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 Posted: Tue Apr 15, 2008 7:30 pm
The nervous, terrified flutter deep within her chest hasn't subsided at all since she heard the first strike, and she strongly suspects that it won't leave until the Brigadier stands before her, whole and healthy. Or.. well, at least until she manages to sneak close enough to see him from a distant vantage point. It all depends on how effectively the Elites have secured the area.
Although Fletcher doesn't expect to be able to penetrate the edges of the Clan Guardian's territory, she quickens her pace when she nears the border. Perhaps if she's lucky she'll be able to sneak past their watch, although in her haste she has been moving with little care for stealth. Although.. she is taking the far more circumspect route, the route that would (usually) only be used by reporting Elites, the Wardens, and the Lieutenant. With any luck all of the Elites are off guarding the typical approaches.
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Posted: Tue Apr 15, 2008 7:51 pm
There are Sentinels everywhere.
The majority of the bodies belong to curious onlookers who had moved instinctually in the direction of the terrible noise that originated in the heart of the Deep Woods as soon as the rain had lessened. Worried eyes peer out from the trees, all looking towards the border of the Brigadier's territory-- and the Gathering Place. They dare not approach closer, however, because the border is full of patrolling Elites, all of whom look more grim-faced than usual and a lot less prone to being gentle in their rebuffing of rubberneckers.
But the route Fletcher is taking seems deserted, as it is neither official nor easy to navigate. The branches close in on either side of the russet Watcher, but this path at least is familiar to her... and to the Elites who generally use it. It is also very familiar to the sole guardian of the path-- the one who's spent the last few hours frantically searching the territory... only to finally and reluctantly give way to the second team of searchers when he'd exhausted himself. Unable to face 'resting', this tired guard has taken a less strenuous job (that of watching this approach) until he's gotten his strength back.
It's Sleet, and he's half asleep when his senses alert him to a fast-moving Sentinel on approach. He barely has time to rouse himself and launch off his branch to intercept before Fletcher is upon him, and the huge male almost stalls in midair as he backwings in surprise-- and recognition. The male's pupils pin in anger. "You!" Not now!
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Jaeger Erdarastrix Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Apr 15, 2008 8:13 pm
"Not now!" she hisses, slowing down to avoid a full-on collision. Nearly frantic at the thought of being balked when she was so close, with that fluttering still resonating within her chest, the russet Watcher reacts before she has any time to think. She veers to the side, as if she's going to land, but instead she grabs onto the branch only long enough to launch herself directly at Sleet from the side - but she doesn't hit him. Instead, she backwings violently and sends a gust of wind and a strong push of her Will at the Lieutenant, sending him tumbling into a branch. Head first. With a rather impressive thud.
Fletcher moves in after the fallen Mist, guiding his unconscious form to a safe resting place. "Sorry," she mutters to her victim, "gonna.. gonna get in trouble for this, yes yes." But she doesn't linger long, as now she has two important tasks to complete. First, she must find the Brigadier. And.. well, now she kinda has to send someone to retrieve the Lieutenant. Without wasting any further time ruminating over Sleet's current state, Fletcher speeds off into the Brigadier's territory. Not towards his great tree, however. The region she travels to is further within his territory, almost untouched by the influence of the Sentinels.
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Posted: Tue Apr 15, 2008 8:37 pm
The poor Lieutenant had no time or opportunity to react to the Watcher's attack, and he goes down like a feathered rock. Only Fletcher's intervention saves him from further damage, and he's certainly out for the count. When he wakes it will be with a raging headache-- and a fierce desire to pinion the russet Watcher. Luckily for Fletcher, he won't wake for hours.
Ahead of Fletcher, the Brigadier's territory stretches. It is full of ancient trees, hung heavily with moss and lichen shelves that rival the size of some small Sentinel-built platforms. It is a beautiful area, and a silent one; sombre and strong like its master. And now, in the aftermath of the storm, it's taken on an almost ethereal quality from the glistening water droplets still clinging to every available surface. The Watcher is headed towards a small section of the territory, rumoured by those few who are familiar with the area to be haunted. Although it lies within the Clan Guardian's lands, no one has ever seen him visit this particular grove of trees, and meetings are never held there. Every few years, young fledglings dare each other to breach the border on this side, and are inevitably met at the border by the Brigadier himself and sent home with broken tail-feathers and badly ringing ears. It is a no-fly zone, and one of the darkest and most overgrown areas of the Deep Woods.
