Post by Decimus on Mar 21, 2012 11:01:00 GMT -8
It was well past midnight as the wind returned to the interstate, ruffling the jet black fur that covered the lupus-clad european. Patient eyes simply watched, the body sitting near as could be to a statue's calm in the brush to the south of the asphant that created the major thoroughfare. It was hardly rare for the lean wolf to be within the territory its pack had claimed a long while ago, but it was rare enough to be actually found doing so.
Tonight was like so many other nights, though, now that the calm had returned. Gryphon was handled, placed into whatever form the 'box' the Uktena had betrayed with its words. And, with the calm, came his attentions to the smaller matters. Sept politics being at the fore, his duty as dictated by breed and tribe. His duty as dictated by positions held. As decided by vows of camp. While, somehow, not less volatile than the replacement of an Incarna, it at least had less reaching consequences.
Tonight, a series of matters sang to his ears. Whispers carried to them, betrayed by voices that didn't know better. A trio of Silver Fangs. Each with their respective imperfections, but the example that the Tribe is supposed to form for the rest of the nation.
Their fur gleaming white for the very reason that his own was black as the darkest night, embodying the first issue. The Leaders were not intended to carry out deeds that would be looked down upon, so much more difficult to disappear into the night with precious life's blood cooling outside its flesh containment. The idea that the face of what each Garou should aspire to look to for guidance would move to the acts that embody their antithesis was a disturbing subject to be broached, for certain.
A more perplexing issue embodied within the recurring problem of another Fang. Others certainly have already used this one as an example of why they are not meant to lead any longer, though this one was not the first to its rank, nor shall it be the last, lest the Apocalypse descend upon us this very night. Hope will, ideally, shine through in these coming nights, as pieces have been moved to take its antagonist out of the picture, at least on a local level. The implement of its torment taken with, through one method or another should it come to fruition. Perhaps this one's voice will return to the sense that others have held.
Then comes the issue of a reluctant leader, one interested in preserving the peace of its Caern, but blind to the machinations of its peers it seems. How to bring its attention to these without bringing it to the level of those making such plans, to keep it above the refuse its fur shirks away from while maintaining its duty.
Each night presents another test of ability, of intent, of character. Evidently, redirecting the Leaders to the path they are intended to follow is one as difficult as ensuring leadership is held by those most capable of it. And important. If the tribes do not fulfill their purpose, then the avalanche of changes will surely bring the End to each of us with haste greater than our ability to weather.
Tonight was like so many other nights, though, now that the calm had returned. Gryphon was handled, placed into whatever form the 'box' the Uktena had betrayed with its words. And, with the calm, came his attentions to the smaller matters. Sept politics being at the fore, his duty as dictated by breed and tribe. His duty as dictated by positions held. As decided by vows of camp. While, somehow, not less volatile than the replacement of an Incarna, it at least had less reaching consequences.
Tonight, a series of matters sang to his ears. Whispers carried to them, betrayed by voices that didn't know better. A trio of Silver Fangs. Each with their respective imperfections, but the example that the Tribe is supposed to form for the rest of the nation.
Their fur gleaming white for the very reason that his own was black as the darkest night, embodying the first issue. The Leaders were not intended to carry out deeds that would be looked down upon, so much more difficult to disappear into the night with precious life's blood cooling outside its flesh containment. The idea that the face of what each Garou should aspire to look to for guidance would move to the acts that embody their antithesis was a disturbing subject to be broached, for certain.
A more perplexing issue embodied within the recurring problem of another Fang. Others certainly have already used this one as an example of why they are not meant to lead any longer, though this one was not the first to its rank, nor shall it be the last, lest the Apocalypse descend upon us this very night. Hope will, ideally, shine through in these coming nights, as pieces have been moved to take its antagonist out of the picture, at least on a local level. The implement of its torment taken with, through one method or another should it come to fruition. Perhaps this one's voice will return to the sense that others have held.
Then comes the issue of a reluctant leader, one interested in preserving the peace of its Caern, but blind to the machinations of its peers it seems. How to bring its attention to these without bringing it to the level of those making such plans, to keep it above the refuse its fur shirks away from while maintaining its duty.
Each night presents another test of ability, of intent, of character. Evidently, redirecting the Leaders to the path they are intended to follow is one as difficult as ensuring leadership is held by those most capable of it. And important. If the tribes do not fulfill their purpose, then the avalanche of changes will surely bring the End to each of us with haste greater than our ability to weather.