[P] ideology is destiny
#1
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Oh wow look who finally got this up. :') This is a pack meeting for members of Boreas!

They had been making slow, agonizing progress, and Beth was sick of it. She understood that settling in would take time, and getting used to this land and its unfamiliar and savage weather required patience, but it felt like little had been accomplished. Certainly they had begun the process, but it wasn't happening fast enough for her.

She had confided as much in her father, who had advised patience, but he was an old man and old men always told her to be patient when they didn't have answers. Frankly, she was tired of it.

Tugging her cape on and adjusting the way in which it fell over her shoulders, she smoothed pieces of soft leather here and there. Her armor was left in her tent, for she did not think it necessary to wear it within the camp. They had been here for well over a week without conflict, though the scouts had reported wolves and coyotes in the area. Some of the latter had already been dealt with, or so she had heard from the others. Her father had talked to some savage wolf living in the wilds, but he had not come to their camp nor joined their cause – his primitive brain, most likely, could not comprehend what it was they were trying to do. God's work was beyond the scope of baser, stupid civilians.

With one hand she combed her fingers through her curly hair, thinking already it felt different. They had been surviving well enough on what catches had been brought in, and indeed feasted well on several stops, but she longed for proper bedding and warmth. This forest provided them with what they needed but was not the landscape of home. Zion felt like it was ages away.

The few small fires she saw when she stepped outdoors were purposeful; Jarah and Bjorn were near one, the white wolf gnawing on a meaty bone while Bjorn dried wood. She saw Mathilda smoking near another, undoubtedly the cause for her starting one, but walked past these with purposeful strides.

About time, a male voice grumbled from behind her, and Beth turned with a frown on her face.

I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had other duties to attend to – oh, though I suppose you don't, if you've been standing around being useless, Beth quipped, lifting her lip.

Caiphas glared at her. A year younger than his brother, he was an awful grump who had only gotten his position because of who he was – or so she suspected, given his attitude – and kept it only because he did everything asked of him.

I was waiting for you so we could get on with this, he grumbled.

Beth brushed her hair over one shoulder before turning. Yes well, patience is a virtue.

The two rounded the small camp and found Amund conversing with her father. While Beth understood that he had come to aid and advise, she sorely felt the old man was assuming his position carried more weight than it truly did. She never brought this up, of course. Even if he was aging, even if he was retired, Jericho had been a true leader and was a respected member of Boreas. She would gain nothing by harming his reputation.

Oh, I hope we didn't keep you waiting too long, she cooed, interrupting their talk. She smiled sweetly as she came to stand between them, if a step nearer Amund than perhaps proper.

The gray wolf returned her smile. He stood with his hands behind his back and at an attentive posture even now, when he was relatively at-ease. She noted he had taken to wearing his armor regularly since their arrival, and wondered if he found fault in her not deigning to do the same. It didn't matter, she supposed – camp was safe for the time being.

No, you two are fine. Come, gather the others and we'll begin.

Beth looked to Caiphas but did not move. She saw his muzzle crinkle with irritation, but he gave a short nod and turned to do so – not howling, as this would undoubtedly give away their position – but instead making his way through the camp to bring the group to them.


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#2
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OOC / +0

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It was an especially miserable day and Sara had donned her sheep skin coat to cover her charcoal dress. She shrugged the black wool closer against her ear, reveling in its softness, as she watched her breath drift out before her like smoke. She sat near a fire, but just enough in the shadows not to bring attention to herself. There was need for the lime light now, not in this desolate place.

The Boreas wolves had not yet quite settled in to their new home, but she had been trying her best to make things more comfortable for the others, whether it be through cooking, cleaning, or even company if they so desired. The Styg woman knew how to carry a conversation, how to smile just the right away, how to laugh, if that’s what was needed. She was, of course, a vessel of the Lord and would do his bidding in any way that He saw fit.

