Post by Red Moon on Feb 17, 2010 23:47:38 GMT -8
At the warehouse:
Niall didn't know what had come over himself. When he had first been forced to join with these people, communication was practically impossible. Now, he was helping them plan a war. He was learning too fast, even for him.
After talking Deiter down from making a very stupid, and probably deadly decision, Niall needed a break. He could barely understand, what he'd said just minutes ago, and yet even the proud Adren had been humbled by the wisdom in those words. Niall began to become paranoid. He knew he hadn't been the one to think of those things. He wasn't the one who stood up and dragged his rhya aside. He knew he was himself when he stood up to lead, but after that point, small gaps in his recent memory had begun to manifest. And in those moments, he had apparently devised great plans, and talked down certain garou who, previously, he'd have been too cautious to approach. He still didn't know if it was his idea to defend Tommy while he healed or not. Something, it seemed, was taking over; filling his gaps in memory with powerful insight and leadership, and he was afraid of it.
Niall held his head and rocked, restlessly in the corner he had chosen, out of sight, while someone approached him. At first he assumed it was Maya, and he waited for her sweet scent to calm his senses. It never came.
So as not to appear so shaken before whatever elder may be nearby, he released his ears, and raised his head to meet his visitor. He did not expect what he saw.
"...Old ...spirit.
The form before him was that of a powerful stag, whose pelage was covered in coarse, dense fur, dark and red, as if dyed with the blood of a hundred foes. On its head, a crown of antlers, impossibly large and strong, despite the season. Although Niall knew he was in the human's realm, there was no doubt in his feeble mind who was the spirit he currently beheld.
"Old? Who're ye callin' so? I may be old, but in the mind eh spirits, I'm still quite young, son."
He spoke without moving his lips, and slowly, Niall began to see two images, both existing as the same entity, in the same place and time, the other of a man; almost the spitting image of himself, though with muscles tearing through the sleeves of his clothing. It was nearly more than his senses could take, but he soon found he could not shut his eyes.
When a spirit came to YOU, as a theurge, it is your job to shut up and listen. Niall knew this, and yet still, he had a powerful urge to run, almost as if from fear of knowing. He might have run if he had had any control over his limbs. It was because THIS theurge knew why the spirit had come. Feebly, he tried to shut the stag out of his senses, only to give up, deciding finally to listen.
"Why do ya resist knowing yerself, son? Ya think this be the first time I'ma comin' to remind ye who ye are?"
The man's eyes showed a mixture of loving concern and growing frustration.
"Weren't me own fault Gaia was a-crueler to ye than most yer kind, but I'll be right damned if'n me own great grandson became a child ever time eh got the sense beat outta him. Now, straighten yer back an' lemme 'av a look at ye."
It was comforting to have control over his own limbs again, and he promptly did as he was told, lest that power be taken from him again.
The spirit seemed to take one form or the other depending on which he concentrated on, so to make things easy on his eyes, he pushed away the image of the stag, which was nearly three times his own height, and remained fixed on the man, as tall --or short rather as he was in his crinos form.
The man inspected Niall as he would a soldier and he did as he was told, turning around, showing his teeth and nails and making eye-contact with the man, who grunted with satisfaction and crossed his arms.
"Not bad, eh... Ye best be thankin' them girls fer keepin' ya outta trouble. Leave it to a bear an' a crow to keep ye from fightin' too hard, but yer in better shape than most times, and gladly so. Yer about to fight harder than ye ever have b'fore, so listen an' listen well, boy. Yer name... Well, that ain't important anymore, so we'll skip that bit. Suffice it to say yer the grandson o' my daughter's deadbeat husband, and twice the man either him of his son were, even in this state. Ye were born 'tween two garou with not a brain cell 'tween them both, an' then were given to me daughter's good family who raised ye --perhaps too strictly to be the warrior I was in me own time. Well sit down, son. This'll take some time to explain."
As he was told, Niall sat, slowly. All this information all at once was making his head pound with the effort of taking it all in. It was thankful that he could understand every word this man was speaking as flawlessly as his own thoughts. He stared, mouth agape, and listened to his story, with both fearful caution and dreadful curiosity.
"Now y'see, when ye ran away, you knew all that 'n more, but then ye got in a bit o' trouble an' lost it all from the trauma. 'Course, I found ye, and gave ye what ya needed to get by, but every time ya drifted to the darkness, er lost yer head, I guess to be frank, every time ye frenzied, all that knowledge washed down the shitter. Yer name, my name, yer people everything. Still though, lookin alike me, ye got a reputation to uphold, and 'sides that yer smart. mighty smart, son. Smarter than I ever were in me best years. So, I came back, every time when ye needed to know."
