RoP, part 2
Aug. 27th, 2010 04:12 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).
Continued from Part 1
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.
The return of sight and awareness isn't a gradual thing. Instead, it returns all at once. It is dark, smokey, and loud, all at once. A few bonfires burn at the edge of what looks to be a large encampment. There are various figures moving about, vague but matching the look of feudal soldiers. Conversations can be heard, snippits and snatches, and it might take a moment to realize that the conversations are all in French. The soldiers are all stealing looks toward the gathered group of men and women. They shine, the members of this group, with the power and breeding of the Silver Fang tribe, drawing the eye and making one want to obey and please them. They are the epitome of what Garou should be, what people should be.
They wear richly decorated armor and clothing, a mix of styles from over the years--a jacket from the Napoleonic Wars, a piece of gold-chased armor from the fifteenth century, tabards and tunics from the eleventh, and other things that aren't even to be recognized as anything but martial. There are swords and klavies and medallions and other things that imply the great fetishes that make up the heritage of their tribe. They are a gleaming wonder and they are all turning to look at Shelby.
One is greater than the others here, a regal woman with the raven dark hair and the large limpid dark eyes of French women that have caused envy the world over. She is not as tall as the men and women clustered about her but it is clear that all defer to her. On her brow is a delicately shaped crown, gold and jewels and in the center a lovely sculpted gold falcon with eyes that gleam with the blue of sapphires. One looks at her and knows her for who she is: Chained to Lightning with Silver, She Burns with Helios' Fire, Dorothée Simonet, Elder Theurge and Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother of Shelby Anne Elizabeth Zaleski-Laveque. "We've been waiting on you," she says with impatience in her voice. "You have to lead me to the other side."
It takes Shelby a second to collect her wits, another few to take a look about and get her bearings. She drifts automatically toward the others of her tribe, shoulders lifting and back straightening as she comes under their scrutiny. "Greetings, honored ancestor," she answers in the same tongue. "Of course, if I may help. Where are we going? Of which 'other side' do you speak?" She bears no klaive, no power, no impressive dress, yet her breeding is as great as theirs; she meets the Theurge's eyes for just a moment before dropping her own.
There's the briefest lipcurl of several of the others who aren't particularly pleased by the cub's bravado, one even murmuring that she is not one of Falcon's yet. Dorothée herself seems mildly (perhaps condescendingly?) amused though she sweeps a hand toward the north without commenting further. The crowd of people part and there is a field of contest at the edge of the bonfire's light. At first glance, it is a field wreathed in smoke and with a slightly churned surface that implies previous battles. Upon closer inspection, however, it is possible to see a faint checkering on the surface, like a chess board. It is only possible to see half the board--the far side is wreathed in fog and smoke, with only a feeling that something is on the other side. "The other side," she repeats.
Shelby turns to look: the firelight, the fog, the field, the soldiers. Her lips thin, but when she turns back to the others an accommodating mask is firmly in place. "Of course," she says again. "By what name may I call you? 'Grandmere' seems far too forward." Which probably means that 'Dorothée' is right out, and her Rite name excessively lengthy.
"I am the Queen," the woman replies. Of course she is. "So 'Your Majesty' will work in this case." She looks toward the field again as a horn rings out through the darkness, announcing...something. "It is time," she calls to the gathered grouping of Garou. "We will take our places." The Garou begin to array on the field, those of higher rank on the back row and those with less on the front. A gap is left in the front, in the middle pawn position, the pawn that is traditionally moved first.
As she passes them, she knows them--Peregrine Hunts the Quarry, Winter's Snow On Summer's Branches, Snarl of the White Mountain, and others of her line. The man that is Winter's Snow On Summer's Branches grasps her shoulder as she begins to pass. "You will need to see sharply, Granddaughter. See like Falcon himself." And there, in her mind, is the knowledge that she can indeed. He smiles at her before nodding to her place. "You will lead."
Now that the board is set, a horn rings out on their side and the gathered warriors that watch rattle spears against bucklers. "Now is the time!" calls the Queen. "We go forth!"
