war.

-retelling-

[All right! I'll give you guys a minute to make all the preparation rolls you need to while I write an opening post for FINAL BATTUL.]

Brutal Revelation

[steelfur. -1WP, science + stamina (in hispo)]

Dice: 8 d10 TN7 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

Brutal Revelation

[also -1WP for RP. at some point in battle (ST discretion, IDC!) will use Call of the Wyld to distract and disrupt enemies to up their diff temporarily]

[Stamina + Empathy for CotW]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )

Sidewalk's End

[I CHOOSE YOU, GORTAK: summoning a jaggling]

Dice: 6 d10 TN5 (2, 3, 5, 5, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )

Sidewalk's End

[mood]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 4, 8, 10) ( fail )

Sidewalk's End

[1s don't count, so 2 suxx!]

Sidewalk's End

[and electricity: -1 diff (spirit magnet)]

Dice: 6 d10 TN4 (3, 5, 7, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 5 )

Sidewalk's End

[mood (Gnosis -1 after giving some to Gortak to make it happee)]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 7, 10) ( success x 1 )

Sidewalk's End

[again, 2 suxx!]

Sidewalk's End

[Maddox also applies Green Dye to self, has 8 more to hand out to other Fianna should they like it; if successful attackers roll WP vs. diff 4 (da fuq) to attack]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

Brutal Revelation

[OH AND SINCLAIR HANDS OUT SOME GHOST CAMO TO ANY IRON RIDER RAGGIES THERE MAY BE. THEY COULD USE IT. Cuz if you're wearing it and skulking in shadows, it takes a per/alert roll diff 9 to spot them. they become visible after attacking or taking action, but can regain benefits of the talen if they find cover afterward.]

-retelling-

There's this at least: the Caern has the day to prepare.

There are not enough Garou, even with Billy Bourne's people on board, to defend the entire bawn and the kin village besides. They pull back - sacrifice their farms and their homes to withdraw to the very innermost heart of the Caern, rife with water and green life.

This is a land where the kin are normally forbidden to tread, but today is different. Today, the kin enter the Caern's heart, apprehensively at first, and then with growing boldness and a burgeoning sense of belonging. They come armed with flintlock rifles and pistols. And with throwing spears, knives for close work. Some lurk in the trees. Others take their places behind makeshift cover built of fallen trees and boulders. Those too young or too weak or too pregnant to fight huddle in the center, preparing rough bandages, herbal medicines.

While the kin are setting up their defenses, the Garou too are working. Teams of Crinos dig in great heaves of their paws, dirt flying every which way. A drymoat is carved around the heart of the Caern - a circle some thirty or forty feet in diameter, and ten feet deep. While some dig, others are stripping branches from trees, whittling the ends down to deadly points. These spikes are installed in the drymoat and just within its circle. Every point faces out: a treacherous barrier against what's coming.

Noon rolls to afternoon. The heat is immense, but no one flags. There is a thick tension about the Caern. It's there beneath the coarse jokes, the orders bellowed, the moments of almost-violent disagreement between Senachewine's people and Throat Cutter's. It's there, always there, and it is underlain by fear. Throat Cutter strides amongst his people, bellowing orders, checking defenses, spitting boasts about the upcoming fight. Others are less upbeat: Bloody Smile's pack in particular is grim and silent, whittling stakes with angry strokes, slamming them into the moat. No one stops for lunch, but food is prepared and passed around by the kin, and now and then a Garou stops in the midst of digging or whittling to stand still and eat meat off the bone, drink clear water or ale.

Afternoon to evening. The drymoat is complete, the ring of stakes within it as well. The kin are protected behind various barriers, weaponry in hand. The Garou are assembling for battle, snarls and howls crowding the air alongside shouts, calls. The Fianna have three packs, and Throat Cutter insists that all three face the west, the direction of the Wyrm's supposed advance. The Unbroken stand between Throat Cutter's pack and the Warder's. To Throat Cutter's other side, Senachewine's own small pack, Colleen amongst them; then the remnants of Smile's pack. In all, this group covers perhaps a third of the circle. The rest of Senachewine's people, far outnumbering the Fianna, ring the remainder of the circle. It is obvious that if damage is distributed evenly, Senachewine's people will take the greater brunt of the casualties.

They do not complain about this. Perhaps it was expected.

Evening to dusk. As the light dies, so too does the noise. The shouting, the howling, the digging, the pounding. All of it falls to a breath-caught silence, and as the sun sets in the west,

the Unbroken's last twenty-four hours in this world beginning,

all eyes turn to the west. Waiting. There is no conversation now. Beside Sinclair and Maddox, the Lord and Fang of their pack are softly glowing, the Fang in Hispo, the Lord in Crinos. His ancestor's sword is in his hand, and not because he intends to use it. Perhaps he draws some strength from it. It glitters in the dying light of the day. To his other side, Throat Cutter is growling under every breath, eyes burning on the western woods. The bawn is eerily empty. They can see the abandoned challenge circle, the assembly area; they can see the huts and cottages of the kin, every window dark, every chimney breathless. And far beyond that, the treeline.

The last of the light is dying. Torches are being lit, sputtering in the wind. Throat-Cutter snarls beneath his breath, "What keeps the cowards?"

And suddenly, from above, a call from one of the kin, equal parts anxiety and excitement and fear and dread: "I think I see somethin'!"

Seconds later:

"They're comin'!"

Brutal Revelation

So they are. And all of this is agonizingly familiar. Her pack screaming in her mind. The electricity and the charge and the warp and weft of time around her as she traveled through phone lines that don't even exist in this time to join them. The death of Garou she knew and fought alongside. The death of kin. The look in Lukas's eyes near the end, and she knew, she knew because she was thinking of it too: mates left behind. At least hers was far, far away from the carnage. She looks towards the horizon.

At least back in her own time, she didn't have to wait for them. Let them come already.

Sidewalk's End

Maddox helps with the physical set-up for a while, lending an extra pair of claws to tear up soil, or another shoulder to drive a spear into the ground. Despite the tension that thrums through the battle preparation, he bumps shoulders with anyone who happens to wander close enough, cracking wise, earning tense smiles and angry looks alike. He encourages boasting, but rarely contributes. Maddox's strength isn't in his arms.

When the sky begins to darken toward dusk, he passes around spare talens before summoning up his own warriors. Some Theurges call on Earth. Maddox calls up something a touch stronger. When Gortak arrives, a great earthen golem with a shining jewel at its shoulder, its less than pleased to see the scrawny Fiann. Maddox spreads his hands in supplication and explains this rag tag group of Garou's need.

Next, the air of the camp charges with Electricity, equally unhappy to be drawn to this place. Maddox depletes a little more of his spiritual energy to appease the elemental.

And then, they're comin'.

Maddox, Crinos formed, a golem to one side, a ball of electricity spitting sparks at his shoulder, waits with his pack.

