Our little life is rounded with a sleep
Mar. 5th, 2011 05:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently around Sat Mar 5 2011.
Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (4% full).
"Shit." Cole shuffles his way towards his bed through a slowly-growing pile of detritus currently fighting for dominance in the wreckage of what might be called his bedroom. "Gonna have to clean you up tomorrow." Apparently willing to trust himself on that one, the Galliard promptly cocoons himself in his blankets and drops off.
With the moon's tugging Shelby has spent the last few nights on the bawn, and so it is tonight as well. Curled up into a cozy, white-furred ball, tail draped snugly over her nose, and only her ears twitching toward errant sounds, the young Ragabash sleeps comfortably in a hollow beneath a sheltering tree.
Small moon means more family time for Zosia, such as that is. Thus, she drifts off to sleep curled up in her bed against Tristan. An elegant sleeper? No, not even remotely as her mouth drops open and soft little snores emerge. But for now, she rests.
As is the way of dreams, it seems perfectly natural to each of the sleepers to find themselves at a crossroads- a crossroads at the center of four dirt tracks. What shape they are in, what they are wearing, even whether they are still in bed and the bed stands at the crossroads too, that is up to their subconscious. Nevertheless, as they rouse within the dream, they can see each other. They can also see the dreamscape around them. In the far distance to one side, in the direction of one of the tracks, is a great mountain, its head lost in cloud. To the opposite side of the mountain the track there leads to reddish heat-haze. The other tracks lead down to a lake, and off into forest.
Cole's eyes crack open, and he lets out a groan of protest. "C'mon, I just got to b-" He cuts himself off when he sits up in bed (indeed in the midst of the crossroads) and sees what lies about him. "The hell? Zosia? Shelby?" He scrambles out of bed, fully dressed as though for a night spent at a dance club, and kicks aside a few clattering empty beer cans.
Standing just slightly under six feet in height, this young man has a solid build that speaks of regular exercise or an active lifestyle. He's apparently in his early twenties, and moves with a grace that shows he's long since outgrown the awkward years of adolescence.
He's quite handsome, with strong (but not obnoxiously so) facial features and an expressive mouth that turns much more easily up in a smile than it does downward. He's pale without being fish-belly white, looking to be more a gift of his genetics than any aversion to sunlight. Faint shadows of color along his nose are a fading reminder of what might once have been quite the respectable crop of freckles. His eyes are light grey, thoughtful and expressive of his moods. His hair is a dark auburn, leaning more towards the red side of the spectrum than not, and is getting long enough that it just starts to curl at the tips.
Cole tends toward reasonably fashionable casual attire. During these colder months, that means he leans toward sweaters in pleasant earth tones, blue jeans and a pair of hiking boots. Two necklaces encircle his throat. One is a thong composed of red, yellow and orange strips of leather with an iron pendant at the end. The other is a copper charm of a serpentine dragon at the end of a chain.
Shelby, now in her more-familiar two-legged shape, appears out of a blur of heat haze just as though she were walking down a corridor. It takes her a moment to register where she is; when she does, it's with a grimace, then a submissive tip of her head toward the Fianna. "Cole-rhya. I don't suppose you've seen any bears? Turtles?" Under her breath she adds, "Stefan?"
There is no bed for Zosia. The theurge doesn't seem especially surprised by this turn of events, turning about in a slow circle to gague her surroundings. The people get long, flat sorts of stares, as though the theurge isn't especially pleased to find herself in this current circumstance. Turning back to her surroundings, she gives the lake a lingering look before she non-verbally dismisses it, turning instead to study the other directions.
Cole's brows draw down in confusion. "Bears, turtles? Is this some sort of totem deal?" He glances around again, mistrustfully. "I'm not even in a pack now." At length, though, he shakes his head. "None of those three recently, Shel'." Then he's looking back over at Zosia. The lay of the land doesn't seem to overly hold his interest for the moment. Cursory glances only. "Zosia."
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Shelby looks about as pleased to see her Elder as Zosia is to see them. "I've already been to the forest," she tells the others, nodding toward that particular road before drifting closer to the Fostern. "And no, Cole-rhya, I don't think it's totem-y. At least, if it were I don't think Zosia-rhya would be involved, or without Aljan. This is some sort of recurring dream thing we've done before."
"It is a dream thing," Zosia says in a distracted sort of voice. "Something. There was a Buffalo and a Turtle. The Buffalo makes sense with the history of the Caern. Turtles, however..." Her voice trails off and she frowns, turning to look toward the desert. "The Turtle is strange. Turtle has not concerned himself with Garou for a long time." Shaking her head, she offers a little smile to Shelby but just a distant, cool look to the Fianna. "Cole."
The scenery remains as it did when the dreamers first 'arrived'.
"Uh-huh," Cole answers to Shelby, a look of blankness showing that he's either not quite believing or not quite getting. "Well, the last two times spirits screwed with my sleep and weren't totems, one was Coyote and the other was a Wyrm spirit riding my pack. Can't say I like the odds much." There's a beat of pause, then he muses to himself. "Gaia, how often do spirits fuck with my dreams. So is this frostiness a tribal thing now, Zosia, or did I do something in the recent past to offend you?"
Shelby returns Zosia's smile with a rueful one of her own. Opening her mouth to answer Cole, she apparently thinks better of it and suddenly finds something highly intriguing to study in the dust of the track leading toward the heat haze. Oh look, gravel!
"Not the recent past, no," Zosia replies, her voice still carefully mild. There is an implication in the words but she doesn't seem particularly interested in moving deeper into that sort of territory. "The forest last time?" she asks of Shelby, changing the subject. "What spirit did you meet in the forest?"
Cole snorts. "Of course, same bullshit as it ever was and probably ever shall be. Well then." The Fianna draws himself up and gives his head a heavy shake. Then he turns to Shelby to see her answer.
That gravel wasn't as interesting as she thought, so Shelby glances back at the others. "Bear, Zosia-rhya," she says again. "I think it was stubbornness, or dedication, or perseverance, or something. And when I left the forest, I went toward the mountain, only I woke up before I had to climb it."
"Probably don't want to have you worry about too much too soon." Zosia pauses. "Perhaps." Turning, she points toward the lake. "Turtle." She points toward the forest. "Bear." She squints then at the desert. "Oh, what will be seen there? Scorpion? Snake? Coyote? Lizard?" Clucking her tongue, she then jerks a thumb toward the mountain. "So. I would look to either mountain or desert myself."
