Vanguard of the Dawn: Totem Quest [Pack]

[Totem] Late evening. The sky seems vast tonight, a delicate, serene blue in the east, gradating towards a deep and melancholy cobalt in the west. This sense of magnitude comes from the delicate and elevated cirrus clouds that drift in the high heavens like a fine lace shawl, contoured and given defintion by the contrast of light and shadow that mottles their surface. When the sun sets, no doubt they'll be set aflame, a final conflagration that will causes eyes to lift from the mundane tasks that engage the inhabitants of Philadelphia, and watch, if only for a few moments, the final embers of the day's pyre gutter and die.

Dusk comes apace. Soon the gloaming hour will be at hand, and that is precisely when Casts Bones-rhya asked the pack to gather in a remote glade deep in the wild depths of the park. To assemble before her within the Umbra, so that she may aid them in locating Justicia, Lady Justice, and petition her for her patronage. And so towards that glade the pack moves, whether together or seperately it matters not. The trees are dark masses about them, occasionally seen as silhuettes against the evening sky, their boughs still laden with masses of snow, which crunches beneath their feet as they trudge onwards, deeper into the park, till finally the trees open and fall back on both sides, and they find themselves before the Rite Mistress.

Whether they travel through the Umbra, or pierce the Gauntlet at the last moment doesn't matter. The Umbral Glade is wilder and more unnerving than its physical counterpart, the faint wailing of the umbral winds reaching them from up on high where they race and contort beneath a night sky in which Luna holds dominion. Gone are the delicate clouds and the play of salmon pink and dusky orange on their countours: here is ebon night, and all limned by the silver light of the moon.

Casts Bones stands before a vast and ghostly outline of an ancient tree, who's stump may yet be discerned by the careful observor in the mortal world. Here in the Umbra, however, the oak still rises majestically into the night sky, its trunk incredibly wide, its canopy spreading over the glade, black and swollen jointed, spindly so that it seems they look up from the bottom of a dark pond, through a lattice work of weeds to catch glimpses of the sky

The Shadow Lord Theurge stands at the base of this ancient and now fallen King, both hands wrapped around a knobbly walk stick, her head lowered, eyes closed. She seems frail, eldritch, fey: were there two others like her by her side, it would be easy to mistake them for the Norns. But no; it is the Rite Mistress, awaiting their arrival in quiet contemplation, a meditation that ends as soon as the first enters the glade. Her head raises, and through the tangles of hair that fall before her eyes, they see her eyes gleam in anticipation of the events to come.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] She didn't eat breakfast, Linnea. That morning, she ghosted through the neat little kitchen attached to the Guardians' cramped dormitory in St. Michael's subbasement for fifteen minutes, worrying over the choice, bread or tea, an apple, one of those suspiciously frozen waffles that pop out of a toaster - a toaster! - perfect and golden, the artificial maple-syrup-flavor baked right into the preservative-laden dough. Bread with real butter - no, peanut butter! - and an orange instead of an apple. Maybe she could have coffee. Coffee was something she should try; she was reaching for the coffee pot, a stained mug on the scarred countertop, when a tall, lanky Guardian whose limbs seemed to have been stretched thin on a medieval torture rack to achieve their strange, misjointed length walked into the room. Blonde and blue-eyed, like Linnea, and nevertheless an Uktena, one who had managed to speak fewer than three dozen words to the teenager in their months underground.

"Last thing you need is caffeine, kiddo," the woman said, reaching around Linnea for the pot and refilling her own mug to the brim. "Hmmph," the girl replied, mouth falling at the corners, her shoulders twisting in a shrug as her stomach turned and leapt, giddy and sour at once. I have to remember this for the rest of my - She is conscious of herself, of the space she inhabits, but not so conscious that she can sit and pull the threads of the morning together into something she would want to remember, something fixed in time and meaningful for it. She retreated to her narrow little room, with its whitewashed, stone-faced walls, and tried, opened the leatherbound book her brother gave her when her world changed and the True Born came for her, when she left her mother's house for the last time, and sat, cross-legged on her bed, pen poised above the blank pages.

Remember who you are, her brother had scrawled on the frontispiece, his handwriting haphazard, his pen failing. Probably he meant nothing by it, a moment's whimsy, but the words defeated her every time she opened the book - all that unwritten significance - and she left the pages blank. Elsewhere she had lists of tasks, reminders, phrases she enjoyed, a word she found strange and unwieldy, notes and maps and histories in a neat pile of cheap notebooks. In this one, nothing. After a half-hour's growing frustration, she wrote five words in adorned script This is who I am. and rose abruptly, hounded by a growing frustration, and to lose and find herself in the catacombs of the underbawn, the dark and worming corridors - hispo, lupus, well-focused beasts without need for dry things like words, burning away her frustration and strange, creeping doubts in the perfect furnace of the immediate and feral mind.

Linnea spent the rest of the morning in meditation on the battlefield, among the frozen dead and the bones of her ancestors, rising and stalking the broken world when she could not remain still and concentrate. Just before noon, hunger rising sourly again, Linnea left the Caern and the church, skipping lunch in favor of catching the subway at York-Dauphin. No bus driver would stop for her today, so she walked, jogged, ran the rest of the way to the elevated station, struggling to contain her growing - no, not nervousness, excitement and concentrate on the city as it shuttled past the windows, and then disappeared as the subway plunged underground. At 30th Street Station, Linnea bought a hot pretzel, slathered in mustard, and changed trains - from the intracity subway line, to the Downingtown commuter train, out to Bryn Mawr.

The rest of the afternoon - cool, chilly even, but sunlit, the warm light slashing across the melting snow - she spent on the lands her family has owned since William Penn signed the deed himself, in the shadow of the old homestead, where her fathered barred himself when his rages came upon him, in the winter gardens that might not be revived come spring, unless her mother can replace the husband and wife gardeners, kinfolk, murdered during the attack on the sept. The mounds of mulch around the prized roses, the privet hedge tamed to a perfect fleur-de-lis, the nandina, leaves still green and glossy, dripping handfuls of poisonous red berries bright against the winter's grays and browns, and Linnea stalking them like a heron, delicate and long-legged, finely jointed, pale with a heedful of sunlight and near unerring balance.

The family's driver and handyman, Vincent, took her back to the station just before four Linnea caught the train back to 30th Street station, and then spent twenty minutes studying the spidering map of subway and rail lines, buses curling in and out of the warren of city streets, in the center of the terminal. At last, she settled upon one of the green trolleys, boarded the strange, rattling little beast underground until it erupted onto the streets of University City, as far as Belmont. The driver left her at the edge of the park - puzzled, perhaps, by her destination at this hour of evening, with dark soon falling, and all the dangers that entails – although he was certainly not worried for her, so much as he was worried by her, the strange girl in the falling dark, whose eyes flashed like an animal's with the reflection of passing headlights.

Even after the trolley, Linnea had a long hike, through the manicured grounds around the Mann, between the circle of statues erected on the centennial fairgrounds, in 1876, past the public areas of the park into the deep, rich woods - not quite wild, perhaps, but as wild as one might find, so bounded by concrete, so close to the city. She reaches the Glade in the physical world, a tall, pale creature, plainfaced, plainclothed by for the fine dark winter coat, which she doffs and lays carefully as she can in the fork of an adolescent oak.

When she pierces the Gauntlet and joins her packmates in the glade, they can see that she has had new clothes dedicated. Her jeans are long enough for her legs, the hems brush the toes of her worn hiking boots. Atop the new jeans, a new thermal, waffle-weave cotton blended with a few scant threads of silk that shine through the tangled knit, and a new t-shirt, University of Pennsylvania Rugby 2004 EPRU Division 1 Champions. Clearly, Linnea decided it best not to petition Lady Justice while covered in dried blood, her own and others.

She shines here. Her eyes are brighter, her ash-colored hair has more clarity, is laced with threads of beaten gold, but she is still the creature they know, her cheeks red with cold, her body, her blood, her neurons sizzling with antic energy. After a long day's wait and preparation for this moment, all that centering calm, Linnea's blood rises and sings and burns that mantle of near-stillness from her like the sun burning off a morning mist. She flashes her packmates a bright, fierce grin, its edge like a blade, then turns to the eldritch Keeper of the Land again, struggling to contain her energy. Oceans, she thinks, pale eyes traveling up the huge length of the massive tree's trunk. Waves.

[Councils the Divided] The days have been dragging onward for the young Silver Fang Philodox

[Councils the Divided] The days have been dragging on for the young Silver Fang Philodox. His mind had been wrapped around the issues that involved him leaving the ancestral home of the Corozon line, Fairfield, for the slum home of what was to be the packhouse. The inner workings of the estate were mostly handled by the house Butler, William, however there were other tasks that ha dto be assigned in his absence. He could not image what his sister would say about his relocation, but it was most likely along the lines of a guilt trip to keep himself at the manner to ensure the protection. He could not however envision himself staying at her request. This was necessary for the pack and moreso to those people who lived within the future territory.

He could think of nothing else but to handled these duties, less somethign should happen and he could not return tonight.

He had tried his best to purify himself for the evenings duties. Finding time, as it was afterall a luxuary he was missing greatly, to medictate and ponder over what it was he was about to undertake. It hadn't been so long since he was apart of his last pack. Ritualistically. His father had taught him of these small duties that one should perform for the goodness of Gaia and all her beings. It would help to entune oneself to the words of the past, wisdom of the ancients and clear his mind for the duty of being a Philodox. Balance of all things. Ironically of course was the fact that his beloved father learned it only from his grandfather, the Theurge whose life deeply reflected within Ferdinand.

But as great Helios disappeared from the sky and Luna vertical smile graced the world, it was soon time for his departure. Asking his William to drive him to the destination, so that he could give him a few last pieces of advice and a small discussion to distract a mind that was going far to fast for his own health. And the silver colored bently, was what carried him through the night, towards the park of his destination. And after a few final words with Will, he was off to the Glade.

Of course there was his dedicated items, his casual-formal attire. That ever present black suit jacket and black slacks that made his eyes, hair and skin all seem a bit darker. That navy blue shirt, buttoned, but not completely. A Silver Fang must present there breeding, especially to one they seek patronage.

And he slides up, where Linnea may shine, he does not. He is not the alpha, he is merely a guide, an aide, a teacher. She is the leader and it is her moment to stand out, he does not. He stands beside, moreso just to her right and slightly behind her, as they await the test of the spirits. A stern expression covering his features as he stands.

[Slays Before the Warcry] (Throwing blades, placement 6. Check)

There was no blood to call this Duty, born of centuries ago in ancestral depths and promise of Greatness bred, raised and expecting. Not in this creature. He swam the channels of peasantry, perhaps a pair of generations to his name that could be called upon. Father was more concerned about battling the Wyrm now then what happened before and more then likely so was Father's Father. And Father's Father's Father.

(Curve. Lower left hip. Check.)

Luna's light shone brilliant in that sliver of waning promise, hinting, teasing, tempting at the potential for the Shadow Moon to come, forcing nerves raw with anticipation and a deep down semblance of cuatious optimism. Tonight would be the joining of four to one and somewhere deep below the surface of conscious thought and careful planning out of avenues of approach for future endeavours (A scion for Kings and Queens) there existed a small seed of possibility, something that flourished and baked under the ministrations of Tradition. Proper measures of existence.

Strength of Unity.

