Multiple Settings Brave Enough - A Werewolf: the Apocalypse Quest

[wonderandawe]

Brave Enough updates each Monday (most of the time). All are welcome to comment and vote. Votes after Thursday Night may not impact next quest post.

In Character Posts Only | Post Archive​

You beat the shit out of your ex-boyfriend. You broke up with him and he decided to betray you. Scott posted those pictures you sent him on Facebook for everyone to see. This betrayal enraged you, so you put him in the hospital. Now your mother stares at you in fear. She says you both have to move back to Kirksville, TX. The small town she stole you away from when you were five. You don’t want to leave Austin or start fresh at a new high school but frankly you are lucky not to be in Juvie. Yet as you settle in Kirksville, you discover the secret of your family's heritage. A secret that will change the rest of your life.

Because soon you will change. Soon you will know the true meaning of rage.

Quest Player Character

Brave Enough is a Werewolf the Apocalypse Quest set in Hill Country Texas. Sigrid Kirk, the Player Character, is a sixteen year old girl returning to her mother's hometown after beating up a fellow student. There she discovers a family secret that will affect the rest of her life. Sigrid will have to adjust to small town life, deal with high school bullshit, make new friends, reconnect with family, pursue or ignore potential love interests, and deal with ramifications of her family's secrets.

As a player, you will vote on who the Player Character is, how she relates to those around her, and how she grows as into an adult. This quest will encompass a six month to one year span of the player character's life. A relatively short time period, but one that will define the rest of the character's life.

Quest Setting

Kirksville is a fictional small town in Texas Hill Country. It is not far from Fredericksburg and has a population of just less than two thousand people. The Player Character's ancestors settled in the area in the mid 1800s. A good third of the population is related to the Player Character and her mother. Kirksville consists of a single main street of businesses, a small neighborhood of houses, and is surrounded on one side with cattle ranches and other a wildlife refugee. The refugee protects an old growth forest. A single granite monolith rises above the old growth forest. The locals refer to this monadnock as the Crying Rock.


The quest is set in the World of Darkness, which is a dark, horror-driven reflection of our world. Warning: this quest may have curse words, references to sexual situations, illegal drug use, bullying, child abuse, gory violence, and more gory violence. If you fucking have a problem with teenagers talking about smoking pot and sucking dick, beating the shit out of each other, getting the shit beaten out of them by their parents, and getting ripped apart by angry werewolves, then perhaps this quest isn't for you.

Werewolf: the Apocalypse Spoiler Note

This quest is designed so you learn about the Werewolf: the Apocalypse setting as the player character does. However, some players may be familiar with the setting already. I ask those players to use spoiler tags for discussing any WtA details. I will do the same. For example:

Spoiler

The quest will go from the player character's pre-change difficulties though her first adventure after her Rite of Passage.

 

[wonderandawe]

You pace in your cell.

The lights above are dim. The cell’s concrete walls painted flesh pink. The walls remind you of a cold, dirty womb. A place of drowsy waiting. It was far different from the bright and minimalist jail cells you watched on TV. No bars, only a steel door with a single window. No graffiti, only the dirty flesh pink walls. No other prisoners, only yourself left alone with your fears.

The reek of urine from the toilet overpowers the sour stench of the drunk woman in here before you. The cops relocated her to a different cell. They didn’t trust you to share a cell with anyone. Not after what you have done.

Once, when you were younger, you visited a police station on a field trip. One of the officers told you the cells were painted pink to soothe the inmates. Studies have been done, he said. Then the officer offered to lock you up. A few of your classmates squealed in fear as the door slammed shut. Not you. You giggled as the officer wave at you from the scuffed up window. You knew this was a game. They weren’t going to leave you in here forever.

Now, you weren’t so sure they were going to let you out. The dirty flesh walls failed in their task; you felt far from soothed. You paced the cell, back and forth, over and over again. Seven steps from one end to the other. Three and a half paces to cover the whole cell.

You still had blood under your fingernails. You tuck your hands in your sweatshirt and hide them under your armpits. Your fingernails bit into your palms, drawing fresh blood. Scott had no right to share those photos on Facebook. Those pictures were personal. A gift between the two of you. Facebook took them down not long after he posted them. But enough people have seen them. Enough to blow up your phone with texts to tell you what happened.

Why did you send him those photos when he asked? You hadn’t even been on a date with Scott yet. You should have at least asked for dick pic in exchange. You proved to the entire school everything they say about blonde girls is true. Airhead. Ditz. Fool.

Scott seemed almost dead after your classmates pulled you away. While you have been in fights before, you never beat someone until they were unconscious. It scared you how easy Scott went down. You only smashed Scott’s head into the car window a few times. When you let him go, he collapsed to the ground without a sound. Blood dripped out of his crushed nose unto the asphalt.

Yet another part of you enjoyed bashing his head in. Your rage was intoxicating. You relieved the memory again and again. The texture of his hair caught in your hands. How he struggled against your grip. The sound of his nose breaking against the glass. Watching the blood drip down the car window.

How far could you have gone? What would it feel like to end someone’s life? You should have kept going. You had this instinct if you kept going, you would have found something profound. Like through Scott’s death, you would have discovered the true meaning of life.

You shake your head, ridding yourself of these insane thoughts. Society said killing people was wrong. No need for the judge to think you are crazy. If you told anyone this, you are sure they’d lock you up forever.

Anyways, you didn’t give a fuck about Scott. The bastard deserved the beating you gave him. Going on one date didn’t mean he owned you. He’s never seen you naked, at least not in real life. He should have accepted your rejection and moved the fuck on.

And you pace through your emotions again.

Anger.

Self-Loathing.

Fear.

Longing.

And finally, Hope. You stop pacing at the sound of a distant steel door opening. You step to the window to look out. You don’t see anyone from your vantage point, but hear footsteps echo down the cell block. You sit down on the concrete bench and steel yourself for disappointment again. They always walk past your cell. They are never here for you.

A police woman with short fake orange hair appears in the window. Extra pounds and years weigh down her face. She puffs her cheeks out as she consults her clipboard. Then she knocks on your cell door and calls your name.

What is your name?

• Jennifer, a name meaning “fair enchantress” (Pure Breed 3)
  
• Abigail, a name meaning “my father’s joy” (Pure Breed 3)
  
• Emma, a name meaning “whole” (Pure Breed 4)
  
• Sofia, a name meaning “wisdom” (Pure Breed 4)
  
• Regine, a name meaning “queen” (Pure Breed 5)
  
• Sigrid, a name meaning “beautiful victory” (Pure Breed 5)
  
• None of these are my name! My name is….. (Pure Breed ST Choice)

Out of Character Information
((In case it matters, your last name is Kirk. ))

((If you don’t know what Pure Breed is, don’t worry about it. Just pick the name you like. ))

Spoiler Werewolf the Apocalypse Setting Notes

Spoiler

You’ll notice I didn’t list the tribe for the Pure Breed. Just like real life, you can’t choose your ancestors. If you haven’t guessed the tribe already, you’ll find out along with the player character. But just because you were born into a tribe, doesn’t mean you have to choose that tribe at your Rite of Passage.

 

[wonderandawe]

“Sigrid Kirk?”

“Here.” You rise to your feet, recognizing you answered the police officer as if she took attendance. You swallow your fear and blank your face clean of emotion. You weren’t going to let this cop see how scared you were. You were brave enough to handle a little jail time.

The police officer unlocks the steel door. You didn’t want the cop to notice bloody scabs on your palms. You hold out your wrists, palms down, for handcuffs. “You don’t need cuffs.” She informs you with a smug smile. “Someone posted your bail.”

“Who posted my bail? My mother?” You dread the thought of facing your mother. If by some miracle you didn’t end up in prison, you are sure to be grounded for the rest of your life. Or until you leave for college in two years. But more importantly, how did she raise the bail money? You and your mother barely scraped together rent some months. What did she pawn this time?

The police officer puts a manicured finger to her lips to silence you. She leads you out of the cell block and into a dusty office, the same one where the police processed your arrest earlier. After the dim jail cell, the bright and sterile fluorescent light burn your eyes.

An older man, well-aged as fine wine, searches through the desk drawers. Between his expensive grey suit and his haphazard search you know this man is no detective. The grey suited man stares as you enter the office, his eyes soured like vinegar. When you return his scrutinizing glare, the grey suited man looks away. He crams the papers back into the drawer. “Where are her fingerprints?” The grey suited man slams the drawer shut.

The police officer purses her lips in frustration. She pulls the card with your fingerprints from a file organizer on her desk. The grey suited man plucks your fingerprint card from her hand and slips it in an orange file folder. Your name is printed on the file tab. “Take care of the digital records after you release her.” the grey suited man orders as he vacates the room.

You observe this exchange and wonder what the fuck is going on. This may be your first arrest, but your instincts warn you this release procedure is shady. They also warn you to shut the fuck up until they let you out.

The next stop is the evidence locker. The police officer tells the clerk your case number and waits with you. “You look nervous,” she observes, leaning against the dutch door.

No shit, bitch. You bite back your snarky remark. You had no clue what the fuck was going on, but you watched enough cop shows to know not to speak. Not without a lawyer. Anything can be used against you in the court of law.

“I wouldn’t worry. Your mother has some powerful and rich friends.” The police officer emphasizes rich with a smirk. She taps her french manicured nails on the dutch door. “Soon this will all be behind you.”

Your mother was a freaking artist who worked minimum wage jobs under the table. She drove in a sun bleached Dodge Caravan older than you were - when it was running, which was rarely. Caroline Rothenburg did not have any rich friends.

Shit, they must be releasing the wrong person. You worry at this thought when the elderly evidence clerk returns. He passes over a large plastic bag containing your backpack and other things. Every item on your person - from a receipt for lip gloss to your uncharged cell phone- had been labeled and sorted into little plastic bags. You shove them all into your backpack. You’ll deal with them later. You needed to leave before someone realizes this bitch released the wrong person.

You follow the police officer though a maze of hallways haunted by the ghosts of stress and stale coffee. Despite the police station being open all hours of the day, all the offices are empty. The police officer fiddles with the fire escape door and busts it open without setting off the alarm. The muggy Texas summer heat invades the air conditioned office. You want to pull off your sweatshirt, but it hides the blood stains on your tee shirt.

The sun has long set and street lights illuminate the half filled parking lot. Your mother waits with another person under a street lamp at the edge of the lot. The street lights cast a yellow pall over her pale skin. She is dressed in her art clothes - a white tank top and jean capris stained with earth toned paint. Her long blonde hair is haphazardly pulled into a claw clip. You squeeze the strap of your backpack with sweaty hands as your mother glances up at the fire escape. She breaks off her conversation mid-sentence as she starts towards you. Her pace picks up as she draws closer, not quite achieving a run.

What is your relationship like with your mother?

• Sacrifice. Between paying the bills and keeping your fed and clothed, your mother barely has time for her art or herself. She comes home from work late and leaves early. Your mother feels guilty for leaving yourself all the time.
  
• Neglectful. Her art and friends consume all your mother’s time. You wish she’d paid as much attention to you as her latest project. Heck, beating up Scott may bring you and your mother closer. It certainly attracted her attention.
  
• Combative. You and your mother constantly argue. Yelling is your form of communication. Yet you know if something were to go wrong, she’d kill a man to protect you. You’d hate to see what your mother would have done to Scott if she got to him first.
  
• Permissive. You and your mother are close. Between the frequent moves, she is the only constant in your life. She is your best friend and it has always been the two of you against the uncaring world. You have no curfew. She trusts you and doesn't ask too many questions.
  
• Other. Be sure to describe your relationship with your mother.
  

 

[wonderandawe]

In a few steps, your mother’s warm embrace enfolds you. As your mother hugs you, you bury your nose into her shoulder. The scents of paint and herbal soap bring you back to the countless nights she comforted you as a child. She would come into your room, after you had a nightmare, dried paint still under her fingernails. The memory of her lullaby brings tears to your eyes. “I'll protect you from harm, and you'll wake in my arms.” A tension you didn’t realize you had leaves your body. Everything will be okay now your mother is here.

Your mother pulls away and examines you head to toe. She brushes hair from your face to get a better look at your face. “Are you okay? That boy didn’t hurt you, did he?” she asks as if you were the one injured and put in the hospital.

“That boy didn’t get a chance to touch her.” A woman comments, her voice tinged with pride. At the sound of her voice, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your mother grabs your hand and together you face the woman.

Despite the summer heat, the woman wears a burgundy pantsuit. Her straightened hair brushed back into a severe bun and her dark skin shines in the streetlights. Straight backed, head held high -the woman’s entire demeanor screams military to you. Her jacket bulges at the shoulders - her gun, you realize. Your mother is a head taller than this woman, but there is no doubt in your mind who is more dangerous. She didn’t look old enough to be a detective; she couldn’t be more than twenty-five. “Are you a cop? I mean, police officer?” You didn’t want to offend this woman.

A close-lipped smile creeps across her face. “No, I work for your father.” Your father runs the Crying Rock Wilderness Preserve, a private wildlife refuge in your mother’s hometown. Whatever this woman’s skill set is, you doubt she nurses baby animals back to health. What the fuck does your father need with former military? Are poachers shot on sight?

“My name is Andrea Jordan.” Andrea holds out her hand. You want to take a step back from Andrea, but some instinct tells you to stand your ground. Don’t show this woman weakness. You take the offered hand and give it a firm shake. Andrea’s smile grows warmer and she squeezes your hand before releasing it. She is doing her best to seem non-threatening.

“What do you do at the Wildlife Preserve?” You ask.

Andrea does not expect this question. “It’s complicated to explain.” She rubs her earlobe as she considers her answer. “I suppose I am Crying Rock’s firearms and demolitions expert.”

“Like explosions? That’s so cool!” Curiosity erases your unease. You never met anyone who blew shit up for a living. “How did you get into that field? Were you in the military?”

“Sigrid, don’t badger Andrea with questions.” Your mother squeezes your hand tight; her own hand slick with sweat.

“I dropped out of boot camp.” There must be a story about this, but Andrea’s tone warns you not to pry. “My father was a Marine. He taught me everything he knew about guns. ” Desperate to escape this conversation, Andrea’s eyes dart behind you. You follow her gaze to the two men talking at the other end of the parking lot.

You recognize the grey suited man from the police station. He stands before a tall tanned man dressed in a brown sports coat and jeans. The man in the sports coat reminds you of a father on his way to pick up his kids from day care. Not the type to be having clandestine meetings with shady politicians in police parking lots.

The man in the sports coat crosses his arms and listens to the grey suited man speak. The grey suited man pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes sweat from his brow. After he is finished speaking, the grey suited man waits like a mouse hiding in the grass. Finally, the man in the sports coat nods. The grey suited man hands over your orange folder and a post it note. He retreats into the police station.

“Greedy bastard,” the man in the sports coat mutters when he joins your group. He hands Andrea your orange file folder and sticks the post it note to the palm his hand. He pulls out a high end smart phone and takes a picture. The man crumbles the post-it note in his fist. He frowns, at a lost on what to do with it. The man shrugs and puts the crumpled note in his pocket. “That’s done.” He says with a satisfied sigh. “Do you need help moving, Caroline?”

“Moving? Where are we moving to?” you ask. There was no time to move; school starts in a few days. Though not having to face the other students held a certain attraction. “How soon can we move?”

“Kirksville.” Kirksville is your mother’s hometown. And your hometown too, though you haven’t been there since you were five. Barely two thousand people live in Kirksville, a good third of them your mother’s relatives. “And we will talk about this later.” You mother only used this tone when ordering you to stay out of sight from your sleazy landlord. You clench your jaw and stay silent.

“School starts on Monday, so we have to move you this weekend.” The man takes off his sports coat and tosses it to Andrea. She catches it with an irritated grimace, but folds it over her arm. “Between Andrea and I, it shouldn’t take too long to pack your stuff into a truck.”

“We can handle it, Greg.” your mother says. “You must be needed back in Kirksville.”

“I’m needed here more.” Greg rolls up the sleeves on his dark blue shirt. “You and Sigrid can’t move all your furniture by yourself. If you got help, why not use it?”

“We don’t have much to pack.” Your mother counters. “Our current apartment came furnished so we only have clothes and dishes and pots and pans. Sigrid and I can handle it.” Furnished was a generous description for the particle board shit the landlord gave you.

“You aren’t bringing any furniture with you?” Andrea asks surprised.

Your mother shakes her head no. “We will be fine. I have a taxi coming to pick us up.”

“Taxi? You having car trouble?”

“I just need a new battery.” It’s painfully obvious your mother wants these people to leave her alone.

“You don’t need a taxi. We can give you a ride. I don’t know much about cars, but I’m sure I can google how to change a battery.” It is also painfully obvious Greg plans on helping your mother despite what she says.

“Or rent you a car after Greg fries your electrical system.” Andrea reassures your mother.

“I have the van at the shop….” Your mother begins. You doubt your mother had the van towed in the hours since you last saw it.

“If it is only a dead battery, why is your van in the shop, Caroline?” Greg asks through gritted teeth. Caught in a lie, your mother falls silent and looks towards the street. Fingering his wedding ring, Greg takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Caroline, I thought we agreed on the best course of action.”

“I know. We did. Just give me a few days….”

“Because, I’m starting to think you don’t understand how dangerous your situation is. The last thing I want is for you get hurt.”

Whoa. Is this Greg guy threatening your mother? You stand in front of her and confront Greg. “Are you fucking threatening my mother?” You weren’t going to let some soccer dad disrespect your mother.

“Sigrid! Don’t!” Your mother grabs your arm, but you shake her off.

You get into this Greg’s face. It didn’t matter he was older than you, taller than you, and outweighed you. “You don’t fucking talk to my mother that way or I’ll kick your ass!” You stare him down, trying to cow him like you did with the grey suited man earlier. Yet unlike the sour politician, Greg holds the stare until the intensity of it forces you to break off first.

“Please!” your mother begs. “She is just a child. She doesn’t know what she is doing.” She reaches out to you, but Andrea holds her back in a firm grip. Your mother clenches her hands uselessly.

“I know Sigrid didn’t mean any harm.” Greg reassures your mother. Which is bullshit. If you weren’t standing in a police parking lot, you would have demonstrated to Greg what you did to Scott earlier. Greg’s face could use a little rearrangement.

“Sigrid, I won’t hurt you or your mother. Don’t you agree that bailing you out of jail proves I’m here to help?” Greg speaks to you as if you were a small child who didn’t know any better. You scowl and don’t answer. “Sigrid.” He prompts you to answer.

