gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG :: I Never Forgot (Save Only for a Moment) (Reply)

In the aftermath of her renunciation, the sense of something being distinctly missing drove Sandra to make preparations for what could, potentially, be either a futile gesture, or flat-out suicide. She was not tasked with this, and was not certain of what to expect, or even if she'd succeed. And even if she won an audience, she couldn't be sure that she'd survive. Still-- it had to be done.

First there came the hunt: seeking out a fomori to kill, and drag back to a campsite well outside the bawn. The body cached, she burned the hands first, bound in strips of cloth from items she wore during her time spent as a 'human,' prior to her change. The offering has its roots in her First Change, and in the problems afflicting her lineage. Twice a week over the month, she returned to this campsite, making similar offerings: the tongue, the eyes, and so on, until eventually, she burned the heart.

On the night of the heart being burned, she felt her intuition kick in: something telling her to travel north to the mountain range. Though leery of having been tracked and identified by something malignant, rather than the spirit she was calling to, she followed the trail she was given.

Dim is the light of the Philodox moon. While not quite the surreal silver sliver that is the Theurge's, or the all-encompassing whispering dark of the Ragabash, it lacks the glorious glow of the Galliard's or the wide-eyed, furious clarity of the Ahroun's. The woods around her are as full of shadow as they are illumination, murky greys that make it at times difficult to tell what's real, and what's a trick of the light.
Just as in the Realm, the Umbra here retains the starkness of winter, spring having not yet sprouted, the cold clinging, refusing to be sloughed off. Of spirits, she does not see many- senses them, perhaps. Hears them. Catches glimpses of glowing eyes, snatches the rustling sound of furtive movement, of wings taking flight in the dark- but that is all, and always there is the sense of being watched, of fingers plucking at her hackles.
Grass and forest debris give way to snow, patchy at first. Half melted clumps of clinging white paint the land and thinning trees dapple the world, but solidify as she passes out into an open world past the borders of the forest, past the last strand of trees.
There, beyond, are open fields of snow, as barren and devoid of features as a fresh sheet of vellum. She can see only some twenty feet out into the fields, no more; a smothering mist hangs across the field, blotting out way lay beyond, the only sound that desolate, muted roar of a vast and frozen space.

There is a subtle pause at the perimeter of the false winter; a moment taken to put nose to the ground, and take up the scents of the snow, gaze flicked upwards to get a sense for any signs of movement in the fog, even if it's little more than a passing shadow.
Her body language remains relaxed in spite of it all, in a manner that doesn't appear forced-- her ears alert, nose working overtime to get a sense of what, exactly, she's looking at. But though there is a moment or two spent on figuring it out, she eventually begins to move towards the veil in front of her, first moving at a casual pace, and then a light jog, watching the path ahead for any immediate signs of deviation-- senses open for any sense of a trap, or sudden incursion.

The world there smells as sterile and wet as a morgue; cold in a way that strangles scent from the air, that saws through the nose and throat with every stinging breath. Nothing moves beyond the crystalline curtain that billows through the air, not even the displacement of mist that would suggest something within, nor sound or shadow. Only the low roar of a winter without end, a chorus snow and silence.
The ground gives way under foot, a layer of powder inches deep over a layer of something harder. Could be rock. Could be snow and ice. Likely a mixture of both, judging by how it shifts and sometimes crunches beneath her claws.
Being inside the fog is worse than being outside it. Like a hand moving through smoke, it seems to coil, gather around her. Sight is less than useful. Scents? There are none, not even those she brought with her. Sounds, her breathing, the crunch and crack of snow, they echo strangely and distort, fly back at her sometimes in odd ways that make it sound at times like something is coming at her- or after her.
Touch is her only constant, the feel of ground passing beneath paws, of cold, bitter cold, cutting at her paw-pads and settling on her ears, nose, and eyes.

Though her footing becomes more careful than it was before, the Philodox continues to move at a steady clip, jogging through the unnatural tundra and steeling herself against the chill, the winter coat she'd cursed for being overtly warm now proving itself a boon in the here and now. A lucky break that it's only recently started to pull free, but as it hasn't yet come off in sheets--
She remains attentive to the ground beneath her, where she can-- and when that proves futile, she follows what brought her here in the first place: intuition. Not charging straight in blind, but neither is she hanging back, uncertain of whether or not to proceed. Be it foolhardy or simply accepting of what may be beyond this veil, there is no sign of outright hesitation.

