In the Meadow (Feb 24, 2012)

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In the Meadow (Feb 24, 2012)

Postby Flint » Sat Feb 25, 2012 5:52 am

24 February, 2012
Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (18% full).

Frankie is in the kitchen, unpacking some groceries. "Drink more milk, why don't you?" she asks the fridge.

The front door opens, bringing in a sweep of frigid air and a Glass Walker named Devon. The boy is mostly back to his original height and size, in spite of the normal, casual slouch he often has about his posture. The rest of the cold is kept out when he closes the door, feet stomping slightly as the Ahroun heads into the common area.

Hiking boots appear on the stairs, followed quickly by the skinny Galliard whose feet they cover. Javid galumps downstairs, a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

Frankie calls, without looking into the living room, "Hey, whoever you are. I got more ice cream!" and starts folding paper bags.

"You're awesome," Devon calls back, though his gaze first touches on Javid. Brows lift slightly, but he shrugs rather than speaks further, turning for the kitchen instead.

As soon as Javid is off the stairs he's making for the kitchen, sparing only the briefest of sidelong glances for the Glass Walker Ahroun as he does.

Perhaps it's another raincloud. Perhaps it's nothing, but what little light had been coming into the kitchen through the windows lessens to mere shadows that seep in from outside.

"Well, I knew /that/," Frankie says. "Also, I got tater tots, because I am a filthy pinko with no sense of style. Also," she adds, giving both young men a look, "Who /are/ you, anyway?"

"Who says you can't have tater tots and ice cream?" The Walker pauses in grabbing a glass from the cupboard when Frankie looks at him. "Name's Devon. Mouse's little brother." He grins at her, then turns to fill up his glass at the sink.

Javid eases his short frame into the kitchen. Leaving aside ice cream and tater tots, he begins rummaging in the fridge, apparently in search of carrots since he closes the door as soon as he gets his hand on them. There is a slight pursing of his lips, a quick, quizzical glance at Devon, then he shrugs and introduces himself to the grey haired woman. "Javid, Mourns-The-Living, a Galliad of Owl's Tribe and Cliath. I carry the tales of the fallen in my heart, and pass on the words of the living to distant places."

Frankie says, "So can I call you Formal and Informal? Me, I'm Frankie. Capitanos. Despite the name, I'm Kin to the Get of Fenris, and I own the place. Good to meet you guys. And," she adds to Devon with a snort, "I got more than just /that/."

Despite the seeming good cheer in the kitchen, it doesn't extend pass the kitchen door. Out in the back yard there're sounds, too heavy to be someone walking about, not quite right for a wolf, and no one sane's out in the cold in this weather anyway. In the shadows, for anyone who might be looking, is a glint of bright, bright green, far enough away to be nearly at the woods.

Devon looks up, half turning toward Frankie and Javid when the world outside the window seeming just a little darker catches his attention. "Cliath, Ahroun," he says absently, brows drawing into a frown as he continues to stare through the window. His tribe is left off, being connected to Mouse ought to be proof enough of that. "...Did you hear that?"

The cigarettes and lighter are stuffed away inside the front pouch on the Silent Strider's hoodie, given up in favor of munching on the carrots he had acquired. "I'm not Formal. I'm just erring on the side of caution in case you were the formal one..." The words coming out of his mouth halt rather abruptly, his head cocking to the left like he was listening to something.

Hair in a bit of a disarray, Mitzi enters the building through the garage. She must have been having a nap in there, judging by the yawn and the way she is rubbing her eyes. The front of her shirt still has the remnants of some old blood. She comes to a halt as she catches sight of some unfamiliar faces, scowling in a decidedly unfriendly manner.

Frankie says, "No?" to Devon, as she goes back to folding bags. "And the next time I'm formal will be the last, let me assure you." She's concentrating on the bag-folding (it can be hard!), so she hasn't noticed Mitzi yet.

