amongst the falcons.

flock of falcons

He slips through time. Shadows encroach upon him while he's still speaking to the Guardians at Cold Crescent. Devon grips his hand when she sees him fading, but he does not feel it. He takes a deep breath,

blinks against the brightness of midday sun. Four paws to the earth, fur damp from rain that has come and gone. Up ahead, a wooden door in a stone wall that he knows well. One sniff and he can tell: his squire is on the other side, waiting for his master to return, waiting to let him in secretly.

primordial wolfman

Sometimes wolf slips between timestreams without warning. In the space between one blink and the next. This time it's like this: gradual, terrible, pulling away from one life as though it just didn't matter anymore.

Wakes in the other. Cold beneath his paws. Smell of damp earth, wet trees. Smell of unwashed humans too. Wolf sniffs the door, then raises a paw and scratches at it. By the time his squire opens he's man-shaped again, garments sodden, boots caked in mud.

"Stalks in Snow," he says. "Have you seen him?"

flock of falcons

Squire pulls the door open, and looks upon his master with exhausted eyes and open relief. He's wearing plainer clothes than he wore last night, and takes in the soaked and muddied and scratched-up things Rafael wore to the banquet. They'll need to be scrubbed and mended. He closes and bolts the side door again, nodding to Rafael's question.

"Yes, sir. He waits for you, with six others. They took up the whole solar. Eating pheasant." He sounds a touch awed. "Will you wash and change before seeing them, sir? I can let them know you will be along."

primordial wolfman

"Why should I?" Wolf's obstinate, pushing past his squire. "Because they're eating pheasant? I'll meet them as I am."

flock of falcons

His squire says nothing. Squires do not argue with the cousins and half-brothers of royalty, even minor royalty. He just bows, and proceeds along the hallways with Rafael.

Rafael drips rainwater and tracks mud. No one minds, but they do notice, and watch him, ever wary. Fewer and fewer people as they approach the solarium. But there: guards, wearing the colors of the house. They know Rafael on sight, and one of them gives a heavy knock on the door, allowing Rafael's squire to dart into the frame, bow deeply, and announce him. He bows again, darts right back out, and leaves the path for Rafael to enter.

The solar is bright and warm with windows letting in the noon sun. It is perhaps one of the warmest upper rooms of the castle right now, and needs no fire. The walls are hung with softer, prettier tapestries than are hung in the banquet hall: no scenes of violence or the hunt here, just flowers and birds, a unicorn or two, virgins dancing, endless patterns of the house colors.

Seven werewolves, each one of them resplendent with purity, sit around the oval table in the middle of the room, beneath a chandelier holding unlit candles. Stalks in Snow is there. So are the six others his squire mentioned: four other males, two females. Not one of them is below the rank of Adren.

One of the females, far enough above him to feel like an Athro, sits at what would be the head of the table if this table were not carefully rounded. She has blue eyes that resemble a clear sky at the height of summer, more than sapphires or moonlight-on-snow or blooming violets. Her hair is golden -- without the brown tones of wheat or the brassiness of metal. It hangs long and straight over her shoulders and down her back, catching the sunlight. Her brows are striking: thick and dark, but they do not pull together in a scowl. She regards him as he enters with calm, curiosity, and clarity. He knows, perhaps before he even realizes he knows, that she is a Half Moon of their tribe.

All this, however, may pale compared to the realization that she is a dead ringer for the Master of Challengs of Cold Crescent. Same jawline. Same eyes. Same faintly smiling, patient expression.

None rise for him. There is a seat at the other end of the oval waiting for him. A plate of pheasant and barley, roasted root vegetables. A cup awaiting a pour from the common pitcher of wine.

primordial wolfman

Wolf's an ill-tempered thing on the best of days. Can't blame people for staying out of his way. Who knows when ill-tempered, ill-mannered, ill-tamed beasts might bite. His squire thumps the door and announces him, and even as he walks through the door he steels himself for the confrontation sure to come.

