Konrad Vrdoljiak

CbN Staff
The City of the Silent. You've all heard of it, whether you wanted to or not. The ghastly expanse of multiple graveyards, expanding into the distance like so much a Garden of Stones, Decay, Afterlife and Death. Visible marble and stone angels, huddle for the small eternity they have, over the mourned for and the lost by the dozens, while gargoyles man the gates and sprawling walls that could not hope to keep out the anxious youngsters looking to play Goth and Witch and any number of Satanist.
The moist loam is soft and welcoming to the feet, almost as if the Dead below wished warm company and softened the earth with nothing-but-bone fingertips and moans of necessity.

The air and sky were crisp and clean this deep into the Historical District, Calhoun Street paved with nary a Car or Motorist. Perhaps it was the fact that the night drew farther on and the Bars and Clubs were open for loitering while the shops and restaurants were closed down until tomorrow.

Perhaps it was silly superstition, keeping the streets relatively free and the sidewalks almost deserted at so early a night time, but...

There didn't seem to be a soul about these parts, even down the incline of the paved road that bled around the edge of the Silent City and it's "inhabitants.

Street lamps above were numerous and luminescent, turning what might have been a Mugger's paradise, into a No Man's Land. Parked cars were dark and dormant along the street sides while window shops were made up the same. The moon hung as it always did, nearing the Fullness of Moot Time and only barely clouded by thin wisps of Nothing.

The Endless
The Ahroun nearly had to physically peel her away from the 20 odd occult and Latin American history and deity books that had been spread about the apartment. All of them open, pages rabbit-eared and book-marked with scraps of paper. The most she’d eaten, it looked like, was some instant noodles, if the empty bowl pushed negligently to one side and the scraps plastic in the kitchen had been any indication.

But who was she to ignore a curiosity like an Anonymous message?
(…even when she had a curiosity right in front of her to research?)

So the Ivory Voodoo Queen had stashed her latest ‘research’ endeavour (no peeking!) and pulled on enough clothes to be decent (and half-cover up the sheen of pale scales in slashes across her stomach and lower back). Satchel bag that had seen better years (ten years ago, that is) over one shoulder, snow white hair dropping into her face, and Tommy’s skin crawling at her sheer eerie presence.

She left and went with him.

To the locale.

Yay!

She fit right in the surrounding - - both by the ‘stereotypical’ Goth nature of it and because she was almost as frightening (without trying) as the area was spooky. Graveyards. A type of place that she normally adored: steeped in the mysteries of the Dead and of Death, itself.

Armand Couvier
His pack mate had called, and so he came, his eyes smouldering and burning and gazing so intently at everything they strafed across that he felt they should leave burn marks behind, twin trails of smoking char wherever they crossed over brick or tree or flesh. The full light of Luna radiated down on him, bathing him, blessing him with that which made him terrible, and truly, now, moving towards the destination, he feels like he’s barely holding on, talons only, his entire body keyed up and thrumming and yearning to let it all go and rip whatever came across his path apart.

It’s obvious and easily felt. The occasional pedestrian veers out of his path, sweat beading foreheads, hearts suddenly battering at the insides of their ribcages like a mad thing, the fury and passion that boils and roils the air so potent and fierce that dogs howl and whine and flee, that rats lie still, quivering, and even the trees seem to lean away from in order not to be seared.

He moves with slow, careful control, one foot placed before the other, his jaw clamped, his eyes slitted, his hands fisted, his breathing regular and easy and oh so unnaturally regular. Everything and anything could turn into a target, a focus for ire and savage violence. This is the time, now is the moment, and it’ll truly take nothing to set him off, to make him howl and tear and rip and gut.

Armand walks down the street, having parked his car a few blocks down, and his arrival can be almost felt before he is seen.

Tommy Jackson
Tommy makes his way down the street with his companion, dressed the same as he had been for the extent of the day. That open work shirt with the witty cartoon on the back, tough but already worn jeans encasing his legs, stompy boots with those three steel claws [moulded bullets] protruding from their front.

He was an Aryan prince at 6', with dirty blonde hair and faded blue eyes, built like a brick shit house and full of rage as of late, coming back only stronger after he wasted it during the battles he had been in. The days leading up to the Moot Moon that made his auspice so passionate had been a very violent time for him, and his blood was boiling, almost unable to even stand or sit still without bounding his knees. How many hours had he spent wailing at a makeshift punching back in one of the vacant industrial parks?

And now some random message ordering him about. Well, he'd see what this was all about, that was right, and he hoped whatever it was ready for Hell.

Sleeper Child
Ever get that feeling that sometimes it's just too quiet? Just a little too dark? A little too spooky?

Of course. Graveyards. Dead things. Not to mention what was lurking in the umbra...Yeesh!

He sat on one of those parked cars, one leg hooked up under himself, folded beneath the opposing thigh, whilst the other fetched up against the Car's left fore wheel, turned slightly to avoid rolling down the hill into the Dead Zone.

Black garments were the call of the Day, his slacks, sizable enough to fit a person two inches more, whilst the rather normal boots, were unsuitable for curb stomping, though a nice jolly hike wasn't out of the question.

A black swarm of dervish like wrappings surround his torso, tucking into the waistband of the slacks and sluicing into a thinner consistency the farther along shoulder and arm they went, though that wasn't visible under the overcoat of dark green he wore. His features. Strong goatee now, too thick to be considered incomplete. Trimmed to a Devil's own welcome. Muslim and Caucasian blended well together, with lean and taut features, the style of a Runner or Vagabond. His hair was non-existent. Newly shaved down to black stubble and little more.

He is seated atop a Toyota Camry, blistering red and a big sore on the street curb, his fingers undergoing a casual inspection even as the Trio of figures make their way almost simultaneously towards him, from opposing directions of the street.

"...The Ants go marching one by one hoorah...Hoorah..."

Armand Couvier
Armand advances down the street, his eyes taking in his relaxed pack mate and the two strangers approaching from the other direction. They were familiar – yes – he’d seen them at the Assembly Area awhile back. No matter. Continuing onwards, he stops before the car on which Gregor is parked, and for a moment he feels like expressing his pleasure in seeing the Strider by placing his hand delicately through the windshield. A picture is worth a thousand words, and man, could he paint a pretty one tonight.

“Gregor.” A nod, and the eyes sluice over to the other two. Waiting.

The Endless
She had more Rage than was general for a Theurge, but she had nothing on an Ahroun when it came to the sheer Passion that fuelled their actions, their heart and their soul. She was like a minor flickering flame in comparison to the bon-fire that Tommy exuded.

And it was times like these - - when unexpected events happened - - that she was glad that she had an Ahroun at her back (or more as a shield) than her Alpha, another Theurge who fought about as well as she did (which didn’t say much, really). When she spied Armand, whom she’d seen before in the Assembly Area when Tommy had accompanied her for a ‘run’ to the Sept to collect Theurge-components, her pace dropped back a measure and she allowed the larger, brawnier Gnawer to act as shield. It wasn’t cowardice - - it was wisdom. This close to the Full with that much Rage pouring off the other Ahroun: she wasn’t stupid; she knew what it could mean.

And the last thing the Sept needed was another Breach of the Veil cause someone Frenzied on accident.

She lifted a ring and fishnet bedecked hand, running it through snow-white hair that merely fell back into her face and mismatched eyes. Her make-up was typical to how she styled herself of late, with her pale bleached skin giving her the perfect canvas. Blues and shades of grey almost gave her the complexion of a morgue corpse. The dark circles around her eyes though were not entirely make-up induced, but a lack of sleep. She had been so busy taking care of everyone else that she had been neglecting her own needs in the process.

Tommy Jackson
Father Darkness withdraws its few tendrils that manage to reach into the No Man's Land as Tommy becomes entirely visible to Armand and Gregor.

He'd seen Armand in the Bawn, yes, once now. That meant that they hadn't been the only Garou to get that anonymous message. He stands up nice and straight, bringing his full sense of presence to bare, and like a skyscraper erected overnight suddenly there's an even fuller cloud of red rage burning on the horizon/street he walks through. He felt the rage radiating in waves off of Armand also, but it was different. This man felt more like a psychotic killer, not just the passion and anger that others would.