"Mountain," Cole states without a hesitation. "None of the desert spirits sound particularly friendly. C'mon, let's get this over with. Maybe I can return to my regularly scheduled programming." The Fianna's obviously in a pique over something. He stomps an empty beer can into a flattened circle. Then he starts to move down the indicated track.
"Hawk, maybe," Shelby suggests of the desert as she stands up and returns to the others, brushing off her hands. "Mountain could be... one of the cats, perhaps? Or Mountain Goat, if there is such a one." She frowns after Cole's back and looks to Zosia, waiting for the Theurge's input. Under her breath, and in Polish, she adds, "I was going to say mountain too."
"I am not going to go forward with someone who seems to see this as something to be endured and ended quickly." Zosia says that without moving a step. "From what I have experienced, this is a chance to gain knowledge and new perspectives. If you have no desire to do any of that, lay back down, return yourself to sleep. Shelby and I will move forward and see what challenge is given to us this time."
Cole stops still for a moment, and his hands clench. He spends a few seconds visibly mastering himself. "Fine. Follow if you want. Learn a lesson or two along the way, have some kicks." Then he starts forward again. Within a few steps, those fists have unclenched, and the angry trudge has changed to a slightly forward-leaning lope. He doesn't say anything, but something in his bearing changes.
To be difficult, perhaps - or perhaps just because she's a Ragabash - Shelby puts in, "The desert animals could be very interesting. Tim-rhya comes from the desert, and he's never said anything but good things about those animals. They're very good at surviving difficult conditions. Plus it'd be nice to have some warmth for a little bit." She frowns at the Fianna-flattened beer can, and beams when it shimmers into a flat stone, suitable for skipping.
The theurge holds herself both with her auspice's confidence in the mystical and the inborn confidence of someone who is very used to leading. She watches the demeanor change of the Fianna with narrowed eyes before saying something sharply to Shelby in some sort of slavic language--likely in Polish. When she starts to move forward herself, it is not with the air of someone who is following. It is, instead, of someone who is moving along a parallel path. The look Shelby receives for the stone change is approving. ("That one will be consumed by his anger at life. And doesn't give a damn who he alienates and pushes away as he does it. But the mountain is a good choice tonight.")
Life's weird. You crash on the couch watching South Park reruns, and you 'wake up' in some weird crossroad-y area. And, thus, when Jack 'arrives', he just looks entirely baffled (which, in Jack-language, is still pretty reserved). He only then notices Shelby and Zosia, and his brows arch upwards as he grumbles, "Th'fuck?"
Cole twitches to a halt at the sound of a voice behind him. "...and I guess we have a late arrival," he observes, a twitch of a wry smile at the corner of his lips. "C'mon, no time for explanations that don't make much sense anyhow. We're off to see the wonderful spirit of Oz!"
The Ragabash starts off after Zosia - and Cole - but stops again at the Walker's entrance into their merry band. "It's... Jack, isn't it? Jack-rhya? This is some sort of dream, with spirits. Down there," she points toward the shimmer of the lake, "was a turtle, and in the forest there a bear. We're going to see what's in the mountains. Maybe it's the four quarters, or something - you know, earth-air-fire-water," she adds to Zosia. "Which could mean that we're heading toward air."
"Hard to tell," Zosia says conversationally, glancing back at Jack before continuing her walk forward. "I am going to do my damnest, this time, to just keep my mind open and let what happens happen. Especially since their reasoning does not always match our reasoning." Which is, admittedly, a very theurge-y sort of statement.
MyLittleTalon pages: As you start to walk, the fresh, crisp scent of snow tickles your nostrils as you make your way along the dirt trail. Your steps feel light; the cares of the world become a little less weighty with every footprint left in the dust. The light around you is blue-tinted and young. Then you stop, but that too feels freeing, almost like running while standing still.
Jack reaches a hand back to rub the back of his neck, not seeming entirely sure about this whole idea. He grunts affirmation to Shelby, and just sends a dubious look down towards the lake. He does, however, follow after them. And, in dreamscape, he has no limp! It's like an entirely different person. Or something. This doesn't seem to register for a few moments, and when it does he gives a visible sort of 'huh' and his mood even lightens a bit. "A'ight," he finally accepts. Onwards.
Cole doesn't make any sign for the moment of hearing the Theurges converation, and instead moves once more into eager motion. He's not so excited about it as to run. No, the Fostern is at least experienced enough to keep an eye out as he moves. "Yeah, good choice, this path."
Age determinate somewhere in the lower twenties, this young man is somewhat rough-looking and carries himself in a fashion that is proud, egotistic, confident, and careless all at once. He is somewhere right around six feet tall, lean and a little wiry, though it is a build born of both natural athleticism and a lifetime of work and motion. His motions are hampered by a certain stiffness that is usually present in his right leg, though his thoughtless compensation for it suggests long-ago injury.
The clothes that he wears trend toward the worn but functional, consisting of completely casual shirts that are often faded, and jeans that are loose and a little frayed here and there, obviously old and well worn in. His shoes are scuffed leather biker's boots that have seen better days, the shoelaces worn and frayed. He often wears a black leather biker's jacket in the winter; it's well-worn and creased, the leather supple and well-taken care of, though it looks older. A cord around his neck holds a small steel cross; close inspection would reveal the metal to be pitted and chipped and perhaps even looks like it's been through a fire.
His features are thin and well-formed, his facial structure inherently attractive just by luck of genes. However, his expression is generally one of detachment and disinterest, though grey-blue eyes remain sharp and observant. His dark hair - nearly black - is cut short.
Shelby picks a spot midway between Jack and Zosia, sort-of kind-of bringing up the rear without actually doing so. "It's different, having more people here," she observes to no one, sounding rather chipper about the whole thing. "I hope it is something with wings, though."
The Silver Fang elder, normally a very serious sort of soul, seems to lighten as they move forward. Her shoulders relax, she lifts her face toward the sky and draws a deep breath in, and she seems to move with what -might- be called a spring to her step. She is watching, oh yes, but does answer Shelby. "Doesn't even have to be an animal," she points out. "I've interacted with a glacier-stream spirit before." She shivers at that memory.
