Sun and Moon
This is apart of 'The Great Ones', a Camp Willow plot. Read the [[[The_Great_Ones_Aren%27t_Here|introduction]]],[[[The_Great_Ones%2C_Part_One%3A_Under_Siege|Part One]]], and [[[It_Comes_to_War%3A_Part_One|Part Two]]].
Setting
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<----> Camp Willow - South Main Grounds <---->
Towering above all of this otter camp is an immense willow tree that has seen bygone seasons over generations of the inhabitants below. The girthly trunk is seen over gingerly waving reeds and cattails swaying in the cool breeze off of the wide river aside the camp. Camp Willow is settled underneath the elder willow tree casting off its shade over the land below. Perking ears are the soft waves lashing gently against the shoreline of the inlet that has been jetted into the shoreline. There are no hints of any of the outside land away from the secluded grounds of otters and their kin, hidden away from any sight of beasts outside the natural defense of the reeds.
Extending from the lashing flames of small campfires flow light smoke trails, soon disappearing within the clear air of the woods. The dry piles of wood are stacked above a thin matting of reeds, leaving the logs to dry out completely to lessen the risk of thick gray smoke to give away their position to any beasts besides their allies. Set aside these same piles are various small, mostly one-room cabins that hold families as their own sheltar. An occasional tent sprouts from the ground, holding travellers or gypsys as they go about their own unusual business of trading and bargainning.
Characters:
Lutea, the Taggerung
Juniper , Sol priestess
Raisa, Camp Willow cook
Aldak, Camp Willow trainer
==
<---->Sun and Moon<---->
==
Life is slowly returning to Camp Willow: the incessant sounds of construction fill the air as beasts rebuild their homes, their businesses, and their livelihoods. A soft bell tolls, marking another processional, which has paused the work for some; they are still in the process of honoring those who perished - and identifying them. The missing, assumed dead or captive, have been mourned all the same, and those whose bodies had been used for 'decoration' have long since been removed. The tree seems to wilt beneath the runes the conquerors painted and carved into it, and Lutea is among those tending to its great trunk. It is delicate work, and the rough warrior attends to it with a shocking tenderness; scrubbing at what can be removed with her nose almost pressed to the wounded bark. Her midsection is still wrapped in a healthy layer of bandaging, specks of blood oozing through the stitching beneath.
Juniper has seen better days health wise. The battle had taken it's toll and her whole side has been shaved, tended, and wrapped up. Cuts and wounds dot her hide nearly head to tail tip, but the large southern otter lass makes her way through camp to help with what she can. She's not wearing her vest thanks to the bulky bandages, which shows the branded in image of a sun on her back. The crude branding is mostly hairless, with discolored fur around it's edges. It rolls as she moves her shoulder, her arm in a sling. Juniper approaches the tree, frowning and looking up into it's branches. "How goes it?" she wonders quietly.
"It goes." Is the response from the tattooed otter, who completes a scraping before turning to look at the Southern lass. "Bi' of a tedious process, bu' -" Reaching into a bucket on the ground, she pulls a jar of honey and a brush free, and gently coats the raw area that she's scraped and scrubbed the paint (and a small section of bark) from. A small strip of bark from one of the younger, healthier willow trees is grafted, crudely, over the wound. "- S'an old tree, an'took a lot of abuse." Lutea shrugs, finally stepping away and rolling her own shoulders - it's tense work, but about all the heavy lifting she's capable of, at the moment. "Y'look like a right patch job y'self - healin' up alright?"
Juniper glances down at herself, her wide, flat nose wrinkling. "I will admit I haven't been quite this banged up in a while." She attempts to shift her arm, but it looks like it's painful. "Dislocated shoulder. One of the blighters got a nice wedge into the cross of my sword." She steps up to get shoulder to shoulder with Lutea and gazes up at the tree. "It'll be fine," Juniper decides. "You're doing a good job. Is it important, this tree?"
Raisa has finally made her way back to camp. She was not among the ones injuried as she isn't a fighter. She had stayed at the abbey and helped with cooking and making sue all was ok
Lutea winces, sympathetically, with no small degree of respect; there is nothing that makes the Northerner like a beast quite like having the stuffing knocked out of them and continuing to stand. She would practically fangirl over the branding on her back, let's be real. "Seems t'be important t'the folk here - Camp "Willow" an' all tha'." There's a short bark of ironic laughter. "'Least I know trees or I'd be bloody useless." She plucks her strange staff from its place, propped against the Willow, and leans against it, flicking her gaze over the other otter. She doesn't notice Raisa, yet - to her, she is just one more beast among the dozens milling about. "I 'eard y'took some out with a burnin' building. Top notch." There's a smirk that pulls at the fierce muzzle, her grip adjusting as she steps back to admire her work so far - the patchwork Willow.
