Post by Aidan on Sept 16, 2012 23:51:40 GMT -8
... or, "That time I got shot in the head."
The waking world intrudes like a shotgun blast. My skull rings, my eyes are gummed shut and my mouth tastes of sick. Just another Saturday morning… but my phone says Sunday. Rex’s persistent nuzzling from within the scar on my chest voices his displeasure, but the city’s background taint just a fuzzy backdrop compared to the all-consuming-fire that the Hive induced. The previous nights details rampage around in my skull, the welt on the back of my noggin throbbing in time to the herd of buffalo galloping through my cerebellum.
So now I put fingers to keys, unlocking my mind’s eye to spew its’ contents upon the screen in a metaphorical deluge. Gather ‘round the trough, wee ones, and learn from my mistakes…
The evening started like any other. I disembarked from the bus, attracting no unusual stares for a guy getting off in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. My disheveled look and half-awake demeanor lets them assume this is as far as my day's pan handling harvest could take me. I fish through the ashtray bolted to the sign post, heralding this distant waypoint as the stop for the Brown Whippet bus, proudly exclaiming far away destinations that almost seem exotic by the rustic standards. Seattle, Olympia back to the West. Walla Walla, Pullman farther ahead to the East. I find a half-finished dog-end and tuck it into a pocket for later, and elect to spark up the further wasted one besides. I enjoy the last few drags and take a deep breath of the clear mountain air… and almost lose my lunch. Scraps may be a dyed-in-the-wool coward without a lick of sense between his floppy ears, but he’s got a point about the wilderness.
It’s so fucking clean…
I made my way to the rest stop bathrooms, set farther back off the main highway. There’s an aluminum box on the roof I use to stash my city gear; a bar-b-queue grill and a few pipes make it look like an AC unit. Maybe it’s my nerves, but the whole place seems off. Quiet like a grave. At the thought of the here-after, Lies-at-Risk, sic Jumps-the-Shark flashes briefly before my eyes; a cautionary tale if ever there was one. It was not even a week ago that he met a grisly end – Sorrows-Bane plunging the fang-dagger into his brow, his body going limp. My own jaw a bloody pulp, silencing any objections I may have had. Circling ’victors’ falling in to claim trophies before his spirit had even told its’ tale of tragedy and betrayal…
His death seemed to wrap up all the misgivings I had in a nice neat bow; he had summoned the Wyrm spirit just outside the bawn, turning it to tasks unknown. He had loosed the Rage spirits on his former pack, Tigris and Erik; prodding them to frenzy on the full moon past. Mischief and grief only further souring his name in my mind. An ignoble end to an ignoble bastard.
I snapped back to that rest stop, wrapping my hands around the hilt of my own fang-dagger, the worn leather handle, polished smooth by many practiced cuts and thrusts. It slides home into my belt with a comforting bulge at my back, ‘Satahosk’ a trusted comrade, purring contentment and anticipation of battle. A satchel full of weapons and ammo, wrapped tight, leaving a handle to easily slip into lupine jaws; dropped to the bushes out of view of the road, my fore paws crunching in the dry leaves and detritus besides. I picked up the satchel and made my way to the Bawn.
On the cooling night air, I could hear the drums from miles out. Drums announcing that we few, we noble, we brave… We were going to war.
Also keen in my mind is that we’ve been watched of late. Watchful eyes on our doorstep, tracking our every move. As keenly interested in our coming and going as we are of theirs. We have watched them; aggressively seeking out where they dwell. Looking for the tumor to surgically remove, and find it we did. With eyes aplenty, in sets of two and eight, spirit and flesh and senses beyond. We knew they were entrenched in a bunker beneath North Bend. A highly fortified facility for the storage of radio-active waste and worse, a pit into which the careless byproducts of Man’s industry had been tossed and forgotten. Lost on all maps, all spreadsheets and in the minds of all who once had been warden against terrible fates.
Fates that were set to unfold upon an unsuspecting world; a tidal wave of destruction.
