2/26/2006

01:45 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waning New Moon phase (9% full).
It is currently 13:37 Pacific Time on Sun Feb 26 2006.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northwest at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.71 and falling, and the relative humidity is 68 percent. The dewpoint is 33 degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.)

By the Waterfall
The walls of the canyon surrounding the caern reach upwards to thirty feet here, their highest point. About two-thirds of the way up, a small underground spring exits the rock face. The water spills playfully down the cliff face, caressing the rocks and darting away, but always falling to gravity's inexorable pull. The flow, upon entering the shallow, chilled pool of water at the bottom, creates constant ripples in the puddle's surface. A light mist rises up from the ground near the pool, chilling to the bone.
The forest surrounding the caern's border is far less dense than the rest of the nearby forest, with ferns and clumps of aspen taking the place of white pine and birch. Scattered, centuries-old cedar stand majestically over their fallen, decaying, moss-covered comrades. This peculiarity seems to surround only the area just outside the caern.
To the west, cool mist kicked up by the falls mingles with warmer steam from geothermal sources; these mists swirl around the caern to the north. The caern's center lies northwest of here. You can pick out what seems to be a hazardous trail over rock and up the wall, to the side of the waterfall.
Contents:
Stacey
Obvious exits:
Steam Vents  Center  Windy Spot  Up the Trail  

It's a cloudy, cool day, and there has been little activity within the Caern. Walks-Middle is lying near the pool at the base of the waterfall, head resting on her paws as she keeps watch. She's trying to stay alert, but now and then her eyes close.

The constant drumming of the falls plays a steady beat. It soon feels like it matches with the heartbeat of the young Guardian, melting together into a slow rhythm. Sleep sets in, reluctant eyelids accept and the world plunges deep into submerged darkness. An undeterminate time spins through, and eventually the Guardian opens her eyes to a dark forest. A deciduous forest, unlike that of the Washington area. The caern is nowhere to be felt or found.

Walks-Middle blinks, startled at the change, and jumps to her feet. She looks around, searching for some ounce of familiarity in this strange wood. She takes a few tentative steps forward, sniffing at one of the trees.

The woods are full of unfamiliar scents, some remaining uninterpretable. Then there is the smell of a thick scent, heady, metallic. Like blood, but not warm - stale blood. It trails in a winding pattern around the trees and through the woods, deeper on.

Walks-Middle pauses at the scent of the stale blood, lifting her head to glance in the direction its path leads. She shakes out her fur, confused and worried, and then follows the trail, at first with cautious steps, then faster.

The blood trail slips and slides through the wood, and the faster the Guardian walks, the faster it seems to move. In winds back and forth through the forest until finally the scent shifts again and ends in a patch of fallen, dead leaves. It's only now in this patch on the ground that a familiar scent accompanies the coppery dark brownish-red on the ground. It's a scent of rain, like that of the forest in Washington. Cold stone and snow, completely out of place in the crisp, autumn air.

Walks-Middle skids to a halt as she reaches the patch, taking in the familiar scents with a mixture of relief and confusion. The young wolf lifts her head, glancing around for some explanation, standing near the patch of leaves.

The smell of a body of water also pervades the air, and the sound of quietly lapping waves. The wind is quiet, but a soft breeze brings news on the breeze. A deer has passed nearby. The call of a crow roughly croaks further in the distance.

Walks-Middle sniffs at the air and glances around at the sounds of wildlife. After a moment of hesitation, the Guardian takes a reluctant step past the patch of leaves, heading in the direction of water's scent.

She almost steps in the water itself. The ground right at the first footfall in its direction is soaking wet compared to the dry ground from before, and yet any motion to step back reveals that the ground has gone soft and muddy. Out in front, a magnificently breathtaking view spreads out in front, pristine glassy lake surface, and a spreading forest of reds, golds, and vibrant oranges and earthy browns. Though there are no mountains, it's still nevertheless beautiful.

Walks-Middle glances down at the ground, lifting her paw in surprise at the sudden moisture, then looks up to see the amazing scene before her. She stands stunned by the beauty for a good moment before she takes in a deep breath and moves to walk along the edge of the water.

Moving along the water reveals one thing upon another. Though the setting looks unfamiliar, smells and sounds strange, the sights are almost unearthly. However, there is something different. The reflection upon the glassy lake - the wolf's reflection, is not her own. It's deeper black, bigger, a little squiggly around the edges as is natural of a watery reflection.

Walks-Middle glances in wonder from one sight to another, sniffing curiously, the blood-like trail of earlier almost forgotten. Catching sight of the reflection, she halts and steps closer to the edge of the water, leaning forward to peer curiously at the black wolf.

When she looks down into the water, she's faced with that familiar sight. The Shadow Lord's face looks back at her - golden eyes, silver frosted muzzle, sharp triangular ears... but the look in his eyes is not one that mirrors her expression. Instead, it looks back coldly, angrily, in stark contrast to the warmth of the forest and season.

