Early July, and Tamsin is found by someone or other and it's probably Calden, let's be serious. He gets them together, hooks them up, his tribemate and... whoever this woman is, still young but too old to still be a Cliath, really, and yet.
Early July, just before or just after a holiday, and they meet at the Botanic Gardens some time before dusk, at a curious man-made valley that is as deeply sloped as an inverted pyramid. Avery is standing there, in a pretty white skirt and a sleeveless lavender top and a pair of cork wedges that wrap around her feet and ankles in strips of golden leather. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, curled into a corkscrew, and when the light hits it she shines like gold, and when the light hits her earrings they shine like gold because they are gold.
Avery Chase, called Reverence of Dawn, though it's likely given her tribe that she's got a longer name tucked away for special occasions. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she is watching small children roll down to the center of that artificial valley, listening to them laugh and shriek and get up and toddle around and begin climbing back upward. They climb for the sake of falling. She wonders if there's a lesson there, decides there is, then notices Tamsin.
The smile on her face is incomparably warm. "You must be Tamsin," she says, because she catches a whiff of the woman or because she's the only woman walking directly to Avery. Or meandering loosely towards her. Or something.
"Mr. White told me that we should meet, and as his counsel seems fit for the choosing of wine and steak, I decided to test and see if it was fit for social encounters as well." Her eyes sparkle as she says this, blue irises ringed in hints of silver, and she's -- joking, yes, she's being silly. A silly Silver Fang Philodox, which means she must be <i>out of her mind batshit crazy</i>, probably.
Avery extends her hand to Tamsin, not palm-down like a queen but palm-side like an American. "Avery Chase," she says unnecessarily, most likely, and then a bit softer: "Reverence of Dawn, From Whom The Stars Shall Not Be Hidden By Sunrise," called it. "I am a Philodox, in case Mr. White neglected to grant you a full dossier, since he has failed to attend us and give us a proper introduction. I simply cannot tell you how pleased I am to meet you."
Oh, but here's the thing: she means it.
--
The meandering happened before Tamsin found Avery, just after entering the Botanic Gardens for the first time. It's the kind of place a younger Tamsin might have come on a fieldtrip or with her family, then snuck away to find the fairies. Certainly, the fairies might have - once, in a more dawn-new Age of Man - cleaved to lonelier haunts, a place where children weren't flinging themselves down a hill while some wistful college-aged students started talking each other into doing the same, but any child with eyes to see could look around the Botanic Gardens and know that this is where the fairies are today.
Let's be honest, too: younger Tamsin and today Tamsin have a lot more in common than today Tamsin would readily admit. And so, there was some meandering, some 'I'm an adult now, a responsible warrior of the Garou Nation, standing fast against the Dark That Would End All Days, spinning memory into sparks of brightness that'll burn the foe, Cinder Song, I am Fianna, and I am here to meet a sister-warrior from another tribe, not to lay in the grass and read or take a tour.'
And then, she did find Avery, standing by the artificial valley all gilt and golden, and she forgot all about loosely meandering, all about being in a strange new place, and walked directly toward her.
Tamsin's eyes go doe-still at Avery's warm smile. But the Fianna is a recover-y, social creature, and if her heart's hammering rather anxiously against her ribcage, ready to leap onto her sleeve and wave at the Philodox, it doesn't really show. Her smile's a glad, relieved, smoulder-thing, and though there's an awkward instant of 'oh, what's thi - a handshake? Sure!' before she clasps Avery's hand, it doesn't do away with the pleased-hello and the yes-it's-you and yes-it's-me informing her body language.
"I'm very glad. And I'm glad to meet you, too. The name is Tamsin Hall." A name for a name, her tone of voice says: a name for a name to make this an equal compact. So, pitched lower - her tone reflective, because she's thinking about Avery's deednames and what they might mean: "Cinder Song, Furious Lament, of Celduin, and I am a galliard."
"So, Calden of the counsel fit for steak or wine," and here, she pauses; humanity creeps into her features, scrunches her nose, and she says confidingly, "the only counsel he's given me about either is 'don't eat the cattle roaming live,'" bites the inside corner of her mouth, shrugs and side-smiles, half-a-joke before she's back to being to the point (in her way), "helped us meet. Did he tell you why?"
--
And this is, indeed, a place for fairies. Every so often they change the sculptures, the enormous abstrange art that populates fountains and ponds. They employ particular artists to show their work here. Sometimes the art itself is made of living materials or once-living materials, shaped from bamboo or reeds or what-have-you. Not everything is meant to be permanent.
