Post by Nate on Nov 18, 2012 19:56:59 GMT -8
The twilight hours, the death of one day, and the birth of another. Samson stands before a roughly carved monolith. His hands are shaking, his claws shattered and bloody.
Every side of the monolith has glyphs carved deep into its face. Each line of the Garou glyphs describe a member of the Wendigo Sept. Elder council, warrior, family, young and old alike were inscribed in the dark stone.
The Tale Singer, Stories of the Stream, who heard the story of the Wither, and told a tale of two brothers in return.
A Grandmother, who quietly rocked in her chair while she watched the spirits dance in the sunlight.
Young pups, playing in the mountain snow.
Wendigo maids, preparing the evening meal.
Though the monument stood in memory of the fallen, the named still drew breath. For how much longer, Samson couldn't tell. Their story was already told, and the end was as unchanging as the stone before him.
"Mother," he whispered into the half-light around him, "the only thing left to do is the ghost dance, and prepare the Dead Paint. Many won't survive the oncoming horror, but I shall. I will become stronger after the atrocities to come, and I will hunt the monsters to their grave. I will rape them with their own bones, and offer up their burnt flesh and withered souls to Wendigo himself."
He left the dark stone, glistening with his own blood, under the moon, waiting for both prophecies to be fulfilled.
Every side of the monolith has glyphs carved deep into its face. Each line of the Garou glyphs describe a member of the Wendigo Sept. Elder council, warrior, family, young and old alike were inscribed in the dark stone.
The Tale Singer, Stories of the Stream, who heard the story of the Wither, and told a tale of two brothers in return.
A Grandmother, who quietly rocked in her chair while she watched the spirits dance in the sunlight.
Young pups, playing in the mountain snow.
Wendigo maids, preparing the evening meal.
Though the monument stood in memory of the fallen, the named still drew breath. For how much longer, Samson couldn't tell. Their story was already told, and the end was as unchanging as the stone before him.
"Mother," he whispered into the half-light around him, "the only thing left to do is the ghost dance, and prepare the Dead Paint. Many won't survive the oncoming horror, but I shall. I will become stronger after the atrocities to come, and I will hunt the monsters to their grave. I will rape them with their own bones, and offer up their burnt flesh and withered souls to Wendigo himself."
He left the dark stone, glistening with his own blood, under the moon, waiting for both prophecies to be fulfilled.