Smoke & Mirrors: Gnawers Bite Back
8/9/2006
09:57 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (96% full).
It is currently 21:44 Pacific Time on Wed Aug 9 2006.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 66 degrees Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northwest at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.09 and steady, and the relative humidity is 67 percent. The dewpoint is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)
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
[look Squeaks (crinos)]
Born in late April of 2003, Squeaks-Like-A-Rat is small for her age, standing no more then three and a half feet tall. The mule's body is covered with thick grey fur, while black guard hairs form a saddle across her back and a mask on her face. Squeaks' eyes are a deep golden-brown and the pup's ears form two neat triangles, which swivel this way and that. The small Mule's deformity is hard to miss; instead of a normal tail, a long rats tail extends behind the cub. Hairless and far too long, the tail impedes the young Garou's movements and draws heat away from her body.
Things are dark in the theater, as always. But they aren't particularly quiet. Squeaks is being an absolute terror tonight, like the worst behaved crazed pet dog in the neighborhood. Worse, that she's a werewolf. The not-as-little-as-she-was metis howls loudly, high pitched and whining. She doesn't want to sleep, nor does she want to stay awake. She's tired. She's cranky. She's... well, she's a Garou. Already she's torn up a number of theater seats and scratched wood. She's even been so bold as to snarl defiantly, angrily, at her tribemates many a time.
Fat-Ripper thuds her heavy way into the theatre, in Crinos within a few seconds of the door. She's tired, herself: she's kept the child up all through the day and previous night, through the long, strained hours of ferocious tantrums and long silences. Now she's had enough, and her nerves are frayed and thin: her throat is full of growls, her ears are flat, vainly straining to avoid the seemingly perpetual sound of Squeaks' cries. ~Quiet,~ she snaps, grim and forceful, though fatalistically sure it won't work. More frustrated, she looks and sniffs around this black room, not for the source of all this noise but for the one who should be watching him. ~Where's Kills-the-Cries?~
Kaz trails in behind Olga, shifting to hispo as she follows. ~He hadda patrol. I took over watchin' her f'a little, but then /I/ hadda patrol. I dunno where he is now, though.~
Anything that hasn't been tied down has probably been thrown against a wall or smashed. Even the rats have forsaken any attempts at being comforting, if they had such capacity. Squeaks quickly cuts off her next howl, but she's only quiet for a little bit before whining pathetically. ~Over here.~ Kills-the-Cries is watching her as agreed upon, though he is staying well and far away from the kid, if only to keep from killing /her/ cries. Good thing the theater still retains some sound proofing.
Fat-Ripper tries to pick him out, but the darkness is overwhelming. Perhaps it's just as well: it hides her bloodshot eyes, the desperation. Still, her voice is strained, her words come out slowly and carefully, as if she's worried she might lose control of them. ~Ears and I are going upstairs, to prepare - it's safer to step sideways up there. Try and soothe her as best you can. I know, I know: not easy. Wish us luck.~ More softly, with yet more attention, with a careful, shallow intensity, she says into the darkness, ~Squeaks, if you're good and be quiet and go to sleep, I'll bring you a cat. If you're bad and don't listen to Kills, I'll - well, I'll think of something later.~ She turns to go, plodding, tired, but before hitting the door she says more quietly yet, ~Be good, cub. I love you.~
Ears flops an ear at her packmate. Her ruff shivers at Olga's farewell to the cub, and, silent, she trails after her, through the door.
Squeaks incoherent tantrums dissolve into a low growly burble, as she echoes Olga's sentiment. ~I love you.~ Basil gruffly pushes up from his spot, grunting with a nod in the darkness to the two other Gnawers. ~Ok kid. Nap time,~ he announces, just loud enough so that the pair can hear him as well. Squeaks' whine sharply turns up with protest, the metis skittering over the theater floor away from the ahroun.
Fat-Ripper's down to Homid through the front lobby and the upstairs lounge, where the grime-soaked windows finally let fragile strands of grey and pink light into the room. She stops just long enough to grab a bit of the filth that's gathered in the corner, a mix of rat dung and ancient dust, and slip it down the side of her oversized shoes, to nestle beneath an arch. The ceremony's accompanied by a solemn face and a few mumbled incoherent words, and then it's on to the projectionist's booth. She bulks and snaps to Glabro, before digging a broken compact out of her pocket, and looking up at Kaz when the Metis joins her. "You ready?" she asks, sounding only half-so herself.
Ears seems to recognize the Rite even if she herself doesn't know it; she doesn't look askance at Olga's actions. ~Ayup. Let's get this show on the road,~ she mutters, shifting from paw to paw with a slight excess of energy.
