#elsewhere

An entrance way lies open in the very air, and the wind stirs, flapping hair and feathers, sending Citrine spinning with a peel of Neverlander laughter.

Thistle kens, and kens again, but this is FOREIGN in a way she cannot describe. It is more than cinnamon where she expected sage, this is a flavor unknown.

Makota raises his voice. First in Lakota, the syllables rolling melodically, then again in English, clear and crisp.

“Spirits of the land, of stone and river, of root and storm—take heed! We call upon you! Look upon these who come before you, seekers in need. We ask your wisdom, your strength, your aid, for the road ahead is dark, and the need is great. Be they pure of heart, guide them for a time.”

Gwen lifts her head, she almost wants to cry out herself, but does not. It's like she has the passion, but no words

Is she 'pure of heart'? Gwen is, of course, this is Gwen's quest...

The clearing still and silent save for the drumbeat. The wind stirs, not from any natural source, but from within the portal itself.

A feeling washes over them with the undeniable sense of being watched. Not with mortal eyes, but with something deeper, something older - unseen shapes circling beyond the portal’s yawning edge.

Judgment.

It is not spoken, nor is it cruel. It simply is.

Time stretches, heavy and slow. A bead of sweat slips down Art’s temple. Thistle’s fingers twitch, her stance shifting subtly, as if she could fix the tension. Even Gwen, steady as the stone that coats her skin, feels the silence pressing in.

The spirits have heard. They have seen. And yet, they remain silent.

I am what I am, but do not deny my mother for the flaws you find in me. Her love for her mother, that is VERY pure

She wants to do something. To fix things is her nature, and staying still makes her skin itch.

Gwen feels it first, a low hum rising through her fingers, traveling up her arm. The haft of her spear trembles—not with fear, but with power. The carvings along its length flicker like Thistle's illuminated runes, lit from within, and then—

A voice speaks.

No. Many voices!

Old and young. Deep and high. A chorus in unison, rolling like distant thunder:

“Are you all so vain? So proud? Will none answer?”

The voices of ancestors, ringing forth, emanating... from Gwen's spear?

Gwen lifts her spear sideways in a stance that would not be used in war or hunt, but rather display

Thistle wants to draw inwards, to fold her arms - a voice of doubt that dogs at the corners of her thoughts never entirely far away. But she stays still.

A sharp crack splits the air, and light bursts forth from the portal, searing the mist with white-hot brilliance. The weight in the air deepens with pressure like the moments before a storm breaks until, with rumble, Thunderbird emerges.

He is vast, his form shifting between the silhouette of an immense bird and something greater, more primal. Feathers ripple like storm clouds, their edges crackling with electric fire. No Thundersparrow, HE!

His eyes—blinding, searing orbs of stormlight—sweep across the portal with piercing disdain.

“The woman of mixed bloods and souls” he intones, his voice a rolling storm across the land. “You walk between worlds, and I will walk with you.”

“Who among you fears to stand where Thunderbird is willing? Who among you will leave these others to walk alone?”

His pride prickled by the scolding of the ancestors, the mighty totem calls to his kin.

No Thundersparrow, no. But magnificent! A thing of beauty and grace and power.

A soft chiding whisper at Citrine. No, the spirit's feathers are not for snatching.

"I am called Gwen, Gladiola, and many other names. I have lead hunts of howls, fought on behalf of dragon, wolf, and sun. I would walk with you, bringer of just storms, and I am honored that you might guide us."

The air thickens with movement, shadows twisting into form as a storm of spirits whirls around them. Smoke-like tendrils coil and unravel, shifting in shapes both known and unknowable.

Then sudden stillness. When the wave of spirits washes away, three figures remain. Their forms flicker between smoke and stone, shadow and light.

The first to move is Spider. Eight gleaming eyes catch the light, her body long and patient, woven of glimmering threads that stretch beyond sight. She tilts her head, considering.

“The totems of the Nunnehi will not walk with the colonizers,” she says, her voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. “But we are totems as well, and we weave where we will. Patterns may fray, strands may snap, but in the end… all things are caught in the web. I would guide the Maker of Things."

Beside her, Owl shifts, silent and knowing. His feathers do not ruffle, yet the air around him stirs. His gaze sweeps over Art, as though weighing the shape of his soul.

“Far-seeing does not mean blind to the past,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper of wind through dead leaves. “Knowledge, once given, cannot be taken away. And wisdom… wisdom chooses where it lands. I would guide the Seer-Child."

