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FiresideTales

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Three Untitled Stories
Date on e-mail: June 3, 2004

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Evening everyone, alright. I have three stories to tell. the first is actually a preview. This is a tale that was told in the Sept of the Point in Indianapolis. It will be coming with me when I visit other caerns over the next few months.

*she takes a deep breath in... and lets it out.... an a calm seems to come over her as she moves from insecure kin to confidant storyteller and clears her throat* I, Janet Santos, known to some as Kissed by Wendigo, teller of the tales of the Staff of Galahad, Kinfolk to the BoneGnawers and proud member of the Caern of the Talking Junkyard, submit this tale to the ears of the garou nation, so it may know the truth of its own.

This is the story made up of smaller tales. This is the story of how the sept of the talking junkyard lives, breathes and exists as an instrument of the Mother. What must come to light is that to exist for Her, by Her and under Her, the only thing one must do is accept her into the small moments of our lives. And so, the begining will start with an end. A sad end, but the end of the chapter of the dark times for us. The end of a decision that has trapped us. and the begining of our emergance out of that trap.

The tale begins on a night that could have been any other night in the Talking Junkyard. The only thing that made the differnce was the static in the air. It was a palatable thing, a static of sadness, of misery, of defeat. Hours earlier, in payment of the decision that will not be forgotton, three elders had been sentaced to destroy the unmaker, in a challange that sentanced them to death. To many, there was No. Hope. To many, they were firm in the beleif we had been abandoned, left to die, wither. The caern would become a pit, and many were taking bets on just how long it was until their very own deaths. *her tone is hushed, to emphasies the feeling of dispair*

It was fast approaching midnight, and the members of the sept were trying to find a way to put themselves to bed when *she spreads her hands out as if she was feeling a wall, and then gestures with her hands as if rending that wall open* suddenly, the air itself opened, giving birth to three of Her children. Two dead. But one. One baring their bodies home. we had been bruised, battered. But we were -not- broken. And there stood the proof.So what was done? *she seems to search the air above theresa's head* we moved on. Like any challenge with a bittersweet victory, we buried our dead, and moved on. we began to put back the peices of a caern shattered by mistrust.

*She tells two other small tales. Of the regathering of defences after the ratkin's abandonment, and the defence of the caern from "lisa" not pulling punches. describing the frenzies, and the lessons learned*.

From there, we had yet another challenge to face. It was one thing to have assistance from the spirits who were interested in the well-being of the caern. But it had come upon the time to look to the spirits of the Mother who had nothing to loose by shunning us of aide. It was the real test of the Mother's faith in her children. Were we truley damned? or had we reedeemed ourself. The answer would come upon us, in the form of a staff.

The staff had been carved with willing hands, The symbols for honor, glory, wisdom, Black Unicorn, Child of Gaia, and the balance of the Philodox all etched into its surface in the gylphs given to us by Her. The tips smelted with silver, proud like the horn of Unicorn itself. Concecrated in salt for three days, made from the purest of oak. The vessle was ready, but would the spirit be willing? The ritesmaster was approahced by the master of the challenge, the creator of the staff... and it was time. I bore witness, firsthand, in a desire to know more about the surroundings. as I knelt outside of the ritual circle, the spirit summoned before me was awsome, in the purest sence of the word. It was created in the defence of all things innocent, and would fight to the death. To look into its eyes was to know the fury of a defendor scored. to be in its presence was to be under its gaurdianship 

The avitar of the Black Unicorn judged both Ritemaster and Master of the Challange. It seemed to take hours, when it was only minutes. It seemed, hesitant. Perhaps, concerned - or unconvinced. And the trueborn in the circle turned to me, the Master of the Challenge requesting a tale be told before the Black Unicorn. He wanted a tale of his courage, of his wisdom and honor. This was not the first time I had stood before a spirit to speak, but it would be the first time I had done so on command. So I brought forth the first story that came to mind. It was not the most glory-ful story ever told. It was not of his battlefield prowess, and perhaps in that he was dissapointed. It was of his challenge for rank. Of the agony of the challenge, and his perservience through it all.

