2024-11-30 Wandered by the bawn
| 2024-11-30 Wandered by the bawn | |
|---|---|
| Date of Scene: | 30 November 2024 |
| Location: | Sam Houston National Forest |
| Synopsis: | A government agent wanders a little too close to the bawn. Gaia's warriors deal with the threat. |
| Cast of Characters: | Niall, Chance |
It is a cool day in Sam Houston National Forest, the scent of upturned earth, decaying leaf, and that crisp cleanliness that hint at an incoming cold snap carried on the breeze. There are a few clouds in the sky, but no real hint of precipitation, and if one closed their eyes tightly enough, it just might remind them of days long gone, of prowling through untouched wilds not yet seen by man. Light streams through the naked branches, giving way to the lower boughs, although the canopy keeps most of this part of the forest clear except for a few small mammals. It is the kind of day that makes one truly appreciate just how untouched this area still is.
Until it isn't. The first sign of a shift is the quiet keening of a wolf, one of the few Kin left in this forest as it patrols and hunts the bawn. The signal is a warning, an early detection of a possible intruder, one too close too the sacred site. It is a single voice, rather than many, and not one of great urgency, but one that rarely is worth ignoring.
The wolf's keening fades into the dense stillness of the forest, the signal hanging in the air like a thread waiting to be pulled. A faint rustle follows, almost indistinguishable from the natural sway of the trees, but there's a rhythm to it—a deliberate step rather than random motion. A figure emerges from the shadowed underbrush near the bawn's edge, brushing aside a low-hanging branch with casual ease. Chance steps into the light filtering through the canopy, his amber eyes catching the dappled sun as they scan the area with a mix of curiosity and mischief. "Easy there, friend," he calls softly toward the distant wolf's direction, his voice low and warm, as though addressing an old acquaintance rather than an unseen sentinel. "Just me. No trouble tonight from me. Yet."
In the form of a wolf, Niall hears and answers the howl. He's rushing to the area to see what's caught the kin's attention.
Going silent, the Kin remains near the confines of a rather thick oak, not attempting to hide in any appreciable way. Instead, the Kin holds, acting as a signpost for the larger brothers and sisters that would soon make their way. His hide is ragged, his skin sticking to his ribs, yet even now, he waits for the approach of the others. This Kin is a proud one, despite his haggard state; the hunting around here has been slim, since the shift in the spirit worlds. So little prey is left, but his pack holds here, and that sense of purpose holds the Kin rooted to the spot where he is found by Niall and Chance without no difficulty.
Upon seeing Brother and Brother, the Kin paws at the dirt before him, overturning the earth before lowering his head even with his shoulders and letting loose a low, soft growl. The threat, and it is certainly that, is close, and approaching the bawn dead ahead of them. But the larger brothers would see, yes? Some were not as keen of eye, and few could smell prey the way the Kin could, but give them time, they will find it. And sure enough, there comes the rustle of leaves being tread upon. Could it be prey? But no, this was a warning, not a call to hunt.
Off in the distance, barely visible so many yards out, one hundred if its fifty, is the flicker of black, stark against the browns of Sam Houston National Forest. The sharp edges and lines can only be manmade, and after another small shift amongst the many trunks, it is obviously someone wearing a black suit. They are none too tall, but definitely some person out here where they shouldn't be.
Chance's amber eyes narrow slightly as the Kin growls, the sound low but unmistakably urgent. His casual demeanor sharpens as he follows the direction of the wolf's gaze, the faint flicker of movement catching his attention amidst the trees. The lines—too sharp, too unnatural—stand out against the rugged landscape like a thorn in soft moss. A figure in black and far too close for comfort. "Well, now," Chance murmurs, his tone still light but carrying an undercurrent of tension. "It looks like we've got ourselves an uninvited guest, or maybe guests." He takes a step forward, careful to keep his movements smooth and unthreatening, not wanting to escalate the Kin's already-heightened instincts. "They're not exactly dressed for a stroll through the woods, are they?" He glances at Niall, now in wolf form, his grin returning though it lacks its usual mischief. "Looks like you got here just in time, Warder. You want point on this, or should I go introduce myself?" His voice is steady, but there's an edge of readiness like a blade sheathed but within easy reach. As he speaks, he draws his coyote fang fetish blade. "I can slip across and back you up from the other side, striking through the gauntlet."
