Sweeping branches of evergreen pines form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A separate stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce, protected from the damp by a tarp. At the edge of the clearing and extending back a bit into the woods resides a rough wooden structure with a slate tile roof. A stone slab rests off to one side of the clearing in a place of some prominence. Nestled in among the pines are a few hardy perennials--red alder, quaking aspen, and a big leaf maple or two--that, come spring, will create a profusion of color in the clearing.
(+view works here)
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.
Printed Flow Chart
Bell of Ice
It is currently 14:16 Pacific Time on Sat Oct 21 2017.
Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (9% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.75 and falling, and the relative humidity is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 48 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501
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 a close-fitting black sleeveless tee and camo BDU pants, with a pair of unused black suspenders hanging from the waist. 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.
The fire is burning hot today, fighting off what little of the rain makes it through the canopy down into the clearing. Further away, in a clear area, Jamethon performs a Tai Chi form consisting of many steps and manuvers that flow into each other. At an irregular interval, seemingly never at the same point in the performance, it seems to start over. This is never jarring however, the wave simply breaks and flows into the beginning once more.
As is often the case, there's warning before Felix is actually visible -- the gradually increasing sound of someone singing. "--lotta nights on the run, and I think oh, like I'm lost an' can't be found. I'm just waitin' for my day to come," he glances in at the edge of the clearing, and grins when he spots his target, "an' I think oh, I don't wanna let you down..."
He quiets while he walks into the Compound, toward the Theurge. "Afternoon," he greets him, cheerfully but perhaps not quite as loudly as he might usually. "Am I interruptin'?"
Jamethon steps forward, facing sidelong of Felix, with his left foot. Right foot remains trailing behind, dragging forward slightly to rest on his toes. His hands are close together, fingers together with thumbs out to the sides, and pushing through the air before him. He completes this movement and flows into a light twisting motion that has him land with his body facing Felix. He completes a rather deep exhalation he was performing and stands a moment, seeming to complete something, before responding. His voice is calm during this new moon and perhaps the meditative motions have helped as well, "You are not, young Felix. This compound is for all of our Sept."
Felix watches the ending of the Tai Chi with some interest, not interrupting while Jamethon wraps it up. "Guy called Zach does somethin' like that in the parks a lot," he remarks; with the smallness of the moon, he seems fairly calm as well, or at least as much as his inherent energy allows. "An', well. It might be, but you ain't exactly, an' I was specifically aimin' for you. If you got some time, anyhow. Reckon no time like the present to get learnin' the shit I oughta know to not suck at my job, right?" He's got a half-full Coke bottle dangling from one hand, but nothing else seems to be brought with him; might not be ideally prepared with supplies, but on the other hand, he's got no idea what Rites he doesn't know might need.
Jamethon settles on the ground, crossing his arms and legs in the same smooth maneuver. He looks over at the Bone Gnawer, "You would not be the first Bone Gnawer I have taught. Do you know of Yi-Ling Song, Three-Blades-Runs-The-Gauntlet?"
Felix moves over to sit as well, crossing his legs as part of the downward movement. No arm-crossing, though. He sets his drink down beside him without looking; his eyes are focused briefly off to the side at nothing. "I've heard the name," he says after a moment, gaze moving back to the Get, "but her stories ain't really reached Memphis."
Jamethon watches Felix move and sit, tracking the Galliard as he moves. "She is a great credit to your tribe. I had the privledge to call her friend. I wish her well, wherever she dwells." He considers his own words for a moment, looking somewhat amused before continuing, "How do you think of yourself... as student?"
"If you've got stories of her, I'd be interested in 'em," Felix says, and the following question gets a brief laugh. "A'ight, well, first two things I thought were 'shitty' and 'I don't', but-- bein' honest, it kinda depends what I'm supposed to be learnin'. Like, school stuff, nah, practically made 'em cry. Music, though, I'd be fuckin' straight As for that, if there was grades. Rites..." he pauses briefly, considering. "I don't reckon I'm a natural, exactly. I really =ain't= a Theurge, an' I know it. But most days, that's somethin' I can focus on pretty good, an' I always liked 'em. Pretty much learned any Rite someone'd teach me, 'fore I came here. So.. ritewise, anyway, I reckon maybe I ain't too terrible of one."
"I have some stories, for sure. Salem would have more, if he felt up to sharing them." With this, the Fenrir considers further and offers, "Normally, I would want to get straight to the important rituals... but this one may, in fact, prove to be important to you." He gestures over towards the kindling pile, now somewhat damp, "Go get four sizable sticks, please."
Felix unfolds upward with only a little more apparent effort than sitting took, and heads over to the kindling pile as indicated. "Don't suppose you've got any advice on gettin' Salem in a story-sharin' mood, by any chance? Kinda suspectin' there's quite a few I'm gonna wanna be tryin' to get out of him..." He pulls a pretty good-sized stick from the mass, and eyes it a moment. Good, apparently, as he tucks it under his arm and pokes around for another. Quickly, but he seems to be aiming to find similar-sized ones. "How long've you been in these parts yourself, if you don't mind me askin'? I got the impression it's a good long time."
