Faced down fell gods.
Monday, 12 March 2012 10:00![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouWhen you stand before the Fenrir you must stand.
12 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (69% full).
The lights are off, window curtains drawn, the living room kept dark and quiet except for the sounds of the refrigerator running in the other room. A fire is going in the fireplace, and where there's a table in front of it normally, chairs and seats centered about it, instead is an Owen sitting cross-legged on the floor, eye shut.
Jamethon is in the kitchen and the scent of holyfuckingshitstrong coffee is in the air. Jamethon, quiet in his endeavors presses down on the massive french press and pours a glass of the rocket fuel into a hand crafted mug normally used for a viking-sized "pint" of ale. A second equivalent cup is also filled, draining the pot between the two. The Godi hoists the two coffees up and carries them into the other room and sits in one of the chairs moved to the side, both mugs set on a small side table next to him.
Owen keeps still even as the other Get enters the room and sits nearby. He doesn't look up or even open his eyes, and certainly hasn't made an attempt to ascertain who might be there, but still, after the Godi settles in, he speaks up briefly. "Has it warmed up outside yet?"
The front door swings open and shut in time for Flint to be in the mudroom to hear the question, and then the teen shuffles into the living room, pulling off a heavy winter coat. "No," he answers, a nod of greeting given. "Owen-rhya." Pause. "Freezing outside damn it."
Jamethon grunts to the question in rather obviously negative fashion as Flint arrives. He takes up a mug and drinks of the steaming life-giving brownian-liquid. He looks over at Flint over the aleless ale mug and frowns slightly at the short-by-relation Glass Walker. The moist and frigid air that follows Flint in for the brief moment the door is open punctuates any futilities in thoughts of hoping for the reduction in the chill. The second cup remains untouched as of yet, and Jamethon grunts over to Flint. "I poured you a cup, still hot," he offers to the Cliath in a typical maddeningly cryptic Godi's tone of voice that never quite explains how he would have known to pour a second cup.
Owen's shoulders seem to slump a little, but only just a little. The cold air doesn't seem to have much of an impression on him, though, except to make its own confirmation. "Shit…"
Flint glances from the cup of coffee, to Jamethon, and back again as he moves over to sit down on a nearby chair, watching Owen for a moment. "Um, thank you," the teen says, a faint note of hesitation in his voice although he picks up the cup, wrapping his hands around it for warmth. One sip later, though, and Flint pulls a sketchbook out from an interior pocket of his sweatshirt, balancing it on his knee, as a sidewards half-glance tilts towards Jamethon.
Jamethon takes a long halting breath in that he holds and eventually releases in a yawn. He looks at Flint and raises and eyebrow. "Yes?" The Godi asks in deep rumbling voice.
Owen keeps his silence, simply returning to trying to concentrate on the feeling of the fire's warmth on his face.
The Galliard looks up slightly, drawing in a deep breath. "I. Uh. I wanted to ask you," Flint pauses, flipping through open pages of the sketchbook and glancing down at notes to himself. "About using wood maybe from, from the Bawn, for a project. And." The young Glass Walker hesitates even in what is a much more confident statement than the first, then looking back down into the cup of coffee now.
Jamethon seems uninspired to react physically to the Cliath's statements as of yet. He takes another long drink from the still quite hot and strong coffee. Swallowing it down he asks in a not-yet-quite-awake tone threatening to become bored, "Relax. Grow a sack. Speak up. Make your request."
Perhaps that slight twitch on Owen's face was the beginnings of a grin. Perhaps, but probably not.
Flint takes a deep breath in, then looks over to Jamethon. Now, the boy speaks quietly, at about the minimum volume to be easily heard, but at least the sentences flow in a fluid manner. "Sorry," he starts off. "I just wanted to ask, what should I do by way. Of chiminage to the trees, and such. It's. A project, woodcarving. I probably only need a few cubic feet. And if there is anywhere that, that there might be wood that's already fallen/cut or gathered, and seasoned." Flint swallows, then picks up the cup of coffee once more.
Jamethon considers the Galliard's request and stands up to his full imposing height. He then speaks with an intensity and commanding tone of voice. "Stand up, Cliath."
Owen lets out a breath, somewhat resigned, then leans a little over to look over his shoulder at the other two.
The boy sets aside the coffee and the sketchbook immediately and gets to his feet, looking halfway up to look at Jamethon after he's done so. Flint purses his lips into a faint line, for the moment silent.
Jamethon snarls out something that sounds like an intense disapproval. "Chin up. When you stand before the Fenrir you must stand."
Owen is taking a little more interest in this than before. He brushes off his jeans and straightens his legs a bit, prelude to standing up as well.
It's clear that Flint is making an effort, but it takes a moment before the boy straightens, shoulders squared, chin up, gaze still not quite on Jamethon. Standing straight, the Galliard reaches a full five and a half feet in height. "Yessir," he says, still quiet.