Niall brushes shoulders with the kin and looks to the direction of his growl. Niall turns in that direction, lifting his head and swivelling his ears forward, nose in the air. He takes a stance in front of the kin, protecting him. A look to Chance and Niall nods his head exaggerated and chuffs in reply. He starts to move forward, taking on the stance of a hunter moving in on prey.
All great hunters understand the strength of an unaware opponent, and Niall is one such hunter. The Warden moves through the bed of crisp fallen leaves with the grace of death itself. It will not take long for their target to come into view. A woman of obvious asian descent, no more than five and a half feet, moves through the wood with her own smooth stealth that defies the sharp black suit she wears. But what truly gathers the attention is the occasional glint of the morning's light from the piece of chromed metal that completely occludes her left eye, held in place by a black band around her head, pinning ebon locks in place. She has the determined look of some sort of field agent, but that device is... something out of science fiction. She's currently peering toward the the border of the bawn, and for a moment her head tips down to look at the ground, then in a line directly to the caern entrance, as if following some unseen line.
The Umbra here in the bawn is a grand location, thick forests of trees, with spirits moving this way and that. Even as the chill of winter sets in, a Jaggling can be seen skipping from tree to tree, and a small nature spirit shuffles along the ground, looking for its next meal. But in the distance can be seen the recent devastation committed on grounds not so far from here. Scorched earth, ash and soot, what few trees remain standing are blackened to their core. Something... powerful was unleashed not far from here. But the scent of the Wyrm is not upon it, at least not from here. Instead, it was a cleansing burn, the kind of thing that might have occurred naturally, even if everyone knows this was not the case this time.
Closer, however, are the approach of spindly creatures made entirely of iron. To call them spiders is to do an injustice to those noble arachnids, but these mechanical spirits of the Weaver, a quartet of them, follow in the wake of the woman that is their target. Their movements are uniform perfection, each limb coming down in lock-step with the others in its group, the crome of their bodies gleaming in the dim light of the Umbra. Yet even in their perfection, they are different, alient. These spirits do not belong here.
Chance steps forward, his amber eyes narrowing further as he exchanges a brief look with Niall. "Alright, Warder. I'll take the other side and keep an eye on things. You've got point." His voice is steady, almost too calm for the tension in the air, but it carries confidence born of years spent walking dangerous paths. The nuwisha takes a slow breath and steps sideways into the Penumbra. The forest's reflection shimmers as he crosses the Gauntlet, his form briefly outlined in silvery light before fading into the ethereal mirror of the material world. The Umbra greets him with its layered beauty, thick, towering spirit trees, restless nature spirits flitting about, and the unmistakable stench of burned and scarred land in the distance. But the metallic forms moving with clockwork precision immediately draw his attention. Weaver spirits, alien and sharp-edged, follow in perfect lockstep behind their target, their movements mechanical and devoid of the chaotic vitality of the natural world. Activating Umbral Camouflage, his presence melts into the surroundings, leaving no trace for spiritual senses to detect. Invisible now, he begins to move with calculated precision, circling wide around the Weaver creatures to get a closer look at their target while keeping his movements silent and deliberate. His sharp gaze tracks every step and twitch of the spirits, his grin fading into a mask of focus. Over his shoulder, he mutters softly, though no one can hear, "Let's see what you're up to."
Ears flatten against his head, hackles raise. The large red wolf stifles the urge to growl just yet. He will look to the forest, working to flank and keep camouflage for a suprise. None the less, he is poised and prepared to strike.
Deep in this wood, far away from anything that may be considered an ally, the woman crouches, peering down at the dirt before her and plucking a bit from the ground, rolling it between her fingers as she holds it up against the small red light that can be seen on the back end of the chrome that covers her left eye. A quick shake of her head, not finding what she'd expect. The woman's moves are brisk and sharp, in some ways almost as one might expect a bird to move. In that same vein, her head tips to the right, eye losing focus as she concentrates on some sound that cannot be heard: it must be the small earpiece that plugs into her right ear. A few moments pass in silence before she stands, and continues her journey away from the Warder, and closer to the sacred lands of the Garou.