"--Of course," the Ragabash murmurs to herself before dropping the Queen a most proper curtsey even in her most improper trousers. Looking up from her bow into Valentin's face, her eyes twinkle gratitude. "Thank you, grandpapa." With another look at the board she tugs her clothing straight, assuming what scraps of grandeur she may, and claims the empty space for her own. "We are White, of course," she says with a glance back at the queen for confirmation. "If we are fighting the same opponent as before, be wary for trickery."
There is no answer from the Queen--just that same feeling of amusement that isn't precisely amused. She waves a hand vaguely, motioning for Shelby to make her move. Across the board, there is the suggestion of movement.
Shelby thinks for a moment, her scent gradually disappearing as she considers the board. "If," she says half to herself, "it is the same, he's already made his move. There." She points across the board toward what was the Falcon's first move, peering through the fog. "In which case...." She turns back to the king's knight, waving him forward and to the left. [Scent of Running Water & Eyes of the Falcon]
Across the way, a figure can be seen. With the help of Falcon's vision, it is clear that the figure has taken a rather traditional opening gambit. It is also clear, however, that they are not pieces. It appears to be some sort of strange, slavering creature, radiating menace and an unnatural air. It stares toward the white side of the makeshift board, hands flexing. The movements aren't quite what she expected. The 'knight' figure moves forward, his hands flexing as he does, but he pulls out a huge silvery-sword, preparing to use it. "You aren't just playing the game," he notes to Shelby. "You are part of it. We press forward." Even as he does, two figures on the far side move forward at once, both theoretically pawns. "And they will not fight honorably. But we will."
"Mmnh," Shelby notes, and nods, though with a twist to her lips that suggests something else isn't being said. "In which case... with your permission, Your Majesty?" Even as she's waiting for approval to be granted she's slipping into lupus, her white fur concealing her better in the fog.
"We must get across the field," the Queen repeats, already staring toward where her dark reflection awaits. The others start to shift, the back row to their war forms, terrible and inspiringly criss-crossed with scars. Most of the pawns choose hispo and lupus, equally eager to move across the space. As Shelby moves forward, she can smell a strangely sweet stench from the front rank of opposing 'players'. And she may well notice that there are three forward where there should only be two. A knight, with a misshapen and twisted face, is already shoving his way through pawns that cringe back.
The cub moves forward carefully, alert to ambush and trickery. On spotting the opposing knight she stops, lips peeling from her teeth, and though it isn't precisely within the rules of the game she retreats to where she can fill the queen in on the opponent's moves, shifting to hispo as she does so. ~Three have come forward. If you wish me to scout, it would be best if you released me from these rules. I cannot scout, lead, and defer all at once.~ But even as she speaks her ears are flat, submitting as best she's able.
~You are not really leading,~ the Queen points out with a grim smile, not putting any edge to her words so much as correcting the cub. ~Go. Scout. We press forward.~ Which is necessary, given the sudden gutteral shout from across the way. The front ranks have been pushed forward and any attempt at convention shattered, sending the pawns and knight charging toward the front rank of Fang pawns. The Queen shouts out orders and the rules -are- still being followed. The bishops are sent on diagonal paths, the rooks move in to 'castle' beside the King--Bright Fist Grasps the Sun--while the knights move in what appears to be the traditional 'L' shape. They are not cleaving to the board itself but still, despite it all, the rules are being followed.
"You see, Grandchild of my line?" the Queen adds, reaching to grasp her shoulder. As she does, a new knowledge floods into Shelby's head, as thought it had always been there. "We fight with honor, as Falcon requires us to, even when the enemy does not. Now go. Find their Queen for me and return to tell me where she is."
~No,~ the cub admits, but flashes throat before turning to slink ahead. Hampered by her pawn's role to moving straight ahead she nevertheless advances with the rest, her senses alert for the enemy's queen. She continues to stay low, more interested in gathering knowledge than engaging with the enemy, letting the larger moons absorb the brunt of the attack.
Bear the brunt they do, with flashing claws, flashing swords, horrible growls and other such fighting things. Still, with one galliard--Blinded Eyes Summon The Wind--managing to occupy two pawns, the fact that there is a scout doing that job instead of fight goes missed. It isn't hard, after a time, to spot the opposing Queen. She's in the midst of grappling Stalks the Night With Heron's Spear. She is hideous and misshapen, twisted into something worse than just a woman. Still, the location will be easy enough to report back. It likely should be done swiftly, given the bloody rents opening up in Stalks the Night's flanks.
