RoP, part 1
Aug. 25th, 2010 04:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently Friday Aug 27 2010.
Currently the moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (81% full).
Some time just after sunset, Zosia takes Shelby back to the place where the two Silver Fangs and Tim fed the earth and offered prayers to Gaia and Falcon. The Umbra is as busy this night as it was previously, with lunes drifting through the moonlit skies and animal spirits scurrying and flitting about their activities--but there is something more here now. Maybe the ground seems firmer, or the grasses greener, for their offering; it's the sort of effect that when examined melts away, but teases from the corner of the eye otherwise.
Tim is waiting for them, and has apparently been busy. A large ring of feathers (falcon feathers, they must be), bird bones, and broken egg shells rings the spot where they knelt; at the north-most point is a black lacquered bowl of pungently-fragrant paste. The south point has a ceramic bowl with a matte black interior and a moon-white exterior, empty with his switchblade opened and next to it. The east and west points sit empty.
The Strider is dressed entirely out of character for how he's been seen by either Silver Fang. A plain, button-front, tunic-like top sits over a pair of simple, loose-fit pants. The outfit is all made of linen and night black but for white embroidering on the cuffs and straight collar; its ultimate effect is to make him seem even taller than usual. There are ash glyphs drawn on his forehead and temples, part Garou (Ragabash chief among them) and part Indic. He's waiting patiently, hands clasped in front of him and standing at the center of the circle.
Shelby is entirely dressed, much to her relief and probably Tim's as well. At any rate, she's in her birth form even if her plum-hued track suit is entirely at odds with the Strider's formality. With a glance back at Zosia she steps carefully across the circle and comes to stand before the other Ragabash, offering a low-voiced, "Namaste, Tim-rhya," as her greeting.
Tim's mouth quirks in a smile, fading the facade of formality for a moment, and he returns the bow with a murmured, "Namaskar." (There is also a spark of relief that must be related to the presence of clothes.) Zosia remains outside the circle for the moment, eyes moving over the ritual preparations. They travel back to Tim in due course, who catches the look in them, and the official trappings of the Strider Elder which he wears so seldom settle back into place. He looks through Shelby for a moment, then directly at her. "For almost half a year you've been taught by your Tribe, Shelby. You've seen Luna wax and wane, battled the Wyrm, and been taught by a spirit." He looks to Zosia, who tips back her chin up with unsubtle pride. "Zosia Falcon's-Grace, Elder and the Mistress of the Rite. Is your student ready to face Falcon--Great Garuda, the Protector of the Skies--and prove herself worthy to be one of his children?"
Her voice rings strong and clear. "She is ready to face her ancestors, and show that her honor is as great as theirs. She was born to Falcon's blood, and now she must be born to his spirit."
Now, it seems, it is Shelby's turn. Tim nods at Zosia, and regards her again. "Shelby, called Doesn't Know When To Stop, are you ready to stand before Falcon and your ancestors, and earn your place in the Tribe you were born to?"
Shelby's chin jerks up under that regard but her gaze is steady, and if Zosia's voice brings forth any emotions save pride and nervousness Shelby manages to keep them from her face. Her, "I am," is as clear as the Theurge's, as steady as though she's done this not just once before, but countless times stretching back through time's creation.
Tim's eyes narrow in brief fascination over the response, then he nods and shifts to Crinos, moving past Shelby to the empty bowl and knife. He sinks to a crouch next to them; in this form his posture radiates encouragement for the cub, and the seriousness of the task before them. ~We join our blood to yours, that Falcon will know we your teachers are tested as surely as you.~ He takes the knife and makes a lateral cut across his left palm, squeezing his fist to force several drops into the bowl. He holds the knife out to Falcon's Grace next, who does the same, saying, ~May the blood of Falcon protect and guide you, as it has those who came before, and will those who come after.~ She offers the blade to Shelby and steps back.