In the Umbra, just as the woman tilts her head, the rear two mechanical spirits rise up on their spindly legs. In unison, they shuffle to turn toward the blasted lands and begin to skitter in that direction, heading off toward the devastation... and perhaps to their masters. The woman slowly making her way deeper and deeper into the forest is followed by these creatures of the Weaver, their movements both eerie and precise, familiar and alien. One reaches a spindly appendage out to touch the woman's head and she begins to take a less subtle movement. There's no way she's being followed, right?
Invisible within the Penumbra, Chance watches the woman's precise, birdlike movements with an intensity that belies his usual carefree demeanor. The chrome of her mechanical eye and the synchronized Weaver spirits glint faintly in the ethereal light, their alien presence a stark contrast to the forest's natural rhythm. When the rear-most Weaver spirits break formation and head toward the scorched lands, Chance's lips twitch into a faint smirk. "Well, well," he says to himself, "looks like the Weaver's got its own game going." His sharp eyes shift back to the woman as one of the spirits touches her head, prompting her sharper, less fluid movements. "And our friend here? Definitely paranoid. My kind of mark." The nuwisha shifts his weight carefully, his boots soundless on the spirit-touched ground as he trails her from a careful distance.
Taking the chance, Large Red Wolf makes a calculated leap! He lands behind the woman, but skids in the crinkly leaves. His only choice now, to issue a growl. This isn't a friendly noise. This is a dire warning. He tenses to see her reaction.
Just a stroll through the forest. That's all this was supposed to be. At least, that was what she had told her superiors. But, in truth, she was following a trail, a trail that, unbeknownst to her, was about to fall flat. Still, that does not stop the Warder from doing their job. It does not stop the more than a hundred pounds of bone and muscle from leaping toward her, and falling short with a sharp snarl that would have startled most passersby. But this woman was no simple passerby. She was a trained agent. That snarl isn't met by fear, but instead is met by the sharp jerk of her right hand, and the snapping free of a weapon from the shoulder holster beneath her jacket. Hips turn as she begins her reflexive turn toward the source of the sound, weapon in hand.
Weeps-with-Laughter shifts into a dusky brown and smoky gray furred manabozho formed Nuwisha. DELIRIUM IN EFFECT.
The large red wolf doesn't hesitate. When the gun comes out, he leaps into action! Latching on to the arm, he growls and rends the arm to shreds. There's no way she's recovering from this.
From his concealed vantage in the Penumbra, Chance watches Niall's leap fall just short, the snarl ripping through the silence like a crack of thunder. The woman's quick response—spinning with weapon drawn—elicits a low whistle from the invisible Nuwisha. Deciding subtlety has run its course, Chance straightens, allowing the shimmering air around him to ripple as his form expands. Muscles stretch and twist unnaturally as he shifts into his Manabozho form, a towering, otherworldly amalgam of coyote and man. His amber eyes gleam brighter, and his presence radiates the uncanny energy of a true trickster unleashed. Raising one clawed hand, he focuses on the nearest Weaver drone, his voice resonating with a commanding echo that carries through the spiritual fabric of the Umbra. "You there," he intones, his tone dripping with authority, "your comrade has betrayed the Great Weaver. Prove your loyalty. Strike them down!"The Weaver spirits don't even see the Nuwisha as he bares his warform to them, the radiance of the trickster shining brightly in what was the calm of the forest. But with the trap sprung, the time must come. A barked order comes from the large form oaf Gaia's warrior, commanding not just respect, but obedience.... and the Weaver is anything if a follow of rules. One of the spirits turns and flings three of its legs out, the sharpened tips of its legs dislodging and flying across the Umbra to bury themselves deep into the metallic form of its compatriot. A screeching sound, like a dozen forks stuck in a garbage disposal, issues from the wounded creature as it screams in rage at it's attacker... and at the warrior that had levied the command.
You would think that when a wolf snarls, and then leaps at you, there'd be a scream. But this woman is a trained agent, and wouldn't dare allow something so very undignified. Then again, there's nothing dignified about the shreds of wool, cotton, flesh, and bone where her arm, and the gun it held, used to be. Lips part and the agent, with what can only be considered a life-threatening injury, can only stare down at the shredded stump where an appendage once was, shock latching onto her mind faster than any other reaction possible.
This agent didn't stand a chance! You don't mess with a wolf on his own territory. Without hesitation, Niall mauls the agent, rendering her lifeless and so much compost. The sickening sound of bones cracking can be heard as he chews the agent into the next life.