As the pair step sideways, they feel the barrier of the Gauntlet push back hard against them. Even with the light, the journey to the spirit side eats at time. Their bodies freeze and gradually dissolve, flesh melting into spirit. The fervent cries of Squeaks fade away. Like climbing up a mountainside, and then falling off the peak, they both break the barrier and manage to step into the umbral reflection of the Odeon. It's almost as dark as the theater is at night, although this version glimmers with webs and enjoys the eerie light of Luna's true face peeking through the holes. The projection booth seems to look out over a plusher version of the theater, hardly as ratty as its real world comparison.
Ears seems to treat her role as guard, as she scans around warily for intruders and assaults, but doesn't, per se, focus on Squeaks.
~Now we wait,~ Fat-Ripper says in a grating, angry growl that indicates she sees this as the most excruciating part of the evening. The brisk quick-falling step through the gauntlet has turned her sleeplessness enervation into a nervous energy. She slinks out of the projectionist's booth, dropping to all fours, walking on claws towards the empty spaces where windows stood, to spy out on Luna's street.
The waiting is the hard part. The Umbra is filled with a white noise, mimicking the real world. Only this one isn't the sound of gas guzzling vehicles and lights, but a quiet, constant hum that rises and falls in a rhythmic ebb and flow. Like the gardener's weed whacker a few houses down, the sounds of Pattern Spiders and other unperceivable spirits fill in for the night's symphony. With each passing minute the pair waits, the sheer monotony is broken by the occassional alien noise or flitter of an air spirit playing in the moonlight. It's Kaz who spots it first. The shadows lengthen gradually along the corner of an equally old looking, dilapidated, web-covered building nearby. The sound of light flapping disturbs the relative quiet.
Olga gives a low growl, throttled mid-throat, not allowed to build. She stares a few moments, lost in the slow subtle grinding sounds of the Umbral scab, before pulling away from the spaces in the webs and moving back into the darkness of the projectionist's booth and the theatre, looking down into the dim, sniffing whatever the murk brings up.
Ears sends a little tendril of warning, via Mindspeak, about the disturbance. She stays where she is, for the moment, trying to get a better idea of what's going on.
The floor of the theater is... sticky. Whether it's from old webs lingering on purple concrete textured flooring, or something else, it's hard to say. But there's nothing so far that disturbs the theater. Along the far edge of the building across the way, the shadows start to sizzle with a black smokey essence, absorbing in the light and gathering into a ball. The smoke swirls rapidly for a moment before expanding and solidifying into a small, four-footed spirit creature with tiny bat and bird wings along its back. It couldn't be more than three feet tall, with its solid black body sucking in moonlight into the dark mists that continue to swirl around its body. It starts creeping along, horned, fox-like face low to the ground. Its tail lashes on occassion from side to side, wavering in midair like a snake.
Olga is still in the darkness of the theatre, sniffing fiercely at the air, trying to make her eyes suck in more darkness and slip it together to make sense. She sends back a simple, curious mental message, a shoulder-shrug and a blink: Anything happening?
The Galliard's ears go bolt upright, and she makes not a sound as she stares at the creature. She snorts faintly and sends Olga a Kaz-eye-view image of the creature's coalescence, and its current movements. ~I think,~ she adds, in the Mindspeak, ~This may be jackpot.~
The creature flutters its wings lightly, freezing stock still. Its feet, rather deer like in dainty hooves, pause on the ground as it slowly looks around. The spirit turns its eyes upon Kaz, looking directly at the galliard. Only its eyes aren't eyes at all, but silvery mirrors - the only thing of it that actually catches the light and reflects instead of absorbs.
It doesn't look of the Wyrm, Fat-Ripper sends Kaz her opinion. Only reluctantly does she turn from the darkness where, just a hop, a skip, a jump, and a reach Squeaks lays possibly sleeping; she heads back on fours, crouched over for the low ceiling, claws tugging at webs. ~But then,~ she says, mother's tongue, ~you can never tell.~ She moves to the window's edge, watching with restrained awe.
Ears waggles her eyebrows at the creature. ~But mirrors are relevant in a lot of people's dreams,~ she sends to Olga, along with another image of what the creature is doing now.
The small spirit tilts its head slightly off to one side, and then trots slightly closer to the Odeon vicinity, taking a bit of a roundabout method of approach. When Olga comes up, it stops again and watches her too.
