Dark Thoughts

Devon sat in the penumbra at the Cherokee bawn. It was day, but day doesn't exist there, a kind of perpetual twilight rested on the spirit world. Adren brought with it certain freedoms that he was enjoying: the freedom to step sideways without a pack present for instance, but moments like this, it was just lonely. His mind drifted back to that night at the Iroquois caern.
He wasn't there. All that glory, the honor, the scar, but nevertheless, even with his great speed, he didn't make it in time.
That week, he was tired. Not physically, but mentally tired, he had been fighting all week to keep control of Iroquois park. His legal firm only consisted of three lawyers and his self, an intern who hadn't even taken his bar yet. Three corporations he'd never heard of had decided that month that building there would be an excellent source of revenue, and the claim the alpha had made was apparently not airtight. There were size specifications, no endangered species, and they argued that only one wolf preserve was necessary in city limits, any more was a danger to the citizens. Some one had paid a great deal of money to Mr. McConnell, the dirty bastard. His firm had been scouring every legal document, every precedent to refute their claims, but it wasn't looking good. Then his office had been ransacked. Someone had stolen all the documents, destroyed the computers, the back up hard-drives. All his notes were gone. They'd lost the suit. The caern was no longer theirs to the human laws.
He'd left that night with my ears down, his head hung. It seemed hopeless, and he decided to hoof it home, give himself some time to think. He was drifting street to street in Old Louisville, mostly slums now that most of the private housing had been bought out. The city was dark and damp, and strangers kept their distance as he traversed the alleyways. Then it happened. Something dark and foul had reached from the blackness tried to tear at his throat. It was only his speed that saved him. He reared back and rage shifted to glabro, the change instant and somewhat painful. Again, the black reached out for him like liquid shadow, but he moved with blinding speed. He couldn't find his opponent. How does one fight the dark? From all about him what seemed like dozens of tentacles writhed into being, things that shouldn't be possible, hideous reaching darkness. He brought his claws at them and found that whatever they were, he could feel them, and he could tear them. The fight was fast, he struck out again and again, arms close, chin tucked, but there were so many. Then something lighter, something pale blurred past him, and he felt his side open and begin to heal. Damn was it fast. The tentacles kept striking at him, and for each one he tore to shreds more seemed to rise. Again and again, the pale form whisked past him, large clean wounds opening and healing. He'd never seen anything so quick. He focused, trying to feel gaia beneath him, around him (one gnosis - spirit of the fray,) and called on his inner speed. He felt his blood boil, his heart beat fast, then strangely empty (boogity,) everything slowed down. The blur came at him again, but he could see it clearly now. It was a leech, knife raised, coming at him fast. He held his composure until it was just on him, then with a phenomenally quick motion, he tore out its throat. It fell on him, biting and hissing blood, but he wrestling it off him, pulling a large chunk of his flesh with it. Swiftly and deliberately, he disassembled the creature, goring it so as to ensure it would not again rise. In agony, it spoke, a grueling otherworldly hiss, garbled by its missing larynx, "It's too late. Our friends have beaten you home." The ghostly tentacles faded from being. Beneath him, the leech began to decay rapidly, it's flesh bloating, bursting then shriveling supernaturally fast. In short order, it would be dust. He stood in glabro, ready to step sideways, when he noticed it was dark all about him, that same thick shadow seemed to be coating the world. Three more pale, hissing faces stepped out of the black. Growling, he raised his claws and shifted to crinos.

