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renferretA collection of logs in which Owen gripes, Mouse meets Naomi, Ky apologizes, and Mouse discusses the upcoming Caern reawakening with Riley and Emma.
Caern: The Center Tree
The center of the caern is devoid of the thick vegetation that inhabits the rest of the forest. The ground is flat and well trodden, its rich, dark soil nonetheless still carrying the scent of the woods--moss and peat mixed with pine needles, detritus, and the dampness brought from life-giving rain. The wide, empty clearing is dominated by one living exception to the absence of vegetation: an impossibly gigantic and ancient tree growing out of the ground near the very center. The tree defies logic. Grown in the span of a single year, it nevertheless has the size, apparent age, and character of the greatest and most ancient of forest sentinels. It looms over everything, silent and watchful. The backdrop to this commanding presence is almost as remarkable. Spanning the entire length of the old caern's chasm and completely encompassing the southern half is a colossal remnant of the wasp nest built during the Wyld surge. The towering walls of the nest are as strong as the earth into which they're built, their surface smooth to the touch and colored in shaded swirls of beiges, browns, yellows, and reds in a hypnotizing, pleasing way. Oval shapes bulge from the wall in places, while others sinks inward, giving the whole thing a haphazard air.
The caern's triangle extends out from here in two directions. On one side, the escarpment wall with its natural dais can be seen. The opposite side holds the stone firepit.
Contents:
Owen
The Caern Tree
Obvious exits:
Firepit Escarpment
The tree's trunk is enormous--as big around as any millennia old Sequoia and perhaps just as tall. Yet it's not a Sequoia. Or is it? The tree's species is impossible to decipher, as it often looks different from one view to the next, or from one person to the next. In one moment it might appear to have the distinctive, gnarled look of an ancient oak, and in another one might swear it had the weeping, draped green of a spread willow, or the unforgettable reddish color of a cedar. The only thing everyone can agree upon where the tree is concerned is that it is definitely huge. Its roots expand out from the great trunk, rising above and sinking deep into the earth while stretching out almost the enter length of the open clearing. Their massive, twisted limbs snake in and out amongst each other, lending them an uncanny resemblance to the garou's Wyld glyph. Hidden amongst the tree's wood are various small stones and rocks. These poor relics were, no doubt, swept up during the tree's violent birth, and now they have become an irrevocable part of it. Some are natural, glittering quartz, but a few carry old scratchings, marks, and paintings, showing them to be remnants of the old caern's stone cairn. From one moment to the next, the silent giant is never the same as it was, and yet it is always here, and seemingly always will be--an unmoving witness to everything.
The night is chilly and dark, with only a sliver of moon for lighting, and with a fair amount of fog settled around the Caern's upper reaches. First-Strike can be found near the base of the massive tree, settled comfortably between two massive roots. She's in crinos, with her head bowed, her eyes closed, and her hands spread flat against the earth immediately in front of her. Every now and then her lips move, but if she's speaking, there's no sound to carry whatever her words might be. No sign of the Theurge having done any cleaning work; but then, with that mechanical brace she's wearing, it's not really clear how much use she'd be at that anyway.
Well, clearing has been done to some degree. Wildfire has been making sure of that, doing his part and some as far as the heavy lifting goes around here. But even he doesn't have limitless stamina. He's been gone for the past few hours to rekindle himself and is just now re-arriving in the caern proper, taking to the warform as well almost immediately upon entering the new valley. He sets straight for the hive to gather some more remains into a pile before stopping when spotting the Ritemistress nearby. He pauses for a time before coughing, a clearing of the throat to show that he is here without trying to startle too much.
First-Strike makes no move or sound when Wildfire arrives, and even after the throat-clearing her head remains down, her lips moving silently. It's only after another full minute that her eyes finally slant open, though her head remains bowed. ~Wildfire.~ The end of her too-long tail twitches from one side to the other at the word, as if finally allowed motion.
Owen closes the distance with a few steps, taking a moment to look over the trappings aiding the Walker as he steps up, but eventually turning to look up at the tree. ~You are working yourself to death,~ he states, more matter-of-factly than anything else, but perhaps if she was looking towards him she might see a faint crack of a smile. His next question, though, may come as a little of a surprise. ~Is it too early to think about what happens after?~
Were she not in crinos, the noise First-Strike makes would sound something like the distant, feral cousin of a dry laugh. ~No. But maybe that's more truthful than you realize. We'll see.~ Her fingers spread a little further, claws dipping into the soil, before she carefully eases back into a more upright crouch. There's a faint quivering to her ears--that hurts, as much as she makes an effort to hide it. ~It'll be too early for me until I've finished. Grapples-Fire made noises a long while back about "Hanford", and how it was getting time for us to clear out that shithole for good.~
Wildfire almost took another step forward, but has since managed to keep himself looking up towards the tree or most anything else besides the Ritemistress, taking his part in the other's effort-hiding. ~Yes, of course. But I was thinking more along the lines of things... closer to home.~ Only once the Ritemistress has settled herself does he again look her way. ~We have cubs. I think many of us do.~
First-Strike's left ear twitches in the direction of the Get--she's still looking down at the ground, at her hands. ~Often,~ she murmurs. ~And?~
~Well, some are ready. Some are even chewing at the bit.~ Wildfire turns his head as he spies a rock a chest-sized rock that he swears he's moved twice already before as he makes his way over to it. ~Maybe a good way to celebrate our Caern when it's awakened,~ which he says as a foregone conclusion, ~is, at our first moot, we let them introduce themselves to the sept, then send them all on their rites as a Sept. Each would pursue their own test, of course.~
First-Strike grunts. ~I see nothing wrong with that if they're ready. Unfortunately, the Walkers are pretty cubless at present. We don't have anyone that would be joining in with something like that.~
Wildfire eyeballs the rock for a few before facing the Walker once again. ~It is not something I can decide on, though. Nor even do, though I should make myself learn that rite someday.~ He looks down at the ground pensively for a moment. ~Or perhaps I am thinking too much again.~
~No,~ First-Strike agrees. ~That'd require a fair amount of coordination with other elders. Touch base with the Alpha and the Warder. See if there's a part during the Moot where it'd be appropriate. I'm fine with the rite itself being performed here, once the Caern is reawakened.~
Wildfire has kept his gaze downward for a bit longer before looking back to the Ritemistress. ~It is not whether it can be done I am thinking on, First-Strike. It is whether this is a good idea. For the Sept. For the Caern.~ The last is said with arms outstretched indicating the place they now stand. He takes in a deep breath. ~Suppose I am not being clear. Again.~ Here he turns and bends down to heft the rock up onto a shoulder, certainly not an easy task for a lesser Garou no matter the form.
~The Caern won't care either way,~ First-Strike replies, ~So long as the ritual is performed correctly. Done right, it might engender a spirit of cooperation. Or it might not.~ She finally lifts her head enough to slant a look over toward the Get of Fenris.
Wildfire stands there for a short time insilence, carrying his earthen burden as though he were meant to all his life. If he had more human lips, they might be pursed somewhat. he actually manages to shrug. ~Just a stupid idea from a stupid Get.~ He starts to turn away to take his load elsewhere.