Time and space can be tricky things to keep track of in the Umbra at the best of times, even for Theurges. For a Fenrir in a frosty void? They melt away as readily as the snow beneath her feet. It's hard to say whether it's a matter of half an hour or two, whether she covers a mile or ten. Given the level terrain, she can only be certain that absent some Umbral trick, she is headed in a line as straight as a blade.
And then, without warning, the fog yields- and she finds herself running out into a vast and darkened space. Here, the moon hangs high in a sky as black ash twice-burned coal, open, spacious beyond reason. There are no stars, but aside from the foggy border behind her, there are no clouds, either.
Only a moon.
And that moon is bright and big- undoubtedly the moon she knows as the one she grew up under, but too large- too close. It shines with an eerie brightness, big as a dinner plate and pale as the lead-painted hand of a corpse.

Twice-Bitten pauses abruptly as the fog gives way to the otherworldly arena she finds herself entering into, her gaze going immediately to the black sky overhead. Visibly startled, her ears stay pricked but swivel sideways, uncertainty showing its face for the first time since this began, allowing for the misgivings she walked in with to be made briefly manifest.
As with all else, it passes. She takes a breath in a manner more befitting of human than wolf, and lets it out slowly, the slight bristling of her hackles and the tension in her muscles allowed to relax, as best they can. It isn't to say she doesn't remain ready for whatever it is that might be coming for her-- only that she's given herself a brief moment to get her bearings.
Wherever she is, it's where she needs to be. And with that in mind, she begins to walk again.

Two steps- that's about as far as she gets before she feels the sense of something looming over her, silent as the grave and great as the sky the Abyss, a sensation that doesn't there just a moment ago.
Then there's a snap-crack like a tree-limb being snapped beneath the wet of clinging snow, but wetter, and something black and broken comes hurtling overhead and hits the snow with a dull whompf. It was a wolf- or something like it, once, but is now only a shattered lump of fur and flesh, devoid of anything that would denote Tribe or breeding or battles past. It is utterly still, but for the blood that runs from wounds innumerable, painting the snow dark red and filling the air with the scent of wet copper.

You rolled 7 Willpower at 6 diff (5 10 3 4 2 8 10): 3 successes.

The reaction is much less pronounced this time, culminating into a pause, rather than a start. A glance is cast first to the fallen wolf, then to whatever it is that might have thrown it. Or dropped it, as the case may be.
The Philodox's gaze drops to the wolf, then, nostrils flaring to draw in the metallic scent of blood, and she again steps forward, giving the carcass a wide berth but giving it a once-over, all the same. Looking, sensing for anything that might produce a sense of familiarity.

There's nothing about the broken wolf's scent or its appearance that might give her cause to think it one she knows, only that it may have some passing resemblance to one of the other black furred wolves she knows.
Crunch.
Snow- no, stone breaks.
Crunch- closer this time, the source still hidden.
From out of the fog stalks a wolf of such size that to it, she is but a week old cub, above which, it towers. Surely, she has seen wolves with more muscle, more brute strength packed onto their frames, but never has she been in the presence of a lupine so undeniably a predator. His is a coat as stark white as bone, his pelt bristling not like fur, but like a thousand blades and teeth, a coat of swords and daggers that shine in the moonlight. He walks with not the stalking gait of a wolf on the hunt, but with his head high, proud; to be looked down upon by him is to be expected, for here, only the moon is higher than he.
He moves like magma, slow and fluid and exuding a radiant power, setting his paws as deliberately as tombstones. Beneath them, the earth quakes, ice breaks.
Fenrir, for it can only be Fenrir, stops some twenty feet away and turns eyes as bright as bloodshed upon her, inclining his head not at all.

You rolled 7 Willpower at 6 diff (1 5 8 5 3 5 7): 1 success.

Shifting back to her homid form is almost automatic, when finally the towering wolf comes to a halt. Though dressed in clothes better suited to 40-degree weather, it's enough to ward off the bite of the wind around her, for a time-- though only just. The protection won't last forever.
Raising to her feet, she stands, looking to the Incarna in front of her, careful not to meet his eyes directly. One would think hesitancy would appear in her expression when she does, or at least the suggestion of having tempered it, but even without the dead wolf at her feet, she knows the stakes.
Still-- that isn't accounting for the awe that enters her expression, in that moment. Not, perhaps, the quiet reverence of those better attuned to the spirit world, or the measured respect of his more learned children, but that there's something breathtaking about even this isn't up for debate. And though the chill bites deep - if indeed there is one in this otherworldly place - it seems secondary-- tertiary-- perhaps not even all that notable to her, in the here and now.