Tommy's steps do not falter though, and he continues with his Theurge behind him. He nods toward Armand, and looks toward Gregor, knowing that a proper Garou introduction would be given after Armand made it know if this stranger was Garou or a mere ape.

Sleeper Child
He lifts his eyes to Armand, not daring to do so quickly nor slowly either, simply allowing them to flow as is his want and design, up to meet those Rage filled eyes, a tired half-smile plundering his desert dweller features whilst both hands lay back to splat against the car hood, giving him ample room without losing the personable nature, from Armand and his Full Moon "PMS".

"Hello Armand, good to see you again. I've got news..."

...And he turns again, head swivelling to his opposite side, eyes travelling the length of the road before the head rolls up to greet Tommy with a bright grin of appreciation.

"Glad you could make it, Man. Didn't think you'd show...Paranoia of the Urban Tribes is le...gen...daryyooohhh K then..."

The last phrase had come with the appearance of Sara, his brow, a rather thin trail of a black line, sliding into a broken bridge arc position at the Meeting of Eyes on the Voodoo Queen. There is a noticeable one-over, as he inspects the new entry to the circle, lower jaw kind of...dislocated off to one side, presenting a rather puzzled and disturbed sort of visage to the Strider's features.

"This...is new..." He turns to give Armand a perked brow, head tilting towards Sara with an almost questioning glance at his Alpha.

"Now That I was Not expecting..."

And with that said (Fucking Ragabash) he returns his gaze to Sara and Tommy, a bit more wide eyed and furrow browed then last looked, pursing his lips in an absent scrutiny before speaking.

"My name is Gregor Avok. Otherwise known as Sleeper Child, Cliath, Homid to the Silent Striders."

He paused long enough for introductions to be made, though he failed to look back at Armand, keeping careful control over his mannerisms (at least for tonight) least they get them all in a lot of trouble.

Armand Couvier
Armand takes his time to inspect the new arrivals, his gaze disdainfully and yet intensely scrutinizing, first examining Tommy, looking him up and down, feeling the rage, the sheer crackling power of it, and thinking, I’d like to break this one’s back…

Then he looks at the slight woman behind the Ahroun and frowns, feeling the urge to step forwards and break her head open so that he could scrape the foulness right out of her skull, wipe this Wyrm tainted thing off the face of the city. There’s precious little rational thought going on here – but the fact that his pack mate had summoned them together keeps him in check, and instead of lashing out he simply buries his talons into his palms so that blood runs between his clenched fingers, slowly filling the channels between them with crimson.

“Armand ‘Storm Forged’ Couvier, Cliath Shadow Lord.” His introduction curt, his eyes on Sara, hoping she’ll give him an excuse to break her under his foot like some writhing maggot creature from the grave.

The Endless
A multi-pierced eyebrow lifted, the sleepers and studs flickering in the dull illumination as a result of the movement, as she regarded the Strider with the same amount of scrutiny as he had just awarded her with. Although, in her general manner, her gaze seemed to not entirely look at him, but through him.

It was like she was pushing aside personality and humanity’s foibles, peeling back the skin with easy scrapes of the mental potato peeler before exposing flesh and tendon, slicing away neat chunks of muscle and ligament with a imaginary scalpel until all that was left was skeletal remains and squishy blood red organs… Then delving hot fleshed hands in among those fleshy organs, pushing and plying them away with barely any notice until the soul was found, buried deep down and now exposed like a victim on a sacrificial pyre.

[a hand wrapped around the still beating, hot blooded heart… - - thud, thud… thud, thud - - until digits pressed inwards and punctured lean muscle, spewing gushes of red liquid as the life was sucked away into that void of Death leaving onto ghastly meaty giblet remains… like Salsa… only… Juicer. Chunkier.]

She lifted her hand and thumbed at the human carpal bone chocker around her throat and the human vertebra that hung from it - - small etchings of some very obscure occult [not Garou] sigils for Death and Blood etched into the bones. She blinked then and shook herself a little like a wet dog, lowering mismatched eyes and huffing slightly under her breath through thrice-pierced lips, clicking a tongue stuff against the centre labret ring.

“Sara Rhine,” she said at a bare mumble, almost unheard, “Named ‘The Endless’, but called ‘Silent Dawning’ by the Fianna after the battle against the Incarna Bane, Bebilith. Cliath Homid Seer of the Bone Gnawers.”

Yes, the freak of nature (or so she looks) wasn’t a Metis. She claimed the lineage of the Homid born, even with her white skin, her snow hair, and the faint iridescent sheen of colour down the slice of either cheekbone that rippled when the light hit the scales just right.

Tommy Jackson
Tommy doesn't nod after Armand's introduction, doesn't even really seem to care, just picking apart the aspects of what Armand is and registering them in his cluttered [Wyld-infested] mind for later. He licks his dry, worn lips, and then begins to speak himself. "Tommy Jackson, 'Baptizes the Asphalt'." Asphalt? A lot like how hard this one looked, isn't it? Yes, this Ahroun looked as if you went at him with a baseball bat for an hour you might be lucky enough to leave a bruise or two and maybe make him stop laughing, if only for the fact his teeth hurt. A true hard ass. Broken, bloodied, and he'd come back for more. Thrice crippled and incapacitated in a week, and he'd only come back for more tonight? Yes, the Wyldfire that jumps back and forth between his eyes, almost as if ready to catch that dirty blonde hair aflame. "Full Moon, Cliath of the Bone Gnawers." He makes his own fists, if only for the fun of wondering what they would break tonight.

Sleeper Child
He nodded in turn, one way or the other, resisting to go into an old Looney Toons act about Multiple Meetings and Hand shakes, his eyes travelling to the pair on his left, casually "ignoring" the Rage that seemed to have built to exponential and suffocating heights all around him. Armand was Alpha and Pack Mate. It wouldn't do to go spitting off into the distance any time he came around the bend.

"...I called you guys here because you've got some thoughts on this matter whether you know it or not..." He eyed Tommy and Sara (more the former than the latter, no matter how much his perverse sense of humour demanded he crack a joke at the Odd Voodoo Queen) "You both have something to contribute separately as well as you do because you're part of the City. I asked others of your Pack to join us, but I'll be content with what I get." Of the City. Polite way of saying Urrah. Striders were known for their respectful natures.

"...The situation, as it stands, is confusing and downright odd to say the least. I've never really encountered anything like it, except in other parts of the city and only then Once..."

He leaps down off the Car hood and turns to peer between Tommy and Sara, his back (Are you Mad?!) towards Armand, though he stood slightly off to the side, pointing directly forward and towards the Haunter's Paradise that sprawled for a Horizon or more into the distance.

"...I'd like you all to do me a Favour and look that way..."

He paused, a brief flicker of eyes travelling towards Sara, the trickle of a shine inside those orbs almost inherently giggling out a...

You're gonna love this...

Even though he appeared quite casually frank.

Armand Couvier
Armand listens, trying to discern what in Gaia's name his pack mate is talking about, and then, turning his head, looks in the indicated direction.

The Endless
The Ivory Goth returns to and keeps staring at Gregor until both Tommy and Armand have looked in the pointed direction (…he’s a Strider… all those possibilities inherent in his tribe…) before she finally turns her head to look in the direction that he had pointed in.

The Cemetery.

Tommy Jackson
Tommy listens himself, but he's used to hearing cryptic things. Ever heard a Gnawer Theurge, or just a Theurge in general, talk? He was used to this, though it was slightly odd from a Ragabash. He turns and looks where Sleeper Child directs him to, though the tension in his muscles shows that his comment on the legendary paranoia of the Urrah wasn't at all far from the truth.

Sleeper Child
One hand dipped into his pocket, producing a slender Compact mirror; broken and missing it's make-up half.

"Good...Now...Side Step please and Keep your arms and hands inside the doors and windows at all times, please..."

And with that said, the Strider is gone, the wink from existence matching, no doubt, the wink that came from him but was left unseen by various attentions drawn elsewhere.

The Endless
A huff under her breath again when she turned enough to note, from the corner of her one green eye that the Strider had just winked out of existence, jumping to the Flip Side through the Looking Glass.

Why do I feel like I am chasing a mad red-eyed Rabbit down the Rabbit Hole?

But curiosity sometimes overrides even her ingrained paranoia. She glanced to Tommy, nodding once, as she lifted a hand and stared at the flattened reflective surface of a plain ring that showed her face in a tiny miniature. She pressed, pushed, groped, and grabbed through the Gauntlet till -pop- she passed through, feeling like she had been dumped into a bathtub filled with ice-cold water.