The tips of First-Strike's ears lift a little, as she continues to watch him in her peripheral vision. ~Why exactly,~ she sounds rather bemused, ~Are you repeatedly insulting yourself in front of me?~
Wildfire stops and turns a round slowly to regard the theurge, then makes his way back a couple of steps to put the rock gently back on the ground so as to use it as a seat. ~My mind has been wandering a lot lately,~ he says, once moderately comfortable. ~Mostly because I have been simply point-and-shoot for this whole endeavor. I look around and see this placed, changed, yet again, since I first arrived here over fourteen years ago. And everytime some crisis has reared its ugly head. And when I come to help, that is exactly what is expected of me. Even now. When I would willingly my life on the line for anyone here, so few would...~ He cuts himself off, some inner defense kicking in like he just realized to whom he's talking to. ~...listen.~ He takes in another breath to let it out in a sigh. ~This idea would be better heard from anyone else here perhaps than myself. A Gaian. Or even yourself. Not from me.~
First-Strike inhales slowly, and for a moment her eyes close. There's the sense that she might be going right back to whatever ritual she was performing, but instead her eyes open again, and she slowly, painstakingly rocks herself up to her feet. ~Wildfire.~ The name comes almost as an exhale, rather than a word. ~You're talking to a half-crippled Glass Walker metis.~ She lifts a finger. ~You brought up an idea. It's a nice idea. Not a terribly big idea. Entirely possible, provided other people agree. If this is an idea you /want/ to happen, talking to me isn't helping you; I've already said I'd give permission as Master of the Rite, which is the only part I'd have in it. If it's not one you feel like putting effort into, then that's fine too. And if this is about more than a joint Rite of Passage for a handful of cubs, then I'd point out that if you're dissatisfied with being point-and-shoot, then the question becomes what would you rather be?~
~It is beyond just this Rite,~ Wildfire snaps a bit irritably, the first sign he's given so far that, in case one may have forgotten, he is an ahroun. He looks off to one side, a look crossing him as he scolds himself internally, then stands back up to dust his thighs off before starting to pace. ~You are a half-crippled Walker metis. But you are one that is vying now to become an Athro of the nation. I am, if I may say so, one of the best warriors still alive in this place. And from here all the way back east. I have done much. And though I travel much, I have always come back because this place _is_ my home. And, perhaps, I just want a say in it for once instead of the constant 'That is nice, now run along' routines here. I have given everything to better this place. And now I can not even get the Warder to tell me where the axe I loned to her for her challenge now rests. The former Alpha here would not even recognize my standing in rank just one below him. And now...~ He frowns once again as his pacing stops, the next thing he says seemingly unconnected to what he was just finally venting out. ~I had a dream. Three, actually. I was back home in my parents house. It caught fire and I was stuck within. Another dream was of the old den I dug years ago before the Dancers overran this place. I was stuck in it when the tree above fell and collapsed it. And a third I can barely remember, but there was a bridge of light, and I saw my parents beckoning me at the end.~
~I am,~ First-Strike agrees. ~And I've spent just about a year on this task. Months living with traditional Fianna in another country in the middle of nowhere, entirely on my own apart from Kakkerlak, simply trying to convince them that I was worth being allowed to breathe the same air, let alone that I--and /we/--were worthy of one of, if not the most powerful and important rites that Garou have ever known. Then tracking and Cleansing a powerful Wyld tainted spirit with only a young cliath Theurge for back-up--the Ghost Stag, as it turns out, a rather legendary figure in those parts. Then more months learning the actual ritual, which, I will tell you know, was in and of itself the hardest thing I've ever, ever learned, and I am not someone for whom learning anything has ever really been difficult. It's dangerous simply to teach the thing, to practice it. Then there was the work here, the dream interpreting, the visions, finding the next Wyld eruption at St. Helens, working with the Ragabash and the Warder to figure out just how we could possibly move the wasps without all dying. And /now/ it's a matter of at least a full month of preparation, rituals daily, nightly, Cleansings, meditations--I'm telling you this, not to boast, but to make something very clear, Wildfire--I have worked my /ass/ off on this challenge, which doesn't even begin to get into everything I had to do to claw my way up to the opportunity.~ She breathes. ~You don't ask for credibility, and you don't wrestle it away by force. It only comes by brutal dog work, lots of mistakes, a lot of inspiration, some damned good luck, and many, many nights wondering and worrying if you might be steering everyone you're in charge of straight off a cliff.~ She pauses, then lifts a finger again. ~Which is a lot of words to simply say that you're probably not going to find a lot of sympathy from me, but on the bright side, you also can't get what you actually want from talking to me either. There aren't any shortcuts, and you certainly don't end up with adoration and a lack of people questioning your every word even when you're sitting near the top.~
Wildfire listens in quiet, but at the mention of sympathy, that anger, that rage inside, smolders. ~You find Sympathy between Shit and Syphilis, First-Strike. I just tried to answer your question as truthfully and honestly as I can. And I know you have worked hard, and are working hard.~ He bends back down to re-heft the stone onto his shoulder. Obviously he has more to say, but there anren't any words for him anymore. He look back up at the tree, this time not in the awe he may have had earlier, but more akin to a resignation. He turns and carries the stone out after a short, bilent bow to the Walker.
First-Strike remains standing, stiffly, as Wildfire heads out. She doesn't say anything further, though she does watch him until he's left her field of vision. Then she turns back to the Tree, and after a long few moments of painstakingly lowering herself back to the ground, she spreads out her hands and begins the wordless, silent murmuring again.
----
Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.
Contents:
Naomi
Nicodemus
Obvious exits:
Harbor Park Meadow
Naomi winces, "Yeah. Taxes, Don't get me started there. Government and their brilliance. Honestly, I think they should swap the salaries for a year. Let the folks on the front lines pull in six figures, while the bench-polishers scrape by in middle class poverty." She takes a bite of the sandwich, "Small business and self-employed get jerked big time I hear. That true?'
Nicodemus says "Only if we're pulling in over half a million, but my PI firm does nowhere near that. Taxes are still going up a little bit, but not enough to put me out of business. Terminus?" Nick shrugs there. "They seem to really know their business and thrive no matter what."
As usual lately, Mouse can be spotted long before she's actually close enough for conversation. She's wearing her dark coat, sunglasses, and with that shuffling, old woman walk that impedes any thought of moving faster. She still looks a little too thin for her build, which is saying something, as she's always been a beanpole.
"So either way you're gonna be okay. That's good to hear. If you could drop to just working one job, would you? Or do you just like both that much?" A shrug follows, "I guess I mean, two jobs out of necessity, or desire for you?" Naomi pauses to take another bite, then stops, looks between sandwich and man and apologizes, "Sorry. Being rude, did you want something? I think it's my turn to owe you a bite to eat..." she glances toward the vendors and takes notice of the shuffling woman just casually.
Nicodemus declines the food offer with a dismissive wave of his hand, perhaps unconsciously using the "these are not the droids you're looking for" gesture. "I'll get by fine: I'm more worried about my firm's employees and them continuing to get decent paychecks. I'll probably supplement them out of pocket for a bit, but.... Blah, blah blah. I'd prefer not to work at all, but that'd probably be bad as it tends to be the majority of what passes as my social life." He notices Mouse's approach and offers a nod in her direction.
Mouse lifts a hand in Nicodemus's direction at the nod--she's wearing gloves too, today--and adjusts her plodding course so that it's on an intercept with the other two.
Naomi looks between the Nicodemus and the woman. "Know her? Or, just recognize her as a usual in the city?" The phrase suggests she likely means, 'one of the local homeless'. A thought crosses her and she hurries to finish up her sandwich with one hand, while she searches her pocket with the other.
"Know her," Nick admits. As Mouse draws within conversation range, he motions towards people with his hands. "Mouse? Naomi. Naomi? Mouse." Brief as hell introduction with zero additional information for either individual beyond a name.
Mouse pushes her sunglasses further up her nose as she draws close enough for casual conversation. "Hey," she says to the other woman. This close, those spidery scars of hers are visible, as well as the weird lock of white hair around her left ear. "Morning, Nick."
"Oh." Naomi backsteps a bit at the confirmation of knowing the woman. When the introduction comes, she nods to the woman and offers a smile, "Morning." Her gaze lingers on the woman thoughtfully and perhaps a bit longer than would be polite. "That a nickname you go by? I can't figure out what it might be short for."
Nicodemus returns Mouse's "Morning." He concurs with Naomi. "It's an unusual nickname. Liek 'Glitch.'" He doesn't elaborate beyond that, but there's a definite, developing air of self-amusement growing about him.
Mouse sticks her tongue out at Nicodemus--terribly mature--before she answers Naomi. "Nickname, though I'm so used to going by it these days I should really consider actually making it official. My real name's one of those ones you get when your parents go thumbing through dusty old family trees and decide they want to name their kid after great-great-Aunt Soandso."
Naomi looks back to Nicodemus at the point, "Touche'," she offers. "Yeah I know how that goes. It's like finding yourself named after your great grandmother Naomi... at least it wasn't Ethel or Bertrude or something I suppose." She offers a little grin at this, "So Mouse is the name to go by, even for less acquainted interaction?"
"Correct," Mouse replies. She slips her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat. "Bertrude would be pretty bad, I admit."
Naomi grins, "Yeah. Admittedly, you've got me wondering just how bad yours is that you chose to go by Mouse. How'd you get that monicker anyway? As Mr. Top Secret over here shared, I've a few people know me as Glitch. Mostly because I had a phase where everything I worked on or touched would glitch out on me."
Nicodemus sees that Mouse and Naomi are getting along well enough that, when his phone goes off, he excuses himself with another hand gesture so as to take the call.
Mouse nods at Nick as he takes off, before turning her head back to Naomi. "It's a long boring story, really. I got it young and the name stuck. Glitch? Not someone who's particularly tech savvy, or just a run of annoying bad luck with computers?"
Naomi chuckles, "Computers would blue screen of death on me just for walking by them. Just about anything mechnical or technical would bug out. It got to be a running joke. Thankfully, most of whatever would go wrong, would resolve before things took a turn for the worse. But my peers always got a kick out of it." A pause then, "So how do you two know each other?"
"Would you believe 'we both like this park'?" Mouse asks. "We work together, now and then, but we always seem to be running into each other here."
Naomi grins a little bit at that, "I get the feeling this place has some like, magic power to draw people together. The folks I've met /here/ I keep running into elsewhere in the city. It's pretty weird. Maybe there's a door to Narnia somewhere nearby too huh?" She chuckles, "I'll just be sure to watch out for any Faun's if I slip through the wardrobe."
Mouse claims, "It's the water. People love being near the water, even if it's polluted and the beach could still use a sweep for garbage. Add a fountain to that, and you're gold."
Naomi nods to this, looking back over the park. "Well, it is a nice little break from the hubbub of the steel and concrete at any rate. Even businessmen types like that chance for fresh air and sausage sandwiches. Speaking of, that guy on the corner. I might have to marry him."
Val has arrived.
"I'll bring the flowers," Mouse says in reply. Her head moves a little, presumably glancing toward said corner vendor. "This place is a little too rundown for most businessmen types though. I think they prefer their parks cleaner and more plastic."
Naomi looks around again, "Oh this isn't that bad. It's got heart. And character. Looks like people are trying to clean it up more too. That's all good stuff. Besides, is there another park for the plastic-people to go to?"
