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© 2021 White Wolf Entertainment © 2021 Onyx Path Publishing

Introduction
“Even one such as I can be touched by our stories. It’s from our stories that we
hold our only hope or triumph. That, and Shadow Lord rule.”
— Margrave Yuri Konietzko, Shadow Lord Theurge
Harano is the state in which a werewolf finds themselves, when they succumb to despair. Some
Garou look dimly on such kin, believing it is no way to end a life. “Self sacrifice is the only true
way to meet the Apocalypse!” they cry, as they rush into battle. Those in Harano merely pine for
what once was, and what they believe never can be.
Except, they’re wrong.
Through tales, songs, poems, and art, the Garou and Gaia persist. They remember all that went
before, in painful, exacting detail. Even when it tortures them to do so. They share these stories
not just to commiserate, but to sow wisdom. They believe, and they’re right to do so, that by
spreading their stories of triumph and failure, joy and misery, battle and peace, sacrifice and
slaughter, that they may become greater than their ancestors and hold a chance of saving Gaia
and their people.
There are more ways to meet the Apocalypse than in the thick of carnage or in the depths of
despair. One such way, is through the telling of tales. Wisdom is as great a trait as Glory and
Honor, after all.

John North-Wind’s-Son Speaks

We Garou convey heroism and tragedy in a number of ways. We howl, we carve
glyphs into tree trunks and rocks, or mark the very Umbra with the stench of defeat
or sweet smell of victory. We write, of course, and we speak. We’re a largely oral
tradition, and have to be to prevent our enemies and our prey from discovering our
vast panoply of secrets, not to mention our shames.
Times are changing, however.
It has been my task, ahead of the Apocalypse, to gather these tales and put them in
one place. Things look bleak, my friends, and we can no longer rely on grandfather
and grandmother sharing stories around the campfire as a means of conveying
wisdom. No. A central repository of stories is needed, so the young, if we’re to see
future generations, can learn.
I’ve spoken with kin and with foes. I’ve stolen and bought information. I’ve
interpreted words as best I can, when I’ve only heard them third hand, or paw. I do
this knowing it could bring a shame upon my head and have me cast from my
people, though my friends and companions in my pack support this endeavor. I will
always have them, and Gaia, who I am confident knows I am doing this for the best
reasons.
A Red Talon might say I’m serving the Weaver through this record. A Glass Walker
may laugh and shake my hand. I’m not doing this to please or to annoy. I’m doing
this to keep our tales alive.
The Apocalyptic Record
In The Apocalyptic Record, young and old Garou alike deliver tales of great, humble,
disastrous, and glorious deeds. They run the gamut from tales of war and the Wyrm, to stories of
the Umbra, Kinfolk, and tribes long lost.
Chapter One: Ahroun Tales — We open our story with the Full Moon and its many tales of
combat, bloodshed, and wisdom gained from the battlefield. War is our footing, and destruction
is at hand.
Ahroun Tales
“There is a fire that runs through us, that if not flung at one’s enemies,
will consume our hearts.”
— Jonas Albrecht, Silver Fang Ahroun
It should come as no surprise that we Ahroun are a hard-headed, violent lot. Some claim
it’s Gaia’s decision that we are this way, others blame Luna, or the Garou Nation for
fitting us into these lives of violent outburst and bloody claws.
We know different, brother and sister Ahroun. We are this way because we want to be,
because we need to be, and because we love to be. We’re warriors, and some of us fight
calmly and strategically while others rip up anything in their path. But at heart, we’re
warriors because this is the life we choose.
Who would want to be a thinker, a talespinner, or a trickster, when you could be a hero?

The Night We Lost Ranch Apocalypse

Get comfy, pups, because if you want a tale of blood, claws, gore, and guts, I’m going to
regale you with one hell of a tragic story. These are the recollections of Astrid Broken
Claw, Ahroun of the Get of Fenris. Do you know her name? You should. She was a key
player in the Amazon War of the late 20th century. This tale was told to me, Nina
Freeman, her blessed granddaughter, by Astrid herself as she recovered from injuries
sustained in her single-handed defeat of a pack of Ooralath. I shit you not. I’ve recorded
her tale faithfully, to the best of my ability, so shut up, and get listening. When I talk, you
close your eyes and hear my voice as her voice, got that?
The First Push
The first Garou into the Amazon were known as the Black Frost pack, and… they all
died. They were of the Get of Fenris, as we are, and Grendel Walks-with-Death was their
leader. He was a terrible man, by all accounts, but a great warrior and a hero. Problem is,
great warriors who aren’t good people tend to lose their followers faith, and that leads to
mistakes.
After the Black Frost lost their lives to DFG gunfire — oh yes, the despoilers didn’t just
come with chainsaws and bulldozers, they had armies — the Get led the charge into the
Amazon. We were first in and last out, the way it should be, and the way it always is. My
pack, the Death Dealers, arrived before there was a Moon Bridge to cross, when getting
to the base of operations meant a week-long slog through the rainforest. You learn a lot
making your way through a place like that.
Ah, the rainforest. It was hard to tell which side of the Umbra you were on. The place is
so alive, so full. So Wyld. In every square centimeter of land there are dozens of living
things, from simple ferns to jeweled insects, and birds and snakes to feed on them. It’s
not kind to fur. We went about in our war forms because the heat and the wet air sapped
our stamina if we tried to go homid through it all.
Ha! It also scared the life out of the human workers DFG employed, and that was a
pleasant bonus.
Pups, open your eyes. I need to provide a little context here, on behalf of grandma. DFG
are Developers Forestry Group. They’re part of a snarl of corporations that run into
some holding company much higher up, apparently. Grandma had a lot to say about the
parent company, later on in her recovery, but it didn’t make sense. It sounded like a Deep
Web conspiracy theory. I mean no disrespect to her, but I’ve stuck to chronicling her time
in the Amazon as she recounted it to me, okay? Right, here we go again.
Oh, not everyone in the Amazon basin was a Fomor. No, no. There were plenty of
mercenaries and laborers. At first. When the company counted up their losses they
realized sending humans out there was a death sentence. We killed dozens, scores, of
them in passing. Flesh and bone parted under our claws and teeth — no klaives for us,
young and untested as we were. This was our proving ground. Not just for the Get, mind
you: for a generation the Amazon was where cubs just past the First Change came to
learn what it meant to be Garou.
Pups, you might think it brutal, “inhumane,” but fuck that. If you see a crew of white
guys in the rainforest, hacking up the environment or pouring Fenris knows what into the
water, they deserve to get got. Not that they don’t recruit from among the locals and
foreign labor too, but I find an effective marker of “people in a place Gaia doesn’t want
them” is when you see barrel-chested lumberjacks in plaid in the middle of the fucking
rainforest. Anyway…
The Death Dealers and I were part of the first push into the jungle. We were part of the
crew that set up Ranch Apocalypse. We already had Hollow Heart Caern as a staging
point, but we were the ones who set up shop hours away from DFG headquarters. That
scared them.
The second we were in place, with some walls and a supply line along the river, not the
river, but one of the tributaries, they lost their minds. I’ve heard it said that the founding
of Ranch Apocalypse led directly to the creation of Hell’s Hand Hive. Move and
countermove. No normal warrior could stand against us, they had to sink poison deep into
the earth and make it puke out twisted versions of us to hold onto any hope.
Hey, grandma can’t have meant this the way it sounded. She wasn’t proud that her
pack’s arrival led directly to the Wyrm-servants causing more damage. I don’t think she
did, anyway. I hope not. Listen, I know some of our tribe are fucked up, but… Well, that’s
a story for another night.
Once we had Ranch Apocalypse, we wreaked havoc. Every morning, we’d hit their
operations; every night other packs would hit their other sites. HQ, the hive, their supply
lines back to Manaus. We had a rule: if you couldn’t come back to the Ranch clean, that
is without pursuit, you didn’t come back at all. Three times, I had to hide out in the jungle
for hours. Only three. In all the time I was there.
Sorry, I’ve got to interrupt again. Grandma never told me exactly how long she spent in
the Amazon. She said it didn’t matter, and a measurement of time wouldn’t convey
intensity. I could have found out, but I’ve chosen to respect her wishes. Moving on…
It was a surprisingly simple life. It was pure. We fought. We healed. We trained. We
dealt blow after blow to the forces of the Wyrm. I’ve never felt so clear in my mind as I
did there. It was so easy at first. Not the fighting, that was fierce and glorious, but the
mission. The goal. The whole of the Amazon was on our side, from Jaguar and Anaconda
to Toad and... some scurrying thing the Bone Gnawers offered crumbs to. The rivers ran
faster for us and the trees bent to give us cover and shade. We were doing Gaia’s work.
It’s just a shame the natives didn’t grasp that.
It’s not an excuse, you know, but some of grandma’s views come from an earlier time.
Learn from, but don’t copy, your ancestors.
The Balam got uppity and the Mokole growled at us from their dens, but we knew a
righteous battle when we felt it. And we did feel it. Every one of us.
Death Dealers: In Memoriam
These were difficult things for grandma to recall. I’ve collected them together, but she
told them to me across several different occasions.
Hanne Schwarz, Get of Fenris Theurge
Hanne was the first one we lost. She was our seer and wise woman, and she was the
oldest of us all. She should have been the wisest, but she was also the slowest. We lost
her. That’s the only way to describe it. On one of those nights when we couldn’t get back
to the Ranch clean, we scattered and promised to regroup at home. “Back in time for
breakfast,” was the last thing she said to me. She never came back.
What’s worse, we never found her body. That can’t mean anything good. I hope she’s
still out there, moldering. Food for trees or snakes. Otherwise, DFG’s Fomori soldiers
caught her. If they interrogated her, she never sold us out. That should be her obituary:
silent until death.
Conrad Hall, Get of Fenris Ahroun
Conrad fought in the battle of Screaming Mud, and like many other heroes of the Get, he
died there. He drowned in the mud and slime of a Bane big enough to be a battlefield. It
wasn’t a good death. Mutilated by the Black Spiral Dancers of Hell’s Hand Hive, he
choked and gurgled and bled out from dozens of wounds. It was slow, and it was useless.
We didn’t win that battle. We were lucky to survive. I was close enough to Shress
Hardheart to hear her order to step sideways. If I hadn’t given Conrad the mercy of a
quick final cut, he’d have been choking too loud for me to hear her. Conrad died, and I
lived. That means I was stronger, and more fortunate, and that should be enough.
I tell you, granddaughter, it is not close to enough.
Jotun, Get of Fenris Ahroun
Jotun was a big old bastard, as you’d expect. I saw three Fomori try to hold him down
while another one tried to break his neck. He broke free and he ripped those weaklings
into pieces. I thought nothing could take him down.
We loaned him to another pack as a bodyguard when they went to negotiate with a
Mokole nest. All they were asking for was passage through the Mokole’s territory, but
the Balam had turned the Mokole against us. Jotun didn’t come back, but he died holding
off a Mokole warrior so the others could leave. A raging dinosaur of a thing. The only
thing that could take Jotun down.
He died so far from home I don’t know if he could be an Ancestor Spirit now, but if he is,
his descendants are lucky to have him. If he’s not, I’m sure he’s still haunting the
Amazon, fighting the good fight.
Kalliope, Black Fury Galliard
Kalliope left us before she died. I haven’t said her name in over twenty years. The Balam
got to her and convinced her we should pull out of the Amazon. Coward.
For a skald, she fought well. Our fight, the night she left, was the stuff of legend. The
scar on my neck? That’s her. In fact, she’s how I got my name. Broke a claw on one of
the bitch’s bones. Forget I mentioned Kalliope. She doesn’t deserve to be remembered.
But I beat the tar out of her. I stopped her taking more warriors away with her in her
cowardly retreat from the fight. There’s a reason we Fenrir like sticking to our own, and
she’s one of them.
Steps-Loudly, Get of Fenris Ahroun
We called him that because he set off a landmine while he was stomping around. Blew
off an entire leg, but he was such a tough sonofabitch it grew back.
I should note, I find this highly unlikely but when I questioned it, grandma called me an
insolent pup and told me she could kick my ass from her sickbed if she had to.
He was the last one with me. He was just a cub when he set foot in the Amazon, fresh
from his Rite of Passage. He learned so fast. Quickest study I’ve ever seen. He should
have lived long enough to hear songs sung of him. He was nineteen. Only nineteen. And
a sweet boy. He fought hard but he was kind. No one thinks of that, when they think
about an Ahroun, especially in our tribe. He’d give his last sip of water to someone who
was struggling, and he never left a friend behind.
He was with me until the night we lost Ranch Apocalypse.
[LAYOUT: ALL JOHN NORTH-WIND’S-SON SIDEBARS LIKE THIS
NEED TO BE IN FLAVORFUL FONT. IT DOESN’T NEED TO BE
HANDWRITTEN, BUT IT DOES NEED TO LOOK “WEREWOLF” AND
STAND OUT FROM THE AVERAGE SIDEBAR]

John North-Wind’s-Son Speaks

You may wonder why we recount the names and deeds of our fallen. After
all, so many of us fall in battle that at some point the memorialization of the
fallen becomes a morbid fixation.
Learning, my friends. We learn best through sacrifice, as bloody and
destructive as that sounds. We learn well when a Garou sacrifices their life
for the good of the Nation. We also learn to take inspiration from their deeds
and mistakes so we might triumph as they did, or avoid repeating their
errors.
There’s no harm in a culture having heroes, so long as we remember the bad
with the good. We should not idolize the monstrous, but should balance
their successes with their sins. I know I sound like a Philodox at this point,
 but even I, an Ahroun, realize we have too often made gods of our greatest
butchers.

