Tuesday, June 20, 2006
"One solo trumpet, drowning out the rest of the orchestra. It’s ballsy, and heavy, and it kicks a lot of ass. It always reminded me of you…”
The sun’s barely up, and the world is still cool and quiet and damp, hinting promise at rain later. Thomas Grey, looking dark-eyed, tired, and ten years older, sits crosslegged on the ground, not far from John Smith’s marker — Clemency herself has no marker as of yet. The Silver Fang’s duffel sits open at his side, and in his hands are a collection of the photographs that she left; he’s placing them one by one on the ground, right-side up.
It would seem that Grey wasn’t the only one with the idea to come alone to the burial site. Emma chose to take the long walk in homid, and when she finally nears the area enough to have visual of it, she pauses, somewhat surprised to see the other perhaps. There’s that awkward moment that goes with it; make noise, or turn around and come back later? For the time being, she hovers there indecisively and silent.
Grey pauses a moment, just before setting down the last picture, that of the Fang’s young son; the rest of the pictures are group photos of Clemency with her old pack. The Glass Walker’s head cocks, and then he shifts himself around and squints at Emma. He doesn’t smile, but the tension that had flickered up in him when he sensed a witness fades away. He gives her a nod, then turns back to set down the photo of the little boy.
Emma looks to the grizzled Walker and takes in a deep, quiet breath. “I wasn’t ready to say anything yesterday.” She takes a few steps closer then, eyeing the mound with a heaviness in her spirit.
Grey grunts. “You were there, at least.” Not that he was, though he looks like shit. Reaching into the duffel bag, he takes out a bottle of good black vodka and a shotglass. The shotglass gets set into the dirt in front of the collection of photographs, and then he starts undoing the seal on the unopened bottle.
Emma gives a faint nod, “You’re here now. I think she’d know better than most we don’t exactly follow the exact order of how things go.” She stops a few yards back still, “She’d probably be disappointed if we did.” Though the words may be light, the tone they are spoken is heavy and taut.
Grey grunts. “She did want these buried with her. Or burned with her.” He peels off the seal and works off the top of the bottle of Blavod and expertly pours a couple of fingers of the stuff into the shotglass. “Have to wait until there’s a marker, though, I suppose.” His voice is deep and thick with lack of sleep and repressed grief.
Emma gives a nod from behind the Walker and steps up closer. She squats down to look at the picture of the boy. “I never knew she had a kid.” Her arms fold at her chest, resting on her thighs as she remains squatted down. Her face is pale as she falls into a quiet stare.
Grey nods. “And a sister-in-law. Who will have, hopefully, received the message I sent her.” He sets the open bottle down next to the shotglass and then folds his hands together, with arms resting on his knees.
Emma waits a long moment before speaking again. “I don’t want the rest of us, fighting without eachother. Not if it can be helped.” She swallows, shaking her head, “Even one more of us there and this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Agreed,” says the Walker. He cocks his head, fixing his good eye on her. “How are the others doing? I haven’t seen them recently.”
Emma lifts a shoulder, “KL is she’s dealing with it her way. I owe her a long talk yet; that running off shit isn’t going to happen again. Laura is a rock. At least from my perspective.” She shakes her head as she stands up. “I’m the one that has issues with this shit.”
Grey grunts. “You have issues. I haven’t slept in two days.” This isn’t difficult to believe, looking at him. He grimaces, digging absently at the thick, greying beard. “Too many damned people dead, nearly dead, ruined…” He glances briefly over at Smith’s marker. “…And nothing you can do except to go on. At least, in this case,” he adds, looking back at Emma, “the Dancers died. And she was brought home for a proper funeral.”
Emma looks to him briefly, nodding her head. “Yeah. We owe that to Clem. No one else there would have lasted long enough to give the rest of the Sept time to find them.” She takes in a deep breath and stares at the grave. If there is more to be said, she’s chosen to leave it for another time. “This tire fire… it’s going to kill us Grey.”
Grey’s mouth twists. “We have a chance of winning it, but it will be… ugly. Multiple deaths, multiple battlescars, I imagine, and probably a few other nasty aftereffects from the balefire.” He tugs absently at his beard. “Our best chance is to get some water spirits to help out in the Umbra. The site’s close to a river, so they may be willing to join in. Earth spirits would be useful, too. Anything that will extinguish fire. The rest is brute force. We go in fast, close together, then circle.” Almost unconsciously, he leans forward and drags a finger through the dirt. “Those with a strong spirit-connection and those with that Gift that lets one shake of toxins and poisons at the front. Destroy it as fast as possible, before it kills us. Use a reserve to deal with any additional attackers, or let the spirits handle them.” He eyes her. “Was there more than one balefire spirit?”
