Philodox Moot: Judging Lefty

5/6/2007

02:16 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (70% full).
It is currently 14:15 Pacific Time on Sun May 6 2007.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.36 and steady, and the relative humidity is 72 percent. The dewpoint is 48 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)

Shore Around Half Moon Pool
The shadowy canopy of evergreens recedes here, opening into a small clearing. The grass underfoot is a vibrant young green, luxurient and seemingly soft to the touch; small flowers, some purple and others blue or yellow, add to the spread of color. Immediately to the east, the ground rises into a small, rocky outcropping, at the base of which stands a large pool of crystal clear water; the barest rivulet of a stream wends its way south and west from the pool across the clearing, losing itself in the forest. This whole area has about it a sense of peace and silence; the air is cool and fresh, the scent of the flowers pleasant, the colors of the forest in seemingly perfect balance. Anything not pristine or natural seems almost a world away to you here.
The half-moon shaped pool lies just to the east. A faint trail seems to follow the little stream southwest into the forest.
Contents:
Spits-out-Nails
Obvious exits:
Forest  Half Moon Pool  

Towards the tranquil pool of water that sits on the bawn like a brooch on the neck of a beautiful woman, comes trotting a black wolf, moving quite quickly, yet not in the way of a predator on the hunt for dinner. He's making straight for the clearing with the pool. Perhaps he's thirsty? Thirsty for something, anyway.

Already lying by the pool, Far-Cry lounges in the peaceful silence. Only the quiet lap of the waves against the pool's shore and stream act as a harmonic melody to the forest surrounding. Then his nose lifts, testing the scents borne by the wind. Movement draws his eyes and attention towards the other black wolf approaching, causing him to stand and peer at the approaching stranger.

Spits-out-Nails slows to a gentle saunter as he approaches. Greetings, he bids. As he approaches Far-Cry the two are revealed to be almost mirror images of each other, although the newcomer is slightly smaller and takes on more of a submissive pose. Is this the venue for the meeting of half-moons?

Far-Cry turns his golden eyes towards the pool, looking pensive for a moment. And then he turns back with an affirmative chuff, relaxed and confident. I am Far-Cry, son of Gaia and Thunder. This is where the halfmoons meet soon, yes. A couple paces takes him forward towards the other Shadow Lord. His nose pokes forth, sniffing exploratively.

You are Far-Cry? Spits' tail erupts into motion. Seems he's pleased to make this acquaintance. Well met, Thunder-brother. I am Spits-out-Nails, philodox of Thunder's grandpups and cliath. I knew of your existence from Culls-Herd-rhya. I hoped to meet you before tonight.

Far-Cry balks his head back and at an angle, surprised by the other's enthusiastic greeting of him. But it takes but a moment for the halfmoon to understand, and give his tribemate a gracious, if reserved nod of echoed greeting. I am he. His head tilts even further in silent question at the other Lord, almost expecting something else to be directed at him.

Spits-out-Nails gives Far-Cry a good thorough sniffing over, if not a deferential one. Blackriver of the Silver Fangs told me that you had reservations regarding the situation of the Bone Gnawer charach, he then states.

Far-Cry likewise takes his time to sniff his tribemate over. Though dominated by woodsy, natural smells, the scent of the city clings on the edge of his scent. But to Spits' statement, he asks only one question in return, and a tint of wryness displays in his posture. Which one?

Spits-out-Nails smells of city faintly as well, perhaps a shade more so than Far-Cry, though he too seems otherwise healthy and clean. The one whom we moot today to discuss. The one who I have spent several turns of Luna chasing to bring to justice. He seems a little peeved that Far-Cry needs to ask the question.

The three-legged one. The fostern, Far-Cry affirms, more to himself than to his fellow Thunderchild. You spent a long time hunting her. Are you hoping to make your kill tonight?

Spits-out-Nails's demeanor takes on an opaque air. I hope to see justice done, he responds. That is all I ask as a half moon, and as a member of the sept that was wronged and its caern desecrated. She is a member of this sept, now, having concealed her history from you. I can only give my evidence and ask you to consider it. But... would you have my long chase be all in vain, shadow-brother?

Far-Cry too, remains neutral in his regard, but his ears twitch to either side as he turns to the other Shadow Lord. Do not turn me into your prey too, Spits-Out-Nails. What do you want from me?

I simply ask, Spits replies, that you remember your place as a member of Thunder's brood. And of the Garou nation. And of this sept. We live by a code of rules, and if one breaks it and goes unpunished, others will follow suit and we shall descend into anarchy, and the Wyrm will conquer all.

