2019.02.28 The Journey of a Lifetime Pt.2

The Journey of a Lifetime Pt.2
The pack gives their insights to Lleutrim, and then the continue for a year traveling with this camp until the big battle begins. Continued from 2019.02.28 The Journey of a Lifetime Pt.1
IC Date	TBD
Players	Lleutrim, Aleksandr, Dragomir, Frost, Ryla, and Waziyata (ST)
Location	The Legendary Realm
Spheres	Gaian Garou

Aleksandr has been listening mostly for a long while and thinking on everything. As if looking for an answer and not quite finding it. But when Frost speaks, he nods to her words as if they wake him up to a clue. Or her words gathered from Dragomir in a roundabout way. “She is right Battle Singer. Your journey is not necessarily to defeat this Nergui. Nor is your challenge. It is to learn a lesson. Visions are never completely clear, nor is the future, but my vision, in this case, is that whatever we do is to be challenging to you personally. Perhaps you are coming at this from the wrong angle. Perhaps, you are thinking too much like Battle Singer and not seeking the lesson you need to learn.” There’s nothing haughty about his tone, it’s quite neutral, but he’s here for a reason, and he seems to be reminding Lleutrim of his.

He glances to Cunobelius and the others of his tribe and then looks back to Lleutrim specifically again. “Not all lessons end well, or even the way we like. Not all stories end in greatness or victory. But certainly none of them end exactly as we like. Are perfect. We choose a path and we take it, and live with this path. There is no right or wrong answer here, Battle Singer, there is only a personal journey. For you, for this tribe, for all of us, in many ways.” He pauses dipping his head to the man the quest is based around. “I mean no offense, Battle Singer, but there is no lesson to be learned if you are just here to see this end exactly as you wish it. Even the best of stories do not.” Yes, he knows he’s talking outside of whatever Cunobelius and his tribe understand, or can even comprehend as inhabitants of this realm, but he does so anyway.

Ryla has been studing the people since they arrived. The whole move and everything, she has done her best to really get to know them, and their stories. She has offered help, and tools of her trade. After all of this, and searching her own memories banks it has dawned on her. She gestures to their group. "I need to speak with you all. I think I have figured this out." She looks back to the group at the table, and says, "We mean no disrespect here at all. What you and your people have gone through is tragic, and a lesson for us all to learn. We will assist as best we can and offer suggestions."

If they will come aside with her she will say to them quietly, "I have learned much about them, and I seem to remember from my studies of the Ancient Mongolians that this whole story we have received is very similar to the legend of the gothic exodus into Europe. The Nergüi is not a real name or a title, it was a superstition. The name was used to prevent or deny evil spirits power over them - as it means 'No Name'. If you take even then name Righ Cunobelinus, and break it down - I'll save you all the steps - it would actually mean "Hound of the Sun" - again, not a real person name." She takes a breath and continues to the bigger plot twist, "Using what I know from psychology training, these people are not real. Not entirely. It is like we've.. stepped into a simulation. We are watching it, and interacting, but they are going to do what they are going to do. We will just go in circles, and be forced to go that way. This is a story. A very good rich story, like, what was that... the holodeck on Star Trek." Yes she watched television. It was funny. "The outcome is in place. It will end with our without us. Think about it. We are in the Legendary Realm. We came to live and witness. We were not sent here to change the legend." She takes a breath, looking to see if they believed a word she said.

What is reality? A concept, a perception, a notion? Measured by experiences, sensations, memories of occurrences in some pattern that we can distinguish against other concepts, perceptions and notions that we determine are not reality. Based on our own experiences, our own sensations and memories that we have determined are fictitious somehow. What happens when the concept, no longer fits. When your perception becomes distorted, when the notion you have always based as reality, becomes false. When you experience a more real false reality, than the one you remember. When you are devoid of physical sensation for so long, that spiritual sensations seem more real. When your memories, stretch for decades - but never truly happened, and were only manifestations of your own hallucinations.

Dragomir seems to have calmed down now, quiet and reflective as the conversation continues. He probably has a million things to say, ideas and experiences to draw from - but is any of it real? A half-gloved hand is lifted to the back of Wazi's young human neck, and the tips of deadly fingers scratch at the back of her neck and hair in what probably at first would seem demeaning or even condescending to a lupus. But somehow the physical contact helps anchor him. Intense blue eyes study over the situation - half-glazed as he peers through the clouded lens of his own aged pupils, weathered by delusion and calloused by the shattered fragments of whatever 'reality' he has built for himself. He listens to both Aleksandr and Ryla speak, nodding slowly and then looks back towards Lleutrim once more.