The old man paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose, like he was getting ready to deliver a practiced speech. It was apparent, he had, as he said, done this several times. It could get old for even the oldest sage, and Niall began to admire him for his patience and the care he had given him. Intently, he listened, daring not to speak for fear of missing a single word, despite how afraid he was of knowing.
"The fact is, son, ye'd be thrice yer rank, at least if'n this curse weren't set upon ye. In fact, b'fore ye ran away ye were Fostern, and damn proud, but ye make mistakes, and break one tenet of th'Litany er another, an' there's a price t'pay. Ye 'aven't been as far as yer lost rank since, but luckily, ye never lost it all. Ye may think yer the bottom of the barrel now, son, but yer wrong. Yer still Cliath --that's rank one, son, an' 'ave every right to speak as either of them damned fools what call themselves warriors. Remember that! Eh, piss! Time's a-wastin' and we 'aven't even started."
The old man rolled up his sleeves in an exaggerated expression and continued his lecture. Explaining every bit of knowledge he'd lost time and time again. The galliard explained chain of command, his tribe's history and ideals, and restored every bit of common knowledge which had been lost to him. When it was over, Niall felt sick enough to vomit. It was like the old man had spoon fed him all the disgusting toothpaste his mouth could hold, and made him to swallow it. Unable to concentrate any longer on things as trivial as which form to see, the image of the stag came back, waiting patiently as if he'd never gone. The old Galliard still hadn't finished talking.
"Right, then. Well, from the look'a yer face, I'd say ya've taken in about all yer gonna handle." He sighed regretfully. Canna' be helped methinks. Ye jus' donna' have the time to relearn the books a'lore ye once knew. I jus' need ya to remember one last thing, son. Yer friends. Donna' leave 'em behind. They been the best thing ya've found since ye left 'em behind two years ago. An', if possible, join a pack, while ya still got the sense in ye. I canna' afford to keep comin' back to tech ya the same things. Ye outta know ye can be great without me tellin' ye. Ye did the man thing to do back then. They respect ya. Now, donna' let them down. Go out there an' knock 'em dead, son. I'll be watchin' ye.
Like that, with his final words of encouragement, the man, and the stag, vanished, leaving Niall sick, confused, and generally mentally drained, but enlightened. He knew, like he never should have forgotten, what he was. And he was going to prove his worth, whatever it took, before he forgot again.
Niall didn't know what had come over himself. When he had first been forced to join with these people, communication was practically impossible. Now, he was helping them plan a war. He was learning too fast, even for him.
After talking Deiter down from making a very stupid, and probably deadly decision, Niall needed a break. He could barely understand, what he'd said just minutes ago, and yet even the proud Adren had been humbled by the wisdom in those words. Niall began to become paranoid. He knew he hadn't been the one to think of those things. He wasn't the one who stood up and dragged his rhya aside. He knew he was himself when he stood up to lead, but after that point, small gaps in his recent memory had begun to manifest. And in those moments, he had apparently devised great plans, and talked down certain garou who, previously, he'd have been too cautious to approach. He still didn't know if it was his idea to defend Tommy while he healed or not. Something, it seemed, was taking over; filling his gaps in memory with powerful insight and leadership, and he was afraid of it.
Niall held his head and rocked, restlessly in the corner he had chosen, out of sight, while someone approached him. At first he assumed it was Maya, and he waited for her sweet scent to calm his senses. It never came.
So as not to appear so shaken before whatever elder may be nearby, he released his ears, and raised his head to meet his visitor. He did not expect what he saw.
"...Old ...spirit.
The form before him was that of a powerful stag, whose pelage was covered in coarse, dense fur, dark and red, as if dyed with the blood of a hundred foes. On its head, a crown of antlers, impossibly large and strong, despite the season. Although Niall knew he was in the human's realm, there was no doubt in his feeble mind who was the spirit he currently beheld.
"Old? Who're ye callin' so? I may be old, but in the mind eh spirits, I'm still quite young, son."
He spoke without moving his lips, and slowly, Niall began to see two images, both existing as the same entity, in the same place and time, the other of a man; almost the spitting image of himself, though with muscles tearing through the sleeves of his clothing. It was nearly more than his senses could take, but he soon found he could not shut his eyes.
When a spirit came to YOU, as a theurge, it is your job to shut up and listen. Niall knew this, and yet still, he had a powerful urge to run, almost as if from fear of knowing. He might have run if he had had any control over his limbs. It was because THIS theurge knew why the spirit had come. Feebly, he tried to shut the stag out of his senses, only to give up, deciding finally to listen.
"Why do ya resist knowing yerself, son? Ya think this be the first time I'ma comin' to remind ye who ye are?"
