The End of All Songs

In the face of half-death
second arc of the last days

The Weaver makes her play

The War of Rage claimed countless lives of Gaia’s chosen and few of the victors realized that had achieved anything less than total victory. As the End of All Songs drew closer that secret was revealed and some surviving Fera sided with the Nation that had hunted them down so long ago. Some stayed hidden and others still remained victims in the great cosmic game played by the mad members of the Triat.

The Weaver, the Designer, Grandmother Spider had made her claim on the world through her agents in Katsuguri. A merciless corporate entity awoken to celestial power who now leads her army on the fields of the Apocalypse. As victory shifts to and fro she seeks a means to claim total victory against the Wyrm, Wyld and Gaia’s defenders. And if unimpeded she may in fact win.

News of this power play is brought to the nation by a cadre of the most freakish Ratkin to have survived the modern day. Their hatred of the Garou stifled just enough to seek their help and avoid absolute annihilation. Katsuguri has enslaved the mysterious race of Werespiders known as the Ananasi and forced them to do her will. The Spiderfolk now work to perform potent works which will seal the Gauntlet forever closing off the spiritual world from the physical and starving all spirits not aligned with the Weaver to permanent death.

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The beginning of the end
First arc of the last days

The moon has shattered and her pieces retrieved…

The clash for the last piece could have ended in the Harbringers of a Dying Mother‘s demise. But the Margrave’s forces arrived to save the group and allow for the Nuwisha, Laughs at Life to help erect semi- permanent moon bridges. The Nation remains united in more then spirit again and the war effort resumes in the face of global calamity. The pack leaves the Sept of Night Sky to visit home and decide what to do next.

At The Gates of the Apocalypse they find a weary but surviving Sept. Seeks the Lion’s Heart directs what garou remain to shore up defenses as they wait for a final battle with the Wyrm’s forces. Before the pack can settle in a warbling Howl of Introduction echoes from a short distance outside the border of the bawn, Whelp Strangler Alpha of the Hive of No Horizon seeks an audience under the banners of peace.

Tempers run high as they see the willowy monster flanked by a cadre of Black Spiral Dancers fused with potent banes, handiwork of the Theurge it seems. It is obvious Blood on Snow would rather kill the Dancers instead of treating with them but Seeks the Lion’s Heart refuses to let his honor be baited by the villain. Whelp Strangler explains that the bulk of his tribe has kidnapped Old Fang and his pack and will use the boy’s pure blood to release the Beast of War onto the Tellurian and sweep victory into the jaws of the apocalypse. Whelp Strangler disagrees with this only because he believes the boy to have a greater destiny in the eyes of the True Father. He offers a secret route into Malfeas through the Wyrm Reaches at the edge of the Aetherial Realm. Gifts confirm that his words are true but no less poisonous.

They believe the ritual to be a imminent threat but do not believe the path offered to be safe. Blood on Snow consults Running Gun Blues and they devise a plan. Instead of traveling through the stars they will head through scar, hijack the Black Train and enters Malfeas this way. They also intend to tweak the Karnakian Cannon into a bomb that will hopefully kill a large chunk of the Black Spiral Dancer.

The path to scar is found through a gateway in the rotting heart of Salinas’ industrial district uncomfortably close to where the Hive of Bleeding Smoke once stood. Guarded by a powerful jaggling that wounds Shadows on Ice grievously before the way is opened. The pack instinctively huddles closer at the sight of Scar thrumming with activity the likes of which had not been seen before.

Choking industrial stench assaults the Garou immediately. As they navigate the urbanized monstrosity their hearts are worn down by the churning despair all around them. Faceless guards roam the streets looking for intruders or slackers to push back to the assembly lines. Wyrm corrupted pattern spiders infest every corner of the realm reinforcing the secondary Gauntlet. Bloated managers spilling out of ill fitting suits wring their hands in wait for the next bribe. Though the world is dying and civilization as it was known crumbles Scar doesn’t hesitate to make a profit giving credence that the Pentex Father survives the fallout still.

A possible distraction arises when Katsuguri forces from the Cyber Realm appear near one of the buildings by the pack. Scar forces clash against the interlopers from the Weaver realm. But this is far from necessary after the group employs their baneskin fetishes and trickery to dodge more confrontation then they can handle.

The tracks to the Black Train are precariously nestled between two deeply gouged mining quarries combed with hundreds of work spirits wearily picking away until they themselves are mined for the last vestiges of essence. While greedy Banes wander the train itself to guard its nefarious wares the true threat is the ancient Conductor, a spirit as old as Scar itself.