The Ragabash cub's hands curl into fists at her sides but when she too has surged into Crinos they are open again, unthreatening. She pivots to follow her erstwhile teacher, her path to join him marred only by a single hitch when the first slash is made. Recovering quickly she takes the knife from Zosia with a single rough word in neither English nor Mother's Tongue and, eyes half-closed, stabs at her own hand. The cut is deep and blood pools in a cupped palm as she offers the knife back. ~May Falcon guide my feet upon this journey.~
Golden dips to pick up the bowl, flicking Shelby another hopeful look, and carries it to the previously unacknowledged pastes. As he pours them together and begins to mix the odd concoction, the mingled scents of sandalwood and lavender wash out over the area, heady and distracting and tinted with the metallic undercurrent of blood. He brings the end result back in the white and black bowl, and gathers up a healthy lump onto one clawed finger. He signals to Falcon's Grace to do the same with a nod, and she takes up some as well. ~We mark you as our student,~ she informs Stops-Too-Late, and leans in to draw the glyph of Falcon's Tribe on her forehead, ~that Falcon and the spirits will know you on this journey.~
Eyes closed, Doesn't Know When to Stop breathes deeply, cut hand curling about what little remains of the slash. Her ears flick to follow the Strider's path though she otherwise remains still; only when he's close enough to touch do her eyes open again to focus first on him, then Zosia. She submits without protest to the anointing, instead murmuring another quiet prayer for Falcon's notice.
Once Falcon's Grace is done, Golden takes his turn, leaning in to add the glyph for Ragabash. ~Remember,~ he says in a low voice, ~if you are true to your auspice, your Tribe,~ another glance to Falcon's Grace, ~and your self,~ a more serious look for Stops-Too-Late, ~you cannot fail.~ He steps back, taking himself out of the circle. Falcon's Grace pauses in the midst of doing the same, then puts her previously bleeding hand on the cub's shoulder and grips it once, leaving a bloody claw mark. She steps back to join Golden, which leaves Doesn't Know When To Stop alone in the ring of feather, bone, and shell. ~If you would be tested,~ Golden says, ~call to Falcon.~
~Yes, Golden-rhya,~ Shelby answers, just as quietly, and as he steps away, ~Thank you.~ She turns to face Bright Falcon's Grace to thank her Elder as well and bows her head for what--hopefully--will be her last time as a cub. Marked by blood and ash, the Ragabash retreats to the center of the circle and lifts her eyes to the Umbral skies. ~Falcon!~ she calls. ~Your child seeks your wisdom! Lead me! Test me!~ A heartbeat later her eyes and fists close again as her muzzle tips further, a ululating howl pulled from the cub.
Golden and Falcon's Grace join their voices to Doesn't Know When To Stop, and the spirits around them all slow in their activities to watch and listen. Even the lunes have paused, and when the howls end, the entire Umbra seems to have sucked in a breath. This lasts for several long, agonizing seconds, until a scream splits the air. Golden looks up sharply with his ears laid back while Falcon's Grace lifts her face as if to let the moonlight fall on it just so. Overhead, the falcon's profile is unmistakable, drifting with lazy ease through the sky. It begins to circle, each turn bringing it lower and lower. This isn't the same falcon spirit as the other night; the size is somewhat smaller, and where Luna shines off it, the reflection is a dull orange-red. The dizzying spiral continues down, until it suddenly falls into a stoop, aiming straight for Stops-Too-Late.
Stops-Too-Late stares into the sky through those quiet moments, unwilling or unable to move, to drop her eyes to her teachers or consider the spirits surrounding them. As the seconds tick past she starts to tense, her gaze searching the lunar-bright heavens. The falcon's scream brings with it a rush of relief; Stops-Too-Late sags for a moment before straightening again, her eyes searching eagerly now to find the source of the cry. As the spirit spirals she turns to follow and as it dives she flings up one furred arm in clear invitation to land.
The raptor's profile continues to approach Stops-Too-Late at alarming speeds, though it doesn't get much bigger. Behind her, Golden's hackles go up, but Falcon's Grace maintains a posture of calm acceptance. With the next in-drawn breath, it's clear the falcon spirit has no intention of landing, stopping, or evading. It's heading straight for the dark moon cub on a collision course.
Though her ears go back Doesn't Know When to Stop waits the spirit's pleasure with as much sangfroid as she can muster: she calls wordless welcome to her tribe's totem and, leaving the one up in invitation, spreads her other arm wide.
