" I believe you have the potential to be what your tribe is meant to be. A Silver Fang should be noble, graceful, inspirational, fearless. They should be the shining silver pinnacle of what every Garou should aspire to be. Their subordinates should admire them, be utterly loyal to them, be willing to die for them, and cherish them."
-- Hutch, Suppessive Fire
I had a dream last night. One where I was standing at the edge of a cliff. Before me there spread a vast ocean-- dark and deep-- whose waves roared like thunder and struck the rocky face like shattered ivory, soon to be lost beneath their swift and ever rolling crests. The seaspray broke upon the shore; tickled my face as the wind blew it past.
...I shied from it, and tried to wipe the dampness from my face, denying it a place within me. But the more I wiped it away, the more fiercely the wind and water churned... until eventually, a wave rose, and swallowed me whole... sweeping me out to the sea.
And that was when I heard them speaking. Howling.
I tossed and bucked against them, trying desperately to claw my way to the familiar surface...but I could not.
The water, as heavy and cold as the weight of duty, swept into my lungs and filled them; yet I, while breathless, did not drown. Instead, I plummeted ever downward to see the face of death, where he waited for me.
His ghostly hand was knotted around a gnarled staff. I bade him spare my life, that I would do whatever he wanted-- but he took from his sleeve a silver klaive, and thrust it into my chest...as I lay dying, gasping for breath in shallow spurts...the creature then spoke.
...I shied from it, and tried to wipe the dampness from my face, denying it a place within me. But the more I wiped it away, the more fiercely the wind and water churned... until eventually, a wave rose, and swallowed me whole... sweeping me out to the sea.
And that was when I heard them speaking. Howling.
A chorus of voices, calling me in all directions.
I tossed and bucked against them, trying desperately to claw my way to the familiar surface...but I could not.
The water, as heavy and cold as the weight of duty, swept into my lungs and filled them; yet I, while breathless, did not drown. Instead, I plummeted ever downward to see the face of death, where he waited for me.
His ghostly hand was knotted around a gnarled staff. I bade him spare my life, that I would do whatever he wanted-- but he took from his sleeve a silver klaive, and thrust it into my chest...as I lay dying, gasping for breath in shallow spurts...the creature then spoke.
"The wheel" he said "Still turns."
The wheel turns. It isn't going to stop turning.
I
The only question is... Shall I be the one behind it?
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