But even she was beginning to grow anxious; the whole reason for her having joined this group was to lend medical aid; no serious emergencies had developed so far, and so she felt somewhat useless. This is why she had kept herself busy with the mundane tasks of the camp, and while she was sure the others were grateful, no one had yet thanked her. But that was alright, she did not need their acknowledgment, and the one wolf from whom she desperately craved a reaction from was miles upon miles away.

Sara sighed and reached up to clutch the crucifix around her neck, when she noticed movement among the camp. It was Caiphas, and the way he moved from group to group made it obvious he was gathering them.

Sara stood and made her way quickly to the gathering group; she threw a thin smile at Bethlehem when she got there. The two friends had been distant since the start of the journey, on Sara’s part only because she was sure Beth was dealing with orchestrating the whole group; she was sure though that the Anders woman was just as uncomfortable with this whole situation as the Styg, if for different reasons. With a huff, she drew her cloak closer and waited.


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#3
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Optime | cNPC: Snorri; NPC: Glade (+604)


Boreas Conflict II.


“How are these?”


The three bird carcasses were dropped almost rudely at the large man’s feet. Snorri frowned as he looked down at the ugly gift the Eklund had bestowed upon him. Reluctantly, he propped himself up and leaned forward from his comfortable position with his back against a log. He poked one of the quickly stiffening bodies with the stick he’d been using to prod the fire with. “Look pretty dead to me.” Snorri deadpanned, though, the glimmer in his eyes let on that it was meant as a tease.


The scout raised a brow, looking clearly unamused and simply wanting her question answered.


Glade skittered over at the scent of death, his little nose sniffing eagerly at the pheasants. His whole body seemed to twitch with excitement. “Pluuump!” He chattered, licking his tiny canines. “Yum! Yum!” The marten looked around, and Ragna rolled her eyes, knowing exactly who the mustelid was searching for.


She dropped down heavily next to Snorri, knowing by his stupid comment that the birds were at least useable for what they’d been hunted for. Glade scurried up into her lap, curling himself against her warm stomach. Though there was a fire going, the little thing enjoyed fleshier comforts as opposed to curling up by his lonesome. As expected, Ragna’s cold hands came and cupped his wiggly body to her.


Snorri let out a grunt in amusement as he looked the birds over with a more astute eye. “You made sure the flight feathers weren’t damaged this time.”


Ragna sent him a cold look out of the corner of her eye. “It didn’t piss me off.” Sometimes, she wondered why she hadn’t invested some of her training in being with the falcons while growing up. It sure would have made catching plausible fletching material easier.


Her hands smoothed over the marten’s plush fur as her eyes turned back to the warm fire the weapons specialist had had going. “How much more do you think you’ll need to make?” The scout had never been much for talk, but, the large male had become something of a friend to her over the years. There was no one else she trusted more with sharpening and crafting her knives for her.


He hummed as he turned the birds over and spread out their wings before rigor mortis could set in too firmly. “A few more scouting missions, perhaps. The initial attacks on Salsola and Inferni wasted a good handful of them.” He spoke of the drive-by shootings on the coyotes and the attempted raid on the traveling group of their allies.


The scout nodded once, letting Snorri play and pose the dead birds in silence. As he prepped the pheasants, Ragna let her gaze wander over the rest of the campsite. There had been a few other fires going with Boreas members huddled around them for warmth. She spotted Caiphas moving from group to group, and as the members put a pause on what they were doing and began to move off into a certain direction, Ragna knew a meeting must have been underway. About time.


She got up, nudging Snorri harshly with her foot as she helped Glade find a better place to perch. The marten slipped inside the collar of her vest, and huddled himself down between her neck and shemagh. Ragna didn’t wait for Snorri to be ready before she’d started to follow the flow of wolves.


He’d catch up.


And he did. They gathered with everyone else, curious to hear what their leaders had to say.




