Fortunes fade
May. 14th, 2011 08:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently Sat May 14 2011.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (79% full).
The bigger the moon, the more hit and miss Zosia's times at home become. Today she is out and about on the bawn, moving between patrols on the umbral side and patrols on the realm side. Exiting the umbra after a long conversation with a few of the local spirits, the theurge huffs wearily. Given that plans on being awake at dawn--having performed the indicated rite enough that she always wakes up at dawn now, she throws herself down in lupus form beneath a sheltering tree and has soon drifted off to sleep.
Shelby has no home to go to, and now that she's become a Guardian the bulk of her time is spent on the bawn. Tonight she's treating herself to a bed at Edgewood, and a damp towel neatly folded across the back of a chair bears witness to pre-bedtime bathing, probably to be followed by post-bedtime bathing tomorrow morning as well. The girl slumbers uneasily under the blankets, rumpled bedding proof of much tossing and turning.
The sense of waking carries with it a corresponding sense of familiarity. The crossroads that now lie beneath the recently-slumbering (perhaps still-slumbering) Garou is known to both of them. The third figure is new, at least in these surroundings, although he is a completely familiar face in the physical Realm. Theis third figure rolls over with an arm flung over his eyes, muttering about 'five minutes is enough time'.
The white wolf cracks her eyes open and huffs loudly. I wanted rest! she declares angrily before pushing to her feet and shaking out her coat. As she shifts, she turns around to see who is along for the ride this time, saying as she does, "All right, who is in the dream this---" With that she stops, staring at the complaining figure rolling on the ground. She then pinches herself on the arm while blinking.
No matter how hard the bed, when one turns over and one's elbow hits a rock instead of mattress, one can be fairly certain that one is no longer in the bed. Shelby grunts and cradles her ouchy elbow for a second before opening her eyes, taking in the crossroads with unwelcome recognition. Or maybe that's taking in Zosia with unwelcome recognition; either way, the Ragabash doesn't look happy to be here. It takes her a bit longer to identify Tristan - she checks their surroundings first before looking to see who's along for the ride - and the blank shock on her face is worthy of a Facebook picture.
Tristan reaches for a warm body that isn't there, gropes, sighs, and opens his eyes. He then performs a beautiful double-take, and sits up. "I never get this drunk. Well, hardly ever. What..." He looks around, and his confusion only increases when he sees the others at the crossroads. "Zosia?"
Zosia turns to Shelby who, in this situation, is a far, far more reassuring site than the kinfolk. "The other times this happened to you, it was just Garou, correct?" She half-waits for a response from the Ragabash while turning her head to study Tristan with narrowed eyes. "What are you doing here?"
Happily for Shelby, there's no one here with a camera, and so the brief look of surprise is unlikely to be recorded for posterity. "Yes," she answers the Theurge briefly. With a last confused look at Tristan she stands to cast her attention back to their surroundings, clearly watching for other, less happy surprises.
"If I knew where here was, I might have a better chance of answering," Tristan says, looking between the Garou, the surroundings, and the Garou again. "Is this a new... mirror thing of yours or something, or were the meatballs bad?"
"It isn't a rite or Silver Fang trick," Zosia says, turning to survey her surroundings. "You're dreaming. We're dreaming. But we're also here. It is the umbra of a sorts and yet it is not." She glances at him then motions for him to get to his feet. "It can't completely be umbra mainly because you are here and kinfolk can't just get into the umbra without help." She sighs, visibly agitated. "But it is real. Again, in a way. Shelby and I and others have met spirits here, spirits intending on teaching us things."
"So far nothing that's seemed intent on causing actual harm," the Ragabash seconds (helpfully?), sparing a moment from guard to glance at the couple. "Have you been to the desert yet, Zosia-rhya?" Her voice, when she actually addresses the Theurge, holds more than a touch of reserve.
Tristan pinches his arm. "Dreaming? Are you sure? Wait, why am I asking you if this is my dream?" He scrambles to his feet. "Oh, hey, a mountain! Look! I do love a good storm."
"We went to the mountain last time," Zosia says irritably to Tristan, eyeing him worriedly before scanning the various choices. "No. No desert. Jacey apparently had gone to the desert. But I haven't yet. You did the woods, lake, mountain?"
"Yes," Shelby answers again, eyes narrowing for a moment at the information about the Fianna. Nearly under her breath she mutters, "Well, it's not just ticking off boxes, then." Then louder, "Did she say what happened to her there?"
The lake lies still and serene. The forest looks bigger, however, the green reaching out up the trail towards the crossroads. Stormclouds have gathered thickly about the peak of the mountain now, lightning flickering in its depths; and, towards the desert, the heat-haze has faded and the sky turned deep blue.
"Something about a mouse?" Zosia hazards, her own displeasure about the Fianna evident. She turns again, peering closer. "They've changed. No. Wait. Some have changed. The forest looks different and a storm? There was no storm last time in the mountains." She frowns at Tristan then waves him over. "Stick close. It hasn't hurt us yet but that doesn't mean there isn't danger."
"No, the mountains were nice," the Ragabash agrees, as clearly a stormy mountain climbing expedition wouldn't be. "I'd think desert, or back to the lake." She doesn't make a move toward either of those paths, however, ceding the decision to Zosia (or perhaps Tristan).