"Sure." Mouse makes a gesture with both gloved hands. "You know, those little grassy squares where they stick a table and two chairs and call it good. Or when they put fake turf up on a roof." She glances over her shoulder. "I should probably keep going on my walk, before my back goes into full rebellion."
Naomi snorts at the first bit, nodding. "Right. Those places." She looks to the woman again as she mentions her back, but politely asks nothing about it. "Oh, sure. And besides that, the guy you actually know took off, so... awkward stranger conversation." She smiles as she folds up the wax paper from her breakfast. "Should throw this out and get going myself. Was nice meeting you at any rate."
Mouse nods at Naomi. "For the moment," she allows. "But was nice meeting you in return. I'll see you around, I'm sure." She offers a casual wave, then continues to shuffle off down the street.
----
Caern: The Stone Firepit
A curious, small undulation of the land forms an odd, natural spiral in the open ground. One side of the formation rises to create a half-circle or crescent of earth surrounding and encompassing the spiral. The ground is littered with rock and flagstones--large and small--that would easily lend themselves to building. Surrounding this, the rugged walls of the canyon have been half buried by the Wyld surge, making the upper slope of the valley more gentle than it was before. Stands of Douglas fir and white pines mix with hemlock, lodgepole pines, and western larch trees to fill much of the open space, but the trees here are not nearly as dense as they are in the surrounding forests of the bawn. The sparse woods allows a partial view of the sky, and both sun and moonlight filter down to create enigmatic and beautiful shadow patterns on the forest floor. That floor is blanketed with a thick, soft rug of shed pine needles, lichen and leaf debris. The moss-covered relics of old, dead trees occasionally mark a place where once great sentinels loomed above.
The caern expands in two directions from here. The escarpment wall and raised dais form one point of the new triangle, while the center of the caern and its gigantic, Wyld-influenced tree marks the other. The only obvious way out of the caern is the valley slope that leads to the central bawn.
Obvious exits:
Center Escarpment Central Bawn
At the center, The Caern is quiet, the heart home to only two at this moment. Jacinta in homid, clearly angered but cooling, and Pirate-Trader in lupus, cringing in submission to the Wendigo, a thread of confusion in her body-language. This one understands, she tells the Warder, still bellying.
At some point during this confrontation, First-Strike arrived, though she seems entirely preoccupied, and it's questionable whether she even noticed the other Garou. Even in lupus, she's wearing that strange, mechanical back brace, and upon reaching the center of the odd spiral pattern in the ground, she gingerly sits, her nose lowered and working.
At the center, Jacinta's eyes narrow as she studies the wolf, and her arms fold over her chest. "You are a Glass Walker. Perhaps you live too much in the human world." Her gaze shifts to Mouse, watching the elder of the other tribe for a moment more before she returns to Nieve. "I will speak to the elder of the Get of Fenris."
At the center, Remaining in lupus, Pirate-Trader glances up at the Warder, rising to her feet but with tail tucked. As you say, she agrees quietly. This one may leave?
First-Strike eases herself slowly to the ground, until she's lying rather than sitting, though her ears remain erect, alert. She turns from sniffing the ground to her own foreleg, then lifts her head to peer across at the escarpment.
At the center, "Ii-i," Jacinta answers, though she is already turning toward the gentle slope to make her own way out of the area.
As the Warder is heading out, another wolf is heading in. Smallish and covered in black fur, unmistakable in who he belongs to, he's following his nose after a scent.
First-Strike seems intent on her study of the escarpment, and it's not clear if she's aware of the new arrival or not, though her nose does twitch a few times more.
At the center, Jacinta moves over towards the stone firepit.
Jacinta comes over from the center of the caern.
Jacinta has arrived.
Jacinta leaves the caern and disappears into the forests of the central bawn.
Jacinta has left.
Working his way down, it isn't long before Little Firebrand gains footing on the floor surrounding the fire pit. He approaches the center no further than that, head tipping upward to sniff through the different, older and newer, scents. It's a brief act, that's followed by a softer whuff, polite but fishing for the Walker elder's attention.
First-Strike's attention comes reluctantly at best, but eventually she drags herself away from her studying of the Caern itself to turn yellow, studying eyes on the Shadow Lord instead. One ear flicks, the barest of inquiries.
Little Firebrand's ears fall back in immediate apology for interrupting, and his posture quickly follows. He edges toward the Theurge, forepaws first moving until he's on his belly, then hind legs aiding in a crawl until he's just a couple of feet from First Strike's position. His neck stretches, head and shoulder rolling until the ragabash is nearly on his back, throat and belly exposed to the adren.
First-Strike pushes up--with slow effort, as is usual lately--and pads the remaining few feet toward Little Firebrand. She steps over him with one foreleg, and nips very lightly at the exposed neck's fur. Okay, okay. The Walker Theurge steps back into her previous spot. What is this for?
Much. Little Firebrand tips his head back further. Too much wrong doings, too much pride. First-Strike-rhya showed many kindnesses to Firebrand, and he let arrogance make him not honorable for it. Shameful, and Firebrand wishes bring honor back for kindnesses.
First-Strike considers this for a few moments before her ears splay in agreement. You have been young and stupid. Most of us are, at Cliath. Sometimes your tribe encourages it, and that does not help. What will you do, to get your honor back?
Little Firebrand makes a sound like he agrees, but he doesn't go on to elaborate in the presence of the Walker's question. Firebrand has a gift just for First-Strike-rhya, with words to keep him on the path. And for Cockroach's wolves, eyes, ears, and nose in the areas outside Thunder's holding. Firebrand's kin has put eyes in underground areas, knowledge to be shared as much as First-Strike-rhya wishes.
First-Strike rumbles. She suggested at the Elder's moot that a philodox should talk to you, and your packmate. Shrouded Arrow is a good philodox, and fair. If you show her this face, and it's true, she will see what is best for you. There's a small rite, Contrition, that would work very well with your apology. Unfortunately, she has to get the Caern ready; she can't teach it right now. But if you will learn it, and perform it for her and for Bridge-Builder, and if Shrouded Arrow has still not talked to you, she will tell Shrouded Arrow that she is satisfied. She can't speak for the Alpha, but she can for the Glass Walkers. This would settle things, and the rite is very useful besides.
Little Firebrand acquiesces, posture showing only acceptance for the Walker elder's words. Firebrand has not met Shrouded Arrow-rhya, but has heard of her. He will make efforts to find her, or another half moon if First-Strike-rhya will accept if the other cannot be found. He is also seeking Shockwave-rhya.
First-Strike settles slowly back onto her haunches. If she sees Shockwave before you do, she'll tell him you are looking for him.
Little Firebrand, though still keeping himself submissive to First-Strike, picks himself up off the ground. His head twists to show throat again, thanking the adren for her offer, and more, deeper in meaning, for kindnesses since his cubhood arrival. Firebrand will make this right.
First-Strike lays back down, this time curling one forepaw inward. She looks forward to seeing it. Walk well, Little Firebrand. But her cubhood kindnesses do not need any form of repayment. She meant them.
Kindnesses that were forgotten in pride need remembrance. That isn't wisdom from Little Firebrand, though it's the ragabash that offers the statement. He lowers his head a little further. If First-Strike-rhya doesn't need things immediately, Firebrand will do more cleaning here.
First-Strike makes a small noise of assent toward the suggestion of cleaning. She only needs to return to her rituals, right now. Sundown requires another.
Little Firebrand moves away from the Walker elder, padding quietly to some distance where he won't be a disturbance. He shifts to homid for the task of cleaning, unobtrusive, unless another form is required.
----
Caern: The Center Tree
The center of the caern is devoid of the thick vegetation that inhabits the rest of the forest. The ground is flat and well trodden, its rich, dark soil nonetheless still carrying the scent of the woods--moss and peat mixed with pine needles, detritus, and the dampness brought from life-giving rain. The wide, empty clearing is dominated by one living exception to the absence of vegetation: an impossibly gigantic and ancient tree growing out of the ground near the very center. The tree defies logic. Grown in the span of a single year, it nevertheless has the size, apparent age, and character of the greatest and most ancient of forest sentinels. It looms over everything, silent and watchful. The backdrop to this commanding presence is almost as remarkable. Spanning the entire length of the old caern's chasm and completely encompassing the southern half is a colossal remnant of the wasp nest built during the Wyld surge. The towering walls of the nest are as strong as the earth into which they're built, their surface smooth to the touch and colored in shaded swirls of beiges, browns, yellows, and reds in a hypnotizing, pleasing way. Oval shapes bulge from the wall in places, while others sinks inward, giving the whole thing a haphazard air.
The caern's triangle extends out from here in two directions. On one side, the escarpment wall with its natural dais can be seen. The opposite side holds the stone firepit.
Contents:
Riley
The Caern Tree
Obvious exits:
Firepit Escarpment
Under normal circumstances, a wolf in a back brace would look completely bizarre. But as First-Strike's regular appearance is in and of itself a declaration of strange, the brace only really adds to the overall image. She seems unbothered by the light mist of rain that's falling from today's overcast sky, focused instead on the varying pattern--or non-pattern--of tree roots growing from the massive specimen in the center of the Caern.
