Bray shall not host

Born amidst the strife of the Goblin Blood, I was sold

to a wizard as an infant. The wizard worshipped a devil

and purchased me in order to use me as a vessel for

summoning a demon. She called me Host when she

called me anything, and used me as one might use an

apprentice until I hit puberty.

On the night I was to be sacrificed, I recognized which

component was missing as she prepared the ritual. I

made a few leaps of logic, and escaped shortly before

she began.

Destitute and ill-equipped for street life, I bounced

from begging to stealing to menial labor. I was never

very good at any of it. Early on in my career as a

beggar, starving and cold, a noble promised he'd give

me a whole gold piece if I could bray like a donkey.

I brayed. He laughed and told me I wasn't good enough,

and that he's have his men kick me if I couldn't bray.

I brayed and brayed until they finally lost interest. Then

I lay in the street braying. The other street kids called

me Bray from that moment on. It was better than Host.

After 4 years on the streets, I finally figured out a

system whereby I could get showers and make myself

somewhat presentable. I got work with a caravan

in charge of the donkey's they used to pull the wagons. Naturally, we were attacked by bandits. I was the only one who survived. I wandered into the woods. A terrible idea, but luckily I happened upon a kindly druid. She gave me a home and help me understand how to use what I had learned as a child. She provided me with the means of crafting my first spellbook, and though I took the mantle of Wizard instead of Druid, because of her influence, I chose the elemental school of Wood to focus on.

Jawool alone

Chapter 1.

Like every little Jawa, Jawool had no particular mom, or dad. His whole clan was father, mother, playmate, and co-worker. Jawool excelled at the team repairing tasks, but what he loved most of all was the scavenging tasks. He was rarely chosen for the scavenging teams, though, because he would wander off. While he fit right in, handing vibra wrenches and holding gearworks together - contributing clever ideas that built on clever ideas to build droid monstrosities that never should have been, during team repairs, he would inevitably get distracted by a shiny something and fail to call the team in to join him and fail to respond to team calls.

What they didn't know is that Jawool had mild delusions of grandeur when he found something. "If I find it and I fix it, it's mine" Was not something Jawa culture taught. It was his own personal little mantra, and it would have seemed, he thought, completely alien to his clan-mates who knew believed "If WE find it and WE repair it, it's OURS"

And then they were gone. Where once he had a hundred fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers, now he had no one. It was that independent streak that had saved hi, he supposed, but how he regretted it. If he had died with them all, he would still belong to the clan. But he was an orphan. For once, he was allowed to join the scavenging party. And, as always, he wandered off in search of something shiny that was all his own. But when no one came looking for him at nightfall, and the "Awk!" of sand people started to echo around the canyon, he followed his footsteps back to the Sandcrawler.

And he found the destruction. The annihilation of his clan and all their work.

Chapter 2.

We skip ahead 3 years. Mourning and scavenging what he could carry, Jawool made his way to Mos Eisley. He had some idea that he could join another band of Jawas on his way, but when he didn't cross paths with any and found himself in a Cantina, seeing all the Things that came into and left there that he had never seen before (and he had seen a lot of Things) the idea that if he could just get enough Things together, he could end the Empire single-handedly began to form. That the Empire was powerful because it had more Things than anyone else.

And this was how, wandering around, he discovered a light carrier, broken. He fixed it. He found it and fixed it, it's mine, he thought. But then its owner came up, asserting its ownership. This owner was  (Arlie's character?) and, fortunately, rather than blasting him, suggested that she could "buy" her light carrier back from him for a few credits (it should be noted that it was even fewer credits than she would have paid to have it fixed - he had never been in charge of negotiations) and a position as a repairer on her crew. She would find things and he would fix them.

She did not pay him well, but he had food and a place to sleep, and every so often, if he felt poor, he'd run about, claiming to "find" broken things on her ship and taking ownership over them until she'd buy them from him. Again, always for less than his labor was worth. It was an amiable relationship.

Chapter 3.

Jawool served with Captain Mokrel, a Mon Calamari, for 2 years, and acquainted himself with greater galactic culture. After this give and take with the Captain for 2 years, she wrestled out of Jawool, the beginnings of an idea that would form into his desire to build his own mercenary fleet and take his vengeance on the Empire. Not too long thereafter, the Coet Idea (Which is what Captain Mokrel had named his ship) came upon a hunk of space debris that they identified as the slagged remains of a number of T-16s not too far from what should have been a mostly-uninhabited planet. Captain Mokrel, with a grin, told Jawool, "Well, I can't find anything here. I'll take the Coet Idea downside for a bit of R&R. if you want to stay up here, you can use the pod. Don't know why you would though, since I can't find anything up here."

Jawool was no fool. Hopping in the pod and putting over to the mostly useless hunks of metal, his imagination lit up. Here were the humble beginnings of his mercenary fleet, he thought. Found and fixed, they'd certainly be really, truly his. And so he worked, cobbling together parts, building from the wreckage of a dozen forgotten, disabled, near-valueless hunks of metal, something that almost worked. And the day ended. And something tickled his memory. Some thought that was always near the surface, but got jammed down everytime it started to break through to his conscious thoughts. But he kept working, and he jammed it down.

But finally. Two days had passed. And the air in the pod tasted stale. There was still a lot left to do. But he could just barely fit the pod inside a cobbled-together almost-T-16, and guide it down with the pod's home-tracking system.

There was no smoke. Presumably there had been a column of smoke. Probably fire and screams. But all there was now was silence. The Coet Idea was less of a hollow shell than the slagged T-16s were. Jawool didn't want to look for a body, but a body confronted him. It could have been some other Mon Calamari, he supposed. Some other Mon Calamari who wore a crisp grey captain's badge on her left sleeve. Some other Mon Calamari who had struggled with a whitish blue fungus growing on her left flank. 

He walked past, willing himself to notice no more identifying features. And he kept walking, along the wave-slapped sand. 

Chapter 4.

For days, Jawool walked. By turns castigating himself for leaving his clan and vowing to never think of others as his clan again, because it hurt to much when they went and died on you. 

Eventually he came back to himself and realized it was irrelevant. Here he was, on a planet that, while clearly not uninhabited, seemed possibly inhabited only by Imperial Forces (for he never once imagined any but the Big Evil would be responsible for hurting him yet again)

He turned around and walked back to the destruction, steeling himself for the task at hand. 

He didn't know the burial customs of Mon Calamari, so he guessed as best he could. Paddling out on a raft made of insulation casing from the T-16's engine bay with the corpse of Captain Mokrel, he weighted her down a few of the smaller chunks of metal from the Coet Idea, and let her sink in what he hoped was an ocean.