"is this the sort of dream where it's possible to fly?" Tristan asks. "I like those ones. Especially when it doesn't need a helicopter. There I go, asking questions again. My dream, my rules." He looks down. "Why do I have clothes on? I never sleep with..." he eyes Shelby. "...never mind."
"Shut up. This isn't just some sick dream of yours." Zosia says that to Tristan, her body still tense. "No lake," she says immediately. "Not yet. I'm not ready for that yet." Whatever that may mean. "Desert. Forest. Jacey being as unreliable as she is, I think the desert may well be in order for investigation."
The three are at the crossroads, all in homid and all (despite Tristan's comments) fully dressed. The forest looks larger, greener, while a storm gathers in the mountains, but Shelby, at least, has her back to those two locations, watching the others while leaving Zosia to Tristan. Or vice-versa. "That sounds good to me. I don't want to go fail at the turtle again. Want me to go first?"
Tim sleeps, for a change, at the house in the city, but with the preparations that have almost become daily for him: mantras to Yama and a copper oil-lamp lit and surrounded by offerings to various other dieties. He appears at the crossroads as if dropping his Gift of hiding; one moment he's not there, and the next he is, lying on the ground and slowly waking up in a way that leaves the impression that he was *always* there, but no one realized it (including him). He's not dressed in his usual street clothes; instead, his black, ritual, Hindi outfit makes a severe profile out of him as he stretches and starts to get up.
"Hey!" Tristan protests a little indignantly to Zosia's remarks about the less than salubrious nature of his dreams. He breaks into a grin. "If you will persist on being so utterly delicious, Sunny-mine... Personally, I do like a mountain, but if you insi..." The abrupt appearance of another character at the crossroads brings him up short.
Zosia, in a more professional mode given the surroundings, just gives Tristan another dark look. She is irritated enough that her hand twitches before she quickly closes her fingers into a fist. Nodding to Shelby, she points out, "You are a Ragabash. It is appropriate that you would go first." And then Tim appears and she huffs out again. "Tim. We're heading to the desert. Want to join?"
"I certainly wouldn't want to presume," Shelby tells Zosia, ignoring Tristan save for a glance or two his way. The other Ragabash's arrival goes unnoticed until Zosia says his name; with evident relief she fades back to crouch on the Strider's far side, taking in his unusual garb with a quick look and half-smile. "Tim-rhya. You're dreaming. At least, we think we are. I can fill in more on the way, if you like."
Tim looks down at his clothes first, then at the others, and finally, their surroundings. Familiarity lights in his eyes, and he nods at Shelby. "Right. This place," he says, eyes lingering on the lake before they move to the desert. "Jacey said she had to keep moving, or it burned her feet. And she met a mouse." His eyes flit to Tristan. "...huh. You too?"
Tristan shrugs slightly at Tim. "The comment is mutual. I can understand dreaming up Zosia, and even Shelby, but dreaming up you as well..." he seems to lose a little of his typical certainty, and looks towards Zosia once more. "How?"
Zosia rubs a hand over her eyes, ignoring Shelby's tone as she speaks, not even looking to the younger woman. "I don't know. Garou make sense--spirits sometimes choose to interact with us in dreams and we are at a Chimera Sept, after all. But kinfolk? Spirits don't usually bother even paying attention to you, much less attempt to interact with you. As for Jacey's experience, well. That was her." She looks toward the desert before nodding to the others. "Sooner rather than later, I think."
Shelby offers the older Ragabash a hand before thinking better of it and standing instead. "You've got more experience in a desert than I do - than any of us?" she adds uncertainly, though her eyes rest briefly on only Tristan before returning to Tim. "Anything in particular we should look out for? I was going to take point, but if you'd rather have it...?" Clearly willing to cede scouting to him, she's just as clearly ready to take the lead if needed.
Tim can't help himself (or maybe it's the moon); he waggles his eyebrows at Tristan. "I guess I'm just *that* interesting." He sobers as soon as that's said, casting a furtive glance at Zosia, and adds, "I had a dream about getting here. I was swimming with some salmon. And there was a snake that didn't want to let me up a waterfall." He tilts his head. "Actually, maybe I *was* the salmon." He leaves off his musings, and gestures for Shelby to lead the way. "Watch where your feet go. Snakes and scorpions blend in with their surroundings. Other stuff might hurt but shouldn't be deadly." With a look up at the sky, he reiterates, "Shouldn't."
Zosia doesn't seem bothered by Tim's flirting--or she is too tense to notice or things are so trippy she is starting to shut down certain things. "A number of have been here," she says, reaching out to pull Tristan with her if he lets her. "Shelby and I to the lake with a Turtle spirit. Shelby in the woods with a Bear spirit. A number of us in the mountains with...well. It looked like Phoenix. Don't know anything beyond other people's experiences."
"I don't remember dreaming anything before I got here," says Shelby under her breath to Tim - either Zosia already knows, or she's trying to keep the information from Tristan, or something else entirely. "Watch my feet, right." As she heads off toward the impossibly blue sky over the desert she adds over her shoulder, "Or an Eagle, maybe, or an Eagle that became Phoenix. I think we took the wrong path there - not that it makes much difference now."
