"Would you, or anyone here, happen to know the Rite of the Silver Forge?"

[renferret]

Mouse encounters the Lucent Witness.



Umbra: Harbor Park
The Umbral ground beneath your feet here is lush with vegetation, an oasis of life amidst the concrete and webbing of the scab. Trees stand proud and tall here, their branches full of leaves. Shrubs line the outer edges of the park, tangled with encroaching webs. The fountain stands out boldly from even the surrounding area, the sleek lines sharper and more pronounced. Clean pure water roars and cascades from the figure in the fountain's center, falling into a cold clear pool that looks quite inviting. Spreading out from the fountain, the rest of the park is a green veldt that seems to radiate life and strength. The river banks the east shore of the park, bridged by a massive rusty bridge. On this shore, the glade seems to have spread out on to it, vines winding around the supports. Further across the river, the bridge melds into the scab again, flaked with rust and covered in webs. The river itself is clean within a few feet of the shore, but black ooze seems to encroach menacingly from the murk of the rest of the river.
A walkway leads out of the Glade-like atmosphere of the park from just north of the fountain. Eastward, the dark span of the bridge stretches over the vile river. Dark streets lead west and southwest into the blighted Umbra of the city.

The Umbral Glade is lit at all times as if it is the full moon.
Contents:
Pirate Trader
Luna's Face
Obvious exits:
South North Southwest West Bridge

The umbra is quiet. Normally the city would be overflowing with nasty things given the moon, but the influence of Luna's Face keeps the park a calm glade of solitude. A few naturae bumble about here, the odd animal spirit hunting one another too, and then there is Nieve.

The Walker is in Crinos, sat cross-legged with her back against the fountain's sleek shape, with a slender staff across her legs, filled with faintly glowing crystal-like spheres.

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (63% full).

Mouse arrives in crinos, on all fours, from the direction of the Tenement, unperturbed despite the shrinking moon. With her is a cockroach spirit roughly the size of a small dog, its antennae waving. The Walker elder has a new decoration from her trip; a steel, stag shaped pendant, with white-gold inlaid to represent a piebald pattern, hanging from a simple leather thong around her neck, along with the usual necklace of twined feathers and stone that she usually wears.

~Elder,~ Pirate-Trader rumbles respectfully. ~And sister.~ That for the 'roach, no doubt. ~Welcome back to the city, First-Strike-rhya.~

~Thanks,~ First-Strike replies, as she settles nearby. ~It's been a whirlwind so far, but it's good to be back.~ Kakkerlak clicks a fond return greeting, though, for her part, she doesn't settle at all. Those antennae continue to wave, and she seems quite content to trundle a little apart from the two Theurges in order to investigate the familiar surroundings.

~You have come for the Lucent Witness?~ the Adren asks, lifting the staff on her palms in indication. ~Could you introduce yourself to it, please.~

First-Strike considers the staff thoughtfully for a long moment. ~Does it understand Mother's Tongue?~

~Who knows?~ Nieve huffs faint amusement. ~My experience with the memories inside suggests not, but at the same time, maybe one of them does.~

First-Strike shrinks down to homid then, and lifts her chin. "I'm Mouse," she says to the staff. "First-Strike, or She-Who-Gets-the-First-Shot, a third ranked Theurge and elder of the Glass Walker tribe, a metis currently in the middle of a challenge for the fourth rank. I have a pack and position here that I'm relatively sure won't interest you. I was a part of the initial negotiations to find and return you to your people."

The staff, being a staff, says nothing. Nieve nods however, and extends it on her palms towards Mouse. ~If you are strong enough of will and cunning of mind, it may offer what you seek,~ she voices quietly, the words carrying some sense of ritual. ~I will remain with you, but will not interfere. Your body will be protected by me while you are gone, the fate of your mind is entirely down to you.~

Mouse breathes deeply, then reaches out to take the staff with both hands. Her fingers close carefully around it, and she brings it toward herself as though she were lifting something impossibly fragile.