And then, Coyote. His shape is loose, ever-shifting—a trick of the eye, a smirk made flesh. His teeth flash in the moonlight, too sharp, too white. His tail flicks once, lazily.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his tone like laughter held just beneath the surface. “A prince who stumbles and a maker with thorns—what a fine pair of fools. But then again, fools make the best stories. I will guide you both."

Thunderbird rumbles, and shrinks down in size so his presence does not overwhelm. His blazing eyes burn into Art and Thistle. "CHOOSE."

Art grips Thistle's hand like a vice.

The spider draws her eyes - she is a maker, and recognizes the same. But she whispers to Art. "We're fools together, ain't we?"

Art was gazing in aw at Owl, who mentions knowledge. And yet. He loosens his grip on Thistle's hand, just so he can give is a softer squeeze. He turns to Coyote as well, and bows. "You honor us."

Belatedly, he rises and explains, "I mean, you all honor us..." A glance to Gwen, pleading for words.

"We are honored, but we're also in this together, not just as individuals."

"We are a band, tensions and pain aside, we walk the road together. They have shed blood with me and I with them" She explains, not sure if this is what Art wanted or hoped she would say

Art relaxes a touch, and continues. "We thank you, Weaver and Silent Flyer. Thistle and I will walk with Coyote."

She nods!

A consideration, and then she offers out a string of beads - these are ones made of dreamstuff, in shimmering opal. "Thank you for being willing to guide me."

Gwen has opinions on Trickers but doesn't comment

A crackling sound of Spider's disappointment, a final "tsk" before her form unravels, fading into the unseen threads of her web. Owl, ever-watchful, offers no parting words—only a lingering gaze before he, too, melts into the shadows, vanishing.

Coyote remains.

His grin widens at the sudden silence, amusement dancing in his shifting eyes. “Let’s see what trouble we can stir up, shall we?”

Suddenly, light erupts as Coyote splits, his form shattering like a trick of the eye, breaking into two streaks of luminous fire. They dive forward—one into Art, the other into Thistle. The moment of impact is a jolt, a heat that rushes through them like wildfire.

And then—Thunderbird moves.

With a thunderous cry, the storm-bird descends. A surge of wind rushes forward, whipping Gwen’s hair as the great spirit’s wings enfold her, wrapping her in a sudden, crackling embrace.

The world flashes white-hot - then goes still.

Oh, an expletive is uttered when the spirit enters her. It melts some paint.

Gwen feels odd, for he was about to ask Thunderbird if she would like some treats

And then.. the storm within

The fire in their veins cools to a steady warmth.

A halo of light shimmers faintly around each of them, now that they know how to see it.

Makota glows as well, a similar aura tracing his form. Spirit touched.

This magic is really fascinating. "Citrine, I don't think you can follow..."

A pop and flash of light, and there is a buzzing hum, and a deep growl!

Ivan sits UP, his hackles raising.

Gwen almost hopes that Thunderbird feeds on some part of her, to purify her. She wants to go to this journey cleansed, but that is unfair to ask

And then, just as quickly, his hackles go down, and the mighty dog lowers his head. A single wave of his tail.

Citrine gives a series of belling chimes, spinning in a circle!

"Ivan, it's okay, it's okay"

The hum of unseen wings, quick as breath and sharp as lightning, flutters around Thistle for a moment.

The deep, steady presence of something vast, something ancient, something with knowing eyes and sharp teeth, passes by Gwen.

If they spoke, it was in no tongue the Kithain could hear. If they whispered secrets, they did so in a language older than words, older than Glamour.

Citrine and Ivan FLASH, and then it fades to the same faint, steady glow.

Makota raises his hands to the air. "The Spirits have chosen!"

"Oh, for the love of fudge, please stay out of trouble when we're guests in the Spirit World."

Citrine hovers, before buzzing about at high speed in delight.

She drags a calloused hand down her face. Well, if Coyote wants a fool...

Ivan faces the Portal steadily, his eyes gleaming with a wisdom beyond his years.

"Thank you" She says to Makota, even as she pets her dog

"You may not thank me." He says, softly. "The spirits do not give freely. They will ask their price before all is said and done.”

Thistle feels a tingle inside, like muffled laughter within her soul. Art twitches a bit - he may feel it too!

A soft snerk. "Seriously, Coyote, you have no furkin' idea what you're getting into."

A tingling-burning feeling, like anticipation!

The drumming has silenced, and while they spoke, the other Native folk have departed. The portal yawns yet before them, and Makota gestures. "It is time to pass into the Spirit Lands."

"May Ivan come with me?" She says