January Moot: The Hunt [Many]

[Linnea]

For many years, the great Bear has sent an engling of its brood to serve as sacrifice for Sept's wild hunt. The engling is smaller than many of bear's brood, faster than the black bear it resembles and fierce as a grizzly. Like the Caern's totem, it knows the catacombs and caves of the underbawn better than any but the oldest and most experienced Garou in the Sept - and it always uses that knowledge to its advantage during the Sacred Hunt, leading the Garou on a wild, storied chase through all their dim, half-forgotten corridors, all the claustrophobic caverns, all the snaking, spiraling tunnels, caverns and formations underground.

Bear has been terribly wounded, drowsing deep within the Caern heart. Some have wondered whether the Sept's totem spirit would have the strength to make another such sacrifice. Some have wondered (perhaps, privately, in their heart of hearts) whether the Sept deserves such a sacrifice from the totem they came so close to losing forever.

The moot draws to a close, however, and there it is - a black bear engling, an adolescent male with long jet fur on its flanks, which catches and shines in the meager light, a light brown crown and and light brown markings down its back, flanking a darker stripe that mirrors the strip of the spine, and a splash of pure white a hand-paw's width or more across.

Vanguard of the Dawn (no human name can suffice for a Silver Fang in WarForm, shining with pure breed, with promise beyond her years, and experience beyond her ken) stands as WyrmFoe. She is charged, still sparking - practically leaking energy, leaking rage. Every muscle in her powerful WarForm is tense with the strain of holding back. She stomps her feet heavily on the cavern's floor, shakes her great head and snaps at the air, tasting the faint traces of scent the engling leaves behind and the pungent melange of scents of the gathered Garou. Sizzling, electric, waiting to explode into action, into movement, into something, anything.

The Wyrm sent a dagger to our heart, bear's heart. Bear survives, the Crinos announces, thumping her chest forcefully. In the high tongue, she does not hesitate. With the full moon in the sky and the sacred hunt at hand and her primal mind close to the surface, she does not hesitate. All human doubts, all human deeds are burned away. We survive. Bear offers us a sacrifice. We survive. We fight, we rebuild, we live for her-who-made us and he-who-succors-us. Now we offer Great Bear the sacrifice that is his due. And now we scour the Wyrm from these halls.

With that she turns and erupts into motion, flinging herself after the fleeing engling. From Crinos to Hispo, she changes in an eyeblink for speed and ferocity, leaving the Garou of the Caern of Echoes to follow on their sacred, wild hunt through catacombs and corridors of the underbawn, until the engling is captured and killed, until the Garou can hunt no more.

[Ben]

When the young Fang with the Big Heart, Bigger words and Blood and Deed to back it up, steps forward to infuse those around with the power and force of her office, with the assurance that Bear is strong both in her words and the appearance of the Engling, with the first into the tunnels, all gleaming white and predatory, Ben is there.

He is watching, smile growing from a faint and wane thing, to something genuinely enraptured, the sheer magnitude of the Wyrmfoe's voice purging any doubt or description in his heart or mind for the moment, to leave behind a brief sense of safety and security here within the weaknened Caern. The power to survive, the strength of will to continue. It was all in her words. In her actions and depictions. When she shifted, taking the hunting form, Ben was already in Hispo, Howling support and fury on the heels of her clawed feet, his movements smooth and swift.

Into the Catacombs of the Sept grounds. Into the depth of the Dark, to Hunt. He would follow, even were it the depths of some Wyrm Pit, unknown and deadly by sight, he would follow. Into the core of Hell and back, the Rotagar was behind the Wyrmfoe, nose to the Hunt, Gaia in his heart.

[Atropos]

An ear flicks, tickled by the enrapturing promise of glory and sanctuary, spurning the heart to race with anticipation as her chest expands to fill lungs with air and expelled out again in a loud snort through flaring nostrils. Keen eyes bound by lighter fur markings against a black fur canvas stare up from the large Hispo head, raised proud and high, by the Wyrmfoe’s words. The Black Fury sways back and forth, dancing lightly on her large paws, as her body quivers with primal fervor.

You that come to birth and bring the mysteries, your voice thunder makes us very happy, Roar, lion of the heart...Vanguard of the Dawn…

As the bear-engling appears before her eyes like a beacon of hope to dash off into the darkness of the tunnels, the Black Fury unleashes a wild, ecstatic howl. Jaws snapping and snarling in eagerness of the Hunt, and the wolf’s eyes filled with maddening and wild abandonment that was unnatural for the laconic half-moon; the blood of ancient Bacchantes running in her veins.

And as the young Wyrmfoe charges forth, brimming with the static electricity of her rage, white and shining in the purity of her heritage (daughter of ancient queens and kings), the older wolf is quick to follow her lead and run on the heels of the Silver Fang. Ancient chants caught up in the passionate howls of the Black Fury during the Hunt.


Sacred this night (the gods are hunting)
Sacred this rite (they are not always kind)
Sacred this fever (blood on the Moon and the sky is ringing)
Burns on forever! Bacchanal!

[Blast]

Running off with the others, Blast in a sleek hispo --the body-form-du-nuit-- howls eagerly and charges off into the umbra with his pack. Deliberately, he pushes the others, creeping up towards the alpha, pushing the envelope of authority. Make Michael prove he can do stay alpha...

