|
|
|||||
|
(Untitle) * * * Among any Garou, the transition from Cliath to fostern is an important step. No longer is one a child, little more than a cub. Fostern is an old word, and in the Garou tongue it means brother--and so the Fostern is. Perhaps an older brother to some, or a younger brother to others, but a shield-brother, allowed and expected to share in the responsibilities of his pack, his tribe, his Varthi, and the Garou Nation as a whole. Some months back, Jurgen Kreigzug took this step. It was I he issued challenge to, and for some few nights I spoke to the elders of my tribe within my dreams. When I sent him to Bloody River, they were waiting for him. He was welcomed, as worthy visitors are to a Varthi of the Fenrir, and given place to sleep. And sleep he did... *smiles.* until about three hours before the dawning. The matter of Jurg's awakening was simple--spring water is cold, Jurg was warm. The two met abruptly, and Jurg awoke, coughing and sputtering, to the yipping of a Rotogar and the sound of running feet. Enraged, Jurg put foot to trail and gave chase. This was the first part of the challenge. The Rotogar had distance, and was no fool. The scent-trail wound through the woods, upon dry rocks and wet mud, through brambles that Jurg had to force his way through and among high rocks he had to leap. It came to the river, and Jurg crossed--but the Rotogar had not. Instead, he had swum upstream and came to dry ground on the same bank while Jurg followed a false trail. It was some miles before he found his mistake, and he had been running from sun-down to sun-up when he returned to the river and found the trail again. This time, it lead to a groove in the sand--where a canoe had been beached. Jurgen followed again, running with the effortless stride that is the mark of all wolves--and missed the trail again. This time the wily old battle-trickster had Reached across the Gauntlet, leaving the canoe to break up in the rapids some miles further. But at the point he was supposed to reach, another elder waited as a guide. He spared his word-hoarde, and pointed a path for the Cliath to follow. Eager for the proving--and for some retribution--Jurgen followed the Moon path as the ground of the Penumbra fell away beneath him and he wandered into unfamiliar territory. The young prover hesitated not, but followed thescant trace he could find. The webs of the Weaver grew thicker, and dirty with the taint of Jormangundr, before the path ended in an alley. And such an alley--imagine the dirtiest, most weaver-tainted scab to ever desecrate the face of gaia--this place was worse by far. Jurgen's Rage is high and he suffers the Curse hard, but the monkeys of this place--spirits, if one were to look close enough--didnt' even look up as he entered the crowd. Smokestacks belched filth into the already darkened skies and the spirits walked numbly from work to home. Scattered diners where the patrons ate greasy food dotted the streets along with cheap apartments that were only a step away from falling--or burning--down. Bewildered, the young prover walked the streets in search of sign, and it was thus that he came to the sight of Scrags--minions of Jormangundr who roam the spirit world... and who patrol the Scar. They caught sight of him and he of they, and they knew him for what he was. The spirits that had crowded the street scattered as the two met in the middle, but there were a full six of them--challenge enough for an entire pack. They did not kill him--in the Scar realm there are worse things, and Jurgen found himself bound and thrown into a truck, then carried to a mill. The mill made cloth, like one might see in the physical realm, but those in the physical realm are not made of spirits--they were fed into the machines at one end, and at the other poured the webs of the Weaver that calcify the world--oh, the day will come when the sons of Fenris rampage through that horrid place like the Vikings of old and put those mills to a halt they will not recover from... but until then, they work, day and night, to still the world's entire. Jurg was taken to such a place and expected to work. The horror of this realm drains the will, and the young prover had found himself working the machines for two hours before he realized what he was doing. The first instinct--as it should be--was to tear the place down and let the blood spill. But a warrior of the Fenrir must be not only strong, but resolute. The spirits forced to work beside him had given up, resigned to their fate--such people, be they ape, Garou, or spirit, deserve nothing less than what they get, and when the young prover destroyed the machinery he fought alone. At first he fought alone. A Fenrir--and a Modi of the Fenrir, especially--is to inspire those around him to battle, almost as much so as a Skald, and as Jurgen fought alone against the two creatures that came to halt his destruction of the Weaver's prison, two of the worker-spirits joined him. They fell, but they fell with honor, and I hope to someday learn their names and pay them respect. The machinery was broken, but not beyond repair, and with the Gifts of the spirits Jurg set fire to the building as he bulled-rushed his way past his guards. The mill was a firetrap--not even minutes later fire was tonguing the air from every small window and gap in the boards, and moments after that fire was racing along the webbing that the foul building was spraying into the Umbra. With the Webbing gone, the young prover was able to Reach, and found himself in a Glen. From there he returned to The Bloody River Varthi. The No-Moon awaited him there, to see if he had escaped the Scar, and proclaimed Jurgen proved by fire and battle and his own wits. Only one thing remained.... Two warriors of the Bloody River, Modis both, stood in a clearing and armed themselves with silver. Knowing the price of his rank, Jurgen stepped among them and they attacked. For one Garou, even Eldre, to stand before two armed with silver may be an impossible task, and Jurgen did not. But the two attacked fiercely, gave pain as freely as apes give money and deciet, and tested his stamina and his strength of will mightily. Jurgen survived the test--not all Modi do--and the scars were decorated, on chest and hip and ear and jaw. These are marks to wear proudly, as few are so honored to gain them. We thank the Fenrir of Bloody River, as should you all. We thank the Battle-trickster who tested him, as should you all--and we even thank the realm of Scar for making our warriors strong. We will destroy it, clear the obscenity from gaia with fire and iron and the talon, but as its last denizen breathes his last we shall thank them for our strength. So should you all. * * * Told by Jublain "Hjarta-Villtnur" Wade, Dólg-Dvergr, Defeator of Ragnorak, Adren, Galliard, Get of Fenris Back | List of Tales | Next
|