Ahhhh… the joys of stepping sideways.
(…then again, it wasn’t half as bad as stepping sideways had been at the Coliseum)

Tommy Jackson
Tommy begins to push his way through the Velvet Curtain himself, though in the city it had always been more like running through a mountain of broken glass naked. Stripped the soul, but to him it was more in a cleansing way, that stripping. He follows the instructions of the Silent Strider after making sure that Sara was doing the same.

CbN Staff
Before them sprawls the City of the Silent. Changed.

No longer is it the spread of decaying stones, jutting at intermediaries, appearing as dominos a smooth floor, ready to be kicked over by an errant child or adult, unwilling to pay them any mind or attention (And what Mortality-Worried-Human would these days?).

It is a conclave of Shadows. A Court of Darkness. Knight Errants and Paladins of Sooty Black, traverse the hallways of that fabled court, a small chunk of the Shadowlands immersed in Charleston’s famed Landmark, the penumbral landscape barely touched by Wyrm, Wyld or Weaver, without the permission of those spectres and terrifying things to behold inside.
The Tombstones are almost, collectively, present displayed in ghostly imagery, ghostly gold and fiery writing, painted across their surfaces, from the Angels, bowed and shimmering with a gauze of black shadow around their heads, for halos, to the thick slabs of monoliths and mausoleums, sporting thick glowing Glyphs of Protection, Wardship and Ceremonial Burying.
The trails and pathways that lead through the graveyards, once havens of protection from stepping upon the hallowed sites of the dead, were little more than thin strings of white among the many slots of black that peppered the hillocks and knolls of the Nightmare Hamlet below. Something to hang from whilst you trod through the thick blanket of dusk that was the Silent City.

The entire graveyard was swathed in what seemed like a glowing blue light, it’s extension, bleeding out over the murky skyline that writhed and swam with constantly shifting cloudbanks, that failed to reach beyond the borders of the City itself, which stretched themselves farther than the eye could behold. The Skyscraper and Residential Town that represented Charleston’s real cityscape, was but a pale thing in comparison.

The street beneath, solid under their feet and the surrounding block a whole lot more empty then it had been, without the parked cars and transient materials that held as much spiritual infusion as a Twinkie.

For any that had been here before, it would seem a Wonder, Awe-inspiring and Cowing all at once...

Armand Couvier
Armand comes through the Gauntlet, his eyes closed against the jagged cold, his shoulders hunched, a deep breath exploding from his lungs, and as his feet touch the umbral road his eyes snap open and he sees…

… a vision, a transformation at once awe inspiring and mysterious, at once terrible and enigmatic. Not knowing what it is that he looks upon, he turns his gaze at once to his pack mate, and his voice pitched low, “Gregor – what is this?”

Tommy Jackson
Tommy's own words echo behind Armand's. They've got the same basics. Gregor. What. Is. This. Just throw in a few curses between them, and you'll fully understand the emotion Tommy is feeling right now. He'd been in the Umbral representation of New York, along with a lot of other cities, but he had never seen something like this before, and the fact his jaw now has another zip code than the rest of his face and his eyes are like saucers kind of makes this rather obvious.

The Endless
“I know those glyphs,” she said under her breath as she peered with mismatched eyes in something akin to awe and barely able to keep the curiosity burning within from stepping into the Umbral reflection City of the Silent, to take a closer look. She seemed to be the only one (save perhaps Gregor) that was utterly and completely excited by what she saw. "Protection. Warding. More..."

Joey Calvono
Joey jogged up to the meeting place, finding no one there as she blinked, giving the 'wtf' look as she grumbled, finally noticing the little note tucked on a windshield for her to see as she sighs.

"...fuckers couldn't wait for me? I hate going there..."

She sighs and walks to the car door and stares at the mirror, reaching to cross to the Umbral realm.

Sleeper Child
He slips in and along Sara a moment, regarding the City with as much respect, reverence and awe as she, though there is a noticeable terror in his Arabian dark eyes that might not be fully understood outside his tribe.

...Then he is stepping forward a few paces, getting a few feet in front of Sara and Tommy and putting some distance (and bodies) between himself and Armand's Rage.

"Welcome to Spooktown Ladies and Gentleman...Population...You don't wanna know..."

He paused to reflect just one more instant before turning to regard the Trio...Now Quartet, as Josephine...Ms. Bada Boom...ventures into their presence with a sluice of Gauntlet Fibres and a flush of cold goose bump flesh thanks to the Chilling grip of the Weaver's greatest creation.

The Strider eyed the new arrival of Joey, his brow perking carefully.

"...Bada Boom I assume? Glad to have you. Name's Sleeper Child. Gregor for Short..."

And then towards the Four of them Combined.

"...And This..." A finger Hooked back towards the Silent City, as it was penumbrally, terrifyingly, displayed "...Isn't what I was going to show you...This has been here for quite some time..."

And his hand lowers, eyes rolling up a ways past the heads and shoulders of all present, to peer at the way behind them all.

Nodding..."That is the Real Kicker..."

It is about this time, that the impromptu Pack of Ahroun, Ahroun, Theurge, and Ragabash may notice that the Blue light that had surrounded the air of the Silent City, was covering the Strider's entire front, the shine coming not from the air, but from some source behind them all, glaring bright enough to make Gregor squint his eyes.

Armand Couvier
His roaming and jumping from gravestone to shade, from pious angel to charnel house, from one macabre marvel to the next, all the time wondering as to the source of the blue light. Were the dead making an advance on the city? Was there some new power at work in Charleston? It is only then that he raises his hand to point out some strange, malevolent shade that Armand sees the back of his hand glow blue, as if blocking the path of the light, and hearing Gregor’s words, he swirls around, moving lightly on the balls of his feet, his legs ever so slightly bent, fists rising, just a shade away from falling into a defensive crouch, but knowing – knowing that Gregor would not have led them in this way if there was any immediate danger.

But instincts don’t always care about what you know.

The Endless
She flicked a glance at the late (again) Ragabash of the Kids (…she’d better keep her mouth shut unless absolutely necessary…) who had a penchant for pissing off even the most placid of her pack with her quips and antics; Gaia knows what the reaction would be from Armand, who radiated Rage like a bonfire barely contained.

The Ragabash was also to be punished (…or was being punished: she didn’t have time to keep tabs on everyone all the time…) as their Alpha saw fit and was in some ways under a momentary limbo of being below even the most Omega of the Pack (…no doubt Jack at the moment, really, given his stature and personality…).

Her head then turned to look back over her shoulder at whatever it was that Gregor had gestured to that was his ‘real’ surprise (…as if the City of the Silent hadn’t been enough…) even though, to her, the Graveyard had taken a hold her mind and imagination like a run away freight train (…the possibilities…).

Please don’t let it be the Weaver, please don’t let it be the Weaver… more than likely ran through her head at the time. But even with the Graveyard spectacle being present and accounted for and piqued her curiosity 100 fold, she didn’t want to risk something being behind her that could bite her on her lily white (literally) ass.

After all, the Umbra was a place wrought with danger (…as some Garou never seemed to learn…) that she knew full well of.

Joey Calvono
Joey stared at the graveyard, shivers going down her spine as she stared, hand straying beneath her coat to her dedicated gun, gripping the familiar handle to her Beretta, finding it a comfort.

She blinked at the Strider, raising a brow, not sure how she suddenly became involved, only remembering a message from Ariokt about this meeting and now just finding herself thrust into the Umbra with no damn clue what was going down. The only word to come from her mouth when she stares at the blue light is..

"....uhhhhhh...."

CbN Staff
The Weaver had been busy.

Where the City of the Silent represented a W(y)ilderness of Shadows, flitting in and among one another, spectres battling over lost dreams, fantasies and memories. Where it represented the cornerstone of death, a venture untravelled by any but the dead. A Mystery forgotten until Man could come to grips with it’s effects...

The opposing view was something of a Terror all it’s own. Completely different.

The street was lined with ethereal buildings, barely old enough to count in the Spirit World’s Ephemeral eye. Yet as the rows of buildings on either side, stretched farther down Calhoun, you just had to admire how they seemed to come to neon (repetitive) life, their linear shapes and box like angles, glowing as they were infused by the brilliant shine of blue, intense and thrumming with...