"No path is wrong if you live to tell about it," Tim says as he waits for Zosia and Tristan to go after Shelby, presumably so he can follow behind. "But I'm happy to put off meeting Phoenix for as long as is necessary."
Tristan is more than happy to have his hand taken, although he keeps up and does not allow himself to be towed. he squeezes Zosia's hand with his own, just once.
The sky over the desert is no longer the cerulean blue it has been before, but a dark shade, like midnight-shaded blue velvet. There is even a star or two visible. A muted scent of ash and smoke can be scented. Each foot placed along the trail brings an increased sense of urgency and energy, and lowers the temperature a fraction.
"There's no wrong path in this, I think, just different experiences for each path chosen," Zosia says, nodding to Tim as he speaks. Once Tristan is moving with them, the hand is dropped as she looks toward the darkening sky above. "Evening," she says. "Night. Aren't deserts very cold at night?"
Not immune to the mood, Shelby starts to hurry - unconsciously, perhaps, for her over-the-shoulder checking in on the others gradually decreases until all her attention is on what's ahead (and what's coming up underfoot). She leaves the question for Tim to answer and shifts into lupus instead, her clothes (though they aren't her usual Dedicated) flowing smoothly into gleaming white fur. Better ears, she comments after shaking out her ruff, all ready to keep going.
"Depends on the time of year," Tim says, also watching the sky change. "In summer it's the only time you can get anything done. In winter it can be as cold as it is in the Protectorate." He stops deliberately, tensing himself against that urgency in some sort of test.
Tristan pages: The faster Shelby goes, the more energy she seems to have- and a sense of impending. It is hard to say impending /what/. A sense of 'hurry up and wait'.
The more Falcon's Gambit pulls ahead of the others, the more she seems to want to, energy all but thrumming through the wolf. With head up she scans the horizon and sniffs the air; head down means she's watching out for the underfoot nasties Tim warned about: lather, rinse, repeat. However subdued she was back at the crossroads, she certainly isn't now.
Tim peers down at his feet, eyes bright with interest, and he starts to move like he's working himself out of mud or quicksand. He steps with slow and deliberate movements, keeping himself in motion without pause. As Falcon's Gambit pulls away, he calls out to her, "No running off without us!"
Zosia, taking steps that had been neither fast nor slow, looks back and forth between the Garou and then at Tristan who is keeping pace with her. "You two seem to need to find some sort of balance. Neither too fast against the urgency nor too slow." Or at least, she's sticking to that story and keeping the steady pace she'd started with.
Tristan pages: It smells almost like snow is coming.
Something ahead, the wolf protests, pausing only a few seconds to dance in place. Rain? Snow? Her tail dips at the sight of just how far back the slowpokes are and when she starts up again it's at a slower, more deliberate pace, head down like she's pulling a sled. At least for now.
"At least faster than this," Tim agrees with Zosia, and picks up the pace a bit. "It's not really like quicksand. More like, walking on a sand dune. Light, sure, fast steps. No stopping, but no need to rush." He acts to suit his words, putting more effort--and faster at that--to getting himself unstuck so he can catch up with the rest.
"It must be getting late, it's getting cold," Tristan remarks.
Darkness is gathering. The packed sand spreads around them, turning to baked, cracked, black earth. In the gloom, something slithers. There is the faintest rustle of scales against dry ground, that seems to come from underfoot.
Zosia's head turns slightly, at the sound of rustling scales. "A bit faster," she says to Tristan in a low voice. "Or just...I think there is a snake," she finally says, looking around. "Poisonous snakes in the desert, right?"
You paged Tristan with 'Any scent of snake?'.
Tristan pages: Yes. And mouse.
Sand, Falcon's Gambit agrees - not that the fourth member of their little band will understand her - and adjusts her pace yet again, delicately picking up her feet and putting them down again, almost prancing. Not cold for me. I hear snake. Smell it, too. And mouse.
"Some yes, some no," Tim says. He nods at Falcon's Gambit, and translates for Tristan, "Shelby says she smells a mouse. And a snake." He takes his lupus form as well, inky black outfit giving way to golden-colored fur that stands out a little better in the darkness. His steps remain light and quick.
Tristan pages: Energy courses through Shelby redoubled, invigorating- yet at one and the same time it seems almost relaxing, if that is not a complete contradiction. It is serene energy. Energy that is poised perfectly, ready for use but content to wait for exactly the right moment, and able to stay balanced and in balance up until then. (Did that sound confusing?)
You paged Tristan with 'It not only sounded confusing, it /is/ confusing! :D I think I understand, though. Like a fully charged battery: lots of energy but all contained, all potential.'.
Tristan pages: That'll do.
Zosia's expression brightens at something, her back straightening as she walks along. "Good pace," she decides, looking around her all the time as she does. "This pace certainly has pepped me up." She casts a sidelong look at Tristan, as if trying to suss out his own reaction.