As Mouse commits herself to the moment, giving a little of her spiritual self to the staff, the crystal-like spheres begin to swirl and glow. The world around her fades - no longer the scent of growing things and the sound of water in her ears and nose, replaced with something different.
A pressure develops over her body, something holding her down. Mental eyes open to see a giant velvet-covered paw pinning her, one wicked claw on either side of her body. The world around is vastly changed - from a park to an open savannah, warm wind blowing through tinder-dry grass, the shade of a gnarled and warped tree protecting from the unyielding heat of the sun. The paw, upon inspection, is attached to a leg, which in turn is part of a very large lion, holding the adren down as if she were a mouse in truth. Luminous brown eyes regard her with interest, much like a cat might the prey it is about to toy with.

Mouse does not attempt to struggle. She regards the lion in return, and if she's nervous about the helpless position she finds herself in (and who wouldn't be?) none of that shows in her body language, or her voice. "Hello."

The paw flexes; not getting more or less firm, but the claws slowly retract. The lion's voice is rich, deep and liquid-sounding, the words matching no kind of mouth movements. It's all in the mind after all. *Hello, little mouse. You have come to play?* There is an abundance of restrained amusement, those brown eyes fixed solely on the visiting Garou even as his ears pan to keep abrest of movements in his surroundings.

"I have come to learn," Mouse responds evenly. "To ask to learn."

*Mmmm.* The sound is a low, bassy rumble, almost like the threat of a storm, and the lion withdraws his paw slowly. Dimensions change; Mouse is more her normal size, though the lion is still fairly sizable. Easily equal to a hispo in mass and muscle. *To learn of the darkness, no less. Of Father Night, Cahlash, the Author of Mysteries.* His jaws part in a gigantic, deep and sonerous yawn, showing off all the fearsome teeth one might expect from the king of the jungle.

For all that she knows this is in her mind, Mouse is still focused on even breathing. "I know a piece of that darkness. I've seen a small part of what his servants can do. I spoke, once, with an aspect of the Maeljin Incarnae, before she swatted me into a cave wall and broke most of my bones. I know enough to know that I know only a tiny amount of the danger inherent in asking to know more."

*The monkeys have little wisdom, but their sayings occasionally hold true. The abyss, gazing into it, and so on,* the lion agrees, rising slowly from his prone position and stretching, before his body begins to shrink, collapsing into something entirely more human-seeming. A man in his mid-to-late thirties, dark-skinned and dressed in a white suit, formal but relaxed at the same time. "There are not many lion-Folk in this crystal palace, little mouse. And do you know why that is?"

Mouse sits up, but does not attempt to stand. "I'm afraid I know very little of your people. I've heard rumors of the troubles in Africa, but my tribe has very few representatives on the savannah."

"Your Folk, I understand, run within the concrete jungle. I cannot say I approve, but you did not come here for my approval," the lion replies lowly, a touch of that rich humour in his voice balancing the reproach. "When anger takes your Folk, little Mouse, what happens? That anger that is all-consuming, defiling and unholy, beyond the natural anger Selene gave you into the terrifying berserk of the truly depraved?"

"It depends on how we were born, the details," Mouse responds. The note about her particular territory gets a wry sort of smile, but no sign of insult. "In the moment when we are completely lost. Homids devour, Metis defile, Lupus turn on their own packmates. Everyone can agree that when this happens, it's a bad thing, something to be revolted by. Worse, I think, is when it isn't in the moment. When our anger and our pride lead us to do terrible things that we believe are /right/, and that we sing songs about, and maybe later, generations later, we finally look back on the debris and wonder what happened."

"Garou do not have the monopoly on mindless brutality. That is why so few Simba reside within the crystal palace," the Lion replies, then extends one solid hand to the seated Walker. "But, I have never killed anyone I have had a civil conversation with. Perhaps this is why I have been granted this immortality. You may call me Father-of-the-Sphinx."

"I'm honored to meet you, Father-of-the-Sphinx," Mouse says, bowing her head for a moment, and then reaching out to clasp that hand with one of her own, rough with scars as it is.