Emma looks to the diagrams and listens intently. “Not that I had seen. But there was only three of us there that day- it didn’t need more than one to come show us the way out.” She looks down again, “We’re sadly short on Theurges around here you know. Laura, Olga, Jamethon and a bunch of cubs.” She draws a circle around the main rubble area, “And this circle is all smoke spirits, some are corrupt - but even the normal ones choke the breath out of you fast. The little tainted fuckers cut into you. It’s like running a gauntlet. If we want to attack in force at once, we need a clear path through them.”
Grey frowns thoughtfully, his brows lowered. “Mmnh. Air spirits could blow that shit away, but they could also fan the flames. At worst, we just grit our teeth and barrel through. Everyone stay together as we run the gauntlet, so that no one gets lost or left behind. Then spread out when we’re in view of the main target.”
Emma nods her head. “We need our theurges and whoever else to get out there and start recruiting the help of these spirits. Once we get the umbral fire dealt with, we’re gonna need a way to get the humans back into dousing realm side. Or we’ll be dealing with this again.”
Grey rubs out the crude drawing and brushes his hands together. “Anyone thought of alerting the EPA?”
Emma lifts her brow at that, “You think they’d be more proactive than the SCFD? It’s an idea, but it’ll be impossible for them to do anything until our end is cleared.”
Grey shrugs. “It can’t hurt to try.” He leans over to close shut Clemency’s duffel bag, which now appears empty. “Her sketchbook and other belongings are over at my place, if you or anyone else in the pack wishes to… claim anything. The sketches in particular.”
Emma nods her head, “I’ll look through them later. I’m going to spend some time out here thinking about things.” She moves a little bit away, and lands herself down to sit indian style. “I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I find out what the spirits can do.”
Grey stands up, leaving the empty duffel folded neatly near the other tokens for the dead Silver Fang. “Good. Be seeing you.” Leaving the objects arranged on the ground, the Glass Walker departs the burial mounds.
As the Walker leaves, Emma turns more thoughtfully to the grave site, eyes heavy and fists balled up tightly. “I’m sorry Clemency. I should have been at your side- we should have been fighting together. I won’t let it happen to the others, I swear on your grave.” Tears well up and the young Ahroun bites fiercly at her lip. “I miss you girl. You understood me like few others can.” A hand reaches into her pocket and a small cassette tape is taken out. “Figured, I owed you a trade. It’s Mahler’s Fifth Symphony.” The tape is pressed near one of the pictures. “Relative of mine- anyway, listen to the trumpet part. One solo trumpet, drowning out the rest of the orchestra. It’s ballsy, and heavy, and it kicks a lot of ass. It always reminded me of you…” At this point, the young Get stands up, wiping at her eyes furiously. After only a second more, she is shifted down into lupus, and running hurriedly through the woods.
It would seem that Grey wasn’t the only one with the idea to come alone to the burial site. Emma chose to take the long walk in homid, and when she finally nears the area enough to have visual of it, she pauses, somewhat surprised to see the other perhaps. There’s that awkward moment that goes with it; make noise, or turn around and come back later? For the time being, she hovers there indecisively and silent.
Grey pauses a moment, just before setting down the last picture, that of the Fang’s young son; the rest of the pictures are group photos of Clemency with her old pack. The Glass Walker’s head cocks, and then he shifts himself around and squints at Emma. He doesn’t smile, but the tension that had flickered up in him when he sensed a witness fades away. He gives her a nod, then turns back to set down the photo of the little boy.
Emma looks to the grizzled Walker and takes in a deep, quiet breath. “I wasn’t ready to say anything yesterday.” She takes a few steps closer then, eyeing the mound with a heaviness in her spirit.
Grey grunts. “You were there, at least.” Not that he was, though he looks like shit. Reaching into the duffel bag, he takes out a bottle of good black vodka and a shotglass. The shotglass gets set into the dirt in front of the collection of photographs, and then he starts undoing the seal on the unopened bottle.
Emma gives a faint nod, “You’re here now. I think she’d know better than most we don’t exactly follow the exact order of how things go.” She stops a few yards back still, “She’d probably be disappointed if we did.” Though the words may be light, the tone they are spoken is heavy and taut.
Grey grunts. “She did want these buried with her. Or burned with her.” He peels off the seal and works off the top of the bottle of Blavod and expertly pours a couple of fingers of the stuff into the shotglass. “Have to wait until there’s a marker, though, I suppose.” His voice is deep and thick with lack of sleep and repressed grief.
Emma gives a nod from behind the Walker and steps up closer. She squats down to look at the picture of the boy. “I never knew she had a kid.” Her arms fold at her chest, resting on her thighs as she remains squatted down. Her face is pale as she falls into a quiet stare.
Grey nods. “And a sister-in-law. Who will have, hopefully, received the message I sent her.” He sets the open bottle down next to the shotglass and then folds his hands together, with arms resting on his knees.