The black unicorn measured my story, and took that back to measure the Master of the Challenge and his request. In minutes that seemed eternities, the great avitar agreed, and its essence was fused with the staff, creating the first fetish for our Caern, since the darkness fell upon us. And in that staff is our hope. And our proof. The spirits have given their forgivness - never forgetting what has been done, but realising that within our mistakes, lessons are still learned, and we are still of the Mother's Blessed. And now I ask, the Nation do the same. *she seems to let out a long breath* this story is not ended, by any means, only the few small tales inside of it. It grows, as the sept grows, it teaches as the sept learns.


*With that story done... she takes a sip of water... taking in a big breath. this one is going to be difficult for her...*

*She looks to Jason* Twomoons, I ask you bring the Staff of Galahad forward so I may fulfill the guise put upon me on the evening of the creation of the fetish.

*when Jason brings it forward and puts it down inf ront of her... she leans down and touches her fingers to the silver horn then stands up* 

In the heat of battle, there are choices and decisions to be made. Those choices and decisions under strain and pressure etches on our souls the definition of who we are. Of our character, of our strengths and our weaknesses.  This is one such tale.

On the north-west corner of this city, near to where the water runs rank and the houses are long forgotten is a building. In that building there are people. These people were once mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, daughters and sons. But these people have long gone to an age that has passed them by. They are the forgotten, the unimportant. A week ago, one of these people went missing. Two days ago, another.

Last night, myself, the barer of the staff of Galahad, and the Master of the Rite approached this building in an effort to understand why. After a brief look around the building proper, with its red carpet and faded walls it was decided that I would examine the apartment of one of the missing, that the Master of the Rite would examine the surrounding area and the receptacles outside, and the Barer of the Staff of Galahad would speak to the occupants of the apartment.

The apartment I entered was dark. The only light was given from the street outside. All of the furniture was covered in white sheets, like ghosts from another time. The livingroom was devoid of anything desirable. The bedroom: a wall of dolls staring blankly at me from the darkness. But the bathroom *she looks away from the audience. a shudder runs through her.. before she returns to her story* The closet, I opened carefully- and out from inside of it a... thing jumped at me. It clawed at my clothing: I fell back over the toilet and slammed into the tub, my head bouncing off the surface. I remember my body going stiff- my mind was in panic, unable to call out for help: and then.. I was gone. Blacked out, perhaps. I still don't remember.

From what I understand, I was lucky. The Master of the Rite was close by, and sent the alarm to the barer of the staff of Galahad.  Both of them followed my trail: through the sewers, through the muck and the mire, the bile and rotting shit of the underworld. Glyphs unknown, like a child's scrawl pointing the way to the twisted nursery.

yes, nursery. Nine bodies, all in a state almost unfit to speak of. twisted, crucified - all innocents, old or young. Myself, my body twisted, bones almost removed from some supernatural means. *she shakes her head softly* the Barer moved to my side, healing me, trying to fix what he could. The Master of the Rite went to the other innocents, working them down from their strange perches, to heal them.

Then, they pounced. Three Score, from all sides swarmed about the two garou and their victims, tearing, shredding - looking for the kill. The Barer wielded the staff of Galahad and with every strike, the echoes of the hooves of justice and right rang in the hollow corridor. The fight lasted minutes, but it felt like hours as the swarm just kept coming. Pressing down on all sides, gunning for the barer.  With a long deep breath in *janet raises her hand above her head* the staff of Galahad was -slammed- into the much and mire *she shoves her hands down, like she was driving in a stake to the ground* and a shockwave rang through the sewers, shoving back the sludge, confusing the masses.

Then, from somewhere deeper inside the caverns, a noise so terrible cried. The swarm: scattered. Scooping up all the bodies of the dead, and the two garou were in awe. Then the growl sounded again. this time closer to their position. The only ones to survive of the victims were four, myself and three others. Wordlessly, the garou scooped up the survivors and helped them through the sewers.

But our movement was hampered, we could barely walk: barely move. The healing had been done, but our bodies, so twisted out of shape, were reforming. We weren't moving fast enough. It.. whatever it was.. it was right behind us. Closer and closer, the more we moved. The garou had a choice. They could stay, and fight the threat, perhaps gaining glory above all else. Or they could escape with the four innocents, not risk their unstable condition, and make sure they remained alive. The decision was made within a heartbeat, the wounded pressed up into a narrow escape tunnel, The Master of the Rite helping the Barer of the Staff of Galahad up into the tunnel only a breath before the ... WyrmCreature skittered by. Without another glance back, we were brought to safety.