Jamethon rolls his eyes slightly and huffs out a breath. "Sir? This isn't the army. I'm nobody's Sir. I'm a god damned mother fucking Wyrm-killer. I have faced down fell gods and I stand here alive and willing to do it again. Do you aspire to say the same, boy?"
Owen gets to his feet, a carefully set poker-face now worn as he makes his way to the kitchen and, presumably, the back door. His excuse is a poetic, aesthetically driven, "Gotta take a shit."
Flint just stands there, head tilted to look at Jamethon as he speaks, and nods, very silently. "Y-yes." The one word assent is stammered, but truly meant.
Jamethon gives a slight huff of a laugh at Owen's proclamation before shaking his head slowly and nearly-growling. "You want my permission, you want to accomplish something important in your short life on Gaia's blessed flesh? Then I will hear you tell me." A pause and his voice becomes more even toned yet somehow more expressive of the passion that the Godi is feeling on this topic, "Now, will your existence mean anything?"
If it'd been possible to stand any straighter, Flint would. As it is, he just adjusts his stance slightly. "Yes," he states, with more volume, more confidence, and a deep breath drawn in in the moment of pause. "It will."
Jamethon cracks a ghost of a grin after a moment of careful scrutiny of the cliath and nods his head once. "Very well. This is what you must do, if you wish to take live wood from the Bawn. In the Umbra, the Tree's Spirit must be thanked for its sacrifice before the wood is taken. There must be a performance of the ritual feeding of Gaia upon the tree's roots afterwards. Take only what you need, and be respectful with the taken wood's use. If at any time there are problems with any of these steps, you will tell me… immediately. Understood?"
"Yes," Flint asserts, a very faint hint of a smile only in his voice. "I understand." Hands tap in a silent rhythm against one thigh as he stands there, seemingly a little less nervous now.
Jamethon eyes the Galliard for a moment longer before giving a huff and sitting back down in his chair with his now warm coffee. "Anything else, Flint?"
Flint purses his lips, shakes his head. "Thank you, Jamethon-rhya," the cliath says, retreating to a compromise of volume, louder than he'd been speaking but not quite as loud. "I. I should get back to the city, now." A nod is offered to the Get, and Flint begins to pull on the heavy jacket after tucking his sketchbook back away.
Jamethon gives a noncommittal 'mmhmm' in answer and seems rather intent on the coffee before him and the magical powers ingesting it should shortly have on the Fenrir's mood.
Flint gathers his things together, then disappearing shortly out the same door he entered from.
12 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (69% full).
The lights are off, window curtains drawn, the living room kept dark and quiet except for the sounds of the refrigerator running in the other room. A fire is going in the fireplace, and where there's a table in front of it normally, chairs and seats centered about it, instead is an Owen sitting cross-legged on the floor, eye shut.
Jamethon is in the kitchen and the scent of holyfuckingshitstrong coffee is in the air. Jamethon, quiet in his endeavors presses down on the massive french press and pours a glass of the rocket fuel into a hand crafted mug normally used for a viking-sized "pint" of ale. A second equivalent cup is also filled, draining the pot between the two. The Godi hoists the two coffees up and carries them into the other room and sits in one of the chairs moved to the side, both mugs set on a small side table next to him.
Owen keeps still even as the other Get enters the room and sits nearby. He doesn't look up or even open his eyes, and certainly hasn't made an attempt to ascertain who might be there, but still, after the Godi settles in, he speaks up briefly. "Has it warmed up outside yet?"
The front door swings open and shut in time for Flint to be in the mudroom to hear the question, and then the teen shuffles into the living room, pulling off a heavy winter coat. "No," he answers, a nod of greeting given. "Owen-rhya." Pause. "Freezing outside damn it."
Jamethon grunts to the question in rather obviously negative fashion as Flint arrives. He takes up a mug and drinks of the steaming life-giving brownian-liquid. He looks over at Flint over the aleless ale mug and frowns slightly at the short-by-relation Glass Walker. The moist and frigid air that follows Flint in for the brief moment the door is open punctuates any futilities in thoughts of hoping for the reduction in the chill. The second cup remains untouched as of yet, and Jamethon grunts over to Flint. "I poured you a cup, still hot," he offers to the Cliath in a typical maddeningly cryptic Godi's tone of voice that never quite explains how he would have known to pour a second cup.
Owen's shoulders seem to slump a little, but only just a little. The cold air doesn't seem to have much of an impression on him, though, except to make its own confirmation. "Shit…"
Flint glances from the cup of coffee, to Jamethon, and back again as he moves over to sit down on a nearby chair, watching Owen for a moment. "Um, thank you," the teen says, a faint note of hesitation in his voice although he picks up the cup, wrapping his hands around it for warmth. One sip later, though, and Flint pulls a sketchbook out from an interior pocket of his sweatshirt, balancing it on his knee, as a sidewards half-glance tilts towards Jamethon.
