NPC/GM: White Bear's Uktena Test, Start
5/12/2005
05:16 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (28% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 63 degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.08 and falling, and the relative humidity is 55 percent. The dewpoint is 47 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)
It is currently 16:52 Pacific Time on Thu May 12 2005.
Red's Forward Command(#3015RFJs)
Box frame tents and prefabricated buildings. Very posh living for the hip 'on the move' dictator.
Contents:
Nascha
White Bear
[And meawhile the other cast of characters:
Black Sky - an old very high-ranked Uktena theurge, and medicine man
Red Thunder - a head warrior of the village
Yellow Bird - Black Sky's wife
Little Big Moon - 7 yrs old, Black Sky's grandson, Red Thunder's son]
Obvious exits:
Out
The dawn came cold and grey, with only the faintest rose leaking through to kiss the slate colored clouds. Nascha fetched White Bear at roughly three in the morning and has taken him to a small lean-to of branch and grasses. There, she began the prayers, burning the sacred herbs and filling the air with their pungent scent. The ancient spirits she petitions for guidance and above all for Uktena to follow the steps of this one who wishes to follow the long road of the tribe. For three long hours she urges the Ahroun to join in, making him drink the foul brew made from the burned herbs and the blood of a serpent and deer, two animals closely related to Uktena. Only now, as dawn rises, does another join them. Cutter, the Fostern Shadow Lord Theurge. No words are spoken to either Uktena or Tribeless Garou as he begins the process of spiritual summoning, calling out into the dawn sky for a spirit of Chimera to come to them.
White Bear was where he always was, that time of the night, on watch at the Caern. The Ahroun was was reluctant at best to leave the Caern, though he clearly wanted to follow the Uktena off. Only after he's sure that there are still other Garou around the Caern does he follow Nascha; it doesn't take long at all.
As the rituals begin, he is at first attentive, and participates readily at Nascha's urging. But as time drags on, the fact that he's running on the last of his fumes becomes readily apparent to anyone with two eyes. Cutter's arrival manages to jar him out of the stupor, though, becoming more attentive at the presence of the Fostern Garou. For the ritual to call Chimera from her home, he remains small and out of Nascha and Cutter's way, dull eyes lifted upwards as he watches for the arrival of the spirit.
But if the spirit ever truly arrives in form, White Bear will never know. The process of calling a spirit is a long one, and after a good ten minutes, the Ahroun's eyes begin to droop. The confines of the small lean-to with three Garou bodies is hot and the smoke makes the eyes heavy and the air intoxicating. If enough to put anyone asleep, and even Nascha appears lulled, staring unfocused at the Shadow Lord who continues to call. The air grows thicker with the heavily perfumed smoke, and the Ahroun could almost feel his head bobbing as is gets harder and harder to stay focused, the voices of Nascha and Cutter growing more and more distant and unfocused until it's like trying to listen to the words on a muted television. The immediate feeling is jerking awake after only being asleep for a few seconds, but when White Bear opens his eyes back up, he is no longer in the lean-to. Infact, he's not even on the bawn, but lying on his back in homid on very hot, grassy ground. The world around is absent of trees, just miles upon miles of long gold grass and spotted with patches of cracked earth and sand. In the far distance, nestled against a small hill, is what looks like a ramshackle village, complete with small huts made of animal skins and some of broken bits of wood.
The ahroun struggles to stay awake, though, up until the point where he drifts off. He clearly wasn't expecting it, and the whole thing comes to him as even more of a shock. He shifts to Lupus in almost an instinctive flinch of a shift, trying to roll onto all fours.
The world around is alarmingly devoid of life, at least anything resembling large game or wildlife. A few tiny birds move through the sky here or there and two horses, one dun and one paint, tied up at the close outskirts of the village of eight homes. Smoke curls up in lazy circles from holes in the roofs and there is the distant bark of a dog or coyote, but not much movement. None at all, the air heavy and still with a lack of wind. The sun beating down from overhead is scalding and there's not a tree or bush in view that could provide suitable cover from it.
White Bear huddles against the ground, clearly lost and confused. The Ahroun raises his head hesitantly, sniffing at the air a few times while at the same time almost afraid of picking himself up any further than a few inches to do so. At the lack of anything too terribly alarming, he shifts back to Homid before slowly rising, looking around at the scene almost meerkat like. Looking around the sunblasted place, he hesitantly starts to lumber his way off to the village, looking throughly lost.
