StormWolf
08-26-2020, 09:20 PM
SWALLOWED BY THE MOON
This story is rated Mature for: violence, language, body horror, adult themes.
Something about you has always been different. You can feel it in your bones, you can feel it in your marrow, and in something even deeper. A call that transcends hearing, a sign that defies sight. Perhaps you know what this means, or perhaps you simply think it a discomfort in your own skin. A discontentment with what and who you are. Perhaps you tried to bury it under work, stuff it down with food, drown it with drink...
But you cannot run from your birthright. You cannot deny our Mothers' cries.
One day, as you went about you daily attempt as living with the Herd, the feeling of unease that has been steadily growing in your core simply cannot be ignored. Your skin grows feverish and sensitive to the touch, your heart begins to race, and the low roar of your own blood in your ears grows to a deafening growl. "What is happening?", you might ask. "Why is it happening to me? Dear God, make it stop!"
That's when you hear it, a voice from within your ephemeral self that you might call your subconscious at first, but it is not your voice that speaks. It is the voice of a mother and a father, a sister and a brother, the whisper of the wind through the trees and the calls of all the beasts in nature.
Not all who wander are lost, young one. Not so long as they hear our Mothers. Life among the Herd – among the mundane mortals – is not meant for you. I can feel your anger and fear, though you might deny it or not know its source. Our Mothers, our World, die a little each day. They are poisoned by corruption of body and spirit. Mother-Earth scarred by the sins waged upon her flesh, Mother-Moon trembles alone in the void of stars. The maw of Oblivion looms over our kind, our very reality, and you are among the Chosen who keep it at bay.
Will you be lost in blissful ignorance? Will you remain prey for that which hungers for our World?
Or will you answer the Call?
But, the most important question of all, my dearest Child...
When will you RAGE?
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“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. There is a rapture on the lonely shore. There is a society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar. I love not man the less, but nature more.”
__________________________________________________
Swallowed By the Moon is a story of survival and savagery, rage and retribution. Frenzy and Family. As bleak and hostile as the world is to you and your kind, there is still beauty. There exists hope, but as a fickle, flickering candlelight in the darkness.
You are a member of an endangered species who loses more of your number and land to other factions and powers, both magical and mundane, every single day. It is a slow death, the meandering spiral of extinction that you push back against. But there is more. There is a compact among your kind to safeguard this world from not only itself, but the utterly unnatural things beyond.
Outsiders, beings of unfathomable malice, quantum carrion-eaters drawn by the festering wounds upon the Mother, wriggling into our reality like parasites.
You are few, your enemies legion, but the strength of the Wolf is the Pack!
_______________IN THE BEGINNING...______________
"Gather 'round, cubs. There is a tale that old Eyes-of-the-Sun must tell you, the story of our Kind, the oldest and most important story you will ever hear..."
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Before there was primordial form, before there was Wolf or Man, all existence occupied a single plane. All were as flesh and spirit, and the greatest among them were the Celestines; Lord Helios, Lady Lune, Lady Agartha, and their court of stars and spirits, great and small. Youngest and most beautiful among them were Lune and Agarta, destined for great things, for terrible things. Lune could never stray far from her celestial sister, and when the first great beauty of nature appeared, Lune wept with joy and envy, for she could have no sapphire seas, no emerald forests, nor beasts to keep her company.
Still, she as happy for Sister Agartha, basking her with the glow of her smile.
Drawn by that glow, hitherto came Father Wolf, a primordial and primal spirit from the depths of the Wyldes - the untamed Spirit Domain. He was beautiful and graceful as he as dangerous and ferocious. While Lady Agartha slumbered, it was Lady Lune who say him first, and was smitten. Father Wolf was hungry and alone, and weary from his travels, so Lady Lune took pity on him. Taking the form of a kindred creature of purest silver starlight, Lune guided Father Wolf to the fertile lands beneath the boughs of one of the World Trees.
The sky was dark for that night, as the Moon found something new. She found love.
When Lord Helios awoke in the morning, he was furious! Wherefore had Lady Lune gone?! Fearing the blazing temper of Lord Helios, Lady Lune left Father Wolf as he slumbered with a final kiss upon his brow. Lady Agartha, whom had awoken with Lord Helios' fearsome blunder, bid her sister hide behind her until night fell, and Helios fell asleep once more. It was in this time that Lady Agartha, tending her Sacred Glens, found Father Wolf sleeping beneath the boughs of her World-Oaks, and she too was smitten.
As the cycles passed, Lune and Agartha grew gravid with evidence of their liaison, bearing the brunt of Lord Helios' wrath, and fostering resentment for each other. Each gave birth to three beings of great power, but Lady Lune, being closer to Lord Helios, was forbidden to return to her celestial sister, denied the chance to show her children to their Father. Denied the chance to even raise them, for she could not foster life like her sister could. So, from afar, she had no choice but to watch as Agartha and Father Wolf frolicked in their glen with their young, and in jealousy and shame, Lune turned away from them.
There was a time when Lady Lune's own children never knew her face, for the pain of distance was too great to bear. In seeing her loved ones so close, but unable to touch them or speak to them, it filled Lady Lune with such unbridled Rage that even the unblinking stars trembled.
Father Wolf felt this Rage as it stormed through the air. He had silently wondered where the beautiful she-wolf had gone, and in the absence of the Moon, he knew. So he gathered his children, those sired with Lady Lune and Lady Agartha, and their Children's-Children, and scaled the highest mountain. Atop its crest, Father Wolf lead them in a Song for their Celestial Mother. The First Howl, and how haunting and beautiful it was.
Lady Lune heard such a mournful chorus and could not keep herself away, and so she turned her face back to her sister and her beloveds, and she smiled down on them with a Mother's Love.
You can see her now, though, with every rotation, turning to cast her gaze once again upon us - her Children and her sister's Children - to ensure we are well, and to bask our burning spirits in her radiance.
Forget not that we are all Children of Father Wolf, but we are also children of Mother Moon and Mother Earth. It is through them that we are connected to the Spiritual and Material, and as our Father did before us, we are sworn to protect our Mothers both, from this day to the end of days.
_______________THE ETERNAL WAR______________
"Revel in red, come and wake up to bring no remorse!"
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While our War is eternal, we have suffered more losses in the last century than we have in the whole millennium before it.
The Great Wars. Wars of Man against Man, fueled by rapacious industry and the hubris of mortality, has laid us low. Of the nine Sacred World-Oaks, only three remain. Where we once held court with our fellow Thera and the other supernatural denizens of our world, we are now a disjointed and endangered species on the cusp of eradication. Our holy sites and places of power, our ancestral homes, have all but been destroyed.
Such is the folly of Man, the traitorous Little Brother we are sworn to protect. Such is the fetid fruit of gas, fire, blood, greed, and the terrible power of the Atom.
Of those who can take Shape and fight, we number less than Ten-Thousand the world around. We are dying, gazing down the yawning maw of extinction... but if we do not fight, if we do not keep the Long Vigil, then all of Reality might buckle. No matter the fire nor the flames, we must endure for the sake of our children, and our children's-children, and all those who come after us.
We are the vanguards and the sentinels of life and the natural law, and we water the roots of the World-Trees with the blood of the treacherous.
Our Mothers are dying. Reality heaves, and our kind faces eradication. Like draws to like, as the deep wounds upon our Mother Earth fester, luring the cosmic carrion-eaters from the Outside like flies to rot. Beings beyond mortal comprehension, creatures of nightmare and madness, corruption and consumption. Monsters of Mythos that burrow through the breaches in our reality like blood worms to sink barbs of poisonous malice into the hearts and minds of all.
We fight Vampires and Hunters, we slay our traitorous kin, and we shirk at Mages and wearily deal with the Fae and the Spirits...
But the Outside Forces are our True Adversary, for they are beings that have never known our world, and simply wish to corrupt, defile, and consume.
Ever since the Outer Gates began to crack after World War I, such unearthly forces have been more frequent. Where there may be a handful in a century, there is a handful every year, and they are getting stronger...
And yet, so many of our kind have forgotten and lost their way...
