![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
All sorts of spirits like Shelby. Including the bad ones.
It is currently (handwaved, near the end of July).
Currently the moon is in the waning Galliard Moon phase.
Umbra: Escrowe Farm
The trees of the Umbral forest fall away abruptly here as an aged farmhouse rises from the forest floor. Despite its obvious age, the house itself seems to radiate an enduring strength. Creeping ivy curls up around the pillars of the front porch and clings to the stones of the foundation, shoring up the aging structure. Lunes dance high above, lighting the way for myriad other umbral wanderers passing beneath the eaves of the peaked roof. At the west side of the house, a pump and trough reflects the dancing moonlight back in spears of silver. To the north of the house, the forest falls swiftly away and a thickening pall comes over the sky as the spiritual echo of the interstate cuts its way toward town.
To the southeast, a dull shimmering which is more sensed than seen marks the direction of the Caern.
Obvious exits:
Southeast
Having scouted about for likely places for several days, Falcon's Grace informs Stops-Too-Late that tonight will be the night she hunts a wyrm thing and that Icetrap will come with them. Thus it is that the little trio trots through the umbral space near the old farmhouse. Admittedly, it isn't burned down on the umbral side, a fact that the Silver Fang explains as she trots along. It takes time. For shadow to show realm.
Icetrap seems to have taken on the role of bodyguard. He trots along in Hispo, a little detached from the others, sniffing ahead for traces of the Enemy and keeping alert for problems. The conversation of the others reaches him, but he does not comment or offer any additions at the moment.
Yes, Falcon's-Grace-rhya, replies the hispo cub from her spot just behind the Ritemaster's ribs. She prefers to keep 'her' theurge between herself and Icetrap, though she's polite enough to the Get. ~Time for realm to show shadow as well - but less time, yes?~
~Not precisely. It...well, it is not the same, back and forth across the gauntlet. You can't use the logic of 'one thing happens here so eventually it happens there'.~ Stopping to sniff at something, Bright Falcon's Grace adds, ~In general, the umbra doesn't follow logic at all.~
When Falcon's-Grace stops Stops-Too-Late does as well, though she remains watchful, one ear swiveling to track Icetrap. ~It follows its own logic. We just may not be able to figure out what it is.~ A moment later, as if only then realizing her chutzpah she crouches and adds, ~...Is that right?~
~It's likely completely wrong and completely right.~ Which makes no sense at all but seems to be all the Silver Fang elder intends to say on the subject. She trots a bit faster, endeavoring to close the distance with Icetrap, her ears perked. ~Near here,~ she informs both Get and cub. ~At least, last I scouted.~
The Garou travel on for a short time. They will notice that the Umbral reflection of the Realm in this place is agrarian, but all of a sudden, as if crossing an invisible line, the bucolic landscape becomes decidedly unwholesome. Blasted and decaying stumps sprout from the dry dirt ground, and an otherwise-normal wheat field is streaked with lines of withered stalks. In the distance, there is a small barn, hardly bigger than a shed. And yet, it somehow looms. Doors hang crazily from the hinges, only partially covering the doorway, which again, though small, gives the impression of a black cavernous maw.
Stops-Too-Late trots along willingly enough, though as soon as the umbra shifts she stops, forelegs planted and ears swiveling ferociously. ~In there,~ she doesn't so much ask as acknowledge, dark eyes on the barn.
Icetrap's bare spine prickles with what, had he pelt there, would be raised hackles. He half turns his head- the better to keep watch on the barn- turning an ear towards Falcon's Grace. There.
~Yes,~ Falcon's Grace replies in an overly calm manner. ~That is where we will go.~ She shakes herself out then starts to move forward. ~In the umbra, those of strong spirit should be the ones to be hit--myself or Icetrap. In the realm, it is those of strong body, usually Ahrouns or Galliards.~ That bit of lessoning done, she adds, ~You fight. Do not run. We go.~ She chuffs to the Get, moving forward but indicating he should move with her.
As the Garou focus their attention on the barn, they can detect the faint sound of sobbing. It is a pitiful and despairing sound, only barely audible. There are no spirits present here, no other sounds, no birdsong. No wind. Only the faint crying from the darkness of the barn's interior.
Icetrap glances to the Fang Elder once more, his reaction muddled. She shakes that off physically, which also serves to loosten himself up in readiness, and moves forwards as directed. His attention switches forwards, and he actually seems to be looking forwards in spirit to what lies ahead as well, alert and light-footed in anticipation.
Stops-Too-Late quite visibly girds herself with a shake that sets all her hair on end, drops her head, and paces toward the barn. It is crying, she notes as they draw near, her own growl bubbling up in an attempt to mask her nerves. I will not run.
~It sounds like crying,~ Zosia corrects in a low voice, her eyes moving from watching the barn to their surroundings and back, trying to gauge what's around. ~Might be crying, might be trap. Might be something else.~ And then, taking a deep breath in and out, she enters the barn.
As soon as it's clear what Zosia intends, Icetrap moves forwards as well, not letting the Elder get in front. One ear backwards in case of unwelcome followers, one to the front alert for danger, he takes as good a stock of their surroundings as he can.
The sobbing increases gets a little louder, a choking, hiccuping sound. It sounds almost like a child, but the intonation and pitch is off. Like someone, or something, using digital technology to impersonate a child. At times, it almost sounds like an electric guitar.
Stops-Too-Late is uncomfortable being the last to enter the barn and hurries to join the others, undoubtedly crowding Falcon's Grace's personal space. As soon as she's within she moves to the side, against the wall and out of the silhouette cast by Luna.
Icetrap rumbles his uneasy defiance, deep in his throat, and sidles himself into clear space.
Snapping at Shelby as she does, Falcon's Grace manages to seem just that little more off, even as her teeth grind against the weeping that fills the air. She attempts to look about the dark depths of the barn, attempting to locate the sound of the noise.