Power.

The street’s centre was dominated. Completely. Its centre was laced and embedded by a Massive tube. It surged with Blue energy, contained inside, like some fibre optic cable, produced and magnified to a hundred times it’s original size, until it towered a decent ten feet off the Roadside ground. Round, thick and burgeoning, it sunk into the Ephemeral concrete of the roadside, it’s energies spitting out it’s severed end, and vanishing into the air not a few feet before the gaping maw of the tube, facing the Party of Garou.

Atop the gaping mouth, there scuttled Spiders. Patterns, black carapace, tiny, small and all other types, flowed left to right across the expanse of this odd tube, embedded in the Penumbra ground. Their mechanical legs, flit and flick all across the almost invisible membrane that surrounds this glowing pod of energy, snaking back down the road for what might seem like miles, if one could get past the pattern webs that were sliding out from either flank and top of the Tube like creation, to latch onto in various designs, thicknesses and ways to the transparent walls of the buildings to either side of the road.

A veritable maze of cobwebs with a glowing blue centre. Spiders ran the gauntlet of this odd spectacle in multitudes and vast numbers, clicking their metal mandibles and gleaming under the brilliant light that their work portrayed.

A fascinating spectacle of a very different sort. The Spiders and their Tube were within a hundred yard dash, maybe less. What they were doing...

The Weaver only knew.

Sleeper Child
"So yeah...Anyone else wanna let me know what in Duat, that is?"

Judging by the look on the Strider's face, this was either his second time seeing the spastic flux of Weaverdom, or the scene just had that affect on anyone no matter how many times it may well have been viewed.

Armand Couvier
Armand takes a step forwards, and then another, his fists clenched, the knuckles bloodless, the joint of his jaw covered with a band of iron, his breath coming in deep, powerful, smooth inhalations and outflows. Slowly, he unclenches his hands, an act of will, the palms down by his sides and facing the Weaver monstrosity before them. He raises his chin, breathes in so deep it would seem his might chest would burst, the ribs fracturing and splintering free of his meat and shirt, sternum splitting –

- and then he exhales, and with that exhalation his shoulders hunch over, his head lowers, eyes close and there is that terrible slipsliding of musculature sliding under skin, of bones twisting and joints popping, the hair raging across his face as it becomes bestial, a pelt of midnight black - tinted blue almost – surging over his skin as he expands to a fill nine or ten feet in height.

When he looks up, his eyes are as filled with crackling energy as the end of that tube, and with calm resolution that is more chilling then any howl of rage, he begins to stride forwards, intent on answering Gregor’s question.

The Endless
In the Umbra the Garou shucked their mortal coil, their spiritual essence as real here as their flesh was real for the FlipSide of this coin. The Blue Light only seemed to make the eerie Ivory gnawer glow a little more, an inner radiance that seeped out around the edges and frayed slightly to the internal perceptions as if shrouded in a perpetual mystery.

“That…” she mumbled under her breath, as if to not make too large a sound and attract the attention of the spiders - - of whom there seemed to be quite a number of that could overwhelm their small group, even with a couple of Ahrouns along - - as she pushed back snow white hair to stare at this Weaver monstrosity with mismatched (and rather wide then narrowed eyes)… “…Is trouble.”

Then Armand was striding forward and without howling. She lifted a hand and slapped her face, shaking it. He was going to kill them all. Bloody assed Ahrouns and their temperamental angsty natures.

“Your pack mate is probably gonna die and kill us too in the process,” she informed Gregor under her breath with a sigh of resignation as she peered more closely, “It looks… it could be… I think it might be a Data Conduit.”

Joey Calvono
"Maggio Gaia lo protegge..."

The Italian prayer fell from Joey's lips as she stared at the creation of the Weaver dwarfing them all...eyes trailing over the skittering and chittering spiders she had seen before in the few trips to the Umbra should would dare take. Joey may have been arrogant and cocky most of the time, but that was in the physical realm. The Umbra scared her. She felt so insignificant there and even more so, it was the one thing she knew nothing about. The fact that she was here was a test of her will as was. Bad things happened to tricksters in the Umbra, especially when they didn't have a plan to get themselves out of the shit when it flew. She stared as the Ahroun moved to go towards the Tube...face scrunching into the 'you jackass' look before she moves forward, her hand reaching up and grabbing at his back fur and tugging to indicate him to get the fuck back.

Sleeper Child
Gregor is between Joey and Armand the moment she begins moving forwards, a hand splayed out to separate Joey from moving forward to grasp at his Alpha's back.

He shakes his head sharply, eyes wide and mouth trying to form words against the backdrop of the Thrum that the Conduit and the Spiders atop it, give off.

"...Near Full Moon. He's got too much rage and you really don't wanna do that, Doll..."

He peers over Joey's shoulder at Sara, a brow perking.

"...The way I figure it, with this thing here? It's only a matter of time before that killing thing goes National on the entire city, Spook. Wanna tell me anything about it? Any ideas how to stop it maybe?"

The Endless
She snapped her fingers a few times, clicking labret ring and tongue stud together as her forehead wrinkled and her eyebrows pulled slowly together in concentration and thought. She was Urrah, for sure, and she was a Theurge as well - - but this was something that the Walkers dealt with more often. Unfortunately, Joey was the only Walker present: and she didn’t like the Umbra much more than any other Garou that wasn’t a Theurge.

She was glad that Gregor stepped in to stop Joey from grabbing the Ahroun; she didn’t need the Mafioso to be splattered cause of a Shadow Lord on a Frenzy Spree. She watched the Strider and went back to thinking for a moment, biting at her lip before shrugging a little, “The only thing that comes to mind is… Conversion… Energy… Storage.”

She shook her head like a frustrated animal, growling softly at the lack of knowledge on this spiritual endeavour and then closed her eyes, breathing in deeply and then exhaling, “If it is a threat to the City - - the spiritual more so than the real…” she started and then bit at the inside of her cheek, “I could think of one thing that might know more - - might already know and not like the idea of this blowing up here.”

Joey Calvono
She frowned as the Strider got in her way but shrugged... it wasn't her pack mate that was about to have the Weaver go off on his ass. She glanced to Sara with a raised brow, wondering if they should stay to see the ugliness that was more then likely to go down.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Pack.
Instinct.
(We don't need no fuckin' totem.)

...yet.

Armand in the centre. Konrad to his left. Gregor to the right. This is the formation in which they crossed over - separately, some taking longer than others, because they are, after all, yet unbonded. And now Armand starts forward, stalking, ready for battle. Sleeper Child restrains Joey. Konrad?

(Huge. Crinos. Black as sin. Ancestor's great sword slung across his back.)

Flick an ear. Cant head to side, look upupupwayup at the top of the shaft of light. Study the small metallic arachnoids [is it life that imitates Weave, or Weave which imitated life?] scuttling over the surface. Yellow eyes glint. He drops to all fours, as tall as a small Clydesdale and three times as wide.

"Armand." Garouspeech; his tone is a low growl. Humans would run shrieking in terror. Garou, however, would note the threads of almost-music in the tone. Surprising. "Wait."

Sleeper Child
"...Gee that's nice." Sarcasm thick and strenuous, he turns to regard Armand, marching the Hundred-yard distance between them and the crawling infestation of Weaver that possessed the street length.

"Far as my Spirit understanding goes, If we lose the Umbra the Weaver's physical minions are gonna rape us up the ass...And if I'm not mistaken that means you City Folk are first on her list..."

No good losing a strategic position such as the Umbra.

"...Suffice to say, I called you guys here to figure out what to do..."

He turned to look back at Sara, finally beginning to back peddle in Armand's wake, heading to follow his Alpha into the breach, even as he stares at the Spook.

"...If you've got someone to talk too? Do it. Do so. Whatever. Just figure it out. You got the information and the idea now...just gotta figure things out..."

And he turned, hurrying his pace to follow the Obsidian Black Crinos form that charged into the Maw of Hell (Not unlike a certain Light Brigade I know), eyes travelling to Konrad a moment with a rather "Help" like look on those expressive features.

CbN Staff
The Tube would tower a few feet higher than seen from such a distance, as Armand approached, the Spiders caring little for his presence, it would seem, continuing to scuttle and shake and flow with almost envious unison, no Pack could hope to achieve no matter how long they were together.