[/LAYOUT: JOHN NORTH-WIND’S-SON SIDEBAR ENDS]

The Highest Price
Grandma told me this after she’d been awake for two days straight from the pain of her
wounds. I wouldn’t swear in a court of law that she was in her right mind, but I wouldn’t
bet she wasn’t, either. I’ve recorded what she said even though I think she would prefer I
didn’t. I believe it should be heard. Listen close, pups.
In any part of that jungle, if you dig down a few feet you’ll find bones. You don’t have to
go far. The earth closes over them as quickly as the sun rises and falls. In some parts,
you’ll find fetishes we didn’t have time to reclaim. Only a fool would go back for them.
We bought every meter of that jungle with our lives. You don’t have to be a genius to do
that math and see how it was doomed to failure. There aren’t enough of us for that type of
campaign. The enemy had the numbers, and enough money to outlast us. And every
battle was more blood in the water and bones beneath the dirt: more disruption and
disharmony to that quiet, primeval place.
My friends, my pack, my lovers, they died fighting to hold onto a land we would later
lose anyway. And while they were dying in that far-off jungle, proud or recriminating
according to their natures, we were losing other battles around the world. How many
victories did the Wyrm claim, uncontested, while we threw ourselves into the jaws of that
death machine? Oil spills, wars, famines, plagues, all kinds of misery raged out of control
while we wasted our lives in the jungle.
The Amazon was a symbol of everything good and pure that remained of Mother Gaia,
and we lost it. Now it’s only a symbol of our obsession and failure. Learn from my
generation, girl. Pick your battles, don’t waste your strength fighting for an idea.
On Picking Sides
When first we came to the Amazon the spirits all but lined up to offer us their support.
Powerful totems like Jaguar and Harpy Eagle had their eye on us. We heard that for some
packs, the totem spirits fought over who’d be first to offer the Garou their protection.
Kalliope said it was like goddesses fighting over an apple: flattering for the apple, but
dangerous for literally the rest of the world. We were never that favored, though when we
sought out Jaguar and made the promises he required of us, he allowed us to walk in his
footsteps.
At first Jaguar’s price was cheap: do harm to any who would damage the forest. It was
easy, nothing more than what we were doing anyway. In return he made us stronger and
faster, and our claws cut deeper. I couldn’t say why it changed but I know the Balam’s
resentful, stubborn pride had to do with it. They became convinced the harm DFG, the
banes, the Fomori, the Black Spirals, caused was greater because of the Garou, and they
convinced Jaguar of the same thing. And suddenly, when we called on him in battle, he
gave us a new condition: fight our tribe- and septmates. He made it known the Garou
were despoilers. He’d still accept us, but only if we turned on every other Garou in the
forest.
I hear some of the native Uktena who’d been there took the deal. That was the locals all
over, undermining us at every turn, choosing their neighbors and their traditions over
what it actually took to save the Amazon. They weren’t fighters, you see. They’d never
had to reckon up the price they were willing to pay for victory, so when they saw trees
burning and toxic mud sucking packmates to their deaths, they didn’t take it on the chin
like we did.
That’s not to say it didn’t shake our conviction when our own totem turned his back on
us. It leaves a hole in your heart. We were ashamed to tell people, but word got around all
the same. No one treated us the same after that. Our pack was dying, one by one, and
Jaguar wanted nothing to do with us.
Well pups, that’s nearly it. Grandma had no intention of saying any more on this topic.
When I asked her how the Death Dealers dealt with that, she snarled at me like it was the
stupidest question she’d ever been asked. She did answer, though.
“We fought harder. That’s what the Fenrir do. We’ll pay for victory with our lives if need
be. Losing a little pride and certainty, that’s nothing.”
[LAYOUT: LAY THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR OUT AS A STANDARD
W20 SIDEBAR BUT TINGED BLOOD RED AND MARKED WITH
BLOODY EDGES, AS THIS IS THE AHROUN CHAPTER]

From X to M
M,
I write to you once again on the subject of the desecrated ground upriver
from the former DFG headquarters. The HQ site itself remains well-
contained, for the most part, though the toxins that course through it flow
downriver to Manacapuru, a city of almost 100,000 souls paying the price
for DFG’s repellent campaign thirty years ago. We do what we can to
compensate, but I’m sure you would agree that such a stain on the river
basin is beyond our ability to expunge it. All we can do is wait, watch, and
make sure no outsider flounders in to stir up bad memories and dangerous
remains.
This is old news. I wish to speak of what waits further up the river
Manacapuru. The river flows faster at that point, and carries sickness and
rage downstream more rapidly and forcefully, churning and frothing it as it
moves. And M, there’s so much there, still. The site of the Garou’s garrison
and staging post is as black and foul as the DFG site itself. This isn’t entirely
their fault, but the remnants of that battle are a blight.
Numerous fetishes were left behind or lost in the mud, and that mud is a
living creature made of hate. The spirits are trapped inside. Those that aren’t
panicked or enraged are twisted beyond recognition. The mud feeds on
them, and the monsters of Hell’s Hand Hive prowl the area, waiting for
those tools to be warped enough for their purposes. Even decades after, the
legacy of the Garou’s violence doesn’t abate.
 The Garou linger too. Some are at Ranch Apocalypse, but more in the mire
where the Battle of Screaming Mud was fought. So many died there, and
the mud is a trap. Not only physically: their spirits are mired too. There’s
no escape or release from the mud that’s devouring them. The H’ruggling
that contains them grows more powerful with every fallen warrior in its
grasp: it’s unassailable without assistance and there’s no assistance to be
had. The Mokole nests are safe so their interest seems hard to pique. There
are few of us, and fewer still willing to tempt fate by engaging with an
insoluble problem.
There are so many battlefields along the river and into the jungle, some of
them unmarked. I’ve heard tales of the battlefields of the last century in
Europe, the malaise that spreads from those places where thousands died.
We can’t match their body count, but for a decade and more our home was
a warzone, and it may never recover on its own. The rainforest is hostile
and sinister where the fighting was most fierce. The spirits are more
aggressive, even cruel.
I don’t know how to solve this problem. All I can do is watch it grow worse.
I need your counsel. The deforestation is less of a threat than before the
Garou came and the logging companies moved on to easier prey, but the
remnants of that old war are still poisoning the rivers and the land. The run-
off streams into Manacapuru then Manaus. It affects more than two million
people. And the source is the devastation at Ranch Apocalypse.
I don’t expect help, just advice.
-X

[/LAYOUT: BLOODY SIDEBAR ENDS]

The Last Night
Before I left her bedside, grandma offered me her reflections on the Amazon war and its
cost to us as a people. Keep those eyes shut. Picture what she saw and feel what she felt.
It was a terrible time. Looking back, it was obvious things were coming apart. The War
Council was at odds with one another. Golgol Fangs-First, the first and greatest of us, still
had control. No one would have dared question him. He was the one who’d given us
every victory. The trouble was always the others. Big egos, all of them.
Lanya Wings-Afire was a pain in the ass. Prickly woman. There were always rumors
about why she’d left her sept in the Dakotas, and it got to the point where she’d challenge
anyone who so much as looked at her funny. And she was getting a lot of funny looks,
because she was a short-tempered, sharp-tongued beast of a woman. Then there was
Garret Faithful, who spoke for the Children of Gaia. Living stereotype. “Be honorable,
show mercy, don’t make war where there’s space for peace.” I’d say he and Golgol were
at each other’s throats except Faithful would have rolled over and showed his belly if it
came to a fight. And Code Red, the Glass Walker, was a law unto himself. Not that he
wasn’t active, but nobody really understood what he did.
It was bad. Golgol trying to run a war, with half the Council undermining him at every
turn. There were fights at the Ranch, and for packs exhausted from fighting real enemies
every day and night, that takes a lot of bad blood. Nobody was sharp anymore. We were
complacent and pissed off, and we took our eyes off the ball.
Some of those fights were intense though. The night Lanya Wings-Afire ripped Elias
Teixeira open and left him to crawl out of the challenge circle still lives in song. It wasn’t
the fighting that was the problem, you understand. Some scrapping keeps us battle ready.
It was the amount that hurt us, and that nothing ever got resolved because the ones at the
top wouldn’t accept Golgol’s authority.
That wasn’t the only problem, of course. None of us knew what a campaign was like. We
were used to swift strikes; long planning, then devastating our enemy. That wasn’t what
we faced in the Amazon. We were fighting for meters of wet dirt and it was exhausting.
Morale dropped with every pack member we lost, and every group of locals who fought
against us. We were so tired.
The Death Dealers were no different. We were barely a pack by that point, just Steps-
Loudly and I teaming up with other stragglers for whatever mission needed extra people.
It wasn’t what we signed up for, I’ll tell you that, but we weren’t about to quit. We didn’t
even know where we fit in the command structure, things got broken up and rearranged
so often. So I just wanted to fight. I was switched off the rest of the time. I kept my head
down, focused on the battle. Steps did his best to keep people smiling but it was a lost
cause, and that got to him. He was a dumb kid, but his heart was in the right place.
When it happened, it was sudden. No visions, no bad feelings. It was a normal night.
Fires lit, Council bickering. Half the packs were out, striking at the DFG HQ. They must
have found it all but empty. We never caught up to ask.
The fire came first. One minute we smelled oil, the next it was everywhere. Bubbling up
out of sinkholes that hadn’t been there before, oozing out of the walls and dripping from
the ceiling. And it clung. It was damn near sentient, going straight for eyes and mouths,
making us stumble around and cough.
Then fire. Incendiary grenades from the DFG mercs, balefire banes dancing and
screeching in it, climbing up on the backs of Garou mid-transformation and bathing in the
oil that came before. Fire’s loud. We could hear Golgol yelling orders, but the rest of the
council were yelling too, all screaming different things. Garret calling for us to retreat,
but nobody knew to where; Lanya yelling at him to shut his fool mouth; Golgol ordering
us to form up into Wargs and Moons, but nobody knew who they were with anymore,
thanks to all the losses.
I know a Warg was a pair, or maybe a trio, of packs, under a single leader, but I don’t
know what a Moon was. A bunch of Wargs? Or maybe there was something in between? I
didn’t interrupt grandma to ask, so how about you stop interrupting me?
It was all I could do to find Steps-Loudly, who’d been hanging around the cookfires. That
was a bad place to be when the sinkholes opened and the oil spouted. He was so badly
burned. He was burning when I found him, eleven feet tall in his Crinos form and his
whole right side on fire. The only reason, and I do mean the only reason, we didn’t die in
the first charge, when the packs from Hell’s Hand stepped out of the Umbra in the middle
of the ranch courtyard, is because I was trying to wrestle him down into the dirt and roll
him to put the flames out.
I wish I knew how they found us. Must have caught someone. Plenty of people never
made it home after an op, and we just had to hope they didn’t get picked up and tortured
until they talked. Not that it matters. They found us, end of story.
We mustered a shit-hot defense after the shock was over. I never thought I’d fight beside
Golgol Fangs-First, but I did. I didn’t realize it until long after. I had Steps on my right,
me watching his burned side, and a glorious death machine on my left. We were like
claws on a hand, striking in unison. We knew what we were doing: we were cutting a
path out of the ranch, laying waste to fork-tongued, many-limbed Fomori and
mercenaries who didn’t know what to do when we got toe-to-toe and their machine guns
were no use.
The only thing that slowed us down was a Fomor the size of a truck. More limbs than a
whole pack, more mouths than a body should feasibly hold and tongues that sliced like
razors. It was foul, but it still screamed when I sank my claws into one of its throats and
dragged a tongue out by the roots. But while I was hurting it, it was hurting Steps. It
ripped his belly open, and down he went.
Take a breather like I am, now. It took grandma a long time to start talking again. I
didn’t press her, but I was relieved when she opened up again. I’m going to have a drink
before I continue…
I dragged him out of the way to die, and when he was gone, I was alone. The fight had
gone out of me. It’s the only time I’ve ever run from a fight, and I have no regrets. I lived
to tell other packs the ranch was gone, and to take on other fights where death was more
glorious and victory had more meaning.
I don’t regret the years I spent in Brazil. We made DFG give up and get out, and we
slowed down the speed that last paradise was devoured. If we’d had more of a plan, we’d
have made more of that chance. We’d have found a way to fight without pissing off
everyone who was on our side. When the tribes of the Garou were united in a single
purpose, it was beautiful and it would have been worse if we weren’t there. That’s all you
can really hope to say.
[LAYOUT: LAY THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR OUT AS A STANDARD
W20 SIDEBAR BUT TINGED BLOOD RED AND MARKED WITH
BLOODY EDGES, AS THIS IS THE AHROUN CHAPTER]

From M to X
X,
You might not say that the spiritual pestilence that remains at Ranch
Apocalypse is the Garou’s fault, but I do. Everything that befell them there
was of their own making. How like them to leave behind an open wound to
grow infected and pustulent. The idiot hounds would likely tell you it was
more noble to let it rot than be healed.
I’m sick and tired of hearing of the harm they caused. It’s almost three
decades since they arrived, time enough for one of their noble heroes to be
 born, grow mature, and die in a pointless crusade saving people who never
asked for their brand of assistance. It’s beyond time the Garou returned and
cleaned up their mess. You say the problems come from spirits mired in the
H’ruggling, and fetishes lost in the dirt? Make them come and collect the
remains, and take their ghosts away with them. You know how to make
them do that. There’s only one thing they like more than fighting the good
fight: glory. They really are dogs, alert for the faintest praise.
Tell them this: that there are ancestor spirits trapped in the Amazon basin,
held there by great banes that the puny native Fera can’t reckon with. Tell
the white men they made the Amazon their responsibility, and now only
they can save it. Flatter them. Don’t let them know where this information
comes from. Seed it in the networks they use to communicate. I know Garou
Kinfolk in Manaus who can place it for you. They’re our Kinfolk now too:
more of their matings produce Balam than wolves these days. No need to
tell them what they’re doing for you. They’re best kept in the dark, lest you
test their loyalty.
The best outcome is that the Garou come back and set right a few of their
many wrongs. Unlikely, I know, but promise them glory and renown and
they’d run straight down the Wyrm’s throat. It’s not the return that’s
unlikely, it’s the usefulness of what they do once they’re back.
The alternative is that someone informs the Mokole of Grrrash tak’nyrrr of
their return. No one remembers better than they the darkness of the Amazon
Wars. They’ll be slow to act, but the Garou will find battles enough to keep
them in Brazil.
I’m not your master. I don’t order you to do this. But sit with it a while. Or
better still, walk with it along the river, watching the Garou’s rank remains
feed the Wyrm-servants’ pit of pollution. Think on justice, and everything
they did to us in the name of protecting Gaia. I leave the decision to you,
my dear.
-M

[/LAYOUT: BLOODY SIDEBAR ENDS]

Just a Shot Away
[LAYOUT: FORMAT AS TYPED LETTER]
Dearest Grandmother,
You’ve guessed by now, I’m sure, but I’ve gone to Brazil. There’s still a whole lot of
work to do there, and it would be an insult to everything you’ve told me not to go. I heard
there are dozens of Garou bodies, parts of them washing up in the rivers, and that their
spirits are stuck there too. I’ll try to find Hanne for you. If I can’t, I’ll leave a message
from you.
A lot of us are going. We’re treating it like a Rite of Passage, just like packs did in your
day. Maybe our people gave up on the Amazon too easily. You always told me South
America was almost out of reach. Maybe we’ll be the ones to bring it back into the Garou
Nation.
I love you. Wish me luck.
Nina
[/LAYOUT: LETTER ENDS]