(Clothes. Hat. Gloves. Nerves. Check.)

The travel was swift, he'd been in the Caern already. The footsteps were minimally audible, drifting soft flickers of scraping sound through the air, as he merges with the cold touch of the gauntlet, barely a veneer in this area, to creep through penumbral landscapes with flushed wildlife and exuberance, Gaia's energies as yet strong in this region, the blankets of snow left to peter off to the outer edges of the Canopy's overhead protection.

...He emerges to the eyes, draped in the black semi-commando array; Turtleneck to the lower jaw, cargos to the achilles tendon, black hard toes to the very steel tip, gloves, hat and the faint gleam of metal in half a dozen places or more, down limbs and along hip and pectoral, the presence of the blades a reminder of the No-moon's agenda here this eve; Unity was to be had so War could be waged better. Justice was in the hand's of the knife wielder and he came fully decked and loaded.

A glance tossed in Council~yuf's direction then 'round on the Wyrmfoe, a nod tossed in either's line of sight, before his gaze lifts to the Rite Mistress standing before that mighty oak, his head inclining ever so slightly, eyes failing to lift past those eyes. Deference for Rank. Patience and Waiting. Steady breath...

In. Out. In. Out.

[Totem] (Ok, just a quick reminder - please keep all posts now that we've done our Intro's at about 8 min or under! Let's kick it!)
PMed to: Councils the Divided, Slays Before the Warcry, Vanguard of the Dawn

[Totem] The pack emerges from the shadows, slipping out one by one into the glade, and Casts-Bones waits patiently for them to assemble. Finally, under the ethereal light of Luna, they stand before her, and she raises her head to speak. Her expression as she does so is one of evaluation, her gaze moving from one Garou to the next, probing them with her disturbingly penetrating gaze.

“Good. You have come. I have worked hard to locate Justicia, and the way is prepared. This is a hard Totem, Cliaths, that you seek the patronage of. A hard mistress. And a specific one too; many are the incarnations of Justice, many the faces that have been ascribed to that name over the centuries and millennia. But Justicia is perhaps as old as most, if not all. We shall seek her out, and you shall present yourselves to be tested. From there, it lies within your hearts and spirits, your mind and will to earn her approval.”

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Her packmates arrive and Linnea casts each of them a glance as they do so, her smile bright, her energy sparking and dancing in her eyes.

Linnea forces herself to bear the Keeper's direct gaze; her chin rises in confidence, fingers flex and curl at her side. The human - the girl in her - wants to cross her arms, to cover her torso, to hide some measure of her flank, but there is a Garou beneath all that, with regal blood, a line of heroes and madmen whose silver shadow stretches as long as her own, here at dusk, attenuated and strange - longer. "Thank you for the work you have already done. We're ready, Casts-Bones-rhya," she says, a distinct formality to her tone, her voice the deeper and richer for it. She glances at each of them, a flicker of a gesture, confirming her words. "We are."

[Councils the Divided] He nods as he listens to the ranked Theurge speak of the spirit they wished to be there patron. This was a powerful spirit, one that would find great honor among the nation and the Sept. This was a spirit that Ferdinand had to strive for, if not for the pack's desires, than for his own. And Ferdinand looks to 'rina and Ben before their alpha, the youngest of them all, Linnea. This was her chance to prove her worth as Alpha, should she be able to do so.

This is it Ms. Bartlett, time to shine brightly. Make you ancestors proud.

[Slays Before the Warcry] The nod is mimicked in the Rotagar, stepping into place alongside Vanguard~yuf, his eyes taking in the Shadowlord and her gaze with a stoicism and solidity born of duty. Comfort and ease flow through the limbs in waves, combined with the currents of tension and coiled muscle that come with moments like these.

He did not glance at his Alpha, only to the two packmates that resided around her. Severina and then to Ferdinand with a nod of assurance and insured Capability. He was certain of their roles as much as his own. Linnea on the other hand was Alpha and this was as much her Trial by Fire as it was their Quest of Unity. Let the world pay witness.

"We are ready."

[Totem] Casts Bones steps forwards, emerging from the shadow of the King Tree and into the light of Luna. She raises her face and allows the silvery light to bathe her cheeks, to chase away the shadows from her eyes. Holding one arm to the side, staff in hand, she raises the other to the sky, and begins to caress the moonlight, to run her fingers through it as if it were a skein of thread, inexpressibly fine and varied.

She stands thus, head thrown back, eyes closed, a slight smile playing across her face as she reaches into the moonlight and closes her hand on nothing, and gives it a tug. A second motion, a snap of her hand darting forwards, and she searches with her fingers in the night air once more before grasping something and pulling it in. The staff is discarded, it falls to the grass, and now with both hands she threshes the air, reaching up towards Luna like some demented supplicant, caressing her light and hauling an invisible line out of the sky and towards her.

Those who follow the line of her gestures see a dancing light playing far above. With each tug it comes closer, fighting and turning and slipping from side to side like a hooked fish. Its phosphorescence prevents its features from being distinguished, but it seems to be a small figure, a wiry humanoid of sorts with a distended head, glowing a rich and lustrous buttery yellow. Casts Bones reaches and pulls, and with jerks and dips the thing descends from the sky till finally, with a smile, the Theurge releases her hold of the invisible threads of moonlight and bows respectfully to the Lune.

It stands perhaps three feet tall, and seems to be dressed in a rather florid little suit of green velvet, its cut strange and ancient, belling out at the wrists and tight at the neck. It's head is that of a crescent moon, large and curved with eyes and mouth evincing a struggle between displeasure and curiosity. It stomps its foot and crosses its arm, and lets forth a babble of sound that sounds like crystal glasses resonating as a wet finger is run around its rim, that sounds like drops of water falling from great heights into still pools, that sounds like half heard sighs from other rooms.

Casts Bones smiles indulgently, and responds in kind. She speaks at length, and bows at its end, a gesture that seems to placate the Lune, causing it to jump and spin three times in the air like an accomplished figure skater, landing perfectly on one foot, the other leg extended directly out behind it like a rudder, arms open like an airplane.

The Theurge smiles, and speaks some more, and the Lune responds and they go back and forth, till finally the small spirit subsides and nods and crouches down, bottom almost touching the ground, a loaded spring, and then - ! It explodes up, a bound that sends it shooting up into the dark sky like a bullet, up so fast it's almost impossible to keep track of him, and he's gone.

The Theurge turns to the assembled Cliaths, and chuckles, shaking her head. "It has agreed to guide us, to help us wend our way through a moon bridge that it will open and lead us to Justicia's realm. She resides, if not quite in a Near Realm, than perhaps in a hallowed bubble all of her own, in all her permutations."

Casts Bones frowns and looks up at the sky. "It has begun. Prepare yourselves."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea cannot quite contain herself; her agitation, her excitement bleeds through, she shifts her weight from foot to foot, watching the truck between the Theurge and the with an intense fascination, listens to their strange and thrilling language - and if her packmates' catch on her features, in the momentary twist of her mouth - a subtle thread of wistfulness, they would not be far off the mark.

The lune dances off, and Linnea listens quite seriously to the Theurge, then turns and lifts her head to the sky, watching the single point into which the Lune disappeared, and waiting, almost breathless, as the Umbral wind begins to rise.

[Councils the Divided] Ferdinand does not act of turn while Cast Bones ~ryha deals with the spirit of the Lune, he is not one to say he completely understands the methods of the Cresant moons, however he does not wish to be of impolite stature and mearly bows his head as the Lune and the Shaman converse.

It was only until after the Lune had moved off into the vast Umbral sky did Council even move, listening to the words of the experienced Garou. And a nod in return is all that he can bring forth.

[Slays Before the Warcry] (Sorry. I needed food. Vision was a lil' blurry)

He braces. Flexes muscles, curls fingers to fists, toes to balls and raises upon them that his weight is distributed even and firm. His eyes regard the high flight of the Lune and the whispering dances of it's passage through the wind currents that steadily begin to pick up pace. This would be a new experience. Moon Bridges were prohibited in his previous Sept and those here had fallen before he'd a chance to take one.

(How bad can it be?)

[Totem] Even as they wait, looking from the Theurge to each other to the sky, the air about them begins to grow lighter. The trees about them, beyond the immediate periphery of the circle in which they stand, grow darker. The skin of their faces begins to grow lighter, more lustrous. For a brief moment the appear glamorous to each other, that old, 1920's black and white photograph glow, their skin nacreous, and then they start to look overdeveloped, the shadows of their faces receding, disappearing, the very air afire with white light, so bright they have to close their eyes, shield them, perhaps.

Cast Bones seems at ease, and once again raises her face to the sky. And the source? Something far above, growing in intensity as it focus on them, becomes attuned to where they stand. A rush begins to roar in their ears, a sense of the world moving faster than they account for, and then they have to close their eyes or be blinded. Just as it begins to feel painful, as they begin to scrunch their eyes closed, to resist the urge to knuckle them, cry out, run - it all washes away, critical mass reached and then safely dissipated. The light dims, almost goes out, but not quite.

Opening their eyes, they see that they stand within a beam of light that rise about them and extends into the sky. It thrums, silvery and cool, and suspended in the air above them floats the Lune, cutting japers and laughing, the sound akin to plates made of fine china breaking on the floor. It turns and flips and spins and gyres, and then, with a look of tried patience, Cast Bones pushes up and off the ground, and soars up into the sky, as if freed from the constraints of gravity.

She stops some fifteen feet up, and turns to look down at the Garou. "Come," she says, beckoning. "This moon bridge should take us there."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea cannot contain herself in face of such a display; she crosses her arms and draws her shoulders together, high, breathing in the bright white light and feeling the sudden brilliance against her skin, inside her blood, afire. She keeps her eyes open until they are dazzled, until her vision is more shadow than substance, aftermotes of darkness seething through the liminal silver, then slits her eyes, then covers them, as the light explodes around them.

And then - and then, hand slipping from her gaze, teenager plays something like peek-a-boo with the Lune, watching the strange creature from behind the slatted shadow of her long fingers, held across her face, peeking out and back at it until she is startled by Casts Bones sudden movement. She glances from the Shadow Lord, to the ground and back again, steps back three steps, and takes a running leap onto the moonbridge, into the sky, feeling like nothing so much as an ungainly baby bird given one running leap to learn to fly.

[Councils the Divided] The rush of white light is almost far to unbearable. Growing in its increasing wealth was the fact that it could almost be said he had seen it before. His father had some semblence of this glow, that so many had to hide there eyes lest they lose there sight.

But this glow seemed almost beyond even that supernatural feat. Its glow shown even through the skin of the eyelids, almost as if looking directly into Helios' visage itself. And before one could even make a move it was gone. Leaving him with a small glow across his vision that dissipates over time. And there before them was the Moon Bridge, the pathway to the the loftly Spirit.

And as Linnea runs up the moon bridge, so too does Ferdinand follow in suit.

[Slays Before the Warcry] The sudden glow takes a moment to get used to as panic sets in at the unexpected. His flickering eyes skip from one pack member to the next, while the ever increasing light, indeed, forces shut his eyes, squinching them tightly until his thoughts are all focused on the ceasing of that painful illumination. What a No-moon wouldn't give for a shadow about now...

