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?
“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..."
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!"
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."
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.
Spoiler: The Forms
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...
Spoiler: The First Change
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.
Spoiler: Those of the Blood
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.
Spoiler: Gifts and Curses
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.
Spoiler: Gifts
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.
Spoiler: Curses
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..."
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.
Spoiler: Hierarchy
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.
Spoiler: Rules
-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.
Spoiler: CS Template
— 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.
Spoiler: The Pack Roster
Spoiler: GMCharacters/NPCs
Spoiler: Iron-Hide
— BASICS Name: Connor MacTroy
Nickname/Deed-Name:Iron-Hide
Age: 36
Breed: True-Born
Gender: Male; he/him
— APPEARANCE
Human Form
Spoiler: Images
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
Spoiler: Image
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
Spoiler: Image
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
Spoiler: Backstory
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.
"You basically got a wizard who uses scribbles to fight, a horny tattooed man who crawled out of a hole in the ground, a literal Viking that has no concept for sublty, a girl who's only qualification being a plot twist from a shamalan movie, female Mowgli and a 13 year old boy."
"Don't forget Connor."
"And then there's that fuck!"
"You forgot the werewolf and Yakuza assassin."
"Oh you mean the Eastern Scooby Doo and the video game mafia remake? Lord knows how those two haven't killed each other yet."
"Hey, they get the missions done."
"That's the worst part! Your team is one flamboyant clown away from a Saturday morning cartoon, and yet you work! How!"
"Magic"
Given by Rho Aias
"I have this inkling of a feeling that writing with you would be similar to turning into a poptart and running across space while shooting rainbows out backwards."
Zimpie:
"You just killed logic"
Be wary of paramilitaries. When the men with guns who have always claimed to be against the system start wearing uniforms and marching around with torches and pictures of a Leader, the end is nigh. When the pro-leader paramilitary and the official police and military intermingle, the end has come.
—Timothy Snyder, On Tyranny
Spoiler: Quotes/Awesome picture~
Originally Posted by Light Fantastic
The point is that descriptive writing is very rarely entirely accurate and during the reign of Olaf Quimby II as Patrician of Ankh some legislation was passed in a determined attempt to put a stop to this sort of thing and introduce some honesty into reporting. Thus, if a legend said of a notable hero that “all men spoke of his prowess” any bard who valued his life would add hastily “except for a couple of people in his home village who thought he was a liar, and quite a lot of other people who had never really heard of him.” Poetic simile was strictly limited to statements like “his mighty steed was as fleet as the wind on a fairly calm day, say about Force Three,” ...
Originally Posted by 13uster
See, they're making a secret furry coven.
But noooo, I3uster is just paranoid. Look at that I3uster, just being all funny and ironic. Ha ha ha, furries aren't dangerous, silly I3uster.
a prophet is worth nothing in his own lands
Originally Posted by Mcjon01
You've clearly never been a little girl before but let me clue you in; it doesn't matter how mature you are, when you're a loli your body just sort of wiggles and does cutesy stuff all on its own. It has nothing to do with mentality or age or anything like that.
Originally Posted by Eddyak
There are literally no levels beneath 4chan. That's like saying something's shittier than a sewer.
Originally Posted by ItsaRandomUsername
He was 12-13 for the original airing. You're a young teen around for the remake of the show. His metaphorical neckbeard is longer than yours.
Originally Posted by royal744
It's always interesting to see how others view us. In making sweeping generalizatins about us we get an inkling of what their points of view are, however wrong they may be. You have me at a disadvantage because I don't know ehere you're from, but clearly you "think" you are from civilized place whose age imparts a special patina of superiority on you. Rather laughable, but that's your apparent point of view.
America is a vey big place and varies tremendously from region to region. It's a little bit like a group of blind men feeling an elephant using their hands: one grabs the tail, another a leg, another the trunk and still another feels the stomach, and each one thinks he "knows" what an elephant is. Let me assure you, you don't.
Originally Posted by Prince/Dave Chapelle
Why don't you purify yourself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka?
Originally Posted by Commodus
Afrocentrism gives a bad name to Afrocentrism.
History should be objective. We should not have bloody sects of rival historians trying to glorify one continent over another.
Why, for instance, should a historian from Nigeria downplay the accomplishments of Medieval France? And, by that same token, why should an Oxford historian arrogantly claim that "Africans have no culture", as I saw someone on this very board claim.
You don't solve the problem by flipping it around and simply changing the target. Do we have our preferred section of history? Yes, I believe so. But I would never dream of using that to downplay what other cultures or peoples do, so why is it justified for them to do so to me?
Originally Posted by Some Lawyer
“Plaintiff must realize he cannot treat well-settled law and undisputed facts like the women in his videos; they will not change simply because Plaintiff is persistent and impervious to their hostility.”
Originally Posted by BigBoom550
(For context, the user is talking about RWBY) Gene Krantz, after the Apollo One failure. They failed, but they would be better. They would not give up. The fact it did not work was on them and them alone, not some quirk of the universe, or some factor of reality. It was on them to ensure that it work.
In the face of survival, the fact that they gave up because Dust didn't do it disgusted me. It disgusted me because that meant that nobody in that room stood up and said "It didn't work. Dust doesn't work. So we need to stop using Dust in our designs.". It meant that in the face of annihilation, in the pursuit of survival, not a single person was willing to stand and go 'maybe we were wrong'. In the face of a small failure, they chose to roll over and give up.
