March 2018 Moot
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Date: 03/17/2018 |
East Side - Carson Youth Center - Back Hall Lockers line one side of this wide hallway, which runs the width of the gymnasium. Two hallways branch off from one end of the room, each separated from the open space here by two sets of heavy steel doors. One leads to a hallway that runs the length of the gymnasium while the other leads to a set of former classrooms that have been converted for use as dormitory rooms. At the opposite end is what appears to be a lounge area, laid out in front of what was doubtless at one time a snack bar servicing high school basketball games. The lounge is a strange space nestled in the hallway's dead end. It sports furniture in a mixture of well-worn and brand new - two couches, three recliners, a large flat-screen television and a bookshelf that holds paperbacks, a stereo, a marble bust of an imposing looking woman and an eclectic assortment of movies on dvd and Blu-Ray. The snack bar is left open nearby, inviting visitors to take advantage of the soda machine behind the counter or help themselves to any of the several snacks that are left out within easy reach. This hallway, closest to the center's maintenance area, is chilly even on the hottest days of summer. Nor does winter bring a respite - the back hall is colder then. The twin chemical smells of fresh paint and industrial adhesive haunt this private space, a bothersome testament to the work that has been done to restore the building. |
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Cast: | |
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It is well after sunset on March 17th, 2018. The Carson Youth Center has been cleared out except for the back hall where things look a little bit different than usual. Folding chairs have been brought out and set around the lounge area to augment the seating to accomodate all the people attending the moot. There is barbecue laid out on the snack bar along with plates and napkins. Lounging in one of the recliners is a red-haired punk in a band teeshirt and beatup jeans: Cormac 'Rage-Against-the-Machine' McGuffin. Laying on the floor at his feet is a lean gray wolf: Lies-in-Wait. Pacing around the lounge, dressed impeccably in a charcoal gray suit is a tall man with blond hair and dashing good looks: Xavier 'Scales-of-Justice' Fitzhugh. Food! Misti loves food. It is one of her top five things. She walks along the snack bar, paper plate straining with bits of sauced meat and stacks of cornbread. Shooting a smile toward the older wolves she's met before. Not much more than that, though. Her mouth is already full with what she couldn't wait to eat. Bopping along to her own internal beat. Or maybe the beat from the earbud plugged into her left ear. The right left to dangle. Sandra is punctual, as always, likely with Oliver not far behind. She's dressed in her usual business attire - looking very much in line with the Fang's method of dress, actually - with a clean pressed and smartly tailored suitcoat over the dress shirt this time, a longer coat to fend off the fluctuating weather draped over one arm. The only thing that could possibly make it look more like she should be walking into an investment firm is a briefcase (she does not have a briefcase). She affords the trio an incline of her head upon arrival, her attention drawn to the offerings on the snack bar, though she doesn't immediatey gravitate towards it, instead surveying the arrangement of furniture to get a senes of what's-where and what's-happening-where. Shiraishi 'Four Hands' Hina is, by the standards of her Tribe, an old hand at Urban Moots. Granted, not in Guerilla circumstances... but one adapts. She has found herself a seat a bit out of the way... she is new enough not to have a great deal of pressing buisiness, and is as much here to observe as perform. Speaking of perform... she has been solicited to do several performances later in the evening, and thus has arranged nearby a number of musical instrument cases. Her motiff is spoken poetry, but she uses instrumentals to support that. But later is later and now is now, so those cases are currently closed and a bit out of the way. As for her demeanor... she is relaxed. Or at least she seems that way. Any suitibly tense and concentrated gathering of Garou always has the possibility of exploding into violence after all. But she maintains a pleasent smile for those who arrive, small nods of acknowledgement. Marc and Liesl are new! So late is not an option. Perhaps trailing a little after Sandra, Marc steps in to take a look at the spread, then glances back at Liesl and grunts softly, guesturing towards a folding chair with a raised brow, before offering one of the few familiar faces in the room, Sandra, a small bow of his head. Seems for the moment he's content to camp out beside whatever chair Liesl parks her rump in. Skylar was here early, with Pax sitting in a chair, off to one side of the lounge, keeping quietly to herself. Sera, too, was here early, a notepad out, ready to listen. Kaminari has slipped in quietly at some point from elsewhere in the Carter Youth center. She finds a place for herself off to one side taking a seat and waiting. Her demeanor is subdued compared to previous encounters, a smoldering rage still burning in stormy eyes. Jim pops in from the ceiling with a little ruffle of feathers. Scouting how everyone seems to be arranged, he perches high, and in the back. About 30 minutes before the moot's due to start, Derek and Bit might've been seen in the Youth Center proper. If allowed, he'd head in with Bit to the back hall, the two of them dressed pretty much in their usual styles, though Derek's left the leather jacket elsewhere. Either way, when they arrive he has a neutral expression, neither tense nor excited. He just heads with Bit for the first two he's not met before: the punk and the wolf. He glances to Bit, and then inclines his head politely to the two. "Good evening. Derek Kemeny, homid Cliath Shadow Lord Theurge, also known as Honors the Altar." It's a short introduction, but there you have it. If any others are nearby-- for instance, Misti or the pacing man, he'll include them in the introduction, of course. Liesl pats Marc's forearm lightly before turning away from him. She offers a nod of greeting to Xavier if she catches his eye, then a hint of a smile and a casual salute to first Sandra and then Oliver before she takes a seat near where Marcus gestured. She's dressed nicely but simply, a soft blush-hued sweater and black slacks with practical block-heeled boots beneath and a jacket and bag over her shoulder. Once she is seated, she pulls out her leather portfolio, opens it up to a blank page, and uncaps a fountain pen, taking her time to regard the dynamics among and between those who arrive. She does not, however, go around introducing herself here and now. Oliver is, of course, also punctual, arriving along with his packmate. Also as fairly usual, he's somewhat more casually clad than she is, though no less smartly tailored. Today there's a tweed waistcoat over a white button-down shirt, the arms rolled up, and a pair of dark, straight jeans. A tie, as well, and he's carrying a leather satchel and has his long, woollen coat draped over his arm, at least until he finds a good place to abandon it for now. At which point, he does. He eyes the food as well, and scans the assembled; the members of the recently arrived pack of high-rankers get a particular look-over. Not a rude one, of course. But there's attention. They get a small head-inclination of greeting from him, as well, as do some others around the room. "Yo," Misti returns the greeting she gets from Derek, after taking a moment to swallow whatever mouthful she had going. "Sings-the-Deed. Human born. Galliard. Stridder," her eyes struggle not to roll. "Nidia. But most people call me Misti cause Nidia sounds like someone's grandmother. You want some?" she holds her plate out to the other young wolf. "They're ribs. And it's almost like, real barbecue, even." Like his cousin's, Bit's expression is mostly neutral, perhaps faintly curious, and the perceptive might notice faint signs of tension around his face, as if he's unconsciously clenching his jaw, maybe nervous as to what the night will bring. Once Derek's introduced himself, he waits just a few seconds too long, like he might not offer his name or he's forgotten it's customary to do so without shaking hands. But his lips part, like he means to, but then he's distracted by the interaction between Misti and Derek. Hina continues her quiet observations. Aside from an initial head-duck of respect when she showed up earlier, she hasn't really looked towards the higher ranked pack present. Certainly not towards Lies-In-Wait, to whom she definately hasn't been feeding regular information about people here. Heavens forbid. Her head turns to track the extreme newcomers, people who have been brough in even after her was like Liesl. That said, most of her attention is on her lines. Wouldn't do to forget any of it, and she'll be doing it all from memory. Cormac gets up out of his chair, and approaches the center of the floor, he stands with his fingers steepled together, then touches them to his lips, as if waiting for the energy of those gathered to coalesce. Gaze sweeping the crowd, much in the way that it might during the punk rock shows that he plays, it's as if he's seeking to make each of those here understand that their presence has meaning, that each individual here makes a unique, specific, and needed contribution to the unique energy in the room tonight. His chest lifts as he fills his lungs with air, then pauses, waiting. The howl is nigh, but he lets the energy dwell just a second longer. Then, in an explosion of flesh and bone, he shifts--almost instantly--to Lupus. His punk-rock clothes are replaced with bright red fur--a band of yellow fur around his front, right leg--and he begins to howl. The sound is clear, resonating through the room. At its core, it sings of strength. But it is not strength through physicality and might that this howl sings of: it is strength through resolve. Resolve that has been proven by the wolves gathered here--warriors without a caern, soldiers without a sept. And, while singing of tenacity, there's a minor note within the howl, one that could evoke feelings of loneliness--lost packmates, empty homes, returning to cold beds after long, draining battles, kin left behind in distant cities. That minor cord starts to grow, as if the loneliness is almost too much, swelling, the pain of this existence in the trenches of Detroit enough to drown even Gaia's most loyal in inescapable sorrow. But the strength within the howl swells again, overpowering but not completely dismissing those lonely notes. The sacrifice in Gaia's honor is