[-red-] [To climb the mountain: 3 WP rolls, diff 8! I'm also taking this as an opportunity to write people out.]

[Face of Death] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 4, 8 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Face of Death] [WP
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[-red-] [dan! +1]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Face of Death] [and 3]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 5, 9 (Failure at target 8)

[-red-] [dan +2!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 7, 10 (Failure at target 8)

[-red-] [dan +3!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 2, 7 (Botch x 1 at target 8)

[Buried Hatchet] There's a lot he could say to that. Could, but: he learned when he was assumed to be seventeen years old or so that trying to tell someone who does. Not. Like. You. what you really meant, or that you don't like them either, or that you would have gladly hunted alongside them and taught their cubs everything you have ever learned about tracking and bringing down true prey...

...it really amounts to nothing, in the end. So he doesn't speak. He bows his head in acknowledgement, in respect -- because either way, she was a high rank Moon Seer in her last life, the life that still lingers as an imprint on her soul -- and then turns back to his packmates. He rubs his head against Echo's, against Joey and Daniel. He nips at Nate's scruff. He grunts at Blood Summons, and then he turns

and starts to climb.

[+1]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 4, 8 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Buried Hatchet] [+2]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 7 (Botch x 1 at target 8)

[Buried Hatchet] [-1WP, reroll +2]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[-red-] [-1WP, try again! +3]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 7 (Botch x 2 at target 8)

[Buried Hatchet] [+3]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[-red-] -2WP, try again!!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 7, 8 (Failure at target 8)

[-red-] [fuck's sake. ignore last two rolls. rerolling at 4d10!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 9 (Failure at target 8)

[-red-] The path beneath their paws is quickly lost in ever-deeper snow. It angles steeply up into the mountains, up and up. The skies cloud over, then turn black. Light falters. Temperatures drop. Soon the pack finds themselves clinging to a rock face so sheer that even snow cannot find a foothold here -- though they must.

It's so cold that their digits are numb; their eyes watering. It's hard to breathe when the wind gusts, tearing at them like a living thing trying to cast them down, down, down.

Soon, they can't see the bottom anymore. It's all mist and freezing cold, a bare granite face before them that they cling to with every ounce of their strength. Toward the end, Joey nearly slips. She slides down a terrifying, jarring twenty yards or so before catching herself -- barely -- on the lip of a ledge. The rock face, ice-edged, slices her open. It closes soon enough, though, and she pushes on.

Hatchet and Broken Hammer are not so fortunate. When they fall -- as they do -- their claws can find no hold. They slide a long way. They dig in, bear down. Pain lances through them: injury that cuts at their spirit without seeming to touch their bodies.

They, too, press on.

They lose track of one another on the climb. The wind and the mist separate them, though they can still hear one another's claws, breathing, efforts. It takes will to climb. It takes will to simply keep going.


[Effects:

Joey takes 1L damage from slipping. This only heals when she reaches the summit.

Dan and Hatchet each take 1A damage from botch-slipping, and furthermore burn WP to keep going.

Current status:
Joey 2A, 1L 3WP
Hatchet 3A 4WP
Dan 6A 4WP]

[Buried Hatchet] He barks when Joey slips, when he hears her claws scrambling and catching on the rock. And maybe because he does: he falls. It isn't a slide, not a slip. He loses his hold and ice-cold rock slams into his very being, into his bones, into his soul. He roars, though not in pain. Bear keeps him from feeling the pain. It's a sound of pure frustration, held at bay only by his rather ferocious will.

Stubbornness.

By the time he regains his hold, starts climbing again: he doesn't know where Joey is. Or where Daniel is. Or where any of them are. He can hear them, but the wind takes away their positions and he knows only that they live, that they're around him, that he isn't alone. So he keeps climbing.

[Face of Death] She hears her alpha's bark, barely. It's the last sound she hears from her packmates for a while, and she hears it as her claws scrabble for purchase, her muscles strain, and she keeps herself from sailing over the edge. The obstinate little Rotagar clings, though. She drags herself back up again, and by the time she's up, she's lost track of the others.

There's no way she can stop and wait for them, no way to go faster to see if they've passed her. And there's only one way to go: Up. Onward and upward. Her only hope is that she finds them at the summit, or they find her.

So she continues on, Bear's gift keeping the pain at bay for now.

[-red-] Ultimately, some of them simply don't have the will to go on. Some of them slip and fall over and over and over, bad luck or faltering strength or injury or all of the above. Some of them eventually, finally, cannot summon up the strength to go on.

They close their eyes. They let go. They fall into shadows and mist...

