3/1/2006

04:31 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waxing New Moon phase (12% full).
It is currently 16:22 Pacific Time on Wed Mar 1 2006.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 58 degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southeast at 17 mph, with gusts up to 25 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.73 and falling, and the relative humidity is 33 percent. The dewpoint is 29 degrees Fahrenheit (-1 degrees Celsius.)

Around the Story Tree
This quiet little clearing is home to soft grasses and bright flowers almost year-round.  Near the center stands the Story Tree.  The squat pine has broad branches for sitting under, and a thick, climbable trunk for a Garou to sit in.  Sharp, green needles can be found buried in the grass.
A pathway leads out to the northwest toward the Caern, and a much less-worn path leads into the forested foothills to the east.
Contents:
Stacey
Obvious exits:
Forest  

It's another quiet, cloudy day, a bit warmer than usual, and Walks-the-Middle-Road has made her way through the bawn to the Story Tree. She sniffs around the area, checking out who or what has been around, then steps over to the tree, lying down to take a quick break before she patrols another area.

A little warmer, but not by much. Again, there is nothing particularly to worry about. A few songbirds pipe away in the spring afternoon, and the quiet rustle of the trees in the light wind bring a smooth rush of peace. A quick break turns into a short nap, which gradually brings another hazy dream. This time, it almost feels as real as a patrol out on the bawn as usual. Southern side, somewhere around the south-southeast edge. All seems well, normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. A old deer trail shows some use, but no recent tracks or scent. It is a familiar setting, with the Washington skies above a mild blue with white clouds much like the ones of the waking world.

Walks-Middle blinks at the scene change and stands. She relaxes a bit at the familiar setting, checking scents and trying to get her bearings. After one last puzzled glance around, she heads down the trail as if she was supposed to patrol this side of the bawn now, keeping low and quiet.

What peace there is, is interrupted with the sound of a fight. It comes from the distance from the southeastern edge of the bawn, brought by the wind. It is punctuated by sharp barks and pained yelps.

Walks-Middle takes off at a run in the direction of the sounds, ears forward and tail high, weaving around trees and what other obstacles there might be as she charges toward the fight.

The closer the Guardian gets, the more fervent the sound of battle becomes. Then in the distance she can see them. All around, at least three black shapes prowl around another pair of black wolves tussling, tearing at each other with their fangs and footclaws. One of them is bleeding heavily, mauled by tooth and claw. The other is not even phased. Despite her running at top speed, it's like the scene is so close, but her footpaws can't move fast enough. Like slow motion compared to the fight on regular playing speed. They do get closer, though, and there are various shadows of other wolves hidden in the woods. Oddly, the scent of blood is absent, though that only ticks briefly at the back of the mind.

Walks-Middle slows her pace once she gets near, hackles and tail raised, teeth bared. Stop! she barks out, posture dominant and demanding. I am Guardian here! Who are you and why do you fight?

A good number of the wolves turn their heads and stare directly at the Guardian. Each of them has a golden-eyed gaze that looks hollow in expression. Blank, neutral. A few are lanky, others are built, and another couple are muscular, burly for even the species. The pair in the middle don't stop at the command of the ahroun - at least, not immediately. The fight stops when the unhurt black wolf latches its teeth onto the other, and tears down deep enough so that a highpitched cry of pain rips its way out of the injured. The injured falls. Only then, does the victor turn his eyes and stare at the Child. It's wordless, but a look that seems to go through her. It's a discomforting gaze, at best, and no answer to her demanding questions.

Walks-Middle flattens her ears, uncomfortable around these strange wolves. She lifts a paw, then sets it down uncertainly, keeping her gaze on the victor. Who are you? she repeats.

The black alpha steps forward, all nobility and pride. There's a confidence in the wolf that almost reeks of pure breeding, but isn't quite the same. The other wolves part or move aside, and some of them move so far back into the forest shadows that they seem to disappear altogether. A flick of an ear, and the others watching the pair also turn and start to move back. The wolf growls out a phrase. I am free...

Walks-Middle can't help but admire the nobility and confidence in the alpha as he steps forward, feeling small in comparison, although she makes an effort to hold her ground, standing firm. She tilts her head at the phrase. Free from what?

The black one snorts in such a way to be derisive, not unlike a certain philodox's mannerism. The wolf smiles toothily, and eyes the Child again. From HIM! he answers, turning abruptly and leaping forth back to the carcass of the dead wolf. Fool that he was, thinking he could chain me. Hah! Weakling! The black wolf swipes his forepaw in a slap across the fallen's ripped muzzle. Underneath the broken rays of sunlight being filtered through the pines, a glimmer of gold catches the light just so. Then in jubilation, the black wolf turns his muzzle to the sky and howls out in an angry defiance. He looks back to the ahroun, gives a wild laugh, and sprints off after the packmates that had disappeared earlier.