It's pathetic. It's just utterly pathetic.
Humanity's existence can be summrized as doing what doesn't work and making it work. We're bipeds. We're horrible at speed. So guess what? We decided to exhaust our prey to death. We're small, and weak, and we built massive eidolons of stone that last milennia. We are unable to fly, and we decided to drive past the skies and step among the stars. We are cold, and so we chase the very flame of the stars themselves.
To be human is not to try one thing and give up. It is to decide upon a course of action and, as a whole, make it happen, hell or high water. It is to ignore all pretentious convention and do what we must to ensure our advancement.
To be human is to succeed where we should not.
They tried one thing. One. And they know why it didn't work, and yet they gave up. They gave up and rolled over. They didn't even try. They didn't try!
Originally Posted by logiccosmic
WAR CRIMES can cause serious side effects. Rarely reported side effects include:
a 'JUSTICE' that will not go away (FREEDOM STAFFISM). If you have a 'JUSTICE' that lasts more than 4 hours, get medical help right away.
If it is not treated right away, a FREEDOM STAFF can permanently damage your FREEDOM UNIT
sudden vision loss in one or both eyes. Sudden vision loss in one or both eyes can be a sign of a serious eye problem called
inability to justify crimes against humanity. (ITJFAH). Stop taking VIAGRA WAR CRIMES and call your healthcare provider right away if you
have any sudden vision loss
sudden hearing decrease or hearing loss. Some people may also have ringing in their ears (tinnitus) or dizziness. If you have
these symptoms, stop shelling CIVILIANS and contact a doctor right away
While not the tallest of his ilk standing a stout 5'6, Igor is wide in both his shoulders and his stance. Weighing 285lbs of meaty muscle he is not sculpted and from a distance he may look more puffy than buff. But a punch from him will be like getting hit by a bear, just solid impact.
While living in the deepest recesses of Siberia he has fallen quite far behind in fashion generally dressed as above. Furs, leather, and steel plates. His body marred by scars and old Norse inspired tattoos. Hair and beard are black and scraggly from a lack of regular washing, and while one eye is milked over from an old wound his other smoulders with a primal spirit. Dull amber and unwavering, every fiber of his being reflects the earliest days of Man and Wolf.
Spoiler: Wolf Form
Like his human form, Igor's wolf form reflects a more primitive design. That of an ancient Dire Wolf, oversized canines with an exceptionally large skull, a shorter, but more stout body and much longer limbs than today's largest natural wolf. His fur is the grayish white of the early dawn with black stripe like markings running along his legs and shoulders his paw were smaller than one would expect, but they hold all the power his frame can muster. His eyes, while still white and amber now have a glow about them like that of a campfire upon the desolate tundra.
Spoiler: Warrior Form
While his human form is short and stout and his wolf form is simply stout, Igor's warrior form is where he truly earns the name Iron-Bear.
Only 10 feet high, but nearly four foot wide from shoulder to shoulder. One word comes to mind when his foes gaze upon the Wrath of Winter...power...like a glacier on two legs, slow but unstoppable once he gathers speed. His fur turns from the grayish white of his wolf form to pure white his stripes more pronounced now as they swim about his thick furry hide.
For all intents and purposes he looks like a prehistoric Giant Short-Faced bear, but once he lets loose his hunter's howl only fear and the promise of a wrath that strikes like a blizzard from Mother Russia herself. His white eye was become even paler almost blending into his very skull, but his amber eye now blazes like the flame of the setting sun.
Personal Possessions: A bottle of the finest Vodka every made and a yo-yo made from the bones of an ancient mammoth.
— PERSONALITY
Personality: Slow and steady as the winters of Mother Russia. Igor's pack is one the more traditional packs still left protecting the Sacred World-Oaks. They live in seclusion and call themselves the "Nastoyashchiye Volki" or the True Wolves. While their neighbors fled from the embrace of Father Winter they stayed true to the old ways. Standing vigilant as the Father himself.
Igor is a reflection of this mindset. You do not rush the Winter, if you do it will take you and never release you. Patience if more than a virtue it is a survival mechanism, but patience among the Volki will never be mistaken for idleness. Always moving, always improving, even when the night is long and the fires low Igor will be working to improve himself and remove the modern mindsets of idleness even if it simply looks like he is staring dimly into nothingness.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
The Gifts listed are applicable to all Werewolves, unless they have an additional Flaw that lessens one of those Gifts.
He who shatters glaciers- While some of his kin dedicate themselves to the precision and symmetry of learning martial arts Igor has always found the...direct method serves him best. He needs not the flashy punches and kicks of karate or the submission holds of judo when one hit from him can snap a normal bear's spine in half and he can shatter stone with a hug.
Be one with the Winter- While most effective in arctic conditions, if Igor can manage to remain perfectly still he can nearly blind in with his surroundings, he'll be easily seen if someone looks at him. But if they are simply glancing by or busy talking with someone he can be right there and no one would be any the wiser.
Dark Tundra- An ability similar to Be one with Winter, but focuses on his willpower and ability to overcome trauma both mental and physical. Quite simply he stills his mind and just...shuts it off. From the outside it looks like a brainless brute's eyes glazing over and everything being said to him goes in one ear and out the other.