...The roar, equally unexpected, sets his fingers to fidgetting in that ricochet manner reminescent of a dancing knife on the tips of an Assassin's fingers even as the sense of lightweight ripples through his limbs and body, forcing him to open his eyes and acknowledge the beam of travelled existence. Talk about a Star Gate Moment.

The Rotagar stares, mouth slightly agape, fingers halting their mad-cap dance even as he follows Cast~Bones movements 'onto' the Bridge. He spies Linnea and Ferdinand and Severina, guiding their own presences onto the 'road' and with a quick succession of blinks, a hollow prayer he'd thought forgotten (Gaia Above me, Gaia Beneath me...) the Rotagar lifts off his heels and the balls of his feet with a shove and doesn't come down again...

[Totem] Passage through the moonbridge is exhilarating, tremendous and strange. They move in leaps and bounds, each jump sending them soaring. Within seconds of having left the ground, their sense of orientation skews, so that what was vertical becomes diagonal, and then horizontal, the trees and park and city falling away and to the side and then slipping around and out of view altogether, like a guilty and unwanted houseguest escaping an embarrassing situation. They move through the aether, through the night air, the world shimmering around them, an argent tunnel of light that thrills them, seduces them, sets their Rage growling and wanting to howl at Luna.

The Lune darts and dances before them, moving with impossible ease, yippering and calling out to Casts Bones, who follows solemnly behind. And beyond the body of the Moon Bridge? Each espies perhaps a different series of phantasmagorias, none alike. Quick snatches of a mathematical realm, concepts given form in palpable energies, the more potent burning with the light of a thousand suns, spinning and evolving through their phases, warping those around them, so alien and pure that it numbs the mind. Views perhaps of endless summer fields, a heart wrenching glimpse of rolling meadows and long green grass, impossible in the world of winter from they've been snatched, the sky a wondrous and infinite cochineal blue. And then a realm of blackness, a world of intersecting planes of black, each distinct from the other in their texture, sensed but not seen, a world of interlocking grids and planes of midnight ebon, and a sensation that their minds are expanding to encompass it, to fit its impossibilities into their brains, threatening to blow and rupture them wide open.

And then and then - it goes on. On and on along the moonbridge, following the capering Lune, till finally they all feel a distinct sense of vertigo, of the shimmering floor beneath their feet slipping out from under them and rising to become the wall, and they're falling, the views beyond the moon bridge passing by so fast they blur. They fall, and the light grows in brightness, scintillates and burns and then - stops.

They're standing. The voyage is over. The Lune is gone. They are all of them grouped on the side of a hill, a hill of white marble, pure and smooth as glass at the apex, but growing cruder and sullied as it descends, till at its base it is wild and bouldered, black and cancerous and sinking into a sea of writhing bodies. On all sides, as far as the eyes can see, stretches this ocean of wretched humanity. Naked bodies, clawing and shrieking and moaning and rutting and slavering and killing, filling the pale white sky with all the cacophonous wailing of misery and despair, brute rage and unbridled passion. It's ghastly. It transfixes one, mesmerizes.

On the top of the hill stands a building, cyclopean and perfect. Built of the same white marble of which the hill is composed, it rises into the white sky, gleaming. A ring of Doric columns surrounds the 360 degree facade, a perfect circle in who's center rises a dome as vast as that of the Hagia Sofia in Istanbul. It is a simple building, but staggering in its size and perfect construction. No seams, no blocks, no signs of it having been built can be discerned. On the apex of the dome stands a huge statue. A statue of a woman, robed and blind folded. She holds a set of scales in one extended hand, and raises a sword in the other.

[Totem] (This is a lot to take in, so feel free to make your responses a little longer.)
PMed to: Councils the Divided, Slays Before the Warcry, Vanguard of the Dawn

[Vanguard of the Dawn] The realm is like cold water, the first breath of morning after an endless, ecstatic light, dawn on the horizon. Time - which had seemed impossible, a thing suspended - as they endless and strange worlds rolled past them, settles again, moves unerringly forward, in this sudden, stark realm.

Linnea does not want to leave the bridge; if she could walk forever like that, sampling the smallest tastes of the endless possibilities she can barely comprehend, she might never return to earth. The base of the hill is roiling with - supplicants? those punished? - those awaiting judgment - and its vast marble peak is topped by something breathless and perfect and strange, but for a half-dozen seconds, long enough to hear her heartbeat three or four times, doubled, surging through her inner ear, Linnea turns back and casts a wistful glance at the sky behind them, the heights from which they fell, trying to retrace the journey, trying to quantify it, trying to find some perfect little shard of memory with which to encapsulate it.

There are the dead to remember, though; and the calcified city, the long stretches of decrepid buildings, the foul oily film on even the Schuylkill, as it slides like an idyllic brown serpent through the green banks of the park. Her ancestors are quiescent around her, their whispers muted in this realm. The teenager flashes a glance at Casts Bones, a moment's hesitation - "We go - up - or ?" a near-silent question, then on confirmation, looks to her packmates, and leads them in the direction given her by the Theurge.

[Councils the Divided] The pathway of the Moon bridge is an amazing adventure. The views of existence seeming endless, the realms passing by as fast as there eyes could imagine. Taking int the view with little more than a thought, trying to focus beyond the feeling of disoreintation. One could even so far as to say that it could be the best rollercoaster ride imaged.

Until it comes to a demanding and sudden end. A slight panic could be thought as the feel of what keeps them up dissappears from beneath them, leaving them to there own devices. Should one not have the stomach he would cry out. But Ferdinand would not, he cannot disappoint the rest of the pack as so, nor that of his family name.

And upon arriving in this new and remarkable realm, Council can only look outward, examining all this world has to offer in visual wonder. A sea of penence wailing forth, likely those judged and tried for crimes that are possibly too horrific to ever speak. A pray of pity, silently pass his lips. But as he comes about to once again look upon his packmates, his gaze lingers on his alpha. Her words monitored but he nods.

Remember Linnea, confidence.

[Slays Before the Warcry] The Rotagar's eyes are firmly shut for the first few moments, guided not by the impressions of the landscape below or the presence of his soon-to-be-packmates ahead or even the reassuring value of the Lune and Cast~Bones. Instead there is that one overwhelming urge deep within that demands, defines and explains it all...

(Don't Fall. Do not Fall. Not falling.)

...But after the first few dozen reassurances inside his own head, he takes the risk and creeps one eye open to spy the world below and around them, swarming away in terrtorial fluctuations and brief glimpses. Vast arrangements of precision and chaos so complex it leaves the mind to boggle. He knew the Umbra. It's denizens but this...this was something worthy of a scholar's mission. A glimpse of all those places below, a tease that seemed to bring about an urge. A Curiosi-

(Finish it!)

-Snap back to reality, or as realistic as this could possibly get, his feet come beneath him and the world changes from the Majestically complex to the Terrifyingly simplistic. They gnash, growl, scream, tear and rut with a tenacity and fury born of something endless. Something lost.

"...The Sin Tides." Whispered, his eyes encompassing all the world below this hillock, draped in the seething mounds of graceless and fallen. Yet where some stand transfixed by the sheer encompassing depth of those currents of black debauchery, Ben has only those three words and a snap of homid teeth and spittle for them. His back is turned, his eyes to his Packmates, then Alpha, then Theurge and finally...

...up...Up...UP...

"...I am the Blade jutting from the Battlefield. Proud and ever-fuckin' Free..." More whispers. More haunted stares and a longer pause then that given the black sea around them, ad infinitum. It's only at Linnea's words and the steps to indicate follow, that the Rotagar, last in line, takes up the rear, breathing in the surrounding realm and tasting of it's duality air.

[Totem] The Theurge turns and gazes down at the roiling masses of naked bodies. Her eyes, hooded, take it in, her form grown still and silent as she contemplates this terrible ocean that stretches out forever. How many millions lie and scream and curse in that ocean? How many?

When she speaks, it’s in a low whisper, reciting:

“ Down to the foot of the malign gray shores.
And I, who stood intent upon beholding,
Saw people mud-besprent in that lagoon,
All of them naked and with angry look.
They smote each other not alone with hands,
But with the head and with the breast and feet,
Tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth. ”

Finally, as if rousing herself from reverie, she turns to the pack, her face grim. She looks up the slope of the hill towards the gleaming summit, and then faces Linnea, and Linnea alone.

“Above is the home of Justicia. Lady Justice. And below – yes.” Here she looks at Ben, an appraising and speculative gaze, and then nods. “The Sin Tides. Where those who are unjust, who broke the law in ways more profound than most lie. Though… they are not held their by anything more than their own injustices. Any may attempt to ascend to the peak. Few manage.”

And indeed, even as they watch, singular figures rise from the heaving masses and attempt to scale the hillside, only to fall back, despairing.

“You must ascend to the Temple.” Again addressing but Linnea. “The very hill is your first test. It will grow smoother as you go, but in all this is but a metaphor. The just can rise high. Procede until you can go no further, and then call forth to Lady Justice, and beg an audience.”

She frowns, and looks up at the shining temple. “Few have managed to climb all the way. Good luck, young ones.”

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Arrested by the Theurge’s speech, the young Ahroun stops in her tracks and turns to stare at the writhing, living mass of beings shuddering out from the base of Justicia’s white marble hill. She – she stops again, breathes in slowly, expels the breath, and sinks to her haunches after they have received their instructions, studying those below, watching the progress of one speck of a creature that has heaved itself from the mass a body length, five, below falling back.

Remember what she said, Linnea remains herself, as her stomach twists and turns, alive with a natural sort of sympathy for the suffering. Who broke the law in ways more profound. Measure their deeds against the – against the cost. No, measure they cost against the deeds. Her lips quicken, just, with the internal conversation; all her smiles have melted away. Confidence without arrogance, she reminds herself, her pale gaze rising up the hill. Oceans, waves.

“Thank you, Casts Bones-rhya,” the girl murmurs the polite phrase with more deep feeling than she has ever before, then squares her shoulders and begins the ascent.

[Councils the Divided] Deep brown eyes take in the glossy look of the marble hill, looking upwards towards the apex of the trail, looking to Linnea with a compassionate, guiding look. The apex was a long accent, atop a mission that some could call an impassible trail. What would be but a impossible mission for some is but a necessary trial for them all.

And he continues to breath, clearing his mind of all things that would demean his worth, if at all possible. He could never make it up the hill, not completely. But that is more the reason why they seek Justitia, they need her to raise them up, lift them the rest of the way that they cannot do themselves.

[Slays Before the Warcry] The Rotagar flicks an eye in the direction of the theurge as she proclaims what must be done. His heart begins to thump a little louder, drifting through the egress' of comfort, tolerance and stepping to the door of strength of will as the daunting task of scaling the depths of that Cyclopean monstrosity, a creation reminescent of Babel and the times of the War, humans decided, fucked up the world.

His gaze remains rapt on the flesh of smooth marble, his feet taking extra caution to remain beneath him, slower pace measuring the Theurge's words even as his Alpha pauses to take in the wisdom there and her own council. His hands have already found place against the handles of their respective weapons of choice: The long slender poinard, barely a needle twelve inches in length. Curve, a blade with a throat slitter's turn at the point, unfolded and carried against the forearm.

It was more mechanical reflex. Assurances of safety. Comforts of self then anything to do with expected destruction. He was a creature of habit. A creature of focused intent. A shadow on the wall that obeyed everything the remainder of the pack did, just in less obvious ways.