This was our Father's War, is Long Vigil, and we carry it now as he once did. We watch the Gates, the breach points between the planes of existence, we mind the fraying fabric that keeps these planes apart, ever stalwart against incursion from the Outside, from the Fae Realms, and the innumerable planes beyond. We were the first inhabitants of this world. We are Agartha and Lune's First-Born, and we will not go quietly into the maw of Oblivion.
_______________OF WOLF AND MAN______________
"Thrice we are born, thrice we are sworn."
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We are born, not bitten. If we could make more of our number through a bite, we would not be facing extinction. We are a people, a breed. Werewolves are not parasites like the Strigoi.
Of our progenitors, we have garnered Gifts and Curses. Boons and Banes. When Father Wolf grew weary and weak in his old age, so did we take up is vigil. For while he coveted the natural splendor and the miraculous works of nature, Father Wolf knew that his time was done. There were others rising to be Mother Earth's children, but they were greedy and hungry, taking more than Mother Earth could give. So it was the parting Gift of Father Wolf to his brood to give unto his Children three Shapes. Three Forms to protect Mothers, Brothers, and Sisters.
The Human - The man-skin, the Ape. One's own hominid shape with which to blend in among the Herd. The Form to drive a car, wield a gun, and hold their children to their breast. Since the time of the First Fire, the First Spear, this Form has been of dire necessity. In the modern day, most of our Kindred know more of their human lives than the histories, fables, and cultures of our dying breed. Many rage against this dying light, while others see this as the purest tenet of our survival.
The Wolf - The animal-shape, running on four clawed paws with keen senses and the greatest connection to the Mothers. The Hunter, the Prowler, the fangs in the darkness. There is nothing purer in its closeness to nature than the Wolf, and nothing more sacrosanct than their songs to Mother Moon on a clear solstice night.
The Warrior - The Blessing of Father Wolf. Gifted and Cursed by Mother Earth and Mother Moon. Primal urge, instinct, and Rage on two legs. Ferocity and fury, the stuff of mortal nightmares. It is the Form that drives us, that dooms us. With it comes unbridled Rage and Fury, a hatred for things that spit in the face of natural order. As the Warrior, you are the defender of your resident Reality, and you take no prisoners. Even the smallest Werewolf towers over the tallest man in their Warrior-Form, capable of visiting raw devastation upon their enemies...
A True-Born - a werewolf with two werewolf parents or the winner of the genetic lottery with only one werewolf parent, will undergo their First Change under two circumstances.
The first, and the most common, is during puberty. The body is already changing in more ways than one, allowing the Blood to manifest. While painful, it is rare for one to lose control during this type of change. Tightly knit werewolf communities will often throw celebrations for the Cub as they assume their True Self.
The second circumstance is, in all honesty, just as common as the first. If not more so, in the last century.
In a word: trauma.
Something triggers a life-or-death fight/flight response, or a life threatening injury occurs. It is in this that the Wolf-Spirit stirs to protect itself and the host. The transformation is violent and frenzied, acting on pure survival instinct.
Either way, the First Change is always the most painful. At least, that is what the Crones say. Bones will break and tissue will tear, organs shifting and warping in a fever pitch of agony. The body tears itself apart and puts itself back together. A slower change takes an effort of will and control, and will reduce the pain, but sometimes one needs to shift on a moment's notice. It is the quick-shifts that hurt the most.
There are Kin and Kind of ours that may carry our blood, but never undergo their First Change. These are the Wolf-Blooded. This is the typical outcome of a werewolf and a human mating, often falling to a 70/20 chance on whether the child will the a True-Born, or Wolf-Blooded. Many in our societies look upon the Wolf-Blooded with pity, or treat them as lesser beings, holding to traditional vestiges from centuries prior.
While a Wolf-Blooded cannot shape-shift as a Werewolf would, it is far more frequent for a Wolf-Blooded to be able to Channel the Mother's Magics to become Shamans, Druids, Witches, and Seers. Wolf-Blooded are mortal but for their greater chance of commanding Spirit and Earth Magic, and do not suffer from the Curses of Lycanthropy. They do not suffer the instinctual fear of being around a werewolf, for the spirits recognize Kindred.
They are the anchors of our humanity when the horrors from beyond might strip the rest away.
Even peerless killing machines are not without fault. The Power of our Mothers, the Strength of our Father, all comes with a price. Our Curses are our penance for bygone sins against Kin and Kind, and for the betrayal and the heartbreak of the First-Born War.
Might of Mountains - Werewolves are, in all their forms, terribly powerful. In Human and Wolf shapes, they are faster and stronger than a mortal human or wolf of the same size. When they don the Warrior-Skin, a Werewolf becomes an avatar of destruction, capable of rending steel and gouging concrete. Our claws and fangs are as steel themselves. When you are a Werewolf, all houses are made of glass if you aren't careful.
Predator Senses - Even should a Werewolf be blind, they can see the world as if they had one-hundred eyes. They hunt the greatest supernatural forces in (and beyond) existence. While the most potent in the Wolf-Form, to the point of being able to track the pulse of ones prey, every Form has the enhanced senses of an apex predator.
Regeneration - We fight Things That Should Not Be. If we couldn't defy death and shrug off wounds that would kill a mortal ten times over, our kind would have died off a long time ago. Our bodies can break down all but the worst supernatural toxins and contagions, can fight through evisceration, and stubbornly cling to life through obliteration. We are not indestructible or invulnerable, but we are about as tough as they come.
Tied to this is the chance of a long life. There are Werewolves alive today that have seen generations come and go, but centuries of what we endure on a physical, mental, and spiritual level will take a toll. Many of our Elders grow feeble or mad as they near their third century, and many more of our kind will never know their twilight years.
Mothers' Magic - All of our Kin and Kind are connected to our Mothers. Even after our Reality was rent into different planes, we can see Spirits and commune with them. These practices of Shamanism and Druidism are intrinsically tied into fundamental ritual and belief, and each Werewolf has some connection to the Spiritual Planes, but rare is the gift of a Cub who is a true Shaman.
Father's Fury - There lies in our blood the raw, primal rage of our ancestor. A Fury older than time, burning bright as the sun. It is a wellspring of seductive power, dark and terrible in its potency. Like the Magics of our Mothers, Father's Fury is a supernatural, primordial source of power that amplifies the body at great personal risk.
To drink too deeply from the well of Rage will poison the soul and taint the mind. A great warrior, if reckless, is a threat to Kin and Kind. A mad dog must be put down for the good of all.
Sliver's Bite - Pure silver (80% or higher) is anathema to us. No matter how bullet-proof you think you are, a silver bullet will lay you low. It burns our skin and curdles our blood, and once it enters our system, it prevents our bodies from regenerating and muddies our connection to the Spirits.
Rage and Fury - Life among the Herd is not meant for us. There are many who try, but we can never truly be with beings that are not as dangerous as ourselves. Humans and animals can feel it, our true nature writhing just beneath the skin, and it fills them with a shiver of lambent dread. Individuals of particular discipline or will might not feel that true fear, but their hackles will raise all the same. We will never belong to the Herd, for we are the Wolf and the Shepherd both.
Lunacy - The risk of succumbing to our Mothers' Rage and our Father's Fury too freely, those primordial powers burn away at the mind and the spirit. In time, the Beast subsumes all identity, and the werewolf becomes a slavering, rabid animal that needs to be put down. It is a dangerous spiral when one also combats sanity-flaying monstrosities from beyond known creation.
Limitations - Mighty as the Werewolf is, there are things that we cannot come back from. One of the most terrifying things we have learned in the last century is that we are steadily falling behind Mankind's ability to inflict violence. An artillery shell or missile need not be silvered to kill a werewolf if the explosion turns them to mist.
Worst of all, though, is the Silent Death - radiation. Even as we regenerate tissue, the poison of radiation spreads even quicker through us than it would a mortal body because of it.
__________________THE PACK_________________
"In the dark of the night we are demons in silence. In the light of the moon we are the storm of the damned. In the heat of the wild we are the blood-red horizon..."
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As individuals, Werewolves are an extremely independent, passionate, and typically hard-headed bunch. They typically don't know when to quit or back down, and will keep pushing forward, always. As an individual, a Werewolf is as varied as any person would be. Factors of upbringing, belief, life-path, and a swathe of other factors will have a heavy hand in a Werewolf's behavior and character. There is no single tribal or cultural catch-all, because before they took on the Warrior-Skin, they were also people.