...and wake up outside the Red Talon homeland in the dark stillness between worlds.

--

The rest of them press on.

Some interminable time later, Joey's handpaw, reaching for the next hold, finds ... loose soil. Flat earth. She pulls herself up and finds herself in a different place altogether. Buried Hatchet and Broken Hammer join her a moment later. All of them are injured. Broken Hammer is bent double in his Crinos shape, one handpaw on the ground,

which is lush with life.

The wind and the storm and the dark, foreboding skies are gone. Blue skies all around -- crisp and clear. It's cold, but the sun is bright.

And they're not atop a bare rock summit at all. There's earth here, and plant life: the wildflowers and wildgrass of early spring. A stream cuts across the summit. Trout stand still in the current, smooth and brilliant, the edges of their fins rippling. The packmates can see straight to the horizon in every direction, though the view falling away into the distance changes every time they look. A rainforest. A taiga. A savanna. A prairie.

Nate, Echo, and Blood Summons are nowhere to be seen.

In their place, a strange sight in this feral land: a man standing at the edge of the stream, his back turned to them. His hair falls past his shoulders, tangled and twisted, dreadlocks formed from nothing more than a lifetime without bathing. He's bare from head to foot, utterly unashamed, wearing nothing but remembered scars of another life.

Something about his posture indicate he's waiting for them. Has been for some time.

[Buried Hatchet] Heal him. I can't. And we don't know what's coming next.

There's no denying who the words are directed at. Hatchet is moving steadily back into hispo from his crinos-shape, more at ease in these lands on four legs than on two, than in warform. He is saying this as soon as he's on solid ground, even as his body begins to change.

And then he looks around. He breathes in deep, exhales slow. He closes his eyes against the constant shifting, opens them again. He can sense his packmates in the back of his mind -- the back of his spirit -- and he does not fear for them. His ribs expand and contract as he breathes, every single one deep and as satisfying as a meal.

His eyes focus on the trout for a little while. He blinks, and then he looks at the man. Who he was aware of, but did not look at. He remains in hispo, and takes a few steps forward, positioning himself subtly but definitely in front of the two Cliaths still with him. Hatchet cocks his head to the side, peering at him. After a little while of silence, he makes a questioning noise in his throat.

[Face of Death] It's unsettling, reaching the summit and not finding her brother, her sister, or the Fostern Godi who traveled with them. Joey's dark-eyed gaze sweeps the area, searching for them. She resists the urge to look back the way they came.

Buried Hatchet orders her to heal Daniel, and Joey reaches out to her brother, pressing her handpaw to his wounds. When she's done what she can, she follows Hatchet into Hispo, trailing a little ways behind him.

[-1G Mother's Touch, diff 5]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[-red-] [oh! i forgot! after gaining the summit, they all regain full WP.]

[-red-] [also, for duration of SL, +1 survival on top of their +1 primal urge.]

[-red-] When the packmates have made what meager preparations they can or will, Hatchet makes a sound in his throat. As though he had been waiting for exactly this, the stranger by the stream turns to face them.

The planes and angles of his face are strange: a sharp, slanting, feral countenance that looks almost mutant to human standards. It is, in reality, an expression of the utter purity of his line: Red Talons back and back and back through all his ancestry, all his past lives. His hair is a deep, rich red, and his eyes are a wolf's eyes, resonant yellow, very direct.

"In my last life I was called Strong Alpha; Hunts in Scab; Understands Apes; Griffin's Rage Gaia's Peace." Most of the other Talons could barely speak the High Speech in various feral forms. This one's human mouth forms the sounds flawlessly. "I was an elder rank Red Talon of the warrior moon.

"In coming here, the strength of your body has been tested. The strength of your will has been tested.

"Will you allow me to test the strength of your spirit?"

[Buried Hatchet] From the Talons Hatchet has met in his lifetime -- more than many homidborn can claim, up there with some Striders -- he knows that Understands Apes may not be a name of honor among their kind. But he listens to the way Strong Alpha, Hunts in Scab speaks it. And in his mind, he calls him by the last name. The one that speaks of balance, of duality: the one that appeals most to his own moon.

"We came for knowledge," Hatchet says, after some time. He's manipulating his voice: he speaks the High Tongue, rather than the combination of body language and barks and mottled Garou-speech that makes up his communication in hispo. "Griffin told us we would be tested, to prove worthy of knowledge."

A beat.

"My pack submits to your test."

[-red-] No words; no nod, no indication whatsoever that this test has begun. There is simply a gathering in the air, a thickening of the spiritual might around this place.