Walks-Middle starts in surprise as she recognizes the Shadow Lord. Far-Cry! she chuffs, as though answering a sort of quiz. The Guardian grows still, however, once she notices the expression in his eyes. Her ears flatten, and she tilts her head in question.

The black wolf's ears flatten along with hers, but the expression doesn't change. As she tilts her head, the reflection is dashed away. A copperhead snake flicks its tail, the rest of its body submerged in the water, but the head rising out of it and hissing. Its elliptical slitted eyes gaze sidelong at the Guardian, and then the snake is slipping away through the water, sliding onto the muddy bank and towards the forest.

Walks-Middle yips in surprise as the snake appears, jumping back a step, eyeing the copperhead as it slithers out of the water. She gives a regretful glance at the reflection, almost willing the Shadow Lord to appear again, then the Guardian turns and follows after the snake.

The snake is slow, languid, clearly affected by the chill of air over its body. After a few meters of following, it still seems utterly ignorant of its tracker. Then it disappears into the earth, under a pile of fallen leaves. The leaves shake and whisper as the wind picks up, blowing with more fervent determination. The familiar scent of rain and snow returns, and the air chills with a turn of time. Clouds block out the sun, and the land grows dark, ominous. There is a feeling hanging in the air. Anticipation, watching. In the distance, the sound of rolling thunder curling its way through the heavens the way the snake wound its way through the grass. The air gets colder and colder, dropping in temperatures with each passing second, and the wind starts to howl through the trees. Leaves get stripped away, fluttering off in the impending inclement weather.

Walks-Middle stops as the snake disappears, staring down at the pile of leaves, sniffing the air. As the wind picks up, she tilts her head back to look around, watching the blowing leaves and growing dark with more than a little concern, dancing from one paw to the other, and then takes off through the woods, looking for some sort of shelter from whatever is coming.

There is no shelter to be found, and running around blurs the red with falling white. Snow falls. The color of the world gets washed away, turning the sky black and the ground white and cold. There is again the sound of rolling thunder coming up from behind the Guardian, high in the sky. The wind howls even more plaintively, whipping at her fur. As she runs, the trees shift in form, curling withering branches like old man's hands reaching for her.

Walks-Middle gives up on the search for shelter as she runs through the strange forest, kicking up snow as she rushes on, now in no particular direction. The wolf's main concern now is keeping out of reach of the trees, dodging around the branches.

Soon there is nothing but white, and the feeling of branches grasping and plucking at her fur. The ground inclines as she races on, feeling like she's heading up a mountain. The snow gets deeper, heavier, the going gets slower. But thought the progress is slow, the falling of paws on snow gets lighter and lighter, like weightlessness. Then she sees shelter. It's a cave's mouth, black and uninviting, but a contrast to the whipping sheets of whirling white.

Walks-Middle trudges on through the snow and up the mountain, panting as she reaches the cave's mouth. She pauses there, staring into the darkness with some uncertainty, before she decides that yes, she would prefer the risk here to the storm and strange trees. The Guardian steps into the dark cave.

The cave's mouth gives away the illusion to a larger cave interior. The walls are a sight, studded with crystal quartz. The air outside howls, slipping through the cave and whistling in its tunnels.

Walks-Middle glances from side to side as she continues further into the cave, admiring the crystal quartz walls. Her ears flick at the sound of the howling wind behind her, but she looks forward, curious and glad to be out of the snow.

The cave walls are smooth, carved by both Gaia and claws. The wind continues to blow, and the Guardian can feel it passing on deeper into the cave's interior.

Walks-Middle continues forward at a steady pace, still glancing around curiously. When she catches on that claws helped to carve the walls, she pauses to sniff them before heading further into the cave.

Stalactites and stalagmites adorn the ceiling and ground, with the sound of water dripping. The air is not stale at all, but in fact crisp and well ventilated. Though claws had carved these walls before, there's not a hint of scent. Not with the wind blowing in front the outside. But eventually there is the flicker of orange light amongst the blue. It looks like the casting, dancing shadows of flame echoing from further into the passage. The dripping water sounds hollower, deeper.

Walks-Middle halts as she catches sight of the fire-signs, ears flicking forward, straining to hear sounds over the wind and dripping water. Her hesitation does not last long, however, and soon she's walking toward the light.

When she finds the light, it is tiny. Tiny, in comparison to the humongous cavern that opens itself in revelation before the Child's eyes. A fire sits, worked in the middle. A large black crinos is there as well, staring up at the mural carved upon its walls. The five auspices of the moon, every tribal representative face. When the Guardian has set foot into the cave, the crinos spins around and looks at her steadily, lips lifting away to reveal a set of pearly white fangs. His snarl is silent but demanding. In many respects, the crinos looks like the Shadow Lord philodox.

