Eaton sat against a stone as he prepared to record the events of their travels west thus far after a very lively evening. He let out a contented sigh as he produced his journal, but his expression grew concerned as he rummaged through his pockets unable to find his pencil. After a few moments, he deduced that he had to have lost somewhere between traveling through Uktena’s realm and fleeing the Storm Eater. He picked up a twig that lay next to him, wondering how he was going to write their exploits down now. His eyes widening, he tossed the twig aside as he stood up and walked over to their pack’s Theurge. “Hey Zoe, I was wonderin’: Do you know where we might find a cicada spirit?”
Zoe thought for a moment before she said, “Hm, I know in a few months these hills will be buzzing with them. But that doesn’t mean I can’t call one up now. Come on, follow me.”
They both slipped sideways into the umbra and had crossed two hills when the faintest green tinge disappeared over the horizon. At the base of a large tree, Zoe stopped and pointed the earth, which did not bear any distinguishing features. “There we go! There had to be one out here!”
The Theurge made a clicking sound with her tongue, and before long a large, dull brown cicada nymph thrust out of the ground, shaking off attached earth before climbing onto the tree. It froze in place as both Garou heard it say in a monotone voice, “I suppose it was almost Spring, anyway. What can Chigarra help with this evening?”
Eaton stared at the spirit, before determining it’s expression was unreadable he said, “Er, not to bother ya more than I have ta, I was wonderin’ if you could show me how to reshape ol’ junk and stuff into somethin’ more useful. I know how to make some mighty fine tools myself, but it’s hard to find time with all the travelin’, killin’ and celebratin’ our victories.”
Though still maintaining its drawl tone, the spirit replied, “Ah, so you wish to wield the power of reorder; to give purpose where most would think there is none, or to change purpose entirely. An admirable desire from one who shifts through the broken and discarded.”
Eaton did not consider the spirit’s words a slight as he continued to
listen intently.
“However, this song is to rearrange Wyld’s refuse, which encompasses many things indeed. To ensure that you have a hand recrafting the wide variety of resources available, never remake the same item out of the same material consecutively. I’m sure someone like yourself will not find this concession unreasonable?”
Eaton shook his head, “Nope! Sound eas . . . Er, good enough for me!”
The back of the nymph split open, revealing a pair of large, translucent wings. The dull shell of the exoskeleton fell away from reveal the iridescent spirit, which rotated to face Eaton. It’s voice now vibrant it said,
“As Galliard, you know the sway music holds over the listener. Objects and materials are no different, though most only respond to noise discordant enough to shatter them. Spirits less refined than I might have taught you similar powers.”
Eaton did his best not to respond to the remark with anything but a nod. The insect continued,
“Think of any object before you as a piece of music. While it maintains the same notes, rearranging the patterns create an entirely new song altogether. What do you wish to alter today?”
Eaton looked around and pointed to a small twig that lay on the ground, “I wanna make this into a pencil. I need to record what I’ve seen before the details get hazy.”
The wings on the spirit began to twitch, filling the air with piercing staccato chords. After the spirit had finished playing a short verse, Eaton produced his spoons. The cicada repeated the performance, this time the Galliard following along. This repeated a few times, before the spirit ceased playing allowing him to complete a solo. The twig straightened out, one of its ends sharpening as a small puff of smoke filtered out of the tip. While it still retained its bark exterior, it defiantly would be able to write. Eaton picked up the newly crafted pencil to examine it as the spirit said,
“Your craft will improve with practice. Now, best to record your stories while you still remember them.”
The cicada spread its wings as Eaton’s expression grew distant. “Remember . . .” he muttered.
“Wait!” He called after the spirit. The insect retracted its wings and rotated to face him again.
“Thanks for this power and all but I was wonderin’ if you can teach me somethin’ else: I’ve heard that spirits of the weaver can teach Galliards to remember anythin’ from their life, even before they were revealed to be Gaia’s chosen.”
“And who told you that?” The Cicada asked. Eaton tried to hide his embarrassment as he said, “Uh, I think it was one of the Bone Gnawers?”
The cicadas wings buzzed once as it said, “This gift is to solve the inherent problem with memories: they dilute, fade over time. Don’t just think Galliard; know for certain.”
Just then, a scene played out in front of Eaton, the umbral forest evaporated to reveal a campfire in a field, where he, Raises All Hell and Shulks in Shadows were seated. He found all three of them laughing, each with mostly empty mugs. The full strength of Luna’s light shone down around them, the scent of burning chips filling the Galliards nostrils. The Ragabash coughed and spit in his mug before he said,
“So, that’s what ya really gotta know about the spirit world. Ya got all that?”
Eaton looked a few of his drink stained notes and said, “Okay, I think I got it- Wyld is good most of the time, Wyrm bad all the time, Weaver . . .” He scratched the side of his head.
“Bad.” Said Raises all Hell
“Depends.” Said Shulks in Shadows.
The Arhoun have a disproving look to Shulks, “I have never met a Weaver spirit that didn’t try and creamify me or whatever the hell they do. At least you usually just have to worry about them in the cities.”
“C’mon, that ain’t entirely true,” Shulks replied, holding up a finger, “The tricks those bugs teach can be pretty handy. The Iron Riders seem to get along with ‘em well enough. Actually,” He turned and faced Eaton, “I’ve heard of a trick they can teach Galliards. If ya might mind ‘em messin’ with your head, they can make it so that ya remember details down the buttons on everyone’s vest. Or just where you set your flask down. So maybe you should ask if you come across one!”
Raises just let out a laugh, “Yeah, if it doesn’t try and suffocate you with its webs.”
Ignoring the Ahroun, Shulks motioned to the younger werewolf and said, “Look Eaton, you’ll get along in the umbra if ya just follow yer gut: If ya think you can kill a spirit when it gets ugly, then kill it. If ya thinks it’s gonna kill you, then run the hell away.”
Eaton began to write down the advice as the memory disappeared, finding himself staring back at the cicada spirit. He took out his journal and flipped to one of its earliest pages, where the Ragabash’s advice remained.
“That was only a week after my first change.” He said, “They were telling me all about the umbra, mostly what they’ve killed in it and what almost killed them . . . I guess I drank a little too much which is why it was so foggy. Now I remember why I stayed away from that stuff since- next morning was brutal.”
“Stories and legends are built on memories.” The cicada spirit said, “They have a habit of unraveling as time goes on. If you wish to use this power as you will, first correct a misconception due to a misrepresentation.”
Eaton looked up from his journal and said, “Fair enough. Ya got yerself a deal.”
With that, the spirit took wing and disappeared into the night. Eaton stepped backed into the physical world as he walked back the way he had come to rejoin the pack, the world seemly much more malleable than before.
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