-retelling-

At first there's nothing. No sound, no movement to lend credence to the sentry's report.

And then - very distantly - a mechanical grind and whirr. The sound of steam and pistons, and the rapidly, steadily growing thud of something very heavy advancing. Soon after that, cracks and snaps of branches breaking. A lone hyena-cackle in the darkness,

and then another, and then another,

until the western woods resounds with the demented howls and shrieks and laughter of the Wyrm.

Sinclair is standing beside Seamus. The Ragabash is in hispo, lanky and bony even in this massive form. He is literally quivering: with nerves, with anticipation, with terror. The noise swells and rises from the yet-unseen ranks of the Dancers, and suddenly something seems to rupture within the Ragabash, and he throws his head back and looses a cracking, unpretty howl of defiance. In an instant the sound catches and spreads like wildfire, until nearly every Gaian is howling right back at the Wyrm, throwing their voices against the tide.

And then the tide breaks. And the trees quiver and erupt, and the first one out - the first thing out - is a monstrosity of rusted metal and grinding gears, steam-driven pistons and great gnashing steel teeth. It is slow, and methodical, and in no hurry at all. Shrieking Dancers burst out of cover around it, racing breakneck across the empty bawn, toward the waiting line of the Gaian defenders.

"[i]Let them 'ave it, lads![/i]"

Projectiles loosed overhead. Spears whistling through the air, drowned out by the deafening explosions of primitive firearms. Three or four of the Dancers yelp and fall, cut down on their charge. No one here has a cartridge-loaded rifle. Everyone fires, then reloads. It takes seconds, precious seconds, and meanwhile the Dancers are racing across the distance, hideous deformed things, a vanguard of the craziest, meanest, most death-wishing motherfuckers the Wyrm could dredge up. They are coming straight for the western rim of defenders, and Throat Cutter is bellowing for backup, get to the western side, now, someone keep an eye on the east but get your asses here,

and Sinclair and Maddox can see the moment four or five of the Dancers see them, mark them, alter course to come straight at them.

Beside them, Lukas bares his teeth. Garou all around and crying out the names of totems and ancestors, Gaia and gods. Lukas roars into their minds:

For our future!

[reaction post if you wanna - then inits! meanwhile i gotta roll some shit for lukas.]

Brutal Revelation

[+10]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (7) ( success x 1 )

Sidewalk's End

[+7]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (9) ( success x 1 )

-retelling-

[Lukas:

-1 WP to Resist Pain

-1 Gn to bloody bandage - and honestly, he'll give one to each packmate, and damn the pissed off leechspirits. THIS. IS. CHICAGO! since i didn't mention this til now, you can retroactively spend a Gn to activate for +6 hp.

-1 Gn Luna's Armor, rolling it!]

Dice: 10 d10 TN7 (2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 8 ) Re-rolls: 3 [WP]

Sidewalk's End

[Gortak: +10]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (2) ( fail )

Brutal Revelation

[-1G for BB! W00T. INVINCIBLE!SINCLAIR.]

Sidewalk's End

[Electricity: +6]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (7) ( success x 1 )

-retelling-

[Spirit of the Fray active. ALSO ACTIVATING SILVER CLAWS CUZ I NEVER GET TO USE THAT :DDD for the record though, after this round i'll probably drop lukas into the background unless he does pack-buffing actions to cut down on the rolls i need to do!

rolling to activate silver claws.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (4, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 5 ) [WP]

-retelling-

[+20!]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (4) ( fail )

-retelling-

[Astaroth +20]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (7) ( success x 1 )

-retelling-

[Beelzebub +10]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (8) ( success x 1 )

-retelling-

[Carabia +10]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (5) ( fail )

-retelling-

[Demogorgon +18]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (4) ( fail )

-retelling-

[Eligos +10]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (2) ( fail )

-retelling-

[ORDER OF INITS

Astaroth 27
Lukas 24
Demogorgon 22
Beelzebub 18
Sinclair 17
Maddox 16
Carabia 15
Electricity 13
Eligos 12
Gortak 12]

Sidewalk's End

[Gortak:
1a: Try to get to where friendlies are out of blast radius
1b: Umbraquake!]

Sidewalk's End

[Gortak target: Demogorgon, Beelzebub, Carabia, Eligos, so long as friendlies are out of blast radius]

-retelling-

[Eligos

1. Allies Below - cave in a section of spiky wall!
R1. If wall down: claw Maddox! Otherwise, leap!
R2. Bite Maddox!]

Sidewalk's End

[Electricity: 1a: Lightning blast Eligos
1b: Lightning blast Eligos]

-retelling-

[Carabia

1. Leap the wall!
R1. Touch of the Eel on Sinclair!
R2. Bite Sinclair!]

Sidewalk's End

[Maddox: Summon Water]

Brutal Revelation

[1a.
1b.
1c. -- bites on Carabia, switch to Eligos if Carabia goes down
R1. take hit for Maddox
R2. bite Eligos]

-retelling-

[Demogorgon

1. Horns of the Impaler: charge the wall to knock a section down!
R1. Bite Lukas
R2. Bite Lukas
R3. Bite Sinclair

Beelzebub

1. Leap the wall!
R1. Bite Sinclair
R2. Bite Maddox]

-retelling-

[Astaroth

1a. Leap!
b. Chomp Lukas!
R1. Chomp Lukas!
R2. Chomp Maddox!
R3. Chomp Lukas!

Lukas

1. Block Astaroth's leap! I.e. try to dunk him into the pit o' doom!
b.
R1
R2
R3 - clawing: Eligos, Beelzebub, Demogorgon, in that order. Unless Astaroth makes his leap. In that case, claw his ass]

-retelling-

[Astaroth: leaping! Considered vertical due to clearing wall o' spikes. This will be resisted by a block. Need 3 succ after block to clear the wall]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 5 )

-retelling-

[Lukas: block!]

Dice: 12 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

-retelling-

[screw the ones! that's 6 succ, dammit! though astaroth also got 6 succ. cancels to zero - astaroth falls into pit. damage roll, spikes o' doom (lethal)]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 6, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

-retelling-

[soak!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 1 )

-retelling-

Astaroth: b. OW. GET OUT OF PIT.

Lukas: b. Clawing Eligos!

Dice: 14 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 6 )

-retelling-

[whoops, wrong # of dice - should be 13 in crinos. will just drop a succ for 6 (cuz of 1). silver dam!]

Dice: 14 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

-retelling-

[Demogorg: CHAAARGE!]10

Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )

-retelling-

[Damage that wall o' doom!]

Dice: 17 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 10 )

-retelling-

[Wall o' doom has giant gaping hole in it. Henceforth enemies in Unbroken's vicinity only need to make a long jump, not a high jump, to get through.]

-retelling-

[Beel: leap! long jump! thanks demo buddy!]

Dice: 10 d10 TN3 (2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 9 )

Brutal Revelation

[1a!]