*she lowers her eyes a moment and takes a long breath in, her hands rubbing against each other, as if she was trying to wipe something off her hands* The choice to leave the glory and protect the injured saved my life, and the life of three other humans. In the heat of battle, there are choices and decisions to be made. The choices made reflect the qualities of the fetish gifted to the Barer of the Staff of Galahad. Glory, strength in battle, yes. These are both things the Black Unicorn cherish. But wisdom, protection of innocents - that... that is why this staff was made.


*she takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes then puts them back on and looks out over the garou again*

My tales tonight well... I swear I'll eventually stop talking. But my final one, it won't make me very popular with my own tribe. But sometimes, things need to be said.

I speak from experience when I say it isn't easy to be the one others don't understand. When your opinion, and your actions aren't among the most popular, the common thought.

So tonight, like the tale for searches-for-faith,  this is more a food-for-thought tale, then a tale of glory, honor, or wisdom. This is a thank you, for one is far overdue.

*she looks down as if trying to find a place to start* How many times a day do you say thank you for meaningless things? A cup of coffee, change at the convince store, a stranger picking up your dropped keys. I counted the other day. I said thank you to twenty-two strangers. *she pauses slightly* and only one friend.

Twenty-two times I said words that are the only words in the human language for appreciation of a task to complete strangers. People I will -never- even see again. But only once did I bring myself to say it to people I see every day, that I profess to devote myself to, my time and energy, my love and affection. The question is: why? Why only once? 

*she shrugs her shoulders softly* The only answer I could come up with was simply: I assume my friends know I appreciate them.But what if they don't? What if they really have no idea how much their hard work, dedication, and friendship means to me? What then? I didn't have an answer to that question. Not right away. I reflected on the subject for awhile, until the other night, in the sept, I found the answer in my own actions.

A few of you might have been there, even. It was the night of the philodox moon, a few days before this moot, a normal night here in the Caern. A friend of mine was working out in the training area when I commented about joining him. Steeleyes, our warder, and a friend commented that it might not be the best idea for me to do that. That comment didn't bother me so much, but then he began to ask about my art.  My reaction was so awful to his comments, it was terse and uncalled for. But it stemmed from something that happened a few months ago. Three months ago, I had made Steeleyes a piece of art. And whether it was not to his tastes, or he himself was confused, he threw it away, without a thank you. That had left me hurt - and feeling, frankly, unappreciated.

*she clears her throat and waves a hand* right there, see that was my answer to my own question. What happens when we do not tell our friends... "thank you"? it can leave a void of an important validation: appreciation. The simple act of that appreciation can change the course of events. *She quiets a moment, then*

I had mentioned earlier that sometimes it is difficult to be the one others' do not understand. I've found most often that it comes when someone throws their heart and soul into something: a person, an event, a faith. If not everyone has put that effort in, or perhaps has only put in a half effort, the one putting everything in is regarded as frankly: Crazy.

*a half smile* and beyond that, to put your heart and soul solely into something can make a person blind. Blind to pain, caused to themselves and even to others by that dedication. Does it make that dedication wrong? *she shakes her head no slowly then shrugs again* But it comes down to friends to tap a body on the shoulder and let them know that there is a world around them.

So what am I getting at tonight? *she sighs as if tired. and truthfully, she looks pretty worn* I want to say thank you to Anja Stormbringer. *she doesn't look at the garou in question, rather at her audience* I want to say thank you for putting her heart and soul and blood into the caern of the talking junkyard. I want to say thank you to her for putting her heart and soul and blood into a little girl named Kimmy. I know a lot of those I respect will not agree with my words. But, like anja, I say what needs to be said, and do what needs to be done. Not everyone may agree with my methods, nor hers. But in the end, we -put- in the effort. We -put- in the blood, and the heart, and the soul.

Sometimes, we screw up. Sometimes, we're not so great at admitting those mistakes. Sometimes we're not all that popular for those mistakes. But in the end, no matter what's said the effort is still there. Everyone does their part around here, but tonight, I'm thanking her.

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Told by Janet Santos, Bone Gnawer, Kinfolk

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