Friday, June 09, 2006
We will kill them, yes, kill them all, and you will go on to kill many more.
Ash Grove(#4024RJh)
Within this dark forest dominated by the canopy of the tenacious, light-hungry pines is a place where a stand of ash has established itself and fought off all competition. The ashes allow the rays of sun and moon alike to lance down through limbs which bear nothing more than clusters of rust-coloured keys, such that undergrowth abounds and the forest floor is even clad with a bright green sward of grass. Bright white bits of bone peep through the green, testament to a history of food offerings in this place.
These habitual offerings have accomplished their purpose and, during daytime, a great number of carrion birds roost in the branches of the trees, predominately the large black bodies of crows and ravens. The grove is deserted at night, the birds having left for other sanctuary.
Dillen looks to Stacey. "He has a right to know I have them and whatever he wishes for them I will do." Then a nod. "I shall. To both of you." And with that, he's headed off towards the farmhouse.
Far-Cry watches his former packmate go, exhaling a little heavier when the galliard is out of range. As Stacey leaves with Dillen, the halfmoon gives himself a quick shake and settles back down where he stands to rest.
A few minutes pass before Fire-Burns returns from her run, cantering into the clearing at an easy lope. Hello, hello, I am back, I ran, she tells Far-Cry as she trots over to him. I ran far, I ran fast.
Far-Cry, head down on his paws, lifts it when he hears the other wolf's approach. The philodox's question next is accompanied with a lick of his muzzle. See anything good to eat?
I was not looking for prey, Fire-Burns tells Far-Cry. I was looking for Dancers. And they are not good to eat, no, no. Taste of the Wyrm, make you sick, make you warped.
Far-Cry splays an ear with an obvious 'well duh' kind of look, making much assumption to the taste of BSD flesh. His head lowers another notch, looking almost like it's going to flop back onto his forepaws, but doesn't quite make it there. I have never seen one. Never fought one. Never bit one.
Fire-Burns walks round Far-Cry thoughtfully, then lies down near him, her head towards his. I have, she informs him. They are fearsome. They are like us. So like us that it can be confusing if many fight on each side. But we will kill them, yes, kill them all, and you will go on to kill many more.
It would take a Garou to kill a Garou properly, the Shadow Lord observes distantly. He looks over to the ahroun. When did you fight them?
Before I came here, Fire-Burns recalls. My pack and another pack fought them on a beach. It was a good fight, we won. Two of the other pack died but none of mine, no, not that time... though many are dead now, she adds with a sad whine.
Far-Cry looks down at his paws, tongue reaching out for swipe over one and clean off a speck of dirt. What do you see here that is different from there? he asks, gazing back over.
Spikes-The-Drinks is not here, Fire-Burns responds with another dejected whine. Her ears lie down flat and she licks at her front paw.
I meant, Far-Cry expands, what can be done to win the fight with these intruders? What says two packs win on a beach, and a whole sept does not lose?
Fire-Burns lies her head on her paws and considers. The beach was open, yes, we could all see each other. Here is the woods, we cannot see well. Perhaps hear, perhaps smell. Also on beach no humans near, no thing-to-throw-heads.
Far-Cry notes he is surprised they haven't thrown big rocks yet. The philodox growls low, himself eager to get up and move, he rises to his paws and paces again. Then after a few caged lion-like turns, he refocuses on the ahroun. Your pack, is it well?
My pack? Fire-Burns enquires, seeming a little lost in thought or memory. My pack now?
Yes, Havoc. The philodox's gold gaze is on the Fang again. Far-Cry's full attention seems to be searching the ahroun, but not in a directly invasive manner.
They are well, yes, yes, Fire-Burns confirms, still seeming distracted. Stone-Spirit is sad because her father died and Escapes-From-Money does not leave her den because of her voice but they are all healthy.
Far-Cry starts his pacing anew, himself quickly distracted with his own thoughts as well. The Shadow Lord completes far too many laps before he then asks, Will they be out here? Defending the caern when the others go to war with the Black Spiral Dancers?
