2018.09.05: Bawn Patrol: Hot on the Trail

Hot on the Trail
Bawn Patrol has discovered evidence of the Wyrm.
IC Date	Wednesday, September 5th, 2018
IC Time	17:00:00 2018, PDT.
Players	DragomirST, Aleksandr, Johanna, Lleutrim, Malakai, Sergei, Skully
Location	The Bawn
Spheres	Garou Gaian

Your pack is out on bawn patrol, a regular duty at the Sept of the Enduring Spirit. You have stumbled across evidence of the Wyrm not far from the bawn. It is time to assemble to Combat the Wyrm Wherever it Dwells and Wherever It Breeds!

Form begins to contort and stretch, as another emerges. Aleksandr becomes a silver wolf

The African Golden Jackal occasionally known as Malakai looks perfectly out of place in any Northern American landscape. His tall pointed ears and narrow elongated snout twist intelligently through the grass along the edge of the outer bawn. The swift footed Silent Strider makes not a sound thanks to his Gifts. He pads along unheard and unseen as he skirts from shadow to shadow like a golden ghost.

Weathers-the-Storm follows on his dozenth recent patrol, vigilant despite the tedium of the task; nothing ever happens, but Eye of the Storm declared he would do this task, and Skully does not do things by half-measures. The gigantic goddamn wolf keeps to the left of the pack, trusting in the others to guard his blind side, but there's nothing wrong with his nose or ears. He pads as stealthily as he is able in a patrol lope, nose low to the ground, and follows.

Lleu-wolf is the lowest ranked here as a Cub so tonight, he's keeping quiet and trailing a little to the outside edge and further back from the main pack on patrol. The big grey wolf with the ruddy tinted flanks is exceptionally quiet, stealthy, as he moves. The Fianna blooded wolf is alert, sniffing occasionally as they follow this trail but not bunching up. He stays a little out to the side so he has room to maneuver, wary of ambushes. Silver-grey eyes watch the trees above them as well as what is ahead or to the side. Lleu has arranged himself to be off of Weather-the-Storm's blind side off of his flank a little distance.

In comparison to Weathers-the-Storm, the silver wolf is perfectly content to do tedious patrols. Action or no action does not seem to bother the wolf. Like the big wolf though, he is also very alter, if quiet. That’s nothing new. Ears perked, listening, nose constantly sniffing here and there, and easy scanning all over. He’d probably tell you he lives for this despite how boring it might seem to others. He has forgone his pack for this, the one Dragomir has ordered him to carry, that because he needs to be always ready for this, and it holds him back. Surely this is an exception. Doing his best to stay silent.

Starchaser is quiet. Sooo very quiet... is she really here? Yes, yes she is. She is sniffing and tracking the scent, and keeping an eye on these lower ranking wolves while doing it. She can do it all! Especially that cub. So far so good it seems.

Howling-Wind is following along with the patrol group, covering the back and keeping an eye on everything sort of like a mobile reserve.

The scent is potent, blistering the air with the corruption and diseased malice the Garou have come to expect from the Wyrm's taint. The Garou are easily capable of tracking along the path, and working together encircle the clearing up ahead. The crescent moon's light casts over the wood, leaving twisted stretches of shadow and patches for the wolves to conceal themselves as they move forward. The clearing itself has been burned recently, the scent of ash and blood permeate the air equally as potently as the Wyrm's taint.

Inside the clearing, the sounds of nearly a dozen armed men are operating in what appears to be a poaching camp. It has been fortified and the men carry rifles and wear flak vests as they work. A pile of animal carcasses lay on the East side of the camp, all of which have been skinned - and from the look of it probably while the animal was still alive. The pelts have been collected and hang on stretch racks, being treated while meat is left to rot carelessly behind.

The pack is easily able to sneak up on the outskirts of the position, undetected by the poachers as they go about their work. The sight of the cruelty and desecration of Gaia's creatures is infuriating to behold. The taint of the Wyrm's destruction having found its way close to home.

