[Slow Avalanche] It's evening, past that even, the winter sky brilliant with a million stars that seem encrusted into the vast and illimitable sky. Umbral winds blow over head, keening like lost souls, cutting and cold, children of Wendigo. The tops of the trees sway and bend, the evergreens thickly ringing the glade, making a wall of sussurating branches and boughs that enclose this Fenrir gathering, deep in the heart of Winter.
The glade itself is perhaps the size of a couple of tennis courts set next to each other, slightly sloping down from north east to south west, the grade growing sharper towards the back where boulders are littered in haphazard piles. Torches burn brilliantly around the glade's perimeter, long stakes plunged deep into the frozen earth, their heads alight with dancing flames of brilliant crimson and cadmium yellow, sending the shadows dancing and writhing across the trees. It's a lurid space, made almost infernal by the vast bonfire that burns and roars at the north end, a blaze that is fed with massive logs laid almost like a funeral pyre. The flames dance and spire into the night, alive with their own savage joy, and close inspection reveals small elementals spinning and cavorting within its white hot depths.
The crackling of the flames, the lost keening of the winds above, the murmur and whispers of the trees that rise like breaking waves occasionally as they are shaken fitifully: all this pales and becomes background to the sound that builds forth every few moments. The snarl is a massive sound, seeming to echo out from a great vaulted chamber, a throaty growl that sounds like a huge diesel engine coughing into life, primal and raw. It starts soft, almost inaudible, and then swells and grows rough, reverberates, draws out and trails off in the back of the throat. The sound - the sheer promise of violence - the bestial and predatory nature of it - electrifies, causes one to become aware of their heart beat, of the sanctity of their skin. It is the sound of Fenrir, brooding and surly, vast and primal, fell and cruel.
Two Fimbul Wolves, vast and shaggy jagglings of Fenrir, stand before the flames, each almost as large as a plough horse. As pale as ice, their eyes burning with an Arctic blue gleam, them are primordial manifestations, heavy and savage. They stand and circle, uneasy, restless, hungry, moving in interweaving coils and circles that center on a standing figure, dwarfed by the Wolves but holding a presence all of his own.
The Godi, Slow Avalanche, stands bare chested, in homid. He's a large man, a block of pale skinned muscle and bone, his toffee colored hair let loose and hanging in bloodied locks about his face and neck. A long bladed knife is held in one hand, made of crude iron, it's dark surface gleaming in the firelight. The Godi's chest is bloody with carved runes, sigils of Fenrir and his Brood, the blood remaining bright and wet on his chest, making of him a figure of the wilds, a savage, belying the plain features and muddy eyes that gleam in the center of his face. Here he is Slow Avalanche, Godi of Fenrir. Of Cassian Nikolau there is no sign.
To his side stands Kaldrthvari, slender and svelte, bathed in the lurid light of the flames, his beauty made strange and fey by the burning bonfire.
They wait. The Thimbul wolves prowl and circle, the Forseti and Godi stand, Luna shines above, and they wait. Wait for the gathering Fenrir, for the electing of a Jarl.
[Jackson Ball] The engine's constant drone bore an unhealthy rattle, threatening a breakdown with each revolution. Too constant to be taken seriously, too horrendous to be ignored. Jackson sat hunkered in the driver's seat, half-lidded stare on the road. Watched the project buildings turn to row-houses, the graffiti changing to mark turf every few blocks. Same outside-owned convenience stores, pawn shops, check-cashing services, all preying upon the poverty of those that dwelled on these dirty, grimy streets.
Highway 3, to Interstate 476, to North Providence, made the landscape change before his eyes. From poverty, to funky bohemian, to white-flight suburban. The streets became less thick, packed, more woodland. Green. Ain't never been this far out before. Finally, makes the turn at the Ridley Creek State Park. The twin beacons of his headlights wound around that Barren Rd. to a nearly secluded parking area. Philly's winter storm left a thick blanket of snow and ice over everything. The plows were sparse here, progress slow. Once he'd stopped to put the chains on, pushing that vehicle through its paces.
Van parks, the engine cuts off, ending that pervasive, unpleasant grind. Can still hear it ringing in his ears. Sitting still, the vehicle's a beast. Flat black, with paint peeling to reveal primer here and there. Dented, scraped, it's hull was battlescarred. Had actual texture like the thick, bold strokes of a Van Gogh painting. Door opens with the sound of metal grinding on metal, and vomits him forth like Jonah from that fuckin' whale. The Modi's feet hit thick snow with a muffled crunch. Door closes behind him. Hard. Ringing out in the night. Been hard on that thing. Wouldn't stand up to many more of those. Huffs a wuff of air, comes out as a thick fog of white, then twin plumes from his wide-set nostrils; a dragon at rest. The silence is deafening. No gunshots. No calls. No cars. No stereos. Not a single fucking human voice. Dead. Fucking. Silence.
Fists shove into pockets. Sets his shoulders forward - rounded, strong - starts tromping into the night. As soon as he's out of sight, the Modi falls forward, almost like he tripped. But that ain't it. Hands turn into forepaws, big as a face, dark-hued form turns flat grey. Forms a tall, bulky wolf - a tank of a lupus. Tail high and proud, ears swivelled forward. Those dark eyes are silvery grey in this form, haunting with a gleam of intelligence. Senses are sharp, keen. A sniff of those nostrils tell him which direction to go, following the spoor of his kind, a ghostly grey thing moving in and out of trees. Ain't never been in the woods, but knows it all the same. Instinct. Surprises himself at his ease of movement.
