pack. The Gaian has an arrow-- a normal one-- in her hand, and the bow in her other hand. Nor does she run steadily, but rather with a wince that suggests she will pay for it later.
Song-of-Ashes bristles with a mix of a hunter's lust and a puppy-like glee as the Hunt's trail comes into focus. The Galliard throws back his head and howls. It's a bit high pitches and yappy but it's all but boiling over with the joy of the hunt. ~We hunt! We hunt! Let's go!~ And he drops down into the Hispo form and rushes forward. Only the pace of Mouse-Trap contains him from bolting ahead.
Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew as well shifts up, running with his pack and a sense of joy, pressure or not. He joins the other Galliard's howl with much the same sentiments, if more standard tones.
Though it takes a moment to follow suit, Mona keeps pace alongside Linnaea for a time, letting her body make its transitions less abruptly than she had before until, finally, feeling a curious sense of momentum that's far more foreign to her than it ought to be - be it the forgotten sound of a heartfelt rally, or the certainty the rite's imbued in the lot of them - she enters into her crinos form, and begins to run.
The werewolves rush through the forest, onwards, noses into the wind. It doesn't take more than half a mile before the smell of burning is scented. Something up ahead is on fire. And the winds will carry it towards the caern if it grows.
Rising-Dawn finally shifts into crinos along the way, bow and arrow still in hand as she does so. She runs no more easily in this form, though she more or less keeps up with Mona, at least.
Nose twitching, Mouse Trap, who is in the lead, slows down a step and gives a motion to the others. Slow down, he commands non-verbally. ~Song of Ashes, move forward ahead and use your super senses. See if you can sniff something up ahead besides the fire,~ he rumbles as he shifts down into the hispo form. ~Go lower to the ground if you can. We need the advantage.~
Song-of-Ashes gestures acknowledgement to his pack's alpha as he drops down to his belly and begins to creep forward. As he goes, he calls on his gift of Heightened Senses to try and pick up anything beyond smoke and flame.
It's a fast response from the lupus who sneezes with the potency of the odor. ~Fire, something sharp...~ There's a time Song-of-Ashes is struggling for a word and ultimately snaps with a growl. ~Stuff cars eat. Fire's not big but will be soon. We need to hurry.~
~Gasoline. Someone is setting the forest on fire.~ Swinging his head over to the others, Mouse Trap sizes up his packmates for the night. ~Lin, can you work with the spirits to try and contain the fire? Talk them down? If you can't, we may need to do this the harder way,~ he says with a wily grin. ~Fury.~ He glances to the Ragabash. ~Scout ahead and report back what you find. Six-Shooter, take Chugs and flank left, Ashes and I will go right,~ he says with a firm nod. ~Close in, be careful.~
There's a moment that Hides-in-Whisper finds herself inclined to do similar, but the mere mention of oil and gas make her think better of it. The acrid air is already near-overpowering, no matter how acclimated she's managed to get to it over the years. Perking her ears at Mouse calling to her attention, she glances at him briefly, and ignores a maddening urge to hesitate in order to slip quietly from the pack as a whole, careful to use a concealed route.
Rising-Dawn growls and rushes forward, and she takes a bit of a nod. ~I can try, but they only might listen. Find who set it. Find water.~ She takes a breath and moves forward, and takes another breath, and the howl that follows is less words, and more intention. *Spirits, friends, who give life to the forest that we all call home. Any who can hear me, your forest is burning and we need your help!* This is beyond anything that the theurge has ever done in the past, but there is so much of her willpower going into it.
<OOC> To the caern, Mona derp, should clarify: 'do similar' re: 'activate heightened senses.' When I jotted that down it was immediately after Song's pose.
A moment of pause, and then the Gaian sighs, and reaches across the gauntlet, disappearing from the realm. Once on the other side, the call is repeated, word for word.
Six-Shooter twists an ear in acknowledgement of Mouse-Trap's words, and ahroun and galliard break off to the left as they move forwards.
Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew does as instructed, slowing to remain apace with the group, then heading leftward with Six-Shooter. There's no hesitation, although his pack Alpha gets a fleeting sidelong glance as the Galliard goes. Most of his focus is on their surroundings, however, for any further indications of things that oughtn't be.