Back at the ruined ships, he knew before he looked, but he looked anyways and confirmed that the components required for lightspeed were not there. And so.

Jawool spent the better part of a year there. And he made his T-16 (with attached Pod) into something monstrous and almost good enough... except there was nothing really to be done about making it light speed. It hadn't enough fuel to make it back into orbit for any more salvage operations, and even if it had, he'd been through those ships once already, and there was nothing to suggest any of them had been modded for lightspeed. He was stuck on this planet and a little afraid to draw any attention to himself. 

He spent his "leisure" hours pretending/practicing his piloting in the T-16, imagining taking on Star Destroyers (which he had never seen) and blasting them to bits in his tiny little sky hopper. He did a lot of imagining. Sometimes he imagined he could move bits and pieces around. More than once, he wished he had set a tool down next to him, and reached for it half-consciously to find that he had, indeed set it next to him. He must have done that with foresight, even though he remembered setting it down a few feet away.

The better part of a year alone with guilt makes one imagine some surprising things. 

Chapter 5.

Jawool slept on board his modded T-16. In a fit of frustration, he'd dubbed it Hubris, and painted the name on the side with the last of the stores of epoxy mixed with the dark sand for color. Regretting his inability to properly memorialize his expired friend, he'd later tried scratching it out and naming it simply Captain Mokrel. Now it was mostly an illegible mess. 

And he slept aboard the illegible mess.

A jolt in the night woke him momentarily, but his nightmares beckoned and he slept again. He dreamed of his clan. They were all on fire, but they were calm, fixing droids and putting together landspeeders that were made out of droids. Then he heard the screaming and watched from far away as they tore Captain Mokrel asunder and put her still-living limbs and head together with ship parts to make a monstrous part-droid, part-ship, part-person that screamed in agony and flopped about until it caught fire. He tried running towards it, with the idea that he could pilot it into the sea and heal it, but there was no sea only sand and besides, the more he ran the more shiny things to salvage cluttered his way. He was running in zero gee then, fighting with his whole self, but only churning uselessly against nothing. 

And then he banged his head. 

His limbs were churning against nothing. He was in zero-gee. And his head banged against the console. Where was he? In space. Getting pulled in by a tractor beam. He went to power up the ship and found it already powered. He had launched it into orbit? While asleep? While fiddling with controls, trying to escape the tractor beam, Captain Mokrel promptly died. Empty fuel cells. He watched himself get pulled towards a light freighter. It docked at an exterior port. The bay door opened without protest. He hadn't thought to jam them. And he found himself screaming in his native Jawaese at a very surprised-looking human. The human's mouth opened and closed a few times without sound as Jawool screamed about theft and the rule of fix it and found it and releasing the most horrible scents he could, when a hulking, furry beast bellowed back. It didn't stop Jawool, but it seemed to trip the human out of his surprise.

"What's a Jawa doing on a T-16 on the opposite side of the outer rim from Tatooine? I don't even need to ask. Scavenging like a vulture. You surely didn't scrag that hunk of T-16s, just found it. Well, sorry, little buddy. No honor amongst thieves. Well it's mine, and you took everything of value out of the heap. You can't do anything with it anyways. I got no problem with you. Stop screaming. Tell you what. I'll drop you at a port as a thank you for putting all the value in one place. Scream at them. I can't understand a word of it. This little T-16 is sturdy. Sturdier than it ought to be with what I left here. You got some skills, little buddy. Stop screaming."

And with that, the Wookie picked up the Jawa, carried him to a closet and deposited him there. 

And there he sat for a week. 

Halth

Qal'Deth wields Halth. When the Matron Mother sent a raiding party to the Duergar for pit slaves, they brought back a prize greater than they knew. The Druegar king was captured, and in exchange for his freedom, he forged Halth for Qar'tol, half minotaur, half drow champion and favorite slave of the House X'Larraz'et'soj. Halth was wielded by Qar'tol until his demise at the hand of Sarkoth, a minor noble of House Baenre. The sword was taken by House Baenre as spoils, and though those events led to the rise of X'Larraz'et'Soj, the loss of the champion's sword was keenly felt by the slaves raised from birth to be fighters in the pits. It had become an aspiration of many to one day earn the sword themselves. Together, the slaves conspired to return it to the house. The task was passed down from older fighters to younger for decades. The slaves learned much about the debts the other houses owed each other. The slaves who fought managed to manipulate the possessors of the blade through the decades. They did this most often by throwing fights, even lethal ones, but sometimes also by completing quests in unexpected ways, or by picking fights or instigating them between seemingly unrelated persons. The web of intrigue that led the sword back to X'Larraz'et'Soj touched every noble house. In the pits "to die for Halth" came to mean "To want something more than life". After manipulating the results of battles and betting, the pit slaves led the sword, which was infrequently used in fights, but also (though rarely) put up as huge betting stakes when the conclusion of a fight seemed foregone, and once to pay off a debt otherwise incurred in others, to a lethal battle in the pit of the House of Bastards between Drow settling a blood feud between Druu'giir, who now held the sword, and Baenre, who you remember once held it. The House Weapons Master turned a blind eye to the value of the sword when determining the entrance fee, thus allowing the Druu'giir noble Sharngarth to enter. Sharngarth had been mysteriously approached and told every weakness of his Baenre opponent, Paul'smiir, and had double and triple checked the information. Finding it good, he was confident of the outcome. Rumor spread, and odds were set well in favor of his winning. On the day of the battle, none of Sharngarth's attempts to exploit his opponent's weaknesses worked and the fully armored Baenre noble slew him, and took the sword, then, without collecting any favors disappeared, never to be heard from again. Only the slaves knew that Sharngarth's foe was not Paul'smiir, but their own champion, for just before the battle, they had captured, slain, and destroyed Paul'smiir and replaced him. The slaves keep this secret even from Matron Mother (but she knows, because the story is told in the fighting pits). Qal'Deth won the sword from the previous champion of the pits, Qot'shul, a half ogre, half drow who was only the champion for one fight, the one he lost to Qal'Deth, because his weapon proficiency only extended to a club.

Qal'Deth for all to see

Qal'Deth's Greatsword lay in a brightly colored scabbard.

"Half of the work of being a bodyguard is making sure you're noticed. It won't stop a dedicated assassin, but any opportunists will think twice."

His vest, his jacket, and his cloak hid a hundred pockets.

"The other half of the work is a surprise."