...As Linnea began the ascent upwards, catching in marble step with her dainty own, he fell into place behind, far enough that any watching, Rank, Eye or Divinity, might known his place in the pack. Rear and last, but never Omega. It is only when the Theurge has vanished from sight of the stairwell, that the Rotagar speaks up

"...If I make it farther then any of you I'm going to be sorely dissappointed..."

[Totem] And so they begin the ascent. At first it is deceptively simple; the traces of steps provide an easy route up, so that they move quickly. But then the steps grow worn, and rapidly become little more than lumps in the side of the hill, and then disappear altogether. The ground is rough, however, providing plenty of traction. The unpolished marble grows smoother yet, till they’re walking a little slower, the increase in incline making the ascent more laborious.

And then the first foot slips. Whether it’s Ben’s or Severina’s is hard to tell, but shortly thereafter they’ve all felt it – the near glassy feel of the stone making purchase hard. They slow, extend their arms out to their sides for balance. Put increasing pressure on the toes of their feet. Concentrate. They slow even more, somebody’s foot goes right out from under them, and they take a knee. Another does an ice skating dance, manages to stay erect.

Closer and closer to the Temple. Each moment drawing out longer and longer, till it seems they’re crawling, taking toddler’s steps. The building looms above them, vast and beautiful, severe and indifferent. They’re so close. The ground now is as smooth as the cheek of Michelangelo’s Pieta, and they’re all slipping now. Falling. Jarring down onto their knees.

One by one they stop, unable to make it further. Ferdinand perhaps manages to make it a few yards further than the others, struggling forwards through sheer tenacity, but then he too is forced to a standstill, unable to take another step up for fear of falling and sliding back.

Strung out, perhaps thirty meters from the peak. The figure of the Theurge is but a speck below them, the ocean of heaving bodies indistinct now, a heaving, homogenous mass.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea falls hard to her knees, to her hands. She struggles against the glassine surface as far as she can - until her struggles cause her to slide back, to lose the ground she gained through whatever tenacity, whatever strange grace she has to call her on. She leans forward, clinging to the face of the marble, presses her forehead against the cool smooth surface and regains her breath as she looks down from the height they've achieved, to those lost so far below.

There is a lump in her throat, and now her heart is beating rapidly, like a wild thing caught in a vise, squeezed in a cage. She can feel the pressure as the muscle squeezes oxygenated blood through its secret chambers, sends the sustenance out to her hungry limbs, her dizzy mind. She is supposed to speak. That's her job, right now: to find something appropriate to say and to say it. The girl shoots a pale, helpless glance at Ferdinand, clinging to the face of the mountain several yards above her, perhaps looking down at her with his particular brand of stern compassion. She feels Ben and Severina behind her, clinging to the face of the mountain, and turns, casts glances over or down at them, an impression of her pale face, her burning cheeks before she looks up again, at the impossible buildings, impossibly perfect, impossibly high.

"Justitia - " her voice seems so thin here. She lacks Ferdinand's presence, or Carmen's commanding grace. Linnea clears her throat and repeats herself, louder this time (oceans), reaching deep for some central surety, the physical core of her confidence as a Garou. "Lady Justice. We can rise no further without your grace. We beg an audience with you." Her pale eyes drag from the building above to Ferdinand, then back; she hesitates, then continues. "See - see us as we are. See us as we would be. But see us, lady, please."

[Councils the Divided] "Do not be arrogant Slays before the Warcry. None of us will make it to the top by ourselves."

His annoncement is moreso towards the whole pack then Ben himself. It is within him, he knows it. The accent is daunting indeed, and he is not exactly the most graceful of the packmates, but he presses on until he passes the rest, his steps almost hesitant as he pushes a bit further. Not wishing to leave any of his packmates behind, yet also wishing not to be in the fore of the gathered. He is not the one that is to be alpha. Father would have probably made it further.

But at the moment they can go no further, none pressing their luck. He looks back, not not exactly losing sight of the building, their destination, towards Linnea, the Silver Fang Ahroun, nodding her to speak up and call for the aid of Lady Justice. They have made it as far as they can on their own. It is time that they beseach the aid of the one who climbs this hill without but a blink. Thoughts of those far beneath, within the Sea of Sin, forced out of his mind.

[Slays Before the Warcry] "Call me a Gutter whore's son..." Breathless and distinct, a ripe old addage straight from a sailor's maw. Ben's hands are planted firmly against the glass surface his palms and fingertips wet with his own saliva to create the much needed friction one requires for glass to squeak in that annoying manner of cleanliness or in this case...dear life.

His jawline sets, muscles straining, refusing to give into the urge to shift to Crinos and digs his claws into the flesh of the marble (only to go scattering down the side as all grip is lost for fuck's sake) while his hard-toes dig as well as they can in the light concave groove that hovers just below him.

He pauses, waiting, eyes slipping shut against the distance they could so easily fall. Not to the marble smooth below where waits the Theurge, no. The winds would see to it the chances would most likely angle them out into the ocean of Sin and then...

...he shudders, muttering "Answer if only to spit on us but answer by Gaia's breath..."

[Totem] Linnea’s evocation, her request, her plea, is lost in the high, thin air. Nothing happens. They remain crouched, hugging the smooth surface. And then, white light envelopes them. Not the brilliant and wondrous silver light of the moon bridge, but the white of hospitals, the white of anesthesia, a sterile white, a hard, harsh illumination that has no shadows, texturings, shadings. Just white.

When it recedes, they are all of them still crouched and on all fours but now on a flat floor. They are within the building; arches circumscribe the massive interior room, supporting the roof, and beyond them the thick bodies of the fluted Doric columns can be seen. There are no doors: all is open. The room is huge, with the dome rising magnificently above them into the heights. There are no shadows in here - there's no clear source of illumination, but the light is all pervasive.

In the center of the room rises a circular plinth, and on this stands a mature woman in perhaps her mid thirties. She has an athletic build, and stands perhaps some eight feet tall, perfectly proportioned. Garbed in flowing white robes, she holds out to one side a set of golden scales, and in the other a long sword of clear chrome like metal. Her stern, hard face is made all the more severe by the blindfold that covers her eyes, and her blonde hair falls to her shoulders in a smooth waterfall, tucked behind the ears.

[Totem] This is Lady Justice. There can be no doubt. She gazes directly at you alone, ignoring the other members of your pack. Though the blindfold covers her eyes, it is clear that her attention is riveted on you. The you are being weighed, judged, evaluated, from your first living moments to your most immediate thought. Every act. Every decision. Every joke, gesture, accomplishment, dream. All of it. Before Justicia one cannot hide. Before Justicia there is no equivocating. She gazes at you, and waits.
PMed to: Vanguard of the Dawn

[Councils the Divided] Among the nation his words, his heritage, his breeding and his line find weight. Among the garou he can be measured by the deeds of those that have come before him. But here, under the eyes of Justicia, no pure breeding, no commanding essence, no regal voice can find a moment of sweetness. She is Justice and he cannot hide from her greatness.

All he can do is but bow his head, reverent of her magnitude. She is but the essence of what Philodox's must seek. Honor above all things, balance in hand, but never fearful to exact penence on those who she has found worthy of her sword's edge. And here his words do not hold there bearing anymore.

"Lady Justice.... thank you for listening to our words." He is humble, even if his voice still holds the raw power of commanding essence, and training of regal refinement.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea rises, not fully to her feet, no; instead, she sits back, kneeling, her thighs and calves compressed together, her feet splayed outwardly. Her chin rises as she feels the weight of the spirit's regard, her mouth a flat line. She meets the blindfolded woman's gaze and feels her regard pulling away the skin, the substance of her flesh, furrowing - no, not furrowing through the many-chambered riot of memory and meaning and emotion and being that ties itself together into one half-finished, barely begun Garou, not furrowing, blazing.

Snippets of memory swim to the fore, then fade away into a whirlpool of abstract thought - a moment of childish jealousy, a prank played on a sibling, a child's secret disobedience, ever unconfessed; and more - the strange, divided heart, half-human, half-other, half-spirit, half-substance, the filtered ambivalence, the many voices, the ephemeral convictions, real but unvoiced and without substance.

Linnea looks back, stares back - not boldly, not quite - but openly, intently, the slow-fire that burns inside her heating her skin and her thoughts - and awaits the lady's judgment.

[Slays Before the Warcry] More light. More silver (AGH! FUCK! IT BUR-Tha' hell?) and finally the presence of a solid floor and a room of arched magnificence. He is blinking and slapping at his arms and hands, brushing aside his drifting attention with a sharp shake of the head.

He pauses as the adjustment comes, lifting his gaze to the room first and foremost, every niche, nook and cranny that held even the smallest shadow glanced and catalogued for potential threats and hindsight, the blades out once more after the arduous climb, rolling around on his fingertips while the eyes do their paranoia dance...

...Until he beholds the Lady, resplendent and simple and severe and firm. Her gaze resides within him, lifting free each deed done, each promise performed, each oath taken and each life expunged under his hand. Most were deserving. Some were regrettable. Others were simply unfortunate circumstances (Wrong place. Wrong time. Sorry.). Still as her gaze probed deeper? There is little to no guilt. Barely a hint of despair or even a whisper of Harano. There is conviction and below that, penance for the Great loss of a Creature he could not hope to appease. Not yet. Not now.

(Harold...)

...Not until Ragnarok.

His grip tightens reflexively around those weapons, his eyes lifting to that blind folded face, the visage of a Goddess, the demeanour of a Chosen path of life. Where Ferdinand sets to one knee in reverance for what she represents to him as Half-moon, Judge, Mediator and Leader born; Where Linnea meets that gaze with level eyes and head, the Rotagar steps forward, tall and defined, the instrument of War. The Knife in the dark. The Devil's advocate. The voice when no voice should be (Fuck You)

"...Peace is an illusion and our War is gettin' harder and harder. Wyrm to the left. Weaver to the right, Wyld all around and Gaia in the middle squeezed between two fuckin' rapists arguing who over who suffers sloppy seconds. You know me. You know us. Each of us I have no doubt, blind as you might be. So you know what we need to make things better. To make things right...."

Narrowed eyes. Tight muscle.

"...Give that to us. A better name and place. A single fuck-you to the Wyrm and the Weaver instead of four lesser blades chipping away at a leg..."

[Totem] Ferdinand’s heartfelt salute, Linnea’s and Severina’s silent patience, Ben’s reckless demands.

The building swallows their words, and there are no echoes. Justicia looks down at the four of them, her face set, neither scowling nor smiling. No expression crosses her face, which remains, as ever, stern. Serene. Perfect.

She speaks, and her voice is measured, stately, and delivered with such power that it’s as if each word were a block being hammered home into a cavity in their minds, perfectly fitted, slammed home with undeniable force.

You have come before me not for Justice but to extend Justice. You would exist in my name. You would embody me.

It is impossible to tell whether she scorns them or praises them. Her voice is flat, without modulation, imperious and solemn.

Only the Just may extend Justice. Only those found worthy may judge others. If you would be my judges, than I shall test you. Should you be deemed worthy, I shall invest in you my powers. Should you be find wanting, than you shall be judged.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "We are ready, Justitia." Linnea replies immediately, although she remains as she is, kneeling on the cold stone floor. Her voice is quiet, but imbued with a rising force, illuminated - perhaps - by the echo of centuries, a thousand other lives invested into this one. "We welcome your test, and accept the consequences of our actions, for good or ill."