The Price of Rage

Let the below stand as a recorded (remembered, then committed to text) conversation
between a group of cubs and three Ahroun of the Guardian pack Broken Tusk of the
Three Princes sept and caern, on the island of Te Waipounamu, also called the North
Island of New Zealand. There’s much a werewolf might learn from this exchange, so read
carefully, Full Moon.
The three Ahroun are Kauri Adams Follows-Death, an Uktena Adren; Lauren Kowolska
Swift-Strides-the-Moon, a Silver Fang Adren; and Nessi Bates, also known as Nails, a
Bone Gnawer Athro and leader of this pack.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
Who are the Changing Breeds?
SStM: The Garou are the warriors of Gaia. The Changing Breeds fill other roles,
depending on their natures. Mostly. The Ananasi are Weaverkin and they’re a completely
different conversation.
FD: Yeah, they’re weird alright. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they’re a completely
different conversation, but they’re creepy, for sure. They’re part of the whole set though.
No matter who made each type of shifter, we’ve got more in common with each other
than with anyone else.
SStM: True, but I thought we agreed we were taking turns to answer.
FD: We are.
SStM: So let me have my turn, then you can have yours.
[pause]
FD: Fair enough. Go ahead.
SStM: I wasn’t asking permission. Anyway, what was I saying? Other roles. Gaia made
us first, to defend her. Then she made the others to support us. That was literally the
Bastet’s role: to offer assistance in others’ endeavors! We didn’t need it, and that made
them spitting mad. The Corax, who still live, were made to make the world smaller by
carrying word between far-flung packs. The Camazotz, who were werebats, did the same
by night as the Corax did by day. The Gurahl, werebears, are seers, and the
werecrocodiles are our memory. The Nagah kept our secrets and the Grondr kept us pure.
The Rokea guard the seas as we guard the land.
And no, I didn’t need no Galliard to teach me all of that. People think that because you’re
Ahroun, you’re dumb as a bag of rocks. Just because we hit hard doesn’t mean we don’t
sing songs and tell tales while we’re hitting hard.
All these roles support us, enable our fight for Gaia and against the Wyrm. The Gurahl
offered insight, and were there to heal us when we almost fell in battle. Scars are good
and all, but nobody wants to lose their guts permanently. The Corax and Camazotz
carried word from front lines to wise ones and Elders far away.
The Changing Breeds are like a knight’s retinue. The hardworking, behind the scenes-
N: Just go ahead and say servants. Say what you mean.
SStM: Fine. They’re servants. And, like a lot of servants, they aspire to be something
other than what they are. And they should. Know. Their. Place.
N: That is most definitely a take.
FD: Nails, you wanna go next?
N: Nope. Go ahead. I’ll wait ‘til you’re done.
FD: Thanks.
The others ain’t less than us. That’s not it. They’re here to do different stuff. The problem
is, they didn’t do it. None of us are about military discipline, chains of command, all that
stuff. We’ve got our own origin stories and ideas about what we’re put here to do.
Surprising nobody, some of those ideas went counter to others. The Gurahl, I guess, are a
good example. We needed some of that secret, special knowledge Gaia gave them. It was
more efficient, made for a better edge in combat.
Yeah, I know how that sounds. Trust me, I hear myself. I don’t know how I feel about it,
and I am a hundred percent sure there were better ways we could have tackled it, but
hindsight’s twenty-twenty. That’s the answer to another question though.
As to who the Changing Breeds are, there’s not much to say. We’re a set. Exactly who
we are to each other varies, depending on the time and place. But it’s not right to say
we’re leaders and they’re followers. If you’ve ever watched a Rokea, the shark shifters,
dismantle a Wyrm-beast, you’ve seen art in motion. Different tools for different
purposes. It so happens we’re weapons, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. Some of
them are… more subtle stuff.
N: What we mostly are, now, is disconnected. Most of us go our whole lives without
meeting another of the Fera, we just get little talks like this one. If you take one thing out
of this, kiddos, it’s this: the other Fera aren’t abstract ideas like communication and
insight, they’re flesh and blood, with pride and drives and all that messy shit, just like us.
Apologies for interrupting you, F.
FD: All good. I was done, anyway.
N: My turn?
FD: Yeah, if you’re ready to go.
N: To hear a lot of Garou tell it, including most of my kin, the other Fera are what
Follows said, there. Tools or weapons. Part of the fight. And that’s a messed up take —
no disrespect to you, Follows — because none of us are that. We’re warriors, not
weapons. Some of the other Fera are frontline fighters like us, plenty of them aren’t. But
they exist to do their own thing, serve their own purpose, not get hitched to ours. That’s
not how we measure them.
The rest of the Fera should be our allies. They’re our siblings, but we’ve burned a lot of
bridges. If we want those relationships back, we have to admit we did that. We didn’t just
mistreat them, not that you can just walk that back. There’s no statute of limitations on
disrespect. But us being who we are, we went a damn sight further than being rude to our
siblings at family gatherings. We settled the scores we invented the same way we always
do. We went to war.
SStM: I’m unconvinced. They sound like a bunch of tools to me.
[/LAYOUT: END TRANSCRIPT]

The Weaver’s Webs

Let’s take a break from our New Zealand friends and read some excerpts from Gonji Pure
Mountain’s Discourse on the Form-Breaking Fist, translated by Antonine Teardrop. It
shows how we Ahroun are more than capable of skilled warfare and form mastery. We
are more than just howling beasts with sharp teeth.
Our claws are sharp, too.
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR CAN APPEAR AS A NORMAL
W20 SIDEBAR, DESPITE ITS IN-CHARACTER NATURE]

Translator’s Introduction
I first met Gonji Pure Mountain in Hokkaido, at a small shrine in the Hidaka
Mountains. He is a Stargazer like me, although his Auspice is the Full
Moon, while mine is the half. It was exactly this difference that I sought to
discuss with him, to learn more about how the DharmaGaia is practiced by
Ahroun.
Gonji is a former Hakken, the Shadow Lords of Japan. He converted to our
tribe after receiving enlightenment from Grand Master Zama, the Stargazer
Shinto monk. His forthright and pragmatic attitude owes much to his former
upbringing, seasoned by his years of Stargazer training in China.
I came across a manuscript of his major work, the Discourse on the Form-
Breaking Fist, and wanted to translate it for English-reading Stargazers. But
I encountered a number of difficulties at certain points, intriguing enough
to make it worth my time to travel to Hokkaido to speak with Master Gonji
in person.
He was perplexed by my project and even more by my long journey to see
him, but he was a most gracious and accommodating host. He is the abbot
of a small mountain shrine, overseeing five monks-in-training. Two of them
are Stargazers, while the other three are Kinfolk to other tribes (one Hakken,
one Child of Gaia, and one Silent Strider). They are here to learn his
methods to take back with them at the end of their three-year tenancies.
The Discourse describes the predicament that enmeshes us all: the Weaver
and Her webs. There are many methods and means for extricating ourselves
 from the strands, but I find Gonji’s advice unique in that it advocates the
Ahroun’s path: calling upon instinct, strength, Full Moon Gifts, and the
fighting arts to break the Weaver’s hold on the mind and embrace formless
Wyld. This is the “Form-Breaking Fist,” the sudden shocking and
thunderous explosion of vital force to shake loose the sticky cords that
restrict our mind, our perception, and even, according to Gonji, our bodies.
We think of ourselves as vibrant, brutal, metamorphic animals, free from
the constraints of a single form. Gonji argues that this is an illusion, a degree
of wildness perfectly doled out to sustain the figment of freedom, while
hiding from us grander unimagined and untapped potentials. Sever the web,
free the body, and the mind shall follow.
This is the opposite of what many Stargazers teach, even those dedicated to
the fighting arts like Kailindo: the mind leads the body. Not so for Gonji.
The mind can be tricked, but the body knows.
It is little wonder that Gonji is an Ahroun. Such a perspective is not native
to a Philodox. I have always sought to balance body and mind, but in so
doing, I have perhaps lost the truth of life’s flourishing: body before mind.
The mind is the lotus that grows from the mud. No mud, no mind.
I respect this work for its wisdom perspective, although I cannot myself
unlock its deep secrets. Those are for Ahroun Stargazers. Still, it provides
perspective on our predicament, and Master Gonji’s uncompromising
vision is leavened with humor.
I have included commentary and notes [italicized in brackets]. Any
mistakes are my own. I cannot claim to fully understand Gonji’s work — I
am still a student — but I believe it to be important enough to attempt this
gesture at wisdom-seeding. I have chosen the vernacular mode, to better
communicate to readers unfamiliar with the style and concepts of Stargazer
works, especially Gonji’s voice, similar to Japanese haibun style. I am
afraid the task of properly translating his haiku is beyond my simple
abilities, so I instead attempt free verse and pray for lenience.
May you sprout from pure mud.

[/LAYOUT: IN-CHARACTER SIDEBAR ENDS]

Discourse on the Form-Breaking Fist
How ridiculous that I would put into words what cannot be said. That I would trap the
unspeakable in a pattern of spidery ink marks. Do you now understand our dilemma?
Brush lines on paper
Gliding like swallows,
Perching on periods,
Turned to stone.
These northern mountains are quiet and serene, nothing like Tokyo. The peace and
tranquility make me angry.
In this way I know I am alive. It would be so easy to flow freely into the patterns of
rising, sweeping the floor, lighting incense, meditating, then sleeping. One must fight
this. All patterns echo Her Pattern, shadows cast by Her threads.
Rise and howl at the sun! Kick up dirt. Smell your shit. Knock yourself on the head with
a stick. Drink yourself to sleep.
But not too often. The remedy can be as bad as the disease. It cannot persist. Do not force
revolt; let it come and take you like a wind out of the abyss.
Wind over the pass,
Smell of pine,
Somewhere an engine
Even here
We are flies in Her web, lovingly wrapped in blankets and waiting to be sucked dry. You
cannot think your way out of this. You must claw out. Bite out. Explode like a shaken
soda can opened by a child.
All the old tales tell us that the Weaver [Kusaki Tsuchigumo] wrapped the Wyrm in her
webs. It fought to free itself and she had to work hard to keep it in its silk coffin. This
went on for ages. She no longer knew how to do anything but weave. Even after the
Wyrm stopped its struggles, she went on weaving, wrapping everything she saw.
We cannot know why. Some say she lost her mind. Others say that she froze the world in
place to stop the spread of corruption, holding it at bay so that Gaia’s children could fight
back.
It does not matter. Her webs are so deeply entangled in all the worlds that we cannot
move freely without tugging them and becoming stuck anew.
Insects cannot escape the spider’s webs. Humans cannot escape the Weaver’s webs.
Garou have claws, and claws are for cutting.
The doorway in the morning
The spider’s web grew overnight
A moth still vibrates weakly
Tries to escape the horror
The Weaver is the true trouble. Everyone blames the Wyrm, because it stinks and makes
everything stink and soon nobody can live anywhere. They never ask why it does that. It
can’t shed it skin.
A snake that wears the same skin too long gets mean. The Wyrm can’t shed because the
Weaver won’t let it; she’s wrapped it up too tight. She’s got to have everything in place,
in the right order, nothing askew. There’s nothing alive that wasn’t born askew! She’s
suffocating everything. Soon it will all be over, a bunch of dead bugs lined up in rows.
She’s in our head. She wants to hypnotize us, make us think things are supposed to work
the way she wants them to. When we get out of line, we feel guilty, like children caught
taking candy. She really fucks with our heads!
The river is an ice stone
Animals use it as a road
I look both ways
And still I fall in
There is formlessness and Form. The image for formlessness is water. The image for
Form is ice.
Life force flows like water. Ice binds it in place. In the proper turn of seasons, the flow of
life force is balanced by stillness: the trickling thaw, the surging flood, the freeze, and the
thaw again. Life gives way to Form which melts and gives way to life, as a rotting
carcass feeds dung beetles.
The Weaver is Form; Form is like ice. The Wyld is formless, like water. We all now live
in endless winter. Everything is frozen.
The Form-Breaking Fist is the thunderbolt that shatters the ice and frees the water.
I dreamed the world had ended
When I woke it was back again
She had woven it anew
Why can’t she let me sleep?
The forlorn tribes [i.e., all tribes other than Stargazers] flail at the Wyrm, like captives
throwing themselves at a door barred on the other side. In doing so, they miss the spider
hanging above them. The door is not barred shut; it is sealed by webs.
Stargazers look up and see the spider. They also see the stars outside the window and
know there is a world beyond the webs. To reach the open field under the stars, they must
first tear down the webs.
Our true enemy is the Weaver.
The Wyld rips Her webs. It is not your ally. It is your weapon. It cannot be tamed, cannot
be trained to work for you. You wait for its arrival and, once it comes, redirect its path,
using the most minute and subtle force. It doesn’t know any better; it’s an idiot. But boy
does it shred webs!
The deadline was yesterday
I’m going to get fired
Wait — is that the full moon?
When did it go up?
So many Garou call Luna “crazy.” Crazy wise, I tell them. The Weaver’s endless order is
what’s driving us nuts, so some of the right kind of crazy is good for us. It helps us to
remember who we are. When our heads have been filled up with numbers and plans and
protocols, we forget to breath. When we see the moon we gasp, and remember.
Humans don’t get to get this. It’s for us, born under the moon, even when she hides.
Moonbeams cleanse our fur and brighten our minds. Best of all is the full moon — the
whole moon, every crater visible. The full radiance of enlightenment.
I’m not talking about a realization in the mind. Stargazers get a lot of those and where do
they get us? My way is the path of instinct that transcends intellect, of muscle that beats
you on the head. Instinct circumvents the Weaver’s gaze and guides us through her maze
of threads. Riddles and mind games cannot move heavy wolfen bodies. And all those
intricate patterns she spends so long weaving collapse at the touch of a claw.
The auditor is here
He wants to tally the books
They don’t add up
10 claws in the red
You ask: “How can we cut what we cannot see?” Garou do not need eyes. We have noses
that catch the scent of flowers in far fields. We have fur that stirs in the slightest breeze.
We have ears that hear the moon sneak across the sky. Open your senses, all at once.
First stop your worry. Stop your planning. Simply feel. Then you will act.
You will not choose to act. You will simply act, the way a stone falls down rather than
up.
Instinct.
Instinct is all. What is not instinct is web. Cut away all that is not wind and ripple
[stimulus and response].
The clock says go to work.
I am stuck in traffic,
Lateness means punishment.
I shed my skin and run away
We are Blessed and We are Cursed
Humans can never take off their human skin and run on all fours. What a gift we have!
Change to the brutal-human form and make faces.
Change to the slavering form and howl.
Change to the ancestor-wolf form and leap.
Change to the wolf and pray to the moon. Not with wedded palms and nodded head —
with sweat and hot breath and pumping legs. Running is prayer.
The flesh flows, pulsing in time with its mother’s breath. It remembers. Heed muscle and
tendon, bone and bile. They are birds returning home across vast distances after a long
season away.
Mind is like a mouse following the scent of a honey trail left by a bear. It goes this way
and that, following the smell. It can never find the honey, for it was never there. A ghost
of desire.
Hunger chases food. If you cannot catch your prey in a flash, change tactics and seek new
prey. Do not get fooled by sweet ghosts.
Five letters across: something round
I can’t think of the word
Damn these puzzles are hard
Claws tear newspaper
Your body knows. In all its forms, it expresses the raw primordial moment. On two legs
or on four, it touches the earth and gets power from it, like a tree drawing nutrients from
the soil.
Don’t live in your mind — that’s what the Weaver wants. Live in the body. She can’t
measure that.
The mind is not alive. It’s a reflection of the open sky in a pond. It shivers with every
breeze and breaks when rocks are thrown in.
How can I say this so that you will hear? Shut off the mind. Listen to breath. To wind. To
rain. To the anger deep inside you.
We are nothing but anger.
We pretend otherwise. I am a monk. You are a student. She is a poet. He is a diviner.
Whatever; it’s nothing.
Anger is what you are.
Once you cut away the webs, down to sinew and bone, you’ll feel it, boiling in the
cauldron down below. It’s hot and it burns.
Everything’s gone quiet
Waiting for a branch to break
Something stalks them
Oh wait, it’s me
Your unleashed pain is truth made bare. Others cannot abide such raw reality. It reminds
them of their cowardice, how they hide from themselves, from their anger.
Show them your truth. You cannot tell it. You must be it. Follow the anger. Follow the
truth.
This is the Full Moon path. If you do not walk this path, it will sound strange to you.
There are many ways up the mountain, some clouded, some lit only by a sliver, or by no
moon at all.
The straight path is lit by the full moon. All others wind back and forth, taking the long
road. Some travelers never make it.
If you have read this far, you have reached the top. No more riddles. Everything is bare,
revealed. I will now teach you the Form-Breaking Fist, the way of escape.
Claws retracting in folded fingers,
Curled into thumb-capped fist,
Feet rooted to earth
Wait for the thunder
To follow this path, to form the Form-Breaking Fist, you must learn to merge the Gifts of
the Full Moon with the Gifts of the Stargazer. You must learn to put aside the mind, to
forego thought and reason, to abandon cleverness.
Your body is your mind. Your muscles are your reason, your breath your ritual. Your fist
is quick wittedness.
A paradox: the martial kata you must master are forms, repeated patterns. But once
learned, the forms dissolve — the ice melts. Form becomes instinct. The Form-Breaking
Fist begins as Form and ends as formless force.
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR CAN APPEAR AS A NORMAL
W20 SIDEBAR, DESPITE ITS IN-CHARACTER NATURE]

Translator’s Commentary
The Form-Breaking Fist is a method for substituting physical acumen for
intellect when a Stargazer calls upon their Gifts. Instead of relying on our
long-practiced ability to think through things, to use reason or even sudden
insight to unlock our Gifts, Master Gonji’s methods allow us to call upon
the body’s resources.
To many Auspices, this would seem counterproductive. But it allows an
Ahroun to use their fighting arts in place of their wits — to literally punch
at an illusion to break it, rather than teasing it apart as if it were a riddle, the
way the wind spirits teach us to.
With mastery of the Form-Breaking Fist, the Ahroun can even use their
Rage in place of the more subtle, spiritual force at our heart of our being.
The rest of the Discourse consists of detailed instructions about the exacting
use of Stargazer Gifts when the mind is of no use. It is Gonji’s methodology
for subsuming intellect with instinct, but without becoming a mere creature
of reaction. It can only be practiced by a Stargazer who has first mastered
his intellect, and an Ahroun who can call upon Luna’s full radiance to
transcend it. They are impenetrable to someone who has not taken the
training.
I have excerpted some of the basic Instructions.