In each pocket was a pinch of this and that. Some twine, some cold iron, an eggshell, and a potion to darken the doorstep if an unwelcome Drow had crossed it. A book of verses describing the smells of various fungi. An empty silver stoppered flask. A dram of ale. A piece of dried meat. A ring of wood from the root of an old, old tree.

Most of them would never be useful. But one of them might, and so he carried them all.

Qhal'Deth who Bloodies

Qhal'Deth's fine shirt was torn and bloody, but his expression was satisfied. He walked at a measured pace across the pit towards his mother.
She shook her head.
A flicker of fear twitched at the corner of his eyes, but he turned towards the jagged cave that led under the stands.

He ignored the grunts and moans of a dozen fighting slaves with the practice of a dozen years in the pit. The guards barely glanced at him as he passed. He settled into his cell, decorated with wax sculptures and burnt herbs, and a near fortune's worth of individually worthless trinkets, trophies from each conquest.
Trying to think of nothing, Qhal'Deth stripped off his garments, and peered at the ring he had stripped from the mutilated body of his Orcish opponent. The ugly green of ill-tended copper, the ring was worth less that the hand that had worn it, had Qhal'Deth been given the right to a death fight. Today was Thirdday, though, and the stands were nearly empty. No sense wasting a death when so few were there to see it. It was a surprise even that mother had come. He'd hoped that meant she had an outing for him, but if she wouldn't speak to him in the stands, perhaps she was angry.
He bit his hand to drive away the fear.

MOTHER. He heard her swift footfalls before he saw her. When she came to the cells, no fighter didn't know it. The guards were silent and still always, but when she stepped in, even their breath was inaudible, even their hearts seemed to still. Qhal'Deth hid his bitten hand, folding it in the other on his lap, waiting like a noble overworld schoolboy politely expecting cake.

She came to his cell, the guard swinging Qhal'Deth's cell door open so that she didn't miss a stride. MOTHER. Mother took Qhal'Deth's giant head in her hands and pressed it to her bosom. She sang

      Far away the light of wrong
     Far away their doubt
    For someplace She gusts
     Closer now the right of strong
    Closer now be stout
   For Mother of Lusts

Qhal'Deth, now inexplicably sleepy, laid his head in her lap.

Mother murmured, "Tomorrow everything changes, dear."

Garlic Is a Superfood by Brendan Weinhold

A little boy cries somewhere. His wails are muffled by apartment walls and obscured by the sounds of cars and sirens and general L.A. hubbub. But the sounds of little boys crying are especially designed to be heard at a great distance, and so, even in a damp dumpster with the summer stench of molding oranges, Marie can hear the sobs.

Her flashlight is dim. A peach and an orange are the same until she feels the smooth bumps of the orange. This dumpster has been picked through already for the good stuff. The expired milk and barely moldy bread is gone. There are no eggs. There is no cheese. But there is moldy fruit, and dumpster diving is safe.

Weenis went to the shelter a week ago. So did Becky. Marie had found a couch to crash on that day. Met a Carol in the library. She wanted to know the city. Marie made the night last until the only sensible thing was to crash on the same couch Carol was crashing on. Not a well she could go back to, but there was oatmeal in the morning, and the couch was better than a cot. Marie felt like a regular ol' young person for a night.

Weenis went to the shelter a week ago. So did Becky. Maybe they'd found a good thing and were enjoying themselves somewhere. But good things don't happen. Not for a whole week. Marie bit into the orange without peeling it. Moldy. Gross. And the skin was bitter. But full of vitamin C, she told herself. And... ugh. Someone had thrown away garlic, she guessed. Garlic orange was not delicious.

The crying of the little boy, the hubbub of the city, and the rumbling of her own belly was the music that accompanied her meal. She ate the orange. Then she ate a moldy peach. She ate a tomato and some cilantro. Everything reeked of garlic. "Garlic is a superfood," she told herself, as she forced herself to enjoy it all.

Marie climbed out of the dumpster. Something moldy in there hadn't agreed with her. Maybe all the moldy things were battling for the dominance of which mold would reign supreme. Marie leaned against the wall of a bakery and breathed in all the good smells of fresh, fresh baking dough. She closed her eyes and imagined the smells were solid. A stream of milky white spongy breads traipsed into her mouth. The lights from the halogen lamp that lit the street illuminated each loaf as it tumbled out the door and into her waiting mouth.

That lamplight went out and Marie opened her eyes. Her belly hurt, and there was no traipsing loaf to chew. Instead, a tall shadow leaned towards her. "Oof, you don't look so good," said the shadow with the gentle lilt of a mother's concern. "Let me take you to The Shelter."

"No!" Marie belched. It didn't sound like "no", though, as the contents of her belly came up with the word. Gooey, colorful vomit splashed on the lady's black overcoat. Marie barely had time to wonder why anyone would wear a coat on a hot summer night in Los Angeles, when the woman picked her up like she was as light as a bag of groceries. Lying cradled in the woman's arms, still in desperate pain, Marie fell asleep, cozy and comforted despite everything.

Childer, Regnants and Panda

The Red Dragon

Los Angeles is decadence. It's a city of sunshine and darkness. The most visible residents are outlandishly wealthy, and their mansions overlook the largest population of homeless in the world.

This is the World of Darkness, and L.A. is its poster child.

The Kindred have designed this city well. Every city is a volatile thing. Every creature in it adds an element of chaos. Sometimes they make unpredictable choices. Sometimes Kindred work against each other. But taken as a whole, this city feeds the lusts and satiates the unending hunger as best it can, freeing the Kindred for their Dance Macabre.

In this city is a cafe. A woman with wild hair and wiser eyes presides, unknowing, over Elysium. Something about Krista calms the raging beasts inside each Kindred who visits The Red Dragon. By order of the Prince, a special lover of coffee house cultures, no violence may arise in The Red Dragon.

It's something of a paradox, this cafe. An Invictus Prince declares Elysium in a cafe with seemingly Carthian politics, even if they don't know it. The name, an Ordo Dracul emblem, seems like a wink to the campus across the street, but it's just the Welsh heritage of Krista, she claims. Street pastors spit forth words of the coming apocalypse as if speaking with the mouths of the Lancea Sanctum. Circle of the Crone approves of the management.

Tensions are high in East Hollywood. Each faction hoards and steals every advantage it can find, but at The Red Dragon, ghouls caffeinate and their regnants share the buzz from sundown to sun-up.