It's a short, brutal dance, but the Warder makes short work of the agent, warm blood still tickling at his lips, shreds of human flesh clinging to his jaws. This is how combat is meant to be. Up close, personal, the true mark of combat. Just how long has it been since Niall has succesfully hunted... in this way that his ancestors did, in the way that he was -built- for?
From his position in the Penumbra, Chance lets out a low chuckle that carries a mix of amusement and wicked satisfaction. The screech of the Weaver drone pierced by its compatriot rings in his ears like music. His towering Manabozho form moves with unnerving grace, closing the distance between himself and the wounded spirit. "That's the problem with perfection," the nuwisha murmurs, his voice a resonant growl that crackles with big trickster energy. "One kink in the system, and the whole thing falls apart." With a sharp gesture of his clawed hand, Chance focuses on the damaged Weaver drone. His eyes gleam cunningly as he calls on the spiritual authority he wields. "Go!" he commands, his voice an undeniable force that echoes through the Umbra. "Step into the physical world and show them the Weaver's might! Prove your existence is more than circuits and rules."
The spirit does as it has been commanded, logical circuits aligned in a perfect rhythm by the power of the Nuwisha's tricks, the truths granted by Ancestor spirits. The screeching sound comes from the first Drone this time, and it spits a shower of metal shards that tear into the body of the second Drone, ripping away armored plates and beginning to show the coils, gears, and hydraulics beneath. But the target does not last long, as it calls upon its own power, and shimmers into being in the Prime realm. The first drone howls in rage, a discordant, machined sound.
The light shimmers into place from between the boughs above, but rather than splash across the forest floor the very light itself seems to coalesce into a form that is just as horribly out of place here in the real world than in the Umbra itself. Ten spindly, metallic legs come together in a central pod, all covered in metal that is chromed to a high shine, yet bears the unmistakable heft of armor. The being snaps into place practically on top of where the Agent once stood.
There was a brief moment. A momen to bask in the glory of the hunt. Whoever this was, was never going to make it back to tell of the bawn or how close they came. They gambled and gambled poorly. But the sight of a monstrous Spider Thing(tm) materializing in front of him, all bets are off. That's a Weaver spirit and could be connected to teh now dead human he's standing over. Wrath of Danu lives up to his name as he leaps at the spider, shifting from Wolf to Crinos! With a swipe of the one, then the other claw! Gears and fluids go flying as Niall turns this spirit into nothing more than a pile of junk. His eyes burn with Rage as he looks around for another present, or assailant.
From his vantage point in the Penumbra, Chance watches with a sharp grin as Niall's ferocity tears through the first materialized drone, scattering gears and fluid across the forest floor. The sight of such primal power brings a low chuckle from the towering Manabozho, the sound reverberating through the spiritual realm like distant thunder. "Well, that escalated quickly," Chance mutters to himself, his amber eyes narrowing as he shifts his focus to the remaining drone. Its spindly legs twitch in mechanical precision, its logic circuits no doubt struggling to reconcile the chaos. With a smooth, predatory motion, Chance closes the distance between himself and the final drone, towering over it with an air of dominance. Raising a clawed hand, he channels his spiritual authority once more, his voice booming with trickster energy that seems to ripple through the very fabric of the Umbra. "You're the last act, my shiny little friend," he growls, a wicked edge in his tone. "Time to take the stage. Materialize! Let them see what you're really made of."
Then another of these things materializes! It's like ... Christmas! Obviously Chance is having a good time on the other side. The brutal efficiency at which Niall dispatches the spirit is something to behold! As the last limb is torn, there's a howl of triumph and rage! Wrath of Danu takes a moment to look around, waiting for the next thing to step out ... or to see if this is the end. Clawed hands flex in anticipation.
"TK421, report. TK421, why aren't you at your post?" The tinny little voice would normally have gone unheard amidst all of the chaos of shattered drones and shattered agents. But the enhanced senses of Gaia's warriors are beyond the normal, and they catch the sound issuing from the earpiece of the woman (or at least what is left of her) lying on the forest floor. Blood stains Niall, the ground, there's even some spatter over there against that tree. The metal and gears of the Weaver spirits has already begun to fade, but this human, this very likely government agent, remains.
What will they do now?