The sunlight does not dim. The grass does not bend. The stream does not swell higher, and the wind does not blow harder. But their perception warps nonetheless, bowing beneath the sudden, burgeoning onslaught like a candle to the wind. The assault is not against their bodies or even their minds, but the very fabric of their spirits, and it grows and grows.

The elder Red Talon closes his eyes. He whispers:

"Stand strong."

[-red-] [okay, this is essentially a modified facedown. as a pack, someone (pick a representative!) will be rolling cumulative Gnosis, aka 9 dice, vs diff 8 (dude's rage). You need to accumulate 10 successes (his WP).

meanwhile, Hunts in Scabs is rolling his gnosis (6) x 3 = 18, -3 for pack bonus. So 15 dice vs diff 9 (highest rage, +3 for pack bonus). He needs to accumulate 10 successes (highest WP, +3 for pack bonus).]

[-red-] [Oh and -- you may burn Gnosis to keep going if he wins out. However, all packmates must burn Gnosis together (drawback of doing it as a pack!)]

[Buried Hatchet] [Pack Gnosis]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 8)

[-red-] [counter gnosis!]
Dice Rolled:[ 15 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 9)

[-red-] As the Sentinels brace themselves, the unseen storm gathering behind Hunts in Scab grows to its full strength.

A silence -- like the world gathering a breath -- and then it comes down on them.

Batters them so utterly that it feels like an assault on body and mind both; tears into them, bears them down under its weight. First, a wave of sorrow, deep as an ocean: a dirge for all things lost and slipping away, the beating memory of everything they've seen. The elk, the mammoths, the wolves, the great predators of the world lost to time and the unstoppable encroachment of man and machine.

The loss of all things wyld and pure, the impossibility of bringing any of them back. The loss, even, of their memories -- as more and more of their spirits merely fade away into nothingness as the boundaries of this realm, and so many others like it, shrink in the face of the wyrm.

Loss. Loss and sorrow batter them, pelts them like rain.

[Face of Death] [Pack Gnosis!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[-red-]
Dice Rolled:[ 15 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Failure at target 9)

[-red-] [pack gnosis!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[-red-] Then --

Terror. Rage and terror. The cold, clammy fear of being hunted by humans, of being pursued by wyrmthings, being driven from the warmth and safety of the den, smoked out, chased, cornered, slaughtered. The fear, metallic and sour, of being hunted by the unstoppable force of history itself; being driven out by condo complexes and housing developments; dens and caerns and deep wilderness profaned, destroyed by nothing more or less than civilization's advancements, the inevitable movement of time.

Primal, unflagging terror claws through them, flaying their nerves raw, jolting their rage, weakening their limbs.

[-red-]
Dice Rolled:[ 15 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 9)

[Buried Hatchet] Hatchet tosses his head under the onslaught. Thoughts of Ryan conflict with thoughts of bloody dismembered bodies littering a--

it's not a battlefield. It was. It shouldn't have been. There was a round rug on the floor and the light would come in the front windows and

he thinks of Charlie and he wasn't there when Charlie died he wasn't there he can't bring him back

and oh god, Joey

Joey I know how it feels

He thinks of the cubs and how they died. He thinks of all the things he's seen, and all the things he and no one on earth will ever see again, and his eyes roll back as his pack -- what's left of it now, who is left standing, and if they fall, if they fall it will be all his

sisters

He shakes his head hard against the sudden switch to terror, to primal, gutwrenching fear, the hulking shadows of Spirals in crinos, the last thing they saw, the last thing he'll see, the last thing for all of them, every single eye gleaming and burning with the Wyrm's own eager destruction to remake the world into fire

and blood

and nothing.

He chokes on air that was clear not so long ago. His legs shake, but he doesn't fall.

[Pack Gnosis]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[-red-]
Dice Rolled:[ 15 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 5, 5, 8, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 9)

[Face of Death] [pack gnosis! (*flashes boobs to Kahseeno*)]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 10, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 8)

[-red-] -- and last, and worst,

an assault on their very faith. Their belief, their will to fight on. Whatever it is they draw strength from -- the idea that their race might survive, that Gaia can be saved, that all the damage can be undone; or perhaps merely the belief that even if everything must die for a new day to dawn, a dawn will come after the darkness,

or perhaps even something so simple, and bitter, and hopeful that even if all must end, and all hope must fail, and all light must die, then they will at least go down fighting, go down honorably, cast light on this blackened husk of a world with the blaze of their existence, and their passage, and their being:

Whatever it is that they cling to when all hope seems lost, when harano sets in and the inevitability of it all drags at them -- it's torn from their grasp. Cast to the winds. Doubt comes, insidious and colder than the wind that had torn at their will on the mountainside.

