Teaching Dance of Lights

7/18/2007

11:11 AM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (24% full).
It is currently 11:08 Pacific Time on Wed Jul 18 2007.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 61 degrees Fahrenheit (16 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the north at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.81 and steady, and the relative humidity is 90 percent. The dewpoint is 58 degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius.)

The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)
Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center of the clearing is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp. At the edge of the clearing and extending back a bit into the woods resides a rough wooden structure with a slate tile roof. A stone slab rests off to one side of the clearing in a place of some prominence. The meadowlike profusion of grasses and other plants has an unusually high concentration of brilliant flowers, which attract a number of bees and butterflies. (+view works here)
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.
Contents:
Fernando
Stone slab
Obvious exits:
Forest  

It's getting on towards noon when Yi can be found busily stacking firewood again at the Sept Compound. The fire pit has been cleared up and currently burns with a protected fire through the light rain currently falling from the skies. Even though there is no sign of clement weather for the next few hours at least, the Gnawer fostern is happily humming as she works through the wet.

Raindrops bead on the glossy feathers about Fernando's shoulders as he paces into the compound, feather-tips bouncing as the drops roll and drip towards the ground. His thick thatch of hair is similarly wetted on the top, thick enough that for the moment the lower layer seems to have stayed dry. He doesn't look particularly happy, but he's never seemed a particularly cheerful sort anyway. "Runner-rhya," he says, shortly but respectfully enough.

[look Fernando (Homid)]
This youth might have stepped straight out of a tourist brochure for the Inca Trail. He is short, barely five foot five in height, with a wide but bony frame. Beneath a shaggy mop of straight black hair the features of his brown face show the distinctive slanting eyes, broad cheekbones, wide nose and small chin of an Andean native. His age might be judged at somewhere in the mid to late teens. Any Garou will sense the young man's aura of ancient nobility, and his turbulent dark eyes reflect the knowedge of ages long past.
He is wearing a nondescript, baggy shirt and tattered blue jeans held up with a thick belt of woven wool, with grey cloth sandals to protect his feet. Over the top of everything is a bright cape of parrot feathers, thrown about his shoulders and secured there by a round golden broach in the form of a grotesquely grimacing face.
Carrying:
Feathered Cape

Yi turns with an upwards querying whistle, interrupted in her work by the call of her name. There's a pause as she blinks at the other ragabash, as if trying to place him in her recognition banks, looking him up and down, eyes stopping twice on the parrot feathers and broach of gold. "Yes, that is me. Hello," she greets initially.

"You say to come back, to learn," Fernando says, his accent thickly Spanish.

Yi squeezes her eyes in a narrowing look, still unable to place him and his words at first. Then, when she realizes, her expression changes entirely and she smiles again. "Aiya, you are Hummingbird Comes From The Mountain, right? Ah, I have never seen you in homid before. Yes, yes, come." She gestures to the one log that is relatively dry by the fire. "That is a beautiful cape of feathers on your shoulders, by the way," she comments offhand, turning to the stack of firewood to grab a couple of drier logs.

Fernando's eyes narrow at the Gnawer as he comes over to perch suspiciously on the indicated log. Then he lifts his chin proudly. "Is cape of my ancestor, Hummingbird-Blinds-His-Foes," he says, then gestures, a little warningly, to the age-darkened mace that is hung from a loop on his belt, its carved stone head that of a stylised, snarling jaguar. "This is mace of my ancestor also. Mighty weapon, kill many Wyrm."

Yi, logs grabbed, comes back to the fire and sets them in such a way that they are protected from the rain as well, but not yet used. This affording her a closer look at the cape and mace, she looks most interested - and respectfully reverent. "I might be a Bone Gnawer, but I was taught to honor my ancestors, their memories and their deeds," she says with a nod before moving on to business. That business happens to come in the form of shifting forms, where the fostern assumes the guise of the crinos. And she doesn't skip a beat. ~Have you learned more of our rites since you last came to see me, Hummingbird?~

Fernando gives a slight shrug, the motion triggering a small shower of rain from his cape, water pattering to the ground all around him. "I listen to Untangler-yuf. He talk of Great Hunt Rite. Seagull-yuf also."

