12/9/2004

06:37 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waning No Moon phase (15% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 46 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northwest at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.02 and falling, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

[Somewhere out in the forests...apparently I didn't look at the setting for this log.]

The forest is dark and wet, the rain falling in a thick mist that makes visibility poor. The black wolf in the trees could go unnoticed, his steps quiet, even the blue of his eyes barely reflecting in the gloom. He pauses to shake out his thick winter coat, the rough guard hairs shedding the water quickly away from his dense undercoat. Sniffing the air, he turns to glance over his shoulder and rumbles in his throat. ~What kind of branches did he want?~

Dagger's-Edge pads out alongside his tribemate, sniffing at various scents of the wild assailing his lupine nose. Tree branches, the halfmoon responds with a growl that might be interpreted as an attempt at sarcasm. A beat later, he follows his answer with, Ones that still have their sharp needle leaves. Rearing up on his hind legs, he peers up at the black mass of branches above.

Thunder's-Forge approaches one of the older sequoia and eyes it carefully. ~Tree branches.~ He remarks and then snorts irritatedly, despite the dark moon. ~Did he say how much?~

Dagger's-Edge whuffs a negative, tail sticking out behind him for balance as he spies upwards still, and then dropping back down. Just said some. There is a certain annoyed growling undertone, as if he too is just a bit bothered by lack of specific quantity.

Thunder's-Forge twitches a black ear back and squeezes himself under the tree to browse for any dried, but intact branches near the center of the tree.

Dagger's-Edge flicks an ear forward, a curious thought coming to him. The Guardians won't mind, do you think? The halfmoon moves his way over to a second sequoia, head craning to see if there is anything worth making a grab for.

Thunder's-Forge growls faintly in his throat. ~If the branch is dead, it is not like we are doing harm. Besides, this is for a spiritual purpose.~ His tone, for a wolf, might very well border on one a human might term as 'they can bite me'.

Dagger's-Edge lolls out his tongue in the dark night, shifting upwards to crinos so that he can take up a much greater height. ~Would love to see White Bear's face right about now,~ he rumbles, reaching up but seeing how he just misses a branch by a claw's length. The halfmoon's ears fold back.

By this point, of course, the whole sept has to know about the Guardian's tribal exile, and none take pleasure in it quite so much as Thunder's Forge. Though his face is hidden under the branches, his hispo muzzle twists into a wicked, snarled grin as he rears up into his Crinos form, chuckling a hearty growl. ~I'd give just about anything for him to come this way, but Ronin aren't allowed on the bawn. Some Guardian.~

~Talk about harsh though,~ Dagger's-Edge notes, missing the ahroun's smile as he walks about to focus upon a lower, but smaller branch. ~Getting rejected by a bug.~ Up come his claws, gripping tightly onto the branch. There is a moment's hesitation, and then he pulls. The branch catches on some lower, still growing pieces but otherwise comes with him, sounding not unlike the way an elephant grabs its fodder.

Thunder's-Forge pulls aside greener branches in his search for a brown one. ~And publically. He deserved it.~ The Ahroun grunts as he siezes a dead branch and tugs, ripping it loose with a crackling snap.

Dagger's-Edge coughs out a rough laugh, evidencing his lack of sympathy. ~Oh, he got Served.~ The halfmoon grits his teeth after and pulls harder, loosening the branch and catching it before it swings out anywhere or hits the ahroun. Unfortunately, though, the branch is pretty big. This, Edge realizes afterwards, and his ears fold back again as he grunts and drops the dead branch to the ground. ~Wonder why it took so damn long too. Or which spirit will choose to help him now.~

Thunder's-Forge nearly gets smacked in the head with the branch, but otherwise catches it and wrestles it out onto the clean, damp ground. ~I do not doubt he'll seek Wendigo's approval. I have no reason to hate the Wendigo, those I know are proud and honorable, even with their bias, but if they would accept him, I will quickly lose any respect I had for the tribe.~

Dagger's-Edge turns his eyes from the ahroun afterwards, seeking out another victim of his branch-gathering fury. ~He is a 'Wyrmcomer' by their standards. No Way,~ he concludes with a low growl of disbelief. It fades though, as he considers another option. ~Maybe the Gnawers will take him.~ A snort follows, in recognition of the irony.

~Him, step foot in the city?~ Thunder's Forge shakes his big head. ~He will not go there unless the Alpha drags him there. I think they should just kick him out, the sept would be better for it.~ He snarls faintly. ~Better yet kill him and end his shame.~

Dagger's-Edge doesn't reply to that, busying himself with a squinty stare at the branches above him. ~Damned branches. They're all Black as night. We should have brought a flashlight,~ he growls irritatedly, feeling just that higher level of Rage pulsing in the warform. ~If he wants his honor back, he should try throwing himself at some Wyrm thing.~

~It would have been nice if we knew how much we needed.~ Thunder's-Forge snorts in growing annoyance, feeling vaguely like he's wasting the war form playing gardener. ~We need water, too?~

Dagger's-Edge has to make a small hop, but grab onto a smaller branch he does, and it comes down with a loud Snap of wood and ripping bark. ~If he needs more, we'll just raid a tree lot. Yes, water. Pure water.~ The halfmoon's ear splays at that, branch in hand looking a bit puny, but in reality is baseball bat sized.

Thunder's-Forge wrinkles his nose faintly as he hauls a few branches over to start a pile. ~Let's store these. We can go to the caern and get water there. Have anything to put water into?~

Dagger's-Edge tosses the bat-sized branch onto the pile once the ahroun's out of the way. He nods, with an odd arcing up and down of his muzzle, but looks back in the direction where he'd dropped the one empty plastic water bottle he'd brought for such purpose. ~Question is how we will bring these all back.~

Thunder's-Forge eyes the pile of browned branches. ~Tie them together in a bag like a dead holiday tree.~ If there's a word in the High Tongue for Christmas he doesn't know it, but the meaning is there. ~Storm-Singer might let us tie it to his roof and drive back.~

It's the philodox's turn to gain a rather wicked smile, as he elaborates upon the ahroun's idea. ~And we can fake-sing holiday songs. Play them on the radio. Or better, make him sing them.~ Edge's composure and twitch of rage melt away briefly for a shortlived snort of laughter.

Thunder's-Forge puffs up his fur and gives an amused snort and a chuff. ~He may be a Galliard but I cannot see him singing.~ He glances skyward into the rain and then towards the caern. ~We can store these under one of the trees until we get back. Let us go get the water.~

Dagger's-Edge coughs out once and soon builds up that usual nasty philodoxical self of his, giving his damp fur a shake. ~I'll grab the bottle,~ he rumbles, stalking off and sniffing about momentarily before he stoops and finds it, dwarfing it with his clawed hand. ~Don't mind us, we're just taking some of Nature's bounty,~ he rumbles... almost sing-song.

Thunder's-Forge picks up the large bundle of branches, seeming like scraps of tinder to him despite the weight they must have, and deposits them under the branches of a large tree. He leans down to drag his paw pads and claws through the dry dirt at the base of the tree, leaving his scent so he can find the hoard, and then drops down into the hispo form and looks to his tribe mate.

Dagger's-Edge looks at the bottle in hand, and gently places it between his jaws before shifting down to a four-legged hispo form. Tongue working to keep the fragile object from being split open, the halfmoon grunts at the ahroun to indicate he's good to go after sparing a glance to the bundle of branches.