Jeremiah's Gathering
Wednesday, 25 January 2017 12:07![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trace_logs
24 January, 2017
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (19% full).
The sun is setting, and a grave has been dug. Jeremiah's body has been laid to rest in it, a white cloth over him, with glyphs carefully painted in blood upon it: Homid. Cliath. Ahroun. Bone Gnawer. The area is lit by torches, and bowls of pure water are set to mark a fair-sized circle. There are also a few incense-like burners, though what they seem to be burning is tobacco.
A bit beyond the foot of the grave, a couple card tables have been set up, covered with sheets as table cloths. There's a stack of pizzas, among other various foods, and a cooler that holds slightly more beer than it does ice cream.
Felix is standing near the head of the grave, his guitar in its open case beside him, and he glances around to be sure everything's about as set as it's going to be, then gives the grave itself a thoughtful look, and waits for the sky to finish turning orange as others arrive.
Trace isn't far off, quiet and somber and with glances towards his packmate and friend every so often as he looks over the table, finishing setting a string of paper cranes in the empty spaces on the table, and then sits down cross-legged a few feet away in a bit of open space, the last few pieces of paper in his lap and folding a crane.
Pack> Trace reiterates over the pack link, quietly, "You guys need anything, I'm here."
Pack> Felix says, "Thanks, man."
Having joined his packmates, Justin had brought a keg of beer and a large bucket of chicken wings for the 'celebration' of life and death. He has a somber look on his face for the moment. He got here early to help set up, then spent some time at his father's gravestone, talking to him before he joined Felix and Trace at their sides.
Slug arrives wearing his most formal Gnawer attire; a black hoodie and black jeans, complete with dark shoes. He's ready for a burglary or a funeral. The Ragabash leaves a trail of cigarette smoke, walking with long-legged steps that carry him through the trees about as gracefully as one can move in a forested area. As soon as he hits the clearing, he goes still, his chest heaving, cigarette flaring, head inclined toward the graves of those long since passed. He grunts something to himself, exhales, and continues onward and upward toward Jeremiah and company.
Brings-the-Pack arrives, quietly, as he typically does. Perhaps recognizing and fully cognizant of the potential incongruity of his presence at the event, the cougar lingers at a distance. His demeanor is definitely somber.
This time, it seems the Mage and the Fury are in agreement on something. Though not standing shoulder-to-shoulder, Monica arrives not long after Brings-the-Pack, and maintains a respectful distance similar to his own.
The sky reaches what is apparently an acceptable level of orange-pink-navy for Felix's tastes— or he decides a suitable assemblage has assembled, or both— and he straightens a bit further, glancing around, and nodding once. "Evenin', y'all," he greets the arrivals. "An' thanks for comin'. We're gathered here tonight to honour an' remember one of our own, an' send him on. Once upon a time, Jeremiah might've been someone else, but tonight, an' for a long time now, he was a Bone Gnawer, one of ours, an' a pretty damn decent one, welcomed an' named by Rat herself. He lived protectin' the Park an' the homeless, keepin' an eye out for the people an' places in the city that needed him, an' died with honour an' glory, fightin' to try an' give the rest of us a chance to get away from an enemy he has to've known he couldn't do more'n slow down. Rat called him Lives-On, an' even if he's in the ground, he should live on with us, in our memories an' hearts."
He inclines his head slightly to the grave, then looks around. "Anyone who'd like to say somethin', share a story or some thoughts, now's the time."
Trace finishes the three cranes and sets them, silently, near Felix's feet, before getting up and moving to stand on the other side of Monica from the mage-cat. He doesn't say anything though.
Justin shifts his feet a bit as he listens to Felix, then says, "He was a good fighter, and a total asshole." He grunts out as he unwraps a piece of gum with his fingers. "But he was a good guy when you needed the muscle and didn't shy away from a fight. I liked kicking it with him, even if we didn't do it often."
