ONS: Recharge the Weaver 4 - Silvertip Investigates
8/18/2007
01:14 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (34% full).
It is currently 13:10 Pacific Time on Sat Aug 18 2007.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 69 degrees Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 9 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.88 and falling, and the relative humidity is 52 percent. The dewpoint is 51 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)
Red's Hole in the Ground(#3015RFJs)
Cold, dark, and under a rock. Where else would you expect to find a badger?
Descriptions may be emitted as they occur.
If you aren't familiar, take a moment to review house-rules by typing +VIEW HR for the index. Most of these are considered general for GarouMUSH, with the exception of `Being Rendered Unconscious` and `'Reserving' a Dodge,` which represent my take on issues there exists no written stance for.
Contents:
Silvertip
[During the Beginning Crescent.]
Silvertip makes his way down into the Caern, the wolf sniffing about actively for others who might be there already. When he finds no one, the wolf slips quickly into the Caern, and down towards the pool. He boils up into crinos, and shoulders his weapon's strap. With one more look about, he stares down into the pool, and begins to cross over into the umbra.
The Uktena ahroun finds the passage no less difficult than would be usual for entering the Shadow realm. The moon hangs low in the Umbral skies, competing with Anthelios for the brighter glow of the two, but with Luna's eye still slit, things are not looking as good for her. The result is a washed over red cast over the otherwise dark purplish landscape of the Umbral caern. Stepping sideways from the caern, it's visible that nothing so far disturbs the immediate clearing. It's further up on the rim of the valley, at the edges of the caern clearing, that Wyldling spirits of energy pulse and flicker in their cloud-like embodiments. They're fairly large clouds, each about the size of a hispo even if they are constantly rolling and dissipating along the edges.
Silvertip, once he's through, checks his weapon yet again. He sniffs about the umbral air, the gatekeeper looking very-much on guard at the moment. After a few moments, he plods in the direction of the wyldlings. Slowly, he slides the spear off his arm, holding it in his hand-paw to keep pace with the butt of it as he makes his way up out of the valley.
Going up the valley trail to the edge is where the ahroun has a closer look at the Wyldlings floating about. There plenty of them around, covering the landscape in occasional groups, some of them alone, some of them disappearing, some of them forming. Their glows are never the same shade of color, never the same pattern. When the Uktena Gatekeeper ventures close, though, the closest spirit to him begins to float its way over.
Silvertip seems to steel himself for a potential fight with the wyldling - you never know with that lot - but continues towards the lone one none the less. When get gets within loud talking distance, he calls out, *Hello, creating one.*
The lone Wyldling glows just a bit brighter, its pulse turning more erratic as it continues closer. *Weaver. Touch. No!* Its own speech is almost so strange, even with the gift to understand spirits, it is nearly indecipherable.
Silvertip stops, his eyes narrowing just so slightly as a low rumble forms in his chest. After he takes a few moments to make heads and tails of the spirit's words, he replies, to the point, *Where?*
The spirit lingers even closer, but gradually that brightness dims down to a 'manageable' level. It might even be construed as a grumbling on the spirit's part, and it starts to float away from the Gatekeeper back towards its brethren.
Silvertip's ears perk forward, the fostern looking a tad vexed for a few seconds. Slowly, he plods forward, though keeping his distance. Almost casually, he slips down to hispo. *Creating one, why are you angry?*
The shift from the ahroun gains no attention from the Wyldling, but the question does make it pause again. *Weaver. Here,* it answers after a very long wait -- almost half a minute, that one.
Silvertip's nose twitches, the gatekeeper sniffing at the air as if to tease out the smell of the offending spirit. *Is it here now? We will kill it.* He rumbles out, tense and ready for a fight.
*No,* comes the spirit's immediate answer, though what it's referring to is indescribable. The spirit continues to float away, but unlike the others whose paths randomly change direction, this one seems to be heading in a somewhat straight, if zig-zagged and winding, direction.
Silvertip waits a tick, as if considering whether or not this is a bright idea, before he trots along after the spirit. To say his guard is up would be putting it mildly, at this point.
Away they go, slowly making their way past a gauntlet of more Wyldlings. Some of them part way before Silvertip reaches their vicinity, while others simply stay where they are for the most part, and just being close to them tickles the ahroun's fur like static electricity. None of them attack the hispo'd ahroun, though, as he trails after the Wyldling. The number of Wyldlings lessens once they've gone a ways. An increased guard and alertness on the ahroun's part allows him to detect the presence of other spirits, like the raven-spirit quirking its head to a side to watch the progression of the Gatekeeper.
Silvertip keeps an eye out for one of a few spirits that don't to seem to be around, right this moment. His totem, for one. He makes his way along after the semi-lucid wyldling still, keeping an eye out to make sure that he's not being led someplace he'd rather not be.
