Gnawer Rite of Passage Gifts: Christine's Side
10/9/2005
08:14 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (44% full).
It is currently 20:10 Pacific Time on Sun Oct 9 2005.
[TIMEWARP NOTE: This is timewarped back to the night of September 28, 2005, the night of the Bone Gnawer Cubs Rite of Passage.]
Odeon - Theatre(#3973RA)
The floor sticks to one's shoes like flypaper, and the seats all sag limply under even the slightest pressure. It's dark and dank with the evaporation of untold unknown liquids, and sounds echo menacingly off the soundproofed, honeycombed walls. The theatre is like a giant abandoned hive filled with row upon row of empty egg sacs; about a hundred of them, arranged in two columns, with three neat walkways, one through the middle and one on either side. High up and inset over the lobby doors is the projectionist's booth, a small alcove overlooking the theatre; opposite it is the screen, framed by ratty curtains that no longer close, and taking up most of the wall. It can no longer serve it's purpose, though: the screen is no longer blank, scrawled across it, from top to bottom, is a disconcerting mess of fluorescent grafitti which glows out bright oranges and greens even in the dark theatre. Like massive glowing worms the lines coil in and out of tags and outlines of images, in a roiling, reeling, psychedelic nightmare. The hundred empty seats all point towards it, mute and dusty.
Contents:
Squeaks
Obvious exits:
LObby Alley
As Basil finishes up his story, Yi goes through a motion of painting a paste she was mixing upon his face. By the time the young ahroun passes out into a sedated sleep, the others are all sleeping heavily in other chairs in the front row. Yi crosses over to where the theurge has fallen asleep. Gently, she shakes her. "Christine?"
Christine starts. "Wha-? Not asleep," she snaps groggily. She grips the cup-holders on either side of her and, shivering, pulls herself upright. Fully awake, she says simply, "I'm sorry."
"It is your turn," Yi says with a warm smile and a look to the others. A hand offers to aid the theurge over to the chalk circle on the floor, where the candles are still flickering rather dimly, burned very low. In the air, the herbal incense is thick, but calming. "Sit once more, here, and tell me of your story. What happened tonight? Do you remember?"
The girl takes Yi's hand and pulls herself shakily up. The vacated seat folds neatly back into itself. She sidles through the narrow aisle, and then down the longer one, slowing as she reaches the perimeters of the circle.
The circle is just chalk on the floor, truly. "There's nothing to be afraid about here," Yi continues to reassure. "Sit." She gestures down to the circle. "It will soon be over. But I first will hear your tale."
Reproach flickers momentarily in Christine's eyes. She moves unceremoniously beyond the chalk line and takes her place on the floor. Foul though the carpet is, it is little match for the stuff that clings to her clothes just now. She looks at each of the other cubs in turn--Aaron, Masao, Basil. "It's kind of hazy. There was something in the air--I couldn't think. I--did I pass, Yi?" She looks up at her elder, her mouth hung open in slack trepidation.
"There is one last step before we will know," Yi replies. She sits as well, not minding the carpet, and mixes the paste freshly. It smells a bit of berries and herbs. "It seems, at least, like you have. But yes, there is one last step. What do you remember?"
Christine says, "I remember being in the alley with Basil. I was talking to him." Her face glistens with sweat, which wets the dried blood anew. She smears her hand down across it. "I was opening some windows."
Yi nods, chuckling once, softly. "And a wise choice. Warriors who cannot breathe are warriors who will not be able to fight." The ragabash finishes mixing. "Well, Christine, what do you think about all of this so far?"
Christine looks again at her tribemates. "I dunno. I'd...just like to be a Cliath." She smiles uncertainly.
Yi tilts her head at the girl. "What does it mean to you? Being a Cliath."
Christine says, with the certainty of rote learning ringing clear through her confusion, "I know the Litany. I'm not going to break it, and I can help out in a fight." Then she breaks off, consternated: "That's not all I did, there was so much--it's just I'm tired."
