02. Wild Things

It was early Friday morning when Stag's Fury summoned the cubs, demanding that they leave all vestiges of Homid life behind them. He took the form of a massive Lupus, marked by ruddy fur and a scar over the face.

"Every kill is a gift from Gaia, and don't you forget that" he said to them, in a tone not one of them would have dared to question.  "Gaia provides all that we need, and there is never a need to give in to the weaver and its unneeded technologies." He turned slowly, and Aricie fought a shiver down her spine as his eyes left her. As an Ahroun, he was intimidating almost without trying to be, a fact which made her respect him as much as fear him.

From the beginning,Stag had been a taskmaster, demanding a great deal from all of them. A habit which sparked complaint from Syrus, her fellow Silver Fang, but caused her to grand him boundless respect. A social grace he paid back in full, with a willingness to present her with challenges. Opportunities to show her mettle before and against her fellow cubs. She never missed an opportunity to try to inspire them in her relentless pursuit of perfection.

Today was no exception... but nothing could have prepared her for what was to come. As usual, they went about tracking their target, sniffing out signs of its nearness, ascertaining its size, approximating its strength. They rolled in the leaves as they got closer, using the dankness of earth to conceal their collective scent.

When at last their quarry was in sight, the Beta Den Parent turned his heavy head toward her.

"You go."

Go? 


Aricie froze for a moment. The ebon folds of her damp nostrils flared once, twice, in acknowledgment of the command, and she took a moment to survey the surroundings. The foliage was deep, thick, and profound in its diversity. Strange, broad fronds sprouted from bristling trunks that reminded her of pineapples. The ground smelled of rainwater, and the stagnant stench of decaying plant matter; vines hung off the branches of dingy looking pine trees like threadbare draperies, and a sea of ground cover parted only to reveal a mud flat, wherein a lone boar stood pawing at the turf.

Behind her, one of the other cubs, the female, whimpered at Lathias, before congratulating her on the honor. This was, in effect, a commendation. To be granted a kill of one's own showed confidence in her autonomy-- and as such, this was not an opportunity she could easily pass up. She fought the fear of injury, pinning it against her subconscious like a moth under a glass frame. Failure, especially due to anxiety, was far from an option.

Young, grunting and unaware, the boar dipped his nose to drink, exposing a soft, fleshy throat.

Aricie felt her eyes gravitate toward it, the instincts of her wilder self welling beneath still pools of stormy gray. There was something strangely vital about hunting in this form, something primal and unseemly. Something she longed to embrace, as much as it repulsed her.

Her superior had not chosen any old animal for this test. Pigs were fiercely intelligent creatures who knew when to stand and fight. She knew that engaging him would mean an intense struggle; a match of wit, and brawn, and will. This would not be easy on either of them—and it would almost certainly be a competition in which the winner was not a bygone conclusion. As she had seen all too often on their hunts, victory would not always go to the strongest, but more often to the most adaptable. On her honor, by the simple virtue of what she "ought to have been", she would know what it was to win by the virtue of wit and instinct combined. To do so would surely prove her worth before Stag’s Fury, and perhaps earn some miniscule respect from her fellow cubs. Most notably Syrus, who was in dire need of seeing why his people were the kings and queens of Garou.

Hunting in Lupus worked on a single, guiding principle: kill, without being killed. There was a reason wolves (and yes, even werewolves) hunted in groups. Prey animals were dangerous. The creature in front of her, though not extremely large, was about the same weight as she was. All of it muscle, and densely packed. Its back was lined by thick, bristly hair-- the sort that you could not bite through no matter how hard you tried. His snout was crowned by yellowed, pointed teeth, that could easily impale, or even kill her, if she was not wise to them.

  

 Aricie hung low to the ground, near to the underbrush-- downwind of the creature, as Stag's Fury had taught her to be. In this way, the prey would not catch her scent. Over the course of the last few weeks, the Beta Den-Parent had taught her many things. For example, when hunting in a pack you wanted to get your prey on the run. As she had seen in the recent altercation with the Silver Boar and Shoots from the Mouth, the absolute worst thing that could happen was to encounter an animal that was not afraid of you, and would not budge from its place. If the animal ran, then you could trip it up. But that was not an option here. Stag’s Fury wanted to observe her—which would mean keeping her adversary contained. It would mean facing him, and going toe to toe.