As the village comes into closer focus, it soon becomes apparent this is no place anyone would probably live in by choice. The huts made with skins show that their coverings have seen many long years of wear and weather, some patched with bits of other constrasting hides. Several show the stains left by paint long flaked off. Even the two huts made of wood look ready to rot into splinters. One is larger, set in the center of the seven smaller dwellings next to a covered over well. The other wooden building iss nearby, smaller and the rough size of the skin huts. The majority of smoke comes from there.
Alarm cries and warning words rally around the village. Women and children retreat nearer to their family huts, whilst the warriors of the tiny village stop their roughhousing and grab for their knives and blunt weapons. Many deep brown-nearly black eyes stare in the direction of the approaching stranger, amongst them a young child with but small buckskin loincloth and shoes as his only clothing. Yet with the boy of no more than 7 years of age is his proud swagger of bravado. Despite an elder woman's chastising, he dares to proceed forward a few feet closer, staying just behind a few feet of the warriors. Murmurs and speculation travel through the miniature crowd, and then one of the warriors says something to his companions, lifts a barbed stick that sports two birdfeathers trailing down and shouts a cry, shaking the half-spear in the air.
White Bear slows at the calls of alert, looking more concerned than anything. The Ahroun drags his feet to a stop, blinking absently at the group as they head his direction. It's almost as if a invisible chain-link fence popped up, and he can make himself go no closer. As the group comes within earshot, he keeps his eyes pointed downwards, offering a tentative greeting. "Waqaa."
There are five warriors in all. Two older men, both thin of build and showing signs of infirmary, one man in his prime, and two looking to be no older than sixteen. All of them are dressed in hide or roughly woven clothing, the yarns looking faded with long use and sun exposure. One of them shoos away a few scraggly sheep who have been stirred up with the commotion and a coyote-like dog, no more than a half-grown pup, chases the sheep. The middle-aged warrior, spear in hand, steps forward and gives a most sour look on his worn, copper towards the stranger. He barks out something in a foreign language, native by the sounds, but none of the more northern dialects White Bear may have heard from his Wendigo packmates. Whatever it is, it sounds demanding.
[The lead warrior demanded to know who the hell WB was.]
The one bold child seems torn between fear and courage, no doubt noticing the older warrior making his demands of the stranger. He asks aloud something of the warrior, again in that language unfamiliar, and then drops back a couple of feet and stoops. He watches the outsider with big eyes, and a hand scratching at the reddish-brown dirt beneath him.
[The boy, of course, asked the warrior whether or not he was going to kill the white stranger.]
White Bear looks thoroughly flummoxed, brow knitting up as he looks marginally up at the gathered once again. His hands slowly pivot to palm-out from his sides in the universal 'there's nothing there', before he licks his lips. "I do not know your words." He admits to the group, before adding. "I am lost, I think."
"We know yours." Says the one who must be the lead warrior with his feathered spear. He speaks in broken english, spoken slowly as to be pronounced as correctly as possible. To the little boy, the man gestures to keep back, saying something scolding back to him before snapping attention back to White Bear. "Why come here?" He says in that same demanding voice, though he steps no closer to the Garou, only holds his spear tighter.
The women look disturbed with the use of tongues other than their native one. The leading warrior's gesture to the boy to keep back seems just as effective to push the gathered back. It fails, though, on the young boy who looks up and pouts at the warrior before turning back to Stare at the white man. The more the tall warrior communicates and uses those demanding tones of voice, the more the boy looks bolstered.
White Bear keeps his eyes from making contact, returning his hands to his front where he rubs them absently. "Spirit put me here." He answers, so matter of fact one would almost think that's a perfectly normal, every day answer. "Went to sleep, and I wake up here. This place is not where I am from..."
The warrior spits out some sort of curse, or at least by the angry tone, it must be one. He shifts himself so he can speak with the other men, though one eye keeps looking back on the Garou suspiciously. The warrior and his fellows converse back and forth, before the lead man gestures one of the older men off. The aged man heads for the smaller of the two wood buildings.
[Basic talk: Thunder lets out an explicit, disbelieving, but tells one of the older men to go see Black Sky. The village knows he was praying for aid, though not all of them know to who.]
The boy watches the lead warrior with all the intent of one who looks up to a great man. However, the talk amongst the warriors quickly bores the young child and he jogs forward a good distance. Puffing up his skinny chest and yelling aloud at White Bear in his birthtongue with what could only be an insult, the small child winds up and pitches a small red pebble at the Garou. The rock's path arcs, and contacts squarely against the ahroun's chest. The boy seems very pleased at his strikezone, and grins widely before remembering something, and forcing himself to frown deeply- exaggeratedly- just like the lead warrior from earlier.
