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Garou venue. The rise and fall of the Idiot Moon.


The girl with the silver blonde hair and the honey dark eyes had, in the past two days, begged favours from all and sundry. Perhaps ‘beg’ was the wrong word, she was Bastet after all. But the way she saw it, if you didn’t ask you didn’t get and she could either save her pride or her Pride. So with that in mind she called in favours from friends and spirits like there was no tomorrow – because for her their might not be.

In the quiet velvet nightime of Griffin’s Glen, Khara had hunted out her battered deck of playing cards in an attempt to see if any of Aunt Glory’s lessons on prediction had stuck. Jack of Spades, King of Clubs and the Nine of Clubs for Jude. Ace of Hearts, Five of Spades and the Queen of Diamonds for her. For Greyfur they all fell out in a rush – two black Eights two black Aces and the Jack of Diamonds.

She stared at the cards for a while, trying to remember the rhymes Glory had sung that untangled their meaning. Greyfur’s cards seemed familiar somehow but she couldn’t think how. With a sigh Khara shuffled away the battered deck and stored them again in her coat pocket. It didn’t really matter; forewarned was seldom forearmed after all. The Pride of the Idiot Moon was going to fight the Blood tomorrow and come up smiling, or die trying.

-----

Jude lifted her effortlessly, flung her in a wide arc towards the back end of the hall and the fireplace there, out of reach of the Blood. “Now you go,” he told her in her head even as she strove to land on her feet, even as she saw all anew Greyfur’s corpse on the marbled floor. Rage and heartache warred within her and she found she couldn’t go, couldn’t leave her Pride no matter the cost.

Concerned with only one thing now, Jude turned to the Blood and grinned like a bastard. “Children are gone. Let’s you an’ me dance.” He picked up the sword Khara hadn’t been able to hold onto, stepped over the body of his packmate and stood toe to toe with the godling.

Khara watched Jude Manyskins strike at the heart of the monster until the undead lord of the city fell.

-----

They were victorious - they'd done the impossible again, just like always. Only Khara didn't think this felt much like victory, this was more like hot tar in her belly. The cat had never felt shame before but she was feeling a lifetime’s of it that day. Jude returned the sword to her – that beautiful and deadly blade that had just killed a Blood as old as the city – gave it back like she even had a right to carry it any more. Khara felt sick enough to scream. She hadn’t done a thing – hadn’t been able to do a goddamn thing – had been nothing more than a distraction – and Greyfur was dead.

Jude looked at her. "Take his things," he said, his words soft and blunt. "Pick him up. Make yourself useful, girl."

In that second Khara had wished with all her heart that it was Greyfur who stood cradling her corpse in his arms. She was supposed to be the Pride Alpha – she was supposed to protect them and keep them safe.

She knew that Gaia in her wisdom often brought back her warriors, allowed them to be born anew to fight again. Khara sent up a silent prayer to Selene and to Ussesset, to all the Celestial Ladies of the bright sky. "Don't bring him back," she prayed fervently. "Let him be happy. Let him be free. Don't bring him back t'more o'this - I couldn't bear it. Please..."

She knelt beside the broken body of the wolf and washed a little of the blood off his fur. Cooling, congealing and dead it tasted sweet and rank on her tongue. It made her want to weep and never stop, to kill, to die – to do anything that would change what had happened and put her out of her own unbearable sorrow.

King of Cats uncurled in her head, a spirit presence nuzzling and growling around her. Her Jamak couldn’t abide a killjoy, couldn’t hold company with misery – but grief had its place. "Keep faith with me little one," he purred. "Don’t let it drown you – forge it into something sharp and bright."

-----

Perhaps if she’d heard tell of it at a Tahgrim she would have laughed. The quixotic story of vengeance gone awry. A house full of vampires armed with guns – the perfect target for her new-burning hate, the perfect opportunity for her to do something right... And the rest of the Sept had filled her head with happy thoughts and sat her on her arse, killing her rage and leaving behind the bitterness. The only happy thoughts she was capable of entertaining were crimson, wet and visceral so their mind games didn’t have quite the desired effect, but they still slowed her down. They had even called Kit and made him stand against her. Battered down in body mind and soul, she didn’t have the strength to tell them they were robbing her of her one chance to end this day sane, denying her a shot at redemption.

So be it. Dumb wolves – she was seeking death alright but not for herself – for the goddamn Leeches. Guns wouldn’t have harmed her and she wasn’t in the mood to give a shit about anything else. Mithras was dead - she couldn't take her hurt out on him, but a house full of Leeches would have done just fine.

She glared at her turn-coat twin, the one she loved above all else who had taken the wolves’ side against her. Her eyes were as blank and blazing as the sun. "They don’t want me t’kill the Bloods then they can pissin’ well do it themselves," she spat.

She started to walk away from the Sept, away from her brother, away from vengeance and reason, towards a far longer and darker road. She looked back over her shoulder. "I got business up at Griffin’s Glen," she said, her voice dead and cold. "Then I’m goin’ t’find Dadda. You comin’?"

Kit bounded to her side, quietly thanking Selene and all her shining brood that he still had a sister, even an insane and snarly one like Khara.