Scouting the BSD Trebuchet
6/8/2006
11:33 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (84% full).
It is currently 23:21 Pacific Time on Thu Jun 8 2006.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 64 degrees Fahrenheit (17 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 13 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.09 and steady, and the relative humidity is 57 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)
The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)
Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing, no more than an open space of grasses and beaten earth in the heart of the forest. Some pains have been taken to keep wear and tear on the area to a minimum, so the firepit tends to shift from time to time. The firepit, several sawn logs polished from use, and a stack of firewood discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp, are the only signs of constant occupation. However, a student of such things might think that some minimal landscaping or planning has been done, for the meadowlike profusion of grasses and other plants has an unusually high concentration of brilliant flowers, which attract a number of bees and butterflies.
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.
Contents:
Kaz
Jacinta
Leaves-None
Obvious exits:
Forest
From afar, Kaz left a cel phone message to coem see Vera or the Guardians, so that could be why you're here.
Kaz nods, once or twice. "We ain't /that/ bad at that scoutin' stuff ourselves. Well, or /you/ ain't, anyway."
Runner breaks through the bushes with a rustle, purposefully noisy to announce the presence of at least one more Gnawer in the vicinity. Her nose is what leads her, and the smaller Gnawer ragabash, towards the Guardians Alpha and galliard.
Kaz turns, suddenly alert, and then relaxes again, grinning. "Well, speak've the devil. Hey, Yi. How's tricks?"
Jacinta huffs at Kaz, leaning back on her heels and crossing her arms loosely. "No. We found what we needed, but we are not born of the dark moon." The noise draws her attention and she looks up as Kaz speaks. "Waqaa," she adds to the Bone Gnawer's greeting. Her tone is not entirely friendly, though it is also not cold.
Leaves-None trails Runner with ears perked and posture slightly inquisitive but otherwise subdued. Her tail is respectfully low and her head dips down as the pair draw closer.
Runner waves the end of her tail, declining any real vocalization beyond a short puff of breath. Seems all is relatively well for her, given recent events. Her ears tip back in deference to the pair, even Kaz, and then tip to either side in question. You called?
Kaz beams at Masoa. "Yah. It's just, doin' some scoutin' of these here Dancers that're throwing heads at us seems like a good plan, y'know?"
Jacinta's brows knit as she studies the second Ragabash to enter the clearing. After a moment she nods and points with the broken stick at her drawing. "This is where Circle Keeper and I found the trebuchet. This is where we scouted." The half-stick still in the ground begins leaning to the side as her hand brushes against it. Gesturing to the right of the stick-trebuchet she explains, "This is where we need scouting. To the east, find what more there is, and if there is a place where we may set an ambush of our own. And, if you can find more on their numbers and location, that is what we need." She stops speaking, though she does not seem finished.
Leaves-None gives a small shake of her tail towards Kaz. Poking noses into things. She moves carefully so that she can see the drawing and sniffs in its direction. Look. Remember. Return. She understands what is needed and cants her head to regard Runner quietly.
Runner dips her head at Kaz in agreement, then canting it slightly to observe the drawing. She looks back to Jacinta, listening and licking her muzzle in light anticipation. She doesn't interrupt.
Jacinta takes in a deep breath poking with her half of the broken stick again and again. "I think we were seen, when we looked, before. A movement, hidden in its own darkness. It may have been nothing, but it may have been one of them using gifts like yours. I would perform the Rite of Silence for you, before you go, if you would allow."
Kaz's eyebrows flicker. "Dude," she mutters.
Runner casts a glance to her smaller tribemate, an ear focusing upon her as well. Keep in sight of me. If it goes bad, run back. Do not wait for me. The fostern then turns back to the Wendigo and dips her head once again to accept the offer of the silence rite.
Leaves-None's ears tip back just briefly as she listens, then flick forward again. Shadows hunting shadows. Silent paws would lend an edge, she admits, welcoming the Rite on her part. Runner gets a quiet shift in posture for agreement.
Jacinta looks to Kaz before sliding down into lupus. Silence is a gift from Magpie. We give her our secrets in the darkness of the den. Come.
Runner follows without another word, already apparently adopting the complete silence that is hoped to be achieved for the rite.
Leaves-None gives herself a quick shake and follows in her own quiet way. It's perhaps not quite on the same level as her tribemate, but it suffices.
They reach the cave and Jacinta takes homid form. She quickly gathers her drum and begins beating out a steady rhythm. Underneath the beat of the drum, she begins to whisper.
Runner licks at her muzzle a little nervously, starting to feel unnerved with the sound of the beating drum echoing in the cave. She glances back over to her tribemates, and then works on recomposing herself and focusing on the task at hand.
Leaves-None pins her ears back a bit at the echo and lowers her head, forcing herself to settle down and pay attention. She does fidget a little in place, betraying her own anxiety.