The pack clings to the train as it hurtle out of Scar employing Gifts the turn away the attention of the sinister porters. The realm and the train try to buck the Scions of Gaia even if it appears only as happenstance and the impossible design of the world’s beyond their own. As they enter the tunnel connecting Scar and Malfeas the dread of the realm reachs out and take its due from Shadows on Ice. The Wendigo suffers her last wound from the horrid place which appeared to hold specific disdain for her.

Darkness leads to darkness as the pitch black tunnels exits into the duchy of smog which threatens to suffocate the pack. In unfamiliar territory they experiment vainly to try and stay alive. First Shadows on Ice calls upon the cutting wind only to find smoke swallowed by smog. Heals the Heart gasps first and Blood on Snow leaps to share his breath. Sins Bitter Tongue calls upon the elements but air is unwelcome in the home of its antithesis giving the pack only the briefest amount of respite.

The fresh air is gone as soon as it is summoned attracting one of the foul jagglings who make their home there. The huge half decayed bird, eaten away by the acrid smoke swoops at the rooftop trying to knock them off. Protected by the mystical shroud raised by Running Gun Blues they manage to mostly hold but Shadows on Ice is hit on of the passes and topples off. Blood on Snow scrambles to grab her as Sins Bitter Tongue braces himself to hold the rest of the pack together.

At the limits of their endurance they exit the duchy of smog along the border duchies into the realm of sludge. The putrid landscape displays an endless stretch of horror provoking dire consideration on the price of failure. The train screeches to a halt at its first stop, an outpost in the duchy of Balefire.

Heals the Heart is spotted on the roof and attacked. Shadows on Ice scoops him up and leaps to the caboose where they rush to hide underneath. Sins Bitter Tongue let’s loose his shadow from his fetish to fool the Balefire soldiers. His ruse works as the dumb spirits report their victory over the stowaway. The event lures out the Conductor who slays one of his porters on the spot and tells the survivor to keep on the lookout for more trespassers.

The pack manages to remain hidden under scrutiny so the Black Train continues. They move out of the Balfefire dutchy into a ruined stretch of tenement housing. The area makes the Porter sentries nervous who prepare for the worst. Which comes in short order. A small army of addict emanations charge the train, the sheer number is not enough to slow the impact of the drug starved spirits. They stutter the approach and eventually the sheer number of bodies crushed on the rails jack knife the train. Sins Bitter Tongue plucks up a porter and slings him into the crowd with severe enough force the grind away a path for the pack to escape the imminent crash. As the crash erupts behind them they cling to the shadows and survey their minimal options. Running Gun Blues opens fire on the Conductor so the pack can close in.

They utilize their Quadangulate tactic to wear down the Conductor so Running Gun Blues can shield them with his Spirit Ward gift and try to steal the train. Sins Bitter Tongue is crushed to death under the bone shattering force of the Conductor’s hammer, slain outright. Eventually they bring down the Conductor while fighting off the addict horde and steal away the train. Chugging away they speed toward their goal, first though they must pass through Duchy Hell.

They bypass the Duchy Hell and manage to steal into the Central Duchy. The heart of Malfeas, a mad place where insane architecture crashes into each other at impossible angles. Through the careful use of gifts and stealthy investigation they creep into a condensed prison building rammed between the Castle Cthonus and the Temple Obscura. Here where the cages of Malfeas collected in bulk they found George, once a frightened lost cub now a warrior of Gaia standing over the body of a dead dancer.

The cages rattled and the corpses laid on spikes came alive as hideous Scrags. From one of the prison doors a bloated fomor creeps to join the fray. But the pack and a klaive wielding Fianna are enough to crush the opposition. Before they can catch their breath a broken winged bird crawls out of the dead fomori’s throat to issue a warning of impending Black Spiral Dancer’s. “They are coming, they know.”. And in the distance the heart wrenching warbling of Dancer howls shake the cages.

The pack scatters up the walls of the dank prison, Shadows on Ice bearing the weight of their weary Galliard. They find a narrow tunnel to flee from, almost too tight for the two giant lupus formed Garou in the pack. Sins-Bitter-Tongue takes point and scouts ahead. Before him madness, death and a gaping lake of balefire alas their only option as the Dancers close in. The naked sight of the Malfeas starts to effect the heroes and insanity chips at them. They know if they do not find a means of escape soon they may not ever.