In a flash of talons and red feathers, the kestrel spirit slams into Stops-Too-Late's chest claws first. The force of the impact is incongruous to the body delivering it; it's like a hammer blow, knocking the breath from her lungs and cracking her head sharply against too-hard ground. The Umbra vanishes under waves of black sky and moon light edged in a victory screech, leaving the cub's awareness drifting for some time. Presently her senses resolve, and she finds herself laid out face-first on a large, checkered surface of pearl white and onyx black with a split lip and a throbbing head.
Returned to homid, the Ragabash pushes upright on one arm and gingerly touches her head with the other, tongue flicking out to taste the warm salt of her lip. She tries a shake of her head to clear it but almost immediately regrets the movement; only a few heartbeats later does she think to rise to her knees and look around, hands absently flexing. "Ow," is a heartfelt if not particularly witty comment.
The Umbra around Shelby has changed completely. Gone are Tim, Zosia, and the ritual preparations (though the smelly paste still sits on her skin, radiating its oh-so-fetching scent), replaced with a rugged, grassy plain of gold and green dotted by hardy wildflowers. In the midst of this rippling ocean sits a large stone board of onyx and pearl that Shelby has been dumped onto. The edges are cracked and weeds threaten but don't quite manage to encroach on it. To the east sit white stone figures in two rows, and the same forms in black lie to the west. The classic shapes of a chess set are easy to recognize despite subtle changes and lupine motifs; most notably, each Queen bears a proud falcon on her wrist. The pieces are statue-sized, almost as tall as the cub, and a small fox kestrel perches on top of the Black Queen. Her rust red feathers are flecked with the black ticks and bands of Falcon's children, and she watches Stops-Too-Late with the sly patience of a Trickster. *Welcome, you-who-would-be-my-sister.* The spirit speech is, as it was once with the jumping mouse, entirely understandable.
Shelby slowly rises to her feet, pulling what dignity she can assume about her shoulders like a mantle. "Greetings to you, honored spirit," she returns after looking about, and offers the kestrel a half-bow. "Is this form and this speech acceptable to you? If not, I will shift."
*All speech is one in the heart. That we express it differently is a confusion of the mind and nothing more.* Coming from one of Falcon's, it's as much a dismissal as it is an allowance that Shelby may speak as she pleases. *The same can be true of wisdom.* The kestrel hops down so that she is standing on the stone falcon's head and not the queen's. *Do you know this old game of queens and kings, footman and holy ones, towers and steeds?*
"Thank you," Shelby says, and inclines her head again before tugging at her jacket's hem. "I know it," she admits readily enough, if ruefully, her eyes drifting across first white then black before returning to the spirit. "I am not particularly skilled, but I will make the attempt if you wish it."
The kestrel's wings flare and she fixes Shelby with a proud look. *It is not a matter of wishing, but a matter of being. If you would stand before your ancestors with honor and and wisdom, you must first earn it from me.* She hops to the ground behind the Black Queen and flips a wing, indicating Shelby should move to the opposing matriarch.
There's no Zosia, no Tim around for her to defer to, but Shelby bows her head to the spirit once more. "I understand." With a last look around the Ragabash moves to the white queen's side, eeling through the rank of pawns to stand just to the side and a fraction behind her. "White moves first - do I need to move each piece, or can I just speak my moves?"
In an answer to that question, the tableau seems to shrink as Shelby steps off the board. By the time she's in position, the board is a normal size, so that the kestrel can easily hold a piece in one claw. (The white queen's face looks suspiciously familiar, as does the black queen's...) The kestrel spirit takes up a black pawn, and seems intent on setting it down when Shelby speaks. she looks briefly abashed, and replaces her piece. *Of course, white is first. Your move, would-be-sister.*
"--Of course," Shelby agrees sweetly, a spark of wariness coming to her eyes though her expression remains guileless. Her opening is fairly standard: shifting one of the middle pawns two ranks ahead into the center of the board.
The kestrel's answering move is swift and doesn't even seem to require thought, placing the opposing pawn to block Shelby's in a classic opening. *Mobility is the Queen's power, and it is a grand one. But she enters the game the most powerful. It is only the smallest foot soldiers who may ever ascend.* As she says this, she rests one claw on her Queen, which bears a striking resemblance to Zosia just now. *Tell me then, of the honor of the Trickster in battle.*
Shelby brings that side's knight up to threaten the pawn before returning her attention to the bird. "The honor of the Trickster in battle?" she repeats, bemused. "I know of the honor before battle, to scout the enemy's forces and bring information to the leader. Some would say the Trickster has no honor, that the fight should be won as swiftly as possible, and the best way to ensure that is to do whatever will bring victory."