The hell-wolf on the left catches the scent and growls low in his throat, fangs bared brightly in the moonlight. << Wyrmsign, >> he snarls out obviously, but it's not an alert; it's a curse, dripping from black lips like sour spittle. << /Wyrmsign/ >> he repeats, the growl thicker in his throat, more menacing. Weathers-the-Storm beings pawing the ground then, huffing softly as he does, finding rocks and hard earth under his paws. Claw, claw, claw... his jaw is clenched so tight the tendons in his neck are visible through his brindled fur, and his golden eye /sears/.

The Golden Jackal slips into sight silently and disappears just as easily by weaving through the shadows along their path.. there is an unspoken snarl that settles itself deep in his throat as he answers Weathers-the-Storm. The Jackal paces and waits silently as the ranking Garou make a decision about how to approach this atrocity.

Starchaser looks over to Howling-Wind, awaiting his direction. She has seen something almost like this before, but not nearly so bad. Reaching her own judgment, she prepares herself to resist the pain that could be coming, and hopes they will be putting them down.

Lleu-wolf comes up along the right side of the clearing and hunkers down in the shadows. He says very quiet, studying the layout of the camp, what exactly the fortifications are from a Marine's perspective, noting various tactical details, vests, weapons, positions, activities. How alert the men are or their lack of discipline. The Galliard pins his ears back at the sight of the piled animal carcasses rotting, at the waste and desecration. An ear flicks slightly and Lleu turns his head subtly to see what their orders will be.

A very low growl rises from the back of the silver wolf’s throat. He’s already on edge, his moon in the sky. Even with his low rage, this is trying. But seeing this desecration to the mother, and even more so the spirits. The growl flows out in a deep crescendo, but too low to carry very far past them, he’s careful to keep it low, control it as he can. The best he can. Which may not be well, soon. But his moon makes it difficult for the Beast to completely take hold and he’s thankful for that. His eyes remained locked on the poachers inside the camp, and the animals they tortured. Some part of him also weeping for what has been done here. Like Starchaser, he waits for the Elder to make a call.

Howling-Wind growls low in the back of his throat >>Lights-the-Darkness and Porte-des-Morts break around left, Starchaser and the cub break right. Weathers-the-Storm and I will be the tip of the spear. Once they are all looking at the two of us, and we will be hard to miss, close in and kill them all. Watch your footing around the trench and boundary, there are bear traps set to maim.<<

From the edge of the group Porte Des Mort, the African Golden Jackal quietly snarls out his concerns, <<Does anyone else find the position of the camp oddly upwind? As though the hunters intended for the scent of their kills to carry... as a trap... or a warning..>> The Galliard is strangely well spoken even in Lupus form where body language is half the message. He keeps his ears and his head held high and alert as he speaks to anyone who is listening.

Once a command is given Porte follows it and breaks around to the left, once again silent as death.

Starchaser pads quietly over to the Lleu-Cub and shifts easily into Hispo. She makes with her muzzle to get him to come with her to where they were indicated to go. She will be sure he is quietly in place before crouching down and ready to attack upon the queue from the Ahrouns.

Something about the camp bothers the newest Garou, the former Marine. Lleu sniffs and studies the camp with bright silvery-grey eyes, taking in the details, absorbing them, thinking. Finally the Fianna wolf gets up and the Galliard Cub starts to make his way back every so carefully and quietly to where Howling-Wind is setting up for their attack with Weathers-the-Storm. >> Howling-Wind-rhya, trail obvious. No conceal camp. Bait for us? << Lupus makes for basic speech for Lleu, trying to convey his concern. This Galliard eyes the jackal, the two of them sharing the same feeling, cautious. Starchaser nudges him to get back into position. So the ruddy flanked grey wolf goes where he's been ordered, once more silent.

The huge wolf grows larger, Weathers-the-Storm taking on his Hispo form and growing to the size of a Kodiak while he sharpens his claws. He takes his position at Howling-Wind's left, keeping his bad eye in the middle and his face pointed straight at the enemy. The leader has spoken, and his simple thoughts have no greater tactics to share; he is preparing to kill. In fact, the only thing keeping him from running is that a ranking elder is there; his body is so tense you couldn't pierce muscle with a klaive.