Humans and wolves are both social creatures, something that is elevated as a werewolf. Among humans and wolves, you will be hard-pressed to find those who won't shirk away from you on instinct, as their subconscious brain senses the apex predator in their midst. Because of that aspect of the Curse, Werewolves tend to be insular. You can only love and respect someone as dangerous as you are, you can only get to know people as dangerous as yourself.
There is love, trust, passion, and understanding in that mutual danger. That shared lethality and primal urge. Alone, a werewolf becomes a danger to the whole as much as to themselves. They risk exposing not only the werewolf population to the world at large, but the entirety of the supernatural world hidden by the Veil.
Pack is family. Pack is home. Pack is where you are accepted, no questions.
Alone, the Rage and the Fury gnaws away at inhibition as the Beast grows louder and harder to control. Alone, the mind-flaying effects of our Adversaries cannot be mended.
When werewolves form a Pack, they connect on a spiritual level, whether or not they choose to have a totem spirit, they are bound by a deep understanding that transcends speech. Packs often become as large families, and support (and fight) each other as such. This communal connection is a bulwark against the consumptive, corrupting powers of the entropic Outsiders or malicious spirits. Where a lone werewolf may be a dangerous quarry for hunters, to go after a Pack of werewolves without proper planning and preparation is suicide.
There is no real standard for a Pack's size or structure. Packs in larger swathes of land might have more members than an Urban Pack, or an Urban Pack and their families might rent out a tenement building in Chicago. There is, however, tradition of hierarchy within a Pack. Not all follow the Old Way in this modern age.
Elder - A werewolf who has seen their share, when their hair and pelt has turned grey, and not even Regeneration will save them from the aches in their joints. The Elder is a teacher and a guide, mother and father to all in spirit, for to have lived as long as they have, wisdom comes with wounds. They do not hold status above anyone in particular, but it is the folly of youth to ignore the sage wisdom of your Elder.
Alpha - Werewolves have been at war to defend creation since Creation began. There is a time when a structured hierarchy is needed. Some Packs will have one Alpha, Alpha Mates (be they pair or more), and/or the War-Alpha.
Sometimes, the best overall leader for the Pack to ensure they function is not trained as thoroughly for war and the Wild Hunt as another. That is the role of the War-Alpha, taking control of the Pack during times of great strife, war, and in the midst of a vital hunt against a most-dangerous enemy. To actively disobey the War-Alpha in a time of war is one of the highest signs of dishonor is disrespect in werewolf society.
Beta - The Beta is the adjudicator between the Pack and the Alpha(s). To do their job well, they need to have a finger to the pulse of every member within the Pack and adjust their approach accordingly. They will have to challenge the Alpha as much as support them, depending on circumstances. They are the heart of the Pack, in a sense, making sure that everyone in the Pack is getting their needs met.
Omega - Typically the youngest or the newest member of the Pack. It is a position that implies one is a learner or on a manner of probation. This is not inherently negative, as there is no additional responsibility like the Alpha and Beta positions, where failing in ones duties could get your Pack killed or disbanded. The Omega is free to ask questions of their Packmates without repercussion beyond an exasperated eye-roll. The Omega may even wish to question the rulings of an Alpha or a Beta, but that is at their own peril.
Sage - The Sage is the Spiritual Leader and Guide for the Pack. While one must simply have a deep understanding and connection to the spirits, this position elevated by those who can Channel the Mothers' Magic. It is one of the rare instances of a Wolf-Blooded being able to hold a position of authority over True-Born.
Cub - The young and foolish, not old enough to go out as part of a war party or a Wild Hunt. When one is able to control their Change at will, they have successfully hunted and killed a supernatural foe, and they have shed their cub-down, they may petition for a Trial to become Omega.
As one might expect, a Territory is the land a Pack occupies. Now, not every Pack has a Territory, or even needs one. There is a growing culture of these "Ronin Packs" who wander as biker gangs, Romani caravans, and other mobile lifestyles. They go where the fight is, living off the lands they travel.
More commonly, a Pack will eke out a Territory to call their own, and protect it fiercely. It could be a city block or a thousand acres of wilderness. Within a Territory, the Pack and their extended family will live as best they can from day to day. Those who follow the Long Vigil will ensure that their Territory remains free of corrupted spirits, Outsiders, and whatever else they might consider a threat in their region.
It is rare for werewolves to get along despite their unified faith and function. They tend to think their way is the best way, that their Territory is sacred and that it is theirs. On certain rare circumstances, Packs will come together in the spirit of mutual hunting grounds, shared territory, and strength in numbers. Two Packs agreeing to not murder each other for trespassing does not a Dominion make, however.
There is an old werewolf proverb for a reason: "Get three Alphas from three different Packs in the same room and there won't be clean breeches for miles."
It will fall to you, the Players, to define your Pack's identity for this Story. Your Pack is your reputation, your social circle, your family blood and bond of arms. The Pack is as much a character as any Werewolf in it.
-All RPA and Mature Section rules apply.
-This is a mature RP for the reason of creative freedom, anything goes for the most part as long as none of the rules are broken.
-The GMs word is law. If a player wishes to make an argument for a ruling, chances are I will allow an argument to be made. If after the second time my answer is still "no", let it go.
-Rules may be changed, amended, and modified.
-Any issues between players deal with in PMs.
-If the problem persists, send us both sides and we'll see if we can help.
-If we help and it continues ask a mod or get out.
-Be active and post at least a paragraph a post once a week.
-Ignorance of the rules won't save you if you break them.
-Be smart, have fun, and no modding or powerplaying.
Any new RP ideas are welcome, and inter-character plots are encouraged. Plot or Lore elements are always welcome, but will be implemented on a case-by-case basis.
-Inactivity will result in death or delegation to NPC-status.
-You can reserve a spot, it will only be held for a week.
-If you have questions, don't hesitate to ask! Players/Readers have an uncanny ability to find/poke holes I wouldn't find otherwise.
-If you have read the rules and agree to the social contract therein, put "Sacred & Wild" at the head of your character application.
— BASICS
Name:
Nickname/Deed-Name: Earned through some deed, the name stuck, whether you like it or not.
Age: Apparent and Actual Age if applicable (Keep in mind it is rare to live to old age as a Werewolf)(no age is off-limits, but keep in mind First Change, Elder, Cub, and Omega status)
Breed: Are you True-Born, or Wolf-Blooded? Are you one of the other Thera?
Gender:
— APPEARANCE
Slightly different than the norm, a description for each of the three Forms. You can be as free filling this out as you like: written, info-points, images, or a mixture. Images & Face Claims are welcome, so long as it isn't anime or anything terribly cartoony.
Human Form
Wolf Form
Warrior Form
Personal Possessions: Anything they commonly use or bears sentimental importance on their person. These can range from automobiles to little trinkets.
— PERSONALITY
Personality: Broad strokes is fine, I don’t need to know every bawdy joke they like to tell. This should not just be a list of character traits; tell me how they see the world, how they think, how they act.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Let this cover supernatural powers, mundane skills, and whether or not they’re particularly good at shooting snot-rockets. As above, this should not only be a bulleted list of specific powers. Enough specificity to give me the shape of their abilities is good, a spreadsheet is not.
The Gifts listed are applicable to all Werewolves, unless they have an additional Flaw that lessens one of those Gifts.
Fears, Flaws, and Vices: Pretty straightforward. What are their shortcomings? What keeps them awake and night, and what tests the limits of their bravery? What breaks them?
Every Werewolf has the Curses listed along with the Gifts.
Mate(s):
Cubs:
Note: If these are not another player-character, be sure to list them in the Anchors section in Backstory.
Bonds: Build a at least one bond, positive or negative, with each Pack member
— HISTORY
Backstory: (detail your character's life, can be short or lengthy, nothing wrong with a bit of mystery!)
Anchors: Give me 1-3 basic NPCs that are important to your character, and why.
