Voice of the Wayfarers

"Skirruk... Woodwing Skirruk, can you hear me? Open your eyes, Woodwing Skirruk, there's a good girl."

It was dark. Skirruk couldn't see, and didn't want to open her eyes. She tried to tell the voice to go away, but the words came out slurred and mumbled. Her mouth tasted like blood, and there was something heavy in her head.

"Was that you trying to talk, Skirruk? I don't understand."

Neither do I, I'm scared, she tried to say, but again the syllables came out wrong, like some mockery of the language that had made her.

Something started pressing against her chest. It hurt, and that moment of pain resolved the heaviness in her head into more pain, hot and bright like too much sun, pouring in through her head and down her spine. She tried to concentrate and block the pain out as she tried to move her hand to her chest, but it fluttered helplessly at her side as she heard the approach of soft footsteps.

"Oh good, Woodwing Leashah, you're here. Woodwing Skirruk isn't responding verbally to the chest rub, and hasn't opened her eyes."

"That is a very bad sign. What happened to her?"

I fell, Woodwing Leashah, she tried to say, but again the words came out wrong.

"She fell, Woodwing Leashah."

Through the pain, Skirruk realised that she probably should be dead. Perhaps she already was- she could not speak like a proper Illumian, could barely move. Hadn't one of the Training Mistresses said an Illumian was dead when they couldn't speak?

But she wasn't. She was stuck in her body and aware of things going on around her, but unable to react. There was only the pain and the distant sensation that there were other people there.

And... something else beneath the pain...

"I take it she fell on her head, Woodwing Illchelan?

Oh boy. Had she ever. The Training Mistress had always commended her on her ability to climb, and she wasn't showing off exactly, just hanging upside down, like she had done so many times before. After all, she was only eight- what could possibly happen to her?

And then, Skirruk's legs had slipped.

"Yes, Leashah, she did."

"From how high?"

"Quite high. Ten, maybe fifteen metres."

What on earth was that under the pain? She reached out for it, and touched something alive, something that sparked and glittered like sun on the river, that wriggled like a ferret. She shivered as she touched it, and it became still, shining and deep, like a well or a spring.

"May the Seer preserve, no wonder. Woodwing Skirruk, can you hear me?

Yes, she tried to say, Yes I can, Woodwing Leashah. I can't talk to you, and there's something shiny and exciting in my head with me.

She moaned instead. Her hand flapped up onto her stomach, falling still when she couldn't hold it up anymore.

"Good. I am going to touch your head where you landed. Stay still."

Please stop touching my head, she wanted to say, but all she could do was lie there as these fingers kept pressing where it HURT. Within her, the thing that shone stirred briefly, feeling as if it were looking for a way out. Had it always been there, waiting to be found?

"The bone is cracked. I think she might be bleeding on the inside of her skull."

There was a feeling like a cool, damp cloth smoothing over all the places she hurt, and the pain started dimming- and taking the shining thing with it. Her hands began moving more frantically- BUT I LIKE THE SHINY FEELING, she tried to shout in vain- reaching to her chest and throat weakly.

"There, see? Some healing magic to relieve the damage. Now, child, we are just going to-"

Take my shiny thing?

"NO!"

She slurred out the word, more a roar than an actual protest, and pushed out with the thing that shone. The healer reeled back, and Skirruk opened her eyes a little to see blood trickling out of one of his ears. He tried to scream and couldn't, his throat spasming with the sheer ferocity of having someone else's consciousness deposited into one's own.

She smiled a little, her eyes closing again.

"Mhy shichny fingh," she murmured as her hands went limp against her stomach.

---

"She's going to be alright?" Woodwing Nahlehntra asked, brow furrowed with concern.

"She... she is stable for now, may The Seer be praised," Leasha replied, face still pale, "But I do not know what we are going to do. Skirruk keeps attacking anyone who attempts to heal her with magic."

Nahlehntra raised an eyebrow, runes brightening in question. "Attacking how?"

Leasha shuddered. "I... it was like she took all of her thoughts, all of her feelings, all of her SELF was just... poured into me. I could feel my own fingers on her skull, the pain that was trying to fill everything, her fright at the fact that she couldn't speak or control her movement properly, and her outrage that I was trying to fix where she was broken. The whole world hummed with the power of knowing so much so quickly."

Nahlehntra's frown deepened. "So... like Divination magic? She was trying to communicate with you?"

"No. Not at all. She just wanted me to stop trying to take away her shiny thing."

"Shiny thing? What shiny thing, in the Librarian's sacred name?"

"It was... like when I ask Glautru for His grace, but not- almost as if she were handed a sword, and just swung it without understanding it."