The fox kestrel puffs out her chest. *Those who would say such are the true fools,* she insists, and ignores the threat on her pawn by mobilizing the bishop. *The fool is the advocate of the other side of each decision, to contrast and make the leaders aware. When the leader wishes to cut down the enemy, it is the Trickster's call to suggest the benefits of mercy.* She moves another pawn, too. *When the opponent cheats, it is the Trickster's duty to recommend it too, that the leader be tested in their resolve against it.*
A corner of the Ragabash's mouth lifts. "I have yet to be in a battle in which any advice could be exchanged, honored falcon," she points out, "only to follow the leader's directions. The time for planning, for advice, is -before- the fight is joined. I hear and honor your words," she reaches across the table to pluck the black king from its spot and hold it captive in her fist, "but your timing is suspect."
*One must make the time.* The kestrel threatens to bite Shelby's hand when she reaches for the Black King, but withdraws her beak before it finds purchase, and nudges her pawn back in unspoken retreat. *That is the Trickster's roll. It is a roll that requires deftness of mind as well as claw. Are you not mid-battle even now?*
Shelby's hand jerks away from the threat, captured king still securely held, but returns him demurely to his spot when retreat is offered. "There is no leader here," she replies with a hint of a smile. "Unless you are suggesting I argue against myself?" She takes a moment to study the board before moving her own bishop up, opening up the possibility of a later castling.
The kestrel boldly moves a knight into play. *If one of Falcon's is present,* her claw moves to rest on her bishop, but she makes no attempt at a clandestine second move, *then a leader is always in attendance.* For a moment an air of regality surrounds her diminutive shape, and the wind whips over the plains briskly, sending dust and bits of grass into Shelby's eyes.
"Two of us are present," Shelby retorts, "but only one on either side." Her next move is arrested with a hand halfway to the board--instead it comes up in an attempt to shield her eyes, the Ragabash looking away from the grit and blinking fiercely.
The wind dies down, and once Shelby can see again something with the board seems amiss, though what isn't immediately obvious. The falcon's voice rolls out, imperious as a queen's. *Can you not lead by yourself? These are your followers.* She lifts her knight up in an example. *The best behaved sort, for the do only what you will them to.* It's more obvious what has changed in that brief moment that her knight isn't clouding the picture. One of the black bishops has nudged a few squares out of turn, and is on the wrong color.
"Exactly: I can't argue against the leader's decisions, for I am the leader, and my followers only do as I say." Shelby looks back to the board and over to the falcon, any amusement gone from her expression, which is implacable and impassive as any carved queen's. "Do that again," she warns, and flicks one dismissive finger against the errant bishop's base, "and I will challenge your honor, falcon or no falcon, cub or no cub."
The falcon draws herself up as her bishop is moved back. *Will you, then? Who decides the winner in this game--you, would-be-my-sister, or I?* Her claws rest on the grassy ground now, and her eyes hold Shelby's captive in an invitation for her to make her move, or offer her challenge.
Shelby holds the spirit's gaze with eons of breeding behind hers. "We do," she answers crisply. "Skill to skill until one is shown greater - or equal. If you are unable to keep to the rules, then you forfeit the game." Deliberately she moves the bishop back into place and her knight forward, threatening two of the pawns remaining to the black king's left. "You demonstrate the ragabash's honor you so recently scorned, Falcon. Show me instead Falcon's honor."
The fox kestrel springs up and beats her wings, putting herself airborne. *I think you have forgotten who must prove herself to whom, would-be-my-sister,* she declares, though there is the light of pride and approval in her eyes. *The honor of Great Falcon is not instead of the Trickster, it is her greater whole. Now show to us Falcon's honor, if you would be His Trickster.* Another wingbeat, and she summons that annoying wind once more, which brings clouds that obscure the sky in leaden gray. Mist begins to roll in around the plain, muting all sounds and blurring Shelby's eyesight. The kestrel's red form vanishes into the mists, leaving behind a bright screech in her wake.