It takes a moment for the Garous' eyes to adjust to the darkness within. All can see that there isn't much in here - a few smashed wooden boxes and crates, a tattered sisal rope on the ground, a ladder leading up to loft that extends across a third of the ceiling. In the far right-hand corner, against the wall opposite the door, below the loft, the Get and the cub can see something furry and huddled, about 3 or 4 feet tall. *I'm sorry, I'm so... I'm s-s-soooorrieeee!* the furry thing wails, choking on its own tears. Or what sound like tears. Falcon's Grace can detect the direction of the sound, though the furry shape doesn't stand out to her eyes against the darkness.
Icetrap freezes, his growl dying in his throat and his eyes locking onto the furry creature.
Stops-Too-Late tucks her tail deep between her legs, back arching in apology. She gives the open door one last plaintive look before focusing on the furry... thing. ~There.~ Reluctance in every line she takes a step or two along the wall toward it before stopping again. ~I am to hunt it while you guard my back, yes?~
~As best you can,~ the Silver Fang theurge says. She is distracted by the Get, however, rumbling at him. ~Pay attention!~ Moving toward the sound a few more steps, she adds, ~We are pack hunters though. You will not really be hunting completely alone.~
Icetrap takes a gulp of air, looking off-balance, startled, disturbed, and consequently angry. Breathing harder than he needs to, he moves stiffly forwards again, to be ready as backup if needed. ~The Enemy is stronger here,~ he says, his voice forced out through a tight throat and clamped teeth.
The furry thing looks up with a cat's face. Light shines from almond-shaped bright green eyes, illuminating its corner of the barn. The cat's face is covered in warts and cysts. Tears and mucus stream down, wetting the brown siamese-patterned fur, which might have been beautiful in another place and time. Those pupil-less eyes scan from Shelby to Norman, and then they lock on Icetrap. *I n-n-never w-wanted to b-b-be this way,* it mewls. *I n-never thought it could ha-hap-hap...*
~I gave it to the bird,~ Icetrap snarls, wrenching his attention from the furry creature towards the cub. ~Kill it,~ he orders, tensely. ~Free it from this. Send it back to the Mother. Give it another chance.~
While the cat-thing is concentrating on Icetrap Stops-Too-Late continues her stealthy--some might say 'cautious'-- way along the wall, heading for those boxes and crates that keep it hidden. She flicks an ear tersely to acknowledge the Get's words, and then, once she's close enough, she springs, aiming to knock the debris onto the thing and force it into the open.
~Not your place!~ snarls Falcon's Grace, though she doesn't argue with the content of the Get's words. Turning her head back, she sees Shelby leap and moves forward, her hackles raised but holding back for the time being.
The cat-thing cowers like a cornered animal as Shelby approaches. *No, no, p-p-please,* it mewls, the sound reaching the cub's ears one of pathetic pleading. But when she springs, it shrieks in pain as daddy-long-leg tentacles erupt from its furry back. The six tentacles lash out at the cub, impossibly long, even as the boxes fall onto the cowering cat's body. Two of them manage to strike the cub, drawing blood in precise lines the way a scalpel would. *Noooooo!*
Awful pages: 1 agg.
Jerky as an old stop-motion movie, Icetrap moves forward one paw at a time, closer to the fight, reaching springing distance. What's left of his pelt is fluffed up like a half-bald bottlebrush as he watches, his lips pulled back taught from his teeth. He trembles slightly with the tension, but even when the spirit draws blood, he does not leap.
Stops-Too-Late also yelps as she's sliced, and leaps away from the crates and the corner, hopefully knocking over another one or two in the attempt. She only retreats far enough to be (hopefully) out of range of those tentacles and crouches again to consider the foe, a growl ever-rumbling. ~...If Icetrap will distract it,~ she starts, then slips into lupine speech. She will come at it from behind. Plan offered, she checks to see if it's an acceptable one.
~Do it,~ Falcon's Grace orders, trembling even more than the Get at the current moment--she may well, given her lack of control, leap to distract herself. And she does, howling at it and suddenly brightening with a silvery nimbus about her white form as she leaps to get its attention.
Icetrap freezes again, but only for a moment. His ears flatten, and then he actively seeks the creature's eyes. *I understand,* he says, with all the persuasiveness he can manage. *I understand-* Except the Fang Elder is leaping forward, all brightness and splendour, and his own actions are probably unseen.
But the time for planning has passed, and in the moment of pause that Shelby gives, an opportunity is taken. Possessed by forces out of its control, the cat-creature's tentacles rip and grow from its body, snaking like wires, keeping after the retreating cub, whipping around fallen boxes. The cat shrieks and wails, the pain it feels from this mutation almost palpable in the room. Three of the tentacles manage to strike the cub this time, one trying burrowing into her flesh. When Falcon's Grace joins the attack, one of the tentacles strays after her as well. Eyes shut tight in agony, the thing cannot meet Norman's gaze.
Awful pages: 2 more agg, and you gotta make a rage roll.
Stops-Too-Late tears her attention from Falcon's Grace with effort and rushes back at the thing, straight into the cat-thing's attack. She keeps silent this time, with effort, and continues her charge, her own head low. She heads straight for it aiming to crush the unseeing thing's head in her jaws.
Snarling as he rejects his initial tactics, Icetrap surges into Crinos and roars. *Open your eyes and see who you face!* His claws lash out at the tentacles closest- the one aimed at Falcon's Grace, any aimed at him, any others questing in that direction or in reach. The Fang Elder also claws at the wire-like tentacle that comes in her direction, snarling at the spirit as she faces it with Falcon's gift aglow.
The now-crinos Get rends three of the six offending tentacles with a speed born of Rage, though the one burrowed in Shelby's flesh remains and quests further into her flesh. The other remaining two go for the Silver Fang Elder, looping and tightening around her neck. She does manage to wet her claws and rend the cat-thing's flesh, however. The cub's jaws manage to close around the thing's head. The wailing continues. The thing does not open its eyes.
Reaching up clawed hands toward her throat, Falcon's Grace attempts to loosen, if not rip, the tentacle from about her throat. Though she still glows, there is nary a sound from her.