A firm, brief shake, and then Sphinx moves away again. "Be mindful, little Mouse, of your fallen brethren. Once they too followed the lion's path, and that destructive anger took them to Father Cahlash's table, where they reside still. You have questions about your misbegotten siblings, now you may ask them."

Mouse nods slowly, and lets her hand fall back to her lap. "I would know," she says slowly, "of their weaknesses. Ways to stop them. Ways to destroy them. Ways to turn them. My initial desire was pure destruction; I've spent some long nights since trying to quell that anger, but I imagine you know that it's still there. They made it personal. They took someone from me. They changed me. They broke me." She pauses, but her voice, to her own surprise, remains steady. "But they haven't managed to kill me since. How..." There's a pause from the Theurge. "I would make as much of a difference as I can, in my lifetime, to their strength."

"Such is like asking how to kill the Wyrm," the Simba replies lowly. "There is no one answer, and those I would give I imagine you know. Bring clarity and spiritual cleansing to the Hives, slay the adult Spirals where they stand, and the young ones where they lay. Few are those who can be redeemed from that life," he continues, his words again a smooth rumble, laced with an undercurrent of anger for the truths he has to give. "Make the deaths clean and swift, and bear them no ill will when you do it. Only anger, only the knowledge that it -must- be done."

Mouse breathes deeply again, nodding to the words. "There's a cub among the Black Furies now. She bears their scars. She has been through Erebus, at least, according to her, and the bear spirit summoned to confirm it. She has no taint about her, even if her anger is...like a visible aura, almost. I've known about Erebus, of course, but this is the first time I've ever met someone who had come out of it. Someone who'd been fallen enough to have to go there in the first place. Would..." and her next words are slow, carefully chosen not to manipulate, or avoid offense, but perhaps because she has some sense of what she's asking. "Would you, or anyone here, happen to know the Rite of the Silver Forge? And would you be willing to teach it?"

"You ask much, little Mouse. For one with so much hatred, desire for revenge, so much torment," Sphinx replies frankly, turning golden-brown eyes on the Walker. "How much do you know of the Rite? It will almost certainly kill you if used without the purest intentions."

"I've heard of the risk," Mouse confirms, with a faint nod. "I know nothing about the ritual itself, other than that. I think," she pauses again. "I think I could ask for weapons, for secret rites or the locations of dark fetishes, for the names of things best left never named, but then what would be /my/ line? What would keep me from tumbling head first into the same pit so many others have jumped into? I'm not better than they were. I'm not stronger. I'm not immune. I'm angry. I wouldn't be able to stop. That's why I ask for this instead. I know that it would stop /me/."

"It could be considered unconscionable cruelty," Sphinx replies, choosing to sit opposite the Garou now, though even seated still almost a head taller. "To banish one there for perhaps decades of suffering, perhaps even then to fail. Is it not better to offer a clean death, so that they have the chance of being reborn better?"

"Do they even have that chance?" Mouse asks. "All of the Dancers that I've killed since my first, my best friend. I've hated them. I've been glad to kill them. I've unleashed their own pain back on them and laughed at it. But I don't know where they go. I don't know if they'll ever come back better. I know the silver river, however cruel, exists for a reason. I know that...there...awful as it may be, they /do/ have a chance."

"That, that must stop," the Lion replies soberly. "You mock them in their pain, you turn their tricks back upon them. How long until you become one of them, little Mouse? I am certain you would not so readily mock somebody suffering from a cancer of the body, how much less honourable to mock those who carry a cancer of the soul?" he asks, regarding her levelly. "I could teach you, but I think I would be consigning you to an early, painful grave."

"Not their tricks," Mouse says. "But I asked a spirit of pain to return the full measure of the suffering they've inflicted on others, back onto them. In return, I also knew her pain. But...you are right. I laughed. I mocked him in his last moments. I have...my life, in order to be Garou, in order to fight to protect what I love, in order to do my duty, I've learned to use my brain over force. I've been too willing to turn their own misery back on them, just because I could see a way to do it. My large victories have always been bittersweet, and that...I think that should have taught me more." She looks up at him, meeting his eyes. "I would still learn from you, if only because I am afraid of what I might have condemned my best friend to. If only because...in the end, I know that if I could perform it successfully, not only would it be a boon to my tribe and my Sept, but it would ensure that I keep my own failings in check. But I will defer to your wisdom. You've already proved it's greater than mine. That would only leave the last question, which I don't think anyone but Gaia could answer."