[Something akin to, 'Your skin is like the belly of a frog's!]
White Bear takes the insult in stride... after all, he doesn't understand a word of it. But the rock from young'in elicits more of a reaction from the Ahroun as he quickly bares teeth at the other. He bites down on his rage, soothing his hands over his thighs as he looks back to the older group.
At the show of teeth from White Bear, the man whirls around with his feathered spear held at arms length and snarls at him. "Do not." He says, eyes narrowed. "Do not." He repeats again, not long before the old man slowly can be seen hobbling back towards the group in the distance.
The young boy skitters back maybe two feet, brushing hair out of his way as he chatters a quick stream of words to the warrior. The boy stoops to pick up another rock, apparently, looking back at the white man. He shakes his fist at the ahroun and whoops aloud, apparently now, not afraid of him as before.
['He's not a spirit! The rock hurts him! See, I'll throw another one!']
White Bear takes a half step backwards at the words from the armed man, head twisting backwards as his tips his head back to show throat for just a moment almost unconsciously. Again, it takes a second to recompose himself after this, keeping his eyes low as he waits for the elder to come back.
The lead warrior waits until he has spoken with the old man, which seems to be a terribly important discussion, because it goes on for some time with no apparent care for how long White Bear stands there. Only once they have done, does the man with the feathered spear turn back to White Bear. "Red Thunder." He says and reaches up with a curled fist to strike his own breast and then gestures towards the Ahroun, eyes silently demanding answer.
[The old man brings words Black Sky does not wish this one killed, yet. He will watch him. He may be the one he sent for.]
The boy turns back to the discussion amongst the warriors, clearly not wanting to miss something important as the conversation goes on. He takes a few moments out of the time of listening to turn back and stare at WB longer, his expression going through various emotions of wonder, then disappointment, then confused frustration. The child starts to make protest, but is quickly hushed by a sharp word from one of the older women. The boy, turning to the elderly lady, pouts at her and then drops his rock to the ground. He kicks it though, in the direction of White Bear.
White Bear, however, seems to posses more patience with the village elders than he does for the youth, remaining still until re-approached. "White Bear. Aketachunak." The Ahroun's response is more subdued, then tapping himself on the chest before he looks momentarily to to the group, dull eyes flicking around before returning.
Red Thunder gives the Garou a suspicious look, if not betraying some sign of concern, before he turns away from White Bear and follows after the young boy, urging both him and the women back into the village. The other warriors settle themselves in a semi-circle around White Bear, one of the two younger men gesturing for him to follow with a sour grunt. Should he follow, the warrior escorts lead the Garou past the smaller hut, pausing only for a moment as one calls out a single word. There they seem to wait white Red Thunder steps inside.
The villagers seem to return to their duties and activities that had been interrupted once the warriors have gone to take care of the stranger. The young boy hangs around, and only at the urgings of Red Thunder does he hurriedly move to the hut where he expects the stranger to be brought.
White Bear does follow, the Ahroun making his way as slowly as the other two go. His behaviour is fairly readable to any familiar with it, acting much like he was entering another pack's territory. He hesitates at the hut before ducking himself inside, keeping his posture fairly low while he waits for the other.
As White Bear moves to enter the hut, one of the younger warriors yells out something and dives to stop him. At the noise, Red Thunder is quickly moving to block the Garou's path further into the hut which is filled with acrid smoke. His face is red as his name and angry. "OUT!" He demands, making a mock (but serious threat) towards White Bear. From deeper inside the hut, beyond sight, there is a faint and slightly whispered voice, sounding like the breath of a very old and wizened man.
Villagers jerk their gazes up once more like startled horses, staring at the sudden burst of activity once more. The boy, who had been hanging around the warriors and the hut, scrambles back with the warriors moving forward, accidentally falling flat on his ass, but not carrying about how ridiculous he looked. He just stares at White Bear with wide eyes.
White Bear, again, is quick to bare throat, scabbering backwards as the younger warrior suddenly moves to stop him. He hurries backwards, head tipped backwards as he makes himself (if it's possible) even smaller looking.
Red Thunder barks out an order and the warriors are quick to hustle White Bear away. The last he sees of the lead warrior is his stern face looking out from the hut and the slight sparkle of two bright eyes back in the midst of black smoke. The escorts make their way to the far edge of the village, even past the horses, to a broken down little tent of a shelter where the older of the two young men gestures for White Bear to go.