In its very centre is a large tree with a disproportionately wide trunk. A long-unused platform, now heavily covered with moss and leaves and detritus, rings around the tree just under the dark opening to a large hollow. Sentinels lived here once, many generations ago... but no more.
Fletcher's sharp eyes may make out a few newer talon scuffs, scarring the soft wood of the old platform.
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Jaeger Erdarastrix Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Apr 15, 2008 8:55 pm
When the aberrant reaches the dark depths of the Brigadier's territory she slows, the trembling in her chest subsiding even though the fear and worry lingers on. She slows not because she does not worry, but rather because there is something about the silent beauty of this place that enforces it. Despite herself, she can't help but admire the ancient forest that surrounds her. Every time she sees it, it's exactly as it used to be. That, at least, is something the unnaturally-aged Watcher can take comfort in.
She travels unerringly towards the tree in the centre, towards the platform, and comes in for a gentle landing near the fresh talon marks. Sentinel etiquette would demand that she announce her presence, but the ancient forest requires continued silence. Still, a Sentinel is silent in the air - not on the ground. As Fletcher moves towards the entrance to the hollow her talons scrape against the wood (although she lifts them as high as she can, to avoid adding her own scrapes to the ancient platform). She trusts in the noise she makes to announce herself, and in the fact that she is here of all places to reveal her identity.
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Posted: Wed Apr 16, 2008 7:24 am
Fletcher's approach is not interrupted, and at first, there is no noise from within the hollow. But Sentinels have sharp ears, and a soft repetitive sound can be heard after a moment. It's the sound of careful preening-- a beak, gently running over a feather. And again. And again.
The hollow is as it always was, although it shows the same weathering as the platform outside. The long-abandoned nest of some forest creature clutters the floor to the left of the entrance, but things are otherwise much the same as they must have been when this territory was last in use. As far as Sentinel hollows go, this one is enormous-- and seems to have been very comfortable, once upon a time. There are ledges for fledglings to sit on, storage holes, a well-defined nest area (long missing the nesting material, of course), and a cozy roosting corner. And there are still naturally-moulted feathers strewn here and there, tucked into crevaces and cracks in the wood so that errant wind-storms won't blow them away. Some are visibly Deep Woods feathers, others more of a mottled rust colour. There are small ones, too-- fledgling feathers, of no recognizable type.
A hulking shape sits near the nest area, mostly facing away from Fletcher. Every few seconds, the large Sentinel dips his head to gently run his beak along the shaft of an ancient feather-- one that looks very much like Fletcher's in pattern, but is darker than she is in colour. When he reaches the tip of the feather, he pauses for a moment... and then begins again. The feather is old, and the preening is starting to break down the barbules. The Brigadier doesn't seem to notice.
The Watcher's presence, for now, goes unacknowledged.
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Jaeger Erdarastrix Vice Captain
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Posted: Wed Apr 16, 2008 8:09 am
Given her particular area of expertise, the sound of preening is unmistakable and it reassures the Watcher. If he is spending the energy to care for his feathers, after all, he cannot be too badly injured. So she ventures inside, slowly, at first resisting the urge to look around and examine the hollow she hasn't visited in generations.
Inevitably, her resolve is toppled by the combination of an overwhelming sense of nostalgia and simple curiousity - how much have things changed? That ledge, there... those feathers. Those feathers. The nest, the roost, the Brigadier. And the feathers. Her breath hitches in her throat, the only noise she has made thus far, as her gaze fixes upon the fledgling feathers. So long ago, now, but the memories tumble free and force themselves to the forefront of her mind, threatening to drag her down with them. Gritting her beak resolutely, the aberrant tears her attention away from the strewn feathers and gives it to the Brigadier instead.
Unacknowledged, but not unnoticed. Fletcher isn't foolish enough to assume that the Brigadier's lack of response to her presence means that he is unaware - and the fact that he continues in his repetitive preening almost brings a low keen from her throat. No, no... she wants to warn him, to stop him from ruining the feather, but at the same time she doesn't want to disturb his actions. Caught between 'shoulds' and 'wants' and a lingering fear of having to tell him about Sleet, she wavers in place while the Deep Woods continues to preen.
Finally, slowly, deliberately, she creeps forward. Acting on ancient memories she doesn't let herself think of too often, Fletcher approaches the Brigadier and nudges her head under his wing, snuggling herself up to his side like a lost little fledgling, and begins to gently preen his chest.