Avery is standing with the tropical greenhouse behind her in order to look at that valley. Across that valley there are soft, small gardens of fragrant herbs and roses and there are so many pockets in this place where couples come to kiss that holding hands seems like a matter of politeness even if one has no intention of kissing anyone. And of course it's dusk now; summer camp field trip groups have departed, and now the gardens belong to those who simply seek the beautiful.
The beautiful, gilt, and golden, more natural than the valley, more lovely than most fairies. And that is not hubris to say, not narcissism: even those werewolves who may have, at some point, had the misfortune to cross paths with a silver-wielding knight of the fae would say that yes, the Silver Fangs are damnably as beautiful as they are. It's something about the way their purity speaks to the heart, to the blood, to spirit and yes, even to rage. It is something about how, when one of these mad kings or queens speaks with any authority at all, it is terribly hard to ignore them.
And she's smiling at Tamsin, so pleased to meet her, to see her, as though they are old friends and dear sisters who are having a reunion after too many years apart. One half expects Avery to throw her arms around the shorter woman and embrace her, but she does not. They clasp hands instead, and Avery laughs without malice or mockery but mere pleasure, and several people in the park turn to look at the sound of it because, well,
<i>look at her</i>.
"That's such a lovely name," Avery says, and it may not be obvious but she means both 'Tamsin' and 'Cinder Song, Furious Lament' and maybe she even means 'Celduin'. Her eyes spark, bright as stars, when Tamsin simply says: <i>I am a Galliard.</i> No talk of the moon she was born to or the special names for it. Maybe she's just matching Avery's own pattern, but still. She laughs again, or rather grins, a broad and shining smile, when Tamsin tells her that Calden just told her not to eat the roaming cattle. "Well," she says forgivingly, as though Calden needs to be forgiven for this, "they are his living."
She offers Tamsin her arm, with a 'shall we' in her body language more than anything else, to go on a nice stroll around the gardens. "He did, indeed," Avery answers, when they begin to walk. "He was kind enough to step in for my father, who was otherwise engaged, and escort me to a recent charity gala to raise funds for <i>The Healing Place</i>, which I am now quite certain is not a place for healing anyone at all. The woman at the head of the room gave a maddening speech about the end of the world and her wish to hasten it, for their god to create anew something better." Avery frowns, dark brows tugging together briefly, and even her frowns are pretty as a painting.
"Her voice was entrancing. It took effort of will to shake her off, even for me. The room erupted with applause, a standing ovation for this woman, Christina Black, preaching on the side of Apocalypse. As the others sat down I remained standing and confronted her. She started to send some goons after us, but we left, and they did not follow. In the car, Mr. White mentioned you, and said you had been 'checking out some crazy church or other'." Avery turns to look down at Tamsin, her gaze thoughtful, her carriage supreme. "Given the religious nature of Christina Black's vomitous speech, I agreed."
Her other hand, the one not linked through Tamsin's arm, comes to rest lightly on the Fianna's shoulders. "Now, you must tell me everything you know for certain, and then everything you suspect, for where the ahrouns of our people have fervor and instinct, and where the philodox have clarity and analysis, the galliards have the incomparable gift of both nuanced analysis and clarified instinct, and your suspicions may very well be as wise and true as any <i>fact</i>."
--
Her rib-cage expands when Avery mentions The Healing Place, sharp as a knick with a razor blade. They've begun to walk, and Tamsin is not awkward about the linking of arms, which takes her back to high school (it isn't such a long way to go, to be honest [it seems a forever]), to Maria and Willow, fitting her pace to the Silver Fang's, schooling the cadence of her steps, lengthening her stride. Tamsin is not tall; she is under-average, though she [lies] says she is 3/4s. With shoes, at least, that's usually true. It must quickly become evident that Tamsin is not one of those Fianna often told about who are so quick to laugh, so quick to turn into a bright storm of temper, so quick to wear their passions on their sleeves and show-off the scars on their hearts, transparent and good-natured. No, she's one of the other Fianna; the ones who might turn unpredictable, so you don't know if she's going to brood and pick fights or to become dreamily biddable when she drinks; the ones who are given more to dreaming; to the grave, and to the shadow thrown by the gravity of a situation. This is all to say: it quickly becomes evident that Tamsin's a serious duck.
Avery's other hand comes to rest, lightly, on Tamsin's shoulders, and her next words cause a little squiggle of anxiety to worm its way around and around her spinal chord. Avery sounds very much like a wise professor, giving her a test, and it's not fair, is it? She hasn't studied enough to whip out the incomparable gift of both nuanced analysis and clarified instinct. She quails, see. It is a very intimidating prospect.
