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Krieger Wyrmfoe and the Death Bear 1

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Werewolf Storytellers Handbook2

Krieger Wyrmfoe and the Death BearArne Kleppens — or Wind-Never-Slows to his

tribe — sits huddled under a threadbare blanket. Hiswolf’s skin shuts out the cold, but only barely. Soon hewill howl to his packmates and they will change placeswith the other Guardians, and then enjoy a mug ofsomething warm. Arne smiles to himself — one of theKinfolk brought in chocolate from Italy. That wouldwarm him quite well.

He stands and shakes himself, throwing theblanket into the snow. He paces, trying to limber hisbody. From the valley in the glacier behind him, hehears howls of approval — Brings-Life-to-the-Old-Tales has finished his story. Arne wonders what itwas this time. Perhaps a retelling of the fall of theThousand Oak Sept? No, too bleak. The winter hasalready been long and unpleasant. Maybe one of thebawdy tales of Micah Mule-Slayer, the famedRagabash womanizer? Probably not: the Gaia’s Ham-mer Sept has visitors tonight, and they might notappreciate so risqué a story.

Arne marvels at the skill of the Moon Dancers.Brings-Life is a master storyteller, and younger Garoufrom septs all over Europe come to tell him stories andhear his advice on re-telling them. But he shares thelimelight graciously, and moots often end with the

sorrowful howls of the wolf-born Galliard Last Snow-fall, or with the frenzied violin of Dunya Monarch’s-Grace. Arne himself is a half-moon, and has no skill forsuch things. He merely sits and marvels, a weight liftedfrom his mind, for while a Galliard tells a story, he doesnot have to worry about truth or falsehood.

He steps forward and howls to the ice and moon-light. He hears four answering howls — his pack, theIce Runners, coming to join him. From behind himhe hears three brief, clipped howls ending in a shortbark. On nights as cold as this one, the Guardianschange places every hour or so in order to keep fromfreezing. Arne has heard stories of days past when thesept boasted no fewer than four packs of Guardians.Now his pack and a scattering of Fostern and Adrenare the only Garou who take up the Warning Hornand wait in the snow.

Four wolves appear from the ice, and the pack trotstowards the fire. Arne lifts his head and smells the hotchocolate waiting for them. The thick syrup of thatscent contrasts with the clean bite of the ice and thechalky aroma of the fire. As they near the crude table,Arne sees that the stories have not ended for the night,and that one of the visiting Garou has decided to tryher hand at tale-spinning. She does not seem to be well

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received, however, and her audience appears restlessand annoyed. Arne reaches the table and changes tohis natural Homid form, pulling his recently-dedicatedcoat tightly around him. Lena, the Kinfolk womanwho brought the chocolate, is already pouring fourmugs of it for the Ice Runners (the pack’s Ahroun doesnot indulge in sweets). Arne nudges Lena gently.

“What story is she telling, then?”She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Something

about a war and bears, about how the Garou commit-ted some kind of great wrong against Gaia.”

Arne nods. While his own knowledge of the Warof Rage is sketchy, he has heard that a growing numberof cubs feel that it was a mistake, especially withregards to the bear-changers — what were they called?Grizzlies? Gurzzals? An angry growl from one of thesept’s Ahroun answers the question.

“The Gurahl were tainted! That is why the warbegan!” The moot-fire is far enough away that Arnecan’t tell who says it or even what the reply is. He onlyhears more growls and sees a burly figure stand indefiance of the speaker. Such a breach of protocol willcertainly merit punishment later, perhaps even a cen-sure by Falcon, though Arne admits that the caern’stotem doesn’t seem as quick to enforce such rules as thestories portray. The booming, yet still calm voice ofBrings-Life-to-the-Old-Tales ends the argument.

“You are both wrong,” he says, and the wind diesdown to hear him. Arne sips his chocolate quietly,straining to hear. “Yes, the Gurahl deserved theirfate, but no, they were not tainted. Their story is oneI am often called upon to tell to cubs who comeseeking the truth behind the War of Rage.” Hepauses. Arne savors a mouthful of the thick drink,eyes closed, willing the old Galliard to tell the story.He expects that every Garou in the sept is thinkingthe same thing. “Shall I tell—”

The clamor drowns out the rest of the question.The Garou do not applaud, instead they howl andshout their approval. When Brings-Life-to-the-Old-Tales tells one story in a moot, the sept considers itselffortunate. If he tells two, they feel blessed.

