Dead Man [Mykah-Michael]

[Mykah Izetbegovic] Holy Ground.

Mykah has spent increasing amounts of time here since his arrival upon this starnge, foreign land of which he heard and felt the voice of running and resonating through his very flesh and bones. Strong, fast throbbing electrical beats travelling across the expanse of his nervous system.

In quiet contemplation, sta all by himself upon one of the pews in a silent meditation. Of course there is duplicity in his actions, he sacrifices things like honour, self, life... for the greater good. However, in this case his alterior motives really aren't all that sinister at all.

He stands slowly to his feet, brushing out his waistcoat and suit jacket (for he is, as always, dressed immaculately in a stylish, black, suit). His fingers run across the edge of the brim of his hat, tipping the forward down just slightly, a few millimetres at most as he whispers a quiet benediction in some foreign tongue.

Deeper, deeper into the Caern he travells, the heels of his shoes clattering around the stone of the ancient tunnels as he looks here and there, searching for Linnea.

[Michael Lennox] ((*closes eyes* Is this open or not? if so...pre or post moot? ))

[Linnea Bartlett] Mykah will find the teenager deep bowels of the catacombs, past the breathing heart of the Caern, in the crater where the Sept's most recent dead stand in frozen chiaroscuro relief on the bones of the antique dead. The dark tunnel - so close that only two WarFormed Garou might run the length of it shoulder to shoulder - opens abruptly onto the vast, strange cavern.

There is a narrow, crumbling ledge, a balcony from which one might view the marching rows of the dead, the way the natural fault lines ran in the battle, white against the black. As his guide (Guardian or spirit, it makes little matter) suggested, the young Silver Fang is seated there, at the edge of the narrow ledge, just to the side of the mouth of the tunnel, knees bent, arms loosely around them, holding them close to her chest, her cheek resting against the sharp prominence of her knobby knees, her thick braid wrapped around her back like a quiescent serpent. She has a book propped open on the ground, held that way by the delicate pressure of one heel at the upper rightmost corner of the page.

[Michael Lennox] He is there in the catacombs tending to matters of the Sept as the Truthcatcher for this lunar month....at least. The days sense having shown a course of action all too predictable.

In his hands he holds a tome highlighting various rulings by the former Truthcatcher...Stormwarden. Tucked neatly in the span between two passages of light. , which just happens to be where intruders came from the sewers....and where he and blast aided others to throw them back.

It is a tingle only.... and in his mind's eyes...Evening.

[Mykah Izetbegovic] "Am I interrupting ?" The Shadowlord asks in a subtle, quiet (polite) tone of voice that only just hints at his Slavic (Bosnian, to be precise) heritage. His eyes, dark, cold and distant things they are, forever searching beyond this world as the Theurge sees and notices the tiny, obscure nuances in all things that remind him of something else (Mother, Aunt, Grandfather...). Searching as he is, his senses traversing the expanses of the chamber, drinking of the dark, heady presence of the site, that very same deep, intimate sense of reverence for what happened here, in this place.

[Linnea Bartlett] The girl looks up, momentarily, her pale eyes widening as the Mykah steps from the dark mouth of the tunnel. Her mouth is still twisted into a faint frown of concentration, the corners tucked into the faint curves of her cheeks. "You aren't," she murmurs, marking her place with a twist of her index finger and shifting her hip to close the book firmly.

She scoots back from the edge and rises to her full height, dusting off her hands on the hips and thighs of her dedicated jeans, which are stiff and dark with old blood stains. So casually dressed - the bloodied jeans, the worn and fraying old thermal, whose sleeves no longer quite reach of wrists, the old hiking boots, which are, like the jeans, dark and stained - compared to the Shadow Lord. So ordinary, except for the aura of breeding, the past converging into the present, that hangs in the air around her skin. "I don't think we've officially met - " she's watchful and wary, her narrow shoulders straight and tense beneath the waffle-weave of her thermal. Then, suddenly, her mouth splits into a faint shadow of her engaging smile. " - but you're the Shadow Lord who rescued Andrew. Dead Man. I remember you from the moot."

