[Glad you all could make it! A few ground rules:
- Keep track of your own health (including wound penalties if applicable) and tempers.
- Try to post in 15 minutes or less. Roll in 2 minutes or less.
- If you choose to multitask, make sure you can keep to the above time limits.
- Ask questions in the OOC group chat. If I don't respond immediately and it's urgent, PM me once in Jove.
- Nightmares, et al? Roll 'em now!
- Please PM me flaws/merits I need to know about, such as phobias, compulsions, hatreds, moon-bound, etc.
- Also PM me any strictly off-limits themes, imagery, or events that will make it difficult or impossible for you to enjoy the scene. If at any time a description is too graphic or IC events make you too uncomfortable to continue, please IM me and ask me to tone it down or, if you need to leave right away, ask me to write your character out of the scene.
- I'M EXCITED. :D IT'S NOT A GROUND RULE BUT JUST FYI. :D
- Setup post forthcoming!]
Rafael[perfect balance! acute sense: smell! mark of the predator! also enemy: half-brother]
The BoxThe moon is waxing, waxing slowly. It will be full on Christmas. This is magical, for humans. This is more dangerous, for the wolves who might have liked to try being home with family, or going out. It isn't always easy. It isn't always safe. It isn't always, in the end, possible. Christmas could be a night like tonight, when there are scents that need following, sounds that need investigating, shadows that are more filled with movement than they should be. Tonight, the very air in the park is heavy with anticipation. It's too cold for anyone to be out; the snow that melted during the abnormal temperatures of the day never evaporated and has suddenly frozen again on roads and sidewalks, slick and black, a mirror sheen reflecting the moonlight and the streetlamps back with equal garishness. There is even a fog low to the ground throughout the park, moisture risen from the grass and the ground earlier growing half-frozen, floating for a while before dissipating entirely in the otherwise dry air.
This is not the haunted park that Denver is most known for. Supposedly, there are no angry, wistful spirits still upset about their bodies being chopped up -- no, Wash Park is more wholesome than that. Except when it isn't. Except when you realize that in a country this bloody there are few places that aren't at least a little haunted. Except when you know that no living, breathing evil ever avoided one place over another, killed in one place over another, or ever cared whether their killing fields were already creepy enough.
There are ghosts here. And one of them in particular is moving through that fog, padding over the grass on all fours, fur and ears and eyes and claws paler than they were in life, translucent as the floating water itself. He is not long gone; he died in late summer, when the Pit was closed, when Cold Crescent was shut down, when so very, very many died.
The ScourgeThe night was cold-- crisp and damp in the lungs despite the dry crackle in the air above. The Scourge was accustomed to that, though. He's been many places, and many knew cold more severe than this. All the same, he wore a scarf about his neck and tucked his scruffy chin into it as he strolled at a long-legged but leisurely pace alongside his ex-packmate.
Not all break-ups had to be on bad terms, after all.
They walked because the moon above waxed from middling to bursting, and because this made the furnace in his heart and belly roar for conquest, for victory, for violence. He could not be still tonight. He was spending the week in the city, a respite from the affluent but all-the-same suburban life of Mrs. Dorothy Gaspar's household, where Arthur was claiming permanent residence within the territory for the time being. He was staying with the small Segal family of Glass Walkers, and on a night like this he didn't want to be cooped and restless in that space with a fourteen year old Kinfolk.
Hangman Jury had accompanied him-- fourteen wasn't quite old enough to have to withstand a Galliard on a gibbous moon, but it was plenty old enough to be home alone. They trailed smoke as they went, not-so-subtly enjoying individual spliffs as they went.
"The fog is the setting," he was explaining to his companion in a clear voice that carried some muddled up European accent. "It is the backdrop of the evening. We will see Denver, piece by piece, and this is the first."
RafaelThe wolf is here alone. He didn't come with his compatriots because he doesn't really have compatriots. Even while the Sept stood he spent little time there; now that it is gone, he goes occasionally to the Caern only when he remembers to. Which isn't often.
Most days he spends in his own territory. Which means the townhouse, and occasionally his estate up in the mountains. And also, of course: the cathedral on Colfax. The coffeehouse, not far from it.
He is not there tonight. He is rather far away, and nothing in particular brings him here. No endless charity ball full of people who want his money and also to gawk and gossip. No hunt set to him by a now-nonexistent Sept. He's here because the moon is waxing, and he's here because he does not, for whatever reason, want to be home.
He sits on a park bench. Quite literally on it: ass up on the back, feet on the seat. He is not smoking, but he does play with a lighter. Flicks the flame on in a cupped hand and extinguishes it, over and over, giving himself little bursts of warmth.
A ghost flickers through the fog, there on the outskirts of his awareness. He looks up, suddenly keen and taut. Was it imagination? He thinks not.
Hangman JuryBeing from New York as she is the Philodox has already bitched about the weather. Some combination of cold and humidity has her walking with the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her hair and the hand not responsible for smoking crammed into the pocket of her leather jacket. Her eye makeup is dark and applied fast. Thick-heeled knee-high boots have her and her companion at the same height for tonight.
As usual he is telling a story. As usual she is listening. This place has a history and Becca is eager to hear it.
Then a ghost trots across the landscape. Fog among the fog. Becca blinks and holds the spliff out at arm's length and squints at it as if she's gone near-sighted.
"Damn," she says. "My guy wasn't kidding. Did you...?"
The BoxThe ghost is drifting slowly, sniffing along the ground, occasionally lifting its head to look around. He looks lost. He lifts his head and tips it back; howls, but there is no sound. They feel it though: the mourning. The anxiety. The loneliness.
RafaelAnother beat of pause and then the wolf comes off the bench. It's a lot of mass in motion: big shoulders, heavy bones. But he moves lightly, fluidly, coming up and forward at once, one foot stepping off the edge, the next hitting pavement. Then into the fog and the grass, purposeful, following the ghost. Why not? He was looking for something to do, and here it is.
The ScourgeThere's motion upon the grass, out where trees could grow and dot the landscape. It was like a shadow moving, but in reverse colors. Hangman Jury pointed it out to him at the same time that he'd noticed it. She knows this not because they were spiritually bound any longer, but because he had stopped and straightened his spine to stand upright, turned his head not so he was looking directly at it, but so he could track it out the corner of his eye.