The Way of the Glacier- A body at rest will remain at rest, and a body in motion will remain in motion unless it is acted upon by an external force. Igor is a large and powerful man his power takes time to spin up, but once he starts running or swinging his fists very few things can withstand the blows or stop him.
Fears, Flaws, and Vices:
Every Werewolf has the Curses listed along with the Gifts.
Primitive- The Werewolf equivalent of a Neanderthal, while not demented or mentally challenged Igor is far from educated. He speaks fluent albeit slow Russian and broken English at best and he knows nothing of books or the written word.
Lost in the Snow- While the philosophy of the Nastoyashchiye Volki has steered the Pack through countless wars and natural disasters. Outside of their Territory it has proven a great annoyance and sometimes a disastrous liability. Clan members have been blown up by landmines or fallen off cliffs when lost in thought.
The rage of the sun- Igor has spent nearly his entire life in the frozen wastes of Siberia. The snow and cold are as warm and welcoming to him as his mother's embrace. But the closer he gets to the Equator the more miserable and slower he becomes even his mostly hairless Human Form.
Power over speed- Be it in combat or when hunting Igor has never been fast. He's more likely to take a speeding truck to his chest and smash it to pieces than step off the road. This means someone will likely need to be near him to pull him out of the path of a speeding silver bullet.
Mate(s): His Pack believes it is the duty of all able to breed, to try, and grow the numbers of their dying people. Monogamy is rare and reserved for the Alphas and Elders.
Cubs: Many and while he does spend personal time with them the raising of Cubs is largely a Pack duty.
Bonds:
Jason and Igor are long lost half-brothers.
Ilse and Igor were treasure hunters for a little bit before Ilse moved to America.
— HISTORY
Spoiler: Backstory
The story of Igor Iron-Bear is one heard most commonly among the people of the Nastoyashchiy Volk. Born a single cub among twenty creating a single generation and raised as a singular unit. Sleeping together, eating together, training together, every adult in his Pack took turns spending time with and raising each cub. Mother and Father were odd terms rarely used, unless the ones who had actually created and birthed you wished to make it known. Dyadya i Tetya, Uncle and Aunt were used in their place. All were his family even if they did not share the same hair color or ear shape as him.
He did not even have a last name he was simply Igor to all. When formality was needed like in the the rare instances of other Packs coming to his people's lands he was introduced as Igor' Zimnyaya Skazka Igor of the Winter's Tale. Raised in the Old Ways the "True Ways" of Father Wolf and the Mothers. The land was your home and your larder, killing and eating only what was needed cultivating plants and vegetables for medicines and food. And when the time came...bleeding in it's defense.
Igor's people lived very isolated in the most uninhabited regions of Northern Russia. Largely unknown to every human that called the snowy country home. They were the myths of the Natives and the fevered rantings of the addle minded fools who dare to challenge Winter's Rule. You do not challenge Father Winter, for he is as merciless as he his diligent. You show him respect as well as respect his mates the Mother's Sky and Earth and you will see the hidden beauty of the snow and ice. Listen to his voice and he will share with you secrets not even the Fae can understand. How to create the perfect snowflake, where to find the herds as they hunker down for winter, how to listen to the voice of the Glacier and learn the tales locked away in their millennia old bodies.
The Way of Winter is the way of peace in a world both harsh and rapidly shrinking. Igor loved the lessons and loved his way of life. As he grew he learned so much more, how to find food even in the middle of the harshest blizzard, how to unhinge himself from the stress of life and sing with the Mothers as they take your burdens onto their own shoulders. And as he reached the breeding age he learned the pleasures of the female body as they were freed from the confines of their furs and leathers. He sired his first cub in adolescence with a female with blonde hair who was around his age. Like all of his Pack he raised the squalling little male with the rest of his generation. This was his life for many years, but with each year less and less cubs were being born a darkness was creeping up on his people.
That darkness came in the form of encroaching humans and other Thera . They claimed to simply be explorers, but his people have not survived centuries of conflict and learned the thrive in conditions no other race could, just to be tricked with honeyed words or shiny baubles. While war was part of their nature, the teachings of Winter had quieted their animal blood enough to let Peace be the journey. They let most explorers walk through the lands even lending them aid if needed, but their kindness as cautious as it was would cut them low.
On Igor's twenty-fifth winter of life their good deeds would bring their Just Desserts, but not in the way any had hoped. A group they had helped were Wolf Hunters in disguise, normally a disguise, no matter how intricate, would be sniffed out fairly quickly and the liars dealt with. But this particular group had a Witch in their midst and her magic aided their ruse to flawless perfection. That night Igor's pack was attacked, half of them were wiped out before they could mount a defense. And once they did...the tundra had not see such carnage since the second world war. Blood stained the once pristine snow for a mile in every direction, Igor and most of the Wolves his age survived, but two whole generations of cubs were slaughtered as well as many of their Elders. They were a pack without young or Spiritual Leadership, dark times were ahead for them.
But after five years of rebuilding and training the Nastoyashchiye Volki were nearly back at full strength. Igor had become the one of the Beta among his newly forged people, he could've been Alpha and many of his peers approached him with the suggestion. But he turned them all down, he wasn't built for leading. He simply wished to keep his pack strong, his claws were meant to crush skulls not shake hands. While unorthodox in his methods there was rarely a conflict he could not handle. But he could still feel the darkness creeping up on them, the Mothers sang songs of constant sorrow and the Father's Wolf's howl upon the shrilling wind sounded distressed. He asked the Sage and Alphas for guidance, but Father Winter had been silent these past five years. But rumors of a Ronin Pack reached Igor's ears, fighters on the frontlines defending the Sacred-Oaks and keeping the Father and Mothers' spirits alive. Joining them crossed his mind more than once.