Dice: 10 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 6 )

Brutal Revelation

[damage! 8+6]

Dice: 14 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 2 )

Brutal Revelation

[Actually that was SIX SUXX, TYVM]

-retelling-

[soak!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 4, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

Brutal Revelation

[1b! still on Carabia!]

Dice: 9 d10 TN5 (1, 1, 3, 4, 4, 4, 4, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 1 ) Re-rolls: 1

Brutal Revelation

[damage. 8+3!]A

Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 8 )

-retelling-

[owww]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

-retelling-

x_X

Brutal Revelation

[1c. switching to Eligos as declared!]

Dice: 8 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

Brutal Revelation

[damage! 8 + 4]

Dice: 12 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 5 )

-retelling-

[owwwww]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

-retelling-

[incap!]

Sidewalk's End

[Reflexive totemspeech: Have I told you guys lately that I love you?

Summon Watah!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN5 (2, 4, 5, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

Sidewalk's End

[happee?]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 8) ( success x 1 )

Sidewalk's End

[Electricity: BZZAP Astaroth]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 7, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

-retelling-

[soak!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 3, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 1 )

Sidewalk's End

[OH NO YOU DI'IN'T: BZZAP AGAIN]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )

-retelling-

[soak!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )

Sidewalk's End

[Gortak: SHAKEY SHAKEY UMBRAQUAKEY: damage is half suxx rounded up]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 3 )

-retelling-

[FML! don't fall into the pit again!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )

-retelling-

[soak damage]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )

-retelling-

[Astaroth:

R1. NOW I'M MAD. CHOMP LUKAS!]

Dice: 10 d10 TN5 (1, 1, 3, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

-retelling-

[that's 7 succ!]

Dice: 14 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 10 )

-retelling-

[that actually was 10 succ, btw - forgot to change diff. stupid jove. ack soak!]

Dice: 15 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 3, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 6, 7, 7, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 7 )

-retelling-

Lukas: OW MOTHERFUCKER. Claw Astaroth, since he's (finally) made his leap!

Dice: 13 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 3, 3, 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 2

-retelling-

[that's 8, goddammit. damage!]

Dice: 16 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 8 )

-retelling-

x_X. 7 Overkill, which means... I CAN USE RENEWED VIGOR! Reflexive -1WP, all allies gain charisma in Rage (i.e. 3)

-retelling-

Demogorgon:

MAI FREND DED. I NOT HAPPEE. BITE LUKAS!

Dice: 9 d10 TN5 (2, 2, 4, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 6 )

-retelling-

[Damage!]

Dice: 13 d10 TN5 (2, 2, 3, 3, 3, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 8 )

-retelling-

[FML STOPPIT]

Dice: 15 d10 TN5 (1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 7 )

-retelling-

[I AM MADE OF IRON. that was 10succ]

-retelling-

[dammit i forgot to change diffs again. doesn't affect lukas's roll, but demo's damage was actually just 6.]

Beelzebub:

I'ma go cut my teefs on the shiny one. Bite Sinclair!

Dice: 8 d10 TN5 (2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 6 )

-retelling-

[dam!]

Dice: 12 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 5, 7, 7, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )

Brutal Revelation

[Soak! 6 +3]

Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 7 )

Brutal Revelation

[R1. Fuck you, B.]

Dice: 13 d10 TN5 (2, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 9 ) Re-rolls: 2

Brutal Revelation

[damage! 8+8]

Dice: 16 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )

Brutal Revelation

[Actually 8]

-retelling-

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 5, 5, 6) ( fail )

-retelling-

1 succ :[

-retelling-

INCAP!

Brutal Revelation

Lukas 24
Demogorgon 22
Beelzebub 18
Sinclair 17
Maddox 16
Electricity 13
Gortak 12]

If there is one thing Sinclair has learned about surviving battles -- particularly against numerous foes -- it's that if you can't focus all of the pack's energies on a single opponent, each member of the pack should focus on a single attacker until they're put down. Cut them off one by one. So she goes for the first one she pins eyes on and destroys him in two quick bites, ripping open his intestines, snapping at his throat. She turns on another, one already clawed at by her alpha, and drops him to the ground with her teeth shredding up under his arm, opening up the side of his chest.

Two spirals fall bloody to the ground in moments after she joins the fray. Whatever else is on her mind -- banging her head against the wall that is god-damn Throat Cutter, a faint disgust with Billy Bourne's eversocoggie refusal to take the power he has and use it, Alex, the caern she knows, the caern that exists behind her -- is gone now, forgotten in not a red haze of bloodlust but a keen and clear focus.

The biggest, blackest spiral dies under a single swipe of Lukas's claws as he roars, and that roar -- and that death -- sends a shudder through the Unbroken. Even the other packs feel it. Katherine's eyes gleam, a sound coming from her throat that none of the Garou around them would imagine coming from the mouth of a Silver Fang. Sinclair rears back on her hind legs a moment, a vicious (bloodthirsty) howl issuing out of her as her paws slam back to the ground. Maddox's eyes fly open.

Lukas's rage floods through all of them, shared with them, multiplied and given to them, and Sinclair lunges for one of the others, she doesn't even care who, opens her jaws,

and the next thing they know, she's atop the body, bits of his throat dangling from her teeth, tendons, part of his larynx. She drops it back on his face. He's still alive, but ever so barely. His own blood hits his face, but he's unconscious and doesn't notice. Sinclair seethes, growling at the last Spiral who chose to come face the Unbroken.

Brutal Revelation

[oops. delete the init list from the top of that. durr.]

-retelling-

That last Spiral - last of the first wave that chose to face the Unbroken - falters, suddenly alone. Already the drymoat is drenched in blood. There are bodies impaled on the stakes. Corpses of Dancers torn apart and hurled back over the moat. Corpses of their own too: just yards to the left, a single frenzied Dancer had leapt the gap, leapt the wall, landed amongst an unlucky tangle of inexperienced Cliaths. The Dancer's dead now. So are the Cliaths, five or six of them torn nearly to shreds.

The momentum of that initial onslaught is broken. The battle is well and truly on, the front lines of both sides snapping, reaching, slashing, snarling. Noise everywhere - gunshots blasting overhead, kin shouting from behind the front lines. In the middle distance, black smoke is beginning to curl skyward, lit from below in infernal oranges and reds. Fires set by the Dancers, consuming the homes and crops of the Sept village. Snarls of outrage from the Fianna. Billy Bourne, shouting "Stay where you are! Stand your ground! Don't take the bait!" - but abruptly the Fianna line breaks. Brendan, the big Guardian, tested beyond his limits: leaping the wall and the drymoat in a single bound, two younger Ahrouns in his wake. "Goddammit," Billy spits;

the words are barely out of his mouth when a resurgent wave of Dancers is upon the three Fianna. The last they see of them: Brendan, snarling and snapping, ripping a Spiral's arm off as they drag him under.

