08.02.2019 The truth is painful
| The truth is painful | |
|---|---|
| Magic gone wrong | |
| IC Date | August 2 2019 |
| Players | Kaati, Skully, Ratsputin as ST |
| Location | Out of State |
| Spheres | Garou Gaian M+/Kinfolk Fera |
Kaati's already left Skully a trail to follow, from the cabin to this place. She asked him to bring the map as well.
A ritual cleansing in the stream, a day's fast, an hour and a half of Ashtanga yoga and an hour of meditation have paved the way for an altered state, readied her for the vision-seeking.
Within the circle, supplies have already been laid out: smudge bowl for spirit and wind, small rock-lined pit for fire and energy (with kindling and fuel already laid in preparation), a little cairn of found stones for earth and matter, a bowl of salt water for water and life. Her place is at the center, where a few things are laid out on a square of plain white fabric: a japanese-style writing brush and bowl, a small vial of oak-gall ink, a large crystal point. A frame drum, larger than the little one she carries everywhere, painted with a stylized image of Thunderbird (some might mistake it for an eagle or a hawk). One of those river rocks with a natural hole in it, threaded onto a length of soft leather thong. An abalone shell with a bundle of herbs, next to an already-lit candle.
Somewhere outside the clearing, one of the Kinfolk prowls the perimeter; if Skully followed the trail in Lupus he would certainly catch Ansel's scent at some point.
Skully comes loping along in his long-legged way, strides just eating ground as his boots crunch gravel and dirt. He's on two legs, which makes sense; he's carrying a rucksack and a map. Even so, his jug ears catch Ansel's tread, and he can smell well enough to get a sense of what's ahead. He arrives quietly, bowing his head to Kaati but not disturbing the preparation, and reaches into his rucksack to pull out a corked yellow glass bottle, a bundle of dried tobacco leaves, and a beaded charm he begins rubbing. "Greatfather Heart-of-the-Pack, we are listening," he murmurs quietly, tying the charm to his beaded bracelet.
Picking up the frame drum, she walks over to the huge man and offers it out. "When I lie down, will you drum for me?"
Skully takes the drum and sits cross-legged, placing it in his lap and nodding. "Of course, Lil' Sister," he replies in his baritone rumble, very serious. He clears his throat and adds, "Gonna call on the spirits'a our ancestors to watch over an' observe; like as not they got sharper eyes'n I do, or more of 'em, at least."
Her smile is brief, the dark eyes already half-hazy from her preparations. Head tipped up, she touches a hand to Skully's arm. "Thank you."
Then the Kin draws the knife from its sheath at her side and steps to the eastern boundary of the wheel. She transfers the blade to her left hand and holds it steady, her arm level, the point facing straight ahead.
"Wendaaban, air that is the breath of life, lightning of the mind, wind and storm..." Then, turning to face the south, she walks the perimeter and chants softly, a mantra in that other language. Repetitive, rhythmic words. At the south point, she pauses and faces outward again.
"Zhawaan'an, fire of her bright spirit, passion and pain, spark and sun, flame and fury..." She turns and continues the walking and tracing of the circle, knife point outward. Facing the west:
"Ningabii'an, deep waters of the Mother's womb, ebb and flow, blood within us, moon-tide song..." Another arc, and she faces north.
"Giiwedin, the Earth of her body, life and death, deepest caverns, bedrock stone..." Kaati walks the last arc, and as she reaches the east she switches the blade point-up before turning to walk to the center of the wheel. There, she lifts the knife point to the sky, arm straight, her head tipped back.
"Ishpay'ii, sky and stars, all that is above!" "Anaamayi'ii, cauldron and shadow, all that lies below!"
The blade sweeps downward in a final arc, to point at the ground. And then Kaati returns to a balanced, grounded stance, bringing the knife to her chest and wrapping right hand over left on the bone hilt. "We stand between the worlds, within the sacred wheel. What happens in one world touches all worlds. All places are one, within the dream of the Mother. All life is one, within the body of the Mother."
Walking the circle again, Kaati calls on the elements: lighting the smudge, starting a small fire, stirring salt into the bowl of water, and sprinkling earth over the stones. She then thanks the warrior spirits Skully has called in, with words and chant. There's yet another circuit after that, to bless each quarter with her blood and a few whispered words. Three in all, after the initial casting. When she returns to the center, Kaati unwraps a white kerchief from one wrist, and uses it to carefully clean the blade before sheathing the knife. "Let life call to life, and death to destruction," she whispers. Kneeling, she picks up a clay cup and drinks.
Skully begins beating the drum softly in rhythm with Kaati's ritual, but just a little; he punctuates her words, and once she walks the circle he reaches over and brushes fingertips across the tobacco the light the sacred leaves and let them smoke. His ancestors arrive each in their time: powerful Heart-of-the-Pack, nearly as large as Skully himself; Skully's mother, Lynn Ellen Temple Many Rivers, sage and sharp-eyed; five in total, they observe and scout, taking no part but keeping vigil.
Kaati lies down in shavasana, palms up at her sides: corpse pose. The map lies beneath the back on her left hand, the river stone in her right palm. Her eyes meet Skully's, the dark already slipping toward glazed and dreamy. "Watch over me, brother, and hold my heart in the beat of the drum." Then she closes her eyes and starts breathing deep and slow, sinking into trance.
Almost immediately, there's a disturbance, something crossing her expression, her body tensing, eyelids flickering. She bares her teeth and hisses something in Ojibwe. It doesn't sound nice.
Skully does exactly as she asks, keeping a steady beat as anchor and humming quietly to himself while he does so. Every so often he speaks, murmuring, "Ate Wankantanka, Mitawa ki; Wazi ya tanhan, ka te na Wa ska ki u ya ye ki."
Kaati's eyes snap open, wide with fear. Her breathing changes, shifting from trance to deep, gasping adrenaline-fueled need. With the stone still in her right hand, she draws the knife with her left and sets the blade across the back of her forearm--ready to cut, not yet pressing into the skin.