Anchors: Igor has a whole pack of Anchors, losing any one of them would sufficiently hurt and enrage him. But his first born cub, Sergi and his first mate Anastasia had always held a special place in his heart.
Last edited by SikstaSlathalin; 09-02-2020 at 03:15 AM.
Xbox One Gamertag: Free Today56 just say who you are first.
Breath deep as the snow falls around you. Let it fill your lungs and purify the fires of doubt within you.
Human Form
Tall and thin, Ilsa still cuts an imposing figure. Standing at 1.8 meters tall and weighing barely more than 65 kilos, she is lanky, with long arms and legs. Her skin is deep brown, while her hair is ghostly pale. She keeps her hair in a tight bun to keep it out of the way. Her eyes are almond-shaped dark green with a brown ring around the pupil. She wears round glasses that never seem to slip. Her clothes are practical and mainly natural, earthen colors. She also carries a brown bag, the single strap going diagonally across her torso. You might see a small flash of gold around her neck; this is her locket. While thin, she is also leanly muscled.
She carries herself with an air of importance, walking places swiftly and with purpose. Her moves are calculated and precise. She walks with an icy grace. Some claim she secretly floats a half-inch above the ground for the way she never stumbles or trips. She doesn't deny these claims.
Wolf Form
Her thin body seems to translate over into her wolf form. Although she takes the form of an astonishingly tall Eurasian wolf, she looks like she'd be more at home with North American wolves. Her fur is tawny brown, with a cream chest and neck. Dark brown markings stripe across her snout and tip her ears. Reddish-brown fur covers her shoulders before it melds into another dark brown stripe down her back. Her paws are the same ghostly white as her human form's hair.
Warrior Form
As thin as her human and wolf forms are, she still is a massive and dangerous creature in warrior form. More than 10 feet tall and nearly 4 feet wide, she is larger than one would expect looking at her human form. Not only large, she is terrifyingly fast. Her fur is more of the same ghostly white, making her seem transparent or blurred at the edges. Couple this with her unearthly howl, her penchant for summoning an icy mist, and her speed, she is called Phantom for a reason.
Personal Possessions: A bone knife carved from a mammoth tusk, passed down through her pack for generations. A locket with a picture of her and her mate from more than a decade ago.
— PERSONALITY
Personality: Bookish and shrewd, not much escapes her notice. She is intelligent and well-versed in a truly stunning variety of subjects, able to keep pace with some of the top human minds on some subjects. She also has plenty of worldly experience and has a multitude of skills at her disposal. Her intelligence is a point of pride for her, and sometimes enjoys flaunting it to people she deems incurable simpletons. She is also ruthless and to the point. She doesn't enjoy dawdling and will ignore or push past those bothering her. Laws and rules are more like suggestions when she sets her mind on something, usually a goal or piece of information. She is serious and subscribes to the Big Stick ideology. Polite and respectful to most, but should you find yourself on her bad side, she takes no prisoners.
Underneath her ruthless, intelligent shell, she is a woman harboring dark grief. Her husband dead, the remnants of her last Pack scattered like leaves in the wind, and her son on another continent, she mourns her loss, never allowing herself to heal from this wound. She feels responsible for her mate's death and pursues the idea of summoning his spirit permanently.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
-Keen Mind- Her mind is filled to the brim with useful skills and knowledge. She is fluent in eight languages: German, English, Swedish, Russian, Arabic, French, Mandarin Chinese, and American Sign Language. Additionally, she is highly skilled in navigation, survival, deception, persuasion, code breaking and encrypting, tracking, and forgery.
-Martial Artist- Her easy grace and disciplined demeanor aren't for nothing. She has spent years training her human body in multiple forms of martial arts and dexterity-based physical feats. She is skilled in Krav Maga, Capoiera, Bokator, fencing, parkour, and swimming. She is quick, sending multiple light attacks in a short amount of time before returning to a defensive position.
-Mothers' Magic- Although she has a multitude of physical and intellectual skills, her most powerful is her connection to magic. Stunning speed and rending claws mean nothing to the woman who can bring forth walls of flame or create icy mists.
Fears, Flaws, and Vices:
-Arrogantly Intelligent- She is the smartest person in the room. This is an objective fact. So she generally ignores suggestions from people she doesn't consider intelligent. If there's a simple solution staring her in the face, she finds a way to make it complicated. She will never admit to being wrong, instead she was "misinformed".
-Energy Sapped- The occult is a dangerous, difficult process that comes with a cost. That cost is her energy. The more she uses magic, the more energy is drained from her body until she can recover. The larger the effect she creates, the higher the energy cost. It is rare to see her at full energy. Expending too much energy can injure her permanently, or even kill her. It is not a pretty sight to see, the color draining from her body until she is entirely ghostly-white and transparent at the edges. She becomes gaunt, barely more than a frozen mummy.
-Quick, but not for Long- Although she is highly skilled and quick as a whip, she has barely more stamina than the average human. If an opponent can wear her down while withstanding her attacks and keeping her in range, she eventually tires and gets sloppy with her defense.