When he finds the gathering he approaches, announcing himself in the language of the wolves. Deep howl's a liquid rumble from the larnyx of a great beast; body language bold, "Wrecking Ball. Modi. Get of Fenris."
Then he shifts up, wolf becoming man. Birth-form suits him better. Jackson's athletic form of powerful, whipcord bulges are in thug-chic tonight - black denim jacket, grey woolen hoody underneath, baggy cargo pants drab green, and a black knit cap pulled low to brow. Those dark eyes are half-lidded slits, molten iron. Glance scathes what it crosses, burns when it lingers. Cloud-cover's thick, but you don't have to look up to know it's a full moon on the wax; fat and pregnant with Luna's fury. It furls around him, cloying and dark; dragon's coils of palpable hatred. Heart and veins pump magma, nerves dance live-wire, agitated, tingling with potential. Calloused murderer's mits ball into dangerous, knobby-knuckled fists. Shove into pockets. Fuckin' cold. Breathes out that white fog, gives a nod to any that looks his way.
[Kaldrthvari] (go ahead and post your entrances and we'll get started, folks -- gnarl's gonna be joining us a little later on.)
[Jackson Ball] ooc: I think I'm the only one who did a pre-write. Recommend XP to me to the ST *G*
PMed to: Kaldrthvari
[Samuel Cutler] Never mind the muscle car thrown into park and locked up at the edge of the highway. Never mind the clothes left behind. Never mind the world of the Weaver left behind. The auburn wolf tears through the trees, indulging in this rare opportunity to run wild in a landscape that summons up blood-bound ancestral memories as it throws up waves of snow in its weaving wake. It leaps over tree trunks, snow covered obstacles that would slow someone without a deeper connection to their primal mind. It pauses and catches scents, adjusting its course and then racing off again between the trees. Finally, it finds the glade and its compatriots, slowing down to pad in though still taking icy lung-fulls from the workout.
It’s not until the bonfire casts its light on him that he falls back onto his haunches and begins to grow, the cracking of bones as muscles readjust their alignment and new tissue is forced to grow accompanying the wretched sight. The monster it leaves behind, still wearing its cloak of purest auburn and the familiar knotted hair and beard of his softer form, now holds the butcher’s cleaver that is his namesake. Plunging the weapon down into the snow before him, he rises onto his two legs before barking out in the harsh High Tongue.
“Samuel Cutler. The Butcher. Homid. Godi. Fenrir.” There is a precise difference between Jackson’s naming of tribes and Samuel’s, one he’s sure to make evident. Names had power, and the Godi recognize this more than perhaps even the Skalds. His own name, the surname in particular, weaves an aura of blood and breeding that rivals even that of most Silver Fangs. Instead of kings and queens, though, his tells a tale of barbaric mystics and champions of battle. Further back into the mists of time, before the Garou honored the names of humans, it tells of Aegir-Quick-To-Rage, the Mountain-Binder, and the Battle-Blessed.
The Godi eyes the Fimbul wolves, moving forward and pulling his cleaver free as he goes to join the Forseti and his brother-mystic that had called this tribal moot. As he finally faces the spirit he shows his lupine deference to their presence and waits for the moot to begins.
[Kaldrthvari] (good timing, man. i'm just gonna assume in my post that Ben is there. you can work in your intro in retro if you want *grin*)
They'll notice that while Will and Cassian await them in the clearing, neither of them stand precisely in the center. A bonfire occupies that position of honor, by instinct the focus of attention.
When the rest have gathered, six strong, Will slides a thin hand behind his thin neck. He rolls his head. To the side, and back -- and then he's different, changed. It's a great canine head that rolls to the other side, and forward. A long muzzle tipped in white sinks into a thick grey ruff. He coils into himself. Flexes. Fur the color of concrete runs like wildfire down his arms, down his back. Clothing does not rip, does not sink into his skin. It simply ceases to be, pierced through and through by his shaggy fur, dissolving into nothing. Kaldrthvari holds himself balled tight for another instant, a fist of energy and a shocking amount of rage. You'd never have guessed it of him.
Then -- what potential for violence subsumes. He simply unfolds. Stands straight and lean and tall, his breeding evident in his bones, his digitigrade stance light on the toes, consummately balanced. He looks about him, and they can sense the young Forseti's pleasure: at being here, at being here, amongst the company of his own, alive to see this night. There is ease in his manner, at least for the moment. He is fluid in his role, which is neither high nor low, but middling -- middle -- half -- Forseti.
"I'm Kaldrthvari," he says, simple, crisp. "Forseti of Fenris. This is Slow Avalanche, Godi of Fenris. We are the sons of Fenris, gathered in his name, in the view of his wolves. We are glory, honor and wisdom. We're here for one purpose tonight. We're here to choose our Jarl." He looks right at Samuel the Butcher. "Those who would be Jarl, stand forth. As Forseti, I do call you to your duty."
[Kaldrthvari] (...five strong. i forgot adrian left. i'ma shut up now.)
[Jackson Ball] He stands amidst them, looking for all the world like 'that which does not belong'. Stares at eyes either blue or grey, clear as seas becalmed or churned by storm. White skin, pallid as the snow, with hair blonde and straight. Contrasts with those dark eyes - smoldering ingots - his black skin of polished obsidian. Should have been a bone-gnawer, a glass walker, something else. Instead, he wears purity of breeding like an ill-fitting suit. Speaks of berserk frenzies on crimson-snow - murder, mayhem and slaughter - cut off from any notion of such heritage, and bearing it brazen, nonetheless.