"Wait... you were a fish?" Tristan asks Tim, but then Tim is no longer human-shaped. "Well. It is a dream," he says thoughtfully as he picks up his pace after Zosia. "And I am, thankfully, not a carrot- don't ask, it was not a good dream. Desert. Desert. Hmm." He seems to be concentrating on something, and for a long while whatever it is leaves him with a disappointed expression. "It won't let me dream up a vehicle."
No, just snake, just mouse, the white wolf agrees, slowing her steps further in an effort to pinpoint just where that mouse might be, where the snake might be lurking.
Golden shakes himself out, looking like he's bursting with extra energy himself, and starts to smell around them. He's seeking mouse and snake--well, mostly the snake. His coat twitches with agitation. Was a fish, was helped by fish, by salmon, the one who gives of herself to restore others, and be born again in them.
There are two conversations going on at once--English and lupus. Zosia's head swings back and forth between the two other Garou and Tristan. "We're in a desert filled with Gaian spirits. I'm not surprised you can't summon up a vehicle." She seems, for the time being, content to let Tristan view the dream the way he is. "Shelby says that it just a snake and a mouse," she continues, her movements sure and peppy, as though she has both been energized and relaxed at the exact same moment--an unusual posture for the theurge. "Tim says he was a fish in the dream, helped by Salmon. Salmon is the one who gives of herself to help and restore others, as he says, which is true and to be born again inside them. That's why Salmon are often associated with deep hidden knowledge in so many cultures."
This time as some start to cast about or to change the pace, there is no sinking sand to drag at their feet, but a sudden cold rush of chill air and a smell of damp air; tiny dewdrops begin to bead on the group and on the edges of the cracks, where they swiftly soak in. There is the sound of a familiar rattling, from close nearby. *Sssss. Ssssshe sleeps.*
Tristan all but stops, producing another cold draught that makes him shiver. "Did you hear that?"
Falcon's Gambit certainly did, stopping all tip-toe and pricked ears toward the source of the shivering hiss. Who sleeps, she inquires respectively, looking around to ensure that Golden is paying attention.
Golden outright shudders now. Rattlesnake, he warns with a huff. He seems torn between the desire to move slowly and look for the source of the sound and the call of the energy pushing them. He keeps moving by making a wide circle around the group, ears and nose active and he tries to find the snake.
Zosia stays in her birth form for now but it would be impossible to miss the sudden tightening of her shoulders, the state of relaxation mostly slithering away with the advent of the rattling. Since Shelby has asked, she doesn't question herself--she instead attempts to look all about to hone in on the sound, keeping her pace but now moving in more of a circle than straight ahead.
*Ssssheee.* The hissing answer is more than words, encompasing the impression of omnipotent, omipresent power. A flat head rises from a crack in the ground. The snake's tongue flickers out and back in. *Thissss is the place and time of sssummer,* she says. *Sssso hasssty. Rushing to meet what is to come. That issss the way. It wil not alwayssss be sssso. That isss alssso the way. Look well.* The head rises further, the snake's body looping up out of the crack, and slithering back down into it, with at the last the rattle buzzing in the cool, dark air before that too drops out of sight.
Tristan circles a finger in the air. "Did... you all hear a snake talking," he asks, "or was it just me?"
Falcon's Gambit sits abruptly, hindquarters dropping to the ground as if there's a barbell tied to her tail. It changes, she guesses, attention returning to the sinuous spirit. Summer, fall, winter, spring. Fast, then slow, then fast again. Her nose lifts to scent the air again, but she makes no other move to approach the snake.
Golden blows out a breath at the sight of the snake, watching it with something akin to reverence. Then it's gone, and he shakes himself vigorously. She. She who? And if this is summer, and it is fire, then it is consuming, like fire burns? Burns down to ash, used to plant in fall, to wait out winter, to eat in spring when reborn? He wonders all of this while walking around, ears swiveling as his thoughts coalesce and scatter. But who is she.
"No, we all heard it." Zosia breathes that out in a low, careful voice. She is listening to Golden, her head tilting slightly as he works through it. Whatever he is saying has her nodding her head slowly. "Yes, all of that makes sense. Summer burning to ash--you can smell it in the air. We move fast because the sun and season fills all with energy. In winter, all are slow." She tsks faintly. "Mouse? It is night, after all. Do the mice sleep at night?" She flashes a small smile at Tristan but is still in her working mode.
Tristan pages: As Shelby first dropped her head, after the snake, she caught a glimpse of something through the crack, but not exactly beneath the ground. It wasn't dark, for one thing. It was almost as if she was looking through one layer of reality to another underneath, and not completely and utterly different to peering at the inner workings of a mechanical clock- only organic, natural, Wyld and not Weaver. It was only a flicker, though, a caught-from-the-corner-of-the-eye moment.
You paged Tristan with 'So... instead of like a clock, more like a greenhouse left to fend for itself? That sort of chaotic?'.
Tristan pages: Fractal pattern chaos. It's chaos, but the same patterns are repeated within that chaos.
Tristan pages: /Inevitable/ patterns and repetitions, despite the Wyld nature.
All sleepers eventually wake, in this word or the next. A restless kin rolls and disturbs both self and Garou; a passing vehicle tootles on its horn at a startled cat; a vixen screams her spring love-cry on her nightly ramblings. The dream fades; the memory of it remains.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (79% full).
