The Pack

Always watch your shadow when you're in the wrong part of town.

I remember back before my first change, going to a show somewhere out in the ass end of Brooklyn.  Might have been Bushwick, maybe Bed Stuy.  I was going to some shitty little apartment somebody was trying to pass off as a venue, hoping a $5 door charge could keep the heat on for another week.  I was pissed off, walking with my hands buried in my pockets and my head hunkered down, more than a little distracted.  There were elevated railroad tracks everywhere, but no people.  It had snowed a few days ago, but enough time had passed for it to melt and mix with the dirt to make it feel as though I was walking through a quarter of an inch of diarrhea.  As I walked under an overpass, a kid walked up to me, his hat turned around backwards and his jeans halfway to his knees.  

"What time is it?" he asked.  Instinctively, I looked down at my watch and realized two things simultaneously.  

First, a flash of flash of reflected light from the kid's wrist told me he had a watch, so what did he need the time for?  Second, I noticed two shadows slip under me from behind.

These realizations were drowned out as an explosion of light blinded me for a second, and all of a sudden I had a foul taste in my mouth.  My eyes weren't working right, but I saw a t-shirt on the ground next to me, and was that a brick inside it?  The foul taste in my mouth was the dirty snow-shit.  My eyes weren't working right because I'd been hit in my head.  The foul taste in my mouth was also from some blood that was dripping down the side of my face.  I'd been hit in the head.  By a brick. The hands in my pants were the people robbing me.  I'd been hit.

My thoughts were all disjointed, but I managed to throw myself up off the ground, and grab the makeshift weapon my assailants had discarded.  I must have looked fucking crazy, half covered in dirt, blood dripping down my face, swinging a brick wrapped in a bloody t-shirt.  I shouted at them, a hoarse primal cry, they took one look at me and ran.  I kept the bloody t-shirt and brick above my TV for years after that.  I figured it was worth at least the twenty bucks I lost to the little shits.

Point is, if I'd been paying more attention to the shadows and less to the color and consistency of the snow, I would have kept the 20 bucks and the blood, and probably could have gotten to the show that night.  I was alone, so I had to make those sorts of cost/benefit analyses.  

Now?  Now, I'm the hunter, I'm part of a group of hunters, and when we're walking down the street, they watch the shadows for me.  

A Tale for Pups

The fire snarled and popped as tongues of flame licked the fur of the gnarled old Fianna Galliard, Bertrand Staker-of-Leeches.  Gathered around him were young pups from various tribes, staring wide eyed at his massive Crinos form.  The half man, half wolf towered above them, even leaning as heavily as he did upon his oaken staff.

"In the beginning, there was the Triat - the Weaver, the Wyld and the Wyrm.  The Wyld was responsible for Creation, the Weaver for Preservation and the Wyrm..."

His form was wracked by a wet cough, and he spat a slug of phlegm into the fire, where it sizzled for a moment.  "The Wyrm was responsible for Destruction."

A wind blew through the campsite, and the flames seemed to hunker down, casting Bertrand's face into shadow.  Speaking from the darkness, he continued.

"In those days, the three worked together.  They maintained the Balance, and all was well in the world, until something happened.  Some say the Weaver went Mad, unable to see its charges destroyed over and over by the Wyrm.  Whatever the reason, the Weaver spun a web around the Wyrm, imprisoning it in the hope that its charges would live forever.  Rather, the imprisonment drove the Wyrm itself mad, and it began to plot the destruction of all things."

"Unable to have a direct impact on the world, the Wyrm nonetheless was as powerful as the Weaver.  Itcould not be completely contained, and set about corrupting all that exists.  Even we, the mighty Garou, were not immune to its baleful gaze.  Entire tribes have fallen to the Wyrm, at the hands of evil spirits called Banes, at the hands of corrupted humans known as formori, even, I'm ashamed to say, at the hands of fellow Garou."

Bertrand's form seemed to shrink, and although he maintained his Crinos form, the weight of sadness hung heavy on his shoulders.  A lupus pup whined, in fear of something, they couldn't tell what.

"There have been... we have made mistakes.  Of that there is no doubt.  And now, as we stand, facing the End, we find ourselves alone.  Haven driven the other Changing Breeds away, we find that the enemy is all around us.  The Weaver spins its cocoon around mother Gaia now, covering her surface in cities and highways, strip-malls and parking garages.  Meanwhile, the Wyrm strikes at our heart, destroying the rain forests, making sure corporations spew as much filth into the air as possible.  They bury leaking canisters of waste in our mother's flesh, and she cries out to us, her knights, her paladins, and she asks us - how long will we allow this to occur?  How much more will we take?  When will we Rage?"

Bertrand's voice raised as he went, culminating in a full throated roar.  For a brief moment, the pups saw him as he once was - the fierce warrior who had taken on an entire nest of Vampires single handedly.  He threw his arms wide, casting aside his staff, and howled, a pure, mournful note that stopped the entire camp in its tracks.  The pups scrambled to their feet and lent their voices, and soon the entire camp had joined in, and for a moment, all forgot their troubles, reveling in the purity of the song.

Then Bertrand's voice was lost to another fit of coughing, and the rest of the voices faded away.  Some looked away, embarrassed for him in his time of weakness.  A young Get of Fenris Ahroun picked up Bertrand's staff and waited respectfully until the coughing subsided.

"Soon, Elder.  I will Rage soon.", the pup growled, his dark eyes intense, the muscles on the back of his neck twitching.

Bertrand laid his hand on the young Get's head, tousling his hair.  "I have no doubt that you will, pup.  My time has nearly come, and soon I pass on to Gaia's embrace.  I don't fear death, I know I have lived a righteous life, and go to Her embrace soon.  No, the Final Battle will not be fought by me or my generation.  That, I'm afraid, we leave it to you."

"Come now, douse the fire.  I am old, and must get my rest.  Get your sleep, young warriors, for you never know what tomorrow brings."

The fire out, the pups retreated to the shelter of their tribe hollows within the campsite.  That night they all dreamed a dream, and although none would ever speak of it by the light of day, it would often be whispered at campfires much like the one they had shared that night.  

In the dream, a great Stag alighted upon the earth after a long journey through the stars.  Spiders covered the earth upon which it trod, but no matter how they tried to bind it, its proud legs would not submit to such affrontery.  It strode to a stream and dipped its head to the water, and was refreshed.  From beneath the water, a black ooze slid forth, attempting to pull the Stag down into the depths, but the Stag's horns were sharp, and the ooze could find no purchase.  

Finally, a Wolf strode out from the edge of the forest, and Wolf and Stag calmly regarded each other.  The Wolf approached the Stag, which bowed its head.  The Wolf leapt upon its back, and the Stag leapt up into the air, racing back into the black night.  The Wolf howled, and the Moon answered with it's own melancholy tone.  The two sounds mingled and became one as the Stag was lost from sight, and then all was quiet once again.

The next morning, Bertrand Staker-Of-Leeches was nowhere to be found.  His blanket lay undisturbed, as though he had not slept there at all the previous night.  Only his staff remained behind, leaning against a nearby tree.  A decision was made to leave it there, and allow fate to determine its resting place.  

For all that is known, it remains there still.