Dusty takes a step away from the wall as the ground tremors, but too late to do anything about the explosion. His cry of surprise and, later, pain is lost in the ear-splitting roar.

There is a dilation of time as he sails unchecked through the Umbra on the shockwave, and then he comes crashing down. Tree branches flash past, snapping and crunching and crackling around him, and Dusty slams into the ground ... somewhat less hard than he thought he probably would, considering his velocity.

look dusty <
At first glance, this fifteen-year-old kid is just plain average. Curly ginger hair hangs past his shoulders, just long enough to pull into a clean ponytail, away from a fair, somewhat befreckled face. His eyes, though, are what set him off. A deep blue-grey, they hold a mix of laughter, music, and maybe just a hint of confusion and fear way down in their depths. The smiles are rarer now, more given to thoughtful brooding.
His clothing is just a average as most of the rest of him -- a dark green button-down shirt and blue jeans, with a brown belt threaded through the loops. A cheap pair of white sneakers cover his feet. He is almost never seen without his most precious possession, an acoustic guitar in a somewhat battered and beclawed case.

You paged Dusty with 'Let's just approximate with "That hurt a lot". I don't feel like handing out numbers.'.

Dusty oofs as he slams into the Umbral ground, and is silent and motionless while the dust and broken tree branches settle around him. He takes his own time about making any attempt to move again, groaning softly when he finally does do so. It takes him a few more minutes to focus sufficiently to force himself into the wolf shape. Having done so, however, he immediately flops back down, not seeming to want to move just yet.

Light footsteps approach him. The scent of woman and tree mingle as someone bends over him and picks some branches from his fur gently. "Are you going to be all right?" the woman asks softly.

Deep-Fires's ears prick at the touch on his fur, and his head lifts, perhaps a bit too quickly. This one should be, he answers after several moments of consideration. His head lifts further, and he sits upright to get a better scent of the woman and grasp of the situation.

She smells of wilderness and evergreen and flowers and spring, and is crouching in a vaguely diaphanous greenish-white tunic next to Dusty. Strewn all around are pieces of trees: big branches, small branches and, apparently, one entire tree. The woman sighs slightly at the destruction.

Deep-Fires sniffs briefly at the woman, then at the woods around him. What happened, and what is this place?

"You fell from the sky, and broke trees doing it." She looks down at him and giggles somewhat uncharacteristically. "It's a forest."

The Gaian embodies the essence of hopeless confusion itself as he regards the woman. This one sees that...and apologizes for the damage. It was unintentional.

The woman nods slowly. "I'm sure you didn't intend to fall from the sky quite like that. But still, there are rules."

Deep-Fires's head and tail lowers in submission, and asks if there is something he can do to mend the damage done.

Druan rocks back, still crouched next to the Garou, eyeing the wounded trees above. "Well-l, normally you'd just have to stay and help tend the trees until we were sure they'd survive, but you broke a whole tree on the way down... I think he was trying to catch you, actually, and overbalanced... and that means more time." She squints at the downed pine tree. "I'd say... three tens of years until another tree just as large has grown in its place."

Surprise and no small amount of consternation make themselves plain in Deep-Fires' manner. He bows his head, though, then shifts back up to his breed form, still keeping his head bowed. His voice is musical if quiet as he murmurs, "I wish there were another way...but if that is what you wish, then I'll do as you ask."

With infinitely gentle hands, the woman reaches over to Dusty's disheveled hair and, humming a soft tune, braids a single lock of it around some evergreen needles. From somewhere, she produces an amber bead to hold the braid. "That is the geas of the forest upon you," she says softly. "Come now. Meet the Wood."

Dusty stands still and silent at the woman's touch -- maybe a little too still and a little too silent.

Dusty remains so still and silent throughout the tour, his eyes flicking back and forth across the forest floor but never fully lifting to meet those of the woman who leads him. He does not ask questions, though he tenses once or twice as if poised to, but then thinking better of it.

Druan leads Dusty through the winding cathedral-height passages of the wood, letting him see and hear and smell, and finally, draws him through an archway of branches into a small, evergreen padded clearing. The limbs overhead hold tight to each other, forming a dense roof. She gestures him to sit wherever he likes, and goes to a small alcove off the main clearing. The scent of bread and cheese reaches him as she returns, sets the food down before him, and settles herself on the ground. "Now," she says, "your questions?"

Dusty slides into a cross-legged position on the grass, a stray lock of hair mingling with the evergreen-bound strand as he bends his head to pick up the simple meal. He sets it down again, though, as the lady speaks, and is silent for several moments as if considering his answer. Finally, he murmurs quietly, looking down at the grass beneath his feet, "None important enough to ask here and now, lady."