February Journal

From the private writings of Serenia

  Our meeting led us to the hospital, just as I presumably figured was our next course. Too much conversing happens within our comradery, not enough action. How I yearn to be guiding this "herd" of allies on this obscure task bestowed upon us. Yet I am not permitted to be too hasty, for I could very well forfeit ...[writing missing]... Alas, it was concluded: the hospital.

  Upon arriving, the atmosphere of the mortals employed was indeed chaotic. If only these mortal coils knew of the darkness that still walks this Earth; the predators that lurk the shadows of every street, no matter where one may roam. They believe vampires only to exist in folklore, in myth... They are fatally mistaken. Nonetheless, we were faced with the beginning of what seemed to be a catastrophe. A paramedical vehicle arriving every few moments only to unload the lifeless burden to haste away for the next.

  Again, we conversed. To my liking, it was swift and conclusive. At least someone in this band of comrades thinks logically like I do; yet I am still unsure of him and his true intentions. As a matter of fact, I confess I feel that way to all of these allies; yet him in particular. Perhaps it is the ruthless justice he sees in all that he does. It is familiar... Familiar in the way that makes me envious. Envious, for I am not that headstrong in the ways of black and white. I do see grey in whatever choice or path that lies before me. His steadfast justice forcibly reminds me of him... Curses! Of course I am to be plagued with yet another reminder of the likes of him--father, why must thou torture me so?! Is it best to work close and steady with this present image of him, or retract my dealings as much as this task will allow? I will have a better conclusion after this mishap here at this hospital.

  Peter has knowledge in the way of medicine, he informed. This proves to he a valid point of entry, masquerading as a doctor to arrives unannounced in the form of pale strangers to this world of over suspicious individuals. Peter suggested us all to enter under his lead. To that, I said "nay". For are my comrades blind to the concrete fact I am not that to which conversation is my forte? They may assume it is for the markings to my eye, but with a flip of my hair, that concern is no more. I am a hound, and forever will be. To delight in fool's talk to gather information; I leave those who know nothing of the wilderness beyond, or those who see no urgency in getting the job done.

  To my utter surprise, the calculated one akin to me, Alter, opted to follow Peter into the sickly madhouse. Again, there is still a mystery to this man that I may never know, or would I wish to. If he is anything like him, then damn him to hell for all I care. This world needs less of his kind-- the neutralized monster. Ugh, I have trailed again! He vexes me so! And this Alter does nothing short of trigger my hate for that... shell-- of a man-- or whatever he is! Only God knows his true form and fate, the beast to be so lucky... To continue my writings of last night's tasks, accept my mindless rants: Alter and Peter entered in, leaving me with Calliope to track the surroundings exterior to involvement with talking flesh.

  Sigh, the oddness this Daeva has. Upon finding fresh-- tire? Yes, tire--tracks, and the trampled grass about the entire hospital, new and to the looks of multiple persons' doing, she has become enraptured by a single bag of manufactured mortals' sustenance. To the extent she believed to have smelled its freshness, to even lure me into the investigation of it. As a brush of my shoulder, to try and illustrate my lack of caring, I suggested that the foolish assumptions she made of such object to be that of magic. This, unfortunately, only proved to deepen her infatuation with it. To this, I lost interest entirely, and even my level of reasoning with her I feel has, if not permanently, dropped. I let her be, and continued around the perimeter of the hospital.

  Yet, she continued to press upon me that this was the item to solve the mysteries at play here. I only spoke swiftly to get her free of my working environment, and to my relief, she was off. To find some semblance of a laboratory to get it in looked into. Again, the oddness. I am leery of this one.

  I further found what appeared to be an attempted break in, or at least to sound the alarms. A rock must have been thrown into a window and the glass broken. Yet no further exertion was made. Just the spider-webbed effect that allows occurs when effort meets glass. Yet at this time I received one of those-- forgive me... Yes, "text messages"-- from Alter. His findings therein, and to meet at the entrance of the E.R. To which I responded with an obedience to the doors. His messaged stated there had been 12 bodies, all exsanguinated and all puncture wounds 2 1/2 centimeters apart. Some with no defense marrings, some with. Yet no mention of possible vampiric vitae in the stomachs of the dead? That had me speculating. Indeed it is instant that one turns into a vampire once embraced; yet my knowledge of the occult leaves me to believe in such things as necromancy, and the tricks of the undead. Perhaps, if these were to be new vampires: what perfect feeding grown, and room for a possible epidemic, than that of a hospital?

I arrived to the entrance and witnessed more lifeless bodies being discarded and the paramedics racing off to collect more still. This was becoming absurd. And my concern growing. I entered in to find Peter trying to comfort a young mortal with what appeared to be an injured arm--why such sympathy with such lowly life? Perhaps this mortal had something to offer to this catastrophe at hand-- or he just has a sick fetish with practicing what used to be valuable to him as a human, making him believe he has some semblance of his human self still. Whatever the case may be, it seemed pointless. And there intercepting this young man was Alter, of whom I needed to see. As soon as Peter collected the young man back into his medical care, I had Alter lead me back to the room with those bodies.

Alter didn't seem so bemused to the idea that I seemed to be running in a fool's intuition-- then again I do not believe he thinks very highly or anyone, or anything, if they had thought of something first. He told me there was no such possibility that these could be potential new vampires. Yet I had to see with my own eyes. Of course someone not akin to bounty hunting would understand. Pft! City vampires. They know so little of the darkness beyond the comfort of easy prey and mass human life. 'Tis pathetic, really. Yet not every vampire has the privilege to do the line of work I trained so hard to obtain.

  And like he said, there was no vitae in the stomachs of these victims. Yet I am glad I saw this with my own eyes. 'Twas not a moment later that I received a text message from Peter, someone to which he needed the hound to follow. I willingly obliged. Approaching him, he gestured toward the exiting young man he had been dealing with. I roll to my eyes and a sigh, I obeyed. Really, Peter? To what good will this low life bring me? I am beginning to think Peter has been cooped up in a small hole and has never been on a task other than that of a child's game. I began to follow, despite my disappointment in his suspicion in such an unworthy target. Yes, it is safe to assume anyone at this point as being an accessory to the goings-on here-- yet this man? Infinitely doubtful.

  To my satisfaction, I overheard the tellings of approximately 50 victims and still more in counting. I "text messaged" back to the group of what I heard and asked if it were still my duty to follow something so pathetic. They insisted no, to my delight. And upon regrouping, Alter debriefed us of the rest he heard. The most recent attack being not too far. Curses, the conversing! Why can we not all be duty driven and think with a ticking clock? Damn city vampires!