Jamethon takes a long halting breath in that he holds and eventually releases in a yawn. He looks at Flint and raises and eyebrow. "Yes?" The Godi asks in deep rumbling voice.
Owen keeps his silence, simply returning to trying to concentrate on the feeling of the fire's warmth on his face.
The Galliard looks up slightly, drawing in a deep breath. "I. Uh. I wanted to ask you," Flint pauses, flipping through open pages of the sketchbook and glancing down at notes to himself. "About using wood maybe from, from the Bawn, for a project. And." The young Glass Walker hesitates even in what is a much more confident statement than the first, then looking back down into the cup of coffee now.
Jamethon seems uninspired to react physically to the Cliath's statements as of yet. He takes another long drink from the still quite hot and strong coffee. Swallowing it down he asks in a not-yet-quite-awake tone threatening to become bored, "Relax. Grow a sack. Speak up. Make your request."
Perhaps that slight twitch on Owen's face was the beginnings of a grin. Perhaps, but probably not.
Flint takes a deep breath in, then looks over to Jamethon. Now, the boy speaks quietly, at about the minimum volume to be easily heard, but at least the sentences flow in a fluid manner. "Sorry," he starts off. "I just wanted to ask, what should I do by way. Of chiminage to the trees, and such. It's. A project, woodcarving. I probably only need a few cubic feet. And if there is anywhere that, that there might be wood that's already fallen/cut or gathered, and seasoned." Flint swallows, then picks up the cup of coffee once more.
Jamethon considers the Galliard's request and stands up to his full imposing height. He then speaks with an intensity and commanding tone of voice. "Stand up, Cliath."
Owen lets out a breath, somewhat resigned, then leans a little over to look over his shoulder at the other two.
The boy sets aside the coffee and the sketchbook immediately and gets to his feet, looking halfway up to look at Jamethon after he's done so. Flint purses his lips into a faint line, for the moment silent.
Jamethon snarls out something that sounds like an intense disapproval. "Chin up. When you stand before the Fenrir you must stand."
Owen is taking a little more interest in this than before. He brushes off his jeans and straightens his legs a bit, prelude to standing up as well.
It's clear that Flint is making an effort, but it takes a moment before the boy straightens, shoulders squared, chin up, gaze still not quite on Jamethon. Standing straight, the Galliard reaches a full five and a half feet in height. "Yessir," he says, still quiet.
Jamethon rolls his eyes slightly and huffs out a breath. "Sir? This isn't the army. I'm nobody's Sir. I'm a god damned mother fucking Wyrm-killer. I have faced down fell gods and I stand here alive and willing to do it again. Do you aspire to say the same, boy?"
Owen gets to his feet, a carefully set poker-face now worn as he makes his way to the kitchen and, presumably, the back door. His excuse is a poetic, aesthetically driven, "Gotta take a shit."
Flint just stands there, head tilted to look at Jamethon as he speaks, and nods, very silently. "Y-yes." The one word assent is stammered, but truly meant.
Jamethon gives a slight huff of a laugh at Owen's proclamation before shaking his head slowly and nearly-growling. "You want my permission, you want to accomplish something important in your short life on Gaia's blessed flesh? Then I will hear you tell me." A pause and his voice becomes more even toned yet somehow more expressive of the passion that the Godi is feeling on this topic, "Now, will your existence mean anything?"
If it'd been possible to stand any straighter, Flint would. As it is, he just adjusts his stance slightly. "Yes," he states, with more volume, more confidence, and a deep breath drawn in in the moment of pause. "It will."
Jamethon cracks a ghost of a grin after a moment of careful scrutiny of the cliath and nods his head once. "Very well. This is what you must do, if you wish to take live wood from the Bawn. In the Umbra, the Tree's Spirit must be thanked for its sacrifice before the wood is taken. There must be a performance of the ritual feeding of Gaia upon the tree's roots afterwards. Take only what you need, and be respectful with the taken wood's use. If at any time there are problems with any of these steps, you will tell me… immediately. Understood?"
"Yes," Flint asserts, a very faint hint of a smile only in his voice. "I understand." Hands tap in a silent rhythm against one thigh as he stands there, seemingly a little less nervous now.
Jamethon eyes the Galliard for a moment longer before giving a huff and sitting back down in his chair with his now warm coffee. "Anything else, Flint?"
Flint purses his lips, shakes his head. "Thank you, Jamethon-rhya," the cliath says, retreating to a compromise of volume, louder than he'd been speaking but not quite as loud. "I. I should get back to the city, now." A nod is offered to the Get, and Flint begins to pull on the heavy jacket after tucking his sketchbook back away.
Jamethon gives a noncommittal 'mmhmm' in answer and seems rather intent on the coffee before him and the magical powers ingesting it should shortly have on the Fenrir's mood.
Flint gathers his things together, then disappearing shortly out the same door he entered from.