stronger than the loneliness it brings. And in that sacrifice, there is, within it and within this howl, a quiet, simple joy. Then, it closes, joy and sorrow and resolve in one, proud and determined, calling the warriors gathered to their united sacrifice, service and honor to Gaia. The note lingers in the air--the sound ends, but leaving the feeling that gathered energy in the howl returning to the room. After a moment of silence the wolf leaps up onto his hind legs, his biology rearranging itself as he shifts--again seemingly in an instant--into his Crinos. He is unadorned but for a gold torc around his right bicep. Sandra offers a nod to Marc and Liesl, in turn, finding a seat, herself without another glance towards the food presented, apparently not terribly hungry. There's a certain tension in her as the howl is prepped, and anyone looking her way will note the visible tightness in her jaw, denoting clenched teeth. She tempers her expression throughout, keeping it largely neutral, but the teeth-clenching - and the occasional glance towards the doorway as if she expects something to come bursting through - doesn't stop until the howl concludes. Marc tenses up a bit when Cormac rises and shifts and begins to howl, straightening up and drawing in a deep breath, the grip he places in Liesl's shoulder probably getting a little tight for a moment before he relents the hold. His eyes close for a moment to listen and absorb the sound, but when he reopens his eyes again, he glances at Sandra, and follows her tense gaze to the door with a lifted brow. Hina is altogether less practical and concearned in her reaction. She had feared there wasn't going to /be/ an opening howl... and really without that, without even a sept, you could not call this a moot of any kind. Her attention is rapt on the poetry of the howl... and it is in those moments, if one were to happen to glance her way, that the veneer of human disappears entirely from her usually perfectly controlled demeanor. Her lips pull back to bare her teeth, indulging a savage pure emotion... and her eyes are bright. She strongly considers shapeshifting herself... very nearly does... But a few moments later, if one were to finally glance her way, she's all placid demeanor and gentle smile. Galliards... forever being betrayed in their artifice by art. Standing in the middle of the floor, Rage-Against-the-Machine's wolf-eyes seeking out each and every individual gathered. Without a single word he instills a need to listen and pay attention. <<The People have The Litany. It must not be forgotten. Listen!>> Looking right at Alec, just as the metis is arriving, the Fianna speaks firmly, not yelling, but loud enough that all those gathered can hear him well. <<Garou Shall Not Mate With Garou!>> It's all Misti can do not to howl in response. Building up inside her, a drivving need to respond to all that pain and pride. Her eyes close as she listens in. Earbud plucked out. Losing herself for a moment in the sound of it, the joy of hearing another wolf. But then, it was time for the Litany. So... That was a thing. Bit takes a visible step back at the howl, like perhaps he's never been in an enclosed space with a wolf howling, before? But, he listens, letting the notes and the sounds and the energy settle and move through him, and the kin begins to look almost serene, as if the wolf song reached even his merely human heart. When Cormac shifts into crinos, however, those near Bit might catch the sound of him sucking his breath in sharply through his nose, his eyes wide. Derek nods a greeting to Misti's own introduction, and there's a breath taken as though he'll accept or refuse her offer of delicious barbecue, and then Cormac rises, and the moment is lost in watching what happens next. He sets his jaw as the song goes on, swallowing and breathing through his nose in a quite uneven, almost too-slow rhythm. As the moments of that howl continues on and peaks, the loneliness of its sound carrying, his jaw and fists clench hard. He swallows again as the moment passes, the strength rising in its sound, and his breathing speeds up to its norm, his jaw shifting subtly upward, his teeth no longer practically grinding against one another. He's felt the howl, no question of it. And now that it's over, he seems buoyed by it, if thinly held back by attempts to look more neutral about it. He meets Rage's gaze, but only for the briefest of instants, not attempting to be challenging. And then the Litany begins, and he's back to his usual dead-eyed frontward stare. When he hears Bit breath in so sharply, he glances to his cousin, giving him a reassuring nod. Liesl's gaze is drawn from the extraordinary spectacle of Cormac's howl - up, back and over her shoulder at the ahroun gripping her (likely) unintentionally tightly. She lifts a hand and brushes the pad of her thumb over his knuckles, but doesn't try to extricate her from the bruising grip before it eases. Her gaze returns to Cormac just before the second blink-and-miss-it shift. Sandra's expression remains somewhat darkened as Cormac launches into the Litany, said art and artifice apparently not a part of the Ahroun's cup of tea. She's ceased her glances towards the doors, mind, instead paying attention to the recitation, though the visible tension in her remains. For reasons very different from the tension displayed by Bit, who got a passing glance at the sound of that sharp inhale, though she didn't let her attention linger for long. Oliver moves from where he is into the center as well, as Rage-Against-the-Machine begins the Litany, picking his spot and turning swiftly toward the assemblage. "Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind!" he declaims, lowering his voice to add quite precisely, "...it is abomination." He scans the assembled for the space of a breath, one brow arched, tilting his head slightly one way and then the other as he looks from left to right. "So sayeth another set of laws, likewise treated as infallible yet devised and codified millennia ago by people no more exceptional than us. People who had not yet developed table forks," a fleeting upward quirk of the lips, "or toilet paper. And like that law, this one is out of date, out of order, and out of touch." He moves across the open area as he speaks, turning one hand upward as if in display. "In those days, we were many. Now," the other hand does the same, the first dropping, "we are few, sorely outnumbered, and dwindling further with every generation. And still we willfully refuse the obvious solution!" A light shake of the head. "Every Metis is a guaranteed Garou for the next generation, and as long as we also maintain our current attempts to breed more Homids and Lupus, only adds to our number. A Metis born now can fill our shoes when we're gone. They'll be flawed? So are we all! The few who are unfit for combat can tend the nurseries of young ones; when we have many young Metis, they will have the acceptance and early socialization they so often miss out on now." There's half a second's pause, as begins to pace back the other way. "Some," he says, letting a brow lift, "are convinced allowing such relationships will mean fewer or no non-Metis are born, or that the flaws of the young would undo us. To them, I ask: which of our tribes are flourishing most, and have been now for generations? Is it the ones who hold this tenet most inviolable, or the ones who enforce it least?" He stops short in the middle of the 'stage', looking first to the Master of the Howl, then to the group at large, as he goes on. "'Garou shall not mate with Garou'? Garou MUST mate with Garou!" The volume of his voice lowers, solemn, but the intensity of it does not. "It is our people's only hope." Hina replies to that sharply. "It is not a law handed down by /men/. It is the Emerald Mother, Gaia's, law. It is absolute. Defiling ourselves is no road to victory. To love another Garou is a thing of tragic beauty. To lust after another Garou is to invite the Wyrm into us! We cleave to our Kin as part of a healthy cycle of existance." She shakes her head then. "If incest and mutation are our methods of victory, then we have already lost. It is no different then breeding with our own parents and children to keep our lines 'pure'." She then states, firmly. "These are the tactics of Spirals. It is no victory if we defeat them by becoming them. None at all. Better to die with grace, as what we were meant to be." Hina is something of a traditionalist in these respects, it would seem. Right, the call and response. Enforcing the Litany and the laws of the Garou. Misti looks around. At all the Garou who lurk toward the edges and don't seem eager to speak up. She swallows a chunk of cornbread, half whole, and raises her voice, "Metis cannot hide from the humans. They can't bring new Kin, who we need to sustain and strengthen our fight. And their weakness and maddness weakens us all." It was only half true, but it was true enough. And that's what the ceremony takes. "How many Haspburgs you see running countries?" Sure, sure, glare at Alec. He's late. Most people do double-takes anyway, and since it's a ~moot~ and all that means he'll put down the hood of his sweatshirt, revealing a good chunk of misborn glory. Christ, but he is hideous. An object lesson for Misti's words. "You volunteering?" the mule asks of Oliver. Boy does he sound world-weary. "Incest is best. Bend over, pretty boy." He reaches for his belt, buckle jingle-jangling. Then: *Zzzzip!