The Unbroken regroup. A half-dozen Fianna kin run past them, fearlessly jamming fresh stakes into the moatwall. "Cover us!" the leader shouts over his shoulder. "'Ere come the basterds again!"

And he's right. The second wave, appetites whetted by Brendan's sacrificial charge, comes pouring across the flats.

Brutal Revelation

They are all but untouched. They haven't given their true pack name, but they hold fast to it today as in every other battle: they are Unbroken. Sinclair, oracle up til now, makes some of the other Garou realize why she was given 'savage' as part of her name, as well -- covered in blood, made of steel, she very well is. She uses a gift most of them have never seen before to protect her flesh, gleaming as much as any knife against firelight.

They regroup, and happen to regroup in front of kin -- their own in another time, out of reach and out of scent and unable to hear them howling or know that they are being protected, the Unbroken congregate among the kin of other wolves. Cover us, they say, as though it needed to be.

Sinclair tips her head back and lets loose a howl, wild and undulating, not a charge to the Garou but a warning to the Spirals. Come see, it says. Come and see what the Wyrm leads you to. Come see the destruction that awaits you. It's a nihilistic song, a prophecy of doom, the nightmares of their fates they all pretend they don't have, the nightmares they know the truly mad ones live in all the time. Useless, useless, it says. Nothing to fight for. No reason to come here but to die, quick and painful, on the claws and fangs of the Gaians.

[Using the 2 suxx from earlier CotW roll to see if we can up the BSDs' diffs for awhile!]

-retelling-

That howl ripples down the line of defenders, other Galliards taking it up. It's a chilling noise, and not one Lukas has heard often from his packmate. It makes the fur on his back stand up. It makes the Dancers, charging across the ruined Bawn, slow for just an instant.

Then they throw back a howl of their own. Mad and hissing, a song of the abyss. They sing of what they've done to the Caern's lands, the Garou's homes; what they'll do to the kin, how they'll defile the corpses. How they'll defile the Caern, rending the great totem spirit from its seat, violating the sanctity of the Heart, reducing it to ashes and taint. A roar of outrage from the Garou. They think the Dancers are taunting them. The Unbroken, at least, know better. It's not a taunt at all, but a promise.

It's already come to pass. It hasn't happened yet. And they're here to prevent it.

The sky is full of ashes and smoke. Firelight lights the battlefield: the Dancers advancing again, this second wave more cunning than the first rabid charge. They funnel themselves at the weak spots, the sections of wall ready to cave in, the youngest and most inexperienced of defenders. They drag the bodies of their compatriots with them as they come, hurling the corpses into the moat, filling it with their own dead. Trampling the dead as they come, tearing stakes from the earth -- Wyrmbreaker roaring at the kin to fall back, then, get back behind the line, while Throat-Cutter bellows for reinforcements at the weak points, a great surge of Garou to the front lines.

And then the clash. The Dancers at the wall, tearing it down faster than the Gaians can rebuild, or throw them back: a concentrated thrust of an attack rather than an onrushing wave this time. For a second the defenders hold, and then the onslaught breaks through, punching through, trampling defenders, surging into the breach only to be met by Gaians rushing to fill the voice.

Hold the line! Throat-Cutter roars. He's wading into the thick of battle, an enormous, brutish sword swinging like a scythe. A klaive: the sheen of silver deadly and pure. Push them back!

Beside Sinclair, a whuff of warning from Wyrmbreaker: behind the tangled front lines, the Dancers' warmachine is bearing down on them. They're pressed hard as-is. They'll be stretched thinner still when that beast descends.

Brutal Revelation

A promise. A plan. This is no random, angry attack; they prepared for this, have been preparing for this for a long time. They swear by Malfeas to eat this caern alive, violate Water Lynx, kill the Garou, rape the kin. Sinclair knows. Lukas and Maddox and Kate know, too. It is hard not to shudder, having seen it. Having lost Garou over the years to the Hive that this place becomes.

That makes her uneasy. They are standing in the place that becomes the Hive. They are standing in lands that, one day, will open up and swallow people they fought with. People they knew.

Sinclair knows how she fights best: fast and vicious. She stays with her pack, and she moves quick. Lukas, with his greater strength, holds down Dancers so that Sinclair can rip their throats out, so that Kate can eviscerate them with silver. Lukas takes off the head of one. Maddox sends Water to some wounded Kin; sends Earth shaking the ground around the Dancers, if only to shake their footing.

The Dancers break through anyway. Sinclair feels the rush of rage like vomit up her throat, wonders if she'll frenzy, but she bears down on it, thrashing at what is left of one of the Spirals they took down together. Blood drips off of the steel edges of her fur. She pulls back to Wyrmbreaker's side; the Unbroken gather together. So do several other packs. She huffs, seeing the war machine, wondering to her packmates aloud what it is, what it could be. She asks Maddox if he can send a spirit to disrupt its inner workings -- a gremlin maybe, if they're around in this day and age.

-retelling-

The Theurge instantly drops back from the front lines - drops into concentration, summons. Meanwhile the Unbroken, regrouping into a solid fist of rage, punches forward again: plunges into the thick of it, into the breach.

In the heart of battle there's no time for planning, no time to look ahead. There is only action and reaction. A Dancer lunges from the left. Katherine takes its head before it even comes close to her packmates. A trio suddenly from the front, rising up from behind the corpses of their own: and without thinking the Unbroken move as one, driving at the left, flanking, tearing into hamstrings and throats, bearing the enemy down. They're beside Throat-Cutter then, and whatever his faults - and they are so very many - Throat-Cutter is a warrior amongst warriors, drive his weapon through a Spiral even as the Unbroken surround him.

There are so many dead now. The ground is slippery, their footing unsteady: Dancers and Gaians alike. One of them might be Colleen. It's hard to tell. It's hard to see where Senachewine is, and for a moment panic grips at Wyrmbreaker: what if he dies? How will the world alter? - but no; there's no time for that. In battle, there's only time for the here, the now,

the next enemy, every instant a cutting razor between life and death.

They fall upon their next foe. And the next. And they're pushing back, lunging and snapping and physically forcing the Dancers out through the breach they've made. None of them are untouched now. There's red on Kate's white coat. Red on Sinclair's steel fur. The fur at Wyrmbreaker's flank is wet, but he's too dark to show blood. Throat Cutter isn't. Reddish to begin with, his entire side is matted with blood, one arm hanging half-useless. The other swings his sword,

takes the head off a Dancer clambering over his own dead to reach them.

"Press forward!" Throat Cutter bellows. "Force the cursed ones -- "

" -- Rhya, get back!" It's Seamus. Throat Cutter's head snaps around, but the Ragabash is already upon him, grabbing him in both handpaws, bodily throwing his Grand Elder back from the front lines. Throat Cutter stumbles back, trips and falls, and

in the next instant the spot where he stood, where Seamus still stands, turns into a column of flame. It's too fast for the Ragabash to even scream. There's an instant of stillness. Even the Dancers are shocked.