Song-of-Ashes stays alongside Mouse-Trap dutifully, apparently leaving his gift active as his head's on a rapid swivel to take in everything he can as they go.
Though it takes time, Hide quietly reappears through the foliage using a hurried, but cautious gait. ~Two fires~, she says, inclining her head in the direction of the flames. ~One normal, one-- not.~ She looks over her shoulder. ~Doesn't move like it should. Doesn't react to wind.~
~Small, now~, she adds quickly. ~Won't last.~
Nodding his head, Mouse-Trap lets out a frustrated huff, then gives a howl outwards to Six-Shooter and Chugs to give them the news. ~Take the normal fire, we will get the other!~ he calls out, then leans forward to butt his head to the Fury's shoulder. ~Go to the Umbra and back up the Child of Gaia Theurge, please. She is in there trying to talk the spirits to help out. She may need your support.~
As Shooter and Chugs draw nearer from the flank, they can see a bonfire-sized fire that looks natural and is potentially a hazard should it catch the forest on fire. Behind the flames is a single fire-elemental that burns with an acrid smell--corrupted, likely.
Rising-Dawn takes a breath in again and calls louder. *Please,* she repeats, though there is a grateful, if amused huff, to the tree jaggling, and then continues. *Spirits, please. The forest, your home, our home, is burning. We ask your help in fighting it, in keeping it safe.*
The theurge's second attempt to call for spiritual assistance results in many looks, largely by effectively impotent gafflings, but no offers for aid. Perhaps none of the nearby spirits are capable of materializing in the realm?
The contact is regarded with a curious moment of surprise, but Hide eases. Then comes the request, and-- though curiously hesitant to abandon the action after all her reticence at the caern, she makes it a point to acquiesce with a subtle bow of her head, and follow the instructions. This much, at least, she has some familiarity with, allowing for some ease in stepping past the gauntlet, and into the umbra. Immediately taking stock of her surroundings as thoroughly as she's able, she joins the Gaian theurge cautiously, raising her head to sniff the air. ~No luck?~ she asks, ears pricked and alert.
Pack> Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew says "I got a really weird thought. Can OhNo! shapeshift into, say, water? An' if so would it put shit out?"
Song-of-Ashes bristles his shaggy fur as he moves alongside Mouse-Trap. Their path carries them closer to their packmates than anticipated and he banishes his gift as they come close to the source. ~Let's go!~ He says with impatience and bared teeth. Something seems to catch his attention though and he pricks his ears and lifts his head to look directly towards where Chugs is.
Pack> Song-of-Ashes says "It might hurt him if he is the water."
Pack> Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew says "Yeah, that's true, I reckon it'd turn him into steam then. Could be a problem."
Pack> Six-Shooter says "Shapeshifting into water sounds kinda different than making water."
As Ashes turns and heads for the others, Mouse-Trap moves as well as he trusts his friend's nose. He gives a quick howl to the Fury before she heads for the Umbra if possible. ~Corrupted fire spirit! Tell Lin!~
Rising-Dawn twists her ears flat, and gives a swing of her head when the Fury appears. ~None,~ she agrees, though there is a huff of thanks to the spirits that did listen. ~Let's go back before we're needed.~
~Agreed,~ Hide replies, still attentively looking around as if *hoping* for something to pop out of hiding. And while she didn't hear the full message of the howl that followed her departure, the image has stuck in her mind enough to mention: ~One of the fires isn't right.~
You paged M'aiq with 'There's no water around, presumably?'.
You paged M'aiq with 'And how small is the non-spirit fire portion, currently?'.
Six-Shooter growls somewhat at the fire and then nods, looking back over towards his pack alpha once more. ~We need to get the fire out soon. And deal with the rest of it.~
M'aiq pages: There's a very small stream about 300 yards further east. And it's bonfire size. Maybe 6-8' tall.
Pack> Mouse-Trap says "Anyone got ideas? We got water near by? Lake? River?"
Pack> Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew says "There's a stream, 'bout 300 or so yards east. But we ain't got anythin' to move it with. 'less OhNo! feels like doin' his impression of a bucket?"