It's hard to tell at a glance whether Riley's sweaty or just damp with rain. First-Strike's nose will be able to distinguish that the answer is, naturally, both. The ragabash's hands are covered in a thick layer of mud and detritus, which she's transferred to various parts of her dress, based on the handprints at her hips. As she approaches, she takes notice of the striking silhouette that her elder provides, and raises her voice in greeting, "Mornin', chief."
First-Strike's ears lift, and she turns her head toward the sound of the greeting. Hello. Out for a run? Her nose pushes in the general direction of her tribemate, taking in those scents, though she seems unwilling to move from her current spot.
Shrugging her shoulders as she makes her way over, Riley murmurs, "Didn't start out that way, but yeah. S'why I'm not really dressed for it. Not exactly the best shoes, especially." She doesn't bother to explain the mud on her hands and dress. "You doin' some cleanup, or doing more meditating?"
Emma has arrived.
First-Strike settles a little more onto her haunches before sliding smoothly up through the forms into homid. "Meditating," she replies. "I'm useless as fuck for cleaning, these days."
Drawing in a long breath, Riley offers a half-shrug, turning her focus away from Mouse and to the rather alien sight that the Caern provides. "...Yeah," She distractedly agrees, "Don't think you're going to be hefting much in the way of anything with your back in a sling -- fuck, I really can't get over how different things look." She casts a brief look her Elder's way again, murmuring, "Sorta got in my head that we'd kick the Wasps out and 'poof'. Everything'd just pop back to normal. Like maybe the wasps were load-bearing bosses."
Mouse remains seated where she shifted, and she doesn't look as though she intends to get up any time soon, braced as she is now against one of the massive tree roots. "This Caern's legacy is dramatic change. It'll be alright. We're just not all that great with keeping up with it; even us Walkers."
Riley lifts a hand to the back of her head out of habit and immediately scrunches her nose, "Well, that's mud in my hair, then. Ah, well. Not like I wasn't showering after this, anyhow." The ragabash scuffs her foot and turns her full attention back on Mouse. "Anyhow, you're right. Just had my fill of dramatic change. No more for the next couple months, okay?"
"No promises," Mouse replies. "But that said, I've got no immediate plans for it. Well..." She, too, glances over the Caern before looking back to Riley. "Not on this scale, anyway."
Footsteps can be heard coming into the area; slow and easy and without intent of being kept quiet. It's not long after the steps became audible, that their owner falls into sight. Emma is heading toward the center, eyes taking in the sights in a respectful, but curious way. Spotting others she slows her pace and offers a nod, "Hey. I'm not interrupting anything am I?"
Riley casually wipes her hands on her dress a second time, leaving fresh mudprints and cleaning her hands once and for all. "Your complete lack of comfort is, as always, appreciated." The ragabash gets a wry look on her face, her words spoken without the disrespect they might otherwise carry on paper. She cranes her head, "So how much longer do you need to coax the spirits bef--" Riley turns her head, turning her gaze Emma's way, the corner of her lips quirking. "Not as such."
Mouse glances up at Emma's arrival, and shakes her head. "No, I'm just taking a rest." She looks back toward Riley. "A few more weeks, if you'll believe it. But not too long, considering how long we've already waited. It's all preparation work. Small rites, lots of meditation, cleaning. Speaking of, with the major site cleansings done, the participants need to get themselves Cleansed too."
Emma walks in closer just at that part. "The folks who helped the cleansing you mean?" She gives a little hmm at that. "Suppose I've got to put that on the list." She stops at an agreeable distance for conversation and then settles herself down to the ground, hands put to the earth as she does so. "Hard to think it's been so long since I could do this here."
Glancing down at her muddied, sweaty form, Riley snorts. "That go for me, too? Despite appearances, I think I'm running out of fingers to count the times I've been 'cleansed' over the past year and change." Emma's words prompt a more genuine smile out of the ragabash, and she gives a solemn nod of her head. "...It's a good feeling, yeah. Not all done yet, but near enough to feel good about."
Mouse crosses her arms over her chest. "Yeah, that goes for you too. Everyone involved in the ritual, actual ritualists /and/ protectors, need it. Normally I'm not a fan of unnecessary cleansings, but the rite calls for it. Consider it a part of ritual prep on your part."
Emma smiles in agreement at Riley. "Just being able to breathe in the air, touch the ground... and once it's awakened, feel the pulse again. When I was last here, I took it for granted, ya know? Was all fight and fist and steered clear of the more spiritual stuff. Learned a lot while I was away and, I'm craving it something fierce." She nods then to Mouse as well, "Course. Not a problem."
Riley sucks at her teeth and forces a sigh. "Alright. I swear, I'm going to be the most spotlessly 'clean' Garou in the Sept, at this rate."
"Ritual prep," Mouse repeats. "You'll want it, for what we're going to be doing." She lifts a finger, "I guarantee this will be the most dangerous rite either of you have ever been a part of. It's even worse when it's not reawakening a Caern but creating an entirely new one."
Emma looks toward the Theurge at her warning, eyes narrowing with more curiosity. "What happens at this sort of thing? I've never been a part of one, reawakening, or creating from scratch."
"Didn't say I wouldn't do it." Riley murmurs, shaking her head, "And I'll definitely take that to heart." Emma's question gets Mouse a second inquiring glance from Riley, "Yeah, what are we up against, here? What's so dangerous?"
Mouse adds a second finger to her first. "Two things. First, the rite itself is deadly. The highest risk goes to the ritemaster, but everyone participating must be fully focused on the task at hand. A mistake or lack of focus can and will physically harm you. Garou have been known to die from screwing up during one of these. And if we don't have enough spiritual energy at the culmination of the rite, it will take what it needs from our physical forms. Secondly, you remember all those times Kaz used her Call of the Wyrm in a big fight?"
Emma gives a little head nod at the explanations as they come. "Yeah. Mostly anyway."
There's a dissatisfied noise that pushes up from the back of Riley's throat. "Nnnnnn... is there going to be a primer on how we can go about /not/ screwing up, I hope? I'm still thrilled by the fact that I lived through that suicide romp with Elliot, rather not have my stupidity get me killed in a ritual."
Mouse says, dryly, "Think of the Rite of Caern Building as a gigantic beacon broadcasting that Gift farther than Kaz could ever hope--or want. We start this ritual, and every fucking Wyrm-thing within a hundred miles or more is going to know about it. We will absolutely have company, and the ritual lasts all night long. Just teaching or practicing this thing, just reciting some of the words, is enough to get some attention." She focuses on Riley again. "If you're a part of the rite itself, rather than the defense, just follow instructions. It's more a matter of mental focus than complicated steps on your part. Be well rested, well fed, and alert." She adds, after a moment of thought, "And if you want something to practice, practice focusing in spite of distraction. Solve math equations with the television tuned to something loud and irritating, while also blaring music that gets easily stuck in your head. That sort of thing."
"And those on protection duty? Wave after wave after wave of crap coming at us, I take it?" Emma concludes on her own given the description. "We'll need enough to go tag-team on this. Have people ready to step up if the line in front of them falls. We're not /that/ big of a Sept really."
The description of the Rite itself gets a grave look on Riley's face, and she breathes. "...Okay. So I take it that the defenders need to keep the ritual from being interrupted, and those involved in the ritual can't assist the defenders without botching the Rite?"
"Correct." Mouse offers a slight shrug. "If it were easy, we'd be making new Caerns all the time." She looks toward Emma. "The details of the defense I leave to you guys. We will need everyone there. Quite frankly, with the possible exception of someone to guard the cubs, I'd say to the point where we leave our safehouses undefended. However..." She pauses, then goes on, "As I told Owen, I will absolutely refuse anyone who shows up with a death wish. No 'it is a good day to die' glory hounding, none of that. Not that I think you're the type, but you can spread that message around. Sometimes Garou are a little too eager to die well."
Emma chuckles, "Yeah, not my shindig. I'd rather live honorably than die gloriously. Though when I /do/ go, I hope it's with my boots on and not from tripping on an escalator." She considers one of the comments then. "One safehouse, load all the cubs into one spot? That's actually a fairly challenging task as well. Given our current crop."
"That makes good sense." Riley immediately chimes in, nodding her head firmly to Emma. "Hell of a lot better than leaving a skeleton crew at each location."
Mouse nods in clear agreement as well. "If the moon's getting to them, they can stretch their legs on our Walker territory out here. That's a nice, big bit of forest that should be relatively shielded from all the activity going on over here. It even has a cave." She breathes deeply, then leans forward and slides back down to lupus. Rest time is over. I need to start the next ritual on the other side. There's a faint bit of apology from the Walker elder, but mostly she's all business as she turns for the tunnels.
Emma nods to the Theurge, "Take it easy Mouse. Well. Easy as you can right now while there's time." She glances back to Riley then, thoughtful. "Help me think of all the current cubs we got just now?"