"This's happened before?" Jack questions of Shelby, sending her a questioning glance. For his part, he's slow to relax into this world, his guard still stubbornly up, at least outwardly.
Cole continues forging ahead, letting his gaze rove from side to side. "Well, as long as it's not an avalanche spirit, I don't think I'll mind very much. Lotta less venemous animals in the mountain than the desert." This is called back over his shoulder to the Theurge.
"Twice," Shelby answers, drifting closer to the Philodox. "That I know of, anyway. The first time Zosia and I were down at the lake, with a turtle. Then I came here by myself, oh... three weeks ago? Hard to tell, with dreams. I went to the forest, and there was a bear. I think it was testing me on my stubbornness, but I'm not sure." After a moment, and pitched for everyone's ears, she adds, "Do you know, we're only missing an Ahroun?"
The mountain rears before them, ever wilder, ever more mighty and mysterious, its slopes glittering with possibilities and the lure of adventure. Snow crystals dust the landscape and the air is crisp but with the promise of warmth to come. Spring flowers burst through the frosty ground: brave, bright splashes against the blue-white carpet. Not much beyond that, the trail itself becomes many, each branch the faintest suggestion, even these only hinting at an option rather than clearly delineating a path to be taken.
Zosia stops short, staring at the space before her without saying anything. She's not surprised--and judging by her expression, a bit frustrated--but does seem prepared to roll with it. "Many paths, many choices. Possibly none of the choices are wrong."
"Interestin'," the philodox muses, though to just what part of what Shelby says isn't clear. He sends a wary look up the mountain, apparently satisfied with leaving the choices up to the more spirity types.
"So, what? We pick our own path?" This is said in a tone of actual civility to the Silver Fang Elder. Cole peers at the trails intently, considering. "How about that one." He points at a faint hint, no more special or likely than any other. "That one feels good."
"Last time, I just picked randomly, and took what came," Shelby supplies, with a diffident glance toward Zosia. "If we're not going to over think things, then yes, that path is probably as good as any other. Or...," she pauses to consider the flowers, "we could just go where we like. Those are pretty." The cliath doesn't, however, leave the fosterns' sides, intriguing flora or not.
"Pick what path appeals to you," Zosia says to the others. Her voice sounds almost offhand but there's a subtle tightening of her shoulders and a quick breath in as she moves toward one of the paths--not one indicated by the others at this point.
The light brightens at the Theurge's words, a fresh, sweet breeze blowing towards each Garou, each slightly different in direction and each bringing a fresh scattering of snow that settles to the ground and melts quickly from the spring flowers but blots out the faint hints of trails. An eagle calls in the distance, from the mountain. A tiny dot can be seen circling there, high in the air, almost lost in the lowest whisps of cloud.
Jack seems a little wary of this, too, but he takes a moment to consider the paths, running a hand over jawline-- and then the breeze picks up and the trails are gone. "Well," says he, with just a hint of amusement, "Now what?"
Cole shrugs. "Sounds fair," he observes, then moves off onto the path he indicated without a backward glance. Or starts to, when the snow hits. "Well, that seems fairly unkind," he observes. "I guess there is just one true path, huh?" He looks around to see anything that might have escaped his notice. "Eagle sounds like a safe bet for our chaperone for the evening."
A clear look of dismay crosses Shelby's face at the brief appearance of snow, though it too melts away at the eagle's cry. "See?" she says triumphantly. "Wings!" With a last glance to the others she starts off toward the airborne dot, adding over her shoulder, "Come on - it's not going to wait for us forever. This feels right."
"It is what it is," Zosia says over her shoulder, "but an eagle does seem right." That decided, she continues on her chosen way, her eyes fixed on the small circling figure as she moves along.
The only path or paths now are those the Garou choose to make for themselves, fresh footprints scrunching on fresh snow. The white melts into rich brown earth in every print, the ground ripe with the possibility of new spring growth. The trackless way ahead is open, full of choices, full of opportunity, vast and limitless- and completely without guidance, save for that distant cry and the will of those who walk.
Jack stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and walks along the now-open path, gaze occasionally shifing up and over toward the direction the eagle's cry came from.
Cole moves along the non-path now, using the eagle as his only real navigational landmark. " I guess this isn't so bad if it's the worst of it. Well hell, at least nothing's leaping out to eviscerate us." He glances around as he says this, and when nothing immediately happens, he looks almost...disappointed.
It would be undignified of Shelby to dance along the path, and thus she doesn't, but there is definitely a lightness to the Ragabash's step. Her mood is even more pronounced after she shifts into lupus,: all but prancing on pawtips, her tail flags good cheer and enthusiasm. Race? she asks the others, practically quivering. Race?
The theurge may be in a good mood but she just eyes the young Ragabash for a long moment. "Knock yourself out," she says while keeping her steady, dedicated pace ahead. She does, however, seem to be enjoying the feeling of spring--she smiles as she walks.
Snow fades into a flush of spring growth. The ground becomes rockier, finding a route needing more circuitous steps, but around every turn that is needed there is a new delight- a songbird flushed into the air, singing at the top of its voice; a cherry or an apple tree bursting into blossom, a whole carpet of spring flowers, a trickling, crystal-clear stream, cold and clear and clean as ice that chuckles as it dances down its sloping bed. The eagle cries again, and then, before them, rises the mountain slope itself, vanishing into cloud.
With a look over to Shelby, the philodox looks dubious-- and then apparently makes some sort of decision or another, as he does something he never does. Call it enjoying the lack of pain, but either way he shifts down to lupus and the fostern trots over, seeming ready to meet the 'challenge' in a good-natured enough way. Those who know him at all may know how bizarre his acceptance to the 'race' actually is.
Cole finds his lips twitching again into a smile, less cynical than before. "I don't think racing's a good idea here kiddo. But-" He trails off as Jack takes up the call, mouth hanging limply open for a moment. He drops down into lupus then and gives himself an expressive shake. It is a good idea. Then he's moving ahead, sniffing at the air avidly. When a new wonder appears, he eagerly takes it in, including taking a sip of the stream. When the slope itself appears, he makes a low sound. Long climb.
Falcon's Gambit gallops ahead a few paces before cutting back to orbit the others, all hopped up on Spring. Race! She cuts back through the disintegrating pack, crow-hopping within arm's reach of Zosia's fingers, but settles - at least slightly - when the Walker takes up the gauntlet. She darts ahead, laughing, really more interested in just running than actual competition from the way she veers out of her way to hurdle rocks.
