ONS: Icetrap & The Wyldling
2/6/2009
12:07 PM
Logfile from Garou-Meko.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (78% full).
It is currently 12:04 Pacific Time on Fri Feb 6 2009.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 44 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the north at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.97 and rising, and the relative humidity is 89 percent. The dewpoint is 41 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)
Umbra: Center of the Caern(#3844R)
A subtly spine-vibrating thrum of power issues once again from the once-dead caern, pricking hairs and fur. Slowly but surely, the rejuvinating actions of the Garou have slowly been transforming the recently spiritually dead caern back into something befitting a caern. The caern is once again alive with a variety of spirits, though spirits of war seem a rarity now, and Wendigo spirits are never seen. The caern, visually, falls just short of the wildest rural utopia imaginable. Only hints of the previous pollution remain--slightly less than green grass, young sapling trees where there ought to be mighty oaks and pines--and these are things that, with time and care, should eventually replace what was lost.
The air crackles with tingles of spiritual potency, though it's obvious to Garou who'd witnessed the caern earlier that the caern just isn't quite as powerful and potent as it was before the BSD invasion.
Contents:
Norman(#217Pc)
Obvious exits:
South North West
Norman fishes inside his coat pocket, pulls out a downy feather, and flicks it into the air... then slides into Hispo and follows the way the Umbral winds take it.
The feather drops in a slow fall to the grassy dirt of the Umbra, lightly held by a tentative grasp. That grip is broken as a breeze picks up, whisking the feather back into the air. Playful is how the feather's movement can be described as it flips, swirls, dips and rises on an invisible tide of directionlessness. Faintly within the winds that ruffle the Get's fur in the process, it's like a voice can be heard in the mild gales. *Wheeeee! Whooooo! Wahaaaaa!*
Caught in the power and magic of the Shadow, the Get romps after the feather- looking utterly foolish, no doubt, but the spirits will hardly care about that.
The feather continues to blow every which way, especially when it's taken up at the spot where the winds particularly swirl around, where the calling of the Litany happens during moots. The wind spirits are particularly chaotic there as they contest for the feather, bumping and buffeting the romping Get hispo in the process of catching and twirling the feather about. Round and around the theurge is sent chasing until the wind spirits seem to realize even in their distraction, the huge wolf. Then it becomes a game that mixes between keep away and tag, where the feather lists in the air down towards the hispo before getting caught up again and blown further away, luring him around with meaningless abandon. At some point, one of the winds catches the feather and starts to blow it far up the side of the caern's looming walls, up the narrow path that leads up the steep cliff and on out towards the inner bawn. All the while, the faint voices of the wind spirits can be heard.
Icetrap's silent laugh echoes wordlessly with the harmonics of the speech of the spirits, transmitting his appreciation of their games. *I seek the Wyld ones,* he indicates, bounding after the feather.
For a while, the feather continues to distract the wind spirits in the play. It would seem like the theurge's statement is overridden by the feather's presence as the game continues on without an answer.
Icetrap doesn't seem to be in any hurry, huffing and puffing the feather on its way whenever- if ever- he gets close enough to do so, and trying to catch it and hide it beneath his paws if the spirits let it get too close to the ground.
The feather whips up several more times before the theurge finally manages to get a piece of it. When he does catch it between his large paws, the wind spirits blow across the short fur there for a time in an effort to try and free the lightweight prisoner, but they're soon distracted again - by the theurge's fur. *Play! Play with us!* beckon the spirits.
*If I play, can you show me the way to the Wyld ones?* the Get asks, shivering a touch at the cool breeze through his fur.
*Wyld ones everywhere!* respond the spirits as they breeze one way, then the other as if in indication. *Here, there, everywhere!* Distracted from their original intent on playing, they suddenly breeze strongly in one particular direction to the Get's left. *This way!*
Icetrap yips in delight- then looks somewhat abashed at the sound and checks rather guiltily over his shoulder. Seeing no observer, he relaxes a fraction and bounds away as the wind spirits guide him.
There's another wild goose chase, or in this case a wild nearly-invisible wind spirit chase. *This way!* urges the wind, then *That way!* and off they go in another angle. In a short while, though, the wind has blown the theurge in all manner of direction that gets him turned around. Finally, the spirits die down and swirl in place. *Whew! Good game!* The theurge's fur is ruffled again, and upon the wind he can smell his own scent being toyed about invisibly. The feather has been entirely forgotten.
Icetrap agrees with them, his tongue lolling as he pants. *Good game. I will play with you again,* he promises. His ears perk and he checks around himsellf in the half-hope that the spirits remembered his original request.
Alas. The spirits seem more interested in continuing the play once they get their 'second wind'. The request is forgotten as well in the fickle nature of the breeze. *Again? Play again?* they ask in an insistent breeze. In the gaze around into the towering thick forest, the Get is treated to a whole lot of very little sight of Wyldling. At least, not the same way he might expect. Around him, tiny wisps of ephemera are blown about by the wind spirits. Chimerlings are gathered then whisked away on the soft winds. Their ghostly spirit messages surround the theurge, playing at the edges of his mind and understanding. *Seeker of Wyld Ones.* *He shall not.* *Find them.* *Play with winds, not with Wyld.* *He shall.* *The Seer searches still.*
Icetrap's ears slick back and he whines his lack of understanding... then cheers again. *Don't understand. Don't need to understand. Not something to understand with understanding.* Snapping his teeth closed on first one paw, then another, until all four feet are leaving bloody footprints on the Umbral ground and scattering drops of his spiritual soul into the air of the Shadow, he resumes his play. He chases the winds, he chases his wimsey, and he lets his mind wander.