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323 From: Nicodemus At: Sun Feb 24 03:39:40 2013 (Conn)
Fldr : 0 Status: Unread
To : *Glass_Walkers, Rina, Carmen
Subject: Tenement Delivery
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A roughly 2'x2'x2' box is delivered (from the UK) Monday (Feb 25) to the Tenement, addressed to "Residents." Inside there's a note that reads: "Surprise! Look what I found! --Nick." There's also three dozen bags of the following in the box:
http://www.taquitos.net/chips/Walkers_Cajun_Squirrel_Flavour_Potato_Crisps
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Caern: The Center Tree
The center of the caern is devoid of the thick vegetation that inhabits the rest of the forest. The ground is flat and well trodden, its rich, dark soil nonetheless still carrying the scent of the woods--moss and peat mixed with pine needles, detritus, and the dampness brought from life-giving rain. The wide, empty clearing is dominated by one living exception to the absence of vegetation: an impossibly gigantic and ancient tree growing out of the ground near the very center. The tree defies logic. Grown in the span of a single year, it nevertheless has the size, apparent age, and character of the greatest and most ancient of forest sentinels. It looms over everything, silent and watchful. The backdrop to this commanding presence is almost as remarkable. Spanning the entire length of the old caern's chasm and completely encompassing the southern half is a colossal remnant of the wasp nest built during the Wyld surge. The towering walls of the nest are as strong as the earth into which they're built, their surface smooth to the touch and colored in shaded swirls of beiges, browns, yellows, and reds in a hypnotizing, pleasing way. Oval shapes bulge from the wall in places, while others sinks inward, giving the whole thing a haphazard air.
The caern's triangle extends out from here in two directions. On one side, the escarpment wall with its natural dais can be seen. The opposite side holds the stone firepit.
Contents:
Owen
The Caern Tree
Obvious exits:
Firepit Escarpment
The tree's trunk is enormous--as big around as any millennia old Sequoia and perhaps just as tall. Yet it's not a Sequoia. Or is it? The tree's species is impossible to decipher, as it often looks different from one view to the next, or from one person to the next. In one moment it might appear to have the distinctive, gnarled look of an ancient oak, and in another one might swear it had the weeping, draped green of a spread willow, or the unforgettable reddish color of a cedar. The only thing everyone can agree upon where the tree is concerned is that it is definitely huge. Its roots expand out from the great trunk, rising above and sinking deep into the earth while stretching out almost the enter length of the open clearing. Their massive, twisted limbs snake in and out amongst each other, lending them an uncanny resemblance to the garou's Wyld glyph. Hidden amongst the tree's wood are various small stones and rocks. These poor relics were, no doubt, swept up during the tree's violent birth, and now they have become an irrevocable part of it. Some are natural, glittering quartz, but a few carry old scratchings, marks, and paintings, showing them to be remnants of the old caern's stone cairn. From one moment to the next, the silent giant is never the same as it was, and yet it is always here, and seemingly always will be--an unmoving witness to everything.
The night is chilly and dark, with only a sliver of moon for lighting, and with a fair amount of fog settled around the Caern's upper reaches. First-Strike can be found near the base of the massive tree, settled comfortably between two massive roots. She's in crinos, with her head bowed, her eyes closed, and her hands spread flat against the earth immediately in front of her. Every now and then her lips move, but if she's speaking, there's no sound to carry whatever her words might be. No sign of the Theurge having done any cleaning work; but then, with that mechanical brace she's wearing, it's not really clear how much use she'd be at that anyway.
Well, clearing has been done to some degree. Wildfire has been making sure of that, doing his part and some as far as the heavy lifting goes around here. But even he doesn't have limitless stamina. He's been gone for the past few hours to rekindle himself and is just now re-arriving in the caern proper, taking to the warform as well almost immediately upon entering the new valley. He sets straight for the hive to gather some more remains into a pile before stopping when spotting the Ritemistress nearby. He pauses for a time before coughing, a clearing of the throat to show that he is here without trying to startle too much.
First-Strike makes no move or sound when Wildfire arrives, and even after the throat-clearing her head remains down, her lips moving silently. It's only after another full minute that her eyes finally slant open, though her head remains bowed. ~Wildfire.~ The end of her too-long tail twitches from one side to the other at the word, as if finally allowed motion.
Owen closes the distance with a few steps, taking a moment to look over the trappings aiding the Walker as he steps up, but eventually turning to look up at the tree. ~You are working yourself to death,~ he states, more matter-of-factly than anything else, but perhaps if she was looking towards him she might see a faint crack of a smile. His next question, though, may come as a little of a surprise. ~Is it too early to think about what happens after?~
Were she not in crinos, the noise First-Strike makes would sound something like the distant, feral cousin of a dry laugh. ~No. But maybe that's more truthful than you realize. We'll see.~ Her fingers spread a little further, claws dipping into the soil, before she carefully eases back into a more upright crouch. There's a faint quivering to her ears--that hurts, as much as she makes an effort to hide it. ~It'll be too early for me until I've finished. Grapples-Fire made noises a long while back about "Hanford", and how it was getting time for us to clear out that shithole for good.~
Wildfire almost took another step forward, but has since managed to keep himself looking up towards the tree or most anything else besides the Ritemistress, taking his part in the other's effort-hiding. ~Yes, of course. But I was thinking more along the lines of things... closer to home.~ Only once the Ritemistress has settled herself does he again look her way. ~We have cubs. I think many of us do.~
First-Strike's left ear twitches in the direction of the Get--she's still looking down at the ground, at her hands. ~Often,~ she murmurs. ~And?~
~Well, some are ready. Some are even chewing at the bit.~ Wildfire turns his head as he spies a rock a chest-sized rock that he swears he's moved twice already before as he makes his way over to it. ~Maybe a good way to celebrate our Caern when it's awakened,~ which he says as a foregone conclusion, ~is, at our first moot, we let them introduce themselves to the sept, then send them all on their rites as a Sept. Each would pursue their own test, of course.~
First-Strike grunts. ~I see nothing wrong with that if they're ready. Unfortunately, the Walkers are pretty cubless at present. We don't have anyone that would be joining in with something like that.~
Wildfire eyeballs the rock for a few before facing the Walker once again. ~It is not something I can decide on, though. Nor even do, though I should make myself learn that rite someday.~ He looks down at the ground pensively for a moment. ~Or perhaps I am thinking too much again.~
~No,~ First-Strike agrees. ~That'd require a fair amount of coordination with other elders. Touch base with the Alpha and the Warder. See if there's a part during the Moot where it'd be appropriate. I'm fine with the rite itself being performed here, once the Caern is reawakened.~
Wildfire has kept his gaze downward for a bit longer before looking back to the Ritemistress. ~It is not whether it can be done I am thinking on, First-Strike. It is whether this is a good idea. For the Sept. For the Caern.~ The last is said with arms outstretched indicating the place they now stand. He takes in a deep breath. ~Suppose I am not being clear. Again.~ Here he turns and bends down to heft the rock up onto a shoulder, certainly not an easy task for a lesser Garou no matter the form.
~The Caern won't care either way,~ First-Strike replies, ~So long as the ritual is performed correctly. Done right, it might engender a spirit of cooperation. Or it might not.~ She finally lifts her head enough to slant a look over toward the Get of Fenris.
Wildfire stands there for a short time insilence, carrying his earthen burden as though he were meant to all his life. If he had more human lips, they might be pursed somewhat. he actually manages to shrug. ~Just a stupid idea from a stupid Get.~ He starts to turn away to take his load elsewhere.