[/LAYOUT: IN-CHARACTER SIDEBAR ENDS]

The Instructions
When you are a Cliath, seek the ussuri bear spirit that dwells in the Penumbra of these
mountains and learn from it how to hone claws to razor sharpness. Then wait until
lightning strikes and ignites a fire; the spirit you find there will teach you to direct your
Rage. [I believe any fire spirit will do; Gonji was once Hakken, so he often refers to
storm spirits.]
Then you may begin your lessons.
I will teach you to substitute strength for thought. When you would summon your
intellect to discern a mystery, you will instead wield your muscles to overpower it.
When you are Fostern, hunt for the mukade centipede spirit to gain the virtue of its
venom and carapace. [In North America, this Gift is taught by a wolverine spirit]. You
must also go deep into the mountain caves and find the spirit of the foundations [earth
spirit] to learn its ancient patience so that the mind-tricks others use against you will
bounce off the rock of your mind.
When you are Adren, go to the mainland and hunt the inoshishi boar spirit. It will teach
you to hold your anger so that you do not succumb to it. Go then to the highest peak
during the storm and call to the wind spirit to blow away all the false thoughts that
distract your mind. When you return, I will begin the next lesson: to make your breath a
mantra and a mudra. Your life force is all the ritual you need.
When you are Athro, seek again the centipede and learn from it how to nurse your pain
into Rage. Then climb a tree to its heights and call to the white-tailed eagle spirit for its
unyielding intent.
Finally, when you are an Elder, seek the wolf spirit that still roams here and learn from it
the unbreakable will that inspires others. Pray at the shrine until you see your mother’s
face. So armed, I can then teach you to know that the heart of all spirit is Rage.
When you have learned all these things, you are ready to confront the Weaver. She will
trick you, cloud your vision, confound your reason. No matter — you wield the Form-
Breaking Fist. Even when your mind is lost, your claws will shred Her webs and your
Rage will send her spiders fleeing.

The Tale of Ko’ēti and Redbone Ron

[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SHOULD RESEMBLE A RECORDING
TRANSCRIPT]
[Recording begins]
Full-of-Wind: Is it on? I don’t see the little light.
Braided Threads: It doesn’t have a power switch, it’s a spirit. It just pretends to look
like a camera.
F: But it is a camera, right? It’s recording us?
Teeth-at-the-Heels-of-Trouble: This is ridiculous. What are we doing? Don’t we have a
mission to get to?
B: We’re doing the mission. You have to know how to use the Geomid Network if you’re
going to accomplish it. We’re here for this story.
F: But is it on?
T: Mother of Sands!
B: Just talk to it!
F: Okay, uh, hello. We’re Pattern Recognition and we’re here in the Tijucu Forest, guests
of O Orientador Souza and the Glass Walkers of the Open Arms. We came here to collect
stories with the Geomid Network, with Braided Threads’ program, uh—
B: You don’t have to describe it!
F: We came here to collect stories for our Patron, also called Pattern Recognition, who
has set us with this task. We’ve spoken with all of the Galliards of the Sept and collected
a story from each, but a messenger came from Sky River and told us about his quest to
seek after a missing war pack. We’re about to interview him about this mission and then
we’re going to accompany him into the rainforest, you know, watch his back.
Redbone Ron: I don’t need someone to watch my back, cousin! I can watch my own
back! I just liked your whole documentary schtick or whatever it is you’re doing. I
always wanted to be the next Adam Beach. I’m better looking than him anyway, ay!
Which side you think is my good side?
T: This isn’t a documentary. Dábé’gha, is this the right person? I thought we were
accompanying another Ahroun, not a No-Moon.
R: I am an Ahroun, look at these muscles!
F: Yeah, this is Ron. Redbone Ron. Uh, why can’t a Full Moon have a sense of humor
too?
[Recording ends]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR CAN RESEMBLE A SMALL
BIO TYPED ON BROWN PAPER]

Survey: Redbone Ron

Younger Brother Lodge of the Snag, Fostern waxing-Full Moon, born on
two legs.
Redbone Ron is a Diné film enthusiast with a happy-go-lucky attitude and
a knowing smile. As is becoming more commonplace for budding warriors
of Younger Brother, Ron trekked out and away from his traditional Tribal
territory to get a taste of the world and show the rest of the Nation what the
ice wolves can bring to the fight. The constant war fought by Golgol Fangs-
First was just an obvious choice, and Ron became known for always
throwing himself at volunteer missions — such as the one to find out what
happened to Dancing Knives.

[/LAYOUT: BIO SIDEBAR ENDS]

Redbone Ron’s Tale
Ron led the other three Garou through the thick of foliage, never pausing long to rest,
much to Braided Thread’s annoyance. The Glass Walker wore a mosquito net hat and
bug repellent slathered on their arms, but still slapped their exposed skin from time to
time, grumbling about their predicament. Teeth-at-the-Heels-of-Trouble was likewise
unimpressed with navigating dense jungle, but as was her way, she remained stoic and
kept her complaints to herself. Full-of-Wind, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop
talking, or asking questions, or just singing songs to himself out of nowhere from time to
time. Often Redbone had to shush him, tilting his head to listen carefully afterward.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[Recording begins]
Full-of-Wind: I notice that you’re not scent tracking here...just listening. What are you
listening for?
Redbone Ron: Shh, shh. I’m listening for... there it is... I’m listening for Black Blade’s
heartbeat. He’s the only one I can follow. It’s faint, but we’re getting closer all the time.
Full-of-Wind: His heartbeat? How does that work?
Redbone Ron: I don’t know. Spirits. Look — you should get this, cousin, we all have
our ways. Ours are the ways of the ice and cold and bitter wind and all that, sure, sure —
but I grew up in New Mexico. Maybe at night there were whiffs of the cold wind
blowing, but when you’re far away from the homelands, you gotta focus on the other
ways of knowing, get me?
Full-of-Wind: I’m a Web Walker, most of mine focus their studies on the enemy:
Grandfather Serpent. But I study Grandmother Spider, so I think I get what you’re
saying.
Redbone Ron: Sure, sure. Makes sense. So I follow our relations and our blood. That’s
also our way. And right now, I’m following a heartbeat, so if you could shut your flapper,
I’d appreciate it.
[Recording ends]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
The four Garou traveled for several days, camping out at night while Ron and Teeth-at-
the-Heels-of-Trouble scouted ahead together. Ron showed a lot of interest in the Geomid
Network project, but often chided that “there wasn’t much Glory in it.” More than once
Full-of-Wind and Ron discussed their strictly traditional backgrounds and how that kind
of project fit into it, and the pair of them waxed on about the importance of oral histories
and who should record them and what data-ownership meant [no one owns the data —
BT].
Six days into the hunt, with the heartbeat Ron was following steadily growing louder, the
Garou heard a loud crash and several high-pitched snarling screams followed by howls.
They chased after the commotion, but even with Teeth’s assistance, the jungle hampered
their movement. Then, suddenly, Ron stopped and signaled with his hand that the others
should do so as well. After several minutes of listening intently and moving around to try
to get a better angle, he said, “No heartbeat. They’re dead.”
Without a need for any of them to suggest it, all four shifted into their war-forms, bones
cracking and muscles ripping as their bulk expanded. The foliage no longer slowed them
down as trees and vines split from the might of their blows and created a path for them.
The smell of smoke, burnt flesh, and the iron-touched scent of blood met their nostrils as
the war party burst into a clearing beside a deep, black river. As far as they could tell, all
members of the Dancing Knives were here, but their bodies had been ripped apart, limbs
and torsos littering the earth. So much blood had soaked into the ground as to make it a
muddy, sloshy mess. In the center of the camp, a head was impaled upon a sharpened
branch — Black Blade.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[Recording begins]
Redbone Ron: Hold, hold. They’re not far.
Teeth-at-the-Heels-of-Trouble: What are scratches in stones? Trees also.
Full-of-Wind: Looks like glyphs, but…
R: Cat scratches.
T: Cats?
Braided Threads: SigRender isn’t imaging properly, Adjusting, but looks like...warning.
[Recording ends]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
A terrible screech sounded from the treeline followed by a deep, guttural attempt at
human-speech, “Tereho!”
Collectively, Pattern Recognition squared up, forming a semi-circle to protect each
other’s backs, but Ron walked out into the clearing, toward the source of the voice.
“Show yourself, Cat! You kill these wolves?” He snarled so forcefully that spittle flew
from his lips, spraying trees which were also marked with circular, spiraling glyphs.
A woman wearing denim rolled up at the ankle, hiking boots, and a faded First Blood:
Part II t-shirt stepped into the clearing and sized up Redbone Ron, in full, bristling war-
form. “You need English?” she asked, “I said get out of here. Can’t you read?” She was
not put off by the growling Garou in the least, let alone his three companions behind him.
Ron did not bother to answer her questions. Instead, he lashed out, teeth first, seeking
flesh and only finding faded cotton in return, the woman leapt out of the way and into the
branches of the trees above with ease. But Ron was not abated, howling in anger he
assaulted the tree-trunk with tooth and claw, and it cracked quickly, but the woman leapt
to the ground again, aiming to land behind him. As she came down to the ground, her
own body snapped and exploded into muscle and spotted golden fur. As she landed on
her hind legs, her claws swept outward, peeling a stripe out of Ron’s hide.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[Recording begins]
Werecat: You warned to leave, now go!
Ron: You killed my allies!
Braided Threads: I don’t think—
Teeth-at-the-Heels-of-Trouble: Gonna help him.
B: No, wait. These translations are—
[Recording ends]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
Ron spun around on his heels, hunkering low and springing forward. He slammed into
the werecat’s legs, knocking her to the ground with a horrific yowl, but even as she
landed beneath his bulk, all of her limbs swept back and forth across his torso, peeling
skin and fur from him in ribbons and staining her own fur a deep shade of crimson. Ron
snapped down at her, biting into the meaty tissue of her shoulder, neck and face, but
somehow she managed to squirrel out from beneath him and whip around him until she
was on his back, digging her claws into his muscles over and over again, causing him to
whine in pain.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[Recording begins]
Full-of-Wind: Yield, Ron, yield!
Braided Threads: Warnings aren’t threats!
Redbone Ron: RAAARGHHHLLLRRR!!!
Werecat: Yhaaaaweehohohoh!!!
Teeth-at-the-Heels-of-Trouble, sighing: Alright, Full-of-Wind...wishbone, but cat from
wolf, not limb from limb.
[Recording ends]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
Galliard and Ahroun rushed into the fight, the former reaching for the snarling, blood-
soaked werecat and the latter for the blooded Full-Moon. They managed to peel the two
of them apart, but not without the werecat taking a few more swipes at Ron’s face, and
for good measure, Full-of-Wind’s as well. For her efforts, Teeth-at-the-Heels-of-Trouble
earned a bite to the chest as well, but Ron yielded as soon as he tasted her blood. The
tale-gatherers collectively worked to calm the two combatants down and keep them
separated while Braided Threads attempted to use their awakening program to get a better
understanding of the glyphs.
[LAYOUT: HANDWRITTEN SIDEBAR, SCRATCHED ON A ROUGH
SURFACE]

Rendering: Amazonian Werecat Glyphs

 Get out.
This place does not belong to you/this place is cursed.
Get out.
The Asura will touch your moon-gift, twist it against you.
Run from here.
You will feast on your family and dance in their entrails.
Run from here.

[/LAYOUT: ROUGH SURFACE SIDEBAR ENDS]

Without waiting, the five Fera departed the cursed place, and although Ron and the
Werecat who introduced herself as Ko’ēti still bristled at one another, the further they
walked from the clearing, the more they calmed down, until eventually they could stop
and tend to their wounds.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[Recording begins]
Teeth-at-the-Heels-of-Trouble: Okay, so what actually happened back there.
Ko’ēti: You all failed to heed our warnings. You walked into a trap. Your siblings
walked into it too — and now they are dead.
Redbone Ron: And it wasn’t you who killed them?
K: No. It was my pride who marked that place. The other wolves found it and sniffed
around and decided that our markings meant it was of some worth. They were fools and
deserved their deaths, but we were generous, and offered them wisdom.
R: What kind of offer is it if they don’t understand your language?
K: How is that my fault, Dawn Tribesman?
Braided-Threads: It was rough getting a read of the Penumbra while you two were in
murder mode, but I think I might have seen a shimmer of Banes...just not what you get
used to seeing around here.
K: The warriors your people send to these lands do not know them, because they are not
of them. You come here and think that teeth and claws and Selene’s Curse will be enough
to cleanse my lands of the corruption that came with your kin? How foolish of you. How
foolish of you two especially.
Full-of-Wind: Me?
R: No. She’s right.
F: What, what about this is our fault?
[Recording ends]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
Ron stood then, his chest, back, and face still a horrible mess of wounds — they were
healing, but the claws of the cat were terrible indeed, and he was going to be scarred
forever — and walked over to stand near Ko’ēti. She watched him, unflinching, as he
crouched down and began to draw a story in Garou glyphs on the ground. After some
time, she stood as well and began to claw her own glyphs beside, and intertwined with
Ron’s. Braided Threads activated SigRender.
Ko’ēti’s Tale (with the assistance of Redbone Ron)
The land of forever smoke and mirror pools is a secret that belonged once, to Balam,
King Hunter. Many-Teeth slept in the rivers, it is true, and once She-Flies-Beneath-the-
Moonlight slept within the branches of the breathing-trees. But then the evil comes —
and this story is one with the Wyrmbringers who come to the land of Turtle-Dreams-of-
Many-Nations and on the backs of their dark deeds, Eater-of-Souls is — Flies-Beneath-
the-Moonlight is slaughtered, leaving the sacred places without their Mother-Voice.
The monkeys-from-distant-lands make their way into this place and burn what is holy
and commit atrocity after atrocity against the Kin of King Hunter and Many-Teeth alike
— force them into schools which teach them that it is bad to sing or dance Indian, while
the Wyrmbringers rob us of caern after caern, claiming the holy sites we tended for
centuries were free-for-the-taking, because they could not see our rites and spirits — stole
the trees and rocks from the ground and replaced them with poison which they fed to our
people and spilled into our waters.
Middle Brother is lost forever, his sacrifice necessary but does little more than buy us
time as we watch our supposed cousins mock and deride us for our failures — and bring
with them the flame-brings and ground-diggers and breathing-tree-eaters, digging up the
rivers and snuffing out the secrets and memories of our peoples, and the Wolves come
then, claiming this fight belongs to them, and they are the only ones who can defend
Grandmother from the faces of Cahlash that they brought with them — and now Turtle-
Dreams-of-Many-Nations mourns and sleeps when we need her most, and where is hope?
Where is hope? Where is hope? Where is hope?
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR CAN RESEMBLE A SMALL
BIO TYPED ON BROWN PAPER]

Survey: Ko’ēti
Balam, Wonder-favored eyes-opened-at-Twilight, born on two-legs.
The Balam are the protectors of the Amazon, and Ko’ēti takes that role
seriously. She often leads guerrilla strike forces of other Werecats on the
servants of Cahlash that ever dwell and breed in her homelands, but lately
she has come to realize that direct, physical tactics aren’t working. She used
to include the Garou Nation with the servants of Cahlash as corrupters of
her sacred homeland, but now she tries to guide them (from a distance) away
from the worst horrors that have crept into the dark places in the jungle, and
makes more spirit pacts every day to understand the nature of Cahlash’s
influence on the monkeys who destroy to feed their own greed.