Pack> Song-of-Ashes says "Get it to chase us or chase it? Like herding prey. We chase it for the water or get it to come that way."
Pack> Six-Shooter says "We're already flanking it, chasing it to water should work."
Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew eyes the fires as the pair approaches them, and there's a couple moments of a thoughtful look, then the ghost of a headshake and shrug. He nods to his companion, and there's another second or so before he says, ~Little stream a bit away to the east...~
Pack> Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew says "Won't it catch more shit on fire on the way?"
Pack> Mouse-Trap says "Hmm... Ashes, use your wyrm calling gift?"
Pack> Six-Shooter says "We want to call more bad shit over here?"
Pack> Mouse-Trap says "To get it's attention and to make it chase him. But ... yes? We were all whining about being bored, right?"
Pack> Six-Shooter says "True."
Pack> Song-of-Ashes says "I may call more enemies with it. It is dangerous but I can run to the stream and try - very quietly. If it fails and the fire doesn't come, Chugs can Distract it and we attack."
Pack> Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew says "We also gotta handle the normal fire."
Rising-Dawn sighs one more time and reaches back over for the realm with a nod. ~Elemental?~ she asks once they're back, heading for the others.
Pack> Mouse-Trap says "Let's go with the distraction part first."
Song-of-Ashes lingers with his attention on his pack for several moments before he turns his eyes back towards the Fire Elemental. *You!* He barks out in the spirit's tongue. He steps forward with his fur hackled and teeth bared and trying his best to look big and tough and mean in his hispo form. *You don't belong here. Go away!*
The unnatural looking fire, about 5-6' in height, looks to be some kind of corrupted fire elemental. And the bonfire that's downwind of it and growing is currently about 7-8' tall, but clearly a growing hazard. The Uktena's bark draws the elemental's attention. It fires a gout of flame his way. Which misses. But singes the Uktena's fur. It's shrunk a little, down to about 4-5', after the expenditure of energy.
Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew doesn't speak spirit, but he does talk shit! ~Hey, asshole! Fuck you think you're doin'?~ he agrees from the spirit's other side, punctuated with yelps and yips and a sort of taunting dance. ~Come an' get me, if you think you got you some great balls o' fire!~
<OOC> To the caern, Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew uses Distractions.
The elemental turns and fires off a gout of flame towards Chugs, and this one connects! Fur and flesh get scorched, but the Gnawer is still standing. And didn't catch on fire himself.
~I--~ Hide's lips curl subtly in a poorly contained show of frustration. ~I don't know,~ she says, hurrying along to the rest of the pack, the sounds of the confligration stoking a desire for haste. ~Probably,~ is all she adds to that.
M'aiq pages: 3 agg.
You paged M'aiq with 'Yowch!'.
M'aiq pages: Chicks dig the burnt and blistery look. It's very summery
Pack> Mouse-Trap says "Ow! You okay?"
Long distance to M'aiq: Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew snirks! Felix uses Resist Pain, I'll add it to the +scan also. :)
You spend 1 willpower and are now at 6 out of 7.
Pack> Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew has a sudden thought much like a yelp, but it swiftly subsides, with a burst of will behind it. "...yeah. Yeah, I'm a'right."
Pack> Mouse-Trap says "So, I don't think it's going to move, huh?"
Six-Shooter bristles with tension, and simply growls at the fire elemental. It's loud, and it's challenging.
<OOC> To the caern, Mouse-Trap taps Shield of Rage.
Pack> Song-of-Ashes says "More energy it spends, the weaker it gets. Make it fight!"
Song-of-Ashes dances away from the blast of fire on light paws and continues to yap and howl. He's not as poetic as his fellow Galliard packmate but he does speak the elemental's language. He lunges forward and snaps at the air like he may nip at a deer's heels, howling out in derision. *Go Go Go! Back to where you came from, weakling!*
Pack> Mouse-Trap says "Should we all pee on it?"
The elemental lobs a third gout of flame towards the growling Walker. The flames barely graze him, but the radiant heat still does some damage. By now, the elemental is about 2-3' tall--about the size of a campfire--which is roughly half what it'd been before. A fourth gout shoots towards Song-of-Ashes, but it sputters out in mid-air and the elemental shrinks, suddenly, to the size of a torch.