At first he thought perhaps it was nothing, because his experience has taught him the dangers of jumping the gun.
It's also taught him the dangers of not heeding subtle warnings as well, though.
When he felt his heart tugged by the loneliness of the spectre, he shook his head. "No. It's not the pot." With that statement he lifted a foot and scraped out the neatly rolled cigarette onto the heel of his boot. It tapped against the heel of his hand a few times, making sure it was properly snubbed out, then tucked it into his pocket and stepped off the path that they were walking. Noted the other figure approaching from the south, heavy eyebrows raised with just as much interest and curiosity as the lost Wolf had envoked.
Hangman JuryThey extinguish their cigarettes at the same time. Becca licks the tips of her thumb and middle finger before pinching off the ember and tucking what's left into the breast pocket of her jacket. Doffs back her sweatshirt hood and focuses her attention on the figure cutting through the night.
That mourning banks a new ember underneath her breastbone. She sees the other male walking off after it and from the glance she tosses sidelong at Arthur he can tell she isn't sure what to make of this. Matters pertaining to spirits and the Umbra are not beyond her comprehension but they sure as hell aren't her area.
"Should we see if we can help?"
The BoxThree wolves, all of them heavy with rage -- heavier than most mortals can bear -- converge towards the ghost wolf in the middle of one of the empty soccer fields that has not been used since late autumn. The wolf turns towards them, though, eyes glinting despite being nothing more than an echo of what eyes once were.
Then it begins to run to them, bounding across the grass. Not to charge. Its tail is wagging. It is howling, and though they still hear nothing, they can feel it again in their bones: delight. Greeting. Relief.
RafaelHe is not alone. There is a ghost, and there are two others. He flicks glances at them as he moves -- keeps tabs on where they are, how fast they move. It is wariness and not curiosity.
Their presence doesn't keep him from shifting, though. Which is what he does when the ghost spots them and begins to bound toward them, joyous. He grows and then he shrinks, and at the end of it he is a wolf indeed. Blazing white, though perhaps -- heavier around the jaw and withers, bigger in the paw than the purest of the pure would be.
Long-strided, he lopes to meet the ghost.
The BoxThis delights the wolf further. But it is confused: it runs straight through Rafael's form, leaving the Ahroung vaguely but not overwhelmingly chilled for a moment. It skids to a stop behind him, looking bewildered, then spins around and lopes back. Sniffs all over Rafael, still wagging, but lower.
They can all hear it, but it is not strictly hearing -- they all sense a question, interpret as they will, but the gist is this: it wonders, and wants to confirm, that they are not dead.
He knows that he is.
RafaelWolf's fur stands on end when the ghost simply passes through him. Leaves little traceries of frost at the very tips of that fur, fast-fading. Greeted, sniffed, he stands still; trades a few sniffs but hardly expects to detect anything. It is a ghost, after all.
Not dead, he confirms. And then looks at the other two, cautious. They will have to answer for themselves.
The ScourgeThe figure walking across the soccer field to meet the ghost in the middle changed from man to snowy-white wolf. At no point did Arthur run, but he walked evenly with his hands in his pockets, like a man who grasped the reins tightly so as not to risk slipping even the tiniest control (for an avalanche started was impossible to stop).
"There is loneliness. It is a spirit lost. We'd be terrible werewolves if we didn't go to help. The spirits are good to us, and this--" he indicated the ghost-wolf's burst of joy and galloping toward them. "--is a position we may ourselves find them in some day."
The ghost galloped directly into, and then directly through the white wolf that had run to meet it. It looked as though it would be collision, but the films wound up being overlayed instead of in the same frame. The Scourge breathed deep, then took his hands from his pockets and opened his arms just a little from his sides as he approached the two.
"Brother," is the greeting, the voice impossible to miss even through the cloudy fog and veil between life and death. He says no more. The wolf is going to no doubt need time to recognize what had happened.
A side glance to Rafael as well. Eye contact. Nothing more just yet.
Hangman JurySomething about the way Arthur words his warning has Becca shivering inside her multiple layers. She cannot shiver any deeper into her pockets.
That the spirit lingers on this side of the Gauntlet has the Glass Walker hanging back. Suspicion or wariness or both. Bad enough that she doesn't entirely understand what happens on the other side but she has witnessed plenty of Gatherings for the Departed and is not sure what to make of this.
Her nostrils flare and she keeps to her human skin for now.
"What happened?" she asks.
The BoxNot dead, says the white wolf.
Brother, says the male on two legs.
What happened, asks the female. And the ghost, sniffing around Rafael a bit, looks up and goes over to her, looking up, tail wagging. Bounces its front legs a bit, as though trying to stand on its hind legs. Or trying to get her to come down.
RafaelAs the ghost moves on, the wolf turns. Now he has placed himself at the apex of a triangle, with the strangers forming the other angles and the ghost in the center. He keeps an eye on all of them. Two eyes, actually. Two gleaming, yellow eyes.
Hangman JuryThe tall woman glances over at the white wolf before taking her hands out of her pockets and bracing her hands on her knees to duck into a crouch. That doesn't answer her question but she doesn't want to be rude so here they are.
The BoxNow that she lowers herself, the wolf is eye to eye with her. She can see through him. She can see the park and the trees beyond; she can see Rafael. The wolf steps back as she crouches, then forward again when she settles. Meets her eyes, and tips its head, and speaks to her. He has to focus, intently. This answer can only go to one. One at a time.
Hangman JuryAnd she does meet his gaze. Even if her own gaze passes clear through his and lands somewhere on the grass behind him Becca makes the attempt. Drapes her forearms across her knees so her fingers dangle towards the ground and keeps her spine straight in case the scene upon which they've stumbled isn't as calm as it appears now. His focus is intent and so is her anticipation of the answer.
The BoxIn front of the Glass Walker, the ghost wolf seems suddenly... paler. Farther away. It shimmers, unstable.
RafaelSilently the wolf watches, standing apart from the others, keenly aware of their bond. Or at least, their acquaintanceship. When the ghost fades his ears flick upright, alarmed. He gives a low chuff of warning. Look.
Hangman JuryA sharp breath in and a falter in her stance serve as the only indication to the males that something is passing between the spirit and the female. She takes her left hand off her lap to steady herself with her fingers fanned out on the cold ground and blinks a few times. Shakes her head hard when she comes back to the present.