Jacinta's drum picks up speed and volume so that her words are almost inaudible beneath the cacophany. Then, with the flat of her hand, she stills the drum. In the near silence that follows, she whispers a single phrase, then nods to Yi, who has done this with her in the past, to add her secret to the air. "I did not confront Fire Burns Forever on her disrespect."
Runner makes a little consideration, and then tries to growl out her secret quietly. It instead comes out as more of a grating noise, though it gets the point across, regarding the location of a stash of recently pilfered valuables in the city. The ragabash glances over to Leaves-None next, ducking her head a bit in an afterflavor of thought on her secret's revelation.
Leaves-None tucks her ears tightly to her skull and licks at her muzzle quickly as she thinks. Her own secret comes out in a gravelly sound and bears reference to never having said her true name. She looks down at the cave floor for a short time afterwards.
The moment Masao's secret is expressed there is a whoosh of air, as if a sudden decompression of the cave. And yet, it is no more difficult to breath. But the quality of sound has changed, no panting breaths, no sound of fur against stone. Jacinta nods at the pair, her own voice quiet as she says, "Magpie heard our secrets. She waits for more. Be quick and be safe. Do not end the rite until you are safely on the bawn."
Runner licks the front of her nose, adopting a rather wry feel to things before she stands and turns to leave the cave. Her shoulder leans as she passes her tribemate, to brush against it in reassurance and indicate the other stick close. The fostern stops at the mouth of the cave to silently entreat the spirit of Fox, her scent slowly fading as she proceeds forth.
Leaves-None gives herself another quick shake to settle fur and thoughts as she rises. A small dip of her head to Jacinta and she pads closely after the older Ragabash. She all but glues her gaze onto Runner as if memorizing the very shape of the other Gnawer.
Jacinta stands at the mouth of the cave, watching until the pair are out of sight.
From the moment the pair of ragabash leave the cave, Yi is on high alert and stealth mode. The fostern is not about easy joking this time, leading the way. The going is a bit slow once they near the reported area off the bawn's edge, losing speed in favor of secrecy.
Leaves-None plays ghost-shadow to the fostern, all but stepping in the same tracks as they travel. No less alert by any means, she places her paws carefully as the pace slows.
Forest North of I-90(#2354RA)
The forest is thinner here than it is south of the highway, though it is still difficult to see for far. Signs of human habitation break the stretch of woods every few miles; roads, paths, farms, and the occasional out-of-the-way home remind you that civilization is encroaching, though in this area, the battle is not yet decided. Hardwoods mix with towering firs and smaller trees, still concealing some of nature's hidden places from the nearby humans.
The forest spreads north from Interstate 90, which delineates the souther edge of this area. Marked by logging areas, farms, and other signs of human presence in places, the woods are still relatively unoccupied by humans.
Contents:
Jihgfed
Obvious exits:
23 Hawk's End Southeast Interstate 90 Grotto South
It's unnerving, the way the two Ragabash move without a sound. Even their heartbeats, the march of boots against eardrums so tedious it's usually unnoticed, are absent, replaced by blankness. The twigs beneath them snap silently at their feet; they do not even seem to breathe. They move beneath the grey night sky with a sense of disconnection, like ghosts in the forest, like they're not really there. Up ahead, to the north, is the copse of evergreens, thick and well-defined like a stand of sharp hills, where the trebuchet lies. The meadow the Ragabash are in stretches out silvery and quiet beneath the fat moon.
Runner tries sticking the shadows as much as possible. The meadow being a place out in the open, she doesn't want to stick around for too long. Her senses are constantly working, on the watch, listen and scent for the Spiral Dancers supposedly nearby. The fostern glances around her for her smaller tribemate, to make sure she's still around.
Leaves-None's lower form is perhaps a good thing in the meadow but the expanse of it doesn't make her any less nervous. Runner's lack of scent leaves her open to any other scents that seem beyond the given norm: the quiet travel making any other sounds sharp by comparison and subject to scrutiny. She still paces as close as possible to the Fostern without having her nose up the elder's tail.
Runner continues her creeping closer, estimating by the knowledge she has of the land. Just a bit closer, maybe a few more meters, before she turns sharp north by northeast in a circle around the catapulting object. Her senses remain peeled.
Leaves-None lowers her profile a bit more, almost slinking through the grass as they get closer to the copse. Taking cautious advantage of the sharp turn, she angles her senses behind them briefly to make sure nothing or no one has popped up on their backtrail.