<OOC> To the caern, M'aiq says "Aaaaaaand botched!"
*Get out of here! This is not your forest!* Rising-Dawn contributes to the yelling at the spirit, her ire clear in her words.
Mouse-Trap trots over towards the fire as it has been throwing flames here and there. Lifting his leg from behind, he lets out a steady jet of urine upon it.
The more it becomes clear that things are drawing to an end, the more Hide seems to calm, be it out of fading momentum or, more likely, sheer force of will. ~Not its proudest moment, either,~ she remarks, as subtly as the form allows.
The diminutive fire elemental turns to hurl flame at the theurge, but then notices the Gnawer ahroun trotting up towards it to urinate on it. As the leg hikes, the elemental blasts fire at point blank range into the Gnawer's crotch, melting highly sensitive flesh. Urine sprays, but nowhere intended. Clearly, one should not play with fire. The elemental is now a mere 6-9" high.
One of those taunting yelps from Chugs has rather more of a pained tone to it when the fire connects, but it turns into a low, furious snarl, fired by Rage and will as he puts the pain aside. ~C'mon! Is that all you got?~ he taunts it again, dancing away, ~I got worse burns puttin' out my cigarettes! Fuck, I got worse burns from =Freddy=!~ He laughs aloud as the elemental sputters down to torch size, and moves toward the spirit as if he has something in mind as well -- but the result of Mouse-Trap's try seems to change his mind, and he just spits at it instead.
The spit misses the elemental, but it also misses his packmate. Meanwhile, the normal fire seems to be spreading a little across the fallen leaves on the forest floor. But not nearly so much as before when the elemental was encouraging it. The latter begins fading, as if crossing back over to the umbra--dematerializing.
Mouse-Trap lets out a loud, pained noise as he gets blasted right in the junk. Hitting the ground and dragging his hips across it, he whimpers out in pain. ~...avenge my balls, coyote pack!~
Song-of-Ashes flinches as his pack alpha gets hot pants and declares with a yap he's got an idea. He makes a dash towards where the stream's located and howls for someone to follow along. ~We need to get water! Clothes hold water. Others, clear ground, nothing for fire to eat.~
Trace shifts down to his birth form, pulling off his shirt as he does so, potentially to hold water with.
Rising-Dawn for her part starts clearing the ground around the 'normal' fire, brushing away anything that might be flammable.
Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew dives to slash the remnant of elemental with his claws, inevitable burns or not, to try to prevent its escape. He intends to destroy the corrupted spirit entirely, if he possibly can. The other fire, he leaves to the others in the meantime.
Depriving the normal fire of additional fuel, as Rising Dawn is doing, seems to be effective in controlling the fire and could very well eventually put it out over time. The elemental continues trying to make good its escape rather than attack as Chugs charges in rapidly for the kill. Claws trump flames, it would seem. The elemental is vanquished, but Chugs gains some minor additional burns on his hands.
M'aiq pages: Another 2 agg. And congrats for coming at a fire elemental as if it were still a threat. :)
Long distance to M'aiq: Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew grins. Well, he can't let it get AWAY! :D
<OOC> To the caern, M'aiq says "Elemental = toast. Fire = controllable with some time/attention. If you need to hit the hay...."
<OOC> To the caern, Song-of-Ashes says "Coyotes mostly talked something to death at last!"
<OOC> To the caern, M'aiq says "Also, yay! Great Hunt success! (Granted, it was a super-easy one that many garou'd be like "that was it? srsly?", but it /could/ have turned into a major threat to the caern if unaddressed!)"
Rising-Dawn continues to keep the fire under control, and when they have done so, shifts back down to her birth form and looks over towards those remaining, though there's a snicker at the end. "Well then," she says to Mona, "you'll be taking these back for now?" Though the bane arrows are not actually removed from the quiver, because a moment later the Gaian is moving over towards Felix, with a familiar enough frown etched onto her face. "Let me see that," she says.
Linnaea pages: Also when Felix does let Lin see it, you will be less three agg.