It is done swiftly, the young Garou stretching her stride to its utmost to bring word back as quick as she might. ~She fights Stalks the Night with Heron's Spear-rhya!~ she reports, tongue nearly tripping over the Elder Ragabash's name. ~The path is this way - I saw no traps.~ She adds a brief--very brief--note of what other opponents stand between the queens as she falls in beside the Theurge as escort.
"We go," the Queen declares, bulking up into her war form and charging forth. She can pursue any path she wishes, after all, but she chooses one that will allow Shelby to match her closely. They pass various fights in progress, some silvery-forms lying in heaps but far more twisted dark shapes such. As she moves, more of the ancestors trace their paths, finishing fights to press forward as well. The two Queens spot each other and howl their challenges.
The Ragabash sticks to Hispo and the Queen's side, her scent still masked and her newly-sharpened eyes alert for trickery. ~There!~ As they close in on the black Queen she cub swings wide, hopefully concentrating the Queen's attention on the Theurge and thus making an opening for her to make an unexpected attack.
When a pawn reaches the other end of a chessboard, it may be promoted. Perhaps it becomes a rook, or a bishop, or a knight. But there are times when a player may choose to make that pawn a Queen. This is what happens now. Shelby is no longer Shelby--she is Chained To Lightning With Silver, She Burns With Helios' Fire, Elder Theurge of the Silver Fangs. Though the French had killed their royalty line by this point, she knows that she was the rightful Queen of la Belle France. She knows everything that a Garou can know of spirits, she knows what it is to be a Queen of the Silver Fangs, where those from other Septs bow to your will and all obey. She can fight, command, achieve, know more than Shelby can even imagine. She feels her various scars and wounds from a lifetime of service to Gaia and knows the terrible tolls and terrible secrets that come with that dark knowledge.
She surges forward then and calls upon the great spirit Falcon himself, channeling that powerful being within her and burning with her fight against the worm. Her body turns to shimmering silver, her claws shred the being, her will strives to break the mind of this Queen. Behind, her fellow ancestors howl in triumph as they capture the King and she shouts to the twisted Queen, ~SUBMIT!~
The board vanishes, the smoke, the fog, the blood. A ring of ancestors stands there, looking to the Queen, looking to Shelby with the ultimate respect and honor in their eyes. It is a taste of what may be or what was or what will come again or all of these things. And then Shelby stands before them, looking at the Queen and ancestors, who murmur, "Daughter of our blood," in a soft rhythmic chant. And all that terrible, glorious precious knowledge, all that knowing is gone from Shelby.
Despite her knowledge of the rules of chess, there are some that are overlooked in the heat of battle. So it is with the sudden battlefield promotion that thrusts the cub not only into the limelight, but the entirely unexpected position of honored leader and beloved champion. When it's over, when she's simply herself again, she has--for once--nothing to say. She resumes her birthform and slowly regains her feet, staring at her hands as though she's never seen them before. "Grandmothers and grandfathers," she says shakily, only then remembering to repeat herself in Polish and French. "I... you honor me. I honor you."
"You honor us, Daughter of Our Blood. It would be easy to have chosen another route or to let me fight and hang back. But it would not have been honorable. You made choices that proved yourself scout, proved yourself Ragabash but also, far more importantly, proved yourself a Daughter of Falcon." The Queen holds her hands up, ceasing the chant from the others. When there is silence on this featureless plane, illuminated by Luna high above, she leans her head back and calls out, "Falcon! A Daughter of our Blood has proved herself worthy of your regard! We ask of you, o Wise and Honorable Falcon, to come and mark her yours, to take her within your wings!"
It only takes a moment for the answering screech of a Falcon to be heard and a fierce wind buffets those below. There is a Falcon spirit approaching and it is mighty, somehow managing to defy comprehension as it bears down upon the little gathering.