The southwestern wind is brisk and carries with it only the smells of the highway, which even at this late hour still rumbles noisily along behind them. The meadow spreads out before them, pockmarked here and there with copses of trees and slowly rolling hills. To the east, where they are headed, is a larger grove, where forest begins again; up above the thick black blotch of the trees smoke curls up from invisible chimneys, and faintly, quite distant, along the meadowlines, is the dim glow of electronic light. There's little movement except the tall lush spring grass in the wind, and the terrified scuttlings of rats and weasels come out to hunt in the fat moonlight, not noticing the silent Garou until they're practically stepped on. Up ahead, now and then, a bat drunkenly weaves across the sky.
Runner continues on, nose lifting occassionally to sniff the air, ears twisting to listen. The rats and other nocturnal creatures get looked at, but otherwise are ignored. Onwards, the lead scout presses, not only looking for the enemies, but also for a good spot more or less to set up ambushes in. The pair approach the larger grove, and the fostern enters with caution.
Leaves-None holds back from entering just a bit, watching Runner's progress carefully before even setting one paw within the trees. Another sweep of the meadow is given, then her attention returns sharply to the trees before them and waiting tensely.
The trees are thin there, the forest's growth not as old as it is south of the highway. A loose mulch of dirt and ferns scatters the ground, easy to pass through and providing little in the way of cover except the trees which stretch out like window blinds. The land is not level, but its slopes are smooth and provide little in the way of vantage. The first sign of habitation is a outhouse, crescent-doored and ancient-looking, built on the crest of a miniature escarpment, tucked in against two trees. The smell is cantankerous but not noxious, and the wind helps to keep it mostly away.
Wrinkling her nose with the smell, Runner swings a bit wider around the outhouse. There's a moment when she pauses, and looks back in the direction of the location for the trebuchet, consideringly. Another check back at Masao, and then she turns for the highway.
Leaves-None gives a quick drop of her head to acknowledge that she's still behind Runner and pads to catch up. The continued quiet outside of the pair is starting to unnerve her slightly and it shows in a slight tuck of her tail as she moves.
The two Garou slink back the way they came, still unable to hear themselves, flashes of light and dark in the bright oval moon.
Runner trails back towards the trebuchet area, nose relatively low to the ground, and the going slow.
Leaves-None, by comparison, keeps her nose higher for anything on the wind towards them. Sharp looks are cast at any moon-shadows in the vicinity.
The wind at their back, the two Ragabash push their way into the thick maze of pine. The canopy is just a few feet above their head and the forest floor is a thick sharp mulch of dead needles, dry and black in the heavy darkness that even lupus eyes have difficulty piercing. They make their way in unsettling silence. The smell of wet sap and needles fills their noses. There's a glint, up ahead, where a thin trickle of moonlight manages to make a rum bottle shine.
Runner squints her eyes briefly, trying to focus out on the glimmer, and then follows it closer. Her gaze doesn't remain on the shine persay, but tries to keep up with a furiously working nose and pair of ears. Closer towards the trebuchet.
Leaves-None's nose twitches a little at the expected smells but she attempts to ignore them in favor of catching even a faint whiff of something else. Keeping her perceptions as open as possible, she glances through the pines around them as they move.
They move by inches, cautious and silent, so still it's like they travel by stop-motion. The breeze has fallen down and the forest silence is everywhere, between the very needles of the trees, until a howl snaps out so loud it nearly bursts out the eardrums of the silent Ragabash, no more than fifty metres ahead of them. It moves with the sudden force of a gunshot, ripping through the surrounding trees, and then tapers off all broken and mournful, throaty and fierce as knives, broken up like it's sung by a throat that's been torn to ribbons with razors. It's louder than any proper howl should be and the air rings around them, it disorients and pries its way into their ears like fingers. It tapers off slowly but lingers long, full of frustration and intense rage. It sounds like somebody's bored.
Runner almost immediately drops down to her belly, like an army soldier in the trenches dodging fire. The fostern's second reaction, other than going stock still with her hackles stiff, is to use her fostern gift to disappear. Her teeth grit against themselves, and even though she's completely silenced with the rite, she stops all breathing for a few seconds.
Leaves-None plays pancake and hugs the ground like a long-lost friend as the sharp re-introduction of sound sends her ears pinning back to her head. As Runner vanishes from her sight, she quickly stifles the urge to make any outward sound and scans about for wherever it may be that the Fostern reappears.
The casualness of the howl's reply offsets it, it comes like a hiccup after a violent coughing fit. There's a silence that lets the sound ebb away from the Garou's ears, let's them go numb, and then flat and clear, though muddied by distance and the unmistakable anger and command contained in even that casual instruction, they hear a woman's voice say "Shut the fuck up."
Runner waits a couple of seconds more, long ones it feels like, before deeming to move and creep forward on her underside. An ear turns towards the woman's voice, looking for direction and distance by the volume.
Leaves-None untenses a fraction as the other Ragabash comes back into view and slinks after her slowly. She notes the answering howl and the voice with cautiously raised ears.
