Rituals With Rune-Scar
3/2/2007
11:41 AM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (90% full).
It is currently 11:21 Pacific Time on Fri Mar 2 2007.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 36 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.18 and rising, and the relative humidity is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 34 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)
Bawn: Eastern Forest(#2990RA)
Gradually, the dense forest gives way to more mixed vegetation, as trees become less pervasive and undergrowth takes over. Spotty clearings filled with short scrub and bushes dominate the forest floor, with only a few game trails to make paths through the tangled growth. The forest that is here seems to loom, as if resenting handing over land to lesser plants. Small rustlings come from the bushes and patches of high grass. Who knows what is concealed here?
To the north, the sounds of the interstate are audible in the distance, while to the east, the ground begins to rise into tumbled piles of rocks and shallow gullies.
Obvious exits:
Bone Arches Into the Caern Southern Bawn Northern Bawn Central Bawn Eastern Mountains
Far-Cry travels deep through the eastern forests surrounding the caern, stopping every so often to work his nose on the dampened ground and occasional tree. A frustrated snort issues from the Shadow Lord, finding much of the scent trails he searches for already weakened by the wet weather. But why waste time? After a few more feet, the philodox simply stops. Ears swivel on his crown, listening for evidence of something other than the rain, and decides to throw a howl into the sky. Far-Cry searches for Rune-Scar! Answer if he is near!
Not that the Fenrir is difficult to catch scent of. He tends not to make much of an effort to hide it, of course; but there's a strange, almost eerie quality to the Godi's presence - death, peculiar herbs, smoked ... things. Ancient and savage aromas that blend with the heavy, wolfen overtones. Despite this, however, the creature makes no sound as it trudges through the woods - shadowing your progress, steady and even shortly after you have made your own presence known in the area. At that call out, however, the beast seems to draw further up to full height, scarred form bunching into a tight knot as it steps more into what might be considered a line of vision; ears perked and forwards, shoulders squared off and head held at a level with spine.
[look Gunnar (lupus)]
A massive Arctic wolf, this one stands just over three feet tall and looks to weigh in somewhere around the two hundred pound mark. The shaggy, ice grey coat is criscrossed here and there by rather peculiar looking scars, primarily along the forelegs, back and lighter colored chest area. Most of these seem to be random slashes or claw-marks, though some seem far more regular; almost appearing to form into specific glyphs or runes. Long limbed and slightly finer-featured than the average Canis lupus, the animal - a male - nevertheless posesses rather clean and pure-bred lines, with a strong, well muscled frame, it's paws splaying out to larger pads than one would find in a forest wolf.
Perhaps the most arresting thing about the beast would be the eyes - which seem to be a cold, iron grey, set within a rather regal, almost aristocratic mein. Apart from all this, there seems to be an almost underlying air of savagery about the beast, lingering behind those eyes, and permeating event the smallest miscellany of his carriage. It's almost as if something - some deep anger or resentment - boils just beneath the surface, withheld as if caged.
Truly, in comparison the black Shadow Lord is overshadowed by the appearance of the other wolf. Whatever his coldly dominant aura was before, withdraws to a lesser station once the ritemaster has appeared. Far-Cry approaches the bigger beast once he spots him, tail lax and just on the submissive side of neutral to recognize the other's standing and recognizeable place in the pure bloods. A quiet chuff of greeting is given, mixed in it a thanks for his quick 'reply' of showing. This one has a request, and questions for Rune-Scar, he rumbles afterwards, cocking his head slightly.
He, if nothing else, moves like a Get; straightforward, unrepentant and unsubtle. Slow and juggernaught steady, the scarred wolf closes the distance towards you and - for just a moment after you still - it might almost appear that he is to walk past you, crossing to your right shoulder and sliding around just a few inches away from physical contact. That motion carries forth, slowly drawing into a wrapping circle around you, tight and even as his head lowers fractionally, nose dipping to the ground. Nothing is offered in 'response' beyond this slow measure; the cold grey eyes locking down on you out of their corners, lips pulling back ever so very slightly from the very tips of those curved teeth until finally, upon returning to his point of origin, he turns to face you more fully and slinks back into a low crouch. The body language remains just this side of threatening - not quite there, not quite guarded, but certainly as if beneath the cool exterior he was invisibly boiling; writhing and thrashing upon unseen bonds. Speak what you will of Fenrir's blood-drops.