Howling-Wind nods at the comment about it being a trap as he swells up into dire-wolf form >>Of course it is a trap, some of those guns are probably loaded with silver, that's why I want them shooting at me. But they forgot something else important, we're not stuck with them. These are our woods, they're stuck out here with us.<<

<<Camp fresh. Surely trap.>> This Lights-the-Darkness adds to what the rest have already said, as he puts the pieces together. <<Tents not used. Not lived in. Trap. Just put up.>> He listens to the Elder’s words and bows his head to them, but he offers this bit of wisdom first, still ensuring this is the plan. Maybe they didn’t have this information. He too, starts to shift into a more war like form, that of Hispo, not Crinos though. One way or another, he fears this means war.

Lleu-wolf has taken his cue to slip from Lupus to Hispo once he and Starchaser-rhya are in position. He stays hunkered down until told to go.

As the higher ranking Garou around him shift into fighting forms Porte-des-Morts follows suit and shifts to Hispo. He attempts to stay hidden as they close distance and he comes in from the left side with silent steps so the focus remains Howling-Wind's plan of attack.

The Poachers continue to work, moving around the inside of the camp with general ease and apparent disregard for their surroundings. The evidence of beer cans and lack of cohesion eminent in their bearing. Unknowing that a pack of Garou are closing around them for the time-being...

Now in the dire wolf form, the former Marine continues to study the group. What Lleu is seeing is making him more and more uneasy. It's not easy for him to convey, but he tries to make Johanna aware of what he's observing, >> Starchaser-rhya... these people.. extreme proficient. Firing lines. Low ready arms. Like ... << So difficult to convey in Lupus for him, who's not been practicing Lupus speech for long, trying to stay so quiet. >> Elite train, maybe. Looks bad. <<

Starchaser eyes what she can, but not having the same training as the cub she takes his word for it. Very very quietly, >>I have been in battle with Howling-Wind'rhya before. He has a plan. We trust him. I hear you too. I understand your concerns.<< She will talk more with Lleu-cub after the battle.

<< Kill >> offers Weathers-the-Storm, his claws digging into the dirt as his Rage rolls over him. The slow-to-anger Metis is beyond furious, but well-trained enough -- perhaps /too/ well-trained -- that it would be impossible for him to dash into the fray unbidden. His teeth haven't left that feral rictus since his lips first pulled back, but those eyes... one golden pyre practically foretelling a future of fury, another depthless abyss of black swallowing the very light around him as if Death rode behind it. He has ears only for Howling-Wind, but his eye... that remains on the men in the clearing. The /dead/ men in the clearing.

Howling-Wind glances aside at Weathers-the-Storm and adds one last thing >>Follow me in, I'm warded against guns, and silver. Look for an opening and be as loud and obvious as you can.<< Then he moves....

When the others charge in Porte stays hidden and attempts to pick off some of the enemies to the left of the fray. He reserves his focus for lone gunmen who are less likely to see him sneak up on them. The Hispo is here but he cautious and careful with his every attack, always looking to his elders for guidance.

Porte-des-Morts slinks down into the trench hoping to cross it without drawing any attention to himself. INSTEAD, he triggers a spike trap that shoots a sharpened two by four right through his upper thigh. Clean through, causing the Galliard to stumble and howl... drawing attention to his position in the trench. He is wounded but not laid out and he's hobbling along dragging his tattered appendage and looking for coverage.

Howling-Wind snarls and backs up a bit to get a running start and leaps /impossibly/ high and far over the perimeter traps and fortifications, landing amongst the enemies in his hulking Hispo form and he HOWLS >>WWWEENNNNDIIIGOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!<< signaling that death has come for the poachers.

Weathers-the-Storm's long gait brings him just /barely/ over the snares left in wait, huge paws striking the ground the moment Howling-Wind leaps the perimeter and engages the enemy. He snarls -- practically a roar, ringing out baritone through the night -- and charges the nearest poacher like a runaway buffalo. << HOKA-HEY! >> he howls fiercely, definitely making a loud entrance. << MY LAND! YOU DIE! >>

Lights-the-Darkness follows orders, just as he is told, slowly and quietly wrapping around the left with the Silent Strider. He waits though, for the signal, for the battle cry of Weathers-the-Storm and Howling-Wind. Once that attention is drawn, once the poachers have turned to them, he darts towards them, ever aware of the traps, nimbly from here to there around them, the huge wolf seemingly to quick, to nimble and too smart for the traps they’ve laid out. Like running through landmine field and dodging every one. Almost an impossible tasks, but he knows the wild, and the signs. Things out of place, where they shouldn’t be. The tang of metal in his nostrils. So many signs. There’s no battle cry, there is just silver wolf and death.