That breath she took frees itself in a shudder and she swipes at the space beneath her eye with a knuckle.
"Jesus," she says to herself and then to the ghost: "Okay. It's okay. We'll help you."
Her eyes pass between the two males before she rakes her hair back from her brow with her fingers.
"719 Vine Street. There's something in the basement, a box, that some... creatures are guarding. They're... evil. It doesn't belong to them." Becca stands. "It's not far from here. I'm going."
RafaelThe wolf isn't ready to leave just yet. Stands his ground, four paws planted. If box found, ghost go to homelands?
The BoxThe ghost turns to Rafael. It gives a swish of its tail; lifts its muzzle and howls silently again. This is as much a yes as it can offer. Even he is not sure. Even he can only hope.
The ScourgeThrough the communication between the ghost-wolf and Hangman Jury, The Scourge stood still and patient and watchful. Aware without being on edge. This creature was no threat, clearly. Neither was the other Garou of snow-white pelt and the lineage of Kings.
Arthur himself had no lineage. He appeared as a man of Eastern European descent, with dense black curls for hair that was in dire need of a cut. His facial hair was scruffy, unshaven. His build was fit at best, but average in width and weight and height all the same. He was dressed in a dark winter coat, a gray scarf, and dark denims with boots. Standard, forgettable attire, not expensive or flashy. He wasn't immediately imposing, but there was an air about him all the same...
When Becca shook her head and reported an address and a spiritual request (a quest?), he lifted his chin up and shrugged his shoulders to Rafael. Tipped his head to the side some and raised dark dense eyebrows. "There is only one way to find out. It should be found, regardless."
He carried a smart phone in his pocket, but looked to Becca instead of even considering his own access to endless information. "How far is that from here?" This was what Glass Walkers were for, right?
RafaelWolf chuffs again. Then pushes off the earth, rising up, changing form.
First time these two get a good look at him in this shape. Dark-haired, fair-skinned. At least in winter. Seems the sort who never quite shaves clean. A big brawler's body crammed into an old motorcycle jacket, protective plates taken out because who rides a motorcycle this time of year? Not him.
Also a scarf, thin but woolen, tucked into his collar. Also gloves. There's a caginess about him, and a distance; he looks at his temporary allies -- if that is what they are -- with the same wariness now as he did twenty minutes ago.
Grinds out a handful of words: "Got a car." Shrugs. "Know where it is."
The BoxQuick enough to walk, if they like, but perhaps they take the Silver Fang's car. And a few blocks down Exposition, they take a right turn onto Vine and soon enough pull to a stop in front of 719. The house is empty; there is a FOR SALE sign out front. It's charming, and in good shape, and will likely go in this area for far, far more than it would be worth otherwise. It's not terribly large. And it is the same house from Becca's vision.
The three of them head up from the sidewalk to the porch, and someone breaks the realtor's key safe hanging from the lock. They let themselves in, their footsteps echoing in the empty house on the vintage wooden floors. Perhaps it is Becca who leads them through: past the craftsman's columns, through the kitchen with its new stainless-steel appliances, and to the top of the basement stairs.
It is not as pitch black as in her vision, but dark enough; the windows in this house have no curtains, and the waxing moonlight shines through dimly. It is certainly dark down there.
And very, very cold.
Rafael[Rafael will activate:
Razor Claws -1R
City Running -1R]
Hangman JuryA bit more for Becca to relay to them than what she already said but little of it useful. It was very dark down there and the cold was like needles driven straight into her head. That isn't anything they can use. In the vision the box - wooden - was illuminated but that doesn't mean it will be when they get there. All she could make of the creatures was that they felt dark and they were laughing. Her sense that the box belonged back in Gaian hands came from the ghost.
It doesn't take the Glass Walker much effort to crack open the key safe. She does not jostle the larger creatures for a spot on point. Though her Rage is heavy she is not an Ahroun. Her purpose within the Nation is to maintain balance.
She treats this as wartime and follows the Adren and the Ahroun.
Rafael[-1Gn for Ice Dance too! even if we're indoors >:| ]
RafaelAt the house, the wolf displays a subtle uncertainty of his place that betrays his habitual lack of a pack. He doesn't immediately take point as Ahroun. Nor does he immediately fall in as the lowest-ranked of the group -- though surely he senses that, the same way they can sense one another's Rage. The same way they can sense his pure blood, even if he's a coarse, grumpy thing stomping about in boots.
So there's a hesitation at the door. A glance sideways at the Adren. Then he steps through, regardless of who else is going with him or ahead of him or behind him. It is colder inside than he expected. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, looks about. Starts heading for the stairs down.
The ScourgeInformation was drawn from Hangman Jury on the way over-- what types of advesaries did she sense? Were they spirits? Tangible? What did the box look like? Did she remember details about the room? All he really got was an explanation of cold and that the box seemed like it needed to be retrieved, rescued from whatever was prowling around it and keeping it from its rightful owners-- the Garou, the Gaians. Or so they would presume. Werewolves have historically had a bad habit of assuming that things were rightfully theirs. Wars have bloomed over continents for such attitudes.
On the walk up the path and to the front door there was a moment where position had to be felt out-- such was the nature of Werewolves. They sensed strengths in one another, and arguably Rafael's pure breeding should be the most naturally dominant thing here. But there was an undeniable quality of leadership to The Scourge that was built into more of him than just his heavy Rage or his certain stride. He carried himself with confidence, but the very fiber of him seemed born a leader. So the glance he received was met but not held. Without lingering or hesitating, Arthur cut his way through the door first and took the lead.
It was once they were inside the house, listening to their own footsteps on the floorboards, that The Scourge reached back to the very first gift he learned, taught by a bear that seemed to be the size of a mountain in a spiritual land that he was still brand new to.
At the top of the stairs, Arthur stood before the doorway without being directly in it, not wanting to block the way for the other Garou to have their look and feel the scene out. An icy cold that was so much more than just a draft seemed to seep its way up the stairs like ink in water. If either of the two tried to head down into the basement straight away, though, he would hold out an arm and hand to gesture for them to stop-- perhaps even brace an arm over a chest to assert this if need be.