The bonfire washes over him, mingling with that inner fire; that thrum making his forehead bead with sweat. Hands withdraw from pockets, that knit-cap's wiped off with a swift, furious gesture. Shaven scalp gleams like polished mahogany beneath that orange glow.
When the call for Jarl is made, those nostrils flare, seeking scent. Of change, of inaction to action, potential to kinetic. Waits for it. Never looks. Wouldn't have to. He'd just know when that one stepped forward. There'd have to be two. One to claim. One to challenge. No fenrir would be allowed to take it unchallenged. See to it himself, if need be. For now? Waits. Didn't want it. Politics. Fuck that.
[Slow Avalanche] The Godi remains quiet, allowing the Forseti to introduce him. He stands still, arms crossing over his chest, looking from one to the next Fenrir as they approach and introduce themselves. Letting the firelight play and flicker over his body, his wounds, to light up his blood like fire itself, a thing molten that flows through his body. He's a large man, broad and tall, muscled but not heavily, and here, in the snow and fire, the winter and night, he seems primal, a Viking warrior come again.
He listens and watches, and around the bonfire and the gathered stalk the Thimbul wolves. The massive spirits, broodlings of Fenrir, pale as ghosts, colder than the ice, their rage a fine pitched and tremulous thing that jellies the air, that demands blood, that thickens their Rage. Their very presence is a connection to their Tribal Totem, and through their ice blue eyes they are watched, are seen, are judged. Each stands almost twice as large as the largest Fenrir, massive avatars of the cold and war.
When he speaks, the Godi's voice sounds less harsh perhaps than his bloody image would indicate. It's a deep voice, a basso rumble, and it fills the air with a sense of savage joy and pride.
"Brothers." That is first, a formost. "Brothers, it is good to meet you. To see you. To stand with you. Let this be a beginning, a beginning for..." He pauses, not sure quite what to say next, and plunges on, "For the deeds we will forge together." He pauses again, gathering himself, and moves onto the heart of what he has to say. "I have summoned these Thimbul wolves from the mountains around Vigrithir to witness our moot. To sanctify it, and to bring word of our decision directly to Fenris himself."
He pauses, and looks from one to the next, eyes gleaming. "And when we have chosen our Jarl, he shall lead us in a hunt, with a Thimbul Wolf on each of his sides. To cement his decision in blood and war."
[Benjamin Keyes] ...Pride and Power. Honour and Respect. These were the mottos of the four Moons of Luna, that carried some semblance of light, whether it be the savage cutting grin of a slit throat in the Seer face, or the Bloated all-encompassing havoc of the Full Moon, it mattered not. Luna shone and cast her fury down upon the landscape and through her light could be found the pungent tang of Rage born of the Warriors blood. Born of the Fenrir Ideal. Born of the True meaning and Urge of Garou's Finest. The Warriors of Warriors.
The Get stood, framed in Glory.
...Yet Four moons would not complete the cycle. The fifth, ever unknown, ever shadowed, ever quiet, is a drifting wraith in the starry night for two whole and solid eves. It whispers secrets in trees and beckons at the wicked to come out and play, hiding from the Moons of the Four that tread in Respect and Pride. That tread in Prowess of the Battlefield and Slaughter.
The Wyrm seeks comfort in the darkness of the No-moon and it is here it finds the Knife, slick edged and dangling just over it's shoulder, haunting the space, thin as a Modi's patience, just infront of it's throat. It is here it feels safe, unknowing of the Haunter that stalks it's shadow, dancing in and out of it's gleeful concealment, content in it's hubris of obfuscation all the while, Loki's chosen, guarding careful the niches and alcoves those other Four cannot find.
Quick. Effortless. Almost painful with ease. The Wyrm finds a grave in the forest at Night, shallow and left to the scavengers. No howls or screams to denote great battle, no whines or assurances of Terror for it's triumphant enemy. Just a still-shock and frozen face, wondering where the Knife came from...
...as the Rotagar smiles from on the side, cleaning his knife in the snow.
"Slays~Before~the~Warcry. Rotagar of Fenris." The voice is subdued, promising without speaking so, the anonymous fellow draped in thermal wear, blending blacks and rustic grays embroidered on the tight clung clothes that deck him out in attempts of Black Ops speciality. Little warning of his arrival but a pale face six feet approaching the light (Jackson's steps were large enough for the both of them), the dull black eyes lifting to regard his Brothers by the firelight, the tell-tale sign of slender blades set to either hip.
[Samuel Cutler] The Fenrir doesn’t have the detached demeanor that characterizes most mystics of the other tribes. There are no abstracts floating like phantasms to catch his eyes, only practical might waiting to flood up in brutal conviction. His eyes are fanatical and full of instinct. They burn in their intensity, dark tree bark that might at any moment catch fire. They do, in fact, in the bonfire that reflects off of the orbs, made watery from the smoke.
As the firelight rises and falls like the ebb and flow of the tide it reveals the stone bound at the end of a necklace, sitting on his chest and just below his beard. Flanked by four bleached white bones, the smooth rock is scoured down the middle with a slit, creating the eye of a predator. All three eyes, two living and the third spirit-bound, turn with Samuel to regard each of the gathered Fenrir.