The Wyrm thrives and it’s Dancers sing foul praise from their unholy temple. More of the enemy in one place no Garou has seen before. Running Gun Blues theorizes that this might be the great ritual the bastard, Whelp Strangler warned of. They wrestle with their options, with their lives and the presence of Gaia’s avatar. They decide they must leave and to do so they must try to make their way through an anchorhead guarded by horrifying Black Spiral Dancers dangerously near the Temple.

Again it is Sins-Bitter-Tongue that takes point, calling on secret gifts of trickery taught to the bravest or most foolish Shadow Lord’s in the tribe. He summons the appearance of kinship with the Dancers and befuddles them with lies. But it those sweet lies that lure a greater danger, one of the Maejin Princes…Maine DuBois Incarna of Lies taunts the Garou, tries to temp them with false hopes and already broken promises. And worse damning truths. The stalwart heart of Blood-on-Snow shields his pack while Running-Gun-Blues tries to force open the anchorhead gate.

Just as the ritual begins the Prince summons aid from the temple. And a horde of Dancers rush forward to cut down the Garou. They battle for nearly an hour, the wounds they endure weigh on Gaia herself as surely as the heroes who endure them. But the gateway opens and they manage to crawl through mostly intact into the blood soaked mud of the Battlegrounds. As more of the horde crawl over each other to follow Running-Gun-Blues hurls his modified Karnakian cannon at them consuming them and the anchorhead in a conflagration of sunfire.

The realm of violence and rage is teaming with activity in the last days. Fighters clash on every field and the lines that divide those battles have melted away. In the gunsmoke blackened horizon two giants clash, these collossi resemble spirits of the modern world. These near incarna reflections are the Corporate fathers of both Pentex and Katsuguri, the generals of the Apocalypse war. And with each blow they land the battleground trembles.

It is a pained gasp that draws attention away from the portents of the emanations. George, known as Old Fang to the nation lays on his stomach, a poisoned talon broken off in his back. Blood wells up and surges out of his nose and mouth. Whatever foul wound the enemy tribe has inflicted no power held here can restore it. In his last breathes he reaches out for Sins-Bitter-Tongue and takes his hand. He looks into the Metis’ eyes and thanks him for being a father to him in the Nation from his first day until his last. A soft smile curling to the corner of his mouth as the last light leaves the Ahroun’s eyes.

His pack finds him shortly after, the pain of losing their Alpha inspires a howl of pain that gives momentary pause to the chaos crashing around them for even just a second. But they are a warrior race and alpha’s lost. They say their words and lead the Haribringers home.

They return to their home sept, a strange air of celebration greets them as they pass the border of the Bawn. The tense air that been hanging over somehow lightened. Even if just a little..it is still their. Not long after their return and their report they learn why. Seeks the Lion’s Heart rallies an attack against the Hive of No Horizon once intelligence confirms a gap in their defenses. Victory was achieved none of the Sept proper died but many garou who rallied there once Luna shattered did.

Whatever the garou might do now, rest, bury their dead, celebrate the Sept’s small victories it is not long before they are summoned to the next great battle…no peace can last if the world will survive. Even if the Wyrm itself has been wounded so…

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Western Concoliation
The Garou of the West Unite!
From as far as the Sept of the Mother’s Wall the call for action is heard. King Cyrus the Bald, Spectere’s Cry from the Sept of Last Wish, Frozen Breath of Sasquatch the chief of Eshuik Sept, Asphalt over Running Water of the Sept of the River Queen and Wrath of Fenris Jarl of the Sept of Fiery Reach all raised their voices to bring representatives from these and neighboring septs. This action was initiated by Running Gun Blues plan to knock out a large portion of California’s electrical power but evolved into a platform for discussion concerning the areas plans of action. Each elder who threw in their lot for uniting the concoliation were visited by the Harbringers of a Dying Mother and plyed by the questing packs skills in diplomacy. The Western concoliation lasts at minimum three days and nights. The various things discussed are.

- The confirmation of the first three signs of the Prophecy of the Phoenix and its impact on the garou.

-The funeral of Dawnblade. A stiring eulogy is delivered by Shield of Ages followed by the performance of the Greater Rite of Mourning. Her body is burned on a hand carved altar of stone wherein Falcon, Phoenix and Harrier.

-The wedding of Whispers of Forlorn Lands. Various gifts are given by the visitors from the Sept of Last Wish.

-The performance of the Rite of Reawakening. The trials will be detailed later.