Breath blows out of him though. He sees who it is at the head of the table. Recognition flickers so bright in him he's afraid she'll see it, misunderstand it. Surely they don't know each other in this life -- do they?

Wolf comes to the foot of the table. Rests a heavy hand on the back of that chair left for him. Hesitates a moment; then bows his head briefly to the gathered dignitaries. Pulls the chair noisily out; sits.

Pours wine. Breaks a pheasant in half with his dirty hands, drops it on his plate. "I've news of the Fianna," he says. Roughly, because he is a rough creature; quite unlike his better-bred elders.

flock of falcons

No one has a chance to speak before Rafael does. Not that they would speak before he's had a chance to be seated, refresh himself. They watch him, though, having already eaten. They are not subtle about their regard, no matter how polite and how human their mannerisms otherwise.

But he speaks, and they listen. The one at the end tips her head to the side.

Stalks in Snow is the one who frowns, says: "And?"

primordial wolfman

Wolf is cautious now. It is not the same as hesitation. It is deliberate, a canny pause; a consideration.

"They are responsible for the interrupted rite," he says, glancing at Stalks in Snow. Returns his eyes to the one with the blue eyes, golden hair. "Or rather: a single mischievous cub was responsible. I've spoken to their Alpha. She's agreed that he is to be punished appropriately for desecrating a sacred rite. But first he must be retrieved from the Underworld, where he was lost.

"I go to find him at dusk."

flock of falcons

[switch pronouns! :D]

primordial wolfman

[SHE.]

flock of falcons

The woman at the end of the table does not seem to recognize him. It flickers in the back of his mind: they do not know each other. He knows of her, as he knows of many of them around the table. They are the Silver Fangs who come in and out of this area regularly. A few are strangers entirely. He knows her name, her rank, he knows her renown, but they have never been introduced.

Nor are they now.

Stalks in Snow withholds a snarl when Rafael confirms that they are responsible. A few of the others glance at the Philodox who heads them, but she just watches Rafael. Meets his eyes when he turns back to her. Her eyebrow lifts. And then her brows furrow.

She is not the one to speak first, though. Another down the table, a Galliard with bristling muscles and a shaven head, is the first to speak. "Why should you retrieve their cub?"

primordial wolfman

"Because I want to." Again wolf's eyes shift from the female; meet those of the shorn-headed Galliard. Come back. "Because I'm asking them to punish one of their own for a slight upon our tribe. Seems fair to do something for them in return."

Pauses a while. Tries to set his thoughts into words. Speaks carefully -- words are unwieldy in this time or the other, and the wolf is wary of what he says.

"And because maybe it's time for accord between our tribes. Our kin don't rule alone. They have their counselors, their marshals, their plainfolk. Why should we chase every other wolf from our lands? Why shouldn't we make allies of them?"

flock of falcons

The Galliard meets the cool eyes of Stalks in Snow across the table briefly, then return to Rafael. Still the female watches him, her long hair pulled back from her face, a few locks in intricate braids clasped behind her head. She wears a fine gown, but unembellished -- she is no queen in this era, and in any era is too canny to seem as though she wishes to rise above her place.

"Forgive me," she says, smoothly interrupting Rafael, but delicately: her words come on the heels of his, not cutting them off but gently sweeping them aside like dust in front of a door. Her pale eyes do not blink. "Tell me, if you will, why you hold such faith in the words of the Fianna you spoke with."

primordial wolfman

Why indeed. Question catches wolf off guard for a beat. Then he speaks the first answer in his head:

"She seemed honest."