[Michael Lennox] ((Yo...ancestor love))

[Michael Lennox] Down Down Down till the heat of the core might be felt, but instead heroes stand in immortal battle.. Stepping onto the ledge just behind Mykah. His attention held raptly on those frozen leaders whose sacrifice kept the tide of death away.

His voice soft so that they must strain to hear him, but the words he speaks break through the walls of the heart and make the soul question.

"To come to this place and honor those who died in honor...to make this land sacred in their death....a death that was far from meaningless...far from those who might die in vain....or whose lives might be snapped by the evil in this world.....a holy place..."

Its then that he turns an eye towards the pair as if they werent there a moment ago...

[Mykah Izetbegovic] His eyes lower, just a little, a few millimetres at most, and along with them so does he lower his head, just a little (a few millimetres at most). No, it isn't a bow, and he doesn't expose his neck, it is, however, a sign of respect. Respect for what the Silver Fangs once were, respect for Linnea's pedigree, and respect for her deeds.

"No, we haven't." He says, in response. Short, and oddly, in his voice one cannot find any animosity. "As you say, I am Dead Man, Shadowlord, Cliath and Theurge born to two feet. Grandson of Shadow's Repreive."

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea turns and shoots a sharp, pale glance at Michael as he joins them. Her faint grin disappears - in response to his appearance, in response to his words - dissolves into the as-yet unfinished planes of her young face. She keeps both men in her sight and takes a step back, nudging her book delicately aside, so that it is not in danger of falling into the abyss below, then follows Michael's glance down over the battlefield, no longer living, still livid.

"I don't - " the girl begins, then she shakes her pale head. "The dead have - Blood-Eclipse, he's with the Valkyries," drinking and cursing, or so the Fenrir tell her. " - and - " but her point eludes her, and she turns back to the pair as Mykah introduces himself, listens quietly, then responds -

"Vanguard of the Dawn. Cliath Silver Fang Ahroun of House Wyrmfoe - " she gestures across her shoulder with her chin. " - daughter of Atlas, once Wyrmfoe of this Sept, who does not rest below. Granddaughter of Blade of Justice, great-granddaughter of Eventide and Vision-of-the-Fall, once Ritemistress of the Caern of Echoes, their father, DeathWatch - " and on, it continues, a quiet litany of names, one tempered by their company. Were they Silver Fangs the introductions could continue for an hour or an age. At the end of it all, the girl offers a faint, twisting smile. "Some don't care to hear all that - the present matters, the living, not the dead, but here - I - well - it's hard to ignore them, here.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dead Man. Thank you for Andrew. He - he's the first lost Silver Fang I've - well - " Her twisting shrug finishes the statement. The first lost Silver Fang she or any of that litany of names remember.

[Michael Lennox] He takes a step towards Mykah placing his hand on his shoulder...

"I see I have interrupted....Well I've paid my respects...I must be off...."

He smiles to Linnea and to Mykah. A smile void of warmth and not necessarily filled with malice.

[Mykah Izetbegovic] He nods in response to his brother... reaching up again, he tips the front of the brim of his hat. It is a pale reflection of an expression of an emotion that is little more than an echo of something that died long ago upon another battlefield.

His gaze has fallen to the ground. Dark... cold... dead. Silence, again, the Theurge laments to himself. For again it is an echo, only this time one of a memory of another place sanctified by death, by the scars of suffering, and of violence, and of war.

"It was my honour to return him safely, Vanguard of the Dawn." He says, and his words are genuine, even though they may be quiet, reverent tones in which he speaks, for a holy man Mykah is, even if he be a Dead Man. Such as it is, his purity of soul, his dedication of faith, and his potency of spirit is raw and tangible around him... an aura.

"And a pleasure it is to officially make your aquaintance as well," he says, with a further nod of his head. Shame, yes, shame it is he feels as he says. And he says with those same, hushed whisper of a tone, that same, quietly reverent volume in which one might speak at Church. "And so too is it my shame, that I have neglected my duty to teach Andrew of our nature, oh Vanguard of the Dawn."