Mate(s): Karl Weber (deceased)
Cubs: Stefan Weber
Bonds:
Igor: Igor helped Ilse locate certain items of the occult before she moved to America. She tolerates his slow Russian, but his English is infuriating.
— HISTORY
Spoiler: Backstory
This is the story of how Ilsa turned her hair white and lost her Pack and husband in one day. Before Ilsa was so shrewd or quiet, but still quite smart, she was of a different Pack. Her Pack resided in the Black Forest of Germany and was known as the Laufender Bach. They were mainly a peaceful clan, working behind the scenes to protect the local humans. But they weren't the only tribe in the area. In fact, multiple Packs call the Black Forest home, but the Laufender Bach had an enemy.
The Heulende Krallen were led by a crazed man better off dead. He regularly claimed that humans were inferior, should bow before their lupine superiors, and were made for subservience. He and his Pack had been driven south by their previous neighbors and for good reason. The Heulende Krallen were a violent bunch, attempting to push the Laufender Bach out of the area with intimidation. When that didn't work, they resorted to raids. As peaceful as the Laufender Bach were, they were still werewolves. They put up enough of a fight the Heulende Krallen began to focus their efforts on eradiating rather than simply pushing them out.
It was on a raid that the Heulende Krallen accomplished their goal. But Ilse put up one hell of a fight. In the night, the Krallen attacked, tearing through warriors left and right. Ilsa wasn't nearly as accomplished in the Mothers' Magic, but she knew enough. Summoning a storm of ice and lightning, she became an avatar of destruction, freezing and frying attacking Krallen. But she couldn't protect everyone. Her husband was cut down in front of her. In her rage and grief, she doubled down on the storm. The effort nearly killed her, bleaching her hair ghostly white. But it did the trick. The Krallen were no more. But neither was the Bach.
Both tribes scattered, each with less than a third of their original population. Mourning, Ilsa made her way into the rest of the world, determined to find a way to bring her husband back. She started with science, as it was a less energy-intensive alternative. But it was impossible with science, so she returned to the Mothers' Magic. Hoping to find guidance at one of the Sacred Oaks, she traveled to American, where she sought out masters of the occult craft. Although hearing it would be impossible multiple times, she is determined to find a way to bring her husband back.
Anchors: Stefan Weber, her son. Her son is her only child and she wants nothing more than for him to be safe. Should anything happen to her son, her last connection to Karl, she would fly into a rage quite like the time her hair was turned white.
Luc Zimmerman, her brother. They rarely speak, but both have a connection to the other. Her brother was the person she relied on most after her husband died. He supported her as she got back on her feet.
Last edited by Yggdrasil_Hugger; 09-02-2020 at 04:03 PM.
In her human form, Sage is of average height, standing just under 5'6". She is slender with a frailness about her, her ribs and shoulder blades prominent. As though never touched by the sun, her skin is pale, appearing even more so by her long mane of black hair, accented with streaks of grey, which frames her face. Intense green eyes stare out from her locks, the right a bit bluer than the left.
An innocence befalls her appearance, although she is more experienced in life matters than she seems. She bears no tattoos or scars, her life style thus far being rather sedate as opposed to others in her pack. She tends to dress casually, her most common outfit a black tank top with a billowing shirt over it. Loose fitting jeans and motorcycle style boots complete her outfit.
WOLF:
As a wolf, Sage is an imposing creature, her shoulders falling in the four foot range. Her green eyes are prominent even in this form, her face white around the muzzle and upper chest, framed by thick black fur which continues along her back. Her lower chest, sides, and legs are white.
Spoiler: Warrior form
Sage has never embraced her wilder side and thus has not, as of yet, taken this form. As a warrior, she will stand ten feet tall, her body not as impressive, despite her height, due to her lithe figure. Her fur is a dark grey, except on her face, where it is nearly absent. Intense red eyes are outlined in black, her features a mix of human and wolf. Her hands are outfitted with razor sharps claws with the strength of steel blades.
Personal Possessions: On a leather string around her neck, Sage wears a round, yet flat, clear healing crystal that belonged to her mother. She also has a folding multi-tool knife and lighter in her pocket. On her left ring finger is a simple gold band.
— PERSONALITY
Personality: Sage is a restless soul. Ever since her arrival at the pack's commune at the tender age of fourteen, she has been suspicious of every member, to the point of distraction and disobedience. Her guarded nature is not without merit however, her mother's disappearance at the time of her culling a mystery that eats at her constantly. This has led her to be cautious with her relations and friendships, her loyalty only won through constant effort.
Brought up to be self sufficient, Sage does have a certain confidence that comes to light when she is outside the boundaries of civilization. She is at home in the wilds, able to sustain her existence without the help of modern conveniences. It is where she is most at home, her earthy nature shining through at these rare times.
Powers, Traits, and Abilities:
Healing Hands: Sage's mother was a nurse and taught her the basics of emergency care. She is versed in most first aid procedures and can set a broken bone and close a wound with sutures. In addition to this, the stone she wears around her neck gives off a radiant energy which assists in healing when called upon by its wearer.
Herbal Sense: This is another trait that can be attributed to her mother's teachings. While being able to identify most plants and trees, she can also discern their uses from a medical standpoint by their scent and feel. Outside of Colorado and its neighboring states, her skills decrease unless the plant is common throughout the country.