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Posted: Wed Apr 16, 2008 9:11 am
No, not unnoticed. The Brigadier allows the sudden familiarity, but it does not distract him from his preening. He continues the methodical motions, just as slowly as before, and at first he seems unlikely to stop. But suddenly, his foot fumbles its gentle grip, and the dark russet feather twirls sedately to the floor of the hollow. The Brigadier stares after it, his good eye looking as glazed as his blind one, and sighs deeply. He slowly lowers his foot to the ground.
Now, at least, Fletcher's preening seems to have some effect. The old bird closes his eyes, and his attention slowly shifts from the fallen feather to the smaller female. He begins, hesitantly, to preen the top of her head... but he stops a moment later, one of her feathers still loosely held in his beak. The Brigadier seems to see Fletcher for the first time. He raises his head, and the words rumble out of him like distant thunder. "...the central platform is gone."
The central platform has stood for decades. It is a great loss to the forest, certainly, but the old Deep Woods remembers when it was built. And he remembers who insisted that it be built in the first place, for the good of the Clan, even though structural improvements were the last thing on anyone's mind during the final years of the war. He remembers who-- with her typical passion-- heckled the builders and the crafters mercilessly until they finally gave up and allowed her to command the majority of the construction herself. He remembers that the building of the central platform united the Sentinels just as she said it would, and gave them the hope and strength they needed to rally together. She gave his army a reason to keep fighting, and he lead them to a victory she never lived to see.
The central platform was her legacy... and now it is as gone as she is.
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Jaeger Erdarastrix Vice Captain
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Posted: Wed Apr 16, 2008 10:53 am
While she preens him, her gaze is fixed on the feather. When it falls, the Brigadier would feel her twitch, as if forcibly stopping herself from grabbing for it, and she simply watches it drift to the floor. Her gentle ministrations continue, unfaltering, even when those words fall upon her --the central platform is gone-- how can it be gone? Russet eartufts flatten against her head, memories returning.
She was... how old then? Just a fledgling, already busy with her apprenticeship and training and eager to join the fight. Construction of the platform had begun before she'd hatched, or so they told her, and like a silly child with her head full of fluff and fantasies of the brave exploits she'd perform in the war she ignored the platform. Like many others in those days, she scoffed at the idea of wasting so much time and effort on something that did nothing to aid in the effort. But then she saw her fill of the war, and she saw what the platform did for the Sentinels. It wasn't just a big plank for large groups to stand on - it was a symbol of their unity, and of the strength of the clan. And now... how do you rebuild that?
"What now?" Fletcher asks quietly, her mind wandering as she tries to remember if any of the old builders have survived. Or perhaps... no, not yet. So many skills lost to time, buried for the good of the clan. Is the platform reason enough to bring these hidden things to the surface? Do they even need the platform anymore? The other clans are gone, that lone Spectre is all that remains... but no, it would be foolish to assume that Tempest does not have family out there, somewhere. "Can we? Should we?"
The urge to babble is difficult to resist, but she forces herself to be silent for his sake. It's easier here, at least, where there are so many memories available to distract her.
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Posted: Thu Apr 24, 2008 11:03 am
Foolish indeed, for the egg had to be laid by someone. The old war bird's feathers rouse briefly, then settle, and he lifts his heavy head. What now? "We rebuild." But his words are automatic and mechanical-- said because that's what he's supposed to say as the leader of the Clan, not because he believes it. The Brigadier's true thoughts run parallel to Fletcher's: how do they rebuild? He examines himself for the strength and fierce passion it would take to engineer such a project, and finds himself lacking.
Coming here, to this den of memories, was perhaps a mistake. The Brigadier straightens, twisting his head to peer down at Fletcher. Time to snap out of this melancholy and-- if he cannot fathom personally organizing the rebuilding of the central platform-- there is no harm in delegating it to someone else. Someone who is, as always, tripping over his own tailfeathers to prove himself. "...But perhaps that is a job for the young. Something for Sleet to tackle, yes?"
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Jaeger Erdarastrix Vice Captain
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Posted: Thu Apr 24, 2008 11:34 am
The mention of the lieutenant serves as a rather sharp reminder of her recent encounter with him.. and the result. Her mind suddenly becomes a jumble of worry and paranoia, and she shrinks down, finally ceasing in her gentle preening of the Brigadier, and the faintest little keening noise escapes from her beak. In an instant Fletcher has gone from semi-sane Watcher to an about-to-be-chastized fledgling, but she can't quite bring herself to admit to her crime.