Juniper nods her head slowly as she keeps her eye on the tree. There is a flash in her gaze as she glances around at the new movement behind them, but it's just otters coming and going. Paranoia ebbs and she looks back to Lutea with an approving look. "An' I hear that your pile o'vermin could reach the sun and back. If you had sol on your back, I wouldn't think twice that you were the best bloody warrior from my clan." She laughs, her bristly whiskers smoothing back as she falls into a smile.
It's a weird sort of comradery that forms between violent strangers. 'Nice weather.' 'Yes, quite.' 'I say, I truly appreciate the way that you bathe in the blood of your enemies.' 'Yes, it does make for a fine Sunday'...And so forth. Instead, Lutea replies with an ignorant: "Sol...?" On her back? Using her staff as a support beam and pivoting point, she cranes over to peek at the other otter's back - and practically wets herself. "Tha's /great/!" She gushes, tittering around to stare at what is visible of the mark. "'ow did tha' /feel/? S'a quick process, innit?" Wow, branding; she wishes her tribe had got on that boat, although there is a loss of color that only a needle dipped in ink can provide. Returning to a face-front position, she points at the crescent beneath her eye, practically hopping. "M'tribe does y'first mark when y'come of age, but y'earn th'rest." She spares her the play-by-play; her ink is extensive and... Well, they don't have the time. "What y'say y'clan was? Sol?"
Juniper picks up her eyebrows and leans for Lutea to get a better look. She half smiles and creases her eyes up as the movement jolts the many abrasions on her. "Hurt like you wouldn't believe," Juniper admits with a muzzle twitch at the memory. "You get the mark when you enter the sect. Warriors and priests are one in the same. Borderline barbaric compared to your marks, though." Her eyes sweep across Lutea with obvious approval. "Sol is our... god, of sorts. Our spirit, way of life." Juniper glances up at the sky and the sun hanging in it. "The lore is our brand is heated with the fire of the sun, and so forth. But I'm growing increasingly jealous of that color. How do they do that?"
Eyes wide, Lutea nods her understanding. It's nice to hear about a spiritual grouping which /doesn't/ involve hanging her kin from trees. Refreshing. "Sol... Southern, righ'?" She laughs. "My people'r children'a th'moon, seems we were fated t'meet." She thrusts a paw towards her. "Lutea, by th'way. As far as the marks go, s'all shave'n stab." The otter laughs, rubbing the tip of a finger over the smooth skin beneath the mark, where no fur inhibits the coloring. "Dip a needle in ink, an' just keep stabbin' till it's done - takes hours, but they dinnae 'urt ater awhile." Her chest swells with pride. "Back in m'tribe, we made all th'inks ourself. Y'ad t'make y'own ink f'your first, most of 'em are a combination'a rocks an'plants." At least in her oversimplified understanding of the process, that is. "M'mum got blood poisoning from 'ers, but she 'ad th'best colors." Apparently near-death really brings the brightness out.
Juniper bends her neck as far as comfortably allowed to eye the colors with appreciation. Her own make is not much than fleshy, scarred skin. "The moon," she says quietly before bending back up and adjusting her shoulder. "We have stories about the moon. It is the lost sister of Sol and they dance in great arcs in the sky to find each other again." Juniper's lips peel back from her teeth in a smile. "I am glad you and I did not have to dance such great distances."
"Hah! It snows a heck'uva lot more where I'm from - I've danced a great distance, speak f'yourself!" The ottermaid laughs. Did they just become best friends!? She thinks they just became best friends. If she had a home, Lutea would be busy constructing bunk beds as they spoke. "It's 'onorable tha' th'clan Sol came t'the aid of th'Willow otters. I've never seen so many different families all come t'gether in pure..." She searches for the right 'big word' that will make her feel smarter; It's 'altruism', but her vocabulary falls short. "Well, outta th'goodness a'their hearts, y'know."
Looking like a withered, defaced tree himself, Aldak comes towards the tree, leaning heavily on his gnarled staff. The old otter looks more tired than before the invasion, seeming to sag against his staff rather than pushing off of it. The sound of happiness draws him, and he makes his way towards the two females, offering them a wane, serene smile. "It will take much goodness, indeed, to purge this place of the evil that has befouled its streams. Like inky tar, the filth of these raiders clings to our home, and the flow of time's river will not clear it away on its own, not for many dances of the moon and sun." Releasing a sigh, the aged riverdog turns his eyes toward the willow tree.
Juniper would throw her head back to laugh, but she is forced to just snort and giggle, which seems out of place for the scar-ridden larger otter. "I've never /seen/ snow." Her attention returns from the sky to Lutea. "Otters help otters. That is always how it has been. One day the otters of Sol may need help and perhaps Camp Willow will lend a rudder." Juniper stiffly shrugs and looks over to Aldak. "Have you lived here long, old one?"
