Whispers on the Wind: Finale

"
Pack> Sepdet blinks at Paul. "Hey."

Sepdet finishes with a difficult, charged chord that is composed of the five notes of the lahela chorus she's used so many times both for herself, and to give to others. Drawn into it is an acknowledgement of what has been, of what is now. It hangs incomplete, waiting for what is to be, and she, too, goes silent, letting her mind drift back over hunger's quest, mountain's depths, burning silver, music...and now, here, the sky.

Pack> Dylan says "Hunger, being lost, pain, and music."

Paul laughs quietly, struck by a sudden thought. Deliberately, he brings to mind each of the previous QUests. He dwells a moment on each, burning it into his mind's eye, then puts the memories to the side. One by one, each brought to light, then filed away with the past. Let go, in search of the future.

Drifting through these memories and more, each weighs on your soul with some passion. Be it joy, anger, fear, frustration. Some things in the tangled clutter of your mind seem heavier than others.
Wayfinder keeps her eyes closed, dreamily thinking of a future time, light thoughts that flit through her mind like sunbeams dappling the forest floor.

Long distance to Paul, Joseph, Wayfinder, Dylan, and Slick: Sepdet brightens. "Aha. A clue. Time to make it clear to the GM that we're trying to jettison past weights, eh? But remember, much as we as players want it to happen, that's not just an easy thing."

Sepdet's attention is forceably drawn back to a few thoughts which have long needed burying, and, closing her eyes for a moment, she lets out a long slow breath.

From afar, Slick beats BR for his formulaeic plotline. You have the idea. But jettison a specific weight for all time. Something that means something to you, not generic cares.

Encouraged by the feelings of lightness, followed by the return of the offerings of the past, Paul continues back, trying to bring each memory, each pain, each trial, to mind. And set it aside. Sending them after what has gone before.
Dylan runs over the memories that recurred to him in his walk to this peak, calmly, unafraid, he greets each one and reaffirms the peace he has made with each one before setting it aside. Then he lets his mind empty, sinking into the clear, light-filled trance of his morning meditations.
From afar, to Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, Dylan, and Slick, Paul apologizes for the horrid wording of that. Getting tired and having troubles with this tiny keyboard.

Slick senses "Sepdet's thoughts are something along the lines of... ~One _does_ fight truth, but one faces it too. You chose yours, father, and perhaps you were wrong, but we take the road you gave us. You chose yours, brother, and perhaps I could have turned you to another road if we had grown together, but it seems the world needed both of us. You doomed the fate of the tribe, Horus, but it is a doom that means both hope of victory and utter hopelessness for our fate. Each are balance, like the world had before the wyrm split away. I will take the truths it gives me, even if I do not like to hear.~"
Long distance to Slick: Sepdet had typed half of that before you paged me. ;)

Joseph half-turns, looking over his shoulder at the path which lead them here, and the memories rekindled and rewalked which have distracted him since reaching the summit. Father, Otter, each step an uncertain weight that lingers. His mind moves over these, taking each to heart with a lowered brow.
There is no sound but the howl of the wind. Sepdet rises, though, buffeted by the wind like a sheet of paper until she pushes through the clouds above and is gone.
Wayfinder recalls the deep thoughts she's had of late, facing a difficult decision, and finally deciding to move forward and not stay in the past. Drawing her muzzle up, and then down, in a very homid gesture of acceptance, she offers to the wind her thoughts of a dear lost one.
Only a handsbreadth away drifts a second Garou, Paul, like a leaf on the wind until he, too, disappears through the clouds.

Slick pages to Paul, Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, and Dylan: Patience for those of you I haven't gotten through yet. This is difficult stuff.
From afar, to Paul, Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, and Slick, Dylan nods.

Joseph's seems to settle, relax, his posture shifting in a subtle way that reflects the Wendigo's thoughts at the moment. His eyes drift to where Sepdet was, the fact that she is not there not surprising him in the least. While the gaze lingers, he lifts a hand to the bone necklace at his throat, tugging it off. With careful reverance, he makes his way a few feet beyond the others and crouches to set it down.
You paged Joseph and Dylan with 'Now it's playing "Hope has a place when the heart is free."'.
You paged Joseph with 'And also "Hope has a place in the lover's heart. ;)"'.