Everyone looks up.

The warmachine is overhead. It is massive, the size of two city buses side by side, a creature rolling forward on treads, dragged forward by piston-legs. Weaver spider, the Unbroken may think, or panzer tank. In this world, one is still a rare sight. The other hasn't been invented yet. Behind them, the kin are crying out in dismay and shock. Someone, a woman, is screaming on and on and on, and someone's trying to comfort her, and someone else raises a rifle and fires a round that bounces right off the monstrosity's underbelly.

It catches its attention, though. The head - eight eyes set into a corroded round shell - swivels about. Mandibles or a gun bay - one or the other - drop open. "Down!" someone shouts, and then the air catches on fire - a streak of liquid flame arcing across the distance, setting trees afire, scorching all moisture from the air. Machinery whirrs; gears turn. The great beast lurches forward another step. Crushes the moat and the wall in a ten-foot diameter.

"Maddox!" Wyrmbreaker roars. "We need that gremlin, now!"

Brutal Revelation

They are reacting. That is their greatest flaw; it took so much time to get Throat Cutter on board, so much effort to get him to believe that his second-in-command was against him, that they had no real time to prepare. It was only right at the end that he seemed willing to allow the others to help defend the caern. Sinclair will deal later with how she feels now, but she wishes him death in battle. She wishes him the death that history already gave him: valiant fighting, but a name ultimately tainted by his arrogance, his isolation, his blindness. If they save the caern he'll be a hero. But truthfully, for the risk he has put this caern and everyone in it at, she wishes him death. She wishes him some kind of punishment because his pride mattered more than the safety of the caern. He deserves to die before he can wreck what might be saved.

Might be saved. She doesn't know, still, as she thrashes through the battle with her packmates, what good this will do. Maybe even a dent will be enough; she doesn't know. She can't know. She can't think of it right now. They fight. Lukas feels a stab of panic that passes; Sinclair doesn't think of it. They've already altered so much. Their own caern may never be raised. They may die here, right now, and she will never be married on a beach, and no one will be left alive to tell Alex what the fuck happened to her. He'll never know she came back here. He'll just know: dead, dead. Gone, like all the rest of them.

Fire rages up, taking Seamus, and Sinclair feels her vision go black and red for a moment as the world goes silent and still a moment around them. The warmachine comes forward, and Sinclair is shaking. The kin begin to cry out, and she -- she roars at Throat Cutter, rage pouring out of her throat at him, wanting to call him all manner of things, she doesn't even care, she wants to kill him, she wants him to die, she wants him to wake up, why should he of all of those that are dying around him be saved, why him, when if he were not such a broken example of a Garou they might have lived, they might have had a better chance, but there are no words, and no song, no clarity. Just savagery, the veritable end of her tether, and the next time rage rises up in her,

she knows she won't be able to stop it.

The kin cry out. They scream. DOWN! Sinclair tackles Maddox, fire overheating the edges of her fur. She rolls off of him a moment later, singed and trying, trying to focus again, shaking way her anger, shaking away anything but what matters most. She clamps down on all the emotions she feels today, and she guards their Theurge while he rises again, raising crinos-formed handpaws to summon a gremlin.

Or two.

-retelling-

There's an inherent paradox to this entire desperate mission. Everything they've done, everything they're doing, everything they're trying to do: it's already happened. The future is their past, and it's all said and done.

A hundred eighty years from now, an August morning is dawning hot. Where the Caern of the Maelstrom stood, the ground is red with blood. The lakewater is stained with it. The heart of the Caern is shattered, all its defenses down -- humans passing by can see the carnage, but the twisted gifts of the Dancers keep them from acting. Convince them they're merely going mad. Convince them to move on with their day, forget what they've seen, repress it until, ten or twenty years down the line, it boils forth again. A gun rampage at their workplace. Abuse and maltreatment of their kids. Or perhaps simply the quiet, unassuming madness of a gun in the mouth, a finger on the trigger.

Corpses, in the end. Like the ones strung on what was once the Wyrmpole, bloody and naked in the morning light.

But it hasn't happened yet. And their kin are still waiting for them. Their families, their loved ones, have not yet heard of the horror. Have not yet fled the city of Chicago, running from that spreading black stain of taint. Sinclair might yet have that wedding on the beach. Lukas might yet have those cubs he's not prepared for, but can't wait to have; those children climbing Perun's oak in his backyard, filling the rooms of his little den.

They might die here tonight. But they're not dead yet, and as Sinclair hits the end of her tether, Lukas throws back his head and howls, raw and savage, the anthem of war.

And in that instant, Maddox's ritual completes. The air splits open. A gremlin - two, three - tumble out of the rift, mangle some poor kin's rifle, launch cackling into the air. Lightning is fast on their heels, joining the wild destructive play; crackles over the monstrosity's metal hide, fuses joints, scars armor. The warmachine reels. The gremlins plunge in, disappear. A second or two go by.

Then a shudder. A clank. A great belch of black smoke. The treads go dead. The warmachine screams its fury, a noise like train whistles, screeching metal. Fire blasts forward in spurts and sputters: it's half-immobilized, pissed off, still dangerous. But they have a chance.

Come on! Lukas shouts into their minds. He leaps forward. His claws rip earth and corpses, shredding metal as he lunges up one leg of the machine. Handpaw over handpaw, he pulls himself up, hanging on as the beast thrashes and stamps. Other Garou are leaping, climbing, swarming the beast --

-- even as the kin call a warning from the trees. That promised attack, finally, from the rear. Their traitorous brother returned for their blood.

Brutal Revelation

Danicka is in Stickney; she packed up and she drove there. It's protected in ways her apartment is not, and it's farther from battle. Lukas was trying to tell her to but she was already packing, she was already going. She feeds her cat, and she tends the oak, the glass spirits, the water. She sings to it, and she plays video games to make the time pass, stroking Kandovany on her lap. She hasn't heard anything yet. And that's strange. So many Garou battles are over in moments. It's been hours.

Alex is on the other side of the country. He's as safe as he ever is when Sinclair leaves him alone. He's frozen in time on the morning when she left him, and he hasn't heard from her yet. That's okay, he probably tells himself, just because he's gotten all Responsible and In Love doesn't mean he's going to turn into some kind of hand-wringing ninny. If she hasn't called it's just because she either can't get to her phone right now or because she's on her way back anyway.

Gremlins zip towards the war machine, giggling and grousing and leaping from machine to machine, warping everything in their path that's even slightly mechanical, delighted at the prospect of the Wyrm's machinations. It's so big and so complicated and so fuck-up-able.

They fuck it right up.

Sinclair barks at Maddox, a cheer, and jumps forward with Lukas, leaping over bodies, tearing up bloodied dirt. The flanking attack comes. Sinclair doesn't turn away from her pack's onslaught, but yips and howls at a nearby pack to go, help them at the rear. The Unbroken -- and a few others -- have got this.