First, he who charged them with the decision. The Forseti is a relative unknown, though Samuel has spoken with his of this coming decision. Still, just as when a relatively unknown Garou stepped forward to challenge his claim to call the Wyld during Bear’s moots, it would be only over Samuel’s shed blood that one not there during the battle for the Caern take the position. His Godi and ally-apparent gets the weight of his gaze next, and for the same reason he moves on to the next.
Jackson makes the decision easy, as Samuel assumes a Modi claiming the position would step forward without hesitation. Samuel’s eyes fall neutral on the dark-skinned Fenrir.
Then, it’s Slays-Before-the-War-Cry. Rotagar. Honorless, in Samuel’s eyes. His eyes only fall on Benjamin for a moment, long enough to see the knife he holds and nothing more.
The names of those not here are easily cast into oblivion, their existence no longer necessary to make his decision. Samuel tightens his grip on the cleaver he holds and finally steps forward toward the monumental bonfire to claim the position.
[Kaldrthvari] "Who else?"
Kaldrthvari's arms are roped in muscle, long and sinewy. They unfold now. Even in Crinos, his ribs show beneath his fur. His stomach is a sharp concave. He is thin almost to the point of starvation, yet quick, oh so quick. His pale, pale eyes sweep the gathered, the Rotagar to the Modi. Level, those eyes are, and cold. Glacial.
A pause.
"No Fenrir without a blooding. No Jarl without a challenge! WHO ELSE!"
He does not shout it. He does not growl it. No; Kaldrthvari roars it. The very ground shakes beneath their feet. It's almost unthinkable, the volume and timbre that resonates out of that thin cylinder of bones that serves as his ribcage. His handpaws have fallen all the way to his sides now. Longer than human proportion, they hang nearly to his bent knees, and each finger bears a rough pad on the underside, a jagged claw on the upper. His fierce eyes are on Benjamin now. The Rotagar, whose place it is to test the strength of those who would lead.
[Jackson Ball] ooc: You're transcribing, yes? Can you shoot me a copy when it's done at firefly_jayne@hotmail.com ? I suspect I'll be gone long before it's finished.
PMed to: Kaldrthvari
[Kaldrthvari] (will do. when you leaving?)
PMed to: Jackson Ball
[Jackson Ball] ooc: 30 minutes.
PMed to: Kaldrthvari
[Kaldrthvari] (dammit, you're right. they'll still be posting by then *LOL* when you coming back?)
PMed to: Jackson Ball
[Jackson Ball] ooc: an hour or so after that. It's no big deal, I know Ben's going to challenge. And That'll make 2 so Jackson won't have to, he can be assumed to fall into the hunt, and I can jump back IC when I get the chance.
PMed to: Kaldrthvari
[Kaldrthvari] (well, jackson can still challenge if he wants *grin* when my get on chicago took elder, he fought every other get there. thing is though, i think sam would lose to jackson *LOL* unless he calls on the thimbul wolves.... which he might, being godi.)
PMed to: Jackson Ball
[Benjamin Keyes] Plumes of white, spit from nostrils and brief partings of lip, the Rotagar's eyes dipping from Fenrir to Fenrir, Brother to Brother, the almost pugilistic aroma of intermingled Rage and Heritage, turning the air dead and silent, as if the winds themselves were terrified of coming too close. The Fimbul wolves are granted an eye, drifting through the spaces between each Fenrir, enough for Ben to catch their tread and step. Phantoms with fangs and claws long enough, to kebob organs on, breath snuffling and snorted to freeze the tops of grass blades struggling to push their way past the snow.
Around the circle, each in turn, regarding Strangers, Acquainted and Blood, his hands tucked under his arms, folded over his chest, the lean creature tucked his chin and gazing out from beneath the black touque atop his brow, obscuring further the features that remained all too forgettable in design.
As words come forth to greet the air, roars to shake bones and flesh, eyes demanding answers and questions, the Rotagar is watching the flames. There was breeding here. Breeding and with it, strength. It choked at one who was of common tier, thinned-blood and bastardized. Yet for every hint of a thought directed at him, concerning the Coward's mark, a word escaped his lips in response to Will's accusing glare.
"We are Fenrir. One and all. Easy enough to tell me to test when all you want to do is fight. Granted I'm not one to shy away from a Battle but I know each here can fight. I know each here can win and carry blood on their claws. I know each here is honour-born and wisdom-bred and glory-bound for Valhalla because your blood says so. Your deeds say so and your actions, past, present and coming future say so. Most of all..."
The eyes lift, regarding Will for a split second, meeting that gaze with an unwavering own. A split second of strength, before cast back into the flames. Tonight was a Full Moon, the spark of Rage low in his belly, awaiting better moments and times.
"...Because each of you is Fenrir Born and Come." He paused, waving off any interruptions, leaning back from any of his Brothers who might come stomping towards him, his breath curling outwards to match the words that ripple at his tongue.
"...I know Fear. I've known it intimately enough to get over most of the stuff that causes it but there's only something that hangs at the back of my mind. That should hang at the back of yours and continue nipping at your fucking heels when you're running on the snow..." Agitated now, staring boldly up at each face, never hovering on any one for too long, hands emerging to point and level, feet moving to stand before each Fenrir Born around the campfire, prodding them in the chest and moving to the next as if to dare them to strike at him.
"...Answer the question, all Fenrir must know. The one every Rotagar learns at Night when he's cold and shivering in the woods. Answer the question you better take to your grave, snapping at your heels and never catching up with you on the Battlefield. Answer the Question, each of you..."
