A Hunt Begins
1/11/2010
You concentrate on Tristan's Trump...
The contact with Tristan comes like an icy wind.
To the image of Tristan, Emrys stands on a tall hill, the wind furling his red cloak behind him, standing out vividly against the rich green of the grasses and the pure blue of the sky. "Tristan."
The image of Tristan stands in the townhouse of their father in Amber. He's on the balcony, looking out over the city with a cigarette in hand, so the view of the house is prevalent. He tilts his head as the connection occurs, he says, "Emrys. How are you holding up? I was concerned, but I didn't want to interrupt whatever you do for thoughts."
To the image of Tristan, Emrys rests one hand on the hilt of his saber, the silver gleaming in the bright light of what must be a noon. "My thoughts are troubled, but this is as they almost always are." A pause. "Will you hunt with me, brohter?"
The image of Tristan's eyebrow goes up at that, glancing at the sword and saying, "I think Rae has my sword. One of her does, at least." Then, a bit more to the answer, "I've never been much of a hunter. You know that. I don't like how it warms my blood."
The image of Tristan says, "What are you hunting?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys grins a feral grin. "Father."
The image of Tristan's eyebrows go up, slightly, at that. "That seems . . . almost an impersonal term, given who it is we would be going back. A shell is still . . . " He frowns, slightly, as he says, then, "I miss father. He's a hole in my memory. I haven't seen him in months. It was easier to find him, a while ago."
To the image of Tristan, Emrys frowns at Tristan. "A while ago? He's been missing for two years, Tristan."
The image of Tristan says, "Not always, not like that. I see him, sometimes." He makes a slight gesture, as if it doesn't matter. "So this father, the father that is Monster. How do you plan on finding him?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys gives Tristan a look of brotherly concern. "I have a scent of Order to follow. I'll just shift shadows until it grows stronger, again and again until I find him."
The image of Tristan says, after a moment, "There might be a bit of dad in him. Corwin said there was a bit of him, when they crossed paths. What do we plan on doing with him when we find him?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys shrugs. "I don't know anymore, Tris. Corwin was going to loan me Greyswandir when I found him, but that's not an option anymore."
The image of Tristan frowns a little at that, even if he doesn't fully understand what that references, from the look on his face. "I'll help find Father, of course. I think he deserves that, at least." He reaches up, running a hand through his hair, as he notes, "Flora's back. I found a wine from her time earlier on Earth. It was the third day of celebrations. There was a bakery there that Isabelle liked - I didn't realize it was so old. Though I guess a lot of things are old on Earth." Then, "How did you get the scent of order?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys gives a look of sympathy, though it's brief. "Earth's gone, Tris. I saw them launch the first nukes." He lifts his hands off his saber and holds it out. "I know where a concentration of it is."
Tristan appears suddenly, grasping Emrys's hand.
Tristan says, sounding genuinely surprised, "Nukes? What the fuck?" He says this with that concern as he pulls through with Emrys' help.
Emrys releases Tristan's hand. "Whole place is gone. Burned away to a hell you don't want to go to."
Tristan frowns, at that. "Then she might really like the champagne as well. It's good to see her again. Not many of Father's friends left."
Tristan says, "Have you seen Rae? Does she have my sword?"
"Not since I took her to the Silverspire. She had it then," Emrys says. "Want to trump her before we begin?"
Tristan says, "Maybe, maybe she won't have it. Maybe this isn't the wrong one. Or the right one." He thinks for a time, and says, "If you want, and yeah." He looks around, frowning. He squints, and asks, "Where are we?"
"Trump her, then. I can wait a few minutes." Emrys looks up at the sky; there is not a cloud in sight. "We're at a starting point," he answers, as helpful as he can be.
Tristan realizes he still has his cigarette, saying, "We need to find matches along the way. If they work out here." He frowns, further, before reaching to the trump deck at his side. He begins filtering through cards as he says, "I think I'm in trouble, Brother."
Emrys reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small box of yellow-tipped matches. He tosses them to Tristan. "Yeah?" Emrys says. "Your mental stability could use some work." He studies Tristan, waiting for more.
Tristan catches the matches absently, tucking them into his jacket. His reflexes seem to be there, if nothing else. "Nothing wrong with the stability. I see more now than I ever did. An Earth without nuclear weapons. Forever fog on the river, champagne flowing through glasses. Everything green."
Emrys hooks his thumbs through his belt as he continues to regard Tristan. "What happened to you, Tristan? I'm the one that's supposed to go crazy."
"Why were you going crazy? You seemed to have come out of that okay." Tristan finds the trump of Rae, focusing on it.
RPG: Tristan studies a Trump.
Emrys mutters, "You're more infuriating than Jaeger sometimes, runt." He steps a few paces away and sniffs at the air.
Tristan says to the side, "Jaeger's infuriating. I'm just punctual." Then, as the connection solidifies, he asks, "Rae? Is that you?"