Thinks a little more. Adds, "Broke bread with me. Didn't try to harm or threaten me, though they outranked me, outnumbered me five or six to one. Plenty of opportunity for them to make war, but they seemed to prefer peace."

flock of falcons

Note that she does not ask him. She knows he would not, could not challenge her; she holds herself with the calm nobility of power that does not need to prove itself, nor wishes to be driven to that point. She sounds curious, more than commanding. There is a quality to her voice that narrows his field of vision, focuses him on her and casts those around them into periphery. It isn't witchcraft, it isn't sorcery, but purity. Nobility. To the humans surrounding them, she is no queen. Among their tribe, she is not titled as a queen. But still the urge is there, perhaps among all of those gathered here, to bend a knee to her if she willed it.

She gives him the faintest smile. Not at his first answer, but later, when he tells that they shared food with him. They know this to be honor. He can hear the murmur of a couple of others around the table, recognizing this. Perhaps resenting it, perhaps relieved by it, but understanding it for what it is. The Fianna are savages but their are honorable wolves among them. They shared their kill. They know that when Rafael says 'bread', that is not what he really means.

Fair Sky, for that is what he knows suddenly to be her name (though a short form of it, colloquial and almost peasant-like in its lowness), just gives a small nod. But then Stalks in Snow speaks.

"Their kinfolk study sorcery," he says, with the low rumble of someone speaking true wisdom, gravely serious. "Freely and without supervision. Who knows what demons they let into their very homes?" He looks at Rafael. "This is true, is it not?"

primordial wolfman

Wolf's throat moves on a swallow. Suddenly room feels close, the sunlight through the windows too hot. Few breaths of silence go by.

"One of their kin," wolf says grudgingly, "seems to have power beyond what most kin wield. But I have been in her home. Broken bread with her as well. No demons lurked in those shadows, Rhya, and I neither harmed nor was harmed by her."

flock of falcons

She is still watching him. Took her eyes away, for a moment, as the Adren Theurge spoke, but turns back to him. Six high-ranked wolves, staring at him. Would be easy to feel not unlike the half-eaten pheasant on his plate.

He says he did not harm her. Fair Sky lifts her brows a twitch. Tips her head. Is silent a moment. Then: "We may deal with sorcery among the Fianna's kin at another time."

"But --" says guess who.

"It is a separate matter," Fair Sky concludes firmly, without taking her eyes off of Rafael. She thinks for a bit, then says: "Tonight we will continue with the Rite of Reawakening, Bleak Dawn, as all tribes in all lands do. Tomorrow the ritual will be -- must be -- completed. If we are interrupted again, there may be more dire consequences than tribal warfare." Her head tips. "While we, and the Fianna, walk the sacred paths, you will find this cub. Bring her to light, and see if you can satisfy both the Fianna and the Silver Fangs."

primordial wolfman

Wolf is canny enough not to release a sigh of release. Not so canny that he does not let a caught breath, slow and silent. A separate matter. Time bought, at least.

"That's my intention, Rhya," he says, and on that note, rises to his feet. "I must prepare. Am I dismissed?"

flock of falcons

He rises before being dismissed, and there is a stillness in the room following it. Fair Sky lifts her eyes, more thoughtful than offended, though he can clearly see that he has shown his lack of grace before her.

He requests to be dismissed, and Stalks in Snow is just staring at him, but Fair Sky's eyes twinkle in a way that may be amusement; perhaps he tries too hard to see the Master of Challenges in her.

But she nods, once, with restraint. "You are. We will see you where the kin gather for their shadow-plays, when we emerge from the Underworld at dawn."

primordial wolfman

Different time. Different wolves. Wolf tries to remember that; tries to remember that even in his own time the Silver Fangs are great fans of decorum, politesse. Here and now he's shocked them with his illbred ways, though he has -- apparently -- been forgiven.

Belatedly he makes some amends: a bowing of his head to Fair Sky, to the others. Her packmates perhaps; her Septmates, certainly. From some hitherto-untouched corner of his soul he manages to dredge up some manners: an apology.

"Forgive me." A muttered apology, to be precise. "I don't mean to give offense, but time is short."

Wolf doesn't wait to be dismissed again. He turns, he leaves the solar.