A pause by the fireside, head swivelling to let his words snake into each set of ears.
"What is the Terror of Death?"
[Jackson Ball] ooc: *laughs* Jackson doesn't want to be Jarl. He's got his pack, and that's all he needs. And after the lines broke at the caern because fosterns and such listened to his call, he thinks he'd be a crappy leader. He's the 'leave me alone' type of waning moon.
PMed to: Kaldrthvari
[Samuel Cutler] The Butcher turns to regard Benjamin, those flames still lighting up his dark eyes as they listen to his words and his ears soak up his question- and it's a good one, to Samuel's surprise.
With the crunching of snow beneath tree trunk sized foot-paws he continues forward on the frozen ground, closer to the bonfire and the questioning Rotagar that waits for him there. When he speaks he tries to draw the other Fenrir's eyes to his own, beginning by speaking to Slays-Before-the-War-Cry and then turning to regard the rest of his brethren as he continues.
"Slays-Before-the-War-Cry speaks of the terror and dishonor of dying astray from the path of Mighty Fenris. It is the death of a coward, or the death of a traitor, or the death of the lazy who grow fat on their laurels and do not serve Her. It is the terror of the greedy who seek power and status for its own sake, and not for the war. The terror of death is the terror of those who die not serving Gaia. It is the terror of those who will not make it to Ragnarok, whether in spirit or flesh."
[Slow Avalanche] The Godi has stepped back, allowing Kaldrthvari to head the proceedings. In fact, though he appears the image of a Fenrir theurge, bloody and large, bare chested and wild, there's an almost nervous edge to how he holds himself. When nobody looks he bites the inside corner of his mouth, and occasionally balls up his fists and then releases them. Occasionally he lifts his hand to rub at his nose, only to stop when he realizes each time they're smeared with his own blood.
He watches the interplay of passions and anger, the shifting and invisible balance of power, and spends a good amount of time looking at The Butcher when he steps forwards. The Rotagar gets his next long gaze, which then flicks from one to the other Fenrir to gauge reactions.
But most often his eyes seem to stray to the Thimbul wolves. To derive almost a solace from their presence, though it's clear he's not comfortable with them. When they pass close behind him, flanks almost brushing his back, he stiffens, breaths deep, looks ahead. They're feral, passing embodiments of pain and winter. To feel otherwise would be folly.
In all, it's clear: this Godi, despite doing his best, is still young. He listens carefully as The Butcher speaks, and then turns to listen to Slays Before The Warcry's judgement.
[Kaldrthvari] Kaldrthvari doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even blink. He waits for Samuel to answer first. First crack at a tough question. A dubious honor at best. Then he speaks, soft as falling snow: "To die tomorrow, my duty unfulfilled." He swallows, pink tongue flickering between pale teeth. "To leave no mark, make no difference. To fade as if I'd never lived at all."
[Jackson Ball] The bubble was breached as the first stepped into the circle. Potential to kinetic, the tension exploded around them like a popped balloon. Kaldrthvari felt it, spurring him to call upon a challenger, as the second hadn't walked fast enough to suit him. Jackson feels it on the back of his neck, the bunch of those great shoulders - deltoids are boulders, trapezius drawing up like a steel trap.
And instead of stepping into that circle as was expected, Ben Questions. Can't blame him. His auspice and all. A little ill-timed, in the Modi's mind. For that mind was awhirl of tumbling possiblity. Neurons fired in lightning flashes, sending tingled agitation all the way to those thick fingers and toes. Powerful thews mold into iron, hard, coiled serpents. Can't think. Hurts to think in the face of that fire. Just wants to act. Follow his blood, his Rage.
"Fuck, Keyes," his deep bass rolls forth as a harsh rumble. Face lined and hard, sullen, half-lidded stare. Hid his age. That Rage. Made him scowl, his brows constantly furrowed. Lips a hard flat line. Not but 18, if a day, and he looks like a war veteran. That countence screws up, incredulous, eyes of molten iron sliding to the Rotagar, "Now's tha time fo' tha' shit?" his voice is a slur of sylables, a mangling of the Queen's english with barefoot irreverence. Ghetto speak of inner city youth.
Sam answers serious, and Jackson slides a thumb across his nose, smoothing away the condensation that'd fallen there,
"Tha shit sound purtier'n wha I's gon' say," Slow, lazy shrug, and a stare of chipped granite. "Terror o' Death? Death o' mine. Pack. Kin. Gaia. S'all I know."
[Kaldrthvari] (don't wait for me, folks -- i'm making some food before i starve)
[Jackson Ball] ooc: Alright, most of you know I'm at work, and in a matter of minutes I'm about to have to pack in without warning. So, Jackson will just go silent for the rest, and will join in with the hunt. I'll likely be home in a matter of an hour or so, and can jump back in with what's going on. Just wanted everyone aware.
PMed to: Benjamin Keyes, Kaldrthvari, Samuel Cutler, Slow Avalanche
[Slow Avalanche] Belatedly, the Godi realizes that an answer is expected of him as well. He frowns, looks down, thinks. Skips the answers that come easily to mind, those he's howled over flames with the others over the years. War and death and duty and blood and revenge.
Almost quietly, so that some might miss it, he muses, "I'm not scared of Death, really." His face troubled as he tries to verbalize what he feels, not what he thinks. He doesn't sound boastful. He sounds pensive instead, almost melancholy. "I think of my ancestors, and how they still talk and guide and are with us, and I think, death isn't the end. What I fear... what I fear is.."