"An' so it'll always be." Otters are a loyal bunch, for the most part - at least Lutea likes to think that they are. "M'tribe lived by th'ice an' the tides; wha' th'woodlanders 'ere call 'snow' is nothin' more'n downy fluff rainin' from th'clouds. Y'ain't seen /snow/ till the wind whips shards of ice through y'tent, an'you 'ave t'tunnel your way out th'front door." There's another laugh, though she doesn't have the sense to be as reserved about it as Juniper, even as Aldak approaches. "Aft'noon." Balancing her staff in the crook of her elbow, she brings her paws together and gives him a little bow - at least she respects her elders. /That/ much has been drilled into her from the earliest of ages - growing old is quite the accomplishment, where she's from... She doesn't quite follow everything he says, though. "They pu'/tar/ in th'river?" She asks, her voice hushing in horrified shock, unable to catch the intricacies of metaphor.
"This place has harbored my poor vessel for some fair seasons, yes," Aldak replies to Juniper, nodding sagely as he slows to a stop, his wrinkled face set in a calm expression of peace. "But not as long as you're suspecting, Young One." With a wink, the otter turns his attention to Lutea's total misinterpretation of the metaphor, not bothering to correct it. "When the sun and moon stand side-by-side, much greater things are in store for our beloved Camp Willow than the tarnish of our tree, of that I am certain. And there is much we can do to aid the flow of corruption away."
Juniper could really use a stick to lean on right about now, lucky ducks. The sun otter tosses a glance to the moon and looks thoughtful. "We did not have stories about what would happen when the moon and sun finally met. That is one of the great mysteries of our faith." Her head tilts to consider Aldak fondly. "Destruction, creation... no one truly knows. I wonder..." Juniper shakes her head and relaxes. "I like you," she decides of Aldak. "You remind me of my tribe's elders. My name is Juniper, from the south." She pauses with sudden interest. "Lutea," the southern otter greets almost with recognition. "I would like to request to stay here. For a while at least. The others will be leaving soon, once the camp is more cleaned up, but I think my place, for now, is here."
Lutea just kind of stares at Aldak, slack jawed, small ears twisted back in confusion as every word goes whooshing straight over her head. She casts her gaze, pleadingly, to the side, seeking some help from the more well-versed Southern otter beside her. Whut. Halp. "Er..." She blinks, her brow furrowed in confusion as her brain seeks to unravel the mystery of what this old guy just spewed at her - and she comes up mostly empty. "I'm plannin' t'go after 'em, an'the beasts they took, soon as I cin walk proper, again?" She offers, hoping that this stumbles into the proper subject surrounding their conversation, at least. Juniper gives her some small distraction, and she latches onto it; purely because she can understand what the bloody flip she's saying. "I've no ties 'ere - no' by blood or 'home' or anythin', but it's th'North tha'caused this mess an' th'North 'as a duty t'stick it out till it's been settled. I dinnae think they'll turn any otter away, so long as they got paws willin' t'work."
At Juniper's announcement that she likes him, Aldak grins vaguely, straightening up just a tad against his staff. "The tide of opinion is always one I am happy to ride," he remarks, and at this point it's almost like he's doing it just to mess with Lutea. Almost, because it's not. This is just how he talks. "Look at us. Three foreign tributaries flowing together into one, each stronger because of the others." The painted otter's suggestion about going after them sneaks in a twinge of sorrow, however. "I fear I cannot join you, but may Fortune smile upon your journey."
Juniper takes in Lutea's words with careful consideration. "You misunderstand me," she comments quietly after shooting Aldak a look that reads as respect for the wise words. "My place being with you. One can only learn so much on the shores of the ocean or in the trees of a camp." Her good arm moves slightly to motion around them. "If your journey is to take care of the northern threats, I daresay a little sun will help greatly. What do you think?" Juniper directs the question to Aldak with obvious weight on his opinion.
Juniper's elaboration obviously brightens the Northerner's outlook. "O-OH righ'! Yes! A'course." She beams, though her grin slowly slides from her face to become one of anguished confusion, which is turned upon the elder. "Wha' are you even /saying/?!" Lutea finally breaks, lamenting, her eyes full of grief and turmoil as she stares at Aldak. As the kids would say: she cannot even, right now.
"Of course," Aldak agrees, nodding. "Inform the Skipper of your parting, so that he is not surprised to learn of it, and it may be that he grants a few of our number who are more capable than I to aid you on your quest." Oh, the Q-word. "Do not fret yourself, young one," he comforts Lutea, with a wise pseudo-smile. "All will become clear in time. You have only to open the eyes of your mind and see." And with that advice, he turns to hobble off, probably to meditate somewhere.
A quest?
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