The Lion offers a brief smile, pearly white teeth stark against his dark skin. "I will consider it, for a time. Run on the savannah, little wolf. Hunt your prey, feel the natural rhythm of life here. Understand why they called us the Kings of Sunlight, and know that the sun can kill or cure just as silver can, used in the right way." That said, he shifts down into his feline state once more, still massive and muscular as he was before, but apparently preparing to nap in the shade.

The invitation to run and enjoy terrain that Mouse has never experienced in her waking life is a welcome one. She slides down to her long-tailed, malformed lupus shape and takes off at a brisk trot, which, some ways out, turns into a full on run with no specific direction. The Walker Theurge doesn't actually hunt more than the occasional rodent; if there's one thing to be learned about the African savannah, it's that even the prey tends to be ginormous. She takes playful nips at an old zebra and stares in admitted delight at a distant herd of elephants, but mostly stays away from grazing herds and sunning predators alike.

Ginormous, heavily armored, in herds and with teeth and horns, yes. The zebra seems mightily unimpressed with a lone wolf, making Mouse dance to dodge a few vicious kicks and snaps, while the rest of the savannah life continues on apace. At length, Sphinx stirs from his nap in the shade and strolls out to join the Walker, commenting, *So it is true. Only mad dogs and englishmen go out in the midday sun.*

First-Strike eases back to homid when she's joined by the Simba. "I've never seen this," she tells him, her tone clearly aware that she's stating the obvious. "Where I grew up there are cold snowy winters and moderate summers, and the most wildlife you get in the city is on a Saturday night. Where I live now it's rain, mountains and pine trees. Deer, foxes...certainly nothing like this." She adds, dryly, "though the giant, Wyld soaked wasps make things interesting."

Likewise adopting a more human-seeming shape, Father-of-the-Sphinx smiles at Mouse in clear amusement. "They say that the Mokole believe the life of shapechangers began here in Africa, much as life for humans is supposed to have. You should visit it one day; my memories are a pale comparison." He motions for the Garou to follow him back to the shade they'd been speaking in before. "I have thought about your request. I would be willing to grant it, upon the precondition that you experience it yourself first."

"One day, if I ever get the opportunity," Mouse replies. She turns to follow him back to the shade. Several feet are covered in absolute silence, before she repeats, "Experience it myself first. I was afraid you were going to to say something like that." A little, tiny bit of her previous dryness remains, almost, but not quite, hiding the sudden tension and fear underlying her words. "How would we go about that?"

"It's easy enough. My mind, my memories," Sphinx replies straightforwardly, though there's a touch of tension in his body-language as well. "Are you willing?"

Mouse studies his face very carefully, though she doesn't voice whatever questions might be there. "Willing," she says, after a very long, deep breath. "Also, completely fucking terrified, for the record."

The lion tilts his head slightly. "It is optional," he points out. "I will not force any creature to endure it, but I believe if you will have the knowledge, you must share the burden."

"And I believe," Mouse says slowly, perhaps a little reluctantly, "that you're right." She shakes herself, head and shoulders, and stands up a little straighter. While the Theurge can't possibly be any less frightened than she was a moment ago, she has managed to remove all visible traces of it. "I'm willing."

"Understand one thing," Sphinx asks quietly. "While I may conjure this from memory, your experience will be different to my own. Hell for Bastet is not the same as hell for Garou. I can open the doorway, but your own knowledge and spirit will shape what you see. Call my name when you believe you understand enough." He motions to the tree, shapes an arc under one of the low branches, and a shimmering heat-haze fills the space. "When you are ready."

Mouse closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she steps into the haze.