— BASICS
Name: Connor MacTroy
Nickname/Deed-Name: Iron-Hide
Age: 36
Breed: True-Born
Gender: Male; he/him
— APPEARANCE
Human Form
https://i.gyazo.com/2b38846ab6ac127f77224431366ffae5.png
https://i.gyazo.com/8542f8d7504fefee0598cf99c5dbb646.png
Art Credits: Myself
Connor stands a ways over six feet (6'5"), broad of shoulder and deep of chest, bearing a suppleness to his limbs that tells of a lifetime physical work and tenacity in the face of hardship. Those who respect, revere, or revile the man have likely called Connor a "regular brick shit-house", tipping the scales at three-hundred pounds of twisted steel. He is fair-skinned with stormy blue eyes pinched by the sun, yet keen as a hawk's. A hirsute fellow with dark hair and a cold iron grey spreading at his temples and flecking his beard. Faint traces of that Scotch-Irish red can be seen in his sideburns and streaked through the deep mahogany of his mane.
His right arm bears a Celtic tri-spiral tattoo (pictured), a pair of stylized stag horns tattooed on his back, running the span of his shoulders, and an infinity knot band encircles his right ring finger.
While not conventionally handsome, Connor possesses a wolfish ruggedness to his features. Should someone not be turned away by his generally stern bearing or aged scars, they could likely find him attractive in a mature, rural way.
Wolf Form
https://i.gyazo.com/3d21265d8cf36c5a30cfd12167d28ada.png
Art Credit: ChickenBusiness
Retaining the coloring from his thick head of hair, Connor falls to four trunk-like legs and gouges the earth beneath his feet with ebony claws. Five feet at the shoulder, this beast is surely a wolf, but there is more than just primal aggression behind those burning eyes; an intellect and something dark that only truly shines through when Connor embraces the purest incarnation of his Beast.
Warrior Form
https://i.gyazo.com/3972539ead5c9e75b8744a4f45e76c4f.png
Art Credit: Myself
When Connor embraces the war-form, his physical self compounds and redoubles itself. As the Beast-of-War, Connor's imposing presence becomes something awesome in the biblical application of the word. Nearly eleven feet tall and weighing near a ton, colossal thews of steely cable coil beneath his swarthy coat of dark, tri-colored fur. Silver-grey, iron grey, and an autumnal reddish brown, striped almost like that of a tiger. Eyes like motes of wildfire, there is rage and hate bright enough to scour the soul, stoked by an unspeakable pain.
Personal Possessions: Connor will usually carry his stag-gripped 1911 wherever he goes, stowing it only in locations he knows will be looking for firearms or that Shifting is a guarantee. Otherwise, his Ford Bronco is a stable workhorse of a vehicle that has seen him through a great many tight spots.
— PERSONALITY
Personality: Connor is a guardian and a survivor, a salt-of-the-earth man with simple needs, though he's not always the easiest to please. He is always one to take on too much of a burden, always putting himself in harms way or some other peril for the sake of others. It isn't so much out of a sense of altruism, but penance. When Connor smiles, it is always subdued. When there isn't aggression in his eyes, there is a glimmer of an unspoken hurt.
If the scars criss-crossing Connor were any indication, he is a man that has been wounded time and again, but the greatest wounds are not those that can be seen. He is fiercely protective of his daughter while simultaneously doing what he can to give her a childhood that he never had; often spoiling her in turn. He is very much a family man of varying degrees, having been older brother, grumpy uncle, loving husband, and doting father in his life. To him, Pack is family, and he will take a silver bullet for any of them.
When it comes to the mission, however, Connor is all business; a warrior and a hunter through and through. When he gets a whiff of an enemy - a taste of their blood - he won't relent until he's run them to ground and torn them to pieces. Normally, Connor takes no sort of sadistic joy in answering the Call, except against the filth that are Leeches. Connor harbors a vendetta against vampires that falls into that "kill 'em all" variety
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
-Fist Like a Cannonball- Connor possessed a steely grip, long reach in the arms, and a truly lethal right hook, even without the Gifts of his Kind. In another life, he could easily contest for a championship in martial arts. It seems almost like fate that after what made him, that his hands can shatter someone's skull like a sledgehammer; in the War-Form, he's a true force of nature, a living wrecking ball.
-Life-long Warrior- There is no substitute for experience, and Connor has been able to take the War-Form, and in turn fight in the Eternal War, since he was nine years old. He has a pedigree of borderline-militant discipline and doctrine under his belt.
-A Father's Intuition- Despite his terse demeanor and fearsome reputation, Connor does his damnedest to be empathetic and understanding. After becoming a father himself, he learned to pick up on all the ticks and queues that might otherwise slip by. Coupled with his Mesquite-meets-Cajun drawl and deep vocal timbre, Connor's intimidating tone becomes a soothing balm.
-Force of Furious Nature- While every werewolf worth their Blood has the Rage and Fury of Father Wolf and the two Mothers, Connor's is something to behold. The brightest candle burns twice as fast, however, and the tax of tapping into this intense primal aggression has manifested in his premature greying and overall aggressive mind-set.
The Gifts listed are applicable to all Werewolves, unless they have an additional Flaw that lessens one of those Gifts.
Fears, Flaws, and Vices:
-Hatred- Being creatures of intense passion and emotion, Connor hates intensely. In particular, Connor loathes the Vampyr to the point of violent prejudice.
-Rage-Addled- For his outwardly composed disposition, Connor's temper is a hair-trigger on a nuclear device. Once he's gone beyond the point of seething and begins acting on his anger and aggression, Connor can be easy to goad or manipulate.
-Sins of the Forebears- Connor carries the anxiety of doing right by his daughter, his Pack, and his People as her personal cross. His father was a monster, even among Werewolves, and of his mother he has no memory. He feels the sweet seduction of the primal rage, and worries that he will end up like them.
-Overly Patient- Finding balance is hard, and Connor has a tendency to let people walk all over him. He figures it is better than the alternative, but in a social minefield like werewolf society, being too forgiving can kneecap you.
Every Werewolf has the Curses listed along with the Gifts.
Mate(s): None - widower
Cubs: Evangeline MacTroy (This role is open to other players if one is so inclined. In which case, naming is all theirs.)
Note: If these are not another player-character, be sure to list them in the Anchors section in Backstory.
Bonds: Build a at least one bond, positive or negative, with each Pack member
— HISTORY
Connor's story begins with his family - primarily his father's Pack. Born and bred in the Dark Valley region of Texas, Connor was raised in the thick of werewolf society. His father, Joseph, had more or less established himself as a leader of an 'Apocalypse-Cult' of werewolves and their Blooded relatives. They were a militant militia who believed that the End was neigh, and that when the new world came around, they would arise as the survivors and the leaders.
The chosen people through military might.
Joseph MacTroy was a monstrous man by any and every extent of the word, ruling with an iron fist and violent delight. It was little surprise, then, than when in a drunken fury, he took a claw hammer to his eldest son's head. The nine-year-old Connor's skull was shattered. Facing that trauma, the Wolf-Spirit in Connor awoke in order to heal and protect the body. Connor still carries the pale scar from that hammer on his face - a crescent that curls around his right eye-socket.
So it was that Connor began his life as a warrior, a child thrust into battle against other supernatural denizens and the hungering forces from between the stars, and the lurkers between the planes of reality. Connor had surrendered himself to an early grave, relishing in the slaughter of his enemies... until the healing hands of Annabelle were laid upon him.
Annabelle was a recent 'addition', meaning that she and her Pack had been absorbed by Joseph's "First Earth Armed Resistance". Where Connor was a warrior, a destroyer, Annabelle was a healer; a werewolf combat medic and triage nurse. Time and again, she put Connor back together. After a while, Connor would pick fights with older, tougher werewolves just to have an excuse to go say hello after they kicked his ass. Their love was strange, but it was pure.
They wed and mated in secret, but even the trusted few friends present were too many. Joseph heard tell, and insisted on enacting the ancient right of prima nocta. Connor and Annabelle left within the hour with only the essentials and the clothes on their back. It is evident that they had a child, as overtly obviously by the hellion that is Connor's teenage daughter, but Annabelle is no longer part of the picture.
Connor will not speak of what happened to any but his most trusted companions, but one can easily surmise that the untimely death of his mate and his consumptive hatred of vampires are connected.