Fat-Ripper crunches up to the window, and returns the creature's stare though she watches not it, but her own eyes reflected back, round and black and dull little pieces of coal. She speaks slowly, tentatively, as if she's not sure it could even understand: ~Hello,~ she says, openly but not quite welcoming. After a lengthy, pregant pause, she adds, claws gripping at the webbed floor in preparation of she knows not wet, fur all on fire, though she schools her voice to neutral curiosity, ~I am Fat-Ripper, once servant of Chimera. Who are you?~
Ears takes a pace or two closer, but again, is not the communicator here; she's the guard. So she guards, warily.
The chimerical being gives pause, as if contemplating the words that have been directed at it. *Servant of Mirror Lady, shreds of the past, rip away, rip away, not long do they last.* The darkness of the theater below continues to remain benign.
~Oh, you're one to talk,~ Fat-Ripper throws back, her voice more indignant than her posture, which still reeks of apprehension and wonder, in the clasp of her claws, in the arch of her back. ~Do you still serve the Lady of a Thousand Faces, or do you now have some darker allegiance?~ she calls out, challengingly, curiously.
Ears scans the darkness around them.
Canting its head, the spirit looks... amused? As much as a spirit seemingly made from night can look amused. It trots a few paces off to one side ever closer, mirror eyes stuck on Olga's staring indignant frame, snake tail weaving a slow, hypnotic pattern in the air, tendrils of smokey black essence wrapping around and swirling back down into its being. *A thousand heads like flags raised high, I see them all, and choose. The Mother, The Sister, The Lady, The Father, which do I have to lose?* A glinting moonbeam bounces off its eye as it 'speaks', briefly sweeping the beam up towards the eyes of the Garou above. The darkness remains the same, though as Ears scans, she spots a second glimmering. Only for a split second, and out of the corner of her eye can she spot it, before it disappears back into shadows of the theater building.
Ears sends an image of that glimmer and disappearance to Olga, and, rather than stay where she is, heads about halfway over toward where whatever-it-is disappeared, nose twitching. She doesn't focus in completely on that area, though; she's still primarily serving as overall guard.
~Them all,~ Fat-Ripper answers, warily, uncertainly, choosing her response like she might choose a wire threading out of an explosive. ~Choose one, and they'll all turn away: she doesn't work like that. Are we playing riddles? I have one for you - what's changing, yet unchanged; full of life, yet sterile; tired, yet sleepless; deformed, yet as it was meant to be?~ She gives not so much as a glance in the direction of either Ears or the creature she points out: she trusts the Gallirad to watch them, and keeps her eyes on her reflection, looking very small, very unsure, and very prickly.
*All or nothing it is, what a play, what a game, but tell me Squeaky-Riddle-Ripper... who's your friend going to maim?* The little spirit takes a couple steps back, and 'turns' to look at Kaz. All it takes is a few more steps. From inside the darkness that she approaches, Kaz manages to differentiate the thin, thin outline of another small form. It's a second one of those chimerical beings, an exact duplicate of the first. This one 'glows' with a slightly darker aura, but it looks fainter than its twin - all the more harder to see. Then, the galliard feels the tingle, a heat starting to burn within her. The familiar burn of Rage boiling up swifter and faster than any bad indigestion, clouding reason and quashing restraint. The frenzy is coming, quick and nearly unchecked, as the second spirit levels its charm at her.
Ears grits her teeth and stares, for a moment, at nothing in particular. The Mindspeak connection breaks off, as she fights (and succeeds) against an internal foe. Eventually, she shakes out her ruff, and, glaring at the new spirit, sends another tendril toward Olga, with an image of the new spirit, and an entirely grim tone. ~Guess what? ~Wyrm. You want to keep talking to them? It's not going to do any good, I'll bet.~
It takes Fat-Ripper a few long seconds to realize what the spirit's getting at. She follows the mirrors of its eyes with her own, then transferring her gaze to Ears, though not quite looking the Galliard in her strange eyes. Her hackles are raised, but not anymore than they were before; it's like there's a refreshing inevitability in the resort to battle, a grim, joyous feeling of inertia. ~I'd guess you,~ she answers the spirit back, with a fierce, eager sense of glee to her voice. With a glance back towards Ears she issues just a terse and simple instruction with a growl and a twist of her chin: kill it. She herself backs up into the lounge's centre, slinking down to all fours, out of the spirit's sight and preparing to follow Ears down below.
With the retraction of the theurge out of sight, the first spirit is no longer seen by either of the Garou pair. The second spirit backs up a few more 'steps', wings afluttering as it realizes its charm had little effect.
All communication from Kaz to Olga ceases, and then, a moment later, fwoosh! A gout of flame, directed at Kaz's spirit, bursts out, and then so does Kaz, leaping at the creature and falling into Crinos at the same time, claws, as is the way of her Totem, bared.
