December 31, 2003.12.31.03. - call on the barking chain [city gnawers] *sd[forum]
(smokey)
Smokey sat in the leather chair 'throne' of the empty and abandoned building he called home. As he inhaled off the illegal cigar, alchohal laced thoughts ran though his head. Thoughts of what he saw in the Caern. The spawning pit and the warrior banes. In the heart of one of Gaia's fortresses. Thoughts of running alone. When he left New York, two promised they'd come right behind. They never did, and now he lives in the wholey unsetteling and, to his mind, just plain wrong state of solitude. And now he had the constant shadow of a threat in his mind. It had been growing for awhile, slowly creeping up in his thoughts in a way humans will never understand, in a way only his spirit blood can detect. He figered it was too much weed at first. He had found a girl that might be his mate if they kept up, and he had rumors of BSDs and maneaters going after kin. He probably was just worried for her.Talking to James left no doubt in his mind that was not was he was feeling.
But despite all he'd seen in this city, outside of the jaunt to the caern unity was not listed among said sites. Two packs and a handful of rag tags like himself. Yeah, real cooperation. You know what? Fuck it. He stood and closed his eyes, the power of Gaia flowing through his veins. In mere moments, his Mother's gift had run its course and he was sober. He waited a second... yep still want to this... and headed out the back door.
He shifted as he enter the overgrown yard, paying no mind to whatever hellish spirit of sarrow or ghosts that haunted the treehouse there in. The wolf-dog prowled around the area, thinking of how to put this. Maybe he was just misinformed. Maybe he was out of the loop. But damnit a Galliard's job isn't just telling stories. They inspire the others, give them the urge to keep going. Weather its his place or not he isn't sure. At under twenty years old he already was noted (among his own tribe atleast) as more then honorable enough for most Fostern of his moon. And he'd seen places where twenty was a revered fricken elder for the warriors of Gaia. But there was a fostern in the city, and he hadn't said anything... Eh, screw it. What are they gonna do? Kill him? Big deal, if this goes Perfect he is pretty sure he might die anyway. And so with no further ado he looks up the sky, and begins his howls and yips, doing whatever the hell it is Gnawers do to get the other cainies to carry on their message in all directions.
((loosley translated from the bastard language 'Dog', subset and stepchild of 'Wolf'))
"Call it out of place if you want, but I'm kind of sick of this shit. I got the feeling shit is going down, I know one other that hears this does too. I can only assume, everyone that will hear this does. The Caern is dying. Not slowly chocking and weathering away, being strangled and stabbed while we sit back and wonder what to do. I have been there recently, when Eagle and Smashing Machine's pack led a journy to check on its health. I am doubting fighting banes in one of the Wyrm's spawning pools in the same building is a good sign. We must act, and we must act yesterday! Tell your alphas, tell your freinds, tell your pack and all packs you know, even the lone wolves. We all need to get togather on this as fast as possible, and act the second we have decided what must be done. I don't have the pull to call a meeting, but damnit I demand one. Smashing Machine was Mr. Leader Man last I heard, if anyone can get up with him, tell him what I said. I am Death~Breathes~Life, Moon Dancer of Rat."
(jim)
Jim stops as he roots through a pretty good stash of trash and looks up his ears perking at the barks that filter through the city. Shifting to better understand it. he sits on his haunches in the dumpster he had been digging through and listens. Soon after He was back in homid form and he grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and headed through the twisted city streets toward his pack's den in chinatown to pass along the message.((All members of The Quick Take it that Jim let you in on the Info))
(sputnik)
Filthy metis mongrel that he was full-blown crinos; neighter wolf nor man, but a twisted amalgamation of both species rolled up into one sickening furry package. Black-grey ears swivel atop his head, patches of various shades of grey and black ran throughout his fur, the large paws of the lupine press deep impressions into the trash bags of the trash heap he perches upon.The barks came down the chain, head cants upward to listen carefully, absorbing the information like a sponge. Sputnik knew Smokey, the black Gnawer he had encountered on the mission to the caern's heart. Sputnik knew things were growing worse, he had seen the wretching pain that Whispers was in. The reminder tore at his heart-strings, bouncing horrific images in the wolf's brain that made his tail curl down between his legs, muscles coil underneath the heavy fur coat and his head lower to the ground. Left paw rubs over his head and ears several times, trying to shakes away the memories... Sputnik must help! Whispers must not die! Sputnik know this and he shouldn't allow it to happen.
