by Sean Riley ({REL[54][articleGame]TnfMnep0REL} Fiction)
We are the last people. This is the last stand.
The Caern of Sorrowed Trees was unusually quiet, especially given its swelled population. Over fifty of Gaia's chosen warriors stood in fearful vigil, the steam of chilled breath from their muzzles drifting past dry jaws and in front of fearful eyes, and maybe half as many again kinfolk also kept guns or machetes close. Many were young, true, but all were of strong minds and stubborn determination. Even more importantly, in Piter Eyes-Beyond-Flame's eyes, all thirteen tribes were represented. He not only tolerated one of the Shadow Lords, but welcomed with eager arms three. He had forged a chilly peace between the Get and the Furies, calmed the Sept's suspicion of the reclusive Striders and Uktena, and even convinced the Sept to allow the single Glass Walker of the Sept to take a laptop computer with him. The spirits seemed not to object, and for a Piter, (A man who even some of the Theurges had dubbed "superstitious") that was as welcome a sign as having all tribes here. They would need Gaia with them. Preferably literally, physically and in all her power.
The Glass Walker and his laptop had proven useful for other reasons, as well. No scouts that had been sent had yet returned, and the computer provided information with "outside sources", according to the Glass Walker. Piter had pleaded with the Raven folk for as many as could arrive within the few days he felt he had left, but only one had managed to turn up, babbling some incomprehensible rubbish that having more than one at any place at any time was "against the rules". Piter snarled, but in the end was helpless, and simply told the bird to do what he did best. How long he did it for was not known, but the corpse that dropped in, literally, worked as proof positive that his best, this time, would not be good enough.
The force was, if true, more than double the size that he had at his disposal. Spirals had flooded any Caerns they might have had left in the leech hole known as Mexico, (Although one of the few hopeful e-mails had indicated the Spirals had also taken losses at the fangs of the bloodsuckers) and the surrounding Caerns now stood empty. Piter had bitterly argued and fought down challenge after challenge, accused of violating the most sacred tenet of the Litany, and fighting down Garou with too much to lose from his most audacious tactical decision - to abandon the majority of Caerns and concentrate on holding only this last one. A Caern of fertility, and one of great power, the Caern of Sorrowed Trees was chosen by Piter and a number of others supporting him, mostly the Children of Gaia who had held the Caern previously. Needless to say, choosing one of the "metis-breeding naive asshole's" Caerns also was an amazingly difficult decision to enact, most wouldn't hear of it.
Piter sighed and buried his head in his hands, and leant forward on the fallen log he was seated on. It was just one more difficult choice among many, and the times weighed heavy on his face. Previously surprisingly youthful looking for his age, the last few weeks had made Piter look every one of his forty-seven years. A deep horizontal slash cut across his forehead whilst tired blue eyes and wispy once-blonde hair dominated his face, giving him a nervous, worried look. Many suggested that he had fallen to the senility quickly marking his tribe, but he never believed it, and neither did...
"You won't worry the Spirals away."
Neither did Jasmine. Her voice, with just a hint of her old British heritage still lingering, repeated to him a familiar chiding, and Piter turned around with a smile. Jasmine may have only been kin, but she usually struck no less an impressive figure than her husband. A former policewoman, Jasmine had strong, clean limbs that had only gone slightly slack during the last eight months of her pregnancy, bearing Piter's first child. It was due in only a few weeks, in a bitter irony that was not lost on either - The End would likely come with only days before a new beginning for them would have come. Piter fought back the thought, and replied "So long as you're not, everything's fine. I'll take care of worrying for both of us."
"Bloody nonsense." She snapped back, although her face was fairly placid, given the occasion, "You spend twice the time worrying, and I'll end up worrying about you." She sat down next to him, and took a breath. "Blue-Screen is back on his computer. He's got the Silver Record on CD, from what I've gathered, and he's searching through prophecy after prophecy, trying to find something to save us. I don't like his chances, though."
Piter let out a muffled, dry laugh; "Blue-Screen-of-Death's the best man we've got here." But he paused, and that hard horizontal line on his forehead appeared again, "He has the record on CD? What happens if he loses it to the enemy?"
Jasmine shook her head. "It's got a spirit in it. Unless one of us takes the time to rouse it, all the CD will play is the 'Best of Jimmy Buffet'."
"Fate worse than death."
Jasmine's mouth curled into a smile. "I'm more worried about that the smoke from that fire he keeps boiling his kettle over is going to give away our position."
Piter returned the smile, "He's a coffee achiever. Besides, it's not as if they don't know our position anyway." The smile bowed out again, and Jasmine brushed her hand over the corner of his mouth. That mouth moved from smiles to frowns so often that he'd developed webs of wrinkles around it, a look that did not become him in the slightest. Piter looked her in the eyes. "Do we have any way out of this at all, Jasmine?"
Jasmine shrugged. "If there is, it will happen. Or it won't. But there's not much you can do to save us in the dead of night, with the enemy miles away. I'm going to sleep. Please join me. Just for once, Piter?"
Piter nodded. For her.