The bigger the moon, the more hit and miss Zosia's times at home become. Today she is out and about on the bawn, moving between patrols on the umbral side and patrols on the realm side. Exiting the umbra after a long conversation with a few of the local spirits, the theurge huffs wearily. Given that plans on being awake at dawn--having performed the indicated rite enough that she always wakes up at dawn now, she throws herself down in lupus form beneath a sheltering tree and has soon drifted off to sleep.
Shelby has no home to go to, and now that she's become a Guardian the bulk of her time is spent on the bawn. Tonight she's treating herself to a bed at Edgewood, and a damp towel neatly folded across the back of a chair bears witness to pre-bedtime bathing, probably to be followed by post-bedtime bathing tomorrow morning as well. The girl slumbers uneasily under the blankets, rumpled bedding proof of much tossing and turning.
The sense of waking carries with it a corresponding sense of familiarity. The crossroads that now lie beneath the recently-slumbering (perhaps still-slumbering) Garou is known to both of them. The third figure is new, at least in these surroundings, although he is a completely familiar face in the physical Realm. Theis third figure rolls over with an arm flung over his eyes, muttering about 'five minutes is enough time'.
The white wolf cracks her eyes open and huffs loudly. I wanted rest! she declares angrily before pushing to her feet and shaking out her coat. As she shifts, she turns around to see who is along for the ride this time, saying as she does, "All right, who is in the dream this---" With that she stops, staring at the complaining figure rolling on the ground. She then pinches herself on the arm while blinking.
No matter how hard the bed, when one turns over and one's elbow hits a rock instead of mattress, one can be fairly certain that one is no longer in the bed. Shelby grunts and cradles her ouchy elbow for a second before opening her eyes, taking in the crossroads with unwelcome recognition. Or maybe that's taking in Zosia with unwelcome recognition; either way, the Ragabash doesn't look happy to be here. It takes her a bit longer to identify Tristan - she checks their surroundings first before looking to see who's along for the ride - and the blank shock on her face is worthy of a Facebook picture.
Tristan reaches for a warm body that isn't there, gropes, sighs, and opens his eyes. He then performs a beautiful double-take, and sits up. "I never get this drunk. Well, hardly ever. What..." He looks around, and his confusion only increases when he sees the others at the crossroads. "Zosia?"
Zosia turns to Shelby who, in this situation, is a far, far more reassuring site than the kinfolk. "The other times this happened to you, it was just Garou, correct?" She half-waits for a response from the Ragabash while turning her head to study Tristan with narrowed eyes. "What are you doing here?"
Happily for Shelby, there's no one here with a camera, and so the brief look of surprise is unlikely to be recorded for posterity. "Yes," she answers the Theurge briefly. With a last confused look at Tristan she stands to cast her attention back to their surroundings, clearly watching for other, less happy surprises.
"If I knew where here was, I might have a better chance of answering," Tristan says, looking between the Garou, the surroundings, and the Garou again. "Is this a new... mirror thing of yours or something, or were the meatballs bad?"
"It isn't a rite or Silver Fang trick," Zosia says, turning to survey her surroundings. "You're dreaming. We're dreaming. But we're also here. It is the umbra of a sorts and yet it is not." She glances at him then motions for him to get to his feet. "It can't completely be umbra mainly because you are here and kinfolk can't just get into the umbra without help." She sighs, visibly agitated. "But it is real. Again, in a way. Shelby and I and others have met spirits here, spirits intending on teaching us things."
"So far nothing that's seemed intent on causing actual harm," the Ragabash seconds (helpfully?), sparing a moment from guard to glance at the couple. "Have you been to the desert yet, Zosia-rhya?" Her voice, when she actually addresses the Theurge, holds more than a touch of reserve.
Tristan pinches his arm. "Dreaming? Are you sure? Wait, why am I asking you if this is my dream?" He scrambles to his feet. "Oh, hey, a mountain! Look! I do love a good storm."
"We went to the mountain last time," Zosia says irritably to Tristan, eyeing him worriedly before scanning the various choices. "No. No desert. Jacey apparently had gone to the desert. But I haven't yet. You did the woods, lake, mountain?"
"Yes," Shelby answers again, eyes narrowing for a moment at the information about the Fianna. Nearly under her breath she mutters, "Well, it's not just ticking off boxes, then." Then louder, "Did she say what happened to her there?"
The lake lies still and serene. The forest looks bigger, however, the green reaching out up the trail towards the crossroads. Stormclouds have gathered thickly about the peak of the mountain now, lightning flickering in its depths; and, towards the desert, the heat-haze has faded and the sky turned deep blue.
"Something about a mouse?" Zosia hazards, her own displeasure about the Fianna evident. She turns again, peering closer. "They've changed. No. Wait. Some have changed. The forest looks different and a storm? There was no storm last time in the mountains." She frowns at Tristan then waves him over. "Stick close. It hasn't hurt us yet but that doesn't mean there isn't danger."
"No, the mountains were nice," the Ragabash agrees, as clearly a stormy mountain climbing expedition wouldn't be. "I'd think desert, or back to the lake." She doesn't make a move toward either of those paths, however, ceding the decision to Zosia (or perhaps Tristan).