TBC

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Licking the wounds of Old

The Galliard steps forward as silence falls. Whispers take to the air in different languages, one thing in common; stories. “My first change was-” “I came from lands -” “My pack and I first gathered-” “We waited just as raven commanded-” It’s hare to focus on any one story as the galliard lays these pages whispering in his voice down. He stands with a smile looking at all who stand around, hands to his side.

“All Garou have a tale, all lands have whispers of their past.”

The whispers cease.

“Do you still hear them? The whispers of our brother and sisters? Just look about and see, you can still read these pages. You can still hear their history. For these scars that line our bodies are those tales. How well do we know each others songs?”

“Do we stand here Gets or silent striders? Silver Fangs or shadow lords? Are we the Harbingers or Seekers? Or Perhaps, are we Garou?”

Whispers Looks about for a reaction before taking a breath, shaking his head.

“Blinded we are by our hatred of the worm. Blinded and bitter. Deaf we are. Deaf and dumb. We cannot see the people! Only the shapes! We cannot hear the lesson, only the song. Where did we lose our power? Our Unification? Who here was there! Who slaughtered the bonds of the past that held us? Did we strike the final blow to each others pride?! Why do we continue to hate? Look beside you for once and see not auspice breed or tribe, but a warrior of Gaia.”

“We stand here on thrice damned lands not because of petty squabbles or licking the wounds of old. This land is born again because of our work with the brethren that took up banner with us. Those who came to the call of glory, those who felt honor bound to help restore a bit of gaia. Thos who bore the wisdom we needed to hear.”

“I have seen the love these garou bear for their mother. I have seen them do so much. We started with one spirit still holding to this land. Then before we knew it many were here to help. On the day this land woke once more, a Strider sacrificed himself to perform the ritual, and Mother’s Fury. A Get of Fenris pack fell. We are indeed Garou. We will die, do not however ignore those who stand beside you because of that. We have much to learn from the past. Hear the whisper of your brothers and sisters. Hear the cries of these undying lands. Thrice damned, much blood has been spilt on these lands, none has been ignored by gaia, nor should we then ignore that which runs through each other.”

“We are Strider, Silver Fangs, Gets, Red Talons, Shadow Lords, Wendigo, We are all these things. However we are also Garou. Let us be united, for with the end times upon us we cannot ignore the hand of our brethren due to pitiful pride. I have learned all this from the miracles I have seen.” *

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Dead men tell prophecy

Trapped is not a word we as a pack know. Trapped is for prey, trapped is for those who have given up hope. Trapped is never a conclusion. Howls will echo far and wide for the realm which crumbles beneath our feet. Cries which I fear will only be chimed in with more and more tragedy as the end times draw nearer. We were beckoned to the realm of legends to find knowledge that will aid us in the coming days, unaware what to expect we took wing and soared, led by our totem to the legendary realm. The creak and slam of gates thundered behind us as we found we could not leave the way we came.. From this place of grandeur. We met many interesting people, Tanto the strange man whom seemed to know much of the realm and what was happening. Anuk’chuk, Fangs of the Glacier, a Wendigo whom extended his grace and wisdom to allow us a night of rest and give us a heading on our quest. Trials were before us, first the 3 faced bane whom swiftly met his end at the tooth and claw of Gaia’s warriors. The giants who were abandoned by their leader. Only to have the storm caller return during our battle with the Black spiral dancers who called twisters as we would call breath to our lungs. All fell before the Harbingers and finally we came upon the dead lands. Where many would have panicked our Theurge prevailed in understanding what was occurring. Dragged into the land and brushed by the hands of the dead Running Gun Blues merely pulled himself and one of the fallen out of the hole and what happened next was truly bizzare.

They say dead men tell no tales, but perhaps this is only of the past. Delivered to us was a prophecy, a request, stop the pale rider. When we should hear of him. From reaching flux and delivering a package of corruption from the weaver. Do this and our debt shall be repaid. With this Running Gun Blues was given a tome and we took flight back to the Wendigo tribe… Death lay heavy on the air, as we circled above the tribe’s former home. Our wings giving us a birds eye view of the destruction below. The Wyrm’s forces were martialed and marching across the legendary realm. The weight of the attack still lay heavy on my heart as we were forced to ask, “What does the litany say? Shall we fight and likely die here where the wyrm has shown itself? Through that however we shall suffer the nation as this tome is to help during the end times.” Blood on Snow was not to take this question lightly and through his wisdom we took wing to the gates, still locked before us. Tanto however reappeared, offering us help as he knew a way out of this realm.. How? In a way we did not expect.