Awful pages: -2 more agg and as the tentacle goes into your flesh, it hurts and stings, like someone's injecting you with bleach. The sight of cute little feral kittens huddled underneath a dryer vent, slowly freezing to death in the dead of winter, floods your vision. It makes you feel very sad. Spend WP again or be paralyzed by sadness.
Stops-Too-Late braces against the floor and crunches down frantically, trying to get it to stop: the wailing, the pain, all of it (but mostly the pain). If it so happens that she drags the wailing tentacle-y cat-thing out of its hiding place, so much the better.
Icetrap reaches over to crunch Weasel-enhanced jaws closed on the tentacles that have wrapped themselves about the Fang Elder's throat. The cub he seems to be leaving to her own devices, although he remains alert to the activity and keeps himself close enough to jump in and help if the situation becomes desperate.
For someone packed under Weasel, this is not a particularly tough foe, and it shows as Norman again rips two more tentacles in twain with one solid swipe. Falcon's Grace can now easily tear the loose appendages from her neck, and she can breathe again! That leaves the one, burrowed in Shelby, but it hardly matters. The cub's jaws do not crunch, but 'pop' the cat's head, as if someone had taken a hammer to a glass bubble. All three Garou are knocked back by some unseen force, as if a bomb just went off. The boxes explode from the force, and wooden shrapnel flies everywhere, lodging into the bodies of each Garou. Blood and entrails and black bile also splatters, but these seem to have no harmful effects.
Falcon's Grace takes a moment to remember how to breath again, knocked breathless by the pseudo explosion. ~Ew.~ That's reaction number one as the glow of Luna's Armor fades from about her. ~Everyone all right?~
Awful pages: Okay, just before the 'pop' you get another vision. This time it's of a pampered siamese housecat lapping milk from a bowl, and the impression that /that's/ what the creature you just killed should have been, wanted to be. You feel an incredible sense of loss and again, even though it's now dead, you gotta spend a WP or crrrryyyyy.
Awful pages: 2 nonlethal.
Icetrap grimaces, and now calls on the Gift to set aside pain, the better to pick himself up and check on everyone and everything else. ~Fine,~ he answers, the shortness born of preoccupation with securing the area and not seeming to be meant rudely. He starts to search the place, sniffing once more for Wyrm taint and leaving Falcon's Grace to tend to her cub.
Stops-Too-Late goes flying backward, her body very nearly limp and streaming blood. She hits the wall a fraction of a second before a volley of wooden shards, but avoids (mostly) being crucified by them and slides down the wall to land with a thump. It takes her a second to struggle to her feet, another to orient on where the foe used to be. Dead, she asks and takes a step forward, shaky and battered.
~Yes,~ Falcon's Grace says, pushing to her feet and shaking out her fur. She looks the cub over, then Norman before padding forward to inspect the remains. ~Very dead.~
By the time Icetrap has assured himself that there are no further Wyrm-creatures lurking in the area, the damage from the flying shrapnel has had time to heal. The Get approaches the two Fangs to report, eyeing the cub's wounds. ~The land will recover. It would be faster if we gave it strength,~ he mentions afterwards, turning to Falcon's Grace, managing to make himself look smaller than she is despite the normal difference in their sizes. ~Is it the Tradition of your Tribe to celebrate a warrior's first wounds?~ he asks then.
One or two of the cub's wounds seal as well, though it scarcely makes a difference in her wounds. On hearing that the thing is, in fact, dead she turns away and starts throwing up, massive hispo shoulders providing a fine brace against the demands of her insides. She thus misses Icetrap's question.
~The tradition of some.~ Falcon's Grace sighs to Norman, shrugging. ~Not one I ever felt call to me -but-.~ She turns to Shelby then, tilting her head. She waits for the cub to finish vomitting, a rueful look on her face as she does. When she speaks, there is a certain sympathy in her voice. ~You fought well. It is different, sparring with another Garou and fighting a real enemy that has no pity or thought but your destruction. You fought with honor and contained your fear. Many of our tribe have a ritual performed on them, that preserves a wound forever as a reminder of the glory of defeating their first enemy.~
Icetrap draws back a little and turns slightly away, ignoring Stops-Too-Late's reaction. Whether through politeness or distain is hard to say, as even now he has resumed Hispo the Get's thoughts are all but impossible to determine.
Stops-Too-Late limps away from the frothy mess on the ground and toward the others, ears and tail slicked tight. It was a cat. A -cat-. She's shivering--whether from pain or reaction or some aftereffect of the beast's attacks isn't clear--and doesn't bother to try and hide it.
~No. It was a thing twisted by the wyrm,~ Falcon's Grace corrects. She considers for a long moment, staring off into space before saying, ~There will be worse. Much worse. Once, Norman and I had to fight a thing twisted by the wyrm that was once a human baby. These are the things we have to face, to fight. It is horrible. But we sent that spirit back to Gaia, to be reborn again as something -not- twisted and broken.~
~Those things that look beautiful and innocent can be the most evil and dangerous, the most twisted and powerful,~ Icetrap states, with the bleak and bitter tone of personal experience. ~Do not trust your eyes, nor the words of Jormangundr's servants. The Wyrm often lies. It will try to use your weaknesses against you if it can find them.~
~I fought it,~ Stops-Too-Late agrees glumly. ~It is dead.~ She sits down to better look at the others, a whimper escaping, and continues, ~We fight its weaknesses; why should it not ours?~
~Yes, that's our point.~ Falcon's Grace hunkers down, studying the cub. ~It is hard, really seeing the horror the Wyrm can inflict. The way it can twist something, for good or bad. It is right to mourn that spirit, to pray that it returns to Gaia's embrace to be cradled by her, to mourn that we were forced to do such a thing. But we need to take that experience and use it to strengthen our resolve, to make ourselves stronger, to push ourselves more, to fight the menace of the Wyrm.~
Icetrap rumbles agreement to Falcon's Grace's words. ~There are some weaknesses it is not honourable to exploit,~ he says quietly, looking away. ~Even though we must work to remove them. If you wish to mark the battle with the Rite of Wounding, I know the Rite.~ From his tone of voice, the choice of whether to accept is not something he is offering any opinion on.