"Is this power dangerous? Is SHE dangerous?"

"The power is definately dangerous, Nahlehntra. It is not designed to do anything else but to hurt. But I think, perhaps, she does not understand. I do not think that there is anything we can do to heal the bleed under her skull until she learns why what she is doing is so harmful."

"Can she be taught?"

"I hope so. Perhaps ask Ashehnrell to look over her once she comes back to consciousness?"

"I think so." The Training Mistress paused for just a moment, before burying her face in her hands, the runes around her head dimming in sorrow.

"By the wisdom of the Librarian, Leasha, she's only eight years old."

The other Illumian leaned over to her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

"I know, Nahlehntra, I know. I'll do the best I can."

"Night-time is where we live, night is where we give everything we have to give..."

It was early in the morning, after another long weekend of clubs, drugs and sex. Nicolette sat in the corner of her room, eyes staring into nothing, rocking backward and forward.

Her mouth felt dry. She ran her tongue over her lips, painfully aware it wouldn't actually do anything to stop the cracking, shrivelling sensation that spread from inside out, not even if she partook of the Flowers of Ghede Nibo. She ran her hands over her naked arms, try to stop the shivering. She never liked the ghouls to see her like this. They'd get fretful, and start worrying that they had done something wrong- even months of constant reassurances couldn't undo the damage that Wellington had done to them.

"Some lovers can rejoice- we don't have a choice, we just know we have to give..."

It felt wrong, serving as a Regnant, even to these poor, lost ghouls. She hated the thought that she might hurt them one day, might turn away from them as her Lord and Sire had turned away from her.

She bit back a dry, heartless sob, forcing herself to not think of the man that had loved her, had promised to make her perfect- and then replaced her with some new pretty thing as soon as she was gone. Two hundred years of service and belief and worship, now lying still with a stake of wood in his heart- when the term of his sentence was up, he probably wouldn't even remember her.

"That's why the day can never be bright, for the girls of the night..."

Tribulation brings Enlightenment. That's what Maman Latour had taught her. But too much could break. But She never gave more than Her children could endure, right? Even if she was broken, there was some purpose to it, right, some rebuilding?

She needed someone to serve, to give her direction. Makoto had vanished into the night, Claude was gone, Maman Akuete and Maman Kincaid were surely busy with their own business, and there was no Hierophant in Sydney anymore- there was no one left. She was left in charge of a small gaggle of ghouls with no one to advise her, and without advice, she was lost.

"Lucy, do you really need to fill your heart with empty dreams? You'll always be what you are - stop chasing that distant star..."

And worst of all, there was the one that she couldn't think about, lest it drive her mad with helplessness, but only remember in peripheral thoughts, in the sensation of teeth brushing against flesh her shoulder and the scent of feather oil mixed in with her hair.

She looked up the roof, eyes not seeing anything, voice cracking over the notes of the song, trying desperately to think of anything but what wasn't anymore. She had a duty, and somewhere to stay, and people who needed her. Wasn't that enough?

"Ask me to share your fantasies, dear, but don't ask me where tomorrow is. Don't ask me where to find happiness, though I know for sure where sorrow is..."

"Nicolette, are you alright?"

One of the ghouls popped his head around the door, and his eyes widened with concern as he crossed the room, lifting her to her feet by the arms.

"Oh, Nicolette, please, you need to get up. Come on, your Ceridwyn wouldn't want to see you like this, would she?"

Ceridwyn. The name pierced her sorrow like a knife to the heart. Hierophant, lover, best friend, saviour, dead and gone and it was all her fault.

The ghoul didn't seem to notice Nicolette become more withdrawn for a moment, and continued chattering.

"Come on now, let's get you into bed for the day, shall we? Get you nice and comfortable, and we'll see if we can't get some of the boys in here to keep you company, spice things up for you a little..."

She smiled numbly, because that's what she was was expected to do.

"Yes. That would be lovely."

That's why the day can never be bright
For the girls of the night.

A hundred and twenty odd years before current events...

Two-Stick frowned over her notes as the sun began to set, Kirrit nosing her ear as she tutted softly.

"What's wrong, Two Stick?" called StarCatcher from her bench.

"This doesn't make any sense! The shape of the letters aren't congruous with one another!"

"Then how would you make them congruous? Show me."

She nodded, sketching shapes on the tabletop with a piece of charcoal, not even aware that her teacher had moved away from her shoulder until she heard her speaking at the door.

"Hello? Can I help you?"

"Yes, I was told that Two Stick Lightning was here?"

She looked up from her notes, cocking her head at an angle. The voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it.