-retelling-

Sinclair doesn't have to tell Throat Cutter twice. The massive Fianna is turning, one arm hanging, one foot dragging. He slogs through the dead, savagely kicking some half-dead Dancer aside on his way across the narrow heart of the Caern. His kin are firing into the woods, firing at the fresh Dancers pouring across the take their flank, they're falling back as the Garou move forward.

Throat Cutter is roaring across the distance: a single name over and over, over and over and over until Lorccán Bloody Smile slides out of the ranks. The Garou stop. The Dancers stop. They face each other for a frozen instant across a mere ten, fifteen feet of space. And Throat Cutter asks the question that must burn in the hearts of every one of the Fianna here:

"Why?"

But there is no grand speech. There is no long-held grudge, no careful and logical explanation of reasons. Bloody Smile only shakes his head.

"There is no why," he says.

And the ranks come together, screaming. There is blood.

Up atop the Wyrm's warmachine, the Gaians are clawing, biting, beating fruitlessly against armor they barely understand until someone - Katherine - shouts for everyone to stop, stop, arretez, maintenant! because they need to get this armor off. And then someone's forcing an axe under an edge, and someone else is prying, and meanwhile another gout of fire sets a half-dozen Garou on fire, screaming beneath them, one of them crushed like an insect under the beast's stamping feet --

and then the armor is coming off with a great creak of metal, crashing down on the ground. Wires inside, tangled as arteries. Wires and pistons and gears, the Weaver already more advanced than anything else of its age; corrupted through by the Wyrm. The Gaians fall upon the machine's innards, rip it out by the handfuls. Sparks fly. Electricity hums and snaps, someone is flung back by sheer voltage, slips, falls off the machine's back,

lands in the spiked pit. There's death everywhere. The machine is dying too, shuddering, steam hissing, alarms sounding, collapsing slowly to the ground as its circuits snap one by one. The legs twitch. A stray arc of electricity from one terminal to another, and then

Sinclair rips that last node out, and it is still.

Across the Caern's heart, the battle is coming to its end. The Gaians are down to a mere fraction of what they began with, but the Wyrm, finally, is flagging. In the west, Dancers see the demise of their warmachine and begin to falter. Begin to inch back. Others throw themselves into the fray with mad, last-stand fervor. The Gaians are rallying, banding together, pushing the enemy back toward the drymoat.

In the east, the fresh onslaught is still pressing forward. Caught in the middle of that chaos are Throat Cutter and Bloody Smile, locked together, gripping fistfuls of one another's fur, claws tearing, teeth snapping. There's no room for finesse. No tactics, no strategy, no virtuosity to this battle: just a brutal, vicious fight to the finish.

The battle rises around them. Senachewine's people sweeping in from the left. Sweeps them under, the Fianna and his once-brother. They're lost in the mire, and are not seen again.

Brutal Revelation

So that is how Bloody-Smiles and Throat-Cutter die this time. Perhaps that is how they died last time. How they were always meant to die, how they will die in all the timelines from all the various points of decision within their lifetimes and the lifetimes before theirs -- and, given the presence of the Unbroken here -- all the lifetimes that are to come. Maybe that is just their fate.

There is such a thing as fate, Sinclair whispers, years from now, so far in her own future she can't even imagine it -- certainly can't imagine the person she's saying it to, or what her relationship to them is. But she will say it one day. There is such a thing as fate, which means there is such a thing as doom. Such a thing as prophecy. It's the same as history.

And they won't understand. By that time, she won't really understand much, either. It's very far away. The edges of it are dark.

One of her hind legs is broken. Maddox is wheezing, a gash in his side. They fight on.

-retelling-

[director's note!

originally i was gonna have Bloody Smile tell Throat Cutter that he was tired of being #2, tired of Throat Cutter not being as hardline, and/or tired of losing to the Wyrm -- but ultimately i decided it was better for him to just take his reasons to the grave. or maybe not even HAVE a reason.]

-retelling-

They fight on.

The tide has turned. Slowly but surely, they're pushing the Wyrm back. Both the Dancers' rallying points are gone now: the machine collapsed, the Ragabash unrecognizable amongst all the bodies. Seventy, eighty Garou warred on this ground, plus half again as many kin. Over a hundred souls fighting and dying, and now -- as the last of the Dancers are driven out of the breaches, driven back and harried across the field -- barely a fifth of that remains.

Some three or four Gaians tear into one of the last few Dancers. And a shot from a kin cracks across the night, takes off the top of the very last Dancer's skull. He falls, suddenly nerveless.

Then there's only the moaning of the dying. The wind in the trees. The sucking of chest wounds. The panting of the survivors. The crackling of fire.

And then Senachewine howls. He is a Galliard, after all, and his howl is pure and melancholy: a dirge in the name of victory, a paean to the dead.

They are victorious. The price was so very steep. Of the Fianna, only three live: Maeve, and two others. Of Senachewine's people, nine. Joseph lives. Billy Bourne lives. Colleen is dead, torn open, eyes staring.

Over half the kin have survived. They have begun the slow, filthy work of sorting through the dead. The Wyrm cannot be buried in the Bawn. The Gaians can only be buried in the Bawn. But one and the other are nearly indistinguishable - trodden by a thousand footsteps through the course of the night, torn to ribbons. One of the kin is utterly inconsolable. She was Seamus's mate, they find out later. She clings to his bloody body and wails until they drag her away.

The sun is nearing the horizon when Senachewine finds the Unbroken. He is pale and tattered; they all are. Their healers are drained dry, and nothing remains of the talens. He sits heavily by them and exhales, looking over the ragged survivors, looking at them with a wan smile.

"Twelve," he says. "That's how many of us are left. Twelve outta forty-three. But that's still victory, an' we wouldn'a done it without you.

"We're gonna need to rebuild. I talked to Maeve. She knows three ain't enough to hold a Caern, an' I know nine ain't enough to start a Sept. So I suppose we'll get our wish after all. We'll move in here, an' see how it goes. One day at a time.

"If you folks wanna stay," he adds, "we sure could use yer claws. This ain't over yet. Not by far."

Brutal Revelation

This is a longer battle than most of these Garou have ever seen. This is a longer battle than most of them will ever face again. Sinclair can barely move. Her rage has been depleted and spiked again so many times she feels like she's going to vomit as soon as she sees the moon. None of her forms feel right. She shifts aimlessly in the aftermath, trying to find a body that can cope with all of this, one that can stomach the exhaustion. She ends up in lupus, licking at her own wounds, licking at Kate's, smelling the burning crops, the blood, the bodies. Victory does not feel like it usually does.

Senachewine begins to howl, and Sinclair -- blood and ash on her tongue -- joins him, a higher harmony, a song from inhuman throats. There will be so many Gatherings to come, but so many of these spirits cannot wait. They sing them away from their bodies, away from this carnage. Go. Go. Don't linger here.