He pauses, unsure. "I fear being death being untimely, I suppose, to what I'm trying to accomplish while on this side."
[Benjamin Keyes] "Do you hear the answers? Each of your brothers gives his worth. His measure. His very existence in those words, from deep within, without fail or detriment. Family, Law, Right, Privilege, Honour, Glory, Wisdom, Patience, Zeal, Conviction, ALL OF IT!"
War-form. Blink of an eye and the lean-built Rotagar is draped in the rustic grays of his Crinos frame, towering a shadow more ponderous and expressive then the true form he's taken, casting it out well beyond the boundaries of his brothers, the shadow's clawed hands raking out into the path of the Wolves that circle their number, purposeful and digging for more ire. Irritation. Rage.
Within those answers a single Word, without each Fenrir a single measure: Duty. Your duty to kin, your duty to Gaia your Duty to Brother, Sister and Elder A pause, his gaze cast in Will's direction, nodding sharply at the Forseti's words Duty failed in death is a death unworthy Eyes towards the Butcher Duty failed as a Coward and Weakling is a death unwrothy And 'round upon Jackson, snapping at the air before the Modi's face, the rumble of Rage met by Loki's grin on a feral featured Crinos Duty failed to Kin and Family and Pack is a death unworthy and finally 'round upon the Avalanche, saving the Godi for last even as knuckles crack on clawed hands, the Rotagar marching around the flames as if to stalk the Newblood.
Duty Failed in accomplishment. A Death truly unworthy His eyes remain on Cassian, flickering digits seeming to dance in the firelight, the shadows created mimicing some great creature on their outskirts, twirling and spiralling out and around their heads and beyond into the treeline.
Duty failed in Death and you are unworthy of Valhalla. Unworthy of Honour and Valkyrean Eye. Unworthy of every and all that is promised us, a place on Ragnarok's waiting field, on the great benches in the Halls, sipping at mead so thick it could choke an Ox! And Do Not!
A hand levelled, pointed at each in slow circular motion, eyes ablaze with the Trickster's goad, the Loki touch, feral and manic and accusating.
Think that you are ever above such. I have no Skald here to tell you their deeds or names, but there are those among our Tribe who fall. Those who taste the Wyrm's embrace because their pride and Hubris and unwavering belief in Fear's weakness and inability to affect them, pulls them into the nearest hole where they cease to be warriors and become only Snot and spit fly free in a snort filthy -ikthya, barely worthy of a Klaive's edge...
A pause, long enough to gather his breath, long enough to regard them each in turn and taste and smell. Then...
Know that Fear, Brothers. Your duties done since you first changed, first knew Fenris, first know the glory of battle. Know it on the field of Battle and know it in the Winds at night just before you fall asleep. The Terror of Death is your Duty Undone, the Wyrm laughing in your ear as Valhalla slips from your grasp and you wallow beneath the heel's of the Giant Jotunn, little more then shit to grease their way...
...And with that, shrinking to the Human form, clothes as neat and clingy as ever, the Rotagar steps back to his place, features doing their best to run back to the calm and shivering human he once was.
[Benjamin Keyes] ((should read filthy -ikthya barely worthy of a Klaive's edge... in italics. Spoken in Crinos))
[Samuel Cutler] Samuel rolls forward onto the balls of the clawed feet beneath him, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the cleaver so that he falls onto its fist. The other hand mimics it, and he moves forward in an apish lope to face those gathered as the Rotagar is finally quiet. Kicking up snow and digging talons into the ground to embrace Gaia’s flesh, he snarls and throws his head in a roar.
“Our Forseti has spoken, and Fenris watches. I have answered the questions of the Rotagar, but this must be bound in sacrifice and pain. It must be sealed in blood. It is the way. It is your duty to test you leader, and I claim Jarl. Temper my claim in fire.”
Samuel’s free hand reaches into the fire to grab a log, pulling it still shrouded in flames out of the pyre. He slams it down into the ground, an explosion of sparks released as The Butcher roars again.
[Slow Avalanche] "No," says, the Godi, and steps forwards. "Let's not burn you. It's not a tolerance of pain we want. It's a leader."
He moves forwards. Into the firelight. Past his brothers to stand before Samuel. He looks the Butcher up and down. He seems to have set aside his reservations, and looks at Jarl-to-be with large, brown eyes that smolder with the flames.
"Come, Godi. I challenge you. I raise my hand against yours. Godi to Godi. I challenge you."
[Kaldrthvari] "No--" he begins, but then Slow-Avalanche rumbles forth, and he quiets.
Kaldrthvari does not nod. He blinks, a single slow shuttering of his eyes, a raise of his chin. Sinking backwards onto his haunches, his handpaws touch the earth, the black claws delving into the wet leaves, the musty humus, the rich black dirt beneath.
"Slow-Avalanche speaks well. Defeat him then, Butcher, with whatever means you find worthiest. And Avalanche-yuf -- strike him down without mercy if he cannot."
[Slow Avalanche]
[Benjamin Keyes] The Rotagar turns then to regard the surrounding, his eyes dancing from The Butcher towards the pair of Newbloods. Those eyes seem to dance and play in tandem with some inner workings, quick thought and quicker wit, playing the avenues of this Tribe's presence in the Sept. A strong leader was needed and that required sacrifice and blood. That leader couldn't be made from the newbloods without their first being blooded in battle.