Emrys snorts. "Yeah. Sure." He squats down, weight shifted to the balls of his feet. A few blades of the long grass are snapped up and studied in his hand.
Tristan asks, perhaps looking slightly surprised, "Why so surprised, Rae? And good." He squints, though, as if looking for something on Rae, just to make sure. He says, "Emrys and I are. . . " He thinks for a moment. "We aren't going to earth, even though I can get . . . " He bites his lower lip. "I was hoping for my sword." Then, as an aside to Emrys, "You are impatient."
A bird flies into the air. It's only the middle finger kind, though, and Emrys doesn't look at Tristan when he gives it.
Tristan says, "Passing it through . . . no, not so much. I can come to you and trump Emrys back if you want. Unless you want to go hunting with us. Hunting, or stuff. I don't want to interrupt. Though. . . necklace, silver. On and through. A loop around our neck, like our lives. Are you doing okay? I worry. I never hear or see."
Emrys does look over at Tristan now, his brow furrowing as he studies his younger brother. Once more there is concern on his face. This time it comes with a flaring of nostrils, a hunger taking a scent.
Tristan says, after a moment, "Father. And I'm good. Glad." He starts to extend his hand, before he pauses, and says, "I hate to ask, but. . . prove you're you. I want to make sure I'm not about to have . .. well." He blinks, slightly. "Show me, an come through."
Tristan says, "Thank God. You don't want to know what happened the last time I didn't ask."
Tristan extends his hand in the air.
Rae appears suddenly, grasping Tristan's hand.
Rae has arrived.
A perfect, pure blue sky reigns over all, and beneath it Tristan and Emrys are on a high hill with long, rich green grasses. The wind that blows is faintly chilled, and it's enough to make Emrys's red cloak furl behind him as he stands from his squatting position.
Rae gives Tristan a look that is curious indeed as she comes through on his hand. "I think I do," she says honestly. To Emrys, she offers with cheer, "Bossman."
"Rae," Emrys returns the woman's greeting, with less cheer by half. "Hunting with us, then? Or just here for the exchange?"
Tristan says, "You tried to tear my throat out. It wasn't right. I never even found out what I did." He smiles, slightly. "But you're you. You're not her. You're not one of the others." He then glances over at Emrys, and notes to Rae, "He's being impatient. He wants to hunt. Even if it's _our_ _father_. Which, you know." Glancing back at the woman. "We should at least give a small head start."
Rae starts to unfasten the sword belt at her waist. She's careful in her handling of it, and offers it to Tristan. "If you want me for the hunt, I'm glad to join. Otherwise, I'll just stumble on out. I'd hate to intrude on a brotherly bonding exercise."
"You are my right hand," Emrys says. And this is followed up with a look that clearly says: keep an eye on the crazy runt.
"Oh, Emrys and I, just like the old days." He asides to Rae, "He and I were a lot more alike when we were younger, I think." He takes the sword, looking at it, studying it. Tilting it, as he says, "I always thought I would want to grow up to be Father. I still do. But the more I think of him, and the more I see mother and him, I realize that I couldn't. Maybe it's because I lived more with Flora and Isabelle than father or mother, but." He says, "I hope this served you well. Niklas made it out okay, which is good. I haven't seen Julian. Is he still in control of Weirmonken?"
"Sometimes following in our father's footsteps isn't the path we were meant to take--unless the following and footsteps involve Hunting," Rae remarks. She moves some of her own weapons around, no sense of order to the placement of blades on her body. "According to Benedict's word, yes," she replies with a bit of a frown. Emrys is given a nod that might even be serious.
"No one ever rules Weirmonken," Emrys says, the slightest of growls in his voice. "You two want to stop to make tea, or can we get on with this?" Not that he's waiting. Like moonlight chasing shadows, his form begins to change.
Looking to see that change, Tristan seems almost exasperated as he notes, "I suppose that riding horses is out of the question, then." He undoes his belt, moving to add the sword to it.
Rae rolls her eyes at Emrys as his change starts, and he's least likely to see it. "I don't like riding horses, too slow." She stretches, and then starts to glimmer as she shifts, woman to wolf.
When the dull colored fur of a wolf has replaced the bright red cloak and darker clothes, Emrys lifts his muzzle into the air and lets out a howl. It's all the warning he plans to give their quarry. And then he's stalking off through the grasses, not waiting to see if Tristan conjures a horse or not.
Tristan studies the two for a moment. He looks at Rae, before giving in wordlessly. Soon, black with streaks of silver, and smaller than Emrys in wolf form. There is a glancing around, his ears instinctively going back at the displeasure of being in this form. Perhaps to underscore a point. . . Tristan barks.
Rae, cinnamon and shadows in her coloring, lets out a little howl of her own. As Tristan barks, he is given a shoulder-bump that is not quite gentle. "I remember you liking racing me in this form," she says to the smaller of Eric's children. With a waggle of her rump, she bounds off to follow Emrys.