“Yes. Fine. Whatever.” You can’t leave that as the last word. “Can you stop freaking out my mother, please? We can take care of ourselves.”

“I’m sorry, Sigrid.” To your surprise, Greg sounds contrite. Greg scratches the back of his head. “Sometimes I forget my assistance isn’t always wanted. Would you rather your Aunt Anne help you move?”

Anne was your mother’s oldest sister and one of the few family members your mother still talked to. Suddenly you realize who this Greg is. Last year, your Aunt married some California tech guru. You remember finding the wedding invitation, long past the ceremony date, in the trash. Gregory Wright was the name.

Shit, that cop bitch was right. You do have rich relatives. And to thank him for bailing you out of jail, you threatened your new rich uncle with physical violence. Great fucking first impression.

“Yes, I’ll call her tomorrow morning.” your mother agrees, relieved. “We will be in Kirksville by Monday.” She promises.

Greg, you guess Uncle Greg now, nods. “We will be in Austin for the night. Here is my card in case anything else happens.” Uncle Greg offers your mother his business card. Your mother hesitates. “It’s just a card. Nothing more.” He reveals identical cards in his steel business card holder. “You can pick one if you’d like.”

“I’ll take a card.” You say, as a peace offering. Your uncle did bail you out of jail and someone needs to pay for your lawyer. It’s not like anyone else in your family has money. Though did you even need a lawyer? People who post bail didn’t immediately move to another city. Actually, you are sure staying in town is a condition of posting bail. You glance at the orange folder in Andrea’s arms. Uncle Greg must have bribed the police into releasing you.

Uncle Greg fans out his business cards and you pluck a card from his hand. The bright white card has a fine matte texture. In gleaming black ink, it reads “Gregory Wright, Environmental Consultant.” Listed underneath is a phone number and email address.

“Environmental Consultant?” You question. “I thought you were a computer guy.”

“I wear many hats.” Uncle Greg slips his business card holder back into his pocket. “You can call anytime, Sigrid. Day or night.”

“Your father’s not shy about it.” Andrea grumbles.

“Hush, Thunder.” Uncle Greg growls, as his phone lights up. “Hello? Hey, we were just talking about you…. Yeah, she’s here. She’s fine. We are still in the parking lot of the station…. Of course, it’s safe. They are too busy counting their money.” Uncle Greg snorts. “It’s a figure of speech, Frank. Where am I going to get that much cash at this time of night?..... No, I didn’t tell her anything. You said you’d want to talk to her yourself.”

Uncle Greg offers you his phone. “It’s your father.”

What is your relationship with your father like?

• Non-existent. This is the first time you have had contact with him in years.
  
• Distant. You have not spoken to your father since you made the obligatory call to thanked him for your birthday present.
  
• One-sided. You and your father interact through Facebook. Or rather he attempts to interact with you and you ignore him. About once a month or so, he will comment on every photo you post. You are positive the only reason why he has an account is to follow your life.
  
• Close. You and your father have spent countless hours playing games online. And by games you mean chess… on Yahoo Games. Your dad’s kind of old school. You suspect he only uses the computer to play chess with you.
  
• Other. Be sure to describe your relationship with your father.
  

 

[wonderandawe]

Your father.

You haven’t seen your father since your parents signed the divorce papers years ago. Despite living less than two hours away, he never visited Austin. He was always busy with work. Your only contact with your father was over the phone. You called on your birthday and Christmas to thank him for the presents he sent.

And he called when you fucked up. And this time you fucked up big time. You are dreading this conversation. Before you could lose your nerve, you put Uncle Greg’s phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Sigrid?” Your father’s deep voice rumbles despite the tiny cell phone speaker. “You okay?”

The edges of the cell phone bite into your hand, as you squeeze. Your naked photos were all over the internet and you spent the last six hours in a urine soaked jail cell. How did he think you feel? Yet, when your mother asked the same question, you didn’t bit her head off. You swallow your anger, not willing to set him off. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Your father doesn’t immediately answer. You wait in anticipatory silence for the screaming to start. To your surprise, your father says, “If you are worried about the pictures, I had your Uncle Greg take care of them.” There is an awkwardness to his words. Fatherhood is a part he rarely plays.

“Um…” The idea of both your father and Uncle Greg seeing those pictures makes you want to crawl under the parking lot and pull the asphalt over you. Maybe they had a way to delete them without looking at them. “Thanks?”

Your father grunts in reply. You start to worry. Did you fuck up so bad you went right past anger into concern already? Would you escape the inevitable explosion?

“What the fuck were you thinking, Sigrid!?” The cell connection crackles unable to contain your father’s rage. It was almost a relief to hear your father raise his voice. “Your mother and I didn’t raise you to be stupid.”

“Stupid!?” Your father’s words ignites your own temper. “What did you expect me to do?! Scott disrespected me…”

“I’m not talking about the boy,” Your father brushes off your assault of Scott as unimportant. “Why the fuck did you take pictures of yourself and put them on the internet?!”

“I didn’t put them on the internet!” You defend yourself against your father's accusation of stupidity. “Scott did.”

“Sigrid. As soon as you took those pictures with your phone, they were on the internet.” Your father lectures. “Once things go on the web, anyone could gain access to them. Even if you hadn’t send them to this Scott.”

“But…”

“No excuses, Sigrid!” Your father pauses for a moment and continues in a softer tone. “We have all done stupid shit. God knows I have. You have to be more careful, Cupcake.“

Cupcake. When you were born, your father saw you swaddled with a little pink hat on top your head. “She looks like a little cupcake.” He told your mother. Cupcake has been your father’s pet name for your ever since. You would have died if anyone heard you be called ‘cupcake’. You would have killed anyone else who called you ‘cupcake’. But it was your father and it was one of the few things you shared.

“I know.” You shuffle your feet. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.”

“Don't worry about it, Cupcake. I took care of it.” Your father reassures you. “It could have been worse.”

“How?” You have no clue how this situation could have been worse. You were in jail.

“I know you have a lot of questions. Sometime next week, I’ll pick you up after school and we can talk, okay? I can show you around Crying Rock and you can see what I do all day.”

“Or you could tell me now.” Between the police bribery and the demolitions expert, your father’s work was not what it seemed. What did he really do? Grow pot in the forest? Transport cocaine for the Mexican Cartels? Run one of those survivalist militia groups?

“No,” Your father’s tone bore no argument. “Best I tell you in person.”

You considered pushing him for more information. Yet a police parking lot was not the best place to be having this conversation. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Work may keep me… ”

“No.” You will not wait all week for your father to show up. “Don’t give me the work bullshit. Bambi can wait.”

“Monday.” He promises. “Don’t let your temper get the best of you.”

Your father of all people is not allowed to lecture you on your temper. “Show up on Monday and it won’t.”

He chuckles. “I love you, Sigrid.”

You bite your lip, conflicted. Part of you didn’t want your father’s love. It would be easier to hate him for choosing his work over his only child. Still you answer you father honestly. “I love you too, dad.” It was the only answer you can give.

“Now, give the phone back to Sparks.” His tone brisk and nonsense. “I need to talk to him.”

“Sparks?” Did your father give everyone weird nicknames?

“Shit.” Your father curses. “I mean your Uncle Greg.”

You hold out the phone to Uncle Greg. “My father wants to talk to you, Sparks.” You test out the name to see Uncle Greg’s reaction.

To your disappointment, Uncle Greg does not react to the nickname. He takes the phone. “Hello? That could have gone better….” He walks out of earshot. You observe your Uncle Greg, wondering if he too works at the Wilderness Preserve.

Monday… Usually weekends race by, but now Monday afternoon seems a long way off.

An old raven caws. He sits on an electric line, towering over the crows resting beside him. His patchy black feathers shine in the streetlights. Despite his scarred appearance, the raven was not weak. He earned those scars by fighting off hawks and winning. When he opens his hooked beak to caw again, the crows continue to sleep undisturbed.

You recognize this raven. He followed you as long as you could remember. As a child, the old raven sat on the electrical line outside of your school. You dreamed he stared at you from the foot of your bed and watched you sleep. In the morning, the Raven was outside on the electric lines, as usual. You even named him - Toddy. Okay, not the best name, but you were six at the time.

Your mother couldn’t see Toddy, though she warned you never to tell anyone about the raven. They will think you were crazy, seeing things, she said. For your whole life, no one reacted to anything Toddy did. Yet when Toddy cawed, Uncle Greg turned and looked up at the old raven.

What do you do?

• Interrupt Greg and your father’s conversation to ask about the Toddy the Raven.
  
  
• Talk to your mother again. Maybe she knew more about Toddy then she was letting on.
  
  
• Pump Andrea for information. She already let the demolitions thing slip. Maybe you can find out more about the Wildlife Reserve.
  
  
• Eavesdrop on Uncle Greg talking to your dad.
  
  
• Other

Out of Character Commentary
((Our first action decision point! Don’t worry, we got other character creation decision points coming up. ))

((I tried to find a happy medium between the less hostile version of distance and the more angry version of Distant I had planned.))

Out of Character Commentary

 

[wonderandawe]

You give Toddy one last glance and return to your mother and Andrea. Interrupting your father’s phone conversation with Uncle Greg with questions was not the best way to get answers. Andrea seemed more forthcoming with information than your family.

“Andrea? What is with everyone’s weird nicknames?” You decide to start with an innocuous question.

“Sigrid…” your mother warns.

“No, it’s okay.” Andrea frowns considering your question. “I see no harm in answering. These names are our Deed Names. My Deed Name is Crack of Thunder. “

“Oh! Like a Gunshot!”

“Yes!” Andrea’s eyes light up when you guess the meaning behind her deed name. “You can call me Thunder. I prefer it to Andrea.”

“Do you have a deed name?” You ask your mother.

“No,” Your mother hugs herself, uncomfortable with the subject of this conversation. “Only those who work at Crying Rock get a Deed Name.”

“Uncle Greg does work at the Preserve. Dad called him Sparks. What’s the story behind his Deed Name?”

“Sparks earned his Deed Name in Los Angeles.” Andrea snorts. “I’ve heard a few stories, but Sparks won’t say which one is true.”

Your mother winces and you ponce on Thunder’s mistake. “Wait. Crying Rock is in Texas, not California. If you earn your Deed Name for working at Crying Rock, why did Uncle Greg get his in California?”

Confronted with her mistake, Thunder clenches her fists. Your hairs stand up on end. Your mother takes a step closer to you. Thunder takes a deep breath and forces herself calm. “You have a lot of questions.” Thunder tells you though gritted teeth. “We want to answer them, but we can not defy your father. It is his right to tell you what is happening to you.”

“What is going to happen? I’m getting fucking sick of this mysterious bullshit.” Toddy caws and Thunder silences the bird with a growl. “You can see Toddy, too!” you accuse. “What the fuck is he?”

“Andrea, go sit in the car.” You jump at Uncle Greg’s voice. Thunder looks down at the asphalt, nods, and leaves the parking lot.

“What is her problem?” You say. “I was just asking a fucking question.” Uncle Greg silences you with a glance. You too look down at the asphalt.

Still Uncle Greg answers your question. “Toddy is your Kinfetch. He is assigned to watch over you.”

At first, getting an answer to your question excites you. “Shit, I already figured that out!” Uncle Greg didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know.

“Sigrid, you are a smart girl. You have figured out just enough to be dangerous. Do you think this is either the time or the place for questions?” Uncle Greg nods at an empty police cruiser.

“No.” You had no choice but agree with Uncle Greg’s point. How did he manage to be both kind and condescending at the same time?

“Look, your taxi is here.” Uncle Greg smiles as the yellow checkered vehicle drives up. “You sure you don’t need help moving, Caroline?”

Your mother doesn’t respond. She takes you by the shoulders and leads you to the taxi. Uncle Greg passes the driver some cash. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to give me a call, Sigrid.” Uncle Greg reminds you.

“Anything except answers,” You remind him. You can taste the bitterness in your statement.

Uncle Greg sighs and slaps his hand on the taxi roof. The taxi pulls out of the parking lot and you look back through the dirty rear window. Uncle Greg stands in the parking lot alone. He gives you a wave as the taxi drives away.


You and your mother live in an older three story apartment building. An ancient live oak stands by the building, its roots buckling the sidewalk. Holly hedges protect each window. A line of scrub pines defend the apartment from the busy road. Dry pine needles blankets the ground instead of phosphate assisted green grass.

Your mother had a deal with the sleazy landlord. In exchange for free rent, your mother managed the property. At first, she did little besides collect rent from the residents and call the cops for domestic disturbances. When the maintenance man quit, your mother took over fixing minor maintenance problems. Soon, the landlord got a full time leasing manager for the price of rent on a two bedroom apartment.

The building is painted in a garnish paint which clashes with your mother’s artistic sensibilities. When the landlord brought the paint to the apartment, she refused to apply the horrible shades of color. Only when he threatened to evict you and your mother did she call the painters.

A stray tomcat, ear notched by territorial battles, sits on a bulging railroad tie wall. The tomcat watches calmly as the taxi pulls up to the apartment. Nothing short of large dogs and loud trucks scare this cat. Fearless, he would come up to you and beg for food. Yet as you open the door and get out of the taxi, the tomcat hisses, puffs up his tail, and flees in fear.

“Weird. Greeto’s never run from me before.” You glance back at your mother to see her reaction to the tomcat’s strange behavior. Your mother looks as frightened as the cat itself. Her fair skin paled to a ghostly white. Unshed tears glisten in her eyes. “Mom?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice cracks despite her reassurance. “It’s been a long day. Let’s get inside, Sigrid. It’s not safe on the street.”

The two bedroom apartment apartment you share with your mother is small. Brown carpets so old, you are unsure they began their life as brown. The vinyl flooring matches the beige and fake oak cabinets. Despite its scruffy looks, the apartment was clean, scented by soap and herbs.

The sleazy landlord allowed your mother to paint the walls. Though the mural above the couch was not now what he had in mind. Cowboys drive a stampede of cattle safely away from two towering giants. The juxtaposition between everyday Texas ranch culture and ancient old world myth was your mother’s favorite subject. Unfortunately, the paintings didn’t sell well at the farmer’s market. Her herbal soaps and other homemade bath products put food on the table.

You loved that mural and it saddened you it had to be left behind. If only your mother painted it on canvas. Then it wouldn’t be covered over by whoever lives in this apartment after you.

You join your mother in the kitchen. She rummages through the cabinets for peanut butter. Jelly and bread sit on the counter. Outside the window, Toddy sits in his usual spot on the electric line. You lean against the kitchen counter and cross your arms. “I’m guessing you aren’t going to tell me anything either?”

You mother opens the jar of jelly and spreads it on the bread thick, which is how you like it. “Your father can explain better than I.”

“Then he can answer any questions I have after you tell me what is going on.”

“Sigrid, I don’t ask much of you. Please just leave this one alone.” Your mother begs. She finishes assembling two sandwiches and offers you one. “Greg said your father will tell you everything on Monday.”

“If he shows up.” Your mother doesn’t say anything to this, sharing your bitterness. Your father has always chosen work over his family. Why should that change now?

You take a bite of your sandwich, excess strawberry jelly drips down onto your plate. Your mother puts the sandwich makings away. Then she compiles a to-do list for the move to Kirksville. Buy car battery. Find moving boxes. Pack Kitchen. Pack Art Supplies. Pack Sigrid’s room. Clean out Fridge. Shampoo the carpet. Scrub floors. As the list grows, her sandwich sits ignored on the counter.

All you were doing was stressing your mother more by pushing this. She did have a long day which included bailing you out of jail. Tomorrow she was moving back to the small town expecting who knows what welcome. Somehow you doubt they will be killing the fatted calf for your return. You should give her a break. “I won’t bug you about it anymore.” You are a big girl. You can wait until Monday. If your father doesn’t show up, you’ll go looking for him. Kirksville isn’t that big.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Your mother sets down her list and checks the peephole. “Shit. It’s Vic.” Vic was your sleazy landlord.

“Caroline!” Vic knocks again. “Is that you I hear there?!”

“Go away, Vic. It’s after midnight.” Your mother yells through the door.

“What’s this text about you moving?” Vic squeals through the door.

“Go. The. Fuck. Away.” Your mother rests her forehead against the door. “I’ve had a long day and I don’t have time to shovel your pig shit.”

“Give me five minutes and I’ll leave you alone.”

“It’s never only five minutes, you lying sack of shit.” She mutters. Your mother thuds the door with her forehead and unlocks it. ‘Stay inside.” She orders as she slips out to deal with the landlord.

What do you do?

• Go outside with your mother and Vic. You can help your mother get rid of the sleazy bastard
  
  
• Go to your mother’s room and search through her stuff. Maybe she has some clue hiding in there.
  
  
• Start packing. Don’t have much time to move and there is no way you are getting sleep tonight.
  
  
• Go to bed. You are tired of this day. Tomorrow will be better.
  
  
• Other

 

[wonderandawe]

As soon as your mother leaves, you crash on the couch trembling. You put your head into your hands and think about how you fucked everything up. This morning you were a high school student enjoying the last days of summer freedom. Your few hard earned friends invited you to go to a movie. People seem to respect you more than like you. You intimidated them. You were too intense, they would say. Calm the fuck down, Sigrid, they would say. And they were right. You wouldn’t have fucked everything up if you kept your temper.

This morning you biggest worry was if rejecting Scott was the wrong decision. Now you know you were right about Scott. You didn’t need that type of asshole in your life. You realized after your first date you liked the idea of a boyfriend more than dealing with the actual boyfriend. Texting and chatting on Facebook was fun while dating was theoretical. During the actual date, you realize you and Scott had nothing in common. You didn’t even like Scott. He was simply the only single guy in your group of friends.

What if no one else ever asked you out again? Were you doomed to be alone forever? You shake your head. Were you really thinking about boys? You are a violent criminal now. Didn’t you have better things to think about? Maybe plan your next crime? You survived this long without a boyfriend. And the rest of the male species was better off avoiding you. Your track record shows you are more likely to bash their head in than kiss with them.

Desperate to think about anything else, your eyes fall upon the ten year old Texas Road Atlas your mother kept on the bookshelf. You pull it off the shelf and flip the pages until you find Kirksville. Your finger traces the single pink line that runs through the town. Shit! This place only has one main street! There was nothing there except cow pastures and the Wilderness Preserve. Did Kirksville even has a high school? Was there anything to do in Kirksville besides tipping cows and flinging mud pies? Disgusted, you throw the Atlas back on the bookshelf. Maybe the town grew in the years since the Atlas was printed.