The tips of First-Strike's ears lift a little, as she continues to watch him in her peripheral vision. ~Why exactly,~ she sounds rather bemused, ~Are you repeatedly insulting yourself in front of me?~
Wildfire stops and turns a round slowly to regard the theurge, then makes his way back a couple of steps to put the rock gently back on the ground so as to use it as a seat. ~My mind has been wandering a lot lately,~ he says, once moderately comfortable. ~Mostly because I have been simply point-and-shoot for this whole endeavor. I look around and see this placed, changed, yet again, since I first arrived here over fourteen years ago. And everytime some crisis has reared its ugly head. And when I come to help, that is exactly what is expected of me. Even now. When I would willingly my life on the line for anyone here, so few would...~ He cuts himself off, some inner defense kicking in like he just realized to whom he's talking to. ~...listen.~ He takes in another breath to let it out in a sigh. ~This idea would be better heard from anyone else here perhaps than myself. A Gaian. Or even yourself. Not from me.~
First-Strike inhales slowly, and for a moment her eyes close. There's the sense that she might be going right back to whatever ritual she was performing, but instead her eyes open again, and she slowly, painstakingly rocks herself up to her feet. ~Wildfire.~ The name comes almost as an exhale, rather than a word. ~You're talking to a half-crippled Glass Walker metis.~ She lifts a finger. ~You brought up an idea. It's a nice idea. Not a terribly big idea. Entirely possible, provided other people agree. If this is an idea you /want/ to happen, talking to me isn't helping you; I've already said I'd give permission as Master of the Rite, which is the only part I'd have in it. If it's not one you feel like putting effort into, then that's fine too. And if this is about more than a joint Rite of Passage for a handful of cubs, then I'd point out that if you're dissatisfied with being point-and-shoot, then the question becomes what would you rather be?~
~It is beyond just this Rite,~ Wildfire snaps a bit irritably, the first sign he's given so far that, in case one may have forgotten, he is an ahroun. He looks off to one side, a look crossing him as he scolds himself internally, then stands back up to dust his thighs off before starting to pace. ~You are a half-crippled Walker metis. But you are one that is vying now to become an Athro of the nation. I am, if I may say so, one of the best warriors still alive in this place. And from here all the way back east. I have done much. And though I travel much, I have always come back because this place _is_ my home. And, perhaps, I just want a say in it for once instead of the constant 'That is nice, now run along' routines here. I have given everything to better this place. And now I can not even get the Warder to tell me where the axe I loned to her for her challenge now rests. The former Alpha here would not even recognize my standing in rank just one below him. And now...~ He frowns once again as his pacing stops, the next thing he says seemingly unconnected to what he was just finally venting out. ~I had a dream. Three, actually. I was back home in my parents house. It caught fire and I was stuck within. Another dream was of the old den I dug years ago before the Dancers overran this place. I was stuck in it when the tree above fell and collapsed it. And a third I can barely remember, but there was a bridge of light, and I saw my parents beckoning me at the end.~
~I am,~ First-Strike agrees. ~And I've spent just about a year on this task. Months living with traditional Fianna in another country in the middle of nowhere, entirely on my own apart from Kakkerlak, simply trying to convince them that I was worth being allowed to breathe the same air, let alone that I--and /we/--were worthy of one of, if not the most powerful and important rites that Garou have ever known. Then tracking and Cleansing a powerful Wyld tainted spirit with only a young cliath Theurge for back-up--the Ghost Stag, as it turns out, a rather legendary figure in those parts. Then more months learning the actual ritual, which, I will tell you know, was in and of itself the hardest thing I've ever, ever learned, and I am not someone for whom learning anything has ever really been difficult. It's dangerous simply to teach the thing, to practice it. Then there was the work here, the dream interpreting, the visions, finding the next Wyld eruption at St. Helens, working with the Ragabash and the Warder to figure out just how we could possibly move the wasps without all dying. And /now/ it's a matter of at least a full month of preparation, rituals daily, nightly, Cleansings, meditations--I'm telling you this, not to boast, but to make something very clear, Wildfire--I have worked my /ass/ off on this challenge, which doesn't even begin to get into everything I had to do to claw my way up to the opportunity.~ She breathes. ~You don't ask for credibility, and you don't wrestle it away by force. It only comes by brutal dog work, lots of mistakes, a lot of inspiration, some damned good luck, and many, many nights wondering and worrying if you might be steering everyone you're in charge of straight off a cliff.~ She pauses, then lifts a finger again. ~Which is a lot of words to simply say that you're probably not going to find a lot of sympathy from me, but on the bright side, you also can't get what you actually want from talking to me either. There aren't any shortcuts, and you certainly don't end up with adoration and a lack of people questioning your every word even when you're sitting near the top.~
Wildfire listens in quiet, but at the mention of sympathy, that anger, that rage inside, smolders. ~You find Sympathy between Shit and Syphilis, First-Strike. I just tried to answer your question as truthfully and honestly as I can. And I know you have worked hard, and are working hard.~ He bends back down to re-heft the stone onto his shoulder. Obviously he has more to say, but there anren't any words for him anymore. He look back up at the tree, this time not in the awe he may have had earlier, but more akin to a resignation. He turns and carries the stone out after a short, bilent bow to the Walker.
First-Strike remains standing, stiffly, as Wildfire heads out. She doesn't say anything further, though she does watch him until he's left her field of vision. Then she turns back to the Tree, and after a long few moments of painstakingly lowering herself back to the ground, she spreads out her hands and begins the wordless, silent murmuring again.
----
Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.
Contents:
Naomi
Nicodemus
Obvious exits:
Harbor Park Meadow
Naomi winces, "Yeah. Taxes, Don't get me started there. Government and their brilliance. Honestly, I think they should swap the salaries for a year. Let the folks on the front lines pull in six figures, while the bench-polishers scrape by in middle class poverty." She takes a bite of the sandwich, "Small business and self-employed get jerked big time I hear. That true?'
Nicodemus says "Only if we're pulling in over half a million, but my PI firm does nowhere near that. Taxes are still going up a little bit, but not enough to put me out of business. Terminus?" Nick shrugs there. "They seem to really know their business and thrive no matter what."
As usual lately, Mouse can be spotted long before she's actually close enough for conversation. She's wearing her dark coat, sunglasses, and with that shuffling, old woman walk that impedes any thought of moving faster. She still looks a little too thin for her build, which is saying something, as she's always been a beanpole.
"So either way you're gonna be okay. That's good to hear. If you could drop to just working one job, would you? Or do you just like both that much?" A shrug follows, "I guess I mean, two jobs out of necessity, or desire for you?" Naomi pauses to take another bite, then stops, looks between sandwich and man and apologizes, "Sorry. Being rude, did you want something? I think it's my turn to owe you a bite to eat..." she glances toward the vendors and takes notice of the shuffling woman just casually.
Nicodemus declines the food offer with a dismissive wave of his hand, perhaps unconsciously using the "these are not the droids you're looking for" gesture. "I'll get by fine: I'm more worried about my firm's employees and them continuing to get decent paychecks. I'll probably supplement them out of pocket for a bit, but.... Blah, blah blah. I'd prefer not to work at all, but that'd probably be bad as it tends to be the majority of what passes as my social life." He notices Mouse's approach and offers a nod in her direction.
Mouse lifts a hand in Nicodemus's direction at the nod--she's wearing gloves too, today--and adjusts her plodding course so that it's on an intercept with the other two.
Naomi looks between the Nicodemus and the woman. "Know her? Or, just recognize her as a usual in the city?" The phrase suggests she likely means, 'one of the local homeless'. A thought crosses her and she hurries to finish up her sandwich with one hand, while she searches her pocket with the other.
"Know her," Nick admits. As Mouse draws within conversation range, he motions towards people with his hands. "Mouse? Naomi. Naomi? Mouse." Brief as hell introduction with zero additional information for either individual beyond a name.
Mouse pushes her sunglasses further up her nose as she draws close enough for casual conversation. "Hey," she says to the other woman. This close, those spidery scars of hers are visible, as well as the weird lock of white hair around her left ear. "Morning, Nick."
"Oh." Naomi backsteps a bit at the confirmation of knowing the woman. When the introduction comes, she nods to the woman and offers a smile, "Morning." Her gaze lingers on the woman thoughtfully and perhaps a bit longer than would be polite. "That a nickname you go by? I can't figure out what it might be short for."
Nicodemus returns Mouse's "Morning." He concurs with Naomi. "It's an unusual nickname. Liek 'Glitch.'" He doesn't elaborate beyond that, but there's a definite, developing air of self-amusement growing about him.
Mouse sticks her tongue out at Nicodemus--terribly mature--before she answers Naomi. "Nickname, though I'm so used to going by it these days I should really consider actually making it official. My real name's one of those ones you get when your parents go thumbing through dusty old family trees and decide they want to name their kid after great-great-Aunt Soandso."
Naomi looks back to Nicodemus at the point, "Touche'," she offers. "Yeah I know how that goes. It's like finding yourself named after your great grandmother Naomi... at least it wasn't Ethel or Bertrude or something I suppose." She offers a little grin at this, "So Mouse is the name to go by, even for less acquainted interaction?"
"Correct," Mouse replies. She slips her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat. "Bertrude would be pretty bad, I admit."
Naomi grins, "Yeah. Admittedly, you've got me wondering just how bad yours is that you chose to go by Mouse. How'd you get that monicker anyway? As Mr. Top Secret over here shared, I've a few people know me as Glitch. Mostly because I had a phase where everything I worked on or touched would glitch out on me."
Nicodemus sees that Mouse and Naomi are getting along well enough that, when his phone goes off, he excuses himself with another hand gesture so as to take the call.
Mouse nods at Nick as he takes off, before turning her head back to Naomi. "It's a long boring story, really. I got it young and the name stuck. Glitch? Not someone who's particularly tech savvy, or just a run of annoying bad luck with computers?"
Naomi chuckles, "Computers would blue screen of death on me just for walking by them. Just about anything mechnical or technical would bug out. It got to be a running joke. Thankfully, most of whatever would go wrong, would resolve before things took a turn for the worse. But my peers always got a kick out of it." A pause then, "So how do you two know each other?"
"Would you believe 'we both like this park'?" Mouse asks. "We work together, now and then, but we always seem to be running into each other here."
Naomi grins a little bit at that, "I get the feeling this place has some like, magic power to draw people together. The folks I've met /here/ I keep running into elsewhere in the city. It's pretty weird. Maybe there's a door to Narnia somewhere nearby too huh?" She chuckles, "I'll just be sure to watch out for any Faun's if I slip through the wardrobe."
Mouse claims, "It's the water. People love being near the water, even if it's polluted and the beach could still use a sweep for garbage. Add a fountain to that, and you're gold."
Naomi nods to this, looking back over the park. "Well, it is a nice little break from the hubbub of the steel and concrete at any rate. Even businessmen types like that chance for fresh air and sausage sandwiches. Speaking of, that guy on the corner. I might have to marry him."
Val has arrived.
"I'll bring the flowers," Mouse says in reply. Her head moves a little, presumably glancing toward said corner vendor. "This place is a little too rundown for most businessmen types though. I think they prefer their parks cleaner and more plastic."
Naomi looks around again, "Oh this isn't that bad. It's got heart. And character. Looks like people are trying to clean it up more too. That's all good stuff. Besides, is there another park for the plastic-people to go to?"