When in Rome....Zosia sighs and shifts down to lupus herself, shaking out her ruff before continuing to trot ahead. Her body language is more easily deduced in this form--the theurge is enjoying herself, no matter her typically stiff demeanor, and it shows in the way her body twists and turns with each step. Long climb. For a reason, she guesses. Forward forward, she pushes onward.
It seems to the Garou, as they explore, race, run, romp, or continue steadily, that the mountain slope is not uniform up ahead. To one side the ground is steep but not sheer, and clouded here and there with strands of mist. No path marks it; it is a hard climb. To the other side the slope is far more variable, full of boulders and dips and ledges bumps and shallow, loose scree, with signs of tracks winding here and there that fade in and peter out again.
It's a good thing, because Fallout isn't really the fastest garou in the world. That said, he lopes ahead, enjoying himself in still a bit of a reserved manner, but clearly enjoying the freedom of motion. The snow clings to his pelt, making the scruffy Walker look a bit even more so, but it's not exactly a concern. Once they get to the climb, he pauses, breathing a little hard. Easier path or the harder one? he ponders.
Dragon's-Fire draws to a halt when he reaches the demarcation in paths, snorting an anxious breath. The harsh one has tracks where the deep one has mist. The tracks make it easier. Mist may be hiding something. Hard path, he answers Fallout.
Falcon's Gambit doesn't vault Fallout when he stops, but it's a near thing. She balances on three legs to scratch at her ruff before shaking; when she's finished she studies the sky for the briefest of moments. Where is eagle? Easy side is better for running.
Falcon's Grace's head swings from side to side and she snorts. Each has challenges, she points out. Harder not always better, easier running not always better. She herself seems to do....well, it only takes a moment to see she's doing a bit of "Eeny meeny" here. As her muzzle moves back and forth, she eventually ends up facing the harder path. She grunts.
Fallout gives a sort of 'alright' answer to Dragon's-Fire, seeming perfectly amenable for the harder climb -- in fact, there's a certain glint in his eyes that suggests he prefers it. Harder one is good.
Dragon's-Fire seems, for a small wonder, to be in perfect is agreement with Fallout. The Apocalypse is truly nigh. He rises into crinos, then, quickly settling his axe over his shoulders. ~Better for grabbing,~ he offers as explanation as he starts to move up the chosen, harder path.
With a last look toward the enticing easier route, Falcon's Gambit settles in agreeably behind the others. Though her tail still gently waves, she's run off most of her yayas, and doesn't even snap at the tempting tail before her.
Falcon's Grace waits to move until the others have moved on; instead, she's studying the last place she managed to spy the eagle. Shaking that thought off, she moves after the others, bringing up the rear for now.
The air is thin and chill; even in the enduring lupus form the breath of the four soon comes painfully fast, legs turning to rubber, heads swimming and vision spinning. The route remains clear, straight but difficult. Their paws fight for purchase on the smooth surface. Cool, clammy cloud-fragments close on each of them, confusing the senses so that when finally one or the other of them finds a way out of the milky whiteness, Fallout and Dragon's-Fire are both separated from the others by a little distance, while Falcon's Grace and Falcon's Gambit are not only separated by several yards but also facing in entirely the wrong direction. There is also no further sign of the eagle.
Fallout eventually rises to crinos as well, and he meets the climb with a stubborn sort of enthusiasm, seeming to actually enjoy the exertion. Crazy garou.
No eagle, the ragabash notes in some disappointment, blowing hard. She sits with evident relief, eyes searching the sky in vain before finally dropping to consider what is to be found instead.
Not so crazy perhaps! Dragon's-Fire seems to enjoy it too, tired though it makes him. He huffs a blast of steaming breath from his maw. ~Now this is what I call a lesson to learn,~ he exclaims. ~Now if only there was an Eagle around here somewhere.~
Falcon's Grace is decidedly frustrated by the sudden turn of events, even if she isn't surprised. Chuffing loudly, she turns her muzzle toward the sky. Somewhere, she agrees before turning herself around before returning her attention to the direction they had been facing. For a reason...? she speculates.
The slopes beneath them are now part-shrowded in misty cloud; the slope ahead continues as before. The eagle's cry reaches them, oh so faintly, through the ringing in their ears born of exertion and thin air. Weariness and lack of oxygen make the four feel drunkenly light-headed.
Falcon's Gambit flicks an ear toward the Fianna, resting for a moment more before wearily pushing to her feet. Know this already, she grumbles, before ears and nose quest to discover the source of the faint cry. ...Eagle?
Fallout pants, clinging to the rock with claws spread. He pricks his ears toward the eagle's cry. ~It can't be -too- much further,~ he grumbles, though he doesn't sound overly optimistic.
Dragon's-Fire's enthusiasm, perhaps unsurprisingly, doesn't dampen at all with the oncoming dizziness of oxygen deprivation. Instead a large, toothy grin spreads. ~Normally have down a six pack to get like this. Isn't Gaia obliging?~ Then the faint, faint cry of the raptor sounds. ~See? Only....only a lot more to go, I guess.~ For all his enthusiasm, he too looks as if he's dragging his legs as he moves.
Falcon's Grace isn't the most fit of all Garou, shockingly. She moves after the others, pushing herself but definitely getting a bit on the loopy side.
Onwards and upwards, a blur now of knifelike muscle protest, trembling limbs and blurring, spinning vision. The world lurches, splits and shudders. Light fades and pulses, clouds closing and clutching and dancing, shading reality. The air stings and sings; lungs burn, ears clamour. Reality narrows to one foot, one paw, one hand before the other. Then, like a flower, a perfect bloom, the world opens before them. The clouds roll back. The dreamscape is laid out before them as a glorious, spinning disk, an intricately detailed circle that lies beneath them, layers overlying layers so that mountain turns to desert, forest to lake; turns again from peak to deep stone and shifting sand to still water; from blossom to fruit, from golden leaf to bare branch; a silver fish swims beneath it all; with a scream like an eagle yet fiercer, wilder, a flame rises as a bird above the mountain's peak, soars, burns out, and falls as ash, and in the heat of the fallen ash stirs the white shell of an egg as the chick inside starts to peck its way out. Then the mind's eye returns to four exhausted Garou clinging to a mountain slope, before fading into real world, and wakefulness.
Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (4% full).
"Shit." Cole shuffles his way towards his bed through a slowly-growing pile of detritus currently fighting for dominance in the wreckage of what might be called his bedroom. "Gonna have to clean you up tomorrow." Apparently willing to trust himself on that one, the Galliard promptly cocoons himself in his blankets and drops off.
With the moon's tugging Shelby has spent the last few nights on the bawn, and so it is tonight as well. Curled up into a cozy, white-furred ball, tail draped snugly over her nose, and only her ears twitching toward errant sounds, the young Ragabash sleeps comfortably in a hollow beneath a sheltering tree.
Small moon means more family time for Zosia, such as that is. Thus, she drifts off to sleep curled up in her bed against Tristan. An elegant sleeper? No, not even remotely as her mouth drops open and soft little snores emerge. But for now, she rests.
As is the way of dreams, it seems perfectly natural to each of the sleepers to find themselves at a crossroads- a crossroads at the center of four dirt tracks. What shape they are in, what they are wearing, even whether they are still in bed and the bed stands at the crossroads too, that is up to their subconscious. Nevertheless, as they rouse within the dream, they can see each other. They can also see the dreamscape around them. In the far distance to one side, in the direction of one of the tracks, is a great mountain, its head lost in cloud. To the opposite side of the mountain the track there leads to reddish heat-haze. The other tracks lead down to a lake, and off into forest.
Cole's eyes crack open, and he lets out a groan of protest. "C'mon, I just got to b-" He cuts himself off when he sits up in bed (indeed in the midst of the crossroads) and sees what lies about him. "The hell? Zosia? Shelby?" He scrambles out of bed, fully dressed as though for a night spent at a dance club, and kicks aside a few clattering empty beer cans.
Standing just slightly under six feet in height, this young man has a solid build that speaks of regular exercise or an active lifestyle. He's apparently in his early twenties, and moves with a grace that shows he's long since outgrown the awkward years of adolescence.
He's quite handsome, with strong (but not obnoxiously so) facial features and an expressive mouth that turns much more easily up in a smile than it does downward. He's pale without being fish-belly white, looking to be more a gift of his genetics than any aversion to sunlight. Faint shadows of color along his nose are a fading reminder of what might once have been quite the respectable crop of freckles. His eyes are light grey, thoughtful and expressive of his moods. His hair is a dark auburn, leaning more towards the red side of the spectrum than not, and is getting long enough that it just starts to curl at the tips.
Cole tends toward reasonably fashionable casual attire. During these colder months, that means he leans toward sweaters in pleasant earth tones, blue jeans and a pair of hiking boots. Two necklaces encircle his throat. One is a thong composed of red, yellow and orange strips of leather with an iron pendant at the end. The other is a copper charm of a serpentine dragon at the end of a chain.
Shelby, now in her more-familiar two-legged shape, appears out of a blur of heat haze just as though she were walking down a corridor. It takes her a moment to register where she is; when she does, it's with a grimace, then a submissive tip of her head toward the Fianna. "Cole-rhya. I don't suppose you've seen any bears? Turtles?" Under her breath she adds, "Stefan?"
There is no bed for Zosia. The theurge doesn't seem especially surprised by this turn of events, turning about in a slow circle to gague her surroundings. The people get long, flat sorts of stares, as though the theurge isn't especially pleased to find herself in this current circumstance. Turning back to her surroundings, she gives the lake a lingering look before she non-verbally dismisses it, turning instead to study the other directions.
Cole's brows draw down in confusion. "Bears, turtles? Is this some sort of totem deal?" He glances around again, mistrustfully. "I'm not even in a pack now." At length, though, he shakes his head. "None of those three recently, Shel'." Then he's looking back over at Zosia. The lay of the land doesn't seem to overly hold his interest for the moment. Cursory glances only. "Zosia."
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Shelby looks about as pleased to see her Elder as Zosia is to see them. "I've already been to the forest," she tells the others, nodding toward that particular road before drifting closer to the Fostern. "And no, Cole-rhya, I don't think it's totem-y. At least, if it were I don't think Zosia-rhya would be involved, or without Aljan. This is some sort of recurring dream thing we've done before."
"It is a dream thing," Zosia says in a distracted sort of voice. "Something. There was a Buffalo and a Turtle. The Buffalo makes sense with the history of the Caern. Turtles, however..." Her voice trails off and she frowns, turning to look toward the desert. "The Turtle is strange. Turtle has not concerned himself with Garou for a long time." Shaking her head, she offers a little smile to Shelby but just a distant, cool look to the Fianna. "Cole."
The scenery remains as it did when the dreamers first 'arrived'.
"Uh-huh," Cole answers to Shelby, a look of blankness showing that he's either not quite believing or not quite getting. "Well, the last two times spirits screwed with my sleep and weren't totems, one was Coyote and the other was a Wyrm spirit riding my pack. Can't say I like the odds much." There's a beat of pause, then he muses to himself. "Gaia, how often do spirits fuck with my dreams. So is this frostiness a tribal thing now, Zosia, or did I do something in the recent past to offend you?"
Shelby returns Zosia's smile with a rueful one of her own. Opening her mouth to answer Cole, she apparently thinks better of it and suddenly finds something highly intriguing to study in the dust of the track leading toward the heat haze. Oh look, gravel!
"Not the recent past, no," Zosia replies, her voice still carefully mild. There is an implication in the words but she doesn't seem particularly interested in moving deeper into that sort of territory. "The forest last time?" she asks of Shelby, changing the subject. "What spirit did you meet in the forest?"
Cole snorts. "Of course, same bullshit as it ever was and probably ever shall be. Well then." The Fianna draws himself up and gives his head a heavy shake. Then he turns to Shelby to see her answer.
That gravel wasn't as interesting as she thought, so Shelby glances back at the others. "Bear, Zosia-rhya," she says again. "I think it was stubbornness, or dedication, or perseverance, or something. And when I left the forest, I went toward the mountain, only I woke up before I had to climb it."
"Probably don't want to have you worry about too much too soon." Zosia pauses. "Perhaps." Turning, she points toward the lake. "Turtle." She points toward the forest. "Bear." She squints then at the desert. "Oh, what will be seen there? Scorpion? Snake? Coyote? Lizard?" Clucking her tongue, she then jerks a thumb toward the mountain. "So. I would look to either mountain or desert myself."