Stamina of the Wolf: Despite her frail appearance, there is an inner strength that lends Sage a boost of endurance when she needs it. This ability increases when she is in the form of a wolf or warrior.
Swiftness: What Sage lacks in strength when compared to her equals, she makes up for with speed. While embracing her wild forms, she moves like the wind, able to outpace most foes.
She also has the gifts listed as applicable to all Werewolves.
Fears, Flaws, and Vices:
Frost Intolerance: Sage has a hard time keeping warm during colder weather due to her low percentage of body fat. This intolerance slows her down, especially in the winter, as she has to layer heavily to compensate. She is only affected in her human form however, her wolf and warrior having enough fur to keep her comfortable.
Lost Soul: Her mistrust of others has caused her to isolate herself most of the time, her ability to interact with others suffering as a result.
Fertility curse: After five years of marriage and no pregnancies, Sage suspects she is infertile. The pressure from the pack to multiply weighs heavy on her, her value as a mate in question.
She also has the Curses listed for every Werewolf.
Mate(s): None
Cubs: None
Bonds: Sage is currently traveling with Jason Urbain, the two having met on the road.
— HISTORY
Backstory:
Spoiler: Backstory
...one day the wolves will come…
The six word phrase was one Sage came to dread from a young age, one that always preceded her and her mother, Betony, setting off on another adventure. The smallest thing could set it off...a lingering stare from a stranger, a call that was dropped when answered, a bump from a passerby’s shoulder...and off they would go. Traveling light, the duo lived a minimalist’s lifestyle of ten items or less each. Grab and go was the idea, the pair rarely staying in one place for longer than a year, a few months the norm.
It was a hard life, but the only one Sage knew. No connections were made other than those made by her mother for the sake of income. In the human world, her mother was a nurse, her role as a Wolf-Blooded healer never revealed to the child. It was after the untimely death of her True-Born husband that Betony packed up her infant and fled, hoping to escape the brutality of pack life and provide a better one for what remained of her family.
Sage was moved to Colorado, several states away from her mother’s wolf family. Once she was old enough, her days were occupied with training, focusing on first aid procedures, survival tactics, and the flora and fauna of the area until their identification became second nature. The girl never set foot inside a traditional school, her mother home-schooling her in all the basics. She learned how to be ‘normal’, her goals and ideals set to human standards.
Their life continued in the same manner for many years, hopping from town to town as the need arose, the pair always staying ahead of the danger that was perceived. It wasn’t until a few weeks after Sage’s fourteenth birthday that things changed drastically. Considered a late bloomer due to her delayed puberty, the subtle differences in her body finally began to occur.
...and then the prophecy came true. The wolves came.
For the first time in fourteen years, Sage’s mother was not prepared. There was no warning, no feeling of doom, just the burden of shock as the kitchen door burst open, torn asunder from its hinges. A True-Born entered, his shoulders filling the exit as his amber eyes fell on the Wolf-Blooded woman. He was followed in by several others, each as massive as the first. Her breath catching in her throat, Betony managed to shout one word to her daughter before being tossed out of the way.
“Run!”
The message came through loud and clear, adrenaline coursing through Sage’s veins as she dropped her book and leapt up, the sound of footsteps already pounding in the hall just outside her room. There was barely time to grab her belongings, the strap of her pack snatched up while she rushed to her second story window and threw it open. Wood against metal screeched as her door was knocked back, the girl catching a fleeting image of the man outlining her doorway. Without a second to spare, she scrambled out and slipped down the trellis with practiced ease, racing for the trees once her feet hit the ground.
Darkness engulfed her under the canopy, and yet she dodged the roots and low-hanging branches effortlessly, her vision at night nearly as sharp as the day. She managed to escape the wolves' clutches that night and for the three weeks that followed. A grueling time, the kindred kept the girl on the move, sleep barely caught as she tried to stay at least two steps ahead. She had little resources other than those in her bag, her wits the main thing carrying her though the long days. Struggling with the constant exertion, she finally collapsed from exhaustion whilst in the heart of a violent storm. As thunder and lightning shattered the stillness of the night, her transformation began.
It was her first. Hidden within the grasses of a lush field, Sage clutched a sopping hoodie to her face, screaming into its folds as pain racked her body. She writhed on her back, her limbs reshaping with bone snapping clarity. It was over quickly, the agony seeming to carry on for hours as spasms spread along her limbs. A weak yip signaled its end and a healthy wolf emerged, the silky coat dripping with water. Free at last from her human constraints, the girl ran again, this time on all fours. She felt the brisk breeze flow through her damp fur, the ground pounding against the padded feet. She was more alive than she had ever been...and she was not alone.
It was the first time she ran with members of the pack, but not the last. She awoke the next morning in a strange bed, the roof over her head made up of woven thatched grasses. She had no recollection of arriving there, but the room offered warmth, something she had been lacking during her weeks on the run. She was not given a chance to escape, her new home enclosed by the sheer walls of the Rocky Mountains, the only exit blocked by a tall wooden gate. Over time she adapted to her new family, her behavior rebellious, but tamed soon enough with a system of rewards and punishments.
Sage matured slowly, her connection to the pack tenuous at best. She never forgave them for taking her away from her mother, but she formed a few bonds and learned to become a wolf, memorizing their histories and origins. As she came of age, a mate was chosen for her, a young man she had known since her arrival. Neither objected. On the night of her twentieth birthday, a binding ceremony was performed, marrying her spirit to that of Malcolm Willows. A simple gold band was placed on her finger and the healing crystal that had belonged to her mother was slipped around her neck.