It is dim, here. Overhead, a starless bleak sky, lacking sun or moon or other illumination. The only light comes from the silver river cutting its way through barren rock, the waters slow-moving. Indeed, the river would seem calm were it not for the clusters of Garou in crinos form, writhing and crying out in constant torment. Each has a furless and silver-skinned crinos-shaped keeper waiting on the shore, armed with silver-tipped weaponry to prevent escape. One such awaits Mouse, a wickedly sharp-looking trident in one hand, a patient expression on its face as it motions to the waters.

Mouse takes this in with a long, unblinking stare. The bold face she put on to step through the doorway means nothing here, even if she still tries to maintain it. Her eyes move from the river to the immersed Garou, to the river, to their keepers, to the river, and finally to the one waiting for her. Again she breathes, letting herself return to her birth shape. ~You,~ she says to herself, rather than the keeper, ~Are /such/ a moron.~ She steps toward the river, but only makes it a foot or so before she has to shake her head and choose a new tact. The Theurge braces her feet against the cavern floor, tenses, then springs forward and leaps. There are no turn-backs when you're in mid-air, after all.

Ohgodpain. Pain, pain, pain. Mouse has felt silver before, been hurt by it in weapons, but never all over, all at once, inside and out. Searing agony on every bit of skin, leaking into her head when it is underwater, torment intended to drive any Garou suffering here to the very edge of sanity - and in the cases of some who have been here for lifetimes, further still.

In the very, very first moment, First-Strike understands nothing and is /quite/ ready to call for Sphinx anyway. But there's silver in her mouth and her eyes and her nose, and in the next moment she can't seem to remember words at all. It sears into all her old spidery scars, and she remembers--with perfectly clarity--exactly how it felt to receive them, because that flaying was nothing like /this/. The Theurge frenzies. She might frenzy twice. She can't quite wrap her mind around anything but the pain and, occasionally, a desperate, mad need to try and claw her way out.

There is a frenzy perhaps - but it lasts moments. The keeper on the shore extends a hand, and seems to simply suck out the rage, dumping Mouse back into her right mind again. "No hiding from this," he rumbles, denying her even the sanctuary of temporary insanity.

Responding requires words, and Mouse has lost all of hers. But the comprehension of what just happened, what was said, what that /means/, has her trying to climb out again, even though she can't quite figure in what direction 'out' means. She's no good at it. Even if she didn't have her own personal minder, what little strength she's ever had does nothing for her whatsoever. She doesn't even make it near the bank.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mouse's keeper is in no particular hurry to facilitate her escape. In fact, the manner in which he hefts his trident now and then seems to indicate that yes, he'd just ensure she didn't get out before time.

/Sphinx/, Mouse thinks, with a supreme effort. Sphinx, Sphinx, Father of the Sphinx. She manages to make an accompanying noise, but it's only a gargle.

And with merely that thought, it is over. Mouse is deposited under the tree, and Sphinx turns to face her, expression wary. Her wounds have healed, leaving her in pristine condition, though her rage is completely and utterly gone for the moment, an empty pool.

First-Strike's eyes are round, and she gasps for air like a beached fish. She's about as useful as one too, for the next minute or so, as she digs claws into the dry soil and buries her face in the yellow grass.

There's good, solid earth between First-Strike's claws, supportive below her flailing body. The grass smells of sun and life, the wind blowing lightly across her skin. All real, tangible, safe things to be feeling.

Gradually, her gasping eases, even if she doesn't quite get her panting under control, and she somehow manages to roll her head loosely upward, so that she's looking up at the Simba, if at a very awkward angle.

"Take as long as you need," Sphinx replies levelly, sitting down across from Mouse in her oddly contorted pose. "And when words return, we will discuss."

First-Strike takes a long time. At least, it feels like a very long, long time, during which she pushes her face back into the grass, closes her eyes, and rediscovers the joy of unhindered breathing. Eventually she can manage it mostly evenly, and her fingers aren't curled so sharply into the dirt. Eventually, she even manages to push up onto one elbow, and, after what feels like hours, open her eyes. ~I'm not sure I can shift,~ she admits. The Theurge expects her voice to sound hoarse, and is rather disturbed when it doesn't.