Continued in part 2
Currently the moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (81% full).
Some time just after sunset, Zosia takes Shelby back to the place where the two Silver Fangs and Tim fed the earth and offered prayers to Gaia and Falcon. The Umbra is as busy this night as it was previously, with lunes drifting through the moonlit skies and animal spirits scurrying and flitting about their activities--but there is something more here now. Maybe the ground seems firmer, or the grasses greener, for their offering; it's the sort of effect that when examined melts away, but teases from the corner of the eye otherwise.
Tim is waiting for them, and has apparently been busy. A large ring of feathers (falcon feathers, they must be), bird bones, and broken egg shells rings the spot where they knelt; at the north-most point is a black lacquered bowl of pungently-fragrant paste. The south point has a ceramic bowl with a matte black interior and a moon-white exterior, empty with his switchblade opened and next to it. The east and west points sit empty.
The Strider is dressed entirely out of character for how he's been seen by either Silver Fang. A plain, button-front, tunic-like top sits over a pair of simple, loose-fit pants. The outfit is all made of linen and night black but for white embroidering on the cuffs and straight collar; its ultimate effect is to make him seem even taller than usual. There are ash glyphs drawn on his forehead and temples, part Garou (Ragabash chief among them) and part Indic. He's waiting patiently, hands clasped in front of him and standing at the center of the circle.
Shelby is entirely dressed, much to her relief and probably Tim's as well. At any rate, she's in her birth form even if her plum-hued track suit is entirely at odds with the Strider's formality. With a glance back at Zosia she steps carefully across the circle and comes to stand before the other Ragabash, offering a low-voiced, "Namaste, Tim-rhya," as her greeting.
Tim's mouth quirks in a smile, fading the facade of formality for a moment, and he returns the bow with a murmured, "Namaskar." (There is also a spark of relief that must be related to the presence of clothes.) Zosia remains outside the circle for the moment, eyes moving over the ritual preparations. They travel back to Tim in due course, who catches the look in them, and the official trappings of the Strider Elder which he wears so seldom settle back into place. He looks through Shelby for a moment, then directly at her. "For almost half a year you've been taught by your Tribe, Shelby. You've seen Luna wax and wane, battled the Wyrm, and been taught by a spirit." He looks to Zosia, who tips back her chin up with unsubtle pride. "Zosia Falcon's-Grace, Elder and the Mistress of the Rite. Is your student ready to face Falcon--Great Garuda, the Protector of the Skies--and prove herself worthy to be one of his children?"
Her voice rings strong and clear. "She is ready to face her ancestors, and show that her honor is as great as theirs. She was born to Falcon's blood, and now she must be born to his spirit."
Now, it seems, it is Shelby's turn. Tim nods at Zosia, and regards her again. "Shelby, called Doesn't Know When To Stop, are you ready to stand before Falcon and your ancestors, and earn your place in the Tribe you were born to?"
Shelby's chin jerks up under that regard but her gaze is steady, and if Zosia's voice brings forth any emotions save pride and nervousness Shelby manages to keep them from her face. Her, "I am," is as clear as the Theurge's, as steady as though she's done this not just once before, but countless times stretching back through time's creation.
Tim's eyes narrow in brief fascination over the response, then he nods and shifts to Crinos, moving past Shelby to the empty bowl and knife. He sinks to a crouch next to them; in this form his posture radiates encouragement for the cub, and the seriousness of the task before them. ~We join our blood to yours, that Falcon will know we your teachers are tested as surely as you.~ He takes the knife and makes a lateral cut across his left palm, squeezing his fist to force several drops into the bowl. He holds the knife out to Falcon's Grace next, who does the same, saying, ~May the blood of Falcon protect and guide you, as it has those who came before, and will those who come after.~ She offers the blade to Shelby and steps back.