Wayfinder follows, blowing about like some ragged stuffed-animal as the wind finally finds the strength to lift her up. The Stargazer follows, lighter than the other three as evidenced by the wild dance the wind makes with him.
Joseph, perhaps, has more trouble letting go. Or is more careful about it; it is hard to tell. But the delay is not long before the mountain top is finally bare and the last page has joined its fellows in the story unfolding above the clouds.
The air above the clouds is not still; five winds toss and turn restlessly there. North, blowing cold and impassionate. West, rustling through non-existent trees in a gentle melody. East, blowing hot with a metallic tang. South, stormy and wild, brimming with anger and not at all friendly to the five Garou gathered there. And, above all, omnipresent and persistent, the wind that lifted you from the mountain's peak to this place once you had given up one of the cares that weighed you down.

Paul's expression tightens a little as each of his packmates are whisked away by the whipping wind, but then relaxes as he lets this fear go with the others. His family, his only Real family now, won't be apart from him for long he thinks. And continues his recollections of the past, offering each recently recallled hardship to the winds, striving to let them go in the process.
Dylan pages to Paul, Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, and Slick: You went already, Paul!
From afar, to Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, Dylan, and Slick, Paul's attention was drifting. Feel free to ignore that. Gah.
From afar, to Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, Dylan, and Slick, Paul obviously couldn't get enough. Heh. Boy I feel silly. Onwards.
Pack> Wayfinder says "Okay. What now, chase the wind we want?"
Pack> Dylan giggles. Maybe all this was an audition, and now they get to chase us?
Pack> Sepdet nods, looking wistful. "Even if we want them _all_. :)"
Pack> Wayfinder giggles. One aspect of wind for each packmember! Yah!
Pack> Joseph says "Whoa. :)"
Pack> Dylan says "Who gets the unfriendly one, then? Nooo, I think not."

Paul looks around the cloudscape, bowing deeply in turn to each wind. He starts from whichever he faces and turns full circle till he has honored them all, even the Hostile south wind. Finally he kneels and murmurs, "Thank you for bringing us here," to the wind from below, the wind of Spirit.
Dylan's dark, blurred face turns gravely to each of the winds, looking lon to the south, but longest to the east.
What follows is not speech. Nor is it in the tongue of spirits. But it comes to you nonetheless that you are the object of their discourse. Wind does not communicate directly; mostly incomprehensible, as the wind often is, you cannot help but get a glimpse of their nature from this high place.

Pack> Paul will take South, if you want to go with that thought. Angry or not, we were trying to honor it, and Quest for it too. Sorta. Philo impartiality.
Pack> Paul meant he'd take South in the one person per aspect idea, NOT the one we'd want if the pack got just one.

Sepdet turns instinctively first towards the direction of stars' rising, the hot, sharp clarity of the east, though she spreads her hands to let the umbral wind slip between her fingers as it will. At Dylan and Paul's gestures, she smiles faintly, but her own greeting turns to listening when the churning speech surrounds us.
Wayfinder spends time studying each of the winds, solemnly. She listens in, when possible, or when appropriate, perhaps.
South wind is scornful and angry, if it can be described as such. If emotions can be attributed to passionless wind. It draws on memories of a failure, on memories of abandoning a quest. North wind is, suprising for north wind, more neutral. It admires persistence and ingenuity but does not choose them. It does not refute South winds claims.

Pack> Paul ahhs, and sees. "Heh. Our failures."
Pack> Dylan nods. I think west nabbed us, then.
Pack> Dylan says "Though we passed east, too."
Pack> Wayfinder says "And Umbral, too, though, or we wouldn't be here. ;)"
Pack> Paul says "We passed the last three. Music and the River were possibly our best, but really we did all three well."
Pack> Paul says "Let me know how it turns out. ;)"
Pack> Dylan /hugs/.