The man's eyes showed a mixture of loving concern and growing frustration.
"Weren't me own fault Gaia was a-crueler to ye than most yer kind, but I'll be right damned if'n me own great grandson became a child ever time eh got the sense beat outta him. Now, straighten yer back an' lemme 'av a look at ye."
It was comforting to have control over his own limbs again, and he promptly did as he was told, lest that power be taken from him again.
The spirit seemed to take one form or the other depending on which he concentrated on, so to make things easy on his eyes, he pushed away the image of the stag, which was nearly three times his own height, and remained fixed on the man, as tall --or short rather as he was in his crinos form.
The man inspected Niall as he would a soldier and he did as he was told, turning around, showing his teeth and nails and making eye-contact with the man, who grunted with satisfaction and crossed his arms.
"Not bad, eh... Ye best be thankin' them girls fer keepin' ya outta trouble. Leave it to a bear an' a crow to keep ye from fightin' too hard, but yer in better shape than most times, and gladly so. Yer about to fight harder than ye ever have b'fore, so listen an' listen well, boy. Yer name... Well, that ain't important anymore, so we'll skip that bit. Suffice it to say yer the grandson o' my daughter's deadbeat husband, and twice the man either him of his son were, even in this state. Ye were born 'tween two garou with not a brain cell 'tween them both, an' then were given to me daughter's good family who raised ye --perhaps too strictly to be the warrior I was in me own time. Well sit down, son. This'll take some time to explain."
As he was told, Niall sat, slowly. All this information all at once was making his head pound with the effort of taking it all in. It was thankful that he could understand every word this man was speaking as flawlessly as his own thoughts. He stared, mouth agape, and listened to his story, with both fearful caution and dreadful curiosity.
"Now y'see, when ye ran away, you knew all that 'n more, but then ye got in a bit o' trouble an' lost it all from the trauma. 'Course, I found ye, and gave ye what ya needed to get by, but every time ya drifted to the darkness, er lost yer head, I guess to be frank, every time ye frenzied, all that knowledge washed down the shitter. Yer name, my name, yer people everything. Still though, lookin alike me, ye got a reputation to uphold, and 'sides that yer smart. mighty smart, son. Smarter than I ever were in me best years. So, I came back, every time when ye needed to know."
The old man paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose, like he was getting ready to deliver a practiced speech. It was apparent, he had, as he said, done this several times. It could get old for even the oldest sage, and Niall began to admire him for his patience and the care he had given him. Intently, he listened, daring not to speak for fear of missing a single word, despite how afraid he was of knowing.
"The fact is, son, ye'd be thrice yer rank, at least if'n this curse weren't set upon ye. In fact, b'fore ye ran away ye were Fostern, and damn proud, but ye make mistakes, and break one tenet of th'Litany er another, an' there's a price t'pay. Ye 'aven't been as far as yer lost rank since, but luckily, ye never lost it all. Ye may think yer the bottom of the barrel now, son, but yer wrong. Yer still Cliath --that's rank one, son, an' 'ave every right to speak as either of them damned fools what call themselves warriors. Remember that! Eh, piss! Time's a-wastin' and we 'aven't even started."
The old man rolled up his sleeves in an exaggerated expression and continued his lecture. Explaining every bit of knowledge he'd lost time and time again. The galliard explained chain of command, his tribe's history and ideals, and restored every bit of common knowledge which had been lost to him. When it was over, Niall felt sick enough to vomit. It was like the old man had spoon fed him all the disgusting toothpaste his mouth could hold, and made him to swallow it. Unable to concentrate any longer on things as trivial as which form to see, the image of the stag came back, waiting patiently as if he'd never gone. The old Galliard still hadn't finished talking.
"Right, then. Well, from the look'a yer face, I'd say ya've taken in about all yer gonna handle." He sighed regretfully. Canna' be helped methinks. Ye jus' donna' have the time to relearn the books a'lore ye once knew. I jus' need ya to remember one last thing, son. Yer friends. Donna' leave 'em behind. They been the best thing ya've found since ye left 'em behind two years ago. An', if possible, join a pack, while ya still got the sense in ye. I canna' afford to keep comin' back to tech ya the same things. Ye outta know ye can be great without me tellin' ye. Ye did the man thing to do back then. They respect ya. Now, donna' let them down. Go out there an' knock 'em dead, son. I'll be watchin' ye.
Like that, with his final words of encouragement, the man, and the stag, vanished, leaving Niall sick, confused, and generally mentally drained, but enlightened. He knew, like he never should have forgotten, what he was. And he was going to prove his worth, whatever it took, before he forgot again.