Fenrir stands with the patience of an executioner's blade, sharp and silent and ready to fall upon her. Should he choose, he could wait the rest of her life. From his great jaws spills a wind that whips and tugs at the edges of her clothes; where it breaks across the ground, it kicks up whorls of snow and melts it almost clear down to the ice beneath. His breath smells of fire and ash, of blood and marrow, of a raven's bounty.
He begins walking again, and as he moves, his form flickers between many shapes. In one moment, he is the great wolf that emerged from the mist. In another, he is a Crinos, fifteen feet tall and covered in runes and scars, from which each limb hangs lengths of broken chains that have worn bloody furrows in his skin. Then he is a woman who stands not much taller than she, hair blonde and braided tucked behind her head by a leather cap, cut and stitched in many places, her hulking body covered in leather, fur, and metal. In calloused hands she bears a maul, the head of which is carved in the likeness of a screaming wolf, its stone jaws smeared with gore.
There are other impressions, scents, images, man and beast and in between, the size, the scope, the sight of some so daunting that just the flash of them passing before her mind's eye is like being hurled off a cliff by the fist of an angry God.
It isn't a picture show, it isn't a movie, a trick. He isn't shifting from one form to the next, she realizes- he is *all* these things at once, and her mind is but a child's hand trying to cup an ocean of water.

You rolled 7 Willpower at 6 diff (8 9 2 3 10 3 2): 3 successes.

There's something entirely too familiar about the changing shape, the way the images rise to the surface and then fade, the realization that comes with it a poor salve against a mind accustomed to apparitions such as these being the result of an influence that isn't the least bit benevolent-- if such a thing could be said of Fenris. And maybe he catches it-- that brief hint of unease rising in her shoulders, in the set of her jaw, before it fades. But it does fade. There and gone again.
Then, after a moment, she says-- "Hildigardis," careful to maintain the reverence in her tone. "Divides-the-Sky. Theurge. Athro." A pause. She continues through the lineage of the names she knows-- many of whom have fallen, gone missing. Many of whom may only make the Incarna angrier to hear. Lost children, one after the other. Black Sunrise, Ruin-Stalks-the-Shadow, Heart-Eater-- names, at least eight in total, that exist to be forgotten, or scorned.
"You know them," she says-- then pauses. "And you know me. And you know they're a part of me." Another pause. Assuming she's permitted to continue, she says, "I won't ask your forgiveness for saying that I did not. For saying that I thought I knew what I was dealing with when I turned away from the tribe of my birth. I know there are some things that may forever keep me estranged from them, and you-- and I don't expect that to be erased simply by seeking a single meeting. Nor do I have any expectations for how this talk will end. My only hope is that, live or die, it will be as one of your daughters."

If there is a flash of anger in the spirit's blazing eyes, it is as hard to pick out as a single ray of light from a burning star. But everything in the way he carries himself suggests that were he truly offended, if she had made feel disrespected, that he would no more suffer her presence than she a fool to live.
"Forgiveness is not my demesne," Fenrir says, in a low, harsh voice that rattles her teeth and shakes her bones. It's like hearing Mother's Tongue and English and wolf speak all at once, but unlike a wolf, his body does not move to communicate the things a wolf's tongue cannot. She just *knows*.
The last bit causes him to raise his head, but only just. Were she not perceptive, so focused, it is likely she would have missed it.
"Yes," he agrees. "From my shadow, there will be no retreat. There will be no surrender. There can be only triumph, or death."
There is a brief pause, a sense of branching possibilities.
"Philodox- I have given you my name, I have given you the breath of a second life, and opened to you the path to glory. What have you to offer *me*?"

"Above and beyond everything you would expect from one of your own," Sandra replies, wihtout fear or hesitation, "I want to bring an end to this madness. And to that end, I offer the expertise I've gained in my studies-- I offer my knowledge, my claws, and my life-- and the willingness to put an end to a disease that's driven so many of my line to fall, whatever the personal cost might be. The nightmare may never end for me-- but it shouldn't have to lead to ruin all those that come after."