The grasses part for the movement of the Weir and slide back together to hide their passage after; the world refuses to be marked by such creatures. Emrys takes advantage of this, his pace picking up as he notes being followed by at least one other, moving into the realm of a brisk jog.
There is an affirmative growl to the concept of racing. And he turns to follow, comfortable quickly enough in this form as he follows. If it doesn't turn into a race, he does keep pace. There are times that are meant for comfort, and others where one is meant to be what is in their blood, regardless of their opinion on the matter. And so Tristan follows the other two, fur glinting in the sun.
Rae doesn't try to outpace Tristan--at least not yet. Emrys isn't /that/ far ahead of them, after all, and he's guiding. Becoming lost in a strange place is not on her to-do list for the day. She's obviously glad for the chance to trot about, however, a bounce in her pawed steps.
The wold grows different around them. It comes in small things. The wind grows colder, and with it carries the scent of a deeper winter. The grasses begin to shorten, the blades dimming to brown over time. The sky eventually turns gray, not the bright silver of Weirmonken or the pure blue it started out, and the crystal clear day grows towards clouded night. And then white falls from the sky. Each flake is the same size as the last. Each flake is the same shape as the last. And each lands perfectly upon the dying grass. Emrys continues to run, even once the snow falls. He is a wolf with a scent, and he's letting it carry him through.
There are the times in the shadows that Tristan remembers. And it occurs, on some level, that he has never willingly shifted without knowing where he was going. What part of that world was going to be waiting for him. There is a growl, eventually. And as the snow falls, there is another growl, as Tristan snarls in the tongue of this part of his blood, "Halt." His own feet pausing in the snow.
Emrys comes to a halt, but it is not without the protest of a snarl to pull back his lips and show his sharp teeth, head turned over his shoulder so Tristan can see his displeasure. The snow continues to fall; it is no longer light and fluffy but now heavy and crystaline. It sticks to the fur in ways snow should not, the sharp edges only made less dangerous by having the fur stop it short of the skin.
Rae is fascinated by the snow as it changes. She is also patient when it comes to the snarling and stopping of brothers. The female Weir awaits to be led, trying to shake some of the sharp snow flakes off of her fur.
As if just noticing the sharpness of the snow, Tristan still paces, slightly. "I understand we are going to have time to talk this over," that growl to his tone still clear, if also perhaps slightly underscored by the way Emrys responded. "But there are things. This isn't a beast we're tracking. This . . ." He pauses, a foot in the sharp snow. A paw. Tristan remembers a paw. He even shakes the paw, as if to make a point. "This is our father."
"This is not our father," Emrys says. "This is a husk shaped like him." He shakes himself, as if to shed water. The snow tinkles as it falls to the ground, softly chiming. "This is Axiom. Order."
Rae resists the urge of trying to catch a snowflake on her tongue, if only barely. "Order," she says with distaste, her muzzle scrunching up at the thought. "It is worthy prey, at the least."
"We don't destroy what might be saved. Amber is infested with Chaos. Arden. We don't burn it." Tristan tilts his ears, before they go flat. "Just think about what we're doing, brother. That's all I ask."
"If he can be saved,then we will, Tristan. But you need to come to terms with the possibility he can't." And right before Emrys turns, he adds, "We burned Arden, where the Road runs through it." And then he's running again, feet quick and light against the snow that starts to cut like glass at the paws.
"They're both dangerous," Rae says on the subject of Order and Chaos. "Too much of one throws everything all spinny." With that bit said, she gives her lean body another shake. She darts after Emrys, trying to avoid touching as much of the snow as she can with her paws.
Tristan darts after. He may not say anything else, but perhaps the thoughts are there. The thoughts are there, and they can be voiced during another time, when the shadows aren't being shifted. The pattern burns through him, but he is passive. He is not the leader here, and while he may not hold to the traditions of Weir or family elders, he does hold to the concept that organization is good. So he follows.
There's at least a shelter coming up, a rocky outcropping with a dark maw descending underground. It's safe from the snow. It's not so safe from the insectoid men standing guard with sharp, obsidian spears at its entrance. It seems to be there that Emrys is headed. Three Weir against five spear-wielding ant-men? Fair enough fight. A howl comes from Emrys, and it's something that speaks to the Weir as guidance, encouragement, as much as it does to strike fear into the enemies.
Insectoid men. Why is it always insectoid men? But Rae seems confident enough that she's not going to end up temporarily dead at the hands ...mandibles... of this group. Emrys's howl is the only inspiration and battle cry that she needs. Like a lightning bolt, the small Weir darts towards one of the foe, jaws snapping.
There is that motion and a flashing of silver and age - four legs become two. Practice as Tristan gets out of form. The Weir taking a more comfortable power, the power of civilization and evolution. Of steel rather than jaws. Or something other than steel, in this case. The silver blade flashes, and he will clash in after the two wolves bury into the crowd.