*. "And who will birth these children? Can they somehow also birth non-Metis at the same time? I think we know the answer to that. We need non-Metis to be born, the more the merrier. We need to continue our lines, and Metis cannot aid us in this. No, instead they are infertile, unable to assist with the furthering of Gaia's plan in this regard." Derek's voice is cold and even. Not an appeal to emotion, so much as logic. The response from Alec has him lifting a brow, but he looks neither shocked nor angry by the motions. Yet, anyway. He certainly didn't spend long looking at the poor Metis' face. Or, well, anything else. Marc takes in a deep breath, his face getting more set at Oliver's case made. He waits for a moment, Hina's and Misti's words carrying before he offers in a louder voice, "Metis are stricken with corruption and give the Wyrm a way in to take down what would be a warrior of Gaia. They suffer, and yes, they cannot hide from humans. We cannot take that path and do the Wyrm's work for it." He glances over at Alec, slowly lifting a brow at that taunt. Was that a smirk? Surely not. Having calmed himself, mostly, into a state of detached curiousity, Bit watche Cormac, clearly not understanding what's being said, but he's trying anyway, like he's watching a foreign language movie without subtitles. Then, he seems like he's really not sure what to make of the responses to Oliver. Alec, though, gets a look, a blink, and then Bit quickly turns his face to the side, trying to hide the glimmer of amusement that finds its way into his expression at the taunt. The amusement dies, however, when Derek speaks, and then Bit finds a chair, settling in and folding his tall form down into something much less noticeable, to listen. Jim is frankly impressed with the pageantry of this. He listens, letting himself get absorbed in the moment, in the preaching, and learning a little about the Garou besides. He does his best to remain very, very quiet, and inobtrustive where he perches. He's not hiding, but he's out of the way. Sandra visibly curls her lip at Alec's response, showing teeth, a look that would be a threat display in a form other than human. Breaks through what has otherwise been a look of impatience prior, though it dims as she refocuses on the Fianna, now that the second tenet is brought to the fore. Kaminari lifts her head from her quiet repose to speak, her words seemingly echoing Hina's to a degree, "When the Emerald Mother, Gaia, speaks we listen. She is as our mother, our creator, and like a mother she is wiser than we and guides to the correct path. She tells us Garou should not mate with garou, we can see the results with our own eyes and the corruption of form that they are cursed with. Listen to your mother, to the most August of all spirits, and choose your mates wisely when the time comes." The Fianna glares at Alec, and bares his teeth. Is that a grin or a growl, it's hard to say. He bellows, <<Combat the Wyrm Wherever it Dwells and Whenever it Breeds!>> Oliver watches the replies with slightly lifted brows and the hint of-- well, that might be a smirk, perhaps. Certainly it is at Alec's reply; swift recovery from a blink at first seeing the man, and then an almost drawled, "You couldn't handle me, sweetheart." The rest he doesn't argue -- that's not the job -- falling silent again until the Master of the Howl goes on. He looks at the Galliard almost sidelong, then tilts his head the other way, the movement of his eyes to that side just barely to the polite side of a roll. "Again," he says to the others, "these rules were written long ago, time within which myriad human civilizations have risen and collapsed. Our power then was such that to this day, humanity holds the terror of it in their hearts!" Drama in that, fading as he continues, "Now, on the other hand... as I say, we are few. And the servants of the Wyrm, alas, are many. If we charge headlong at every merest hint of corruption, we will soon be even fewer. WHEREVER it dwells? WHENEVER it breeds? Those terms are shackles to our demise. If we even tried to fulfil them, we would never sleep!" He shakes his head decisively. "No. This is a time of priorities. Of triage. And nowhere is that truer than Detroit. This 'law' would have us throw ourselves at Shaw's operations like the proverbial lemmings off a cliff," a smooth movement of his hand seeming almost to scatter them. "In these days, we need to fight intelligently -- not compulsively. This simplistic law would have us sacrifice our utility on the altar of the quixotic. If our goal is mindless combat, then by all means!" His hands have spread widely -- almost welcomingly -- with that, but now return to his sides, one lifting in a loose fist. "But if our intention is to =win= this war, this 'law' must go." Liesl flickers a sidelong look over at Bit and allows the overt attention to linger for a time even after he takes a seat. Her gaze is measuring, thoughtful. Neither Marc's bold commentary nor Alec's prior arrival seem to raise her proverbial hackles. Eventually, her attention slides back over those who speak, lingering before returning to Oliver and Cormac. She either writes something down on the portfolio open on her lap, or doodles something. But bored, the Getkin is not. For just a moment Hina turns her head and /stares/ at Alec. Won't see /that/ sort of display in Sapporo, thats for sure. But she has a reply to give. "That is a delibrate and willful misinterpretation of the law." Is Hina's crisp reply to Oliver. "We are neither required to fight foolishly nor when we have zero chance of success. What we /are/ required to do is plan how to win correctly in those cases. Sometimes that demands sacrifice. Nothing however can be /overlooked/. Small nests of Banes promote misery to grow stronger. From a single Leech, others may be created. But none of it can be tolerated to fester when it can be pulled up by the root. Our task is not to maintain a stalemate with the Wyrm. It is to /win/. To abandon this tenant is to risk finding reasons to /tolerate/ this or that manifestation of the Wyrm. It is the beginning of forgetting our purpose, and losing our narrative. It is the beginning of the end of us." "The 'law' musn't go," Sandra says, "but the 'whenever,' and 'wherever' certainly needs review by those with heads on their shoulders. *When* the time is right, *where* we have the proper resources." She pauses a moment; then, with a strengthening tone, she says, "Flinging ourselves to certain death serves Gaia not at all; it serves only our enemy's agenda. But the rule is a necessary one; it encompasses everything we are, and everything we *must* be. Without it, we're more akin to our fallen brothers and sisters, living under the delusional certainty that Gaia has indeed breathed her last, and that the Apocalypse has long since come and gone." Glancing down at Liesl, Marc nods at Hina's words and offers, "The law requires we do not give up and allow the Wyrm to win. It does not require us to blindly throw ourselves like surf against the rock. Dumb claws do not save Gaia." He looks like he might have been about to save more, but the other ahroun piping up has him grunting an agreement at Sandra and stopping there. Mmm. Mongo agree, yes. Since he probably has an audience, and he's Galliard, and he can't /help/ but perform, Alec wiggles it. Just a little bit. Then there's another zip, another clink of his buckle. "Another time," he says to Oliver, and he finds someplace out of the way....ish...? to lean, or perch, and listen. And maybe gnaw at a hangnail. It keeps growing back. "Here a Wyrm, there a Wyrm, everywhere a Wyrm-Wyrm," he sing-songs quietly. Kaminari listens as Oliver speaks, lightning seeming to flash in her dark stormy eyes. Her response to the challenge to the tenet is simple "If you let it gain a toehold, well look around you. The state of Detroit beyond these walls is what you get. Here we have only one choice to fight, that does not mean we do not prioritize. To do everything at once is impossible and the law is not one of suicide, but we fight all the same. We are creatures of spirit and this is the spirit of the law." Misti also casts a sidelong glare at Alec. Under different circumstances, she might just haul him out. But there were other laws to recite now. "The Wyrm won't stop until we're all dead and everything is destroyed. If even a bit of it remains, it will work to destroy us all. Not fighting it wherever, whenever possible is the same as surrender." Liesl glances up from what she is writing or doodling to regard Sandra as she speaks, a glimmer of something more intense in her iceberg-blue eyes. "The Law says 'combat,' but it does *not* say physical-only, and it does *not* say planning is out of the question, nor that we combat whichever Wyrm sources we find by flailing like a hyperactive child, with no idea where to aim." Derek's voice is cool once more, his expression flat. Logic over emotion, for now. Rage-Against-the-Machine continues through the next couple tenets--Respect the Territory of Another, Accept an Honorable Surrender--Oliver questioning, and the gathered Garou rebutting. Then, the Fianna speaks, <<Submission to Those of Higher Station!>> Oliver arches a brow, expression otherwise impassive. "What a complete and utter shock: the people powerful enough to determine the rules everyone would be expected to follow included one saying that everyone else needs to do as powerful people demand. Who could possibly have predicted that?" There's enough acid woven through that world-weary tone to etch glass. He straightens from his slight lean against the snackbar, and paces, eyes scanning the audience again. "Power covets power," he says, each word distinctly enunciated. "There is no form of government, no matter how initially well-intentioned, that does not eventually become a matter of the 'haves' arranging their society to give them yet more -- more money, more power, and more =control=... over those who might one day rise and take it away." Near the center, he stops again. "Now, there are those who will say the very fact that they've obtained 'higher station' shows they're smarter, worthier, all around better than you. Much the way many people regard the rich and powerful in human society, isn't it? But what's that thing they say in adverts," a tilt of his head, as if thinking, "'Past performance is no guarantee of future results'? This rule serves mainly to shut people up when they dare make waves, even if they're right. Even if those higher up are making a terrible mistake." For a moment, there's a hint of what seems like genuine anger in there, before he starts back toward the counter. "Oh, but don't worry," he adds as he glances over his shoulder, that first tone sliding back in, "Just do as Mummy and Daddy say, and everything will keep going =just= as smoothly as it has so far." Alec bites off the hangnail. He downright savages his cuticles. It really won't matter, see. Then he looks up, because the Litany is important. "You're right, of course. What we need are totally untried folks in charge. What could possibly go wrong? Lemme just raise my banner. Watch 'em all flock." "Or we could just organize under whichever johnny-come-lately comes sauntering by, as witnessed by the banner-raising over yonder." There's a very brief ghost of a smile, directed in Alec's direction, and then Derek's back to a glacial exterior. "Without some organization, we will fail. Why not those proven in the past rather than those who fancy themselves most?" He opens his mouth as though to say more, and instead closes his mouth with a practically audible snap. Kaminari leans back, "As one of the rich in human society I will tell you your example only proves your point. Wealth is not merit and anyone who views it that way should not be leading. Our leaders prove themselves through challenge, through their glory, honor, and wisdom." her gaze passes over the pack of Adren and Athros and there is a bow of her head and shoulders in deference, "That is why we follow them, their actions are proven, not some mere inheritance. If you want to lead? If you want a say? Prove yourself as those who came before you have." The last bit of what Oliver says lifts and holds