Druan reaches out and touches the evergreen sprig gently. "You are free within the bounds of the forest, and you will know the outermost limits of your trails. My home," she gestures around at the snug clearing, "is open to you, for rest and retreat. Make it your own, if you wish. You will learn to hear the trees here, if you are quiet and still long enough, and they will always guide your steps back here if you ask."

"I will remember that, lady," Dusty murmurs with a nod of acknowledgement. He looks up after a moment, his gaze clear but reserved and not quite meeting yours. "What else do you wish of me?" he asks carefully.

Druan sighs, very faintly and gently. "The forest is in danger. There are creatures that wish... to cannibalize it. We need a protector, one who is faster and more deadly than those within the forest itself. Will you patrol the edges, stop the evil from encroaching? I have watched my sisters die one after another, slowly and terribly as these things come closer...When you learn to hear the trees, they will watch for you, and you can go to where they see trouble. I..." She pauses, thoughtfully chewing a piece of bread. "That is what we need. A guardian."

An oh-so-faint smile overtakes Dusty's carefully controlled expression, just briefly, then is quickly banished. "I can but do my best, lady, though I have done such things before," he admits.

"I am glad to have found someone experienced at the job then," Druan smiles, taking a gentle joking tone. She gestures toward the alcove. "There is always food there, take whatever you need or wish. I am not always here; there are trees that I tend all over."

Dusty asks quietly after a moment of thought, "Is it allowed to hunt for onself?"

Druan nods. "Have a care for waste, though. Our animals are precious here. They give themselves willingly to the cycles, though, and gladly feed those that wish."

Dusty nods, "Of course, lady." He still hasn't met Druan's eyes. "Your kindness is appreciated."

Hours melt into days and into weeks. The faint, tickling whispers of the trees begin to make a nonsensical sussurrus in Dusty's ears. No sign of the mysterious 'creatures' comes, and he is left mostly to himself in this strange wood, with the trees that are speaking and the animals that do not flee. Druan spends little time in her clearing, although Dusty occasionally glimpses her among the trees, moving like a wraith from trunk to trunk.

As days pass, Dusty gradually relaxes somewhat into his formal role. He roams the woods in lupus sometimes, more often in homid. The perceptive may catch him singing for the woods and himself alone, though if he catches sight of the woman, his light but strong, compelling tenor immediately falls silent and does not resume for some time.

The galliard's ear finally begins to resolve the speech of the trees... only to realize that they are, in fact, singing. It is a slow, low, sweet tune, and the words are not clear yet. The melody is, however, pervasive and ever-changing.

Dusty, ever responsive to music around him, begins to harmonize with the song of the trees after a while. His voice is melodic, soft and uncertain at first, then a bit louder as time goes on. Still he does not knowingly allow Druan to hear him sing, quieting whenever she approaches.

One day, the song strikes dischords, a ripple of dissonance and cacophony through the woods. It runs through like a shiver, bounces back and centers on Dusty, then flees away like a dog leading its owner in a direction through sheer emotional impulsion.

Dusty almost visibly winces at the discord, his sensitive ears picking up on it immediately. He freezes, then flashes down into the lupus form, letting the song lead him blindly by sheer instinct at a full-out run.

The song propels him, becoming abruptly more demanding... even panicked. He breaks through into the outer layer of trees, the outer boundary, and there he sees a dozen creatures, colorless and transparent but for the darkened edges of their shapes. They seem to have located a single tree... apparently a beech... and are busily attempting to uproot it.

Dusty stays to the edges of the trees, out of sight for now, and growls a clear warning to the creatures. Flee or die.

The creatures, what ones aren't busy tearing at the massive roots of the shrieking tree, laugh at his warning.

Ever a creature of instinct and passion, the young Galliard bursts from cover, shifting from fast lupus to the deadly warform as he approches the creature. His claws reach out to rip two of them away from the tree and toss them back at their laughing companions.

The laughter turns to alarm and then squeals. They are tiny banelet things and they flee with speed from the claws of the vicious Garou guardian.

Dusty doesn't seem immediately content to drive them off -- he wants the blood of the creatures who dared to laugh at him. He gives chase, though not more than twenty ore so yards from the assaulted tree.

Three more of the creatures fall to his claws, ichor streaming as they scream their last.

Dusty gives chase still, his thirst for Wyrm blood not yet sated . He does not leave the forest bounds, though he kills as many as he can before reaching it. Only when they are well beyond forest's bounds does he turn back to see how much damage was done to the assaulted tree.

About four escape him beyond the forest bounds. The tree is moaning softly when he gets back to it, about a quarter of its roots torn out of the ground, bleeding sap slowly into the grass and moss.