...Coming Soon
This story is rated Mature for: violence, language, body horror, adult themes.
Something about you has always been different. You can feel it in your bones, you can feel it in your marrow, and in something even deeper. A call that transcends hearing, a sign that defies sight. Perhaps you know what this means, or perhaps you simply think it a discomfort in your own skin. A discontentment with what and who you are. Perhaps you tried to bury it under work, stuff it down with food, drown it with drink...
But you cannot run from your birthright. You cannot deny our Mothers' cries.
One day, as you went about you daily attempt as living with the Herd, the feeling of unease that has been steadily growing in your core simply cannot be ignored. Your skin grows feverish and sensitive to the touch, your heart begins to race, and the low roar of your own blood in your ears grows to a deafening growl. "What is happening?", you might ask. "Why is it happening to me? Dear God, make it stop!"
That's when you hear it, a voice from within your ephemeral self that you might call your subconscious at first, but it is not your voice that speaks. It is the voice of a mother and a father, a sister and a brother, the whisper of the wind through the trees and the calls of all the beasts in nature.
Not all who wander are lost, young one. Not so long as they hear our Mothers. Life among the Herd – among the mundane mortals – is not meant for you. I can feel your anger and fear, though you might deny it or not know its source. Our Mothers, our World, die a little each day. They are poisoned by corruption of body and spirit. Mother-Earth scarred by the sins waged upon her flesh, Mother-Moon trembles alone in the void of stars. The maw of Oblivion looms over our kind, our very reality, and you are among the Chosen who keep it at bay.
Will you be lost in blissful ignorance? Will you remain prey for that which hungers for our World?
Or will you answer the Call?
But, the most important question of all, my dearest Child...
When will you RAGE?
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“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. There is a rapture on the lonely shore. There is a society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar. I love not man the less, but nature more.”
__________________________________________________
Swallowed By the Moon is a story of survival and savagery, rage and retribution. Frenzy and Family. As bleak and hostile as the world is to you and your kind, there is still beauty. There exists hope, but as a fickle, flickering candlelight in the darkness.
You are a member of an endangered species who loses more of your number and land to other factions and powers, both magical and mundane, every single day. It is a slow death, the meandering spiral of extinction that you push back against. But there is more. There is a compact among your kind to safeguard this world from not only itself, but the utterly unnatural things beyond.
Outsiders, beings of unfathomable malice, quantum carrion-eaters drawn by the festering wounds upon the Mother, wriggling into our reality like parasites.
You are few, your enemies legion, but the strength of the Wolf is the Pack!
_______________IN THE BEGINNING...______________
"Gather 'round, cubs. There is a tale that old Eyes-of-the-Sun must tell you, the story of our Kind, the oldest and most important story you will ever hear..."
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Before there was primordial form, before there was Wolf or Man, all existence occupied a single plane. All were as flesh and spirit, and the greatest among them were the Celestines; Lord Helios, Lady Lune, Lady Agartha, and their court of stars and spirits, great and small. Youngest and most beautiful among them were Lune and Agarta, destined for great things, for terrible things. Lune could never stray far from her celestial sister, and when the first great beauty of nature appeared, Lune wept with joy and envy, for she could have no sapphire seas, no emerald forests, nor beasts to keep her company.
Still, she as happy for Sister Agartha, basking her with the glow of her smile.
Drawn by that glow, hitherto came Father Wolf, a primordial and primal spirit from the depths of the Wyldes - the untamed Spirit Domain. He was beautiful and graceful as he as dangerous and ferocious. While Lady Agartha slumbered, it was Lady Lune who say him first, and was smitten. Father Wolf was hungry and alone, and weary from his travels, so Lady Lune took pity on him. Taking the form of a kindred creature of purest silver starlight, Lune guided Father Wolf to the fertile lands beneath the boughs of one of the World Trees.
The sky was dark for that night, as the Moon found something new. She found love.
When Lord Helios awoke in the morning, he was furious! Wherefore had Lady Lune gone?! Fearing the blazing temper of Lord Helios, Lady Lune left Father Wolf as he slumbered with a final kiss upon his brow. Lady Agartha, whom had awoken with Lord Helios' fearsome blunder, bid her sister hide behind her until night fell, and Helios fell asleep once more. It was in this time that Lady Agartha, tending her Sacred Glens, found Father Wolf sleeping beneath the boughs of her World-Oaks, and she too was smitten.
As the cycles passed, Lune and Agartha grew gravid with evidence of their liaison, bearing the brunt of Lord Helios' wrath, and fostering resentment for each other. Each gave birth to three beings of great power, but Lady Lune, being closer to Lord Helios, was forbidden to return to her celestial sister, denied the chance to show her children to their Father. Denied the chance to even raise them, for she could not foster life like her sister could. So, from afar, she had no choice but to watch as Agartha and Father Wolf frolicked in their glen with their young, and in jealousy and shame, Lune turned away from them.
There was a time when Lady Lune's own children never knew her face, for the pain of distance was too great to bear. In seeing her loved ones so close, but unable to touch them or speak to them, it filled Lady Lune with such unbridled Rage that even the unblinking stars trembled.
Father Wolf felt this Rage as it stormed through the air. He had silently wondered where the beautiful she-wolf had gone, and in the absence of the Moon, he knew. So he gathered his children, those sired with Lady Lune and Lady Agartha, and their Children's-Children, and scaled the highest mountain. Atop its crest, Father Wolf lead them in a Song for their Celestial Mother. The First Howl, and how haunting and beautiful it was.
Lady Lune heard such a mournful chorus and could not keep herself away, and so she turned her face back to her sister and her beloveds, and she smiled down on them with a Mother's Love.
You can see her now, though, with every rotation, turning to cast her gaze once again upon us - her Children and her sister's Children - to ensure we are well, and to bask our burning spirits in her radiance.
Forget not that we are all Children of Father Wolf, but we are also children of Mother Moon and Mother Earth. It is through them that we are connected to the Spiritual and Material, and as our Father did before us, we are sworn to protect our Mothers both, from this day to the end of days.
_______________THE ETERNAL WAR______________
"Revel in red, come and wake up to bring no remorse!"
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While our War is eternal, we have suffered more losses in the last century than we have in the whole millennium before it.
The Great Wars. Wars of Man against Man, fueled by rapacious industry and the hubris of mortality, has laid us low. Of the nine Sacred World-Oaks, only three remain. Where we once held court with our fellow Thera and the other supernatural denizens of our world, we are now a disjointed and endangered species on the cusp of eradication. Our holy sites and places of power, our ancestral homes, have all but been destroyed.
Such is the folly of Man, the traitorous Little Brother we are sworn to protect. Such is the fetid fruit of gas, fire, blood, greed, and the terrible power of the Atom.
Of those who can take Shape and fight, we number less than Ten-Thousand the world around. We are dying, gazing down the yawning maw of extinction... but if we do not fight, if we do not keep the Long Vigil, then all of Reality might buckle. No matter the fire nor the flames, we must endure for the sake of our children, and our children's-children, and all those who come after us.
We are the vanguards and the sentinels of life and the natural law, and we water the roots of the World-Trees with the blood of the treacherous.
Our Mothers are dying. Reality heaves, and our kind faces eradication. Like draws to like, as the deep wounds upon our Mother Earth fester, luring the cosmic carrion-eaters from the Outside like flies to rot. Beings beyond mortal comprehension, creatures of nightmare and madness, corruption and consumption. Monsters of Mythos that burrow through the breaches in our reality like blood worms to sink barbs of poisonous malice into the hearts and minds of all.
We fight Vampires and Hunters, we slay our traitorous kin, and we shirk at Mages and wearily deal with the Fae and the Spirits...
But the Outside Forces are our True Adversary, for they are beings that have never known our world, and simply wish to corrupt, defile, and consume.
Ever since the Outer Gates began to crack after World War I, such unearthly forces have been more frequent. Where there may be a handful in a century, there is a handful every year, and they are getting stronger...
And yet, so many of our kind have forgotten and lost their way...