For the first time since joining the pack, her life became more than just tolerable. She grew to love her husband, enjoying the attention he bestowed upon her and the status she earned as his wife. She was free to go where she wanted and was finally able to become a healer in the commune, using the gifted stone to aid her in helping the sick. Its acquisition was another mystery surrounding her mother, but she kept her suspicions to herself, trying to make a life for herself as best as she could.
After a little more than a year, everything she had built began to fall apart. She had failed to become pregnant and Malcolm left her bed, seeking warmth in the arms of other women. She tried to pull him back, but his loyalty was lost once his seed was set in another. They fought constantly, their shouts heard throughout the commune. Their marriage dissolved a few years later, Sage breaking their bond officially through another ceremony.
Afterwards, a deep set feeling of unrest weighed upon her. She could sense the others looking at her with disdain and Malcolm became bothersome, refusing to accept her decision to leave his side. He desired both her and his other conquests, his continual attempts to get back into her life finally resulting in her leaving the compound. Wanting to put as much distance between her and the pack, she thumbed her way along the road, eventually meeting another of her kind and taking the offered ride.
Anchors:
Malcolm Willows--Sage's ex-husband. After five years of being a mated pair, she broke the bond due to infidelity and left the pack.
Betony Leunis--Sage's mother. She has been missing for about ten years. It is unknown if she is alive or dead.
Jason's body shows his years living on the street. Standing at 5'10, Jason keeps his body in decent shape, more out of necessity than like. Though he is well fit, he wouldn't say he's strong, able to throw a punch, but knowing that he isn't meant for fighting. His years of both surviving and finding a spot on his own, Jason's has a combination of track marks and scars that decorate his body and arms. The two most important to him is a stab woun on his right shoulder, and a bullet wound on his hip. Some have been hidden up by tattoes, one being a sleeve of the cover of his favorite band.
He doesn't care much for his look, his hair long and unkempt, along with a short beard kept short just due to work regulations.
Living just about anywhere, Jason usually wears a simple pair of jeans and black shirts, if for cost and durability. He pairs this with a set of combat boots and military coats. For the colder climates, he has several coats that he can use for them, but prefers the brisk cold more than most.
Spoiler: Wolf
As a wolf, Jason looks a bit healthier, if only because his long hair adds so apparent weight. He stands larger than most at 3 feet at the shoulder with large canines and brownish red hair, leading some to think he's got some dire wolf blood in him. His human blood does shine some, giving him a more angular and sharp appearance. Though a decent part of this is just being a bit underweight and mostly devoid of fat
Spoiler: Warrior
While his body doesn't change much in height, his body looks more like it has been stretched. Standing at 9'6", Jason has changed into a more ferocious yet just an edge of something strange, as though he doesn't belong in this world. His much darker fur and hunched over form makes him feel as though he's just a hair trigger from unleashing destruction upon all.
His fur is much more compact and thick in this form, lending him some extra durability and some protection. Despite his still gangly form, Jason is faster than he looks, and stronger than one would expect, the compact fur and stringy muscles lying about his strength.
Personal items: Jason has learned not to hold onto much for sentiment, but there are a few items that he keeps close to his heart. The first being the van that he lives out of, his first ever car he had bought.
The biggest thing he keeps is an ivory pendant with the carving of Yggdrasil on the front, with the Russian lettering on the back for NV. His mother told him it was a important name to his father, but all she could fully understand for the meaning was something to do with wolves.
Personality: Jason is a paranoid and mistrusting man, twitchy and always feeling the need to move. He tries to fit in normally with others, but there is always a feeling back in his mind that people were not happy around him. He always has a part in his mind that people are always out for him, most calling him a monster to harm others.
In truth though, Jason is always looking for a place to call a home, and is willing to give new places a try. Despite the feeling of unease, Jason gives places and people the benefit of the doubt, waiting and watching for whether a place or person will be worth his time and effort. He doesn't hate people in earnest, and he does try and make friends, but he always feel that people are scared around him.
Skills: Desperations disciple: Having grown on the streets as an outcast to all, Jason has had to learn to fight on his own. He fights without honor or discipline, striking for quick fights and knocking his opponent down. His bizarre and uncouth fighting style makes him rather hard to fight again.
Beaten and bruised: His years on the streets and abusing substances to help with the voices has both hardened and numbed his body. He can handle damage beyond what most can. He has a huge pain threshold that impress several people.
I see them all: Both paranoia, mental health, and years on the street has trained him to be aware of EVERYTHING. He has been trained to be aware and remember everything that happened nearby. You never know what might save your life.
Skills: Dirty boxer: Though he has trained himself, Jason has no formal training to fight. He might be able to survive a scrap or brawl, but any trained fighter would have an easy time with him.
Brittle bones: Though he is resilient to pain, that doesn't mean he is immune to all. He is more susceptible to broken or fractured bones. He doesn't know when to quit either, making some wounds even worse as he tends to forget and not get them treated.
The shadows speaks: Paranoia has caused him to see and hear things that aren't there at times. While he has been able to manage on good days, there are times when he can't tell the difference between shadows and reality,
Mates: Jason has shared the bed with a few women, but none that truly stick outside a few nights, more for a nice bed on a rough night.