Dusty melts back into his breed for as he approaches the tree again and kneels down next to it, staring at it a bit helplessly. Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches out to rebury the roots as gently as possible. He applies himself somewhat warily to the task at first, but relaxes somewhat after a time, even allowing himself to hum softly and reassuringly under his breath.

The tree responds like a child, crooning back with some relief.

Dusty changes his tune slightly, cocking his head to listen much as a mother listens to her baby's cry to find the source of the problem.

The song whines just a little and leads him to the largest root torn up. It is not entirely severed, but it is twisted badly.

Dusty takes a deep breath and studies the root, the bits and pieces of medicine that were part of his cub and Cliath training kicking in. He gently takes the twisted root and tries to straighten it out with careful, detached fingers, reburying it even as he works.

The best guide to his efforts is the changing song of the tree, and the surrounding trees, as he works at the damaged root. By the time he gets what's left of the tree's hurt soothed and buried, the song has mostly returned to its normal melody.

Dusty hums even as he works, his own voice blending with the song of the trees and giving him a more familiar guide to work by -- his own ears and voice. Only when the sing is returned to normal does he stand and look down at the ichor and dirt covering his hands and body.

The ichor is blackening steadily as it dries. The banelet bodies have long since melted away, leaving only the smudged dregs of themselves behind.

Dusty stands up stiffly and, with a last pat on the trunk for the tree, walks away to find a way to get this crap off of him.

Physically, Dusty is fine, and gradually grows familiar with the ways of the trees, their songs, and their healing. He seems to have a knack for the lat part and though he listens to the conversations, he rarely speaks back for a long time. He never says anything about it, but a dark loneliness is there deep in his eyes.

Contained in the songs is a wealth of knowledge about the trees: how they grow, what they produce, their cycles, how to tell the weather, and how their products can interreact with other living things. As the songs become clearer, more of the information filters through to Dusty.

The days become indistinguishable from one another, the nights distinguishable only by the shifting phase of the moon. The season passes into summer, and thence into autumn, and Druan is more often at "home", the sheltered clearing that is, apparently, the heart of the forest. She works at the creation of preserves and other such winter survival mechanisms, and Dusty, in watching her, learns of the underground cave that she says serves as her home in the cold times. "If it pleases you," she says one chilly fall day, "you are welcome to stay in my cave with me. When the snows come, I shan't go out at all, though I know you shall go forth to roam. But I would welcome the company."

Dusty's lips quirk into a faint smile, and he nods. "Your offer is kind, lady, and very much appreciated. It will be as you wish." He has never to this point been more or less than carefully formal and polite to her, always a servant to a master, though after some months he finally does manage to meet her eyes every once in a while.

She smiles and dips her head in acknowledgement. The clearing smells nightly of fruits and vegetables in various stages of preservation, and she continues to regularly share the bounty of the woodlands with Dusty as his inclination allows. True to her word though, once the first layer of snow lays on the ground, she fails to leave the snug cave again.

Dusty, by contrast, seems to enjoy the snow, shifting down to four legs for warmth and rolling in it until his sandy fur turns almost white from caked snow. He never allows Druan to see him do this though, always shaking off and shifting back up to his human form before entering the cave again. He is polite but quiet inside the cave, taking up only little space and generally being careful to be as unobtrusive as possible.

In contrast, Druan waxes rhapsodic in the privacy of the cave, amidst the occasional dangling tree root and the jars and the dark wooden furniture and the safely stone-ensconced fireplace. She talks about birds and plants, clouds and small, furry animals, insects and stones. She sings as well, songs that are unrelated to the background song of the trees, yet eerily intertwining with their melodies and rhythms, creating harmonies that bewitch the ear.

One day, in a pause in her running pseudo-monologue, she turns to Dusty with a small frown. "You never do speak of yourself. What sort of folk do you come from? You are shifters, that is clear, and knowledgeable of the woodlands, but I know aught else of you."

Dusty blinks in surprise at this question, and settles back against the stone wall. His eyes are a bit wide, uncertain, and he hesitates for a moment before answering slowly, "There's not really that much to tell about me...yes, I am Garou...barely out of childhood by their standards. My pack served as Guardians for our holy place...." Here he trails off, and looks down at his lap.

Druan nods slowly and folds herself into one of the chairs. "Your pack...?" she prompts.

Dusty nods, swallowing before looking up at her again. This time, he doesn't quite meet their eyes. "They're probably dead. Packs are...well, groups. I guess you could say we grew up together."

Druan looks puzzled. "Why do you believe that they are dead?"

Dusty shrugs, looking back down at his lap. "I got thrown here when the building they were in exploded, I think."