Arne stands and wanders closer to the moot-fire,and sees the old storyteller take up his favorite seat —a rock that sits near the fire and is therefore nicelywarmed. He takes on the Crinos form so as to wield theGarou tongue more precisely — some stories, he in-sists, can only be told properly in this language. Hepoints to the visiting storyteller, nearly in tears offrustration at having her story cut short.

“Just listen, young Moon Dancer, and perhaps youwill learn to tell your tale so as not to offend. For now,all of you be quiet and attend. I am not the young

Garou once I was, and my voice may not hold out inthis chill.” Arne smiles. The man’s voice would carrythrough a blizzard. The Galliard arranges himself onthe rock, pulls a chunk of wood from the fire, andscratches a glyph into it. Arne squints through thesmoke and recognizes the “bear” glyph. He cocks hishead in confusion, and then hears a nearby Garou hiss,“Gurahl.” He holds the charred wood above his headfor the sept to see, and his voice harmonizes with thewind and crackle of the fire: “Let me tell you a story.”

• • •The fire blazed skyward, and Krieger Wyrmfoe saw

the moon bathed in its light. Luna is awash in bloodtonight, he thought, as am I. Then he lifted his headtowards her and let out a howl of victory. He raised hisarms towards the burning glade in triumph. In his righthand, he clutched a handful of teeth. In his left, hehefted the severed head of his foe. Tonight, and fromnow on, Krieger was immortal. Tonight, he had beatenthe Death-Bear.

He strode away from the glade. His weary, blood-ied body slowly slipped into its human skin. Kriegerfound he was limping slightly; the bear’s teeth hadnearly severed his left leg at the knee, but he was almostcompletely healed. The minor cuts and bruises overthe rest of his body were already closing, but the scarthat would form on his leg would win him glory. Hewould wear it with pride.

He opened his palm and stared down at the still-bloody teeth that lay there. He would string thoseteeth on a cord and wear them around his neck. Thenhe would always have the power of the Death-Bearclose to him.

Somewhere above him, an owl shrieked. It startledhim, and then he chuckled quietly. The battle, the truebattle, had also begun with the screech of an owl.

It had happened when Krieger was but a Cliath,a cub just starting out on the warrior’s path, that hisuncle and mentor died in battle. The great Ahroun’swounds appeared slight, but the beast’s claws fes-tered with a strange poison that caused the Garou’smuscles to seize and his blood to grow cold even ashe tore the beast in two. The poison also preservedthe Garou’s body in mockery of Gaia’s cycle; he layon the battlefield, unchanging, as though he mightsit up at any moment.

How young Krieger had howled when he heardthe news! It took four other Garou to restrain him,so great was his rage. As anger turned to grief, hestood by his mentor’s body before the Gathering forthe Departed and wailed to Luna the unfairness of itall, that the mighty warrior be taken by such anunworthy foe. As the sept left the grave, Krieger

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heard a Ragabash mention in passing that it was ashame that no bear-changers lived nearby, as theyknew the secret of death.

Krieger followed this Ragabash and asked himwhat he knew of the bear-changers. “Nothing,” repliedthe no-moon, “except what I said. But even that is onlya story. I have never met a Gurahl, and it is said theyare solitary creatures.”

“So who would know of them?” pressed Krieger.The Ragabash only shrugged and padded off.

Krieger sat down against a tree and thought, trying toremember the stories of the Moon Dancers. He wishednow that he had listened during the stories, rather thanalways looking ahead to the revel. He knew he hadheard tales of the Fera, but couldn’t remember themclearly. He could ask a Galliard, he reasoned, but thatwould mean explaining what he meant to do.

At that moment, in the tree above him, an owlgave its lonely call, and Krieger thought of the bizarrewolves from the East, who spoke of a land barren andcovered in white heat, who followed the night-hunt-ing owl as their patron. These Garou must knowsomething of death, Krieger realized, for their verytotem was its harbinger. Though Krieger knew onlyslightly more of these Garou than he did of the Gurahl,they seemed his best chance for success.