[OOC] Icetrap: Random improvised Feed the Earth. Very random. One almost certainly can't expect to attract Wyld attention by being /logical/. ;)
[OOC] Mekoides: Naturally!
Whatever his whimsical nature might provide, the theurge has no watchers but the Chimerlings and the wind that he chases. The prints left on the grass and ground keep track of his progress all around the woodsy area. *Random.* *Whimsical.* *Mercurial.* *He seeks the Wyld.* *He does not.* The 'conversation' amidst the Chimerlings continues until finally it seems like there is some effect to the theurge's wild romp around the woods. The wind spirits seem to 'remember' the reason for being there, caught in the Get's scent, and they urge him back the way he'd come. On the way, he spots the very faint, ethereal, ephemeral manifestation of a lesser Wyldling in the space that he'd previously left.
[OOC] Mekoides: Only 1 there. And hard to make out amidst the many Chimerlings that look very similar.
*Weak!* the Get exclaims, and promptly gags, just as an adult might feed a pup. Here in this place, though, it's something more spiritual than a lump of half-digested meat that the Godi coughs up- an offering of Gnosis to feed those who would accept it.
That gets some attention alright. Not just of the wind, but of the lesser Wyldling, the Chimerlings, and a possibly disturbing rustling through the trees that might indicate Other watchers. It is the wind and the Wyldling that collide in contest for the Gnosis offered, and who gets it is questionable as the air immediately around the Get erupts in a blinding swirl of colors and mixture of air temperature between freezing cold and steaming hot and everything in between when he's caught in the 'fray'.
The Get's paws splay as the temperatures around him manage to his the top and the bottom of the thermometer scale at one and the same time, otherwise bearing the experience stiocally. *There is something to do,* he announces, deliberately vague. *Things to change! Things to tease!* And then with half an eye on the spirits, he starts to chase madly round and round after his own tail.
The Wyldling and wind contest until finally the wind gives up (or perhaps gets distracted) and blows away a short ways to play with the wisps of Chimerlings. The lesser Wyldling pulses a few brilliant colors before starting to dissipate all over again. Slowly though, almost like it were reluctant. Almost. Then it too begins to spin around and around itself.
As soon as the spirit starts to spin, Icetrap starts to bounce, pogo-ing up and down. He looks perfectly ridiculous, but right now is too absorbed to care.
The theurge's actions are mimicked once again, only the spirit doesn't seem to bounce so much as float up and down in a spiralling corkscrew. Its colors shift dramatically as does its everchanging shape.
Icetrap huffs in childlike delights, throws himself down onto the grass and rolls, over and over and over, faster and faster until he ends up in a heap.
The Wyldling corkscrews sideways, skimming over the tops of the grass, and looks like it's on another collision course with the theurge.
*Icetrap. I'm Icetrap,* the Get wuffs, pretending to dodge but going the wrong way.
The nameless Wyldling washes over the Get, and again there's the feeling of burning and freezing all at once while the Umbral sky disappears in a million myriads of color prisms to his eyes. It lingers over him for a long while, enveloping the theurge wholly in its 'grasp'.
Icetrap half resists, half gives himself up to the strange sensations, his tongue slurping back into his mouth then licking at his lips. *Icetrap,* he says again, paws dancing erratically. *Will come, will go, find you, lose you, here, there. Need change! Know place!* And then, *Not know, show, not show, tell, not tell, come, go, will come again...*
As the theurge babbles on, the sensation of being caught in the Wyld's grasp suddenly turns into a mix of pain and pleasure for those few seconds it remains. *Come... again...* The spirit's 'voice' can be understood for just those two phrases before the Wyldling dissipates fully. The Umbral sky and trees around become visible once more, as do the Chimerlings still seemingly aimlessly floating about in the vicinity close to the caern. The biggest change, when the theurge comes to recognize it, is the fact that he happens to be glowing.
[OOC] Icetrap Love it! How glowey, how long, and where's it going to show?
You paged Icetrap with 'Hairtip to toetip to tailtip, glowing kind of like bioluminescence. And it persists when he shifts - even his dedicated clothing as it is 'a part of him'. Though non-dedicated clothing will mask it. The color depends but it's shifty too, rainbow-esque... iridescent you could say.'.
[OOC] Mekoides: And it'll last until the end of the full moon. :>
Icetrap stares at one forepaw, then the other, then screws his neck around in an attempt to see the rest of himself, without vast success. He shakes himself, tips his head back and howls. *Come-go-back-forth-in-out-again!* It oscillates up and down for a short moment. Then he pads off to try and find a pool- or, if he happens upon them first, some wind spirits to play with again.
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