Jamethon gives a genuine, well-humored laugh, at the first question. "I am as close to Salem as we both are to Helios, right now. You are asking the wrong person, I fear." As the other question, the Fenrir pauses and considers, shaking his head as he himself realizes the answer, "A little under twenty years now."
"Heh. Oh well, worth a try," Felix says, finding a third stick that goes all right with the others. The answer to his other question gets a look over his shoulder, and a pause from him also. "...yeah, that's a good long time all right." There's another pause in which he does not mention that's about as long as he's been alive, but it may well not be a fact that misses either of them. It is, however, also a pause in which he finds a fourth suitable-seeming stick, and withdraws it triumphantly, breaking into a grin again.
"Must've seen an awful lotta shit happen an' folks come an' go since then," he remarks as he moves back to his previous spot, and offers the stick. "These okay?"
Jamethon watches as Felix gathers what was requested of him and listens to the commentary silently. When the sticks are presented, the Fenrir looks them over briefly and nods, "These will do nicely. I will take two of them. You keep the other two and be seated," with this, the Fenrir accepts any two of them from Felix and adds, "I will be teaching you the music of the spirits, what is commonly called the Bone Rhythms."
Felix drops back down to crosslegged, and of course hands over a pair of the stick. He wasn't exactly looking dark before, but he still brightens at the suggestion that they're going to be doing a Rite that's =also= music. "A'ight, I reckon that sounds like a fun place to start. Spirits like percussion, huh?" He sounds like he wouldn't blame them.
Jamethon holds one of the two sticks across his knees, and raises the other one to strike the first, creating the percussive expected sound. "The spirit's all have a rhythm, a beat to which they dance. Some are simple, and others so complex that I would not expect to be able to learn them without delving into insanity." This is all said in a flat, even, educational tone. He adds, "To learn their rhythms you must either be taught, ask the spirit for guidance, or observe them and learn through intuition. Most Pack Totems will teach their children their rhythm with little coercing."
"So basically, each spirit -- each kind of spirit, right, not each individual one? -- kinda has its own song runnin' through it?" Felix asks, positioning his sticks in the same way, though he doesn't strike his yet. Instead, the one he has somewhat raised seems to get weighed in the hand, a bit thoughtfully. "OhNo! made us have a dance party, once. I reckon he'd be on board with teachin' me his rhythm."
Jamethon considers the question and nods, "Some more unique spirits will have their own beat, usually just a variation on it's brethren. Elementals in particular, tend to be more unique than others." Then there is a hint of humor at the idea of dancing to Coyote's beat. "Coyote would make you dance to him, rather than the other way around. But yes, that would be interesting." At this point, Jamethon looks down to the stick in his lap, and taps out a slow but driving beat. The kind one might attribute to the Native Americans stereotypically. However, after a few measures, the speed and number of beats increases and Felix might notice the presense of a heartbeat in the sound. A few measures later and the beat returns to how it was. All in all, it is a simple change and one that repeats. The Fenrir speaks as he continues to hit the one stick with the other, "Deer lives a dual reality. Calm grace, punctuated with moments of flight to survive. These things are heard in Deer's rhythm."
Felix grins. "He already made me dance to him," he says, "but maybe he'll dance with me. 'spose I'll see..." For now, though, more than see, he listens. Three repetitions of the pattern before he joins in; a perceptive observer might notice it doesn't take more than the first one before his subtle shifts and little movements fall in line with the base rhythm, though. The Gnawer nods to the description of Deer's reality, keeping a partial eye on the movement of the Theurge's hand.
As Felix pays close attention, there is noticed a slight trembling of the hand as the calmer beats are laid out. This causes a tremor in the beat that is almost imperceptable and complicates an otherwise simple sound. Felix, being atuned to such things, does not have too much difficulty picking this out. Similarly, the beat of the frantic moment has no such hesitation but despite the speed and volume, there is a fear communicated by the rhythm like in a horror movie where the villain is about to set upon a victim.
Subtle adjustments to mirror the rhythm more perfectly -- changes probably imperceptible to most potential listeners, but surely not to the spirits whose song it is. Felix continues paying attention, in a way that might make various of his schoolteachers faint dead away, if his characterization of his academic history is accurate. He's clearly trying to catch the tiny details as they reveal themselves.
Jamethon nods gently as his body sways forward and back ever so gently to match the beat. "Very good. The music is as much a part of the practitioner as it is the spirit. I'll teach you a few more. You will practice not just playing the rhythm, but feeling it as well. Like you are both the performer and the audience. Then you will choose one and play it for a spirit. When the spirit dances, you will know you have succeeded."