  We finally came to the decision to go to the last crime scene. Yet Alter called upon the help of another, one of which we met three nights ago at the theatre. A Marcus Anton. And it was agrees we would meet him there. So we were off. Upon arriving, we were to wait for Marcus' arrival before we began. The mental configurations of these vampires! Ugh! How I wish I could throw them into the depths of the wild and watch them squirm in fear of their surroundings! And of course this mindless conversing! To which we spoke enough to allow time for Marcus to arrive. A shady one, he is. I already foresee misfortune with him. Too haughty for what he was asked to assist with. Nonetheless, we continued on toward the fear-stricken constable. To which Alter Dominated his mind and gave us full access to the scene, and even the whereabouts to the next. I, of course, was asked to follow the constable as soon as he left for the next scene. I, without question, followed, seeing that conversing was to become the next action among my comrades. And from what I could overhear, Marcus was becoming a problem.

The distanced I followed, as soon as I arrived at the scene the constable started to seal it off withe the cautionary tape. I approached the body, but before I could investigate it, a flash past me. To this, my reaction was to follow. And thus, with my Celerity, I dashed after, seeing it was a vampire running away. Luckily, Calliope had been following me, thus she could act as a barricade and stop this potential culprit. And as soon as she tackled, I, too, took hold. Shortly, it became a struggle to hold him down and injure him. I was able to pull his fangs from Calliope, as Peter came around and started hitting him. All the while, realizing this culprit was indeed the young vampire who went missing three nights ago: Joshua.

Then Alter arrived, and put his rapier through Joshua-- and mercilessly penetrating my own flesh. The bastard. Then again, I would have done the same-- expect in my case ...[writing missing]... And before I could think a dreaded thought more, Peter took one of the stakes at my belt and plunged it into Joshua's heart... And he became still. At last! We stopped the squirming parasite! Yet with all of our successes, we are met with untimely circumstances: Calliope's Carthian acquaintance Rayon arrived, just in time to see her friend to be staked in the heart. Well, at least it distracts my comrades from ...[writing missing]...

We are still not finished here. We carried the body into Alter's vehicle. From there, it appears we head straight for his sire... This could the the end ...[writing missing]... but dust...

January Journal

Alter's Journal:

It is January 6th and I am concerned. The Carthian betrayers are going to start a war. They are children and fools and this means one of two things...

They are going to be swept aside like chaff. Or, more dangerously, I am wrong and they have plans I cannot yet fathom. The being led, after all by an Invictus elder, despite what she now calls herself.

The group is meeting at the Watts Tower. Why? Don't know. Big pieces of junk. Of course the Carths are impressed by shiny objects. Like children and dogs.

Peter went to talk to a homeless man. I hope he isn't feeding. That's just... dirty.

There's nothing here, I'm sure, but to humor my comrades I looked around. Homeless, recent graffiti. No indication of any nefarious or clandestine meetings. In the words of the disgusting young cattle, "Duh."

Peter returned with a ridiculous story from an insane man yammering on about dragons and a gymnast and men in black robes. He was looking at the gallery. So we did so as well. The rest of the group wants to break in. I'm working with a bunch of amateurs. Though, I suppose I have no better ideas.

Twenty five minutes later, Kyrie got in. Woo-fucking-hoo. Peter went with her. I wonder if my sire ever did stupid shit like this when she was my age.

I'm pretty sure I just saw... wait... what the fuck? Did Peter just drive his ghoul's wagon up to the place they just broke into and are they stealing a filing cabinet? Ok. This is sad. I'm out of here. Gonna go feed. I feel like Chinese.

Got a call from Calliope. Something is going down in her territory. On my way. She's someone I'll actually answer the call from.

Arrived at the scene. Exsanguination. Fuck. We spread a rumor that it was gang activity but that won't help. I overheard the police radio. There are multiple ambulances and police on route to the hospital, which means more bodies. Which means multiple full drinkings in public in Calliope's domain...

Which means war.

"Upon arriving in Watts, I discovered the shelter in which these new vampires, [some] of whom were turned and abandoned with no sire to which they could call master, would sleep.

'Tis unassuming, of course, and has the appearance of total isolation and lifelessness-- pardoning all puns. Yet some of the young ones, my comrades have informed me [redacted] 

With no call to action, I made my way over to the Watts Towers during the forbidden hours of their kind and found nothing suspicious, of course. But I investigated deeper, [redacted].

I decided to try and out-prove that notion. Whereupon, I stayed until the hours of the night and, [redacted] 

Beside myself, I realized I was undoubtedly drawing too much attention, being the creature that I am, so departed with haste. I made way to my haven in Malibu, where I forthrightly informed my sire of all I had discovered in the two days I had been investigating. [redacted]

I will write more. Calliape summons me from her domain. I must provide my help, as it sounds dire.

Yours truthfully,
Serenia De Lusignan"

Vampire: Los Angeles

Here be words

New Pack Initiative.

Several Uratha Elders have reached out to packs around the world, and have brought together relatively young Uratha to form new packs. The Uratha who found you have suggested you go to Denver, Colorado to meet them.

Stina's Werewolf Backstory

I'm also quite excited for this Werewolf game, and here is my character's backstory:

I was called Loona Crockett. I’ll never know the mind of my mother, why she spelled it Loona instead of Luna. I can only guess she thought it looked cool. From what I’ve learned of her, she was that type . I was removed from her care before I was two. She couldn’t hide the bruises on me any more than she could control the rage that made her hit me. I can understand the rage. I still hate her. She’s dead, though, so my hate is nothing more than a compass. It helps me separate the good from the bad.

I was put into foster care. I was filled with rage even then, and foster parents couldn’t handle it. I moved from home to home at an average rate of every three months prior to age 5, every 9-12 months after I learned to control myself somewhat. Moving around so much only made me more angry, but in time I learned that my anger was the primary contributing factor to my moves, so I did my best to squinch it. I could only hold out so long before something made me lose it.

When I was 11 I was in a home with about six other foster kids ranging from 6 months to 16 years. The foster mom couldn’t give a shit about any of us except the baby. All the money she received went to the baby, and the rest of us were basically left to fend for ourselves with packages of ramen noodles and instant oatmeal. We were all too focused on individual survival to figure out we should band together. That was a lesson hard learned years later. One day I couldn’t stand to watch her coddle that puny creature anymore, and I screamed at her, called her a fucking welfare cunt. She slapped me hard across the face and I took off.