Instead, he found something nearby that would serve such a purpose-- a picture hanging on the wall, a small piece of decoration sitting on a shelf or table to help dress the house to sell, or if the place was empty and it absolutely came down to it he would remove his shoe for the task. Before anybody went downstairs, he glanced to the other two to make sure they were braced, then threw the object down the stairs like he was trying to lob a baseball. To make a lot of noise and stir up whatever was down there.
What better choke point than a staircase?
The Scourge[Supporter Merit, btw! and Resist Pain activated]
RafaelIndeed he was about to head straight down into the proverbial abyss. Barred, he shoots a glance at the Adren, grunts, and then holds his place.
The BoxFrom what the ghost showed Becca in the park, the number and composition of their enemies cannot be determined. The box itself is about the size of a small suitcase, wooden, with an iron lock. The room was not detailed in the vision: just a basement, unadorned and pitch-black, but for the box, which was illuminated in vision and not in reality.
Into the house and to the top of the basement stairs, it is Arthur who takes the lead. But not down into the basement. The draft comes up, cold and unpleasant. Arthur throws his shoe down the stairs. It thumps down the steps. Hits a presumably concrete floor.
Nothing happens.
The ScourgeA few ticks of a second hand on Arthur's wristwatch passed by from when the shoe thumped noisily at the bottom of the stairs, and nothing happened. He seemed to be straining his senses, like maybe he was trying some supernatural trick learned from spirits (that's honestly not the case, though), but was coming up with nothing.
So he cleared his throat and looked to Rafael and Becca both.
"Shall we?"
And with that headed down into the basement. He sensed from the first few steps that the stairs wouldn't support the greater weight that shifting would bring, so he would wait until he was at the bottom of the staircase before shifting up into the body of a Wolf-Man Monster, the 'true' Garou form, Crinos.
Rafael"Jump," the wolf suggests.
And then takes his own suggestion: leaps down that narrow, steep flight of stairs, hits the ground in Crinos.
Hangman JuryAs much fun as jumping down a flight of stairs looks Becca decides to walk herself down.
Like Arthur she remains in her lighter human skin until they're submerged in the cold and the dark. Waits to see what they've walked into before choosing which form to assume. She sensed the creatures guarding the ghost's wooden box but could not see them.
The BoxDownstairs it is dim, but not pitch black. Lightwells at the edges of the room give them the lay of the land: a plain basement, a few posts, empty shadows,
and one wooden box, locked with iron, sitting against one wall with some other, cardboard boxes around it.
Arthur descends. Rafael does, faster. Becca follows...
and nothing happens.
RafaelIn the confined space of the basement, the wolf crouches bentbacked. Sniffs around, one enormous handpaw on the ground. Spies the box and heads for it at once, batting cardboard boxes out of the way.
Here.
The ScourgeThree Garou at the bottom of the stairs, and in dim light the trio ranged the spectrum of pelt colors. The largest, male, was white as his ancestors before him. The female was in the middle at a muddled brown, and on the far other end of the spectrum was Arthur with a black pelt (not pure, though, muddled and streaked with iron gray and bits of white here and there, but this wasn't visible in the dark of the basement).
Also, the guards that were described weren't visible in the dark of the basement. There was only the cardboard boxes that were in the way of the box Becca had described from her vision.
Raphael made his way toward the box, started batting things out of the way. Arthur huffed after him, but this time did not make a move to actually stop him. Simply rumbled and growled a warning and stood back to watch.
Use caution. This smells like a trap.
RafaelYes, growls the white wolf, but unless one of you can defuse it, our only option is to spring it.
The last of the boxes swatted aside, he looks upon the box. Takes a breath. Puts his handpaws on it to pick it up.
Hangman JuryIt's times like this that she curses her decision to keep putting off asking any of the technological spirits to gift her with a machine's senses. Could look around the room to see if there is any indication that there's something to her former alpha's supposition that there's a trap in the room but nooo. She wanted to be able to turn her fur into steel instead.
Becca remains in her human skin for a few seconds. Then she has a moment of fuck-it and approaches the box. With caution. Rafael is the one to grab it. She's totally there for moral support.
The BoxCardboard, empty, goes thumping dully to the ground. The box sits there, not illuminated, not shining, but not dripping with the ichor of the Wyrm, either. Behind Rafael, the Adren Shadow Lord watches the darkness, wary of the creatures that keep this box away from those who might redeem it. Perhaps he is fine letting the Silver Fang spring the trap. Perhaps he is fine letting the Cliath spring the trap. Perhaps he has many reasons for what he does, and what he does not do.
As does the Philodox.
As does the Ahroun himself. The three of them are not packmates, even the ones who have known each other so very long. They have not even traded names with one another. What they do know is that they're in a dark basement together, trying to rescue a dead brother's... box. It's a mystery. It's an adventure. And so far, there is no telling between the three of them why they feel compelled to be here. Why it matters that they all came here. Except for one thing:
one day, they will all be as the ghost wolf is. One day, they might all have promises unkept, inheritances buried, lives cut off before they were quite finished. One day, they may have to rely on wolves just like themselves to take up their tasks when they no longer can.
--
Becca and Rafael go to the box together. And Rafael picks it up.
The room goes back. They cannot see each other. Or the lightwells. Or anything. The room yawns around them, feeling larger than it is by sheer virtue of blindness. And there comes that noise that only Becca has heard yet: briars, burrs, barbed wire, scraping across wool, felt, silk. Breathy, panting laughter, or whispers, or snarls. It is not human. It is not Garou. It is not identifiable by sound or scent, and of course:
neither by sight. None of them can see anything.
Arthur and Becca hear the box clatter to the concrete floor, hear something slam into the wall. Becca feels the whoosh of air as something goes by her.
Rafael certainly feels the thing slam into him. He is probably less concerned with what it sounds like.
The Box[Inits! We'll resolve what is sensed/what does or does not hit anyone after that.]
Rafael[+8!]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (4) ( fail )
The Scourge[Init + 7]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (6) ( success x 1 )
Hangman Jury[+6]
Hangman Jury[derp]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (1) ( botch x 1 )
The Box[+8]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (3) ( fail )
The Box[+8]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (6) ( success x 1 )
The Box[+8]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (6) ( success x 1 )
The BoxB
[dex + stealth]
Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 6 )
The Scourge[Perception 3 + Alertness 2]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 7) ( success x 1 )
Hangman Jury[so gonna pass this roll]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5) ( botch x 1 )
Rafael[NOBLE FUTILITY!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 6, 7, 7) ( success x 3 )
The Box[Okay, last post stands as is! Time to declare!]