Druan frowns to herself and rubs her face. "I am sorry that your loss came also with your time here. It cannot be pleasant, this not knowing, not being able to grieve as your kind grieve, if that is necessary."

Dusty shrugs, slumping further down against the cold stone and letting one arm rest across his stomach in a classically casual pose. "Don't worry about me. I'll survive," he murmurs quietly, though he looks down at himself as he says this. "I'll be okay."

Druan crosses the room on catfeet and gently rests a hand on Dusty's hair. "Yes, you will." She hesitates there briefly before passing on to her cooking pot.

Dusty stiffens almost imperceptibly as she approaches, but looks up just a bit as she touches him. His eyes follow her briefly back to the cooking pot before they realize what they're doing, and look quickly back down again.

The snow piles high during the nights and melts slightly during the days. The days grow shorter and shorter. Druan concocts strange new culinary sensations on a nightly basis, and often keeps them warm for Dusty for whenever he chooses to come in from the snowy wood. The trees' songs are quieter and slower now, slowing down daily as their sap creeps under their bark. The songs of the animals break through the usual volume to touch brief ly at Dusty as he wanders his patrols, and even the prey animals of the wood come to be familiar with him, if not comfortable.

Dusty often comes in for dinner, stays for a time, and then sneaks back out after Druan is asleep, to sit and watch the winter sky where he can see it, or simply to wander around quietly. Sometimes he stays out a good deal of the night, and doesn't really sleep all that much. Other nights, he comes and and stays in, seemingly content to sleep quietly.

In late winter, on one of the nights that Dusty sleeps inside, he is awakened by some... disquiet. When he opens his eyes, he finds Druan on her feet, looking upward, stiffly alert as a dog. Her white shift drifts around her feet.

Dusty blinks the sleep out of his eyes and scrambles to his feet, listening carefully.

A low, almost imperceptible thrum of energy is rippling through the forest. The trees are slow to react, slow to change their songs, slow to rise above their sleep, but the sound is growing familiar.

Dusty shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, and without a word or change of expression moves to step around Druan and go outside.

Druan moves out of his way to stoke the fire.

The forest is dark, only the barest sliver of silver showing low on the horizon. The animal songs are silent, the forest is waking, and there is a brooding sort of discord along the northern edge of the forest.

Dusty steps out of the cave and barely waits until he is out of the cave mouth's sight to shift down to a more perceptive form. He stops there, clear of the cave and at the edge of the clearing, letting the wind and the songs of the trees ruffle through his fur to get a better sense of wehat is going on.

Dusty cocks his head, his ears quivering, and then takes off into the northern forest, his stride a ground-eating lope but not so fast that he can't listen as he goes for the exact source.

A crashing chord of surprise shivers the forest as Dusty not only hears the scream of a tree, but the crumpling-cracking-shattering sound of a tree coming down.

Dusty speeds up, now running all out and almost headlong for the source of the scream, its discord ringing like heartbreak in his ears. His nose now works in concert with his ears, trying to get an idea of what he is facing.

A gut-wrenching stench hits his nose as the wind shifts and rises, something like gangrene blended liberally with exhaust fumes and a dash of antifreeze. It seems to accompany the gurgling snarl he hears just before another tree comes down.

Running on instinct alone now, Dusty shifts up to the near-wolf as he runs, pausing briefly just before coming into the sight of whatever it is to get a good look of the best way to attack it.

The nightmare that greets him is both exactly what he might have expected and not at all as predictions might give. It is a hovering gloom, ripe with the sounds of semi-liquid garbage sloshing in a dying river, breathing out the scent of a marsh filled with oil. However, it also bears the tearing, cutting, ripping, heaving conventions of large-scale human 'construction' vehicles, a creature with rippling multiple legs and scales and enormous compound eyes, sides brilliant yellow and spangled with mud and rust. It is forcing the latest fallen tree trunk through a chipper that seems to be attached to one of its legs. Each piece of sawdust is another tiny scream.

Dusty pages: How tall is it?
You paged Dusty with 'About ten feet or so.'.
Dusty pages: How did I know you were going to say that? :P

Dusty bolts out of the forest with Rage-fueled speed, hoping that his speed and suddenness will take the thing by surprise long enough for him to shift up to the warform and his claws to take out one of those huge compound eyes with a jump.

The creature, occupied with its rather gleeful chipping task, fails to notice the Garou until he does indeed shred one of its eyes. Yellow matter spurts spectacularly, stinking of rancid meat, and the entire lenght of the creature bucks and clattersin agony. It reels briefly before bringing a front-end-loader scoop down on his head.

You paged Dusty with '3 nonagg.'.