Unlike her teachers (and most of the other cubs on-level with her) Ari could not rely on the wolf's innate endurance. While she excelled at quickness and perception, once her resources were expended, she relied almost entirely on raw tenacity to get the job done. Success would come to her through correct assessment, and swift execution of the proper technique. Not by driving the pig to its final breath as her ancestors had.

With this in mind, she doubled back on her haunches, and dashed behind the pig, straight into the other side of the clearing, ensuring that the brush rustled behind her.

Alarmed, the prey animal  raised his head, ears perked, and shifted nervously-- raising one foot into the air. Having witnessed this, Aricie dashed once more behind him. The process repeated once more, and the animal, wheeling and disoriented, finally stopped, going eerily still in the face of an enemy he could not accurately perceive.

Both of them went eerily still for at time, such that even the wind appeared to hold its breath. But then, in a flash, the sleekness of her fur caught the light of Helios like a pearl; she leaped from the foliage and struck at the wiry-tasseled heels. Like a bolt of white-hot lightening; with ears lowered and teeth bared. Her feet hit the ground, and gripped it by the claw for traction.

It was only by sheer resolve that the boar managed to steel himself, spinning about to face her with his razor teeth, his legs mired deep in the mud of the Bawn marshlands. The wet, sandy soil coagulated around his feet like blood from an oozing wound, splashing up against his belly and coating his nose as he brought the fury of its weighted head toward his ghostly pursuant. He understood the challenge as his ancestors had many times before him—and was ready to fight for his life.

But the cub was faster than he had anticipated, dodging the incoming blow at the last possible moment. With startling intensity, the she wolf uttered a low, guttural growl, one that shook her shoulders and rumbled like thunder.

It was cut short by a sudden, high pitched yelp. The boar kicked her hard in the chops, which sent her reeling through the mud, skidding as if on ice.

The indignation of it was so tangible that it could almost be smelt upon the young Fang, and in a show of sheer tenacity—if only to preserve her honor as a hunter, she doubled back and leaped upon the animal’s snout, raking his  face with her teeth, gouging at his eyes with her paws.

He grunted, and then screamed in outrage. Blood dripped over his cheeks, and into his nostrils. In an attempt to get a better grip, Ari clamped down on his mouth, slowing his breathing. The boar tossed her, this way and that, for even with all her quickness and ferocity, she was simply not brawny enough to wrestle him to the ground.

She focused on him, and tried to hold him steady. This hunt had become a match of willpower rather than brawn, and in making the creature fight for breath, she had brought him down to her level. She could feel his nostrils flaring frantically, searching for something to breathe other than her exhale. Over time, he became less panicked, and moved more slowly. His brawn seemed to turn against him, the heaviness of his body became too much for his stubby legs to bear.

As their struggle neared its end, the Boar looked to Aricie—in recognition of his defeat. It was as though the charisma of his opponent ignited in him a spark of understanding. Yes, he had fought valiantly; he was respected for his strength, and for his tenacity. He would also soon die, but he was and would do so for the good of Gaia.

At last, the boar relented, falling onto its knees. As if moved by his plight, Aricie  moved to grant one of Gaia’s children the cleanest death she could have offered him on her own. In what resembled the acceptance of an honorable surrender, she released him, and clamped down on his windpipe.

The boar heaved, nobly, and drew breath no longer.

Humbled by his strength, Ari hung her head. Her muscles ached, her blood-drenched muzzle  flared in exhaustion, her thin, pink tongue lolled out of the front of her maw, still unaccustomed to the taste of iron. Grasping his carcass by the rear leg, she heaved it over to  Stag’s Fury—highest of station.