"Mountain," Cole states without a hesitation. "None of the desert spirits sound particularly friendly. C'mon, let's get this over with. Maybe I can return to my regularly scheduled programming." The Fianna's obviously in a pique over something. He stomps an empty beer can into a flattened circle. Then he starts to move down the indicated track.
"Hawk, maybe," Shelby suggests of the desert as she stands up and returns to the others, brushing off her hands. "Mountain could be... one of the cats, perhaps? Or Mountain Goat, if there is such a one." She frowns after Cole's back and looks to Zosia, waiting for the Theurge's input. Under her breath, and in Polish, she adds, "I was going to say mountain too."
"I am not going to go forward with someone who seems to see this as something to be endured and ended quickly." Zosia says that without moving a step. "From what I have experienced, this is a chance to gain knowledge and new perspectives. If you have no desire to do any of that, lay back down, return yourself to sleep. Shelby and I will move forward and see what challenge is given to us this time."
Cole stops still for a moment, and his hands clench. He spends a few seconds visibly mastering himself. "Fine. Follow if you want. Learn a lesson or two along the way, have some kicks." Then he starts forward again. Within a few steps, those fists have unclenched, and the angry trudge has changed to a slightly forward-leaning lope. He doesn't say anything, but something in his bearing changes.
To be difficult, perhaps - or perhaps just because she's a Ragabash - Shelby puts in, "The desert animals could be very interesting. Tim-rhya comes from the desert, and he's never said anything but good things about those animals. They're very good at surviving difficult conditions. Plus it'd be nice to have some warmth for a little bit." She frowns at the Fianna-flattened beer can, and beams when it shimmers into a flat stone, suitable for skipping.
The theurge holds herself both with her auspice's confidence in the mystical and the inborn confidence of someone who is very used to leading. She watches the demeanor change of the Fianna with narrowed eyes before saying something sharply to Shelby in some sort of slavic language--likely in Polish. When she starts to move forward herself, it is not with the air of someone who is following. It is, instead, of someone who is moving along a parallel path. The look Shelby receives for the stone change is approving. ("That one will be consumed by his anger at life. And doesn't give a damn who he alienates and pushes away as he does it. But the mountain is a good choice tonight.")
Life's weird. You crash on the couch watching South Park reruns, and you 'wake up' in some weird crossroad-y area. And, thus, when Jack 'arrives', he just looks entirely baffled (which, in Jack-language, is still pretty reserved). He only then notices Shelby and Zosia, and his brows arch upwards as he grumbles, "Th'fuck?"
Cole twitches to a halt at the sound of a voice behind him. "...and I guess we have a late arrival," he observes, a twitch of a wry smile at the corner of his lips. "C'mon, no time for explanations that don't make much sense anyhow. We're off to see the wonderful spirit of Oz!"
The Ragabash starts off after Zosia - and Cole - but stops again at the Walker's entrance into their merry band. "It's... Jack, isn't it? Jack-rhya? This is some sort of dream, with spirits. Down there," she points toward the shimmer of the lake, "was a turtle, and in the forest there a bear. We're going to see what's in the mountains. Maybe it's the four quarters, or something - you know, earth-air-fire-water," she adds to Zosia. "Which could mean that we're heading toward air."
"Hard to tell," Zosia says conversationally, glancing back at Jack before continuing her walk forward. "I am going to do my damnest, this time, to just keep my mind open and let what happens happen. Especially since their reasoning does not always match our reasoning." Which is, admittedly, a very theurge-y sort of statement.
MyLittleTalon pages: As you start to walk, the fresh, crisp scent of snow tickles your nostrils as you make your way along the dirt trail. Your steps feel light; the cares of the world become a little less weighty with every footprint left in the dust. The light around you is blue-tinted and young. Then you stop, but that too feels freeing, almost like running while standing still.
Jack reaches a hand back to rub the back of his neck, not seeming entirely sure about this whole idea. He grunts affirmation to Shelby, and just sends a dubious look down towards the lake. He does, however, follow after them. And, in dreamscape, he has no limp! It's like an entirely different person. Or something. This doesn't seem to register for a few moments, and when it does he gives a visible sort of 'huh' and his mood even lightens a bit. "A'ight," he finally accepts. Onwards.
Cole doesn't make any sign for the moment of hearing the Theurges converation, and instead moves once more into eager motion. He's not so excited about it as to run. No, the Fostern is at least experienced enough to keep an eye out as he moves. "Yeah, good choice, this path."
Age determinate somewhere in the lower twenties, this young man is somewhat rough-looking and carries himself in a fashion that is proud, egotistic, confident, and careless all at once. He is somewhere right around six feet tall, lean and a little wiry, though it is a build born of both natural athleticism and a lifetime of work and motion. His motions are hampered by a certain stiffness that is usually present in his right leg, though his thoughtless compensation for it suggests long-ago injury.
The clothes that he wears trend toward the worn but functional, consisting of completely casual shirts that are often faded, and jeans that are loose and a little frayed here and there, obviously old and well worn in. His shoes are scuffed leather biker's boots that have seen better days, the shoelaces worn and frayed. He often wears a black leather biker's jacket in the winter; it's well-worn and creased, the leather supple and well-taken care of, though it looks older. A cord around his neck holds a small steel cross; close inspection would reveal the metal to be pitted and chipped and perhaps even looks like it's been through a fire.
His features are thin and well-formed, his facial structure inherently attractive just by luck of genes. However, his expression is generally one of detachment and disinterest, though grey-blue eyes remain sharp and observant. His dark hair - nearly black - is cut short.
Shelby picks a spot midway between Jack and Zosia, sort-of kind-of bringing up the rear without actually doing so. "It's different, having more people here," she observes to no one, sounding rather chipper about the whole thing. "I hope it is something with wings, though."
The Silver Fang elder, normally a very serious sort of soul, seems to lighten as they move forward. Her shoulders relax, she lifts her face toward the sky and draws a deep breath in, and she seems to move with what -might- be called a spring to her step. She is watching, oh yes, but does answer Shelby. "Doesn't even have to be an animal," she points out. "I've interacted with a glacier-stream spirit before." She shivers at that memory.
"This's happened before?" Jack questions of Shelby, sending her a questioning glance. For his part, he's slow to relax into this world, his guard still stubbornly up, at least outwardly.
