October 14, 2004
.10.13.04. - forgotten language [rihana-cliona]

[cont'd from last scene]

(rihana)
Now is when she should, of course, fill them in on the little oddities about herself. Now is, of course, when she should go into some detailed story, rich and intregueing or dark and forboding, delivered in joint parts of accented English, misused vocabulary, Spanish flavouring and pantomime.

Instead she...
...hesitates.
THe veil shifts ever-so subtly, like she might be opening and closing her mouth. Starting and stopping.
Amber eyes slip from one Garou to another and her brow furrows. Unsure. Pensive.
It isn't calculation they see. Not the marks of someone formulating a lie or contemplating manipulation. But rather the uncertainty of speaking where perhaps she should not. Speaking secrets long gaurded and perhaps not meant for their ears.

Finally she closes her eyes briefly, as if summoning courage - nerve. It arrives and her shoulders straighten, her face lifts, the veil rustling with the movement...

"Will you... cambiar... change? For me to see, please?" To make her meaning more clear, she indicates the both of them and then seems to make her form smaller before slowly increasing, arms lifting.

(cliona)
She watches, listening. James asks for clarification, and she just nods. The same things she'd like to know as well, but understandably, he is an Ahroun. She does not lead in battle of any sort if she can help it. She does have too more often then not, of course, being alpha and without a pack ahroun, but if she has the choice, she leaves matters of protection to the Warriors and does as she is told.

She continues to watch Rihana as she contemplates what to say and when, choosing who to trust and how much, all with the subtle flutters of her veil. it is when the request comes that she blinks, and looks toward James, and then back to the little Strider kin requesting something most people tend to avoid - even when they are off the blood. And to this question, Cliona has the oh so witty reply...

"Uh....."

before her mouth snaps closed and she blinks, and then, with a soft chuckle. "Aye, lass, if ye wish, I suppose I kin.... if yeh tell me why?"


(james)
Cliona is far more eloquent than James - in a lot of ways
blood of the Bards courses through her veins
the Crescent Moon's well-versed in the imagematic language of spirits
not to mention, she doesn't have the speed impediment harnessing her accent
so... why let the trend stop here
she voices the question - he just seconds it with a lifted brow

not the answer he was expecting , that's for sure

(rihana)
"To know better..." Again her deep olive brow is wrinkled, her hands moving in Iberian expressiveness as she searches for a way to explain. Words they will comprehend and yet still gaurd whatever it is she feels the need to...
Her brow clears.
"To be more sure. Ustedes could be of anyone, any this or that. No dis-" She fumbles with this word and finally manages something akin to 'di-rrr-peck', "No offensive I mean," (just knock off the last syllable, eh?) "Pero - but - El Destruyador...the Destroyer - the Namer... they become clever for bad things."

She shifts a bit, knowing she more than likely bungled her words. Hopefully not beyond all comprehension... and those startelingly clear-amber eyes watch them keenly for their reactions.

(cliona)
Brow furrows slightly as she picks through the bungled and tangled, yet very careful explanation, watching the girl just as much as she seems to watch them, every little reaction pinpointed, examined, tossed together with the whole. finally, she shares a glance with James again, and then. "Ye wish t'be sure we arenae o'th'Wrym, tis that it? Though o'course, tis certain they be just a wee bit sneaky and likely could pass off as us at anyrate, but if'n tis th'explanation ye wish, then I dinna see why not."

She couldn't, after all, make it to the door without either or both of the Garou slicing her down if need be.

Slender body stretches, and she pulls to a stand, tugging her tanktop over her head [very little modesty left] and slipping from her pants. These are not dedicated, and for a quick show, she's not going to shred them. In baring her skin, she bares the extent of her scars as well. Her belly a tangled mess of repetitive attacks, hip to hip, from up under her ribs, down diagonal to her hip, curving around behind her. The rest of her skin is unmarked, but for the spirit tattooed henna swirls from elbows to fingertips. A final shrug, and she taps the ever present rage, and shifts. To Glabro, to Crinos. Here she pauses, and it is interesting to note that the hair color shift? has taken effect here as well. Darker underneath, red tipped, though it will grow out to its normal red and black tipped. She is smaller then most, slender but still strong.