However if we stayed, we were trapped. Trapped is not a word we Garou know.

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A Watcher's bitter song.
A tale composed by WIngs-of-Stone
We were summoned to stare at a corpse. To hide as the Enemy defiles our mother? As they gloat over yet again conquering this land? Do you leap into honors arms and accept a pointless death? Or do you hide as your guide demands? To act as eyes for the claws that may yet come? How long does hope live dancing in front of the maw of the Wyrm?



When we arrived as Raven demanded the blood staining the ground was still wet. The stink of death still hanging on he stump where the bastards of the Wyrm executed Smiles-like-a-Shark-rhya over his last tale. And yet the Black Spiral Dancers had failed. Generations of Gaian blood could not welcome the Wyrm to this place. But I could not rejoice. Pure though it may have remained it still only held the dead in its embrace. We watched from the shadows of the great red trees as they seeded Bane nests and mockeries to wander from Garou their traps could stumbled upon. Does the Wyrm know hope? Did they still believe this place would fall? Why would they not?

Then one day we saw the Harbingers of a Dying Mother descend unto these lands. Another trap we wondered? A trick? Oh no much worse I fear. Young garou drunk of the “honor” of being chosen for suicide. Lured with glory waiting in the belly of the beast. We watched them eager for battle finding no end of places to wet their claws. We shook our heads knowing full well even the mightiest warrior can be worn down by the endless hordes of the Corrupted armies that Malfeas endlessly vomits forth. We watched as they found the barren ground where the Sept of Reclaimed Hope sacrificed themselves and heard them howl their defiance to the sky. We watched them wonder at the crumbled rock and crushed trees where the titanic monster Whelp-Stranger-ikthya called to strike the final blow against the felled heroes and tremble at the thought. We watched them as they read the last words of Reclaimed Hope’s Talesinger carved into a stump and weep. And silently we wept with them. Smiles-like-a-Shark-rhya’s song was this.

“They came at us at night just days after our moot. Their were so many that came in the wake of the toxic smoke…How could there be so many and we not know?! First a wave of mockeries raised from the ichor of Malfeas itself. Fanatical they rushed at us in frenzied hordes. How easily we cut them down, How easily we killed them. Why could we not stop to wonder why the Wyrm would just throw so many? Why the fomori were content to die laughing…This was not a first wave but a sacrifice. Their tainted blood a siren’s call to something worse.

The foul thing was the size of a small hill, covered in barbed tentacles each lined with razored mouths. Where its black flesh did not sprout these damned limbs it bore the very eyes of the Wyrm. It smashed the bridge near the Caern on its way to us as it crawled from the sea. I cannot say with certainty if we managed to slay this monster and drive it back to hell or if it merely left. Its belly full of our broken flesh. But when Reclaimed Hope died it was gone.

Would that our suffering had ended there. Next following in its very wake did the Armies of the Wyrm descend upon us to claim the spoils of its wretched play. A score of shadows like the passing darkness cast by the monster did they come. More packs then one Hive could muster and yet no soul here knew the bastard enemy hid at all.

I heard blasphemous ritual between my times at the claws of my torturers. I saw things…that only death’s release will grant me peace from. I am the last member of the Sept of Reclaimed Hope kept alive to recount her…"


Here the tale ends in the life’s blood of my revered tribe mate. His wisdom here to warn all against the price of hubris. Would these young Garou here them? Or would they here only a challenge? Would they be forgotten beneath the roar of Howls of small Victories? Would these envoys from Albrecht’s court heed the creed of Wisdom? Or will we the Marrow Hunters bury another pack and continue to watch?
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Welcome to your Adventure Log!
A blog for your campaign

Every campaign gets an Adventure Log, a blog for your adventures!

While the wiki is great for organizing your campaign world, it’s not the best way to chronicle your adventures. For that purpose, you need a blog!

The Adventure Log will allow you to chronologically order the happenings of your campaign. It serves as the record of what has passed. After each gaming session, come to the Adventure Log and write up what happened. In time, it will grow into a great story!

Best of all, each Adventure Log post is also a wiki page! You can link back and forth with your wiki, characters, and so forth as you wish.

One final tip: Before you jump in and try to write up the entire history for your campaign, take a deep breath. Rather than spending days writing and getting exhausted, I would suggest writing a quick “Story So Far” with only a summary. Then, get back to gaming! Grow your Adventure Log over time, rather than all at once.

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