"The way of Falcon is not the easy path, grandmother," Shelby answers, closing her hands into fists to hide the shaking. She looks around at her ancestors, bestowing smiles now and again (and one especially for Winter's Snow on Summer's Branches) before returning her attention to the Queen just in time for her call. Shelby braces her weight against the sudden wind and takes a step forward, arms spreading in welcome.
The Falcon--or is it Falcon?--plummets down from the sky, continuing to shriek a fierce hard cry. Welcome? Warning? Difficult to tell. Either way, there's no slowing in the stoop and aiming straight for Shelby. So large he fills the sky or is that her imagination or something---and then he slams into her and through her and it doesn't hurt even though it should and suddenly Shelby is no longer on the plain but instead falls to the ground and, when she's able to look up, lays before the meditating Tim and the anything-but-calm Zosia, who paces restlessly near the Strider. The theurge looks at Shelby and smiles, looking triumphant.
Shelby can feel the difference. She is one of Falcon's. Not just by birth but because the great spirit himself has made her part of his brood.
Blinking, Shelby pushes onto one elbow, the other going reflexively to her chest. Her answering smile is distracted, uncertain, but as the here-and-now displaces the what-was it slowly grows. "Zo-," she starts, coughs, and tries again. "Zosia-rhya. Falcon has... I am Falcon's."
"I know. I can tell," Zosia says, grinning a bit as she crouches down beside the new cliath. "What was the test for you?"
"I'm... not sure," Shelby admits, still slightly dazed. She frowns at Zosia as though that will bring things into focus, then studies her hands front and back. No, they appear to be the same as well. "There was a... I played chess. With a falcon? Only it cheated. When I called it out everything went away and then I was really playing chess, only with my," she glances sidelong and lowers her voice, "ancestors? We attacked the black queen. It wasn't hard," she adds, bemused.
"It doesn't have to be hard," Zosia says with a faint laugh. "It just has to be a series of properly made decisions. And our passages often involve ancestors. It cheated, you didn't?" she asks suddenly, looking thoughtful.
"Of course I didn't cheat!" Shelby retorts, stung, rather as if Zosia had just accused her of doing untoward things with farm animals.
Zosia laughs softly. "No, you didn't of course. Stupid question, Falcon wouldn't have acc..." Again, whatever she'd have said trails off as she clucks her tongue. "Falcon's Gambit Accepted. Yes. That will be excellent. Falcon's Gambit Accepted and Falcon's Gambit for short?" She eyes the new cliath thoughtfully.
Shelby pulls her feet under her but doesn't stand just yet. "Hmn." She doesn't sound entirely enamored. "Do I get to have a say in it? Because 'Falcon Who Knows the Rules of Chess' is kind of lame. Gambit's neat, though I don't know how I'd say it in lupus."
"Not really," Zosia says, shaking her head. "And lupus is really implication, half the time. And it isn't about naming you falcon. You accepted the challenge, the gambit and came through."
Shelby says, "Oh," and thinks it over for a moment. "I'd like, if I may, to do some research first? On chess and the like. Because 'accepted' just means I accepted it, not that I won, you see."
"No. Falcon's Gambit Accepted." Zosia's voice goes cooler, her head shaking. "If you want to change your name later, perhaps, like other tribes do sometimes, you can. But this is your Rite name."
What else is a newly-fledged Cliath to do but tip her head and murmur, "Yes, Zosia-rhya."? "--Should we wake Tim up?" she continues, looking toward the Strider. "Or is it... what day is it? I can't tell how much time has passed. It feels like days and minutes at the same time."
"Just about an hour," Zosia says with another faint smile. "Time moves strangely in the Umbra and rarely is consistent."
Shelby says, "I remember you saying that." Now she does push to her feet, absently brushing umbral detritus from her clothing, and looks about. "What next? I assume I announce at the next Moot that I'm cliath...?"
"That. And head into the city for some shopping and fine dining as a celebration." Zosia looks to Tim then and gently touches his shoulder, to wake him. "Tim. It is over. She did it."
Shelby's pulled back from her study of the trees with a short laugh. "I can drive my car again!" She doesn't immediately dash into the Realm to enjoy the sound of an engine, though, but drifts over to greet the Strider with a triumphant smile.