Metal, gleaming and beautiful, flowed like liquid through countless scrutinies and repairs and renewals and refinishing, as the pattern web that made up the strong strands stretching to the left and right flank of the Massive Tube embedded in the ground (14...15...16 feet tall) gleaming iridescent and gorgeous, tiny motes of light flowing through their interiors, one way, then another, the flood of phosphorous illumination skirting in so many directions it was like looking at a thousand lane highway from one side or another: too many to follow any one for any amount of time.

The ground beneath grew from greyish opaque to near metallic solidity the closer he trod, the Spiders atop the Tube still failing to notice...

Doing their Duty. In the name of the great Crafter.

The Endless
That was just what she needed. A Strider telling her, a Theurge and an Urrah about the spirits and that the City Garou would be the first to get ass raped if the shit hit the fan. She extended a hand to Joey, gesturing for her to hang back. If the Lords wanted to go forward, so be it.

“If the Lord wants to become a calcified Statue, let him…” she told the Ragabash. That many webs, that many spiders - - if they attacked, they’d all be bound into the Pattern easily enough with an enemy that strong. Sometimes not attacking right away was the best (and Wisest) course of action. Then again Wisdom wasn’t an Ahroun’s strong point. Maybe the spiders weren’t paying attention now, so long as the Garou didn’t interfere, but they would notice when they started to get attacked.

She chewed on the inside of her lip for a moment again, clicking tongue stud against his teeth. She was pondering, if the distant look to her eyes was any notification, “If I was a city were would I hide?” she murmured to herself.

Joey Calvono
She drew closer to Sara as she kept her hand on the gun beneath her jacket, speaking softly to the Gnawer.

"...should we leave? They aren't caring to listen and its not like we aren't trying to stop them..."

Nor had she cared for the way that the Strider spoke to the Omega...or to her for that fact. If it had been just a regular human, she would have kneed him and dropped him to his knees for the 'doll' comment, but she wasn't about to provoke a pack conflict...not here....not yet.

Armand Couvier
Armand moves forwards, his frame betraying his battle tension, his talons flexing slowly, his approach as soft and silent as a drifting cloud, a drifting thunderhead. If he notices Joey’s attempt to stay him, and Gregor’s interposition, he doesn’t show it. Moving forwards, stride by stride, he focuses his senses full on the monstrosity before him, the scintillating miracle of lightplay and order, electricity and pattern. In a way he’s almost entranced, and when Konrad speaks, he raises a hand, the gesture indicating - I shall attend you in a moment – hold.

The multitude of spiders, the forces arrayed before him suitable for a glorious end, a battle, a last stand, images and such nihilistic thoughts flickering through his mind, rising and sinking in the maelstrom of eagerness and fury.

He didn’t howl though, and soon it becomes apparent why. Having reached as close as he can get without drawing attention, he lowers himself into a crouch, massive arms draped over his knees, his head cocked to one side as he examines the tube, the action of the spiders, the corruscating centre, the source of the blue light, the calcification that is taking place on all side.

One maxim: Know your enemy.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Iron control. The Ahroun is crouched, sitting as a wolf would, handpaws on the earth, upright. Iron bands for muscles, tendons standing out on the sides of his neck, in his forearms/forelegs where the handpaws are braced against the earth. Steel. Whatever.

A low vibrating snarl that subsides as he sees the intention of the other. Good to know he hadn't chosen a fool to follow.

And when Gregor looks back at him, the Knife's yellow eyes flicker toward him once. Pelt slides over bunching muscle. The Knife rises to all fours, takes one step after the rest of his pack -

- turns back. Turns to [on] the Urrah.

"Please, my friends." His tone is mellow. His eyes glint like molten gold: sunbright. "Don't be timid. Come and give us your wisdom."

He turns his back, heavy tail held low and angry, bringing up the rear of the Kruje.

Joey Calvono
"Listen guys...I'm no good for this kinda stuff. I have no experience with the Umbra...I don't even really know why you called me out here..."

She doesn't want to be here and she seems insistent on going. Most of all...she knows this needs to be reported to Stephan and the more that can come back to live and tell the tale, the more consistent the report would be.

Sleeper Child
"You know...there is such a thing as tempting Death...Which has worse fates in store for you for tempting it..."

He is within a half dozen paces of Armand's right flank, his position well exposed to the Strands of spider webbery that make up the Tube's surrounding defensive walls, so intricate are they, that it would be difficult to slice even his lean arm through. He leans in, careful not to touch the miniscule nano-spiders that surge through and over the strands connecting (cocooned) buildings and the Conduit itself.

"...This remind you of anything...?"

He frowned deeply, his features twisting into a very dark mask of distaste, sliding back and away from the mimicry, while his head rose to peer at the lip of the Tube.

"...Bad Taste. Such very bad taste..."

The Endless
She started when Joey spoke, as if out of a reverie, and blinked slightly. She shook her head slightly, piercing glittering in the blue Weaver light and her snow-white hair looking almost a ghostly, phantasm blue now. Although whether it was in negative to Joey’s question or to something else entirely was unclear. She didn’t even reply to Konrad’s ‘come hither’ call for them to follow and ‘give their wisdom’. The Urrah weren’t timid: they just knew more about the Weaver and the dangers of disturbing its minions.

Given the two high level pulses of Rage from the two Shadow Lords, was it any wonder why they expected the Rural-tribe Garou to so spastic at a moment’s notice and draw attention? Uh huh. Thought so.

“If you were a city, Joey, where would you hide?” she asked the Ragabash the very odd question she’d muttered to herself only a moment or so ago. Then the Ragabash spoke and clearly wanted to leave, so the pack Theurge (stronger of the two) told her: “I will tell Stephan of this. Go. You’re no use here. You’re better outside of the Umbra.”

Joey Calvono
She nodded and then attempted to cross back...wanting to get away. She hated the Umbra...the sensation of being unable to control things. Theurges could handle the Umbra...they could manipulate or at least break deals with the spirits. Joey was a third wheel with nothing to add but bad retorts that generally don't make spirits happy.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
"NO."

The black beast whips around on Joey like a sandsnake. "You're here. You came. You. Me. My two pack mates. Your friend. Five of us. That's all. No more. No reserves to fill your spot."

That dominating presence. The weight of those burning eyes.

Crushing gentle: "You made a choice, Walker. You will abandon it now?"

CbN Staff
Apparently So.

The Weaver Light shone a bit brighter, with one of the obstacles removed, its glowing light seeming to silhouette the Poe-Theurge, Sara now, lost in her questions of cryptorchism.

The Endless
“She’s no use in the Umbra,” she told Konrad with a faint shake of her head - - a part of Sara’s head saying that Joey was of little use, period, unless you wanted something shot at, which was cruel to think of one’s own pack mate, but it had proven true time and time again. She was a pretty lousy Ragabash who tried to play Ahroun more often than not. “Believe me. I know.”

She then turned her strange attention to Armand’s call out and sighed softly, before replying, “You’re going to go into the Conduit?”

Konrad Vrdoljiak
--too late; the Glass Walker gone, her place replaced by empty aether.

Konrad snarls at Sara ["No excuse!"], his rage a redblack crackle, literally visible on this side of the curtain. It snaps and dances on the ends of his fur, trails like plasma-gas into the air, leaving an afterimage that lingers long after he's turned away, shifted down, calmed down, and come to stand abreast of his pack.

Effortless: the Ahroun turns on his hind legs and falls into stride a half-pace behind Armand, to the left. Length of leg and strength of stride eat up steely distance, the Endless forgotten now. Those of the Full Moon live in the moment. They have nothing else.

Armand Couvier
Wheeling around, the dark Lord begins to race down the side of the street, clearly intent on following alongside, and not within, the Conduit.

Sleeper Child
"...It's a Joke. One big fuckin' joke..."

He chuckles somewhat, his morbid sense of humour kicking in again, at the spectacle in the Street: A rather fitting depiction of the Great Wyrm, caught in Her Webs. The story of the Corruptor's corruption right here in the devilish artistry of the Weaver's mad design.

"...How very much in bad taste."

And finally he is returning his sights to his Pack Mates, Konrad coming up in the rear and Armand already on all fours, preparing for a scouting Venture of some sort.