I got caught a few days later when I tried to sell pot to an undercover cop. I should have been more careful, but I was still learning the art of cunning. With my record of bad behavior at foster homes, the system took this opportunity to get me out of their hair for awhile. I was put in juvenile hall. It was only supposed to be for three months, but I couldn’t help fighting and sneaking cigarettes and committing various other offenses that stretched my three months to almost a year.

I was twelve and a half when I got out and landed in the rat trap. On the surface they looked like the model foster parents. I guess that’s why social services never really checked up on me after they got me off their hands once more. I spent one night in the beautiful bedroom they had shown off. The next day when they caught me smoking in the room, they took me down to the basement for “medicine.” I thought they’d just lock me down there for awhile. I’d been through similar in other foster homes.

I saw this was different as soon as I got to the bottom of the stairs. The basement was clear except for a bed. Queen-size, four post. Box spring, mattress, fitted sheet. No top sheet, no pillows, no blankets. Ropes tied to each post. I tried to run past the couple, back up the stairs, but the man-rat grabbed me. I was small, skinny, weak. He was a fucking giant. The woman-rat was also tall and fit. They tied me to the bed. My “medicine” was watching her give him a blow job.

I existed in that hell for eighty-two days. They said I had a sickness and that they had to gradually increase the dosage of my medicine and that ultimately, the medicine would control my sickness, but that it could never be cured. I would always need the medicine in order to survive. I knew that I needed to pretend to buy their lies in order to survive, so I went along with anything they said and did whatever they told me to do. My body was at their whim, but I kept my mind in a separate place. While they made me watch their sexual acts and while they forced me to give them blow jobs, I was in another place.

It wasn’t just my imagination, I know now. It was a premonition of the Shadow Realm. A part of me I didn’t know existed was seeing a place I now know as well as one can know such a shifting, tricksy realm. It was sometimes beautiful, sometimes horrible, but what was important is that it was someplace other than the reality my body was experiencing. It made me believe I would find a way out of hell and suffer the rats to face their sins.

By the end of the summer the “medicine” had increased to daily rape by both the rat-people. My saving grace came from the flawed social system that had dumped me there. Even “perfect” foster parents get noticed if their foster child doesn’t show up at school. So to school I went. They made me perform a series of sexual acts on them that morning without the contraints to convince them I was compliant. I did whatever they told me to do. I knew I had no hope unless I got out of hell.

They drove me to the school and told me they would pick me up at the same place as soon as school let out. I don’t remember much of that school day except for sneaking into the kitchen and stealing a knife. I chose a small paring knife because I needed to coneal it until the right moment. I was convinced I would be able to mete out the medicine the rat-people deserved with this knife. Right was on my side, after all. I had suffered much more than anyone deserved, so I believed that this would somehow make it possible for me erradicate my oppressors with a tiny knife. I was naïve.

They took me home and allowed me to go into the beautiful bedroom. I steeled myself for battle. With the knife in my hand, I walked out to face the rat-people. They looked at me, the determination on my face, the knife in my hand, and scoffed. The man-rat stood up and came to me. I lashed out with the knife, aiming for his gut. It was inconceivable to me that I didn’t so much as scratch him. His hand grabbed my wrist and twisted it until I dropped the knife. I flew at him with my left hand and teeth and legs, but he just turned me around and picked me up, and literally threw me down the basement stairs. I hit my head on the concrete floor and was knocked out cold.

When I woke up I was naked and tied to the bed. They were both sitting there on the bed, on either side of me. I could not conceive of how this was possible. How I could have been free earlier that day and now was locked up again. Why didn’t my knife of justice prevail and mete out their punishment? I was so angry at myself for being so stupid. I should have run away while I’d had the chance. How could I have thrown away my one chance of freedom? The woman-rat put her hand on my breast and said I was still very sick and needed a lot more medicine. I was filled with rage at these evil rat-bastards and at my own stupidity and weakness. And then I could feel myself growing stronger and could see on their faces that I was changing, that I was horrifying. They tried to run for the stairs, but I had broken free and I reached them before they were at the first step.

I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but when I woke up I was covered in blood and they looked as if they’d been mauled by a wild beast. Now I knew the wisdom of running away, running as fast and as I far as I could.

As I ran, I grew frustrated at how slow I was. I wanted to be faster and somehow then I changed and I was so much faster, but I saw that I was no longer human-looking and knew I need to get out of the city. I cut through back yards until I was in farmland, but I didn’t stop running until I was in the woods, deep past the hiking trails. Then I stopped and tried to be human again and I was. I found a stream and washed the blood off. I was naked and it was night now and I was cold. I wanted to have fur again, so I tried to change and I did. I didn’t know how or why, but I was a wolf. It felt like a gift from that dreamlike world that had helped me through hell. I accepted it as a gift and stayed wolf, figuring it was the best way for me to stay hidden and safe in the woods.

I soon grew hungry and started scrounging for food. I tried eating leaves and berries and ants, but I needed meat. I saw a squirrel and tried to chase it down, but it climbed a tree and got away. I had more success with a rabbit. It was old and the meat was tough, but it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted, and I was filled with pride at having hunted it down and killed it myself. Over the next several days I wandered deeper and deeper into the Rocky Mountain hillsides. I got better at hunting and I was doing all right, but I felt vulnerable. I was a wolf and I wanted a pack.

I heard howls one night and I tried out my own voice. I called out to the pack and they responded. I understood them and they understood me. I asked them to let me in and they did. I know now it wasn’t just luck that I found them. Father Wolf (not THE Father Wolf, but my Father Wolf) had found me by then and was looking out for me.

I lived with that wolf pack for four years. I forgot I was human. And yet I still felt like an outsider. One day I wandered away from the pack and closer to civilization. I went to a lake and across it, there were campgrounds. I saw people swimming in the lake and I wanted to swim the way they were able to swim. I stepped into the water and was surprised to see a human face in my reflection. I started to remember that this human was me, Loona Crockett. I had long, snarled hair and my skin was a deep olive. The last time I had seen my face I was pale from living in a basement an entire summer. There were other differences. I was no longer so puny. I was still short and skinny, but I was toned and felt strong.

I dived into the water and swam around like a mermaid for a long time. When I came out, there was a man on the shore. I was ready to change back into a wolf and run, but he commanded me to stay. He had clothes for me. He knew my name.