Liesl's gaze long after he's finished. Hina replies to this as well. "Submission in any case does not mean not citing disagreement. It means doing so in a respectful manner, and once a decision is final, obeying." In any case, she can only note. "The old and accomplished have seen more then we young ever could. Should we live our lives backwards? The children instructing the grandparents? This respect is not arbitrary, not gained materially like human wealth. It is earned by surviving in war. Look to those who have walked before to lead those who come after. Else there is no point to looking to the wisdom of the past, and we are lost." "As with every act of the Fool," Sandra says, "there's a grain of truth in all of it. Power distances; power separates you from those beneath you. Power places blinders on that nothing else can truly replicate. Oliver and I both have seen what power can do to those who wield it poorly. The Garou may be blessed as Gaia's soldiers, but we are not a one of us without flaw, some more grievous than others-- and those leaders incapable of seeing that in themselves are no leaders at all. They become dictators, and demagogues, interested only in their own accomplishments, and what it is they can gain from those beneath them in the chain of command." Another pause. Then: "But that's a different place, from a much different time," she says. "Here, until recently, we had little in the way of power structure. We had no one to lead; no one to 'submit' to. We were rudderless, spinning our wheels. And while there are those of us capable of going through the motions of leadership, our Umbral reflection lack the marks placed on us by the spirits. Marks that show the trials we've faced, and the paths we've walked, moreso than any physical scar ever could." And judging by the jagged line streaking down from her jugular, she knows her way around scars. "We need those that have proven themselves. We rely on them just as thoroughly as they rely on us-- to point the way, and to provide a sturdy, learned backbone to our efforts here that we were sorely lacking, until now. Ours is a society that functions best with structure, and we've seen what its absence has caused. Lack of communication. Lone wolves. Little in the way of forward motion. What we stand to lose from doing away with that structure is far more than these theatrics entails." The recitation continues--The First Share of the Kill for the Greatest in Station, Ye Shall Not Eat the Flesh of Humans--with question and rebuttal. Cormac shifts his attention from face to face throughout, but settles once more, on Alec before saying, <<Respect Those of Lower Station, for all are of Gaia.>> "Ah, noblesse oblige!" The accent couldn't be plummier, subtle changes in the set of Oliver's shoulders and cant of his chin leaving him every inch the aristocrat. Not so much an imitation as the donning of a old, familiar cloak. He looks at the gathered sidelong, with a faint, conspiratorial smirk. "Just a subtler form of snobbery, really, isn't it? Another little divider of 'us' from 'them' -- poor dears." He drops back to the earlier mien, accent crisper again. "Sneakier than it looks, this one. At first one might think it's merely a sop, to keep 'those below' from rising up. 'Look,' say the powers that be," in, it might be noted, the loftier version of his accent, "'we may demand your service to us, but you get something too.' But you see, that makes it an exchange -- that =validates= their claim of privilege. That's all this really is: justification." "And the proof is, they don't mean it. Not really." A light, careless shrug. "How many cubs or even Cliath have you seen condescended to or cuffed for speaking up? When did you last see someone extol the tapeworm or mourn some trodden ants? Ever addressed a mosquito as 'sir'?" "It's lip service at best." He gestures negligently, with a shake of his head. "There's no point pretending to keep this supposed 'rule' around." Derek is quicker to speak up this time, his voice less frigid and quite a bit more emotional: "And you would prefer we lose the rule, and simply hope the rest falls into place? You would suggest the slippery slope fallacy, that because we don't treat the ants and the mosquitoes as holy, we should not try to enshrine respect for those who are not Garou, for those who face down some of the horrors with us?" Marc frowns, taking a moment longer before raising his voice to add to this one, "The lesser and the younger deserve our strength, not our ridicule. All of us were whelps once. We learned and became the warriors we are now because we are a nation, not a pack of dumb wolves at each other's throats. We are not out to screw each other over." He takes a deep breath there and purses his lips, glancing over to look at the others piping up. Hina replies... and she seems always unruffled with these... "We have all been the least. We have all been the lesser. Perhaps, if we survive, we shall one day be the greater... but we forget our origins are our peril. We cultivate the garden that lies behind us, for when we are gone they must take our place." She shakes her head then. "So it is with all things. If we are to be ennobled be our nature, then we must do all we can for those who are not. Or we forget them... and we risk forgetting that when we ignored and derided humans, Grandfather Spider gave them Fire. We never truly recovered from that." Alec smiles Derek's way. It's a very unfortunate thing, that smile. What'd Derek do to deserve it? Then his gaze swings to Sandra, whom he studies a long while, eyes narrowing just so. And finally he looks back to the Fool. "You know, I would /not/ want to fuck with Mosquito. Or Ant. Or Tapeworm. Pretty sure there's a whole tribe that worships Cockroach. You mighta heard of 'em." He scratches the side of his nose. "We got other lessers? Oh, right. Kinfolk have fucked over enough Garou, and not in a good way, that it pays to treat 'em well even if you don't love 'em. Even if you're a corrupt, sterile thing like me. We cower in fear from the sprawl of humanity we done fucked up herding and culling. I think we do okay at respecting the lessers. Why, just look at me. I haven't been throated yet." He smiles again. Ugh. There are moments of the litany that seem to unsettle Bit - it's one thing to hear that such a thing will happen and be recited and quite another to listen to it, after all, and dwell within the tenets and discussions and puzzle what is meant and what is not. He sits, still in the chair, that unsettlement showing in the way his lips purse or his jaw tenses, but otherwise, for the most part, he's entirely too polite (or, perhaps simply conscious of his standing) to dare even make a nonverbal remark. When Derek speaks, he turns his head, nodding, forgetting the ceremony of the moment and simply appearing to feel proud of his younger cousin. And then Alec - he turns his head again, his mouth not moving, but there it is once more- that glimmer in his eyes, although this time looking almost like - respect? But, he quickly turns his gaze down to the floor again. Sandra is conspicuously silent on this point, though there's little need to say much of anything. She and Oliver both, just by virtue of disparate tribe and appearances, are likely second only to Metis and Kin where it comes to those 'lesser in station.' "Those who come before have a duty to those who come after," Kaminari begins, "We obey those above us as they show respect and protect those below them. We are neither tyrants nor a human democracy, in this way our bonds continue down through the ages. Where I come from even the humans follow this sempai/kohai relationship, respect and teach those who came after you so they might rise to help you and teach those who came after them in turn." Five more principles are spoken, with five more questions, and five more rebuttals: The Veil Shall Not Be Lifted, Do Not Suffer Thy People to Tend Thy Sickness, The Leader May Be challenged at Any Time During Peace, The Leader May Not Be Challenged During Wartime, and Ye Shall Take No Action That Causes a Caern to Be Violated. After the final rebuttal, the Fianna finally reverts back to his Homid form, that torc evident under the sleeve of his band tee-shirt. He looks at Xavier, and says, "Rhya, floor's yours," before heading back to his recliner and plopping down. Lies-in-Wait resumes her position on his feet. Oliver makes a slight bow to the rest of the attendees, the usual head-inclination allowed to continue all the way down to include his shoulders, then straightens, and strolls back out of the center to resettle himself beside his packmate. There's still a faint upward angle to one corner of his lips as he gets comfortable to watch and listen. Without other points to rebuke, Misti is quickly back to eating. Shoveling it down as quickly as she can. She's taken up one of the chairs, sitting on the back. Her feet planted on the seat. Mac and cheese disappears into her at a rate medical professionals may find alarming. Hina is comfortable enough with the call and response, always measured, always logical, and largely hewing to older customs in her arguements. But once things reach the heart of matters, as it were, her demeanor shifts a bit. Leaning forward slightly, perfect hands folded neatly in front of her. Now to see. Alec mouths 'call me' and gestures holding up a cellphone as he watches Oliver depart from the 'stage.' Derek responds to each Oliver-argument, though mostly in a dispassionate, logical sort of way. For those that know him, it's not that out of the ordinary. He nods to Alec's smile, another proto-smile lifting to his lips briefly. If Alec's smile was insult, maybe Derek's too dense to realize. Caern violation, for the record, seems to be something he's at least slightly more passionate about, akin to his demeanor when he spoke of those of lesser station. Once call-and-response has finished, he's quiet of course. Xavier steps out into the middle of the floor and gives Cormac a nod. He looks around to everybody gathered and takes a deep breath before starting to speak. "I am Scales-of-Justice, Athro Philodox of the Silver Fangs, born on two legs as Xavier Fitzhugh, and alpha of the River Knobs pack. As the eldest half-moon here, I will take on the role of Truthcatcher at this gathering. I have a few things to address before I yield the floor to whomever else wishes to bring up business." He takes a step toward one side of the gathering looking to all the faces. "I am sure that you all are concerned about what it means for the River Knobs pack to have arrived here in Detroit. I would be, if the roles were reversed. We outrank you, and that rank must be respected. But, you don't know us, and so it is only natural to worry, to consider all the various ways you could be forced to endure our presence in this city." The