Joseph seems simply content to exist, be here. His curious eyes flicker at the discourse, attempting to follow it and as he catches it, they dance somewhat, remembering boyhood tales.
East wind, still sharp with the heat of molten silver, does refute the South. From it you get a sense of admiration for fortitude and resolution. West wind, too, opposes the South with its warm breezes and its melodies. The fifth, is silent, the Ethereal wind blowing without sound through the Umbral clouds. But in its silence is acceptance, as if it has given up the successes as well as the failures. It still surrounds the five Garou, saying, perhaps, that they are here. And Ethereal wind's silence says more than any words.
Dylan listens, silent, curious, calm, and full of hope.
South wind's departure is abrupt. Angry. Resentful. It buffets the five and sets them rocking on their feet before it is gone but it leaves the way clear for the other four. The discussion turns from whether or not the wind, collectively, will take the pack to which of the four remaning will watch over it. Suprisingly, or perhaps not so suprisingly, the pack is not offered a choice.
Pack> Dylan says "We did it."
Sepdet tucks her hands under her knees and sits down on nothing in the midst of her packmates, stumbling slightly under the spitting rebuff of the south before seating herself with a wry grin. There's too much wonder here to worry about what's going to happen, or whether they've reached their goal. For what goal, what end does a wind ever reach?
When all is said and done, when the air has cleared, there is only one wind left. And it blows from the east, from the approaching dawn that settles across this Umbral landscape like a black cloud. In the distance, West wind's music plays sadly. East wind, though, is the one that picks you up and drops you through the clouds to the earth below.

Long distance to Joseph, Wayfinder, Dylan, and Slick: Sepdet gets to the next round on the music she's listening to and smiles even more..."Oh the wind, it is a song, that harbors through the winter/Oh, the sail, it is a door, that bids the song to enter/And let us sail the season's run, and let us sing together/The singer lasts a season long, but the song, it lasts forever."
Pack> Dylan says "We DID IT. :)"
Pack> Dylan votes we all fall asleep together tonight, in a big, sprawling puppy-pile.

Sepdet seems unaware of earth beneath our feet after the long, dizzying fall from a sky as high as dreams. She stands panting for several minutes, just staring at the other four with proud glittering eyes.

Pack> Dylan asks you all your opinions on something.
Pack> Sepdet says "OOC lounge spam: Tarod . o O ( In the Umbra by a dark lake, a raccoon takes its leave of a pack, an old pack. Many miles away, another pack, a new pack, gains the consent of the east wind to bind with it. Coincidence? We think not. )"
Pack> Joseph blinks..
Pack> Joseph smiles at that. Somehow, apropriate.
Pack> Wayfinder snickers.
Pack> Dylan grins at Sepdet, then asks, should Dylan take the name Burns-Bright after tonight?
Pack> Sepdet doesn't laugh; Crossing meant too much for me to laugh, but tonight means too much for me to cry. "Now is a good time to start many things. We need to pose, for Slick's sake, I think. :)"

Dylan does not stumble as he reaches the earth, but the new balance takes a moment to settle in. Then he reaches out long black hands to his packmates, radiant with pleasure and fierce exultation.
l dylan
There is a strange, whipcord grace to this tall, black-dusted not-man which is at odds with the heavy set of his shoulders. Lean, almost sinuous, everything about him seems a little too long - arms too long for his body, fingers too long for his hands, height too much for his width. Even his face is much too long, like a painting in smoke which has since begun to disperse. His clothes are human clothes, though not modern - long green tunic and baggy grey pants, and a jerkin which holds the colors of the sea - but the steady calm of his wide grey eyes is not a human patience. The medicine bundle which hangs around his neck is almost unrecognizable, black and stiffened with what could only have been blood, but there are two clean, white and brown ridged owl-feathers through it. The long black hair on his head with its few blue glass beads blends with the black down that covers the rest of his body, giving him a blurred outline from which his gray eyes shine like moons. Four narrow tracks of furless scar twist along his right forearm.
His scent is almost entirely of the woods - virtually no trace of the city clings to him at all, and he is very warm to the touch.
l joseph
Joseph's heritage is immediate to the eye. Long, straight, raven-black hair grows in a natural roach, close cut at the sides with the back left wild. Russet-bronze skin shows off a form that's almost 'Davidian', the embodiment of youth, vigor and spirit. His face is angled with high cheekbones and a long nose, typical in the Lakota. His eyes are by far his most compelling feature. A deep mahogany, they gleam with a certain sparkling brilliance, at times defiant, and at other times compassionate. His demeanor, however, suggests ease. He is a rather quiet boy, speaking only when he truly has something to say, and his voice when he does is faintly accented. He wears a bone necklace at his throat and a khaki shirt over old jeans. A pair of scuffed boots catch the bottom edges.
l paul
This man looks to be in his late teens to early twenties. His once clean-shaven face (now covered in stubble) is an amalgam of many races, making him the image of a perfect "American". He looks to be primarily caucasian, although he's currently a bit dusky from a good tan. His body is a well maintained 5'10", but looks more built for speed and endurance than brute strength. Piercing green eyes look out on the world attentively, his glance usually taking in most of what goes on around him. His black hair is currently kept in a short-cropped crewcut, but seems to still be growing out.
His current set of clothes is a worn flannel shirt that seems to be hanging a little loosely on him. He's also sporting a set of broken in (to put it kindly) jeans that don't fit him TOO badly, along with a set of tennis shoes.
Calm enough, at least on the surface, seems to be a good way to describe him.