"Who I wonder the most about," she says, after a brief pause, lashes flirting close to her cheeks, then rising, "is Opal Black. How she died; whether the family was rotten before she died, or only a little mad, only a little lost. How I read it, her husband makes stewardship of the earth sound like a sickness; maybe that's what beguiles these people into ruin, you know, allows them to still believe even as they change and fill up with poison and lose their natural shape, because if stewardship of the earth's important because god gave man dominion over it, just because of that, just that, then why would there be any joy or beauty in the stewardship? An end's a release, and who wouldn't want that."
"See, what I know for certain is nothing; just," just, she says, and they both know it's a word that means little in this context, "stories. The House of the Covenant becomes the House of God, and suddenly, they're in the news. They're going out among those who've been imprisoned and are now released, and they're drawing them into prayer. This is two years ago, and their rEEntry program, and they're claiming that nobody who enters it and leaves it repeats their misbehavior. But in this same story, the author sneaks in this little quip, that when coming up with this truth, they're not counting those who 'wash' out before graduation. What d'you think 'washing out' means, in a space like that?"
Tamsin tells Avery about 'The Healing Place,' and it's fast-track approval through a re-organized zoning board; tells Avery that the board might need re-organizing again; wonders, oh, wonders at the chaos of bureaucracy; wonders why things slip through the cracks. She mentions Jack Crenshaw, because Crenshaw's a crooked name. That's how she puts it: a crooked name, to go with Black. Nothing against Crenshaw and Black, but they're wearing a mantle of shadow, and doesn't Crenshaw come up again, waving his hand at those who don't want it near them, putting the fear of immorality into those who'd listen to his critics, the fear of looking sinister?
And Tamsin also tells Avery about the story she read, the one about a camp for troubled youth, this little side-story about kids who are at risk. (You bet they are.) Troubled. (By the House. Trapped again, caught, force-fed.) She ends it with:
" - you have to get them while they're young. Of course you do." Her cheeks are briar roses; pink and ruddy and furious. Tamsin falls, easily, into undirected fury; keeps the fury undirected, because it should only be directed as a weapon. "Who wouldn't follow a voice that could make the End seem like a compulsion, especially when they've been given up to it, just thrown-away? Ugh." Yes, ugh. That's the Galliard's way of finishing a recountment, didn't you know? It's all the rage up North.
--
Though she is hardly obtuse, Avery is not the most emotionally observant, and she doesn't sense that she has intimidated the poor girl. Avery, of course, knows she intimidates people, even other garou. Avery also knows, and this knowledge always trumps both her narcissism and her modesty, that to reveal what you have seen in another's heart can be the pinnacle of rudeness, can in fact be a direct violation of their privacy and a kick at their honor. So: maybe she doesn't sense it. Maybe she senses it and is too kind, too genteel, to indicate that she might have made the girl uncomfortable by putting her on the spot.
And perhaps she means exactly what she said: she wants to hear everything Tamsin so much as <i>suspects</i>. She trusts the Galliard's instincts and mind. They are both Cliaths; she would expect Tamsin to respect her judgement, in kind.
They walk, and Avery listens, and she observes sculpture and her pale eyes are dim with concentration that has nothing to do with the art she surveys. She has heard the name Opal Black, has done a little exploring of her own and is aware, and Tamsin clearly shares some of her own suspicions about the woman's sudden death. Tamsin mentions feeling that stewardship of the earth is a burden and a sickness, and she gently squeezes the girl's arm, a moment of shared understanding -- though perhaps her understanding is not with Tamsin. Maybe it is. Regardless: she squeezes the girl's arm, and they walk on.
"Crenshaw," she repeats, darkly, at the mention of the name. Just to the side. She is frowning after the talk of the 'camp' for 'troubled' youths. Tamsin's fury is sparking off her own, and everyone remaining in the gardens gives the two of them a wide berth: their moons are not slender. Their moons are not, in the end, terribly gentle things to be ruled by. They are <i>fucking dangerous</i>, is the feeling they give off. As pretty as they are. As soft as they appear.
Then, inexplicably, Avery smiles. Right at the end. She has paused by the trails that lead toward the Japanese Tea Garden, and she turns to Tamsin, smiling. "<i>Ugh</i>," she agrees, and gives a shake of her head. "I believe we should focus on Christina Black. Hers is the voice that captivates, the one that draws otherwise sane people to their feet in thundering applause. We should, as well," Avery says, and begins to walk again, still strolling, thinking aloud, but they are <i>such</i> thoughts, "discover, with evidence if possible, the truth of Opal Black's demise. It is unlikely we could create an ally in dear Mr. Black, but it would be foolish to ignore all paths without at least momentarily illuminating them. If there be snakes and spiders there, we shall not follow that road. Perhaps he killed her himself. But we should look."