For the moment, there's no more additional sound from the yard, and the glow of green disappears soon after Devon looks out the window. The only sound left to be heard from the outdoors is the wind. Unseasonable as it might be.

"The hell," Devon breathes, speaking more to himself. He looks to the others, brows raising slightly when he finds Mitzi amongst them, then looks out the window again.

Javid pauses in his demolishing of the carrots to give Mitzi a very careful, slow glance, eyes widening ever so slightly as he does, but then he's moving towards the window to peer outside. "Still vex at the world?" He enquires of the new arrival.

Frankie follows Devon's glance to Mitzi, but not back to the window. "Frankie," she tells the cub, after a moment. "There's extra shirts up in the infirmary, by the way."

Mitzi's jaw works and she responds to the question with a rough grunt. "No thankyou," she tells Frankie, haltingly polite to the other woman. "My Elder made these clothes for me."

The pair of glowing green eyes, the shadowy outline of a canid face barely visible behind them, appears much closer to the window this time, moving towards the house. Or at least getting closer, along with the heavy footfalls.

Devon sets his glass down in the sink, still full if forgotten. He at least remembered to turn off the water. He turns away from the sink and bee-lines for the back door. "Something's outside," he explains before pulling the door open. He pauses long enough to look at the other three again before he steps out into the cold and dimness.

Mitzi's eyes lock on the window and the shape behind it, as she gives voice to a rather impressive growl from a human throat. "The Fomor hounds! They're here!" And she's bulking up in to Crinos, looking like she's ready to go through the window to get at the thing. Whatever it is.

Frankie says, "Whoa," and backs up. "Don't break the windows!" she says. Always practical, that's Frankie.

Carrots still in hand, and probably forgotten, the Galliard follows Devon, putting out a hand to stop the door from being shut as the Glass Walker steps outside.

There is, indeed, a hound in the yard, large, shadowy grey fur, like a far-too-large mastiff. It's indistinct in the looming shadows that have made a drizzling afternoon feel more like night, save for those green eyes. There's little enough warning given before the creature begins to move for the house, as well, a strange howl coming up from its throat. Not canine, not lupine, and perhaps thankfully, no answer comes from the woods around.

Weasel turns her massive head to look at Frankie, lips pulling back from her teeth in a vicious snarl. Then, she's running for the door, leaving the kinswoman behind.

A quick glance is given to Javid, along with a small nod. His eyes continue searching the meadow, and when he finds the hound again he snaps into Crinos even as he begins running across the yard. ~Keep the kin safe,~ he growls over his shoulder.

Javid's halting just out the door may have something to do with Devon's words, and it may have something to do with the snarling cub behind him... In any case, he moves out of the way of the oncoming cub, giving her room to get through the door, even as he shifts to Glabro.

Frankie snorts. "I can keep my own damn self safe. Go kick ass," she says, and drifts into the living room, keeping behind a couch so as not to attract any hound-attention.

Weasel puts on a burst of speed, as she attempts to pass her Elders and be the first to encounter the hound.

What had been a lumbering pace for the hound shifts to a full-out attack as it lunges towards Devon at a run, massive, slobbering jaws slightly open. It's attention shifts to the cub as she reaches it, though, reaching to snap jaws around her arm. The rest of the meadow is equally dim with a looming shadow, the faint light of late afternoon less, and the air bitterly chill.

Red-Hands leaps when the hound lunges and latches onto the cub. With claws and teeth outstretched, he tries to tackle the monster in one fell sweep. His teeth go for its neck, arms out to hopefully wrap around its body.

Weasel howls out in pain and lashes out with her free hand.

Frankie's view is blocked by house. She mutters and crouches, sliding back into the kitchen. Where she has a better view. Remaining a bit crouched, she puts the kettle to heat.

The Galliard swells up to the war form, and starts forward towards the fight, loping along with the help of those overly long arms. He's scanning the nearby woods with eyes and nose as he moves.