l wayf
This small she-wolf has a short, very dark silver coat with an occasional lighter silver highlight. A dark reddish-brown ruff surrounds her face, and her muzzle is long and squarish--slightly more reminiscent of an Irish wolfhound than a wolf. Eyes an incredible eerie violet peer thoughtfully at the world. She is lean, and moves with a subdued grace. Amongst numerous scars, a tennis-ball sized one mars her right side, and an older one crosses her forehead, nearly covered over by her fur. The older scar also crosses her muzzle just below her eyes. Her right paw is marked by a twisting scar bisecting it horizontally. Serene and solemn, this wolf bitch is most often calmly and intently watching the activity around her.
l sepdet
Sepdet(#3589Pceq$)
So young. That's your first impression of this tiny brown elf of a girl, whose gangly lean frame moves with a contained patience that is almost inhuman, and as eloquent as a deer's. With flawlessly rich mahogany skin, dusted over with a velvet sheen of black downy fur, she looks like she was literally born yesterday.
Yet her intense dark eyes are anything but young. The skin around them is taut in the hollows between thin feathered brows and cheekbones as if under terrible strain, although her gaze is usually smolderingly calm. This strange manner is further amplified by her peculiar habit of interspersing her words with brief snatches of humming, as unconsciously as if the music were, to her, simply breath.
Her other features are African but unremarkable, except for a disturbing animal-like quality: a broad flat nose, oval head, and small but full lips, jutting slightly forward with the lower half of her face. Her hair is coiled in tight cornrows, one braided priestess' lock falling down behind a tapered ear.
(+detail Sepdet's clothes)
Carrying:
TarotDeck(#2414IJVe$)

Wayfinder offers up a howl, sheer joy at completing the quest. Then she leans against Dylan's leg and looks up at him with shining eyes.
Joseph's steps are light as they meet the earth, his smile the outward countenance of his joy as he takes Dylan's other hand and gives a human yip to counter Wayfinder's howl.

Slick pages to Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, and Dylan: We need you to collect all your totem points together and allocate attributes for your pack totem, name him/her/it, identify any special powers, and all that fun stuff. Keep in mind that south wind doesn't like you and will remain hostile for as long as you are a pack. Nothing so outright as blowing trees down on you but days with a strong south wind aren't going to be your best days as a pack (some of you moody or irritable, perhaps?).
From afar, to Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, and Slick, Dylan nods, and starts grinning, imagining that. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou, Slick. I think we all go off and fall asleep in a happily exhausted heap o' wolves, now.
Long distance to Joseph, Wayfinder, Dylan, and Slick: Sepdet laughs. "We've discussed it, Slick, and will pass it on. Thank you so _very_ much for picking up the end of this quest, overworked wiz of wizzes. It was lovely."
Wayfinder pages to Joseph, Sepdet, Dylan, and Slick: It was /awesome/, Slick! Thanks everso! =}
Pack> Sepdet believes our final wish-list was the long-distance-whisper trick, realm-to-umbra peeking without need of a mirror, and spirit speech for those who don't have it already. ;) I'll see if I still have our old +mail about it somewhere.
From afar, to Joseph, Sepdet, Wayfinder, and Dylan, Slick goes back to voluntary seclusion. Er. Vacation.

Sepdet gives one last howl for the winds, mingling the notes of all five together, fierce, gentle, angry, cold, intangible...all of them, west to south, before sinking down with her friends to watch the dawn. She leans over to Joseph to whisper something, words just loud enough to be heard by the others. "Fair morning, packmates. Fair tomorrow, whatever it brings us. For now...we'll rest in the hope of it."