2/7, Goat Island, the Umbra: Winter Thunder

Despite the chaos and turmoil of the last few months, life goes on--and for the Garou, part of life is honor to the spirits.

So it is that nightfall finds Wishbone standing in the Umbra on Goat Island, at the very tip of the island overlooking the cataract. He carries with him his massive, makeshift drum, positioning it just so. He kindles a small fire, and into this is placed an offering: a cornhusk
basket containing tobacco. As the fire consumes the offering, he steps back.

Closing his eyes, he begins a chant, one painstakingly memorized. It blends the traditions of the tribes, both human and Garou, that once called this place home.


<< Honor to you, Hirum, Thunderer, Storm-Bringer,
The waters speak with your voice,
The air echoes your might,
The storm proclaims your wrath

Yours is the strength of the biting winds,
Yours is the power of the driving rain,
Yours is the wrath of the fiery lightning,
Yours is the voice of the thunder.

When Poison Snake came to afflict the people,
When the great-toothed serpent came to afflict the lands,
When the people cried out for succor,
Who heard but the Thunder that soars above, hearing all?

It was your voice that spoke to His-Voice-Amongst-Them,
It was your voice that whispered in his ear,
It was your voice that revealed Poison Snake's weakness
It was your voice that told him the true aiming-point

It was your eye that saw the weak spot,
The red spot behind the serpent's head,
It was your hand that guided his red-willow arrow,
It was your wind that carried the shot home

Travel throughout the land, Thunder-bringer,
Borne aloft by your winds,
Carry with you the rain that waters the fields,
Carry with you the cleansing fire that purifies

This people remembers your power,
This people honors your strength,
This people thanks you for your gifts,
This people fears your wrath. >>


The chant is accompanied by slow, methodical pounding on the drum...a rolling, rhythmic sound, a faint echo of the rolling thunder of the cascades below. And so Wishbone is occupied, far into the night, drumming and chanting, honoring one of the spirits most intimately connected to the Sept of the Falling Waters.

*patch stands at a respectful distance while Wishbone makes his observances*

As dawn nears, Wishbone concludes his chant. He inclines his head gravely to the cold winds and the roaring falls, then gathers up his drum and heads back below.