Far-Cry flattens his ears back, a sudden wave of displeasure etching itself into his features of peeled back lips, stiff hackles and staring golden eyes. You think me a mooncalf?

None of our tribe is a fool, Spits responds with unruffled calm. Our half moons least of all.

There's a rustling sound from the southward direction as something picks its way through the trees, approaching the pool but not quite there yet, and not yet visible through the thick foliage.

Far-Cry snorts, rather unmollified for the moment but resisting a further snarl. His tail lashes behind him and he turns away to pad closer towards the shore. The rustling sound turns one flattened ear towards it, but otherwise receives little else of his attention. Once Far-Cry's taken up a few laps of the water at the pool, he turns to look back to Spits.

Spits-out-Nails seems about to respond, also, but the rustling claims his attention. Are we overheard? he enquires softly of Far-Cry.

A few seconds later, Blackriver's silvery-white form breaks through the trees. She pauses on the edge of the shore clearing, tipping her head to the side as she notes the two Shadow Lords, ears pulling forward and nose quivering.

Far-Cry doesn't answer his tribemate, as the answer is obvious when Blackriver comes into view. Soothing his hackles back, he adopts a relatively neutral regard just on this side of submissive towards the Fang and Master of the Challenge.

Spits-out-Nails ducks his head in greeting to Blackriver. We start to gather? he enquires. Is the charach herself to be present, or do we discuss her in her absence?

Blackriver gives soft snort of disgust as she notes the lack of people gathered, and pads towards the pool. We start. The charach will not be here. She pauses, and then looks to Far-Cry. You know why we are here, yes? We are here to judge Ferrets-out-the-Wyrm.

From the pool, There is a large splash as Isaac hits the water on the other side of the pool. Then there are several moments of smaller splashes before he arrives at the shore where the others are gathered.

Isaac steps carefully out of the pool.

A bit of Far-Cry's calm returns, but only mildly so. I know, he replies. I know. Spits-Out-Nails hunted the Gnawer from his home all the way here. But why waste time? You have judged her already, from the look of the both of you.

Spits-out-Nails emits a faint growl. I have not. I know she is guilty, but guilt or innocence is not the only duty of a judge. There is the question of how severe her punishment is to be. For this reason I would have preferred to be able to question her closely, but if that is not the way of this sept, so be it.

Blackriver's ears prick at the sound of the splash, and she waves her tail in greeting at Isaac, before turning back to the others. She shoots Spits-out-Nails a confused look. You saw her. Didn't you talk to her then?

Isaac shakes from nose to tail, not particularly mindful of getting the others damp. He drops his jaw in a bit of a grin to Blackriver and to Kenneth, then narrows his eyes and sniffs at the stranger.

Far-Cry turns his attention quickly to the pool as splashing interrupts proceedings, sniffing in the direction of the newly arriving Fang and moving temporarily to intercept. It is with scrutiny that the Shadow Lord regards the newest arrival, but he only circles Isaac once before returning to join the other pair. Subsequently, Far-Cry shifts to his hispo form, accessing the Mother Tongue. ~Did you decide on Ferrets-Out-the-Wyrm's guilt already?~

Spits-out-Nails finds himself displaying deference to the second Silver Fang, almost without conscious choice. I know she is guilty, he insists. But it is you of this sept who must decide on her guilt or innocence, her punishment or absence of punishment. Having thus addressed Far-Cry, he introduces himself to Isaac with his name, tribe and rank, briefly but not impolitely.

Blackriver settles down on her haunches and lets out a yawn, watching Isaac and Felix meet each other. Turning her head, she quirks a confused ear at Far-Cry. Ferrets is a carach. Spits-out-Weaver-Pain tells us this. She tells us this.

Innocence, Isaac says of himself. Half moon of the Silver Fangs. He turns a small circle and settles onto his haunches before reaching around to chew at the base of his tail.