"Th-the young... Yes, yes, good idea. Yes. Good good. Young strong talons and Will and backs to rebuild, young strong minds to design," she babbles, avoiding mention of Sleet. "Crafters.. crafters with wood can... They can find those with the old lore, yes? Talktalk share, learn about how the Builders made the platforms. Metal? What about hard metals? How? Lost, all lost.. Scavenging, yes, we can pick through the shards and reclaim, rebuild." As the aberrant continues to ramble on about plans to rebuild she calms down a bit, no longer hunkered down. Almost normal, or at least as normal as she gets. But she won't meet the Brigadier's gaze.
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Posted: Thu Sep 11, 2008 9:23 am
Body language is a normal and extensive part of communication between two Sentinels, and Fletcher's body language is suddenly suspect. To someone who knows her as well as the Brigadier knows her, her posture screams of guilt before her babbling calms her enough to return to 'almost normal'. A feeling of deep (and somewhat familiar) forboding settles over the older male, and his brain ticks through theoretical situations that could explain this behaviour.
The Brigadier straightens as Fletcher does, his tufts slowly rising as the russet Watcher's yammering continues. He's alert now, and his red eye is sharply watching the smaller female.
"Fletcher..." Only one word, but it's almost a growl, and it's certainly a warning. What have you done now?
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Jaeger Erdarastrix Vice Captain
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Posted: Thu Sep 11, 2008 9:54 am
Russet eartufts pin flat against her head at his commanding growl. She flinches, drawing back - not out of fear of a violent response, but out of a deeper sense of shame and unworthiness of the familiarity she'd sought out before - and keeps her pale gaze fixed upon her talons. "H-he he's okay," Fletcher stammers quietly, speaking into her chest.
And the ageless aberrant stops, suddenly, heaving a small sigh and closing her eyes while a resolute calm comes over her. "He was in the way," she explains, lifting her gaze to meet that of the Guardian, "he was in the way, he was going to stop me, and I had to know." Had to know if he was safe, had to know if she was alone. The faintest touch of annoyance clings to her tone, as this topic edges on a sore spot. If the Brigadier would just let her TELL Sleet about things then maybe he wouldn't keep trying to 'protect' his boss from the 'crazy Watcher.'
But that moment passes, as it inevitably does, and her attention flitters away like a trapped moth. Her gaze follows, dancing about the hollow, while Fletcher waits uneasily for the Brigadier's response. Feathers here, there's one by her foot, and carefully she reaches out with her will to pull it a little closer. Is that one of hers? Hard to tell, in this lighting.
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Posted: Thu Sep 11, 2008 10:32 am
It only takes a split second for the old war bird's tactical mind to put it all together; Fletcher rushing to make contact, Sleet getting in her way-- if the Brigadier is lucky, his poor lieutenant will not be too badly damaged. After all, Fletcher's definition of 'okay' does not always fall in line with his own. The anger that had been building is dispersed; he cannot be angry at Fletcher for being true to her nature, any more than he can be angry at Sleet for being true to his. His eartufts, previously raised in ire, now slick back, and the Brigadier settles heavily in place on the ancient floor of the old nesting tree.
If the Brigadier catches the annoyance in Fletcher's tone, he does not respond to it; his own annoyance and regret are well hidden-- if he had his way, she would be in the position she was always meant to have, and Sleet would still be growing and learning at his own pace. But raising that topic is unfair to both Sleet and Fletcher, and so it is given no more than a passing, somewhat frustrated thought. "...I will talk with him." Something about the way he says 'talk' suggests that he intends, perhaps, to do more than smooth Sleet's ruffled feathers. Maybe.
The older male glances down at the feather Fletcher pulls closer, and he sighs. "You didn't break anything, I hope?"
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Jaeger Erdarastrix Vice Captain
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Posted: Thu Sep 11, 2008 10:50 am
She hates it when he's mad, disappointed, or upset in any way. So having this situation out in the open and... mostly okay (or somewhat settled, at the very least) is a great relief. The tension she'd kept bottled up bleeds away with a sigh, and Fletcher's attention actually drifts away from the feather.
"Pride, mostly," her beak clacks in faint amusement, before she grins sheepishly up at the Brigadier, "and maybe his head." The aberrant gestures vaguely with her wingtip, a casual little flick. "I-I... I didn't hit him too hard, yes? Careful, careful, he's so young." And untried. And eager. But he is noticeably larger than she is, and if Sleet had been given a chance to respond she wasn't certain she'd be able to avoid hurting him more severely.
"The branch," she begins, scuffing at the ground a little with one talon, "it was not so gentle as I, sorry, so sorry. Will be head-sore when he wakes, yes."
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