Yi hms softly, and then leans forward a little. "The elders of your tribe find that you are deserving of the rank. We will see if the spirits think the same." Her fingers reach up, coated with a bit of the paste from the bowl, to paint it upon the theurge's face on her forehead and cheeks gently, taking care to not press upon the wounds too much.
Christine calms, and grimaces softly at the coldness of the cream.
It's cold, but cooling and soothing. As it seeps into the skin, the feeling spreads throughout the body, causing a slow sedative like feeling. "Gaia bless you with her gifts," the ragabash is heard to whisper, before the world falls towards the darkness of sleep once more.
When the girl feels her self wake, it is in a night-dark alley, with a fire burning low at one end. Gossamer strings of spider's webs run this way and that in patterns all over the buildings, bricks colored purple. The theurge finds herself sitting halfway in the alley, tucked into a large cardboard box. "You awake?" calls out a voice, rough around the edges, feminine.
Christine rolls herself onto her elbows. She extends a foot experimentally, and then kicks out, to rid herself of the box. Silent, and watchful, she waits.
"Over here," calls the voice again, not sounding like Olga's voice, but similarly lilting and rough. The smell of something cooking wafts down the alley, brought by the breeze. "C'mon over. There's still some stew left in the pot if you're hungry." The woman's face is a little hard to see in the firelight, emitting from a half-cut oil drum with a makeshift pole and old cauldron bubbling over it. "Don't drag your feet, lass, or I'm going to give the rest to Spots."
Christine, standing, ducks her head down to squint at the woman. She slinks close the oil drum, and extends her hands like a sheepish child, gray palms up. "I haven't washed them," she says.
Laughter croaks out of the woman wrapped in heavy rags. "No one's going to blame you. The rest of the water went to the stew." Something small and furry drops onto the outstretched palm of the girl. A rat, black and white with brown beady eyes, peers up at the theurge curiously. "Tell me, what's brought you out here?"
Christine strokes the rat's spine with a crooked finger. "I don't know," she says. "I guess I'm dreaming." A strange torpor holds her features steady against the onslaught of unreality.
"Maybe," the woman in rags supposes idly, pushing a metal handle around in the pot. "It's a funny thing, dreams. You sometimes learn things about yourself that you didn't know you had." Clearer now, there's a sort of old British accent to the woman's voice. With a dirt-crusted hand, she pushes her hood back, revealing a plethora of brown wavy hair, hiding within it a gentle, and would-be attractive face. "What's your name?" The rat squeaks, rubbing against the girl's finger happily.
"Christine Gloria Parish," says the girl, creating for the animal a hammock of her interlocked fingers.
"That's quite a name," the woman notes. "You know, names have power. For spirits, people, everything. If you know someone's name, you know a lot about them." The rat explores around the theurge's fingers, whiskers twitching. Then with a look up from its perch, the rat voices its own opinion with a squeak. Though it's just a squeak in the audible sense, in the theurge's mind there is somehow understanding. *Mine's Spots!*
"If I was named for what I looked like," says Christine, to the rat, "I'd be Shortie Chink-Eyes. Christine's better than that, huh?"
The rat squints its eyes as if in imitation, or in humor and understanding. *Shortie is fun,* says the rat, *but you need a better name. And 'Christine' means little than 'little'. You need a better name.* The woman looks up from her stewing, nodding. "I'd have to agree with Spots. Shortie-Chink-Eyes, not too glorifying is it, Gloria? But, honestly, you have to admit you aren't doing anything here but holding Spots. What are you hoping to get out of all this?"
"Some soup," says Christine.
A hearty roll of laughter belts out of the woman, head rolling back in clear amusement. "Oh you really are a dish to serve," the woman giggles once she's finished her guffaw. "Find yourself a can then? Or maybe you want the one in here." The metal handle scoops into the pot, digging out an empty tuna can that drips with some oatmeal like mush. Spots clambers out of the theurge's hands, making its way up her shirt front to sit on her shoulder. *I made the soup! Good soup!* the rat claims.
Christine raises her bicep to help the rat and takes, with the other hand, the can. "Thanks." Suddenly she's sucking the contents of the can straight from the rim, ravenous with a newly-discovered hunger.
