The End of All Songs

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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