This was our Father's War, is Long Vigil, and we carry it now as he once did. We watch the Gates, the breach points between the planes of existence, we mind the fraying fabric that keeps these planes apart, ever stalwart against incursion from the Outside, from the Fae Realms, and the innumerable planes beyond. We were the first inhabitants of this world. We are Agartha and Lune's First-Born, and we will not go quietly into the maw of Oblivion.
_______________OF WOLF AND MAN______________
"Thrice we are born, thrice we are sworn."
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We are born, not bitten. If we could make more of our number through a bite, we would not be facing extinction. We are a people, a breed. Werewolves are not parasites like the Strigoi.
Of our progenitors, we have garnered Gifts and Curses. Boons and Banes. When Father Wolf grew weary and weak in his old age, so did we take up is vigil. For while he coveted the natural splendor and the miraculous works of nature, Father Wolf knew that his time was done. There were others rising to be Mother Earth's children, but they were greedy and hungry, taking more than Mother Earth could give. So it was the parting Gift of Father Wolf to his brood to give unto his Children three Shapes. Three Forms to protect Mothers, Brothers, and Sisters.
The Human - The man-skin, the Ape. One's own hominid shape with which to blend in among the Herd. The Form to drive a car, wield a gun, and hold their children to their breast. Since the time of the First Fire, the First Spear, this Form has been of dire necessity. In the modern day, most of our Kindred know more of their human lives than the histories, fables, and cultures of our dying breed. Many rage against this dying light, while others see this as the purest tenet of our survival.
The Wolf - The animal-shape, running on four clawed paws with keen senses and the greatest connection to the Mothers. The Hunter, the Prowler, the fangs in the darkness. There is nothing purer in its closeness to nature than the Wolf, and nothing more sacrosanct than their songs to Mother Moon on a clear solstice night.
The Warrior - The Blessing of Father Wolf. Gifted and Cursed by Mother Earth and Mother Moon. Primal urge, instinct, and Rage on two legs. Ferocity and fury, the stuff of mortal nightmares. It is the Form that drives us, that dooms us. With it comes unbridled Rage and Fury, a hatred for things that spit in the face of natural order. As the Warrior, you are the defender of your resident Reality, and you take no prisoners. Even the smallest Werewolf towers over the tallest man in their Warrior-Form, capable of visiting raw devastation upon their enemies...
A True-Born - a werewolf with two werewolf parents or the winner of the genetic lottery with only one werewolf parent, will undergo their First Change under two circumstances.
The first, and the most common, is during puberty. The body is already changing in more ways than one, allowing the Blood to manifest. While painful, it is rare for one to lose control during this type of change. Tightly knit werewolf communities will often throw celebrations for the Cub as they assume their True Self.
The second circumstance is, in all honesty, just as common as the first. If not more so, in the last century.
In a word: trauma.
Something triggers a life-or-death fight/flight response, or a life threatening injury occurs. It is in this that the Wolf-Spirit stirs to protect itself and the host. The transformation is violent and frenzied, acting on pure survival instinct.
Either way, the First Change is always the most painful. At least, that is what the Crones say. Bones will break and tissue will tear, organs shifting and warping in a fever pitch of agony. The body tears itself apart and puts itself back together. A slower change takes an effort of will and control, and will reduce the pain, but sometimes one needs to shift on a moment's notice. It is the quick-shifts that hurt the most.
There are Kin and Kind of ours that may carry our blood, but never undergo their First Change. These are the Wolf-Blooded. This is the typical outcome of a werewolf and a human mating, often falling to a 70/20 chance on whether the child will the a True-Born, or Wolf-Blooded. Many in our societies look upon the Wolf-Blooded with pity, or treat them as lesser beings, holding to traditional vestiges from centuries prior.
While a Wolf-Blooded cannot shape-shift as a Werewolf would, it is far more frequent for a Wolf-Blooded to be able to Channel the Mother's Magics to become Shamans, Druids, Witches, and Seers. Wolf-Blooded are mortal but for their greater chance of commanding Spirit and Earth Magic, and do not suffer from the Curses of Lycanthropy. They do not suffer the instinctual fear of being around a werewolf, for the spirits recognize Kindred.
They are the anchors of our humanity when the horrors from beyond might strip the rest away.
Even peerless killing machines are not without fault. The Power of our Mothers, the Strength of our Father, all comes with a price. Our Curses are our penance for bygone sins against Kin and Kind, and for the betrayal and the heartbreak of the First-Born War.
Might of Mountains - Werewolves are, in all their forms, terribly powerful. In Human and Wolf shapes, they are faster and stronger than a mortal human or wolf of the same size. When they don the Warrior-Skin, a Werewolf becomes an avatar of destruction, capable of rending steel and gouging concrete. Our claws and fangs are as steel themselves. When you are a Werewolf, all houses are made of glass if you aren't careful.
Predator Senses - Even should a Werewolf be blind, they can see the world as if they had one-hundred eyes. They hunt the greatest supernatural forces in (and beyond) existence. While the most potent in the Wolf-Form, to the point of being able to track the pulse of ones prey, every Form has the enhanced senses of an apex predator.
Regeneration - We fight Things That Should Not Be. If we couldn't defy death and shrug off wounds that would kill a mortal ten times over, our kind would have died off a long time ago. Our bodies can break down all but the worst supernatural toxins and contagions, can fight through evisceration, and stubbornly cling to life through obliteration. We are not indestructible or invulnerable, but we are about as tough as they come.
Tied to this is the chance of a long life. There are Werewolves alive today that have seen generations come and go, but centuries of what we endure on a physical, mental, and spiritual level will take a toll. Many of our Elders grow feeble or mad as they near their third century, and many more of our kind will never know their twilight years.
Mothers' Magic - All of our Kin and Kind are connected to our Mothers. Even after our Reality was rent into different planes, we can see Spirits and commune with them. These practices of Shamanism and Druidism are intrinsically tied into fundamental ritual and belief, and each Werewolf has some connection to the Spiritual Planes, but rare is the gift of a Cub who is a true Shaman.
Father's Fury - There lies in our blood the raw, primal rage of our ancestor. A Fury older than time, burning bright as the sun. It is a wellspring of seductive power, dark and terrible in its potency. Like the Magics of our Mothers, Father's Fury is a supernatural, primordial source of power that amplifies the body at great personal risk.
To drink too deeply from the well of Rage will poison the soul and taint the mind. A great warrior, if reckless, is a threat to Kin and Kind. A mad dog must be put down for the good of all.
Sliver's Bite - Pure silver (80% or higher) is anathema to us. No matter how bullet-proof you think you are, a silver bullet will lay you low. It burns our skin and curdles our blood, and once it enters our system, it prevents our bodies from regenerating and muddies our connection to the Spirits.
Rage and Fury - Life among the Herd is not meant for us. There are many who try, but we can never truly be with beings that are not as dangerous as ourselves. Humans and animals can feel it, our true nature writhing just beneath the skin, and it fills them with a shiver of lambent dread. Individuals of particular discipline or will might not feel that true fear, but their hackles will raise all the same. We will never belong to the Herd, for we are the Wolf and the Shepherd both.
Lunacy - The risk of succumbing to our Mothers' Rage and our Father's Fury too freely, those primordial powers burn away at the mind and the spirit. In time, the Beast subsumes all identity, and the werewolf becomes a slavering, rabid animal that needs to be put down. It is a dangerous spiral when one also combats sanity-flaying monstrosities from beyond known creation.
Limitations - Mighty as the Werewolf is, there are things that we cannot come back from. One of the most terrifying things we have learned in the last century is that we are steadily falling behind Mankind's ability to inflict violence. An artillery shell or missile need not be silvered to kill a werewolf if the explosion turns them to mist.
Worst of all, though, is the Silent Death - radiation. Even as we regenerate tissue, the poison of radiation spreads even quicker through us than it would a mortal body because of it.
__________________THE PACK_________________
"In the dark of the night we are demons in silence. In the light of the moon we are the storm of the damned. In the heat of the wild we are the blood-red horizon..."
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As individuals, Werewolves are an extremely independent, passionate, and typically hard-headed bunch. They typically don't know when to quit or back down, and will keep pushing forward, always. As an individual, a Werewolf is as varied as any person would be. Factors of upbringing, belief, life-path, and a swathe of other factors will have a heavy hand in a Werewolf's behavior and character. There is no single tribal or cultural catch-all, because before they took on the Warrior-Skin, they were also people.