Stops-Too-Late gives off the definite unhappy feeling of 'wet cat'. ~Yes, Falcon's Grace-rhya. Icetrap-rhya.~ She likewise looks away, head swinging painfully toward the door. ~I do not want to remember. I wish to go back, and rest.~
Falcon's Grace nods to Icetrap. ~That is that.~ She considers the cub. ~Though many disagree with me, I prefer not to scar myself unless Gaia herself deems it necessary. So I do not blame you. I can heal you, if you wish. There is no need to stay hurt. I feel no need to 'teach' a lesson like that.~ There's something in the thurge's voice that hints that others have done their share of that lesson to -her-.
Icetrap has found no more danger, the Get repeats in Lupine manner, rising heavily to all fours. ~I will work to heal the land, unless you need me to go back with you. Falcon's Grace-rhya.~ The other subjects of the conversation he makes no more mention of; he seems, if anything, keen to be alone.
Stops-Too-Late flicks an ear back at the other Fang and stands, legs splayed wider than usual. ~Yes, please,~ she rumbles, trying for a wag of her tail but stopping before it's barely underway with another whimper. ~I would like that. --Thank you for your help Icetrap-rhya,~ she adds, acknowledging him with words rather than movement.
~You know how to Cleanse?~ Falcon's Grace asks of the Get before turning to face the cub. She murmurs something beneath her breath, reaching a hand toward her -- unless she shies away -- to rest it on her shoulder. The warmth and energy of healing courses through her, sealing her wounds before their eyes.
~I do, but I don't think it's needed here,~ Icetrap replies, and taking his leave he heads off to see to tidying up and restoring.
Stops-Too-Late closes her eyes and grits her teeth, ears slicking back again, but she accepts the touch. When the Theurge finishes the hispo, bemused, stands straight again, her pelt still bloody and filthy but no longer oozing. Her, ~Thank you, Falcon's Grace-rhya,~ is both startled and impressed; she considers the other Fang with a new respect.
Falcon's Grace is amused. ~I am, surprisingly enough, a far better healer than fighter. Even before packing beneath Unicorn. Being under Unicorn -helps-, of course,~ she adds wryly as she shifts down to hispo, ~but most theurges are good at healing. As are Gaians. Come, we will let Icetrap tend to this. He will need time alone.~
Stops-Too-Late shakes--not that it does much to improve her coat-- and looks after the Get before falling into position beside the Theurge. ~How did the cat become Tainted, do we know? And why?~
~No. It likely was wrong place at the wrong time. Like people sometimes. Sometimes, one invites the wyrm in, with actions and behaviors. Sometimes...~ The theurge growls softly before shaking out her ruff and starting to move away from the barn. ~Sometimes the wyrm just taints something and takes it from us. That is why we fight so hard. And...the day you firsted, I had been tainted and cleansed. I did not invite it in, it just tainted me. So.~
Stops-Too-Late doesn't give the small barn so much as a backwards glance as they leave it: not the barn, nor the remains of the cat, nor the blood, nor the vomit, nor the Get. ~I need to think about that,~ she admits as they head toward a cleaner part of the Umbra.
~That's fair. It is one thing,~ Falcon's Grace continues, ~to know theoretically why we fight and what we fight against. It is another to see it. I have said that before but I mean it. You did well. You fought and didn't give up. And if you were scared, what of it? You did not let that fear keep you from acting.~
The ragabash looks over dubiously, as if expecting Falcon's-Grace to add something else. When she doesn't, a few steps farther on, she says, ~I told you I am not a coward, Falcon's Grace-rhya. I just... I wish it had not been Tainted. It was terrified, and confused, and alone.~
~I'm glad that you finally showed it. When it -matters-.~ Falcon's Grace has no judgment in her voice, only a certain contentment, oddly enough. The second part is left alone for a full minute before she says, ~Not as much as you think. You saw it as a victim, you saw it as helpless. You think 'I attacked it and it would never have done anything to me had I not attacked it' but that is -not true-. It wanted to hurt you, to lure you and I. Also, think on this--why were there no other spirits around that place? What happened to them all? No, it was tainted and it was alone. It was likely even terrifed and a bit confused but it was also something evil, by this point. Something bent on destruction.~
One of Stops-Too-Late's ears flattens at the words nonetheless, but she keeps quiet as long as the Theurge speaks, and a few seconds after, thinking. ~You misunderstand me, I think,~ she offers as they pass through friendlier woods. ~I did not say I did not wish to kill it. I said I wished it had not been Tainted. That it had stayed a cat, and only a cat, and not been forced to do what it did. The Wyrm made it what it was now, but it could not change what it used to be, and that is what I mourn."
~Ah, that I see. Yes. I wish that too. I wish we didn't have to fight what we fight. I wish the Endtimes weren't drawing near, showing signs of approaching.~ Falcon's Grace sounds rather tired suddenly. ~But Gaia spun us out now. She must believe that when our eyes are opened to the threat, we can handle it.~
Stops-Too-Late blows out a breath and, daring, offers a bump of a shoulder to the other. Yes. ~I wonder,~ she adds, shifting back to Mother's Tongue, ~who and what I was, before. The last time I walked the earth. Kin? Garou? How many times have I done this, and will I do it again?~
~You were Garou. Always Garou. I....~ The theurge accepts the bump without comment. ~I have been told that kin do not get reborn.~ Her ears briefly droop before straightening. ~But I might have been told wrong. I do not have strong ties to my ancestors.~
Stops-Too-Late shrugs wolfishly, and spends a few moments to enjoy their surroundings, which she didn't--or couldn't--earlier. As they get farther from the Wyrm's den the forest returns to life, including a persistently curious squirrel that seems determined to pace them as it bounds from branch to branch. ~I do not know either. It makes sense, to me, that Gaia would, but I do not claim to know her mind.~
~Not even the most ancient and experienced of her theurges do,~ Falcon's Grace says wryly. ~Come. We run. Now, we celebrate life! We are Garou! Passionate and aware of what is good and right about life!~ And without waiting, the theurge takes off into a breakneck sort of run, grinning with a lolling tongue as spirits scatter before her.