For her part, Wazi sits quietly near to Dragomir, attention focused first on Cunobelinus as the man speaks, then to Aleksandr at his interruption, and then to Ryla as she calls for that private, side council. The lupus is quiet, watching and listening curiously, expression serious, though she perks up curiously at Ryla's talk of names. The teenager glances again toward the council table nearby.

Then there is a hand scratching at her neck, and her attention shfits to looking back at Dragomir. She eyes the man a moment, before shifting her weight a little on the stool, actually leaning slightly into the touch rather than shying away or reacting with annoyance or insult. One of her own hands moves over to rest comfortably on the Athro's knee. She even squeezes, though from her general demeanor she probably doesn't realize the deeper implications that might be read into the gesture.

Instead, she looks back to Lleutrim and the others, taking her own turn to speak plainly, her voice pitched low. "This is place of stories and legends, Battle Singer. Remember, it is for being humble and learning. Seeing life that was. Understanding life that is. I am thinking, this is like the vision for Tara. We can jump and fight and do glory, but maybe that is a trick, too?"

The Galliard listens to Cunobelinus' excellent argument and additional information. Lleu doesn't bristle at being addressed as 'boy' or 'lad' and pays close attention to what the Elder has to say. A faint barely there nod of agreement to a couple of the points made. Then his attention goes to Aleksandr and Frost in turn, listening to what the Theurge has to add. No sign that Aleksandr's words anger or annoy him. It is Ryla that steps up with something to say and Lleu actually looks - relieved? Glad maybe that she's speaking up. "With due respect, please do excuse us one moment, Elder Cunobelinus'rya." He will step aside to listen to what she has to say and also see if Wazi has any input.

He is not disappointed. Ryla at once capture's Lleu's full attention as he listens to her realization. His pale grey eyes flick briefly back to Cunobelinus as she speaks, then back to the young Silver Fang. The simulation and holodeck reference makes the former Marine blink, surprised. A slow nod, "I see. That makes a lot of sense actually. I hope you are right." He can't help also glance to Frost and give her a faint, brief, yet sincere smile for her input which also corresponds to what the others have said. There is also a moment spent looking to Dragomir and making eye contact with the Athro for a breath. Finally, Lleu looks to Wazi and listens to her. "Yes, I can see that now. Yet perhaps Cunobelinus himself makes a pretty solid arguement on his own behalf and has satisfied my questioning. With what he has said, and with the shared wisdom you each share with me now, it helps me a lot to see the right path. I thank you all for your input, that each of you are here to help me in this task and keep me from going astray - just as we were warned against." Not just Dragomir, but for Lleu himself.

Battle Singer takes a moment to close his eyes and focus on something he'd meant to do for a while now since they'd arrived. A long, slow breath is exhaled and anyone with awareness can feel when he executes a gift. It seems nothing happens. Lleu is merely quiet a long moment.

At last, the Galliard turns back to the gathered Elders and their folk, "Thank you all for your patience, and especially to you, Elder Cunobelinus'rhya. First, I offer apology for my words. I mean you no insult nor do I think any of you cowards. Far from it. Up to this point, getting the information we needed has been difficult. Now your own words of wisdom, Cunobelinus'rhya, show me and my companions what we needed to know. We have conferred and they have shared with me additional information they have learned since we joined you. It is enough for me to know what you have a destination, and those who will aid you when you reach it, and yet others working on the problem of this Nergüi. If you will have us, we would be glad to help you get your people to safety."

Cunobelinus waits as the pack has their conference, frowning slightly, though in thought rather than anger. He eats some of his dinner, confers quietly with his council, and when they have finished and returned he watches Lleu while chewing a bite of salt mutton. Before the Elder can finish swallowing his meal and speak, Judoc slams his fist on the table and leaps to his feet.

"Cowards! The way forward is NOT to run and hide behind your brother, father. Your people are dying, your lands lay fallow, and you would slink into the bushes to hope the Ganbataari pass you by like an owl passes the rabbit in his den!"