[/LAYOUT: BIO SIDEBAR ENDS]

Full-of-Wind’s notes:
Redbone Ron and Ko’ēti spent a lot of time together discussing their own private
histories as well as the stories of their people. Eventually, we decided it was best to leave
them to it, not because we thought there was no more story that would be valuable for the
young members of the Nation, but because their bond was not ours, and it wasn’t our
right to interfere in it anymore. However, back at the Sept of the Open Arms, we ran into
Redbone Ron again after he had reported the death of the Dancing Knives at their own
hands due to Wyrm-corruption to Fangs-First. He was on his way home to New Mexico,
and didn’t want to do another interview, but he wrote a short note for me.
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR CAN APPEAR AS A
STANDARD W20 SIDEBAR WITH THICK RED BLOODY EDGES, AS
IT’S THE AHROUN CHAPTER]

On the Collection of Tales

Hõãch’i Dábé’gha,
I think it is good that you use your Indian name, and I’m going to consult
my Elders about using mine too. My people are war and yours are wisdom,
but there’s something of the other in each of us, and I wanted you to think
about what you’re doing recording all of these stories. I think it’s good to
collect them, but you have to do more than collect them. Our stories woven
together make us who we are as a people, as the Tribes of the Dawn, as the
Garou Nation, as the chosen defenders of Grandmother, and our stories have
a lot more shared bylines than we realize. I don’t know if it’s right for us to
keep fighting down here, so far away from our homes, but I don’t know if
it’s wrong either. I’ve got a lot to think about, but when we’re going to war
— and when you’re recording your stories, I think we should all keep this
close to our hearts: Respect All Nations, for all Nations are of Grandmother.
Redbone
P.S. Get that snag when you get home too, cuz, you are wound up!

[/LAYOUT: BLOODY SIDEBAR ENDS]

Rage Unabated
Let us return to our continued conversation between the Guardian pack Broken Tusk of
the Three Princes sept and caern, on the island of Te Waipounamu.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
Why did we go to war against the Changing Breeds?
FD: Ah, this one. I knew this one was coming. Thought we’d take longer getting to it.
Maybe talk our way around it for a while. Right for the jugular though, eh?
Let me put it to you another way. Did we go to war against the Changing Breeds? Who’s
we? Am I, the man with ancestors from a pair of islands in the South Pacific, who never
even met a Silver Fang or a Shadow Lord until a couple of hundred years ago, part of the
we who went to war?
N: Yes.
FD: Debatable, boss. If you have to lean on the idea of a Garou Nation like it’s one thing,
not a name every group of more than six Garou gives itself, you’re most likely talking
our your arse. Be careful of people who go slinging we around all casual, kids. They’ve
normally got an agenda. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not allowed to pick your battles
— or your allies. You’re warriors of Gaia, not good little soldiers who’re “just following
orders,” right?
SStM: With respect, F, some following is required. Tell an Elder you disagree with their
priorities and you can expect to pick up a nasty scar for your trouble.
FD: I dunno, I can think of a lot of times in our history when we should have straight up
said no. War of Tears ring any bells? But look, my point is this: we are more than the
crimes of our ancestors.
N: Maybe, but that’s for sure part of what we are. We did those things. Our ancestors.
Part of the structure and society we opt into.
FD: Sure. And thank you, Athro, for that correction. But here’s the thing: if we’re not
knotted up with guilt about what… was done… we can take a proper look at it and ask
why it happened. And it happened because we’re weapons, and weapons have to be used.
Garou culture’s all challenges and fights, right? We sharpen ourselves on one another.
We scrap to suss out hierarchies and that. That’s how we ended up with the War of Rage.
SStM: That’s not an answer, Follows-Death. We went to war because the Changing
Breeds didn’t know their place.
N: Hold the f—
SStM: Give me my moment, please.
Case in point, since Chases-Death brought it up: the Bunyip. Look how the Changing
Breeds treated them when they came to Australia. Their duty was to welcome the Bunyip
and find a place for them. The Nagah almost had a civil war, and the Ananasi tried to
exterminate them.
FD: Remind me, this was how long after the War of Rage?
SStM: Irrelevant. The Changing Breeds can’t rule themselves. They’re a bunch of
squabbling children. They need leaders but won’t accept them, so we must be their
masters. The War of Rage was an attempt to put them in their place and remind them of
the natural hierarchy of Gaia’s children.
N: Counting down ‘til I hear “white man’s burden” come out your mouth, pākehā.
FD: See this kids? This is what I mean. Don’t just fall in line with what other people say
and think. Even if they’re meant to be on your side. Pick your battles…
N: [crosstalk] get to your point Swift or I’ll kick your ass straight across the campfire.
And keep it… keep the superiority complex at a five out of ten, okay.
SStM: The War of Rage was fought because the Changing Breeds neglected their duty.
They were less than enthusiastic about the Impergium. A gross mistake, as humanity just
keeps on proving. We should have thinned the herd, and the Changing Breeds wouldn’t
commit to that. Cowardice and bad judgement are crimes alone, cardinal sins when you
put them together. We are Gaia’s strongest and her most favoured. That’s not by
accident. We’re the ones with the… the moral fiber to do what needs doing.
When our vassals rise up and deny the natural order of things, the onus is on us to set
them straight. To fight them, face on, is a mark of respect. It tests both our mettle and
victory determines truth.
N: You done?
SStM: I am. Thank you, Athro.
N: Great. First I wanna pick up on the we point, for a second. We mostly means the usual
suspects. Silver Fangs, Get of Fenris, Fianna, Glass Walkers. A couple of tribes trusted
the Silver Fang leadership enough that they went along with it. Most of us were doing our
own things. But we still have to take ownership. Those who don’t learn from history, and
whatnot.
Now.
We started the War of Rage because that’s our nature. We’re simple creatures. We’re part
spirit, part rage. We’d be no use to Gaia any other way. She made us beautiful. The
muscles, the claws, the glossy coats. For most of you. The rest of us, she made scrappy
and stubborn. Whatever type of fight we’re built for, killing’s in our blood. It’s who we
are. Anyone who tells you they don’t feel joy in their deep, dark, animal brain when they
hunt, and bite, and tear… they’re lying to you. We’re killers.
We’re bred to kill and, deep down we want to kill. That’s why the history of the Garou’s
just an ever-growing list of wars. If we don’t fight, we don’t know who we are. Shit, if
we don’t fight, we fuckin’ explode. Don’t get me wrong: it’s not a bad thing. But it
makes us do dumb shit like pick fights with the people we should be closest to, because
we just can’t help ourselves. We can scapegoat tribes like the Fenrir and the Fangs, and
believe me, they’ve got a lot to answer for, but it’s all of us. And when you look at us —
Ahroun, born to war — you have to accept it. We’re spectacular.
We fought the other Fera for the same reason we’ve picked every other fight for
thousands of years. Because we need it. It’s how we keep ourselves sharp. It’s our nature,
and if we didn’t follow it, we’d be bloody useless to Gaia.
Don’t hate yourselves for it, life’s too short for that. But keep an eye on yourselves. You
hear what I’m saying? Take a step back when you’re about to throw yourself into some
new conflict, or hell, an old one. Ask yourself: is this another War of Rage? Is this
another fight we’ll spend a minute relishing and generations regretting?
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
[LAYOUT: ALL JOHN NORTH-WIND’S-SON SIDEBARS LIKE THIS
NEED TO BE IN FLAVORFUL FONT. IT DOESN’T NEED TO BE
HANDWRITTEN, BUT IT DOES NEED TO LOOK “WEREWOLF” AND
STAND OUT FROM THE AVERAGE SIDEBAR]

John North-Wind’s-Son Speaks

 I know a lot about cultural guilt, my friends. I also know a lot about how
some individuals and societies refuse to adopt it, and through guilt, atone
for historic misdeeds. Believe me; I know.
There’s no trick to accepting responsibility. We, as a people, should learn
to do it more often. For the families slaughtered at the pique of rage, instead
of crying “it was for the greater good!” and for the people wiped out due to
the Wyrm’s, or just pride’s, manipulations, instead of howling “we didn’t
know any better!”
You did know better. We all knew better. And we definitely know better
now. As a people, we undertake quests, missions, and journeys all the time
to strengthen ourselves and serve Gaia in more effective ways. Would it
really cost us much to extend these ambitions to atoning for ancestral (and
sometimes modern) crimes?
I think not, but try telling that to the Garou who get defensive as soon as
you even mention how their sept massacred our tribe’s Kinfolk, or how their
tribe annihilated a tribe in Australia.

[/LAYOUT: JOHN NORTH-WIND’S-SON SIDEBAR ENDS]

