gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG

The Umbra is brightly lit on this growing gibbous night, Luna a reassuring lantern hung closely to Gaia in the sky. Reflection's-Howl leads Twice-Bitten through the the more trecherous woods south of the Bawn on four feet rather than two. They seem to wander almost aimlessly for a while, the leader is silent... though clearly intent on listening and focused on the path. Despite this path that they trace seeming to be without direction, at times seeming to doubleback the way they came, the forest does change around them and soon... the sounds of owls hooting in the trees grows. The sound is distance, but reverberates heavily, each time like an anvil's echo. Here, in this place, does the elder Fenrir finally hold his ground and sit back on his haunches.

The Philodox has the rather awkward job of transporting a-- box, of sorts. Woven together with wooden branches without the use of nails or other Weaver-oriented items, sturdy enough to be placed in the eaves of a barn or other structure preferred by the species. She carries it delicately in her mouth, forced to turn her head abruptly and take the bulk of swatting tree limbs on the side of her thickly-furred neck, but she manages to keep apace, only losing a couple bits and bobs along the way.
When Reflection stops, so does she, slowing to a trot and looking up at the branches overhead. It's as she hears the owls that she carefully lowers the box onto the ground, tongue lolling to blow off any excess heat from the run, her gaze shifting over towards the elder Fenrir-- then back towards the source of the sounds, appearing to wait for a time to best judge her next move.

Reflection snaps his teeth casually over his shoulder towards the Cliath, as if demanding attention. The elder Fenrir then gives a short howling sound, similar to a hoot in timing and structure, though entirely alien to one in sound, of course. He does this over and over, as if filling in the silences between the natural Owl spirits' own noises with his own. It is entirely call and answer. As he does this, the Godi again looks over his shoulder, invitingly to the other Garou present.

The Philodox stays low to the ground, quietly affording that attention when it's demanded. Her ears prick curiously at the sound, the occasional soft whine made through her nose as if instinct is leaning on her to not-howl in turn, but the antsiness brought on by the moon phase and the activity itself is stymied, at least. Until she's given a look.
She takes a moment-- just a moment-- to gage whether or not she's meant to make the same sounds. But seeming to assess that the Godi is speaking in a language that she doesn't understand, she takes the prompt as something different, again carefully mouthing the nesting box, and carefully slinking forward. Her tail wags, close to her haunches, speaking of the willingness to socialize while staying paired with deference, and the nest is again placed on the forest floor, two (slightly damaged, couldn't be helped) voles scratching around inside. Reflection, in the meantime, gets a side-eye that may as well ask 'am I doing this right?' without the need for overt communication.

It takes some time of the Godi giving this sound, after the offering is presented, but not too much longer. In a tree that seems to be just about 20 meters away, a spectaularly plummed though small example of Bubo virginianus alights. Though a typical brown mottled color, the spirit's feathers are transparent and glisten with frosty dew that seems to give them a glow. The owl tilts its head to one side as the Godi quiets, then looks pointedly at the box. Here the spirit gives a bassy hoot with such intensity that it very literally shakes the bones inside the bodies of the two Garou. Inside the box, the intended prey runs in frantic circles and shrieks out. The Godi's step falters, requiring a small shifting and flattening of his ears in response to the spirit's call.

Twice-Bitten takes a couple steps back, remaining low to the ground. Her own ears stay back, her tail still in motion. Again there is some uncertainty, communicated in her posture, and again there is a decision to be made.
Voles, for you. The box, for earthly brothers.
As with everything else, 'careful' is how it's characterized, the Philodox shuffling backwards a couple more steps to give the spirit room to decide if it wants the offering, or not.

The Godi echos the words of the other in the Spirit's Tongue for the owl, continuing that strange punctuation in his tone from the calling before.
The Owl spirit listens, perhaps, though it is difficult to be sure. Another low hoot, like a bass drum amplified through a speaker is returned. Again, the body reverberates with the sound and the voles sound out their fear.
The Godi closes his eyes a moment then looks slightly to the side for the benefit of the other, ~It wishes to know for what, this hunter brings such an offering to another hunter.~

The Philodox pauses-- then, after a time, she states her intention to change, like someone extending their hands to show they have no weapons. It's only after a pause that she does so, reverting to her breed form in a crouch. She doesn't stand, instead settling back onto her haunches in a kneel, hands on her knees.
"I would have preferred to bring you more spirited game," she says, "something worthy of your skills, rather than a morsel-- but had I done that, I wouldn't have been able to show you what was brought for your kin." A pause. "I've been told," she says, "that they benefit greatly from these nests, when adequately placed-- and will be placing it myself in a structure best suited to them. A safe haven-- not dissimilar to the Gift that I wish to learn from you, should you find my offering amenable."

Again, it takes a moment for the Fenrir to translate and the Owl's attention suddenly fixes with a primal hunger on the box. Again, the spirit gives a low thobbing bass-filled calling that rattles leaves from the trees, perhaps for miles around. The rest of the forest goes silent.
~Open it,~ is all that Reflection offers in translation.

Opening the box-- takes a bit of work, but it seems part of the 'ceremony' of it all-- and part of creating a suitable opening for said earthly kin to make use of it. How the voles were placed in there to begin with may have involved some trickery, on the Philodox's part, but that's neither here nor there, for the moment. Neither animal smells of acrid chemicals, only the fear that comes with having been temporarily stunned and detained.
Best not to ask how many hours that took, or how many voles had to be Prayed for, in the aftermath.
And while neither of the small creatures that dart from the opening fashioned are at their best - having suffered surprisingly minor puncture wounds from a wolf's teeth, the smell of their blood suffusing the air - they still move in a hurry, darting into whatever counts as underbrush, as rattled by the unearthly nature of the Umbra as any other species born of flesh and blood.

The Owl leaps with a single powerful beat of wings into the air and swoops down at the voles with wings folded back. The moment this happens, the prey see their incoming doom immediately. They are frozen in their tracks, and seem to know that neither of them will survive this. This seeming knowledge is prescient, as the owl... much larger up close than it seemed just a small distance away, snaps up the two voles quickly. One in each foot, the power of the snapping claws kills the two prey animals instantly, with dagger like piercing and literally spine-crushing strength. As the spirit circles back around up to its branch, it consumes one of the voles whole before even finishing the short flight. The other vole is kept under the Owl's claw, held like a stored snack against the branch. Suddenly, in a sound completely unlike the earlier low "hoot", there is a piercing quickly-punctuated whistle from the Spirit, more like it's physical look-alike.
The Fenrir communicates the following: The Spirit says to return once the nest has been placed, prepared to share the details. It will decide then if you understand what it means to have a safe haven.

Sandra watches quietly at the moment proceeds. If she's in any way startled by the spirit's size of voracity, she doesn't show it, tracking the movements of the owl as if to silently study the movements. As with everything else, there is a kind of deference to watching the actions unfold, from the drop, to the inevitable conclusion, her gaze lifting to the spirit once it alights back upon its branch, though she's careful to keep from making eye contact.
To what's said, she replies, "Of course," inclining her head in acknowledgement, without any further attempts to explain or embellish.

The moment the acceptance of the terms are given, the owl gives a single beat of wings and takes off to the night. Moments later... the sound returns to the Umbral forest.

[Sandra] :: LOG :: Safe Haven