"is this the sort of dream where it's possible to fly?" Tristan asks. "I like those ones. Especially when it doesn't need a helicopter. There I go, asking questions again. My dream, my rules." He looks down. "Why do I have clothes on? I never sleep with..." he eyes Shelby. "...never mind."
"Shut up. This isn't just some sick dream of yours." Zosia says that to Tristan, her body still tense. "No lake," she says immediately. "Not yet. I'm not ready for that yet." Whatever that may mean. "Desert. Forest. Jacey being as unreliable as she is, I think the desert may well be in order for investigation."
The three are at the crossroads, all in homid and all (despite Tristan's comments) fully dressed. The forest looks larger, greener, while a storm gathers in the mountains, but Shelby, at least, has her back to those two locations, watching the others while leaving Zosia to Tristan. Or vice-versa. "That sounds good to me. I don't want to go fail at the turtle again. Want me to go first?"
Tim sleeps, for a change, at the house in the city, but with the preparations that have almost become daily for him: mantras to Yama and a copper oil-lamp lit and surrounded by offerings to various other dieties. He appears at the crossroads as if dropping his Gift of hiding; one moment he's not there, and the next he is, lying on the ground and slowly waking up in a way that leaves the impression that he was *always* there, but no one realized it (including him). He's not dressed in his usual street clothes; instead, his black, ritual, Hindi outfit makes a severe profile out of him as he stretches and starts to get up.
"Hey!" Tristan protests a little indignantly to Zosia's remarks about the less than salubrious nature of his dreams. He breaks into a grin. "If you will persist on being so utterly delicious, Sunny-mine... Personally, I do like a mountain, but if you insi..." The abrupt appearance of another character at the crossroads brings him up short.
Zosia, in a more professional mode given the surroundings, just gives Tristan another dark look. She is irritated enough that her hand twitches before she quickly closes her fingers into a fist. Nodding to Shelby, she points out, "You are a Ragabash. It is appropriate that you would go first." And then Tim appears and she huffs out again. "Tim. We're heading to the desert. Want to join?"
"I certainly wouldn't want to presume," Shelby tells Zosia, ignoring Tristan save for a glance or two his way. The other Ragabash's arrival goes unnoticed until Zosia says his name; with evident relief she fades back to crouch on the Strider's far side, taking in his unusual garb with a quick look and half-smile. "Tim-rhya. You're dreaming. At least, we think we are. I can fill in more on the way, if you like."
Tim looks down at his clothes first, then at the others, and finally, their surroundings. Familiarity lights in his eyes, and he nods at Shelby. "Right. This place," he says, eyes lingering on the lake before they move to the desert. "Jacey said she had to keep moving, or it burned her feet. And she met a mouse." His eyes flit to Tristan. "...huh. You too?"
Tristan shrugs slightly at Tim. "The comment is mutual. I can understand dreaming up Zosia, and even Shelby, but dreaming up you as well..." he seems to lose a little of his typical certainty, and looks towards Zosia once more. "How?"
Zosia rubs a hand over her eyes, ignoring Shelby's tone as she speaks, not even looking to the younger woman. "I don't know. Garou make sense--spirits sometimes choose to interact with us in dreams and we are at a Chimera Sept, after all. But kinfolk? Spirits don't usually bother even paying attention to you, much less attempt to interact with you. As for Jacey's experience, well. That was her." She looks toward the desert before nodding to the others. "Sooner rather than later, I think."
Shelby offers the older Ragabash a hand before thinking better of it and standing instead. "You've got more experience in a desert than I do - than any of us?" she adds uncertainly, though her eyes rest briefly on only Tristan before returning to Tim. "Anything in particular we should look out for? I was going to take point, but if you'd rather have it...?" Clearly willing to cede scouting to him, she's just as clearly ready to take the lead if needed.
Tim can't help himself (or maybe it's the moon); he waggles his eyebrows at Tristan. "I guess I'm just *that* interesting." He sobers as soon as that's said, casting a furtive glance at Zosia, and adds, "I had a dream about getting here. I was swimming with some salmon. And there was a snake that didn't want to let me up a waterfall." He tilts his head. "Actually, maybe I *was* the salmon." He leaves off his musings, and gestures for Shelby to lead the way. "Watch where your feet go. Snakes and scorpions blend in with their surroundings. Other stuff might hurt but shouldn't be deadly." With a look up at the sky, he reiterates, "Shouldn't."
Zosia doesn't seem bothered by Tim's flirting--or she is too tense to notice or things are so trippy she is starting to shut down certain things. "A number of have been here," she says, reaching out to pull Tristan with her if he lets her. "Shelby and I to the lake with a Turtle spirit. Shelby in the woods with a Bear spirit. A number of us in the mountains with...well. It looked like Phoenix. Don't know anything beyond other people's experiences."
"I don't remember dreaming anything before I got here," says Shelby under her breath to Tim - either Zosia already knows, or she's trying to keep the information from Tristan, or something else entirely. "Watch my feet, right." As she heads off toward the impossibly blue sky over the desert she adds over her shoulder, "Or an Eagle, maybe, or an Eagle that became Phoenix. I think we took the wrong path there - not that it makes much difference now."