Dusty goes sprawling as the force of the thing nearly cracks his skull and leaves a tinge of blood on his fur to mix with the putrescent yellow eye-stuff, but quickly rolls back to his feet and circles around so that his next leap and strike will come from the creature's blind side, just beyond its edge of vision, and (Gaia willing) allow his claws to take out the other dully gleaming eye-thing.

The beast abandons its tree-chipping half-finished and rolls another leg over the top of its segmented body to bring an enormous chainsaw to bear on the Garou. Unfortunately, it is having problems spotting its nemesis. Dusty's claws leave an oozing, spurting trail across the thing's face, just hitting one edge of the other eye. The chainsaw whips within inches of Dusty's head, shearing partway through another tree, drawing a deafening shriek from the nearby woods. The front-end loader buries itself in the ground as a pivot point, and the back end of the deranged caterpillar tractors closer on rolling tank treads studded with knives, arching its body high and freeing a number of its construction-legs for attack.

Dusty pages: I'm assuming I'm not going to be able to get closer to those tank treads?
You paged Dusty with 'If you do, you run the risk of having huge construction implements brought down on your head.'.
Dusty pages: The pivot point is also blocked, I imagine, meaning that I'm not going to be able to get around it. I'm trying to get a good picture of where this thing is.
Long distance to Dusty: Druan nods. The pivot point is below the critter's forebody. Immediately behind that, the body arches about thirty feet into the air, and comes down not very far (linearly) away from where it started up, and that aft portion is on treads. The segments, apparently, can rotate a full 360 around the axis of the body.

Dusty growls a soft curse as the thing arches up and barrels into the front-end-loader jammed into the ground, his claws ripping at it as he seeks to use his momentum and sheer body mass to ruin the pivot support.

Metal shrieks under his claws, curling away in rippled strips, and the weakened scoop loses structural integrity entirely and crumples under the behemoth's mass. An immense clattering crash resounds in Dusty's ears as the monster tips, losing balance and flailing wildly. The chainsaw manages to connect with one of Dusty's legs, chunking through meat and bone with abandon, and then the creature falls atop him.

You paged Dusty with '2 agg from the chainsaw, but you're moving fast with Rage so the critter falling doesn't catch you too badly. 1 more nonagg.'.
Dusty pages: All right. That leaves me down 4 non-agg and 2-agg Down five dice. Ouch. Do you allow rage-healing before Incap?
You paged Dusty with 'Yup.'.
From afar, Dusty okies. I'm going to go ahead and give it a try, battle scar or no. I can't really afford to let up on this thing.
Long distance to Dusty: Druan nods sagely. Gofer it. :)

Dusty barely manages to roll clear of the mass in time and just lies there, his growls a mix of pain and rage and becoming louder with every passing minute.

The creature shifts sluggishly, trying to make its bulk rise back onto tractor treads and somehow sort out the tangle of heavy equipment its legs have become.

Dusty abruptly scrambles to his feet with a snarl, his fur coated in muck and his own blood, straightening almost visibly, and he leaps for the thing, his gait slowed by the freely-bleeding gash in his leeg but nonetheless hoping to catch the thing unawares and take out its other eye socket.

From afar, Dusty . o O ( Get back down here where I can reach you, bastich. )

The thing's eye tears open with another spectacular fountain of vile muck, and the clash and clamor of its legs shakes Dusty's bones.

Deep-Fires manages to stay on his feet as he lands, and turns around. Now that it is blind, he simply leaps at it, intending to rip it apart bits at a time.

The monster flails and struggles, managing to get a few legs back under itself but failing to connect with Dusty at all. For all its mass and bulk, accuracy doesn't seem to be high on its skills.

Deep-Fires's Rage grows as he continues to rip into the thing, instinct coming more and more to the fore. Finally, without thinking, he leaps up and tries to tear the thing's "throat" out with his teeth.

At the last, the creature gives a shudder that seems more like an earthquake, and its "throat" opens with an explosion of yellow and brown and black, gushing with the force of a high-powered firehose.

Deep-Fires is literally blown to the ground by the force of the blast, utterly covered head to foot in the putrid muck. Only when he is out of the main stream does he move under his own power, rolling out of the way and standing to stare in disbelief at the wrecked hulk.

A heady, dizzy feeling begins to wave over Dusty's body, and the taste of the muck in his mouth draws retches from his gut.

Deep-Fires collapses again, retching his guts out and eventually getting the presence of mind between heaves to shift back to his breed form.

Druan emerges from the wood, shivering in her thin shift, and uses snow to staunch Dusty's wound and to wash most of the muck off his body.

"Can you make it back to the cave?" Druan asks, shooting occasional worried looks at the slowly dissolving corpse of the creature, and eyeing Dusty's wounds critically.