The Annals of Albrecht

[LAYOUT: PLEASE LAY THE FOLLOWING OUT AS A PRINTED (NOT
HANDWRITTEN) LETTER]
Garlen,
Here it is, the manuscript draft I warned you about: the latest chapter in The Annals of
Albrecht. Well, part of it anyway. I’m hoping you can give me some extra insight,
another angle of reportage, before I put it into the rest of the book. What does True think
about all this? Has he ever heard of it? I’d be in your debt if you could run this past him
for me and record what he says. Us Galliards have to stick together, especially when
talking about Full Moon madness.
Yours,
Tom
[/LAYOUT: LETTER ENDS]
The Full Lune
By Thomas Cordain
Chronicler for the Court of the North Country Protectorate
Introduction
Ho, Kinain! I bring you this tale, this true record of the parley between Lord Albrecht of
the Silver Fangs and Kula Wiseblood of the Black Furies, wherein is discussed the secret
lore of the Full Moon.
I was there. I heard the words. I tell them as they came, as they fell from the lips of the
mighty.
I walk under the Gibbous Moon. Galliard they call me, Chronicler of the Kingdom. Truth
is my duty. Truth into Tale, Tale into Triumph, Triumph into Time, to embolden the
hearts of all Garou forever.
On the rural road we begin. On the border between the Finger Lakes and Niagara
Protectorates, within the inn of respite called The Burned-over Brew Stop, where bold ale
quenches thirst. ‘Tis a Fianna bar, where their Kin congregate, but allies are welcome.
Enter Lord Albrecht, regal leader of the Silver Fangs! He is followed by Kula Wiseblood,
bold and legendary warrior and Wyrm-killer. They survey the environs and choose a
booth in the back, away from the clamor of the Kinfolk throng. They sit and begin their
parley…
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[Transcript follows]
ALBRECHT: Damn, you gotta drive far around here to find a decent dive. Every place
else is a goddamn wine bar.
KULA: This is Cliffgrazer’s place. They don’t like me around here.
ALBRECHT: It’s cool. I had Tom call ahead and clear it. We can talk openly here.
KULA: Remind me again why I’m doing this.
ALBRECHT: To get away from all those eyes and ears back at the caern. Just us
Ahroun, hanging out, talking about the future.
KULA: I’m not the leader yet, Albrecht. Alani still hangs on.
ALBRECHT: Sure, but we all know you’re next in line. Look: You and me? We’ve
fought together, tore up Wyrmlings together. But we’ve never really had a chance to just
chill together. I’ll bet we have more in common than you think.
KULA: We share a moon sign. And… I got nothing else.
ALBRECHT: It’s a start! We’re Ahroun. Those others — the Theurges, Philos, and
Rags — they don’t get us. Even Tom here, my Galliard, doesn’t really know what it’s
like to be a Full Mooner.
KULA: Why is he here? I thought this was just going to be you and me.
ALBRECHT: He follows me everywhere. Records my deeds. I’ve tried to ditch him
before, but he always finds me anyway. Might as well let him shadow me. Just pretend
he’s not here.
KULA: [looking at me] You’re recording all this? What, on your phone?
[I explained that I kept it all in my memory.]
ALBRECHT: Don’t worry; he’ll run it all by you before he turns it into a story.
[I am under no such compunction.]
KULA: Whatever.
ALBRECHT: I want to talk about where our two protectorates can work together, but
let’s put that off for now. Let’s start with our common ground: the whole Ahroun thing.
We’re the bad-asses of our kind. The front-line ranks of this war. First in, last out. We
don’t take shit, but boy do we hand it out.
KULA: Oh, good Gaia, really? I brag with the best of them, but that’s when I’ve got an
audience that needs to hear it. Don’t shovel that shit at me.
ALBRECHT: I’m just winding up for a story. No — wait! This is one you’ll want to
hear. I haven’t told it to anybody before. It’s kind of for Ahroun ears only.
KULA: [points at me]
ALBRECHT: Yeah, yeah. Tom can hear this. It’s about time I spread it around, anyway.
All Ahroun should hear it. Hell, all Garou. It’s something my grandfather told me a long
time ago, before he lost his marbles. Jacob Morningkill, King of House Wyrmfoe. I know
what everybody thinks of him these days — and I’ve contributed a lot to that. But he was
great once, a real leader, lord of the whole region. He was a quick learner and had the
wisdom of his ancestors behind him.
KULA: Okay, I’m curious now. I thought you were going to launch into some story
about you, but if this is about Morningkill, I’ll listen.
ALBRECHT: You won’t regret it. So… Morningkill wasn’t an Ahroun like us; he was a
Theurge. He had all sorts of adventures in the Umbra before he became king. He knew
that one day, though, he would rule, and he wanted to understand the resources he’d
command: namely, the Garou, especially the other Auspices.
He took off with his pack on a quest to find a Lune that could show him the secret lore
behind the moon phases. Of course, he was looking for leverage: weaknesses he could
exploit against other Auspices, but strengths too, things he could use for tactical
advantage.
Now, you and I know the Lunes are nuts and getting anything coherent out of them is,
well, a longshot. But he’d heard about a rare Lune, one that could be reasoned with. At
least, you could hold a reasonable conversation with it. There was a lake in the Deep
Umbra that carried the reflection of the moon as it rode the sky. These reflections became
spirits, called Lake Lunes. They were mostly silent and contemplative, gliding their way
across the surface of the lake. Legend said that if one of them could be caught and
wrestled from the water, it would answer any questions put to it, so long as its captor
promised to throw it back in afterward.
Morningkill goes to see Kydo Mirror-Lake at the White Water Sept. He was a legendary
Theurge, an Uktena known for fetish making. He tells Kydo the story and what he wants
to do: fish out those Lunes so he can learn moon secrets from them. Kydo says no.
Morningkill thanks him and leaves. I know — not like my grandfather at all, right? But
he comes back later, after his pack hunts down and kills a Bane called Cries-in-the-Dark,
a creature that used to hunt the Pure Lands Garou before us Wyrmcomers came. He kept
the thing’s bones wrapped up in a bundle, and he gives them to Kydo. Now remember,
he’s a Theurge himself, so he knows some of their tricks, but he’s not at Kydo’s level, not
yet. He knows these bones are valuable, that Kydo can make something powerful out of
them.
Kydo sighed and relented. He had to return the gift, so he offers to make a net. But oh
wait — too bad, it will need silver. A lot of silver. It’s got to be threaded through with it,
if it’s going to hold a Lune. Morningkill shrugs and leaves. Kydo figures it’ll take him
forever to get enough silver, and by that time he’ll have forgotten all about it. He doesn’t
realize my grandfather’s rich as sin. He goes and buys up a ton of silver on the market
and marches it right back to Kydo’s place. What’s the old Theurge supposed to do now?
He sighs and makes the net.
KULA: He cheated. “Wyrmcomer” indeed. And how many people toiled in silver mines
to extract all that metal for him? Am I supposed to be impressed?
ALBRECHT: Hey, I’m not defending him, not that old bastard. I’m just telling you how
he worked. He had one paw in the Umbra and the other on Wall Street. Mostly old
money, though. That shit just makes itself, like mushrooms after the rain.
Anyway. Morningkill now has his fetish, his silver fish net. Off his pack goes to find the
lake o’ Lunes. As you’d expect, getting there was a real trial, but that’s not the point of
this story. He gets there in the end and sits on the shore, waiting for moonrise and the
appearance of a Lune.
It’s his moon now — the crescent moon. The Theurge moon. As the moon comes up, its
reflection shows in the lake, but it doesn’t follow the same path through the sky. It glides
across the surface here and there, going its own way. It’s a spirit, with its own instincts,
not just a reflection in a mirror.
Morningkill readies his net, hiding in the reeds, waiting for it to come close. When it does
— splash! The net goes flying and catches the Lune. It struggles, whipping this way and
that, but Morningkill pulls the net in and onto the shore. His hands are burning now —
Kydo wove a trick into that net: handling that silver when the Lune was in it hurt like
hell. But he hauls it up and tells it what’s what: he wants secret knowledge. In return,
he’ll drop the Lune back into the water once he’s given it up.
Like I said before, these Lunes aren’t like the others; they can reason. It agrees and
begins talking, not in words of course, but some sort of song that sounds like ice tinkling
on a frozen lake. This one’s a crescent moon Lune, so it only knows that moon sign.
When it finished spilling the beans, grandpa wades back into the water and loosens the
net. It floats away across the water like nothing had happened.
Morningkill realizes now that he’s got four more Lunes to catch, over the course of the
coming days, with his hands scarring up each time. His pack isn’t happy to hear it; that’s
more camping out than they intended, and the territory wasn’t exactly friendly ground.
But they settle in for the long haul.
KULA: Wait — what did the Lune tell him?
ALBRECHT: I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. Hold on — I’m getting somewhere with
all this.
The moon’s waxing, so his next Lune is a half-moon. That’s followed by a gibbous Lune
and then a full Lune — our Lune. The Ahroun Lune.
This is when Morningkill gets impatient and greedy. He’s tired of waiting around for
each different moon sign, so by the time he gets to the full moon, he’s had enough. He
doesn’t care about the new moon, the no moon. Maybe it was the pain that silver net kept
causing him, maybe it was just him being the ornery cuss he was, but this time, after his
catch reveals its secrets, he doesn’t throw it back in. He wraps the net tighter and keeps it.
He’s going to use this Lune for a fetish of his own.
KULA: He broke his word.
ALBECHT: That he did. By the time he gets back, he’s already figured out what he’s
going to make out of it: a silver sword.
KULA: I’ve heard of it. The king’s sword. Did you inherit it?
ALBRECHT: Nope. Nobody knows what happened to it. He was getting paranoid in his
old age and he hid it somewhere. I haven’t been able to figure out where. Not that I’ve
really tried hard. The thing is cursed.
KULA: Cursed? Because he broke his word to the spirit he bound into it?
ALBRECHT: That’s my theory. I think having that kidnapped Lune sitting so close for
so long inside that sword is what started driving him mad.
KULA: You know there are… other theories about that, right?
ALBRECHT: That the Silver Fangs are all inbred freaks? I’ve heard it all. But
Morningkill wasn’t always like that. Something ate away at him the older he got. It also
caused some real bad blood between him and the Uktena. Kydo was not happy that he’d
used his net fetish that way.
KULA: So what’s your point? If he didn’t tell you what he learned, why are you telling
me this?
ALBRECHT: He did tell me — about the full moon. When I’d had my First Change and
he knew he’d have an heir, he softened a bit and was actually kind to me for a while. He
kept his Lune lore close, but he felt that I could benefit from what the full moon Lune
told him. Me being an Ahroun and all.
And that’s what I mean to tell you. Special moon lore, straight from the moon’s mouth.
KULA: I thought you said that thing was cursed.
ALBRECHT: The sword, yeah, but not the lore. Remember, it gave its secrets before
Morningkill betrayed his promise. We can get all ethical about it and not use it, but what
good will that do? We need every weapon we can get against the Wyrm.
KULA: When you put it that way, I agree. Let the Theurges and Philodoxes worry about
compacts and peace treaties. Our way is war. What is right is what wins the battle. Go
ahead — tell me!
ALBRECHT: The Lune’s song was like movies playing in Morningkill’s mind, but with
the scenes all fragmented like in a dream. He later put them together into narratives, into
folklore. Remember, he wasn’t a Galliard, but we’ve all got some yarnspinning skill,
right? Let’s call this one “What the Lune Said”…
[I should note that Albrecht’s performance of “What the Lune Said” was a lot more
dynamic, with howling, dancing, and stomping of the ground and smashing of stones,
than I can quite convey. Nevertheless, I present it in separate extracts to the best of my
ability.]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR CAN BE LAID OUT AS A
HANDWRITTEN NOTE ON NOTE PAPER]

What the Lune Said

Way back on the Long Ago, Aunt Luna had a reindeer called Rimefleece.
She kept her tethered on a string and would milk her every morning, except
for three days every two weeks. Rimefleece’s milk was special; it came out
fermented and imbued with the magic mushrooms Luna fed her, and it
glowed with a silver light. Drinking it was like soma in the old Indian myths;
it gave Luna visions. She would drink some of the milk each night and then
pour the remainder into a globe and use it as a lantern as she wandered
around.
During the first few nights of the week, she drank a lot of it and only had a
little bit left over to put into the lantern. But each passing night she’d feel
fuller and drink less and less of it, leaving more for the lantern. Eventually,
she’s had enough and pours all of it in. Get it? The silver milk in the lantern
is the waxing moon phases.
Then she starts getting milk-thirsty again. She drinks a bit of it each night
before pouring the rest into the lantern. She drinks more and more as the
nights pass. You know, the waning cycle.
But Rimefleece can’t keep giving milk every night, so Luna gives her a
break and stops milking for three nights. The dark of the moon. Then the
cycle starts all over again.
As Luna wandered around, her sister’s wolf children saw the glowing
lantern and smelled that milk. They cried out, begging Aunt Luna to give
them some of it. She said no way, this stuff is too powerful for you. Howling
at the lantern did no good; she wouldn’t budge.
Of course, they don’t give up. If she won’t share it, they figure they’ve got
to steal it. They hatch a plan to sneak into Rimefleece’s stall during one of
the dark nights when Luna doesn’t milk her. There’s five of them — a pack.
They tell the weakest one to stand guard, to watch for Luna coming around.
The rest sneak into the stall.
Rimefleece starts crying out, of course. Four wolves padding into her stall
doesn’t bode well. But one of the wolves is a charmer, and he shushes the
reindeer with a lullaby, calming her down. He then starts milking her, and
out comes the shining silver. He gobbles it up, getting near full to bursting,
before the next wolf shoves him aside and starts drinking. He only gets half
full before the next one butts in, and she gets even less when the fourth one
knocks her aside to lap up the last few drops. There’s nothing left for the
wolf on watch.
 They don’t even notice. They’re drunk and high on the stuff. When Luna
said it was too powerful, she wasn’t kidding. They’re all antsy and worked
up and wanting to fight. They run off, looking for prey to take down, nipping
at each other’s heels.

[/LAYOUT: NOTE PAPER SIDEBAR ENDS]

[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[We return to our conversing pair, just briefly.]
KULA: Wait a fucking minute. Milk? Your saying we get our Rage from milk? This is a
cub’s bedtime story, Albrecht.
ALBRECHT: You know how these old stories go. They sound goofy to our modern
ears, but they’re teaching stuff. On one level, it’s all metaphorical. On another, it actually
happened. Maybe not just as it’s told, but think about it: Rimefleece was a spirit, and
spirits are like living metaphors.
KULA: Who the hell told you that? You sound like a lit-crit major from Syracuse.
ALBRECHT: Actually, Mari said that once.
KULA: Huh. Well, she would know. Still sounds flighty to me, though. If you can grab it
with your claws, it’s not a metaphor.
ALBRECHT: I’ll get back to that point about Rimefleece being a spirit soon enough.
Now, the scrawny one they left on watch sees her pals all run off. She’s about to sneak
away herself when suddenly ol’ Luna snatches her up by the scruff.
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR CAN BE LAID OUT AS A
HANDWRITTEN NOTE ON NOTE PAPER]

What the Lune Also Said

“So! Thought you’d steal my milk, did you?!”
The wolf whines and begs and tells her she didn’t have a lick of it, her
friends drank it all.
She believes him. She can see she’s not on the hooch. And she feels sorry
for her, all scrawny and left behind.
“Your packmates have drunk themselves full of trouble now. That milk
wasn’t meant for them, and it’s going to change them and all their cubs who
come after. You’re not going to be able to defend yourself against them, and
your cubs won’t stand a chance.”
She looked at poor Rimefleece, empty of milk. “They drank too much when
she’s supposed to be recovering. The well’s gone dry for a long while.” She
let the little wolf loose. “Come with me!”
She marches through the dark, down twisty paths that the wolf had a hard
time following. The scents here were so strange. Finally, they come out into
 a clearing and there in the center, sitting cross-legged and smiling, is Gaia
herself.
That wolf felt like a pup again. Here was her mother!
Luna goes up and whispers into Gaia’s ear and then steps back. Gaia looks
down at her wolf child and takes pity on her. “Your packmates have done
wrong, and it will be your duty to keep them in line. But you’ll need strength
to do it, more strength than they now have from drinking Rimefleece’s milk.
Gaia was fecund back then, always birthing new children. She was ever-
lactating. She picked up the wolf and suckled her at her breast. If you
thought Rimefleece’s milk was powerful, it was weak tea next to Gaia’s.
The wolf lapped it up and grew and grew, her muscles hardening, her
tendons stretching. She was no longer the weakest of the pack. She had
drunk her full and was the strongest of them all.
That charmer of the pack? The first to drink? He became the first Galliard.
The one who drank next was the first Philodox; he only got half full. Then
came the first Theurge, and finally the Ragabash, who only got a few drops.
But the weak wolf, now made strong from Gaia’s milk? She was the first
Ahroun. She wasn’t drunk on moon milk. She was fed by the Earth Herself.

[/LAYOUT: NOTE PAPER SIDEBAR ENDS]

[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
[I hope you enjoyed that. Perhaps if you choose to perform it, you’ll incorporate a dance
or musical instruments?]
KULA: Ooookay. And the point is? That all Garou are a bunch of mild-fed cubs but for
us Ahroun?
ALBRECHT: I’m not done yet. The other Auspices get their moon Gifts from Luna. We
get some of ours from her, too, of course; this is just one story, not the whole story. But
unlike them, some of our Auspice Gifts come from Gaia, the heart of us all. Rimefleece’s
milk gave visions; it showed the other Garou the moon phases’ virtues: song-spinning,
fair judgment, spirit-sight, and trickery. Gaia’s milk didn’t give visions. It didn’t cloud
the first Ahroun’s mind with any special ideas or duties. It simply gave her strength and
courage and the love of a cub for her mother.
KULA: Love? What’s love got to do with ripping out your enemy’s heart?
ALBRECHT: It’s why we rip out hearts. Our Rage is pure. It comes directly from Gaia
— it’s her pain. When she hurts, we hurt, and we get mad. And when we get mad, we
hunt down what’s hurting us and we rip it to shreds.
We don’t get distracted by moon magic. The other Auspices are there to support us
Ahroun. Galliards sing songs to give others the bravery that we already have. Philodox
work to justify what we do. Theurges coax spirits to help or get out of the way. Ragabash
distract our enemies and help clean up our mess. We’re the only ones dedicated wholly to
what a Garou is supposed to be: a vicious fighting machine for our mother.
This isn’t just talk. Remember, Rimefleece was a spirit. Is a spirit. After following the
clues in the Lune’s story — clues he didn’t share with me — Morningkill hunted her
down. He wrested a Gift from her, something that gave him a literal taste of the other
Auspices’ Gifts. He could borrow the Gifts taught only to other Auspices.
KULA: He found her? She’s real? If he did it, others can. Surely, you’ve got some idea
of how to find or summon her!
ALBRECHT: Not so much. But if I can ever find Morningkill’s silver sword, I think I
can get the Lune to lead me to her, in exchange for freeing it.
KULA: We need to find that sword.
ALBRECHT: I’m on it. But to get back on topic: Morningkill could borrow the Gifts of
other Auspices… but not the Ahroun Gifts. Their power didn’t come from Rimefleece’s
vision-milk. (And let’s just say that the “milk” is maybe a metaphor for how the reindeer
taught Gifts… or maybe it’s literally the way a Garou got a Gift from her, by drinking it.
I don’t know.)
Here’s where Morningkill dropped the real bomb: He made that full moon Lune lead him
deep into the Umbra to a Glade that could only be entered through a shaft of moonlight
cast by a Lune. A Glade he called “Luna’s root cellar.”
According to Morningkill, another story says that Luna foresaw a time when Gaia, in her
grief, wouldn’t be able to feed her newborn creatures. She convinced her sister to store up
some of her milk in bottles, which Luna would use to feed the babies when Gaia couldn’t
nurse them. But you know Luna: she’s fickle. Changes her mind and forgets things. She
stored the bottles away and forgot all about them. There they were, in the Glade.
And before you say it: no, I have no idea where it is. Morningkill kept that a secret. I
asked around and nobody else had ever heard of it. They figured he’d made it up, another
specter of his madness.
I would have thought that, too, if he hadn’t shown me the Gift he said he’d gotten by
breaking open one of those bottles and drinking it. He ignited his claws — they just burst
into flames. It’s the Kiss of Helios — an Ahroun’s Gift. I don’t have to tell you how long
it took me to get strong enough to learn that — fire elementals only teach it to elders.
Ahroun elders. Morningkill was a Theurge.
KULA: There are exceptions to every rule. You know that. He probably tricked a sun
spirit into thinking he was an Ahroun.
ALBRECHT: Sure. And that’s what I told him. He sneered at me and turned his claws to
silver. That’s an Ahroun Adren’s Gift. Two Ahroun Gifts? I believed him. Still do. He
called it “Mother’s Milk.”
KULA: Huh. Impressive. If true. You can’t trust stories about Luna. Even if these bottles
exist, who knows what’s really in them? Gaia’s milk, ayahuasca, or just protein shakes. If
you don’t know where the Glade is, what good does it do us? Besides, we’re Ahroun —
we don’t need it.
ALBRECHT: Here’s the reason he told me all this: that milk does even more for Ahroun
who drink it. He was a Theurge; it let him borrow Ahroun Gifts. But he said that an
Ahroun who drank it — they’d get the power of the first Ahroun, the power of the purist
strength and courage.
He didn’t explain what that meant, but it’s clear he meant to take me there someday,
when I was ready to inherit his throne. Of course, it didn’t work out that. He later got
paranoid and regretted telling me all this. He told me to forget it every time I brought it
up.
KULA: Albrecht, you might want to maybe accept that he was crazy even then, when he
told you about this.
ALBRECHT: It’s easier to believe that. But I don’t think so. He was still steady then.
He had respect. Nobody whispered behind his back. What I’m saying is: I’m going to
look for it. The silver sword, the Lake Lune, and Luna’s root cellar. I’m going to drink
that stuff, damn it. And I want you to come along. I want another Ahroun to see it and
drink it so nobody can say I’m crazy like my grandfather.
KULA: Huh. Didn’t see that coming. That could take a long time, Albrecht. I admit — if
this stuff exists, I’d drink it. But that’s a big if.
ALBRECHT: Come on, you know you’re tempted. Like you said, you’re not the leader
of your protectorate yet. You’ve got free time.
KULA: Albrecht, there are Wyrm threats everywhere, more and more each year. This is
where I’m needed.
ALBRECHT: We keep doing the same old thing and it ain’t working. We have to try
something new — or old, in this case. Maybe I’m grasping at straws, wild goose chases
and all that. Somebody has to do something to turn things around. I am not going to let
the End Times end us, damn it!
KULA: [long pause] All right. I’m in. If… if you can get that sword and if it actually
holds that Lune. Got it?
ALBRECHT: I knew I could count on you, Kula. You and me? We’re going to turn
things around in this region, and then the world.
[End transcript. The rest is drinking and boasting. I’ve transcribed it in a separate
entry.]
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]
[LAYOUT: ALL JOHN NORTH-WIND’S-SON SIDEBARS LIKE THIS
NEED TO BE IN FLAVORFUL FONT. IT DOESN’T NEED TO BE
HANDWRITTEN, BUT IT DOES NEED TO LOOK “WEREWOLF” AND
STAND OUT FROM THE AVERAGE SIDEBAR]