When the cub's attack finds the hound's eyes and jaw, there is enough of a momentary distraction that it lets go. Underneath being tackled, it thrashes to possibly throw Red-Hands off, one hind leg kicking out in the same goal. The beast twists to bite the Glass Walker, even as Red-Hands' teeth find purchase in the hound's neck, the hound does similar to the Ahroun.

Arm free, Weasel becomes a blur of motion as she lashes downwards with both arms. Slashing with her claws, then she reaches for the beasts' jugular with her teeth.

Red-Hands curls his fingers and tightens his arms to hold onto the hound, but for a growl heedless of the teeth that have found the muscle between his neck and shoulder. His head shakes, savaging in a way to tear more at the beast's neck.

Frankie then starts getting cookies and sandwich makings out, creating a platter of them. While crouched on the floor. Peculiar priorities, possibly.

Mourns-The-Living circles around the thrashing limbs and snapping jaws, looking for an opening that will not put him in the way of the other Garou before adding his own jaws to the fray.

The hound lunges to one side, trying to free itself from the two Ahroun. Mitzi's jaws find shoulder rather than jugular, and then the hound does free itself, leaving both Devon and Mitzi with chunks of the beast. It turns to charge at the Glass Walker again, now, heedless of Mourns-the-Living getting a hind leg. One front paw smacks Devon, claws digging into where the beast had already bitten, and then with a sound that might be frustration on the hound's part, it pulls itself free from Mourns-the-Living, as well, turning away from the three Garou as quickly as it had attacked them, shoving past the two Ahroun and back away from the house.

Red-Hands pulls himself up with a snarl. ~You,~ is snapped at the cub, ~go for the legs. Mourns-the-Living, flank it and go for the kill, I'll take it down.~ He wastes little precious time beyond those simple orders before he takes off after the hound, rage fueling his speed.

~Die~ Weasel howls out as she throws herself after the beast. ~Die! Die! Die!~ Still, she follows orders, jaws aiming for the creature's hind legs.

Frankie stops, very still, when the hound pulls free; but when it moves in the opposite direction, she exhales a sigh, and rises to find three mugs, silverware, and three plates. Then she mutters something and starts rummaging in the pantry.

Growling low in his throat, the Silent Strider also does as ordered, moving to flank the hound, and then, lunging forward with Rage fueled speed, seeking to bury his fang filled maw in the side of the beast's neck.

The hound is slowed from the attempted flight by first Weasel getting a hind leg, and then by Red-Hands tackling it to the ground. It manages to bite Red-Hands on the stomach, spewing saliva over the Ahroun, before heaving a dying, rattling breath after Mourns-the-Living's attack finds neck and jugular.

Frankie puts tea, a rose in a vase (she appears to have found both in the pantry), and some hot chocolate packets on the table, along with the sandwich makings and the cookies. She peers outside, assessingly, then nods to herself and disappears upstairs.

Red-Hands backs away from the body, stretching up to stand on two legs. For once he doesn't slouch despite the pulling of the tears to his belly, his ears erect as his eyes scan the meadow. ~Anyone see any more,~ he asks, panting faintly.

Weasel rises up on her hind legs and looks around, claws flexing. ~No.~

Mourns-The-Living removes his jaws from the dead hound, straightening fully erect as he turns towards the woods, searching them intently. ~There was something there earlier,~ he warns.

There are no more hounds, save for the dead one in front of them, but the shadows seem to have moved. Where before there was shadow nearer the house, there is a shadow, a looming at the edge of the yard, nearer the woods. It's almost tangible, the shadow there.

Red-Hands growls softly when the Strider points to the woods, looking first where directed then expanding his gaze, searching. Until he finds the lurking shadow. He takes a step forward, lips peeling away from his teeth in obvious threat.

Blood pounding and Battle-Rage still flowing through her veins, Weasel drops to all fours and charges at the shadow.

Mourns-The-Living takes a small step forward, towards the shadow, still growling low in his throat.

~Hold,~ the Cliath snarls out, though the cub has already gone and run. He spits something verbally, what could only be a curse, before he takes off after Weasel and the shadow.