Silver Fang turns and paces across the floor toward the other side of the space, looking at all those gathered there. "It is not befitting of Garou to get lost in hypotheticals. We are Gaia's warriors, not her worriers. We came here at the request of Defiance-Screaming. He told us the truth of what has transpired, and he laid out your plight: a lot of inexperienced Cliaths arrayed against such odds. It was his hope that we could come here and help. Come here and provide our experience and leadership so that we could all stem the tide of corruption washing over Detroit. In the battles to come, there will be much Glory and Honor to be claimed, if we have the Wisdom to make the right choices. We are here to guide you down that path." "To that end, before I yield the floor, I want to bring up one more thing," the Athro says, as he returns to the center of the floor. As he speaks, he looks at each person, and when he does, it seems as if he's speaking directly to them. "Where are your packs?! Except for Qui Curat, there are no packs. I know that you have all arrived here individually. I understand that you all come from different backgrounds. I know it can be tough. But, you are wolves! To deny yourself the bond with a Totem and with your packmates is to make yourselves weak! If we are to be successful in this fight against the Wyrm, we cannot show weakness. Get together. Form packs. Don't make excuses. Your lives depend on it." The question is writ upon his face. Alec cocks his head. And then he raises his hand. Good schoolboy. Xavier nods to Alec. "Go ahead," he says. "Can I be a Knob?" Alec inquires. Sandra looks neither relieved nor all that apprehensive about what's said. The general neutrality in her expression is more relaxed this time - a bit more 'sincere' - though there's a somewhat impatient look upon glancing in Alec's direction. Still salty about the 'banter' with her packmate, probably, and what *is* said gets a look that suggests that, were there just a touch more impropriety to her, she'd probably be rolling her eyes. Hina has a touch more impropriety then Sandra. But only a touch more. So she dosen't roll her eyes. She just /really/ wants too. She dosen't otherwise offer response or commentary though. It's a good point. But packs are not formed overnight, and as she sees it she'll need to impress some others first. No impropriety to Derek, no siree. No rolling of the eyes at all, nor even a look like he'd LIKE to. But... there's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, for those who manage to catch his gaze. Still, there's no smile this time! Liesl flickers a glance up over her shoulder to Marc, one brow arching ever so slightly. Misti is getting real tired of that shit. It's written on her face, even as she chews. Pushing a bit of remaining barbecue around with a plastic fork. This wasn't the time for it. But it would be soon. Real, real soon. While Xavier speaks about forming packs, Marc doesn't say anything to it, just glances at some of the other wolves and folds his arms across his chest, staying right where he is for the moment near Liesl's shoulder. When she glances up at him, he restrains himself or the time being and instead actually waggles a brow at her, but then just as quickly, his attention is back on Xavier. Cormac laughs from where he's sitting in one of the recliners. "You already are, mule," he calls out. "Just a knob." He chuckles again and then looks at Xavier. "Sorry, Rhya." Xavier looks at the metis and shakes his head. "No," he says, calmly, and with finality. Then he looks out across the others gathered. "After the moot. In the days to come, I want you all to find _each other_ to form packs." He pauses, then he looks toward Sandra. "Razor-Eater, you have business for the moot?" "I do, yes," Sandra says, raising to her feet. "Thank you, Scales-of-Justice-rhya. I'm glad I can strike the topic of packs off an already long list of items to discuss." It's said somewhat mildly, but after the aside, she clears her throat, and begins to speak without much preamble. "First and foremost," she says, that inherent 'command' tone coming through even in spite of an attempt to underplay, "I'd like to bring your attention to some of the new additions to CYC," she says, tipping her hand towards a set of large, matted print outs on the walls-- intricate flow-charts, all of them. "These," she says turning her attention back to the gathered Garou as a whole, "represent an ongoing project, cataloguing all the data I've been able to gather on various points of interest around the city, be they in the form of certain notable individuals, or phenomena that relate to them. You'll also note that there are some omissions, here and there, but, as I said: the project is ongoing." There's only a brief pause before she moves on from the disclaimer. "In creating these," she says, falling into a slow, methodical pace, "- all incidental omissions aside - I've uncovered a significant number of information gaps. This is largely due to our attentions having been almost entirely on Shaw, or on Zug Island, which doesn't come as a surprise, nor is anyone about to get their wrist slapped for making either of those two subjects their primary focus. It does, however, point out to me that we're missing several crucial pieces to a much larger puzzle, as is the case with Allistair Fairchild, a man whose security empire finances not just a lavish lifestyle for him, personally, but a werewolf hunting operation that his family has been a part of for generations. I have Jamila Yusef Ibraahin looking into him, at the moment, but once I receive word back from her-- well. There's always more to look into. Shaw's dossier didn't appear overnight, after all. "Nonetheless, Fairchild's rather anemic profile is only one example of the sorts of information gaps that we should be looking to fill. As such, those of you who have been here the longest are being urged to look the information over, and see if you can fill in the blanks. The same goes for correcting any mistakes, which can be told to me verbally, or left on the airgapped computer Skylar set up for us to use. You'll find all the data stored to a standard text file on there, and another file to accompany it, in which your suggestions and alterations can be noted. Just be sure to say who it is that's noting them, so I can follow up with you later if I have any additional questions. "Lastly, for those of us that aren't as inclined to study charts, or sit in front of a computer: I'd like the Galliards here to become as acquainted with all the materials here as they can be, so that they can be verbally passed to these members of the sept. Using this information will not only point the way to loose threads, but it should cut down rather dramatically on the number of redundant missions that have occurred both before, and after I arrived. It should also give us an idea of where we need to start focusing our efforts. As I said, there are a number of loose threads that we could stand to follow up on, and though some will obviously be more challenging than others - such as the case with studying the Great Web - I have faith that we'll be able to figure out a means of acquiring the information we need. "To avoid stepping on one another's toes in pursuing this information, however, it's requested that individuals, or packs, that are set on acquiring certain data stores place post-it notes on the charts themselves to let other members know that the matter is being pursued. It's also recommended that after-action reports be filed either verbally, to a Galliard, or in writing," she says, gesturing towards the corkboard where other reports have been placed, "so that they can be documented." Beat. "As always, try to remember that any snags you hit along the way can be navigated with the assistance of your septmates. The work of lone wolves does occasionally bear fruit, but I think it's safe to say that it being a 'norm' has left us spinning our wheels more often than not. As I'd already mentioned." Said charts, for reference, can be seen here:
Kaminari continues to sit respectfully and quietly since the finishing of the litany retorts. She listens carefully to the eldest philodoxes words with careful attention. Perhaps there is something in her expression at the mention of packs but she doesn't voice it, instead shifting her attention to Razor-Eater, nodding along in agreement with the various points the Ahroun makes. Alec smiles sweetly at Cormac. He then nods jerkily to the Silver Fang, and crouches. As his request wasn't exactly a serious one, it's no skin off his back. Which... would regrow anyway. Just as pretty as before. And he listens. There's a lot of listening to do. Derek is listening; that much is clear. What *isn't* clear, most likely, is what he's making of all this. There's no verbal response, and if it weren't for his adjusting his gaze at times to be sure he's paying attention but not *staring* and not meeting eyes enough to challenge... well, it'd seem like he was completely lost in his own little world. As one of the Galliards in question, Hina simply nods once and briefly waves a hand in the air for those who don't know her. They will later after the tale-telling of course. But all the same. Get to know your local Galliard. After all, she was one of the ones to bring up the need to have somebody translate the information for Lupus and other computer illiterates. So she can hardly have any objection to the new task being issued. "In respects to furthering our place as a sept," Sandra continues, "there's also a caern to discuss. Though it's been largely dismissed to the category of 'pipe dream,' the fact remains that we need one on hand, for our spiritual wellbeing if for nothing else, and I believe there are methods of making that happen, no matter the situtaion we find ourselves in. I've assembled a list of possible locations, their various pros and cons, and what may be necessary for securing each site prior to enacting a Rite of Caern Building." Beat. "Some, like overtaking the local Pit, are quite a bit more outlandish than others, but I'd be remiss if I didn't include every option we have available to us, even if some are better left as thought experiments. Something outlandish may well lend itself unexpectedly to becoming an actual, viable possibility. "With that in mind, I'd like to convene a meeting," she says, looking to the River Knobs, "sometime in the near future, to discuss these options, and which of the options presented we feel confident about tackling first. There are some first steps we can take with each that won't lock us in to any one choice, and getting an idea of what's feasible, and what isn't - primarily by scouting for possible sites in the suburbs, and outside the city limits - would be prudent. Regardless of whether or not this is something that happens