Currently the moon is in the waning Galliard Moon phase.
Umbra: Escrowe Farm
The trees of the Umbral forest fall away abruptly here as an aged farmhouse rises from the forest floor. Despite its obvious age, the house itself seems to radiate an enduring strength. Creeping ivy curls up around the pillars of the front porch and clings to the stones of the foundation, shoring up the aging structure. Lunes dance high above, lighting the way for myriad other umbral wanderers passing beneath the eaves of the peaked roof. At the west side of the house, a pump and trough reflects the dancing moonlight back in spears of silver. To the north of the house, the forest falls swiftly away and a thickening pall comes over the sky as the spiritual echo of the interstate cuts its way toward town.
To the southeast, a dull shimmering which is more sensed than seen marks the direction of the Caern.
Obvious exits:
Southeast
Having scouted about for likely places for several days, Falcon's Grace informs Stops-Too-Late that tonight will be the night she hunts a wyrm thing and that Icetrap will come with them. Thus it is that the little trio trots through the umbral space near the old farmhouse. Admittedly, it isn't burned down on the umbral side, a fact that the Silver Fang explains as she trots along. It takes time. For shadow to show realm.
Icetrap seems to have taken on the role of bodyguard. He trots along in Hispo, a little detached from the others, sniffing ahead for traces of the Enemy and keeping alert for problems. The conversation of the others reaches him, but he does not comment or offer any additions at the moment.
Yes, Falcon's-Grace-rhya, replies the hispo cub from her spot just behind the Ritemaster's ribs. She prefers to keep 'her' theurge between herself and Icetrap, though she's polite enough to the Get. ~Time for realm to show shadow as well - but less time, yes?~
~Not precisely. It...well, it is not the same, back and forth across the gauntlet. You can't use the logic of 'one thing happens here so eventually it happens there'.~ Stopping to sniff at something, Bright Falcon's Grace adds, ~In general, the umbra doesn't follow logic at all.~
When Falcon's-Grace stops Stops-Too-Late does as well, though she remains watchful, one ear swiveling to track Icetrap. ~It follows its own logic. We just may not be able to figure out what it is.~ A moment later, as if only then realizing her chutzpah she crouches and adds, ~...Is that right?~
~It's likely completely wrong and completely right.~ Which makes no sense at all but seems to be all the Silver Fang elder intends to say on the subject. She trots a bit faster, endeavoring to close the distance with Icetrap, her ears perked. ~Near here,~ she informs both Get and cub. ~At least, last I scouted.~
The Garou travel on for a short time. They will notice that the Umbral reflection of the Realm in this place is agrarian, but all of a sudden, as if crossing an invisible line, the bucolic landscape becomes decidedly unwholesome. Blasted and decaying stumps sprout from the dry dirt ground, and an otherwise-normal wheat field is streaked with lines of withered stalks. In the distance, there is a small barn, hardly bigger than a shed. And yet, it somehow looms. Doors hang crazily from the hinges, only partially covering the doorway, which again, though small, gives the impression of a black cavernous maw.
Stops-Too-Late trots along willingly enough, though as soon as the umbra shifts she stops, forelegs planted and ears swiveling ferociously. ~In there,~ she doesn't so much ask as acknowledge, dark eyes on the barn.
Icetrap's bare spine prickles with what, had he pelt there, would be raised hackles. He half turns his head- the better to keep watch on the barn- turning an ear towards Falcon's Grace. There.
~Yes,~ Falcon's Grace replies in an overly calm manner. ~That is where we will go.~ She shakes herself out then starts to move forward. ~In the umbra, those of strong spirit should be the ones to be hit--myself or Icetrap. In the realm, it is those of strong body, usually Ahrouns or Galliards.~ That bit of lessoning done, she adds, ~You fight. Do not run. We go.~ She chuffs to the Get, moving forward but indicating he should move with her.
As the Garou focus their attention on the barn, they can detect the faint sound of sobbing. It is a pitiful and despairing sound, only barely audible. There are no spirits present here, no other sounds, no birdsong. No wind. Only the faint crying from the darkness of the barn's interior.
Icetrap glances to the Fang Elder once more, his reaction muddled. She shakes that off physically, which also serves to loosten himself up in readiness, and moves forwards as directed. His attention switches forwards, and he actually seems to be looking forwards in spirit to what lies ahead as well, alert and light-footed in anticipation.
Stops-Too-Late quite visibly girds herself with a shake that sets all her hair on end, drops her head, and paces toward the barn. It is crying, she notes as they draw near, her own growl bubbling up in an attempt to mask her nerves. I will not run.
~It sounds like crying,~ Zosia corrects in a low voice, her eyes moving from watching the barn to their surroundings and back, trying to gauge what's around. ~Might be crying, might be trap. Might be something else.~ And then, taking a deep breath in and out, she enters the barn.
As soon as it's clear what Zosia intends, Icetrap moves forwards as well, not letting the Elder get in front. One ear backwards in case of unwelcome followers, one to the front alert for danger, he takes as good a stock of their surroundings as he can.
The sobbing increases gets a little louder, a choking, hiccuping sound. It sounds almost like a child, but the intonation and pitch is off. Like someone, or something, using digital technology to impersonate a child. At times, it almost sounds like an electric guitar.
Stops-Too-Late is uncomfortable being the last to enter the barn and hurries to join the others, undoubtedly crowding Falcon's Grace's personal space. As soon as she's within she moves to the side, against the wall and out of the silhouette cast by Luna.
Icetrap rumbles his uneasy defiance, deep in his throat, and sidles himself into clear space.
Snapping at Shelby as she does, Falcon's Grace manages to seem just that little more off, even as her teeth grind against the weeping that fills the air. She attempts to look about the dark depths of the barn, attempting to locate the sound of the noise.