Their vision darkens. There's a muffled roaring in their ears. They taste sourness and bitterness; feel numb. Smell death. Everything around them warps and corrodes, and they have no sense of balance, no sense of space or time or themselves or anything at all except:

Doubt. Doubt: that anything they do can change the course of things. Doubt: that anything they do matters at all. Doubt: that their race will survive, that their war can even be won at this point. Doubt: that even a noble, honorable end will mean anything at all when they're nothing but blood

and meat

and dust.

--

And then, just like that, it's over.

--

The pressure lifts. Their senses right themselves. Whatever they believe, restored tenfold: the trust that even a twig can divert a flood. That even if they must all die to save Gaia, it can and will be done. That even if Gaia is beyond saving, then at least they can preserve the flame, pass it on, protect it as long as they possibly can,

because it's worth it.

It's worth it for the unity of pack. For the comfort of brothers and sisters and those-you-know gathered in the darkness of the den while the winter wind howls outside. It's worth it for the joy of running far, running fast; of hunting worthy prey; of feeling the strength in their bones and their bodies, the pulse in the earth itself beneath their feet, and the wyld breathing all around them.

These are the things we'll keep and protect, the homeland of the Talons whispers to them, as long as we possibly can.

--

When their vision clears, they find themselves where they were before, in the early spring sunshine, on the mountaintop. Hunts in Scab is there; Angry Spirit Sister; Missing Tooth. With them, towering over them the way Angry Spirit Sister towered over her cubs -- the avatar of Griffin, feathers and fur stirring faintly in the cool breeze.

[-red-] [oh and! regain all gnosis. gain +1 enigmas for remaining duration of SL (which is admittedly gonna be short *LOL*)]

[Face of Death] Joey is a strong warrior for Gaia. She has always convinced herself that she is as good as any man, as strong and as brave and as brutal. That's why, on the occasions when grief and sadness have gripped her so fiercely her resolve threatens to crack and splinter and explode apart, she cries in the dark. She cries in her car in Tekakwitha, or on the roof of The Brotherhood, or with her face buried in her pillow when no one else is around.

But when that rush of sadness and loss hits her, Joey either can't or won't hold back. She's felt this sense of pain before, this intense sense of loss that threatens to crush her soul. She felt it on the umbral reflection of a street somewhere, saw it in a swirl of grey mist. She felt it, standing to the side of a Crinos-sized grave, within which lay the body of her best friend. Tears fill up her dark eyes now as they did then, and they spill out to soak the patches of white at her cheeks, unheeded.

Then comes the anger, and the fear. Fear that the spirit of the world they fight for could be destroyed, profaned, torn asunder. Anger that it could happen so easily.

Last comes the doubt. For years now, Joey has believed the only thing she can do for the Nation is die for it, and that that will be enough. That will make up for her inability to bring cubs into the world, to follow in her footsteps and fight on in her wake. But what if it's not? What if she fights with everything she has and it's all for nothing? She rallies her spirit, takes strength in the presence of her brothers, and she fights off the doubt.

Griffin appears again, along with their Talon guides and challengers. The fur of Joey's face is still wet with her shed tears when she steps near Buried Hatchet. She doesn't speak up, doesn't address the spirits that have guided them while they stayed within the Red Talons homeland. She waits for Buried Hatchet to address them.

[Buried Hatchet] He does believe. He believes in making cubs for the next generation. Hatchet is not one of those who believes that those born in the last few years will not change soon enough to be of any use in the war, so why bother. Hatchet believes: find mates. Make cubs. This is how we go on. This is how every people, ever, has always gone on. The process itself is precious, even if the goal is unattainable. Or seems so.

He believes that they can survive, that Gaia is strong, that despite everything they are making a difference. He does doubt sometimes, and this trial finds those holes and digs fingers into them, hurts him, pulls at his spirit like flesh. He believes the ones who die, die with purpose. And even if not?

They die remembered. And that's something, too. That's part of their life, their existence, the survival of not only their kind and their kin but the world. The wolves the Red Talons are a part of. The humans they hate. All life. All part of Gaia. No one, talking to Hatchet about these things, could be all that surprised that one of his first teachers was a Child.

Who taught him to let go of the anger that Echo still carries at what both Fosterns have lost. Who taught him how to mend with words, though he doesn't always. Who taught him to have hope. Even after Brendan and Nikolai slaughtered one another, even after he could not look at Lena's face another moment without getting torn apart by pain and bitterness. Even after the time alone, even after the death and scattering of Weasel's Gang, even after the losses the Sentinels have suffered, leaving him the only remaining original packmate:

Tener un poco de fe, Oscar.