The Box[ROUND ONE:
B
C
Scourge
Rafael
A
Hangman Jury]
Hangman Jury[declare: WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? scent of the true form on the thing she can't see.]
The BoxA
1. wallops Hangman Jury but good (body slam)
The Box[*pauses declarations to take that sneak attack I forgot]
The BoxB
[1. Sneak attack! This is similar to a tackle but given the nature of the assailant it will be rolled as a punch. Dex + Brawl + 2 extra dice from successful stealthing.]
Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 3, 3, 5, 7, 7, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )
The Box[Damage (due to the nature of the assailant, this is Aggravated. it will make sense later).
Strength + Suxx - 1]
Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )
Rafael[soak!]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 2, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )
Rafael[OW MOTHERFUCKER.
1a. claw the thing attacking him! b. again!
R1/R2. claw it some more.]
The Scourge[Clap of Thunder!]
The BoxC
[1. Wallop Scourge]
The BoxB
[1. Wallop Rafael AGAIN.]
The BoxBetty
[1. Wallop Rafael]
Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 5, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )
The Box[Damage]
Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 6 )
Rafael[OW]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 5, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
The BoxClaire
[1. Wallop Scourge]
Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 5, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )
Rafael[-1R to ignore a level of damage! still at -5 dice.]
The Scourge[BAIL Dex 4 + Athletics 1 (WP!)]
Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (2, 5, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
The Box[Damage! Strength + suxx - dodge - 1]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 5 )
The Scourge[Soak!]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 5, 5, 5, 10) ( success x 1 )
Rafael[going back to a non-split clawing.
-1 diff, +2 dmg from Razor Claws
-5 dice from damage (after rage-resist of one level)]
Dice: 4 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 7) ( success x 1 )
Rafael[dam!]
Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 3, 3, 3, 5, 7, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )
The BoxBetty
[Soak!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )
The BoxAlice
[Tacklin' Hangman. Dex + Ath]
Dice: 9 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )
Hangman Jury[ahaha... ahah... hah.]
Dice: 2 d10 TN10 (1, 8) ( botch x 1 )
The Box[Hangman sprawls to the ground and actually skids several feet away and is disoriented about where anything is, also gets to take damage.]
Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
Hangman Jury[YAY]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (4, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )
Rafael[R1! same modifiers as before]
Dice: 4 d10 TN5 (1, 1, 4, 8, 10) ( success x 2 ) Re-rolls: 1
Rafael[dam +1!]
Dice: 12 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 7 )
The BoxBetty
Soak!
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
Rafael[R2! KILL EET]
Dice: 4 d10 TN5 (2, 3, 4, 5) ( success x 1 )
Rafael[dam]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (7) ( success x 1 )
Rafael[i decided to roll those 11 dice one at a time. j/k.
Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 7 )
The BoxBetty
Soak!
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )
The Scourge[Claw Claire: Dex 4 + Brawl 3]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 10) ( success x 3 )
The Scourge[Damage: Str 7 + 2 suxx + 1 claw dmg]
Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 8 )
The BoxClaire
Soak!
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 )
The BoxSomething slams into Rafael, an unseen force that, upon impact, rips at his flesh as though made of wind and barbed wire. It shreds through his fur and flesh with that one solid hit, and blood splatters across Arthur and Becca where they stand, hot and pure. For a moment, with that much blood, with that sudden violence, it seems like the Ahroun might be dead. Then they hear him snarling.
And then they sense the others. One of them surges towards Arthur, the same sort of whirlwind of pain. He moves quickly to one side, but it only barely keeps him from suffering as much or worse a fate as the Ahroun: his left arm and leg and torso are shredded. He feels a rib snap in half, cut in half, where it is exposed. One of his feet slides across concrete, smearing his own blood with Rafael's on the ground.
Rafael is still alive, though. And claws madly at the thing that came at him. It's the first strike back against these things, and he feels his claws go through something solid. It is not barbed wire, not razors, but perhaps bone. Sharp, vicious bone, and not of this realm. But alive. And capable of being hurt right back. So he hurts it. Right. Back. A lot. He doesn't hear screaming; he doesn't feel blood. What he feels is best described as the thing flinching away from him, jerking about at the tips of his claws.
Behind the two crinos-formed wolves, another of these things hits Becca, sending her sprawling to the ground, lacerating her tender human-shaped arms up down up down up down up,
down she goes, sliding across the concrete, uncertain of where she's facing, which way the things are coming from. But she can hear, if she focuses, Rafael -- smell him. He's a fury now, tearing at the thing that tore at him first, shredding it apart in the darkness. She can smell her former Alpha several feet away, fighting back as well.
For his part, Rafael feels the thing go slack. Feels it fall, clattering against the concrete. Still can't see it, but it doesn't get back up.
The Box[ROUND TWO:
Betty x_x
Claire Has taken damage
Scourge 4A
Rafael 7A (pretending he's at 6A like an Ahroun would)
Alice Has not taken damage
Hangman 1A
+1 R back to Scourge
+2 R back to Hangman
+2 R back to Rafael]
The ScourgeThe Scourge had gone into this with a sense that the situation was a trap. This was why he sacrificed a shoe to the basement to trigger anything automatic. Why he wore caution about descending into the basement itself and chose to walk down the stairs as opposed to leaping down them. There was always something impressive about the way a Full Moon approached a challenge-- he loved the heart of it, but it led just as often to tragedy as it did to victory.
Whirling and metal and gnarled barbs came into existence following a plunge into darkness. The coppery hot tang of blood flooded his nose and the sound of Rafael hitting the ground, his blood splashing it, and his snarling and fighting back in response was processed secondary to his eyes searching for the other targets.
He found one quickly, so quickly that he wasn't able to dodge it entirely and took a severe hit to the left side of his body. He had long since learned to ignore the injuries of battle, however, and even though he recognized the sensation of air on his bones he was able to rally back with the full force of his Rage and tear into it with claws.
He recognized that Becca had gone down, and for the time being was glad to leave her there. The Ahroun had tasted blood, was probably struggling against drowning on his own, so the Adren would make no efforts to cull him. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back and bellowed --
WAR!
to reverberate through the cellar.