It takes a moment for the Garous' eyes to adjust to the darkness within. All can see that there isn't much in here - a few smashed wooden boxes and crates, a tattered sisal rope on the ground, a ladder leading up to loft that extends across a third of the ceiling. In the far right-hand corner, against the wall opposite the door, below the loft, the Get and the cub can see something furry and huddled, about 3 or 4 feet tall. *I'm sorry, I'm so... I'm s-s-soooorrieeee!* the furry thing wails, choking on its own tears. Or what sound like tears. Falcon's Grace can detect the direction of the sound, though the furry shape doesn't stand out to her eyes against the darkness.
Icetrap freezes, his growl dying in his throat and his eyes locking onto the furry creature.
Stops-Too-Late tucks her tail deep between her legs, back arching in apology. She gives the open door one last plaintive look before focusing on the furry... thing. ~There.~ Reluctance in every line she takes a step or two along the wall toward it before stopping again. ~I am to hunt it while you guard my back, yes?~
~As best you can,~ the Silver Fang theurge says. She is distracted by the Get, however, rumbling at him. ~Pay attention!~ Moving toward the sound a few more steps, she adds, ~We are pack hunters though. You will not really be hunting completely alone.~
Icetrap takes a gulp of air, looking off-balance, startled, disturbed, and consequently angry. Breathing harder than he needs to, he moves stiffly forwards again, to be ready as backup if needed. ~The Enemy is stronger here,~ he says, his voice forced out through a tight throat and clamped teeth.
The furry thing looks up with a cat's face. Light shines from almond-shaped bright green eyes, illuminating its corner of the barn. The cat's face is covered in warts and cysts. Tears and mucus stream down, wetting the brown siamese-patterned fur, which might have been beautiful in another place and time. Those pupil-less eyes scan from Shelby to Norman, and then they lock on Icetrap. *I n-n-never w-wanted to b-b-be this way,* it mewls. *I n-never thought it could ha-hap-hap...*
~I gave it to the bird,~ Icetrap snarls, wrenching his attention from the furry creature towards the cub. ~Kill it,~ he orders, tensely. ~Free it from this. Send it back to the Mother. Give it another chance.~
While the cat-thing is concentrating on Icetrap Stops-Too-Late continues her stealthy--some might say 'cautious'-- way along the wall, heading for those boxes and crates that keep it hidden. She flicks an ear tersely to acknowledge the Get's words, and then, once she's close enough, she springs, aiming to knock the debris onto the thing and force it into the open.
~Not your place!~ snarls Falcon's Grace, though she doesn't argue with the content of the Get's words. Turning her head back, she sees Shelby leap and moves forward, her hackles raised but holding back for the time being.
The cat-thing cowers like a cornered animal as Shelby approaches. *No, no, p-p-please,* it mewls, the sound reaching the cub's ears one of pathetic pleading. But when she springs, it shrieks in pain as daddy-long-leg tentacles erupt from its furry back. The six tentacles lash out at the cub, impossibly long, even as the boxes fall onto the cowering cat's body. Two of them manage to strike the cub, drawing blood in precise lines the way a scalpel would. *Noooooo!*
Awful pages: 1 agg.
Jerky as an old stop-motion movie, Icetrap moves forward one paw at a time, closer to the fight, reaching springing distance. What's left of his pelt is fluffed up like a half-bald bottlebrush as he watches, his lips pulled back taught from his teeth. He trembles slightly with the tension, but even when the spirit draws blood, he does not leap.
Stops-Too-Late also yelps as she's sliced, and leaps away from the crates and the corner, hopefully knocking over another one or two in the attempt. She only retreats far enough to be (hopefully) out of range of those tentacles and crouches again to consider the foe, a growl ever-rumbling. ~...If Icetrap will distract it,~ she starts, then slips into lupine speech. She will come at it from behind. Plan offered, she checks to see if it's an acceptable one.
~Do it,~ Falcon's Grace orders, trembling even more than the Get at the current moment--she may well, given her lack of control, leap to distract herself. And she does, howling at it and suddenly brightening with a silvery nimbus about her white form as she leaps to get its attention.
Icetrap freezes again, but only for a moment. His ears flatten, and then he actively seeks the creature's eyes. *I understand,* he says, with all the persuasiveness he can manage. *I understand-* Except the Fang Elder is leaping forward, all brightness and splendour, and his own actions are probably unseen.
But the time for planning has passed, and in the moment of pause that Shelby gives, an opportunity is taken. Possessed by forces out of its control, the cat-creature's tentacles rip and grow from its body, snaking like wires, keeping after the retreating cub, whipping around fallen boxes. The cat shrieks and wails, the pain it feels from this mutation almost palpable in the room. Three of the tentacles manage to strike the cub this time, one trying burrowing into her flesh. When Falcon's Grace joins the attack, one of the tentacles strays after her as well. Eyes shut tight in agony, the thing cannot meet Norman's gaze.
Awful pages: 2 more agg, and you gotta make a rage roll.
Stops-Too-Late tears her attention from Falcon's Grace with effort and rushes back at the thing, straight into the cat-thing's attack. She keeps silent this time, with effort, and continues her charge, her own head low. She heads straight for it aiming to crush the unseeing thing's head in her jaws.
Snarling as he rejects his initial tactics, Icetrap surges into Crinos and roars. *Open your eyes and see who you face!* His claws lash out at the tentacles closest- the one aimed at Falcon's Grace, any aimed at him, any others questing in that direction or in reach. The Fang Elder also claws at the wire-like tentacle that comes in her direction, snarling at the spirit as she faces it with Falcon's gift aglow.
The now-crinos Get rends three of the six offending tentacles with a speed born of Rage, though the one burrowed in Shelby's flesh remains and quests further into her flesh. The other remaining two go for the Silver Fang Elder, looping and tightening around her neck. She does manage to wet her claws and rend the cat-thing's flesh, however. The cub's jaws manage to close around the thing's head. The wailing continues. The thing does not open its eyes.
Reaching up clawed hands toward her throat, Falcon's Grace attempts to loosen, if not rip, the tentacle from about her throat. Though she still glows, there is nary a sound from her.
Awful pages: -2 more agg and as the tentacle goes into your flesh, it hurts and stings, like someone's injecting you with bleach. The sight of cute little feral kittens huddled underneath a dryer vent, slowly freezing to death in the dead of winter, floods your vision. It makes you feel very sad. Spend WP again or be paralyzed by sadness.