By the time that the cub reaches the shadow she was charging for, it's just a shadow. Instead, however, something, visible as the shape of a figure, comes out from the darkness to one side, striking the cub in the back, a searing line of pain in her back, before the figure slips into shadow once again.

Weasel spins around as she attempts to locate her attacker, eye wide and crazed, as a red-tinted lather drips from her jaws.

Red-Hands takes a rather protective stands, coming up beside the cub as he watches the woods. ~Get into lupus and get /back to the house/,~ he states quietly, trying to keep himself between Weasel and the various conglomerate of shadows.

Growling ceases as the Glass Walker moves after the cub. Lips peeling back off of his teeth, the Silent Strider drops back to all fours and advances, at full speed.

Just as when Mitzi advanced on the shadows, when Javid reaches the shadow it's nothing but shadow. The figure, in turn, seems more intent on attacking the Glass Walker, several heavy blows landing against the crinos from the shadows.

Weasel's eyes go wide as the Glass Walker is attacked. Then, though sheer force of will, she does what she is told and bolts for the house. She doesn't make it in to lupus, but she is heading away from the battle.

Red-Hands turns toward his attacker, though he moves backward for the house. He keeps a wary watch on the woods, tensed and poised to attack should something else jump out at him.

The figure follows the Ahroun, stepping from a shadow behind him to land a bright stripe of pain on the Glass Walker's arm, but then the figure turns to the Strider, a shadowed, dark figure. The opportunity allows Devon to hurry further, away, a howl going up for help and alarm as he does so. The hunter looms, a moment, watching rather than outright attacking Javid, at the edge the back yard near the woods.

Weasel spins around once she reaches Edgewoods' main building. Here, she shifts down in to lupus and belts out her own howl. Enemy! Enemy!

Claws tear through thin air, and the Strider's frustrated snarl gives way to a wild howl as he turns about only to find that the figure has apparently finished with the Glass walker and turned its attention on him.

And after the moment of studying attention, the hunter's attention truly is on the Strider. It moves at him from a shadow to his side, though, several blows and then a dagger becoming visible with the glint of silver. The blows betray the strength the figure has.

There's a wild, responding shout from the tree-line, wordless, full throated, but made with clearly human vocal cords. She's visible among the trees at first, a wild-haired shadow that sheds her constricting old coat without care, and as she breaks into the meadow itself, two things become obvious about Morgan. First, she has her spear, and she's already angling it for a stab or a throw. Second, dried, blue paint appears to be re-liquefying and peeling off her arm, quite against the laws of reality, pooling and dropping behind her running feet, and yet still maintaining its shape. The shape? It looks like a blue stick figure rat, complete with whiskers and beady dot eyes, pointy teeth and a curling tail, two dimensional and yet animated. The...drawing...runs alongside the Fianna, as both charge toward the battle.

The thin Strider reels beneath the blows as they slam into him so suddenly he has no chance to get out of the way. He sinks back to all fours only briefly, muscles bunching in his legs, and then he is lunging forward, teeth snapping at the figure.

In between blows, the hunter melts backwards into the shadow. Nonetheless, Mourns-the-Living gets a mouthful, and the shadowy figure charges him. There is the flash of silver again, a lancing stripe against the cliath's arm, before attention is turned, the flash of silver in the shadow, on the advancing Metis and stick drawing.

Weasel whines, shifting from paw-to-paw. She's actually shaking from her desire to wade back in to the fray.

Morgan goes from homid to crinos in an instant; the next instant, she hurls the spear at the shadow, but neither she nor the blue stick figure rat seem inclined to even wait for it to hit. The Fianna lunges with an eager snarl, teeth and claws seeking to tear.

There's a crashing noise of something large plowing it's way through the viney woods, followed shortly thereafter by Wildfire breaking through the treeline, all ready for combat. Skin thickened, claws glinting in a dangerous hue of silver, he pauses to look around only briefly before setting his sights on the shadowy figure. He lunges forward right away.