Her voice is low. Still: she discusses dark things without shame, without harsh whispers, for they are walking in dimming daylight and talking of things even darker than twilight. One must not balk in the face of speaking of such things. How cowardly.
"There are many paths to purity," Avery says, more musingly than directly, "and the slaughter of one's enemy is perhaps the fastest, but one must not sacrifice efficacy for efficiency. True?"
Her head turns; she looks directly down at Tamsin, raising her eyebrows.
--
This will, perhaps later that very night, all come to a head -- with Celduin fog-whispering, silent-stalking a man who's become more (less) than a man in the service of this Christina Black and who, along with his 'friends,' is hunting Avery Chase and her escort. But for now, that has not yet happened. Avery has not been targetted. Blood has not been shed, and fireworks have not gone off.
The young woman with the grave little mouth (and it is a grave little mouth, during this conversation, setting itself into a slash of solemnity between speaking, as expressive as her eyes and the cant of her shoulders) listens as neatly and as closely to Avery as any hobbit ever faced with the counsel of Galadriel. Really. She's a good listener, and decent where it comes to learning her fellows, the better to remember you, my dears…
True? Avery says, and they're paused by the trails that lead off toward the Japanese Tea Garden, left utterly alone by people who don't know or understand just why the lovely blond and the pretty brunette make them want to look away and not linger. But one must not sacrifice efficacy for efficiency. True?
"Can you really have the one without the other?" Tamsin replies, an idealist who'd be dreamy if the topic weren't so serious. Her mouth twists to the side, contemplative, and after ooking briefly away from and then back to the taller woman[creature], she says, "I would agree on that focus. The stories get darker, once she shows up in the narrative, squatting like a shadow."
"Avery," and this is fresh topic. Avery can hear it in the way the galliard says her name. "How long have you lived here; who do you run with? Who should I ask for the story of your name?"
She doesn't mean Chase.
--
<i>Can you really have one without the other?</i> Tamsin asks, idealist that she is, and Avery smiles, and Avery's eyes are a-twinkle as she says,
almost chillingly,
"It depends on what your purpose is."
Avery has paused before the entrance to the tea garden, is looking at the cedar gate with its little arch, looking at the statues inside, the river-in-miniature, but not going inside. She is steady even with her smiles, centered inside on something that few garou of their rank have truly discovered and, even if they have, do not entirely understand: purpose. Perhaps Avery has found it. Perhaps she is merely very good at pretending. Many Silver Fangs are.
<i>The stories get darker, once she shows up in the narrative.</i>
Avery gives a small, slow nod, something before her just zen enough to give her reason for lengthy consideration. The topic shifts. She turns her head again to Tamsin, eyebrow lifting, at the question. "Very shortly," is her initial answer, and she begins walking again, circuiting them back toward the gates to the park, the enormous tropical greenhouse to their left. "I arrived in Denver in April. As for who I 'run with' --" and though there are airquotes around the phrase, it is a quote, an echo, not a mockery or dismissal of Tamsin's choice of words, "-- I am a free agent for the time being. I have hunted and fought with a handful of others in my time here, but have not felt the stirring to seek a deeper bond. I watch over my family and my kin."
She smiles. She is asked for her name. "Not all names of Silver Fangs have a story, perhaps not the way one normally thinks of a story. Elements may be drawn from the names of ancestors and adapted to the new cliath depending on their auspice and their particular skills. My fosterage was -- relative to many these days -- a long one, and those who named me were taking into account quite a few years of knowing me." She seems a bit wry, all of a sudden, wry and amused. "I'm sure one or two of them would be aghast that you would even ask such a question."
Tilting her head, she regards Tamsin thoughtfully. "What do you think, when you hear my full deeded name? What does it say to you?"
--
"Would they? I'm sorry," Tamsin says, first and not without a note of curiousity. At the glimpse of Avery's life the answer affords her. At the glimpse of how Silver Fangs think, perhaps. The apology is more of a respectful nod to the traditions and a place-holder than actually indicative of any real sorrow that she asked. Traditions fascinate her. All traditions, for all the tribes, and how they fashion heroes out've lineage, out've ritual and out've rite, and how that's changing in modern days, when the tales are less frequently concerning a pack composed of all Fianna or all Shadow Lords or even all Silver Fangs. Those packs still exist: of course they do. So do those Septs: of course they do. But the stories are changing.