I do not know, is Fire-Burns' answer. I hope they will either fight or guard the caern and cubs but I do not know because I have seen none of them for days, no, not since I broke the way into the farm and shouted at Pierces-Ice-rhya.
Far-Cry looks up at the mention of cubs. Walks-Middle wishes the Glass Walkers to keep her cubs at their safeden. The others, I do not know either. His attention keeps there, upon mention of the broken farm door and shouting at the Wendigo. The halfmoon's ears tilt, asking for him a silent question after it.
She said I did nothing, Fire-Burns answers the unspoken question. And she called me a bad name, I do not know what it meant because it was in her strange tongue, yes, but it was bad, and I could tell because of the way she looked when she said it about me, yes, very bad, because she hates me because of what she says my ancestors did to hers. Fire-Burns delivers that statement in a torrent of angry lupine growls and gestures, then her head flops back down on her paws.
Far-Cry turns a tight circle, but it gives him an opportunity to move a few paces from the ahroun as well. What did you do, then? If not nothing. The Shadow Lord declines making any statement on the subjects of ancestors, sitting his rear end down and eyeing the fullmoon.
Recalls-the-Scars and I found out from the Corax that the Fallen Ones had a thing-that-throws-small-things and that is how the heads got onto the bawn, Fire-Burns responds proudly. And before that I have fought many things, yes, many bad things since I joined this sept. You know that.
Then there must be some other reason that she says you do nothing. Far-Cry quirks his head at an angle, inviting the ahroun to pierce the haze of indignance. It is as Walks-the-Middle-Road has said. Misunderstandings, maybe.
I shall not think of the matter further, Fire-Burns avows resolutely, until she and I have spoken with Walks-the-Middle-Road in attendance to keep us from throating each other. I will not think of her and her foolishness, no, no, I will not.
Far-Cry turns, gazing north with a snort. The Wyrm eats at the border and litters the bawn with its trash while you two fight over the differences of ancestors and deeds done.
Fire-Burns chuffs in a peeved way. I have made it clear that I am ready to fight, that we should fight as soon as we can, she points out. The leader of higher station chooses when the fight starts. Do you too say I do nothing, Shadow Lord?
Far-Cry looks back over his shoulder. Must you find a thorn pricking your pride in everything that is said? No, you have done much already. Leave the war planning to the Wendigo, and you prepare for when things go wrong.
If others would respect me as they should, there would be no thorns, Fire-Burns points out in the lupine equivalent of an angry mutter before rolling over onto one side, all four legs pointing in the same direction, and stretching.
A wry growl passes through the Shadow Lord. As they should, Far-Cry repeats, chewing over a thought. So the Wendigo does, for one who is beneath her in station. The halfmoon's observance is followed with his turn towards the north, looking to head towards the main forest of the bawn again.
I do not think of the Wendigo-rhya, Fire-Burns insists with more than a hint of stress. I do not speak of her. She too turns north once she's finished rolling around, and lifts her head, nose to the wind in the hope that it may bring her some clue to what's going on over there. Alas, the breeze is in the wrong quarter, and her nose learns nothing new.
Far-Cry glances back at the Fang. But you worry over her speaking of you, and so think of her. It's a little hard for the lupus mind to wrap around that one, which eventually gets overridden with the instinctual urges. The philodox notes that he's hungry, and hence, going to go hunt. There is a short pause afterwards, which lingers in a sort of silent invitation as well.
If I hunt too we can find larger prey, Fire-Burns points out. And it will stop me thinking of things I do not want me to think of. And we can pretend that it is the Fallen Ones we hunt. Yes. Yes. Shall we?
Far-Cry licks the side of his muzzle, agreeable to the thought of larger prey and more meat. The Shadow Lord, though, makes a passing comment about how he would rather not think of good deer flesh as that of the Wyrm since the Wyrm tastes bad. Then he turns to trot off, leading the way. I know a good animal path off the bawn. We can start there.