[Jackson]

Wrecking Ball

In another place, and another time, the Garou that was once Jackson Ball would have had no part of this. He would have been surrounded by urban sprawl - a cancerous blight - amid the cultural markers of poverty, shame and thug-rule. His lip would have curled with contempt at the young white girl. Would have scoffed at her words, and the suggestion that he follow her would be met with outspoken derision; a lifetime of hate turned to violence.

Barely over a year since his Rite, and that other place seemed a lifetime ago. Now he's a monster, and so's that slip of a girl. But, she's something more. Her very form is a testament to a sort of ancestoral remembrance held deep inside his changing unconscious. Its in her bearing, her voice, her scent - that pure breed of hers sways him on an instincual level. When she howled, his lungs longed to burst forth and fall in. When she stomped and called her heartening words, he found himself nodding, jaws widening, claws eager.

Wasn't all her, though she spurred it on. That lifetime of hatred swelled within him and without; a palpable blackened halo of murder-urge surrounding his flat grey war-form. It bubbled, sizzled. All dark electric. The full moon's brilliant rays could be felt even here in this dark chasm, itching on the back of his neck. All the howling and bantied words, cries of jubilation, mourning, sorrow, anger, and mirth, all of the things the Garou gather to do during their moots, all of these things led to this inevitable climax.

So, when the Wyrmfoe called for it, there was no hesitation, no thought, as his War-form falls forward, claws becoming fore-claws. A wrench of sinew, bones and joints mold him into a monster wolf. Wrecking Ball's Hispo is a savage, brutal thing; fangs are flashing sabres, jaws wide and slavering. Those pale eyes burn, and no howl emits from his throat. Instead his growl is a deep liquid rumble, reverberating around him like a diesel engine. Hackles are raised on his shoulders like a craggy, nording mountain range.

In a flash, the huge monster's on her heels, bounding through the underground caverns with all the care of an armored tank. Nostrils flare, scenting prey, fueling the maddened pursuit with the dark passion of his Rage.

[Nico]

Nicodemus stands a head and shoulders above most of those gathered. He stands a head and shoulders above the wyrmfoe for certain. Watching the Silver Fang full moon as she lends them a kenetic sense of energy as she stands vibrating with rage and need. It is not so much her words that seep into the fog of Nico's brain. But her body language. The purity of her barely bridled rage. The subtle shaking in her thighs as they barely restrain their desire to hunt. The gleam in her pale eyes.

When she ripples from war form, to beastial dire wolf, Nico follows without hesitation. Not because she -said- it was time, but because through her, he felt it was time to hunt. Massive and gleaming with the steel piercings he adourns in every form, the Bone Gnawers warbling howl, more canine than lupine, joins the others.

[Joey]

As the Silver Fang begins, a steady tap begins with her. It's the dull side of the butcher's cleaver grasped in his hand-paw, natural and trained familiarity with the tool lending itself to keep it from looking comical in a Crinos' grip. First it’s slow, like a heart at rest. A relaxed pulse with nothing to worry about. As the speech continues the beat slowly grows faster and faster.

It’s coming.

Samuel begins humming it, the tune of an ancient battle-hymn that serves as a focus to help connect Samuel Cutler to his most removed ancestors, the ones that show in his eyes, bones, and blood. His breeding. The hum shifts almost unnoticeably from song to a much more feral and lupine sound.

Yips. Grunts. Groans.

As the time for the hunt comes closer, it transforms into barks and howls. And then a howl of agreement and rage that ends a roar as he tears off behind Linnea, snapping at the shadows, searching for any corruption that might soil these sacred halls.

[Havoc]

Yeah, see.... this is the part of the moot that Havoc isn't very good at. The war form, the chase, the ritualized hunt to revive and renew the Caern. He understands the purpose, but none the less is a little reluctant to reassume the hybrid monster skin. It doesn't mean he won't try, and give, his damndest though.

[Carmen]

She wants to become inspired by the young WyrmFoe with her inspiring words that sings to the heart of those gathered. She wants to be enthralled by the steadily increasing beat of her soon-to-be-packmate; rousing himself to the thrill of the hunt, literal and figurative. But the Galliard falls victim to rather a common mistake of one of her rank: overcompensating. In her desire to make her first time enacting the more traditional duties of her auspice - and in such large scale - she has quite simply burned herself out. Growing listless and weary, she draws ever last ounce to simply pay attention and do what she is supposed to be doing right now...
...which is?
Right. Shifting. Hunting. Giving forth the spiritual essence in homage to Bear. Wounded, healing bear.

Future packmates and other companions charge off after the Wyrmfoe... belatedly, the Galliard shifts. Which brings her closer to the beast, which colours the weariness with the greater potential to lose control of her rage at the moment, which renders a whole different feel around the Uktena. She howls without thinking, now without finesse or deliberation. Howls and follows. Follows and seethes. Mindless. Thoughtless. Being.
It is only a fleeting, passing thought right now that she does this for Bear.

[Evan]

Evan, like Havoc, has his reservations about his nastier forms. But Dread-Wake, cause there's no easy way to say his other name in Hispo, could use the excuse to run off some of the emotion that's built up since the last moon, since he arrived in the city. When the hunt begins he falls in with the others as a blur of fur, ducking around, even over, slower members of the hunt in his overenthusiasm. The words are inspiring, but once he's off and in his dire wolf form it's hard to think much about anything but the hunt. He tries to live for the moment, anyway.