When his retching has subsided to dry heaves and ebbed some, Dusty finally gets to his knees and then his feet, though it takes him several minutes and a couple of tries. Once he manages that, he murmurs carefully, "Yeah, I think so." He's making no attempt to hide his distress, though, and pride is close to the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Druan insinuates herself under one of his arms. "You can lean on me, you know," she says in an attempt at dry humor. "I won't break."

One corner of Dusty's lips twitches, just faintly. "I know, lady." He doesn't answer, further, though, and leans on her, hesitantly at first, then more willingly as the weakness takes a firmer hold.

Unconsciousness does take its toll before Dusty and Druan come into sight of the clearing. When next Dusty awakens, he finds himself tucked into a bed near a roaring fire. A movement next to him results in the realization that Druan is sleeping next to him and her eyes have just opened in response to his wakefulness.

Dusty stiffens as the realization comes to him, then immediately forces himself to relax again, looking up at the ceiling in an attempt to determine where he is.

The cave ceiling is quite recognizable, though it looks ... indefinably different.

The woman reaches out to him and lays a familiar arm over him, stroking his hair. Dusty abruptly realizes not only his own nakedness but hers as well.

Dusty turns bright red at the realization, then a deeper red as he realizes as well that his hormones aren't nearly as embarrassed as he is; in fact, they're readily obvious even as he tries to hide himself. He half-closes his eyes again, murmuring, "What happened?" in a voice that is only just maintaining a veneer of confusion.

Dusty pages: Oh, you witch!
Long distance to Dusty: Druan beams!

Druan pets his hair quietly for a moment, then leans up. "Another nightmare, love?" she asks in a very low voice. "Hush, you'll wake the baby. It's all right. You killed the creature. It's long dead. We've not had another stitch of trouble in the years since."

Dusty blinks, several times, trying very hard to digest that and failing. "Uh..." He looks down at himself.

He finds that he looks... relatively... the same. Perhaps a little heavier-m uscled. Same battlescars, including a new one in the meat of his thigh. A bit more hair here and there. Hands look somewhat more work-hardened. Nearby lies a handmade guitar that looks actually rather good. Beyond is a wooden cradle. The cave looks somewhat more... inhabited.

Dusty blinks again, his mind gibbering a million miles a minute. He carefully, gently stands, his eyes roving over the room, the cradle, the woman beside him....and over to the guitar.

Jars of preserves line the walls in the kitchen area, and blankets lay over the bare dirt walls, making the place cozier. The guitar lays carefully on a blanket all its own, the dark, swirling wood of its soundboard shimmering gently in the firelight.

Dusty frowns to himself, his attention caught by the guitar. He stops after a moment, abruptly, and his cheeks turn pink as he looks for his clothes.

Druan watches him calmly, and rises from the bed to fetch a homespun tunic for him. Her belly swells gently, a sign that perhaps another baby is on the way.

Dusty turns as Druan comes up behind him, not quite able to keep the blush out of his cheeks and the dark, troubled look from his eyes. He smiles faintly, though and takes the tunic from her with a quiet, "Thanks," slipping it over his head. His attention turns back to the guitar, his tone kept low and somewhat puzzled, "I didn't mean to wake you up..."

Druan shakes her head with a smile and pets his shoulder. "I'm used to your nightmares by now."

A slight sound and motion from the cradle draws her attention and she pads over to beam down at the small creature inside it. She reaches out and gently pats the blanket back into place.

Dusty shakes his head, running a hand through hair that is by now halfway down his back. "I...how long has it been?"

"Since the creature?" Druan asks, then frowns, chewing a fingernail. "Five years."

Dusty nods to himself, still turned away, then rubs both hands over his face. He drops them, looks over at the cradle, then back at Druan, and blushes yet one more time. "Um..." He just gives up and shakes his head. "I probably just haven't slept enough or something," he mutters softly to himself. "Haven't gone sleepwalking since I was a little kid." He walks back over to the bed with a sigh. "Go back to sleep, Dusty."

Druan walks him back to the bed and climbs in with him, settling in close next to him. "I could help you get back to sleep," she murmurs suggestively.

Dusty, halfway to lying down, stops and looks up at her. "Um..." He looks down at himself briefly,, then up at her again, his eyes coming to rest on her belly. "Are you...feeling up to it?"

Druan smiles and strokes his cheek. "I'm sure I can manage something."

You paged Dusty with 'If his hormones leap to it, we can do a seemly fade to black...'.
From afar, Dusty noddles. Sounds good to me. He'll go for it, although mostly he's just playing along at this point.
Dusty pages: Not wanting to hurt or offend her. :)

When next Dusty awakens, it is to a raucous child's clamor and a small boy sitting on his chest, grinning down at him. "Come on, Da', you were gonna take us for a ride around the woods today!" The lad's hair is tousled, but the resemblance to Dusty -- as he remembers himself -- is remarkable. "The sun's up and it's SPRING!" The child back-rolls off Dusty's chest onto the ground next to the bed. A slightly younger girlchild watches Dusty with wide eyes, clutching to a wooden-and-cloth doll.