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea returns Michael's smile; her own is a quick one, a flickerfire of something left unsaid or undone finds expression in the movement of her mouth. He smiles without warmth; she must return the gesture, and conflicted though it is, her expression could never be described as cold. Linnea tracks Michael's retreat over Mykah's shoulder until he has disappeared into the shadows, and then her pale eyes dance back to the Theurge's face.

She crosses her arms over her narrow hips, her pale cheeks flushing with color. His words, perhaps his quiet manner - make her feel weird and ungainly. Her elbows jut out from her narrow flanks, the bony joints sharply outlined against the weave of the discolored and fraying cloth. "It's not your shame - " she snorts, "the Sept is just - I mean, any other time - I mean, before the battle, before the battle, there wouldn't've been an issue." Before the battle, Fosterns or Adren would've taken over the tasks of tuition and instruction. "He's a Ragabash and he will be a Silver Fang - but he will need instruction from a Theurge, too. Do you - I mean - is that something you want to do?"

[Mykah Izetbegovic] He nods, and such a nod is a subtle, quiet thing that might befit a son of his Totem. More so, it is befitting of his demeanour (for, standing in the Full Moon's presence his Rage pales into insignificance). "Yes, yes I beleive I would." He says, with what confidence he can muster (he too a young prodigy of his Tribe, though a good few years older than Linnea).

[Linnea Bartlett] "Well then - " another of the girl's quick, sudden smiles. Her self-consciousness ebbs and flows like a tidal pool echoing the call of the ocean, and her voice is a good ten decibels louder than his, no matter how many times she notices the different and attempts to modulate it. "I guess I can introduce you?

"He has a room in the Guardians' quarters, and I don't know, I asked Prayer Without Mercy - have you met him? He's a Guardian?" an inquiring look from the voluble Silver Fang, as the girl uncrosses her arms and pushes her hands into the pockets of her stained blue jeans. " - to look after him too, but I don't think, well, I'm pretty sure Andrew will be free whenever you are. To, you know - I mean, I think that'd be good. Thank you." She capstones the thank you with a shrug that curls her shoulders forward and up, that lingers at the apex of the gesture for a long moment before falling again, a teenage girl's gesture, not an Ahroun's, not a Silver Fang's, not a Garou's.

[Mykah Izetbegovic] He smiles, with the glimmer of a smile that one might imagine. The very edge of his mouth quirks and lifts, and his eyes look up from the floor a moment, or perhaps two before he hesitates. "That would be wonderful, I wasn't really expecting you to be so accomodating, or forgiving. Thank you." He says, genuinely. Yet still, there is an aspect to his manner, withdrawn and distant as it is.

"No, I don't beleive I have met him." He says, in response finally. Letting his words draw out dramatically, so that, in truth he can contemplate the direction in which he wishes to draw the conversation. He's unsure, for sure. "I really haven't been introduced to many members of the Sept outside of my own Tribe, I suppose that my lineage may put some off of me." He says, as that smile creeps across his lips again.

"However," he says all of a sudden. Changing the subject, his expression is neutral again. Blank, even. "I admired the way in which you conducted yourself at the Moot, and I beleived that someone should say as much. Your acceptane of your actions showed a great courage." The smile returns, for a moment.

"Now I've buttered you up, I wish to attone for the actions of Michael. He has shamed my Tribe, and I do not wish for his dishonour to reflect upon my brothers and sisters. Could you help me ?" Finally, the questioning qurik of an eyebrow.

[Linnea Bartlett] The young Silver Fang responds visibly to his praise; another of her smiles splits her mouth, and her shoulders swell with unconscious pride. She stands straight enough to please any dance instructor, any mistress of deportment under most circumstances. Now she stands even straighter, tall, expanded. The smile dissolves from her face as she steals a glance back at the battlefield; once more her cheeks color. Instead the pockets of her jeans, her hands curl into fists.