The Wyldling continues to lead on the ahroun, pausing every so often until it comes to what could be described as the beginning of the edges of the inner bawn, in a west-northwestern sense. In the Realm, one might remember, it's in this direction that the cities of Kent Crossing and St. Claire lie much, much farther away. There's still a whole spanse of bawn separating that from here though. The connection might not be as clear. But the Wyldling stops here for a time, between the rocks and the trees and Umbral grass. There's no ready available sign of the Weaver's taint here, but there are - perhaps uncharacteristically - a few strands of old webbing still hanging from the branches of the tree spirits. They don't seem to mind it.
Silvertip once he arrives, raises his hackles, and makes his way to the webbing. He sniffs around for a moment, before he starts to tear some of them down. *How did it get this close?* he rumbles, irate.
Before Silvertip ventures too close to get his claws on the webbing, however, the Wyldling cloud glows brightly and starts to strobe its energies. *No! Touch. No! Weaver!* The cloud stretches itself out, and what parts of the cloud that do touch the webbing seem to singe it away, unraveling the crystalline strands. The raven spirit nearby has followed, and caws alert. *Weaver brings bad,* squawks the bird. *Wolf, bad.*
Silvertip stops, when the wyldling pitches a minor fit over his proposed actions. He looks first to the wyldling, and then up to the Raven. *A wolf brought it?* He asks the bird, suspiciously.
Head twitching in its constant, birdlike movement, the raven spirit clacks its beak together. *Wolf brings Weaver, Weaver brings bad, Wolf touch Weaver, Wyld touch Wolf,* caws the raven in rapid succession. From its position in the branches of the webbed trees, the bird flaps its wings. The Wyldling continues to stretch itself, unraveling what webbing the cloudy edges comes in contact with.
Silvertip's head tips to one side, before he reluctantly sniffs at the Air. Slowly, he lowers his mammoth skull to the earth, sniffing at the soil. All the while, he keeps a very wary eye on the wyld spirit. *What colour wolf? How much weaver? How much wolf?* He asks, his pacing even between the questions.
The raven spirit flaps its wings again, hopping from one branch down to a level closer. The Wyldling finishes unraveling a few strands of the webbing, but then it starts to dissipate and fade from view. *More wolf, less Weaver,* crawks the black bird. *Wyld marks Wolf black.*
Silvertip paces his way around the dissipating wyld spirit, sniffing in it's direction a few times, also, When it's gone from view entirely, he turns his attention to the bird. *You can come down, and I will leave something sparkling for you in the realm.*
Opportunistically, the bird hops off the branch and floats its way down to the ground, where it lands a fair distance away. No sense in getting /too/ close to a giant wolf. *Bring no Weaver,* gruks the raven to the white wolf again.
Silvertip gives himself a shake, before replying, *I haven't brought any weaver.* ears flickering. *How big were the wolves?* He asks it, trying to keep things more simple.
The raven-spirit clacks its beak again, walk-hopping a few bits closer. *Big Wolves,* answers the raven. *Big, Big Wolves.*
Silvertip's ears flick a another time, a somewhat annoyed look passing across his muzzle quickly. He sniffs in the direction of the bird lightly, before throwing his attention around the woods for a moment to make sure things were still safe-ish. *Show me how high?*
As if pondering the question some more, the bird looks off and back, scanning the forest as well. Then it takes to the air, flapping up to a branch upon one of the trees nearby. Just tall enough to mark a crinos' eartips.
Silvertip gives an approving note to the raven, looking vaguely appreciative. *You know what type of weaver thing?* He asks, taking a few steps towards the bird's new roost.
*Seeks Power,* cracks the raven, *Saves to Feed. Old, old. Webs power. Weavers Find. Wolves Find.* The bird levels an eye on the Gatekeeper.
Silvertip slowly licks his chops, before giving a silent (and therefore useless to the spirit) approval. Luckily, he adds, vocally, *Thank you. I will leave a shiny thing for you in the realm of my territory; you have been good.* He offers, giving his body a bit of a tip as he does.
The information given, chiminage promised, the raven spirit caws in a pleased sort of way and launches off into the air. It flaps away, disappearing into the Umbral skies.
Silvertip waits a few moments, before starting his way back towards the Caern. The wolf is on guard the whole way, ready to attack every spot that's too dark, too bright, and generally shifty looking.
When the Gatekeeper comes to the clearing of the caern unmolested, he again finds the Wyldlings still gathered and floating about. The one he'd followed is lost in identity amongst the rest of its chaotically anonymous brethren, and he passes by, having to wind around some of them on their erratic courses to get back to the rim path and down it.
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