He turned to look back at Sara, a brow perk unintelligible from this distance, even as he frowned slightly under the force of her question.

Let's not give up on that suicidal Alpha thought just yet...

CbN Staff
Armand is stopped in his tracks within a few feet. It is hard to see past the strands that coat both sides of the massive Conduit, fleshed out in the know by the Weaver's ministrations. The lengths of spider webs criss-cross and grow so intricate, as Armand slips through their lengths, that soon enough, by five feet of web weaving, he is caught at a dead end, that leaves little recourse.

Turn back...

Or break the Code.

The Endless
You ask the Urrah for their expertise on a Weaver matter, they say something, and you ignore it. It would have served them right if the Gnawer Theurge just left them to their own devices, crawling around Date Conduits and messing up strands of weaver binding with their actions, which would no draw the attention of those minions, that Crafted the infrastructure. If they didn’t want the help, didn’t want to advice, wouldn’t listen… Then why were they asked to come in the first place, since the Lords were obviously more ‘able and worthy’ to deal with the problem that that did not understand?

Joey had winked out of existence in the Umbra and fled back to the Real World and left her with This. And ‘this’ was definitely - - with a tube to personify the thought no less – a bizarre trip down the Rabbit Hole. To stay meant placing her trust in unknowns (and two Lords at that), that if something went wrong they’d back her up. But they were pack and pack always came first before outsiders.

When Konrad snarls he gets a blank and apathetical response; you think it was that strange for her to be treated in such a manner? To have taunts of fear, cowardice, and perverseness thrown her way? Hardly. She was a Gnawer to begin with. The lowest on the social rung. She also looked and felt creepier than most Metis.

“You want answers: fine…” she stated to herself, a bare mutter under her breath as she stared at Gregor across the distance, eyes flicker-flashing with the Theurges own Rage (she may be a Theurge, but she was still a Garou - - she still had Rage.). But she would do it in the Theurge way and not the Ahroun way.

Armand Couvier
Armand doesn't pause, simply rearing up for a moment and wheeling around, sprinting back the way he came and past his pack mates, yipping a command that they follow, and as soon as is possible, turning down a side alley.

If it's not possible to follow the Conduit within its own street, then the next over would have to do.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Konrad follows - (a bark, no words, simply a sense of what he is about to do) - but unless stopped, he's on the other side. Where Armand turns left, then right again to run parallel to the conduit on the left side, Konrad does the opposite.

Twice the ground, half the time.

Armand Couvier
As Konrad peels away to follow a parallel if opposite course, Armand slows and then barks - a short savage sound - a sound of command, hard and without room for debate.

There would be no splitting up. Should one of them get in trouble, the others would not be able to help with the conduit between them. No - that bark signified one thing - Follow.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Hind paws dig in. Fur bolts upright, rage clashing on rage. Then the black beast shakes his fur out, whuffs, and follows.

Sleeper Child
He glides across the asphalt as Armand and Konrad slip Lupus and bolt down a side alley, his steps measured and practiced enough to carry him there quickly still in Homid.

A glance back over his shoulder is directed at the Young Gnawer Theurge, his eyes narrowing slightly and his body taut with the first ripple of the Change.

"...I'll find you another time. Need to have a little Talk, Spook."

And with that, he is Lupus. A mangy Doberman, with no brown spots. Dark, lean and wiry, he slips into the darkness of the alleyway, a silent spectre mimicking the unlives of those fettered shades down in the dark labyrinth of the Silent City. Following after his Pack Mates.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Three wolves now. All of them black as jet. Two huge and heavyset, fur long and thick, shoulders far broader than any known wolf subspecies', their large paws thudding over asphalt/steel - and one lean, rangy, sleek as a coursing cheetah, so effortlessly quick he seems to never touch the ground.

CbN Staff
The side alley was swift in ending, bleeding Armand and Konrad and soon enough, Gregor out into the street over, whose name eluded due to the lack of signs in the Umbra.
Feet clicked on the street below, the surge of the Lupine forms gaining incredible ground even on the slightly frictioned surface of the street below them.

The walls of the buildings on this side of the street remain as ephemeral as they had before, though there are signs of the metallic coding of Calcification encroaching on their designed roofs and wall cornices. The brilliant blue light showers the air beyond those buildings, appearing through lanes and alleys between edifices and flowing into the distance, where the mists of the penumbra continue to coil and obscure the path ahead...

Forward streaks the Pack. Seamless without a Union. What would a Totemed Pack be like?

Armand Couvier
Armand surges forwards at the head, his massive haunches churning under his skin like the engines of some powerful machine, his ground eating lope pushing his pack hard but at a pace that they could maintain for a good while. It was beautiful – wonderful – exhilarating - right for them to be working like this, as one, a whole, forged unit. That exquisite sense of self merging into that of pack, that feel for where the other two were, knowing without looking, their personalities tinting the whole, so that, finally giving his rage freedom to explode into action, he moves with the joyous confidence of an Ahroun under a Full Moon in the service of Gaia.

CbN Staff
The Blue Glow is paramount for some time. Long has the existence of the Conduit's end, been left behind and far into the depths of the distant Penumbral lands.

The walls were growing more metallic. More fruited with the Weaver's seeds of Order and Stricture and Stasis. A Frozen display of fixtures and edifies, calcified into a simple pattern that consisted only of the web. The Blue glow was intensifying on the opposite street, the mists beginning to clear somewhat ahead, revealing more street, curing and swaying in various directions though...the Penumbra seemed to a bit more straight. A bit more linear then the actual world's skewed Charleston roads. The fresh sight of a possible end to the minutes long journey, flows the entire scene into more of a backdrop for the rushing Pack, then any true scenery...

...And there. In the distance. A Powerful Surge of light, as if a bolt of lightning had been paused mid-strike.

The Endless to Interwoven.:
Back a Step.
(Back a few Steps actually.)

Fine.
They could deal with this themselves.
It’s not like she didn’t have other pressing engagements at the moment.
It’s not like she didn’t have other important things to look into.
They were only Lords.
Whatever.
Fine.

I hate (everyone/nothing/nobody/everybody/you/him/her/it/that)…

She could follow the Lords and their Strider, but any Gnawer worth their salt wouldn’t trust an unknown Lord (especially one of which seemed close to Frenzy) at their back, especially ones that were pack. They’d leave a Gnawer at the wayside as no consequence if shit hit the fan. No, she was paranoid and she was also a Gnawer at heart and they didn’t like Lords generally. Maybe the Strider had potential, but that was yet to be seen; he was a little too cosy with the Lords, for her liking (…but he may know things…)

So, she didn’t follow.

She instead went to inspect the webs and the little spiders that crafted it, where the conduit spouted open and spewed the blue light. She reached out a very tentative finger and touched one of the webs, thrumming it without breaking it.

“Little family?” she spoke in the tongue of the spirits to the weaver spirits in the vicinity - - maybe one would deign to pause or reply (and preferably not attack).

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Long running puts you in a sort of trance-state. An altered existence, breathing and heart rate jacked up a few notches but steady, the rhythm of your feet as even as a pulse. Running in a pack for an hour does more good than a year of therapy.

And whip around that last bend - the conduit's end is suddenly visible - Konrad has three words for his pack mates.

"Where is that?"
...Realmside correspondence, he means.

Armand Couvier
Armand slows and comes to a stop, veering to one side, eyes on the light, skittering aside and then back, his body retracing his steps so that he comes to a complete stop in the middle of the street and sits. Taking a moment to simply absorb the sight, the vast bolt of static energy, to raise his muzzle to the air and sniff, pausing to listen, to let his lupine senses tell him more before he continues.

And, more importantly, to begin searching for some sort of Weaver defence to this core.

And in his mind, the thought emerges, and he gives it voice: Are there such things as Weaver Caerns?

CbN Staff to The Endless:
The Spiders do not deign to speak or talk, yet the disturbance of the Web does bring forth a rather interesting result.

No blaring sirens or calls of warning flare into life, nor Hunter Seeker Death Creature's of multi-limbed Weaponry surge to the fore to deal with the interloper.

Instead there is a Crystal. A spherical bulb of translucent solidity, covered with moulded and fused tines of similar colouration that jut in every direction from the centre, creating a rather odd sphere that seems perfect despite it's chaotic Fashion.