It is almost bitter, that the four of them should live while so, so many of the ones they came to help are dead. There's not a single pack now that has not lost at least one member. There are dead kin among the bodies, too, and one of the Children of Gaia is lost in the woods somewhere, frenzied at the loss of his brother, lost in his own grief, so much of it pressing down on him it seems like it will never stop.

Sinclair wants to help. She wants to help all of them. She has not felt her heart breaking so much for the pains of others since she was a child. And when she was a child, she could not bear to see others hurt without doing something. Right now there's nothing she can do. She can barely move. Her hind leg drags a bit, and she limps, but her gift is wearing off and she has no will to burn on renewing it. There are no more talens, no more gifts of healing. So: oh well. She'll live. It'll heal, fast enough. Lukas has to set it, though, and that... doesn't feel good.

They gather in a heap for awhile, bloodied fur sticking together, just breathing. Alive. Wondering how many hours til they go back, and see what their deeds have wrought.

Billy Bourne comes to find them. Twelve, he says. And he's not counting them, of course -- they are outsiders in every sense of the word. Sinclair chuffs as he says something about how they wouldn't have done it without you, growls like a shrug to get the words away, get them off, like a cobweb after you walk right through it. Maeve has more sense than Bloody Smiles or Throat-Cutter had.

Three's not enough to hold, nine's not enough to build. Sinclair lifts her head and looks at her packmates, uneasy, but -- well. Too tired not to accept it as it is. She gives a slow shake of her head. "No stay. Not able. We will be pulled away."

-retelling-

There's little surprise in the way Billy nods - once or twice, then looking away. "Yeah," he says. "I figgered as much."

Cleanup continues around them. Mostly the kin working now. Many of the Garou are as they are: licking their wounds in some non-human form or other. One or two are helping the kin drag bodies around. Some are digging stakes out of the drymoat; it's been decided that that same pit will now hold the bodies of their dead. Nothing more honorable than burial in the Caern's Heart. Even so, it somehow feels sacrilegious: burying the dead where so many died.

They have no choice. They have no strength to spare.

At length, Billy Bourne speaks again. "Is there... anythin' more you can tell me? 'Bout your prophecies." A pause. "Or anythin' I can tell you?"

Brutal Revelation

Sinclair lays her head back down. If she didn't have Alex and her parents and the Vaughns. If Kate didn't have a family and a company. If Lukas didn't have his family and his mate, his house. If Maddox didn't have them -- they might have different answers. If they had nothing to lose, they might stay. If they had nothing to go back to -- but.

"All dark now," she tells him. "I think it means change. All you could tell us is --"

She stops there. She gives a powerful yawn; she can't help it. But she has stopped, and paused, for another reason: "We came back in time, rhya. Almost two hundred years. It was a fetish that brought us back. If you should come across a fetish that can do such a thing, keep it safe.

"I am not an oracle. The names we have given you are not ours, but they are not lies. We have done what we came to do. We do not know what will come of it. But it has to be better than what drove us here in the first place."

-retelling-

Senachewine looks at Sinclair a moment as she finally gives him the truth of it. He's too tired to be stunned. Or perhaps he's simply from a time and culture that predates science fiction, where the fantastic can still be taken at face value.

He thinks for a moment. And then he nods. "That explains some things," he says. "We'll do our best here. And we'll remember ya in our own way." He looks past them -- Joseph is coming to them, moving slowly, bloody as all the rest.

"Rhyas," he greets them, "can I be askin' one more favor of ya?"

"We'll try," Lukas says. "What's up?"

"If you're headin' toward town," Joseph says, "maybe you can stop by my farm. Tell my wife an' daughter I'm all right. They'll be worryin'."

"And if it ain't too much to ask," Senachewine adds, "maybe you could tell her everythin' else that's happened here. We won't be able to go to town for a week at least. But she can start spreading the word. Tellin' other Garou to come out here, because we'll need every last one of 'em."

So that's what they do. They make their goodbyes, which don't take long. They haven't made many acquaintances in this era, and that's a purposeful choice. Most the people they did know are dead. Joseph and Senachewine are exceptions, and they walk with them to the edge of the Bawn. Maeve too. The Warder is the one that walks with them the farthest, past the borders of the Bawn and into the woods, all the way to where woods begin to give way to plains.

"Thank you," she says as they part, "for protectin' the Caern."

It takes much longer to cover twenty, thirty miles now than it did when they ran out here, hale and whole. The sun is past its peak by the time they see the lakeshore. Dipping low in the west by the time they find Joseph and Maryanne's house. Maryanne greets them at the door and invites them in, but they decline. Their time is short now. They tell her, plainly but accurately, of what happened that night. There are so many dead it's easier to name the living. Maryanne is kin to the Fenrir after all. She's ironfaced, doesn't shed a single tear. Not when she hears how many died. Not when she hears her mate has lived. She thanks them, and memorizes the story dutifully to pass on to the Garou of nascent Chicago.

Gracie waves goodbye as they go. She asks her mother if she'll see the nice people again. They hear Maryanne say no, baby, I don't think so as they go. There's a tremor in her voice at last, but by then the door is closed.

On the shores of the lake they gather, in the spot where their Caern fell. The sun is very close to the horizon now. As red casts across the sky, Sinclair can feel Lukas drawing a deep breath beside her. The last of the sun vanishes. A sudden wind, and they all blink -

the trip forward so much easier than the trip back. When they open their eyes again, the world is different. The moon is in the sky. It is full again, and it is in the same position it was in when they left. The shoreline is clean, though. No bodies. No carnage. No blood.

No Caern, either. No Wyrmpole; no assembly area. None of it. No sign that such things ever existed.

"Let's go home," Lukas says. "In the morning, we can figure out what's happened."

Brutal Revelation

They are not close to these wolves; could not be. Still, Sinclair gives Billy Bourne a rub of her head before they go, and she limps after her pack, flagging for a long while until her non-birth shape does its work and her back leg heals completely. She still drags, tired and aching, rent by claws here and there, terrified of what they will and won't find when they get back to their own time. She worries. God. She's so frightened of how her life will have changed; what she may have lost.

She licks the girl-cub when they tell Maryanne what's happened. Gracie wrinkles her nose, doesn't recognize her, isn't afraid of a wolf. Sinclair doesn't know why she does it. Gracie is a tiny, soft, unchanging thing, protected somehow from everything. She wonders if, in another timeline, Gracie never saw tomorrow's sunrise. She licks the girl-cub. She doesn't understand why. Only this: it is an act of the living. A recognition of something alive, and healthy, and untroubled.