Your mother never talked about Kirksville. She never called her family and rarely answered when they called her. She didn’t show up to either of her grandparent’s funerals nor to her sister’s wedding. If your father didn’t threaten to take her to court, she may not even talk to him about you. Your mother often used calling your father to keep you in line and let him be the bearer of bad news.

Shit. Whatever is going must be bad if your mother wanted your father to talk to you about it.

Still, at least you could do is make the move easier on your mother. In the past year, your mother’s soap business finally turned a profit. She had regular visitors to her farmer's market booth. People would call her with special orders. Now she will have to start all over in a town smaller than her current customer base.

Guilt forces you off your ass. You wash the dishes. You clean out the fridge. You open the cupboards and inventory what needs to be packed. You groan in frustration when you realize you don’t have any newspaper nor moving boxes. You promise yourself to wake up early to steal the neighbor’s newspapers. They can always call the newspaper office to replace them.

Your mother returns, her expression weary and worn. Dark circles under her eyes betray the amount of stress she is under. “Sigrid, don’t worry about the kitchen. I’ll get it in the morning.” She closes her eyes. “I’m going to bed.” Her tone tells you she is fucking done with this day. She retreats to her bedroom and closes the door shut.

You stand alone in the kitchen, shakened by your mother’s appearance. Your mother has been though a lot over the years. Yet though every trip to the emergency room, every eviction notice, every school detention, your mother was there for you. She even threatened physical violence on a school administrator before. She handled every problem that came your way. Nothing fazed her. Being a single mother isn’t easy but your mother has always had your back. It was the two of you against the world.

Toddy caws and you shiver. You had this feeling… this certainty you were going to a place where your mother couldn’t follow. The little lies you tell yourself are striped away. You are forced to accept both you and your mother’s mortality. One day your mother wouldn’t be here to take care of you.

You will be on your own.

Toddy caws again. You open the door and scream. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid bird!” You scream out the door. “If you aren’t going to tell me what the fuck is going on, at least be silent.” You slam the door, ignoring the annoyed cries of neighbors. You didn’t care. You won’t seeing them again after you move.

Shit, you should have asked Uncle Greg more questions about Toddy. What was a Kinfetch exactly and why did only you have one? You push open the door to your room.

“What the…” You find Toddy flapping his wings from your metal footboard. You close the door and count to ten. You open the door to find Toddy still sitting there waiting. There was no way he could have gotten in. You had nightmares about the old scarred raven staring down at you while you slept. Apparently they were true.

You sit on the bed next to Toddy. “You are smarter than you look.” You accuse. “Can you talk?” You read some ravens could learn words.

Toddy says nothing and stares at you.

“What the fuck are you?” you ask.

Toddy cocks his head and caws.

“Shit, of course I don’t get the bird who speaks English.” You throw yourself back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling for a bit. Your mind refused to turn off for sleep. Then you cast your eyes around the room. If you weren’t going to sleep you might as well pack.

What do you pack first?

• Athletic Equipment. You were a top athletic. You do okay in school, but sports scholarships are going to pay the tuition bills. (Physical, Mental, Social)
• Cheerleader Equipment. Despite what people say, Cheer really is a sport. You love rousing the crowd to cheer the football players on. (Physical, Social, Mental)
• Old Textbooks. You were a teacher’s pet in your old school. You got your homework before the end of period it was assigned. You know the right questions to ask to impress the teachers. (Mental, Social, Physical)
• Art Supplies. You are an artist like your mother. You have a good eye for color and form. You are dexterous enough to craft jewelry and can throw heavy clay easily. (Mental, Physical, Social)
• Campaign Materials. You were on your way to becoming Junior Class President at your old school. Now you are going to have build your reputation all over again. (Social, Mental, Physical)
• Musical Instruments. You were a part of the marching band at your old school. You’ve spent the past few weeks practicing for the first football game. (Social, Physical, Mental)

Out of Character Commentary Another Character Creation Decision!

To explain the traits:

Mental traits are how well you notice things, how intelligent you are, and how quickly you react to new information.

Social Traits are how charismatic you are, how well you manipulate people, and how attractive you look.

Physical Traits are how strong you are, how nimble your are, and how tough you are.

For example, (Physical, Social, Mental) means you are better than average at Physical Traits, Average at Social Traits, and less than Average at Mental traits. Note, being less than average in a trait category doesn’t mean you are disabled in that category. You just slower to process information or socially awkward or get winded faster than other average people.

I should note, now that Sigrid is calmed down, I will slightly adjust her character to fit the players’ decision. She’s been running high on emotion right now since she got out of jail. It is your time to decide what type of person she is.

Out of Character Commentary

 

[wonderandawe]

Mud caked cleats, a clay stained softball, a worn lacrosse stick, and other sporting equipment lie scattered around your room. You tried every sport at some point in your life.. You participated in every charity car wash and bake sale to raise money to play. Once, when your mother couldn’t afford the new uniforms, you told your lacrosse coach you had to quit the team. The next day you found a set of the new uniforms hanging from your locker. Your coach paid for them and you paid her back by leading the junior varsity team all the way to state championship. She along with the other sports coaches will be sad you will not be returning to school this year.

Despite your philandery with team sports, your true love was track and field. You excelled at long distance races. Sometimes, when you ran, the sounds of the cheering crowds and your huffing competitors would fade away. All you could hear the beat of your heart, the ground beneath your feet, and the sky up above. At moments like those, you felt you could run forever.

As you shove sports equipment back in their bags, you wonder what girl’s sports were available at your new school. All you knew was they had a football team. You father played when he was in high school. He was good enough to earn a scholarship to Florida State University. He turned it down when your mother found out she was pregnant. You always worried your father blamed you for screwing up his future football career.

If you didn’t overfill your schedule with sports, you could focus more on school. You had passing grades, but with more effort you could be making As and Bs. Sign up for only Track, maybe Lacrosse, and drop the others. Get your grades up in preparation for college.

It doesn’t take long to pack up your things. Besides clothes, a five year old laptop, school books, and the equipment, you didn’t own much. You didn’t even bother to decorate your room. It was a place of sleeping and storage. When you needed some time alone to clear your head, you ran outside rather than retreated to your room.

By the time you check your phone, it is three o’clock in the morning. You debate staying up for the newspaper delivery, but decide on a few hours of sleep instead. You sneak out of your room and head to the bathroom not wanting to disturb your mother. Hearing a sound, you pause at your mother’s door.

Sobbing. Your mother is crying. “Gaia, why did you have to take my daughter?” She softly wails to herself. Shakened, you retreat from your mother’s door and hide in the bathroom, lights off.

Gaia. The Earth Mother. You have heard stories of Gaia all your life. Gaia was both goddess and the Earth. The Sons of Fenrir roamed the earth as wolves and protected Gaia from the evil Jotun. The Jotun strived to corrupt Gaia until she was more like them- decayed, diseased, and dying. The stories your mother told you as a child were more violent than the sanitized Norse myths you read in school. You like your mother’s versions better. Still to you, Gaia was a myth. You never heard your mother call upon her as a deity before.

After a few minutes, you turn on the bathroom light. You brush your teeth and stare into the mirror. Icy blue grey eyes stare back at you. You pull off your blood-stained shirt and throw it in the bathroom trash. Despite spending hours in the summer sun, your pale skin refuses to tan. Nor does an ounce of fat soften the ropy muscles on your long arms and legs. You were tall, thick boned, and had a broad face. Your nose was bent, a souvenir from your years in Lacrosse. No chest to speak of, which is good for active sports and poor for attracting male attention. Strands of dirty blonde hair escape your hair clip. You free your hair, brush, and plait it.

Dressed in nothing but your socks, you walk back to your room. Toddy dozes on your footboard, unconcerned by your nakedness. You dig out a nightshirt and set an early alarm on your phone. You slip under the covers and watch the ceiling fan turn. You should have not sent Scott those pictures. You should have not chased Scott down in the movie theater parking lot. You should have not threatened to beat the shit out of your Uncle.

You should have got to your mother and comforted her. Instead you fled like a coward. You rolled over and closed your eyes. Who was Gaia and where the fuck was she taking me? was your last thought before you fell asleep.


A mockingbird chirps in imitation of a car alarm. Unable to reach the annoying mockingbird, you throw a pillow at Toddy instead. The raven retreats to the top of your headboard. The late morning sun shines through the blinds. You curse and check your nightstand for your phone. It’s missing. You find your phone across the room, lying next to a chunk of drywall. You pick it up. A spiderweb of cracks crisscross the screen. You wipe drywall dust off your phone with your nightshirt. Thankfully, the touchscreen still works.

You throw clothes on. Your elderly neighbors are sure to have retrieved their newspapers by now. You open the door and trip over a pile of stuff. Folded moving boxes scatter across the sidewalk. A packing tape gun clatters to the ground. You catch a box imploring you to be a bagel hero before it falls. A box of coffee sits safely by the door next to a car battery and packing paper.

A note taped the car battery reads “See you in Kirksville -GW” You snort. Uncle Greg must want you to move as soon as possible. You bring in the coffee and bagels. You put a bagel in the toaster and retrieve the rest of the items.

You finish half a bagel when your mother shuffles in, fully dressed yet half asleep. “Good morning, did you have any strange dreams?”

“No, Uncle Greg left us moving stuff and breakfast.” You lick cream cheese off your index finger.

“That bastard!” Your mother rages. She crosses her arms at the offending pile. “He even fucking left a car battery.”

“Um….” You set down your half eaten bagel. Your mother was a proud woman but you did need boxes to move. “Do we have to give the stuff back?”

“No…” your mother rubs her forehead. “Go ahead and eat.” She picks up the car battery and head to the van.

You don’t drink coffee, but you down a cup to make up for your lack of sleep. You pick up your mother’s moving list and cross off “Find moving boxes” and “Buy car battery.”

Over the next two days, you and your mother work your way through the list and clear out the apartment. By Sunday morning, the van is packed and your mother is driving to Kirksville. Watching grey stone and red brick buildings of Austin pass by, you wonder when you will see the city again. You also worry the van will not make the two hour trip to Kirksville. As your mother drives on the highways that spider across Texas, you pull out an old notebook. You write down questions you don’t have an answer to.

“What is a Kinfetch?”
“Why can’t mom see Toddy?”
“Am I the only one with a Kinfetch?”
“Why is Uncle Greg called Sparks?”
“How did Uncle Greg get his Deed Name in LA?”
“What is dad’s deed name?”
“Why is a deed name called a deed name?”
“Is Gaia real?”
“Where the fuck is Gaia taking me?”

“What are you doing?” Your mother asks.

“Writing down questions for dad to answer so I don’t forget.” You answer. You underline the word “Fuck” a few times. You know your mother could answer these questions if she wanted to. Your mother leaving you in suspense pisses you off.

Your mother says nothing to this. She fiddles with the radio dial, trying to find decent music to listen to.

“I believe what I believe. It makes me what I am. And I did not make it. No, it is making me…” Your mother tunes away from the Christian Rock station.

“There’s a special place nobody knows, way up on the hill. Where the moon shines through the tall pines…” The country station does not suit your mother’s mood either. She gives up and leaves the radio on NPR.

You close the notebook and attempt to get information from a different direction. “Why did we leave Kirksville in the first place?” Your parents divorced years ago, but your mother also avoided the rest of her family. While most kids in school went home for the holidays, you and your mother stayed in Austin. She didn’t even attend Aunt Anne and Uncle Greg’s wedding.

“Your father was too involved in the family business.”

“You mean the Wilderness Preserve?”

“Yes, Crying Rock.” She took a deep breath. “It changed him. Made him more irritable. More violent.”

You knew your father had a temper, but you never heard your mother use the word violent to describe it before. “Was he on drugs? Did he beat you?”

“No! No drugs!” Your mother denies. She grips the steering wheel. “Though there were times I feared he would hurt you. Do you remember breaking your arm?”

You grip your left arm unconsciously and search your memory. You have nothing but fragments from the time before you left Kirksville. “No.”

“You broke your arm when you were five. Your father was watching you while I cooked dinner. It was one of the few nights he was free from work.” Your mother stares straight ahead, refusing to look at you. “He said you fell out of a tree. I couldn’t be sure if that was the truth or if he lost control.”

“Mom,” You clench the notebook in your hands. “You are making dad out to be a monster.”

Your mother ignores your comment. “My family stood by him. Said I needed to stop worrying, but they didn’t understand. Before… before he started working at Crying Rock, he was different.” Your mother’s eyes shine in remembrance. “We both dreamed of leaving Kirksville and living our own lives.” She smiles. “We were going to get a dog after we moved to Tallahassee. You can’t tell anyone this, but Frank always wanted a dog. “

“But then you got knocked up with me.”

“Sigrid.” Your mother’s voice was firm. “Do not blame yourself for what happened. It wasn’t your fault. Once your father started working at Crying Rock, he couldn’t leave even if you weren’t born.”

“You make it sound like he didn’t have a choice. “

“You’ll understand when you see your father.” Your mother’s voice falls to a whisper. “Just be careful, Sigrid. Your father is a dangerous man, but remember that he loves you.”

You frown and cross your arms. “So we left Kirksville to get away from dad. Why are we going back? Can’t we tell Dad and Uncle Greg to fuck off?”

“Kirksville is the best place for you right now.”

“Why!?” You slam the dashboard with a fist. “Why is Kirksville so much better for me than Austin?! It makes no fucking sense!”

“Sigrid, please control your temper!”

“No!” You wither in rage. You dig your fingernails into the notebook. “I’m so sick of everyone bitching about my temper. What about dad’s temper?! No one says anything to him about it!” You want to smash your mother’s face into the steering wheel.

Wait, what? You don't want to hurt your mother. She was your mother! You can barely breath when you make the connection. “Oh, god! I’m just like him!”

“Sigrid, calm down. We are about thirty minutes away from Kirksville.” Your mother says calmly. She has a death grip on the steering wheel. “Tell me about the time we when to Galveston. Remember the seagulls on the beach?”

“You are trying to distract me!” You accuse. Despite its cavernous size, the van feels suffocating.

“I’m trying to stop you from doing something you will regret.” Your mother counters. The droning voice of NPR cuts out. All the gauges drop to zero. “Shit! Not now!” Your mother glides the car to the side of the road.


What do you do?

• Redirect your rage at your Uncle Greg. Call him and bitch at him for giving you a bum battery.
• Go for a walk to calm down while your mother calls your Aunt Anne.
• Flag someone down from off the road to help.
• Run to the nearest gas station at the highway turn off for Kirksville.
• Something Else?

 

[wonderandawe]

You rip off your seatbelt. The metal clip clatters against the window. You fumble for the door handle and kick the door open. You stagger out of the van and kneel in the grass on the side of the highway.

“Sigrid!” Your mother calls from inside the van.

The sun beats down on your neck. You dig into the grass and dirt. The roots between your fingers ground you. Air fresher than any you breathed in Austin fill your lungs. You sit, eyes closed, and just breathe.

A car swooshes by. “Sigrid,” Your mother’s voice brings you back to reality. She sits besides you in the grass. How long have you been sitting here? Your mother shines with a thin sheen of sweat, her eyes heavy with worry.

“I’m going to go get help.” You take off at a sprint. You kick off your shoes, leaving them behind for your mother to pick up.

“Sigrid! It’s too hot!” The wind eats your mother’s words. Your toes dig into the grass. It’s good to move under your own power. To escape the metal cage your mom calls a van.

After a few miles, your head clears. Sweat drips down your face and the humid summer wind does little to cool you. The heat drains your rage and you realize your error. You have no clue where the nearest gas station is. Your mother said Kirksville was thirty minutes away, but that was by car. There had to be a gas station closer than that, right?

Cars drive by on the highway and you decide to tough it out. This is not your first time your mother’s van died and you had to run to the nearest gas station. You ran in worse heat before at track meets. You were thirsty but you’ll survive. You settle down into a sustainable ground eating lope.

You pass a sign warning of the 965 Junction. You stop in the scant shade of the sign and wipe sweat off of your brow. You look around and see nothing but boulders, dried grass, and scrub. You thought you’d find a gas station by now. This is stupid. You were in the middle of nowhere Texas. Kirksville could where the nearest gas station is. You pat your pocket and realize you left your shattered phone in your mother’s van. “Shit.” You are commit to your choice now.

Movement in the bushes attracts your attention. A dark furred animal retreats from the highway. A dog? A break in the cover reveals this canine is no dog. A wolf! A black wolf, his ratty summer coat bespeckled with brown. He disappears out of sight. You search the bushes and see no sign of the wolf. You squeeze sweat out of your braid and take off again. You’ll have to find a gas station soon.

The shy wolf shadows you as you run. You stare straight ahead, you see him out of the corner of your eye. You turn to look at him, he flees deeper into the scrub. Finally, you reach a truck stop at the highway turn off. It is a small truck stop. It has only one fuel pump with two handles- one for unleaded, one for diesel. The parking lot is empty, save a single red pickup truck. A large wooden porch wraps around the building. Wooden picnic tables and an ice machine sit out front. A peaked roof reaches for the blazing blue sky. The truck stop reminds you of a converted farm house rather than a commercial building.

The pavement burns your feet as you jog to the water fountain on the side of the building. You plunge your over heated face into the fountain stream. After you cool off, you swish water around your mouth and sip it out on the pavement.

As you drink your fill, you glance up to find the shy wolf watching you. You were surprised he followed you this close to civilization. His golden eyes shine with intelligence rather than animal cunning. When you met the shy wolf’s eyes, he darts off into bushes again.

You rub water over your face and comb wet fingers through your hair. You are barefoot and wearing sweat soaked clothes, but you better be presentable enough for the truck stop.

The door chimes when you enter the store. A blast of cold air welcomes you. The tile floor is cool on your bare feet. Despite its small size, the store is well stocked. Though you don’t see any recognizable brands of brightly colored junk food, you find a fair selection of foods. You pass a basket of fresh made bread. One aisle contains jars of jams and salsa. Another bags of candy and trail mix. Your eyes are drawn to a line of refrigerated coolers with chilled drinks. You didn’t have any money, but maybe the clerk will take pity on the poor girl with car trouble.