A pain filled snarl escapes the young Strider as the silver dagger slits his skin open. Warily, he pulls back, eyes darting to the Fianna as she joins the fray, waiting to see if she manages to lay hands on the shadow being, before attacking again, trying to sandwich the thing between the two of them.

The figure pulls the spear from where it struck, a cry that's not human nor earthly coming from it as it does so, and casts it aside. The deepening shadows as the afternoon wears on give the figure plenty of cover, several glancing punches landing on the Fianna as it darts backwards into a shadow. Darting backwards knocks Javid off-course as well. The hunter is neither so lucky against the woadling rat, though, which seems to have the best guess at which new shadow the figure has disappeared into, turning from one shadow to other, nor against the Ahroun, whose claws find purchase before they suddenly don't.

Carries-Fire hisses through her teeth, and then follows her rat painting's lead, attacking whatever it's focusing on with a blur of claws. Her lower arms grasp too, but, clawless, this seems more reaction than conscious thought.

Mourns-The-Living shoves out his uninjured hand to steady himself as he misses his target. As soon as he has righted himself though, he is moving towards the figure once more, swiping his claws at the figure's chest.

Wildfire takes a quick step back from the now hidden foe, a snarl on his lips for when the thing should make his appearance once more.

It lurks in shadows a moment longer, as if assessing the opponents that it faces, before coming out of the shadows directly at the Ahroun, dagger a flash at its side. But what was an attempt to stab lands only a shallow cut on the Get's ribcage, the figure showing what might be the first sign of hesitation. Nor does it disappear again, dagger held in a fighting stance.

Carries-Fire seizes this possible opportunity. She lunges, silent except for the sound of her body's movement, claws seeking to tear at its back.

The Silent Strider follows quickly on the heals of Carries-Fire, diving at the figure's legs, jaw wide open, and ready to snap close as soon as contact is made.

The snarl the Get unleashed is both primal and calculated. As the shadow figure stands there in hesitation, Wildfire explodes in rage, his attacks focused. The Fenrir is intent on taking Tyr's prize.

The attacks from behind land, and then don't. The shadowed figure is straining towards the ambient darkness, and then the dagger reappears in the arm that the Get does not have hold of. A more uncontrolled strike with the dagger follows slicing both Carries-Fire and Mourns-the-Living as the hunter kicks Wildfire, before the hunter simply loses his grip on the weapon altogether.

Wildfire tries his best to maintain his grip on the being's arm, holding on with claws and teeth, but it's the snarl escaping from him that might prove the more deadly.

Carries-Fire releases a shriek of pure fury as that silver knife slices across and over her muzzle, but this only seems to push her further into her violence. She snaps teeth at the arm Wildfire holds, higher than his grip, and attempts to dig claws into shadow-substance again.

The Strider's jaws clench as the blade splits skin across his shoulder. Growling, he opens his mouth once more and attempts to take another bite out of the shadowy figure.

For the moment disarmed and held in place, nonetheless the hunter strains against, to strike. A roundhouse kick is planted firmly against the Strider's chest, and then with a sickening, wrenching, even more inhuman sound, the Fianna and Get are both left with the thing's arm, and the hunter bleeds profusely where there was once a limb. And then the hunter darts for the daggers, and then the shadows. There is still a looming presence in the shadows, but the figure--such as it was--seems to be gone..

Mourns-The-Living stumbles back, wind flying from his mouth as he tries to regain his balance. Righting himself, he snarls furiously at the shadows.

Wildfire takes the limb as his prize, brandishing it above his head like a club as he bellows defiantly into the shadow.

Carries-Fire spits out her part of the arm, then moves over to retrieve her spear. After a careful peering at the shadows, then her woadling rat, she shrinks down--to glabro--where she begins a mad, feet pounding 'dance' in place. A few stripes of blue on the opposite arm the rat came from start to peel off of her skin.