Stops-Too-Late braces against the floor and crunches down frantically, trying to get it to stop: the wailing, the pain, all of it (but mostly the pain). If it so happens that she drags the wailing tentacle-y cat-thing out of its hiding place, so much the better.
Icetrap reaches over to crunch Weasel-enhanced jaws closed on the tentacles that have wrapped themselves about the Fang Elder's throat. The cub he seems to be leaving to her own devices, although he remains alert to the activity and keeps himself close enough to jump in and help if the situation becomes desperate.
For someone packed under Weasel, this is not a particularly tough foe, and it shows as Norman again rips two more tentacles in twain with one solid swipe. Falcon's Grace can now easily tear the loose appendages from her neck, and she can breathe again! That leaves the one, burrowed in Shelby, but it hardly matters. The cub's jaws do not crunch, but 'pop' the cat's head, as if someone had taken a hammer to a glass bubble. All three Garou are knocked back by some unseen force, as if a bomb just went off. The boxes explode from the force, and wooden shrapnel flies everywhere, lodging into the bodies of each Garou. Blood and entrails and black bile also splatters, but these seem to have no harmful effects.
Falcon's Grace takes a moment to remember how to breath again, knocked breathless by the pseudo explosion. ~Ew.~ That's reaction number one as the glow of Luna's Armor fades from about her. ~Everyone all right?~
Awful pages: Okay, just before the 'pop' you get another vision. This time it's of a pampered siamese housecat lapping milk from a bowl, and the impression that /that's/ what the creature you just killed should have been, wanted to be. You feel an incredible sense of loss and again, even though it's now dead, you gotta spend a WP or crrrryyyyy.
Awful pages: 2 nonlethal.
Icetrap grimaces, and now calls on the Gift to set aside pain, the better to pick himself up and check on everyone and everything else. ~Fine,~ he answers, the shortness born of preoccupation with securing the area and not seeming to be meant rudely. He starts to search the place, sniffing once more for Wyrm taint and leaving Falcon's Grace to tend to her cub.
Stops-Too-Late goes flying backward, her body very nearly limp and streaming blood. She hits the wall a fraction of a second before a volley of wooden shards, but avoids (mostly) being crucified by them and slides down the wall to land with a thump. It takes her a second to struggle to her feet, another to orient on where the foe used to be. Dead, she asks and takes a step forward, shaky and battered.
~Yes,~ Falcon's Grace says, pushing to her feet and shaking out her fur. She looks the cub over, then Norman before padding forward to inspect the remains. ~Very dead.~
By the time Icetrap has assured himself that there are no further Wyrm-creatures lurking in the area, the damage from the flying shrapnel has had time to heal. The Get approaches the two Fangs to report, eyeing the cub's wounds. ~The land will recover. It would be faster if we gave it strength,~ he mentions afterwards, turning to Falcon's Grace, managing to make himself look smaller than she is despite the normal difference in their sizes. ~Is it the Tradition of your Tribe to celebrate a warrior's first wounds?~ he asks then.
One or two of the cub's wounds seal as well, though it scarcely makes a difference in her wounds. On hearing that the thing is, in fact, dead she turns away and starts throwing up, massive hispo shoulders providing a fine brace against the demands of her insides. She thus misses Icetrap's question.
~The tradition of some.~ Falcon's Grace sighs to Norman, shrugging. ~Not one I ever felt call to me -but-.~ She turns to Shelby then, tilting her head. She waits for the cub to finish vomitting, a rueful look on her face as she does. When she speaks, there is a certain sympathy in her voice. ~You fought well. It is different, sparring with another Garou and fighting a real enemy that has no pity or thought but your destruction. You fought with honor and contained your fear. Many of our tribe have a ritual performed on them, that preserves a wound forever as a reminder of the glory of defeating their first enemy.~
Icetrap draws back a little and turns slightly away, ignoring Stops-Too-Late's reaction. Whether through politeness or distain is hard to say, as even now he has resumed Hispo the Get's thoughts are all but impossible to determine.
Stops-Too-Late limps away from the frothy mess on the ground and toward the others, ears and tail slicked tight. It was a cat. A -cat-. She's shivering--whether from pain or reaction or some aftereffect of the beast's attacks isn't clear--and doesn't bother to try and hide it.
~No. It was a thing twisted by the wyrm,~ Falcon's Grace corrects. She considers for a long moment, staring off into space before saying, ~There will be worse. Much worse. Once, Norman and I had to fight a thing twisted by the wyrm that was once a human baby. These are the things we have to face, to fight. It is horrible. But we sent that spirit back to Gaia, to be reborn again as something -not- twisted and broken.~
~Those things that look beautiful and innocent can be the most evil and dangerous, the most twisted and powerful,~ Icetrap states, with the bleak and bitter tone of personal experience. ~Do not trust your eyes, nor the words of Jormangundr's servants. The Wyrm often lies. It will try to use your weaknesses against you if it can find them.~
~I fought it,~ Stops-Too-Late agrees glumly. ~It is dead.~ She sits down to better look at the others, a whimper escaping, and continues, ~We fight its weaknesses; why should it not ours?~
~Yes, that's our point.~ Falcon's Grace hunkers down, studying the cub. ~It is hard, really seeing the horror the Wyrm can inflict. The way it can twist something, for good or bad. It is right to mourn that spirit, to pray that it returns to Gaia's embrace to be cradled by her, to mourn that we were forced to do such a thing. But we need to take that experience and use it to strengthen our resolve, to make ourselves stronger, to push ourselves more, to fight the menace of the Wyrm.~
Icetrap rumbles agreement to Falcon's Grace's words. ~There are some weaknesses it is not honourable to exploit,~ he says quietly, looking away. ~Even though we must work to remove them. If you wish to mark the battle with the Rite of Wounding, I know the Rite.~ From his tone of voice, the choice of whether to accept is not something he is offering any opinion on.