The clerk in his early twenties sits behind a counter protected by a barred metal cage. At first glance, you think him fat. Then you see the well defined muscles under his uniform polo shirt. Black ink tattoos peek out from under his collar. With his shaved head, he looks more like a bouncer for a skinhead club rather than truck stop clerk. A handwritten sign above him declares “Still sold out of Ice Cream. Stop asking.”

“Hey!” You walk up to the counter. “My mother and I are having car problems. I think the battery is dead. Do you know someone who can give us a jump? Or a tow?”

The clerk looks you up and down with pale blue eyes. “You Sigrid Kirk?” He asks, ignoring everything you said.

“Yes... How do you know my name? Are you related to me?” The truck stop was close enough for this clerk to live in Kirksville.

“Gaia, I wish.” The clerk replies. “No, your Aunt Anne called. Said for you to wait here for Alex.”

“Who the fuck is Alex?” That wasn’t the name of any cousin you know.

The door chimes. “That’s Alex.” A tall, gawky teenage boy, dressed in blue jeans and a striped blue shirt, enters. Alex walks with a slouch, attempting to conceal his height. His dark hair is neatly trimmed and an oversized smart watch sits on his slender wrist. Alex is the sort of cute geeky guy who usually flees in the other direction when you approach them. His dark brown eyes dart around the store. When he spots you, Alex gives you a shy wave and walks over. He removes a small black leather notebook from his pocket. “Hi, I’m Alex. I’m Deaf.” He writes, “What is your name?”

“My name is Sigrid Kirk, but you already knew that.” You write back. “How do you know my Aunt Anne?”

“Miss Anne is my step mother.” With a few extra pounds and a large dose of confidence, Alex could be an younger version of your Uncle Greg.

The clerk waves his arms to attract Alex’s attention. “Alex, look at me.” He points at his mouth. “Tell your father the camera is broken again.” The clerk overenunciates each words.

Alex frowns. He flips a few pages forward in his notebook. “Speak Normally.” It reads in black marker. Apparently, Alex has this problem often.

“I am speaking normally,” the clerk huffs. “Tell. your. dad. the. camera. is. Broken.”

“He means he can read your lips easier if you don’t talk like an idiot.” You explain.

“If you are so fucking smart, why don’t you explain it to him.” The clerk points at the camera above the cage. “That camera is broken. I need his Glasswalker daddy to fix it.”

Alex watches the clerk speak and then stares at the camera with an inquisitive expression.

You smirk. “I think you just told him yourself, since you talked like a normal person that time.”

“Just as long as the camera is fucking fixed.” The asshole clerk sneers. He returns to reading his magazine.

Alex, unaware of your exchange with the clerk, writes, “You don’t need to wait for my dad. I can fix the camera.”

You close Alex’s notebook. “Don’t fix this asshole’s camera.” You order Alex. “Greg Wright is coming back tomorrow.” You tell the clerk. “Your fucking camera can wait until then.”

“Fucking bitch,” the clerk slaps his magazine down. “I don’t care if your daddy is Franklin Kirk. You ain’t Garou yet and you got no right to be giving orders.”

You reach through the bars of the clerk’s cage and slam his face into them. “I don’t care what you think. You treat that deaf boy poorly again, I’ll rip your ears off. Got it?”

The clerk, cheek smushed into the bars, nods. You let him go with a shove. Shit, you curse at yourself. You should have watched your temper. First cute boy you meet in town and you have to go browbeating the clerk in front of him. Now Alex will think you are a psycho. And he will tell all the kids at your new school you are a psycho, too.

Despite observing your display of violence, no expression of fear mars Alex’s face. He gives you a small smile and touches his hand to his chin and drops it forward. “Thank you,” he signs.

You return the smile and suddenly are aware of your sweaty hair, clothes, and barefeet. Of course you meet a fearless boy in this disheveled state. It’s probably for the best. You’d crack this nerdy boy in half without a thought. Anyways, you swore off guys after Scott.

Alex holds up his notebook. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” You realize you were staring. “No, you are fine. I don’t remember the sign for ‘You’re welcome.’ I learned some ASL in fifth grade. Well, only finger spelling to be honest, but I came in fifth place in the spelling bee.” You stop. You are rambling. You doubt Alex caught half of what you said.

Alex scratches the back of his head and then writes, “I have a book on ASL you can borrow.”

“I’d like that.” You nod.

Alex relaxes. He turns a new page in his notebook. “Miss Anne told me to come get you. She is helping your mom with the van. They are packing your stuff in Miss Anne’s SUV. The alternator died, so it couldn’t charge the battery. We can tow it back to town tomorrow and I can replace it later.”

“You fix cars?” With his pallid skin, you figured Alex was a computer geek.

“Yes, they are more forgiving than computers.”

You sign thank you. You take the notebook from his hand and write. “Let’s go outside. This clerk is an asshole. Does he treat you like that because you are deaf?”

“Among other reasons. Half the kinfolk are scared of me and the other half think I’m an idiot.”

Scared of a deaf kid? Whoever these kinfolk are, they sound like losers. “You don’t seem scary nor an idiot to me.”

Alex blushes and reaches for the side of his head. A strange and awkward gesture. He pauses, not finding what he is reaching for, and rubs the side of his face instead. Alex stares down at the floor, embarrassed. He hurries to a cooler and takes out an apple juice. He shakes a second one at you. You nod and he hands it to you. Alex drops a five on the counter. The clerk doesn’t even look up when you leave.

Alex sits on one of the wooden benches and pulls out his phone. He types on the screen with his thumb and sips his apple juice. You chug your juice and toss the empty bottle in the recycle bin. You still have Alex’s notebook. You tap the pen against your lips and watch Alex fiddle with his phone. Maybe Alex can tell you what is going on. “What is a Garoo?” You didn’t miss the clerk’s statement and you hope you spelt the strange word right.

Your heart pounds as you pass the notebook over. When he starts writing you look over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I could show you, but it’s not my aus,” Alex scratches out the word half finished. “place to question your father’s decisions.”

Does anyone stand up to your father in this town? You rip the notebook out of Alex’s hand. “If you were in my place, wouldn’t you want someone to tell you what is going on?”

Alex reads the note with a guilty expression. He sighs and writes, “I want to tell you, but I cannot pierce the veil. I’ll get in trouble.”

“Well, thanks for the apple juice.” You write back, disappointed. Belatenly, you think of another question. “What is the veil?” Maybe there was a reason beyond your father’s whims for this run around.

Before you can hand back the notebook, the phone glows in Alex’s hand. You read the texts, hoping to gain more clues to what is going on. Alex is texting his dad:

Greg Wright

me

The camera broke at the truck shop again

them

I won’t be back until tomorrow. Can you fix it?

me

Sigrid is with me.

them

How does this stop you from fixing the camera?

me

The clerk is an asshole. He thinks I’m an idiot. He wants you to fix it.

them

Go fix the camera.

them

You’ll feel bad if something happens to the clerk because the camera is broken.

Alex kicks the ice machine with a growl and he storms back into the store. Does everyone have a temper in this town? You hurry after Alex. The clerk does not look up from his magazine. Alex raps his knuckles on the counter and holds up his notebook. “My dad wants me to fix the camera. I need a ladder.”

The clerk sets down his magazine with a sigh. He retrieves a short steel ladder from the storage closet and sets it up under the camera. Then he returns to his cage.

Alex climbs the ladder. All elbows and knees, he tips it off balance. You right the ladder before it falls. Alex thanks you again and stands on the top step of the ladder. Precariously balanced, he fiddles with the camera cables. You stand there bored, holding the ladder steady. How long will this take? You are in need of a shower and some answers. It’s become a matter of pride to figure out what the fuck is going on before you meet your father tomorrow. Alex already said he wanted to tell you. You plan on hounding him until he spills the beans about what’s going on at the Wilderness Preserve.

The door chimes and two men dressed in grimy clothes enter the store. Both men have the emaciated wide eye look of drug addicts. They stalk the aisles, whispering and observing the clerk. One nods at the broken camera.

The clerk pretends to read his magazine and watches the two men out of the corner of his eye. Alex sniffs at the shorter of the two men as they pass you. You gag at their unwashed odor. Alex and the clerk meet eyes. The clerk nods and sets his magazine aside. Alex leaves the camera hanging by its cables. Tension fills the air. You take a step closer to Alex, prepared to protect the gawky boy from the idiot crack heads.

“Can I help you boys with something?” The clerk asks, hands out of sight.

“Yeah,” the short man reveals a small chipped chrome pistol from the pocket of his jean jacket. “You can clean out that cash…” To your utter shock, Alex leaps from the top of the ladder and tackles the armed man to the ground. The man’s pistol skids across the floor. The short man punches Alex across the face. Alex throws his arm around the short man’s neck.

The clerk reveals a short black shotgun. Instead of intimidating the robbers and defusing the situation, the clerk pumps his shotgun. Shotgun shells fly as the clerk fires into the taller man’s gut. BAM! The tall man staggers back into a shelf of canned goods. BAM! The shelf knocks over. The cans scatters and roll over the floor.

“Fucking hell!” You cover your ears from the gunshots. “Haven’t you people heard of calling the police when you get robbed?!” You scream. You’ve fought in schoolyard brawls. You’ve lived in rough neighborhoods. Yet you never had a fucking gun fight break out in front of you before.

The tall emaciated man groans. He spits blood on the floor. He stands. His guts pour out in a mess of swinging entrails. If possible he smells worse than before. He takes a staggering step forward, dripping blood and liquid shit in his wake.

“Alex!” The clerk’s voice is shrill with fear. “This guy is still moving!” Entrails man draws his own gun, a greasy black pistol. The clerk ducks behind the counter as a bullet flies above his head.

The clerk out of sight, entrails man turns towards Alex. He points his gun at the boy. “Watch out!” you scream.

Alex, intent on putting the short man into a headlock, doesn’t respond to your warning. Alex is deaf, you remember. He can’t hear you nor the clerk. He doesn’t perceive the danger. Entrails man pulls the trigger.

BAM!

What do you do?

• Call upon your rage and… the time has not come yet. (Nope!)
• Pick up the ladder (or other object) and beat entrails man. (Melee)
• Pick up the discarded pistol and shoot entrails man (Firearms)
• Jump entrails man and beat him with your bare hands (Brawl)
• Pitch canned goods at entrails man’s head (Athletics)
• Other (ST’s choice of ability)

Out of Character Commentary FYI, this is another character creation question. The winning Ability will most likely be Sigrid's main form of combat. There may be an option to gain more combat abilities later depending on future character choices.

Here is a summary of each physical ability:

Athletics: This Talent represents your basic athletic ability, as well as any training you might have had in sports or other rigorous activities. Athletics concerns all forms of running, jumping, throwing, swimming, sports, and the like. However, Athletics doesn’t cover basic motor actions such as lifting weights, nor does it govern athletic feats covered by another Ability (such as Melee). Possessed by: Athletes, Hobbyists, Park Rangers, Jocks, Kids

Brawl: The Brawl Talent represents how well you fight in tooth-and-nail situations. This Talent represents skill in unarmed combat, whether from formal martial arts training or simply from plenty of experience. Effective brawlers are coordinated, resistant to pain, quick, strong, and mean. The willingness to do whatever it takes to hurt your opponent wins plenty of fights. Possessed by: Military, Police, Roughnecks, Thugs

Firearms: This Skill represents familiarity with a range of firearms, from holdout pistols to heavy machine guns. Further, someone skilled in Firearms can clean, repair, recognize, and accurately fire most forms of small arms. This Skill is also used to unjam guns (Wits + Firearms). Possessed by: Policemen, Military Personnel, Survivalists, Hunters

Melee: Melee covers your ability to use hand-to-hand weapons of all forms, from swords and clubs to esoteric martial-arts paraphernalia such as sai or nunchaku. And, of course, there is always the utility of the wooden stake… Possessed by: Assassins, Gang Members, Martial Artists, Police, Duelists.

Out of Character Commentary

 

[wonderandawe]

The bullet hits Alex in the stomach. He yelps. You smell copper, the burning stench of blood. You take a single step towards Entrails man. Your bare feet pad on the cold tile floor. You take another step, but you are slow, so slow.

BAM! Entrails man shoots again. Hit a second time, Alex snarls. He spins, the shorter robber still in hand.

You take the final step towards Entrails Man. You scream and tackle him. BAM! Entrails Man’s third shot aims high, slams into Alex’s shoulder. He looses his grip on the short robber. The robber drops to the floor and scurries away.

You grab Entrails man by the hair. SLAM! His face crashes into the metal bars of the clerk’s cage. SLAM! He grabs your arm to wrench himself free. SLAM! Blood drips onto the counter. Entrails Man’s grip slackens. SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! His cheek shatters. SLAM! SLAM! Teeth fly.

“Fuck!” The clerk peers over the counter. You drop Entrails man, assuming the clerk is cursing your violent action. Instead he says, “He’s getting away!” The door chimes as the short robber flees.

“Alex!” You remember the reason for your rage. Alex struggles to rise and give chase to the robber. He slips in a puddle of his own blood. You hold Alex back. “Stop moving! You’ve been shot!” Alex struggles against you, but you are stronger than the gawky boy. “You are making the bleeding worse!”

The clerk, shotgun in hand, rushes out the door. He takes a pot shot at the fleeing van. “Shit.” he curse as he returns. Rubbing the back of his shaved head, he surveys the wreckage of his store. Corpse with smashed in head. Canned goods scattered all over. Alex fucking bleeding out on the floor.

“Call the fucking Ambulance!” You order. You strip a “Don’t Mess with Texas” shirt from a rack. You ball it up and press it against Alex’s stomach. Alex shoves your hand away. “Alex, look at me. I’m trying to stop the bleeding.” With a pained grimace, he shakes his head no.

Instead of calling 911, the clerk switches the open sign to closed. He draws the blinds down on the windows. “Shit fuck. I’m not even suppose to be here today!”

“I don’t care if you are suppose to be in butt fucking Egypt. Call 911.” Did this fucker not take CPR training? Someone orders you to call 911, you call 911.

“Stop freaking out,” The clerk sets his shotgun down on the counter. “The robbers weren’t shooting silver. Alex can stop the bleeding on his own. I need to call Nathan.” The clerk leaves for the back office.

“Nathan better be a fucking doctor!” You scream after the clerk. You turn back to Alex. “Where’s your phone? I’ll call the ambulance myself!” You reach for his pocket. Alex stops you with a bloody hand. His grip is strong for someone bleeding out onto the floor. Alex lifts his shirt. You retch at the sight of his wounds. Red holes gape in his flesh and gush blood. Alex raises two bloody fingers and points them away from his eyes towards the wounds.

Watch. Alex wants you to watch. Watch him die? You stare at the wounds until a shiny object emerges from one of them. The wound expels the bullet. The bloody bullet falls to the ground with a tink. To your astonishment, it happens again with the second wound. The gaping holes seal and blood flow slows to a trickle.

Alex slackens with relief after the wound heals. He rotates his shoulder and the third bullet falls to the floor.

Unable to believe what you witnessed, your fingers probe Alex’s stomach. Besides the wash of blood on his skin, Alex is healed. “It’s like you’ve never been shot!” you observe in amazement. Alex reddens as you examine his stomach. You blush and pull your hand away. “Sorry.”

Alex replaces his shirt. He pokes his finger though a bullet hole and sighs.

“Nathan is on his way.” The clerk returns. “He’s the sheriff in case you were wondering. He’s calling the sept and bringing the kin militia.” The clerk holds up a piece of lined paper to Alex. “Was the crackhead a Fomori?”

Alex shakes his head no.

Mention of the sheriff sends your heart racing. “I killed this man.” You admit. “Uncle Greg won’t be able to bribe my way out of this mess. I just got out of jail and now I have to go back.”

“You won’t be going to jail for this, Sigrid.” The clerk says from the supply closet. He tosses a bottle of clear liquid soap to Alex. “Don’t feel bad about this waste of flesh. He was a drug addict, lost to the Wyrm. It was only a matter of time before he became a Fomori.”

Wyrm. Fomori. The clerk’s jumble of strange terms means nothing to you. “Killing is against the law.” Fear trembles in your voice. “Between this and Scott, they are going to lock me up and throw away the key.”

Alex searches for his notebook and finds it in a puddle of blood. He shakes it dry. “Sigrid. You did a good thing here.” He writes.

“You aren’t freaking out I killed someone?”

“If you didn’t kill him, I would have.” Alex writes.

“Non-kin feed themselves a bunch of bullshit so they can sit on their asses and not do anything to fix this fucked up world. Shit they let pass, pisses us off.” The clerk nods at Alex. “Some more than others.”

A tightness in your chest releases. “I thought I was a psychopath….” You admit. “All those fights and school suspensions… You are saying I’m the sane one and everyone else is crazy?”

“You are among your kin now, Sigrid.” The clerk says. “We of all people understand how you feel.”

You tear up. “I thought I was a freak.” All those years. Your mother didn’t say anything. Your father didn’t say anything. Why didn’t they tell you? You sit on the floor sobbing in relief. You weren’t crazy. You were normal. For the first time since your incident with Scott, you understand why your mother brought you here. She was bringing you home.

You feel warm fingers on your hand. Alex gives you a reassuring smile and squeezes your hand. You regain control of yourself and squeeze Alex’s hand back.

“You good?” The clerk asks. You nod and wipe away your tears. Alex lets go of your hand. “Great.” The clerk thrusts a roll of trash bags under your nose. “You can help me toss this tainted food away.”

As you help Joe the clerk, you realize he is eager to share what he knows about Crying Rock. It is not a subject he is able to talk about often. There is a veil of strict secrecy surrounding the wilderness refugee. With Alex’s reluctant help, Joe enlightens you to the mysteries of Crying Rock.

“Alex is what you call a Garou, a sacred warrior of Gaia. You know who Gaia is right?”

“Gaia is the Earth Mother. The mother of all things. She made the earth and everything on it. The Oceans are her blood. The Forest her heart. The Soil her body.” You quote your mother’s stories. You may have thought Gaia was myth until last night, but you didn’t want to seem completely clueless.

“Crying Rock is a holy site of Gaia. The Garou protect Crying Rock and we kinfolk support the Garou.”

“You aren’t Garou?” You ask Joe.

“No, there hasn’t been a Garou in my family for four generations.” Joe mops blood off the floor, leaving a scarlet smear in his wake. “Lots of Garou in your bloodline. There’s a good chance you’ll go through your first change. Probably why your momma brought you back here. Most Kinfolk who leave return when their teenage kids start raging out.”

“First change?”