"I did what I had to do," she says quietly, looking away, back out over the battlefield. For all her smiles, for all her quickfire friendliness, all the energy that the Ahroun seems to exude almost unconsciously (even now she is moving, her weight shifting from foot to foot, her lean figure alive with the possibility of movement), when she is looking away, her features still, the - strain, perhaps, the vulnerability - of the past months is clear as water. "Ferdinand says that no one wants or expects a leader to be perfect. Just one who admits fault and fixes it. I - I -"

She doesn't glance back, but her mouth twists into a bittersweet edge. "He had to judge us. You mean - you mean Michael and Giselle, don't you." She steals a glance back at the Theurge, her pale eye framed by her shoulder and the thick twist of her braid.

[Mykah Izetbegovic] "Thats it exactly." He says, nodding another quiet, subtle, and barely noticable nod of his head, keeping the majority of his face shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. His expression has grown grim and withdrawn, though ironically now more than ever his senses, his attention focuses upon this plane of existence and not another. Before him he sees something that to one might be seen as a teenage girl, and yet to the perceptive Theurge he hopes that he sees just that... hope.

[Linnea Bartlett] "His - " fists burrowing more deeply into her hip pockets, Linnea pauses to consider her words. She's silent for some time, pale lashes swept across her cheeks, her attention - and for the moment her living, livid energy - directed internally rather than externally. "Michael's offense against me was minor. He should have told me about Giselle. He lied to me by - " she stops again, searching for the word, the term of art she wants, and - mouth quickening - finds it somewhere inside her, " - by omission, not by commission. If I understand the story correctly, his lie to Harbringer-rhya was also a lie of omission. I'm not Harbringer-rhya, Dead Man."

She stops, shoulders curved forward, back now to him, her shoulderblades sharp as unfeathered wings against the poor cloth of her thermal, the marching column of her spine clearly visible beneath the skin of her neck as the braid slides off center, then over her left shoulder.

"And we are too few to allow a feud like this to divide us. We need our whole strength." The girl turns back to Mykah at last, her lean torso twisting, her feet shifting in the soil. She fixes her pale gaze on his face, "Michael has to stay away from Giselle. I promised her cousin and, by extension, her father, an Adren and an Athro of the Silver Fangs. I take that promise seriously. Beyond that I - " her mouth twists, her body sketches a momentary sigh against the darkness. "I must speak with him, but this - this matter will not stain you or your brethern. Serve - " her nostrils flare, delicately. Again, she takes heed of some ever-present eternal voice. "- I should - I should probably - we'll both remember this. Serve Bear and the Nation. Our fight is the same fight."

[Mykah Izetbegovic] He nods, with a little more exaggeration. His head hangs a moment, then two and his eyes close with the shudder of a breath. Silence, again, apart of course for his breathing, slow, erratic thing it has become. That silence extends a moment, then two.

"Thank you, Vanguard of the Dawn." He says, as he allows his eye lids to part, and allows his dark, cold and distant eyes to look up at her. For a moment, he's looking at her, and not through her, as is his tendancy. "Our dicussion has been most enlightening."

[Linnea Bartlett] The young Silver Fang starts to shrug off his thanks with another of those teenage gestures, but she stops herself mid-shrug, forces her shoulders back to a level position and instead inclines her pale head in acknowledgment of his words. "For me as well, Dead Man. I'm - " she stops, as she so often does, and restarts. "I'm glad we had this discussion."

[Mykah Izetbegovic] That smiles creeps along his lips. Beginning as a quirk of a twitch at the edge of his mouth, it isn;t the sly, lop-sided smirk one might expect of the cunning, scheming Shadwlord. It is a genial, friendly gesture of gratitude. "Thank you," a second nod. And I shall call you Hope, he muses before he turns, bows his head a little lower... closes his eyes and murmurs a quiet benediction in honour of the dead. Finally, he leaves the way he came, the heels of his well-polished shoes echoing through the tunnels.