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#4
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w/ NPC hawk Edith (+415)

"Mine, Cain!" The screech of a bird drew a blur of movement from Elkin, his head snapping to the left in an unhappy reaction of senses. What he witnessed was a flurry of earthy-toned wings and the resulting rush of dirty snow, a fine powder of which flying into the meat which the tactician had been contentedly picking at. Edith and Cain had been consuming their own meals, but the falconer was always certain to place his birds apart when they were eating. His rigorous and deadly effective training of such animals proved to harbor aggression in their winged forms, and territoriality was not uncommon between the sibling pair. It was not much of a surprise to Elkin that Cain had impeded on his sister's food, but a dangerous battle of talons was soon to ensue. Currently, the female Harris's hawk was in the midst of clutching her rabbit leg, the end of which occupied in Cain's beak, and was in flight a bare two inches above the snow. The male jerked back, and Edith was unexpectedly thrown to the ground, her pretty plumage dirtied with flakes and frozen earth.

"Enough." Elkin snarled like a hellion.

It took his birds less than a second to cease their momentum where they lay, mid-tangle. The angered command by their master was something taken seriously, and Cain even had the sense to drop the rabbit leg from his beak. Stepping forward, the Ward scooped up the male by his legs, a common system in which to grip a falcon tight, and carried him to the crude-wire cage stashed inside of his ragged tent. The Harris's hawk didn't even attempt to protest and lowered its sharp-beaked head in defeat.

"Hungry." It pleaded.

"You ate. No." The creature cowering, Elkin left the tent and re-wrapped an end of bandage that had come loose around his forearm. It was not hard to see that while he could respect the usefulness of both falcons, Edith was his favorite.

Upon his emergence, he noted the signs of a gathering. Caiphas moved through the Boreas contingent, calling members to amass. Edith had finished devouring her rabbit leg and alighted on Elkin's shoulder even without being called, and together man and companion moved towards the gathering. Upon arrival, Elkin's yellow eyes were careful and unmoving on his leaders' forms, and he thought, rather coldly, that perhaps they were finally going to move forward with a plan to execute God's work.

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#5
  • But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently. The time for victory had not yet lent itself to them. How even the most loyal of soldiers could grow weary from enforced patience, the persistence of the heathens to continually endow the land with their filth, and yet, all the wolves of Boreas were seemingly able to do, was watch. Certainly, a few of them had been able to indulge with short bouts of purification, moments in which the righteous had displayed their power to those who had fallen short in the sight of the Lord. Methuselah had wholly embraced his part as a soldier for the cause, taking it upon himself to bring about the option for repentance for those sinners, those coyotes whose souls were all but damned. The manic soldier from Zion had managed to be privy to a few instances on his own; one with a pathetic she-coyote whose naivety had initially led him to be filled with doubt, but his faith remained unshaken and he had found himself renewed with vigour for the cause when he had joined Ragna in their renovation of the Inferni heathens’ borders. That décor would certainly be a lasting reminder of their presence. The other encounter had been a violent attack on some female who had been so oblivious to her sinful ways, and then Methuselah had found himself confronted by a pitiful male who had claimed to be her protector. Sinners protecting sinners. The legion of the Devil shall fall, for none can stand in the sight of the Lord. Justice is swift.

    Methuselah leaned against a tree, absent-mindedly swinging his large club around. This place was in no way like their home in Zion, and the large wolf felt out of place. The only thing that had truly fascinated him was the scent of saltwater. Besides that, there was nothing about this place that had truly endorsed itself to him. Sighing softly, the soldier cast his eyes around the campsite. A few of his fellow comrades milled about, some coalescing around fires, other conversing in huddled groups. Methuselah watched with silent obsession, words of prayer falling from his lips. “Direct my footsteps according to Your word; let no sin rule over me,” came his voice in hushed tones. Quite suddenly though, it seemed that something was about to happen for members of the faction began to forgo what they were doing and form a larger group. Perhaps a meeting was finally about to commence. Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and He will establish your plans. With a low growl of appreciation, the grey and tan furred male made his way forwards to join the merging group. He found a position not far from where Ragna and that other male, Snorri were. He gave the pair a subtle nod of greeting before turning his full attention to the happenings before him. Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisers they succeed. Methuselah trusted their leaders implicitly, and lend a loyal ear to hear what they would have to say.
    • Word Count: 521
      Form: Optime
      OOC: --
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<span style="font-variantConfusedmall-caps; font-weight:bold; text-shadow:#748881 1px 1px 2px;"><span style="color:#A60000">it's not the lies that you sing</span></span>