~So,~ rumbles Runs-the-Gauntlet with a flick of her ears that scatters two raindrops, ~what is ritual and what is rite? That is a question for us to think about. They are almost the same. Almost, but not quite. Do you understand why?~

Fernando's generally disagreeable mood eases somewhat as the Gnawer shifts to the warform, and he too shifts into Crinos. He shrugs again in answer to the question, ears slanting back as he looks away around the compound, fur twitching here and there. ~A ritual is just a dance,~ he says, eventually, ~but a rite is a question that has an answer. I do not like questions that do not always have the same answer,~ he adds, with a growl.

Runner at this point takes one log and adds it into the fire, the rain on her fur forming a protective shield of damp against heat. ~But in your quests for answers, you will come upon questions that are like that. And for that, there is one small rite I was taught long ago, to help me search.~ She looks from the fire back to the Uktena. ~I will teach this to you first, for it is one small rite that will help you understand questions and answers.~

Hummingbird says nothing, but one ear quirks forwards.

~Ritual is a dance, as you said.~ Runner gestures for the Uktena to watch the flames then, ~and every question you ask has an answer. It may or may not be the answer you seek. And the answer you seek may or may not be the same. Just as these flames are never the same in their dance, so should you remember this when you watch them. Look at their dance of lights, Hummingbird. Consider these questions again. What is a ritual, and what is a rite? Where do their differences lie? What is the same about them? Sit. Watch. Meditate. Let the fire show you.~ And with these words, Runner takes up a comfortable position to do the same.

Hummingbird blinks a little irritably at Runner, huffs out a breath, then turns his head to look into the fire. His tail twitches, almost cat-like, reflecting inner tension.

Runner misses, or ignores, the irritability of Hummingbird and watches the fire go. The minutes tick by, and the rain continues to fall. There's nothing said or done from the fostern ragabash as time trudges on. The fire too, burns on. Each flame licking up disappears as quickly as it came, and though each are the same by nature, none are the exact duplicate of the next. While the ragabash beside her might be restless and twitchy, the fostern goes into a quieted meditative state, almost lost to the world around her and even the Uktena beside.

Hummingbird fidgits some more, growling to himself as his attention wonders, then comes back to the flames. After a while the twitching becomes more repetetive, until he's rocking backwards and forwards, rumbling under his breath softly, so that it's almost a purr. Every so often there's a glint of a white tooth catching the red light of the flames.

Still the flames dance almost hypnotically, and at some point unknown the afternoon rains have come to a stop. The crackles and pops of hidden water pockets sound like pebbles struck together, forming a small unpredictable beat for the flames and mind. Runner is the first to blink from her trance, gradually shifting herself back to a bit of activity, but not enough to completely disturb the Uktena from his own. She moves to pick up the second log she'd taken from the pile, but this she does not add to the flames. Instead she stands, slowly, patiently waiting for Hummingbird to come to on his own.

The purring rumble becomes... not quite words. A Crinos tongue and throat are not well suited to intelligable Quechua. Some sort of poetry, it might be guessed, or perhaps a song, as the growling voice lifts and lowers. It fades, and the Uktena starts, suddenly, blinking and giving a sharp snarl that turns abruptly into a jaw-cracking yawn.

Runner looks skyward with the poetry, taking her mind somewhere else with the rise and fall of the crinos' voice. That ends with the Uktena's abrupt end, where the Gnawer fostern turns her gaze down to the other ragabash. Waiting for his yawn to finish, she can't help but add her own with a light whine of tiredness and open jawed tongue curling moment. When things have calmed again, she rumbles out in a slow words, ~So, Hummingbird, this is what I have taught, and you have learned what it means to watch the Dance of Lights. When you perform this rite, remember. Not all questions have the same answers, as not every fire has the same flame. For the newmoon, it should not always be an unwelcome thing.~

Hummingbird makes a noise that, were he in Homid, would be an uncertain 'hrmph', as if persuaded against his will but unable to deny the evidence. Visibly collecting himself, he ducks submissively in thanks. ~Ask what you will in return,~ he says, then hesitates before adding, unwillingly, ~and I have one other question for you.~