Dusty's eyes fly open, and he stares blankly at the kid on his stomach. "I did? Sweet Lady, how many kids do I have?" he mutters to himself under his breath, careful to be very quiet about it. He rolls out of bed, saying louder, "Lemme get my wits together, huh?" and stands up.

His voice is a touch deeper now, and the fur on his face is something of a surprise. Druan, looking only a little older, smiles at him from her place on the bed. The boy bounces around the room, as only an extremely active ten year old or so can, and the girl grins up at Dusty after a moment and says, "I really really really like it when you get big and furry, Daddy. Can I ride on your shoulders this time? Derrick says I have to ride further back cause I'm lighter, but you're strong enough to carry Derrick further back, right?"

Dusty gets a look in his eyes that resembles nothing so much as a deer caught in headlights. He blinks twice, then shakes his head and gives a laugh that is only slightly forced. "Not in here, dear, I don't want to get clawmarks all in the cave. Let's go outside." He tosses a helpless look at Druan as he starts to get dressed, stops, thinks about it, and shrugs and goes naked for now. And yes, you can ride on my shoulders as long as you hold on tight, okay?"

The girl claps happily, engages briefly in a tongue-sticking-out contest with her brother, and the pair follow Dusty outside. The boy (Derrick) seems unable to stop moving, always finding something to do to show off his athletic abilities: flipping over branches, tumbling, cartwheels. The girl follows his example, abandoning the doll inside and doing much neater cartwheels and roundoffs than her elder can.

The forest outside sings its spring songs, and the nearby trees warble a greeting to Dusty as he emerges from the cave.

Dusty, happy at least to see something that makes sense, whistles right back, the whistle turning into a complex vocal melody that tests his new range and abilities quite soundly and yet still blends in with the song of the trees. All else seems to have been momentarily forgotten as he listens both to himself and to the music around him.

Dusty's leg twinges around the scar, but his chest cavity seems to have opened and his range is lovely and rich -- obviously, he's been practicing. The trees respond cheerfully, as do a number of birds. The boy chimes in with a lovely, high boy soprano, although the girl takes advantage of his distraction to trip him.

Dusty's song trails off and he looks sharply behind him as the boy soprano's melody ends abruptly, turning a calm look on the girl-child. "Never interrupt anyone who's singing. It's not nice. Say you're sorry and we'll go." He lbinks once or twice as he listens to himself, then shakes his head.

The girl looks abashed. "I'm sorry," she says quietly, but waits for a moment when she thinks Dusty's not looking, and sticks her tongue out at her brother, mouthing, "Showoff!" to him.

Dusty shakes his head with a bit of a smile, his voice dropping to approximate a gentle growl. "Next time, mean it. Everything that is of the Lady sings, if you listen hard enough, and all songs have their own beauty. Let's go." With that, he steps away from the pair and shifts down to Hispo, waiting.

Derrick bounds onto his back first, none too gently, and there is a brief tussle as he allows himself to be ousted from Dusty's shoulders by the girl. They each seize handfuls of fur and giggle. "Giddyap, Daddy!" they squeal.

Dusty's response is a growl to them, but to Dusty it's a soft, ~Ow, not so hard!~ He waits until he guesses the two are settled, and then takes off at a lope into the northern part of the forest.

The forest has rebuilt itself from that day so long ago, although there is still a monstrous black scar in the grass where the bulk of the corpse deposited itself. The trees broken and smashed in the attack are slowly being replaced by young saplings, and the heaps of chipped wood remain where they were laid by the creature's machines. Flowers, however, are bursting out of the decomposing piles, bright, colorful splashes on the landscape.

The children squeal and cheer as Dusty trots along.

Dusty slows as he trots into the blackened clearing, looking around and digging his claws into the soil experimentally. His nose lifts to scent the air, and he growls softly under his breath.

Other than a trace of the scent that lingers at the back of Dusty's throat, and the mark on the ground, there seem to be no other signs of the threat to the woods.

"Daddy, is this where you killed the monster?" the girl asks, leaning forward to rest her chin between his ears. "You never talk about it, except to say that you'll keep us safe."

Dusty grunts in what is meant to be an affirmative, but doesn't say much else for now -- there doesn't seem to be much point. He turns around and pads back out of the clearing, now putting a lot of distance quickly between himself and the site. He lopes fast enough to distract the children but not so fast that they can't hang on.