"No path is wrong if you live to tell about it," Tim says as he waits for Zosia and Tristan to go after Shelby, presumably so he can follow behind. "But I'm happy to put off meeting Phoenix for as long as is necessary."
Tristan is more than happy to have his hand taken, although he keeps up and does not allow himself to be towed. he squeezes Zosia's hand with his own, just once.
The sky over the desert is no longer the cerulean blue it has been before, but a dark shade, like midnight-shaded blue velvet. There is even a star or two visible. A muted scent of ash and smoke can be scented. Each foot placed along the trail brings an increased sense of urgency and energy, and lowers the temperature a fraction.
"There's no wrong path in this, I think, just different experiences for each path chosen," Zosia says, nodding to Tim as he speaks. Once Tristan is moving with them, the hand is dropped as she looks toward the darkening sky above. "Evening," she says. "Night. Aren't deserts very cold at night?"
Not immune to the mood, Shelby starts to hurry - unconsciously, perhaps, for her over-the-shoulder checking in on the others gradually decreases until all her attention is on what's ahead (and what's coming up underfoot). She leaves the question for Tim to answer and shifts into lupus instead, her clothes (though they aren't her usual Dedicated) flowing smoothly into gleaming white fur. Better ears, she comments after shaking out her ruff, all ready to keep going.
"Depends on the time of year," Tim says, also watching the sky change. "In summer it's the only time you can get anything done. In winter it can be as cold as it is in the Protectorate." He stops deliberately, tensing himself against that urgency in some sort of test.
Tristan pages: The faster Shelby goes, the more energy she seems to have- and a sense of impending. It is hard to say impending /what/. A sense of 'hurry up and wait'.
The more Falcon's Gambit pulls ahead of the others, the more she seems to want to, energy all but thrumming through the wolf. With head up she scans the horizon and sniffs the air; head down means she's watching out for the underfoot nasties Tim warned about: lather, rinse, repeat. However subdued she was back at the crossroads, she certainly isn't now.
Tim peers down at his feet, eyes bright with interest, and he starts to move like he's working himself out of mud or quicksand. He steps with slow and deliberate movements, keeping himself in motion without pause. As Falcon's Gambit pulls away, he calls out to her, "No running off without us!"
Zosia, taking steps that had been neither fast nor slow, looks back and forth between the Garou and then at Tristan who is keeping pace with her. "You two seem to need to find some sort of balance. Neither too fast against the urgency nor too slow." Or at least, she's sticking to that story and keeping the steady pace she'd started with.
Tristan pages: It smells almost like snow is coming.
Something ahead, the wolf protests, pausing only a few seconds to dance in place. Rain? Snow? Her tail dips at the sight of just how far back the slowpokes are and when she starts up again it's at a slower, more deliberate pace, head down like she's pulling a sled. At least for now.
"At least faster than this," Tim agrees with Zosia, and picks up the pace a bit. "It's not really like quicksand. More like, walking on a sand dune. Light, sure, fast steps. No stopping, but no need to rush." He acts to suit his words, putting more effort--and faster at that--to getting himself unstuck so he can catch up with the rest.
"It must be getting late, it's getting cold," Tristan remarks.
Darkness is gathering. The packed sand spreads around them, turning to baked, cracked, black earth. In the gloom, something slithers. There is the faintest rustle of scales against dry ground, that seems to come from underfoot.
Zosia's head turns slightly, at the sound of rustling scales. "A bit faster," she says to Tristan in a low voice. "Or just...I think there is a snake," she finally says, looking around. "Poisonous snakes in the desert, right?"
You paged Tristan with 'Any scent of snake?'.
Tristan pages: Yes. And mouse.
Sand, Falcon's Gambit agrees - not that the fourth member of their little band will understand her - and adjusts her pace yet again, delicately picking up her feet and putting them down again, almost prancing. Not cold for me. I hear snake. Smell it, too. And mouse.
"Some yes, some no," Tim says. He nods at Falcon's Gambit, and translates for Tristan, "Shelby says she smells a mouse. And a snake." He takes his lupus form as well, inky black outfit giving way to golden-colored fur that stands out a little better in the darkness. His steps remain light and quick.
Tristan pages: Energy courses through Shelby redoubled, invigorating- yet at one and the same time it seems almost relaxing, if that is not a complete contradiction. It is serene energy. Energy that is poised perfectly, ready for use but content to wait for exactly the right moment, and able to stay balanced and in balance up until then. (Did that sound confusing?)
You paged Tristan with 'It not only sounded confusing, it /is/ confusing! :D I think I understand, though. Like a fully charged battery: lots of energy but all contained, all potential.'.
Tristan pages: That'll do.
Zosia's expression brightens at something, her back straightening as she walks along. "Good pace," she decides, looking around her all the time as she does. "This pace certainly has pepped me up." She casts a sidelong look at Tristan, as if trying to suss out his own reaction.