There is strength in the fury that the dark and the nightmares can unleash. It's a strength that is recalled even in civilization, when the lights go out. Emrys launches himself at one of the creatures, his body gracefully twisting to the side of a spear as teeth latch into a strangely jointed shoulder.
Rae's body twists, contorts, to avoid the obsidian blade. Her jaws are sharp, and soon lodged into what could be considered the thigh of the insectoid creature she's engaged with. She rakes her claws over it, attempting to bring it to the ground.
There are things Tristan has kept to himself, or to a select few. Perhaps the effort he's taken with Jaeger, among others, is one of them. The spear comes through, the blade sliding, twisting, pushing to the side. His bare hand comes forth, and the strength of Oberon is clear even in the runt as he brings his fist into the mandibles of the ant-thing that he encounters. There is a crunching as the mandibles break, and as the thing staggers there is the additional crunching of the silver saber going through the creature. Tristan twists the blade, his gloves covered in God Knows What as he twists, and then kicks, blade and boot ripping one of the creatures straight in half.
Four to go, with Tristan's creature now down. Emrys brings his short claws into the midsetion of his creature, the spear such a terrible choice for a weapon when reach has been taken away. Teeh rake through the chittanous armor, crumbling it beneath the jaws driven by a strength given to Oberon's blood. Terrible, terrible clacking noises are heard, half anguished and half in alarum. Three. Three creatures left when the one Emrys has been tearing too drops to the ground in more pieces than it should be.
She is not of Oberon's blood, and Rae knows this. But she is of Weirmonken, daughter to a heritage all her own, daughter of a pack Alpha. And there is strength in that. The growl she lets out is something that would make the blood of many run cold, and as she rides the form of the insectoid to the ground, it is edged with triumph. She is Weir, and she goes for the throat. The thing's neck breaks, the sound sharp in the air.
There is something that snaps. There is something in the mind of Tristan that goes. Perhaps it's the realization that Earth is a radiated ruin. Perhaps it's the realization that, more often than not, it isn't. The sound of a neck going, Rae's jaws. Earlier, unpleasant memories of something similar. But there is a falter. As ichor covers him, there is a shifting of that blade, now the bright color dulled by victory, and he actually falters, taking a step back. Somewhat disoriented, or just . . . not there. He lets out a strangled noise, beating away the spear another time before tripping over the back of. . . what vertabrae is that a part of, anyway?
Again a howl, and this time it's one of Emrys's. Encouragement, demand. HUNT, that howl says. KILL, it demands. Sure, it may be less effective in such a small pack, but it's given as instinct. He leaps from the body of the fallen creature plows one of those remaining into its disoriented kin, causing the spear of the second to lash through the body of the first, and the weight of all three of them to push into a wall. A quick swip of a paw sends enough force through the friendly-fired creature to snap its ...neck?
Rae is driven on by that howl, even if she does briefly look back towards Tristan at the sounds he's making. He can take care of himself, she's certain, as she lunges towards another one of those things, catching the shaft of its spear with her teeth, using the momentum to flip the creature over, to the ground.
It is a good thing that Tristan's brother took care of the three, bringing the weight back. The sword lifts absently, point to the others. But his eyes are still wide at something, as he keeps the tip of the sword in point. Letting the wolves do the murder. His lips are parted, before his eyes close, as if waiting for the sounds to stop, to know that it is all over.
And when it's all stopped, when the murder is done, the wolf that is Emrys cocks its head at Tristan. It begins to blur back to a human shape. The snow still falls, sharp. "Snap out of it," is said as the shift goes.
Rae, for the moment, keeps her fur. She makes faces of distaste at the insect-blood, and parks her rear down as she watches the two brothers.
Tristan pulls out, of all things, a red handkerchief. He slowly begins wiping the blade, and makes a couple of clicking noises with his mouth as he studies one of the mandibles. He closes his eyes, opens them, the mossy gaze lost for a few moments. There is a grating sound as the sharp snow is dragged against his blade through the handkerchief, before he says, "I just . . .caught. Surprise."
Emrys looks to Rae. "Take him home, Rae." It's said quietly, but the words are a command none the less.
Rae nods to Emrys, a small frown on her wolfen face. She shifts up, to her human form, and thankfully has boots on to keep her feet from being cut apart by razor-sharp snowflakes. "C'mon, Tristan. Let's get you back home."
There is a slight shake of his head. "I'm fine." He slowly moves to push himself up, leaving the handkerchief on the ground and ignoring the digging of the flakes through his gloves, or wherever else that he might have been cut when he fell. He moves to put the sword away, as he says, "I just thought too much. We're good."
Tristan says that, of course.
Emrys nods. "Then let's go inside a little and see what we can see." One of the alien spears is taken up and Emrys starts down the tunnel...