“Very well,” growled the young warrior. He stoodand peered up into the darkness at the owl. “Hear this,”he called to it, “my mentor died honorably in battle,but before his time, and this should not be! If it takesme my entire life, I will find these bear-changers, theseGurahl, and I will have the secret of death from them!”So swearing, he slashed his chest with his claws andflung several drops of blood at the owl. The owl tookflight, startled, but now wore a red-brown splatteraround its neck. It flew off into the night, and some-where, great Owl noted Krieger’s words and turned hisattention back to other matters.

Krieger returned to the sept much changed. Nolonger was the young Ahroun brash and quick to fight.After the night of his mentor’s funeral, he was atten-tive and thorough. He listened to the elders of the septwhen they spoke of ancient lore and traditional wis-dom. He sat at the Galliards’ feet when they told storiesby the moot-fire, and when the time came to join apack, he declared himself alpha and none thought tochallenge the canny warrior.

I could tell you, gathered friends, of Krieger’spack and their exploits. Surely, you have heard thestory of their fight with the beast called Hgagogg, theslime-covered monster that flowed without form andcaused all who saw it to go mad — all but Krieger’spack, bound together by their totem and their love of

Gaia. Perhaps, at another moot, I shall sing the songthat the pack’s Galliard — called Wind-Carries-Her-Voice — composed on the eve of the pack’s victoryover the dragon Mazatuk. And surely, no-moonstoday still recall the night when Stone-Softens earnedhis name, when the Ragabash talked the very rocksinto moving for the pack.

But not tonight. Tonight’s story is Krieger’s andI mention these other tales only to show you whatthis pack was capable of. It was a pack composed ofSilver Fangs, and it embodied their tribe perfectly:noble, honest, brave, and skillful. In fact, manyGarou of the time — and many lore-keepers since,have found it strange that the pack chose not Falconas their totem, but Owl.

But it isn’t strange at all, truly, is it?After years of glorious deeds, the pack had stopped

adventuring. Instead, they chose to become leadersand teachers at various septs, and young Garou —much more populous in those days — challenged eachother for the right to study under one of these re-nowned warriors. Krieger, himself, took on the role ofsept leader, at the Sept of Morning’s Kill, the very septin which he had undergone his rite of passage, thatsame sept that held his mentor’s remains. He saw to hisduties as leader with the same life and skill with whichhe’d led his pack, but the other Garou of the septnoticed him take long walks in the forest surroundingthe sept. When asked, he said only that he was search-ing, but would never say what he searched for.

Then came the night of a full moon, and the septheld its moot, told its stories, and danced its revel, asevery month. But Krieger was distracted. The nightbefore, he’d seen an owl, and even though many yearshad passed since his vow, the owl had a splatter ofbrown around its neck. He allowed a young Ahroun toperform the moot rite — as practice, he said — but allthrough the moot, Krieger was watching the trees,looking for the owl. During the revel, he saw it again.

The owl perched on a low-hanging branch andstared at Krieger, silently, almost sadly. Krieger reachedout and touched the owl’s feathers, and found, to hisamazement, that the blood around its neck was stillwet. “How is this?” he whispered, but the owl did notanswer. It simply took to the air, flying like a dyingwhisper into the forest. And Krieger followed, theblood hot in his veins, his old vow fresh in his soul.

The sounds of the other Garou grew distant. Theshadows grew deep and cold as Luna’s light struggled topush its way past the leaves. And still the owl flew on.

Krieger glanced around and realized that, althoughhe had grown up here as a cub, he had never been thisfar into the forest before. The brush here showed no

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signs of being trampled, not by wolf, man, or any otherbeast. He heard no rustling from the forest, and couldno longer hear his fellow Garou on their revel at all.And still the owl flew on.

Krieger paused to take the wolf’s skin, and with thewolf’s ears listened for his fellows. With the wolf’s nose,he sniffed and found that no predator claimed thesewoods as territory. And then he ran to catch up to theowl again, for it had not stopped and it flew so silentlythat if he had not kept his eye on the bird, he surelywould have lost it.