The Ragabash cub's hands curl into fists at her sides but when she too has surged into Crinos they are open again, unthreatening. She pivots to follow her erstwhile teacher, her path to join him marred only by a single hitch when the first slash is made. Recovering quickly she takes the knife from Zosia with a single rough word in neither English nor Mother's Tongue and, eyes half-closed, stabs at her own hand. The cut is deep and blood pools in a cupped palm as she offers the knife back. ~May Falcon guide my feet upon this journey.~
Golden dips to pick up the bowl, flicking Shelby another hopeful look, and carries it to the previously unacknowledged pastes. As he pours them together and begins to mix the odd concoction, the mingled scents of sandalwood and lavender wash out over the area, heady and distracting and tinted with the metallic undercurrent of blood. He brings the end result back in the white and black bowl, and gathers up a healthy lump onto one clawed finger. He signals to Falcon's Grace to do the same with a nod, and she takes up some as well. ~We mark you as our student,~ she informs Stops-Too-Late, and leans in to draw the glyph of Falcon's Tribe on her forehead, ~that Falcon and the spirits will know you on this journey.~
Eyes closed, Doesn't Know When to Stop breathes deeply, cut hand curling about what little remains of the slash. Her ears flick to follow the Strider's path though she otherwise remains still; only when he's close enough to touch do her eyes open again to focus first on him, then Zosia. She submits without protest to the anointing, instead murmuring another quiet prayer for Falcon's notice.
Once Falcon's Grace is done, Golden takes his turn, leaning in to add the glyph for Ragabash. ~Remember,~ he says in a low voice, ~if you are true to your auspice, your Tribe,~ another glance to Falcon's Grace, ~and your self,~ a more serious look for Stops-Too-Late, ~you cannot fail.~ He steps back, taking himself out of the circle. Falcon's Grace pauses in the midst of doing the same, then puts her previously bleeding hand on the cub's shoulder and grips it once, leaving a bloody claw mark. She steps back to join Golden, which leaves Doesn't Know When To Stop alone in the ring of feather, bone, and shell. ~If you would be tested,~ Golden says, ~call to Falcon.~
~Yes, Golden-rhya,~ Shelby answers, just as quietly, and as he steps away, ~Thank you.~ She turns to face Bright Falcon's Grace to thank her Elder as well and bows her head for what--hopefully--will be her last time as a cub. Marked by blood and ash, the Ragabash retreats to the center of the circle and lifts her eyes to the Umbral skies. ~Falcon!~ she calls. ~Your child seeks your wisdom! Lead me! Test me!~ A heartbeat later her eyes and fists close again as her muzzle tips further, a ululating howl pulled from the cub.
Golden and Falcon's Grace join their voices to Doesn't Know When To Stop, and the spirits around them all slow in their activities to watch and listen. Even the lunes have paused, and when the howls end, the entire Umbra seems to have sucked in a breath. This lasts for several long, agonizing seconds, until a scream splits the air. Golden looks up sharply with his ears laid back while Falcon's Grace lifts her face as if to let the moonlight fall on it just so. Overhead, the falcon's profile is unmistakable, drifting with lazy ease through the sky. It begins to circle, each turn bringing it lower and lower. This isn't the same falcon spirit as the other night; the size is somewhat smaller, and where Luna shines off it, the reflection is a dull orange-red. The dizzying spiral continues down, until it suddenly falls into a stoop, aiming straight for Stops-Too-Late.
Stops-Too-Late stares into the sky through those quiet moments, unwilling or unable to move, to drop her eyes to her teachers or consider the spirits surrounding them. As the seconds tick past she starts to tense, her gaze searching the lunar-bright heavens. The falcon's scream brings with it a rush of relief; Stops-Too-Late sags for a moment before straightening again, her eyes searching eagerly now to find the source of the cry. As the spirit spirals she turns to follow and as it dives she flings up one furred arm in clear invitation to land.
The raptor's profile continues to approach Stops-Too-Late at alarming speeds, though it doesn't get much bigger. Behind her, Golden's hackles go up, but Falcon's Grace maintains a posture of calm acceptance. With the next in-drawn breath, it's clear the falcon spirit has no intention of landing, stopping, or evading. It's heading straight for the dark moon cub on a collision course.
Though her ears go back Doesn't Know When to Stop waits the spirit's pleasure with as much sangfroid as she can muster: she calls wordless welcome to her tribe's totem and, leaving the one up in invitation, spreads her other arm wide.