"Sure." Mouse makes a gesture with both gloved hands. "You know, those little grassy squares where they stick a table and two chairs and call it good. Or when they put fake turf up on a roof." She glances over her shoulder. "I should probably keep going on my walk, before my back goes into full rebellion."
Naomi snorts at the first bit, nodding. "Right. Those places." She looks to the woman again as she mentions her back, but politely asks nothing about it. "Oh, sure. And besides that, the guy you actually know took off, so... awkward stranger conversation." She smiles as she folds up the wax paper from her breakfast. "Should throw this out and get going myself. Was nice meeting you at any rate."
Mouse nods at Naomi. "For the moment," she allows. "But was nice meeting you in return. I'll see you around, I'm sure." She offers a casual wave, then continues to shuffle off down the street.
----
Caern: The Stone Firepit
A curious, small undulation of the land forms an odd, natural spiral in the open ground. One side of the formation rises to create a half-circle or crescent of earth surrounding and encompassing the spiral. The ground is littered with rock and flagstones--large and small--that would easily lend themselves to building. Surrounding this, the rugged walls of the canyon have been half buried by the Wyld surge, making the upper slope of the valley more gentle than it was before. Stands of Douglas fir and white pines mix with hemlock, lodgepole pines, and western larch trees to fill much of the open space, but the trees here are not nearly as dense as they are in the surrounding forests of the bawn. The sparse woods allows a partial view of the sky, and both sun and moonlight filter down to create enigmatic and beautiful shadow patterns on the forest floor. That floor is blanketed with a thick, soft rug of shed pine needles, lichen and leaf debris. The moss-covered relics of old, dead trees occasionally mark a place where once great sentinels loomed above.
The caern expands in two directions from here. The escarpment wall and raised dais form one point of the new triangle, while the center of the caern and its gigantic, Wyld-influenced tree marks the other. The only obvious way out of the caern is the valley slope that leads to the central bawn.
Obvious exits:
Center Escarpment Central Bawn
At the center, The Caern is quiet, the heart home to only two at this moment. Jacinta in homid, clearly angered but cooling, and Pirate-Trader in lupus, cringing in submission to the Wendigo, a thread of confusion in her body-language. This one understands, she tells the Warder, still bellying.
At some point during this confrontation, First-Strike arrived, though she seems entirely preoccupied, and it's questionable whether she even noticed the other Garou. Even in lupus, she's wearing that strange, mechanical back brace, and upon reaching the center of the odd spiral pattern in the ground, she gingerly sits, her nose lowered and working.
At the center, Jacinta's eyes narrow as she studies the wolf, and her arms fold over her chest. "You are a Glass Walker. Perhaps you live too much in the human world." Her gaze shifts to Mouse, watching the elder of the other tribe for a moment more before she returns to Nieve. "I will speak to the elder of the Get of Fenris."
At the center, Remaining in lupus, Pirate-Trader glances up at the Warder, rising to her feet but with tail tucked. As you say, she agrees quietly. This one may leave?
First-Strike eases herself slowly to the ground, until she's lying rather than sitting, though her ears remain erect, alert. She turns from sniffing the ground to her own foreleg, then lifts her head to peer across at the escarpment.
At the center, "Ii-i," Jacinta answers, though she is already turning toward the gentle slope to make her own way out of the area.
As the Warder is heading out, another wolf is heading in. Smallish and covered in black fur, unmistakable in who he belongs to, he's following his nose after a scent.
First-Strike seems intent on her study of the escarpment, and it's not clear if she's aware of the new arrival or not, though her nose does twitch a few times more.
At the center, Jacinta moves over towards the stone firepit.
Jacinta comes over from the center of the caern.
Jacinta has arrived.
Jacinta leaves the caern and disappears into the forests of the central bawn.
Jacinta has left.
Working his way down, it isn't long before Little Firebrand gains footing on the floor surrounding the fire pit. He approaches the center no further than that, head tipping upward to sniff through the different, older and newer, scents. It's a brief act, that's followed by a softer whuff, polite but fishing for the Walker elder's attention.
First-Strike's attention comes reluctantly at best, but eventually she drags herself away from her studying of the Caern itself to turn yellow, studying eyes on the Shadow Lord instead. One ear flicks, the barest of inquiries.
Little Firebrand's ears fall back in immediate apology for interrupting, and his posture quickly follows. He edges toward the Theurge, forepaws first moving until he's on his belly, then hind legs aiding in a crawl until he's just a couple of feet from First Strike's position. His neck stretches, head and shoulder rolling until the ragabash is nearly on his back, throat and belly exposed to the adren.
First-Strike pushes up--with slow effort, as is usual lately--and pads the remaining few feet toward Little Firebrand. She steps over him with one foreleg, and nips very lightly at the exposed neck's fur. Okay, okay. The Walker Theurge steps back into her previous spot. What is this for?
Much. Little Firebrand tips his head back further. Too much wrong doings, too much pride. First-Strike-rhya showed many kindnesses to Firebrand, and he let arrogance make him not honorable for it. Shameful, and Firebrand wishes bring honor back for kindnesses.
First-Strike considers this for a few moments before her ears splay in agreement. You have been young and stupid. Most of us are, at Cliath. Sometimes your tribe encourages it, and that does not help. What will you do, to get your honor back?
Little Firebrand makes a sound like he agrees, but he doesn't go on to elaborate in the presence of the Walker's question. Firebrand has a gift just for First-Strike-rhya, with words to keep him on the path. And for Cockroach's wolves, eyes, ears, and nose in the areas outside Thunder's holding. Firebrand's kin has put eyes in underground areas, knowledge to be shared as much as First-Strike-rhya wishes.
First-Strike rumbles. She suggested at the Elder's moot that a philodox should talk to you, and your packmate. Shrouded Arrow is a good philodox, and fair. If you show her this face, and it's true, she will see what is best for you. There's a small rite, Contrition, that would work very well with your apology. Unfortunately, she has to get the Caern ready; she can't teach it right now. But if you will learn it, and perform it for her and for Bridge-Builder, and if Shrouded Arrow has still not talked to you, she will tell Shrouded Arrow that she is satisfied. She can't speak for the Alpha, but she can for the Glass Walkers. This would settle things, and the rite is very useful besides.
Little Firebrand acquiesces, posture showing only acceptance for the Walker elder's words. Firebrand has not met Shrouded Arrow-rhya, but has heard of her. He will make efforts to find her, or another half moon if First-Strike-rhya will accept if the other cannot be found. He is also seeking Shockwave-rhya.
First-Strike settles slowly back onto her haunches. If she sees Shockwave before you do, she'll tell him you are looking for him.
Little Firebrand, though still keeping himself submissive to First-Strike, picks himself up off the ground. His head twists to show throat again, thanking the adren for her offer, and more, deeper in meaning, for kindnesses since his cubhood arrival. Firebrand will make this right.
First-Strike lays back down, this time curling one forepaw inward. She looks forward to seeing it. Walk well, Little Firebrand. But her cubhood kindnesses do not need any form of repayment. She meant them.
Kindnesses that were forgotten in pride need remembrance. That isn't wisdom from Little Firebrand, though it's the ragabash that offers the statement. He lowers his head a little further. If First-Strike-rhya doesn't need things immediately, Firebrand will do more cleaning here.
First-Strike makes a small noise of assent toward the suggestion of cleaning. She only needs to return to her rituals, right now. Sundown requires another.
Little Firebrand moves away from the Walker elder, padding quietly to some distance where he won't be a disturbance. He shifts to homid for the task of cleaning, unobtrusive, unless another form is required.
----
Caern: The Center Tree
The center of the caern is devoid of the thick vegetation that inhabits the rest of the forest. The ground is flat and well trodden, its rich, dark soil nonetheless still carrying the scent of the woods--moss and peat mixed with pine needles, detritus, and the dampness brought from life-giving rain. The wide, empty clearing is dominated by one living exception to the absence of vegetation: an impossibly gigantic and ancient tree growing out of the ground near the very center. The tree defies logic. Grown in the span of a single year, it nevertheless has the size, apparent age, and character of the greatest and most ancient of forest sentinels. It looms over everything, silent and watchful. The backdrop to this commanding presence is almost as remarkable. Spanning the entire length of the old caern's chasm and completely encompassing the southern half is a colossal remnant of the wasp nest built during the Wyld surge. The towering walls of the nest are as strong as the earth into which they're built, their surface smooth to the touch and colored in shaded swirls of beiges, browns, yellows, and reds in a hypnotizing, pleasing way. Oval shapes bulge from the wall in places, while others sinks inward, giving the whole thing a haphazard air.
The caern's triangle extends out from here in two directions. On one side, the escarpment wall with its natural dais can be seen. The opposite side holds the stone firepit.
Contents:
Riley
The Caern Tree
Obvious exits:
Firepit Escarpment
Under normal circumstances, a wolf in a back brace would look completely bizarre. But as First-Strike's regular appearance is in and of itself a declaration of strange, the brace only really adds to the overall image. She seems unbothered by the light mist of rain that's falling from today's overcast sky, focused instead on the varying pattern--or non-pattern--of tree roots growing from the massive specimen in the center of the Caern.