Humans and wolves are both social creatures, something that is elevated as a werewolf. Among humans and wolves, you will be hard-pressed to find those who won't shirk away from you on instinct, as their subconscious brain senses the apex predator in their midst. Because of that aspect of the Curse, Werewolves tend to be insular. You can only love and respect someone as dangerous as you are, you can only get to know people as dangerous as yourself.
There is love, trust, passion, and understanding in that mutual danger. That shared lethality and primal urge. Alone, a werewolf becomes a danger to the whole as much as to themselves. They risk exposing not only the werewolf population to the world at large, but the entirety of the supernatural world hidden by the Veil.
Pack is family. Pack is home. Pack is where you are accepted, no questions.
Alone, the Rage and the Fury gnaws away at inhibition as the Beast grows louder and harder to control. Alone, the mind-flaying effects of our Adversaries cannot be mended.
When werewolves form a Pack, they connect on a spiritual level, whether or not they choose to have a totem spirit, they are bound by a deep understanding that transcends speech. Packs often become as large families, and support (and fight) each other as such. This communal connection is a bulwark against the consumptive, corrupting powers of the entropic Outsiders or malicious spirits. Where a lone werewolf may be a dangerous quarry for hunters, to go after a Pack of werewolves without proper planning and preparation is suicide.
There is no real standard for a Pack's size or structure. Packs in larger swathes of land might have more members than an Urban Pack, or an Urban Pack and their families might rent out a tenement building in Chicago. There is, however, tradition of hierarchy within a Pack. Not all follow the Old Way in this modern age.
Elder - A werewolf who has seen their share, when their hair and pelt has turned grey, and not even Regeneration will save them from the aches in their joints. The Elder is a teacher and a guide, mother and father to all in spirit, for to have lived as long as they have, wisdom comes with wounds. They do not hold status above anyone in particular, but it is the folly of youth to ignore the sage wisdom of your Elder.
Alpha - Werewolves have been at war to defend creation since Creation began. There is a time when a structured hierarchy is needed. Some Packs will have one Alpha, Alpha Mates (be they pair or more), and/or the War-Alpha.
Sometimes, the best overall leader for the Pack to ensure they function is not trained as thoroughly for war and the Wild Hunt as another. That is the role of the War-Alpha, taking control of the Pack during times of great strife, war, and in the midst of a vital hunt against a most-dangerous enemy. To actively disobey the War-Alpha in a time of war is one of the highest signs of dishonor is disrespect in werewolf society.
Beta - The Beta is the adjudicator between the Pack and the Alpha(s). To do their job well, they need to have a finger to the pulse of every member within the Pack and adjust their approach accordingly. They will have to challenge the Alpha as much as support them, depending on circumstances. They are the heart of the Pack, in a sense, making sure that everyone in the Pack is getting their needs met.
Omega - Typically the youngest or the newest member of the Pack. It is a position that implies one is a learner or on a manner of probation. This is not inherently negative, as there is no additional responsibility like the Alpha and Beta positions, where failing in ones duties could get your Pack killed or disbanded. The Omega is free to ask questions of their Packmates without repercussion beyond an exasperated eye-roll. The Omega may even wish to question the rulings of an Alpha or a Beta, but that is at their own peril.
Sage - The Sage is the Spiritual Leader and Guide for the Pack. While one must simply have a deep understanding and connection to the spirits, this position elevated by those who can Channel the Mothers' Magic. It is one of the rare instances of a Wolf-Blooded being able to hold a position of authority over True-Born.
Cub - The young and foolish, not old enough to go out as part of a war party or a Wild Hunt. When one is able to control their Change at will, they have successfully hunted and killed a supernatural foe, and they have shed their cub-down, they may petition for a Trial to become Omega.
As one might expect, a Territory is the land a Pack occupies. Now, not every Pack has a Territory, or even needs one. There is a growing culture of these "Ronin Packs" who wander as biker gangs, Romani caravans, and other mobile lifestyles. They go where the fight is, living off the lands they travel.
More commonly, a Pack will eke out a Territory to call their own, and protect it fiercely. It could be a city block or a thousand acres of wilderness. Within a Territory, the Pack and their extended family will live as best they can from day to day. Those who follow the Long Vigil will ensure that their Territory remains free of corrupted spirits, Outsiders, and whatever else they might consider a threat in their region.
It is rare for werewolves to get along despite their unified faith and function. They tend to think their way is the best way, that their Territory is sacred and that it is theirs. On certain rare circumstances, Packs will come together in the spirit of mutual hunting grounds, shared territory, and strength in numbers. Two Packs agreeing to not murder each other for trespassing does not a Dominion make, however.
There is an old werewolf proverb for a reason: "Get three Alphas from three different Packs in the same room and there won't be clean breeches for miles."
It will fall to you, the Players, to define your Pack's identity for this Story. Your Pack is your reputation, your social circle, your family blood and bond of arms. The Pack is as much a character as any Werewolf in it.
-All RPA and Mature Section rules apply.
-This is a mature RP for the reason of creative freedom, anything goes for the most part as long as none of the rules are broken.
-The GMs word is law. If a player wishes to make an argument for a ruling, chances are I will allow an argument to be made. If after the second time my answer is still "no", let it go.
-Rules may be changed, amended, and modified.
-Any issues between players deal with in PMs.
-If the problem persists, send us both sides and we'll see if we can help.
-If we help and it continues ask a mod or get out.
-Be active and post at least a paragraph a post once a week.
-Ignorance of the rules won't save you if you break them.
-Be smart, have fun, and no modding or powerplaying.
Any new RP ideas are welcome, and inter-character plots are encouraged. Plot or Lore elements are always welcome, but will be implemented on a case-by-case basis.
-Inactivity will result in death or delegation to NPC-status.
-You can reserve a spot, it will only be held for a week.
-If you have questions, don't hesitate to ask! Players/Readers have an uncanny ability to find/poke holes I wouldn't find otherwise.
-If you have read the rules and agree to the social contract therein, put "Sacred & Wild" at the head of your character application.
— BASICS
Name:
Nickname/Deed-Name: Earned through some deed, the name stuck, whether you like it or not.
Age: Apparent and Actual Age if applicable (Keep in mind it is rare to live to old age as a Werewolf)(no age is off-limits, but keep in mind First Change, Elder, Cub, and Omega status)
Breed: Are you True-Born, or Wolf-Blooded? Are you one of the other Thera?
Gender:
— APPEARANCE
Slightly different than the norm, a description for each of the three Forms. You can be as free filling this out as you like: written, info-points, images, or a mixture. Images & Face Claims are welcome, so long as it isn't anime or anything terribly cartoony.
Human Form
Wolf Form
Warrior Form
Personal Possessions: Anything they commonly use or bears sentimental importance on their person. These can range from automobiles to little trinkets.
— PERSONALITY
Personality: Broad strokes is fine, I don’t need to know every bawdy joke they like to tell. This should not just be a list of character traits; tell me how they see the world, how they think, how they act.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities: Let this cover supernatural powers, mundane skills, and whether or not they’re particularly good at shooting snot-rockets. As above, this should not only be a bulleted list of specific powers. Enough specificity to give me the shape of their abilities is good, a spreadsheet is not.
The Gifts listed are applicable to all Werewolves, unless they have an additional Flaw that lessens one of those Gifts.
Fears, Flaws, and Vices: Pretty straightforward. What are their shortcomings? What keeps them awake and night, and what tests the limits of their bravery? What breaks them?
Every Werewolf has the Curses listed along with the Gifts.
Mate(s):
Cubs:
Note: If these are not another player-character, be sure to list them in the Anchors section in Backstory.
Bonds: Build a at least one bond, positive or negative, with each Pack member
— HISTORY
Backstory: (detail your character's life, can be short or lengthy, nothing wrong with a bit of mystery!)
Anchors: Give me 1-3 basic NPCs that are important to your character, and why.