Cubs: None that he knows about.
Bonds: Igor- unknown to them, both of them are related by Igor's father, making them step brothers. Jason was a result of a one night stand. Sage- Somewhat a stranger, he picked up the hitch hiker on his travel down from Denver. He doesn't have a fun reason why, but having a human to talk with helps. They have been together a few days.
Spoiler: Backstory
Jason had a truly rough childhood growing up. Born a bastard child to a college mother, Jason learned early on that life was rough and didn't care for the little people. Despite the love his mother had for him, he could sense a tension between them. His mother had been a promising student in college for a major business degree, she had to take a part time job to help pay and raise him. Despite them having to scrape by, his mother made sure he was well cared for and grew up.
When he started school though, more problems arose for him with the others. The others students bullied him, though that lasted only long enough before he fought back. The other issue that revealed itself was that he began hearing voices in his head. Indistinct words that started leaving him agitated and more aggressive. The school had him tested with their counselor and eventually required him to take medication or he would be expelled from the school. This took an even harsher toll on their finances for his mother and him, but they managed.
Things had settled down rather well for some time as they caught a lucky break. His mother had gotten a promotion and was now the lead manager at the retail store she worked at, while Jason had managed to make a few friends at the school. Jason finally had found some peace in his life, even though the voices were still there and he could sense the tension between the other students and even his own family.
A few nights after he turned twelve was when life decided to up end everything. He was woken by horrible pain, his entire body feeling as though he was splitting at the seams, blood boiling and bones snapping. He tried to scream out in pain as he shifted for the first time, watching fur cover his body and change into something out of a nightmare. He had screamed in pain, getting the attention of his mother. When he heard the door open, his head turned, red tinted vision looking for comfort, only to find terror. She looked at him in horror at what was happening to him, and she ran from the room. He tried to follow, struggling from the fire coursing through his skin before finding his mother in the kitchen on the phone. He called out for help, moving closer. His mother drew a knife on him, shouting that he had killed his son and she lunged, plunging the blade into his shoulder. He reacted in pain, striking his mother in the chest, watching blood flow from the deep gashes he left on her chest. Terrified that he had just struck his mother, and having been struck by her, he ran.
He was found in a city alleyway almost a full day later, the blade still stuck deep in his right shoulder. He confessed to killing his mother, telling them he had transformed into some sort of wolf thing. The police declared it some sort of mental defense after having seen someone kill his mother. They had placed him in a psychiatric mental ward to help him cope, both upping his medication and putting him on several others. He spent over five years in there as several tried to tell him it wasn't his fault, and that his schizophrenia had just gotten worse over the years.
Though he had been put into an orphanage for some time, no family had ever truly adopted him as he never was able to settle into their homes, always acting out or causing more problems. He eventually aged out and had been moved to a halfway house, unable to pay for the treatments, and having been declared sound of mind for the most part. He spent the first few years trying to adjust to life, bouncing between jobs and houses, his mental state getting worse for them. Unable to stop the voices and the memories, Jason turned to drugs to help. They helped dim the pain and left him spiraling into even darker places.
Hr didn't start turning his life around until he met Husk after his third time in jail. They bonded rather quickly and he finally felt that he had someone to care for other than his own problems. He knew it would be a slow burn, and he still used drugs and alcohol to dull the memories, but he finally began bettering himself and his life. While he didn't stick with the rehab places, he had finally started on repairing his broken future, even adopting Ziggy as another family member.
Anchors: Ziggy: a husky Shepard mix, Ziggy was the second dog he had rescued from a kennel. She is 5 years old as has been with him for 3 years. She is the more energetic of his two dogs, always eager for playing around and exploring
Husk: A chocolate lab, Husk is the older dog of the small family, and much more laid back. Having been taken from an abusive household, Husk is much more laid back and enjoys cuddling and sleeping in the sun.
Dr. Tamera Shanish: Though not a regular, Tamera is the old therapist he had worked with a few times when he had tried rehab. While he has left rehab now, he still contacts her when suffering from the worse nights.
Last edited by Koti~; 08-31-2020 at 03:50 PM.
"Even Dreams, can be a nightmare"
Spoiler: Click it, I dare ya!
"this is your crack team of operatives?!"
"Yes"
"Seriously?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"You basically got a wizard who uses scribbles to fight, a horny tattooed man who crawled out of a hole in the ground, a literal Viking that has no concept for sublty, a girl who's only qualification being a plot twist from a shamalan movie, female Mowgli and a 13 year old boy."
"Don't forget Connor."
"And then there's that fuck!"
"You forgot the werewolf and Yakuza assassin."
"Oh you mean the Eastern Scooby Doo and the video game mafia remake? Lord knows how those two haven't killed each other yet."
"Hey, they get the missions done."
"That's the worst part! Your team is one flamboyant clown away from a Saturday morning cartoon, and yet you work! How!"
"Magic"
Given by Rho Aias
"I have this inkling of a feeling that writing with you would be similar to turning into a poptart and running across space while shooting rainbows out backwards."
Zimpie:
"You just killed logic"
Xbox One Gamertag: Free Today56 just say who you are first.
Breath deep as the snow falls around you. Let it fill your lungs and purify the fires of doubt within you.
Swallowed By The Moon OOC [M]
Originally Posted by Light Fantastic
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