Identification in process. Sub-humanoid Creature. Following Command structure dictates...

A series of flashes and almost Morse code like signals flow through the centre and out the tines of the odd Crystal Creature, blinking brilliantly even as it "spoke".

CbN Staff
The view isn't spectacular so much as it is terrifically Eerie.

The site is able to be gleaned as the junction of a Street comes up at the exact juxtaposition as the actual Conduit's other "end".

Konrad's sense of smell cannot decipher between the sterile almost disinfectant odour of the Weaver and anything else around him, though there is nothing failing his eyes.

The Conduit, surrounded by a bristling forest of towering Pattern Strands, silicon and containing innumerable lengths of silvery nano-spiders no doubt, juts up from the centre of it's Stasis Woodland, into mid-air, surging into the black wisps and white mists that make up the Penumbral air before Vanishing.

That's right. Vanishing. The Conduit seems to flow down from the very air itself, before being laid out like a rope through the street, the driving glow of Blue flushing down the tube with ferocious intensity, a near blinding illumination for any to look at directly.

A Rent in the Fabric of the Penumbra. Or...something else. It was hard for a pair of Ahrouns and the Strider to decipher, no Theurges in their midst.

The Endless to Interwoven.:
(Sub-species indeed! Hah! - - well, alright, maybe.)

Now that was an odd response and not like ones she’d had from interactions with the Weaver in the past. She touched the webs again with a finger, thrumming and plucking without breaking them. Maybe it would only be first time lucky and now the Shit Parade would hit the Fan, but it was a curious result, given the one that normally occurred.

“I speak to you, you speak to me… What are you? What is your Purpose?”

Sleeper Child
He skidded to a halt alongside his Pack mates, swivelling his long head 'round to peer at the juncture of the Conduit, performing a mid-air vanishing act to Gaia knew where.

What happened to Light-snake tail? Where does it go?

The Arabian Eyed Lupus turns to regard his Alpha and Pack mate, settling to his haunches with a lolling tongue and a welcome strain in his breast. (Striders - Born to Run)

CbN Staff to The Endless:
It swivelled in mid-air, channelling itself into a hovering position near Sara, more conversational now that it was at eye level. The multitude of reflections it shone back at her, of her lily-white features, was intermingled with a metallic colouring; almost as if she were a poli alloy in the mirror reflect.

Designated Command Geomid. Why are you here?

Either the Spirit was attempting to sound professional and Weaver. Or it was truly a computational Hazard of Logic and Strong Intelligence.

Armand Couvier
The Ahroun turns to the other two, his lupine face betraying great disquiet, and he simply observes his packmates for a moment, then, he essays the following in the harsh, primordial language of the Garou:

“This is serious, and beyond our capacity to understand or deal with. This power is coming from some other part of the Umbra – though how or why I do not know.” Turning back, he regards the monstrosity, and then raises an eyebrow at the other two, a remarkably expressive gesture. “Ready to go closer?”

The Endless to Interwoven.:
“To understand the pattern,” she told the hovering Crystal as she saw her own reflection in its surface, reflected like a white metallic creation of her self.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Alien to him, the conduit halts in the distance. Can stasis be in turmoil? This thing is. The energy leaking from it could fuel nuclear reactions. Konrad's hair stands on end, as though he stood too close to a capacitor.

"Yes. But I know nothing of Weaver, and not enough of the Umbra." Neither shame nor pride to that (though now, he will take the time to learn. Ignorance is never an excuse, after all). "Where is the Urrah Crescent-Moon?"

Oo-RAH. That's how he pronounces it, a slight stress on the first syllable, a stronger, gravely, angry stress on the second.

CbN Staff to The Endless:
Irrelevant. Cease your functions or calcification will commence.

The creature swerved away from the young Theurge traversing it's way back up towards the top of the Tube, flashing and flickering dangerously quick, at some unseen Command Structure or other.

And atop the tube, a moment after the Crystalline Command Geomid has vanished, there is a noticeable shift in the Pattern spider routines. Their bodies swivel and chime as five...then six...then ten of them stop their work across the lip of the Conduit, which has slowly started to inch out beyond where it once was, into the road and farther down the Penumbral street. It was being built but at a slow rate. The webs must be paper-thin and held so tightly close that penetrating the Conduit's actual side would be...a feat to say the least.

Suffice to say, the Pattern spiders lean over the tube rim, peering down at the Urrah Theurge, clicking mandibles in sharp unison as if to summon something...

Greater.

Sleeper Child
He stared at the large construct for a little while, tilting his head this way and that, a rather avid curiosity fascinating the Strider, no doubt, to no end.

It isn't until he returns to Konrad's question and Armand's decree, that he has something to add.

To know the Crafter is to defeat her. Same as the Corruptor. We should step back and seek home to plan and think on how to bring Wyld to the Weaver...

Armand Couvier
Armand considers this, and then growls his assent, a growl which grows more ferocious as he directs it a the conduit, and then, with a sharp bark, he's off, moving away, heading in the direction of his loft where he plans to think this over with his pack.

The Endless to Interwoven.:
“Without understanding the Pattern cannot be sustained; the one mind of Order needs Reason, for from Reason structure and Control is built…” she replied to the floating orb as it floated up and away. At the appearance of the spiders and their clicking mandibles as if summoning something - - greater. More. Bigger.

She stepped away from the web-pattern and the Data Conduit, as she’d bee told, and continued to back away. Nothing more would be learned from this experience - - save perhaps what it felt like to be overwhelmed by huge odds and calcified and added to the Pattern.

Neither of which being something that she wanted to experience.

She’d find out more another way. A different way.

This was Charleston City - - whatever happened, the Soul of the City should know, at least what occurred within the boundaries, even if He couldn’t do anything about it right away.

Sleeper Child
He is swift to follow, keeping with the pace just for the feel of his first Pack.

Not as bad as Pops made it out to be...

CbN Staff to The Endless:
Sara backs away from Mystery. One too dangerous even for her curiosity to override. The Weaver was planning and mapping the design of the City's Penumbra, making changes and planning bigger.

Her influence stretched, no doubt, through the Physical world, quite possibly forming a logical and rational Calhoun Street for many a mile down the road. No doubt the shop owners had more efficient ways of doing things. More correct, accurate and platonic attitudes.

The crystalline webbing that surrounded the Conduit's flesh, glittered and shone with the presence of a Million tiny spiders, while those atop the Tube's edge, continued to click and watch Sara until she reached a safe distance...

...Before returning to their duties, as if nothing were wrong or would ever be wrong again.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Lingering.
Staring.

Yellow eyes narrowed, blue light casting a cold glow to the tips of his fur. Dancing deep in the black pupils.

Electric hum of silence fills his ears...

...and then he turns, shaking his head once like a dog with an ear itch, and once again brings up the rear.

The Endless
Sara was still in the Umbra.
She was still near the site of the Data Conduit.
Although more sitting some hundred yards away, a nice safe distance..
Across the way near the edge of the City of the Silent where Ghosts roamed free.

She was staring at the Weaver monstrosity, bathed in the Blue Light that made her spirit self seem to radiate essence more than it already did when she shucked the mortal flesh and dipped into the Penumbra.

Thinking.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
A hundred yards is a short distance for three wolves.

They run, the pack. They run fast. In a few seconds they blast by Sara, the force of their combined rage [Garou!] and their fury [Weaver!] and their exultation [pack!] lingering in the air even after they've passed like a scent, like ozone after the lightning strike, like heat after the explosion.

Then the largest of the three wolves, also the last in the short line (rearguard. second only to vanguard. there's reasoning in his positioning.) slows, wheels, turns. Trots back. Sits on his haunches, barks once, sharply, to get the Theurge's attention.

"Come with me."

The Endless
Even though he barked sharply she didn’t immediately turn to look at him, her mismatched eyes intent on the Weaver-activities blossoming all around on the other side of the Street. Finally she turns her attention (creepy, creepy Theurge - - eeriness personified) to the Lord (…now, which one was that again? They all look the same to me…).

"Please… Don’t order me around." she replied calmly to the Lord (for what other way would a Gnawer be expected to take such a comment from a Lord?) as she stood, brushing the seat of her ripped and frayed jeans off. "Did you wish to show me something… friend?" She was trying to be polite, even though she didn’t want to be. He’d called the Urrah ‘my friend’ and he was getting it back at him. She didn’t believe for a minute that he’d ever call a Gnawer a ‘friend’ without it being a lie through his teeth.