It's hard to tell at a glance whether Riley's sweaty or just damp with rain. First-Strike's nose will be able to distinguish that the answer is, naturally, both. The ragabash's hands are covered in a thick layer of mud and detritus, which she's transferred to various parts of her dress, based on the handprints at her hips. As she approaches, she takes notice of the striking silhouette that her elder provides, and raises her voice in greeting, "Mornin', chief."
First-Strike's ears lift, and she turns her head toward the sound of the greeting. Hello. Out for a run? Her nose pushes in the general direction of her tribemate, taking in those scents, though she seems unwilling to move from her current spot.
Shrugging her shoulders as she makes her way over, Riley murmurs, "Didn't start out that way, but yeah. S'why I'm not really dressed for it. Not exactly the best shoes, especially." She doesn't bother to explain the mud on her hands and dress. "You doin' some cleanup, or doing more meditating?"
Emma has arrived.
First-Strike settles a little more onto her haunches before sliding smoothly up through the forms into homid. "Meditating," she replies. "I'm useless as fuck for cleaning, these days."
Drawing in a long breath, Riley offers a half-shrug, turning her focus away from Mouse and to the rather alien sight that the Caern provides. "...Yeah," She distractedly agrees, "Don't think you're going to be hefting much in the way of anything with your back in a sling -- fuck, I really can't get over how different things look." She casts a brief look her Elder's way again, murmuring, "Sorta got in my head that we'd kick the Wasps out and 'poof'. Everything'd just pop back to normal. Like maybe the wasps were load-bearing bosses."
Mouse remains seated where she shifted, and she doesn't look as though she intends to get up any time soon, braced as she is now against one of the massive tree roots. "This Caern's legacy is dramatic change. It'll be alright. We're just not all that great with keeping up with it; even us Walkers."
Riley lifts a hand to the back of her head out of habit and immediately scrunches her nose, "Well, that's mud in my hair, then. Ah, well. Not like I wasn't showering after this, anyhow." The ragabash scuffs her foot and turns her full attention back on Mouse. "Anyhow, you're right. Just had my fill of dramatic change. No more for the next couple months, okay?"
"No promises," Mouse replies. "But that said, I've got no immediate plans for it. Well..." She, too, glances over the Caern before looking back to Riley. "Not on this scale, anyway."
Footsteps can be heard coming into the area; slow and easy and without intent of being kept quiet. It's not long after the steps became audible, that their owner falls into sight. Emma is heading toward the center, eyes taking in the sights in a respectful, but curious way. Spotting others she slows her pace and offers a nod, "Hey. I'm not interrupting anything am I?"
Riley casually wipes her hands on her dress a second time, leaving fresh mudprints and cleaning her hands once and for all. "Your complete lack of comfort is, as always, appreciated." The ragabash gets a wry look on her face, her words spoken without the disrespect they might otherwise carry on paper. She cranes her head, "So how much longer do you need to coax the spirits bef--" Riley turns her head, turning her gaze Emma's way, the corner of her lips quirking. "Not as such."
Mouse glances up at Emma's arrival, and shakes her head. "No, I'm just taking a rest." She looks back toward Riley. "A few more weeks, if you'll believe it. But not too long, considering how long we've already waited. It's all preparation work. Small rites, lots of meditation, cleaning. Speaking of, with the major site cleansings done, the participants need to get themselves Cleansed too."
Emma walks in closer just at that part. "The folks who helped the cleansing you mean?" She gives a little hmm at that. "Suppose I've got to put that on the list." She stops at an agreeable distance for conversation and then settles herself down to the ground, hands put to the earth as she does so. "Hard to think it's been so long since I could do this here."
Glancing down at her muddied, sweaty form, Riley snorts. "That go for me, too? Despite appearances, I think I'm running out of fingers to count the times I've been 'cleansed' over the past year and change." Emma's words prompt a more genuine smile out of the ragabash, and she gives a solemn nod of her head. "...It's a good feeling, yeah. Not all done yet, but near enough to feel good about."
Mouse crosses her arms over her chest. "Yeah, that goes for you too. Everyone involved in the ritual, actual ritualists /and/ protectors, need it. Normally I'm not a fan of unnecessary cleansings, but the rite calls for it. Consider it a part of ritual prep on your part."
Emma smiles in agreement at Riley. "Just being able to breathe in the air, touch the ground... and once it's awakened, feel the pulse again. When I was last here, I took it for granted, ya know? Was all fight and fist and steered clear of the more spiritual stuff. Learned a lot while I was away and, I'm craving it something fierce." She nods then to Mouse as well, "Course. Not a problem."
Riley sucks at her teeth and forces a sigh. "Alright. I swear, I'm going to be the most spotlessly 'clean' Garou in the Sept, at this rate."
"Ritual prep," Mouse repeats. "You'll want it, for what we're going to be doing." She lifts a finger, "I guarantee this will be the most dangerous rite either of you have ever been a part of. It's even worse when it's not reawakening a Caern but creating an entirely new one."
Emma looks toward the Theurge at her warning, eyes narrowing with more curiosity. "What happens at this sort of thing? I've never been a part of one, reawakening, or creating from scratch."
"Didn't say I wouldn't do it." Riley murmurs, shaking her head, "And I'll definitely take that to heart." Emma's question gets Mouse a second inquiring glance from Riley, "Yeah, what are we up against, here? What's so dangerous?"
Mouse adds a second finger to her first. "Two things. First, the rite itself is deadly. The highest risk goes to the ritemaster, but everyone participating must be fully focused on the task at hand. A mistake or lack of focus can and will physically harm you. Garou have been known to die from screwing up during one of these. And if we don't have enough spiritual energy at the culmination of the rite, it will take what it needs from our physical forms. Secondly, you remember all those times Kaz used her Call of the Wyrm in a big fight?"
Emma gives a little head nod at the explanations as they come. "Yeah. Mostly anyway."
There's a dissatisfied noise that pushes up from the back of Riley's throat. "Nnnnnn... is there going to be a primer on how we can go about /not/ screwing up, I hope? I'm still thrilled by the fact that I lived through that suicide romp with Elliot, rather not have my stupidity get me killed in a ritual."
Mouse says, dryly, "Think of the Rite of Caern Building as a gigantic beacon broadcasting that Gift farther than Kaz could ever hope--or want. We start this ritual, and every fucking Wyrm-thing within a hundred miles or more is going to know about it. We will absolutely have company, and the ritual lasts all night long. Just teaching or practicing this thing, just reciting some of the words, is enough to get some attention." She focuses on Riley again. "If you're a part of the rite itself, rather than the defense, just follow instructions. It's more a matter of mental focus than complicated steps on your part. Be well rested, well fed, and alert." She adds, after a moment of thought, "And if you want something to practice, practice focusing in spite of distraction. Solve math equations with the television tuned to something loud and irritating, while also blaring music that gets easily stuck in your head. That sort of thing."
"And those on protection duty? Wave after wave after wave of crap coming at us, I take it?" Emma concludes on her own given the description. "We'll need enough to go tag-team on this. Have people ready to step up if the line in front of them falls. We're not /that/ big of a Sept really."
The description of the Rite itself gets a grave look on Riley's face, and she breathes. "...Okay. So I take it that the defenders need to keep the ritual from being interrupted, and those involved in the ritual can't assist the defenders without botching the Rite?"
"Correct." Mouse offers a slight shrug. "If it were easy, we'd be making new Caerns all the time." She looks toward Emma. "The details of the defense I leave to you guys. We will need everyone there. Quite frankly, with the possible exception of someone to guard the cubs, I'd say to the point where we leave our safehouses undefended. However..." She pauses, then goes on, "As I told Owen, I will absolutely refuse anyone who shows up with a death wish. No 'it is a good day to die' glory hounding, none of that. Not that I think you're the type, but you can spread that message around. Sometimes Garou are a little too eager to die well."
Emma chuckles, "Yeah, not my shindig. I'd rather live honorably than die gloriously. Though when I /do/ go, I hope it's with my boots on and not from tripping on an escalator." She considers one of the comments then. "One safehouse, load all the cubs into one spot? That's actually a fairly challenging task as well. Given our current crop."
"That makes good sense." Riley immediately chimes in, nodding her head firmly to Emma. "Hell of a lot better than leaving a skeleton crew at each location."
Mouse nods in clear agreement as well. "If the moon's getting to them, they can stretch their legs on our Walker territory out here. That's a nice, big bit of forest that should be relatively shielded from all the activity going on over here. It even has a cave." She breathes deeply, then leans forward and slides back down to lupus. Rest time is over. I need to start the next ritual on the other side. There's a faint bit of apology from the Walker elder, but mostly she's all business as she turns for the tunnels.
Emma nods to the Theurge, "Take it easy Mouse. Well. Easy as you can right now while there's time." She glances back to Riley then, thoughtful. "Help me think of all the current cubs we got just now?"
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323 From: Nicodemus At: Sun Feb 24 03:39:40 2013 (Conn)
Fldr : 0 Status: Unread
To : *Glass_Walkers, Rina, Carmen
Subject: Tenement Delivery
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A roughly 2'x2'x2' box is delivered (from the UK) Monday (Feb 25) to the Tenement, addressed to "Residents." Inside there's a note that reads: "Surprise! Look what I found! --Nick." There's also three dozen bags of the following in the box:
http://www.taquitos.net/chips/Walkers_Cajun_Squirrel_Flavour_Potato_Crisps
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