2020-07-27 Sandy's Rite of Accomplishment

Sandy's Rite of Accomplishment

Participants: Sandy Paola Liam Flynn Nevaeh Logan Ikal Addison

Location: Heart of the Caern

Date and Time: July 27, 2020

Summary: Sandy receives her Rite of Accomplishment for her heroic acts of Glory

Mood Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6FixoUyQQQ

Before the statue of the smiling angel, the firepit is roaring with a well-tended blaze, the orange and red flickering light casting dancing shadows in the shapes of angels against the back of the cavern. There is a circle immediately around both angel and fire made of animal bones. Some of them look like opossum and raccoon bones. Some look like they might be cats and dogs and small birds. They are intermingled with rounded, colored glass in browns, greens, and even translucent pieces, as well as what appears to be crumbled cedar shavings. Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh is crowded at the fire end of the circle, looking up at the statue and speaking quietly to herself in some strange tongue. She is barefoot, wearing a sky-blue romper, and some goth's lost lipstick has been used to apply stripes to her cheeks, three black ones on each side. She is almost statue-still, as she waits, staring up at the Sept's symbol of patronage.

If it's ritual, and it's in the Heart, then Liam is coming down in Glabro decked in his starry ritual robe. The closer he gets to the Heart's flame, the more it seems to glimmer and shine just like real stars. He remains respectfully distant of the circle and finds himself a low rock to push his ass onto, a heel following to end in a relaxed position to watch the Rite.

On the other side of the statue and within the circle is Sandy, who is quietly watching the ritual begin to develop in the Uktena's own unique way. Every time attacks this particular rite differently and pleased to have a chance to witness it. She is dressed in her white robe with gold stitching of her tribe, auspice and breed along one sleeve. Beneath it is a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans. With her thick blonde hair pulled up behind her into a pony tail, she takes in a deep breath, giving a slight glance over towards the sight of Liam, offering up a brief smile.

The dying moon has Circuit Tracer on edge. He knows that Luna will come back around into her comforting, ephemeral smile but for now the crescent moon is a dagger, a fang, a symbol of ending preluding the brief stretch of moonless skies. To soothe the itching in his soul, the Ritemaster is in his Hispo form. As he steps into the cavern the firelight casts the shadow of the gigantic wolf up onto the wall like a moving cave painting. The shadow follows its master as the Theurge steps out of the brightness and into the shadows behind the huts to let the softer, cooler light from the fungi illuminate him as he crouches to watch. The stretching bits of firelight catch in blue eyes which cast it back in an eerie white glow.

Nevaeh slips in quietly, having heard the murmurs of something going on. She's quiet, and sticks to the back so she's not intruding, finding a spot to perch as she watches the Garou filtering in with open curiosity.

For good measure, Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh pokes the fire a few more times, sending a shower of sparks exploding ceilingward as she does. She does not flinch from them, even as a few of the embers land on her skin. She merely blows them away from her face. As people trickle in, she remains where she is with her back to them, but eventually she shifts from where she is crouched leaving her fire poking stick on the ground, and begins to lope around the edges of the circle on all fours, despite being in homid form. She tilts her head back and forth, taking into view those present, watching with squinted eyes. Eventually she comes to a stop, back where she started, but this time she is standing. "We are here to recognize *GLORY* tonight, and I expect you to recognize that Glory with your voices, with your bodies, and with your spirits! Can you do that?" And then, with the best any human vocal chords can do--which for her isn't half bad--she throws back her head and HOWLS, and it reverberates throughout the cavern.

Liam responds by turning his heavy fist into a beating heart against the stone underneath him, giving a low growl of affirmation to the Rite Mistress as she calls on them to use every bit to recognize the Glory of Sandy. From afar, Logan can't find it.

There is a rustle of fabric of the pure white folds of the robe Sandy wears as the Galliard in the spotlight ripples upwards into her crinos form. Thick brown, white and splotchy black fur can be seen from the Mexican wolf war-form as she towers upwards. The robe ripples around her, billowing out to take shape and wrap around her. There is a quick gleam of gold within her eyes before the Talesinger lends her own voice to the chorus. Her song is powerful as she curls her large mitts into a pair of fists, as if to squeeze out the notes by simply clenching them. As always, she puts on a vocal clinic as she fills the Caern to the point the air vibrates around her muzzle. Once it trickles off, her ears give a sharp prick upwards, listening to the last few chords hang in an echo before fading out.