Far-Cry rumbles at Blackriver, ~What we are told is not always the truth of things.~ Looking back upon Spits, he tilts his head. ~Tell your story again. I wish to hear it from you.~

Spits-out-Nails seems happy enough to oblige. He moves up into hispo form, however, the better to tell his tale. ~I am of the Painted Rocks sept, towards the rising sun. Ferrets-out-Wyrm came to the sept when I was but a cub, and we gave her shelter and a home, accepted her into our midst. Some months ago, though, she was found committing charach with a Black Fury on the very caern stone itself.~ His hackles stand up in anger. ~Their discoverer was alone, and could not prevent them both from fleeing justice. Another half-moon was sent to follow the Fury; I was commanded to bring Ferrets to justice. With the Questing Stone I followed her many months, eventually reaching her here, only to find out that she had concealed her history, given chiminage, and become a sept member. I do not seek to blame any of this sept for being misled by the concealments of this miscreant Rat's child. But I do put it to you that her flouting of the Litany could scarcely be more heinous, save if she had whelped a metis. It is only fair,~ he adds, ~that more than one of the sept here has informed me that they believe her to be a good garou in many ways and that she has set no foot wrong since coming here. And it is also a fact that prior to these events, she gave her arm for Gaia, losing it to a creature of the Wyrm. Whether or not these are seen as mitigating factors, is for you half-moons of the sept to decide.~

Far-Cry studies Spits as the philodox tells his side, remaining in silence the entire time. Only a scant filcker of his tail and the rising of his hackles involuntarily tell of his growing distaste. But even more fervently, he questions his tribemate. ~The Black Fury and her both chose to do these deeds in the heart of the caern, and the totem of the Painted Rocks did nothing?~

Blackriver tips her head to the side as she listens to Felix's story, not seeming surprised at any part of it. Was Ferrets-out-the-Wyrm a member of your sept? She told me she wasn't.

Isaac watches Spits-out-Nails as he gives his story, then blinks several times.

~She was not a full member as such,~ Spits clarifies. ~The sept was and is a Shadow Lord sept, and we deemed it inadvisable to allow Bone Gnawers full membership. But we tolerated their presence in the nearby town, we maintained regular liaison with them, and if ever the tribe needed the use of the caern and requested it with proper protocol, it was granted. Does this make the slightest difference to her sin?~

Blackriver blinks. If she was not in the caern with the warder's permission, she was not respecting the sept's territory. She points out.

~You think it doesn't,~ Far-Cry remarks back to Spits, pausing for a thought. ~The Black Fury - what became of her?~ he then wonders aloud.

Isaac drops to the ground to lay, sphinxlike, before the others. Bad guests.

~No, I see no reason why it makes a difference, Far-Cry,~ retorts Spits-out-Nails. ~A charach is a charach. And, Blackriver, you are correct. She disrespected our caern and its sept members in her deeds. That, too, you will no doubt take into account when deciding this case.~ He twitches his ears a couple of times. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he probably wishes he had the duty of judging her all to himself.

Blackriver's forelegs slide foreword until she's laying on the ground, mirroring Isaac's posture. Was the caern totem angry that this happened in the caern? She asks, repeating Far-Cry's question.

Far-Cry swishes his tail twice. ~It may make no difference in judging her,~ he notes, ~but if you judge that the caern was violated by her actions, then the Warder and the Guardians of the caern should be held guilty too. They did not stop her and her accomplice in time.~

Isaac licks his nose, ears pulling together in confusion. Bad guests, he repeats.

~I do not know the Fury's fate,~ responds Spits, who is growing more surly by the moment. ~Nor do I know exactly what the caern totem thought. I am not a theurge, nor was I present at the time. Given that the charachs had fled, I was sent in pursuit without delay. As for you, Far-Cry, perhaps you would care to trek across this land, and bring justice to the members of my sept, as I have to yours?~ Then he turns to Isaac, and in tones no less surly, asks ~Do you refer to me as a bad guest, Silver Fang?~

Isaac's ears turn outward and he rises quickly to his feet. No, he indicates with a very homid shake of his head. It is bad for guests to be bad at a caern. But they were guests. They had permission. Bad for them to be bad. Not bad for the Guards to not know they were going to be bad.

Blackriver's ears flatten at Far-Cry, and she indicates agreement with Isaac. Bad, but the Guardians aren't guilty of anything.

Far-Cry's gaze darkens at his tribemate, but he pauses in his reply to regard Isaac. ~~Judge your own sept's members, Spits-Out-Nails. If the caern was violated, then all guarding it should feel responsible. A little bit of guilt would help spur on the Guardians to be more watchful of who they give permission to be in their caern. That is all.~ He looks towards the Fangs, then back to Felix. ~Ferrets-Out-the-Wyrm did hide all this from us. It was not wise or honorable to do so. We have no way to know if she will do it again, in our caern, with another Garou.~

Spits-out-Nails chuffs quietly, and shakes himself as though trying to shake off his obvious annoyance at his tribemate. He does seem faintly amused, at the same time, that he finds himself more in accordance with two Silver Fangs. ~Thank you, Innocent,~ he responds calmly. ~My pardon for failing to comprehend you.~ He looks around the three other philodoxes calmly. ~Far-Cry, would you feel as a Guardian that you had to defend your own caern from other Garou of the Nation? Surely not. But we are not here to judge the Guardians of Painted Rocks. We judge Ferrets-out-the-Wyrm.~ He says no more about the Bone Gnawer than that, for now.