It is a bright, warm day, and the songs are cheerful and oozing with intense happiness. When next Dusty looks around from his bouncy lope, he finds a pair of young wolves loping alongside him, bright-eyed, and no one on his back.

Deep-Fires looks down at himself briefly as he lopes, using his distance from the ground to judge his current form, and shifts down to lupus for long-distance running.

One of the wolves chuffs. This one thinks that he smells the other wolves at the forest's edge now, Father. Is this one right?

Dusty pauses briefly in his lope to sniff himself, his ears quirking in puzzlement.

The scent of ... wolves... Garou?... definitely some kind of lupine predator... drifts through the woods from the eastern forest. The scent is not hostile, but expectant, and occasional noises echo briefly from the same area.

Dusty's tail flickers, and he chuffs a quiet acknlowledgement. This way, he indicates, loping a little faster in that direction.

A group of four wolves in various shapes and colors await the group's arrival at the edge of the forest. A large, muscular female wuffs to him respectfully. Greetings Treerunner-Singing-Guardian. I am She-Wrings-Mirth-From-Elders. We have come to your call. These are your children, who have Changed?

Dusty chuffs softly, seeming mildly confused but not horrendously so. Yes. This one cannot teach them properly here...they are of Gaia's Children.

Wrings-Mirth woofs. As am I, Treerunner. I am pleased to take the responsibility for your childrens' teaching upon myself and my pack. They will be mighty warriors for the Lady, as you are yourself.

Deep-Fires' tail sweeps a few times in pleasure. This one is honored by your praise. He then turns his head toward the two wolves beside him, and indicates that they should go with the other wolf. This one has taught you all he can. She will teach you what is left. Once you have completed your Rite and can return here, do so. IF this one is not here, look for him at the Caern of the Hidden Walk. His tail lowers a bit at this.

In the manner of puppies, his children take leave of him, licking at his muzzle and wagging their tails low, with rear ends tucked. However, as they cross the edge of the forest, their chins rise and tails rise and they comport themselves as if they were the children of a legend. Wrings-Mirth chuffs with amusement, bestows a marvelously un-wolf-like wink upon Dusty, and the six wolves vanish into the lands beyond the forest.

Dusty licks their muzzle a few times, then gives them a gentle nose-nudge. Only when they are out of sight does he turn and lope back into the forest.

An elderly woman steps out of a nearby tree and gazes upon Dusty with some amount of sorrow, her back hunched in a pronounced widow's hump, and her long silver hair loose and tangled. Rough, tattered fabric clings to her in layers.

Dusty shifts up to homid himself, almost certain of what he is going to find for himself as he does so but his attention focused on the woman anyway.

His body is that of a man in his mid to late thirties, broad and muscular, with a few new scars he doesn't remember getting. The woman inclines her head, apparently unwilling to meet his eyes. "I am sorry, my son," she says in a voice that rings familiar chimes deep in his memory. "I have failed you."

Dusty tilts his head curiously, not understanding.

She raises her head slowly. "I had meant... for you to come here... to defeat the Caterpillar and keep it from devouring this wood. But my daughter... has been harmed... by that very explosion which carried you here. She has... has used the opportunity given by your arrival... and I am sorry I did not see it sooner."

Dusty tilts his head, not understanding. "I only rectify that which I damaged, I thought.."

The old woman shakes her head, seemingly growing older with every motion. "My daughter's directive... was to take you to the Caterpillar, or at least guide you there so that you could prevent its rampage. Touched by the berries of the Wyrm tree from the explosion, she has been twisted in a selfish manner. I beg forgiveness, even as I offer my gifts as your pack's Totem, for not seeing sooner. She is in need of healing."

Dusty's eyes darken with anger, but not directed at the old woman, clearly. "What can I do?"

The woman leans upon a staff now, bent beyond her apparent years. "I will send you home. Your pack worries after you. My daughter... my daughter will learn that memories are memories and cannot be revived."

Dusty stares now, uncertainly. "They are still alive? I thought them dead for sure."

Dusty adds, "If not then, then certainly now. A Garou's life is unforgiving, and I have been sheltered here as that goes."

She nods and smiles. "They live. They are my children, children of the Fir. Would you return to them? They are having trying times now, among themselves."

Dusty ducks his head in respect as sudden understanding comes to him. "Of course I will, lady. I can only guess at how many year it has been...in truth, I remember little."

Grandmother Fir smiles sadly. "It is a long time for them, but longer for you." And Dusty finds himself in the Bawn of the Walk, a place that calls to his memory as vibrantly as yesterday, yet distantly, like approaching thunder. A fading wail of terror and loss passes out of his hearing on the wind, a last touch of heartbreak from a familiar voice.

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