Joe’s face cracks into a grin. “Oh, you don’t even know the best part.” He attracts Alex’s attention away from the now fixed camera. “Alex, show her what you can do.” Alex, embarrassed, shakes his head no. “Don’t be shy. The blinds are down and no one is going to come by.”

Alex crouches on the floor. In a blink of an eye a wolf stands before you. The wolf with black fur bespeckled with brown. You stare at Alex, mouth agape. Familiar golden eyes stare back.

“Shit! That was you!” Alex nods, a strangely human gesture on a wolf. He changes back into a human and stands up. “Miss Anne told me to keep an eye on you while you were running. It was too hot to run, but she figured it would burn off some rage.” He writes.

“You can turn into a wolf…. That is so cool!” You are impressed. Why would your parents keep this from you? Your mother made it sound like something awful happens at Crying Rock. “You like a werewolf or something.”

“We prefer the term Garou.” Alex writes.

“You think that’s cool,” Joe leans against his mop, enjoying your reaction to Alex’s shapeshifting. “you should see the War form. Wolfman, like the movies. Alex, grow big!” Joe raises his thick arms and makes claw motions with his fingers.

Uncomfortable of being Joe’s show dog, Alex shakes his head no. “He can show me later.” you say.

“Come on. The place is closed up. No one is going to come by…” As Joe says this, the door chimes. The sound of police radio precedes a man dressed in black sheriff’s uniform. The sheriff stops short when he sees the ruin of the store. When his eyes land on Alex, he unconsciously rests his hand near his gun. The Sheriff must fall under ‘Kinfolk scared of Alex.’ Alex tenses, eyes never leaving the sheriff’s.

Realizing what he did, the Sheriff backs down and forces himself to relax. Alex turns away and folds up the ladder. The Sheriff folds his arms across his chest and turns his attention to the clerk. “Joe, what the fuck are you doing? Why are you standing here gabbing when you should be cleaning this place up?”

“Yes, sir.” Joe mops with renewed industry.

You return to throwing bloody food into trash bags. “Not you girl.” Your heart pounds when the cop addresses you. The others could be wrong. The Sheriff could be here to arrest you. To your relief, the Sheriff says. “It’s Joe’s job to clean up this mess.”

You stand and wipe your hands on your shorts. The Sheriff notices your disheveled state and lack of shoes. “Alex, you do a Rite of Cleansing on her yet?”

Alex, ladder in hand, freezes at the Sheriff’s renewed attention. Shit, Alex is more scared of the Sheriff than the Sheriff is of Alex. Alex shakes his head no to the Sheriff's question.

“Five Claws is coming by. You think you better get her cleaned up before he arrives?” The Sheriff suggests. He does not out right give Alex an order.

Alex picks up the liquid soap Joe gave him earlier. He plucks a camp cup off of a distant shelf and squeezes soap into it. The roots of your hair tingle as you watch Alex’s fingers dance over the cup. As Alex performs the ceremony, your inability to understand his signs frustrates you. You’ll have to learn sign language as soon as you can. Alex dips a finger into the cup. He draws glyphs with the soap on your forehead, hands, and over your heart. After each mark, he makes more signs.

“You need running water to complete the rite.” Alex writes in his notebook. “Go take a shower and I’ll find you clean clothes.”

“Wait,” You reach for his arm, but stop short of grabbing his wrist. You don’t want to smear the soap markings. “Are you a shaman or something?” You point at the glyph on your palm.

“I am a Theurge, one born under the Crescent Moon.” Alex writes. “It is my Auspice, my place in Garou Society. “

What Moon were you born under?

• Full Moon (Ahroun, the Warrior) - Those born under the full moon are called Ahrouns. The Full Moon makes a Ahroun the living weapon of Gaia. They are the warrior among a race of warriors, the champion of a martial people. Ever ready to kill, and to die if need be. Ahrouns often lead during times of war. Within a pack, Ahrouns take charge in the midst of battle and protect their packmates.
  
  
• Gibbous Moon (Galliard, the Bard) - Those born under the Gibbous Moon are called Galliards. The Galliard sings the soul of the Garou. They are the voice of the People, calling them to battle and inspiring them to greatness in life and in death. They are also keepers of traditions, carrying the lore of tribes all the way back to the beginning. Within the pack, Galliards stir the emotions of their packmates. They represent their pack to the rest of the Garou.
  
  
• Half Moon (Philodox, the Judge) - Those born under the Half moon are called Philodox. Philodox are the counselors, mediators, and law-keepers of the Garou Nation. They advise Ahrouns in time of war and often lead during times of peace. Within the pack, Philodox ensure the pack acts according to the Laws of the Garou. They settle any disputes among pack members.
  
  
• Crescent Moon (Theurge, the Shaman) - Those born under the crescent moon are called Theurges. Theurges are seers and shamans who understand the spirits and their ways. They have the gift of insight and act as intermediaries between their pack and the spirits. Within the pack, Theurges act as guides in the Spirit world, perform rites, and acts as healers.
  
  
• New Moon (Ragabash, the Trickster) - Those born under the new moon are called Ragabash. Ragabash play the role of the contrary, questioning tradition to find the wisest path. They are questioners and tricksters who stalk the Wyrm with Guile and Cunning. Within the pack, Ragabash act as scouts or assassins. They track their packs’ quarry or guide the pack away from danger.

Out of Character Commentary
I'll admit to cheating by making Alex a Theurge. My last quest character was a sorcerer who acted as an intermediary with spirits and gods, so I don't want to retread the same ground with Sigrid.

Out of Character Commentary

 

[wonderandawe]

“Do you know what my Auspice is?” you ask.

Alex scratches the back of his head and shakes his head no.

You frown in disappointment. Yet another question for your father if he shows up. You head to the truck stop’s small but clean showers. Eager to return to the action in the store, you plan on a quick shower. Once in the stall, you doddle under the hot water. Drops fall onto your back and tense muscles relax. As you wash off the soapy runes, your mind clears of the hazy fog of dread and fear. The door of the women's showers swings open. The sound of a bag hitting the tile floor startles you. You poke your head out of the curtain and see nothing but a swinging door. A grey gym bag lies on the floor.

You wrap yourself in a towel and search through the bag of clothes. Alex did not find much, mostly the cast offs of others. A yellow sunflower dress seems promising, but too short for you. A pair of cargo shorts prove to be too big. You slip on a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Still overlarge, but they fit with the drawstring pulled tight. You snort when you find a 2015 Kirksville Crawfish Festival tee shirt. A viking, hammer held high, chases a swarm of fleeing scarlet crawfish. You pull the Festival shirt over your head. With the important bits covered, you head back out to the store.

The food has been cleaned up and the shelves sit empty. A group of armed men stand by the back office, cursing the broken camera. A lab coat clad woman with coffee and cream skin draws blood from the corpse. Alex, still dressed in bloody clothes, mops the floor in flowing meditative strokes. The awkward and clumsy boy gone, Alex’s sure and steady movements are hypnotizing. Lost in his work, he doesn’t notice you staring. You force yourself to shift your focus away from the boy and to his work. Alex isn’t drawing any glyphs with the mop. Is he performing another cleansing rite? If so, you don't dare interrupt him.

The doctor packs up and leaves. You look around for the sheriff. Is someone going to take your statement? Chase after the fleeing robber? You are restless with the need to do something. You sit against a shelf, watch Alex mop, and feel useless.

A truck door slams, distracting you from Alex’s mopping. The sound of your father’s deep rumbling voice sends your heart racing. You have not seen your father since you were seven when he came to Austin to sign the divorce papers. You hope you don’t get blamed for this mess at the truck stop. An irrational thought, you didn’t cause the junkies to rob the place.

Your father enters the store. He is a tall man in his mid thirties. His short brown hair is streaked with grey. Frown lines etch his sun baked face. His work books are well worn and dusted with red clay. He is dressed in a black tee shirt and khaki hiking pants. Tied around his waist is a faded army green jacket. You remember that jacket. Even in the summer heat, it is never far from his side. What you don’t remember is the scars. Your father’s thick muscular arms are covered in long thin scars. A ghastly white blotch gouges his throat.

Your father surveys the wreckage of the store, displeasure radiating from his ice blue eyes. He has not noticed you yet. You stand up. The movement attracts his attention. His brows knit in confusion, trying to place you. Then he draws in breath when he recognizes you. “You aren’t a little girl anymore,” he accuses.

“A lot happens in eight years,” you retort. As soon as you say the words, you wish you could call them back.

Your father ignores your sharp remark. He takes a step forward and engulfs you in an embrace. You feel solid strength in his arms. You bury your face in his shoulder. You smell oak, sweat, and some unidentifiable musk. “I missed you, Cupcake.” His whisper barely audible, but thick with emotion. He pulls away and just drinks in the sight of you. He notices your bare feet. “Where are your shoes?”

“Mom has them.”

He grunts and surveys the ruined store again. “I hate we had to meet here. I had it all planned. I’d show you around. Tell you want I do. I was going to grill steak. How do you like your steak?”

“Rare.” You wipe away unshed tears.

Your father breaks out into a grin. “That’s exactly how I like them.” His eyes fall on the corpse and his grin falters. “I got some business to take of first before we can eat those steaks. Nathan!” your father calls.

“Sir?” The Sheriff pokes his head out of the back office.

“Have one of your men take Sigrid to her mother. They are staying at Oma Rothenberg’s old house.” Oma is the German word for Grandmother.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yeah… That’s not happening.” You announce. You will not let your father discard you like some inconvenient puppy. “I’m staying with you until I know everything that is going on.”

All conversation in the back office comes to a halt. Sheriff Nathan stares at you, mouth agape. Alex pauses in his mopping to see your father’s reaction.

Your defiance even shocks your father. “Sigrid,” Your father says through gritted teeth. “I don’t have time for this. We will meet tomorrow after school like we agreed.”

“You never have time for this.” You smack yourself on the chest. Your father has always chosen work over his family. Knowing he is a sacred werewolf warrior doesn’t lessen your bitterness at this fact. “I saw Alex get shot and now he is mopping like nothing fucking happened. I got a magic bird following me. And Joe the clerk tells me you can turn into a wolf. I want to know what is going on.”

Your father gives Joe the clerk a dark look. Joe’s face pales and he mutters something unintelligible and retreats to the back office. Your father’s attention falls back on you. “Sigrid, I have a dangerous bane on the loose and now a Wyrm tainted drug addict wandering my territory….”

“I have no clue what the fuck any of that means!” You interrupt.

Your father continues over your protests. “....Should the two meet, there is no telling what damage the bane could do. I need to put both down before this occurs. I do not have time to deal with your teenage rebellious bullshit.”

“That’s the problem!” You protest. “How could I not resent you when you go off to who knows where?!” Your father’s face reddens with rage. You wonder if you have pushed him too far. You have never dealt with your father’s temper in person, but you can not back down now.

“Sir?” The Sheriff approaches. “Alex said the assailant wasn’t a Fomori. I already have my men tracking him down. You could take the afternoon off to spend with your daughter.”

Alex signs at your father. You recognize him fingerspelling your name. The gawky deaf boy is talking about you. Your father responses in ASL, but also speaks his words out loud. “You sure the man wasn’t a Fomori?”

Alex responses, the only sign you recognize is ‘peek’.

It doesn’t take long for your father to make his decision. “I’ll be back at sunset. Come on, Sigrid.” He orders. You follow your father out to an old dark green pickup truck. The fading logo for Crying Rock Wilderness Preserve visible on the door. You and your father get into the truck. He sits in the driver seat, keys in hand. He frowns, unsure what to do with you now you are here. “You aren’t going to make this easy on me.”

“Nope.” You cross your arms.

He grunts, accepting this. “I’ll show you around town.” He turns the ignition and drives out of the parking lot. You and your father sit in silence as he drives towards Kirksville. You drive pass some long horned ebony cattle foraging in the scrub. Your father clears his throat. “Are you going to ask your questions or sit there like a lump?”

“What’s a bane?”

“Banes are evil spirits in the service of the Wyrm, our enemy. Banes corrupt and destroy everything the touch. Fomori are humans possessed by banes. A wyrm tainted drug addict is ripe for possession. ” Your father explains, anticipating your next question about Fomori.

“And Garou hunt these banes and fomori?”

“It’s why we exist.”

“When were you going to tell me about everything?”

“About now,” your father says. “If you lived in town, you would have grown up knowing. We couldn’t risk you mouthing off about werewolves in Austin.” He shifts in his seat. “Your mother preferred you not knowing. Wanted to give you a normal childhood.” His manner says he wants to add more, but he stays silent. Your have heard similar silences from your mother when the topic of your father comes up.

“Did you break my arm?” Might as well get that question out of the way.

“No!” Your father glances away from the road at you. “You don’t remember what happened?”

“I don’t remember much before I left Kirksville.” You were only five when you left.

“When you were little, we used to play a game. You’d climb the big live oak in Oma Rothenburg’s backyard and jump into my arms.”

“That sounds….dangerous.” And a lot of fun. You could see your five year old self loving that game.

“I’d never let you fall.” Your father assures you.

“Except for the time I broke my arm.”

“You hit a branch on the way down.” Your father frowns. “We never told your mother about our game. She’d have a fit about how dangerous it was. And she was right. It was a stupid dangerous game. I wasn’t much older than a kid myself and I thought as a Garou I could do no wrong.” Your father steals a glance at you. “Sigrid, I would never let you fall.”

The truck drives over a hill. A pink domed rock dotted with verdant green trees rises above the scrub landscape. Tumbled boulders surround the rock, as if some great giant threw down long ago. Your heart swells at the site of the old rock. A memory surfaces of watching the sun set behind the rock. “Crying Rock will keep the Sun safe for Gaia until she raises it in the morning.” Your grandmother’s voice echoes in your memory.

Spread below the rock is the town of Kirksville. The domed rock dwarfs the small town. Kirksville consists of a single square of businesses surrounded by cow fields and scrub. A row of houses line a large lake reflecting the Crying Rock. Random farm houses dot the landscape.

“That’s Crying Rock.” Your father’s voice warms with pride. “Not the most powerful caern, but we protect the largest kinfolk settlement in North America. Most of us are Get of Fenris, though there are still a few Uktena families in town. The wolf kin have some Child of Gaia blood in them…”

“Wait Wait… You are terrible at explaining things.” You scold your father. He threw out so many new terms, you don’t know where to begin. “Get of Fenris and Child of Gaia. What are those? Packs of Garou?”

“Those are tribes. The Garou Nation has thirteen tribes.”

“That’s a lot of tribes.” You doubt you’ll remember them all.

“We only have representatives of four tribes at Crying Rock. Get of Fenris is our tribe. We are the strongest warriors in the Garou Nation. When things go to shit, the other tribes call on us to take care of the problem.” You have heard stories of Fenris throughout your childhood and now those myths have become relevant to your real life.

“Uktena are one of the Native American tribes. Crying Rock was their Caern for generations. They were unable to protect the Crying Rock from some Gnosis thieves depleting the Caern. Our ancestors were passing though and they couldn’t leave one of Gaia’s sacred sites to be desecrated. Blood Freezing Wind challenged the Sept Alpha and won leadership of Crying Rock.“

“Blood Freezing Wind? What is the story behind his deed name?”

“Her deed name,” Your father corrects. “That story was lost, though Breaks the Dawn- that’s your Aunt Ella’s deed name- is trying to recover it. Blood Freezing Wind’s human name was Ermentrud Kirk. She is our many times great grandmother. Kirksville is name after her. ”

“Children of Gaia are the peacekeepers.” Your father continues. “They work to keep the rest of the tribes from ripping out each others throats out.“

“You met your Uncle Greg and Aunt Andrea in Austin. They are Glasswalkers- city wolves. They mess around with computers and guns and take care of our legal shit. In recent years, the Wyrm has resorted to cowardly means to corrupt our caern. We had to form a private Wilderness Refuge to avoid government regulation…. Blah. That’s all boring shit you don’t want to hear. “

You attempting to absorb your father’s words. “Alex mentioned Auspices. He said he was a shaman, born under the crescent moon. What is my Auspice?”


What is your Auspice?

• Full Moon, the Warriors (Arhoun) - An Ahroun are Gaia’s anger given form. All Ahroun overflow with rage at Gaia’s defilement by the Wyrm. An Ahroun is the first one into battle and the last one to leave. She will defend their pack mates to her dying breath. She fights the Wyrm with such intensity, the rest of the Garou can not help but follow her into battle.
  
  
• Gibbous Moon, the Bards (Galliard) - A high rage Galliard is overflowing with passion. She laughs, sings, and loves like there is no tomorrow. In battle she is not far behind the Ahroun. Who better to tell of the battle than one who was there to share the glory? A Galliard fights like a demon and never surrenders. She tells of past glories to inspire and of past failures to educate.
  
  
• Half-Moon, the Judges (Philodox) - A high rage Philodox is a harsh, but fair mistress of the laws of the Garou Nation. A Philodox learns the law as a cub and can recite it when needed. A Philodox passes judgement over law breaking Garou and carries out any necessary punishment. She gives the Garou Nation structure and purpose and will run down any Garou who flees her justice.

Out of Character Commentary
I took an aspect of Sigrid’s character and amplified it for each Auspice.

Full Moon - Sigrid, an outcaste her whole life, is angry at the world. She is a natural leader, if those around her are not put off by her rage. The few friends she has she will defend with her life.

Gibbous Moon - Sigrid is a passionate individual, who loves the tales of her people. A passionate individual, she plays hard and fights hard, and thinks about the consequences later.

Half Moon - Sigrid is keenly aware of the traditions and laws of society, having broken human law as a consequence of her rage. Now she has found a society suited to her nature, she will uphold that society’s laws at all costs.

Werewolf the Apocalypse Setting Spoilers

Spoiler

I’ll fully admit to paraphasing the Get of Fenris rule book for the Auspice descriptions. Don’t worry. Sigrid will still have a choice of Tribes at her rite of passage.

Out of Character Commentary

 

[wonderandawe]

“You aren’t any Auspice until you go though your first change.” Your father says with a note of restrained hope. “But if you do change, you’d be a Galliard, a tale teller. That is your Aunt Ella’s Auspice.”

“A Galliard.” You never considered yourself much of a story teller. “Can I change my Auspice?”

“I don’t know. Can you go back in time and be born earlier?” You father mocks. “Don’t worry, Cupcake. When...if the time comes, you will be taught all you need to know.”

“What is your Auspice?”