Ikal stands illumined in the glowing fungi at the edge of the room, keeping well back but watching with keen attention - bearing witness as all the others do to Sandy's moment of glory and recognition. He can't help but tense a little as the Galliard takes her crinos form. But his smile soon returns as her voice lifts to draw forth those perfect harmonies.

The sound that comes from Circuit Tracer begins like an idling truck, something deep and low that rises to a growl that sounds closer to erupting into a roar than a howl. While it is the latter noise, the howl is laden with primal hunger and fury the likes one may more expect from a follower of Griffin than Cockroach. His howl rages at the dying of the world and speaks of the soul-deep craving to right it and bathe in the kind of Glory that can only come from feeding the land with blood. He silences his voice before that of his packmate, letting Sandy's voice be the one to linger in the air.

Nevaeh can't help the shiver as the sounds of the wolves voices fills the cavern. She's smiling too though, and though she can't howl along with them she adds her own rhythmic thumping along with it, lifting a hand to clap against her chest over her heart.

It's not often that Logan makes it to the heart of the caern, but with Sandy getting a little bit of glory, it'd be a tragedy for him to not be there. Foregoing shoes, his bare toes curl in the trampled earth, his clothing comfortable and a little dressy to mark the occasion. The howl sends chills up his spine, his arms crossed over his chest as he lets the sound wash over him. The sound of his people. A sound that would cause most to flee but, for those in the know? It's as welcoming as a warm blaket.

Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh crouches down again just briefly to pick up from near the fire a pair of green glass bottles. The seals are long-removed and washed clean, and within the bottles appears to be an assemblage of pebbles, beads, pop can tabs, and small pieces of glass, rounded smooth, just like those circling the center of the Heart. She lift one bottle high above her head and holds the other at the level of her navel, and begins to shake them in rattlesnake reminiscent rhythms. Warnings to some, but a slow, heady focus of sound and power to others. "We are going to name and celebrate the Glorious deeds of Protects-the-Fallen, renowned for her voice, both in its beauty and in its command. Our Galliard has gone to war when it has been called over and over again. I, Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh, myself have been blessed to have her guide me into the most dangerous of places on the other side, where the hoards of the Enemy are without number. I recall the way she shined with Luna's light and burst into the fray when danger commenced, but I know that many of you have been witness to her when Mother Moon shined her light upon her and claws and teeth burst forth to find those that would not only harm us, her family, but our Grandmother. The number of the minions of the Enemy that have fallen before her are countless--though many have tried--be they mindless possessors, or the H'rugglings snaking through the underbelly of the freeways that calcify the scar above us--" Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh stops briefly to catch her breath, "--but let me tell you this, it is not just the Glory of the warrior that we are recognizing tonight It is that of the selfless commander--of she who burns bright and calls the Enemy to her, suffering their gnawing maws and hateful corruptions so that the rest of might rend them into nothing but memory." She shakes the makeshift rattles rapidly and loudly then and then brings them to a stop, "we recognize the Glory of our mother who is leader on the battlefield, and protector at the same time!"

As the Uktena begins to recite her deeds, Protects-The-Fallen begins to slowly make her way around the large circle of bones to approach her. She is taking her time, not rushing each step as she takes in a deep breath. For now, she shows no true emotion upon her face as she hears the stories of her gloried path.

Logan stands quietly and listens, watching Protects-the-Fallen circle, his attention on Sandy and her billowing robes. She's almost glowing, in his eyes. Being honored like this is, by definition, an honor, and a major one in the eyes of Garou, the currency for things getting done, as it were. He'll have to thank them for speaking in something he can understand - usually Mother's Tongue is the order of business for a ritual like this. It'll probably come later.