[Slays Before the Warcry] "...Ready and Waiting..." Whispered. Ghostly.

Haunted and soft. Only one set of eyes would see his hands begin trembling and they didn't belong to him.

[b]Linnea's Challenge[/b]

[Totem] Linnea blinks, and everything has changed. Gone is the temple, gone is the white marble, the all pervasive white light. Thoughts of Lady Justice, the Umbral voyage, the Totem Quest, recede and are gone like mist before the rays of the sun. Simply… gone.

She's standing deep within the Caern, alone, on the battlefield of alabaster and obsidian. She's standing in the very center, surrounded on all sides by the frozen images of battle. Surrounded by death and valor, pain and despair. Everywhere she looks is conflict, is sacrifice, are Garou fighting with everything they have, heart and soul, to hold back the forces of the Wyrm.

She can feel her Ancestors here. She can feel them, their aura's and thoughts and deeds suffusing the air, churned up by the battle. She is in the heart of her Line, she is the nucleus of her Tribe. They are almost palpable about her: the Silver Fangs, a line of which she is a scion reborn.

"Linnea." The voice makes her heart stop. It is the voice her father, Atlas, hard and demanding and sure. He steps into view, walking into her line of sight. He's as she remembers him, perhaps with some new gray hairs in his head, new lines of weariness about his eyes and mouth. He seems harder, and as he gazes at her, it is with the same dispassionate appraisal that he trained on her ever since James discovered that she was a True Blood.

"What are you doing?" His voice is as sharp as the crack of a whip. He gazes at her with narrowed eyes. "What in Good Gaia's name do you think you are doing?" The scorn is palpable. The disappointment. "Do you have any idea how hard I had to work to draw you forth from that realm? To pull you out of the mistake you were about to make and the shame you were about to plunge our entire Line into?"

If she tries to interrupt, he steam rolls right over her, as implacable as always. "I had to call on the aid of our ancestors to prevent your from committing this mistake." He slowly shakes his head, and then he's not alone. A woman coalesces in the air beside him, and for a moment Linnea can't place her, feels as if she's looking in a mirror, seeing an older version of herself. And then her heart wrenches, and she realizes that she's looking at the spirit of Vision-of-the-Fall, sorrowful, proud, wise.

The woman stands by Atlas, and gazes at Linnea with the love and pity of a mother. She smiles, almost sadly, and when she speaks, her voice is almost ghostly. "Dear Linnea. How I have watched your progress. How I have hoped that you would fulfill the promise that I prevented Eventide from attaining."

Her smile fades away, and her face becomes grave and stern with true sorrow. "Please, Linnea, listen to me. I was misguided. I know that now. I sought to prevent my sister from exerting her natural right to rule. I sought to prevent her from behaving as a Silver Fang must. Where I saw madness and arrogance, was only conviction and authority." She slowly shakes her head, and in her eyes stars die. "I believed that I was doing the right thing, as no doubt you now believe you are doing in your quest to attain the patronage of Lady Justice.

"Justicia is a fine spirit, one steeped in veneration, but the veneration of humans. She is not of the Garou, but instead of men. She is Dike, the Greek goddess, she is Justicia, the Roman Goddess. She stands on the roofs of human court buildings across the Western world, but no where is she found in Caern or Sept."

Even as Vision-of-the-Fall is speaking, Atlas nods gravely, and another is forming beside her. Taller, darker of face, and more intense, Eventide is no less of Linnea's blood, a permutation so fine that she might be gazing in the mirror. There is regal might and power in her bearing, there is authority, true, pure authority in her stare.

When he sister finishes, Eventide picks up, her voice throaty, brooking no disagreement. "There is no democracy in the wolf pack. There is the Alpha, and she is obeyed. Feel it. In your blood. You know this is true. There is no justice for all, but only what needs to be done in battle, decided by the wisest, the best. You are a Silver Fang, Linnea. Not a human."

And then other forms are appearing, so quickly now that Linnea barely has time to take one in before another appears. DeathWatch, grim and dark and fell, and alongside him Wise Heart, his face as grave and solemn as that of the others.

And then finally, an old hoary figure appears, massive and scarred, his clear blue gaze harrowing and terrible. He is a figure of legend, the greatest Hero of her line, and seeing him is akin to gazing upon a god. He stands before her in all his righteous grandeur, Emancipation, undefeated in battle, the greatest leader of her blood, his wisdom and power in Battle unquestioned.

He gazes at her, flanked on all sides by her blood and family, their eyes all trained on her, and he steps forwards, and stops before her. She can sense his age, his power, and when he looks at her, it's all she can do to prevent her eyes from watering.

"Daughter of my blood." His voice is as rich and powerful, utterly beguiling, "You are a Silver Fang." It is said with such finality that it seems to contain within it a thousand different arguments and reasoning’s. "My blood runs in you. All of our blood runs in you. You are a Silver Fang, and Silver Fangs are the law. We are the Keepers of the Silver Litany, and it is to there that you must bow your head. Forgo this desire to follow human notions of rights and equality. Feel your heritage within you. Do not shame us. Do not shame me."

And with this admonition, he steps back, the others flanking him, and waits for her response.
PMed to: Vanguard of the Dawn

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Each of these ancestors is greater in his or her singularity than Linnea; she knows this, she knows this as well as she knows the veins tracing lightly against the back of her eyelids, as well as she knows the strange quickening of her heart, the pattern of cracks in the parquet floor of her bedroom, the rhythm of nightsounds in the Guardians’ quarters’ below the Church, Prayer Without Mercy’s broken snoring, the supple sound of footsteps as Unbroken Arrow creeps to the battlefield in the dead of night, to bathe her brother’s frozen corpse in her salted tears.

Her father – her father turns to her, and her heart quickens. She chokes out something close to a sob, not quite a cry and reaches out for him. She was a child when she last saw him, the apparition, real or imagined, is almost more than she can bear. He rebuffs her and turns away, and she follows him the way a flower turns its head to follow the sun. There are more, one by one they come, one by one they speak to her, not the whispers in the back of her mind, not the half-memories that rise to the surface of her consciousness like flotsam: real, wholly embodied, arrayed about her like the bright points of a many-pointed star.

Blood rushes to her cheeks again, stains her face – Do not shame us. Do not shame me. and she wants to hide from each of their staring faces, to turn and give in to them, one by one by one, until they turn to her again, until they take her into the center of their circle, until they lift her high, to shine as bright as –

- there is Blood-Eclipse, pierced through, atop a near-mountain of the dead. Here are the dead, the inexplicable, ever-present dead, fighting their battles eternal, all around her.

“I’m not – “ she starts, the words catching at the back of her throat, “I’m not shaming you. I’m - I’m - The human bow to her name, but – but they do not venerate her, they don’t, they don’t even remember the meaning of justice, they don’t know what balance is, they’ve forgotten it all, and – and - ” Her ancestors are old and venerable; when she wishes to speak clearly, Linnea calls upon their remember skill to imbue her words with depth and meaning. Here, with each of them arrayed against her, she is left to flounder wholly on her own and she turns wildly, from each to each, attempted to address each concern, each question, each accusation. “Vision-of-the-Fall-rhya” – always –rhya – “she is not a spirit of democracy, not of equal voices. She’s – she’s like – she no – wait – the law, it isn’t about the spirit, it’s – it’s not - ” From one to the other she spins and spins, weaving a trap of her own words, until at last she stops herself.

Confidence. Ferdinand’s voice, in the back of her mind. Oceans. Cassian’s eyes upon her, my queen.

Linnea stops and steps back from their, the glorious fallen of her line. She should stand tall and straight, but instead she crosses her arms narrowly over her stomach and stares almost mulishly at the assembled, studying their shining faces, feeling the power of their blood. “Wise Heart. You are a Philodox, and you – you know the importance of the law, human and divine, Garou and – universal, we – we might be keepers of the law, we might have been embodiments of it, but we have failed and failed again, and the world requires that we set a new course – before it all falls to ruin. I – I have my own path, and I have chosen it, if she will have me.” She turns to the Theurges, the grim father, the compelling daughter, then. “You’re wrong. Send me back. Send me back to my pack, now.”
PMed to: Totem

Ferdinand's Challenge

[Totem] Ferdinand blinks, and everything has changed. Gone is the temple, gone is the white marble, the all pervasive white light. Instead, he's sitting in the back room of the Brotherhood. Thoughts of Lady Justice, the Temple, the Totem Quest, recede and are gone like mist before the rays of the sun. Simply… gone.

It's quiet, the lights are dimmed, and it's clearly after hours. He's sitting at one of the circular wooden tables, its surface scarred and heavily varnished in the soft light of the wall lamps. Across from him sits the Grand Elder, looking deep into a glass of some caramel colored liquor. A comfortable silence fills the room, as if they had just finished the formalities, and were indulging in the easy moment before business is discussed.

The Grand Elder looks up, and after gazing at Ferdinand for some time, nods slowly as if in approval. "Ferdinand. What I am about to tell you is influenced in no small part by the impression you have made on your peers and myself. The spirits have been watching you, and I have heard favorable reports. In all respects, you are a man of probity, wise beyond your years and mature in ways that are rarely found in those your age, no matter how many battles they have fought."

He pauses, takes a sip, "You are the Scion of a great Line. Your ancestors are well known, are famed. You are a credit to them, young Cliath, and I believe you could be a credit to me and my rule." The Grand Elder holds Ferdinand's gaze. "I want you to act as my Advisor on all matters. I wish you to hear you counsel on the issues that beset us. I want your thoughts to aid the Sept in the highest matters. I believe that with your wisdom, young as you may be, we shall all prosper."

He sets the glass down. "But first I must ask you one thing. A simple thing, but I have heard word from the spirits that perhaps you may disagree with me on it. It is this," he says, and leans forwards, gazing at Ferdinand intently, "I wish you to affirm that all wisdom is in the Silver Litany. That the ways of our ancestors were correct and still are, and that the Silver Fangs should rule as they always have. That our ancestors may gaze upon us with pride, knowing that we carry on their rule in the manner that Gaia intended us to. Do you agree, Ferdinand? Do you agree that our Garou lore is old and true, and that our Tribe is the greatest? That we Silver Fangs have the right to rule, and rule as we see fit for the best for all Garou?"

[Councils the Divided] He listens to the words of the Grand Elder, as if they come from some far off place, to be praised for his lineage by one of such rank and such ability. The Grand Elder to take him as one of his advisors. It was but the gift he needed to hear. To advise one of his stature, who lift him from the shadows of his father, to show him as worthy of the line, as so many of his family were.

"It would be an honor to aid you in the duty of running this Sept. I find myself elated to think you would accept me among your council."

And then comes the words of what the Elder thinks. He cannot think of what to say. Words do not find breath as they struggle to pass through his mind. This was the Grand Elder, a ranked and renowned Philodox of the Tribe. He seeks the wisdom within him, looking to his teachings, his time at teh academy. His leadership lessons. All of it. And he seemily stutters, his voice, normally found to ease, not so.

"We... must think.. of all things... as a leader... one can never... discredit possible options... other methods of leadership and knowledge... may be found in... unlikely of places. In these time... the final times... we must be ever vigilant and open to potential... leadership is confidence.. without arrogance."