Once the spirit is dead, Chugs gets to helping with the bonfire-extinguishing, and probably manages to make the wounds to his hands slightly worse in the process. Not feeling pain has pluses and minuses. He is, however, more than happy to let Linnaea get a good look at his burns afterward, melting down to homid. It is not his best look.
Having worked alongside the Gaian theurge for the better part of the cleanup, Mona seems to ease from the now-unnecessary war form to one more familiar, the mechanical nature of the clean-up doing a fairly good job of masking the somewhat dazed approach she seems to be taking with it.
Dawn's words, on the other hand, illustrate that point, the question met with obvious confusion, then incredulity. Thankfully, though, there's a distraction, her gaze shifting to Felix. To that, she seems to sober to something more clear-eyed. "Could be worse," she comments idly, doing little to hide the punctuating (albeit delayed) wince.
The theurge mutters to herself as she hovers her hands not-quite touching Felix's injuries. There's a brief glow along with the activation of her healing gift, and she looks around, with a brief and perfunctory, "Anyone else?" though she doesn't seem to expect a response from that, really.
You paged Linnaea with 'that was 3 healed, right?'.
Linnaea pages: Yep!
You paged Linnaea with 'Thanks. :) Gets him down to 2, that's not so bad.'.
Trace looks at what they've accomplished, and his now rather burnt, rather wet remains of a shirt that was used to put out the fire, and looks to Mona. "Trace Garza, called Six-Shooter. Ahroun, Fostern of the Glass Walkers, and guardian of this place." Introduction-- curt and full of the rage of the full moon-- given, Trace looks down. "I'm going to head back to the compound and get a new shirt."
Pack> Trace says "I liked that shirt."
Pack> Felix says "Sorry, man. Maybe we can find another like it."
Pack> Trace says "Better than the forest burning down, but yeah. Y si. Pero, that one was the one I wore most, even if my other shirts are actually just like it."
Mona turns to Trace and offers a nod of acknowledgement. "Looks like you could use it," she offers with a faint smile. "I'm Mona, by the way," she adds. "Mona Turner. Ah-- Hides-in-Whisper, if you're looking for something formal. It's a, ah--" Pause. "It's something, at least. 'Pleasure' doesn't really seem like the right word."
"Don't drink everythin', reckon I'm gonna want it later," Felix tells his packmate with a grin. He still has his own shirt, not having shifted to a clothed form until things were more or less handled. "Thanks," he says to Linnaea, after her gift gets him from horribly burnt to just unpleasantly crispy. One of his just-healed hands moves up to check on his hair, and he looks faintly relieved that it seems to be in the condition it started out. He turns to the newcomer then, the grin returning. "Felix T. Sinclair, Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew, Fostern 'Gnawer Galliard; Beta of Tactical Frivolity, under Coyote," he introduces himself in turn, with an unnecessarily flamboyant bow. "Nice meetin' you. Fury, right?"
Trace gives a somewhat gruff nod and grunt, and then he's off into the woods. "We're gonna need more soon though," he calls back. "Like, tomorrow."
The bonfire now down to the last coals and embers, Linnaea sits down next to it, just far enough away to not get overly dirty or muddy, and reclaims her quiver. The bane arrows are removed, re-wrapped, as she speaks. "Linnaea Imogen Griffin-Macey," she says. To Felix, the Gaian adds, "Dakota's been teaching me the rite." And then it's back to the introduction. "Rises-Like-the-Dawn-From-Night, cliath theurge of the Children of Gaia, child of Otter in the pack Otter Space. And my packmate, Charlene, is the current elder of your tribe." There's another pause, and she offers over the arrows. "Here."
"I'll see what I can do about that," Mona calls back, whatever seemed to have knocked her off balance no longer posing much of an issue, apparently. To Felix, she says, "I am, yeah. Nice to meet you, even if the circumstances aren't what I'd call ideal." She quiets as Linnaea introduces herself, and, once again, finds herself presented with the arrows. To her credit, she doesn't look nearly as frustrated with them as she did initially. "Right," she says. "These." There's a pause as she accepts the gift offered earlier, the smile fading as she observes them. Then, "Sorry if that seemed a bit forced. What she says goes, which-- isn't necessarily a bad thing, so long as she doesn't say the words 'I'm driving.'"