Currently the moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (81% full).
Continued from Part 1
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.
The return of sight and awareness isn't a gradual thing. Instead, it returns all at once. It is dark, smokey, and loud, all at once. A few bonfires burn at the edge of what looks to be a large encampment. There are various figures moving about, vague but matching the look of feudal soldiers. Conversations can be heard, snippits and snatches, and it might take a moment to realize that the conversations are all in French. The soldiers are all stealing looks toward the gathered group of men and women. They shine, the members of this group, with the power and breeding of the Silver Fang tribe, drawing the eye and making one want to obey and please them. They are the epitome of what Garou should be, what people should be.
They wear richly decorated armor and clothing, a mix of styles from over the years--a jacket from the Napoleonic Wars, a piece of gold-chased armor from the fifteenth century, tabards and tunics from the eleventh, and other things that aren't even to be recognized as anything but martial. There are swords and klavies and medallions and other things that imply the great fetishes that make up the heritage of their tribe. They are a gleaming wonder and they are all turning to look at Shelby.
One is greater than the others here, a regal woman with the raven dark hair and the large limpid dark eyes of French women that have caused envy the world over. She is not as tall as the men and women clustered about her but it is clear that all defer to her. On her brow is a delicately shaped crown, gold and jewels and in the center a lovely sculpted gold falcon with eyes that gleam with the blue of sapphires. One looks at her and knows her for who she is: Chained to Lightning with Silver, She Burns with Helios' Fire, Dorothée Simonet, Elder Theurge and Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother of Shelby Anne Elizabeth Zaleski-Laveque. "We've been waiting on you," she says with impatience in her voice. "You have to lead me to the other side."
It takes Shelby a second to collect her wits, another few to take a look about and get her bearings. She drifts automatically toward the others of her tribe, shoulders lifting and back straightening as she comes under their scrutiny. "Greetings, honored ancestor," she answers in the same tongue. "Of course, if I may help. Where are we going? Of which 'other side' do you speak?" She bears no klaive, no power, no impressive dress, yet her breeding is as great as theirs; she meets the Theurge's eyes for just a moment before dropping her own.
There's the briefest lipcurl of several of the others who aren't particularly pleased by the cub's bravado, one even murmuring that she is not one of Falcon's yet. Dorothée herself seems mildly (perhaps condescendingly?) amused though she sweeps a hand toward the north without commenting further. The crowd of people part and there is a field of contest at the edge of the bonfire's light. At first glance, it is a field wreathed in smoke and with a slightly churned surface that implies previous battles. Upon closer inspection, however, it is possible to see a faint checkering on the surface, like a chess board. It is only possible to see half the board--the far side is wreathed in fog and smoke, with only a feeling that something is on the other side. "The other side," she repeats.
Shelby turns to look: the firelight, the fog, the field, the soldiers. Her lips thin, but when she turns back to the others an accommodating mask is firmly in place. "Of course," she says again. "By what name may I call you? 'Grandmere' seems far too forward." Which probably means that 'Dorothée' is right out, and her Rite name excessively lengthy.
"I am the Queen," the woman replies. Of course she is. "So 'Your Majesty' will work in this case." She looks toward the field again as a horn rings out through the darkness, announcing...something. "It is time," she calls to the gathered grouping of Garou. "We will take our places." The Garou begin to array on the field, those of higher rank on the back row and those with less on the front. A gap is left in the front, in the middle pawn position, the pawn that is traditionally moved first.
As she passes them, she knows them--Peregrine Hunts the Quarry, Winter's Snow On Summer's Branches, Snarl of the White Mountain, and others of her line. The man that is Winter's Snow On Summer's Branches grasps her shoulder as she begins to pass. "You will need to see sharply, Granddaughter. See like Falcon himself." And there, in her mind, is the knowledge that she can indeed. He smiles at her before nodding to her place. "You will lead."
Now that the board is set, a horn rings out on their side and the gathered warriors that watch rattle spears against bucklers. "Now is the time!" calls the Queen. "We go forth!"