Animalistic shoulders shrug, a gesture asking if that is enough before she shifts down again, to slip once more into her clothing.


(james)
that brow lifts higher and James.... James actually laughs
a deep chuckle rolling out of the Ahroun's chest
not often one is asked so point blank by strange kin
there's usually a far more complex dance
and given the course of recent City-wide events
he has to give credit in trying to be safe rather than sorry

however...
just because they're not of the Wyrm doesn't mean they're guaranteed trustworthy
proven, thus, by those very same recent events

the request is justified enough for the guttermutt
Cliona's little peepshow dutifully missed as the Gnawer twists from sit to crouch
leveraging against the sofa's cusions to sloooowwwwly stretch and stand
dreads shaken out over muscular shoulders soon hidden beneath urban-camo pelt
sure looks like Rin-Tin-Tin got a little too friendly with Freddy Kreuger
brown and black coat shaggily covering the lanky living nightmare

and his Rage belts forth a thunderclap

though unlike the shorter Fianna
James remains in Crinos - watching Rihana
his head tipping in canid expectancy

(rihana)
She herself has to concentrate in order to understand what Cliona says, entirely unused to an Irish accent. Finally, however, she nods - after wincing a bit as Cliona says 'Wyrm' so flippantly (it should already be clear that she has what modern society would call 'superstition' - what others may recognize as old world wisdom) - indicating both that Cliona understood and her acknowledgement of Cliona's warning. Simply watching the two of them shift isn't proof positive.
An eloquent shrug of her shoulder, liftinf of her hands, and cant of her head gets across her response: What in this world is absolute?

The petite woman seems unabashed when Cliona strips. This may be surprising, given her very apparent modesty (she keeps half of her face covered for crying out loud and her clothing, baggy and worn, renders her rather gender neutral). Then, again, reference back to the Old World feeling and such a unperturbed response is not so odd -- Cliona is Other. Other's do as they please. Far be it from her to take offense or stand around being shocked when she's in said Other's own abode.

James laughs...
And Rihana arches an eyebrow slightly, but deems the laughter non-mocking in intention, for her eyes smile back quietly and she nods slightly...
Acknowledgement of the oddity of her actions.
Gratitude for their not having ripped her head off for even presuming to ask it.

They both shift...
She tenses. Especially when the Ahroun shifts, his Rage flowing, raising every single fine hair on her body and causing her buttocks to clench; the involuntary lowering of a tail evolution long ago illimination from her physique.
She watches them closely, however... sitting up - with slow, careful motions - on her knees, her head moving as she peers over them. Up and down. Eyes pensive. Searching. Searching for old sings that might betray them... a mark... a bat-like elongation of the ears.
SHe cannot be sure, of course.
But she tries to be close to it.

Finally she sits back on her heels and rests her hands on her knees...
...and begins to speak. To move her hands. At one point she even draws out a bit of paper and stub of chalk from her bag and uses pictures to help tell her tale. Disjointed and accented and painstakingly trying to be comprehensible - she tells her tale.
Quite a tale it is, to boot.

It starts off...
...a long time ago.
And in a land, far, far away.
It starts off in Egypt, in the time of Pharoahs - more specificaly, in the all in all well known (in the Western world) time of the Hebrew captivity in those times. She speaks of a man (Moh'she'sea) who free'd those slaves - but after that point she veers from the 'popular' story and speaks of a group of those slaves who did not follow the Popular diety of either the Hebrews or the Egyptians. Slaves who also walked through the sea-made-to-walls but diverged from the others during the 40-years of Wilderness. She speaks of this small tribe who followed Earth and Moon, to whom the Others came, of whom the Others were ocassionaly born. She speaks of their journeying all directions of the compass, for many a generation until their numbers grew and they found a home.

...in speaking of this Home, she hesitates. More pronounced a hesitation than her frequent pauses to think of a word, or better draw a pictogram (she writes no words).

