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?
The End of All Songs
A Watcher's bitter song.
A tale composed by WIngs-of-Stone