RafaelTold the girl once,
the one with the black hair and those shocking blue eyes, who's probably home right now in that pad she shares with her friend, and by share we mean she's mooching a room off her friend and maybe, what, paying for utilities once in a while?
-- told her once about what he likes. About hunting, fighting. Told her he likes that visceral, vicious moment of realization, that instant where his claws are wet with blood and the enemy's teeth are red with it and they're locked together, breathing each other's air, hot and struggling and intimate as lovers: and they both reach the same inescapable conclusion.
He's stronger.
It's weaker.
That's what it is. It's all darkness and his body is ribbons of flesh, dangling sinews, snapped bones. He's a trainwreck but goddammit he's still the stronger, he holds himself together through sheer bitter force of will. Snarling -- it's more or less a scream, primal and equal parts agony and fury -- and lashing out with his paws, his brutal claws, thrashing that hard inorganic thing apart. There in the darkness they learn each other, know each other, and achieve that instant of mutual recognition: who wins, who loses, who survives, who lives.
Then it's dead. It's dead and he's a heap of ruin, collapsing as the battle rages on around him. First to his knees, then slumping onto his back. Gasping in pain that he has yet to learn how to ignore, the humidity of his breath a pale cloud in the icy dark. He hears the others fighting for their lives and he knows he has to get up, get up, get up and fight, but the roaring blaze of his rage is all that keeps him conscious and it's the other thing, the paler flame of his spirit, that will ignite the thing that heals him.
Talens, he chuffs into the darkness -- to one or both of the wolves with him. Has his handpaw outstretched, a few frail little gourds in the leathery palm. Not even gourds; they're just fucking seedpods, dropped off some suburban tree. Here. Take. Heal me. Yourselves. Quickly.
[declaration (a little out of order, i know) --
-1 rage to ignoring a level of damage
-2 rage to actions
1/R1/R2: held until someone f'ing uses the Gaia's Breaths to heal him]
Hangman JuryThis post would be way longer and awesomer but Becca got the senses walloped out of her and there's the call for war ringing loud in the enclosed space and she's climbing to her feet and surging up through near-woman to reach war-form.
Little fucking seedpods from the full moon. The half moon takes them without question.
She hasn't got much Gnosis but she has got familiarity with teamwork and sacrifice and she would very much like to make it out of this basement and back to her daughter tonight so:
[action: gaia's breath on rafael! may use the second one on arthur depending on how the math works.]
The Scourge[Call of the Wyld
Rage 1: Claw Claire
Rage 2: Claw Alice]
The BoxAlice
It's fun to hurt Becca, but the other two are bigger. Wallop Scourge.
Claire
I also enjoy hurting people but let's turn our attention to the asshole who killed Betty!
The BoxClaire
Wallop Scourge!
Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 5 )
The Box[Damage!]
Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 8) ( success x 5 )
The Scourge[Soak!]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )
The Box[Sorry - switching Claire and Alice's targets because I derped.]
The Scourge[stamina + empathy! +3 bc crinos.]
Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
The Box[Call of the Wyld, imbued with Arthur's nuanced control of Garou howls, reminds all who hear it that they are born and bred for this, for war. They are Garou. They are not children of men, and they do not fear death. Everyone gains the effects of Resist Pain for this round only.]
Rafael[splitting 1a/b! -2 dice off this first one. +1 diff. also -1 diff +2 dam from razor claws as before.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7) ( success x 3 )
Rafael[dam +2]
Dice: 13 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 7 )
The BoxAlice
OW. Soak!
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )
Rafael[1b PLZ DIE K?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) Re-rolls: 1
Rafael[dam +2]
Dice: 13 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 7 )
The BoxAlice
That is also ow. Soak!
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )
Hangman Jury[gnosis: gaia's breath!]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (4, 10) ( success x 1 )
Hangman JuryREMIX
roll 1/2
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (3) ( fail )
Hangman Jury2/2
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (8) ( success x 1 )
The Scourge[Claw 1: Dex 4 + Brawl 3]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 4, 4, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )
The Scourge[Damage: Str 7 + Claw 1]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
The BoxClaire
Very belated ow!
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 6, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 4 )
Rafael[claw also!]
Dice: 9 d10 TN5 (1, 3, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 8 ) Re-rolls: 1
Rafael[dam +7]
Dice: 18 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 9 )
The BoxClaire
FUCKING OW.
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
The BoxRage floods through the three werewolves in the basement. But Rafael isn't wrong: bloodied, shredded, and nearly dead, he still feels it. He's stronger. They are stronger. All the whirling fury and bladed danger of these things, whatever they are, conceals fragile constitutions. Humans would die if they came down here. Truthfully, if the three of them were all only Cliaths or if they had never tried to fight back, they might have died before getting a chance to discover how relatively weak their opponents were.
They rally. And converge: Rafael shoves talens into the hands of the Fostern, not wanting to waste his own energy on healing when he needs it to fight. To kill. That's what he's for. But as he does, power begins to gather in the heart of the Galliard with them. A snarl grows, and opens, and then turns into a full-throated roar. It makes the fur and hair on the back of Becca and Rafael's necks and arms stand on end. It makes their ears twitch. It makes their pupils, already dilated, blast open even wider. They forget themselves in the hunt. They are animals, and they are fury itself, and they are extensions of the earth's love for itself, and they exist for one. Purpose. Only. Pain leaves their battered bodies; fear flickers away. War.
This is war.
Hearing him, one of the things goes for Scourge, slashing at his opened side, ripping up another rib, slicing through skin at his neck, trying to silence him even as the roar gains in true, spiritual strength. It's too late, though. The sound chokes off it cuts at him, but the energy of it remains, reverbating in the room. Rafael, now unable to even feel what terrible shape his body is in, lunges for the one that dares skid towards him and tears it apart in two vicious rakes of his claws. He feels it clatter and is snarling without realizing it for a moment, whipping towards the Fostern as she smashes two gourds against his body.
Blood soaking his ruff, Scourge focuses on the third and last of the creatures, catching its body, feeling again how fragile these things actually are. It comes at him relentlessly though, seeming untouched. The other fighter in the room grabs it, suddenly, and rips.