Felix gives Trace a fingergun in reply, not necessarily the clearest of responses while the recipient is already heading off. If he was going to say something more, he's distracted by Mona's call, which nets her a considering look and another grin. "What kinda circumstances would you call ideal?" he asks, "I mean, aside from 'Binds-the-Demons ain't drivin',' which I'm guessin' from that an' the reason y'all were late, she was?"
Pack> Felix says "Don't worry none, I'll handle it. 'course, if she wants to help, that works for me!"
Linnaea giggles a little bit, and tilts her head and looks up. "I'm sure it's better than if I was driving," she points out, in a very blandly 'stating-the-obvious' kind of manner. There's a shake of her hair, and a grumble before Linnaea starts absently re-braiding it.
"Don't count on it," Mona replies mildly. Then, to Felix, "One of those cases where 'station' came before actual experience. Tried pointing out that having a chauffeur counts for that, but, well. Here we are. As for 'ideal'--" She looks around herself, particularly at the burn scar left behind. "I mean, aside from that being a lot smaller and incorporating some s'mores and a few cases of beer..."
"Like the new hair," Felix notes to Linnaea, teasing, "You an' Val oughta get together an' coordinate." He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket, adding belatedly to the Theurge, "An' good, sounds like that's comin' along okay so far, then." The pocket gives up a flask, which he offers toward Mona, "Ain't exactly beer, but I don't got any marshmallows here neither. Although if y'all wanna head back to the Compound, might still have some there. An' the fire there's suitably smaller an' better behaved."
Linnaea grins again. "I found some hair dye we had laying about the workshop and barn for some reason, and I had some spare time," she says, continuing to braid her hair back and away from her face. "It's coming pretty well. I'm... not sure who I'm going to teach yet, but I'm sure it will play out." There's a grin, and then a grumble. "I think I left my messenger bag in yesterday..." Indeed, she doesn't have it present with her, though that doesn't explain what she's saying as to leaving it.
The offering of the flask earns a genuine smile. "This'll do just fine," she says, accepting, and uncapping it to take a whiff, the scent making her brows arch appreciatively. "Better than fine," she says, tilting it back to take down a healthy swig before handing it back. "Could use to come back down to earth for a little while." She seats herself near the two of them, her eyes straying back to the burnscar, even as she says, "But I can't say I mind the rainbows," gaze flickering back to Linnaea. "What sort of teaching gig are you talking about, anyway?"
"Left it in what, yesterday?" Felix asks, tilting his head at the Theurge. Mona's appreciation of the flask gets another grin out of him, and he has a good drink from it himself before dropping down to join the pair crosslegged on the ground, for the time being. There's a hint of a wince as he settles; the Gift may be starting to wear off. Linnaea, of course, gets offered a drink as well.
Linnaea pauses the braiding where it is and puts the hair tie in place, and then looks towards Felix, and shakes her head. "In yesterday," she says as though to clarify. "Probably the barn, though it could be in Kent Crossing at Tamsin's place, I was there to talk to the spirits. I'll find it." The flask is accepted, though the theurge is clearly not as used to alcohol, because there's a slight sputter mid-sip. Doesn't stop her, though, from taking another sip and then handing it back. "My Fostern challenge," she explains to Mona. "To learn the rite of binding, for making talens, and to teach it, and also to make six talens to aid in the Sept's current fights."
Noting the wince, Mona's smile fades a bit. Then comes the sputter, and that grin is back en force, her hand extending to gesture for the flask again. "I'll spot you a bottle," she remarks to Felix, and, at the very least, seems to mean it. To Linnaea, she says, "That challenge apply to cars, by any chance?" though her attention shifts to Felix again-- and, again, the smile fades a bit. "Should've made you take a breather at the end of all that," she says. "Help's appreciated, but you weren't doing yourself any favors." In spite of the hint of admonishment, however, there's a clear note of gratitude. "How're you holding up, anyway?