Brave is the soul that takes in the contents of the pot, and while it tastes like cardboard - and maybe is made of it - the mush isn't unbearably bad. Spots seems so pleased by the theurge's eager consumption that the rat cranes itself around to lick a few bits dripping from her chin. *Spots will teach you how to make this great soup. Just remember how it tastes, Shortie!* Somewhere in the aftertaste, that rememberance seems to linger, sticking to the ribs as it does to the mind. It's almost clear just how to create such a flavor. The woman laughs again, just watching the two interact and fishing around for a second smaller tuna can that looks half-melted, metal and mush.
"What /are/ you?" Christine asks, licking the last of the mush from her mouth.
"Oof, ouch, that's hot," mutters the woman quietly as the half-melted can transfers some of the soup from the can to her lips. It dribbles freely down the woman's chin, as well as back down into the soup itself. "Hmm? Ahh, so the questions finally come out to play." The woman drops the can back into the stew and stirs. "I... am Morgan. Though really, you can call me Cap'n." The woman looks up towards the sky, a bit dreamy, before shaking her head and returning down to this strange reality. "It's a bit complicated, but you could say I'm someone's great-great-great-great-great-great-great.... great-great-aunt. Or just a captain. But more importantly, I'm an Ancestor. You better believe me, because it won't come around twice." The woman waggles her finger mock-warningly. "Spots and I heard about your tales of high adventure, you see. And by the time you realize that this /isn't/ quite a dream, you'll be awake and back in that dull, dim world. Does that make any sense?"
"Not really," says Christine amiably. "And you can't be my ancestor, I don't think." She dips the tuna can into the stew and lifts it, offering the edge to the rat.
Spots partakes of the offering readily, burying his head almost all the way. "Hear now, did I say I was /your/ Ancestor? I said I was /an/ Ancestor. Listen a little closer," Morgan counters. "More importantly, I know things you don't know, but ought to know, so that you could help others you meet along your merry way."
Christine looks properly chastened. "Sorry," she says, bowing her head forward.
Morgan shrugs, stews the soup a little more with an awkward air, and then as if to restart the conversation she asks, "So what do you like best about being a Garou?"
Christine's eyes widen. "I don't think I do like it. I thought I'd like helping people...but I can't hardly, without breaking the Veil."
"Oh? That's a shame. A real shame. But then, lots of people hate their jobs and their life, but they keep on doing it, and doing it, and then they just forget about why they even do it. Routine can get pretty boring." Morgan nods slowly, stirring away. "But if you find some way to make it interesting, like what you said, helping people and helping the animals the way you treat Spots there, I'm sure you'll figure something out." Morgan looks skyward again, breathing deeply, and leaves the handle in the pot. She sticks out a hand as if in offer to shake. "So here's where I send you on your way, with a sort of ... farewell gift, you could say."
Christine has a troubled look about her. Rhythmically, nervously, she strokes the fur of the sleek rat, and withdraws the tuna can to replace it in the drum. "In real life," she murmurs, almost too low to hear, "I'm afraid of rats."
"You should be," Morgan says with a grin. "They're pretty scary. Look at Spots. He's terrifying." The hand is still out there. On that note, the rat jumps off from the theurge's shoulder onto the outstretched hand of the Ancestor. "But you can't let fear stop you from doing what you do, right? All you have to do is say a few prayers under your breath, and have faith that things will pull through."
"Yeah," says Christine, with a dreamy pleasantness that gradually flees her, word by troubled word: "It's hard to remember that, sometimes. You know, I thought I was going to die in that fight. I thought I was going to get killed, and there was nothing but darkness after that, just like some people say."
"Say-Your-Prayers," Morgan muses aloud, and then brightens. "Yes, that should be your name." The woman comes closer, the hand that was outstretched moving to clap open the girl's shoulder. "How about it? Once you take that name, everytime someone says it, you'll be reminded. That way, you won't forget."
Christine stares at Morgan for one drawn-out minute. Tears come to her eyes. "Thank you," she breathes.