John North-Wind’s-Son Speaks

I’m no fan of Jonas Albrecht. I never wanted a prince for our people, let
alone a king. Yet, I can’t argue against his bravery, even though I find it
misdirected.
 As an Ahroun, few hold as many titles, deeds, and honors as Albrecht. I
concede this. He’s achieved many great victories against the Wyrm, and
these should be recognized.
But there is a greatness in humility. Albrecht doesn’t understand humility.
He would describe it as cowardice, or not consider it at all. There was a time
he crawled alongside Bone Gnawers and fought without pomp, but when he
took the crown, my respect for him slipped. He believes he’s an inspiration,
but I see him as a cartoon character for pups and kids. He’s an Action Bill,
only less tainted.
All this said? I would still eat and drink with him. I would still fight
alongside him. And if he commanded me to dive headfirst into a Fomor’s
chest and rip it apart from the inside, I would do it.
Why? Because for all his arrogance and puffed-up chest, he is our king. I
would rather fall serving a Garou devoted to Gaia than fall prey to the
factionalism and infighting that’s afflicted our kind for centuries.

[/LAYOUT: JOHN NORTH-WIND’S-SON SIDEBAR ENDS]

Rage, Rage
We return to our final encounter with the Guardian pack Broken Tusk of the Three
Princes sept and caern.
[LAYOUT: AS A TRANSCRIPT]
What did we lose, when we lost the trust of the Changing Breeds?
N: One, stop calling them Changing Breeds you little shits. It’s Fera. That’s the name for
all of us, Garou included. It’s… it’s hard to say. It’s been so long, we’ve never known the
world any other way. To imagine that world, you have to imagine a time before war –
before constant war. When war was something we did, not who we were and had to be.
So yeah… think your way back there, then I’ll answer the rest of the question.
[pause]
Yeah, none of us got that long to wait. I got shit to do before I die. Pretend you can
imagine a world like that. One where everyone does their job and we have shit under
control. Where you don’t have to choose which of the Wyrm’s heads you’re gonna tear
off this week, and whether two more or four are gonna spring up out of the neck hole.
That’s the world in which we had the trust of the Fera.
We lost everything, and we can never get it back. You’ve all got brothers and sisters, eh?
Or little cousins you had to babysit, or that one drunk auntie who babysat you? Point is,
you know what it’s like to have family, be part of something even if you think your
siblings are assholes and your auntie’s a psycho.
Now imagine you get hooked on smack. You start stealing off your little brother, your
debt collectors come around and take your sister’s telly. You kick off at your auntie at
Christmas. Imagine the whole slew of it. That’s us. That’s what we’ve done to our
relationship with the other Fera.
Now imagine what that would do to your mother. How you’d break her heart and
whatever she did and how determined she was to forgive you, your relationship with her
would never, ever be the same.
That’s what we lost when we broke our bonds with the other Fera. A little bit of Gaia’s
love and trust that we’ll never get back.
FD: Okay, dark turn there Athro, but thanks. Nails isn’t wrong as such. But it’s done and
in the past now. I’d say it’s less about what we lost than how much we should miss it. So
ask yourselves that. I’d say you can’t miss something you never had. You’ve got to be
pragmatic here. Would our fight be easier with the other Ch- the other Fera standing next
to us? Sure. But it’s not happening any time soon. They’ll work with us if they’re
pressed, and sometimes that’s a bonus. Sometimes they’re not around or the stakes aren’t
high enough and that’s fine too.
It’s unfortunate and it makes our lives harder, but that’s nothing new. The others aren’t
fighters.
N: There’s a man who’s never seen a Mokole get riled.
FD: Most of the others aren’t fighters. They’re messengers, healers, or protectors of the
places we can’t go. Yes, I mean the weresharks. Like I said before, watching a wereshark
do what they were born to do is a thing of beauty. But yeah, like I was saying, most of
them weren’t put here to fight. And fighters are what we need right now. It’d be great if it
weren’t that way but that’s not the time we live in. Think I got this ugly ass scar from
talking it out with people?
We can live without allies if we have to, and we don’t have time to go winning them
over. You can dwell on it and wonder what we’re missing, or you can get out there and
do what we were put here to do: take the fight to the Wyrm. Jump down its throat and
hope you do some damage before it chews you up. That’s what matters. Your life, your
deeds. What you do. Not what you lost along the way.
SStM: We lost nothing we can’t get back. Ask yourselves, children, what good it would
do us to call on mangy ravens or prideful cats. They don’t know anything we don’t. They
can’t do anything we can’t. They shouldn’t even be on these islands. They’re interlopers,
invaders.
FD: That’s a whole different conversation and not one you should be having. Just sayin’.
SStM: The Fera are not an asset we need. They’re a habit. A tradition we don’t want to
let die. We feel guilt over the War of Rage and we seek to assuage it with apologies. We
talk up their value and their place in the world because… Because we feel bad about
something that happened thousands of years ago. Simple as that. It’s nonsense. We treat
them like equals because we’re now so scared of upsetting them we can’t conceive of
doing otherwise. All because we’ve gone soft.
They’re nothing but a waste of energy. Time spent on diplomacy, pandering to people
who should know their place. Who we should be putting in their place, because how will
they know it otherwise? We’re letting them down every time we pretend they’re our
equals.
N: Christ, have you heard yourself? Every time you open your mouth I go back in time a
hundred years.
SStM: I can’t think of a single bad side to that. Name one thing that’s gotten better in the
last hundred years. Actually, don’t. Maybe shut your piehole instead, eh Nessi? You’ll
get your turn.
N: Nails? You think you’ve got a right to put my damn birth name in your mouth? Do I
need to pull rank here, Swift? Cheeky piece of trash…
SStM: [snarling] Wanna make this formal, Nails? Wanna make it a thing? I’m ready.
You know I’m one step behind you, always will be. One wrong move and this pack is
mine!
FD: School’s over kids. Take a walk. Take a long walk. While Daddy cracks some heads
together.
[/LAYOUT: TRANSCRIPT ENDS]

Against the Dying of the Light

There’s blood on the battlefield. It scattered like rubies from the edges of silver klaives
but no gemstone is as precious as the privilege of seeing warriors of the Garou face one
another in the dueling circle. I am young, unwanted, unworthy of notice but even to a
ragged, toothless, inbred creature such as I, a sight like last night’s battle warms the
blood. My parents’ battle showed the Garou at their finest; the whole sept gathered,
scarcely daring to breathe except to gasp at another lightning-quick thrust or bone-jarring
fall.
Other Auspices fight with silvered words, or tricks, or spirits to do their bidding. The
warriors of the Full Moon like me and my mother know that if an idea is worth speaking
aloud, it’s worth dying for.
Last night’s fight was bravery versus cowardice; bold strokes versus creeping, cunning,
shadow-battles. A fight for the right to fight, and win, and maybe die for the victory,
against the right to cower. My mother is the brave one, though the sept doesn’t see it.
They’ve never forgiven her for my birth. My father, in spite of me, is one of the sept’s
councilors. He’s a coward and a weakling, and whenever any in the sept of the Sable Sky
argue for war, he’s there, waiting with mouth open, practically salivating at the
opportunity to tell them of all the dangers and downsides of taking the fight to the enemy.
It’s time someone took him down a notch or two. The way Mother clawed through his
jaw and rent his tongue in twain, it will be some time before words of warning — or of
any other kind — leave his ruined mouth. Good.
His blood stains the field, this parking lot in the gateway to the ancient forest we call
home. A place where outsiders, Garou and Kinfolk of other septs, could gather to watch
the challenge. To see which idea, battle or patience, proved stronger. His is not the only
spilled blood. After mother won, it was settled: we move against the Wyrm-things come
to shake the earth to pieces, we don’t just “wait and let the humans strangle them in red
tape.” But there were other scores to settle: who would lead the raiding parties, who
would sing the cries to war. Old grudges that needed to be settled before the sept runs
into battle.
Half a dozen packs were drawn into battles, pairs of Garou fighting with teeth, claw, and
blade. Uncertainty was torn to shreds and truth written into the flesh of the losers in scars
and stitches. We know who we are again, and what we believe. We are ready for war.
The Truthseeker of our sept, the Philodox who should be here to sit in judgement and
prevent outbreaks of passion, is away. He travels, for there’s little need for him. Our
packs are too apathetic, Father Sylvanus’ roots too deep and immovable. Even hundreds
of miles away, word of the Night of Battles reached him, as well it should. Sung proudly
by the tale-spinners and battle-poets of every pack, to enemy and friend alike, whispered
in the words of spirits, this night of action should reach the ears of every complacent,
downtrodden sept in the world. He sent me a message in the wingbeats of crows and the
patterns they formed in the sky, saying thusly:
It is within your power to bring this to a conclusion. In spite of their flaws and yours,
your parents value you. They respect you. They trust you to see clearly from a step
outside the pride and politics of the sept. If you wish to be recognized as a warrior, start
with this battle. Stand against these o’erweening egos and show them a true warrior
masters his temper.
Rage is a powerful weapon, when it is sharpened and polished. When it is tempered.
Though we are of Gaia, we are not animals. When we fight against one another we do the
Wyrm’s work for it.
Intercede with your father and mother as I’m not here to do. Implore them to make peace,
explain the harm they do to the Sept’s harmony with this bad blood — with this spilled
blood.
Do your best, child.
Intercede? Who am I to intercede in the proper running of the Sept of the Sable Sky?
Does it tell you nothing that the only member of the sept you dare approach for this is the
lowest of the low, the child reared alone and hidden from sight? If there was merit in your
request, you’d ask somebody else. Intercede? Why would I intercede now, when we find
ourselves at long last on the point of action?
You misunderstand me, Truthseeker in absentia. You think you know me, and that I’m as
weak and soft-hearted as you. The Half Moons are always so; always “wait, heed, think a
little.” You think so much you never act. You squat on your heels and suck your teeth
and watch Gaia die before your eyes. The moment my parents stopped fighting is the
moment I was conceived; it was everything that’s wrong with the Garou Nation. If we
talked less and fought more, we wouldn’t be weak in the face of the enemy.
We knew of this assault on the earth a year ago. A “fracking operation” they call it, and
they say it will shake deposits of oil out of secret caches long hidden from their
predations. We argued about the right way to respond — was it to turn the humans
against the plan, or scare the local rulers, the little politicians, into doing what was right?
Should we strike against the corporation itself before it came here? They spent months
talking, plans changing as new concerns bubbled up in every talk. What might expose us
to other enemies, and what might take too long. What might end in losses we could ill
afford.
The Night of Battle turned every Garou’s will to steel and their bones to iron. Our blood
is up and our love of battle set alight. There’s no question now: we must fight. Every
machine and every driver, every suited manager and every smug government man, they
must pay the price. They must bleed and die until they know not to infringe on Sable Sky
territory. You say we cannot win. We say it does not matter. Better to die in battle than to
live to a miserable old age.
Until the Night of Battle we had forgotten we could win. We sat around discussing and
debating, and our apathy was almost the end of us. Our people are warriors. Every tribe
and every Auspice; homid, lupus, and even metis — especially we metis, who are born in
the war form — is born to fight for Gaia. If we don’t fight, we lose our purpose. When
we feud and test our edge against each other the strongest win, and their ideas are heard.
We become braver and bolder with every slice of the blade.
You say we cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves; I say we cannot afford to do
otherwise. A blade sharpened too fine may break in battle; a dull one is worthless.
[LAYOUT: PLEASE FORMAT AS A NEWSPAPER CLIPPING]
Direct Action Hinders Fracking Operation
The mobile geological lab on the hill above the forest cost millions of Euro. It’s where
Profundis Energy carried out the seismic tests that drew protests all over the region. Now
it looks like somebody firebombed a caravan. Apart from a few jagged antennae reaching
up to the sky there’s no sign of what it used to be.
The explosives used to obliterate the mobile lab were Profundis’ own, taken from their
exploratory sites on the edge of the forest. There’d been protests before. They were
covered by regional, national, even international news (us included). Until a week ago
they weren’t violent. What Profundis and the local police force are calling ‘radical
ecoterrorism’ came out of nowhere. Not one farmer, resident, or business admits to
knowing who blew up the hilltop lab, but every one of them says they hope this is the end
of fracking in this part of the country.
[/LAYOUT: END NEWSPAPER CLIPPING]
[LAYOUT: THE FOLLOWING SIDEBAR SHOULD BE A STANDARD
W20 SIDEBAR BUT WITH A NEON GREEN EDGING BECAUSE IT’S
SUPPOSED TO BE AN ONLINE POST]

A Stand for the Future or a Catastrophe in the Present?