in six months' time, or even a year from now, we should at least get the ball rolling." There is a lot of listening to do. And it's obviously starting to wear on Misti. The call-and-response isn't as bad, there's something else to focus on. But the little speeches are... Not as easy. Her toes start to tap. Walking her fork across the plate. Looking around the room as her attention starts to wander. Jaw shifting. Where was her bag? Ugh. What time is it? Man. Misti taps her fork against her knee Oliver is quiet now, and seems reasonably relaxed as his packmate speaks. There's still what might be a faint smile, though now it's hinted less at the lips and more in the eyes. Except when the 'take over the Pit' option gets called out; there's fleetingly a definite upturn at the mouth-corners for that. Alec watches the speaker. Speakers. Speaker. He also scratches at the back of his hand. It's audible. And flakes of dry, patchy skin visibly drift to the floor. At the phrase 'werewolf hunter', Bit glances at Derek - any other time, perhaps, he might dismiss his quiet curiousity and outright demand answers, based on his agitated expression. But here, new though this kin may seem, he knows to keep his mouth shut and just pay attention to Sandra, even if he's got yet another new horror to worry about. Derek quite obviously seems interested in this topic, from his more alert expression to his squared shoulders. This is *clearly* something he feels strongly about. He remains silent, but he's riveted, maybe even letting his gaze linger a little too long on Sandra. Still short of any hint of a challenge, but only just... though of course, she may interpret that line differently. Unfortunately for Misti, it's not over yet. And if Sandra takes any objection to lengthy looks, she isn't showing it; she knows full well that there's a lot that's said that needs to be absorbed, and continues to move on unabated. "Now," she says, "one of the biggest questions where it comes to caerns is the lock that Shaw has on the umbra, through his pact with Whippoorwill. Those who've been here for some time don't need me to reiterate that Whippoorwill's gafflings are capable of watching our every move, and most - provided they're present when the attempt is made - can even sense us when we're peeking, though they do a fairly good job of pretending this isn't the case. Don't be fooled by it. "Whether or not we intend on putting down roots within the city itself, it goes without saying that this is a problem that needs to be dealt with yesterday. There's been talk of a means of doing that, and, to my understanding, the talen project Skylar assembled to scramble MDCI forces was, in part, a preliminary - or, at least, periphery - means of getting a better read on their - and, consequently, MDCI's - activities. So far, we haven't heard many of the actual details, aside from the notes on the computer-- or, if we have, they haven't reached a majority of us, but I hope to correct that soon. "One way or another, I'd like any volunteers willing to research the problem to report to me as soon as they're able, or speak to me after the moot has concluded, if they're so inclined. Information about Whippoorwill, its connection to Shaw, and what we've uncovered about the nature of their relationship, are available in the charts themselves. If you're unfamiliar with the problem, or the players involved, I suggest you start there before throwing your hat in the ring. Otherwise, research into forging talens that might mask our presence inside the White Zone would be a good place to start, so anyone with the capability of creating them should think about devoting some time to doing so. "Next up," she says, starting to pace again, albeit slowly, "we need another group to get to work on uncovering just what, exactly, Shaw wants with Belle Isle, beyond his casino project. I've expressed more than once, and to many of you, that I'm not convinced it's just a joke being played at the expense of the Wendigo; I'm almost certain that he's out for something more than that, but we've yet to pinpoint what that is. The Wendigo I spoke to said that there were rumors of a 'ghost girl' roaming the Isle. They took great pains to look for her, as some believed it was the wayward spirit of the caern itself, but they weren't able to find much of anything when last they maintained a local presence. Mind you, I don't hold out a great deal of hope that we'll succeed where they failed - they know the land much better than we did, spiritually and otherwise, and they didn't fail to locate the source of the rumors for lack of trying - but we're running out of time to look into the matter, and any lead is a lead, in this case." Hina really is paying attention... its all terribly important, but... her gaze drifts slowly over to where Alec is scratching at the skin on his hand. She's probably not the only one doing that, its really gross, but her reaction is a bit different. More... facinated. One of her contrastingly perfect hands begins idly stroking, though not scratching, the other... before she catches herself doing that it seems and turns her gaze back towards Sandra, returning her hands to her sides. Yes yes, focus on Sandra and her important matters. Horrible hands can wait for another time. As Sandra speaks, Skylar's shoulders tense and she gives them a slow roll. She casts a glance over toward Sera, and then to the wall where the map resides, but she keeps her peace. "This isn't a fairweather task, mind you," Sandra says. "The construction site is being guarded by three packs of scrags in the Umbra, as I'd mentioned in my most recent report," one hand reaching out to tap the report hanging from the corkboard, "and breaching the construction site itself will undoubtedly come into play at one point or another. For now, however, we'll be starting out with research, and with scouting. As with everything else, I've assembled some materials on the matter that will give anyone willing to look into it some places to begin their search. "Last but not least, at least where it comes to the more 'mundane' tasks ahead of us, there are some matters concerning MDCI. We need to know - have *needed* to know, for some time - how it is that the rank and file fomori they put to use are being created, and through what method they're being assembled. We know the process is roughly like the creation of the talens, putting Weaver spirits in with Wyrm to offset the more elaborate mutations those--" a brief pause, "things," said with notable contempt, "are known for, but we don't know much more than that. Furthermore, we don't know what kind of numbers we're dealing with beyond 'a lot.' This is more a research project than anything else, and, as always, if it's been figured out already, I'd like whomever it was to figure that out - or whomever it was that has that information - to speak to me immediately. Keeping in mind that the information may already be outdated. "There are other projects regarding MDCI, as well, one of which may allow us to better determine the answer to the questions of 'how,' and 'how many.' We have the names of a pair of recruits that are undergoing training at one of their facilities, currently, and it isn't one that's publicly known, or advertised. Trackers and infiltrators who feel confident that they can shadow these men are encouraged to speak to me as soon as possible so we can get a better idea of what we're dealing with, and whether or not we have a viable target on our hands. Another matter Shadi has spoken to me about is targeting their airborn assets - their remaining choppers, specifically - and their rapid-response teams, but that's for later on down the line."
There's a brief pause-- and then, taking a breath, she says, "The final point of order is one that I've only discussed briefly with a couple individuals around the sept," she says. "Some of the more martial tribes have been known to use the Umbral realm Battleground as a kind of training ground-- a means of 'safely' navigating fights that have left a lasting impression on the Realm. In many cases, teachers looking to use the realm for training purposes have been known to happen upon their own past battles, or the past battles of their students. I won't go into the specifics of why, as the reasoning should be self-evident, but it's a practice that brought to mind a possibility that I'm not sure anyone's attempted-- or even proposed, for that matter.
"So-- with that in mind, I'd like to see if it's possible to visit the fall of Pontiac's Secret, from multiple angles. See if it's possible to get a look at the allies Shaw brought with him, and any details we can glean from how the fight progressed that may be of some use. Unfortunately, it's not as simple as willing it into being. We'd need a survivor of that fight - most of whom weren't even present for it, and thus, wouldn't be able to open it up to us anyway - or, perhaps, something of enough significance to the fight itself to open the way. "That represents our biggest obstacle, at the moment. Though it's remotely possible that there are some relics from the old caern left behind in Rouge Park - which we ought to look for, no matter the odds - the probability that we'll succeed in finding it where Shaw's forces failed are vanishingly small. Nonetheless, anyone who counts themselves as a capable scavenger is urged to look into it. Another possibility that was raised is even more remote-- namely, calling upon the spirits of the fallen. To my knowledge, only the Striders are in any way adept at such an undertaking, and that may well be hearsay. Furthermore, we'd have to know who it is we're calling on." She pauses. Then, "I know it sounds farfetched," she says, "but it's one I'd like to see explored, if at all possible, through whatever means we have available. The day Shaw truly turned on his people could tell us a lot about his new allies, and give us unsight into their tactics that we simply didn't have before." Beat. "As I said, I'll be available to discuss any numbers of these possible plans when the moot concludes. Thank you, Scales-of-Justice-rhya," she says. "I yield the floor." And-- does, returning to her seat by her packmate. Xavier strides back into the center of the floor. "Thank you, Razor-Eater, for bringing all of this information together for us," he says with a nod to Sandra before gesturing toward the charts. "Your thorough attention to detail is unexpected, and hopefully will ultimately bear fruit." He looks around the room, his eyes finally settling on the young Hakken. "Eyes-of-the-Storm, you had business for the moot?" Kaminari rises from her chair and accepts the bone before looking around, her gaze drifting over those assembled. "As some of you know, my home was attacked at the end of January. This was no ordinary home invasion, it was an army forty strong with