Slug exchanges his cigarette for a slice of pizza, eating without haste or gusto, in that way people eat at parties when they're not quite sure what else to do. He listens, eyes ticking from person to person, lingering on Monica and the cat. He waits until Justin has finished up, then clears his throat. "Can't say I knew Jeremiah very well," Slug says. "Nothing personal. I could say the same of many Garou at this Sept, Garou that have been here for years. Some people you know of, you never really know. But I knew he was a Gnawer, and I knew he wanted another chance at things, and I knew he struggled with some kind of demons." His lips purse and he pauses to worry at his pizza slice. "There are worse ways to die than the way he did. To die well, and to have enough Garou left standing after the battle to bury you, and remember you- that's about as good as it gets for a Garou."
Brings-the-Pack listens as others share their stories or thoughts. When there's an appropriate lapse, and while still standing away from the central gathering, he offers one of his own. "I met him twice, several years ago, but did not know him well. When we first met, someone had come to the Harbor Park glade searching for Val. Some man who was angry and ended up threatening her when he spotted her. Jeremiah intervened and protected Val. The man backed off, left, and never bothered Val again. No blood was shed, despite the heated emotions in those moments." A moment passes. "I respected him for what he did that night. And what he didn't do."
The look from Slug is noted, the Fury inclining her head somewhat as if in some muted greeting— or acknowledgement that she doesn't quite fit into this equation. Still, when it comes time to speak, and the others have added their two cents…
"I'm right there with the rest of you," Monica offers, speaking loud enough to be heard. "I didn't know the guy well. Only knew he was an exile." She pauses. "Guys like that, they're quick to make a grab for anything that might prove they're better than how they've been judged by the folks outside than the ones that took 'em in, and he took a shot at it. Has to be worth something."
She mulls over that, brow furrowing subtly. Then, "That's all it was, or is, though," is said simply. "A well intentioned, but ultimately pointless death. Nothing of value was gained, but, at least, there are people around to recognize that something of value was lost." Beat. "So, no… it's not the worst way to die," she says, addressing Slug though her gaze remains largely on where the body is, "but he was touched by Nothing, same as I was." Another pause. "All that's left to do is hope it wasn't enough to consume him. Or at least hope that it might've been what he wanted."
She lets out a slow breath. "It's a hell of a way to go," she says, "but at least 'Nothing' means no more demons."
Felix listens to each person's remarks, with slight nods as he takes them in. Monica's gets a slight tilt of the head. "I dunno," he says, "I ain't so sure it was pointless. That thing was big an' angry an' powerful, between us an' the exit, an' we had one of us unconscious an' all of us surrounded by wakin'-up Nothin'. We got help gettin' out, yeah, but I dunno if it could've happened any quicker— an' it didn't happen quick enough." He glances to the grave. "We don't know how it would've gone otherwise. Might be we all would've made it safe. But might be it would've charged in an' taken out more of us. I see value there. I'd rather he was with us still, but bein' able to go out aimin' to protect the rest of us, I see value there too."
He looks up again. "Anyhow. I useta sing a song to tease him. Ain't the only one who did, but I'm gonna one last time. You can join in if you wanna— first verse, chorus twice. If anyone's got anythin' to send on with him, this'd be the time." He picks up the guitar from its case, and starts to play. "Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine..." It's an odd song for a funeral, but he sings it with soul, and a sense of joy of the past and for what may still be yet to come, despite the loss.
It's a short version, and when he's done, he sets the guitar back and picks up the cranes, tossing them gently into the grave, and then shifts up to Crinos and howls, a long and heartfelt one of loss, appreciation, sadness of death, and joy of life. It's time for the group to send his spirit off.
Trace listens and almost grins a bit at his packmate's last words. The Garou are gathered around the grave, having finished the remarks, although the Glass Walker has been there simply as moral support it would seem. "Gaia watch, stranger," he murmurs under his breath, and then shifts down to lupus. His tail wags once in a slow arc back and forth, and then he too lifts his voice in a howl.
Brings-the-Pack seems to be taking queues from the others present. As the howling starts, he hesitates a moment, focusing, and then the English-speaking cougar tips his head back and releases what is, undeniably, a wolf's howl, joining with the garou's vocalizations.
"All deaths and lives are kind of pointless," Slug says after a touch of thought, sucking down a stray green pepper dangling from his lips. "A world full of people, a universe full of stars, an Umbra full of more secrets and spirits than we'll ever know. It's just, ultimately, whatever it means to you. If you value your life, and you give it for something you believe in…" he lapses into more contemplative silence, eyes bouncing back to Felix. He's finished his slice by the time the song has ended, and quick as a blink, he's down into his wolfskin and belting out a hoarse and sorrowful howl, a haunting croon that is a lupine's calling card.