The room goes still and silent at the youth's outburst, and Cunobelinus finishes swallowing his meat, turning now dangerous eyes on the younger man. A moment later, the Elder is on his feet backhanding the Adren in a burst of savagery, sprawling him on the tent's floor.

Judoc sprawls on the ground, seemingly more startled than hurt, glaring angrily up at his father. Cunobelinus gazes coldly down at him and growls, "Do you challenge your Elder, boy? The next time you speak to me with such venom, you had best do so with your spear in hand, for I will NOT overlook your challenge again. Leave me."

Rather than watching to see Judoc's reaction, he turns his scowl to Lleutrim and the others and says, "I thank you for the offer, Battle Singer of the Fianna. I welcome any warriors and aid you can bring to my people in their hour of need."

Aleksandr seems surprised by something Ryla says for a moment, or maybe it’s confused. Either way, when she’s done he nods his head. They said almost the same thing. Almost. Close enough. Eyes flicker to Dragomir and he again seems a bit surprised when the man doesn’t add anything. There’s a small study of the Athro and then he’s moving on to Wazi as they take their own council. Nothing contradictory. He seems satisfied. Then Lleutrim speaks and there’s no covering his surprise this time. It is not what he expected, clearly, though he wipes it away after a quick flash. Another satisfied nod follows. He stays silent though, contemplating something in his own mind.

Listening, however to the argument and watching it between father and son. Maybe it reminds him a little of home. Still, though, he remains quiet, seeming to not need to add anything else to the conversation, no other tidbits of wisdom. Lleutrim has made a decision and that really seems to be all he was aiming for. He glances back to the other curiously, waiting.

At the outburst from Judoc, Wazi shifts her weight a little, scooting forward to the edge of her stool, attention on the confrontation. She remains tense, quiet, watching readily for any further developments between the father and son conflict. When Ryla touches her, the lupus glances at the Ragabash, giving a slight nod to her, before looking back to the scene at hand. The Ahroun is ready to jump to her feet and start throwing backhands too, it seems. But as long as they're not actually needed, she doesn't.

Lleutrim stands quietly and is about to resume his seat when Judoc has his outburst. A very disrespectful one at that. The Galliard stands dispassionately and merely watches. Once Cunobelinus addresses him after, Lleu inclines his head with respect and takes his seat. There is after all a meal to eat and he's famished! His gaze does slip back to Judoc to make certain the Adren doesn't decide to pull a knife on his own father.

Judoc scowls up at Cunobelinus as the Elder turns his back on him, hand clenching into a fist, just above the dagger sheathed on his belt. But instead of drawing it and leaping on his father, the youth rolls to his feet and stands, stalking wordlessly for the tent flap and out into the cold night.

The next morning, he and his pack are gone from the camp, their trail leading eastward, toward the lands of the Hounds, and the Ganbataari Host.

The pack from the Physical Realm have a cold, quiet dinner with Cunobelinus and learn more of the problems facing the Hounds. Hunger, shelter, illness, a seemingly tireless foe, and an immense journey. One revelation is that the trip to Cadeyrn's lands is a long and difficult travel, months on foot for a strong man - longer still by ox cart and sickly caravan. The only saving grace seems to be that the Ganbataari show little interest in pursuing in strength, and other rival tribes in the area still offer resistance and war against them. Tribes who are not within the Veil, or who are bitter foes in their own right, or who are simply unwilling to band with the Hounds. The people of Stag are disparate and far flung, and even at the dawn of history they don't often want more than to be free and separate.

Months of unending winter pass with the Hounds of the Antlered One traveling slowly with their ox-drawn carts on their meandering path through the Wylderness to join their kin. Friendships are struck with the Physical Realm pack, hardships and challenges shared and overcome, horrors faced, and many small skirmishes fought with scouts and raiders from the Ganbataari and other rival groups.

It is six months before winter breaks and the snow begins to melt, the group having traveled what must be hundreds of miles to the southwest. The land begins to flourish, the survivors of the Hounds begin to feel more lively, more like true Fianna. There is laughter and song again with the return of game to hunt and forage to find. Occasionally, villages are encountered, but none are the lands of Cadeyrn, and each has tales of the depredations of Ganbataari and other minions of the Wyrm, or tales of terrific monsters lurking in the Wylderness nearby. The warriors of Cadeyrn never arrive to reinforce the caravan, and the warriors continue to dwindle, though the Pack goes far in stemming the tide of losses.