1/11/2010
You concentrate on Tristan's Trump...
The contact with Tristan comes like an icy wind.
To the image of Tristan, Emrys stands on a tall hill, the wind furling his red cloak behind him, standing out vividly against the rich green of the grasses and the pure blue of the sky. "Tristan."
The image of Tristan stands in the townhouse of their father in Amber. He's on the balcony, looking out over the city with a cigarette in hand, so the view of the house is prevalent. He tilts his head as the connection occurs, he says, "Emrys. How are you holding up? I was concerned, but I didn't want to interrupt whatever you do for thoughts."
To the image of Tristan, Emrys rests one hand on the hilt of his saber, the silver gleaming in the bright light of what must be a noon. "My thoughts are troubled, but this is as they almost always are." A pause. "Will you hunt with me, brohter?"
The image of Tristan's eyebrow goes up at that, glancing at the sword and saying, "I think Rae has my sword. One of her does, at least." Then, a bit more to the answer, "I've never been much of a hunter. You know that. I don't like how it warms my blood."
The image of Tristan says, "What are you hunting?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys grins a feral grin. "Father."
The image of Tristan's eyebrows go up, slightly, at that. "That seems . . . almost an impersonal term, given who it is we would be going back. A shell is still . . . " He frowns, slightly, as he says, then, "I miss father. He's a hole in my memory. I haven't seen him in months. It was easier to find him, a while ago."
To the image of Tristan, Emrys frowns at Tristan. "A while ago? He's been missing for two years, Tristan."
The image of Tristan says, "Not always, not like that. I see him, sometimes." He makes a slight gesture, as if it doesn't matter. "So this father, the father that is Monster. How do you plan on finding him?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys gives Tristan a look of brotherly concern. "I have a scent of Order to follow. I'll just shift shadows until it grows stronger, again and again until I find him."
The image of Tristan says, after a moment, "There might be a bit of dad in him. Corwin said there was a bit of him, when they crossed paths. What do we plan on doing with him when we find him?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys shrugs. "I don't know anymore, Tris. Corwin was going to loan me Greyswandir when I found him, but that's not an option anymore."
The image of Tristan frowns a little at that, even if he doesn't fully understand what that references, from the look on his face. "I'll help find Father, of course. I think he deserves that, at least." He reaches up, running a hand through his hair, as he notes, "Flora's back. I found a wine from her time earlier on Earth. It was the third day of celebrations. There was a bakery there that Isabelle liked - I didn't realize it was so old. Though I guess a lot of things are old on Earth." Then, "How did you get the scent of order?"
To the image of Tristan, Emrys gives a look of sympathy, though it's brief. "Earth's gone, Tris. I saw them launch the first nukes." He lifts his hands off his saber and holds it out. "I know where a concentration of it is."
Tristan appears suddenly, grasping Emrys's hand.
Tristan says, sounding genuinely surprised, "Nukes? What the fuck?" He says this with that concern as he pulls through with Emrys' help.
Emrys releases Tristan's hand. "Whole place is gone. Burned away to a hell you don't want to go to."
Tristan frowns, at that. "Then she might really like the champagne as well. It's good to see her again. Not many of Father's friends left."
Tristan says, "Have you seen Rae? Does she have my sword?"
"Not since I took her to the Silverspire. She had it then," Emrys says. "Want to trump her before we begin?"
Tristan says, "Maybe, maybe she won't have it. Maybe this isn't the wrong one. Or the right one." He thinks for a time, and says, "If you want, and yeah." He looks around, frowning. He squints, and asks, "Where are we?"
"Trump her, then. I can wait a few minutes." Emrys looks up at the sky; there is not a cloud in sight. "We're at a starting point," he answers, as helpful as he can be.
Tristan realizes he still has his cigarette, saying, "We need to find matches along the way. If they work out here." He frowns, further, before reaching to the trump deck at his side. He begins filtering through cards as he says, "I think I'm in trouble, Brother."
Emrys reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small box of yellow-tipped matches. He tosses them to Tristan. "Yeah?" Emrys says. "Your mental stability could use some work." He studies Tristan, waiting for more.
Tristan catches the matches absently, tucking them into his jacket. His reflexes seem to be there, if nothing else. "Nothing wrong with the stability. I see more now than I ever did. An Earth without nuclear weapons. Forever fog on the river, champagne flowing through glasses. Everything green."
Emrys hooks his thumbs through his belt as he continues to regard Tristan. "What happened to you, Tristan? I'm the one that's supposed to go crazy."
"Why were you going crazy? You seemed to have come out of that okay." Tristan finds the trump of Rae, focusing on it.
RPG: Tristan studies a Trump.
Emrys mutters, "You're more infuriating than Jaeger sometimes, runt." He steps a few paces away and sniffs at the air.
Tristan says to the side, "Jaeger's infuriating. I'm just punctual." Then, as the connection solidifies, he asks, "Rae? Is that you?"