military training and weapons including fully automatic firearms and grenades. They cut all communications and breached the house from the roof, as well as through the walls using explosives. It was a brutal conflict and while some of my kin were gravely injured, none were lost." Rage shows in her young eyes as she describes the events, "That's the good news. The main suspects are the Los Zetas, former Mexican special forces soldiers turned drug dealers. They are also known to be tied to Damien Shaw and it is thought someone close to him may have ordered this. There remain many questions though, who ordered it and how did they know? From the evidence found it is clear this attack was targeting me, specifically, by name but given they left a phone behind in an abandoned vehicle with a number for me to call. I don't think they expected to kill me, just everyone I care about. A message. I am still not sure what brought on this attack or how they learned who I am, but I intend to find out. For now, I would advise everyone to act with caution, it is possible they know who all of us are and that this is not over yet." Phrases like 'cut all communication' and 'breached the house from the roof' seem to go over Bit like a bucket of ice water - he seems appalled. These things /happen/ in real life? To people who he knows? He looks over at Derek again, contemplative and studying his younger cousin once more, as if re-evaluating certain things in light of what Kaminari's said. Skylar's eyes narrow, thoughtful, and she looks toward the far wall as though something Kaminari spoke of might just be visible if she looks in the right spot. Pax sits next to Skylar, having promised a Certain Kin that she would be on her very best behavior. And she is. The flop of her mohawk has even been brushed and she even put on a fresh A-shirt under her worn out, too-thin-for-Detroit-Winter leather jacket. The jeans are her newest pair, but they still have some wear in them. Her boots, however, are military-shine polished. Kaminari's report of the attack on her home....that draws a solid frown. Derek looks quite grave at the moment, and though he's watching Kaminari during every word, afterwards he looks to his cousin. His expression grows even more grave, and his jaw sets. Yep, it happens, his look seems to say, maybe even 'more often than you'd think.' Hina is back to being... collected. She's absorbing information as its given, and its hard to tell how it hits her. 'Los Zetas' is definately a name she's going to remember though. She's going to need to find an angle on these things, and its hard to tell which nut to try to crack and in which way. Kaminari lets that sink in for a few moments before continuing, "There are two more things I would like to inform everyone of. First, maybe a year ago I was asked by a Glasswalker who was here at the time Chases Lightning, who has since moved on, to see about arranging for a more secure location than the Carter Youth Center where we are currently sitting, a safehouse where things that should be kept away from children like an armory could be kept. I wanted to announce that the initial stages of this project have been completed, the building has been acquired and is ready for use. If you wish to use it please come and see me and I will get you keys and show you where it is. In the interest of keeping its existence safe, I have not and will not be posting a general announcement about this. But it is there if you need it." She pauses for a few moments before moving on to the last point of her report, "Lastly, one of my major projects for some time now has been looking into the spiritual state of the city, in particular the Detroit River and how to cleanse it. For this I started an NPO that is looking into environmental cleanup of the river. It is still in the early in the process but they are collecting data on places where the pollution gathers in high concentrations, there is a good chance such places may also align with centers of Wyrm activity and once their contamination level lab results are ready I should have new targets along the river for scouting. Also if anyone would like to volunteer with this NPO either on the environmental cleanup or administrative ends, please let me know." With that she offers the bone back, "Thank you Rhya, that is all." By the look of it, Sandra's heard the story regarding the Zetas before. Her expression isn't quite as grave, but it's focused. There's a shift, however, when there's talk of the NPO, and specifically the labs being discussed, and though it appears as though she might say something, she keeps it to herself for now. Nothing bad, by the look of it. Might just be her version of 'excited.' Alec listens. As aforementioned, there is much listening to do. There are a whole lot of people to look at, too, so that is also what he does. Such a multitasker! He's met, like, two people. Okay, maybe more. Three. Derek nods, just once, in Kaminari's direction. It seems to be a silent approval of something she's said, but there's nothing else verbal or even physical to indicate it. Skylar looks sharply over to Kaminari at the mention of the other Glass Walker, ire rising swiftly, but then she looks away, dropping her gaze. Xavier steps back out into the middle of the floor. "Thank you, Eyes-of-the-Storm. I am glad to hear that your Kin are on the mend," he says. Then he looks out across the gathered faces and takes a deep breath. "I have one final thing to leave you with," he says. "Combat the Wyrm Wherever it Dwells and Whenever it Breeds. This is the purpose for which we were made. We are Gaia's warriors, and this is a war front. Shaw has gone virtually unchecked for over five years now. It is time for that to come to an end. We have ample information." He gestures again to the charts. "It's time we act on that information, and take the fight to him." "Razor-Eater brought up several things that you all can do, but I have one more. I want to see volunteers for raiding the remaining warehouses belonging to Shaw's business empire. The information gained from the raid late last year was valuable. Further raids could find yet more information, while also putting the pressure on Shaw." With that he smiles and looks to each of the Galliards. "That's everything, then. Let's hear some stories." First, Hina performs: A Coat of Skin Down the word came from Runs-Down-Past, of profaned hide and Wyrmish taint. A fetish crafted from lupine tissue, insult, threat, and task in one. To this duty Ouroboros answered, Razor-Eater joining fast, stranger allies came behind them, kinfolk Morikami, feline Ibraahin. Wolf-skin fetish tracked with skill, to a festive gather in urban climes. But what manner of gather was before them? Stranger humans here by far! Mummer-clad like beasts of nature. Misguided honoring? Crassest mock? No time to unravel monkey mayhem, wolf skin fetish lay before, woven into mask and costume, profane power now awoke. Through the mummers true wolf-bloods wove, with feline ally at their side. Ouroboros and Ibraahin tracked their quarry clever-wise, learned to whence the wolf-skin traveled, the hotel room that was its lair. Ascended higher into structure, until the profane one confronted. There the profaned skin arisen! Twisted costume given life! Enslaved cousins, spirit wolves, rose to guard the fouled flesh. Oroborus straight to battle! Morikami risked mortal life! Ibraahin into the battle. Spirit wolves are driven back! But whence goes Razor-Eater here? Absent from the battle true. But absent because of wiser presence, into the Umbra, lest foe renew. With fetish shredded bane was freed, but freedom brief no mayhem found. Swift dissolution was its outcome, Razor-Eater duty bound. Victory in this odd contest. Rare as diamonds in this age. Spirit banished, fetish broken, remains cleansed and mayhem halted. No wound to warriors, nor wounds to allies, no hint of mayhem, veil strong. Kinfolk brave to act as fighter, feline valued to act as ally, all four battled, and battled wise. Profane hides tale is over. No more mayhem will it sew. Yet even now the question lingers, odder still then venue found. Whence came forth this twisted relic? What grim merchant sold it forth? Mystery circles, not forgotten. A debt yet stands, shall pay in full. (Accompaniment is Violin, with an overall tense but upbeat tone. A serious matter, with a hint of whimsy, leading to triumph.) The Black Fire at Samhain Honored are the few who remember, eldest customs, burning flames. Light the fire in ghoulish turnip, turn away the blackened spirit. Pumpkin flames on eldest Samhain, honored be the dead who come, whisper blessings to the fallen, ancestor spirits, all and one. Sigh in dismay at modern custom, spirits forgotten, ancestors lost, fallen beneath plastic costume, store bought laugh in empty soul. Yet honored are the few who remember, light the flames for spirits come, honor now the ghoulish turnip, inner fire all and one. No praising tales for Razor-Eater, whose sick black fire raged and burned. Tore at man flesh, tore at packmate! Hungered bleak in dark Wyrms thrall! Opened door to Wyrms soul poisons, righteous anger turned sick and foul. Two humans slain, objects shattered, their interruption bought pack-mates life! Where Ahroun anger should lead the charge, instead it threatened loss and strife. No flesh consumed by Razor-Eater, final mercy in Litany spared. But black flamed hunger surged within her, of her Rage all should beware. Ouroboros and Honor's Whisper, acted swiftly, acted wise. Laid deceptions around the carnage, concealed the evidence of black fire rage. Yet ancestors and lurid spirits, lured forth by the turnips flames, they bore witness as do the People. Valiant rage has dagger heart. (Accompaniment is Shamisen, with a plangent tone. The piece is a tragedy) Entangled Snares Come join the war the call is issued. A Sept in danger is the tale. Battle-ready bold and bright, all are welcome, needed, more. Talens handed, welcomes issued, bright-eyed Cliath to join the fight. To urban wilds they will gather, marching bold into the fire. No welcome band of Garou awaits them, no fulsome feasts at Kinfolk hands. Thrice fomori stand to meet them, welcome smiles over rotten souls. Unto this walks Peace-Through-Violence, Four-Hands drifting behind her still. The three fomori show their worry, two Garou was not the score. Four-Hands circles to evade the snare, wise perhaps yet not that bold. Peace-Through-Violence walks straightly forward, bold but perhaps not that wise. Yet before the snares dark ropes could tighten, two joined the dance and the howls of war. Unto battle roared Razor-Eater. Unto battle roared Ouroboros. Foes not friends their snarls warned. Peace-Through-Violence charged to battle. Four-Hands drew and fired bow. Qui Curat did charge the flanks. Fomori three did not last long. Yet whence