Finally, after more than a year of travels and hardship, Cunobelinus shares word that he expects to see his cousin's hold within the next turn of a moon. It is that night when misfortune strikes again - a howl of warning is raised by one of the sentries in the wee hours before dawn when most of the camp is asleep. <<Ganbataari! Nergüi comes! To arms!>>

So much time passed, and the routines of the Eldest Silver Fang grow more apparent. He blends well with the camp, adopting their ways and social mannerisms. He is still quiet, often found laboring or carrying the weight for others while they walk. His beard has grown out, and his hair longer - the javelin and dagger often with him here, instead of dismissed as he might normally in the physical world. Doubtlessly he has been trapped and forced to talk about his feelings or relationship with his mother more than a few times by the new moon. He is often the first to wake, and takes guard shifts often - martial training opportunities help focus him the best. Specifically being injured.

He will take the time to help train the warriors on the way, but only the ones that show promise or the intestinal fortitude to deal with him as a teacher. He is hard on his students, and unforgiving of mistakes. Occasionally he will tell stories, or recite the Litany for the youngest. After a while, it is as though he has always been here - in fact, he rarely seems to talk about the Physical world at all. It takes some time, but it starts to become more clear where his delusions have taken him here.. especially for Ryla. Dragomir has developed something of a split persona, in the Umbra he acts, talks, interacts with things the way Dmitri, his brother did. As though it was some kind of coping mechanism for him.

Recognizing the differences, and when he does it - he is pretty good after a while with catching on and refocusing. It rarely takes more than a physical interaction and a few seconds for him to ground himself again - though occasionally he can be found arguing with 'Shaderunner', or talking to 'Hushed-Blaze' about the progress her sons are doing in training.

At the howl, Dragomir springs forward and staggers quickly out of the makeshift tent he was staying in. Pulling on his boots, and brushing back his hair he growls, "About fucking time. All but pissing every mile to give them trail. Wake up pups, it's killing time!"

The long months have hardened Lleutrim, making him lean and more sinewy as they all have little enough to eat with hunger gnawing at their bellies for the over long winter. Still, once committed, he buckles down with the rest to do what needs to be done from one day to the next. Seeing to scouting parties, patroling out ahead of the main group or doubling back. Hunting, scrounging up some instrumtments to play music and tell stories, sharing the duties of tending to the injured and the sick, or helping with the children. The latter often making Lleu pause and turn the wedding band upon his left hand, no doubt thinking of his mate left behind and their unborn child. That is perhaps the anchor he has brought with him, that and his companions.

It also helps bring him closer to his temporary pack. Long discussions with Aleksandr are had about the spirits, if the Theurge will indulge the Galliard. Many times spent listening around the fires to stories of the Hounds and /their/ ancestors, or coaxing some story or another out of Dragomir or Ryla, or even Wazi, time spent also practicing his sign language with Frost. Oh aye, keeping an eye on Dragomir, worried a little for his mentor and his fitness to lead a pack.

Finally they are reaching their long awaited destination. Battle Singer did not have patrol this morning so he is caught rolled up in a thick fur asleep by a fire - alone, without any woman to share his bed all these long months of the past year. He throws it off and jumps to his bare feet and doesn't bother with his boots or thick, warm outer layered clothing. Lleu gets up and moves quickly to prepare for what comes, seeking his companions. Up ahead he sees Dragomir and heads for the Athro.

Spending a year with Aleksandr in close quarters, you learn things about it. He’s quiet all the time, though sometimes you catch him talking to nobody or nothing, seemingly. Other times, he is constantly tending to the wounded, or the land, or gathering herbs, making his own medicines, even teaching the Hounds healers how to do some of it, should they want to learn. He knows how to deliver children, and just about anything a Shaman might. Whoever taught him ‘mundane’ medicine was good, and he’s a good learner. One thing is certain, he always likes to be busy, he never seems to take much time for ‘fun’, as if he still really doesn’t understand the concept. Talking about the spirts with whoever will listen, is his favourite thing to do. He talks about them as if they are a forever friend, a longtime companion, and for him, they are.