Emrys snorts. "Yeah. Sure." He squats down, weight shifted to the balls of his feet. A few blades of the long grass are snapped up and studied in his hand.
Tristan asks, perhaps looking slightly surprised, "Why so surprised, Rae? And good." He squints, though, as if looking for something on Rae, just to make sure. He says, "Emrys and I are. . . " He thinks for a moment. "We aren't going to earth, even though I can get . . . " He bites his lower lip. "I was hoping for my sword." Then, as an aside to Emrys, "You are impatient."
A bird flies into the air. It's only the middle finger kind, though, and Emrys doesn't look at Tristan when he gives it.
Tristan says, "Passing it through . . . no, not so much. I can come to you and trump Emrys back if you want. Unless you want to go hunting with us. Hunting, or stuff. I don't want to interrupt. Though. . . necklace, silver. On and through. A loop around our neck, like our lives. Are you doing okay? I worry. I never hear or see."
Emrys does look over at Tristan now, his brow furrowing as he studies his younger brother. Once more there is concern on his face. This time it comes with a flaring of nostrils, a hunger taking a scent.
Tristan says, after a moment, "Father. And I'm good. Glad." He starts to extend his hand, before he pauses, and says, "I hate to ask, but. . . prove you're you. I want to make sure I'm not about to have . .. well." He blinks, slightly. "Show me, an come through."
Tristan says, "Thank God. You don't want to know what happened the last time I didn't ask."
Tristan extends his hand in the air.
Rae appears suddenly, grasping Tristan's hand.
Rae has arrived.
A perfect, pure blue sky reigns over all, and beneath it Tristan and Emrys are on a high hill with long, rich green grasses. The wind that blows is faintly chilled, and it's enough to make Emrys's red cloak furl behind him as he stands from his squatting position.
Rae gives Tristan a look that is curious indeed as she comes through on his hand. "I think I do," she says honestly. To Emrys, she offers with cheer, "Bossman."
"Rae," Emrys returns the woman's greeting, with less cheer by half. "Hunting with us, then? Or just here for the exchange?"
Tristan says, "You tried to tear my throat out. It wasn't right. I never even found out what I did." He smiles, slightly. "But you're you. You're not her. You're not one of the others." He then glances over at Emrys, and notes to Rae, "He's being impatient. He wants to hunt. Even if it's _our_ _father_. Which, you know." Glancing back at the woman. "We should at least give a small head start."
Rae starts to unfasten the sword belt at her waist. She's careful in her handling of it, and offers it to Tristan. "If you want me for the hunt, I'm glad to join. Otherwise, I'll just stumble on out. I'd hate to intrude on a brotherly bonding exercise."
"You are my right hand," Emrys says. And this is followed up with a look that clearly says: keep an eye on the crazy runt.
"Oh, Emrys and I, just like the old days." He asides to Rae, "He and I were a lot more alike when we were younger, I think." He takes the sword, looking at it, studying it. Tilting it, as he says, "I always thought I would want to grow up to be Father. I still do. But the more I think of him, and the more I see mother and him, I realize that I couldn't. Maybe it's because I lived more with Flora and Isabelle than father or mother, but." He says, "I hope this served you well. Niklas made it out okay, which is good. I haven't seen Julian. Is he still in control of Weirmonken?"
"Sometimes following in our father's footsteps isn't the path we were meant to take--unless the following and footsteps involve Hunting," Rae remarks. She moves some of her own weapons around, no sense of order to the placement of blades on her body. "According to Benedict's word, yes," she replies with a bit of a frown. Emrys is given a nod that might even be serious.
"No one ever rules Weirmonken," Emrys says, the slightest of growls in his voice. "You two want to stop to make tea, or can we get on with this?" Not that he's waiting. Like moonlight chasing shadows, his form begins to change.
Looking to see that change, Tristan seems almost exasperated as he notes, "I suppose that riding horses is out of the question, then." He undoes his belt, moving to add the sword to it.
Rae rolls her eyes at Emrys as his change starts, and he's least likely to see it. "I don't like riding horses, too slow." She stretches, and then starts to glimmer as she shifts, woman to wolf.
When the dull colored fur of a wolf has replaced the bright red cloak and darker clothes, Emrys lifts his muzzle into the air and lets out a howl. It's all the warning he plans to give their quarry. And then he's stalking off through the grasses, not waiting to see if Tristan conjures a horse or not.
Tristan studies the two for a moment. He looks at Rae, before giving in wordlessly. Soon, black with streaks of silver, and smaller than Emrys in wolf form. There is a glancing around, his ears instinctively going back at the displeasure of being in this form. Perhaps to underscore a point. . . Tristan barks.
Rae, cinnamon and shadows in her coloring, lets out a little howl of her own. As Tristan barks, he is given a shoulder-bump that is not quite gentle. "I remember you liking racing me in this form," she says to the smaller of Eric's children. With a waggle of her rump, she bounds off to follow Emrys.