“I’m an Ahroun. Full Moon.” Your father sits taller in his seat. “We are the first ones into battle and the last ones to leave.”

A green road sign declares you in Kirksville, TX, Population 2156. The first business you pass is Otto’s diner, a white wooden building with a black roof. Dusty trucks sit parked on the gravel lot. A few men in work clothes and faded caps lean against a truck and talk. They raise two fingers to their brow in a gesture of respect as the Sept truck passes. Your father raises his hand in acknowledgement.


Kirksville town square consists of a small whitestone town hall surrounded by a walled greenspace. A group of middle schoolers sit on the wall and wheel their bikes back and forth as they kill time. They share hush excited whispers as your father drives by.

Other businesses line the square - Doctor, Grocery store, Feed store. A coffee shop named “Sleep When You’re Dead sits between the storefront of Crying Rock Wilderness Refugee and a vacant bar. The sign on the door reads “Bar closed for bereavement.” Your father parks in front of the coffee shop. “This is your Aunt Melissa’s shop.”

The sweet scent of coffee and sugar greets you as you enter the shop. Speakers blare Nightwish’s Planet Hell. Painted on the back wall, a stern viking offers a cup of steaming coffee. A half empty display case is filled with breads, pastries, and other baked goods. The sign above the counter lists coffees, smoothies, sandwiches, and other offerings.

The store is empty of customers. Only a four year boy with curly blonde hair and russet brown skin sits a table coloring. He drops his crayons and run back to the kitchen. “Mommy! Uncle Frank is here!” A heavy set woman in her mid twenties emerges from the kitchen. Her spiked hair is dyed hot pink and a silver nose ring gleams from her nose. “Frank, what brings you into town…” She stops short when she see you. “Sigrid!” She squeals in delight.

“Lissy!” You remember your aunt now. When you last saw her, she was a teenager. She would babysit you and was up for any game you thought up. You remember your Aunt Melissa being really cool and you wanted to be just like her when you grew up. Aunt Melissa pulls you back and with a flat hand compares your heights. “You are so tall now! What is Caroline feeding you? Miracle-Gro?”


Your stomach growls at the mention of food. You haven’t eaten since you left this morning. Aunt Melissa laughs. “Let’s fill that bottomless pit of yours. You still like turkey sandwiches?” You nod. “You want a sandwich, Frank?”

You father, hands in pocket, had been browsing the baked good case. “Nah. I’m good. Thank you.” Your Aunt gives your father a disappointed frown. “I’ll take a Roast Beef Sandwich.” He says, changing his mind. Your aunt gifts your father with a beaming smile and heads back into the kitchen. “Rothenburg women will be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath.

Your little cousin, seated back at the table, stares at you with big brown eyes. You’ve never been comfortable around children. They usually burst out into tears in your presence. You don’t do anything to them as far as you can tell. This boy doesn’t seem frightened of you, but rather shy and curious. “Do you have a name?”

“Noah.”

“Noah?” Your repertoire of child appropriate conversation is not large and you just came to the end of it. “That’s a nice name.” You tell your cousin. You glance back at your father and discover he shares your discomfort with small children. Maybe it’s a werewolf thing. “Let’s go upstairs.” He says.

Upstairs is a loft filled with couches, coffee tables. Bookcases filled with dusty hardcovers and peeling paperbacks line the side walls. A picture window in the back wall shows Crying Rock in all of its glory. Your father takes a seat at the round table near the window.

“Is she Garou?” you join your father at the table.

“No. Even with good bloodlines, there’s only a small chance a kinfolk will become Garou. Out of your mother’s four sisters, only Ella went though the change.”

That explains your father’s cautious hope. You changing into Garou isn’t a sure thing. “How many Garou are at Crying Rock?”

“Eight.”

“Eight?” With two thousand people living in Kirksville, you assumed there would be more werewolves. Your chances of become Garou are dwindling.

“We have six full Garou. Bobby and Alex are still cubs. Cubs are what we call Garou still learning what is means to be Garou. Bobby, he is your Aunt Ella’s youngest son, went through his first change a few weeks ago.”

Aunt Melissa brings up two plates of sandwiches with chips and a pickle spear. She sets them on the table and heads down stairs without a word. You chow down on your turkey sandwich. Your father pokes at his pickle spear, but doesn’t eat. “There used to be more of us. Last year we lost about half the Garou at the Sept and a good number of the Kinfolk Militia.”

You pause in the eating of your sandwich. After the stunt Alex pulled with the gunshot wound, you assumed Garou were hard to kill. “What happened?”

“A group of Black Spiral Dancers attacked the caern. The Black Spiral Dancers are Garou who serve the Wrym. They are a sadistic tribe of rapist, murderers, kidnappers, and worse. They wished to conquered our Sept and corrupt our Caern. Turn Crying Rock into one of their dank pits. All of Gaia’s Caerns are under attack. And each year we have less Garou to hold back the tide. ” Your heart aches for your father. He has been carrying this grief for so long, it has been come part of him.

“Why would Garou serve the Wyrm? I thought Garou fought the Wyrm.”

“I ask myself the same question. What would cause a Garou to dance the Spiral and give his soul over to the Wyrm? Why would a Garou become the very monster we fight against?” Your father growls in disgust at the concept. “I don’t have a good answer for it. Yet more Garou give themselves to the Wyrm each year.”

You set your sandwich down to digest what you father told you. Evil Garou? Of course there are evil Garou. Gaia wouldn’t need sacred warriors if there wasn’t someone to fight.

“Our sept is severely undermanned. Most of us are pulling double duty to fill all the required duties. I am both Alpha and Caern Warder. After Grandpa Grief died, there was no one I could pass along the responsibility of Caern Defense. We don’t even have a Wyrm Foe, which is a disgrace.”


The heavy weight of your father’s responsibilities settles upon you. You can understand now why he never visited you in Austin. “Why didn’t you tell me and mom tell me? I feel like an idiot for all the shit I made you put up with.”

“It was safer for you not to know. Sigrid, I wish I had better news. I wish I could tell you there is nothing to being Garou than singing songs of past glories and running around as a wolf. I will not mince the truth with you. We are at war and right now we are in dire straits. “

If there was a corrupting force of evil in the world, you were going to help your father fight it. “Is there anything I can do to help? I can fight. I killed that tainted junkie back at the truck stop.”

Your father smiles at your eagerness. “I know you can’t control it, but go though your first change and do it quick. I want to put the next set of cubs though their Rite of Passage by Winter Solstice.” Your father’s smile fade. “ Your mother doesn’t want you to become Garou and as a father, I hope this burden will pass you by. But as Alpha of the Sept of the Crying Rock, I need all the cubs I can get. ”


The sky pinks with sunset as your father drops you off at Oma Rothenburg’s house. You slam the old truck door closed. “You aren’t coming in?”

“I need to get back to the truck stop.” Your father gives as an excuse to avoid your mother.

“I’ll see you tomorrow after school?”

“We talked today.”

“And we can talk tomorrow too.” When your father frowns, you push a bit more. “You promised me steak.” You remind him.

Your father snorts in amusement. “Can’t let good steak go to waste. I’ll try to be by tomorrow. Depends on whether we can track down this drug addict.”

You accept this, having a better understanding of your father’s burdens now. Still you weren’t going to let him get away from you that easy. “I will see you sometime this week. You aren’t going to run off into the woods and forget about me.”

“I’m not going to forget about you, Cupcake.” Your father promises.

“Happy Hunting.” You watch him drive off, wishing you could go with him. Now you know the purpose of your rage you want to use it. You force yourself to calm down and unball your fists. Soon. You just have to change and then you can join your father.

You turn towards your grandmother’s house, a large tan and green split level. A white SUV sits outside of the double car garage. You haven’t lived in a house since… well since you and your mother left Kirksville. You wonder how long you will be staying in Oma Rothenburg’s house. You climb up the entry stairs and open the door without knocking.

The house is stuffy. You wrinkle your nose at the stench of old sickness and stale tobacco. Your grandmother died of lung cancer about four years ago. No one has lived her since her death. Despite the size of the house, you hope you and your mother won’t be staying long. You wonder where your father lives? In a den somewhere?

You hear claws clicking on the tile floors of the entrance hallway. A black wolf stares down the hallway at you. “Alex?” As the wolf approaches, you realize your mistake. This wolf is older than Alex. His thick fur is completely black instead of specked with brown. Grey whispers fleck his muzzle. Wisdom weighs down his golden eyes.

You stand as still as a statue as the wolf sniffs your shoes. The roots of your hair tingle when he raises his nose to your fingers. His tail wags once and he sits before you. You raise your hand to pat him on the head.

“Don’t.” Your hand pauses at your mother’s voice. She stands in the hallway, her hand curled around a half filled pint glass. You lower your hand. The wolf huffs at your mother and returns down the hallway.

“Never treat a wolf like a dog.” Your mother orders. “They are liable to bite your hand off if you do.” You follow your mother down a long dark pine paneled hallway. Oma Rothenburg’s voice echoes in your memory, cautioning you not to run lest you fall.

The moving boxes from your mother’s van sit piled up in the living room. You push through the kitchen door to find your Aunt Anne sitting at the bar of an autumn gold kitchen. Anne Wright is a middle aged woman whose oversized sunglasses hold back her shoulder length blond hair. Yoga Capris show off her well formed legs. An oversized tee shirt declares “I teach, what’s your superpower?”

Aunt Anne sets her pint glass down and motions you over for a hug. “You are so big! Last time I saw you you weren’t much older than the twins.” You give your Aunt a hug. When she moves her hands down to rest on your arms, you notice she is missing two fingers on her right hand.

“What happened to your hand?!” You blurt out.

“Oh!” She pulls her injured hand away from your arm. “One of my students got feisty at summer camp a few years ago.” She rubs the scar on her hand. “Greg says I should wear a glove, but as Kin of Fenris I will wear my scars proudly. “ Your mother frowns at your Aunt’s statement. “Don’t worry, Caroline. I teach my students over teleconference, so I am safe out of their reach most of the year.”

“Speaking of school,” Your Aunt Aunt hands you a legal sized green sheet of paper. “You’ll need to pick out your electives before you start school tomorrow. Don’t worry about any needed signatures. I’ll have Adam sign off on them. I guess Mr Collins to you. He’s the school principal.”

You scan the list. “Is there an ASL class?”

“No,” Aunt Anne replies with a regretful frown. “We tried to start one a couple of years ago, but there was no interest.”

What classes will you take?

You will be talking these required classes:

• English (American Literature)
• History (United States)
• Science (Biology)
• Mathematics (Geometry)

Expression and Performance are important Galliard Abilities. Any Kirksville High student born under the Gibbous Moon is required to take one of the four following Expression/Performance Electives. Pick one Expression or Performance Elective:

• Public Speaking (Expression - Oral)
• Journalism (Expression - Written)
  Expression is the art of getting your point across to an audience, in any medium. A character with a high Expression Trait sends emails and tweets with the same eloquence and delicate phrasing she demonstrates in her public speaking, and people sit up and take note — whether she’s telling the truth or not. Expression covers the delivery of information using language as a primary form, whether poetry, speeches, or blog posts. Using non-verbal forms to hook the public’s imagination is the domain of Performance.

• Band (Performance - Instrument)
• Choir (Performance - Singing)
  The Performance Skill covers a character’s ability with performance arts, including singing, dancing, acting, and music. She knows about the history of her art, and has a broad repertoire of pieces that she can perform from a variety of time periods. This Skill combines technical aptitude with the ability to hook an audience and keep them enraptured with your show.

Pick two electives from this group and order the electives by priority. You may pick an additional Expression/Performance elective from the above group instead if you wish. (Sigrid will take the top two winning electives)

• Computer Programming (Computers)
  Computer defines the character’s ability to operate and program computers, from traditional desktops and laptops to cellphones and tablets. A character with this Knowledge is also assumed to have a general familiarity with the Internet, including the use of search engines and online research resources. At higher levels, you can write software and create convincing fake websites, and even use system vulnerabilities to break into secure networks.
  
  
• Automotive Mechanics (Crafts - Auto Repair)
• Jewelry Making (Crafts - Jewelry)
• Wood Shop (Crafts - Woodworking)
  The Crafts Skill covers a character’s ability to make or fix things with her hands. Crafts allows her to work in fields including carpentry, leather-working, weaving, or even areas requiring mechanical expertise such as car repair. Crafts is especially useful for werewolves who hope to make fetishes. It’s easier to convince a spirit to enter a vessel that’s made well, after all.
  
  
• Driver’s Education (Drive)
  The Drive Skill covers familiarity with cars and related vehicles. The difficulty of a given Drive roll might increase or decrease depending on the terrain and the character’s familiarity with the vehicle. Having taken her pack on a road trip in her station wagon isn’t much use when she’s chasing the horizon at 150 in a new Porsche, and neither is of much use when the only getaway vehicle is a motorcycle.
  
  
• Psychology (Empathy)
  Empathy measures a character’s ability to identify other people’s emotions and feelings. She may use this to take advantage of someone, feign sympathy, or even connect genuinely. A particularly successful Empathy roll might even allow her to tell if someone is lying to her. A highly empathetic character has to watch out, however — she may get so caught up in the feelings of others that her own emotions are affected, whether she wants to or not.
  
  
• Debate and Logic (Enigmas)
  The Enigmas Knowledge describes a character’s ability to solve logic problems, puzzles, and mysteries. Characters with this Knowledge link information, trivia, and hunches to solve conundrums of all varieties — especially useful when dealing with spirits who do not share a werewolf ’s frame of reference. High Enigmas can lead a character to apply lateral thinking to all manner of problems, from setting up codes and signals among his pack so they can talk in secret, to matching wits against a devious villain.

• Home Economics (Etiquette)
  Etiquette is the ability to be nice to people, whatever you think of them. Part of that is good manners and social niceties, but it’s also useful for the subtler side of diplomacy, knowing when to haggle, and what to do when a place setting has more knives than a serial killer’s basement. While a character understands the culture in which he was raised, the Storyteller may raise the difficulty should he be faced with traditions and mores that are not his own.
  
  
• Criminal Justice (Investigation)
  Investigation ties physical evidence, witness statements, and lucky finds together into a coherent narrative that tells the character what actually happened. A character with high Investigation can distinguish murder from accident, and follow up on leads to solve thefts and kidnappings. This Knowledge also covers general forensic procedures, such as lifting fingerprints, tracing bullet paths, and approximating time of death. Note that Investigation is rooted entirely in evidence and witness statements, the feats of induction common to TV detectives fall to Enigmas.
  
  
• German (Language - German)
• Spanish (Language - Spanish)
  You speak and write languages in addition to your native one.
  
  
  
• Environmental Law (Law)
  The Law Knowledge covers a character’s familiarity with law enforcement systems and legal codes, both in human jurisdictions and among the Garou. When a character’s in trouble with the police, he needs this Knowledge to get out of legal tangles, and when a pack stands accused of breaching the Litany, their Philodox needs to know how his sept is likely to react. More than that, many Philodox learn the codes that have grown up around the Litany, and the appropriate punishments for crimes against the Garou Nation.
  
  
• Student Government (Leadership)
  Leadership makes a character the kind of person or wolf that others support and serve. It involves knowing what to say and how to say it so that people fighting with you will do what you need them to. That said, Leadership has less to do with manipulating other people and more to do with portraying yourself as the kind of person they want to follow. Good leaders know when to make suggestions, when to bark orders — and when to lead by example.

• First Aid (Medicine)
  Medicine is the study of how the human body works, and how to fix it when it goes wrong. This Knowledge encompasses fields including anatomy, physiology, pharmacology, and emergency aid. Characters with this Knowledge can diagnose and treat diseases and injuries, and can also care for wolves and other animals — though their expertise will not be as specific as that of a veterinarian unless they choose a veterinary specialty. Medicine’s knowledge of pharmaceuticals covers both legal and illicit substances that can be used to help or harm.

• Agriculture (Science - Agriculture)
• Astronomy (Science - Astronomy)
• Geology (Science - Geology)
• Meteorology (Science - Meteorology)
  At its most basic, Science involves developing hypotheses and testing them through the scientific method. This Knowledge covers the “hard sciences” and related fields — from biology and chemistry to more abstract fields like mathematics. It allows the character to develop theories and test them through experimentation and to apply what she knows to everyday problems.

• Electronics (Technology - Electronics)
  The Technology Knowledge represents a character’s broad aptitude with electronics, computer hardware, and anything that needs an understanding of modern electronics to work with — mechanical devices fall under the Crafts Skill. If it has a processor, some transistors, or an integrated circuit — if it’s electronic rather than electrical — manipulating it falls under Technology. A character can use Technology to build a computer, crack a security system, repair a cellphone, or hack together a shortwave radio.

Out of Character Commentary
I’m not sure how this vote will go, since there are so many options. We will figure it out.

Werewolf the Apocalypse Setting Spoilers

Spoiler

Here are the skill Sigrid has thus far:

Talents (7 of 13)
Alertness 0
Athletics 2 (Sigrid is an Athlete)
Brawl 2 (Sigrid can handle herself in a fight without weapons)
Empathy 1 (ST Addition: Like her mother, she can read people well)
Expression 0
Intimidation 1 (ST Addition: Sigrid can be a bit of a bully)
Leadership 1 (ST Addition: Sigrid was captain of her Lacrosse team)
Primal-Urge 0
Streetwise 0
Subterfuge 0


Skills (0 of ?)
Animal-Kin 0
Crafts 0
Drive 0
Etiquette 0
Firearms 0
Larceny 0
Melee 0
Performance 0
Stealth 0
Survival 0


Knowledge (0 of ?)
Academics 0
Computer 0
Enigmas 0
Investigation 0
Law 0
Medicine 0
Occult 0
Rituals 0
Science 0
Technology 0

Out of Character Commentary

 

[wonderandawe]

You take the green form from your Aunt Anne and consider your options. Speaking in front of crowds terrifies you and you doubt singing or playing an instrument would be any better. You check off Journalism. Out of the second list, you choose Criminal Justice. After your recent brushes with the law, you want to know how to avoid the police. You survey your other options and smile when you see Driver’s Education listed. You check off the class and wonder if you can find a job to save up for a car.

You pass the form back to your Aunt. She nods in approval of your choices. “My oldest two kids are in high school, too. You’ve already met Alex, my stepson. He’s starting school this year.” An odd choice of words. “He will be a Junior just like you.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to betray your thoughts about Alex. Your Aunt frowns at your non-reaction to this news. “You remember Regine. She’s a year older than you.” You have a vague memory of a red headed, freckled skinned girl with braces. Aunt Anne’s voice warms with pride. “She’s going to Harvard next year.”