Starchaser takes a step back, focuses her mind, and then takes a LEEEAAAPPP over the trenches after seeing Howling-Wind go for it. She makes a perfect 4 paw landing right in the middle of the camp and snarls ready to attack. No fancy words. Just teeth.

Lleu-wolf watches Howling-Wind and Weathers-the-Storm go in first - and most impressively. The Galliard Cub takes his cues from Starchaser as to when they are to go. The grey dire-wolf digs his claws into the earth and springs up to bound at a flat out run right for the camp and leaps up only a fraction of a second after Johanna to clear the trench and the traps. His paws strike the earth and even as he hears Porte's howl of pain, Lieu's jaws are open with sharp teeth bright against his red tongue, eager to set his jaws into the first armed poacher he can rend!

As the pack starts to move in, the poachers seem unaware that they are being closed in on. As Howling Wind and Weathers-the-Storm make their dramatic entrance, some of the poachers snap their rifles up and take knees to begin firing in the direction as planned. As Porte comes into the camp though, he manages to spring one of the traps. A bell comes up out of the dirt when it goes off, attached to a string, attached to another bell further along the perimeter - so on and so forth until the entire perimeter jingles with an alert and all the poachers are suddenly knelt in firing positions and letting out shots with precise ease.

Some of the men start calling out, what begins as normal words of humans and soon grows guttural and snarling as the men's bodies warp and begin to bulge where muscles should have been. Patches of exposed skin bubble out of their flak vests like boils the size of soft balls. At the sight of the Dire Wolves entering the camp, these men do not buckle or flee like humans should - they appear to be immune to the Delirium's effects. It's as though they expected to be attacked all along.

There are gun shots going off and people aiming guns. Lleutrim Donnachaidh has barely hit the ground and turning, sees one of the strange not-men lifting a rifle to fire down into the trench at one of their injured companions. The Cub has no clue who Porte-des-Morts is but he's down and injured, and on their side. That's enough for him! The Galliard dire-wolf lays into the man with the rifle with both sets of front paws and snarling, shreds the son of a bitch! Soon as the body is down and isn't going to be able to fire on anyone else, Lleu looks for another target!

Many guns. /Too many/ guns. As Weathers-the-Storm charges in, barrels seem to pinpoint him like a bright red bullseye, and the cyclopean Metis is not too slow to see it happen. He banks hard left, trying not to be a target, but it's simply not enough; he's too easy to hit. Bullets rip into him like carrion crows, first slowing his steps and then bringing him down entirely. For a moment.

<< KILL YOU ALL! >> roars the furious, titanic wolf, shaking off blood like raindrops as he rises and grows /even bigger/, his War Form nearly blotting out the moon as the infuriated Ahroun prepares to make good on his words.

Lleu-wolf sees there's still a thing firing upon the Jackal that Lights-the-Darkness hadn't dropped yet. So he leaps in and viciously bites the son of a bitch - only the dire wolf gets mostly a mouth full of armored vest! The Cub shakes it furiously while snarling terribly until something rips free but Lleu didn't bring the not-man-thing down! Still got some nasty taste so he did some damage!

Not satisfied with that bite, the Galliard lays into the guy with another attack, his rage to fuel the Cub! Lieu's jaws close in on the rifleman's leg and pulls him down, mauling the fellow and crippling him! Yuck, they taste like shyte and worse!

The Poachers seemed all too ready for the Garou to charge in, rising their rifles and riddling bullets into the Garou that emerge. Bullets well-aimed seem pointless against Howling Wind, but land true into the much larger target of Weathers-the-Storm. The men seem satisfied with putting one of the Garou down, except he doesn't revert to breed form like he's supposed to. Now they have an even BIGGER problem. The two focused on Porte Des Morts are brutally attacked by the combined force of Lights the Darkness and Lleu-wolf.