Olga is moving moments after, hurling herself down from above to land four-legged, hopefully mostly upright, hurtling out through the dim towards her prey, sparing only a half-breath's glance at the door behind as she goes, to see if company is joining them. Her teeth are bared, her claws spared to try to ensure firmer purchase on the slippery floor.
With no great love for pyrotechnics, not only does Kaz's created fire have an element of surprise, but it does its trick. The ground immediate is scorched and its old webs set aflame, shriveling quickly. The hum that was just white noise earlier suddenly rises in volume a couple levels. The spirit squeals with a feeling of the pain inflicted upon it, but retreats as it does, its faint form wisping as it 'bleeds' black essence. Its speed is apparent as even Kaz's suddenly lengthened Crinos reach misses, her claws swiping at dark smokey tendrils left behind. Olga's charge for the outside finds the riddling first spirit looking right at her from the side of the umbral Odeon's entrance. It only takes one look, before it too starts to flee down the street.
Ears bares her teeth and lunges at the spirit, either ignoring the flames on the floor or just plain not caring, at the moment. She blurs with speed, favoring claws over jaws still.
The spirit's flight emboldens Fat-Ripper, lifts her up from all fours and sends her claws at the one remaining like she's going to make damned sure it doesn't get away, too. There's urgency in the swiping rake of fingers, and in the wrenching clench of teeth, as she discards all caution.
Now there's a one-sided fight if ever there was one. The Gnawer fostern falls on the chimera with claws flying, ripping into its being and seemingly tearing into its very existence. Its caught, trapped, and as a result it turns and defends itself with a lashing out of those dark smokey tendrils. From them, the galliard feels the whipping lash of Rage cutting, but it does little to stop her attacks. Within moments, the spirit collapses in a pathetic heap, starting to melt away into the atmosphere. Outside the Odeon, Fat-Ripper's claws catch quite literally the tail end of the spirit, 'slicing' off a portion of the smokey snake. It doesn't stop there though, as the attack slows the spirit down long enough for a second swipe, which catches its inky flank. It turns with a hostile hiss and for a moment, theurge and spirit meet eye to mirrored eye. *Fight or flight, drain, rip, tear away your might...* In that moment, the adrenaline dampens in the theurge, her already strained will seeping away from her.
Ears, caught up in emotion as usual, stomps on the shrinking remains of her spirit, and then whirls around and out the door, in search of the second spirit.
Fat-Ripper's eyes go to heavy slits, her chest heaves and her arms go heavy: her next swipe comes as an exertion of will, a heavy, ponderous thing that's fast and hard and inevitable as a wrecking ball. She barely even seems to hear it, or to see what's going on; all her concentration is on that one, sapping swing.
The swing is just wide. The spirit is just too fast, too small. Openings its small jaws, the darkness melts between them like gooey strings of black oil as it bares its tiny-in-comparison maw at the theurge. One might think it was gloating. That's when Kaz appears from the theater, and the spirit forgets its bragging rights. The bugger flees as quickly as possible, leaving the vicinity of the Garou as swiftly as it can go.
Ears takes off after it for about 3 loping strides, and then forcibly cuts herself off. ~Fucker,~ she growls, and pads back to Olga. ~You OK there?~
Fat-Ripper summons herself for one last, hurtling lunge through the Umbral air; as her claws hit the soft webbed ground her teeth lurch out to snatch hold of the thing as it goes, to extract at least some last parting hurt, though unless it stops she doesn't pursuse. Then she's dropped, exhausted, drained, her massive paws hanging heavy and unused. She picks herself up, drearily, and answers with a long, hollow ~Just tired,~ before with trundling steps she pushes back towards the Odeon. Her eyes, strained and paranoid, move blurrily along all the holes and crevices in the houses of this dangerous Umbra.
The spirit is last seen ducking into a shadow in the Shadow, disappearing entirely from view. The hum of the city Umbra has not ceased at all, washing upon the ears of the Gnawer pair outside their home. A few Pattern Spiders peer coldly at them, forelegs tapping lightly against the webbing they stand on, but make no move to get any closer. They are left alone. Only a webless patch of ground awaits them, where Kaz's fire has burned away its short lived existence.
Ears's teeth glint. ~You want I should come over tomorrow night, too? We gotta get through to 'em that this is /our/ turf.~
~Yeah,~ Fat-Ripper answers, her voice dull, throaty, with accomplishment and even rage muted and unsure. ~Yeah, though I doubt it'll be back. Still, though, should try - hopefully, she'll get at least one good night's sleep.~ The tension in the Theurge's back doesn't ease as they enter the Odeon's hollow walls. ~I could use one, myself.~
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