As Circuit Tracer crouches there in the shade afforded by the tents, his shadow is cast back upon the wall by the firelight that reaches him and the pale neon glow of the mushrooms. The Hispo is large, but as Paola speaks the wolf's shadow grows larger. It's almost imperceptible until one looks twice, and then they might see the shadow crouched there on the wall with a fearsome mass that wasn't there before, the void of the head surrounded in a short halo of shaggy darkness. And like the eyes of Circuit Tracer glow in the dark, for just a moment the same eyes glow in the shadow. The low shudder of the Lion's growl is not heard so much as felt, rattling a few of the pebbles on the ground. Those bright moon eyes slowly squint, blink, and then rest in a watchful stare.

Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh remains where she is, at the farthest end of the makeshift circle from Protects-the-Fallen, but she does turn on her heels as she recites these deeds and shakes the beer bottles. She never once looks upon Sandy, but she does look to the others present--she has a peculiar way of looking at others without ever meeting their eyes. Noses, lips, even ears are where her gaze focuses, and it's noticable when one pays enough attention. There is an urgency in her expression--she is not emotionless in the least, there is fire in her eyes, both in reflection and in visible fervor as she exclaims to those present, "And we will not forget the Great Hunt! When our Sept came together in unison, working together as a hunting pack so seamlessly that Unicorn itself gleams with pride at the thought of it. And behold! Part of that pack was our Protects-the-Fallen, our bringer of light and memory of the ways, who came to the horrific beast, this," and Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh *spits* into the fire, as if cursing, when she speaks, "Void Reaper," the rattles go wild, and the Philodox shudders with them, shaking down to her toes, "and rent its scales and hide, showing the weakness of this great beast to the pack, who rose together behind her and slew it as one!"

Ikal stands at the edges of he room. His full attention settles on Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh as she speaks up and addresses the gathering. His gaze lingers before shifting once more to Protects-the-Fallen. Though a relative newcomer, even he has seen hints of her strength and leadership. Though he may not be permitted to speak up, he smiles at the Galliard and nods as Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh continues to speak of her great deeds. He bears witness and agrees with all that is said. He had once helped to immortalize it by depicting her silhouette in his mural.

As she continues to slowly circle, Protects-The-Fallen feels her chest swell with pride as the story of the Great Hunt is retold, even if minimally. She and her fellow packmates and combatants are immortalized in paint on the walls of the bawn. She takes in a deep breath, then takes another few slow steps forward.

Liam smiles toothily at the recounting of tales, the strength of the Talesinger told in story and rite. His beating fist continues to pound faster, harder, bringing the noise and sound of hollow thunking to a steadily louder volume. His growling and grunting in tempo turning to a low awoo now as he continues to sing the song with the exploits of Glory.

Circuit Tracer pulls his lips back in what would look like a taunt snarl, though the Garou would recognize one trying to mimic a smile. He still has the chunk of armor he ripped from the beast so they could get at those innards. Good times. Behind him, the shadow Lion's subsonic voice continues to vibrate the ground like the earth itself was growling, or was it purring? Here and there, Circuit Tracer adds his own voice in a undulating tone to mimic the rising and falling in the earth's subtle shudders.

"I know a story," Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh tells the assembled, briefly stopping to lock eyes with Ikal--this time she does meet someone's eyes--and watch him while she speaks, "that not everyone knows. I know a story of the bravery of Protects-the-Fallen's pack, in which she claimed and held the heart of them, the leadership." She smiles slowly, her smile full of too many sharp teeth, the monster hiding within the girl reminding anyone who looks that it is in there. "I know a story about Protects-the-Fallen leading her pack through the Penumbra of an ancient gravesite, where so many predators have gone to their slow and suffering deaths, and where the ghostfolk are hateful and violent. Protects-the-Fallen lead her pack through this place until they found one of those great predators who waited their, waiting for her pack, the Lion of Old, and challenged them to its worth. They flung their bodies and spirits into art, glorifying the spirit of Great Lion, until they were bled and broken, and Lion--Lion himself--sang to the Glory of their deeds. I know this story. Now you know this story, and it is yours to tell as well." She shakes the rattles again, culminating this addition to the list of the deeds with snake-like rattles as she switches the bottles places, bringing the low one above her head, and the high down to her navel, and looks around to the rest gathered.