He doesn’t seem to sleep much, and when he does, it’s very light. He offers for patrols and guard duty whenever needed. He’s quite the survivalist, as if he belongs with people like this, his adaptation to their way of living is seemless.

One thing he does do, however, is constantly reminds people of the physical word and stay attached to its memory. Especially, it seems around Dragomir, he often speaks of it. This one thing he promised Shaderunner he would do and one thing they discussed at length. That everyone needed an anchor to the real world. He has Frost, and so he volunteers to be others, in case they slip.

Then the warning rises, and Aleksandr is already awake. He springs to his fit, rising like an uncoiling snake from where he was crouched, making bandages from cloth. He ensures Frost is safe with the rest, or that she is warned to stay safe and make sure she is always safe, even if she doesn’t need the reminder. Then he appears with the rest, eyes going the way of the warning, as always, seemingly unconcerned by anything, almost unnaturally so.

Ryla has spent all this time learning, talking, encouraging, and healing in her own ways. Nothing can really be fully done here, but she has a case study with so many she can learn from. All sorts of people, all at her mer..fingertips. It takes time with some, but she learns, adapts, and while she will always be super talkative, it is balanced and controlled. She learns more languages, perfecting some she only knew academicaly before. She finds new techniques for communicating with the ill, the infirm, the young, the warriors, the scared, the proud, and so on. She takes time to speak daily with all of her temporary pack mates, touching back to the other realm with them, and especially with Dragomir, to hear more about her tribe mate, as well as with Aleksandr for his wisdom.

Somedays, it does get overwhelming for her and she takes to herself. No one sees her, but maybe hears some sounds from her small makeshift tent - since there is no such thing as sound proof.

If they pay attention, they will see that her hair grows longer, and she does not fuss with it much. Oh, she will let the children brush her very long locks, but she doesn't touch it and make sure it is in place any more. Her glasses though, they are pulled out every so often, but less and less it seems. They are her draw back to the physical realm, but as time moves on, she too is losing touch.

As she is with a grieving family, which happens far too often at this camp, mourning each loss, she hears the call. She gives them the comfort they need that she can, and then races off to join the others to see what she can do in this time. She has continued to grow by taking on a patrol as well, since she knows they need every able body and she will be stronger for them all.

It is the journey of a lifetime for Waziyata, almost literally. The young lupus spends more than a quarter of her life thus far on the journey with the Hounds of the Antlered One, and she grows and changes rapidly. Her language skills improve, morphing to a strange mixture of archaic and modern, still a little stilted, but not as much. She spends much of her time moving among those from the Physical Realm, at first, tending each of them in her own way.

Dragomir gets physical reassurances, a solemn ear, a teasing laugh, and a ready and willing, perhaps overeager student. Her temper is still too bright and wild, even in this land. She does not lose herself to a frenzy, though there are close calls and occasional screaming, frothing tantrums where she restrains her Rage with a gift of the Children, swallowing the frenzy into herself, enduring the killing spree that might have been misdirected to friends or family. One quiet night she reveals the source of her nearly impossible to control Rage, that the Wyld's touch upon her soul opens her too wide. "One Ragabash touched as I am, would frenzy like the Ahroun," she passes on an Elder's explanation from the dawn of her life as a sentient being, "One like me, Wyrm uses Wyld's Touch to steal me. Like with all Garou, but much, much worse." She would rather be killed than endure the Thrall of the Wyrm again.

Waziyata readily reestablishes the closeness she once had with Lleutrim, if the Galliard receives her. Time is spent discussing their differences and confusions, the man likely even learns that this is only the fourth year of her entire life. She remains a fierce companion and friend, and even finds a love of traditional, primitive-styled music - though she still laughs and calls the Fianna "Noise Maker".

Ryla, her self-declared sister, gets plenty of time with the Ahroun. She is brought deeper into the lupus's inner world, being taken on scouting, hunting, scavenging missions as a wolf. Being shown more effective ways to fight. Fiercely protected to an almost cultish degree by an Ahroun that clearly has imprinted on her.

Aleksandr finds a ready student just as Dragomir does, the Ahroun eager and bright, if strange and still awkward, still child-like. She wants to learn everything, questions every lesson, and likely pushes him to the edges of his knowledge and patience more than once. She also continues to force hugs and touches on the man, maybe eventually he'll understand her true intentions are friendship and closeness, more than aggression and challenge.