Runner smiles toothily, twisting the log in hand against the pawpads on her palm just for the texture. ~I have told Silvertip my request, and I will tell you. The bawn is a very large place. It takes time to patrol, and there are not enough Guardians to perform as thorough a job as the pack of Manitou's Ridgeline once did. I have taken up a position as one Guardian, leaving my watch in the city, in hopes to inspire and protect the caern that is most important to us all.~ The log rubbing pauses, but she continues. ~But my other duties require me to leave the bawn sometimes, often by request of others. This is why I ask for others to come and guard in my place. I ask the Warder to allow them this temporary position while I am away. And I will return, and thank each. So that is what I ask. I must leave the bawn for a small time, and I ask for you to guard in my place while I am gone.~ She leaves the request there, then tilting her head in silent inquiry for the ragabash's question in return.

Hummingbird looks puzzled. ~That is all? You ask little. That will be no trouble.~ He pats the head of his mace. ~The Wyrm will be afraid to set foot on the Bawn while you are away.~ He shuffles a little from side to side, then comes out with his request. ~I seek one who knows the Rite to place a spirit in an object, until the time the spirit has performed a favour and is freed again. Do you know the Rite, or one who does?~

Runner looks down to the mace, viewing its snarling visage with a splayed set of ears. ~I believe then the choice for asking you to be Guardian in my place is right,~ she comments with a satisfied rumble. With the latter question, the fostern's head lifts. ~The rite you seek, the binding rite, is difficult and a long process. I myself do not know this rite, but I have seen it performed. The spirits will ask much sometimes...~ muses the fostern. ~But if it is this rite you seek, then I would ask first the Master of the Rite. If you do not find him, the Warder, Reflection's-Howl, knows this rite. Both are theurge, and both are Get of Fenris, these two I name. If they do not satisfy your taste... seek other theurges. My tribemate and elder, Fat-Ripper, can be found around here or in the city. There is also a good friend who returned, Spirit, the Fianna theurge, she may know this rite you seek.~

Hummingbird once more dips his head and shoulders in thanks, although from his expression the information wasn't too welcome. Then again, that seems to be his reaction to most things.

Runner taps the log against her shoulder lightly, and simply looks upon the other ragabash with a curious, calm gaze. ~While you are still here, Hummingbird, may I ask you another question?~

Hummingbird displays the first flash of humour Runner has likely seen from him so far. ~You may /ask/,~ he replies, with a grin.

~Your home,~ Runner begins with a small smile back of her own. ~Where is it?~

Hummingbird's mood swings abruptly yet again, now to wistful sadness. ~My home is the place where the earth touches the sky. Where Brother Condor flies beneath the sun. Where Brother Puma hunts beside the water. Where Sister Snake whispers her wisdom through the grass. My home is where the rock shines like a parrot's wing, and the river thunders beneath the feet. Very far. I travelled for many moons, away from the midday sun, to get here.~

Runner listens intently to the description, taking in the nostalgic mood as one of her own even. The newmoon's active imagination helps. ~You must miss it greatly,~ she wonders aloud before noting softly, ~I hope then that now you have traveled so far, this place may offer something to you for your sacrifice.~

~It is no sacrifice,~ Hummingbird replies, his spine straightening. ~It is an honour. I ask for /nothing/. I do what must be done.~ His nose twitches. ~You are not from here, I think?~ It's a question, but barely.

Runner shakes her head lightly, affirming his note. ~I come from a place where this,~ she indicates to the forest around, ~is seen only in picture books. Where you sleep, where you wake, the sounds of the city pulse like a cold heartbeat. Everywhere around is glass, metal, and though the people will strive to bring back the trees and green, they can only see it in on the hills far away. Where we strive to bring back the vigor and energy of the wind, but it comes on its own in violent storms. It is not a place for the faint of heart, or those not used to the pace of the city. It is a place where dragons stir in their sleep, good and evil.~ She flips her ears back, her expression turning nonetheless wistful as well, but only for a few moments before she comes back to reality. ~But now, the Hidden Walk is where I make my home.~

~I do not think I will see my home again,~ Hummingbird states, with a flat coldness that reflects not an absence of emotion, but emotions to great to be voiced. ~I go,~ he adds, almost choking on the words, and with a speed that can only be fuelled by Rage he shifts to Lupus and bolts into the trees.

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