...It wasn't going to be Jackson (AHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA...) which left...
(...Ahhhh Fuck!)
He's stopped at his previous position, listening as the pair of Godi's exchange their worths and words, the pulse of Rage that bleeds like an opening artery siplls outwards, clearing the surrounding woods for dozens of meters of any sentient presence beyond the Fimbul wolves that circle them. This challenge would come...be decided...
...and After it, True Worth could be known. So he Watched...and Waited...tucking chill hands beneath his arm-pits and forcing his jaw closed least he catch himself chattering.
[Samuel Cutler] Initiative: Dexterity (5) + Wits (3) +
[Kaldrthvari] you guys want a mod, or have you got it?
PMed to: Samuel Cutler, Slow Avalanche
[Slow Avalanche] The challenge is accepted, and the large Godi stalks off into the darkness. He shifts. He grows, a rumbling roar like that of velvet boulders cascading down a mountain side. The massive shadow hunches over, and snorts, a sudden snarl. Shakes its head, hunches its shoulders. The quiet and pensiveness begins to fall from Slow Avalanche as the growls and snarls build. He's working himself up. Awakening the fire. Reaching into his Beast. He shakes, and then turns around.
When he paces back into the firelight, he's changed. Not only physically. He's huge, he's as broad as a wall, shaggy winter pelt a thick chocolate brown, the ruff a near mane, but it's more. The eyes. The eyes have gone dark and fell. Something in them has ruptured and poured forth. He gazes at the Butcher, and all seems to fall away from the world. It's just the two of them. The Godi paces, moves around in a circle, huffing great blasts of cloud into the air.
The Thimbul Wolves stop pacing and as one turn to watch.
[Samuel Cutler] Samuel's long fang-filled muzzle turns to regard the other Garou, hanging open to reveal the ivory daggers that line blackened lips. He is a statue for a moment, regarding the other mystic and finally nodding to accept his challenge.
The auburn statue then explodes into motion, sending a handful of claws to try and split open his side and aiming the thick and heavy blade of the butcher's cleaver in a downward arc at his shoulder.
[Samuel Cutler] Claw Attack: Dexterity (5) + Brawl (2) - 2 (First of two actions in a split pool).
[Samuel Cutler] Claw Damage: Strength (7) + Clawing (1)
[Samuel Cutler] Cleaver Attack: Dexterity (5) + Melee (3) - 3 (Second of two actions in a split pool)
[Slow Avalanche] Bite Attack: Dex (4) + Brawl (3)
[Slow Avalanche] Damage: Strength (7) + Sux (3)
[Samuel Cutler] Soak: Stamina (6)
[Slow Avalanche] Throw: Dex (4) + Brawl (3)
[Samuel Cutler] Dodge: Dexterity (5) + Dodge (2)
[Slow Avalanche] Bite: Dex (4) + Brawl (3) -1 WP
[Samuel Cutler] Dodge: Dexterity (5) + Dodge (2)
[Samuel Cutler] As the two Godi clash their blows fall uneffectual except for the blood that Snow Avalache frees from The Butcher's innards as teeth rip at flesh. Quickened by the ensuing pain Samuel manages to dance and dodge away from Cassian's teeth, the vitae that flies from the wound and painting the snow as the fray continues.
[Samuel Cutler] Initiative: Dexterity (5) + Wits (3) +
[Slow Avalanche] Init: Dex (4) + Wits (2)
[Samuel Cutler] Bite Attack: Dexterity (5) + Brawl (2) - 2 (Split pool)
[Samuel Cutler] Strength (7) + Bite (1) + 3 (Extra Successes)
[Slow Avalanche] Soak: Stamina (7)
[Samuel Cutler] 2nd Bite Attack: Dexterity (5) + Brawl (2) - 3 (Split Pool)
[Samuel Cutler] Damage: Strength (7) + Brawl (2) + 3 (Extra Successes)
[Slow Avalanche] Soak: Stam (7)
[Slow Avalanche] Bite: Dex (4) + Brawl (3) -2 (Split Die Pool)
[Slow Avalanche] Damage: Strength (7) + 2 (Extra Sux)
[Slow Avalanche] 2nd Bite AttackL Dexterity (4) + Brawl (3) -3 (Split Die Pool)
[Slow Avalanche] Damage: Strength (7) + 2 (Extra Sux)
[Samuel Cutler] Soak: Stamina (6)
[Samuel Cutler] Bite Attack: Dexterity (5) + Brawl (2)
[Samuel Cutler] Damage: Strength (7) + Bite (1) + 5 (Extra Successes)
[Slow Avalanche] Soak: Stamina (7)
[Slow Avalanche] Bite Attack: Dexterity (4) + Brawl (3)
[Slow Avalanche] Damage: Strength (7) + 4 (Extra Sux)
[Samuel Cutler] Soak: Stamina (6)
[Kaldrthvari] (in case it needs to be said -- Will would stop Samuel if he looks ready to kill Cassian *grin*)
PMed to: Samuel Cutler
[Samuel Cutler] [ Right now Cassian has 5 health levels of aggrevated damage and Samuel has 1, but Cassian is using his Resist Pain while Samuel is refusing to use any spiritual means to win the battle. Just in case you needed an update. ]
PMed to: Kaldrthvari
[Slow Avalanche] The fight gets ugly. All thoughts of strategy and weapons leave both the contender's minds. In the flickering fire light, before the eyes of the Thimbul Wolves, the two Fenrir come together with a crash and the snapping of jaws.