End of fracking operation threatens hundreds of jobs.
In a press conference this morning Profundis Energy announced immediate
cessation of its operations in [REDACTED], following what its
spokesperson called “a sustained campaign of ecoterrorism” in the region.
Attacks on the energy company’s geological laboratory and several seismic
testing sites have caused substantial financial losses and a downturn in the
parent company’s stock price in Europe and worldwide. In all, it took just
 under one month to drive De Profundis away from what it once described
as “a quantum leap in efficient energy production.”
Local sentiment has been mixed: Profundis expected to create over 3,000
local jobs — good, skilled, long-term jobs — and for a region on the brink
of economic crisis it’s not an overstatement to call the now-defunct fracking
operation a lifeline. But at what cost? The environmental impact of fracking
is extensively catalogued, from poisonous chemicals leaching into the water
table and even air, to increased seismic activity. Jobs now could make the
area undesirable, nay uninhabitable, in a generation’s time… but so could
economic depression.

[/LAYOUT: GREEN SIDEBAR ENDS]

[LAYOUT: PLEASE FORMAT AS A NEWSPAPER CLIPPING]
Sofia Atanasova becomes the third high-profile missing persons case in a month, joining
Gunnar Einarsson and Yiannis Katopodis as subjects of a pan-European search. All three
of the missing persons are high-ranking executives (and in the case of Atanasova, a board
member) at Profundis Energy, the corporation recently targeted for sabotage in Central
Europe by radical ecoterrorists.
The possible links between vandalism and criminal damage, and the disappearance of
three senior staff members, are obvious and chilling, and while police have yet to
formally announce any suspects it’s plain down which avenues their enquiries are
proceeding: dozens of local constabulary and specialist officers have been dispatched to
the proposed site of Profundis’ first central European operation, shut down by sabotage
mere months ago.
Profundis’ stock continues to plummet as a result of the ongoing crisis –coverage
continues in our Finance supplement on pages 32-39.
[/LAYOUT: END NEWSPAPER CLIPPING]
[LAYOUT: PLEASE FORMAT AS A HANDWRITTEN LETTER]
Tom,
Thanks for including me. This is pretty odd stuff. I first discounted your Lune material as
“Morningkill madness,” but then I talked to True and he took it pretty seriously. Here’s
what he said:
“I heard a similar story years ago from One Song. Her repertoire of spirit lore was pretty
deep. In her version, the reindeer was a goat. It chewed through the string Luna used to
guide it around and ran off. A pack of Garou caught its scent and hunted it down. Luna
begged them not to eat her precious goat; in return, she offered to give them a drink from
the moon: the lantern she carried around. They agreed and fought among themselves for
every drop.
“In her tale, the Ahroun got most of it and went on a rampage. The rest of her pack tried
to calm her but she fought them. Luna fetched her sister. When Gaia came, she snatched
up the Ahroun and began suckling her. That’s the only thing that quelled her rage. She
was soon sleeping like a baby.
“If One Song’s version of the story has any truth — assuming either version does — then
maybe this Mother’s Milk doesn’t empower Ahroun. It saps their Rage and makes them
sleep.
“This could be one of Morningkill’s tests. He was always giving Albrecht impossible
tasks, dangling grand promises for him to snatch at. Albrecht better be careful. His
grandfather might be messing with him.”
There you have it. Ahroun wisdom from our Child of Gaia Elder. I’ll leave it to you to
figure out how to break the news to Albrecht. I doubt it’ll stop him on his quest, but at
least it might introduce some caution should he ever, by Gaia’s grace, find this Luna’s
root cellar and its stash of Mother’s Milk.
Yours in story and song,
Garlen Way-of-the-Sunrise-Gaia
[/LAYOUT: END HANDWRITTEN LETTER]
[LAYOUT: PLEASE FORMAT AS A TYPED LETTER]
Garlen,
Still no word. They’ve been gone for nearly three months now. I fear the worst. What
will we do without them? Kula is the greatest Wyrm-slayer in memory. Albrecht is…
indomitable. He is my king.
Are these the times so long foretold? Is the end upon us?
Let us meet it as they did — with claw and fang and unimaginable Rage!
Farewell,
Tom
[/LAYOUT: END TYPED LETTER]

The Ahroun’s Tale

An old man stokes the flames
Come, don’t be afraid, sit by my fire, take in its warmth. Here you are safe.
I see you bristle at my words. Afraid. Safe. You’re Ahroun, big and bad. Warrior. Hunter.
Killer. But everyone has more than one face. Deep within, everyone has something
they’re afraid of. Truth is always hidden behind a mask.
Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I have other stories for you. Bigger stories. Better stories. More
interesting to you than the shard you keep hidden away that you don’t want anyone to
know.
You know of Phoenix’s Prophecy? Of course you do; every Garou does. You boast of
glory to your sept, you tell tales of victories at your moots, you welcome the blood and
the pain and the violence. Garou live for war, and Ahroun more than most. You hunger
for the chance to Rage against the Wyrm’s forces and destroy them or be destroyed. Kill
or be killed.
Remember the War for the Amazon? I see you nodding, of course you do, the blood and
fire and pain and Rage all burned forever in your mind. You remember each day as
clearly as if you were still there. You revel in the Apocalypse because the warrior’s
greatest glory is no shame in dying in a war that can’t be won. Kill as many as you can
before they get you. Murder the enemy and innocents alike, they’re all doomed anyway.
Give into the Rage as never before, exalt in turning the Wyrm’s tools against it, flame out
in a frenzied blaze of destruction.
Why is it that you remember the Amazon? The Garou didn’t win, so what happened?
Why aren’t you still fighting? Why aren’t you dead? Why did you give up?
You’re scared because deep down you know you already lost. Winning was hard, defeat
was easy. The Garou lost. The Apocalypse is here, you’re the greatest, and that’s not
good enough.
Sorry, I lied. I did pull back the mask and show you as you are. It’s okay, fear isn’t a
weakness, giving in to fear is. It’s time to be what you say you are.

Plot Hooks
The Ahroun stories in Apocalyptic Record tell tales of wars, bloody origins, and terrific
tragedies. Some Ahroun take pride in these stories, where others see them as sources of
great shame, as recounted in this chapter.
The Amazon War
The aftermath of the Amazon War — if it’s really over, rather than currently in a
ceasefire or a lull, or being waged without the knowledge of Garou wherever your
chronicle is set — is an endless source of story fuel. War stories and the desperate
attempt to protect one of Gaia’s last strongholds are the mainstays of Werewolf stories.
This chapter encourages the Amazon (and other rainforests, jungles, and vast spaces
contaminated through human overreach and despoilment) as proving grounds for young
werewolves, and the last battlefields for scarred veterans. Every Garou is capable of
making a small difference in the war on these fronts, though danger’s also extremely
high, as groups such as Pentex aim to protect their interests. Storytellers are encouraged
to include any of the following brief flavor concepts in their Amazon War stories:
• Lingering pollution in the jungled battlefields, and how that makes Banes
manifest, and twists spirits into destructive urges. A pack could be dispatched to assist
with a mortal clean-up crew or handle the matter themselves with the use of their Gifts,
but doing so will draw the Banes’ attentions.
• Fetishes lost to the mud, battle, and the enemy. A pack might be tasked with
locating such an artifact for their sept, possibly having to infiltrate an old DFG compound
and slay whatever was left there when the company pulled out all those years ago.
Gnarled, wretched Fomori left to mutate and bubble await hardy Ahroun on such a
mission.
• The remains of beloved packmates and ancestors. Some ancestor spirits are
bound to the site where they fell, at least until that place is purified. They would be a
great boon to the Garou who rescued them from their plight, but some may have been
warped beyond recognition by the Wyrm’s presence. In such cases, they need to be
cleaned and allowed to move on.
• Changing locations and names. Pentex are longer present as DFG, but they
didn’t leave; they just changed shape. They’ve moved into the cities along the Amazon
and as far as the Wyrm’s human servants are concerned, it’s business as usual. The
enemy shifts form, just like the Garou.
War stories don’t need to be simplistic good versus evil, though. The bigger and more
complex story of the Amazon is the damage the Garou did. They devastated the region
along the Manacapuru river. They shook up the Fera communities who lived there and
brought bullish open warfare to the rainforest. Either they left or they’re still there,
waging war whether the Balam, Mokole and Uktena communities of the region want
them there or not (spoiler, they do not).
Returning to the Amazon is retreading old ground. There are other conflicts on regional
and global scale that are punishing Mother Gaia. Make your players’ Garou reckon with
why many of their Elders would prefer to dine out on tales of the last great war than step
onto a new battlefield. Have they learned from their mistakes or are they just faint of
heart? Is there a meaningful difference?
Alternatively, you can use war, in the Amazon or elsewhere, as a grand last stand.
Knowing the Prophecy of the Phoenix is coming to pass, a glorious death might be the
best possible outcome. Or you might throw in some epic disaster to indicate that the end
really is here.
While not located within the Amazon Jungle itself, the Sept of the Open Arms is also a
hub of direct action activity dealing directly with protecting the rainforest. O Orientador
Souza, the Philodox Glass Walker who leads the sept, believes that Golgol’s decades-
long war is an obvious failure, and his position is becoming more popular in the Garou
Nation.
• Souza could approach the pack with concerns about a Brazilian political leader
by the name of João Barbosa who has been growing in popularity, particularly among
Brazil’s corporate class. Barbosa is working hard to remove laws that protect the
rainforest from deforestation as well as Indigenous rights (particularly land rights). The
characters must work to counter his efforts through shifting the populace’s opinions
against him and impede his political influence as direct conflict would rend the Veil,
especially since he is a powerful Ferectoi.
• A scout working for Golgol Fangs-First asks the pack to assist her in finding and
cleansing various sections of “cursed land” spread throughout the jungle. Deep in the
rainforest the Gauntlet is thin, and Banes are coalescing in certain locations even if there
is no notable corruption to feed on. These are the beginning stages of Wyrmholes and
astute Garou will discover that these Banes share a common thread — they are one and
all corrupted spirits of hunger, greed, and need — the domain of Eater-of-Souls. The
pack must convince local Elders such as Golgol Fangs-First, O Orientador Souza, or
Water-That-Is-Born that they have discovered signs that Eater-of-Souls is on the rise, and
this time is coming to the Amazon rainforest. If the war efforts cannot be turned toward
the burgeoning Wyrmholes, it may escape again.
• Tensions between the Balam on one side and Golgol and Souza on the other are
at a head. The Balam are enraged with the Garou encroachment on their traditional
territories, and the corruption they bring with them as well as simple misunderstandings
and grievances. The Garou believe the werecats are a hindrance to their efforts. The pack
is encountered by Ko’ēti who requests that they appeal to their elders before an all-out
war breaks out between the two Gaian factions.
The Garou-Fera Relationship
There are other stories you can tell, based on the power Rage has over the Garou. The
bridges they’ve burned with the Fera are one direction; the difficulty of rebuilding those
bridges, when efforts are diplomacy are hindered by a short fuse and love of battle, is
another. The many old grudges the Fera bear towards the Garou are rich pickings too.
Consider any of the following tales:
• A story where the werewolves’ sept is in imminent danger, and the only allies
the Garou can turn to are the few local Fera. Can diplomacy find a way toward lasting
cooperation?
• An Ahroun hero to the Garou Nation appears to have been misidentified, with
them actually being one of the Fera. One of this Fera’s kin arrives at the protagonists’
territory and pleads with them to set the record straight among their people.
• A place where ruin rages due to persecutions between shapeshifters, both
ancient and modern, requires cleansing and renewal. Through their ancestor spirits,
protagonists might witness awful crimes perpetrated for which they can only attempt to
make amends.
• In one of the simplest tales known to Garou, a champion among the Fera —
perhaps a Mokole or a Gurahl — challenges the pack’s Ahroun to a series of trials both
of combat and wits, questioning their role in their territory. Such a challenge might breed
respect or fresh enmity.
Ultimately, stories about angry warriors undone by rage and pride are as old as the Iliad:
there are rich pickings in the clash of egos and reputations and the struggle for renown.
These stories belong to the Ahroun.
The True Enemy
The Ahroun are often drawn to the role of destroyers, making them blind to when their
rampant violence furthers the Wyrm’s ends. This is especially the case when they identify
the true enemy as the Weaver and her agents. The following examples of tales pitting
Ahroun against Weaver may do Gaia some good, or could leave her open for the Wyrm
to fill the gap the Weaver’s left behind:
• As in the example in this chapter, it’s down to the pack to seek out the wise
Gonji Pure Mountain for his advice on channeling one’s strength effectively, only for him
to rebuke them and explain they’ve spent so long fighting the Wyrm that they’ve lost
ground to the Weaver. In isolation with Master Gonji, he trains them on ways in which to
combat the insidious spider and her minions. Upon the completion of their trials, he
promises to accompany them back to their territory, to clash with one of the Weaver’s
greatest servants, hidden in their midst all along while the Wyrm blinded them.
• The Ahroun excel at cutting through their enemies, so when an Ahroun in the
pack discovers spirits both benevolent and otherwise bound in Umbral thread, driven
nearly to madness, the natural course is to slice them free. Unfortunately, doing so alerts
the Weaver’s spiritual offspring, who rush to discover why their webs have been cut.
• The Glass Walkers have long been suspect in their allegiances, and one of the
sept’s Ahroun Elders makes a proclamation to their detriment: until the tribe renounces
all ties to the Weaver’s power, they will be exiled from the territory. The decree causes
conflicts throughout the sept, especially if one of the protagonists is a Glass Walker
Ahroun.
• The Weaver doesn’t always act as a foe to Ahroun, with some of its worshipers
seeing the warlike Garou as an effective form of antivirus, or white blood cells for the
world. A story could see servants of the Weaver, such as the DNA organization, subtly
manipulating or even directly approaching a pack with an offer: we won’t enter your
territory if you help eliminate a blight on ours. Fomori have invaded the lower floors of
the DNA head office, and are assumed to have emerged from the sewers below. They
lack the ferocity to handle them themselves, but can’t evacuate the building due to the
thickness of the Weaver’s web essentially cocooning it and its accumulated knowledge
inside.
Muddy Origins
By nature of their battlefield prowess, Ahroun often adopt a bombastic nature, regarding
themselves as more important in the war against the Wyrm than their kin from other
Auspices. Some even believe they have distinct origins from their fellows, as recounted
in the Full Lune, earlier in this chapter.
• Jacob Morningkill is a legend among the Garou for good reasons as well as bad.
He’s said to have slain mighty spirits and bound others, possessing great fetishes wrested
from Umbral beings nobody living has ever encountered. Before his death, it’s said he
left a number of these artifacts back in the possession of terrible foes to the Garou, with
most werewolves assuming he did so to test the mettle of those who attempted to reclaim
them.
• The spirit known as Rimefleece may or may not exist, but that hasn’t stopped
many a werewolf from trying to locate her. It’s said that her milk can change a
werewolf’s Auspice, or give a being the powers of multiple Auspices at once. Locating
Rimefleece, imprisoned somewhere in the Deep Umbra in a snare Jacob Morningkill
supposedly constructed, might win a pack a truly impressive Umbral sponsor.
• Rimefleece’s milk is said to abate a werewolf’s Rage. A potent fetish, well-
hidden but not undiscoverable, this milk is a fabled cure for werewolves who long ago
succumbed to their bestial natures. It’s even rumored it can bring a Black Spiral Dancer
to lucidity, if one can be convinced to drink the ambrosia willingly.