Mirror lady called me Innocence, the Silver Fang corrects mildly. Then he settles again onto his haunches, and again slides down into the sphinx-like posture he seems so comfortable with.

Blackriver gives Innocence a sideways glance as he mentions Chimera, before turning her attention back to Far-Cry, ears lifting in annoyance. 'Well duh,' her posture seems to read, fur bristling a bit. She broke the Litany. Then she ran and hid that she broke it. This is very bad. But she knows what she did is wrong, and she has acted here like a good Garou. Blackriver pauses here, swelling up into hispo to use the Mother's Tongue. ~I think she doesn't have the honor or wisdom to be Fostern. I think she should have the Satire Rite. This way, she is punished for what she did wrong, but she has the chance to do good things again.~

Far-Cry peels back his lips, a snarl edging forth. ~I defend the caern from /all/ who try to violate it. Other Garou who would try are not exempt; those who do meet their end. But I am not so paranoid to assume all are.~ Giving his fur a quick shake as well, but he looks squarely on Blackriver. ~I judge that she disrepected the territory of the Painted Rocks. That she ran and hid was not wise, but what do you expect from a ragabash whose tricks have been revealed? But she has become Fostern by these very tricks and so she is still worth her Fostern rank.~

Isaac licks his nose an looks up at the others. Maybe she also lies and is not brave. Maybe she should sound like that.

~Mirror...?~ begins Spits-out-Nails before seemingly deciding not to pursue that gambit. ~My pardon, Inno/cence/,~ he bids the Fang. He turns, then, to confront his tribemate once more. ~How do you know, Far-Cry, how she became fostern? How do you know what tricks she employs? Have you spoken to her, questioned her?~ He scratches the ground ill-humoredly. ~A ragabash who uses their tricks for ill instead of good, is neither honorable nor wise. Tricks are weapons, and like weapons, can be used in many different ways, some good, some bad.~

Blackriver snaps at Far-Cry. ~New-moons still follow the Litany. They might question our ways, but they shouldn't break them.~

Far-Cry bristles at Spits-Out-Nails, growling right back in retort, ~Good Garou and the spirits saw her fit to join the ranks of those elder. I do not question their past wisdom. And from what I have seen of her, Ferrets-Out-the-Wyrm does have some honor, and some glory to her scarred form if not the cut up wisdom to match it.~ Right back at Blackriver he snaps his teeth. ~I did not say she should break the laws! She disrespected territory - she broke the law. She should be punished for it. But Satire Rite? That is too much for this deed.~ From one face to the other, he stares until he comes to Innocence. ~We already know she lies, and is not brave. What do you mean?~

Spits-out-Nails looks between the judges again. ~I assume there is no doubt as to her guilt. Only the degree of punishment. Blackriver has suggested a Satire Rite. Far-Cry disagrees. For my part I would have considered death but for the absence of metis, and the fact that I know, in this sept, other charachs have not been punished thus. At the very least, I say, to reduce her to cliath rank is only fitting. She can always regain it if she regains honor and wisdom.~ He turns to Isaac. ~You have not given an opinion yet, Innocence, upon what you feel is a suitable punishment.~

Isaac whimpers high and sharp. Like that. Like Dies for Others. Squeaky Voice. For lying and not being brave. Isaac then rises up, slowly, ever so slowly shifting up from lupus to hispo, and finally to Crinos where he squats, leaning on the knuckles of his hands. ~But she didn't just lie. And she didn't just run away. And she didn't just be bad. She broke the biggest law. She broke the first one. And she did it in a very special place. And that's very very very bad.~

Blackriver's ears twitch as Isaac mentions a name she doesn't know, watching the Fang shift up into crinos. ~She was very very bad. She didn't just do one thing wrong, she did a lot of things wrong. She broke territory, she broke the first law, she did this in a /caern/ and she ran and hid. This is many wrongs, many ways that she showed us that she doesn't have the honor to be truthful, the glory to be brave, or the wisdom to think before acting. Maybe she did, once, but she doesn't now. So she shouldn't be Fostern.~ The Fang pauses, and then turns to Isaac. ~Do you think she should have the voice until she proves she shouldn't have it anymore?~

Isaac nods his massive head up and down. ~Until she shows she really is a good wolf. For a long time she can sound squeaky. And then she can show she is good and then she can not be squeaky. And everyone who sees her will know she was bad, even if she runs away again.~

Spits-out-Nails watches Innocence unblinkingly as he responds to Blackriver. Then slowly he swivels his head round to face Far-Cry, saying nothing.