"Remember how I told you names have power," Morgan laughs warmly, with a voice far removed from that of some cold, heartless spirit. "And now I'm going to give you a bit more. This one's a trick I learned from an ooooold friend. If you think a little bit, remember how you smell when you're wearing this human shape, and this trick'll come in handy." When they meet eyes, a certain seed of knowledge passes between the spirit and the girl. A feeling of humanity, almost tangible, that can be extended outwards in some sort of invisible air about oneself. "Oh... and one last thing," the woman says quietly. "Don't give up on your dreams. Remember your name. And... oh... believe in unicorns."
Christine takes a step away from the fire, her eyes glistening brightly from the smoke, from the gift. "OK," she says. "OK."
Why the Ancestor would say such a thing, is an enigma to its own. At least, as tear-blurred vision reveals little but the flickering light of the flames, the theurge backs up into something that bumps along the head. It snorts, horse-like.
Christine bends forward, snatching her hands up to cover her head. She whirls around.
Nothing to be surprised about, if one believes in unicorns. As there, standing in the alley plain as day, is one. A long, spiralling ivory horn protrudes from a nearly pure white horse's head, the rest of the body, mane and leonine tail also the same color. Only its cloven hooves are slightly greyer. For the moment, the unicorn stands there silently. Dark brown eyes gaze upon the girl. Now behind her, the fire from the oil drum fades away and leaves the alley dark. But as the firelight fades, the unicorn spirit seems to glow even greater beneath the pale light of the half moon.
Add awe to the list of things that bring tears to the girl's eyes. She covers her open mouth with her fist. And, without turning, she lifts her other hand to the shoulder where the rat perched.
*Little maiden,* the unicorn speaks. It's not with any voice that is heard, but with some reverberating echo within the mind. Powerful, but peaceful. *I heard the laughter of the Captain ring far into the Umbra. I came to see what she was laughing so happily about, in this dark, dark world.* If there was ever a sense of odd humor, it would be in this spirit's voice.
Christine's face is still behind her closed fist. "She named me." Her eyes crinkle at the corners, squeezing the moisture locked in those slits out into true, salt-water tears. And yet, she does not seem unhappy.
The unicorn raises and lowers its head, as if to nod. *And you are?*
Christine says simply, "Say-Your-Prayers."
A heavy snort breathes out of the unicorn. Its ears swing forward. *Say-Your-Prayers. A name of faith,* the horned equine comments. It takes a step closer, where its horn dips close to the girl's hand upon her shoulder. The ivory, when it touches, is smooth and yet warm. *Those with faith, and those with spirit, are the ones who of healing. I give you this gift then, in hope and faith that you can use it to bring brightness to the world.* A moment passes in silence, and then the unicorn lifts its head. *Open your eyes, little maiden. And remember your name.*
"But they are open," Christine protests gently. She stirs. "Yi?" The alley is gone, the unicorn is gone, and there is only the theatre, and the sticky carpet, and the circle drawn around her.
"I'm here," Yi's voice rings softly. "You are quick," the ragabash notes, a thought passing verbally. "I did not even have a chance to move you to a seat. The candlelights flicker, with over half of them having finally extinguished. "Did something happen? Something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," says Christine, sitting. "There was a unicorn."
"There was a..." Yi starts to repeat, but then stops and shakes her head. "Well, did the spirits say anything? Did they give you a name?"
"Say-Your-Prayers," says Christine, for the second time tonight.
Yi lifts her brows, and considers the name. A minute draws out, and she looks back to the theurge's face to try and glean displeasure or happiness from the girl's expression. "I think," Yi ventures, "then, you are as you wished. Christine Say-Your-Prayers... Cliath theurge of the Bone Gnawers." She taps her finger on her chin a couple of times, and adds, "Says-Prayers might be less confusing to the lupus... but oh well." She shrugs, and then stands slowly. A hand is held out again, offered to help the other up. "How about a shower, and change of clothes? The others have gone ahead to my flat."
"Yeah," says Christine, thoroughly grateful. "I think that'd be nice."
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