Softly she sings a hushed, husky melody under her breath (ba'shana, haba'ha, ne'shev a'hamir peseht...) then resumes her telling--

--She describes to them a Caern and the Sept that grew up as a result of it. She does not describe in great detail - not, it seems, because she is holding back but more that the details are not known to her. She describes the power of this Caern as being one of Memory. She draws an hourglass and cricles it repeatedly... Memory not only of past, but present and future all together. A Holy place, dangerous and wonderful. It would seem the Sept existed for a fair amoutn of time - a few more generations at least - but saw a increasing number of attacks from many an Enemy until, at last... Disaster. Loss.
Only a small number of the populace survived, perhaps purposefully evacuated...

...here she pauses again. Perhaps she rubs her throat. Her wrists. THe telling depleating of what reserve of energy she has managed to build up. But there is a Need in her eyes - once such a telling begins, it is not easily cast aside.
She shifts her shoulders, concious of the marks there...
...and continues.

These survivors again began to Wander, through many a land in at least three different continents. An exact record is not important, suffice to say that they became nomads once more until, many centuries later, they took up a more permanent residence in the Iberian peninsula, the Southern realm were a gypsy-like people were not so much targetted as they might be in other areas. Were mountains afforded them seclusions. Privacy.

Now she returns to that Caern...
...indicates her upper back/shoulder blades and speaks of the ritual phenominum of a few of her people - in each generation - being marked with a history, a map, a legend of this Caern. Keeping it safe for the day when a Prophesy might be fullfillled - the Caern found again.

There is only one problem.
...they have forgotten how to read the marks.
Wry, but acceptant, are her eyes and body language as this is admitted. Sad. But never losing hope entirely. A Gaurdian people who do not shirk their duty although there is no one who remembers, outside of their small circle, that they gaurd anything... and no one even within the circle who remembers how to decipher its ancient, isolated language.

And the situation is worse.
I am the last.
SHe shouldn't have these marks. She is too young, not trained. The only way being 'chosen' makes sense to her... is that she is the only option left.

...with that, sits back wearily. ANd looks to them, sure they will have questions.

(cliona)
She is of a line that speaks stories as easily as they breath, and nothing is better then a bards tale - but a bards tale watered with liberal amounts of beer, of course. She, once she is dressed again, refreshes everyone's drink of choice, and settles to her chair, curling up easily in the oversized softness.

It is Logan's chair, and she hovers here as if it is the only place she still feels his arms around her. Safe, comfortable, comforted. That her bed is lonely is a foregone conclusion. That she keeps herself out of the house as much as possible likely is as well. That the sound of voices, a voice, now fills the room with a tale comforts her as well is also likely obvious. There are few things a Fianna loves more then a story, after all.

She listens, and watches, and nods her understanding as pictures are used where words fail. She gathers the gist of the story, and surprised brows arch at the forgetting of how to read it, as well as the explanations of those words that so confused them before. She is the last.

Oh.

She finally opens her beer, and takes a few swigs. After a few more moments contemplation. "So - th'tattoos an such, tis th'story o'this caern, th'way t'find it, etc. But ye canna read it, and ye are th'only one left who knows th'story atall." Way to cut down a tale into a few sentences, hm? She glances at James, and then back to Rihana... "th'markins, th'etchin o'th'tattoos.... tis spirit born? or some other way o'tattoo'in yeh?"

(james)
there is nothing the Ahroun has to hide from her inspection
just as there was nothing he chose to sheild from her first soul-penetrating glance
quietly standing until she's satisfied he is no Child of The Abyss

it is something else that keys James' interest on the dawning story
besides, of course, the etiquette ingrained during his tender years
the Fostern was born beneath the battle of Luna's pregnant glow
yet beneath the tutelidge of Frankenweiler eyes
knowledge's thirst grew to temper the Scab Warrior's hunger

a velvet ear swivels towards Rihana's hesitant voice
cupping each word that joinrs the ever-growing strange tale
attention rapt enough to cause a little hitch in his downward shift
a pause or... three.... in progress from beast to man
finally settled once again in casual recline against the base of the couch

..... well fancy that

dreadlocks shift against bare shoulders when the raggedyman slowly nods
facts, figures, fantasy, and legend falling into a relatively logical place
strange, but overall perfectly sensible to him, really
beer tips towards Cliona

there are questions, allright
but we'll take them one at a time
and that was top of his list, too

[pause]

Posted by james at October 14, 2004 12:00 AM