Devon, gripping his bleeding shoulder, ignoring a dozen other slowly healing wounds, stepped sideways (gnosis) instantly, shifted from crinos to hispo and was off like lightning. The penumbral cities webs blurring beneath his paws as he willed his torn and overworked muscles to move. (willpower to ignore wound penalties)
The umbral caern was in chaos. The usual, happy glade children were strewn about in bloody ruins, the powerful elemental spirits crumbling into dust. The ancestors weren't there. The gauntlet was thicker than it should have been, and it took massive effort to move through to the physical. (Gnosis.) What he saw there was no better. The bodies of his garou kin were in pieces as if they were blasted apart. Large swaths of glass had been carved into the dirt, and trees were incinerated. All of this at the heart of the caern. He felt it, even with his weak ties to gaia as a glasswalker, he felt the utter loss of the caern's heart. Something had stolen it from them. An abomination had occurred here, a wound struck in the heart of gaia. Whatever it was, it had attacked, desecrated this place and left.
He wasn't there to defend it, to help his kin.
In hispo, he sat back and howled.
The howl of mourning must have echoed for miles. But he didn't stop. They had to come. Everyone must see.
He howled and howled, his sorrow more powerful than ever he had felt.
Then rage took him.

Devon shook his head, staring into the fire spirit. Memories of frenzy were fuzzy at best, and it didn't much like to think on them or what could have happened. Whatever had happened, he had failed to defend a caern, failed to even avenge his sept-mates.

On his shoulder, the spider spirit chittered excitedly as a small voice began to ripple over his skin. It was a wind spirit, though he couldn't see it at the moment. Without the gift of spirit speech, there wasn't much he could do but feel the air. Then with a scree, the spider leaped off his shoulder and began walking toward the edge of the bawn. Devon followed, confused as his guardian almost never left his side. After a slow walk, the spider stopped, and the spirited wind abruptly left for other climbs. An old man stood at the edge of the penumbral bawn.
The man was dressed quite strangely. He wore an ancient-looking tan leather coat adorned with small necklaces and bracelets made of large scales or teeth or claws from creatures unknown. His face was weathered by age and sunlight. His hair was short and grey, and there was a slight hunch in his stance, maybe. Devon couldn't tell with the man leaning on what looked like an ancient ceremonial spear. Despite his obvious age, the man was tall and lean and emanated palpable power like standing next to a train as it lumbers into motion.
Devon stopped before coming too close. His legs felt strangely weak beneath him, and the urge to run roiled in his stomach, but he was determined to do his job. Clearing his throat, he fell back on habit, "Devon Carter, Paces-the-Car, Adren, Glasswalker, Homid, Ahroun, currently serving as the Caern Warder." His pitch was less stable than he would have liked.

The old man turned to Devon with eyes as blue as the morning sky and smiled, "Yes, yes. I know who you are, boy. Is Speaks-of-Mist here? Or maybe that firy little corax?"

Devon faltered at the breach of custom but regained his composure, "No, the elders have gone." He said, voice falling to little more than a whisper. "They were called by Gaia to do greater things."

The man seemed disappointed, but he continued, "Alright then. All is well. I am Stands-against-the-Tide, and after much deliberation, mind you, I have come to answer the call. And maybe grab some food, Nevada is quite a long way away this time of year." With that the man strolled past the borders of the bawn with a spryness that took Devon by surprise.

"Sir, SIR, you can't just come in. I've got to get your rank and tribe and auspice! SIR!" Devon cried after him. But to no avail, the man kept on walking, mumbling to himself about good-for-nothing do gooders and manners and dinner.

A large black and grey wolf (eli) bursts from the bushes and growls at the man.

It stares over at Devon and mutters, "the spirits told me the was an intruder."

"Intruder?" The man harrumphs. "I'm absolutely flabbergasted at the audacity! It was one of those glade-children wasn't it? No manners among the trees these days."

A desperate and confused looking Devon points at the strangers, "I can't get a word in on this guy. Says his name is.."

"Stands-against-the-Tide, and I've heard you, but there wasn't much being said, boy." The Old man stands straighter and smooths out his coat. "As I said, I came to answer the call. You were the ones who asked for assistance."

(Willpower)

The wolf arches its back and gains significant size, stopping about 4 feet tall.

Eli says in a guttural english, "the call stopped a year ago. Now you're trespassing."

"A year already? My do those seasons move fast." The man seems unperturbed as he scratches his chin and looks around. In his raspy, preoccupied voice, "Well, I started to come here because of the call, anyway." Then as if remembering something important, his attention snaps back to Eli.