Stops-Too-Late gives off the definite unhappy feeling of 'wet cat'. ~Yes, Falcon's Grace-rhya. Icetrap-rhya.~ She likewise looks away, head swinging painfully toward the door. ~I do not want to remember. I wish to go back, and rest.~
Falcon's Grace nods to Icetrap. ~That is that.~ She considers the cub. ~Though many disagree with me, I prefer not to scar myself unless Gaia herself deems it necessary. So I do not blame you. I can heal you, if you wish. There is no need to stay hurt. I feel no need to 'teach' a lesson like that.~ There's something in the thurge's voice that hints that others have done their share of that lesson to -her-.
Icetrap has found no more danger, the Get repeats in Lupine manner, rising heavily to all fours. ~I will work to heal the land, unless you need me to go back with you. Falcon's Grace-rhya.~ The other subjects of the conversation he makes no more mention of; he seems, if anything, keen to be alone.
Stops-Too-Late flicks an ear back at the other Fang and stands, legs splayed wider than usual. ~Yes, please,~ she rumbles, trying for a wag of her tail but stopping before it's barely underway with another whimper. ~I would like that. --Thank you for your help Icetrap-rhya,~ she adds, acknowledging him with words rather than movement.
~You know how to Cleanse?~ Falcon's Grace asks of the Get before turning to face the cub. She murmurs something beneath her breath, reaching a hand toward her -- unless she shies away -- to rest it on her shoulder. The warmth and energy of healing courses through her, sealing her wounds before their eyes.
~I do, but I don't think it's needed here,~ Icetrap replies, and taking his leave he heads off to see to tidying up and restoring.
Stops-Too-Late closes her eyes and grits her teeth, ears slicking back again, but she accepts the touch. When the Theurge finishes the hispo, bemused, stands straight again, her pelt still bloody and filthy but no longer oozing. Her, ~Thank you, Falcon's Grace-rhya,~ is both startled and impressed; she considers the other Fang with a new respect.
Falcon's Grace is amused. ~I am, surprisingly enough, a far better healer than fighter. Even before packing beneath Unicorn. Being under Unicorn -helps-, of course,~ she adds wryly as she shifts down to hispo, ~but most theurges are good at healing. As are Gaians. Come, we will let Icetrap tend to this. He will need time alone.~
Stops-Too-Late shakes--not that it does much to improve her coat-- and looks after the Get before falling into position beside the Theurge. ~How did the cat become Tainted, do we know? And why?~
~No. It likely was wrong place at the wrong time. Like people sometimes. Sometimes, one invites the wyrm in, with actions and behaviors. Sometimes...~ The theurge growls softly before shaking out her ruff and starting to move away from the barn. ~Sometimes the wyrm just taints something and takes it from us. That is why we fight so hard. And...the day you firsted, I had been tainted and cleansed. I did not invite it in, it just tainted me. So.~
Stops-Too-Late doesn't give the small barn so much as a backwards glance as they leave it: not the barn, nor the remains of the cat, nor the blood, nor the vomit, nor the Get. ~I need to think about that,~ she admits as they head toward a cleaner part of the Umbra.
~That's fair. It is one thing,~ Falcon's Grace continues, ~to know theoretically why we fight and what we fight against. It is another to see it. I have said that before but I mean it. You did well. You fought and didn't give up. And if you were scared, what of it? You did not let that fear keep you from acting.~
The ragabash looks over dubiously, as if expecting Falcon's-Grace to add something else. When she doesn't, a few steps farther on, she says, ~I told you I am not a coward, Falcon's Grace-rhya. I just... I wish it had not been Tainted. It was terrified, and confused, and alone.~
~I'm glad that you finally showed it. When it -matters-.~ Falcon's Grace has no judgment in her voice, only a certain contentment, oddly enough. The second part is left alone for a full minute before she says, ~Not as much as you think. You saw it as a victim, you saw it as helpless. You think 'I attacked it and it would never have done anything to me had I not attacked it' but that is -not true-. It wanted to hurt you, to lure you and I. Also, think on this--why were there no other spirits around that place? What happened to them all? No, it was tainted and it was alone. It was likely even terrifed and a bit confused but it was also something evil, by this point. Something bent on destruction.~
One of Stops-Too-Late's ears flattens at the words nonetheless, but she keeps quiet as long as the Theurge speaks, and a few seconds after, thinking. ~You misunderstand me, I think,~ she offers as they pass through friendlier woods. ~I did not say I did not wish to kill it. I said I wished it had not been Tainted. That it had stayed a cat, and only a cat, and not been forced to do what it did. The Wyrm made it what it was now, but it could not change what it used to be, and that is what I mourn."
~Ah, that I see. Yes. I wish that too. I wish we didn't have to fight what we fight. I wish the Endtimes weren't drawing near, showing signs of approaching.~ Falcon's Grace sounds rather tired suddenly. ~But Gaia spun us out now. She must believe that when our eyes are opened to the threat, we can handle it.~
Stops-Too-Late blows out a breath and, daring, offers a bump of a shoulder to the other. Yes. ~I wonder,~ she adds, shifting back to Mother's Tongue, ~who and what I was, before. The last time I walked the earth. Kin? Garou? How many times have I done this, and will I do it again?~
~You were Garou. Always Garou. I....~ The theurge accepts the bump without comment. ~I have been told that kin do not get reborn.~ Her ears briefly droop before straightening. ~But I might have been told wrong. I do not have strong ties to my ancestors.~
Stops-Too-Late shrugs wolfishly, and spends a few moments to enjoy their surroundings, which she didn't--or couldn't--earlier. As they get farther from the Wyrm's den the forest returns to life, including a persistently curious squirrel that seems determined to pace them as it bounds from branch to branch. ~I do not know either. It makes sense, to me, that Gaia would, but I do not claim to know her mind.~
~Not even the most ancient and experienced of her theurges do,~ Falcon's Grace says wryly. ~Come. We run. Now, we celebrate life! We are Garou! Passionate and aware of what is good and right about life!~ And without waiting, the theurge takes off into a breakneck sort of run, grinning with a lolling tongue as spirits scatter before her.