Cole continues forging ahead, letting his gaze rove from side to side. "Well, as long as it's not an avalanche spirit, I don't think I'll mind very much. Lotta less venemous animals in the mountain than the desert." This is called back over his shoulder to the Theurge.
"Twice," Shelby answers, drifting closer to the Philodox. "That I know of, anyway. The first time Zosia and I were down at the lake, with a turtle. Then I came here by myself, oh... three weeks ago? Hard to tell, with dreams. I went to the forest, and there was a bear. I think it was testing me on my stubbornness, but I'm not sure." After a moment, and pitched for everyone's ears, she adds, "Do you know, we're only missing an Ahroun?"
The mountain rears before them, ever wilder, ever more mighty and mysterious, its slopes glittering with possibilities and the lure of adventure. Snow crystals dust the landscape and the air is crisp but with the promise of warmth to come. Spring flowers burst through the frosty ground: brave, bright splashes against the blue-white carpet. Not much beyond that, the trail itself becomes many, each branch the faintest suggestion, even these only hinting at an option rather than clearly delineating a path to be taken.
Zosia stops short, staring at the space before her without saying anything. She's not surprised--and judging by her expression, a bit frustrated--but does seem prepared to roll with it. "Many paths, many choices. Possibly none of the choices are wrong."
"Interestin'," the philodox muses, though to just what part of what Shelby says isn't clear. He sends a wary look up the mountain, apparently satisfied with leaving the choices up to the more spirity types.
"So, what? We pick our own path?" This is said in a tone of actual civility to the Silver Fang Elder. Cole peers at the trails intently, considering. "How about that one." He points at a faint hint, no more special or likely than any other. "That one feels good."
"Last time, I just picked randomly, and took what came," Shelby supplies, with a diffident glance toward Zosia. "If we're not going to over think things, then yes, that path is probably as good as any other. Or...," she pauses to consider the flowers, "we could just go where we like. Those are pretty." The cliath doesn't, however, leave the fosterns' sides, intriguing flora or not.
"Pick what path appeals to you," Zosia says to the others. Her voice sounds almost offhand but there's a subtle tightening of her shoulders and a quick breath in as she moves toward one of the paths--not one indicated by the others at this point.
The light brightens at the Theurge's words, a fresh, sweet breeze blowing towards each Garou, each slightly different in direction and each bringing a fresh scattering of snow that settles to the ground and melts quickly from the spring flowers but blots out the faint hints of trails. An eagle calls in the distance, from the mountain. A tiny dot can be seen circling there, high in the air, almost lost in the lowest whisps of cloud.
Jack seems a little wary of this, too, but he takes a moment to consider the paths, running a hand over jawline-- and then the breeze picks up and the trails are gone. "Well," says he, with just a hint of amusement, "Now what?"
Cole shrugs. "Sounds fair," he observes, then moves off onto the path he indicated without a backward glance. Or starts to, when the snow hits. "Well, that seems fairly unkind," he observes. "I guess there is just one true path, huh?" He looks around to see anything that might have escaped his notice. "Eagle sounds like a safe bet for our chaperone for the evening."
A clear look of dismay crosses Shelby's face at the brief appearance of snow, though it too melts away at the eagle's cry. "See?" she says triumphantly. "Wings!" With a last glance to the others she starts off toward the airborne dot, adding over her shoulder, "Come on - it's not going to wait for us forever. This feels right."
"It is what it is," Zosia says over her shoulder, "but an eagle does seem right." That decided, she continues on her chosen way, her eyes fixed on the small circling figure as she moves along.
The only path or paths now are those the Garou choose to make for themselves, fresh footprints scrunching on fresh snow. The white melts into rich brown earth in every print, the ground ripe with the possibility of new spring growth. The trackless way ahead is open, full of choices, full of opportunity, vast and limitless- and completely without guidance, save for that distant cry and the will of those who walk.
Jack stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and walks along the now-open path, gaze occasionally shifing up and over toward the direction the eagle's cry came from.
Cole moves along the non-path now, using the eagle as his only real navigational landmark. " I guess this isn't so bad if it's the worst of it. Well hell, at least nothing's leaping out to eviscerate us." He glances around as he says this, and when nothing immediately happens, he looks almost...disappointed.
It would be undignified of Shelby to dance along the path, and thus she doesn't, but there is definitely a lightness to the Ragabash's step. Her mood is even more pronounced after she shifts into lupus,: all but prancing on pawtips, her tail flags good cheer and enthusiasm. Race? she asks the others, practically quivering. Race?
The theurge may be in a good mood but she just eyes the young Ragabash for a long moment. "Knock yourself out," she says while keeping her steady, dedicated pace ahead. She does, however, seem to be enjoying the feeling of spring--she smiles as she walks.
Snow fades into a flush of spring growth. The ground becomes rockier, finding a route needing more circuitous steps, but around every turn that is needed there is a new delight- a songbird flushed into the air, singing at the top of its voice; a cherry or an apple tree bursting into blossom, a whole carpet of spring flowers, a trickling, crystal-clear stream, cold and clear and clean as ice that chuckles as it dances down its sloping bed. The eagle cries again, and then, before them, rises the mountain slope itself, vanishing into cloud.
With a look over to Shelby, the philodox looks dubious-- and then apparently makes some sort of decision or another, as he does something he never does. Call it enjoying the lack of pain, but either way he shifts down to lupus and the fostern trots over, seeming ready to meet the 'challenge' in a good-natured enough way. Those who know him at all may know how bizarre his acceptance to the 'race' actually is.
Cole finds his lips twitching again into a smile, less cynical than before. "I don't think racing's a good idea here kiddo. But-" He trails off as Jack takes up the call, mouth hanging limply open for a moment. He drops down into lupus then and gives himself an expressive shake. It is a good idea. Then he's moving ahead, sniffing at the air avidly. When a new wonder appears, he eagerly takes it in, including taking a sip of the stream. When the slope itself appears, he makes a low sound. Long climb.
Falcon's Gambit gallops ahead a few paces before cutting back to orbit the others, all hopped up on Spring. Race! She cuts back through the disintegrating pack, crow-hopping within arm's reach of Zosia's fingers, but settles - at least slightly - when the Walker takes up the gauntlet. She darts ahead, laughing, really more interested in just running than actual competition from the way she veers out of her way to hurdle rocks.