After that is loud silence, it hangs in the ears and obscures everything but the smell of pine sap. The needles cling at the Garou's bodies as they pass, they stick in their fur. The going is arduous, the crawl slow and strenuous like a soldier ducking wire. Eventually the thick stand of trees begins to open out, and the Garou can see moonlight ahead, flashing off a small clearing in shades of blue and white, except where the ominous shadow of a giant machine throws nothing but black.
Runner takes in the sight of the machine, pausing a moment in awe of it, at first. Then she's sniffing around, trying to scent out the owners of the voices. The ragabash makes way back towards the north, moving from shadow to shadow.
Leaves-None stays as much in the shadows as possible to keep the moon from catching her fur, keeping within view of Runner and eyeing the construct with wary respect.
The clearing is littered with bottles, the moonlight gleams off them like pearls on the ocean floor. The lights dance across the black firepit at the centre where a skewer rests across two sticks, supporting charred chunks of flesh which almost scrape the ash below. They light up the filth and garbage that litters the sight, the fast food wrappers and faeces. They flash off the feet of the girl hanging from the great machine by bound wrists, her mouth duct-taped, her eyes closed, struggling to breathe, no older than Masao. They light the path the Garou tread, skirting the clearing, leaving it untouched and hidden.
Runner tries her best to ignore the girl. Trying, and rather failing. The newmoon looks at the girl for a bit longer, then presses on. Her ears turn back on her head as she bites down on any noise wanting to come out. Once the newmoon has a better scope of the size and make of the machine, and the area, she looks about for the Dancers. Never in one place for too long, the fostern slowly retreats from the clearing, scanning its northern edges.
Leaves-None stares up at the girl for a long moment, her will taking a battering as she eventually forces herself to look away and catch up to her tribemate. Hackles raised, she furtively looks for the Dancers as if to pin even one face to the morass in the clearing.
The girl is emaciated. Her cheeks are sallow and thin, sunken in like valleys. Her hair is as thick with tangles as a bird's nest, and her face is a mess of bruises. Her toes barely reach the ground and the pain of merely standing must be like having limbs wrenched off. Her face is expressionless, empty even of pain, now - perhaps she's asleep, or perhaps she's dead and her lungs, shuddering away, just don't know it yet.
The smell is beginning to reach the Garou in force, now, with shiftings of winds and changes of position. Sex and blood is on the air, and beneath it all a mix of bad rum and burnt human flesh that's not entirely unappetizing. No effort seems to have been made on the inhabitants' parts to avoid shitting where they ate, and the terrible stench of faeces and maggots intermingles everywhere, seeping the very trees in it. Though the strung up girl's clothes are still on - a pair of jeans, a t-shirt with a glitter star in the middle that sparkles like the bottles strung out below - she doesn't appear to have been allowed to remove them for anything.
The Garou creep their way along. Up ahead of them, further to the north, comes the strangled sound of a dull whump, like someone put rotten oranges in a paper bag and is beating a wall with them, continuously, pointlessly.
Runner perks her ears at the strange sound, a welcome distraction for the rot and ichor hanging in the air and littering the ground. The fostern only inhales slowly and as necessary, turning to investigate the sound out, coming up from behind and along the left side of it.
Leaves-None's nose wrinkles and her lips curl back from her teeth slightly. Yet, she swallows any sounds before they can get past her teeth and edges forward. The sound ahead serves as a focus and allows her to get back to the tasks at hand.
The sound keeps going, punctuated every now and then by an exhalation of breath and pain, half whimper and half grunt. It starts quick and then streams off in a high, pathetic screech, much like the howl though the rage is subsumed by self-pity; between the slats of trees a Crinos lies doubled over in pain, clutching at its belly - its gender is obscure, androgynous in face and in sound, but its breed is obvious by the ears that arc electrically up off the top of its head, snapping at the sky with each wrenching twist of the Garou's body as it tries to evade the slow, unceasing kicks. A woman, short and stocky, with boots up to her thighs and a simple filthy t-shirt, a sneer on her face fat and insipid as the huge moon above, lays boot after boot into the werewolf's belly, wordlessly. The only sound is the wind which still trips through the trees, and in the clearing they'd just left, a faint shuffling.
Runner eyes the pair with hackles stiff just by being in the proximity and watching, but does nothing to intercept. Memorizing what she can of them, and any sounds after each kick, the fostern glances back towards the clearing. Then she's off and moving once more, careful to remain hidden from the pair in their abusive games, continuing to scout further beyond them. The newmoon eventually circles towards the path they came from, heading back towards the highway and the bawn with a quicker pace the further they get.
Leaves-None also commits the images to her memory with all due alacrity and keeps shadowing Runner as closely as is safe. Only one glance is given towards the clearing before they press onward toward safer paths.
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