He scrambled up a tree to a sturdy branch andwatched as his cloud-quiet guide perched on a neigh-boring limb. The owl regarded him blankly, its honeyeyes watching him as though keeping him in place.And then Krieger heard rustlings above him. A slim,dark figure crept down the trunk of the tree and satnext to him.

Krieger sized up the intruder. His skin was mud-brown, his features strange and exaggerated. Even hishair, long and braided, was night-black. Krieger spoketo the foreigner, asking him his business, but the manonly laughed and said something quietly, in an oddtongue that Krieger had never before heard. To hisshock, he heard laughter from surrounding trees, andfound himself out-numbered and cut off from aid, thedupe of an ambush after so many years as a warrior.

Krieger prepared himself to die and reached for hisweapon, but the man stopped him, speaking in theGarou tongue. “No need, friend. Forgive us not intro-ducing ourselves to your sept, but Owl told us that thebond we share should be kept to the quiet night. Andso here we are.”

It never occurred to Krieger to ask by what namethese strange Garou were called. He learned only onename — Warning-Spans-Rivers — that of the Garouhe spoke with. Now, of course, we know these Garouas the Silent Striders, the noble wanderers who graceus with news of far-off lands. When Krieger met them,they would not yet have suffered their exile — but thatis not tonight’s story. Krieger eagerly entreated theGarou to continue, to tell him what these foreignwolves knew of the Gurahl.

“The Gurahl?” asked the man. “Why, the bear-changers and my tribe know very little of each other.In fact, the only time we meet is when one of us dies,and —” a sudden shriek from the owl interrupted theman’s speech.

“Yes,” said Krieger, so eager to hear that he nearfell from the tree, “that is what I wish to know. TheseGurahl have power over death, I’m told, and —”

“Oh, no.” Warning-Spans-Rivers shook his headvigorously. “No, no, brother. Nothing — nothing —

holds such power. Death comes to all, call it by whatname you choose. The Gurahl simply know how tofight the Death-Bear.” Again, the owl called. Warn-ing-Spans-Rivers looked up sharply, and then turnedto Krieger. “I would rather thirst forever than that youhad asked me this, friend Silver Fang, for I have alreadysaid more than is proper. I ask you — seek not to findthe Gurahl to ask for resurrections. That is not whatGaia intended.” And with that, he and his compan-ions dropped to the ground and ran off.

Krieger was not one to take defeat easily. He knewhe could not force the Garou to give up their secrets —not when he faced their entire pack — but he alsoknew that Warning-Spans-River knew more thanhe’d said. He did not follow the Garou that night, butthe next morning summoned his pack. He told themvery little, only that he had discovered a great force forGaia that had previously been left untapped. If theycould harness this force, he said, no Garou need everfear death again.

The others were skeptical, but followed him. Thetrail of the strange Garou was cold, but no bettertracker has ever walked the earth than White-Fire, thepack’s Theurge. She questioned Krieger about whatthey were tracking, but he answered (somewhat truth-fully) that he did not know. The pack pressed on,through the darkest parts of the forest, and then onacross the plains.

I could tell you, my friends, of what befell them ontheir journey, but those are stories in themselves, andalready the fire burns low. One important thing, how-ever — throughout the journey, during which theytraveled ever East, Krieger searched for the owl. Henever saw nor heard the strange messenger. Kriegerworried, but put it out of his mind. He would find hisanswers soon.

The air grew dry and the ground slowly changed tosand beneath the pack’s paws. White-Fire used herfetish drum to call up water, and the pack feasted onserpents and lizards and whatever else they could find,and still they pressed on. The trail was even harder tofollow here than in the forest, and the Garou wereunused to the terrain, but Krieger urged them on,obsessed with finding the answers he had promisedhimself he would find.

Finally, Stone-Softens, lagging behind as he oftendid, called out to his pack. Some distance across thesand, they saw one of the strange, black Garou. Kriegerrecognized him as Warning-Spans-Rivers, and thepack charged.

Warning-Spans-Rivers waited until they arrived,and then greeted them respectfully, each by name.“And to what do we owe this honor, rhyas?” he asked.

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