Walks-Middle perks her ears forward at the snort, and she watches the wolf with increasing interest as he explains. As he runs sprints off to rejoin his packmates, she does as well. She pauses briefly to look down at the fallen wolf before she runs to follow the alpha.

That's what hits it. The wolf downed is none other than the philodox himself. The glint of gold, tarnished with blood, gleams from the all too familiar twin rings that were looped in a chain around his neck. The injuries are horrendous, likely fatal at first glance. But the others have disappeared, and the alpha has headed north it seems.

Walks-Middle does a double-take, skidding to a halt as she recognizes the fallen. She whines and takes a step toward him, looking almost ready to collapse herself, then she suddenly changes her mind. With an growl of rage and frustration, she spins around and charges in the direction that the alpha headed.

The chase is too slow and too fast all at once. Anger provides the fuel, but it seems like there's no sign of the black alpha. At first. Then a set of wolves tails, all signifying of their owners running away from the pursuing ahroun in the distance, appears through the moving shadows of the bawn's forest. It is a silent chase, almost without a sound whatsoever. Not even the sound of paws hitting the ground. Thoughts run through too quick: Why him? Who are they? What happened? The ahroun chases and chases, but if there's any progress, it is slow. Very slow.

Walks-Middle lets out another growl as her frustration builds at the slow progress, her small paws pounding on the ground as she tries to go faster and faster, trying to catch the elusive, strange wolves. The rage and pain inside her seems to throb in time with her pace and thoughts.

The tails criss cross, faster, slower, all the while remaining largely the same number until one slows down. The rest of the flank and then the body appears, and that one wolf comes to a stop as the others run on. This wolf is also black, with a hollow goldeneyed gaze, almost starvingly thin. It waits for the Child to catch up. Cringing, wheezing with some kind of lung infection, this waiting one holds its head low and submissive.

Walks-Middle slows as she approaches this wolf, teeth bared in anger. Why? she barks out, barely waiting until she reaches him, posture dominant in contrast to his own. Why did your alpha fight Far-Cry? Tell me!

Confusion riddles the other, weaker wolf's face. Don't come any closer, or I'll bite! It'll hurt a lot! The fearful aggressive behavior is clear in this black one, as he skips back a few steps and keeps himself hunched.

Walks-Middle remains where she stands, pawing at the ground impatiently. Some of her frustration seeps away as sympathy for the pathetic creature creeps in. I won't hurt you. But the downed wolf was my friend. Why were they fighting?

We fight, whines the black wolf. We always fight. They always fight. Always. Never stops. Finally, He won. Now we follow Him. His ears sweep back, and he starts to back away, looking like he's been away from the others long enough. The black wolf takes his eyes off from the ahroun, looking after the disappeared shadows. From the side, he bears a couple of unfurred wounds. One in the shoulder, another in the stomach. Scars that look familiar.

Walks-Middle rumbles in confusion looking between the scared wolf and the direction the others ran in. The sight of the scars causes her to blink, then stare. She dances impatiently, then starts walking north. Lead me to the others? To the one you follow now?

The black wolf shakes his head and body, looking unsure. Can't follow, he replies. They don't like me anymore. Don't need me. A rush of the wind gusts past the trees, whistling over the bodies of the pair. It's ok though, the wolf comments with a bending of his bony haunches, scratching at one of the scars on his shoulder just so. For just a second, the flash of the Shadow Lord's lupus, healthier and more filled out than this scrawny comparison, dances before the ahroun's eyes. Then it's back to the skinny, bony black wolf again, still scratching away.

Walks-Middle pauses at his words, glancing back at him, blinking again at the flash of familiarity. I see. I will try to find them alone, then," she chuffs, then bursts into a run, heading in the direction she last saw them.

The black wolf is left behind, and it seems to disappear into the growing shadows of the setting sun. But without a trace to track by, it seems the wolves have gone away. No scent is left behind. Not even a broken leaf or a bent blade of grass shows any evidence of the passing of a pack. The ahroun is left to run and run.

Walks-Middle continues to run, despite the lack of a trail. In fact, it's not long before she gives up trying to check, just running in that direction, determined to do so until her stamina drains away.

The forest continues to darken and darken, the longer the Child runs, the further down the sun goes. Eventually the area is plunged into darkness with only the sharper senses to guide by. But even then, things seem to dissipate and dissolve under the cover of night. The shadows grow longer, and the surroundings fade to black. A moment later, like the body were done resting, the Guardian wakes to find herself back in the spot she patrolled in, at the Story Tree area where she had paused to rest. The time couldn't be anywhere changed for more than a scant amount. The sun hasn't gone very far in the sky since her eyes had closed.

Walks-Middle lifts her head and stares around the area for a moment, looking confused, perplexed. With a small whine, she lowers her head again, thinking over what she had scene. Of course, a second later, she jumps up and moves away from the tree, shaking out her fur before turning away from the large tree and disappearing into the bawn.