01. With Both Eyes Open

Night had fallen, and daybreak would soon be upon them. A new day, with a new leader, a new parent. One she had a hand in choosing. Though she said  nothing as she walked beside her fellow Silverfang, there was a strange and unspeakable weight upon her shoulders. One made all the heavier by guilt, by disappointment, and the looks on their faces once the verdict was cast. Her verdict, or at least, a verdict much the same.

It was because of this, that the return to her cabin seem to take eons. And even when she had arrived, she hardly realized it-- with her tongue clenched tightly in her teeth.

Wordlessly, Aricie did up the lock-- a simple metal bar, like those found on bathroom stalls in airports. Until now, she had never seen fit to use them. But tonight... tonight would be different.  A night when she would grant herself a simple comfort not once permitted since her arrival.

However quiet, her footsteps felt loud enough to quiet a minefield as she crossed the floor to her bedstand. There was a lonely candle waiting there, melted almost to its last after long hours of study. Indifferently, she struck a match from the small book set squarely to the right of the handle, and held it to the blackened wick until the flame consumed it. With painstaking stiffness, she placed the matchbook exactly where it had been moments before, and the used stick beside four others of its kind, half leaning against the side of the wax receptacle.

Their voices sounded like echoes, and resonated like a tuning fork. They weren't real, but she could hear them. Replaying over and over in her head, like scenes in a poorly directed film.

"I was on my own.. killed my best friend... This place represents a family for me. That is why I want the job."

"No, this is wrong! The whole challenge may have to be forfeit!" 


"Why aren't you Cliath yet? You seem pretty bad ass."


"It's an obvious bias. You're going to make a horrible Philodox."


"They're worse than traitors! They're usurpers! You canno', must no', let them win..."

"What do you have to compare me to?"

She hadn't wanted to do it to him. To make him hurt.  He was a friend to her, and a good man. Tender hearted, but a good man. Brave, cunning, strong willed. Did he not deserve another chance? Perhaps he would have learned his lesson after speaking with her, been better.

Within her heart of hearts, she hoped that she had done some good for Shoots,' that he would not hold her obstinacy against her. Hopefully, when the red haze of anger had passed over him, he would see that she had been given an opportunity to make the best choice for the good of all. That she was trying to make the best decision.

A hard lesson was a lesson best learned. If he was worthy of the position, he would have tried before it counted. He would have been firmer, more confident. He simply had other things to worry about. He was too concerned with his responsibilities, with being liked-- and as she had been taught by Speaks with Ancestors' Wisdom, it was far better to be feared than it was to be loved.

Of course, there were other reasons. The words of Speaks with Ancestors' Wisdom struck the back of her mind like a hot iron.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Shoots was a good Ragabash, able to figure out her reasons, and to tell her what some part of her wanted to hear. Able to vanish in plain sight, and to be as cutting with his tongue as with any blade.

It was like a slap in the face. Even thinking about it made her cheeks burn, and the weight in her chest all the more difficult to bear. Without a doubt, He would have taught the Shadow Lord Cub well, for the same reasons Speaks with Ancestors' Wisdom had given she and Syrus those weapons. For the same reason Jack Gallows endured her lengthy philosophical discussions.

There was a kindship there, some recognition that something binding was shared. If all went well, the Shadow Lord would be  Shoots' packmate in a few months' time. Worse, he could show him how to undo the reserves of strength she had worked so hard to muster. Speaks with Ancestor's Wisdom was strong, but aged; Syrus had breeding, without wit. The way she saw it, she was the future of her tribe on the sept. And the challenge was her opportunity to prove she was capable as a leader. Perhaps she was. She and Breaks the Spiral seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Somehow. Whether he was trusting her judgment, or had his own reasons for appointing Lithias, she could not say.

What she did know, was that if Chris threatened her position, if he threatened the future of her people, there would be hell to pay. She would sooner die than allow a "treacherous usurper" to take the crown, so to speak, and would act against anyone who might enable such a thing. Bemused, she wondered if his Theurge tribesman would be as much of an idiot as her own.  Perhaps then, the score would be more even, and she would not have to be four Garou in one.