"Why yes, she's here. Who should I say is calling?"

"My name is Fang Strike."

"Oh, the boy that's going to be chieftan! Right, I'll let her know."

( The boy that came calling )

He pulled back, eyes hopeful, and Two Stick exhaled gustily.

"Well, that was unexpected."

"Did you like it?"

"It wasn't an unpleasant experience, no."

She turned and gathered up the notes she was making, pushing them into something vaguely resembling a pile.

"I understand the next protocol is asking if you would like to stay for dinner?"

Fang Strike smiled brightly, tension easing from his shoulders. At his side, Marakeeta made a noise that might have been a purr.

"Thank you. I'd like that very much."

OOC Again, she demands to be written about. Also, LOOK, IT'S JOHN!

IC
She roared with pain as the men laid her down on the cold, hard slab, voice already hoarse from shouting orders and screaming for someone to come and pull her back from the front line. Her head jerked up as she examined the ruin of her left leg and hip. It was bleeding again, too much blood, the slashed muscle and fat twitching and glistening in the yellow light. She moaned softly, slumping back against the table, eyes rolling back in her head.

( How this came to be- cut for gore and war scenes )

A shadow fell over them, and the pair looked up to see the Warlord standing over them, resplendant and unmarked in its armour of marble and pearl. Steely Dan sprung up with a salute, while Bloodymane struggled to lift her hand to her brow.

"At ease, Medic Needlefingers. At ease, Soldier Bloodymane." It said, each word crisp and precise. It studied the wounded Darkling before it from under its helmet.

"That is quite a wound you have taken in my service, Soldier Bloodymane."

"Sir, yes Sir!" She replied as forcefully as she could. The Warlord looked at her. It sounded amused.

"But still you survive, facing dreadful odds and bearing crippling wounds. This is to be commended. Rewarded."

"It is... nothing, Sir! I merely do my duty."

"Nevertheless, I hereby name you General Tilda Bloodymane, Commander of the Grim Raven regiment. When you are repaired, you shall lead your men for me."

She flinched. It didn't notice.

"Sir, thank you, Sir!"

The Warlord strode off, radiating the air of a pleased child. When it was gone, Tilda turned to Steely Dan.

"Fuck. Why didn't you let me die?"

The chirurgeon managed to look insulted and sympathetic in the same moment.

"Because I have my duty. Because it would know, and then I would die, too. Because I am good at what I do. Now, General Bloodymane, let's get you set down somewhere so that leg can start healing."

OOC I'm not getting rid of Mousie. But this girl demanded that she be written about

IC

It laughed as she fought it, laughed with delight.
"Oh yes, little one," It cooed softly, too many hands grabbing her flailing arms and legs, holding her down, "You will do nicely. You will make a beautiful soldier. But not until you have made the War a part of yourself. So I will make you a deal, little one. You can come out of your cell when you can cut your way out on your own. But first..."
Something sharp pressing against her breast. Cutting, hurting, stop, please! But there is no cease, no easing of the pain until it has worked something out of her heart, something bright and shining, like a glowing jewel or nugget of gold.
"This defence. You will have no need of it where you go."
It held the mote up to study it, and she saw his face for the first and last time. It was smooth, flawless, like alabaster or statue marble, and reflected the light like polished shell or pearl. Perfect. Serene. Deadly. Uncaring. She would see it again and again, at a distance, always sheltered in its grand helm and armour, always wielding some fell weapon and shield, but here, in the light of her own heart, she saw it as it truly was beneath its metal shell.
It looked at the glittering jewel, held with precise care between razor-sharp fingertips, caked in her blood. With the other hand, it picked her up by the scruff of the neck, hurling her into a cell of stone and wood and darkness. She lands heavily against the wall, and then the floor. There is a cracking sound, and a moment of silence, before a brief clatter at her side, and the clang of the door swinging shut.
Silence. Darkness. She gropes with her hand to find where she is, cuts her fingers on the knives it has given her to defend herself... from what?
A sound. Like hissing, scrabbling claws. She pulls herself up to sitting, then standing, knives clutched tightly.
They come for the scent of her blood, which still oozes from the wound in her chest, and drips from her fingers.
They come for the taste of her life, and they spring, scoring their first blow against her. She screams with rage and lashes out, knives cutting shallow wounds. The creatures scream and fall back, only to attack later, when she least expects, over and over.
She is tired, but dares not sleep. She is hungry, but dares not eat. Over and over she whispers to the knives, please save me, please don't let me die.
Eventually, they listen, and they promise back that they will never leave her.
Again the creatures attack, and she hisses and slashes with herself, and they fall, cleaved in half by fingertips sharp as razors.
"ENOUGH!" She screams in silence, and takes one, two steps forward, probing gently with her hands. When she feels the wood of the door, she strikes, again and again until the wood splinters and comes away. She fights her way out, hissing and snarling, screaming as the light sears her unprotected eyes.
It is standing, waiting. It seems pleased. It is hard to tell under the helmet.
"Good. You are ready. Come, it is time for war."