In a flash of talons and red feathers, the kestrel spirit slams into Stops-Too-Late's chest claws first. The force of the impact is incongruous to the body delivering it; it's like a hammer blow, knocking the breath from her lungs and cracking her head sharply against too-hard ground. The Umbra vanishes under waves of black sky and moon light edged in a victory screech, leaving the cub's awareness drifting for some time. Presently her senses resolve, and she finds herself laid out face-first on a large, checkered surface of pearl white and onyx black with a split lip and a throbbing head.
Returned to homid, the Ragabash pushes upright on one arm and gingerly touches her head with the other, tongue flicking out to taste the warm salt of her lip. She tries a shake of her head to clear it but almost immediately regrets the movement; only a few heartbeats later does she think to rise to her knees and look around, hands absently flexing. "Ow," is a heartfelt if not particularly witty comment.
The Umbra around Shelby has changed completely. Gone are Tim, Zosia, and the ritual preparations (though the smelly paste still sits on her skin, radiating its oh-so-fetching scent), replaced with a rugged, grassy plain of gold and green dotted by hardy wildflowers. In the midst of this rippling ocean sits a large stone board of onyx and pearl that Shelby has been dumped onto. The edges are cracked and weeds threaten but don't quite manage to encroach on it. To the east sit white stone figures in two rows, and the same forms in black lie to the west. The classic shapes of a chess set are easy to recognize despite subtle changes and lupine motifs; most notably, each Queen bears a proud falcon on her wrist. The pieces are statue-sized, almost as tall as the cub, and a small fox kestrel perches on top of the Black Queen. Her rust red feathers are flecked with the black ticks and bands of Falcon's children, and she watches Stops-Too-Late with the sly patience of a Trickster. *Welcome, you-who-would-be-my-sister.* The spirit speech is, as it was once with the jumping mouse, entirely understandable.
Shelby slowly rises to her feet, pulling what dignity she can assume about her shoulders like a mantle. "Greetings to you, honored spirit," she returns after looking about, and offers the kestrel a half-bow. "Is this form and this speech acceptable to you? If not, I will shift."
*All speech is one in the heart. That we express it differently is a confusion of the mind and nothing more.* Coming from one of Falcon's, it's as much a dismissal as it is an allowance that Shelby may speak as she pleases. *The same can be true of wisdom.* The kestrel hops down so that she is standing on the stone falcon's head and not the queen's. *Do you know this old game of queens and kings, footman and holy ones, towers and steeds?*
"Thank you," Shelby says, and inclines her head again before tugging at her jacket's hem. "I know it," she admits readily enough, if ruefully, her eyes drifting across first white then black before returning to the spirit. "I am not particularly skilled, but I will make the attempt if you wish it."
The kestrel's wings flare and she fixes Shelby with a proud look. *It is not a matter of wishing, but a matter of being. If you would stand before your ancestors with honor and and wisdom, you must first earn it from me.* She hops to the ground behind the Black Queen and flips a wing, indicating Shelby should move to the opposing matriarch.
There's no Zosia, no Tim around for her to defer to, but Shelby bows her head to the spirit once more. "I understand." With a last look around the Ragabash moves to the white queen's side, eeling through the rank of pawns to stand just to the side and a fraction behind her. "White moves first - do I need to move each piece, or can I just speak my moves?"
In an answer to that question, the tableau seems to shrink as Shelby steps off the board. By the time she's in position, the board is a normal size, so that the kestrel can easily hold a piece in one claw. (The white queen's face looks suspiciously familiar, as does the black queen's...) The kestrel spirit takes up a black pawn, and seems intent on setting it down when Shelby speaks. she looks briefly abashed, and replaces her piece. *Of course, white is first. Your move, would-be-sister.*
"--Of course," Shelby agrees sweetly, a spark of wariness coming to her eyes though her expression remains guileless. Her opening is fairly standard: shifting one of the middle pawns two ranks ahead into the center of the board.
The kestrel's answering move is swift and doesn't even seem to require thought, placing the opposing pawn to block Shelby's in a classic opening. *Mobility is the Queen's power, and it is a grand one. But she enters the game the most powerful. It is only the smallest foot soldiers who may ever ascend.* As she says this, she rests one claw on her Queen, which bears a striking resemblance to Zosia just now. *Tell me then, of the honor of the Trickster in battle.*
Shelby brings that side's knight up to threaten the pawn before returning her attention to the bird. "The honor of the Trickster in battle?" she repeats, bemused. "I know of the honor before battle, to scout the enemy's forces and bring information to the leader. Some would say the Trickster has no honor, that the fight should be won as swiftly as possible, and the best way to ensure that is to do whatever will bring victory."