"--Of course," the Ragabash murmurs to herself before dropping the Queen a most proper curtsey even in her most improper trousers. Looking up from her bow into Valentin's face, her eyes twinkle gratitude. "Thank you, grandpapa." With another look at the board she tugs her clothing straight, assuming what scraps of grandeur she may, and claims the empty space for her own. "We are White, of course," she says with a glance back at the queen for confirmation. "If we are fighting the same opponent as before, be wary for trickery."
There is no answer from the Queen--just that same feeling of amusement that isn't precisely amused. She waves a hand vaguely, motioning for Shelby to make her move. Across the board, there is the suggestion of movement.
Shelby thinks for a moment, her scent gradually disappearing as she considers the board. "If," she says half to herself, "it is the same, he's already made his move. There." She points across the board toward what was the Falcon's first move, peering through the fog. "In which case...." She turns back to the king's knight, waving him forward and to the left. [Scent of Running Water & Eyes of the Falcon]
Across the way, a figure can be seen. With the help of Falcon's vision, it is clear that the figure has taken a rather traditional opening gambit. It is also clear, however, that they are not pieces. It appears to be some sort of strange, slavering creature, radiating menace and an unnatural air. It stares toward the white side of the makeshift board, hands flexing. The movements aren't quite what she expected. The 'knight' figure moves forward, his hands flexing as he does, but he pulls out a huge silvery-sword, preparing to use it. "You aren't just playing the game," he notes to Shelby. "You are part of it. We press forward." Even as he does, two figures on the far side move forward at once, both theoretically pawns. "And they will not fight honorably. But we will."
"Mmnh," Shelby notes, and nods, though with a twist to her lips that suggests something else isn't being said. "In which case... with your permission, Your Majesty?" Even as she's waiting for approval to be granted she's slipping into lupus, her white fur concealing her better in the fog.
"We must get across the field," the Queen repeats, already staring toward where her dark reflection awaits. The others start to shift, the back row to their war forms, terrible and inspiringly criss-crossed with scars. Most of the pawns choose hispo and lupus, equally eager to move across the space. As Shelby moves forward, she can smell a strangely sweet stench from the front rank of opposing 'players'. And she may well notice that there are three forward where there should only be two. A knight, with a misshapen and twisted face, is already shoving his way through pawns that cringe back.
The cub moves forward carefully, alert to ambush and trickery. On spotting the opposing knight she stops, lips peeling from her teeth, and though it isn't precisely within the rules of the game she retreats to where she can fill the queen in on the opponent's moves, shifting to hispo as she does so. ~Three have come forward. If you wish me to scout, it would be best if you released me from these rules. I cannot scout, lead, and defer all at once.~ But even as she speaks her ears are flat, submitting as best she's able.
~You are not really leading,~ the Queen points out with a grim smile, not putting any edge to her words so much as correcting the cub. ~Go. Scout. We press forward.~ Which is necessary, given the sudden gutteral shout from across the way. The front ranks have been pushed forward and any attempt at convention shattered, sending the pawns and knight charging toward the front rank of Fang pawns. The Queen shouts out orders and the rules -are- still being followed. The bishops are sent on diagonal paths, the rooks move in to 'castle' beside the King--Bright Fist Grasps the Sun--while the knights move in what appears to be the traditional 'L' shape. They are not cleaving to the board itself but still, despite it all, the rules are being followed.
"You see, Grandchild of my line?" the Queen adds, reaching to grasp her shoulder. As she does, a new knowledge floods into Shelby's head, as thought it had always been there. "We fight with honor, as Falcon requires us to, even when the enemy does not. Now go. Find their Queen for me and return to tell me where she is."
~No,~ the cub admits, but flashes throat before turning to slink ahead. Hampered by her pawn's role to moving straight ahead she nevertheless advances with the rest, her senses alert for the enemy's queen. She continues to stay low, more interested in gathering knowledge than engaging with the enemy, letting the larger moons absorb the brunt of the attack.
Bear the brunt they do, with flashing claws, flashing swords, horrible growls and other such fighting things. Still, with one galliard--Blinded Eyes Summon The Wind--managing to occupy two pawns, the fact that there is a scout doing that job instead of fight goes missed. It isn't hard, after a time, to spot the opposing Queen. She's in the midst of grappling Stalks the Night With Heron's Spear. She is hideous and misshapen, twisted into something worse than just a woman. Still, the location will be easy enough to report back. It likely should be done swiftly, given the bloody rents opening up in Stalks the Night's flanks.