Damn conniving, back stabbing Shadow Lords.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Conniving.
Backstabbing.
Wait til she hears his name.

"This way," growls the big Ahroun, a strange touch of pleasure in it. That damnable amusement. It never goes away.

He turns and starts back, massive, six feet and then some of thick black fur, diaphragm-high at the withers to a man. Wide enough at the shoulders that a field biologist who caught sight of him might think for a moment he was another undiscovered species of canine altogether, and no wolf at all.

He moves slower this time, methodical, leading her back to the point where the conduit seems to drop out of the heavens itself. There he stops, sits again, and waits.

The Endless
She shifts through the forms to follow.

She wasn’t like most Gnawers with their mottled pelts. She could have even been a Silver Fang with her snow-white fur that sprouted out as she adopted a more easy (quicker) form the traverse the Umbral realm. Snow fur moved as she did, flowing with each of her steps after the larger (jet black) creature (Lord), the fur interlaced in patches with what looked like iridescent snake-scales (think Falkor the Luck Dragon from Never Ending Story) and the snake-fangs (wicked curved) that adorned her maw where wolf canines should have been were visible enough from time to time. Even in lupus her eyes were mismatched (blue and green) - - What is this colour you speak of, human?

She took a little more time that the Ahroun (her stamina was not on par with his) and she also kept a wary eye out on the Umbral surroundings. In any Weaver tainted area the possibility of attack and calcification into the Pattern was always high, even though the Pattern Spiders had ignored them to date (and up until she’d touched and thrummed a pattern along the webs near the Data Conduit opening).

When he stopped, she did.

She sat back, head tilting to the side and upwards to look at the gaping maw of mist where the tube rose up and seemed to vanish.

“Curious,” was all she said, a strange combination of sound and body movement to convey the word-idea into wolf speech.

CbN Staff to The Endless:
Whatever it is the Ahroun's describe and what she actually sees are two different things.

Sara is invited to visit the strange Conduit, vanishing into the centre of the Sky, a shroud of dark black and mist.

When she arrives there will be little doubt in her mind what has happened. It is in the bond and blood of her knowledge on Spirit Lore, even if she is unaware of the Weaver's machinations.

The Conduit did not bleed into the air. It was fed through an Umbral Portal.

A Passage that led, no doubt, into some Realm or other, deeper in the Umbra's manifold layers.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
"What could give rise to such a thing?" he says back, unlikely to be satisfied with so brief a response.

The Endless
“Her influence spreads,” she replied, eyes still lifted to look at the great monstrosity of a problem presented before them before she rose up from her haunches and padded a little to either side, sniffing and inspecting the problem from a safe distance (no need to get her nose hairs singed, is there?).

“The Weaver seems to be planning and mapping the design of the City's Penumbra,” she added as she cocked her head to the side, curious gesture, and barely spared a glance at the (annoying) Ahroun. “Or that is the indication that the Spiders and the Crystal gave.”

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Behind her, sitting, his eyes never leave her. "The Spiders. The Crystal?"

The Endless
“I had a closer look at the Data Conduit,” she replied with a faint rise of wolfish shoulders and a puffing of her chest that then fell, as if approximating a shrug in lupus form. “No attack, just a Crystal-thing that doesn’t appreciate our investigations.” - - naturally and obviously. They weren’t of the Pattern, of the Design, therefore they are chaotic variables. Of course they weren’t liked.

The Endless
“It told me to fuck off before it calcified my ass into the Pattern, actually,” she replied frankly and with amusement that only a Theurge could probably find in such a setting and situation, “It says our wish to understand is ‘irrelevant’… then again, we are also apparently classified as a ‘sub-humanoid creatures’… which would explain the lack of concern.”

She sat back on her haunches again, licking at her muzzle with a pink tongue and displaying those wicked snake-fangs.

“What were your summations of this?” she asked the Ahroun, with a flick of head and muzzle towards the strange sight that they peered upon, “What did your Alpha want to do when he found it?”

She then studied the Ahroun for a long moment, adding, "They do what they were made to do. The Weaver is bringing Changes and making bigger, larger plans for this city."

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Making bigger, larger plans: "Building a bigger web," Konrad summarizes, bluntly. None too happily, either.

Then, after a long stare, the black wolf whuffs. "We don't know what it is. But we don't like it at all. We're going to go home and figure out what to do with it."

There is no I, no my Alpha - there is only we. Pack is a solidified whole, at least to outsiders.

A pause. "You should go home yourself before you're worse than calcified. Tell that Glass Walker friend of yours to make herself comfortable in the Umbra. We are, after all," rising on his four paws, suddenly taller and larger than her by a large chunk, the Knife stalks forward, "half-spirit."

He pushes blatantly into her personal space on his way past. Assertion of dominance: head high, tail high. Wolf instincts run strong in this one.

The Endless
“She’s of my pack…” she replied, a low rumble, to the Lord Ahroun, “And she’s been through more battles in this city than you have. As has the rest of my Pack.”

“And it would be much below you to ask an Urrah Theurge just where that lovely conduit disappears to, wouldn’t it?” she replied and her snake-fanged maw snapped at his tail without catching it when he pushed past (she was tired of arrogance, she was tired of being pushed around, she was tired of trying to help, and tired of being tired).

“But of course two Ahroun and a Ragabash that aren’t even Urrah would know all such things, wouldn’t you? I mean Gaia Forbid that a Gnawer knows more than likely what that great big gaping hole is and the purpose of it…”

She shifted up into Hispo, flicking her head to one side and it was clear that this usually placid Theurge did not like this Ahroun Lord. Come into my home and tell me what to do, will you?

“But by all means… run head long into it. I’m sure you’re pack will look nice as matching Drones… And don’t take it as a threat, Ahroun, it’s a warning.”

Then she moved to leave. He could go his way and she would go her own.

Konrad Vrdoljiak
Her snakefanged maw takes a lunge at his tail and he [BREAKS] spins on her, hard and fast, pivoting on his hind legs to slam his powerful shoulder against hers.

Lupus against Hispo.
Quite evenly matched.

A low snarl vibrates through his chest wall and into hers. His teeth show as glints of white touched with blue: the conduit's otherworldly glue. Now they have to twist their heads about to see each other out of the corners of their eyes, one's chin over the other's withers - a yin-yang, black and white, antiparallel, offset, and so easily could one reach over to grip the other's ruff between his(her) teeth like pitbulls fighting. Sparks leap from his golden eyes.

"Don't try my temper when the moon is in my blood, Urrah."

Nostrils flare. A fierce inhale until his ribs expand against hers. Then an exhale, centring himself.

Draw back a step. Step down. Turn to face her fully, legs stiff with anger, but controlled. "We don't know. We don't claim to know. I said that already. Shall I say it again?

"But nor has it occurred to me that you might know."
Inhale-exhale.
Grudgingly, though sincerely: "My oversight.

"So by all means, Gnawer. Enlighten me."

The Endless
She snarls back when he slams into her shoulder with his own, Hispo vs. Lupus. It was probably the only time that she could match him in strength (and size). Her own legs were stiffen with a palatable anger that just seemed to intensify the eeriness of her presence and strange look of her appearance, like the Metis born while wholly Homid.

“There are realms beyond the Penumbra,” she replied, the impression that if she was in Homid she’d be speaking through clenched teeth, spitting out the words. “The Conduit does not bleed into the air…”

A huff of breath and she stalked back several paces to take a wide berth around the Ahroun (the moon was in his blood, but she was just as pissy it seemed) as she moved to exit the area (Too Weaverish for her tastes, too static and cloying at the back of the brain for Reason, Order, and Stasis: like it fed and bred just by being there.)

“It is being fed through an Umbral Portal.”

She snort of breath through her nose as she flicked a look at the gaping misty hole, “And no doubt leads deeper in the Umbra's manifold layers.

“There’s your answer, Lord.”

Konrad Vrdoljiak
The Knife doesn't stop her. Doesn't watch her go. He returns his attention from the conduit dropping out of thin air, gleaming eyes narrowed on the point where it peters off and vanishes. A productive night. He knew more now, and consequently, so did his pack.

He doesn't bother to thank her for her help. But a Vrdoljiak remembers his debts.