It's a good story. Logan heard it from the horse's mouth, as it were, when they returned, victorious and not a little bloody from the Wild Hunt, but the way Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh emphasizes things makes Logan feel like he's at the feet of a great scholar. He sits, legs crossed beneath him, back ramrod-straight, and listens to the story, smiling at Sandy now and again, but otherwise remaining stoic.

Step by step, Protects-The-Fallen makes her approach as she listens to the story of how her pack was formed and the efforts put in to appease the lion of ice ages. Her ears prick upwards some, feeling the totem's presence within the heart and sending a warm smile along her muzzle towards the shadow.

There's a slow swish-swish of Circuit Tracer's tail at the brief retelling of the story. A prophetic dream, a hunt into the past, a leap for the future. While the Theurge rises up on his feet, the shadow behind him does not move. That primordial Lion remains crouched for all it is flat against the wall, moonlit eyes watching and waiting. There is no words from the silver Hispo, only a calm and pleased expression on his face.

Ikal smiles as he gazes off across at Protects-the-Fallen, watching as she circles. The rumbling that fills the room all but reverberates through him, making him shift a little further back towards the bioluminescent fungi. His gaze flits towards Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh. And when her eyes meet his, he stills. His gaze lingers until at last it drops before following hers across those gathered.

"Now, I will remind you all of something of which I do not need to tell--because Protects-the-Fallen is the teller of this story--but at our glorious Moot, where we howled together and gave of ourselves as one, and called forth our great spirit," and with this, Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh crouches low, lifting both her hands toward the statue at the other end of her circle. She shakes her bottle-rattles up toward it in reverence for several drawn out long moments, honoring the Patron that all of them are dedicated to. After some time, in which the rattling lessens, but doesn't cease, she rises again, turning away, "Protects-the-Fallen is our singer of songs, our teller of tales, our dreamer of memories and the heart of us that never forgets our past--never forgets our deeds--never forgets those who fought and died so that we could be here to face the Enemy in this last, bloody days and nights. She is our memory, and in this, told us a glorious tale of kinship and unity in the face of adversity, a lesson that many of us," she looks around the room then, pausing to look to the higher-ranked individuals in particular, "need to never forget. We would be nothing without the work of those who came before us, but we must also learn from their mistakes." She barks out a laugh then and begins dancing in a circle, twirling rapidly around and around and around, shaking her rattles, her rack spinning with her in an almost entrancing rapid twirling. She dances from one foot to the other and begins to call out, "Protects-the-Fallen! Protects-the-Fallen! Protects-the-Fallen!" Each time she calls her name she spins. Each time she hopes from one foot to the other. Each time she shakes the rattles louder and louder and louder.

By the time the last deed is listed, Protects-The-Fallen had made her way around the fire and the great circle to step up before the Uktena. Her ears perk as she listens to her name being chanted, as if she was at a concert and she was on stage. She tilts her chin upwards a bit more proudly, taking in another deep breath as she feels every inch of her twitch a bit eagerly. By the look on her crinos face, she is pleased with the show that Fresh-Wounds have put on.

The Ritemaster raises his broad silver head in a howl that fills the cavern. He calls his packmate's name, but there are no words in the wolf tongue. There is only emotion, the way he sees the Galliard through a wolf's eyes. He sings of the love of a pack mother tending to her pups as they romp under a summer sun. The glory of leading her pack on rich autumn hunts. The solemn sadness of winter's lean times and singing a dying packmate to sleep. And lastly the unbridled joy in welcoming new life and celebrating surviving another year. It's all wrapped up within a single howl that falls and then rises again.