"And I'm sorry you haven't felt that yet."
Tamsin Cinder Song puts the palm of her hand over her heart. Maybe because she is Fianna and the Fianna like a good gesture and the heart's the best gesture of all. Maybe because that's where she feels her own pack, the pack she runs with now, the packs she's run with in the past, the packs she'll run with in the future, if she has one.
"Um."
Tamsin lists to the side. Lets her balance tug her off-that-aways, head tilted to the side, angled, her muddy-hazel eyes considering and narrowing with a dreaming sort of pensive, of far-away. "I would say:
And there was a one who was called Reverence of Dawn, From Whom the Stars Shall Not Be Hidden By Sunlight. She was called Reverence of Dawn because it is right to revere new beginnings and because it is right to give reverence to the light that undoes the darkest hour. And she was called From Whom the Stars Shall Not Be Hidden By Sunrise because, and this is my bias, this is my hope, because those shining deeds done in the black before Day breaks and -- perhaps not meaning to, perhaps jealously and with intention (because Day can be blind, and that is its greatest flaw) -- then in its own shining obliterates would not be forgotten by her. They would be seen even in the new dawn. They would be added to account. And she -- "
But here, Tamsin who is a performer, Tamsin who is a tale-singer, a moon-dancer, Tamsin breaks off. Not because she feels awkward, per se, or because she's suddenly remembered herself, but because:
"I don't know. Whatever comes next. Maybe the first part would change once I got to know you a bit better."
--
"Only some," Avery says, amused by Tamsin's apology as much as her curiosity. She smiles. "You needn't worry. There are a thousand and one ways to offend anyone, whatever their tribe."
They stir past some long-leafed plants by the water, and Avery extends one hand to brush her palm over their blossoms, thoughtful. Of her desire or lack thereof to join a pack, she does not say anything, though Tamsin's expression of sympathy is truly gracious, is gentle without lacking respect. When she turns back her eyes to the other woman, Avery sees Tamsin holding her hand over her heart, and it strikes at her. She wonders for a moment at the way she looks with her hand there, as though some great outpouring is to begin.
It does not. <i>Um</i>, instead, and Avery smiles to hear it. Smiles, too, to hear what the galliard has to say of her name. "<i>Rem acu tetigisti,</i> -yuf," Avery tells her, uttering the phrase the way one does when they assume that everyone knows certain phrases, like <i>ad infinitum</i> or <i>mea culpa</i>. She does not explain it because she supposes Tamsin knows it already, and to explain it without being asked would be a grave insult to the other's intelligence or education. Perhaps Tamsin can guess, a moment later, at the meaning, for Avery goes on: "It is also a nod to my judgement. To my discernment and insight, to see what is hidden to others, and remember that which is done at night, both good and ill, even when the sun banishes shadows. But I like your interpretation. It's... hopeful."
Avery smiles and reaches out to her, thumb on chin for a moment. "You are quite insightful yourself." Her hand drops, and her arm begins to unwind. "And I do think that I would like to hear more of your thoughts as you <i>do</i> get to know me better. I have always thought that two of the greatest teachers among our kind were those of your moon and those of the new." Not her own. Perhaps she does not consider Philodoxes to be teachers. "I would hope that, even though we are not pack, you will not begrudge me your counsel going forward."
---
Tamsin actually blushes when Avery touches her chin, a detail that, did she only know it, the Galliard would be happy not to remember. Avery's hand drops; her arm begins to unwind. Tamsin stretches, pulling her own arms back, fingers-lacing behind her arching back, then over her head, then dropping again to her sides. She doesn't seeem to find anything strange at all in Avery's statement about no moons and galliards; but then, if Tamsin is anything, it is biased toward no moons and galliards, especially the Fianna variety, and while it's a subtle thread thrumming beneath, it is there. So she says, "It's not for anybody who is asked for counsel to begrudge it in these times, is it? Was it ever?" The 'was it ever' is clearly rhetorical; she means the answer to be no.
Adds, "Avery, though we are not pack-sisters, I'm sure -- I'm almost sure -- that we'll be pack on some evening or other when there's blood in the streets or there's, ah, knowledge to glean, and I think I am glad for that; that working with you will be a good thing."
The distinction between Pack, like Celduin is a Pack, and pack on some evening or other, the temporary packs of war or justice or knowledge or whatever, the allies-running-together, Elves-and-Humans, well -- it's all communicated by tone and context.
"So, um. What should not be missed here at the Gardens?"
--
Fade.
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