"Custom, I forget. I am, how do you do it, Stands-against-the-Tide... Homid... probably Ahroun... ugh, blast all of it." He grumbles.
He stands tall, power pouring off him, in a booming deep voice that reverberates in your bones, "I am Halpatee, Mbembe, Elder Mokole of the Rising Sun."

He sighs, leans on his staff and again seems just an old man, "I've come to help you in your fight against the wyrm."

Eli relaxes slightly giving a slightly open mouthed gap that looks awkward on a canine mouth.

"Oh... We've..... Never seen one of you before. I'm...."

(rage) He shifts in a flash back to homid and politely extends his hand. "Sorry, it's been tense lately, thank you for coming."

"Is no problem, no problem at all, lad, completely understandable. Now if you could kindly show me the way to somewhere a little warmer or softer or with just a tad bit more food?" He goes back to smoothing out his coat before continuing in the generally incorrect direction.

Devon stares and after a half a minute or so remembers to exhale. "I had no idea..."

"Uhm.... over here, we have a fire nearby."

Eli tries to lead the way.

The old man follows with Devon not too far behind.

"Where are all the garou?" The old man asks idly, "Every caern of yours I've seen is positively covered in them."

"Not a lot left, most died defending Iroquis. We've had a hard year." Eli mutters sullenly.

"I see. That is most tragic. We're going to need more than just the three of us to defend an entire Ca-ern. Another call perhaps?"

"Oh," Eli chuckles, "sorry, no, there are more here. Uhm, 10 ish. Some come and go. "

He nods, "Then I'd like to meet them. Are there any other Fera here? I had heard the alpha was a Gurahl."

"Hmm, there is a nuwisha here. Otherwise no sadly. Speaks left, he our beta and our corax went off to things, they didn't really tell us much but we know they got a higher calling."

From the woods comes Carry. Currently in homid form, the woman looks like she has spent the last few hours rolling in a mud puddle. Her clothes and hair are caked with dirt, and she has a wide grin on her face. She crosses the path Devon and the others are on several yards ahead, seeming to not notice them.

Devon yells for Carry, "HEY, we got another newcomer!"

Eli smiles pleasantly and tilts his head towards the man, "this would be carry. Another of our adren's. Me and her are the only remaining original members."

Carry skids to a halt, turning quickly at the unexpected voice. When she sees Devon and Eli she smiles warmly and waves. She takes a moment to kick off some of the excess mud caked to her boots before walking towards them.

"Another newcomer?" she asks once she is close enough, and then she notices the older man. "Ah, you?" she asks, seeming almost surprised. "Well, you're definitely a change from who we have seen recently. I'm Carry "Speaks with Stars" Johnson, Adren metis Galliard of the Bone Gnawers." she says, looking rather silly giving a formal introduction splattered in mud.

The man perks up with a broad, toothy smile. His old coat rustles with the sound of angry rattlesnake, "Stop that you." He says, running his hands through his pockets. "Ah, yes. Carry, is it? I'm Stands-against-the-Tide." He pulls from his pocket, a long, ornately-carved bone pipe, puffs from it without lighting it and continues, "I suppose you may call me Tide."

Carry blinks at the rustling sound eminating from the man's jacket, ut says nothing. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you Tide. What brings you to our caern?" she asks, flaking mud off the top of her hand idly.

"Currently food, but for the foreseeable future, which is not very long I might add as I don't possess that gift, help if you would have it." He rumbles out around his pipe before looking surprised and producing from his pocket a pre-world war 1 lighter and actually smoking. "You are quite a pup aren't you? How do you convince all that mud to stay in place?"

Eli snorts at the comment.

Carry raises an eyebrow slightly. "I'm hardly a pup, but this mud is from a garden I'm working on. We have so much usable land, and so I figured I'd use a patch of it."

"I mean no insult, girl." He grins. "All are young at some time. I was young quite a few times myself if you'd believe that." He guffaws as he continues his slow march. "So this garden, what are you growing this time of year?"