Walks-Middle stops just inside the entrance to the cavern, glancing at the murals in amazement, but in even more surprise at the Crinos. At his snarl, she lowers her head and tail in submission, figuring this must be his territory. It's me, Walks-the-Middle-Road, Peacemaker, she chuffs in hopeful answer to his demand.

A sweeping gaze reveals there are even more intricate carvings. A lifetime's work, the Triat and a caern of long ago, yet one that looks familiar. The Hidden Walk, but not. The color of the crinos' gums disappear as his black lips fall back and he turns towards the mural, looking up once again, like the Guardian isn't there. The fire burns still, casting his shadow upon the mural. It burns low, and crackles quietly in harmony with the water and wind, burning wood and glowing earth. The crystals embedded all over glitter lightly. The crinos lifts a huge claw up to the carved relief, running padded hands on it. And then, for all the quiet there is, suddenly the cracking of flames is overtaken by an echoing roar. The black titan strikes at the carving, scratching at its surface.

Walks-Middle had turned her attention back to the mural as well, especially at the portion that seems similar to the Hidden Walk, and takes a couple steps further into the cave. As he strikes at the carves, she stares up at him, horrified. Stop! How could you? she barks. You're striking at what you are!

The black wolf doesn't stop. He strikes in fury, again and again, his claws digging past the rock. He tears out chunks of crystal and stone, tiny pebbles dropping beside him, onto his fur. It is blind rage. The Beast of frenzy takes over, glorified with every consuming slash.

Walks-Middle stares in dismay at the black wolf. Far-Cry, no! she snaps in an agonized growl. She bulks up into the dire-wolf form and dashes across the Cavern, leaping toward him.

A whined call screams out of the crinos unlike any sort of battle cry, completely uncharacteristic of the Shadow Lord's voice. As the Guardian charges towards him, comes close to stop him, she finds that she passes right through him. Or rather, he through her. Either way, there is nothing she can do to stop him in his intentions to destroy of the mural. Again and again he tears away, until his very claws have broken and his fists beat against the stone to break it, or break himself against it. The fire leaps up in a flaring bonfire, now its roar shooting up like an all consuming flame. The heat of the fire matches with the heat of Rage that is all too tangible in this cavern.

Walks-Middle shakes her head, startled and confused as she passes through him. She jumps to the side as the fire flares, sticking near to the wall of the cavern. Far-Cry! she calls again, running back over to him and pacing around the figure, trying to get his attention. Listen! Stop! Please, this isn't good! Please, it's me. Stop! You're hurting yourself!

Dull thuds of his fists pounding fruitlessly against the wall eventually die down. Bones broken knit back together, and bloody streaks are left behind as he sinks to his knees. Ears flat, fur slicked, the huffing halfmoon's anger fades away. Though the mural in front of him is clawed and pounded with sharp chunks missing, bloody where its sharp points had cut into his flesh, it would take far more than just a frenzy to destroy such an expansive piece. But still, he sees nothing of the Guardian. She is invisible to him. But the fire doesn't die off. It burns brighter and brighter, growing bigger and bigger until its flames lick up against both of them and singe at fur tips. It spreads out, and opens its orange tips with green sparks flying up. The fire is sick and greedy, seeking to consume.

Walks-Middle tries to press up against the Shadow Lord, nudging him with her nose. Please, please, we should go. This is not good. Far-Cry, look at me! The fire is angry here. We should go. Please, come with me. Please, I'll help.

The look in the philodox's eyes is blank now. Again, she passes through his body without so much as a force of resistance. The fire continues to burn closer until it's set his body aflame, and its burning flame touches upon the Child's own fur but doesn't do to her what it does to him. As the fire creeps up on him, his black fur goes grey, turning into ash. His skin starts to dry up and peel like water-starved earth.

Walks-Middle watches in helpless horror as the fire consumes the Shadow Lord, still trying vainly to call to him, to get his attention, still trying to get in contact with him somehow. No, no, no, Far-Cry! Dagger's-Edge! Please, don't. Please, leave him alone. Far-Cry!

The fire continues to burn, and suddenly the philodox curls up like he just got shot in the stomach. Soon the fire overtakes the both of them. Then he straightens up like he's been stabbed in the back. A desperate howl breaks out of him, taken over by the fire's roar. The light of it gets so bright that the ahroun's eyes are blinded like the snow on the outside. And when she wakes with a start, it's the roar of the falls cascading down into the pool at the Hidden Walk's caern again. Rain has begun to fall, and judging by the state of her fur, she's been out in the rain for some time.

Walks-Middle stares toward the Caern's center for a good long while, sitting statue-like, ignoring the rain that soaks her fur. Then she slowly stands, shaking out her fur. The young wolf tilts her head up to look at the clouded sky, blinking into the rain, and then lifts her voice in a howl, one of sadness and worry, mixed with defiance against such a thing happening, the desire to help.