Confidence without arrogance. Yes that is a true leader.

And a diplomatic answer.

[Totem] The Grand Elder stares at Ferdinand at first with surprise, and then a hardening look, his face growing flat. “You hem and hedge like a Shadow Lord, Councils-the-Divided.”

A slap in the face following the previous words of praise. “I asked you a straight question. I asked you a simple question. If you are unable to answer this clearly, than you are no good to me as an advisor. If you cannot tell me straight what you believe, than you are no good to anybody.”

The Grand Elder stands, the chair shoved back by his knees. He leans forwards, hands on the table, and stares the Cliath in the eye.

“Do you believe in the Sactity of the Silver Litany? Do you believe in the Silver Fang right to rule? Are you a son of your Line, do you make your ancestor’s proud, or do you think we are equal to Bone Gnawers?”

The Grand Elder stares at Ferdinand, and it is clear that the Philodox can equivocate no longer. That he has lost much already in his first feeble answer, and that the time to speak true has come.

[Councils the Divided] Ferdinand reached back into his wealth of voices that echo among him, reaching into the pool of its great vastness and pulling upon his ancestors words. And as it stands the echos of his great ancestor "Mediates with Reason" comes to the fore, finding willpower within the young cliath to speak up to a ranked Philodox.

"The Lintany must stand as high above all else within the Nation. The Silver Fang are no exception. If we a re worthy to rule thenso we much prove it when challeneged in times of peace. If one proves themselves worthy, then for the Nation to stand strong in tis war they must take the front as is the duty of those who are proven to be leaders. Rhya"

The words flowed as if by someone's else. Hoilding the regal tone of his raw talents along with there aged wisdom.

Ben's Challenge

[Totem] Ben blinks, and everything has changed. Gone is the temple,
gone is the white marble, the all pervasive white light. Thoughts of
Lady Justice, the Temple, the Totem Quest, recede and are gone like
mist before the rays of the sun. Simply… gone.

He's standing in one of the record rooms in the Caern. Shelving covers
the walls, filled with manuscripts, ancient and old and new. The air
is musty with the smell of books, of old paper and ink. The air is
charged with tension, and he faces his pack.

Ferdinand looks disgusted. His arms are crossed over his chest, and
he's looking away, at the wall, at nothing. Severina looks furious,
frustrated, her face a glowering thunderhead of anger. A muscle along
her jaw leaps into sharp relief, fades, reappears. And Linnea? Linnea
stands before him, her face tear streaked, her clothing splattered
with blood.

"Ben," she says, and her voice is near pleading, "Ben, listen. We need
to decide what to do. We have to face the Elders and tell them what
happened. I - I don't know -" her voice hitches, and she reaches up to
rub her sleeve across her nose, "I don't know how it happened. I had
didn't mean to kill him. To finish him off. The Challenge, I - I was
so furious at what he had said. The new comer. Ryan McAllister."

Ferdinand interrupts, "You ripped out his throat after he had fallen
unconscious. You pulled him from the ground, and after looking us all
in the eye, slowly tore out his throat."

Severina speaks up, "He had it coming!" She clenches her fist, steps
forwards, "Showing up and challenging Linnea for Tribal Elder! So what
if the Grand Elder demanded it be to first blood? So what if Linnea
swore she would abide by the rules? I'll lie. I'll tell the Elders
that he frenzied. That Linnea acted in self defense. We can salvage
this. We can come out ahead."

Linnea turns to gaze at Ben, and her voice is small, so scared, "Ben -
please. What do you think? This was - a mistake. He was - he was
nothing. We have accomplished so much. We have done so much good. I -
I think - I mean, we could go so far. I'm to go to the Tribal Moot
next month, and receive my father's Grand Klaive. We're being
considered to be sent to Washington as the Sept representatives. We've
unified the packs, we've brought peace to the Sept."

Severina steps forwards one last time, "Ben. What do you think? I'll
lie, and we'll be fine. The ends justify the means. It was a mistake.
Rage. It can happen to the best of us. Tell us true, Ben. What do you
believe in your heart of hearts should be done?"

[
[Slays Before the Warcry] Their voices. Their images. The blood on
little Linnea. The Rage in Severina's words and eyes. Ferdinand's
disgust and outright displeasure at the entire situation. Three
avenues, Victim, Defense and Prosecution. Roles reversed in the grand
scheme of things and he is set on the pedestal with Gavel and final
word.

His eyes take in each as they make their case, define what is to come
and what is to be and what could possibly arrive with the Truth and
the Lie and the Carrot and the Stick. A Silver Fang has died beneath
the claws of his Alpha. She is covered in blood and scared. The other
two are inconsequential, providing their ideas of what is important to
them, the Mother for her child in Severina, the Judge to the accused
in Ferdinand and Linnea is scared...

...Linnea is scared.

It makes his decision easy, the other two shoved aside to step up to
Linnea, a smile, for once, kind and concerned on his face even as he
takes up her bloodied hands, sharing the red between his own fingers
and gives her the Rotagar's worth.

"...I would rather you be terrified then Weak, Hun. If ever you're
weak, I'll have to hurt you, maybe even kill you and I don't want to
do that. I would rather we step up and take the blame, then step back
and point at someone else. I would rather this never have happened. I
would rather be drinking a beer down the street at Gizmo's..."

A pause, shrugging, not releasing those frail little hands.

"...I would rather taste the dirt on a Freeman's boots, then the steak
a rich man eats and doesn't do a damn thing to deserve. So we're going
to tell them. We're going to tell them and take what comes and accept
the damage done. Only after that, can we start re-building again. This
is War. Not Power. Not Kingship. Not fantasy or Dungeons and Dragons.
It's War and it's going to take a while..."

And he leans in to kiss her blood smeared forehead.

"...So we've got some time to make amends for this..."

[b]Severina's Challenge[/b]

The white lady donning scales, sword and the blindfold is called Dike, to the Greeks. To the Romans, she is Justitia, their personification of justice. She is one of the Horai, the daughters of Themis, who as well wore the mask of Lady Justice and mother to the Moirae, the Fates. Hearken with this bit of knowledge afore hand, the werewolf that took her namesake from one of the Moirae, Modern-day Atropos, a follower of Pegasus and Black Fury, stands with her soon-to-be pack mates, before the Lady Justice seeking her favor as their patroness for a totem and unite them in pack.

On paper and in theory, it sounds like a glorious idea, different tribes brought together to serve under a cause of justice, but in reality, there is a shred of doubt in this one. Philodox-born under a waning moon, the Black Fury is a creature of vengeance, not always of justice. She doesn't adhere to the role of Arbitrator, only as Executioner. And this is her test…

Severina blinked, gone are the white lights and her pack mates, she finds herself in a bedroom, with the lamp light its only illumination as she stands, arms crossed against her chest, staring at the weeping form of one Silver Fang kinfolk. The tension cutting through the room seeps into the skin, into every pore and fiber of muscle, drawing Severina's body into such a tight stance. That the trim fit of a well-developed musculature flexed and coiled, wound up tightly like spring. The Rage of a Crone simmering like a screeching harpy just underneath her skin, ready to explode at the slightest prod of her ire.

This kinfolk pleads to the Black Fury, emotions of desperate hope, defiance, and abject fear dancing in a myriad of tears and heavy sobs on Julie's face. Her bruised face, the signs of abuse were visible as Julie made her plight to Severina, the accusations of abuse brought on by her fiancé, Jonathon, whilst he spent himself in a drunken fury and beat the living crap out of her.

Severina shakes her head slowly; listening to the confessions as the end results becomes clear. Murder. Death by self-defense or so Julie says to her. And, now Julie begs for Severina to help her, in her hour of desperation. Severina weighs the consequences of this challenge heavily.

Black Fury law mandates:

Suffer no Abuse to Woman: (Julie is a woman abused…)

Train the Weak; Protect the Helpless: (Julie in her anger was weak to the temptation of vengeance; she'd be helpless as the vindication of Jon's family… and begs for protection.)

Remember Your Parents: (Despite her tolerance for the opposite sex, Atropos has killed men for such crimes… but what of the family's suit in the loss of a son?)

The expressions on Severina's face are set like granite, hard and stern, boring down into the weeping woman before her. "There's primitive laws of nature an' justice older than what modern Man now dictates in his democracy…" she murmurs under her breath, not really speaking to Julie, perhaps more to the air so Justitia hears her, "Eye for an Eye, Tooth for a tooth." A pause, taking in a deep breath, "Does th' killin' of an abusive lover warrant a kind of justice when th' woman acts out of pure anger. No and yes, there's no fairness in this punishment. There's only vengeance, which warrants this kind of punishment."

She looks down at Julie, "I'd help this woman, Justitia, but not without a price…" Her head shakes again, looking up and around the room, "Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." Modern-day Atropos' words end, awaiting her final result of the test.

----

As one, the four Garou are enveloped in that white, sterile light, and the scenes before them are sublimated into it. When the world about them once more comes into focus, they are back in Justitia's Hall, standing in a vague semi circle before the pillar on which she stands.

Looking from one face to the other, the Garou will see different expressions: defiance, bitterness, anger, pensiveness and sadness. None are exhultant. None have passed their test without some personal toll, some form of sacrifice. And then the realization: Severina does not stand amongst them.

The tall, stern woman speaks, her voice powerful and brooking no denial:

[b]Three of you have passed your tests, and have been deemed worthy of my patronage. From hence forth you shall be my Arbiters. You will be Justice embodied.[/b]

There is a pause, and each and everyone of the Garou feel her gaze solely on them.

[b]Modern Day Atropos has failed her test. She has elected a form of Justice more appropriate to that of the Erinyes, and has been sent back to your home city. Know that nothing comes before me. Family ties. Personal beliefs. Ambition. Nothing. Adhere to me, and you shall have the righteous strength with which to meet all obstacles. Fall from my graces, and you shall be judged.[/b]

All this is said calmly, without rancor or threat. True justice is without compassion.

----

And, in roughly the same place that the four of them had met but a few mere hours ago, the Black Fury appears, coalesces and stands amidst the trees and beneath Luna's lambent glow, unharmed and alone.

Linnea’s young face is defiantly set. Her jaw is snapped closed, her mouth compressed, her lips and eyes narrowed. Tension worms along the line of her shoulders, her breath comes in sharp, flaring little breaths. It takes some time to reorient, to believe in the world that has presented itself to her eyes, to allow the ghosts of her blood and the ghosts of her past to disappear, as the parade of her ancestors, the familiar surroundings of the battlefield melt, drip and merge back into the unerring perfection, the perfect balance of Justitia’s white marble halls.

Her breath returns to her in a rush. She leans over, feeling vaguely sick and drained by her moment of perfect defiance. It wasn’t real, it was a test – no? She looks around wildly, her body held together by bright threading filaments, by her arms, crossed over her flat chest. Linnea’s jaw snaps together as Justice speaks, but then the fine silence between the spirit’s words, she speaks up again, “Hey - where’s - ”

Linnea doesn’t have time to spit out Severina’s name. The Incarna is speaking again, her voice calm and sure. The Silver Fang does not truly comprehend Severina’s absence until the Incarna explains it to them all, says it straight and plain, and then the girl looks back wildly at the spirit, the traces of her earlier defiance sparking to bright life in her pale eyes, in the supple, sudden weave of tension that runs riot through the Ahroun’s skinny frame.