White Bear practically lets himself be shoved along, going along looking sullen and his face more than a bit flushed in embarrassment. He follows along the two rather mum, before they finally reach the ramshackle shelter. He looks at it hesitantly, before trudging forward to go to the indicated place with almost a fatalist's air.
And it is there White Bear is left, periodically checked on by one of the other men, but more or less ignored like he was a particularly large piece of dust under the rug no one wanted to be bothered with to remove or sweep elsewhere. The women murmurs under their breath as they pass, pointing at the white man in his makeshift tent and keeping well clear. As evening comes, one of the warriors bring a cracked clay bowl filled with a gruel made from ground grain and water, a strip of long dried meat, and a small skin of dark, earthy tasting water. He is quick to leave.
Soon as nightfall approaches, the young boy who had decided to scamper off and play with some of the other boys in camp come around. They all take turns staring, pointing, chattering at the white devil seemingly caged by the open air tent. When the warrior with the food, they all cram forward from their short distance, peering at White Bear intently. Something gets said, and suddenly all the other boys retreat back and watch as the rock-throwing boy from before slips forward again.
White Bear sits there, much like a sullen looking bump on a log, careful not to bother anyone or anything as if he wasn't only a particularly large piece of dust, but one that's mere presence was distasteful. The food elevates his mood considerably, the ahroun consuming it readily and looking more than a bit grateful for it. He attempts to tell this to the one who delivered the food, but the other is gone before White Bear can do it.
As the evening draws on, he half curls himself on the ground, the Ahroun looking back the way he came rather distantly. He doesn't at first react to the youth, but as the boy approaches, he sits up, peering outward almost curiously.
The sun begins to set as the village gathered around the fire burning in the center of the open-air wooden building, the larger of the two. They laugh and sing, passing around meager loaves of handmade flat bread and fresh meat from one of the sheep slaughtered earlier. In the distance can be heard the lonely, wavering howl of a coyote.
As the ahroun sits up, the boy freezes in place. Staring, again, he approaches the stranger the way one approaches a vicious, low growling dog, with a hand outstretched, fingers like tendrils. The boy says a few words, only daring to cast a glance back at the boys behind him, who have retreated really far back near the ponies.
White Bear's head pushes forward, planting both hands on the ground as he squints blinkingly at the youth. It's almost as if he wants to take a good sniff at the hand being pushed out, but he's anchored in place and simply unable to. His head cocks to the side, instead, blinking a few times mutely at the boy.
Sniff sniff. Sniff. There's the sounds of faint steps behind the tent, a nose being pushes against the dirt. Whatever it is is circling. About ten feet from the crowd of boys, two pale eyes shine in the growing darkness as a coyote steps into the faint light cast by the distant fire. It is thin, mange-ridden, too starved to be cowardly.
... It stares at the boys, jaws agape and leaking bits of drool, hackles puffing up.
All the boys are too focused upon their oh-so-bold leader and the youth's interaction with the white man. That is, until light catches against the eyes of the starving coyote, one boy looks distractedly over towards the animal and suddenly cries out in surprise. The boys yell and beat a hasty retreat, grabbing up pebbles and tossing them at the predator. The boy approaching White Bear suddenly turns around at the sounds of his friends yelling, and swallows down. Nearly without thinking, he too grabs up a rock that is a little /too/ big to hurl very easily, but lobs it anyway with intention to scare the coyote off. He yells boldly as well, in all respects in what sounds like 'Go away!' to the mangy animal.
White Bear looks up, peering about his little ramshackle place for anything that would help. A chunk of the meat strip attracts his attention, the Ahroun scooping it up with a thick hand. Crawling all the way out, he wings the food away from the youths, but close enough for the 'yote to see. The Ahroun doesn't seem that at ease, though, muscles and face tense.
The scrawny canine eyes the bit of meat, and while he does slaver greedily, there is an even bigger piece of meat within reach. One that is not so dry. Peeling back his laps, the brash animal tenses and charges forward right for the boy. In the distance, the boys are nearing the gathering hut to alarm the adults.
The bold boy, suddenly, is not so bold anymore. Coyote runs from the bigger animal, wasn't that how the stories went? The boy freezes stockstill like a deer in headlights, just watching in horror as the slavering predator charges him.
White Bear's head ducks, eyes looking for just a moment to confirm the rock-throwing kid has his back to him before shifting in an instant back to the more comfortable Lupus shape. He tears out from behind the other like a bat out of hell, charging crown-first like his pack totem.