For the first time, she gets a true sense of some disdain, a pulse of anger. The change in his expression is only slight, a narrowing of the eyes, a glimpse of teeth that line a cavernous muzzle capable of swallowing a wolf pack-
And something else.
As the toll of a church bell fills the empty night, his displeasure resonates within her, fills her. Anger hot as pouring metal bursts within her stomach, boiling bile and sending it up the back of her throat.
"Promises," he spits.
"Words. Fine words, to be sure. But words all the same. Is it words that water the world tree? Is it words that shine in the night sky? No. You have remained Thunder's child too long; you still think as one who resides beneath the shadow of the storm."
He takes a step forward, and when his full weight comes to rest upon his lead paw, she sees, feels, and hears ice and stone shatter under it. Through the pillars of his legs, she can see a line of wolf tracks shot through the snowy field like a wall raked by cannon fire.

You rolled 5 Rage at 5 diff (1 5 4 2 1): -1 successes.
You rolled 7 Willpower at 6 diff (7 2 9 8 1 5 2): 2 successes.

Though Sandra definitely feels it -- feels it deep in the pit of her stomach, feels it down to her marrow, there's little sign save to stand a little straighter, muscles a little tighter, her head raised just slightly.
"That might be true, if the words were hollow," she says, voice gaining strength. "They're not. I know better than to simply *speak* without the conviction of my actions to back it up. Hildigardis fell to *my* claws, and when I find her again, when she wakes up from reforming in whatever cesspool she came back from, she won't survive the encounter.
"I would not have come all this way to you to--" She pauses; grits her teeth. Seems to know better than to believe that this is an *actual* argument, though she doesn't back down from what's been said. "What would you ask of me?" she says, then. "What would you have me do, to prove that these are not mere words?"

Impatience colors the spirit's face, aura, voice. There's a flash of that braided woman, frowning, now, her blue eyes as cold and distant as those of a corpse long frozen staring up into a winter sky.
"Grandfather trades on promises. Grandfather trades on reputation. These are the ways of lesser wolves; words alone won't slay the serpent. Tomorrow's promises are an ill weapon to strike at the enemy you face today. Were you one of those... 'diplomats', I would not have taken you. Were you one of those backstabbing cowards that even Grandfather himself disdains but tolerates, I would have killed you for daring to think yourself worthy to carry my banner to the fields of blood."
He tilts his head down for the first time, his great muzzle lowering. It comes closer and closer, not quite lunging, lips parting- and for one terrible second, she may think he aims to take off her head.
Then it stops, less than a foot away from her face. His black lips are parted but a sliver, as a man might, just before he whispers. Past the jagged ivory of his teeth she can see nothing but a black darker than night.
"Ask a warrior what wins a battle, and they will give you many answers. Some may say a strong arm, and a sharp weapon. Some may say the discipline and training of many warriors united in one furious blow. There are many answers, but they all sprout from the same seed."
His eyes fix on her.
"Sacrifice."

You rolled 7 Willpower at 6 diff (10 6 1 7 4 8 8): 4 successes.

It seems as though the closer he gets, the greater the resolve.
The Philodox does not shrink back, does not shy; she does not look away, or down, or let her gaze flicker. She remains as she is, as upright as she's been, and though she doesn't look directly into his eyes, she doesn't look away from them entirely, either, keeping his gaze in her line of sight.
Most importantly: she doesn't get angry. At the inference that no sacrifice has already been made. That she hasn't given up more than most. It's not her place to say that she has.
With that in mind, she raises her left hand; extends the arm forward without saying why. She knows this custom, at least; the offering of the limb, that it might hang in the great wolf's jaws, his to decide whether or not to bite it off at the shoulder, and this she offers without so much as a single word.

Trying to ascertain the expressions of Fenrir is akin to reading the face of a warrior veiled in an iron helm, but there is some faint sense of pleasure, of pride, in the offering that she makes so boldly. She can feel the sharpness of his teeth upon her skin- yes, skin, for cloth shears away at the barest touch. The fangs that line the front of his muzzle are sharper than blades hewn from silver, and bite with the cold fury of the heart of winter.
No doubt she scrapes, cuts her skin on the way in. She's bleeding into his mouth, blood pulsing on his tongue- gravity causes it to wind down the length of the limb, strands of scarlet wrapping around it like red ivy.
He remains still long enough to test her resolve, to make sure her's is not a fool's courage that comes riding in on some impetuous impulse and recedes just as quickly.
Then he lifts his head, scraping out a long furrow of flesh along her arm. It seems he's just about to let it slip free of his teeth-
And then they close with a ringing snap, taking her hand off at the wrist.