The fox kestrel puffs out her chest. *Those who would say such are the true fools,* she insists, and ignores the threat on her pawn by mobilizing the bishop. *The fool is the advocate of the other side of each decision, to contrast and make the leaders aware. When the leader wishes to cut down the enemy, it is the Trickster's call to suggest the benefits of mercy.* She moves another pawn, too. *When the opponent cheats, it is the Trickster's duty to recommend it too, that the leader be tested in their resolve against it.*
A corner of the Ragabash's mouth lifts. "I have yet to be in a battle in which any advice could be exchanged, honored falcon," she points out, "only to follow the leader's directions. The time for planning, for advice, is -before- the fight is joined. I hear and honor your words," she reaches across the table to pluck the black king from its spot and hold it captive in her fist, "but your timing is suspect."
*One must make the time.* The kestrel threatens to bite Shelby's hand when she reaches for the Black King, but withdraws her beak before it finds purchase, and nudges her pawn back in unspoken retreat. *That is the Trickster's roll. It is a roll that requires deftness of mind as well as claw. Are you not mid-battle even now?*
Shelby's hand jerks away from the threat, captured king still securely held, but returns him demurely to his spot when retreat is offered. "There is no leader here," she replies with a hint of a smile. "Unless you are suggesting I argue against myself?" She takes a moment to study the board before moving her own bishop up, opening up the possibility of a later castling.
The kestrel boldly moves a knight into play. *If one of Falcon's is present,* her claw moves to rest on her bishop, but she makes no attempt at a clandestine second move, *then a leader is always in attendance.* For a moment an air of regality surrounds her diminutive shape, and the wind whips over the plains briskly, sending dust and bits of grass into Shelby's eyes.
"Two of us are present," Shelby retorts, "but only one on either side." Her next move is arrested with a hand halfway to the board--instead it comes up in an attempt to shield her eyes, the Ragabash looking away from the grit and blinking fiercely.
The wind dies down, and once Shelby can see again something with the board seems amiss, though what isn't immediately obvious. The falcon's voice rolls out, imperious as a queen's. *Can you not lead by yourself? These are your followers.* She lifts her knight up in an example. *The best behaved sort, for the do only what you will them to.* It's more obvious what has changed in that brief moment that her knight isn't clouding the picture. One of the black bishops has nudged a few squares out of turn, and is on the wrong color.
"Exactly: I can't argue against the leader's decisions, for I am the leader, and my followers only do as I say." Shelby looks back to the board and over to the falcon, any amusement gone from her expression, which is implacable and impassive as any carved queen's. "Do that again," she warns, and flicks one dismissive finger against the errant bishop's base, "and I will challenge your honor, falcon or no falcon, cub or no cub."
The falcon draws herself up as her bishop is moved back. *Will you, then? Who decides the winner in this game--you, would-be-my-sister, or I?* Her claws rest on the grassy ground now, and her eyes hold Shelby's captive in an invitation for her to make her move, or offer her challenge.
Shelby holds the spirit's gaze with eons of breeding behind hers. "We do," she answers crisply. "Skill to skill until one is shown greater - or equal. If you are unable to keep to the rules, then you forfeit the game." Deliberately she moves the bishop back into place and her knight forward, threatening two of the pawns remaining to the black king's left. "You demonstrate the ragabash's honor you so recently scorned, Falcon. Show me instead Falcon's honor."
The fox kestrel springs up and beats her wings, putting herself airborne. *I think you have forgotten who must prove herself to whom, would-be-my-sister,* she declares, though there is the light of pride and approval in her eyes. *The honor of Great Falcon is not instead of the Trickster, it is her greater whole. Now show to us Falcon's honor, if you would be His Trickster.* Another wingbeat, and she summons that annoying wind once more, which brings clouds that obscure the sky in leaden gray. Mist begins to roll in around the plain, muting all sounds and blurring Shelby's eyesight. The kestrel's red form vanishes into the mists, leaving behind a bright screech in her wake.
Continued in part 2