the new came would smile at victory, Razor-Eater warned no victory yet. Foes around in all directions, eyes above and eyes beyond. Take the four legs! She sternly worded, into woods the four did run. Two Garou pulled from the ambush, saved for battles yet undone. No Garou wounded in the fracas, hides intact pulled from the fire. Nor are Four-Hands and Peace-Through-Violence the only Garou they have found. For Qui Curat have saved others, empty snares are their good works. More claws and fangs for the battles, more noses to track the hunters home. Two Yellow Bottles Duty bound is Ouroboros. Duty bound is Razor-Eater. Charged to task by Sullies-The-Foe, no moon hiding uric jest. Bottles two are handed over, somber duty is intoned. Climb atop the prickly mountain, Porcupine the spirits home. There to pour out somber offering, liquid praise to brother young, honor to the Wendigo and offerings to Porcupine. Duty bound the two climb higher, to the sept where Erethizontidae watches over Wendigo. At last the two reach soil ready, howling greeting, presence announced. Pouring forth the offering, duty done and fences mended, ready to receive in grace, ambassadors of cold wind hunger. They await the welcome howl. Outraged shriek instead it echoes. Porcupine given offense! Bottles contain lion urine, splashed upon the totems face. Howls echo, darting forward, coats of red and eyes ablaze. No warm welcome here is found, Griffons children are enraged! Talons Red given to anger, these are not the Wendigo! Sinking hearts find Qui Curat, used to give the humorless mock. Snarling circling outraged Talons, why should they not tear the throat? Summons forth Ouroboros great rhetoric raised in haste. Cools the Talons roaring anger to a merely blazing flame. Explains the truth, admits the folly, perhaps the joke but not the joker. Talons show the greatest mercy, give the pair a fair head start. Flee the mountain, chased and hunted, survive presenting greatest mock. What is learned from this odd venture? Sullies-The-Foe seems greatly pleased, nose of Talons tweaked in safety. Yet is there ever wisdom in giving mothers Totem mock? Qui Curat did their duty, obeyed orders, maintained the honor. Yet where they wise to not give question? Were they wise to do this deed? A spirit angered, sept offended, duty done, as given order... Perhaps no true line can be drawn... (Accompaniment is Shamisen, with a varying, querulous tune. At times undermining absurdity, at others tense with imminent violence.) Cold Wind Wisdom Going forth is Razor-Eater. Going forth is Oruboros. Hardest wisdom is found lacking, mysteries with no recourse. Further north they must travel, seeking out the Wendigo. Younger brother's skepticism, well earned by those who traveled west. How to obtain a fair hearing? How to learn what once was known? For two weeks they wait for hearing. Hunting, bringing, making known. At long last a scout approached, questions offered, respects paid. Razor-Eater stood to answer. Three-Quarter-moon Nagoma did approach then, others followed, distrust high. Mysteries asked of Younger Brother, mysteries asked of Wendigo. Answers given, fairly offered, though further mysteries arose. These answers already once were offered, to another, who withheld. 'No one cared to listen' said. Promises once more were given. Information to be exchanged. Bringing north the truth of mysteries, as had answers been brought south. Cold-wind warriors watched them leave, who can say what they thought? Promises are often given, skepticism built with quite just cause. Still long run venture to travel northward, bringing wisdom back to the south. Perhaps a chapter to be opened? But this will be another tale. (Accompaniment is the Tonkori, purposeful but with an underlying sadness.) Then, Misti performs: "Go out into Measure 2 stuff and there are still spirits sometimes. They wander in from the country or whatever. But if they wander too close, one of the whippoorwill spots them and -BOOM!-" Misti stomps a foot on the ground, clapping her hands and pulling them out to a flash, "New bane is born! All infected with Wyrm rot and darkness. Well, this bane in particular, it hadn't gotten just one spirit. A whole herd of rabbit spirits came crashing through. Rabbits are everywhere, right? And this bane infects all of them! "They become like, bee-rabbits. A swarm of little demon bunnies. Tearing up anything they charged over, eating up everything, leaving just ruin behind them. And worse, you tear into one," Misti claws through the air, "And there's just another rabbit. Another rabbit. Another rabbit. More and more, faster than you could take them out. Only magic could tear them down fast enough. And even worse, they could put the hex on you. Bubbling and boiling up rage until all you could do is attack, attack, attack them forever!" "So the Shadow Lords, Razor-Eater, Ouroboros, Eyes-of-the-Storm, they track this hoard down. Chasing it through all of Measure 2. Cause they're clever. They've got a plan," Misti circles the Garou as she speaks, moving through the middle of them. "They'll send Razor-Eater in, and she'll frenzy, throwing herself into the middle of them. And once that's done, their weapon against her will be useless. While Eyes-of-the-Storm and Ouroboros stay at the edges of the scene, pushing the rabbits in, making sure that Razor-Eater could catch all of them and tear the banes apart! Ranjirou circled with Eyes-of-the-Storm, chasing the rabbits down." "Razor-Eater went wild! Vicious! Unstoppable!" Misti claws in the middle of the crowd, tearing into invisible spirits. She falls to her knees, mauling the ground. "While the others forced them in, feeding the banes to her. But as her eyes cleared, Razor-Eater looked into her hands. Too clever! The spirit-wolf Ranjirou, Eyes-of-the-Storms guardian, whimpering and bloody in her hands." Misti jumps to her feet, hands to her hip like she was about to draw a sword. "Eyes-of-the-Storm stood over her, ready to draw and stop Razor-Eater. But she could see the pain, the humiliation in the Ahroun's eyes as the frenzy faded. The bane was destroyed." "There are a lot of young wolves here, new to Detroit. Me included. Let's see, I got here from Chicago. And they like, all know how dangerous it is here. Like, seriously. Chicago talks about how dangerous it is here. But I told them where I was going, and this kin, they hand me this smudge stick to lead the way. Like, it's this little like candle-incense stick? Burn it and you know where to go." "So, I drive into town and there's this, like, abandoned lot with these guys standing in it. And the stick is like 'hey, this is the place!' So I jump out and go to talk to these guys. We do introductions and suddenly, one of them goes- pop!-" her fingers flare next to her temples, "His head just goes up like a balloon. And then, the guy next to him explodes too. Not like the first one, though. Tentacles pour out of him!" Misti mimics the tentacles bursting free of her body. She drops to the ground, a writhing mess, twisting and broken. "From out of nowhere, just as this thing is about to attack me, a wolf comes! Leaps on it, starts mauling and chewing the tentacles. So I've figured this out by this point? And I join in too. Together we managed to tear the thing up! But if that pack hadn't come, they would've just taken me to feed me to who knows what they've got on that island!" "And I'm not the only one. Ok, so, like, If you've come into town fresh, and had your ass pulled out of the fire, raise your hand?" Misti puts her own hand up into the air, waiting and watching as others do the same. Climbs-on-the-Top, Jack, Scales-of-Justice and his pack, without them there'd be a lot less of us here, and a lot more of them over there." "Ok, ok, this is a one. Like the one. So sit down cause, like, ok," Misti shakes her head, pulling the tab on another can of her favorite energy drink. She tilts it back, taking a few long, focusing gulps. "Alright! So, Eyes-of-the-Storm, kickin' at her place. The kin, Shadi, Shiro, Honda, the rest is around, warm and cozy. A real relaxed night with everything, everyone, all around for dinner. But the spirit Ranjirou sensed something, and trotted out." Misti perks up, looking out around, searching the crowd for something. "It wasn't a mystery for long, once Ranjirou stepped out. These gangers, Zetas, closing in. Armed by our man on the island, Daimian Shaw. Military stuff. Now maybe you don't know these guys well up here but down south? Texas? Where I'm from? These are the guys that give your nightmares nightmares. They roll like the SWAT team and collateral damage is their special move. And there's near fifty of them, closing in, all round the building. They got the place cut off, and they're closing in." "Then, it's all at once. That's how they come. BAM!" Misti smashes her fist into an open palm with a loud smack, "Van barrels through the front gate. Explosions trigger, bringing down the walls. Letting them pour through onto the grounds. Full autos shooting, bringing down the security guys wandering the ground. And they're coming hard. Nothing's gonna stop 'em, cause they're here for everything." "Shadi rounds up the kin who aren't fighters, they get up stairs. Upper floors, away from where the action is now. Maybe safe? Cause the ground floor is already getting hit. Bullet holes in the walls. Glass flying. Shiro and Honda set up a line to keep 'em out the front but it's already too late for that. Eyes-of-the-Storm charges out, meets them on the turf. Fang and fur shit! Gobbling up bullets as she tears into men coming into her den. Ranjirou out, striking more through the Veil. But there's too many! It's too much!" Misti grunts, swinging her body like she was hit with an assault rifle round. Then again, and again. Shaking, twitching, holding her phantom wounds. "By the time the blues are flaring, the cops arrive, it's too much. Shiro, Honda, both of them are down. Ambo hauls them away. Non-coms littered around, tagged by strays. But the Zetas are down. They brought all they could and it wasn't enough. Eyes-of-the-Storm still breathing, still living. The kin protected. House ruined, but there are other houses. It's a win. It's hard. But it's a win." Then, Kaminari recites a poem: The Wolves and the Orochi: Frigid Winter Night, Blood Moon hangs large in the sky, Revelers hunt Wyrm, From River Orochi comes, Huge deadly demon snake, Three warriors fight, First Razor Eater claws sharp, And Oroboros too, Eyes of the Storm made them three, The Orochi strikes, But the wolves are strong and fierce, Snake thrown from river, By sharpest blade snake impaled, The head is held fast, Dagger's Thousand cuts to flesh, Flailing Serpent spits, Venom rains down wolves fight on, Impaled blade is seized, Mortal stroke opens belly, Upper jaw torn free, Fallen is the Orochi, Great victory to the wolves! | |