When Protects-the-Fallen stands before Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh, the latter woman is still spinning in circles, repeating her name over and over again. But then she stops suddenly, crouching down and SMASHING both of her bottle-rattles onto the ground. Her muscles ripple and shift and stretch and her bones make awful cracking and creacking noises as fur sprouts from her neck and arms and legs and the relatively smaller girl shifts into a thicker-bodied Glabro Garou--she is still on the thin-side for that form, but cannot be described as small, because she is thick and tall. She slams her hands down onto the piles of shattered glass and beads and caps, letting out a cry of pain as she rises back to her full height, blood dripping from her rapidly healing palms. Before they heal completely she leans into Protects-the-Fallen, sliding her palms first across her muzzle, and then down her neck, chest, and belly, and HOWLS again with those more human-like vocal chords, but with considerable volume and fervor. Smearing her blood across the Galliard's face and body she screams out, "Protects-the-Fallen, we recognize your Glory! Who would stand now to claim these stories of Glory are true? Who would stand to add to them?" A beat, and the blood-smeared Ritualist, turns to the others, "who would speak to the opposite? Who would claim these deeds are false?"

Liam seems keenly focused now, because this is the moment of truth, where someone may come forward with beef. He himself seems content to simply sit in his star strewn robe and remain quiet in this instance. There is no rebuttal of the Talesinger's Glory here.

Ghostwalker had slipped into the ritual in Lupus. He watches from the crowd, tail twitching faintly. He hadn't taken his gaze off the Ritual since he'd arrived. He glances around, looking to the others present to see if there would be contest against Protects-the-Fallen.

Circuit Tracer remains standing with his posture tense with the power of it all, but there is no call from him. It's clear he supports his packmate, but he neither speaks up for or against her and instead remains neutral. His vote doesn't count today, not with the questioned being his own sister. He just stands and patiently waits under the bright white stare of the Lion shadow cast on the wall behind him.

Ikal watches in utter stillness as Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh smashes down those rattles before Protects-the-Fallen. And with a sharp intake of a hiss, he covers his mouth as she brings her hands down onto the glass. And he has to turn away. It hurts to listen. But at last he peeks back over. He glances off across those gathered, head tilted with that feral affectation as he waits to see who will speak - surely only to add.

Taking in a deep breath, Protects-The-Fallen waits for a long moment, as if anticipating one voice to deny her renown. When none comes, she turns her attention back towards the Uktena and offers up a happy noise in her throat, like that of a low rumble. She watches the bloodied hands roam along her body, leaving streaks across her fur. She reaches out with a pair of claws to pluck a piece of glass away from the hands of the Philodox, then gently drops it to the ground amongst the other shards.

Unquestionably, Her-Wounds-Are-Fresh felt the pain of cutting her palms open, but when Protects-the-Fallen plucks glass from her hands, she does not so much as flinch, but just allows it to happen when she looks up at the statue. She is silent for a reverent moment before she says, "and now the ghostfolk will let us know if they hold these deeds in their regard. I call to you, Coyote! I call to you, Lion! I call to you, Unicorn! I call to you, Serpent-Beneath-the-Surface! I call to you! Recognize my cousin! Recognize my sister! Recognize my mother and the Glory she brings our nation! I call to /you/, Luna! I call to /you/, Grandmother!"

+ROLL/+DICE> Paola: Charisma + Rituals vs. 4 -> 4 successes.

Paola may call to many spirits, but in that moment there is one who demands his share of the Glory even in the hall of the Trickster. The shadow of the cave lion rises, looking like he is ready to leap off the wall for all he remains a flat cast with his lambent eyes burning with Luna's might and the ancient kinship of the catfolk with the lunar goddess. Raising his void-like head, the primeval cat sets loose the full force of his roar. The fire bows to the might of that roar, the air banished from around him, with the huts shaking like the humans once did within them at hearing that same roar so many ages ago. Lion makes sure no one misses the message. His daughter is made greater, and who would dare oppose Lion's decree?

The lean bodied wolf lifts his head back in a howl with the culmination of the Rite, gazing upon the Totem that once lead the howlers now restored to Glory leading the Roar.

Nevaeh listens from her spot at the back with an excited smile on her face. She joins in with applause at the end of the rite, adding her congratulations to the howls that go out. At the conclusion of things she stands from her spot and slips back out as quietly as she came in.

Once the howls echo, Protects-The-Fallen shrinks to her homid form and leans in to give Paola a firm hug, mindful of her antlers. "Thank you for the honor, sister, and to the spirits and family who blessed me this evening." She says, then goes about making her rounds to thank those who joined.