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<span style="font-variantConfusedmall-caps; font-weight:bold; text-shadow:#748881 1px 1px 2px;"><span style="color:#A60000">but what the silence will scream</span></span>

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#6
OOC:

OOC here

[701]

IC:

A strong hand gripped, and induced his tool of choice. The edge of it swiped and jabbed away, his emotion flowing through it, and into his target. Rudy was sweating, and his eyes were filled with violent passion. This exercise was natural to him, the outcome absolute. A prenuptial, with every technique heavily practiced, every movement planned. Typically, he was controlled, reserved, and his movements would rely on finesse rather than aggression. It was the root of his anger, which made his actions hard-pressed and drastic.

His mother wasn't there, and even when they'd seen each other every day in Zion, things had been quiet between mother and son. She wasn't there, and Rudy didn't want her there. She would only get in the way, only press him on things that didn't matter anymore. Things like his father, or Natalia; she would mention the fact that he had removed himself from what mattered most. Those things were irrelevant, and it felt better knowing that he was uninvested.

Rudy backed away from the writhen work, throwing the splayed wooden brush aside, and into the snow. The man turned away, his dreary eyes roundedly searching the side of his tent instead, in avoidance of what he'd done. His teeth gritted before he walked quickly around, and went inside to his armor—the assortment of metal plating and leather straps lying beside his bedroll. He pressed the protection to his body roughly, and utilized the cinches to tighten the fit around his slight form. There was no need to put on his belt, as that was always on his person within the camp—even when he slept. The only piece of equipment he left, was his helmet.

Rudy approached his painting yet again, his eyes refusing to meet the flood of colour he'd instilled upon the canvas which sat propped on the easel. Stained brushes, and jars filled with paint, consisting of many hues rested on a low table beside the easel—spattered—in what could be described as a rainbow of colour; incidental to the table's occupation.

The scene was of a lush cropping of forestry, but it had been painted over with fresh application. The paper which held the impression, was well-worked, almost beaten in his ferocity. The forest was consumed by fire, swallowing the verdant leaves that had been above, and the delicate flowers that had resided below. What once was green was now red, and Rudy was not beside himself. He had even considered tearing the paper up, but he didn't.

Still, he refused to look. The Stayner’s hand went to the sheath that hung at his side, fingers flexing, running over the crude leather exterior. A quick motion, and an aggressive flash of steel sent the wooden propping tumbling to one side—with one leg hacked—hanging by mere remnants of wood. The burning forest met small mounds of pebbly snow, and he half-expected to see steam.

Suddenly there was a tugging sensation at his backside. Rudy turned now and looked up, the early light of the morning hitting him, forcing him to blink it off. He sheathed his weapon. A hand came to block away the sun which pierced through the clouds, and his lambent eyes opened wider to watch the vast sky for a moment. Rudy’s gentle features warped into a slight smile, but it was soon withdrawn at the thought of his father watching him paint.

The initial pain of his father's loss had grown into a grueling soreness after all the time that had passed. It had followed him here, to this vicious land where infidels ran rampant, and did as they pleased. Rudy hoped to silence this pain, the screaming of his own voice when he had learned that his father had been killed by a coyote.

The warrior heard the beginnings of a gathering. With a glare of his scant eyes,Rudy started trudging towards the source. Soon enough, he'd gathered around with the others, his head tipped groundward, his eyes foreboding. The fire-adorned man stood ruggedly, with his arms folded. The chilling air carrying each expelled breath towards his father, the almost bloody signs of his fiery body painting, lurking in the small chinks of his worn-in armor.
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#7
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Linae was impatient. She truly was; this was the holy war, the truest crusade of them all, and she was itching to get going. But they had to do it logically without rushing into things like a headless chicken. Scouts had to be sent, medicines, goods, everything had to be prepared before hand and Linae was bored stiff. There were only so many drills to run, patrols to hash out, and murderous thoughts to repress in the world before the boredom set in.