There is only enough of a pause not to die, enough rest to ensure that she wakes when she puts her head down. The rest of her existence is fighting, howling, shedding blood, screamingslashingtastingwinning.
The sun burns her eyes, so she darkens them with blood so that she may see. The foe is always there, so she cuts them down. She does not know why, only that she must.

This is her world, her place. This is war, and this is what she was made to do.

But every time she slept, she dreamed of that glowing jewel between the fingers of the thing that had made her, and she hated that bastard for taking her light away.

Sky Iron sang out the last of the ritual, a soft, insistent cry in the Uremehir, ending the of phrase in a soft growl. It was not the way of Iminir to beg the presence of spirits, even patrons of lodges. After a time, the air grew thick with a hot, rank scent, like wet dog but worse.

She bowed, more comfortable in her Dalu form than she was in Hishu, and addressed the spirit in the First Tongue.

"Greetings, most honoured Scarred Bear. I have meat and berries for you."

The great, shaggy bear that stood before her snorted.

"Daughter, I do not need you to hunt for me."

"But it is proper that I bring you an offering, to thank you for your time."

The spirit nodded, and lowered his mouth to the rich, thick meat left for him. As he ate, Sky Iron crouched down carefully, stretching her stiff leg out for balance, taking in the sight and scent of his thick, dark fur and the scars that split it in so many places for a few long moments before speaking.

"I have heard tales from one who wishes to speak with you. His name is Father Gregory, Oathkeeper. Hirfathra Hissu, Cahalith, of the Watchers Children of Los Angeles."

The bear grunted, stopping just short of a growl.

"I have no time for cubs, Daughter."

"He's not a cub. His tales are well known- he sings with all the Glory of Luna Remembering, and shares the Wisdom of Luna Contemplating. I've known him for years, honoured one- he is no more a cub than I am."

"Does he know what it is to walk towards his death?"

"Every day of his life, Scarred Bear."

"Has he walked his Last Mile?"

"Yes, Scarred Bear."

"Was it worthy?"

"He faced down a pack of Lune-Touched Uratha, and destroyed the Cahalunim-magath that had made them crazy. They had been there for decades, perverting the Oath, and he broke that cycle. He will be deaf in one ear and blind in one eye for the rest of his life, and will always walk with a limp. I think it is worthy. If you wish to see the evidence of his deeds, you may find it in the place humans call New Mexico."

The bear grunted again, and buried his nose in the bowl of cranberries left for him. There was a few moments of silence, broken only by the sound of eating. When Scarred Bear looked up, his white-flecked muzzle was stained red.

"I know this one that you speak of. He will take my lessons to heart. That you speak so well of him is good. I will seek him out."

The spirit rammed his head into Sky Iron's weak right leg. She flinched and snarled, twisting on the ball of her left foot, falling into a defensive position. Her eyes flashed with rage and a growl rattled in her throat. Scarred Bear grunted his approval, and pressed his cold, wet nose against her hand.

"My children only get stronger, better, as they get older. Never forget that, Daughter."

She relaxed, easing down from the edge of getting into a fight she couldn't possibly win, hand running down the side of the massive bear's neck.

"I won't, honoured Scarred Bear. That's a lesson written in my flesh. I won't forget. And neither will Oathkeeper-k'ruuk."

Sixty odd years before current events...

Ignis woke to find Two Stick Lightning hard at work in the lab, carefully measuring a thick, viscous liquid from one clay beaker to another. He watched her for a few minutes, propping himself up on his elbow, admiring her iron concentration and lithe form, before easing himself into trous and walking towards her.

"Good morning," Two Stick replied, without even turning her head from her measurements, "Please don't touch me, this ichor is highly caustic."

He blinked with irritation, then tried to hide it with a smile. She noticed, but said nothing.

"Good morning to you too, Lightning girl. When you have a moment, will you get me some breakfast?"

"I'm in the middle of something important, Ignis," she replied, clearly distracted by her experiment, "You can get your own breakfast this morning, you know where the storehouse is."

He looked at her for a moment, eyes full of incredulity. Ignis's companion looked up from his makeshift perch, shifting from foot to foot with his partners agitation.