“We – I – ”

It is not a moment to be poorly spoken; but two words stammer out of her like drunkards, careen into that solemn space before the cliath snaps her jaw wisely shut. She shoots a pale glance to either side – Ben, then Ferdinand – then steps forward again, stiffly, as if her body were constructed from a series of poorly jointed steel rods.

“Thank you, lady.”

It’s all she can say. The teenager turns from the Incarna and walks away, the defiant mask of her round face melting into something more troubled and vulnerable as she goes. It will be much later – perhaps as the trio gain Casts-Bones sides, perhaps as they step onto the looping rollercoaster of a moonbridge, that Linnea will mutter, sidelong, to one or both of her new packmates. “What are the Air-in-yees?” Then, later, emotion curling around the edges of her voice. “What are we gonna do?”

Ben: His eyes remain closed for a moment longer then is necessary, letting the light fade before him until there's nothing but shadow and dark before his lids. The flickers of tension and the presence of Rage around him is enough recognition of his fellow packmates, the bond of the Totem affirming it even further. His smile plays across lips in slow but sincere depth, even as the lids creep open and the solidarity of the Pack alight sin his muscles and deep into the marrow of his bones.

A glance is tossed towards Linnea, tongue-clicking his way through a pre-determined speech or joke when-

"...'Rina?" A sharp cord of tension rips it's way up his spine, even as the hands reach for blade handles and Justice's voice creeps through the ampitheatre, pulling his attention towards the Incarna with steadily narrowing eyes. The hafts of each blade are gripped until his knuckles are white, even as a foot steps forward prepared it would seem for some scathing even vehement remark. It's only when Linnea makes her 'Thank Yous' that the Rotagar pauses, snapping his eyes 'round upon the Alpha a question on his face...

...and then the world turns white and they are transported back to where they once were, enriched by the bond of Pack and yet decidedly unsettled by the turn of events. Ben for his part, marches off a small ways, the sound of curses tearing out at the air, curdling the air currents with their vehemence, leaving Linnea and Ferdinand to speak first for the time being.

Ferdinand: Ferdinand looks upon the majestic Incarna of Justice as it spoke of there recent trail and tribulations as they formed once again into the halls of the ultimate Judge. His tongue does not find volume in reverence as Justice speaks. And that feeling, that complete feeling of being one, a whole, among packmates is there. Except something is missing.... no not something, someone. Severina.

And then comes that commanding voice once again, echoing the thoughts of the gathered trio who were looking for there missing packmate. Noting what she said and what they were suppose to do now.

Until there departure, Ferdinand stayed silent the whole time, walking besides Linnea waiting for her to say something on there departure from the Cyclopean building. What were they suppose to do. Until Linnea speaks up about the pack.

"Well there is much to discuss, I will follow you. However if we spurn Justice's patronage, then it will be even harder to earn the respect of any future spirits. Not to mention what we now know of Severina's form of justice compared to our own. And those people that will need our aid... as a pack."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] And, in roughly the same place that the four of them had met but a few mere hours ago, the Black Fury appears, coalesces and stands amidst the trees and beneath Luna's lambent glow, unharmed and alone.

--

Severina is alone for some period of time – five minutes, or an hour, it doesn’t matter. Time passes strangely within the velvet shadow. One minute she was standing in her own bedroom, staring a weeping kinwoman, the next she reappeared in the dark glade, beneath the vast spreading king tree, a moment’s disorientation as the world resolved itself once more.

Then the moonbridge – brilliant, scintillating. Casts Bones lead by the capering Lune, leading Linnea, Ferdinand, and Ben. Linnea walks close behind the Shadow Lord, her young face serious and withdrawn; there is none of the delight that marked their fantastical voyage to Justitia’s realm. Ferdinand is quiet too, his handsome young face set into the sort of quiet severity that must, it seems, come naturally to the young Silver Fang. His arms are crossed, and he is wholly self-contained. Ben is well behind, as if he’d been lollygagging, self-absorbed, cursing and muttering beneath his breath.

The Keeper of the Land says nothing more to them once they gain the ground. Nothing to Severina, nothing to Linnea, nothing to Ferdinand. Doubtlessly, her mind is occupied with weightier matters – the Blight that must be cleansed, perhaps – but she pauses long enough to accept Linnea’s thanks with a quiet grace and to shoot Severina a neutral look graced with – perhaps, perhaps not - the faint curve of a maybe smile, before she turns and walks from the Glade.

Ben looks at Severina, his plain face neutral, the lines of strain pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth, rubs a hand across his face and stomps off into the Umbral woods. Ferdinand crosses his arms and withdraws, giving Linnea and Severina some modicum of privacy.

And Linnea – Linnea drifts across the space between them like a lost moon being pulled back into the orbit of a larger body. Her face is quiet but for a strange spark of silver defiance, and there are secrets in their eyes. They all were tested, after all, and none without cost. Her arms are delicately crossed, mid-torso, her narrow shoulders are straight and sure, but her head is canted to one side. “Hey,” she says, when she gains the Black Fury’s side, circling Severina, brushing against her with the edge of one narrow hip. Like her face, her voice is quiet. “ – that, that was weird, huh.”

[Vanguard of the Dawn] I guess I DIDN'T need to NPC y'all in my post. ;)
PMed to: Councils the Divided, Modern-day Atropos, Slays Before the Warcry

[Modern-day Atropos] Distance is placed between herself and the others, when she had reappeared; it took a bit of time to sort through what had just happened. Time to rethink and console herself on the actions of her trial and how Justitia had failed her, it brought a realization of archaic notion to the Black Fury that she followed a set of laws much older, more wilder than this pack of young ones would ever know.

It made the Black Fury start to come to terms with her own age and her position in life. There were things she had yet to do, sacrifice to make, vengeance to partake, judgments to pass. In the time she has spent in Philadelphia her presence may be doing more harm than good for certain individuals, and the failure to secure a totem of such esteem, begins to make her wonder just how honorific she was as a Philodox.

Linnea bounces into her peripheral, dancing a circle around the older woman until she brushed a hip against her own. This makes the Black Fury pause in her next step, legs begin to brace as arms slide up to fold across her chest, biceps and deltoids bulging under the tension, riding through the rigid-hard frame of defined musculature.

“What is it, Vanguard-of-th’Dawn?” Her expression, like granite, stern and cold as her voice.

[Slays Before the Warcry] Twitch. Mutter. Grunt. Snap.

He's off on the edges of the glade, vanished amid the shadows to appear as some periphery phantom, murmuring abstracts and grunts to himself few would have the capacity to recognize as vehement and even then only by the tone and harshness of the whispers. With each new emergeance from the dark contours of the overhead foliage, his hands fidget with maddening alacrity, at once filled with the presence of glimmering metal in the form of an edged weapon and at the next, nothing.

Caught up in his own ministrations and private ponderings, the Rotagar is oblivious for the time being, of the others, the sudden sullied taste of bitterness along with this triumph, clear in the near frantic pace of his movements.

[Councils the Divided] Silent contemplation.

That is all that he can muster for the moment, pondering over the issues that have affected him, what happened at the realm. What lady Justice said, what happened, everything.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "I - I mean, - " Linnea pauses, her breath stills, the pale gaze sweeping over Severina's ungiving expression, the winter in her voice. The girl's shoulders stiffen, she draws her elbows in more closely to her narrow frame. Her chin drops, but her blue eyes remain fixed upon Severina's familiar features. She takes in a cool, solid breath, expels it, then draws in another, steadying herself and sorting through the images in her mind.

At last, "I - I saw my father. My father, my grandfather. My great-grandmothers. Their father. My line, all my ancestors. That's what she showed me. And - and," her voice is calm and quiet, like a stream with shadowed shallows. "They said she was wrong for me, too human. That we were born to rule. No - " pausing, searching, the cloud of thoughtfulness darkens the young woman's face, but her gaze remains entirely fixed on Severina. " - that I was born to rule, and rule by right. I - " she swallows, suddenly, hard, and looks away - then straight back to Severina. " - what happened to - to you, Severina?"

[Modern-day Atropos] She can hear the murmurings of the Rotagar; feel the pedigree bleeding off of Ferdinand as he contemplates everything that has transpired between everyone. She breathes in deeply, holding it as Linnea spoke out, stammering, she regards the young Silver Fang in front of her.

It seems like she would never speak, but she does.

Exhaling, “There’s a kinfolk, Julie of yar lineage. She had a fiancé named Jonathon, an’ they were havin’ problems. This kin come to me, confess to me she killed ‘er lover after he beat th’ crap out of ‘er. She pleads to help ‘er, to protect ‘er from those that’d persecute ‘er. Justice expected me to try this I wager. So, I did. I told Justice I’d help this woman an’ that what she did is unjust an’ deserved trial, but yet it was justified by ‘er vengeance. Eye for Eye. Tooth for Tooth.”

She shrugs her shoulders, “Justice said I failed.”

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea is still, and watchful, but she listens closely, so very closely, as if there were nothing else in the world she might wish to hear more than this. She listens to the silence, as Severina breathes in and out, as the Black Fury sorts through her own thoughts, and then she listens to Severina's tale.

"I don't - " Linnea glances briefly away, from Severina to Ferdinand. Her pale gaze sweeps upon the marching darkness of the umbral woods, the bare trunks of bare reflections of bare trees knit together like a puzzle, Ben beyond. Severina can see her hesitation in that moment. She's not searching for the precise words to express the feelings welling up in her, she's trying to identify the feeling itself. Ahrouns aren't called on to judge others. they are called on to kill.

Linnea shakes her head, her braid swinging down the center of her back, luminous in the moonlight. In the umbra, her breeding is clarified, refined, as the physical impurities strained through a fine-meshed sieve. "She said the Air-in-yes. The Erinyes - Justitia - that they suited you, not her. I don't - I," she begins, the girl, then lifts her chin, pale eyes trained on Severina. "I don't see what's wrong with what you said. You - you said you would protect her from those who wanted to kill her, but - but that she was wrong to do what she did. That's - " another flailing glance over her shoulder, then back to Severina.

"We - we can go back. We - we can make her see. That's - " She pauses, her right hand twists into a fine-boned fist and stomps out her suddenly roiling frustration onto the damp ground. "that's not fair. I want you in my pack." There's something petulant about the outburst, to be sure. Beneath, though, conviction.

[Modern-day Atropos] Severina takes a step forward, closing the distance between her and Linnea. She does two things; one hand reaches out to take the young girl’s raised fist and the other hand comes up to cup her chin, holding it tightly, motherly, as she meets the vibrant and quivering Silver Fang’s eyes.

“Look at me, Linnea.” She hisses out in a scolding tone, reminding Linnea, perhaps, of a disapproving adult, “Stop this. Ya act like a brat, collect ya’self an’ listen to me. There’s nothin’ ya can do, neither I nor anyone else in this pack can change th’ mind of yar patroness. It’s th’ way of things. Ask Ferdy.”

Her fingers release from Linnea’s chin and hand, dropping to her sides, “I’m a Black Fury. Th’ laws of mah tribe mandate certain things that never meet th’ requirements of yar totem. I’m old laws, old justice. I’m a daughter of th’ Wyld bound by its stirrin’s an’ …” she breathes in deeply again, exhaling quickly.

“Th’ threads of our Fate have been strummed. We aren’t destined to pack, no matter what ya feel. Yar road is not mine to travel, young one, it belongs with them.” Glancing up to look beyond Linnea towards the Men.