"I'm afraid I don't understand that language of yours, miss Mouse," the Simba replies with a shake of his head. "Remember, this is in your mind."

First-Strike's mouth closes, and she spends another few moments feeling the roof of her mouth. "I'm not sure I can shift," she manages, in a slow, ponderous sort of way. It feels wrong, coming from a muzzle.

"Oh." Sphinx smiles broadly. "Fortunately, this is all in -my- mind." And, just as with the size-change before, dimensions shift and Mouse is left to shrink into human shape, still clothed as she was before.

Mouse reaches up to feel the side of her neck, the leather thong and the braided cord that hold the two necklaces she wears. "Well," she says. "That's useful." She finds the need to shut her eyes again.

The lion watches Mouse get herself settled again. "When you are ready to speak, I will explain the ritual to you."

Mouse takes still a little longer, before she pushes herself up into a sit, and gives Sphinx a small, but firm nod.

"It begins with recitation. A listing, fact by fact, of all the things the offender has done that warrant punishment. Each time a crime is spoken, blood is spilled by one of the ritualists into a bowl. Doing this alone, therefore, is quite difficult, since by the very nature your criminal will have done many and varied things of evil," Sphinx begins, his voice matter-of-fact.

Mouse nods slowly. "And bleeding yourself dry isn't exactly the optimal outcome."

There's an answering nod from the Simba. "Every one of those participating must know the criminal. No strangers. His or her victims make particularly good participants, if any remain," he continues. "Once the list is complete, you speak and they repeat after you once for each crime. 'For his sins, he must repent'. I'm told the words were different once, before the idea of sin was crystalized by the Patriarch, but it is what it is."

This time, there are no words from Mouse, merely another nod of understanding. She's still a little slouched, but it's clear the Simba has her full attention.

"Then, it's simple. Pour the bowl of blood over the criminal and hope to Gaia that everyone participating did so with pure intentions," Sphinx finishes bleakly.

"Or else," Mouse says, once he's finished. Eventually, she nods again, but once more she seems to be out of words to say.

The lion nods in reply. "Quite." He glances up at the darkening sky, sharp-cut stars glittering with a fury undiminished by a polluted atmosphere, light-noise or clouds. "I have enjoyed a visitor, miss Mouse, but it grows dark."

Mouse stands. Shes shaky, and while she keeps her feet, she looks as though a stiff wind might knock her over. "Father of the Sphinx," she says quietly. "It has been an honor to meet you."

Sphinx's white teeth flash in a brief smile. "Remember me, little mouse. That is all I ask. We are memories, help us become more." And then with a bow of his head, he motions and --

Mouse is in a park. Harbour park, the umbra, sat across from Nieve, the staff in her hands. It's still mid-afternoon despite having been 'away' for almost a full day mentally, perhaps an hour or two in reality. Nieve hasn't moved, watchful for anything that would have disturbed Mouse's trance.

Mouse breathes. She looks almost instantly weary as she comes around, but thats all that visibly shows. Nevertheless, Kakkerlak returns, clicking and waving her antennae in what might be some measure of cockroach style concern.

Reclaiming the staff, Nieve sniffs at Mouse, looking briefly concerned as well. ~You okay, First-Strike-rhya?~ she asks politely, echoing what the roach is probably asking too.

~No,~ Mouse says slowly. ~I don't think I am. But it'll clear up.~ She makes to stand, and discovers she's as shaky in the real world as in the vision.

~Anything I can do to help?~ Nieve asks, rising as well, tucking the Lucent Witness under one arm and offering the other to her elder. ~It can be pretty potent.~

Mouse stands without taking the offered arm, though she does seem to consider it, which is unusual enough. ~I just need to rest. It was a unique experience. Thanks.~

The older Theurge nods. ~Rest well, Elder.~ And with that, she returns to the vigil she's been keeping, ensuring the Witness is available.