Glasses clink as your mother cleans the kitchen. She places the pint glasses in an ancient wood paneled dishwasher. The beer bottles get rinsed and set on the counter for recycling. Aunt Anne is not numb to your mother’s hint. “I should get going.” She folds your class form in half and tucks it in the front pocket of her brightly floraled hobo handbag. “I left Regine alone with the twins. Regine and Alex will be by tomorrow at seven to walk with you to school. Would that be alright?”

Your Aunt is asking for understanding rather than agreement. “Yeah. That’s fine.” Realizing you Aunt expects more of a comment, you add. “It will be good to have some friends at my new school.”

Aunt Anne smiles. “You get the idea.” She hugs you and your mother. “If you need anything, I’m only a couple of doors down. Look for the house with the solar panels on the roof.” Your mother gives some non-committal response and your aunt leaves.

You sit in awkward silence after your aunt’s leavetaking. You fidget with a peeling section of the autumn leaf countertop. Your mother curses as she fights to open one of the moving boxes. After she gets the box open, she rests her arms on the sides. “There is something you need to know about your step-cousin Alex before you see him tomorrow. He’s a metis.”

“What’s a metis?”

“Your father didn’t explain about Garou reproduction?”

“No.” Your father talked about war and the wyrm, but thankfully not about ‘Garou reproduction’.

“Of course he didn’t.” Your mother mutters under her breath. “There are three breeds of Garou. Homids are born human, like your father. Lupus are born as wolves. Democritus - he’s the wolf staying with us - is a Lupus. Metis… Metis are complicated.” Your mother sits down at the bar next to you. “Sigrid, it’s time we had a talk.”

You’re mother has only used that phrase once before. Shit, were you that obvious about your interest in Alex? “Not another sex talk.” You groan and rest your forehead against the counter top. You just met the guy today and now everyone is freaking out. “We already had that talk!” You did not want to discuss sex with your mother.

“And now we need to have the Garou version.” Your mother folds her hands on her lap. “Sigrid, you are becoming a woman and are dealing with unfamiliar urges and instincts. I know things didn’t go well with Scott Mullins…”

“I did not want to have sex with Scott Mullins!”

“You made that quite clear to everyone.” Your mother frowns. “Sigrid, you can’t have sex with any Garou or any kinfolk who still has a Kinfetch.”

Your father explained about Toddy, your kinfetch. A kinfetch is a spirit that will find your Garou relatives after you have your first change. The kinfetch will lead them to your location. When it is certain you will not go through your change, it will abandon you.

“What?” There was so many fucking rules about sex and now there was another one. No wonder you were still a virgin. “That’s a stupid rule. Who made that up? Dad?”

“No, it’s an old rule.”

“Oh! Like how you are suppose to wait until your married before having sex.” No one ever follows that rule.

“Sigrid, this is serious! We still don’t know if you are going to be Garou or not. You can not get pregnant by another Garou.”

“This conversation again?” Your mother, who got pregnant at eighteen, is paranoid about you making the same mistake. “Mom, I’m not going to get pregnant.”

“This is more than screwing up your life, Sigrid. You could die.” This catches your attention. You grow serious as your mother explains. “The Garou have sort of a ten commandments. They call it the Litany. The first Litany is ‘Garou shall not mate with Garou.’ If the Garou breeds amongst themselves- and not with a kinfolk- the result is a metis like Alex. He wasn’t born Human, like your father.”

“Wait, what?” Alex looked Human. A bit awkward, but most boys your age were awkward.

“A metis isn’t born wolf or human.” Your mother says. “They are born in Crinos, the wolf man form. Teeth, claws, and all. Alex’s mother died giving birth to him.”

“Oh.” Alex didn’t tell you that, though a mother’s death isn’t something you bring up in casual conversation.

“Metis stay in Crinos until they hit puberty and go through their first change.” Your mother shifts in her barstool. “Imagine a toddler having a temper tantrum. Now imagine one with Garou rage and long claws and sharp teeth. Until a metis grows up, they have to be locked away out of sight.” Your mother shakes her head. “It’s not a safe way to raise a child, especially a rage filled werewolf one. Most of them don’t turn out right. Remember your Aunt Anne’s students? They are all pre-change metis. One of them bit her fingers off.”

On one level you are horrified at what your mother is tell you. Werewolf children locked up until they grow up. Yet at the same time you are relieved. She didn’t know about your interest in Alex. Though, maybe it is a good thing you have given up boys. You want no part of killer werewolf babies. “Alex didn’t seem crazy. Maybe it’s because he’s deaf…”

“He’s deaf because he’s a metis. They all have some deformity. Deaf, blind, hairless, paralyzed. Metis have a one hundred percent chance at becoming Garou, so they have that advantage. But they are sterile, so they can’t pass on their Garou blood.” Your mother frowns. “That’s why Kinfolk are so important to the Garou. If we didn’t exist, the Garou would die out in a generation.” Your mother exhales a breath and comes back to her original topic. “Don’t break the first Litany, Sigrid. No birth control is full proof enough to risk your life.”

“Mom,” you roll your eyes. “I’m not going to get pregnant. Stop being so paranoid.”

Your mother ignores your retort. “I never wanted to have this conversation with you. I tried to keep you from this.” Your mother is no longer talking about Metis. She closes her eyes. “I prayed to Gaia every day for this ‘honor’ to pass you by.”

“Why? I can understand dad not telling me. He never calls. But after all the trouble I had in school, you knew the reason.” You feel your rage rise. “You could have told me! You could have told me I was turning into a fucking werewolf!”

“I wanted you to grow up normal, Sigrid.” Your mother’s voice is still calm.

“I was never normal! I never had any friends! Everyone was scared of me!” You yell.

“Living in Kirksville isn’t any better!” Your mother’s voice raises to match your own. “It’s not safe here! There is always violence in Kirksville. If not the Garou causing trouble, it’s the wyrm trying to invade Crying Rock. “

“But..”

“Shh…” Your mother takes your face in her hands. “It will be fine. Once you lose your Kinfetch, we will leave and go back to Austin.”

“No!” You tear yourself away from your mother. “How could I leave after what dad told me?”

“What did your father tell you?” Your mother demands. “That there’s a war going on? That the Garou are making the world a better place? Both our families have been fighting this war for generations.” Long held venomous words spews forth from your mother’s mouth. “Nothing get better. Nothing ever changes. All the Garou do is sit on that damn Rock and when they get bored of Rock sitting, they come into town to drink, fight, and fuck!”

“That’s not true! The people in town respect him.” You remember the men at the diner saluting your father.

“Don’t you dare defend him. You’ve only been with him an afternoon and now you are buddies?” Your mother barks a bitter laugh. “Sigrid, he’s never cared about us. The only reason why he takes an interest in you now is because you may become Garou. Ever since his first change, all he’s ever cared about is that damned Rock!”

Hearing your mother talk about your father like this…. You close your eyes to contain your rage. You knew they had problems but they always kept you out of it. Now… Claws click on the wood floors. You spin around and growl at the approaching wolf.

“Sigrid…” Calmed, your mother reaches out to you. “Look, I’m sorry…” She stops short when you spin around and snarl at her. Her eyes widen. Her skin pales. Fear. You can smell her fear. You take a step towards your mother. You hear her speeding heart in her chest. The blood pounding through her veins. You.... Your reaction to your mother’s fear shocks you out of your rage. You back away from your mother and retreat up the stairs. “Sigrid!” your mother calls out.

“Let her go,” Another voice orders, a male voice rough from disuse.

You pick a room at random and throw yourself on the bed. You curl around a pillow. Your mother’s fear scares you, but what scares you more is how much her fear excites you. What are you becoming?

You bit down on the pillow and scream.


End Chapter One.

 

[wonderandawe]

Overnight, snow has fallen fresh upon the ground. It dusts your fur when you exit your den. You shake off the white powder. A stray snowflake falls upon your nose and melts. You lick it clean with your tongue. The thick blanket of white makes you long to return to the warmth of your den. Yet you trust your fur to keep you warm enough.

You pad though the snow, your wide paws easily navigating the powder. You climb the hill which conceals your den. When you reach the hilltop, you paw down to bare rock and sit. Though a gap in the pine canopy, you watch for moonrise. Soon. A arctic breeze disturbs the pines of the Black Forest. The scents the wind brings entices you. A rabbit nurses an early litter in her den, death haunts each fragile beat of her offsprings’ hearts. A mouse scamper across the snow, it’s mouth pouch bursting with seeds. A raven takes flight, scattering snow off its roosting branch.

The light of the rising Gibbous moon casts silver light and the shadow of leaves dance on the fresh snow. Now is the time. You raise your snout to the sky and call your brothers and sisters to the hunt. Their replying howls echo through the forest. Your pack arrives with yelps of greeting. You welcome them with an aloof air, accepting their licks and nicks with royal dignity. With a commanding yip, you settle the pack. You take off in a roping lope, blazing a trail through the fresh snow. You pack follows in your wake.

The winter wind flicks your whiskers, bringing you the scent of prey. Elk slumber in a snow covered field. They huddle together for warm and safety. Your pack sister digs in the snow for a pile of dung. The pack takes turns rolling around in the grassy clumps. Your mouth salivates at the musk of the elk. You lick the imagined spill of Elk blood off your chops. You calm your eagerness and circle the herd, observing. One Elk stands apart. It limps, right back leg injured.

The winter forest falls away. Your nostrils extend. An aura of dried blood and rotting flesh surround the elk. The Elk’s wound heals poorly. Your eyes fix on the elk. It limps restless among its slumbering herd. Its stomach expands and contracts with its final breaths. The elk digs for the first shoots of spring, its final meal. You flick an ear.

The pack charges. The herd stampedes in terror. The ground trembles with hoof falls. The acidic stench of urine spoils the wind. A pregnant cow falters, a temptation. You stay the course - the limping elk. Your heart pounds against the uneven rhythm of your running prey. The limping elk never leaves your sight. A grey shadow leaps past you. Your brother clamps his jaws around the elk’s uninjured leg. The elk kicks at your pack brother. He dodges and disengages.

Elk distracted, you rear up and latch on to the elk’s throat. The tainted taste of blood fills your mouth....


A sharp repetitive noise shrieks at you. You strike out. The object flies across the room. It slams against a white barrier and falls into pieces.

You claw with long unwieldy fingers at your sweat soaked sheets. Disoriented, your eyes dart around you. You do not recognize this place nor the objects in it. Each object is a shape whose purpose you can not discern. You sniff, searching for the forest, the snow, the elk, your pack. A sob escapes you. Nothing, but old dust and musty dead plants. No one is here. You are trapped in this drywall cage. Alone.

Slowly, your mind comes back to the here and now. You remember who you are. Your name is Sigrid Kirk. You live in Austin… no,Kirksville, Texas. Today is the first day of your Junior year of high school. Your first day at your new school. You regain control of your breath and calm your racing heart.

The alarm clock, an old school Mickey Mouse, lies in pieces near the far wall. Above the broken clock is a print of the dark foreboding forest. A pack of wolves, five in all, stalk an elk. Bloody hoof prints reveal the elk’s trail. A savage picture which foreshadows death and violence. You didn’t notice the picture last night, but obviously it must have influenced your subconscious. Yet the print is wrong. There should be only four wolves, not five.

You shake your head of this insane thought.

Still dressed in the truck stop cast offs from yesterday, you get out of bed and pick up Mickey’s head. Poor Mickey. He didn’t deserve this treatment. You set the broken alarm clock on your night stand. Mickey gives you a blank plastic stare.

You peer through the thin yellowing blinds. The sky beyond is still dark. Crying Rock stands a beacon amidst the violet predawn sky. The lake is still. All the houses along the lake are dark and quiet. You are the only one awake on the lake.

No. You hear the click of claws on wood floors. Democritus the wolf prowls the hallway outside your door. Downstairs, your mother bustles in the kitchen. Did she sleep last night? You push your argument with your mother out of your mind. Your actions last night shame you. You do not want to face your mother this morning.

An old white and gold french dresser stands opposite of the window. You look into the mirror. Your hair's a mess. Dark circles weigh down your grey blue eyes. You rub the sleep gunk from your eyes and discover a basket of clean laundry by the door. Did your mother put it there?

Who set the alarm? You didn’t hear her come in.

You groan and fall back into bed. You wish you had a few days to digest everything your parents revealed to you. It’s not everyday you discover you may be a werewolf. That deserves a few days off school right?

You heft the laundry basket off the ground and place it on the bed. You sort through it. It’s your first day of school. You want to make an impression on the other students.


What do you wear?

• Vintage. You’ve searched the thrift stores of Austin for the most fashionable vintage ware. Being poor never stopped you from looking good. You got to show off your designer thriftiness to the rest of the school.
  
  
  
  
  
• Feminine. As an Athlete, you rarely get the chance to wear a dress. Today you will wear one. This has nothing to do with Alex or any other boy you may met at school. Nope. Boys are off the menu and have nothing to do with your choice to wear a dress.
  
  
  
  
  
• Punk. Fluorescent shoe laces, sugar skull tank, artfully ripped jeans. You loved to shock and you love to challenge the school dress code. Maybe this new school doesn’t have rules against pink hair.
  
  
  
  
  
• Don’t give a fuck. Clothes are clothes. You’d wear Pajama Pants to school if your mother would let you. Instead you will wear comfortable jeans and your “Fuck” shirt. You are a firm believer in truth in advertising.
  
  
  
  
  
• Other. Link me a picture of what you are thinking of.

((Sorry. Couldn't find pictures of everything that looked like Sigrid.))

 

[wonderandawe]

You dig through the laundry basket and pull out your well loved Led Zeppelin t-shirt. When you found it at the flea market, your mother mocked you for buying it “That band hasn’t been on stage since before you were born, Sigrid.” You hug the soft, well-washed material to yourself and then toss it on the bed.

You remove a pair of indigo blue skinny jeans from the basket. Artful holes rip along the knees and shins. You lied to your mother about these holes. “I ripped them by accident.” She knew you lied and helpfully offered to patch them for you. As a compromise, she patched the inside of the holes and you picked out the fabric. Instead of bare skin, the rips reveal florescent pink polka dots.

Glancing out of the blinds again, you see a few windows illuminated in the houses around the lake. Kirksville is waking up. The sun rises from the other direction, but the sky behind the Crying Rock is now a lighter shade of violet.

You search and can not find either your backpack nor your black pleather shoes. They must be down stairs, still in moving boxes. You sit on one of the beds in the room, chin resting on your fist. After last night, you did not want to go downstairs and face your mother. Nor did you want to spend the time before school digging through moving boxes.

As you sit and figure out what to do, you study the room. Besides the wolves in the forest print, there is little on the walls. A few pin holes and scotch tape markings reveal that the walls were once covered in posters. You notice a dirty white shoe lace trailing out of the closet. You fold the wooden closet doors. Inside are a stack of boxes, a mound of discarded shoes, and a pile of old yearbooks and photo albums.

The white shoelaces belong to a well worn pair of white and blue athletic shoes. You nose itches as you dig through the moldy mound of footwear. “Score!” You pull out a dusty pair of Doc Martens. Real Doc Martens, not the fake ones you own. You use the edge of your shorts to wipe them off. You slip one on your right foot. A bit big but nothing a pair of thick socks wouldn’t fix.

Pulling off the shoe, you search for a size. The size is a much larger number than your size ten. Must be an European size. Black on black, you find the name “Ella” written inside the shoes. Ella is your aunt who went though the change and became Garou. You set the shoes down in front of the open closet and stare at them. Should you ask first? You pick a dust bunny off the laces. If your Aunt Ella wanted the shoes, she shouldn’t have left them here. You set them beside your bed.

What other treasures can you find in the closet? A flannel shirt so dusty, it makes you sneeze. A matted grey witch wig from some forgotten halloween costume. You pluck the top yearbook from the pile and open it. The Kirksville Class of 1993 tome is slimmer than the yearbooks from your Austin High School. Farewell signatures and notes all addressed to your Aunt Anne fill the inside covers. 1993 must have been her senior year. One long note draws reads:

Anne,

Congratulations on your admission to UT-Houston! I know you are disappointed you can not follow in Ella’s footsteps, but know you have a bright future ahead of you. I suggest you take this opportunity to explore who you are as an individual, instead of a twin. I have faith you will be a success no matter what you chose to do with your life.

Remember to keep your Acids and Bases separate.

Mr. Collins

You search for a yearbook from your parent’s years, but you find nothing. This must have been Anne and Ella’s childhood room. It must have been rough for the twins to separate like that. One twin Garou, the other twin going off to college.

The mention of University brings up another question: Can Garou go to college? Your mother made it sound like once your father when though his first change, he couldn’t leave Kirksville. Your heart pounds as you replace the yearbook on the pile. Where you trapped here if you became Garou? Something to ask your Father. Or maybe Alex.

Before you unfold the closet door, a discarded photograph catches your eye. You pick it up a photo of your mother and her four sisters as children sitting on a wooden fence. Anne and Ella sit side by side. Anne is tall, skinny with long blonde hair. Ella is tall, big boned and with short hair. No, Ella’s hair was braided and wound around her head. Your Aunt Jessica, who now lives in Germany, smiles, showing off multicolored braces. She stands on the ground and leans against the fence.

Your mother stands on the bottom rail. She is no more than nine years old, wearing an oversized tie dyed tshirt. Your mother leans away from the camera and sticks her tongue out. Melissa, the youngest, hangs upside down from the top rail, her long pigtails brushing the ground.

Something drops in the kitchen. Your mother isn’t usually this clumsy. You crack open the door just in time to hear your mother curse. Movement attracts your attention. Democritus, the wolf from last night, lifts his head when you open the door. He stares at you with those all seeing golden eyes. Was the old wolf there all night just outside your door?

What do you do?

• Go downstairs and talk to your mother. The longer you wait to clear the air the more you’ll delay.
• Go for a run to clear your head. Bring this Democritus with you and see what his deal is.
• Sneak out of the house and head to Aunt Anne’s House. Five Teenage girls used to live in this place. There has to be a way out without your mother realizing you left.
• Other
  

(I seriously considered combining this decision point with the last one. Now I wish I did because it ended up splitting one normal sized post into two short ones.)