Far-Cry himself visibly restrains from movement, though his hackles raise involuntarily from the proximity of the Get, reflecting the other's tension and mixing it with his own. Drawing himself to a stronger, straighter stance he turns his head to watch the ritemaster. First, I acknowledge you are the Master of the Rite, he notes back at the theurge. Every hair seems electrified and wary, sensitive. He who knows more of the rituals, who knows knowledge. I wish to learn from you, what a halfmoon may, of these ways.
Slowly, the Fenrir grinds to a halt, slinking into a low crouch about three or so feet in front of you, muscles tensing, bulging benath the shaggy coat, then thinning once more as he rolls his head fractionally from one side to the other. It is good that some still do. Much can be taught, though few things do I know of Forseti's craft. The pale eyes thin at this slightly, flickering over your frame from top to bottom, then more slowly back up in something of an assessing, almost studious, undercurrent. Some things of general use can be given; the way of cleansing, of binding crafted things to the body, of singing the tale of one's ancestors in proper fashion, of stoking the Gift of Garm within, and of singing the praise of a warriors first blood-wound. Speak which is to your interest.
I know the ways of cleansing and binding things to the body, Far-Cry rumbles in reply, his eyes remaining partly averted still, tail twitching in thought like a cougar's. His ears flips back momentarily as he considers the others. That he shows he understands what the Fenrir means by 'Forseti' may be his only help in deciding what more there is. This one has none of the pure blood, as his sire and dam were of different lines, the Shadow Lord explains, Which leaves the last two. His eyes lift, studying the other. What of the last two?
A slight flicker of the nostrils is the Fenrir's only physical response - something akin to giving the impression of a sharp breath indrawn, yet with no air actually pulled. Settling a moment later, the Godi seems to fade back into contemplation for a good long few moments, one ear finally flicking sharply forwards, then leveling back into an upright prick a moment later. The first is a simple ritual, taught to many of us be they Modi or Rotagar. It aids in strengthening and focusing the gift of Rage. The second is a mark of honor, most often sung by Skalds. When a warrior recieves his first wound, this tells of the deed to the spirits and the ancestors.
Far-Cry's ears flatten a touch more against his skull, a thin growl escaping him as he considers the latter. There are things of the past about my first wounds I would care to forget, the halfmoon snorts before his ears return to standing. As a halfmoon, though, Rage is a constant battle to keep in balance. The idea of strengthening the Beast within... The black wolf shakes himself, eyeing the scarred runes along the Get's legs for a time. It would seem, ritemaster, I were better suited to aid others in remembering what they have done through their deeds. It fits better with keeping the ways. He dips his muzzle in a respectful bow, though he remains tense in the overall. I would learn the ways to praise of the first wound.
The runes, it might be noted to anyone who studies such things, are Saxon in origin and design; mostly hidden by the fur at this point, they still can be seen in patches, encapsulated by those primative animalistic shapes. This may be so; but you did survive it, and assumedly you learned from it and grew stronger. The first wound is rarely pleasant - but it is necessary, and it is a passage that should be celebrated. Very well, then; this is what you shall be taught. Within three nights, collect for me the dried sap of the myrrh tree, two handfulls of clean ash, and a small blade of untempered iron and a stone bowl of fresh water. Finally, you shall bring to me clean salt. This shall be your first task.
Far-Cry licks his muzzle, agreeing with the point that he most certainly did learn from his wounds. I learned to never allow the same to happen again, he responds wryly, ears splaying and lip curling back lightly before resettling. He listens to the list of items, and for a moment looks confused. The mood doesn't last long, however, and the Shadow Lord sneezes and shakes himself again, as if expelling such an expression with physical force. I will return with them, he claims. Where shall I bring them?
Knowledge is knowledge. The Fenrir acknowledges with a tilt of his ears. As we do not have a candidate to perform the ritual upon, we shall simply go through the motions of it - find me near to the waterfall, and we will locate a suitable place for it.
Far-Cry dips his muzzle again acknowledgingly, chuffing his thanks to the ritemaster. It shall be done, he rumbles in answer before turning to leave on his hunt. A lift of his tail waves his goodbye, as well as expressing a thin line of pleasure at the outcome of this meeting.
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