You rolled 5 Rage at 5 diff (10 4 4 6 4): 2 successes.

You spend 1 willpower and are now at 6 out of 7.
You spend 1 willpower and are now at 5 out of 7.

Sandra remains perfectly poised throughout, watching him, feeling the hot rush of blood and the bite of the cool air that comes in on its heels. She keeps her expression as stoic as she's able, in the meantime, quietly facing the prospect of what's to come without flinching. Until the end, that is.
Her teeth clench, eyes blazing amber in that second before she shuts them tight, head jerking upwards with a full-body shock of tension, a sharp breath sucked in through her nose, lips thinned into a tight line. Every ounce of her will is poured into keeping her voice in check, into keeping herself from crying out, or pulling back, but it can only do so much. Rage surges, flickers, and washes over her, just as the pain does, coursing visibly through her system with a tremor that betrays the sheer amount of effort it takes. But it works-- several rough breaths drawn and expelled before her lips part to let out a sharp exhale, and her eyes - returned to their natural shade - open, teeth still partly bared, and barely parted.
A thin sheen of sweat has broken out over her brow, over her face. She has to know she needs to change shape, and soon, but she doesn't. Not yet. The limb isn't cradled, and though she can't quite help the tremor that moves through her, she remains where she is, still watching the great wolf; still carefully breathing.

Her hand disappears- hard to say where, amongst all the dizzying pain and the rush of hot Rage that accompanies it. Down the wolf's gullet, more likely than not, or stuck between his teeth. The bite was as precise as it was sharp, flesh and bone shorn clean through, lined with only a few strands of torn flesh and fat and fragments of broken, protruding bone.
Blood steams from her veins, washes down, scalds skin now accustomed to the stinging cold. It splashes, stains the snow at her feet, spreads, pools far further, faster than it should, and before it, the snow and ice turns to vapor and rises up into the night air. It grows until it laps at the great wolf's paws, spills beyond them, grows wider and wider still, and under every inch of thawed turf it reveals a tapestry of bone. Great, small, human, not, femurs, skulls, fangs, fingers, things she cannot recognize as Wyrm, human, or otherwise- they form the bedrock of the ground upon which the two stand. Beneath Fenrir's feet, all are fractured, scored by claws as terrible as they are long.
"Yes, that, that is a Fenrir's gesture, daughter. Remember always that mine is the currency of blood."

Another shiver, unbidden, rips its way through her body, and Sandra's teeth chatter in spite of her best efforts to keep the reaction stymied. It's only then that she pulls her arm in close, hand gripping tight at the wrist to staunch the bleeding until she can fashion a tourniquet, the tremor in her limbs more visible with the exertion. One that will have to be quickly dedicated prior to making the journey back to the sept.
It's only then that she sees the ground that opens up beneath snow, her gaze caught by it for a time. Be it utter desensitization, the result of far too many dreams, far too many internalized prophecies, far too many panoramas of images far more ghastly-- or, potentially, simple blood loss, there doesn't appear to be much if any reaction. Something more like acknowledgment, prior to her gaze lifting, another steeling breath being taken, and a tighter grip wrapping firmly around her bloodsoaked wrist.
"I never forgot," she says, taking in a breath that quavers under the threat of chattering teeth-- neither a combative nor self-congratulatory phrase. It merely is, to be taken or disposed of. "Save, perhaps," she amends-- the hint of a woozy smile tugging at one corner of her mouth, "only for a moment," offered at her own expense.

At her words comes her first and only impression of a smile, however slight; the smirk of a murderer looming over a warm body. He says something, then, but the words are as indistinct to her as if she were at the bottom of a pool being spoken to by a voice above. A ringing sound builds in her ears, then the dizziness hits and her vision blurs, darkens, at the edges-
Fight it as she may, darkness overtakes her, and she falls stumbling back, back onto the cold, hard bones of Fenrir's realm. The last thing she feels is the snap of her head hitting the hollowed ground.
In that same instant, she wakes in the Realm on the ground, in a forest unfamiliar to her, devoid the scent of any wolf. Above her is the night sky, the moon having crept close enough to the horizon to suggest dawn is not far off. She is whole, and unbloodied- but for the the clothes shorn from her left arm, and the pink, seeping flesh where her hand once was.