Lights-the-Darkness leaps that the closest one, the one bearing down on Porte, to try to finish him off. He’s not going to allow that if he can. He’s no Ahroun though, he’s almost as far from it as you get. He slashes with one claw strike, and then another. It does damage, but not enough to take it out of the fight. It is able to fire. Then Lleu joins the battle, the bite to one side, as he bites to the other. But it’s a glancing blow, he doesn’t even draw blood. Maybe for the best, the y taste awful. He growls his frustration. It is his moon and while the rage does not run so deep in him, it calls to him now.

Starchaser has had enough of this. Judgment by the half moon is death to these Wyrminfestedmofos! Having taken a bite out of one before, she turns her claws to the next target and rrriiiippppsss through him, bringing a swift death to someone that does not deserve any peace.

Howling-Wind snarls and lets the guys shooting at him back away, it won't help them. Then he turns and leaps at one of the ones shooting at his fellow Ahroun and catches a mouthful of the Fomori's thigh, ripping a huge chunk out.

So far, things aren't nearly as bad as Lleu had thought they might go. First of all they aren't firing silver bullets, thank God or Gaia. Secondly, if it's a trap, nothing has been sprung on them /yet/ that they weren't already expecting? Where's the surprise? Just that they aren't men? That's not really a surprise, not even to the Cub Marine. Lleupine turns to attack another formor-man that is about to fire upon Weathers-the-Storm. The Galliard leaps upon the fellow's back and rends him with the front claws of both paws. Snarling, the dire wolf rips the vest off and soon is into rotting, puss filled filth as the not-man screams and dies beneath his claws! Things are going surprisingly well - except for Porte.

Starchaser is not done yet, and those ones shooting Howling-Wind are next! She targets the closest one to her and rips into his back violently! Just wait, she will get him more the next time!

Howling-Wind snarls at the fomori he bit in the thigh and lunges higher at him, this time locking his massive Hispo jaws around the poacher's throat and shakes it like a rag doll, lifting his bloody muzzle and howling in triumph as he wills the call to war to fill his allies.

This seems too easy - but that's probably only because Howling-Wind is being SO AWESOME and still pulling most of the firing focus, unarmed by the bullets! Seeing Howling-Wind so utterly slaughter one of the foe in a magnificent splash of gore energies Lleupine! The Galliard lets out a HHHHOOOOWWWWLLLL that means nothing except to carry his enthusiasm for the battle! He leaps and sinks his teeth into yet another enemy, shaking his huge head viciously to rip off the vest and get at the corrupted flesh beneath with much snarling! The huge dire wolf Cub is in the thick of it.

There is no pain; there is only Rage and the enemy. Weathers-the-Storm rises like a titan against the gunman who brought him down, fangs and claws bared, and snarls << WENDIGO! >> loud enough to shake the very heavens. His right claw swings to rake at the fomor, who side-steps and loses only a bit of blood and skin... and steps directly into the Ahroun's left claw, which strikes upward savagely and tears off most of the front half of the demon, sending it flying back toward the perimeter while the rest falls to the ground as dead meat.

And in the following moments, Lleupine tears the body apart of the formor he had been attacking, bringing the not-man down and ripping him literally to pieces. Foul tasting or not!

Howling-Wind turns to chase the ones he'd let go however briefly, their bullets having done no harm to his gift armored flesh. He leaps after one and chomps down on one of the arms holding the gun. Nearly biting it clean through.

Lights-the-Darkness in darkness is once again inept when it comes to real battle. In a ring, outthinking a huge Ahroun? Sure, he can get lucky and win. Most times that might fail. But in live combat, he seems to be inept, can’t even finish off something almost dead. A swipe, and a stumble as he misses, which leads to a bite taking in more dirt than anything. He growls, he rages, and then he howls in rage, especially when the rage fills him. His moon is out.

Starchaser takes time to perform the Rite of Wounding on Weathers-the-Storm, and Portes-des-Morts. With the others, they gather any needed evidence for the Elders, then perform a Rite of Cleansing. Finally, they make sure the area is cleaned up in case anyone else stumbles upon the scene.

It seems the Wyrm has employed tactics to bait young Garou. Once the battle is over, and wounds healed.. the pack has a chance to discover that the tents conceal three cages. This was a Garou trap, and these fomori were on the hunt. Fortunately keen observations led to a good strategy and overwhelming odds made up for hails of bullets. Today the Gaians won the battle, but still they are losing the War.

The End.