That was Father Wolf. He was the leader of my mother’s pack. He had been looking for me my whole life, and had found me just after my change. He’d been tracking me that whole time, just waiting for the moment I was ready to remember myself. I call him Father Wolf because his last name is Wolf and he’s like a father to me, but his name is actually Sam Wolf. Under his guidance, I learned about what I am, and I learned how to be better at what I am. He introduced me to the Spirit Realm, and with the help of his more technically savvy packmates, we reintroduced me to human civilization, but now as Luna Wolf, Sam Wolf’s long-lost granddaughter. I’m not really his granddaughter. My mother was not related to him. But this seemed like a good story, and gives me a place in the world. I changed my name to Luna because my mother was an idiot.

I never really joined Father Wolf’s pack. It wasn’t the right fit. He helped me out, though, as I figured out what I was doing. He feels he owes me, something to do with my mother and not protecting her. I still don’t know the whole story. What I do know I’ve just gleaned from overheard conversations. I think he feels a real fondness for me, though, too. He is the first human I ever trusted.

Werewolf Story

So, I'm so pumped about writing for the werewolf game I'm gonna play with Matt and Joe and Stina an' JB an' Chris an' Thomas, that I'm gonna put it here, too. I'm sharing it with you, but it might not be your thing. Feel free to move along.


Bruce Carmichael grew up in Loveland, CO. He had a loving family. White picket fence, lawn, went to church. Mom and Dad were both around, as were three of the four grandparents. He had a younger brother and two younger sisters. Everything seemed peaches and cream from the outside, but no one knew how alone Bruce felt. He felt angry all the time. His siblings were both in awe of him and more than a little afraid. He hadn't hurt them... yet. He'd always been a big kid. He didn't bully, exactly, but he did scare the other kids. If he was angry, he didn't particularly show it until it became too much, and then he'd lash out scarily and violently. He was used to the anger and tried to keep in under wraps, but when it just got to be too much, he'd take a swing at a locker.... the locker always lost the fight. He was angry in school a lot, because he just didn't understand the things the teacher would try to teach him. They tried to harness it in football, but, while he liked the feeling of being on a team, too often he would just do his own thing. He'd go after the kid with the ball even if it was his job to block someone else. He got the kid a lot, but he was not a team player, and athletics weren't his thing.

The only times he felt calm were when he worked on his motorcycle. His parents let him get it when he turned 18 (He had been held back a year, so he was still a junior when he got it). When he worked on his motorcycle, he knew what to do. No one was asking him to understand the physics of it all- he just knew he needed to take a piece out, clean it, and put it back. So he could stop being angry, stop getting frustrated. As he worked, his mind cleared and gradually got in tune with the motorcycle. Then, on this particular day, he noticed a tiny hole in the transmission. A hole. He knew what that meant. He knew his motorcycle was dying. Sure, he could get that part replaced, but he didn't have the $1500 that would cost. It would be better to buy a new used motorcycle for that price. He felt sad. He felt like an idiot for feeling sad about a piece of machinery, but he felt sad. He mounted the motorcycle. One last drive.

He flew. And sobbed. "So stupid!" They weren't just tears about the motorcycle, though. He worried. He worried that he would hurt his siblings. He worried he would never fit in. He worried he would always feel angry. He skidded to a stop in front of a stop sign and sobbed, then he revved the engine and kept going. Night came on. The full moon rose. He had driven for 3 hours, and had calmed down. Life would go on. He was approaching his house. He saw his dad pulling out of the driveway. Probably on a fried chicken run. It was Wednesday night after all. He'd lost track of time, but it was probably the right time for a fried chicken run. He slowed. Dad rolled down his window, and opened his mouth to speak. Bruce didn't see the car coming up fast behind him. He only knew it was there when it hit him in the rear. He flew off his bike back into the windshield of the car, smashing it good. He didn't see it, but he felt the impact as his bike and then the car smashed into his dad's drivers side, and he flew off the windshield onto the hood of his dad's car. His eyes cleared for one moment. His dad's windshield just had the one crack in it that it had had from that time a deer leaped over the car. That was a strange story. It was stranger every time his dad told it. He had just been driving along the county highway when he saw a doe in the middle of the road. Dad had hit the breaks, but it wasn't going to be enough. The deer didn't move. It just stared. The proverbial and literal deer in the headlights. At the last second, it leaped... not out of the way to the right or left of the car. Straight at the car. Forward over the car. It's rear left hoof had just touched the windshield there, where the crack started. Dad always said he was gonna get it fixed, but Bruce thought he liked telling that story too much to actually ever get around to it. That was the only crack in the windshield. Bruce could look inside the car through the unshattered windshield. He saw his father, a smile still plastered on his face, but his upper body in the wrong place. Not on his lower body. Bruce screamed. Bruce wasn't dead, so he kept screaming. Then he stopped. He got off the hood. He walked over to his dad's passenger door and tried to pull it. He tried to pull it open. Then he saw the back seat. His littlest sister sat there. Only 5 years old. She didn't say anything, didn't move. She sat there, strapped in and safe. Bruce started to laugh. He opened the rear passenger door. The car started to move. It started to slide towards him. He didn't know why. Then it started to slide away from him. Back and forth. He looked up. The other car's driver was looking over his shoulder... He was trying to get out- to get away. He was moving. He was alive. Bruce got angry. So angry. He didn't look back at his sister, who was still staring at him, buckled in. He just looked at the criminal who had killed his dad.

He woke up the next morning covered in blood, naked on the top of a mountain.

After waking up on the mountaintop, Bruce felt like he was walking through a dream. Better than the nightmare he'd just had, of death, blood and fur and the screams from a stranger mixed with a silence he could hear from his sister. The overcast sky seemed ominous. He could feel that it was cold, but he didn't feel cold. He felt like he was being watched. When he look around, all he saw were rocks and scraggly trees. The rocks looked so solid. Duh. Rocks are always solid. But he could swear these rocks were solider than rocks. He saw boulders and pebbles and mid-sized rocks. He could swear something was watching him, too. He could swear lots of things that wouldn't make sense, kind of made sense right now. He knew someone was watching him, someone that didn't like him, because they started the boulders rolling towards him to crush him. A rock slide would be dangerous, but not as dangerous as this. The rocks didn't just slide down the hill- they all slid towards him. He ran. He ran as fast as his two very human legs could carry him, and when the rocks caught him, they tripped him, and they buried him, and he tried to dig his way out, and he started to panic. He felt his heart beat faster and his chest rise and fall and rise. And the panic wasn't fear. He wasn't feeling claustrophobic. He was feeling angry. What right had these rocks to bury him? He lashed out in fury. If he weren't so angry, he might have noticed that he wasn't just pushing rocks away, he was tearing into them. His mighty claws rent the side of a boulder. And it rolled away. Uphill. All the little pebbles rolled away. Well, almost all. Those that didn't roll away faster than the boulder got eaten by the boulder.
Bruce didn't stop. He smashed and tore at the mountain until the mountain itself punched him. The immovable mountainside moved. It flung him over the edge and he flew... miles, it seemed until he landed in a cloud- rainy, wet, and oh-so soft, like cotton candy. Like cotton candy, it filled his mouth. Unlike cotten candy, it filled his ears and his nose and his eyes. Suffocatingly sweet. It began to smother him. He rent it with his claws. It cried out. It rained, and it deposited him on the earth. The cold, wet earth. The mud tried, in its way, to imprison him, sucking at his feet.