Felix adjusts his position somewhat so that he can lean back against a tree trunk, and squints at Linnaea. "If you left somethin' in yesterday," he says, "wouldn't it wander along to today same as everythin' else?" He can't help a fair bit of the grin returning at her sputter, and passes the flask back to Mona, with a nod to her offer, and, "Ain't necessary, but always appreciated." More of the grin again at the idea of a car talen, though he leaves answering to the Theurge. "Nah, I'm fine," he assures airily, "Had worse'n that. Which ain't to say I don't appreciate not havin' to heal it all the long way, or nothin'." The last is added toward Linnaea again, with the grin a bit crooked for a moment, "Thanks again."
Linnaea furrows her brows for a second. "It might not end up in the same today," she points out, dead serious. "String theory, quarks, divergent timelines and the butterfly effect, all of that." She shrugs her shoulders. "I'll go back and get my bag tomorrow one way or the other." In lieu of fidgeting with whatever from her messenger bag, Linnaea pulls her bow over into her lap, though she doesn't loose the string, just plays with the leather thong that wraps the grip. "Don't think that a spirit bound into a car is exactly what we need at the moment," she notes. "I mean, could you? Sure, but it would be a very particular spirit that agreed to be bound into a Weaver object like that. More like... healing talens, ones to make the user practically invisible, ones to let them see through the darkness like some Garou can with a gift."
Mona tch's at the genial brush-off, accepting the flask to take another swig, her shoulders relaxing slowly but surely. "Sharing booze is like sharing cigarettes," she says, indicating that she's inclined to pass the flask back to Linnaea, if Felix sees fit. "If you don't, you're an asshole." There's a pause. Then, "I'm sure there's some folksy idiom in there somewhere, but I doubt I'll be the one to coin it," is murmured idly. Clearing her throat gently, the only actual sign that the burn of the whiskey is anything but pleasant, she says to Linnaea, "What about ones that just-- heal?" She pauses, thinking it over. "Seems like there's a lot of potential on that front. I mean-- you say 'see through the darkness,' and I think a bandage over trackmarks. Something localized." There's another pause. She shrugs, then, though still looks considerate. "Too much time working the halfway house, I guess."
Felix blinks at Linnaea's notes about the same today; it's difficult to tell how much of that he actually followed, particularly since he keeps it quite deadpan when he replies, "So what you're sayin' is butterflies an' hoity-toity ducks tied up an' kidnapped your bag? You got a weird life, Lin." He seems happy enough to have the flask continue moving around, as long as it gets back to him at regular intervals. "Oh, speakin' of," he says to Mona, and slips a hand into another pocket, this time coming up with an Altoids tin. Opened, it turns out to contain cigarettes (mostly) and a lighter. He lights one, then offers to the others. "Hey, Lin. If it ain't necessarily in the same today, how d'you know your bag's gonna end up in the right tomorrow?"
There's no hesitation on Mona's part when it comes to making a grab for one of the cigarettes. "She's talking about multiple universes," she remarks to Felix, fishing a lighter out of her pocket. "Thanks, by the way. My pack took a header in the ditch we drove into."
Linnaea gives the Gnawer a slightly strange look, and then giggles. "I don't know, that's half the fun," she says, before taking another sip from the flask. She still sputters a bit, and still doesn't seem to care. "Exactly!" Mona gets a grin. "Quarks," she says again. "Stranges, electron neutrinos, Higgs boson, gravitons when they eventually find them..." The flask gets passed back to Felix after that.
"Strange ain't the half of it," Felix says dryly, taking a drag on his cigarette. He puts on a fairly terrible mock British accent -- not Linnaea's, much more mass-media version of 'upper class', "Oh I say, quark quark!" Dropping back to his own voice and accent, he muses, "'Electron Neutrino' ain't a bad band name." He hands Mona two more of the cigarettes at the news of the demise of her own, then puts the tin away for the time being. Then he gets around to having another drink. "Better a pack of cigs'n the other kind, but still tragic."
Mona seems more than happy to accept the offer, "That's twice I owe you," said with a smile, the cigarettes slipped into her pocket. To Linnaea, she says, "Anyway, this idea-- challenge-- whatever it is you've got going. If you find yourself with some extra time, I've got some thoughts on it."