The sound of wind stops immediately. It leaves their ears wanting to pop. And slowly, light pushes through the smoky shadows of the room again from the lightwells, from the upstairs. They can see each other: Rafael can see the Scourge's left side torn open, broken bone hanging out, savage gashes all up and down his arms, another one on his neck. The Scourge can see Rafael, and perhaps is glad he didn't see him before Becca healed him. One of the Ahroun's ears is dangling by sinew. His back and shoulders are raw, furless, and they can see the lacerations right in his musculature. They are both dripping with blood, pooling and puddling on the floor. It is splattered all over both of them, all over Becca, the three Garou looking like Carrie at the end of prom night. For her part, Hangman Jury has cuts up her forearms where she put them up to stave off her attacker, but they killed too quickly for her to take much more punishment than that.
Lying in the pools of werewolf blood are three collections of what look like shapeless blackened rags. They are vaguely humanoid shapes: four limbs, a head. But all over they are covered in extensions of bone, protrusions honed to razor sharpness, wrapped all around them. They do not have feet. They do not have hands. There is no telling what they once were, if they were made on this earth or came from another realm or plane entirely. They have no faces. In a way, they look like tumbleweeds of viciously cutting pieces. None of the blood smells like anything strange; these things did not bleed.
The box they came for still stands where it was when Rafael bent over it, untouched.
RafaelSomewhere in the chaos was a burst of spirit energy that reknit his torn flesh, reattached his broken bones. Wolf comes out of the fight looking not too shabby, actually, considering what dire straits he was in couple seconds ago.
Panting, though, harsh hot breaths in the basement. Darkness recedes, cold begins to warm. They can see each other. They can see the things, whatever they were, creatures dredged from some other realm or plane. There's a thin frost on the walls, melting slowly.
And the box. There for the taking. This time wolf's a little warier. Crouches over it, sniffing.
Gonna try to pick it up again, he warns the others. And then -- unless stopped -- he does just that.
The ScourgeThough no pain weighed him down, The Scourge knew that he would feel this tomorrow (unless he was able to find a healer, more of those Gaia's Breath talens perhaps). He would need to be mindful about not trailing blood into Becca's apartment, about not scaring the Philodox's teenage daughter by leaving mounds of bloodied towels and clothes to greet her in the morning.
He'd need blood left in him for any of that, though. As the dark cleared like mists spreading thin, it would leave them all standing with their wounds. Though The Scourge was certain he'd seen blows of death (or something like it) laid upon Rafael, the snow-white wolf seemed to be in a better state than himself. He felt something like a stroke victim, and though he was still moving and walking and breathing fine he knew that he shouldn't be. It was the spiritual magic of Werewolves and the gifts they knew that held him together now.
Still pouring blood with each deep breath and pump of his heart, panting through the damage, the black-furred wolf nodded to Rafael when he said he was going to try at the box again.
If something else sprang forward, they may need to consider retreat.
The BoxRafael picks up the box, and... nothing jumps out. Nothing attacks them this time.
RafaelSigh of relief. Ears softening, shoulders rounding down. Belatedly he realizes he could've -- probably should've passed out couple more talens. Seen to it that they were healed up, at least a little, before trying to pick up the doom box again.
Nothing happens though. Just a box in his hands, perhaps heavier or lighter than it looks, perhaps just as it should be. He weighs it in his paws for a moment. Then -- with a hint of reluctance, or perhaps just newness -- passes it over to the Shadow Lord, eldest of the three.
When it is taken from him, he descends back into his human form. Shrugs his shoulders to adjust the fit of his jacket as it materializes. Zips it up.
"Guess we can head back," he says. Eyes the Adren a moment. "You got someone who can take care of that, or you need another talen?"
Hangman JuryTonight would not be the first time Hangman Jury's daughter saw her mother and her friends return home from a night out covered in gore but it was easier to wash away without tremendous psychological damage when the girl was younger. When Becca had more social support.
They came out here to follow through on a promise a ghost-wolf had made. That they made to it. In the end they are all still standing all in varying stages of having been ribboned by whatever the hell it was attacked them. Becca still wants to know what it was they were up against. They're dead now. That doesn't mean she doesn't want to know.
She stands in the dark vigilant for a moment watching the Silver Fang in his task. But in the end nothing leaps out at them. So she focuses on the black-rag shapes in the dark.
[perc + PU: SotTF bc she's a philodox dammit. spending WP.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 9, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
The ScourgeThe eldest among them, the highest ranked, stood and watched as the Ahroun picked up the box and considered the next move. Much to his relief, Rafael handed the box over to him without opening it up. The Shadow Lord curled black talons around the treasure and brought it to his still-intact right flank.
Good decision, he commended. The box would later be evaluated by a Theurge, someone more familiar with spirits and their curses before further traps were sprung, alarms were triggered.
When inquired about whether he would get healed or not, The Scourge breathed a heavy exhale and shook his head slowly. No healers nearby. A talen would be much appreciated.
And when one was offered, The Scourge would accept it and apply it for himself.
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )
Hangman JuryThey went through all that they went through tonight in the interests of uncovering this box. Nothing happens when the Ahroun lays his paws on it now. Nothing happens when Becca closes her eyes and takes a lungful of the dead things on the floor before them. Nothing happens when Arthur says they will not open the box here.
Nothing but agreement. In the way she looks at him even in their war-forms to the way she acquiesces though a part of her disagrees the Philodox will not argue with her former alpha in front of outsiders unless in the case of an emergency. This is not an emergency. Everyone survived and more than half of them need healing and it's good sense to have a spirit-talker sniff out the box before they crack it open anyway.
Rafael is one of Falcon's. Becca doesn't doubt he can afford to have the interior cleaned out when the three of them bleed all over the inside. The apology she offers as they squelch into the seats is a half-hearted one.
She offers to drive. Knows the male will like as not turn down the offer but she makes it all the same. So her forearms are torn the fuck up. It's the least she can do.
RafaelThere are probably Cliaths out there who'd be thrilled to have the chance to heal an Adren. This wolf is not one of them. While he's not quite grudging about it -- he did offer, after all -- he doesn't make a big deal of it either. Just pulls another of those shriveled little seedpods out of his jacket pocket, like magic, and hands it over. Maybe grunts something if he gets a thank-you.
Hands over his keys the same way when the female offers to drive. He hasn't even asked their names yet.