The grasses part for the movement of the Weir and slide back together to hide their passage after; the world refuses to be marked by such creatures. Emrys takes advantage of this, his pace picking up as he notes being followed by at least one other, moving into the realm of a brisk jog.
There is an affirmative growl to the concept of racing. And he turns to follow, comfortable quickly enough in this form as he follows. If it doesn't turn into a race, he does keep pace. There are times that are meant for comfort, and others where one is meant to be what is in their blood, regardless of their opinion on the matter. And so Tristan follows the other two, fur glinting in the sun.
Rae doesn't try to outpace Tristan--at least not yet. Emrys isn't /that/ far ahead of them, after all, and he's guiding. Becoming lost in a strange place is not on her to-do list for the day. She's obviously glad for the chance to trot about, however, a bounce in her pawed steps.
The wold grows different around them. It comes in small things. The wind grows colder, and with it carries the scent of a deeper winter. The grasses begin to shorten, the blades dimming to brown over time. The sky eventually turns gray, not the bright silver of Weirmonken or the pure blue it started out, and the crystal clear day grows towards clouded night. And then white falls from the sky. Each flake is the same size as the last. Each flake is the same shape as the last. And each lands perfectly upon the dying grass. Emrys continues to run, even once the snow falls. He is a wolf with a scent, and he's letting it carry him through.
There are the times in the shadows that Tristan remembers. And it occurs, on some level, that he has never willingly shifted without knowing where he was going. What part of that world was going to be waiting for him. There is a growl, eventually. And as the snow falls, there is another growl, as Tristan snarls in the tongue of this part of his blood, "Halt." His own feet pausing in the snow.
Emrys comes to a halt, but it is not without the protest of a snarl to pull back his lips and show his sharp teeth, head turned over his shoulder so Tristan can see his displeasure. The snow continues to fall; it is no longer light and fluffy but now heavy and crystaline. It sticks to the fur in ways snow should not, the sharp edges only made less dangerous by having the fur stop it short of the skin.
Rae is fascinated by the snow as it changes. She is also patient when it comes to the snarling and stopping of brothers. The female Weir awaits to be led, trying to shake some of the sharp snow flakes off of her fur.
As if just noticing the sharpness of the snow, Tristan still paces, slightly. "I understand we are going to have time to talk this over," that growl to his tone still clear, if also perhaps slightly underscored by the way Emrys responded. "But there are things. This isn't a beast we're tracking. This . . ." He pauses, a foot in the sharp snow. A paw. Tristan remembers a paw. He even shakes the paw, as if to make a point. "This is our father."
"This is not our father," Emrys says. "This is a husk shaped like him." He shakes himself, as if to shed water. The snow tinkles as it falls to the ground, softly chiming. "This is Axiom. Order."
Rae resists the urge of trying to catch a snowflake on her tongue, if only barely. "Order," she says with distaste, her muzzle scrunching up at the thought. "It is worthy prey, at the least."
"We don't destroy what might be saved. Amber is infested with Chaos. Arden. We don't burn it." Tristan tilts his ears, before they go flat. "Just think about what we're doing, brother. That's all I ask."
"If he can be saved,then we will, Tristan. But you need to come to terms with the possibility he can't." And right before Emrys turns, he adds, "We burned Arden, where the Road runs through it." And then he's running again, feet quick and light against the snow that starts to cut like glass at the paws.
"They're both dangerous," Rae says on the subject of Order and Chaos. "Too much of one throws everything all spinny." With that bit said, she gives her lean body another shake. She darts after Emrys, trying to avoid touching as much of the snow as she can with her paws.
Tristan darts after. He may not say anything else, but perhaps the thoughts are there. The thoughts are there, and they can be voiced during another time, when the shadows aren't being shifted. The pattern burns through him, but he is passive. He is not the leader here, and while he may not hold to the traditions of Weir or family elders, he does hold to the concept that organization is good. So he follows.
There's at least a shelter coming up, a rocky outcropping with a dark maw descending underground. It's safe from the snow. It's not so safe from the insectoid men standing guard with sharp, obsidian spears at its entrance. It seems to be there that Emrys is headed. Three Weir against five spear-wielding ant-men? Fair enough fight. A howl comes from Emrys, and it's something that speaks to the Weir as guidance, encouragement, as much as it does to strike fear into the enemies.
Insectoid men. Why is it always insectoid men? But Rae seems confident enough that she's not going to end up temporarily dead at the hands ...mandibles... of this group. Emrys's howl is the only inspiration and battle cry that she needs. Like a lightning bolt, the small Weir darts towards one of the foe, jaws snapping.
There is that motion and a flashing of silver and age - four legs become two. Practice as Tristan gets out of form. The Weir taking a more comfortable power, the power of civilization and evolution. Of steel rather than jaws. Or something other than steel, in this case. The silver blade flashes, and he will clash in after the two wolves bury into the crowd.