The lupus also spends some time with Frost, her fascination with the mute woman still strong. She tries to learn sign language, asks endless questions about humans and technology, and generally pals around with the kin. The Hounds also receive her attention and affection, and she fights fiercely for them, throwing herself time and again at the greatest challenges, working to protect them as if they were her own.

The night of the warning, Waziyata is dozing in her breed form, never too far from where Ryla works to counsel the grieving family. She is awake at once and barking for the Cliath, already beginning to grow into her Hispo form as she then howls out: <<Pack! Friends! To Dragomir tent!>> She's taken to heart the idea that she should practice leadership in battle. It may have even helped once or twice, by now.

As the pack finishes assembling, there is already a pounding of hooves across the earth, a howling of harsh, foreign tongues screaming war cries. Again the Ganbataari come, now a familiar foe, but in greater numbers than the makeshift pack has ever yet seen. Hundreds of forms ride in the predawn, carrying torches, spears, and bows.

Their usual tactics have never changed much from the initial skirmish - they favor hit and run tactics, prizing the manueverability of their massive, monstrous horses. Occasionally they show fomori powers or gifts of the Wyrm. Often, they bring fire and attempt to sow chaos and damage more than to merely kill the Hounds.

Tonight, it seems, they have come to finish the tribe, outnumbering the defenders many to one. At the rear is a column of eight men wearing mail, rather than the usual courboulli and scaled armors of the Ganbataari. These eight wear faceless iron masks under sweeping, ceremonial helmets and each rides a massive, black steed - even larger than the great beasts the foe already rides. The man at their fore carries a massive, silver-skull-headed hammer across his lap.

Twilight's Glimmer jumps into the fray herself in this battle! Shifting easily to hispo, she finds she is more in need of dodging than anything. She is able to tuck and roll, and the arrows cannot find the quick New Moon! The smaller silvery white wolf is good at this dance, and hopes soon enough to sink those teeth and claws into this enemy, and protect the camp and family she is there protecting.

Dragomir transforms into a horrifying silvery white wolf.

Dragomir looks tired, probably old, weathered - right? Blending in with the others. Yeah.. he gets a light jog going and then springs forward into his Hispo form rather suddenly and goes on the offensive. Unleash the Hounds of Hell. The massive Silvery White Dire Wolf leaps forward, ripping the first rider off his dragonpony by the throat and wrenches back and forth fast to pull head and spine right out of the torso. He continues with blinding speed, leaping up onto another and pulling him off his steed only to wrench and bite and work another head free of its shoulders. Now covered in the bled of his enemies, the Silvery White Wolf is a menacing sight indeed.

Despite the aim, and impact of those weapons, they cannot seem to penetrate the wolf's thick fur. At the sight of the Nerguoi charging in and drawing a Silver Hammer, things change note quickly. The Silvery White wolf suddenly bursts upwards to receive the charge, calling on Luna's favor to shield him just before that hammer comes in to crush his chest. Though somehow, what looked like it was going to be a devastatingly perfect blow - just.. didn't happen. Eye of the Storm snarls brutally, >>You missed.<< The second head is dropped to the ground, and the horrifying Crinos grins bloody.

Then the hammer comes around, again and again slamming into Eye of the Storm harder and harder, fast like cracks of thunder - smashing him bloody and he snarls out with pain. This.. is real. Like silver being molded into steel. Even as he is struck, he stays steady - focused with building rage and eyes locked on the Nergui intently. As the fourth brutal slam of that hammer down on him lands, Eye of the Storm snarls out loudly and bellows, >> I, am Eye of the Storm! << because it's only polite to introduce yourself, kids.

The horsemen begin their rush to gallop their horses in for the attack. Lleu has already shifted from his homid form to hispo but the huge wolf doesn't charge the attackers. Instead, Seinneadair Blàr concentrates to activate Luna's Armor and then another gift. An arrow comes at him but is deflected by his first gift! Snarling, the Fianna focuses on Nergui as he suddenly feels some of his gnosis being sapped away! It makes every hair on his body stand up for a few seconds from the strange sensation. Still Seinneadair Blàr doesn't physically attack and instead, attempts to activate a third gift - to no avail, alas!