When in Rome....Zosia sighs and shifts down to lupus herself, shaking out her ruff before continuing to trot ahead. Her body language is more easily deduced in this form--the theurge is enjoying herself, no matter her typically stiff demeanor, and it shows in the way her body twists and turns with each step. Long climb. For a reason, she guesses. Forward forward, she pushes onward.
It seems to the Garou, as they explore, race, run, romp, or continue steadily, that the mountain slope is not uniform up ahead. To one side the ground is steep but not sheer, and clouded here and there with strands of mist. No path marks it; it is a hard climb. To the other side the slope is far more variable, full of boulders and dips and ledges bumps and shallow, loose scree, with signs of tracks winding here and there that fade in and peter out again.
It's a good thing, because Fallout isn't really the fastest garou in the world. That said, he lopes ahead, enjoying himself in still a bit of a reserved manner, but clearly enjoying the freedom of motion. The snow clings to his pelt, making the scruffy Walker look a bit even more so, but it's not exactly a concern. Once they get to the climb, he pauses, breathing a little hard. Easier path or the harder one? he ponders.
Dragon's-Fire draws to a halt when he reaches the demarcation in paths, snorting an anxious breath. The harsh one has tracks where the deep one has mist. The tracks make it easier. Mist may be hiding something. Hard path, he answers Fallout.
Falcon's Gambit doesn't vault Fallout when he stops, but it's a near thing. She balances on three legs to scratch at her ruff before shaking; when she's finished she studies the sky for the briefest of moments. Where is eagle? Easy side is better for running.
Falcon's Grace's head swings from side to side and she snorts. Each has challenges, she points out. Harder not always better, easier running not always better. She herself seems to do....well, it only takes a moment to see she's doing a bit of "Eeny meeny" here. As her muzzle moves back and forth, she eventually ends up facing the harder path. She grunts.
Fallout gives a sort of 'alright' answer to Dragon's-Fire, seeming perfectly amenable for the harder climb -- in fact, there's a certain glint in his eyes that suggests he prefers it. Harder one is good.
Dragon's-Fire seems, for a small wonder, to be in perfect is agreement with Fallout. The Apocalypse is truly nigh. He rises into crinos, then, quickly settling his axe over his shoulders. ~Better for grabbing,~ he offers as explanation as he starts to move up the chosen, harder path.
With a last look toward the enticing easier route, Falcon's Gambit settles in agreeably behind the others. Though her tail still gently waves, she's run off most of her yayas, and doesn't even snap at the tempting tail before her.
Falcon's Grace waits to move until the others have moved on; instead, she's studying the last place she managed to spy the eagle. Shaking that thought off, she moves after the others, bringing up the rear for now.
The air is thin and chill; even in the enduring lupus form the breath of the four soon comes painfully fast, legs turning to rubber, heads swimming and vision spinning. The route remains clear, straight but difficult. Their paws fight for purchase on the smooth surface. Cool, clammy cloud-fragments close on each of them, confusing the senses so that when finally one or the other of them finds a way out of the milky whiteness, Fallout and Dragon's-Fire are both separated from the others by a little distance, while Falcon's Grace and Falcon's Gambit are not only separated by several yards but also facing in entirely the wrong direction. There is also no further sign of the eagle.
Fallout eventually rises to crinos as well, and he meets the climb with a stubborn sort of enthusiasm, seeming to actually enjoy the exertion. Crazy garou.
No eagle, the ragabash notes in some disappointment, blowing hard. She sits with evident relief, eyes searching the sky in vain before finally dropping to consider what is to be found instead.
Not so crazy perhaps! Dragon's-Fire seems to enjoy it too, tired though it makes him. He huffs a blast of steaming breath from his maw. ~Now this is what I call a lesson to learn,~ he exclaims. ~Now if only there was an Eagle around here somewhere.~
Falcon's Grace is decidedly frustrated by the sudden turn of events, even if she isn't surprised. Chuffing loudly, she turns her muzzle toward the sky. Somewhere, she agrees before turning herself around before returning her attention to the direction they had been facing. For a reason...? she speculates.
The slopes beneath them are now part-shrowded in misty cloud; the slope ahead continues as before. The eagle's cry reaches them, oh so faintly, through the ringing in their ears born of exertion and thin air. Weariness and lack of oxygen make the four feel drunkenly light-headed.
Falcon's Gambit flicks an ear toward the Fianna, resting for a moment more before wearily pushing to her feet. Know this already, she grumbles, before ears and nose quest to discover the source of the faint cry. ...Eagle?
Fallout pants, clinging to the rock with claws spread. He pricks his ears toward the eagle's cry. ~It can't be -too- much further,~ he grumbles, though he doesn't sound overly optimistic.
Dragon's-Fire's enthusiasm, perhaps unsurprisingly, doesn't dampen at all with the oncoming dizziness of oxygen deprivation. Instead a large, toothy grin spreads. ~Normally have down a six pack to get like this. Isn't Gaia obliging?~ Then the faint, faint cry of the raptor sounds. ~See? Only....only a lot more to go, I guess.~ For all his enthusiasm, he too looks as if he's dragging his legs as he moves.
Falcon's Grace isn't the most fit of all Garou, shockingly. She moves after the others, pushing herself but definitely getting a bit on the loopy side.
Onwards and upwards, a blur now of knifelike muscle protest, trembling limbs and blurring, spinning vision. The world lurches, splits and shudders. Light fades and pulses, clouds closing and clutching and dancing, shading reality. The air stings and sings; lungs burn, ears clamour. Reality narrows to one foot, one paw, one hand before the other. Then, like a flower, a perfect bloom, the world opens before them. The clouds roll back. The dreamscape is laid out before them as a glorious, spinning disk, an intricately detailed circle that lies beneath them, layers overlying layers so that mountain turns to desert, forest to lake; turns again from peak to deep stone and shifting sand to still water; from blossom to fruit, from golden leaf to bare branch; a silver fish swims beneath it all; with a scream like an eagle yet fiercer, wilder, a flame rises as a bird above the mountain's peak, soars, burns out, and falls as ash, and in the heat of the fallen ash stirs the white shell of an egg as the chick inside starts to peck its way out. Then the mind's eye returns to four exhausted Garou clinging to a mountain slope, before fading into real world, and wakefulness.