Strands of saliva and splatters of blood fly as The Butcher savages Slow Avalanche. His jaws clamp and rend and tear massive wounds into the challenging Godi's flank, opening grievous wounds. Slow Avalanche twists and shucks, tries to escape the Butcher's maw, but is held. Light flashes on teeth, more snaps and bites, and then finally they break.
Slow Avalanche is sorely wounded. Blood drenches his thick pelt, the light gleams on exposed flesh. In comparison The Butcher appears barely touched, standing easily, eyeing his nearly defeated foe.
[Kaldrthvari] (yar, i got it *grin* thanks.)
PMed to: Samuel Cutler
[Slow Avalanche] Init: Dex (4) + Wits (2)
[Samuel Cutler] Initiative: Dexterity (5) + Wits (3) +
[Samuel Cutler] Bite Attack: Dexterity (5) + Brawl (2)
[Samuel Cutler] Damage: Strength (7) + 1 (Bite) + 1 (Extra Successes)
[Slow Avalanche] Soak: Stamina (7)
[Slow Avalanche] Bite: Dex (4) + Brawl (3)
[Slow Avalanche] Damage: Strength (7) + 2 (Extra Sux)
[Kaldrthvari] Kaldrthvari begins by sitting aloof, distanced, watching. With each drop of blood that falls, he grows more alert, more intent, more drawn into the battle unfolding at hand until it seems every fiber of his being quivers in the bloody space between.
Suddenly -- "Slow-Avalanche." Pale eyes flicker between the Godi. "You are beaten, brother. Yield to your Jarl."
[Slow Avalanche] Almost gladly does the Fenrir disengage. It is by supreme will and effort alone that he remains standing, the gaping wounds in his side a testament to how much damage he has taken, and how quickly. Were it not for the powers of his Gift, he would be unable to do much more than lift his head from the scuffed and blood spattered earth.
Moving back a few paces, he lowers himself to the ground, and onto his side. The fire light gleams in his eyes, which then closes as he turns his head and extends his throat.
[Benjamin Keyes] The Rotagar is watching, calm and quiet, his arms cinched so tight around his body that one might consider them frozen there. His demeanour is haunted, ghastly, against the firelight, it's illumination pulling the depth and angular nature of his features out for all to see as shadows are cast in the alcoves of his eyes and the faint curve of his cheeks. Accentuated towards the more garish, he seems unmindful, stoic even, of Slow~yuf's (Way too easy, Brothers) condition.
Take no Quarter. Ask no Quarter. Give no Quarter. He was Fenrir. He would survive.
"...Is it decided then?" Subdued. Quiet. So contrasting to those around him.
[Jackson Ball] In ghetto culture this would be called a 'beat-in', or just a damn good fight. He watched them through it. Every sudden movement reflected in his own shifting, jumpy nerves longing to join, instinctual. Like a wolf's instinct to pursue prey, a warrior's instinct was to join a fray.
Those dark eyes, half-lidded, burning, they stare as Jarl is decided by Honorable Surrender. Nods his head - scalp a gleam of firelight - nods in approval. The kind of approval only a Modi can give. The kind of war, and blood for blood, and by the gallons.
Ben asks his question, and he voices his answer, deep-toned, gravel in a rockgrinder, "S'good 'nough,"
[Kaldrthvari] Kaldrthvari exhales a white plume of steam. Then the Forseti concedes his right to challenge. He lowers his head, bending his neck until his ears are below those of the Butcher's.
"The Butcher is my Jarl."
[Samuel Cutler] Samuel again digs his teeth into the other Garou's flesh, tearing at the muscle and finishing the first wound, leaving behind a crippled challenger. His nose communicates with his instinct-driven mind, but he manages to stifle the urge to press on and finish a foe. He backpedals away from the other Garou, finally speaking again in the barks and growls of their intricate High Tongue.
"Do you yield, Slow Avalanche?" He speaks and the other bares his neck. Moving forward, he again unhinges his teeth-filled jaw to casually wrap his teeth around the exposed vital region, symbolizing the end of the challenge with a swish of his tale.
Turning to the other Garou present, he holds out his arms and unleashes a roar of victory. Finding the one and only wound left by Cassian, he covers his finger in the blood dripping from it and paints the snow before the bonfire with the stuff. It is a glyph of the Fenrir. As he draws it, he answers Benjamin. "It is, Slays-Before-the-War-Cry."
The Fimbul wolves are now the target of his gaze, and he speaks in their spirit-tongue before repeating himself in that which could be understood by the assembled Garou. "It is sealed in blood, before Fenris. Let us hunt!"
[Slow Avalanche] Both Thimbul wolves fix The Butcher with their glittering blue gazes, as cold and harrowing as the chill that steals the last warmth from a lost man's bones and leaves him brittle and dead in the snow. They fix him with that gaze, and its like looking into a blizzard, enough to make the eyes water. They pad forwards, both of them moving like ghosts, silent masses of fur and muscle, till they stand next The Butcher, each as tall as he while still on four legs.
They sniff at him for a moment, learn his scent. And then, as one, they throw their heads back and let forth a ululation that sends the bonfire's flames sheeting away, putting it out with one fell breath.
They are the spirits of ice and cold, the bringers of the Final Winter. They have acknowledged the Jarl, and as darkness is replaced by the distant light of Luna, they turn to the Jarl and wait.
Giving him the honor - the privelage - of leading the hunt.