His spirit and his fury and his backbone are all as well and whole as they were when they entered this land. He stands strong, despite the wounds on his body and in his soul. Hatchet's eyes are not wet, perhaps miraculously. Perhaps because even now he is still... just a little too detached. Or maybe because at the end of it all, hope is a remarkable salve for sorrow and a great comfort in the face of terror.

Hatchet breathes deep, and for the first time since they entered the Canadian wilds to approach the Sept of Summer Snow, he flows upward and into his breed form. The body his spirit came to when birth joined them. The body that changed when the Wolf came. The body that bears most visibly the scars of all his deaths, all his reclamations of life. The body that, right now, is tangled of hair and long of beard and bare as Hunts in Scab's. He has a tan, but even so: compared to the three before him he is pale and small and soft. Compared to any human being in Chicago, he is as hard-bitten and ravaged as they come.

But these are humans. And they're not in Chicago. They're not even on Earth.

He does not speak in English. He chooses, again, the High Tongue. And it may be the first time Joey and Daniel have heard him speak it in homid; it may surprise them that he plays this language on his voice the way he plays songs on a guitar: with rather impressive skill. His words to the Talons are humble. Unbroken, unbowed, but: it is an expression of deep gratitude.

"You have honored us with your tests."

[-red-] The Red Talons stand silent now: the female grudgingly receptive to their gratitude at best; the homid-formed male remote and neutral, the wolf-formed one lolling his tongue at them, his eyes bright in the sunlight.

Griffin's unblinking raptor eyes fix on Hatchet as he speaks. At the end of it, the great totem dips its head briefly in acknowledgement. When he speaks, his voice fills the sky, pierces their hearts.

"From Missing Tooth Good Eyes you have learned our joy and love of the Wyld; our sorrow for its loss. From Angry Spirit Sister, our rage and our desperation, our protection of what is ours by blood and birth. And from Hunts in Scab, our doubt. Our fear. Our strength. Our hope.

"This is my Tribe, children of Stag and of Fenris. These are my children; what they are in sum and in total.

"The ones you killed in your Scab were my children as well." No anger, now. Just fact stated levelly, unflinchingly. "They strayed from the true path, falling to their sorrow and their rage, their fear and doubt and desperation. But they were still my children. When you slew them, you took what joy and strength and hope they still bore. You snuffed out what light was still within them.

"So it is given to you now. Yours to bear, along with what knowledge you may have gleaned here. Yours to take back with you, and to hold in your hearts."

[Buried Hatchet] The Fianna's answer is simple, and speaks for the pack entire. If they disagree, if they cannot bear it, he will understand if they pull away from him as a result. But he doesn't think that will happen. He inclines his head to Griffin, and says only:

"Gladly, great one."

[Face of Death] Joey remains stoic and serene only until Hatchet answers for all of them. She nods her head once in agreement. Then her jaw opens and her tongue lolls in a wolf smile.

[-red-] "Go, then. Return to your world."

The three ancestor-spirits of the Talons fall in beside them as they turn away. Down the mountainside first, led by Hunts in Scab, who picks out a path far easier than any they might've thought to take. At the snowline Hunts in Scab stops, shifting effortlessly into his breed form, sitting on his haunches, tilting his head back to loose an echoing, unfettered howl as they descend.

Past Sister's cave, then, where her cubs tumble out and run alongside them, bounding and leaping, until they reach the plain. At the rock Sister and her cubs sit. A chorus of howls follow them, the cubs' high and wavering, the mother's raw and ferocious, a roar across the sky.

Just Missing Tooth, then, running ahead of them as he did when they came. Past the beasts of the past, gone now from the earth. Past the slain and the slaughtered, back to the forest and the trees. At the edge of the meadow Missing Tooth slows, falls behind, lifts his shaggy head.

That last howl follows them all the way back to the cave: haunting, unforgettable, utterly and unchangeably wild.

--

They find their missing packmates and their guest when they emerge from beneath the waterfall. In the sudden absence of the lost and the slain of Griffin's realm, the Umbra seems quiet and empty.

[If you didn't make it all the way, you wake up in the Umbra in the exact same condition you went in.

If you did make it all the way, you emerge with all tempers recharged to full and all wounds healed. Furthermore, you can pick one of the traits -- primal urge, survival or enigmas -- and keep the +1 for the next month, after which you'll have to spend XP to actually buy it.]

[Buried Hatchet] [Primal Urge, I choose you!]

[Face of Death] [ditto on the PU!]