"My breakfast is important as well, Two Stick," he said carefully, anger starting to creep into his voice, "Be a good girl and go and fetch it for me, it won't take you very long."

( Cut for violence and abuse, possibly triggering )

So, a while ago I posted a meme. Decided i'd get around to answering some of the leftover things. Here are previous answers for Rosethorn, Isobel, Mousie and Bright Water.

Culture

She smiles, her eyes lighting up.

"I don't expect you to understand about what our culture is like as a people. We're working on regaining what we lost, slowly, but it's never been entirely gone. When you come to the marae, you know that you're home, no matter what has passed, and that now, things will be better. Toku toa, he toa rangatira. Noku te whenua, o oku tupuna. Kia mau ki to Maoritanga. Remembering these things, and the land from which you came, will never steer you wrong."

Sacrifice

Her smile falters, and she looks serious.

"I didn't... sacrifice is something that must be done, something that hurts. That's why it's a sacrifice. I didn't want to do it, but someone had to, and I was the most fitting. In the end, it cost me everything, and it cost a good many people something, as well- Mal, Thomas, Carden, Tank, Ryan... Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I had let Grinner go in my place, like he wanted. I didn't want to die, but I wanted to go home."

The smile lifts the corners of her mouth again.

"I guess I got what I wanted. And it helped the People. So I guess it was worth it."

Two-Stick-Lightning knelt before the Empire girl, calm and composed, head tossed back to expose her breastbone so that the River priestess could strike. She looked at Chaosti, who's eyes reflected the bleak arrogance of a child of the River, before speaking.

"Your totem tried to kill me, River girl. Tried to drown me in my sleep. Now you see how far this has gone, how much you should hate me. Because I will keep telling any totem I meet of River's sickness, and they will fight with us."

She threw back her head and laughed, echoing Hyena's high, mad cackle. Chaosti flinched, and started shaking his head, as if confused, drawing away from the Empire girl. She looked at Two Stick, eyes sad and angry and disgusted.

"You're crazy."

"Yes, I am. I am Two-Stick-Lighting, and I swear, by Sugar Glider and Lightning, that I will fight you for all of my days. You will never break me, and I will keep coming, like the roar of oncoming thunder. I will see River's will subverted, this I promise- this world will not drown as long as I live. Now KILL ME, RIVER GIRL! YOU HAVE NO CHOICE!"

Two-Stick's voice rose to a shout as the River priestess suddenly cried out in pain. Just behind her, Two-Stick saw a flash of movement low to the ground- Rose had woken up, and chosen that moment to strike. Not waiting for a second chance, Two-Stick jumped up and pressed the heel of her hand into the River priestess's chest, spitting out the words of the spell like the crack of a whip. White hot lightning pooled around her fingers and thudded into the Empire girl's flesh, and she screamed.

Swiftspear answered the scream, still under the River's enchantment, and tried to catch a hold of his grandmother. Two-Stick snarled and threw her fist back, the crackle of lightning and scent of scorched flesh telling her that her warning had struck home.

Then the River girl looked at her, eyes soft with sorrow and disbelief, and she understood. She really WAS a savage, with no understanding of the real world. She fell to her knees again, dropping her eyes to the floor.

"I'm... i'm sorry. I don't know anything. I was wrong."

She heard Rose distantly shouting her disbelief, but in her heart there was only the knowledge that she had been stupid and misguided.

Then, another sound, high and chittery. It sounded like a spell, like a hymn to thunder and white, hot force.

That's a pretty sounding sp- she thought, interrupted by the searing blast of lightning that crashed through the River priestess and into her. For a moment, she tried to scream, tried to move, but couldn't do anything as the blackness claimed her.

----

Rose shook her head, the afterimages of the lightning still speckling her vision. As she looked around, she saw Chaosti curled up against the wall of the hut, eyes staring at something that wasn't there, the River Priestess in a charred, oozing heap on the groud, clearly dead, and Swiftspear standing, looking dazed for just a moment, before sitting down heavily and falling asleep.

She picked her way through the carnage, silent as she took it all in. A few feet away, she spotted Two-Stick. The mystic appeared untouched by the lightning strike, but only the slightest rising and falling of her chest gave any indication that she was still alive.

Rose exhaled gustily.

"Shit."

OOC- I'm doing a wanky bit of experimentation- splicing two songs into the one post. I'm not sure how it's going to read, because the two songs are entirely different styles. The two songs are Another World by Beborn Beton and Stand In The Rain by Superchick (which I have to throw props to miss_madb for showing me, it's so awesome, I may have to use it again).

( Cut for people who don't care, and possibly annoying formatting )