Even if the boy misses the shapechange, the coyote doesn't and trips over himself in shock. He tumbles, rolling in the dirt as his charge mis-steps, yowling and urinating himself as the wolf charges. The sickly animal is on his feet and turning to bolt with his tail between his legs. By now, the village has been roused and the armed men are charging to aid the boy, their voices quickly growing louder and louder as they near.
As the bigger wolf blows past the boy, the youth's eyes go wide and he spins around, coming out of his shocked state. He doesn't see the white man in the tent, and spins around yet again. A puzzled gape plants itself firmly on the boy, but the shock finally starts to register into his head and the first bits of tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes.
After he's sure the Coyote is well and gone, White Bear isn't about to stick around either. The wolf runs off full tilt, moving as fast as he can to put things between him and the village warriors. Only when he's well and away does he slow.
The men reach the scene too late to see the wolf, though the boy is bound to tell them. It is probably only a matter of time before they come charging out to slay the white demon who can turn into a wolf. However, someone else reaches White Bear first. Something appears behind him, dissolving from nothing with only the faintest sparkle of light. *WHACK* Comes the hard impact of wood on skull as a staff is swung round to impact with the wolf's noggin.
White Bear's reaction is to start running yet again, head turned to the side to find out what the heck just attacked him as he puts distance between it and him.
~STOP.~ Comes the boomed and commanding snarl from what appears to be the oldest Crinos to ever walk this earth. The beast stands with a staff in hand, the other arm gnarled, withered, and twisted up against his chest. His fur is a muddy red marked with black and brown, broken by countless scars of all shapes and sizes. Even his body is warped, hunched over with the sheer weight of time and punishment. His eyes, though, are the bright shine of someone who still has strength apleanty in spirit, if not in body. The strength of his blood is apparent in the pride written in his face and even his breaking body exudes an air of superiority only someone who is very old can have. ~Stop your running, Wyrmcomer.~
You'd think he just slammed into a wall. White Bear skids to an abrupt stop, turning around with his posture suddenly scraping the ground. Ears pinned backwards, he looks up a the Elder Garou with his tail firmly wrapped against his thigh. And he just urinated himself quite thoroughly.
The scarred old Garou wrinkled his muzzle to flash yellowed teeth, exuding an air of bitter amusement and anger all at once with all the glee of an old geezer who has just thoroughly slapped around a mouthy youngster who didn't think he could do it. ~Has your white mind grown so tainted that you lack sense? It is no wonder the Garou fall at the belly of the Wyrm if all they can do is run from every problem they face or cause.~ The aged Crinos snarls. ~You are very lucky you did not harm my grandson, Wyrmcomer. I had not wished him to face his heritage so early, but you chose otherwise. If you are the one Uktena has sent, I will be forced to wonder about the reasonings of my totem.~
White Bear's response is to give a placating whimper, starting to roll onto his side and pull his head backwards to bare throat once again. His posture is very much submissive, like the omega that just got kicked repeatedly. White Bear is mooncalf. White Bear should have let Coyote bite him instead.
~Yes, White Bear is a mooncalf, and Black Sky has seen many of those.~ The old Uktena snorts, closing his claws around his staff. ~Regardless, you still saved him even through your stupidity, so I will not drive you away like the other Wyrmcomers. Be grateful all but a few of my people here are of the blood and know of us, but make another mistake and I will skin you alive without lifting a hand. Now, take your human skin and come with me.~ And this said, the old werewolf becomes an old man, still gnarled and scarred and withered, but no less proud. Easily, he must be a hundred years old. Without looking to see if the Ahroun follows, Black Sky walks back to his village.
White Bear is slow to roll back onto his stomach, watching the Elder Garou from his belly for no more than a few seconds before he shifts back to Homid. He picks himself up following Black Sky with a wide eyed look, hunched shoulders, and more visible-discomfort than you'd see from someone sitting on a bed of nails.
While the elder Uktena and the ahroun are conversing, the conversations at the village had grown into a strange fever pitch for the time of night. Minutes tick by, and as the two Garou return, the village has again settled into somewhat of its initial peace. One figure stands outside of his family lodging - the young grandson of Black Sky. He waits by the hut's doorway, stooped and unwilling to go to bed as quickly as his father and mother directed him to after all this. Finally after another word called from the interior of the hut, the youth reluctantly, and with a final glance back at the figures of Black Sky and the white man-wolf, turns in.
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