Within this dark forest dominated by the canopy of the tenacious, light-hungry pines is a place where a stand of ash has established itself and fought off all competition. The ashes allow the rays of sun and moon alike to lance down through limbs which bear nothing more than clusters of rust-coloured keys, such that undergrowth abounds and the forest floor is even clad with a bright green sward of grass. Bright white bits of bone peep through the green, testament to a history of food offerings in this place.
These habitual offerings have accomplished their purpose and, during daytime, a great number of carrion birds roost in the branches of the trees, predominately the large black bodies of crows and ravens. The grove is deserted at night, the birds having left for other sanctuary.
Dillen looks to Stacey. "He has a right to know I have them and whatever he wishes for them I will do." Then a nod. "I shall. To both of you." And with that, he's headed off towards the farmhouse.
Far-Cry watches his former packmate go, exhaling a little heavier when the galliard is out of range. As Stacey leaves with Dillen, the halfmoon gives himself a quick shake and settles back down where he stands to rest.
A few minutes pass before Fire-Burns returns from her run, cantering into the clearing at an easy lope. Hello, hello, I am back, I ran, she tells Far-Cry as she trots over to him. I ran far, I ran fast.
Far-Cry, head down on his paws, lifts it when he hears the other wolf's approach. The philodox's question next is accompanied with a lick of his muzzle. See anything good to eat?
I was not looking for prey, Fire-Burns tells Far-Cry. I was looking for Dancers. And they are not good to eat, no, no. Taste of the Wyrm, make you sick, make you warped.
Far-Cry splays an ear with an obvious 'well duh' kind of look, making much assumption to the taste of BSD flesh. His head lowers another notch, looking almost like it's going to flop back onto his forepaws, but doesn't quite make it there. I have never seen one. Never fought one. Never bit one.
Fire-Burns walks round Far-Cry thoughtfully, then lies down near him, her head towards his. I have, she informs him. They are fearsome. They are like us. So like us that it can be confusing if many fight on each side. But we will kill them, yes, kill them all, and you will go on to kill many more.
It would take a Garou to kill a Garou properly, the Shadow Lord observes distantly. He looks over to the ahroun. When did you fight them?
Before I came here, Fire-Burns recalls. My pack and another pack fought them on a beach. It was a good fight, we won. Two of the other pack died but none of mine, no, not that time... though many are dead now, she adds with a sad whine.
Far-Cry looks down at his paws, tongue reaching out for swipe over one and clean off a speck of dirt. What do you see here that is different from there? he asks, gazing back over.
Spikes-The-Drinks is not here, Fire-Burns responds with another dejected whine. Her ears lie down flat and she licks at her front paw.
I meant, Far-Cry expands, what can be done to win the fight with these intruders? What says two packs win on a beach, and a whole sept does not lose?
Fire-Burns lies her head on her paws and considers. The beach was open, yes, we could all see each other. Here is the woods, we cannot see well. Perhaps hear, perhaps smell. Also on beach no humans near, no thing-to-throw-heads.
Far-Cry notes he is surprised they haven't thrown big rocks yet. The philodox growls low, himself eager to get up and move, he rises to his paws and paces again. Then after a few caged lion-like turns, he refocuses on the ahroun. Your pack, is it well?
My pack? Fire-Burns enquires, seeming a little lost in thought or memory. My pack now?
Yes, Havoc. The philodox's gold gaze is on the Fang again. Far-Cry's full attention seems to be searching the ahroun, but not in a directly invasive manner.
They are well, yes, yes, Fire-Burns confirms, still seeming distracted. Stone-Spirit is sad because her father died and Escapes-From-Money does not leave her den because of her voice but they are all healthy.
Far-Cry starts his pacing anew, himself quickly distracted with his own thoughts as well. The Shadow Lord completes far too many laps before he then asks, Will they be out here? Defending the caern when the others go to war with the Black Spiral Dancers?