She sat in the shadows, trimming her nails in a careful manner and illuminated by one of the handful of fires. The light was flickering and annoying, but this was the best time to find a moment to do the little things that made it feel more like home. Zion was far away, truly, and this God-forsaken place as a nightmarish place. It would be best to succeed in their crusade with as much swiftness as could be mustered, just so that they could claim their glorious spoils, bask in the light of triumph, and return home heroes. It was Linae's wish to participate but she was also still pining for a familiar place.


Her hands stopped with the file, looking up at the sight of Caiphas walking through the camp. Her maw split wide as she realized he was calling them together, and she hastened to tuck the file into her belt satchel. Patting it, she walked toward the congregation, one hand clasping fervently around the cross at her neck, a choker, symbolic of the nature of her faith. No one could choke her anymore than it did, and only it would bring her breath back. Linae eyed her various relatives, lopsided grin revealing her eagerness.


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#8
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This place was not Zion.

It was colder here, and damper – he felt this each morning and late during the nights when he woke to the smell of smoke or nightmares that plagued his thoughts. These had lessened as the years went on, but he did not forget. Frightful visions of a world on fire, of the dead and dying, of the men he could not save, these were the things that Jericho dreamed of.

When he needed peace, he prayed. Sometimes, prayer didn't seem like quite enough.

That was part of what brought him north, chasing ghosts. He remembered his father, strong and proud, with intentions pure and holy, ordering him to remain behind. His mother had not wept, but she had hugged him tight and fierce and told him she had loved him. They had left behind a young man who would become an orphan, a soldier, and a leader – and even now, when he had lost this last title, when he had become a man of God, he could not abandon this mentality.

He suspected many people looked upon him and forgot this. Jericho was getting older, and graying around his mouth and eyes. Old wounds ached when the weather turned sour, and he did not carry his weapons openly these days. The loose cut of his dark robes hid the truth of this matter, but it was not deception in the wicked sense – the Devil's deceptions were much more grand, after all, and he was only a man.

As the others began to assemble, Jericho remained where he was. Beth had put herself between him and Amund, and when Caiphas returned he took up a position on his brother's other side.

Jericho felt, for a moment, that he was seeing something that had happened before. This sense of déjà vu sent a peculiar sensation through his spine, though his scarred face showed very little of this change. He had learned long ago how to hide his feelings, as they promoted weakness.

When he was satisfied that all present had been gathered, Amund cleared his throat and stepped forward.

My friends, he began loudly, though his voice was not harsh – it had a pleasant enough sound, and Amund seemed comfortable speaking before a group. Before we begin, I would like to open this meeting with a prayer.

He made a gesture towards Jericho, who bowed his head.

Lord, the gravely-voice rolled. Open our mouths so they shall proclaim your praise. Send your Holy Spirit from on high so that we may walk as children of light and reveal your presence. Blessed be God, forever, hallelujah amen.

Amen, Amund echoed, and lifted his face to the assembled crowd. Now then. We have gained as much intelligence as I suspect we will – our enemies are two-fold. The coyotes of Inferni are our primary target, located to our southeast. They have large numbers, but many are non-combatants. We will eliminate these if an opportunity is presented; any casualties will wound them as a whole.

His expression never faltered. The deaths of young or old did not matter – they were coyotes, and they deserved to die.

The moon will be full soon, and that is when we will strike. My brother and I will take units to Inferni. Simultaneously, Beth will lead others into Salsola.

Jericho saw his daughter stiffen, and her hands clench. It was a decision she did not agree with.

We know less about these heathens. Our information is limited – they line their borders with traps and have experienced fighters. They are slavekeepers and worship dark forces; the Devil is here in these lands and has set his vile minions to corrupt all that is good.

Amen, Jericho rumbled.

Prepare yourselves, my friends, the gray wolf looked out over the group, and his blue-green eyes gleamed. We have work to do.


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