[Slays Before the Warcry] "-Fuckin' Stupid ass Traditional viewpoints like that, that'll fuck us all right up the ass soon comin'." His voice trails into the conversation after a moment's pause, filtering in through the echoless and open air currents. He steps from the shade of the overgrown vegetation, the slim blades, finishing their final revolution, smart and secure and all too casual in their deadly arcs, gliding easily back into their respective sheaths on his commando Black Ops garmentry. His eyes are narrowed beneath the cap on his head, directed Linnea and Severina and then 'round on Ferdinand. As a whole...

"Spirits are fickle and judgmentally biased. If she's willing to throw away power and strenght in another child lost, then she's fooling herself, the she's fooling herself into thinking she's safe..." A snap of the fingers, ripping out at the air, directed at the trio through the glances cast in those none-too-dull eyes.

"...There's convincing to be done but I'll not be making any trip back to those Halls again, without knowing the reasons for doing so."

'Round on Severina, a finger levelled.

"You're too accepting of this fate. It makes me wonder if you're capable of standing with us. Tell me the truth and make it count, Philodox: Do you want to be part of this Pack or not?"

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea stares back; her face is hard, a muscle spasms in her jaw, volatile beneath Severina's grasping fingers, but in Severina's hand the Silver Fang's fist closes and disolves, the fingers spay out, briefly, to entertwine with the older woman's own in the half-second before Severina releases her hold.

Her eyes are like chips of diamonds, Linnea's, and as Severina's hand falls to her side, the girl's jaw juts forward, a familiar expression, mulish and stubborn - the sort of determination that spurs those who follow lost causes to the last, or rulers of worlds. "Is that true F-- ?" Her voice rises, her pale gaze swings over Severina's should to the Philodox, then falls silent as Ben emerges from the overgrowth, suddenly, black limned with the silver light of his blades.

Once more, Linnea crosses her skinny arms, and stands watchful, wide-eyed.

[Councils the Divided] Ferdinand stood silent listening to the words the New Moon once they sare spoken. He does not even think he can say anything. It is not in his best interest to speak up until he is asked. However he looks to Severina after Ben speaks, listening to her intent more than her words.

[Modern-day Atropos] Severina tilts her head up, leveling it on Ben with a narrowing of aquamarine eyes; nostrils flare out as she snorts gently. “Tradition is all some of us have to cling to, Benjamin.”

She keeps her gaze locked on the Rotagar, not a glance spared to Linnea as Severina hesitated, then shrugs her shoulders and folds her arms over her chest. “Fickle spirits, yes,” she mutters, “-- I won’t follow yar totem. I’ve no desire to pack with any of ya.” She makes her words sound as hard and distant as possible, stepping away from the Rotagar and from the Silver Fang to start walking away.

“Sometimes Fate’s preordained.”

[Councils the Divided] (May Ferdinand call upon the leadership trait of the pack. As alpha Linnea would probably have them right now.)
PMed to: Vanguard of the Dawn

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Absolutely. :)
PMed to: Councils the Divided

[Slays Before the Warcry] A snort, sharp and derisive. Whether Ben believed her or not the end result was the same. Distaste and a flippant snap of his hand that wafted dismissal into the air currents.

"No time for cowards then, got a Nation to save..." Grunted in Linnea and Ferdinand's direction, the Rotagar steps in the opposing direction, hand already moving to the slim blade at his back, ritualistic in his mannerisms, drawing it forth to swim and twirl anew, a certain comfort gained in that flickering length of metal.

"I'll meet you back at the Packhouse. I've got some business to take care of...Don't be long we've got somethings to discuss..." And he was eyeing his reflection, intent on crossing over.

[Councils the Divided] He does not let Severina walk off very far before his words are formed. A commanding voice filled with raw talent, leadership trained in the efforts of the academy and then the power of that totem, Lady Justice. Compound that with his lineage and his words came off without fault, without peer. He may not have been the alpha, but his words came off as such.

"And do you know exactly what fate has in store for you Severina? Do you know that this thread is cut for you? Do not act as if I cannot see through your ruse Half-moon."

He does not stop to wait for her to stop walking, his words were not to be ignored.

"Lady Justice is a spirit of Justice, a spirit that is hard to follow and be child too. Are you so willing to give up on us. Those that I KNOW you wish to call packmates. Do not lie to me again."

[Councils the Divided] (Heads up, Ferdy has Charm 4, PB 4 and with Lady Justices trait leadership 5... so... yeah.)
PMed to: Modern-day Atropos, Slays Before the Warcry, Vanguard of the Dawn

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea's mouth twists narrowly; her shoulders curl forward, her feature curdle. Severina does not look at Linnea and cannot see the expression on the girl's face, but Ben and Ferdinand can see mouth twist and fall, her eyes narrow, her features close in on themselves in the shuttering moonlight. Perhaps they can even feel it over the bonds newly forged between them.

Linnea spares Ben a flickering glance as he offers his indictment, then her pale gaze slices back to Severina. She is tense as a guitar string, her body vibrating. She is transfixed, wounded. The young Ahroun takes a hiccoughing breath - not quite a sob - and then another, steadier, more sure. "That's not true Severina. You - you're - that's not true -"

She falls silent as Ferdinand speaks up, more eloquently, more firmly than she could dream of doing. Her attention turns, rapt, to her tribemate, the folded mask of her face reforms and her chin rises as her eyes drift back to Severina.

[Slays Before the Warcry] ((Ben'll vanish at this point.))

[Modern-day Atropos] Severina doesn’t make it very far, her steps slowing down as the Rotagar spoke, words tossed at her like one of his knives into her back. She can feel the sting, feel the rattle of her anger, stirring beneath the skin. Not dwelling upon it, excusing it as a tribal dislike and nothing more. The Get of Fenris was an overbearing lout.

Ferdinand’s words echo over the more emotional voice of Linnea. Severina closes her eyes, squaring off her shoulders as she stops walking. She doesn’t look back to the Silver Fang, only allows her voice to carry back to answer his question.

Yes, he saw through her ruse, “I do know what mah fate has in store for me, Ferdinand,” her voice grows quiet, “and, yes.”

[Councils the Divided] "At least have the decency to lie to my face Philodox. You are not fooling me. You are no Ragabash Modern day Atropos."

His tone gainec volume, powering through the feeling to once again step back and not speak up, to allow Linnea to lead as an Alpha should.

"No one knows of our fates. Nothing is completely locked into stone. Nothing is set to an invisible hand, you are no prophet, nor are you an Oracle. Tell us exactly why you are so willing to give up and not challenge this. You do not seem one to roll over and die."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Linnea is still, watchful, her emotional outburst sublimated, the passion redirected into the flickering kindled in her pale eyes, into the lean tension of her skinny frame, poised. Her body is taut as a whip, her weight shifts from foot to foot, crunching the impressions of winter mast beneath her feet.

It's cold here; she begins to feel the cold, in her fingers and in her joint spaces, in the soft, moist membranes of her eyes, her nose and mouth. Her teeth ache with the cold. Her gaze swings between Severina and Ferdinand, one to the other and back again. "He's right Severina - " Linnea adds on, suddenly, eagerly. Ferdinand has authority and power and breeding to buoy his words. Linnea has none of those things, but she does have passion, and it breathes in each and every syllable - rage, devotion, one in service of and one savaged by the other. "You know he's right. You - you don't - our deeds aren't done until we do them." She seems so focused, so intent, so adult - but then tacked onto the end of those words, "Severina. You - I - " before the girl snaps her jaw perceptibly closed and awaits the Fury's response.

[Modern-day Atropos] “I’m no proper Half-moon either, Fang,” she spits out in a growling voice, mustering up the resolve to shove her outer walls up. To remain as emotionless in this situation with Linnea and Ferdinand, it was easy to hate Ben, to take his words and turn them into a tribal indifference.

The spry and energetic Linnea was another matter entirely; Severina could feel herself shutting down. She thought of other things that needed her attention, her focus, anything else instead of them.

“I’m not goin’ off to die. I’m off to killa man. Sole reason I came to this damned city in th’ first place.” She spits out vehemently, over her left shoulder, tilting her head back to glance at them briefly.

She starts walking away, “Ya have a pack, leave me to mah own,” words start to grow distance, “This don’t need a Crone’s hand anymore.”

The Black Fury heads for the sanctuary of shadow and darkness, running from a person she could’ve call a friend, running from the ghosts in her mind.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "I need you, Severina. The Caern needs you. Don't you remember?" arms crossed, her voice lashing-quiet, Linnea runs a dozen feet in Severina's wake. Her pulse thunders in her wrists, in her ears, but not from the meager exercise. "It - isn't fate, Severina. It's a choice you're making. It's a - it's a choice you can unmake, too." Then Linnea stops, crosses her arms again, watching Severina in the shadowed darkness, something in her own words clicking home, tumbling the combination locks in her mind: choices, waves, oceans.

Her stomach feels like the bottom of the ocean, moving with the waves.

[Councils the Divided] He does not speak up anymore, he does not have any words to convince her. She has made up her mind, she has her purpose. Eye for an eye. She was searching for someone and when they were found.... tooth for a tooth.

He turns to Linnea with a solemn look across his features, looking upon his packmate. The power of the totem still within him. His focus solely on Linnea.

[Modern-day Atropos] It’s a tear in the gut, all of this, especially when Linnea was so instant and eager to try and make a last stand. So brave and so young. It makes Severina stop, half-turning to look back at the girl, listening to her words washing over her ears, into her mind, swirling with turmoil of inner thoughts and emotions all walled up.

In a flicker flash of an instant, the Black Fury is back in Yedrow Park with Earthquake, feeling its thunder under her paws, hearing the wailing cry of ghostling children crying out for a mother… for protection. They needed her. It spurned something old and painful deep inside, opening up old wounds.

Another moment, Severina feels herself as a pregnant mother on the verge of dying, hearing the helpless cries of her son, even as the unborn life inside of her was dead. He needed her… they had needed her.

“Some day maybe ya’ll understand.”

It comes full circle, back to the present now, she begins to shift down through her forms until a white faced, black pelt lupus stood there, turning away from Linnea to run off.

…choices, waves, oceans.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Severina runs off. Linnea watches her, stares in her wake, then looks back toFerdinand, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, her narrow frame a lean cord against the night.

"I guess - " she stops, swallows what seems like a mouthful of bile at the back of her throat, and drops her chin to her chest, staring at the blank, riddling ground. "I guess that's that. I guess - it's time to go home."

[Councils the Divided] He looks at the young Silver Fang with a bit of regret, knowing that deep within her heart she wanted Severina to be apart of them, to be packed with them. Ferdinand could see how the fellow philodox wanted to be with them... but.

"Her form of Justice and ours do not meet. You must understand that fact. However you must overcome your emotions right now. It is a hard decision to not pack with her, however a leader must make those hard decisions. You must think beyond your own desires or that of another. If you wish to lead the Garou in this war you must think of the whole, of the pack and Sept and no longer of the individual. The whole of the Sept, not to mention those that we shall protect within our territory, need you to make that decision."

He could feel the gift of Justice leave him, passing through him into Linnea, the gift of leadership that she would so desperatly need.

Vanguard of the Dawn

About Me

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Totem Quest [Pack]

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