"Wait... you were a fish?" Tristan asks Tim, but then Tim is no longer human-shaped. "Well. It is a dream," he says thoughtfully as he picks up his pace after Zosia. "And I am, thankfully, not a carrot- don't ask, it was not a good dream. Desert. Desert. Hmm." He seems to be concentrating on something, and for a long while whatever it is leaves him with a disappointed expression. "It won't let me dream up a vehicle."
No, just snake, just mouse, the white wolf agrees, slowing her steps further in an effort to pinpoint just where that mouse might be, where the snake might be lurking.
Golden shakes himself out, looking like he's bursting with extra energy himself, and starts to smell around them. He's seeking mouse and snake--well, mostly the snake. His coat twitches with agitation. Was a fish, was helped by fish, by salmon, the one who gives of herself to restore others, and be born again in them.
There are two conversations going on at once--English and lupus. Zosia's head swings back and forth between the two other Garou and Tristan. "We're in a desert filled with Gaian spirits. I'm not surprised you can't summon up a vehicle." She seems, for the time being, content to let Tristan view the dream the way he is. "Shelby says that it just a snake and a mouse," she continues, her movements sure and peppy, as though she has both been energized and relaxed at the exact same moment--an unusual posture for the theurge. "Tim says he was a fish in the dream, helped by Salmon. Salmon is the one who gives of herself to help and restore others, as he says, which is true and to be born again inside them. That's why Salmon are often associated with deep hidden knowledge in so many cultures."
This time as some start to cast about or to change the pace, there is no sinking sand to drag at their feet, but a sudden cold rush of chill air and a smell of damp air; tiny dewdrops begin to bead on the group and on the edges of the cracks, where they swiftly soak in. There is the sound of a familiar rattling, from close nearby. *Sssss. Ssssshe sleeps.*
Tristan all but stops, producing another cold draught that makes him shiver. "Did you hear that?"
Falcon's Gambit certainly did, stopping all tip-toe and pricked ears toward the source of the shivering hiss. Who sleeps, she inquires respectively, looking around to ensure that Golden is paying attention.
Golden outright shudders now. Rattlesnake, he warns with a huff. He seems torn between the desire to move slowly and look for the source of the sound and the call of the energy pushing them. He keeps moving by making a wide circle around the group, ears and nose active and he tries to find the snake.
Zosia stays in her birth form for now but it would be impossible to miss the sudden tightening of her shoulders, the state of relaxation mostly slithering away with the advent of the rattling. Since Shelby has asked, she doesn't question herself--she instead attempts to look all about to hone in on the sound, keeping her pace but now moving in more of a circle than straight ahead.
*Ssssheee.* The hissing answer is more than words, encompasing the impression of omnipotent, omipresent power. A flat head rises from a crack in the ground. The snake's tongue flickers out and back in. *Thissss is the place and time of sssummer,* she says. *Sssso hasssty. Rushing to meet what is to come. That issss the way. It wil not alwayssss be sssso. That isss alssso the way. Look well.* The head rises further, the snake's body looping up out of the crack, and slithering back down into it, with at the last the rattle buzzing in the cool, dark air before that too drops out of sight.
Tristan circles a finger in the air. "Did... you all hear a snake talking," he asks, "or was it just me?"
Falcon's Gambit sits abruptly, hindquarters dropping to the ground as if there's a barbell tied to her tail. It changes, she guesses, attention returning to the sinuous spirit. Summer, fall, winter, spring. Fast, then slow, then fast again. Her nose lifts to scent the air again, but she makes no other move to approach the snake.
Golden blows out a breath at the sight of the snake, watching it with something akin to reverence. Then it's gone, and he shakes himself vigorously. She. She who? And if this is summer, and it is fire, then it is consuming, like fire burns? Burns down to ash, used to plant in fall, to wait out winter, to eat in spring when reborn? He wonders all of this while walking around, ears swiveling as his thoughts coalesce and scatter. But who is she.
"No, we all heard it." Zosia breathes that out in a low, careful voice. She is listening to Golden, her head tilting slightly as he works through it. Whatever he is saying has her nodding her head slowly. "Yes, all of that makes sense. Summer burning to ash--you can smell it in the air. We move fast because the sun and season fills all with energy. In winter, all are slow." She tsks faintly. "Mouse? It is night, after all. Do the mice sleep at night?" She flashes a small smile at Tristan but is still in her working mode.
Tristan pages: As Shelby first dropped her head, after the snake, she caught a glimpse of something through the crack, but not exactly beneath the ground. It wasn't dark, for one thing. It was almost as if she was looking through one layer of reality to another underneath, and not completely and utterly different to peering at the inner workings of a mechanical clock- only organic, natural, Wyld and not Weaver. It was only a flicker, though, a caught-from-the-corner-of-the-eye moment.
You paged Tristan with 'So... instead of like a clock, more like a greenhouse left to fend for itself? That sort of chaotic?'.
Tristan pages: Fractal pattern chaos. It's chaos, but the same patterns are repeated within that chaos.
Tristan pages: /Inevitable/ patterns and repetitions, despite the Wyld nature.
All sleepers eventually wake, in this word or the next. A restless kin rolls and disturbs both self and Garou; a passing vehicle tootles on its horn at a startled cat; a vixen screams her spring love-cry on her nightly ramblings. The dream fades; the memory of it remains.