The trek west from Galveston and the Fenrir caern had thankfully been so far uneventful. The dealings with the willworkers and the political ramifications of the pack's actions weighed on the philodox.
But more than anything, was the uncomfortable notion that perhaps he was not entirely ready to write off Robert Swiftdeath. Mere days, even hours beforehand; he would have been and had been one of the first to call the Fenrir eldest every name befitting a lesser imp of the wyrm. Yet now something akin to the feeling of gratitude was beginning to fester in the Silent Strider. It was disturbing.
He stole one of this packs most powerful fetishes. Used it to then murder his own father Roaring Jack, and then had the audacity to demand subservience from every witness. When we refused to bow he sent his thugs to try and capture us. This all happened during our first meeting.
The second meeting faired little better. Using his personal philodox to call out our ahroun as a litany violator and then imposing his judgment by sentencing our ahroun and myself to rites of shame. He up til then had shown no sign of being worthy of respect or honor.
Then our third meeting happened. He called this pack out as disloyal to Gaia-going so far as to say that our theurge was a weaver slave. He demanded proof of our loyalty by having us kill and bring back the head of a mage all to scare away the mages living in his protectorate. He wanted us to kill one of our parents.
So what did we do? We met with the mages. Formed a truce. Convinced them to leave without bloodshed and even directed them towards fighting a shared enemy in the Stormeater. Even brought back a head of a twisted one of their kind.
Though our price for convincing them to leave did not involve war-we may have shared too much. Granted, had we not done this, another caern likely would have fallen at the willworkers hands, which seemed to have been enough to even shake Robert Swiftdeath out of his red hued vision of bloodlust for the future...
The Apache shakes his head.
"But then Robert decided to remove our earned and justified curse. Went as far as to call us friends...that was a bit much, but he has offered his hand."
The late afternoon breeze swirled a small whirlwind of trail dust up into the air before it fell back to the ground. The momentary movement distracted Snowy Owl, but as soon as it ended, he found his mind swirling as well.
Do we take his hand? Can we trust a garou so ruled by his ego and rage? Can I place my trust with another white man? Can my path to unite the tribes afford not to?
A lone tumbleweed rolls aimlessly by.
Trying to clear his mind, the Silent Strider made to stride forwards, looking to his side to see the pack Shadowlord at the reigns of the wagon carrying the gate for the Forked Ash caern.
The thoughts of returning to the city of San Antonio and seeing the allies, kin, and families stirred up another wave of discomfort.
Being on the road keeps us moving. It keeps us alert and aware of our enemies plans. Protecting the caern is good and true; Defending the helpless kinfolk is noble and right...but how long will we stay this time? A few days? A week? The longer we stay anywhere, the worse things seem to get.
He pauses mid thought.
The longer I stay anywhere, the worse things become.
Another long pause.
I can't raise a family! I can't even stand to be bound to a single caern--how can I expect to be content with one home? One wife?
The thoughts and conversations he'd had with his packmates about his romantic life began filtering through.
I can't marry. It wouldn't work. Even if I found the right woman...what would I do to provide for her?
He had not considered this before.
I have no wealth. I wear all the possessions I own. Zoe's mate Connor works as Blacksmith. Harriet and Silke both work at the inn. Jana looks after the children. Rends is a former Ranger, Eaton and Mocks are Indian Agents. What would I even do? I doubt there is much demand for Apache baskets or pots--like I have time to make that anyway.
One of the oxen lets out a lowing sound.
Raising cattle would keep me home too often.
He spots a circle of buzzards in the distance
Tanning requires too much patience and time
He sighs. There's always hunting and selling the skins, but in the winter, there would not be enough food
The pack continues walking along. The open view broken only by an occasional wild scrub-bush or cactus. They reach a small pool of water and stop to let the beasts straining pulling the load, cool off for a bit.
Taking in his immediate surroundings, Zas notices a fallen tree, long since rotted out, that looks to have fallen during a storm. A thought occurs to him.
I could do THAT... I could be a Timberman.
The more he thought about it, the more he grew to appreciate the idea.
The white men do not treat Gaia the way she deserves. I can show them how. I know which trees to fell, and which to let be. I can help strengthen the forests by purging them of the strangling underbrush. I can protect the woods by having the white man see that if they treat the mother with respect and do not allow greed to rule them, they can still benefit. I can fight the wyrm by preventing the destruction of the wyld
The idea brightens up the Silent Strider's normally somber mood, but a second thought crops up slowly.
But...I will need help. I can't carry all the trees to the city, and even if I could, the veil could be broken. No-there's got to be another way.
He looks back to the oxen and shakes his head. They won't work. They are too skiddish
A look of horror washes across his face.
I will have to use a horse...
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