The howls drift through the air, and then, slowly, tail off. Felix shifts back down to homid, sighs, and then gives the assembled a half-grin. "Anyone wants to help shovel dirt, you're welcome to… otherwise, please eat an' drink some shit." A gesture toward the table of goodies. "An' thanks for comin'," he says again. He leans down to close the guitar case, then moves to start getting some of the shovelling done himself.
Shifting as well, Mouse Trap howls to the sky for the fallen.
Almost certainly drawn by the howling, Ghost-in-the-Machine appears at the edge of the clearing, with her slightly too-long ears quirked and pushed forward. Her nose twitches a few times as she takes in the gathering, and the Gathering.
When the howling ends, the Fury, having shifted down to her own wolf form to join in, pauses for a time. She looks to Slug. It matters. She looks to the plot again, and shifts back up to homid, hands slipping into the pockets of her jacket. "Guy gave his life without thinking twice about it. Just think he deserved better than what he got." She glances towards Ghost as the near-Ronin comes into view, and offers a vague nod, of sorts. "But, as you say, you could say that about just about anyone." Past that, though, she seems fine with helping to shovel for a moment or two, after which, she'll say her goodbyes, and head elsewhere. Not the chatty sort tonight, it seems.
Slug shifts back up into homid and stalks over to the table, fetching himself a beer. He cracks it open and looks at Monica with stony face, cracked by a sliver of a smile. "Deserve ain't got nothing to do with it," he says. Then he walks to the grave, pours a touch of beer into the grave of the fallen before taking some for himself.
Six-Shooter gives a slight chuff of greeting to Ghost. Resuming his birth form, Trace goes over and takes the shovel, contemplatively silent as he gives Felix a little friendly shove towards the table. "Mortality," the ahroun adds, and chews on his lower lip.
Brings-the-Pack watches as the others take turns moving earth to the grave, but not for very long at all. He soon turns and slips away into the forest, somehow managing to make the action of turning and walking away have an introspective feel to it.
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (19% full).
The sun is setting, and a grave has been dug. Jeremiah's body has been laid to rest in it, a white cloth over him, with glyphs carefully painted in blood upon it: Homid. Cliath. Ahroun. Bone Gnawer. The area is lit by torches, and bowls of pure water are set to mark a fair-sized circle. There are also a few incense-like burners, though what they seem to be burning is tobacco.
A bit beyond the foot of the grave, a couple card tables have been set up, covered with sheets as table cloths. There's a stack of pizzas, among other various foods, and a cooler that holds slightly more beer than it does ice cream.
Felix is standing near the head of the grave, his guitar in its open case beside him, and he glances around to be sure everything's about as set as it's going to be, then gives the grave itself a thoughtful look, and waits for the sky to finish turning orange as others arrive.
Trace isn't far off, quiet and somber and with glances towards his packmate and friend every so often as he looks over the table, finishing setting a string of paper cranes in the empty spaces on the table, and then sits down cross-legged a few feet away in a bit of open space, the last few pieces of paper in his lap and folding a crane.
Pack> Trace reiterates over the pack link, quietly, "You guys need anything, I'm here."
Pack> Felix says, "Thanks, man."
Having joined his packmates, Justin had brought a keg of beer and a large bucket of chicken wings for the 'celebration' of life and death. He has a somber look on his face for the moment. He got here early to help set up, then spent some time at his father's gravestone, talking to him before he joined Felix and Trace at their sides.
Slug arrives wearing his most formal Gnawer attire; a black hoodie and black jeans, complete with dark shoes. He's ready for a burglary or a funeral. The Ragabash leaves a trail of cigarette smoke, walking with long-legged steps that carry him through the trees about as gracefully as one can move in a forested area. As soon as he hits the clearing, he goes still, his chest heaving, cigarette flaring, head inclined toward the graves of those long since passed. He grunts something to himself, exhales, and continues onward and upward toward Jeremiah and company.
Brings-the-Pack arrives, quietly, as he typically does. Perhaps recognizing and fully cognizant of the potential incongruity of his presence at the event, the cougar lingers at a distance. His demeanor is definitely somber.