She felt like she had to be. All the time. For every blow flung at her, she had to strike back. To prove her superiority. To keep them looking up to her, as she was certain they did. Her efforts had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the Sept, surely. Would Breaks the Spiral have allowed her to participate in a challenge if he did not think her capable? Would Fox have inquired as to why she was not Cliath if he did not think her prepared?

Why wasn't she, anyway?

Her hair gathered behind her as she moved to lean upon the door. Her eyes, grey and profound as the sky before a thunderstorm, met with the rafters on the ceiling.  She blinked, and blinked again-- an effort to stem the tide of remorse that coursed through her heart and boiled in her veins. In a gesture of abject futility, and without regard to the coarseness of the wood, her back slid down the door until she sat on the floor, gazing distantly into the endless depths of the pendant in her hands. A symbol of Falcon, who granted her favor she did not deserve.

A part of her wondered if Jack Gallows would have given her a leg up. He was correct, after all. They had a positive relationship, they had shared a number of congenial conversations, mostly about the litany, events on Sept. She wanted him to win, so badly, she wanted him to win. Had Shoots said nothing about bias, she would have picked him over anyone. A Philodox, a Fostern, holder of many titles. He was an important, trustworthy Garou. He would have taught her rigorously, and expected a lot. Challenged her, and the other cubs. Perhaps more than the others might have handled. He would have taken her in as a stone and turned her out as a diamond, polished and catching the light in every possible facet. Lucid and unmarred-- as any guardian of Law aught to be.

But he was Shoots' best friend. To draw a wedge between them would have been cruel. A very personal blow to Joe, and she had done enough damage. Whoever she chose would have to be someone Shoots' would feel comfortable challenging, and someone strong enough to teach him, as well as the rest the cubs formerly in his charge.  Jack could have done this, but Joe had seemed to value his opinion so highly that she could not trust him to challenge, even when he was ready.

And besides, Gallows' dedication was to his duty; she had not realized until all too late, that being Den parent would not have been yet another burden on him. The look on his face was so fresh in her mind that it felt like it had been burned on the backs of her eyelids. Her nails raked violently over the place where he had touched her, perhaps in penance for playing a part in his disappointment.

Regardless of what she had wanted, Lathias truly was the only option. He was not a poor choice by any means, nor had he been chosen simply by the process of elimination. The virtues of his patience, his wisdom, and his experience made him strong. He expected much from her, from all of the cubs, and knew the Litany well enough to teach her. He was quietly commanding, enough to handle Syrus' obstinacy, and the sternness of Stag's Fury-- whom he would undoubtedly keep around as a matter of balance.  Lathias knew potential when he saw it, and choosing him would result in a better, more stable environment for her little "pack." Which, despite personal opinions, she could not help but feel responsibility for.

"In facing our troubles, we know what 'tis to win. We know what it is t'be strong, because we know what 'tis to be weak, We know what tis' to lead in adversity, because we mus' lead our selves each day, against tha' which threatens our sanity. "

Sanity. She questioned how much of that she had, and tried valiantly to deny the water spilling defiantly from her eyes-- causing the paint she wore to streak like blood. Several deep breaths were drawn in an attempt to remain calm,  and the flame across the cabin flickered dimly off the lense of her eye.

A single, solitary light in the darkness that surrounded her.

Of the Half Moon: Chronicles of Aricie, Philodox of the Blazing Sun Sept

Hi!

If you're reading this, it means you've stumbled upon a compilation of stories for and from the prospective of my LARP character, Aricie Defresne. It is my hope to use this blog as a tool for character development, to enhance roleplay both for myself, and for my fellow players. It has always been my philosophy that good roleplay begets good roleplay, and so I wish to offer whatever is submitted here as contribution to the community at large.


Eventually, this will translate to full on, In-Character journal entries ( once my little werewolf graduates from cub school  and can own a journal ) but it will also encompass various stories, told from the omniscient perspective.

Please note that whatever I write here is to be taken only as OOC knowledge, and that your characters do not know it, unless they have been written in as a part of the scene ( with permission from their respective players ), or have read the journal, which will be kept on my person at game once permitted.

Thanks for stopping by, and I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoy writing them!

Bri