— BASICS
Name: Connor MacTroy
Nickname/Deed-Name: Iron-Hide
Age: 36
Breed: True-Born
Gender: Male; he/him
— APPEARANCE
Human Form
https://i.gyazo.com/2b38846ab6ac127f77224431366ffae5.png
https://i.gyazo.com/8542f8d7504fefee0598cf99c5dbb646.png
Art Credits: Myself
Connor stands a ways over six feet (6'5"), broad of shoulder and deep of chest, bearing a suppleness to his limbs that tells of a lifetime physical work and tenacity in the face of hardship. Those who respect, revere, or revile the man have likely called Connor a "regular brick shit-house", tipping the scales at three-hundred pounds of twisted steel. He is fair-skinned with stormy blue eyes pinched by the sun, yet keen as a hawk's. A hirsute fellow with dark hair and a cold iron grey spreading at his temples and flecking his beard. Faint traces of that Scotch-Irish red can be seen in his sideburns and streaked through the deep mahogany of his mane.
His right arm bears a Celtic tri-spiral tattoo (pictured), a pair of stylized stag horns tattooed on his back, running the span of his shoulders, and an infinity knot band encircles his right ring finger.
While not conventionally handsome, Connor possesses a wolfish ruggedness to his features. Should someone not be turned away by his generally stern bearing or aged scars, they could likely find him attractive in a mature, rural way.
Wolf Form
https://i.gyazo.com/3d21265d8cf36c5a30cfd12167d28ada.png
Art Credit: ChickenBusiness
Retaining the coloring from his thick head of hair, Connor falls to four trunk-like legs and gouges the earth beneath his feet with ebony claws. Five feet at the shoulder, this beast is surely a wolf, but there is more than just primal aggression behind those burning eyes; an intellect and something dark that only truly shines through when Connor embraces the purest incarnation of his Beast.
Warrior Form
https://i.gyazo.com/3972539ead5c9e75b8744a4f45e76c4f.png
Art Credit: Myself
When Connor embraces the war-form, his physical self compounds and redoubles itself. As the Beast-of-War, Connor's imposing presence becomes something awesome in the biblical application of the word. Nearly eleven feet tall and weighing near a ton, colossal thews of steely cable coil beneath his swarthy coat of dark, tri-colored fur. Silver-grey, iron grey, and an autumnal reddish brown, striped almost like that of a tiger. Eyes like motes of wildfire, there is rage and hate bright enough to scour the soul, stoked by an unspeakable pain.
Personal Possessions: Connor will usually carry his stag-gripped 1911 wherever he goes, stowing it only in locations he knows will be looking for firearms or that Shifting is a guarantee. Otherwise, his Ford Bronco is a stable workhorse of a vehicle that has seen him through a great many tight spots.
— PERSONALITY
Personality: Connor is a guardian and a survivor, a salt-of-the-earth man with simple needs, though he's not always the easiest to please. He is always one to take on too much of a burden, always putting himself in harms way or some other peril for the sake of others. It isn't so much out of a sense of altruism, but penance. When Connor smiles, it is always subdued. When there isn't aggression in his eyes, there is a glimmer of an unspoken hurt.
If the scars criss-crossing Connor were any indication, he is a man that has been wounded time and again, but the greatest wounds are not those that can be seen. He is fiercely protective of his daughter while simultaneously doing what he can to give her a childhood that he never had; often spoiling her in turn. He is very much a family man of varying degrees, having been older brother, grumpy uncle, loving husband, and doting father in his life. To him, Pack is family, and he will take a silver bullet for any of them.
When it comes to the mission, however, Connor is all business; a warrior and a hunter through and through. When he gets a whiff of an enemy - a taste of their blood - he won't relent until he's run them to ground and torn them to pieces. Normally, Connor takes no sort of sadistic joy in answering the Call, except against the filth that are Leeches. Connor harbors a vendetta against vampires that falls into that "kill 'em all" variety
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
-Fist Like a Cannonball- Connor possessed a steely grip, long reach in the arms, and a truly lethal right hook, even without the Gifts of his Kind. In another life, he could easily contest for a championship in martial arts. It seems almost like fate that after what made him, that his hands can shatter someone's skull like a sledgehammer; in the War-Form, he's a true force of nature, a living wrecking ball.
-Life-long Warrior- There is no substitute for experience, and Connor has been able to take the War-Form, and in turn fight in the Eternal War, since he was nine years old. He has a pedigree of borderline-militant discipline and doctrine under his belt.
-A Father's Intuition- Despite his terse demeanor and fearsome reputation, Connor does his damnedest to be empathetic and understanding. After becoming a father himself, he learned to pick up on all the ticks and queues that might otherwise slip by. Coupled with his Mesquite-meets-Cajun drawl and deep vocal timbre, Connor's intimidating tone becomes a soothing balm.
-Force of Furious Nature- While every werewolf worth their Blood has the Rage and Fury of Father Wolf and the two Mothers, Connor's is something to behold. The brightest candle burns twice as fast, however, and the tax of tapping into this intense primal aggression has manifested in his premature greying and overall aggressive mind-set.
The Gifts listed are applicable to all Werewolves, unless they have an additional Flaw that lessens one of those Gifts.
Fears, Flaws, and Vices:
-Hatred- Being creatures of intense passion and emotion, Connor hates intensely. In particular, Connor loathes the Vampyr to the point of violent prejudice.
-Rage-Addled- For his outwardly composed disposition, Connor's temper is a hair-trigger on a nuclear device. Once he's gone beyond the point of seething and begins acting on his anger and aggression, Connor can be easy to goad or manipulate.
-Sins of the Forebears- Connor carries the anxiety of doing right by his daughter, his Pack, and his People as her personal cross. His father was a monster, even among Werewolves, and of his mother he has no memory. He feels the sweet seduction of the primal rage, and worries that he will end up like them.
-Overly Patient- Finding balance is hard, and Connor has a tendency to let people walk all over him. He figures it is better than the alternative, but in a social minefield like werewolf society, being too forgiving can kneecap you.
Every Werewolf has the Curses listed along with the Gifts.
Mate(s): None - widower
Cubs: Evangeline MacTroy (This role is open to other players if one is so inclined. In which case, naming is all theirs.)
Note: If these are not another player-character, be sure to list them in the Anchors section in Backstory.
Bonds: Build a at least one bond, positive or negative, with each Pack member
— HISTORY
Connor's story begins with his family - primarily his father's Pack. Born and bred in the Dark Valley region of Texas, Connor was raised in the thick of werewolf society. His father, Joseph, had more or less established himself as a leader of an 'Apocalypse-Cult' of werewolves and their Blooded relatives. They were a militant militia who believed that the End was neigh, and that when the new world came around, they would arise as the survivors and the leaders.
The chosen people through military might.
Joseph MacTroy was a monstrous man by any and every extent of the word, ruling with an iron fist and violent delight. It was little surprise, then, than when in a drunken fury, he took a claw hammer to his eldest son's head. The nine-year-old Connor's skull was shattered. Facing that trauma, the Wolf-Spirit in Connor awoke in order to heal and protect the body. Connor still carries the pale scar from that hammer on his face - a crescent that curls around his right eye-socket.
So it was that Connor began his life as a warrior, a child thrust into battle against other supernatural denizens and the hungering forces from between the stars, and the lurkers between the planes of reality. Connor had surrendered himself to an early grave, relishing in the slaughter of his enemies... until the healing hands of Annabelle were laid upon him.
Annabelle was a recent 'addition', meaning that she and her Pack had been absorbed by Joseph's "First Earth Armed Resistance". Where Connor was a warrior, a destroyer, Annabelle was a healer; a werewolf combat medic and triage nurse. Time and again, she put Connor back together. After a while, Connor would pick fights with older, tougher werewolves just to have an excuse to go say hello after they kicked his ass. Their love was strange, but it was pure.
They wed and mated in secret, but even the trusted few friends present were too many. Joseph heard tell, and insisted on enacting the ancient right of prima nocta. Connor and Annabelle left within the hour with only the essentials and the clothes on their back. It is evident that they had a child, as overtly obviously by the hellion that is Connor's teenage daughter, but Annabelle is no longer part of the picture.
Connor will not speak of what happened to any but his most trusted companions, but one can easily surmise that the untimely death of his mate and his consumptive hatred of vampires are connected.
...Coming Soon