It is done swiftly, the young Garou stretching her stride to its utmost to bring word back as quick as she might. ~She fights Stalks the Night with Heron's Spear-rhya!~ she reports, tongue nearly tripping over the Elder Ragabash's name. ~The path is this way - I saw no traps.~ She adds a brief--very brief--note of what other opponents stand between the queens as she falls in beside the Theurge as escort.
"We go," the Queen declares, bulking up into her war form and charging forth. She can pursue any path she wishes, after all, but she chooses one that will allow Shelby to match her closely. They pass various fights in progress, some silvery-forms lying in heaps but far more twisted dark shapes such. As she moves, more of the ancestors trace their paths, finishing fights to press forward as well. The two Queens spot each other and howl their challenges.
The Ragabash sticks to Hispo and the Queen's side, her scent still masked and her newly-sharpened eyes alert for trickery. ~There!~ As they close in on the black Queen she cub swings wide, hopefully concentrating the Queen's attention on the Theurge and thus making an opening for her to make an unexpected attack.
When a pawn reaches the other end of a chessboard, it may be promoted. Perhaps it becomes a rook, or a bishop, or a knight. But there are times when a player may choose to make that pawn a Queen. This is what happens now. Shelby is no longer Shelby--she is Chained To Lightning With Silver, She Burns With Helios' Fire, Elder Theurge of the Silver Fangs. Though the French had killed their royalty line by this point, she knows that she was the rightful Queen of la Belle France. She knows everything that a Garou can know of spirits, she knows what it is to be a Queen of the Silver Fangs, where those from other Septs bow to your will and all obey. She can fight, command, achieve, know more than Shelby can even imagine. She feels her various scars and wounds from a lifetime of service to Gaia and knows the terrible tolls and terrible secrets that come with that dark knowledge.
She surges forward then and calls upon the great spirit Falcon himself, channeling that powerful being within her and burning with her fight against the worm. Her body turns to shimmering silver, her claws shred the being, her will strives to break the mind of this Queen. Behind, her fellow ancestors howl in triumph as they capture the King and she shouts to the twisted Queen, ~SUBMIT!~
The board vanishes, the smoke, the fog, the blood. A ring of ancestors stands there, looking to the Queen, looking to Shelby with the ultimate respect and honor in their eyes. It is a taste of what may be or what was or what will come again or all of these things. And then Shelby stands before them, looking at the Queen and ancestors, who murmur, "Daughter of our blood," in a soft rhythmic chant. And all that terrible, glorious precious knowledge, all that knowing is gone from Shelby.
Despite her knowledge of the rules of chess, there are some that are overlooked in the heat of battle. So it is with the sudden battlefield promotion that thrusts the cub not only into the limelight, but the entirely unexpected position of honored leader and beloved champion. When it's over, when she's simply herself again, she has--for once--nothing to say. She resumes her birthform and slowly regains her feet, staring at her hands as though she's never seen them before. "Grandmothers and grandfathers," she says shakily, only then remembering to repeat herself in Polish and French. "I... you honor me. I honor you."
"You honor us, Daughter of Our Blood. It would be easy to have chosen another route or to let me fight and hang back. But it would not have been honorable. You made choices that proved yourself scout, proved yourself Ragabash but also, far more importantly, proved yourself a Daughter of Falcon." The Queen holds her hands up, ceasing the chant from the others. When there is silence on this featureless plane, illuminated by Luna high above, she leans her head back and calls out, "Falcon! A Daughter of our Blood has proved herself worthy of your regard! We ask of you, o Wise and Honorable Falcon, to come and mark her yours, to take her within your wings!"
It only takes a moment for the answering screech of a Falcon to be heard and a fierce wind buffets those below. There is a Falcon spirit approaching and it is mighty, somehow managing to defy comprehension as it bears down upon the little gathering.