This time, it seems the Mage and the Fury are in agreement on something. Though not standing shoulder-to-shoulder, Monica arrives not long after Brings-the-Pack, and maintains a respectful distance similar to his own.
The sky reaches what is apparently an acceptable level of orange-pink-navy for Felix's tastes— or he decides a suitable assemblage has assembled, or both— and he straightens a bit further, glancing around, and nodding once. "Evenin', y'all," he greets the arrivals. "An' thanks for comin'. We're gathered here tonight to honour an' remember one of our own, an' send him on. Once upon a time, Jeremiah might've been someone else, but tonight, an' for a long time now, he was a Bone Gnawer, one of ours, an' a pretty damn decent one, welcomed an' named by Rat herself. He lived protectin' the Park an' the homeless, keepin' an eye out for the people an' places in the city that needed him, an' died with honour an' glory, fightin' to try an' give the rest of us a chance to get away from an enemy he has to've known he couldn't do more'n slow down. Rat called him Lives-On, an' even if he's in the ground, he should live on with us, in our memories an' hearts."
He inclines his head slightly to the grave, then looks around. "Anyone who'd like to say somethin', share a story or some thoughts, now's the time."
Trace finishes the three cranes and sets them, silently, near Felix's feet, before getting up and moving to stand on the other side of Monica from the mage-cat. He doesn't say anything though.
Justin shifts his feet a bit as he listens to Felix, then says, "He was a good fighter, and a total asshole." He grunts out as he unwraps a piece of gum with his fingers. "But he was a good guy when you needed the muscle and didn't shy away from a fight. I liked kicking it with him, even if we didn't do it often."
Slug exchanges his cigarette for a slice of pizza, eating without haste or gusto, in that way people eat at parties when they're not quite sure what else to do. He listens, eyes ticking from person to person, lingering on Monica and the cat. He waits until Justin has finished up, then clears his throat. "Can't say I knew Jeremiah very well," Slug says. "Nothing personal. I could say the same of many Garou at this Sept, Garou that have been here for years. Some people you know of, you never really know. But I knew he was a Gnawer, and I knew he wanted another chance at things, and I knew he struggled with some kind of demons." His lips purse and he pauses to worry at his pizza slice. "There are worse ways to die than the way he did. To die well, and to have enough Garou left standing after the battle to bury you, and remember you- that's about as good as it gets for a Garou."
Brings-the-Pack listens as others share their stories or thoughts. When there's an appropriate lapse, and while still standing away from the central gathering, he offers one of his own. "I met him twice, several years ago, but did not know him well. When we first met, someone had come to the Harbor Park glade searching for Val. Some man who was angry and ended up threatening her when he spotted her. Jeremiah intervened and protected Val. The man backed off, left, and never bothered Val again. No blood was shed, despite the heated emotions in those moments." A moment passes. "I respected him for what he did that night. And what he didn't do."
The look from Slug is noted, the Fury inclining her head somewhat as if in some muted greeting— or acknowledgement that she doesn't quite fit into this equation. Still, when it comes time to speak, and the others have added their two cents…
"I'm right there with the rest of you," Monica offers, speaking loud enough to be heard. "I didn't know the guy well. Only knew he was an exile." She pauses. "Guys like that, they're quick to make a grab for anything that might prove they're better than how they've been judged by the folks outside than the ones that took 'em in, and he took a shot at it. Has to be worth something."
She mulls over that, brow furrowing subtly. Then, "That's all it was, or is, though," is said simply. "A well intentioned, but ultimately pointless death. Nothing of value was gained, but, at least, there are people around to recognize that something of value was lost." Beat. "So, no… it's not the worst way to die," she says, addressing Slug though her gaze remains largely on where the body is, "but he was touched by Nothing, same as I was." Another pause. "All that's left to do is hope it wasn't enough to consume him. Or at least hope that it might've been what he wanted."
She lets out a slow breath. "It's a hell of a way to go," she says, "but at least 'Nothing' means no more demons."