Frustrated and angered it has no effect. Battle Singer leaps into the fray as Nergui has come charging in on his great horse. Up he leaps, sinking his teeth into the rider and catching more than Nergui's armor! The Galliard's fangs find flesh! His second bite isn't as successful. The battle rages and time and again Lleu's heart has nearly missed a beat when he's seen some of the blows laid into Eye of the Storm!

Lights the Darkness is a flurry of action as he charges the riders coming at him, rather than throwing fire this time. The battle is engaged. He focuses on one, biting and claw at it, as arrows bounce off him, so too do his attacks seem rather feeble against it. Then the riders turn and drive off, bases on the ferocity of the attacks. Then another round, the Theurge is no warrior like some of the rest, clawing and biting again in a flurry as he relentlessly strikes at the rider, but never quite downs him. Arrows continue to bounce off his huge form though, as if unable to touch him through Gaia’s protections.

The rider is turning to go, to make his retreat tactic and the Silver Fang Theurge can’t quite bring him down. Deciding whether to pursue or not, there’s a brief second in which to survey the battle field, eyes catching the silver hammer, teeth clenching in a snarl as he notes, briefly the beating the Athro is taking. Now, the Theurge must decide what to do next, help, or finish off his prey.

Puddle Jumper bursts up to her hispo form and stays with the majority of the pack, glancing between them as they make their preparations. <<Remember>> the Ahroun growls to them, <<Ganbataari fight as cowards. Loose and run and loose and run and then strike. Be ready. Do not let them run unbroken. Do not let them loose unchallenged.>>

Naturally, the proto-pack's theurge is the first of them to charge out into glorious battle. As it should be. Puddle Jumper is only moments behind him and soon ahead of him, charging out to throw herself amongst the charging horse archers.

At first, she is untouched and dances among their arrows, snarling and snapping, readying her Gifts.

Then, as she is in the middle of throwing herself at one of the Archers, she catches sight of Dragomir's struggle with the Nergüi. The Ahroun yelps, trying to spin about in mid-air as if to go to his aid, and she tumbles to the ground in a heap, ending trampled by several frightened horses. She lays in a daze afterward, even as her friends face the deadly foe with his silver hammer.

The Ganbataari horde gallops across the plain, massive dark horses thundering in the night, shrieking their strange, guttural warcries as they approach. Torches are hurled ahead of them amidst the camp and a rain of arrows fly through the air, snapping and breaking uselessly in the night for the most part, but occasionally striking true. Each of the men of the Midnight Lands are skilled warriors and supernaturally tough, but even they are hard pressed to kill Garou with mortal weapons.

The first wave of Ganbataari archers splits, beginning their usual tactic of breaking away to either side and galloping back to the rear of the main force, even as some of their number are taken down by Garou and archers from the camp of the Hounds.

The column of heavily armored, massive men trot their horses up amidst that first wave of archers. Seven of the warriors halt their warbeasts, taking hold of reins in one hand, long spears in the other, raising the weapons to a ready position as Nergüi draws closer to the battle, alone.

"YE SHALL RESPECT ALL THOSE WHO SERVE THE WYRM!" is bellowed in a hollow, rough-throated voice as he raises his skull-headed silver hammer into the night sky. The Garou feel the words like a blow against their very minds, threatening to shake them to the core and steal away some piece of their connection to Gaia. In other sections of the camp and battlefield, Hounds of the Antlered One howl in anguish and Rage at the words.

Nergüi sits silent on his trotting horse, then, his expressionless iron mask turning this way and that, assessing his foes. Then he sees Eye of the Storm tearing through his warriors. Wordless, he raises the massive silver warhammer and then charges his snorting, armored stallion at the Silver Fang Athro.

The horse screams and whinnies in fright as the Legend forces it onward, throwing its weight behind his hammer in a skillful blow against the proud Philodox. The sound of impact is sickening, and Dragomir stands unbowed, unbroken, untouched thanks to the Gift of the Silver Fangs.

Nergüi snorts then, a derisive sound, and he swings the hammer about himself and strikes thrice more, heavy blows that should obliterate most Garou, and Dragomir's blood flies.

Afterward, the Fomori finds himself beset by Battle Singer. Even as the Galliard rushes to Dragomir's defense and throws himself upon the Fomori, he manages only a single wound through the heavy armor and the thick hide beneath. Nergüi chuckles then.