If a man breaks in the forest

[dean]

And no one is present to witness... Did he break, or was he always broken?

Spirits Breath Stumbles further into the forest, away from the Caern, and toward a shelter of large boulders in the unexplored territories of the forest... At least by man that is. Stumbling until he made his way under one of the massive stones, finding shelter from the light pattering of incoming rain. He then drops to his knees as he licks his swollen lip. Having not shifted, nor excepted healing from events earlier that night, leaving the sting of the beating he received to linger in his body. To fuel his emotions, emotions he so struggled to withhold from others, from himself in fact.

"It almost disgusts me, being there, no... It does disgust me," He mumbled, spitting out blood that had collected in his mouth before the bleeding of his lip had stopped. "With that rabble of self entitled, ego inflated, tradition smearing trash. They're lucky they even have the few there that can keep their forsaken ship afloat!"

Breath, tearing off his mountain of furs, and discarding his box of personal effects and herbs, turned toward a pool of water that had collected in a pit under the rock in the damp soil, staring into it for a moment, looking to the almost gaunt reflection staring back at him. His body free of substance by now, of any substance that would really affect him that is, he could see the face he hid during the day behind a mask of haze and humor. His normal calm smiling 'intoxicated' face now replaced with that of a stranger to the outside. Dark bags revealing themselves more, under what now seemed like cold and tired eyes, his face sagging into a deep scowl, highlighting the unchanging beastly features of the werewolf he carries day in and day out thanks to his mark.

"But you're just a fool aren't you?" Breath sneers. "Play the fool and listen Breath, isn't that right?"

Breath spits at his reflection and turns to his box, reaching to open it, almost seeking that mask which he uses to hide himself from others. Pausing for a moment with his hand on the box, he glares sharply at it, at what it holds for him, before crushing it in his nearly disfigured clawed homid hand, as easily a human might crush a small paper box before tossing it into the rocks and letting it shatter apart.

"I AM NO ONES FOOL!!!" He bellowed. "I am neither ignorant nor stupid! I am NOT as foolish as THEM!"

"Nor will I take the fault for the dimwitted actions of a pretentious WELP!" Breath howled out as he dug his claws into the mud, heaving as his blood slowly boiled with rage. "I don't even know why I bother, my family is the spirits, I understand them, I live by them, not by the whims of a group of Garou scrambling around like a bunch of headless chickens!"

He stops, going silent, listening to the woods, and within him self for a brief moment.

"Sept of endless paths," He then continues at a whisper. "You will be remembered, not for your great deeds of our time, but for being the messy embarrassment to this nation that by no small miracle happens to survive through sheer dumb luck. Stumbling toward success through the parasitic suckling on the teats of a great few, whom I cannot begin to fathom, let it be so... That is what I see, through your history I have learned, and the events I watch unfolding... It turns my stomach and makes me sick to bear witness to this colossal disappointment."

[Athena Fire-in-Snow]

Not so very far away as the crow flies, a cardboard box sits, tucked tightly into a niche in the trees. Outside it appears worn and flimsy; inside, however, it is warm and dry and bigger than it would appear. A pile of grey woolens sits inside, along with thread and scissors and needles.

After a time, Forgotten Song pads, head down, through the brambles and noses her way into the box. Had she come from another direction, or perhaps just a little earlier, she might have heard a shout of frustration in the distance. But she did not.

Inside, she shifts into homid, sits down. She rocks herself and wants to cry, but doesn’t, not yet. The grief is too new, too hard, too raw. There is a hole in her mind, in her heart, where Anyanka has been. There is a hurt from actually living through the spiritual loss of the Bunyip, deeper than bones, a dull and hopeless ache. And there is the shock, bright and harsh, of the loss of Panzer Wulfen.

But all the pain wars with the wonderful warm thrumming rush inside her, the residue from return of the Rainbow Serpent, and with the pride in her pack’s performance in the fights. It is all too much, good and bad. She wants to cry, sad tears and happy, but she can’t because it all gets mixed up inside her. It’s too much to feel and too hard to think.

So Forgotten Song picks up the grey wool and starts cutting. Anyanka loved the dress she’d made for her. And it was sure to be tainted beyond redemption by what was to come. Forgotten Song wanted to have a new one ready for her when she pulled her back home. Something tangible to show her love. Something to prove that she always knew she would come back. And it is a simple task, a mindless one, soothing and calming in its repetition.

And so Forgotten Song cuts, and pins, and sews. And somewhere along the way, rocking, rocking, rocking as the needle goes in and out, in and out, the tears finally start to flow.