His rage became fear, and all at once, without knowing why or how, he howled a howl that asked the question "What? What must I do?!?" Abruptly, the mud stopped trying to kill him. He heard it... perfectly clearly. It burbled. It made mud sounds. It wanted him to mix water with dirt. That's all.
I'm Bruce. It's a dream. The mud wants me to make mud. Ok. Fine. He felt his body change. It wasn't monster anymore. It was human. He looked up at the cloud he had rent with his giant claws. It hovered above. "Give me some of your water," He said.

"Oh?" It wisped, "and what will you give me in exchange?"

"Um... I don't know. What does a cloud want?"

"I want a cool breeze to blow me over the town."

"Loveland? Are we near there?"

"Do you want to know that or do you want water? I'll give you either, but not both if you bring a breeze here."

I'm talking to rainclouds in my dreams, thought Bruce... why do dream rainclouds have to be this difficult??

The mud, listening to this back and forth, tightened its hold on Bruce. Bruce looked back at the mud and then turned to the raincloud: "If you teach me how to get water, I'll find you some breeze."

"Agreed", said the cloud.

The mud said, "You will keep your promise, Uratha, or my descant will hunt you."

Bruce, still unsure as to why he was learning new words in his dreams, agreed.

The cloud said, "The wind is up in those mountains"

Bruce began walking. When he tired of walking on two legs, he imagined himself a wolf, and then he was. This is a long dream, Bruce thought.

Bruce climbed for how long, he still doesn't know. He didn't rest. When he saw anything move, he avoided it. Nothing in this dream was to be trusted. Twice he was pursued. Each time he became the monster self and it ran away. Eventually he reached a cold, dark cave. From within the cave blew a cold, dark wind.

"Wind?" Bruce muttered in this new dream language he seemed to be speaking.

"What does the Uratha cub want from North-Wind-That-Blows-Before-

A-Storm?" grumbled the wind with a vicious edge that seemed unwilling to do him any favors.

"I want you to blow the cloud over the city."

"My goodness, so great a favor requires a great favor in return"

"Um... is it so great a favor? Isn't that what winds do naturally? Especially you, who blows before a storm anyways?"

"Disrespectful, little cub!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Bruce was confused, but contrite. What finicky peronalities people my dreams, he thought, though not in those words. "What do you want, North-Wind-That-Blows-Before-

A-Storm?"

"There's another Uratha not far from here, who's been marked by Lightning-That-Strikes-The-Same-Place-Twice as his own. I don't want lightning to have her. You keep her from Lightning for me, and I shall blow that cloud for you."

"Uratha? You mean, like Mud called me?"

"Yes- Uratha," the wind whispers in Bruce's ear. "The spiritless ones call you Werewolves. Do you prefer that?"

"Um. No." What? This dream gets weirder and weirder. "I'll go get that other Uratha."

"She lies that way."

Bruce has only about a hundred feet to walk before he sees her. He looks up to see what she sees. A gibbous moon. Days must have passed... or only minutes, it's just a dream, after all. Anything can happen. As he watches, she stops being a woman looking at the moon and becomes a monster. As she does, he sees lightning - perhaps the Mr. or Ms. Lightning-Who-Blah-Blah-Blah that he's supposed to keep her from - flashing across the sky towards them. He fears he's too late. He runs towards her. He's not fast enough. He changes, becomes a monster. She turns, she sees him. He has no time. Lightning is get closer. He runs to her and slams his paw into her driving her just out of the reach of Lightning in time. Lightning strikes him, instead. His claws miss Lightning. It's so fast, but if it wants to hit him, it has to get close. I'm battling lightning. It's like he's alive, for the first time. He gets a good look at Lightning. It's strong. It's fast. It's weak. One good hit will destroy it. He knows this. He doesn't know how, he just knows. He watches it dance. It wants to hit him again. Perhaps if it does that'll be the end of him. If you die in your dreams, do you die in real life? He's not going to find out, because it dance away from him. It wants the other one. He sees it dance through the sky towards her, lying on an outcropping, thirty feet below. I can't catch it, it's too fast, but if I strike where it WILL be... He leaps for the woman... She is a woman again now, naked, unconscious, vulnerable, but not weak. He does not need to save her for her sake. He needs to destroy Lightning so that he can get Wind to blow Cloud and Cloud give him Water so he can make Mud... because he promised. His teeth close with a mighty sizzle on lightning. It breaks, and he feels its power enter his body. He had been hurt and fatigued, and now... the burns on his chest heal and he feels re-invigorated.

He goes to the woman. He lifts her and carries her back to Wind. (She can be awake anywhere in here-even during the battle. Maybe that stops the battle, but without JB to tell me what she does, I'll leave her unconscious, and resolve the story as I planned it.)

"I will blow Fluffy-Raincloud-Who-Moistens-Sidewalks"

"Not before I receive my gift from him...her...it"

Wind and Bruce and the woman travel down the mountain. It is almost as if the path is actually shorter going down than up...perhaps it is. In a dream, anything is possible. When they arrive, and Cloud hears what Wind will do, she begins to teach Bruce the secrets of calling water. While she does, little spirit versions of a full moon descend from the light of Luna's gibbous face.

"We are the Ralunim. Our mother and yours witnessed you keeping a promise to a spirit when it was not in your interests to do so. She sends us to award you the first sigil of Purity. The spirits witness your renown."

"We witness it," they agree.

The Ralunim carve the sigils into his back. "You are He-Who-Would-Fight-With-Lightning-For-The-Sake-Of-Mud. You performed a favor for a greater Jaggling to fulfill a promise to a lesser Gaffling. Obviously, your obedience to your duty is pure. We believe you shall continue to fulfill your duty no matter who is the beneficiary."

This dream could not get any weirder.

To be continued.

(Who is this woman? What is happening outside the Dreamworld aka the Shadow? What happened before he awoke naked and covered in blood on a mountaintop? How did he get here? aka cross the Gauntlet?)