The day of remembrance had finally come.
Eaton had spent the greater part of a week preparing for Mock’s Gathering of the Departed. He tried to keep the particulars secret- keeping people on their toes seemed fitting for a Ragabash’s funeral. He did ask for Zoe’s assistance summoning an air spirit. While he told her it was to learn a gift, he truly wanted to know when a storm would blow through the Caern. Though it was late spring in Texas, the weather still seemed reluctant to cooperate for no matter what the occasion. A few days before, he asked Zas to perform a rain dance to coax forth the storms might- the spirit said rain was coming, but Eaton wanted more than a shower. . Just as the Philodox had completed his rigorous performance, the storm arrived as if on cue. The sun had just touched the eastern horizon, staining the approaching clouds a dramatic shade of red. The storm line eclipsed the western sky, the wall of rain and wind as dark as ink. Leper-Friend had placed the gathering in a wide empty field, no trees or hills obstructing the open air. He stood in the center of six wooden altars arranged in a circle. Upon each stand lay a figure shrouded in bleached linens. On each sheet bore a pair of Garou glyphs drawn in their brows- Friend and Brother, Child and Storm, Destiny and Glory, Defiance and Justice, Half-Moon and Wisdom, Father and Lover. It was not just the Prodigals and the Fianna- the werewolves of the Forked Ash were in attendance, unless called to another duty. As All-friend called forth the storm, Eaton rehearsed the words in his head.
A single distant clap of thunder seemed to signal the beginning. Eaton took a deep breath and began to address the crowd.
“While Mock’s the Night’s sacrifice still weighs heavy upon our hearts, you should all know the reason for this gathering: this is not a time for grieving. This is the time for gratitude, of reflection on how he shaped us, challenged us to become our best selves.”
The wind had just begun to rise, the pale sheets rippling in anticipation, the Bone Gnawer’s dark hair beginning to sway.
“He was many things: A father, a brother, a friend, a husband. But above all, what he should be to all of us is an inspiration.” He gestured to the faux bodies that surrounded him, “Besides his expected duties given by Gaia, he was charged by Grandfather thunder himself to cleanse the sins of his ancestors- not through mere penitence, but through deed, sweat, and blood. He was called to redeem the fallen totems of Gaia and remind them of their true purpose.”
A low continuous grumble echoed from the west, forcing the Galliard to raise his voice; it was not the storm’s turn to speak.
“Though he may be gone, we must not let his passion and ideals die with him. Though we have separate charges, burdens that Gaia has laid upon us,” He thumped his fist to his chest, “can we have the same resolve and diligence as our Ragabash? That even against insurmountable odds, can we still laugh in the face of our enemy? That in our darkest hour, can we find the strength to save the ones we love- even if it means giving all we have?”
His gaze turns to each of his packmates, meeting their eyes in turn.
The thunder's protest became a roar as the gusts became more eager to prove their bluster. Eaton looked to the western sky, where the storm wall hovered just over the prairie. He lifted his staff skyward as his voice boomed,
“Grandfather Thunder, though I am not your chosen, I ask you listen: We give thanks for the time we knew your child, for the lessons and wisdom that he shared. Now, we return him to you.” He reached out his hand and touched the Child and Storm glyphs, “Be at peace, Son of Doom and Thunder.”
As he finished saying the name, what appeared to be white smoke began to trail off the figure into the wind. After only a second, it became clear the smoke was in fact dust as the altar, sheet and all evaporated into the wind. Without a pause he moved counter clockwise to the next, bearing Defiance and Justice “Return home, Child of the Woodsman.”
This figure also dispersed.
Half-Moon and Wisdom. “You have been fulfilled, Dark Moon of Ancient Prophecy.”
The body and altar burst- remains carried into the storm by the strengthening winds.
Destiny and Glory. “Share bounty with your ancestors, Scion of the Shadow Lords.”
Father and Lover. “You will never be forgotten, Kefka Kevianov.”
Friend and Brother. Eaton paused as he placed his hand over the glyphs. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, “See you later, Mocks-the-Night, Beta, Alpha, and Ragabash of the Prodigals.”
The final figure disintegrated, leaving the Bone Gnawer standing apart, hand still outstretched.
Then came the rain.
It washed upon the gathering in torrents, which combined with the wind nearly knocked a few Garou off their feet. Eaton looked toward the heavens despite the downpour, his homid form giving way to crinos as he lifted his voice into a song, a song of thankfulness yet tinged with pain. His howl rose and fell in tune with the thunder, striking a powerful high note with each blast. The downpour lasted only a few moments before the winds began to calm and the rain steadied. Eaton shrank back down to his human self, crouched on all fours with his hair plastered across his face. He heaved a few times, before he said, “May Grandfather Thunder be pleased.”
He did not rise- he was seemingly oblivious to the activities of the other Garou. The noise of the storm quieted as the Galliard lowered his head, his tears mingling with the rain.
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