((We can discuss Tattoos and Piercings later. Once Sigrid’s eighteen! Or she gets a fake ID. ))

 

[wonderandawe]

Setting your school clothes aside, you grab a pair of running shorts. You dig out an oversize t shirt, blue cartoon waterdrops smiling from the front. You exit the room, tucking your socks into your running shoes as you go.

The old black wolf lifts his head when you appear in the hallway. His tail wags when he sees you in running clothes. You cross your arms. This wolf has been creeping around your bedroom. What was his deal? Well, no time like the present to find out. “You can come along if you can keep up.” You taunt Democritus. The old wolf snorts and follows you down stairs.

“Sigrid?” your mother calls, from the kitchen. “Do you want breakfast?”

“I’m good!” you yell back from the front door. “I’m going for a run with the old wolf.”

There is a moment of silence from the kitchen. “Okay. Be back by seven. Your cousins will be here then to pick you up.”

“I know, mom.” That conversation happened last night. Did she think you forgot so quickly? Though you didn’t want to think about last night. You feel a stirring of those alien emotions. You shake your head. A run will clear your head.

Toddy, your kinfetch, squawks at you as you break out into oppressive morning air. It’s still summer. School shouldn’t be starting while the heat and humid still weigh heavy in the air. You sigh and lace up your shoes. “Come on, you old wolf.” You stand. “Let’s see what you got.”

The wolf yips. Your fragments of the dream last night return to you. The yip is a command to follow. But instead of taking off down the road, like you expected, the wolf circles around the back of the house. “Shit.” You hurry to catch up, shoes crunching through the dew dropped grass. Democritus leads you around the lake at break neck speed. “You aren’t going to get past me.” You let loose, running with joyful abandonment. You heave deep breathes and your heart thumps in your chest. You run past the docks and decks of the other houses. Nice houses, not mansions, but well kept and painted in natural tones of browns, tans, and greens. Yet a few sit empty, waiting for occupants who will never return. You run past a deck filled with dead herbs potted like the house’s ghostly residents are raising demented broom bristles.

At the edge of the woods, Democritus stops. He looks back at you, tongue lolling with laughter. You come to a stop and rest your hands on your thighs, breathing heavy. Break neck speed without proper warm up is not how you trained in Track and Field. “You win. I take back everything I said about you being too old to run.” You huff. The wolf licks his black nose and takes off into the woods, this time at a more manageable pace.

The woods near the lake are dark and thick. No logger’s blade has ever touched any tree here. Democritus leads you through the deep brush, following a trail you can not see. You leap over fallen moss carpeted logs and brush past sharp branches. Soon you reach a point where you can no longer run, only break trail through the shrubs and young trees. You wonder if the wolf is doing this on purpose. Is he dragging you through the thickest undergrowth to punish you for mocking him? Despite your annoyance, the forest canopy gives you a break from the summer heat. The air here is fresh and green. The last of the summer cicadas buzz. A mockingbird sings. A grey squirrel flees to the tree tops.

Finally, you break though to a clearing with a tall mound of pink rocks and red clay. A younger sister of the Crying Rock. You pause, brushing off the leaves and checking your arms for scratches and ticks. Democritus does not stop at the bottom. He climbs the mound, leaping from rock to rock until he reaches the top. You stifle a groan. Up until your run with the wolf, you thought you were in great shape. You step from rock to rock, shoes slipping on a patch of moss. If you are going to keep running like this, you are going to need trail shoes… or wolf paws.

When you reach the top, you find not an old black wolf, but a old man. The old wolf, now human, sits facing the Crying Rock. His wild, dark curly hair is liberally streaked with grey. He has the fine strong features of the Mediterranean, his skin well weathered, his face deep with laugh lines. The old wolf wears a bright orange Hawaiian shirt and black cargo pants.

You sit on the rock next to him and focus on calming your breath. You take deep gasps of the fresh air. As you recover and take in the landscape. The Crying Rock looms in front of you. Behind you the sun rises above the town of Kirksville. Everywhere else is green. Deep Forest Green of the trees. Bright grass green of the cattle fields. Deep blue green of fresh water lake. “It’s lovely.”

“It is.” The old wolf agrees, with a warm contented smile. “It’s good to get out of that dusty tomb of a house and outside among the living.”

You nod in agreement. “My mother will air the place out.”

The wolf grunts as if this was not enough for him. “You shouldn’t skip meals. Humans who are not used to fasting need to eat before or after strenuous activity.” The old wolf digs through the pockets of his shorts and reveals a dead mouse, its neck twisted. “No, not that.” Democritus mumbles to himself. “I found that in the attic yesterday. Here.” He offers you a ziplock bag with a homemade granola bar. Thankfully, he pulled this from his other pocket.

You hesitate. “I don’t take food from strangers.”

The old wolf smacks his head. “I apologize, Sigrid. Your Aunt told me all about you, but you know nothing about me. Of course you shouldn’t take food from strangers.” Democritus sits cross legged and faces you. “I am Democritus, Judge of the People in your language. I was born under the Waxing Half Moon to the Black Furies and ran on four feet to be claimed by the Children of Gaia. “ There is a note of sing song ritual to his introduction.

You attempt to imitate his introduction. “Hi, I am Sigrid Kirk. I don’t have a cool name yet. I am Get of Fenris born on the night of the Gibbous moon.”

“Close,” Democritus says in approval. “You have not gone through your first change, so your Kinfolk introduction is simpler. You are Sigrid Kirk, Daughter of Five Claws, Ahroun of the Get of Fenris, Sept Alpha of Crying Rock. If we were Silver Fangs, we’d spend the entire day listing off the great deeds of our ancestors.”

You smile at the old wolf’s exasperation at the tendious of these Silver Fangs. “Are Silver Fangs another tribe?”

“Oh, yes. Falcon’s Brood. The greatest of the tribes, the leaders of the Garou Nation.” Democritus snorts. “You don’t have to worry about remembering that because the Fangs will never let you forget.”

“I thought the Get of Fenris were the greatest tribe,” you joke.

“You truly are your aunt’s niece. You’ve been here less than a day and you have that Fenrir pride.”

You wonder which of your four aunts he is talking about? “What would my introduction be after my first change?”

“That depends on you and your choices and deeds. For example, you could be Run Ragged, Galliard born on two legs to the Great Wolf Fenris. You are not a member of your family’s tribe until you survive your Rite of Passage and choose Fenris as your Patron.”

“You mean I can be whatever Tribe I want?”

“Yes, you can choose whatever tribal patron you want within reason. I doubt Falcon would show up to your Rite of Passage. He has high standards only the most honorable lines of the Silver Fangs meet.” The old wolf sighs. “With a bloodline like yours, it would be a scandal if you don’t choose Fenris.” Democritus leans in closes and whispers. “If your family gives you any difficulties, my tribe will help you find the tribe that calls to your heart.”

You stop yourself from scooting away from the old wolf. “You are very helpful.” You start. “Is that why you creep around the hallway in front of my room?”

“Creep?” Democritus repeats with a confused frown.

“Yes, Creep. As in Creepy old man...or wolf in this case.”

“Ah. Do not worry, Sigrid. I have no intentions of mating with you.” The old wolf reassures you in an nonreassuring way. “I’m old enough to be your grand…” He stops talking and winces. “Did I just make this more creepy by bringing up mating?”

“Yes.”

The old wolf scratches behind his ear. “I’ve been walking on two feet longer than most homids have been alive and still some aspects of human etiquette escape me. Guide me, Sigrid Kirk, Daughter of Five Claws. What can I do to be not creepy?”

What can Democritus do to be not so creepy?

• Stop wandering the halls as a wolf. If he can turn into a human, he should interact with you as a human.
• Move his bed downstairs and away from his room. Having an old man… wolf sleeping outside your door is really weird.
• Leave you and your mother the fuck alone. Why is he even there in the first place?
• Other

 

[wonderandawe]

“You’re fine,” Now you met Democritus in person, the wolf isn’t so creepy. Just odd. “Can you move your bed downstairs or into one of the other rooms? You sleeping in the hallway is weird. And the whole wandering the halls staring at people is creepy too.”

You were afraid he’d be offended, but Democritus weighs your advice carefully. “I can move my pillow downstairs. It will put me closer to the fridge, where the beer is anyways.” The old wolf stares at you unblinking. “Would you be more comfortable if I was human when I stayed with you?”

“Yes,” That way you consider him a guest in your home rather than a creepy wolf. Also, you could talk to him and find out more about Garou in general.

Democritus grunts. “This is a problem. Your mother prefers me to stay as a wolf while I am with you. She would like to pretend I am a dog,” The old wolf’s voice growls on the word dog. “As she is the mistress of your home, I need to abide by her decision.” Democritus stares off in the distance. “Your mother has been gone for a long time and has forgotten what it means to be kin. Me throwing my weight around as Garou will not help her remember in a good way.” The old wolf focuses back on you. “Sigrid, can you talk to your mother and convince her to not fear me?”

“Umm…” You still need to talk to your mother to convince her not to fear you. You pause before agreeing. He lead the conversation to this point, you realize. Democritus has walked on two long before you were born. There are some lessons he has learned well.

Sensing your hesitation, Democritus adds, “If I am to be trapped in a human home, I would prefer to be human. Wolves are not meant to live in boxes.”

You frown, but can’t find any reason not to agree. “It will have to be after school.”

Democritus smiles. “That is fine. I am patient. Is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“I can’t think of anything,” You search your mind. “But if I do I’ll let you know.”

Democritus snorts. “I’m sure you will. You are Fenrir after all.”

You squirm uncomfortably. “I don’t know much about the tribes, even my own.” You admit. “My father told me the Child of Gaia were peacekeepers.”

“You arrived yesterday, Sigrid.” Democritus reminds you. “No one expects you to master the lore of the Garou Nation in a day. You will be taught everything you need before your Rite of Passage.” The sunrises over Kirksville. “Speaking of Teaching, you need to go to school.”

“School! Shit!” You race down the hill. “It’s nice to meet you on two feet!” You cry out to the wolf when you reach the bottom of the rocky hill!

Democritus waves you goodbye.

You run through the woods, ignoring the branches scratching at your face. You race past the decks of the lake houses and make for the street. You stomp up the stairs into your grandmother’s house. You grab your clothes and head to the shower. Shit Shit Shit. You are going to be late, you think as you wash your hair. You throw on your clothes. You look into the mirror, and comb your wet hair.

“Sigrid! Alex and Regine going to be here soon!”

Alex? Shit. You had forgotten about him. Your hair's a mess and you have no time to blow dry. Not that it matters. You’ve given up boys. Yep, not more bashing boys heads into car windows for you.

Still, you pluck the make up case from the box in the bathroom. You dig around and find a deep red lipstick. You put some one. You rub your lips together and look into the mirror. Pale Face. Red Lips. “I look like a clown.” You decide.

“Sigrid!”

“Coming!” You line your eyes with a black pencil and throw on some blush on your cheeks for color. You zipper your makeup bag. You find some of your mother’s hand made perfume oils and pick one at random. You dab oil behind your ears and on your wrists.

You run down stairs carrying your boots and make up bag. You sit on the bench and put your boots on.

Your mother raises an eyebrow at the boots. “Where did you find those boots?”

“In the closet.” You reply as you lace up the tall Doc Martens. You dare your mother to say something about the boots, then you remember what happened last night. Of all people, you didn’t want your mother to be frightened of you. You open your mouth to speak. To apologize.

Ding Dong! The doorbell rings. Two tall figures cast shadows in the green plastic window.

“Here’s your bag.” Your mother hands it over.

“Thanks.” You shove your makeup bag in your well patched backpack. “Look, Mom, I’m sorry about last night...”

“No, it’s okay.” She gives you a weak smile and counts out your lunch money. “You are growing up too fast on me.” She retreats to the kitchen.

Ding Dong! The doorbell rings again. You groan and open the door. “What?”

“School, that’s what?” A girl in a black pinstriped pencil skirt and a professional cap sleeved shirt snaps back. The girl is more prepared for a day at the office instead of school. Annoyance burns in her caramel brown eyes. “I’m Regine, in case you don’t remember.” Your cousin is tall like most woman in your family. With her burnt orange hair, caramel brown eyes and dusting of freckles she is fire to your ice.

Alex stands behind her, dressed in dark jeans and a plaid button down shirt, left untucked. He has a leather messenger bag across his shoulder. He gives you a little wave and then holds up a finger. He opens his bag and gives you three books: ASL for Dummies, The American Sign Language Dictionary, and Dirty Sign Language: Everyday Slang from “What’s up?” to ‘Fuck off”.

Regine rolls her eyes. She signs something to Alex. Alex signs back. “Sorry, you don’t have to take the books if you don’t want them.” Regine apologizes for her step brother.

“I asked for them.” You snicker at the Dirty Sign Language book.

“We should go. We don’t want to be late. If someone would finish fixing the car, we’d be driving to school.” Regine signs and speaks at the same time.

Alex pulls out his notebook “Car’s been sitting for years. Need money for parts.”

“Just sign, Alex. I’ll translate.” Regine tells him. Alex frowns and puts his notebook away. He signs at Regine. She snorts, signs back, and doesn’t translate.

“What did he say?”

“He’s afraid, I’m going to edit what he says.”

“Do you?” You’ll need to learn Sign Language as soon as possible if people weren’t going to translate right.

“Me, no.” She frowns, offended. “Shoving his foot in his mouth will teach Alex not to be weird.”

“Mom and Dad edit what he says. Mom’s trying to be helpful. Dad does it to be concise but loses some of what Alex says.” Regine explains as Alex signs.

The three of you walk in silence for a while. “So what is there to do in this town if you are our age?”

“Absolutely fucking nothing.” Regine groans. “This is my last year. I can’t wait to get out.”

“I heard you got accepted to Harvard.” You remember what you Aunt Anne told you. “Congraduations.”

Regine beams at you. “Once my kinfetch left, my step-father said he’d pay for any school I could get into. Dad almost frenzied at the Ivy League tuition costs, but he arranged things with the tribe.”

“The Fenrir will pay for college?” You add scholarships on the list of things to ask your father about.

“The Get of Fenris? No, they are too traditional to worry about college. College doesn’t help fight the Wyrm. Not that I’m not proud to be Kin of Fenris.” Regine quickly adds. “I meant the Glaswalkers. They are a much more forward thinking tribe. As Kinfolk, I got to take all the advantages I can.” Uncle Greg was a Glasswalker. You remember the Glasswalkers were the computer tribe. If any tribe had money, it would be them.

“There is the militia.” Alex signs, missing the conversation you and Regine were having. “That is something you can do.”

You make a fist and circle around your chest. Sorry was one of the few signs you knew. “I didn’t meant to leave you out of the conversation.”

“The militia isn’t fun, Alex. When you start high school, you are allowed to join the militia.” Regine explains to you. “The teens go out and cause trouble for any strangers who come to town at night. It’s part of Crying Rock’s defense. We can’t have strangers wandering around the town. They will get ideas they can wander around the Rock. The Garou aren’t suppose to do anything Garou in town unless it's something the kin can’t take care of.”

“The first meeting is after school, you going to join?” Alex signs.

“They do give you self-defense and firearms training.” Regine wrinkles her freckled nose, but schools her expression.

“What?”

“You are Franklin Kirk’s daughter.” Regine frowns. “It’s total bullshit, but it's expected you will join.”

“Alex has to go.” Alex tells you through Regine. “Alex’s is Garou. They want the Garou cubs to work with the kin so they can get used to each other.”

“I’ll think about it.” Not wanting to commit to anything. “Depends on the sports.”

“We don't have much sports at Kirksville High, but we’ve have trouble keeping the coaches. Kinfolk don’t keep their temper well and the coaches get banned. ”

“We have football.” Alex explains.

“Yes, only because Coach Richards isn’t kinfolk. He calms down all the helicopter parents of the opposing teams. Used to be the other schools wanted to play the Kirksville Raiders. We were the toughest team around. Now, everyone’s worried about injuries and their kid not getting in college.”

“We have Cross Country, right?” What will you do with your time if you don’t have sports?

“Oh yeah.” Regine is the type who pays little attention to sports. “The track team doesn’t compete except amongst themselves. Though if you go through your first change, you won’t be able to play. Being Garou is an unfair advantage. Garou don’t have time for sports anyways. So you won’t miss it.” Regine reassures you or at least attempts to.

Alex whistles. He points as you peak a hill. Kirksville High School lays in a valley amidst cattle fields. On the far side of the school is deep dark forest; the same forest you ran in with the wolf this morning. The school is a hodgepodge of buildings. A two story building built of white stone is the tallest one. A row of warehouses labeled with various trades sit behind the main building. All evidence points to college students not being one of Kirksville’s main exports.

Wide eyed, Alex stares at the students walking around the dim lit atrium of the white stone building. This is his first day of school, you remember. While Alex is distracted, Regine takes you aside. “You’ll keep an eye on him, right? You are in half his classes. Make sure the other students leave him alone.”

You look at Alex and remember him healing the gunshot from the convenience store robbery. “I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

“That’s the problem. Alex can’t be mauling the other students.” Regine bites her lip and worries about her stepbrother. “He doesn’t know the small cruelties the other kids play on each other.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” you promise.

Regine squeezes your arm in thanks. She joins the line for Senior Schedules.

You and Alex join the line to pick up your Junior Schedules. You look over your schedule. For the first time in your life, you got all the classes you want. Though you still mourn the lack of sports. Oh well, maybe it’s time to focus on your academics. Alex shows your his schedule. Biology with someone name Aguado for first period. Same as you.

You walk through the hallways, emptier than at your previous high school. Lemon scented cleaning chemicals scent the air. The clatter of tall blue lockers - taller than the shoebox sized ones of your urban school - echo down the empty hallway. Rednecks in pressed flannel shirts and clean cowboy books lean against the lockers. They halt their conversation as you and Alex pass. A group of blonde girls, half in cheerleader uniforms, move aside to give you both space.

A few students fight in the intersection between halls. Their boots smear mud all over the clean floors of the new school year. The Dean, a big beefy dude with a military haircut, breaks them up. To your shock, the dean’s grey twill jacket reveals he is armed with a tranquilizer gun. Alex gives the dean a wide berth. He stays close to you, treading on the heels of your boots and almost tripping you. No need for that with the halls so empty.

What do you say to Alex?

• Nothing. Ignore Alex invading your personal space.
• Glare at him. One look should warn Alex to back off.
• Be Stern. Set your boundaries with Alex early.
• Be Reassuring. This is Alex’s first day at school and he is nervous
• Other