I do not know, is Fire-Burns' answer. I hope they will either fight or guard the caern and cubs but I do not know because I have seen none of them for days, no, not since I broke the way into the farm and shouted at Pierces-Ice-rhya.
Far-Cry looks up at the mention of cubs. Walks-Middle wishes the Glass Walkers to keep her cubs at their safeden. The others, I do not know either. His attention keeps there, upon mention of the broken farm door and shouting at the Wendigo. The halfmoon's ears tilt, asking for him a silent question after it.
She said I did nothing, Fire-Burns answers the unspoken question. And she called me a bad name, I do not know what it meant because it was in her strange tongue, yes, but it was bad, and I could tell because of the way she looked when she said it about me, yes, very bad, because she hates me because of what she says my ancestors did to hers. Fire-Burns delivers that statement in a torrent of angry lupine growls and gestures, then her head flops back down on her paws.
Far-Cry turns a tight circle, but it gives him an opportunity to move a few paces from the ahroun as well. What did you do, then? If not nothing. The Shadow Lord declines making any statement on the subjects of ancestors, sitting his rear end down and eyeing the fullmoon.
Recalls-the-Scars and I found out from the Corax that the Fallen Ones had a thing-that-throws-small-things and that is how the heads got onto the bawn, Fire-Burns responds proudly. And before that I have fought many things, yes, many bad things since I joined this sept. You know that.
Then there must be some other reason that she says you do nothing. Far-Cry quirks his head at an angle, inviting the ahroun to pierce the haze of indignance. It is as Walks-the-Middle-Road has said. Misunderstandings, maybe.
I shall not think of the matter further, Fire-Burns avows resolutely, until she and I have spoken with Walks-the-Middle-Road in attendance to keep us from throating each other. I will not think of her and her foolishness, no, no, I will not.
Far-Cry turns, gazing north with a snort. The Wyrm eats at the border and litters the bawn with its trash while you two fight over the differences of ancestors and deeds done.
Fire-Burns chuffs in a peeved way. I have made it clear that I am ready to fight, that we should fight as soon as we can, she points out. The leader of higher station chooses when the fight starts. Do you too say I do nothing, Shadow Lord?
Far-Cry looks back over his shoulder. Must you find a thorn pricking your pride in everything that is said? No, you have done much already. Leave the war planning to the Wendigo, and you prepare for when things go wrong.
If others would respect me as they should, there would be no thorns, Fire-Burns points out in the lupine equivalent of an angry mutter before rolling over onto one side, all four legs pointing in the same direction, and stretching.
A wry growl passes through the Shadow Lord. As they should, Far-Cry repeats, chewing over a thought. So the Wendigo does, for one who is beneath her in station. The halfmoon's observance is followed with his turn towards the north, looking to head towards the main forest of the bawn again.
I do not think of the Wendigo-rhya, Fire-Burns insists with more than a hint of stress. I do not speak of her. She too turns north once she's finished rolling around, and lifts her head, nose to the wind in the hope that it may bring her some clue to what's going on over there. Alas, the breeze is in the wrong quarter, and her nose learns nothing new.
Far-Cry glances back at the Fang. But you worry over her speaking of you, and so think of her. It's a little hard for the lupus mind to wrap around that one, which eventually gets overridden with the instinctual urges. The philodox notes that he's hungry, and hence, going to go hunt. There is a short pause afterwards, which lingers in a sort of silent invitation as well.
If I hunt too we can find larger prey, Fire-Burns points out. And it will stop me thinking of things I do not want me to think of. And we can pretend that it is the Fallen Ones we hunt. Yes. Yes. Shall we?
Far-Cry licks the side of his muzzle, agreeable to the thought of larger prey and more meat. The Shadow Lord, though, makes a passing comment about how he would rather not think of good deer flesh as that of the Wyrm since the Wyrm tastes bad. Then he turns to trot off, leading the way. I know a good animal path off the bawn. We can start there.
# posted by Clemency Haynes @ 4:53 PM 