"The way of Falcon is not the easy path, grandmother," Shelby answers, closing her hands into fists to hide the shaking. She looks around at her ancestors, bestowing smiles now and again (and one especially for Winter's Snow on Summer's Branches) before returning her attention to the Queen just in time for her call. Shelby braces her weight against the sudden wind and takes a step forward, arms spreading in welcome.
The Falcon--or is it Falcon?--plummets down from the sky, continuing to shriek a fierce hard cry. Welcome? Warning? Difficult to tell. Either way, there's no slowing in the stoop and aiming straight for Shelby. So large he fills the sky or is that her imagination or something---and then he slams into her and through her and it doesn't hurt even though it should and suddenly Shelby is no longer on the plain but instead falls to the ground and, when she's able to look up, lays before the meditating Tim and the anything-but-calm Zosia, who paces restlessly near the Strider. The theurge looks at Shelby and smiles, looking triumphant.
Shelby can feel the difference. She is one of Falcon's. Not just by birth but because the great spirit himself has made her part of his brood.
Blinking, Shelby pushes onto one elbow, the other going reflexively to her chest. Her answering smile is distracted, uncertain, but as the here-and-now displaces the what-was it slowly grows. "Zo-," she starts, coughs, and tries again. "Zosia-rhya. Falcon has... I am Falcon's."
"I know. I can tell," Zosia says, grinning a bit as she crouches down beside the new cliath. "What was the test for you?"
"I'm... not sure," Shelby admits, still slightly dazed. She frowns at Zosia as though that will bring things into focus, then studies her hands front and back. No, they appear to be the same as well. "There was a... I played chess. With a falcon? Only it cheated. When I called it out everything went away and then I was really playing chess, only with my," she glances sidelong and lowers her voice, "ancestors? We attacked the black queen. It wasn't hard," she adds, bemused.
"It doesn't have to be hard," Zosia says with a faint laugh. "It just has to be a series of properly made decisions. And our passages often involve ancestors. It cheated, you didn't?" she asks suddenly, looking thoughtful.
"Of course I didn't cheat!" Shelby retorts, stung, rather as if Zosia had just accused her of doing untoward things with farm animals.
Zosia laughs softly. "No, you didn't of course. Stupid question, Falcon wouldn't have acc..." Again, whatever she'd have said trails off as she clucks her tongue. "Falcon's Gambit Accepted. Yes. That will be excellent. Falcon's Gambit Accepted and Falcon's Gambit for short?" She eyes the new cliath thoughtfully.
Shelby pulls her feet under her but doesn't stand just yet. "Hmn." She doesn't sound entirely enamored. "Do I get to have a say in it? Because 'Falcon Who Knows the Rules of Chess' is kind of lame. Gambit's neat, though I don't know how I'd say it in lupus."
"Not really," Zosia says, shaking her head. "And lupus is really implication, half the time. And it isn't about naming you falcon. You accepted the challenge, the gambit and came through."
Shelby says, "Oh," and thinks it over for a moment. "I'd like, if I may, to do some research first? On chess and the like. Because 'accepted' just means I accepted it, not that I won, you see."
"No. Falcon's Gambit Accepted." Zosia's voice goes cooler, her head shaking. "If you want to change your name later, perhaps, like other tribes do sometimes, you can. But this is your Rite name."
What else is a newly-fledged Cliath to do but tip her head and murmur, "Yes, Zosia-rhya."? "--Should we wake Tim up?" she continues, looking toward the Strider. "Or is it... what day is it? I can't tell how much time has passed. It feels like days and minutes at the same time."
"Just about an hour," Zosia says with another faint smile. "Time moves strangely in the Umbra and rarely is consistent."
Shelby says, "I remember you saying that." Now she does push to her feet, absently brushing umbral detritus from her clothing, and looks about. "What next? I assume I announce at the next Moot that I'm cliath...?"
"That. And head into the city for some shopping and fine dining as a celebration." Zosia looks to Tim then and gently touches his shoulder, to wake him. "Tim. It is over. She did it."
Shelby's pulled back from her study of the trees with a short laugh. "I can drive my car again!" She doesn't immediately dash into the Realm to enjoy the sound of an engine, though, but drifts over to greet the Strider with a triumphant smile.