The sun touches the horizon. Lukas inhales,

and time shifts,

and he exhales. Sinclair all but collapses. There are no bodies. No blood. She falls to the ground and holds the earth, shaking, no less frightened than before, no less exhausted, but grateful all the same. Lukas and Kate gnaw her up on her feet again, as they would, and she gives a whine: 'home', for her, is so very far away. And she doesn't know if she has the strength to get there and back. She doesn't want to leave her pack. She doesn't want to call Alex and find that the number doesn't exist, that he doesn't know who she is, she doesn't know -- and a moment later realizes these thoughts have been shared, that the other Unbroken have heard her.

I don't know what to do, she tells them, finally. I don't know where to go.

-retelling-

"Go home to your mate," Lukas answers. "He'll be there. I think we've done enough for Gaia that she owes us that much. If you want to come back afterward, we'll be here."

And he's right. And when Sinclair calls home, Alex picks up, sounding sleepy. He yawns and asks her if she's done in Chicago yet; should he put the phone down and back away. He doesn't seem to remember that she went there for an emergency, a terrible war,

and maybe someday she'll tell him what really happened. But not today.

They go home to their families. They come back. Lukas drives in with Danicka, who probably doesn't really get why he wants her there with the rest of his pack. Alex might very well end up flying in from San Diego. And they find that Kate's Loft still exists, and that there are enough rooms for all of them, and

they just stay close to each other. So much has changed; they need what stability they can find.

They piece the truth together slowly over the coming days, in fragments: from hearsay, from the historians of GW.net, from their own memories unfolding in their minds like ghosts. They rediscover the past, little by little:

In the spring of 1833, the last of the Potawatomi tribe, native to the western shore of Lake Michigan, are forced from their land by the Treaty of Chicago and death-marched to surrounding states. At the same time, a group of Fianna 'Wyrmbringers' defeat the native Uktena of the Sept and Caern of the Mishibizhiw (the Great Water Lynx) and drive them from the Caern. The Garou population becomes almost wholly Fianna in the aftermath; many move on, while two packs stay behind. When the dust settles, there are perhaps 10 or 12 Garou in the area at this point - two packs under Tighearnán Ó Séaghdha, Throat-Cutter, near-Athro Ahroun and new Sept Alpha, and Lorccán Bloody Smiles, Adren Ragabash and his staunch ally - an unpleasant, brutal lot that defends their unfairly won land with extreme territoriality.

As a result, new Garou in the area - mostly Fianna, Fenrir, Iron Riders and Shadow Lords - are reluctant to venture out to the Caern, leaving it underdefended. The non-Sept Garou begin setting about forging their own Sept. They begin to rally around Senachewine ("Difficult Current"), aka Billy Bourne, a young Potawatomi-American who pledged to the Children of Gaia instead of his ancestral Uktena, and who successfully evaded the eviction by passing as white.

On August 12th, 1833, the Town of Chicago is officially incorporated. Population: 200

Around the same time, smelling weakness, Black Spiral Dancers descend on the Caern of the Great Lynx. Senachewine and his followers - along with a mysterious pack of Garou that are never mentioned again in any of the histories - ally with the Fianna and drive back the Wyrm at terrible cost. The Wyrm influence over the area is broken, and the Gaians gain the chance to build anew.

In the wake of the Battle of the Water Lynx Caern, Senachewine - a consummate compromiser who abhorred confrontation - cedes Eldership of the Caern to Maeve Red Sky Dawning, who was previously Warder of the Caern. Although Maeve proves a capable and wise Elder, Water Lynx remains angered over the displacement of his people and departed the Caern soon thereafter. An emergency Caern binding ritual by the Sept Theurges manages to preserve the Caern, albeit under a different totem [TBA!].

As time passes, both Caern and city grow. Within ten years, the Town of Chicago expands to a population of thousands. With the population boom comes new Garou, most of whom add to the population of the Sept. The population at the Sept remains mixed. As peace is struck between the Native American Garou and their European counterparts, the Uktena begin to return to the area, while new immigrants - mostly Fianna and Shadow Lords following their kin west - join the Sept with little trouble.

When the railroad comes to Chicago, firmly establishing it as the preeminent city in the Midwest, large populations of Iron Riders, Bone Gnawers and Silver Fangs pour into the area, along with smaller representations of other tribes. The remoteness of the existing Caern and the rising importance of Chicago prompts calls for a second Sept to be established within city limits.

By the turn of the century, a second Sept rises in the city of Chicago [existence of Caern or not TBA!], and the Garou population of the Chicagoland area begins to gravitate toward one or the other. When the Depression hits a few decades later, stagnation and urban rot begins to reestablish a foothold for the Wyrm in the southside slums.

In the present day, Chicago's Garou population is split between the Caern in the Ned Brown Forest Preserve and the city proper. The Caern boasts the lion's share of the Garou - well over forty at last count. Fianna and Uktena maintain a strong presence, though Wendigo and Fenrir, along with fair numbers of the Children of Gaia, can also be found there. Meanwhile, the urban Sept - significantly smaller - reflects the makeup of the city: heavily Glass Walker, Bone Gnawer and Shadow Lord. [Status of Silver Fangs will depend on presence of Caern or not!]

A little detective work eventually turns up their once-Septmates. As far as they can tell, no one was simply wiped from history. Balance Without Fault is the Grand Elder of the Detroit Caern, with Evens the Odds his Warder. Bleeding Heart is in Seattle. There are others, too, names and faces from their previous life scattered around the nation: some in New York, some in DC, some in Los Angeles, some out in the middle of nowhere in Montana, Wyoming, the Dakotas.

As for their own lives: although the lack of Maelstrom carves a significant hole in their memories, they find most the events of their past occurred in one form or another. The changes are many, but subtle. In the end, they are who they are, and all the people and places and events that made them who they are have, through some magic of the spheres, been preserved.

-retelling-

And! One last director's notes:

- I think if the PCs had pushed harder for Senachewine to assume Eldership, he would've. The Caern would've been more heavily Uktena dominated in that case and, ironically, less tolerant. But they would've managed to keep Water Lynx.

- If that had happened, there would definitely be a Chicago Caern. Right now, we'll see what players want.

- Throat Cutter actually could have been saved in the final battle. If he had been, he would've maintained eldership, and the Caern would've been Fianna-dominated and less tolerant. They would have also lost their totem.

- If TC was preserved AND Senachewine was convinced to challenge, there would've been a bloody civil war in the Sept, leading to either of the single-tribe-domination scenarios.

- If the chars had, at an earlier point, chosen to face the Wyrm alone, they would've probably succeeded, but the Caern would have remained Fianna-only and probably wasted away. In that case, the Chicago Caern would have risen and grown very strong.

- If the chars had let the Wyrm crush the Fianna and THEN moved in (a Machiavellian but effective strategy!), they would have ended up with an Uktena-dominated caern, and probably a lot of political machinations thereafter.

- And of course, if the chars had actually FAILED, Chicago would've ended up Caernless, beHived up the ass, and horrific. Probably still playable, but. Horrific.