Mourns-The-Living continues to eye the shadows with utter distrust, lips peeled back from his teeth. He does not join the others in celebration.

Shadows congeal, shift, moving about the three Garou. Quick, though, the hunter darts for the Fianna again, dagger bared to slice across her chest and arm, and then past her, further into the darkness. This time, the looming seems to fade, a few of the shadows lessening with the thing's departure as well. In the distance, there is the strange, not lupine, not canine hunting howl, answered only by another, further away, despite the corpse of the hound that is in the meadow.

Even though he was expecting something to happen, the Strider is still startled as the hunter reappears long enough to inflict one last (hopefully) wound. The strange howling has him twitching his ears, trying to locate the source, before he gives up. He scans the shadows a while longer and then turns away, loping slowly back to the dead hound, to collect a head.

Wildfire listens to this for a few moments longer, then slowly starts to slump forward as his strength leaves him. He goes down to one knee.

Morgan screams as she's sliced, pained and angry, and she even jabs at the escaping hunter, though just that little too late. Instead of halting her 'dance', she pounds her feet even harder, head down, blood splattering over the grass, spear gripped tightly in her right, properly formed hand. The second stick figure appears...to be a tree. Blue stick-tree and blue stick-rat caper around the Fianna as she keeps going, huffing furiously.

Snarling with effort, the Strider manages to remove the hound's head. It's set off to one side, and then he chuffs softly, eyeing the rest of the body thoughtfully.

Wildfire must now leave the investigating and dancing to the others. He struggles back up and meanders, sluggishly, towards the farmhouse.

Morgan shrinks further to homid, but she doesn't seem keen on stopping until she's exhausted her pent up energy. At one point, she rakes her fingers from her wounds to her face, painting face and hand with streaks of blood. She bellows again, defiant, loud as she can, to the night air.

Mourns-The-Living eventually startles into motion, shrinking back down to Glabro as he moves to collect logs from a nearby wood pile and stack them around and over the headless body.

After a brief search some accelerant is located, the headless hound and logs liberally doused, and then the wounded Strider removes the lighter and cigarettes from earlier from his hoodie. He lights up, taking a drag before flicking the cig onto the pile, a tight smile spreading across his features as the pile catches fire.

Once the fire is lit, the dancing Fianna moves toward and around it, spitting all sorts of random words at the flames. Most of them are curse words, none of them really match up with each other, and one of them is a, possibly, very familiar, "Sranje!" shouted with utter glee. It's hard to tell, at this point, whether she's angry or pleased. Both, probably. And eventually, the blood painted Fianna tires a little, but by that point the two stick-figures come to life have vanished amongst the fire.

Mourns-The-Living does not join in the dancing, though he does begin humming something suitably martial under his breath. He gives the metis plenty of room, only moving forward to ask a question once she appears to be... calming down.

Morgan drums the ground a few more times, before she steps back, giving the fire an even wider berth, and ends up leaning on her spear, panting slightly. Javid gets a blood painted stare as he approaches.

Javid does not return the stare, focusing his gaze somewhere about the Fianna's shoulders. "Carries the Tale Back From the Land of Fire-rhya, do you know anyone who could perform the rite of wounding on me?"

Morgan's tongue touches her lower lip, tasting her own blood. "No," she admits, after some thought. "Get of Fenris?" Her chin jerks toward where Owen vanished to. "Maybe Jacinta-rhya."

Javid let's loose a soft 'hmm', turning to look for the Get who seems to have moved on. He gives a nod at both suggestions, "Thank you."

"Went in the house," Morgan offers, helpfully. Her hand is leaving blood prints on her spear, but she doesn't seem to mind.

Javid murmurs another 'thank you' before moving off towards the house, producing another cigarette and setting it between his lips as he goes. By the time he disappears inside it is already lit.
Characters: Linnaea, Jeremiah, Sue
Formerly: Flint, Samuel
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Joined: Fri Jan 13, 2012 4:54 am

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