Barks over the chain 'Rally. Gather others.. come together and do something. Packless and Packed, they were Gaians first, men and wolves second.'
Loud, gutteral barks erupt from the heavy bass that constantly rolls in the Russian wolf's chest. The sort of howl that once haunted the blackened, poverty-stricken streets of St. Petersburg... Ah, Sweet Mother Russia, no time for her children to weep.
Bark Bark.. Meow. Hiss hiss. Bark Bark. Woof Woof barky woof woof. Translation? who the fuck knows!
(Sputnik's translation of the barking chain, sent back to Smokey)
"Little Black Brother, Sputnik hear and know your concern. Fought long side. Seen Caern spirit for self with own eyes. Dying, will die is dying with no aide . Need do something.. Gather to speak some cold night. I found always in skidrow.. Hewiit and vine neighborhood near Our Lady of Sacred Peace Homeless Shelter."
(james)
ever since getting back into the city, James endured this hitchy feeling
some dark storm cloud adding to the thunderheads already hovering over the Fostern Gnawer
(it wasn't just him, others were feeling it too)
the culmination of the mental tempest driving him to spend the night alone
withdrawn from the comforts of kinfolk family and pack
walking it off by roaming the streets in Chicago's unwelcoming winter cold
brooding. festering. winding tighter and tighter....
it's only the series of staccato barks and drawn out howls that pull him from seditious thoughts
(treasonous memories and treacherous heartbreak)even after shifting into lupus, the dreadlocks never fully disappear
they cascade down long back in a torrent of strangely arranged fur
the wolfish shepardly mongrel sinking haunches to filthy alley ground
head tilting so velvet ears radar foreward to the night's feral music
shoulders hunched so guardhairs bristle and thermoregulate the thick winter coatif a wolf could smile, perhaps the Ahroun would, listening to Smokey's ranting message
seems the kid does have the gall to match his presence
once the canid cacophany dies down, his head tilts again: this time distancing instead of focusing
(Totemphone: impressions form within the minds of Eagle's chosen warriors)
then soon enough James' chin lifts to add his song to the messages passedthough even in the language of animals the battlescar slur can be heard, the sounds clipped and edited by a jaw that will not move as it should to properly shape the barks, yips, and howls..... also, harmonized with a street performer's confidence is the underlying sorrow which mellows each tone, remembering how he and the Russian metis Theurge were the only to uphold the promise of giving whatever it was they could to instill a temporary strength, fending off Whisper's excrutiating pain for however long their offered gnosis would last, when the others all but abandoned the totem for the sake of another battle - it killed him not to rush to his packmate's aid, no matter how well he knows Decker's fighting ability (they are brothers in arms), but under no circumstances would he dishonor the ranking Modi's order to tend to the spirit's needs first, even if it meant the Ahroun would miss a battle
"I am Drums-on-Skulls, Fostern Full Moon of Eagle Pack.... we fought beside you at the Caern, and we hear your cries now. Those that wish to gather spread the word: find the station at West End and 54th when tomorrow's moon rises. Eagles will be waiting. Eagles will act."
(smokey)
Posted by james at December 31, 2003 12:00 AM
Well that went better then he expected. After sitting and listening to the responses to his howls, and filtering out random crap from real dogs (Like I give a damn about your trash bin...) He shifted back up and nodded. Meeting will be tomorrow. Good. Bout fucking time. But first he needs to make a stop. Sputnik offered to replace his revolver when he dropped it in the umbra. Said his woman had connections. Well, he might need a really big for this shit...
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