Felix listens to each person's remarks, with slight nods as he takes them in. Monica's gets a slight tilt of the head. "I dunno," he says, "I ain't so sure it was pointless. That thing was big an' angry an' powerful, between us an' the exit, an' we had one of us unconscious an' all of us surrounded by wakin'-up Nothin'. We got help gettin' out, yeah, but I dunno if it could've happened any quicker— an' it didn't happen quick enough." He glances to the grave. "We don't know how it would've gone otherwise. Might be we all would've made it safe. But might be it would've charged in an' taken out more of us. I see value there. I'd rather he was with us still, but bein' able to go out aimin' to protect the rest of us, I see value there too."
He looks up again. "Anyhow. I useta sing a song to tease him. Ain't the only one who did, but I'm gonna one last time. You can join in if you wanna— first verse, chorus twice. If anyone's got anythin' to send on with him, this'd be the time." He picks up the guitar from its case, and starts to play. "Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine..." It's an odd song for a funeral, but he sings it with soul, and a sense of joy of the past and for what may still be yet to come, despite the loss.
It's a short version, and when he's done, he sets the guitar back and picks up the cranes, tossing them gently into the grave, and then shifts up to Crinos and howls, a long and heartfelt one of loss, appreciation, sadness of death, and joy of life. It's time for the group to send his spirit off.
Trace listens and almost grins a bit at his packmate's last words. The Garou are gathered around the grave, having finished the remarks, although the Glass Walker has been there simply as moral support it would seem. "Gaia watch, stranger," he murmurs under his breath, and then shifts down to lupus. His tail wags once in a slow arc back and forth, and then he too lifts his voice in a howl.
Brings-the-Pack seems to be taking queues from the others present. As the howling starts, he hesitates a moment, focusing, and then the English-speaking cougar tips his head back and releases what is, undeniably, a wolf's howl, joining with the garou's vocalizations.
"All deaths and lives are kind of pointless," Slug says after a touch of thought, sucking down a stray green pepper dangling from his lips. "A world full of people, a universe full of stars, an Umbra full of more secrets and spirits than we'll ever know. It's just, ultimately, whatever it means to you. If you value your life, and you give it for something you believe in…" he lapses into more contemplative silence, eyes bouncing back to Felix. He's finished his slice by the time the song has ended, and quick as a blink, he's down into his wolfskin and belting out a hoarse and sorrowful howl, a haunting croon that is a lupine's calling card.
The howls drift through the air, and then, slowly, tail off. Felix shifts back down to homid, sighs, and then gives the assembled a half-grin. "Anyone wants to help shovel dirt, you're welcome to… otherwise, please eat an' drink some shit." A gesture toward the table of goodies. "An' thanks for comin'," he says again. He leans down to close the guitar case, then moves to start getting some of the shovelling done himself.
Shifting as well, Mouse Trap howls to the sky for the fallen.
Almost certainly drawn by the howling, Ghost-in-the-Machine appears at the edge of the clearing, with her slightly too-long ears quirked and pushed forward. Her nose twitches a few times as she takes in the gathering, and the Gathering.
When the howling ends, the Fury, having shifted down to her own wolf form to join in, pauses for a time. She looks to Slug. It matters. She looks to the plot again, and shifts back up to homid, hands slipping into the pockets of her jacket. "Guy gave his life without thinking twice about it. Just think he deserved better than what he got." She glances towards Ghost as the near-Ronin comes into view, and offers a vague nod, of sorts. "But, as you say, you could say that about just about anyone." Past that, though, she seems fine with helping to shovel for a moment or two, after which, she'll say her goodbyes, and head elsewhere. Not the chatty sort tonight, it seems.
Slug shifts back up into homid and stalks over to the table, fetching himself a beer. He cracks it open and looks at Monica with stony face, cracked by a sliver of a smile. "Deserve ain't got nothing to do with it," he says. Then he walks to the grave, pours a touch of beer into the grave of the fallen before taking some for himself.
Six-Shooter gives a slight chuff of greeting to Ghost. Resuming his birth form, Trace goes over and takes the shovel, contemplatively silent as he gives Felix a little friendly shove towards the table. "Mortality," the ahroun adds, and chews on his lower lip.
Brings-the-Pack watches as the others take turns moving earth to the grave, but not for very long at all. He soon turns and slips away into the forest, somehow managing to make the action of turning and walking away have an introspective feel to it.