Emma waits a long moment before speaking again. “I don’t want the rest of us, fighting without eachother. Not if it can be helped.” She swallows, shaking her head, “Even one more of us there and this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Agreed,” says the Walker. He cocks his head, fixing his good eye on her. “How are the others doing? I haven’t seen them recently.”
Emma lifts a shoulder, “KL is she’s dealing with it her way. I owe her a long talk yet; that running off shit isn’t going to happen again. Laura is a rock. At least from my perspective.” She shakes her head as she stands up. “I’m the one that has issues with this shit.”
Grey grunts. “You have issues. I haven’t slept in two days.” This isn’t difficult to believe, looking at him. He grimaces, digging absently at the thick, greying beard. “Too many damned people dead, nearly dead, ruined…” He glances briefly over at Smith’s marker. “…And nothing you can do except to go on. At least, in this case,” he adds, looking back at Emma, “the Dancers died. And she was brought home for a proper funeral.”
Emma looks to him briefly, nodding her head. “Yeah. We owe that to Clem. No one else there would have lasted long enough to give the rest of the Sept time to find them.” She takes in a deep breath and stares at the grave. If there is more to be said, she’s chosen to leave it for another time. “This tire fire… it’s going to kill us Grey.”
Grey’s mouth twists. “We have a chance of winning it, but it will be… ugly. Multiple deaths, multiple battlescars, I imagine, and probably a few other nasty aftereffects from the balefire.” He tugs absently at his beard. “Our best chance is to get some water spirits to help out in the Umbra. The site’s close to a river, so they may be willing to join in. Earth spirits would be useful, too. Anything that will extinguish fire. The rest is brute force. We go in fast, close together, then circle.” Almost unconsciously, he leans forward and drags a finger through the dirt. “Those with a strong spirit-connection and those with that Gift that lets one shake of toxins and poisons at the front. Destroy it as fast as possible, before it kills us. Use a reserve to deal with any additional attackers, or let the spirits handle them.” He eyes her. “Was there more than one balefire spirit?”
Emma looks to the diagrams and listens intently. “Not that I had seen. But there was only three of us there that day- it didn’t need more than one to come show us the way out.” She looks down again, “We’re sadly short on Theurges around here you know. Laura, Olga, Jamethon and a bunch of cubs.” She draws a circle around the main rubble area, “And this circle is all smoke spirits, some are corrupt - but even the normal ones choke the breath out of you fast. The little tainted fuckers cut into you. It’s like running a gauntlet. If we want to attack in force at once, we need a clear path through them.”
Grey frowns thoughtfully, his brows lowered. “Mmnh. Air spirits could blow that shit away, but they could also fan the flames. At worst, we just grit our teeth and barrel through. Everyone stay together as we run the gauntlet, so that no one gets lost or left behind. Then spread out when we’re in view of the main target.”
Emma nods her head. “We need our theurges and whoever else to get out there and start recruiting the help of these spirits. Once we get the umbral fire dealt with, we’re gonna need a way to get the humans back into dousing realm side. Or we’ll be dealing with this again.”
Grey rubs out the crude drawing and brushes his hands together. “Anyone thought of alerting the EPA?”
Emma lifts her brow at that, “You think they’d be more proactive than the SCFD? It’s an idea, but it’ll be impossible for them to do anything until our end is cleared.”
Grey shrugs. “It can’t hurt to try.” He leans over to close shut Clemency’s duffel bag, which now appears empty. “Her sketchbook and other belongings are over at my place, if you or anyone else in the pack wishes to… claim anything. The sketches in particular.”
Emma nods her head, “I’ll look through them later. I’m going to spend some time out here thinking about things.” She moves a little bit away, and lands herself down to sit indian style. “I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I find out what the spirits can do.”
Grey stands up, leaving the empty duffel folded neatly near the other tokens for the dead Silver Fang. “Good. Be seeing you.” Leaving the objects arranged on the ground, the Glass Walker departs the burial mounds.
As the Walker leaves, Emma turns more thoughtfully to the grave site, eyes heavy and fists balled up tightly. “I’m sorry Clemency. I should have been at your side- we should have been fighting together. I won’t let it happen to the others, I swear on your grave.” Tears well up and the young Ahroun bites fiercly at her lip. “I miss you girl. You understood me like few others can.” A hand reaches into her pocket and a small cassette tape is taken out. “Figured, I owed you a trade. It’s Mahler’s Fifth Symphony.” The tape is pressed near one of the pictures. “Relative of mine- anyway, listen to the trumpet part. One solo trumpet, drowning out the rest of the orchestra. It’s ballsy, and heavy, and it kicks a lot of ass. It always reminded me of you…” At this point, the young Get stands up, wiping at her eyes furiously. After only a second more, she is shifted down into lupus, and running hurriedly through the woods.