There is strength in the fury that the dark and the nightmares can unleash. It's a strength that is recalled even in civilization, when the lights go out. Emrys launches himself at one of the creatures, his body gracefully twisting to the side of a spear as teeth latch into a strangely jointed shoulder.
Rae's body twists, contorts, to avoid the obsidian blade. Her jaws are sharp, and soon lodged into what could be considered the thigh of the insectoid creature she's engaged with. She rakes her claws over it, attempting to bring it to the ground.
There are things Tristan has kept to himself, or to a select few. Perhaps the effort he's taken with Jaeger, among others, is one of them. The spear comes through, the blade sliding, twisting, pushing to the side. His bare hand comes forth, and the strength of Oberon is clear even in the runt as he brings his fist into the mandibles of the ant-thing that he encounters. There is a crunching as the mandibles break, and as the thing staggers there is the additional crunching of the silver saber going through the creature. Tristan twists the blade, his gloves covered in God Knows What as he twists, and then kicks, blade and boot ripping one of the creatures straight in half.
Four to go, with Tristan's creature now down. Emrys brings his short claws into the midsetion of his creature, the spear such a terrible choice for a weapon when reach has been taken away. Teeh rake through the chittanous armor, crumbling it beneath the jaws driven by a strength given to Oberon's blood. Terrible, terrible clacking noises are heard, half anguished and half in alarum. Three. Three creatures left when the one Emrys has been tearing too drops to the ground in more pieces than it should be.
She is not of Oberon's blood, and Rae knows this. But she is of Weirmonken, daughter to a heritage all her own, daughter of a pack Alpha. And there is strength in that. The growl she lets out is something that would make the blood of many run cold, and as she rides the form of the insectoid to the ground, it is edged with triumph. She is Weir, and she goes for the throat. The thing's neck breaks, the sound sharp in the air.
There is something that snaps. There is something in the mind of Tristan that goes. Perhaps it's the realization that Earth is a radiated ruin. Perhaps it's the realization that, more often than not, it isn't. The sound of a neck going, Rae's jaws. Earlier, unpleasant memories of something similar. But there is a falter. As ichor covers him, there is a shifting of that blade, now the bright color dulled by victory, and he actually falters, taking a step back. Somewhat disoriented, or just . . . not there. He lets out a strangled noise, beating away the spear another time before tripping over the back of. . . what vertabrae is that a part of, anyway?
Again a howl, and this time it's one of Emrys's. Encouragement, demand. HUNT, that howl says. KILL, it demands. Sure, it may be less effective in such a small pack, but it's given as instinct. He leaps from the body of the fallen creature plows one of those remaining into its disoriented kin, causing the spear of the second to lash through the body of the first, and the weight of all three of them to push into a wall. A quick swip of a paw sends enough force through the friendly-fired creature to snap its ...neck?
Rae is driven on by that howl, even if she does briefly look back towards Tristan at the sounds he's making. He can take care of himself, she's certain, as she lunges towards another one of those things, catching the shaft of its spear with her teeth, using the momentum to flip the creature over, to the ground.
It is a good thing that Tristan's brother took care of the three, bringing the weight back. The sword lifts absently, point to the others. But his eyes are still wide at something, as he keeps the tip of the sword in point. Letting the wolves do the murder. His lips are parted, before his eyes close, as if waiting for the sounds to stop, to know that it is all over.
And when it's all stopped, when the murder is done, the wolf that is Emrys cocks its head at Tristan. It begins to blur back to a human shape. The snow still falls, sharp. "Snap out of it," is said as the shift goes.
Rae, for the moment, keeps her fur. She makes faces of distaste at the insect-blood, and parks her rear down as she watches the two brothers.
Tristan pulls out, of all things, a red handkerchief. He slowly begins wiping the blade, and makes a couple of clicking noises with his mouth as he studies one of the mandibles. He closes his eyes, opens them, the mossy gaze lost for a few moments. There is a grating sound as the sharp snow is dragged against his blade through the handkerchief, before he says, "I just . . .caught. Surprise."
Emrys looks to Rae. "Take him home, Rae." It's said quietly, but the words are a command none the less.
Rae nods to Emrys, a small frown on her wolfen face. She shifts up, to her human form, and thankfully has boots on to keep her feet from being cut apart by razor-sharp snowflakes. "C'mon, Tristan. Let's get you back home."
There is a slight shake of his head. "I'm fine." He slowly moves to push himself up, leaving the handkerchief on the ground and ignoring the digging of the flakes through his gloves, or wherever else that he might have been cut when he fell. He moves to put the sword away, as he says, "I just thought too much. We're good."
Tristan says that, of course.
Emrys nods. "Then let's go inside a little and see what we can see." One of the alien spears is taken up and Emrys starts down the tunnel...