--
Turns out they make a detour first. Turns out they look for a Theurge, and turns out wolf knows one from the Cold Crescent days. He pulls a battered phone out of his pocket, some cheap $50 prepaid android that he just never got around to upgrading with all his newfound riches. Texts someone, gets a text back. He's in the backseat; he leans over and props his phone somewhere in navigation mode. They drive a few blocks, then a few more, and then there's a scrawny dude waiting on the corner, blowing on his hands.
Cleansing, sensing, whatever: all that's done in the relative warmth of the car's backseat. Cramped quarters, but at least it provides some cover. Eventually everything's checked out and vetted, and the Theurge hops out, goes back to his business. Just the three of them again. They drive back to the park.
Walk out into the mist and the fog. Find the ghost-wolf again, or at least the spot they last saw him. The Adren gets to do the honors of opening the box. For his part, the wolf just watches, hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket.
The BoxThere's nothing to cleanse on the box, thankfully. The Theurge takes one look at it and touches it, shakes his head, shrugs. It's got not a trace of the Wyrm on it. Nothing else weird he can see about it, either. Just a box. So back in the car they go, and back to the park, looking for the ghost wolf who showed them the way.
He's still there. Paler than before though, and much of the fog is gone. He's almost gone, too. He wags his tail to see them, 'sniffs' all around them. Wags some more. And they want to know if they can open it, or should. He wants them to: they can feel it. These were his, when he lived. And when he died, other things found them, tried to keep them away. Now they belong to the ones who redeemed them.
The Scourge opens the box. Inside are three items. One is actually rather mundane-looking: a leather satchel, a rectangular cross-body bag that looks about big enough to hold a tablet, maybe a small makeup kit, some keys, a wallet. But its owner tells them the truth: it's a spider's satchel, a magpie spirit bound to it, and it can hold three times what it appears to. Including complex Weaver objects like guns, tablets, cell phones.
There is also a dagger, heavy and ugly, made of cold black iron. Its edge doesn't seem very sharp, but the point is. This one, their ghostly friend explains, is for tracking down stolen items. If they know the name of the thief, they can find the thief as well. The dagger hums with anger of a very specific, bitter sort: vengeance. That spirit lives in it, hungry for retribution.
Finally, there is a gem -- a large phantom quartz, which wouldn't look out of place in the home of a hippy or a witch. There's a spirit of cuckoo in there, and the ghost wolf calls it a 'dream stealer'; he said he got it only a little while before he died, and did not get to use it.
These belong to the three of them, now, he says. Rests his muzzle over their hands, saying thank you. Saying goodbye. And then fading away.
RafaelStoic gruff beast that he is, wouldn't imagine much making the wolf sad. Wouldn't imagine him showing it much. Latter might be true enough, but former isn't: he feels sadness, profoundly, when the ghost wolf rests his muzzle against them. There's no real contact. That ship has sailed. There's only the intimation of it, the memory of it, along with gratitude. And goodbye.
The last of the fog lifts, and the phantom is gone. Left in its wake, wolf straightens up. Flexes the hand that the ghost had tried to touch. Looks down at the box, and the last belongings of their fallen brother. Realizes he didn't know that wolf's name, either.
Three gifts for the three of them. Three dead things who'd stolen this, and whose lives paid for its return. Somewhere in that thick skull of his he has some modicum of courtesy; some memory of the laws of their people. He doesn't immediately reach in.
Flicks a glance at the Adren instead. "First share to greatest rank," he mutters.
The ScourgeThe Scourge had insisted they see a Theurge, and one was tracked down (likely by the connected nature of Glass Walkers with modern technology). By the time they found her the effects of his wards against pain had worn off and he was sweating and gritting teeth and favoring his left side, but otherwise not making a show of it. He seemed to be patiently waiting for the opportunity to lay low in wolfskin and heal up. The Theurge may have offered to help heal him further, or perhaps they didn't. Whether in better health or not, The Scourge followed the mission through and brought the box back to the park to present to the Ghost Wolf.
Open it! the wolf had urged.
The Scourge held the box balanced on the broad flat palm of one hand, held it out for one of the other two Garou to pull the lid open.
Inside: a mystical satchel, a knife that sought out thieves, and a gemstone of yet-undiscovered gifts.
The Scourge seemed less concerned with the bounty in tangible ways, but more wrapped up in the courtesy of the Ghost Wolf who was presenting it to them. He was dead, thankful that they recovered the loot from non-Gaian hands, and now able to rest. The Shadow Lord was gracious and expressed that the treasures would be well cared for. He did no sort of inspection or divvying or claiming until the Wolf had moved on.
When that time had come, Rafael muttered a verse from the Litany in the Adren's direction. The weathered looking Galliard smiled through a grimace of pain. He couldn't be older than 35, but for a Wartime Garou that may as well be 65. It was apparent that the gesture of respect was appreciated (as opposed to simply expected).
Blunt fingers, still crusty with dried blood (almost exclusively his own) plucked the gem from the box. He would leave the satchel and knife for the Glass Walker and Silver Fang to decide upon themselves.
Hangman JuryOne might think the Glass Walker would want the spider's satchel but she is not in the business of carrying a third of what would normally fit in that bag around with her on a normal night let alone three times what could possibly fit. Her sharp eyes watch her former alpha as he chooses the object the ghost-wolf had not had the opportunity to use before his passing. The dream-stealer.
A moment to consider the Ahroun before the Fostern picks up the iron dagger in her left hand and tests the weight. She has no proficiency with it as a weapon but as a fetish she can make use of it.
So Hangman Jury tucks the sheath between her belt and the waistband of her jeans. Offers her hand in a silent farewell to the ghost-wolf as it fades into oblivion. Into the Homelands, they can hope.
RafaelLeft with the satchel, one might expect the wolf -- Ahroun that he is -- to be disappointed. It's so unwarlike a thing, after all. A glorified sack. Yet the perceptive can the faintest flit of a smile at the corners of his mouth as it is left to him. He's pleased with his spoils; maybe was even hoping for it. Regardless, he reaches in unhesitatingly and picks it up, slinging it across his hefty torso.
"I'll take the box to the Caern," he says. "Maybe someone can figure out who he was. Let his people know." Thinks a moment. "Give you guys a ride there if you want."
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