Far-Cry licks the front of his nose, taking a long moment to think. ~She deserves the Voice of the Jackal, that much I agree with. But the Satire Rite is still too much. You may as well kill her than expect her to regain her honor again after such a blow. You saw what it did to your former tribemate,~ he notes at Blackriver. ~To perform the rite again in such a short time? It invites the spirits to be angry with our kind here.~

Blackriver gives her fur a light shake. ~What happened to Draws-in-Smoke was wrong. But what happened to him has nothing to do with what happens to Ferrets-out-the-Wrym. The spirits will not be angry if we do what is right.~ She glares at Far-Cry a moment before turning to Isaac. ~The Jackal voice until she proves she should not have it is good. It isn't less harsh than the Satire rite, every time she speaks she will remember what she's done.~

Isaac's tongue flicks out and slides over his nose. ~I think squeaky voice is right.~

Spits-out-Nails gives another look around the three philodox of the Hidden Walk. ~The voice of the jackal? Indefinitely?~ He growls quietly to himself, as though suggesting that this is a light punishment, but he doesn't give voice to any such opinion.

~I am no theurge, but I do not feel comfortable having more than one Satire Rite performed so quickly when others have felt the last one was wrong.~ Far-Cry scratches the ground with a forepaw. ~Let her wear the Stone of Scorn too, so she will feel what she has done deep in her breast. Until she proves herself truly honorable with great deeds in service to a caern.~

Blackriver's nose twitches and she lets out a huff. ~I have seen the ones with the bad voice rite done on them. Many of them look sick, and run away from their pack until the rite is gone. It is not an easy punishment. Not if it lasts forever.~ Slowly, the hispo turns to look at Far-Cry. ~Doing two rites for one crime is too much. If you do two weaker rites, it means you should be doing a stronger rite. I don't think the spirits like it when you call them twice for the same thing.~

~Blackriver is right,~ Spits states flatly. ~To perform two rites is more work on the spirits. One rite should suffice, be it Jackal's Voice, Stone of Scorn or Satire.~

Isaac scratches pictures in the dirt with one claw, though nothing there seems to have meaning. ~The voice one is right, because she can't lie and tell other people that she didn't be bad.~

Far-Cry shakes out his fur to mask a postured shrug. ~The give her the Jackal's Voice as she deserves. Let all who hear her know of her wrongs until she one day earns the wolf song.~ The Shadow Lord looks to his tribemate, gauging his reaction more than anything.

If a dire wolf can be said to have a poker face, then the hispo Spits-out-Nails has it now. ~I thank you, judges of the Hidden Walk, for hearing me and for your time. I leave you to agree upon a time and place for the punishment of your septmate to be carried out.~ If there's an ironic stress on 'your septmate' it's the faintest one possible. He shrinks back into lupus form, and makes as if to walk away.

Blackriver gives Far-Cry a half-way disgusted look, and then watches Spits-out-Nails trot off, slightly amused. ~I have the rite. She should have to do something very big to have the voice taken off, yes? So we should all be able to agree if it should be done.~

Isaac drops onto his bottom, tail sliding out from underneath just before he lands on it. He blinks up at Blackriver and then says. ~Yes.~

Far-Cry catches the look of disgust, however mild, aimed at him. The Shadow Lord bristles, but that is the extent of his reaction. Left in the company of the Fangs, the black dire wolf amongst the white chuffs his agreement as well. ~What do you both suggest?~

Blackriver shakes herself off and makes to leave, slipping down into lupus. Far-Cry's question catches her off guard, and she turns her head to give him a 'huh?'

Isaac scratches several stick figures into the mud he's created in front of him. He glances at each of the others, and then back to his drawings.

Far-Cry casts one glance down to Isaac's drawings. Then, he looks to Blackriver. ~On second thought, nevermind. Consider my question unasked.~ Turning from them as well, he shifts himself to lupus too and begins to walk away in the opposite direction of Blackriver's heading.

Blackriver watches Far-Cry leave, expression still somewhat confused, and then turns back to peer at Isaac's drawings, before apparently deciding they're not worth puzzling over, and heading towards the south.

Isaac waits until the others leave, then rises onto four legs, still in crinos. With a hind paw, he stomps on his drawings and then splooshes into the lake, shifting to lupus before he reaches the other side.

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