Within their fetid lair they metastasized and grew strong. But they did not bide their time wringing idle hands; a-feared of discovery. Indeed, they invited the foe to come, and filled their ears with sweet succor and sibilant offerings. The seeds of discontent and mistrust were sewn and wrought terrible harvest. They set about machinations, ready to unfold horrors and misinformation and all the while, obscuring a terrible secret.
Rituals were in play; warding the Hive, keeping all probes at bay. But signs were there… terrible reminders and hallmarks of an ancient misfortune. A ritual so perverse… so vile… that the last time anyone had observed it’s taboo rites; Nexus crawlers were released upon the world and Reality itself was never the same…
Yet… in the face of all of this, we stood strong as we could. Though our hearts wept - some openly and some behind a thick mask. We tore at our own flanks, claws and wicked-barbed accusations soaking the soil with our own blood; whipping up the frenzy and blood-lust to a peak. All the while the shadows teemed with the ghostly faces of our fallen kith and kin; mocking whispers belying the injustice they wrought upon our beloved Gaia and stinging our eyes with fresh tears. Stalwartly, we strode forth, working the only plan of action that we could.
We are the protectors of Gaia. We will take the fight to the Wyrm, within their own damn Hive, if needs be. So says the annals of our history. So says the blood of our ancestors reaching back to the Dawn Age. So says our most sacrosanct laws, the Litany. By Gaia, by Luna, by Helios and by the Triat; say it with me!
“We fight the Wyrm, wherever it may dwell.”
Again. “We fight the Wyrm, wherever it may dwell!”
Rite and prose stirred our spirits and blood, froth in the corner of every mouth, a single pulse thundering through the arteries and the night. On the verge of that wave breaking, a vision of terrible evil overtook our Seers. Visions pierced the minds’ eye like a lance, white-hot and scorching. We knew the time had come. We loosed the horde, and began a precision strike against the Hive.
We could not open the moon bridge directly. It would be as if opening our own gates to the barbarians camped on our front lawn. Instead, we moved the Path Stone far from the heart of the Caern, and launched the attack from miles away; our home and hearth left safe under the aegis of the Load Bearers, represented that day by their Alpha, Lightbringer, Alexi and Marks-the-Prey.
Bolstered by Earthblood Pack, Alpha Echo-of-the-Falcon’s-Scream, Io Sings-to-Snow and James Quiet-Foot.
A score or more of others; Fostern and Cliath, Kinfolk and the mighty Joshua, Gurahl and ally. All of whom should hold their heads high – yes, even you, Scraps. I look forward to a Galliard among you to tell your tale.
But on with mine… From our remote beachhead, we launched our foray into the Hive.
First thru were the Torchbearers, represented that day by our Alpha, Opens-the-Way, Scorpion’s-Sting, Voices-on-the-Wind, Vinny, Tells-Tall-Tales and myself, Plays-With-Fire. With Vasili, Astrophel and John Smith beside – welcome support and bolstering of our ranks.
Hot on our heels came The Trail of Dead represented that day by Saito Rei and Kaito.
Truth Finders represented by their Alpha Layla, Fly’s-off-the-Handle and Rain-Singer.
And Third Strike represented by their Alpha, Sorrow’s Bane, Sky-Breaker, Breaks the Mountain, Drinks-Like-a-Demon, Finds-the-Prey and Silver-Chains.
Our first foe, a Spiral Dancer, was rebuffed, his fetid Wyrm Gifts falling on stronger stuff in Opens-the-Ways steely glare. John Smith and Tells-Tall-Tales took first blood, cutting the poor bastard down short. Vasili ending the tortured existence of a twisted Spiral-kin.
Onward we pressed. Torchbearer’s and the whole of the Vanguard bearing right, followed by Trail of Dead and Raven. Rattlesnake took to the left. In the bowels of the Hive, we came across our foe.
To the left, Third Strike found the Elder Pack, six strong. Twisted garou, the evidence of the Spiral redolent on their hide. The first fell to Sorrows-Bane, Woe-Blighter cutting through the gauntlet, even as he rebuffed his attempts to ensnare him with more Wyrm gimmicks. Breaks-the-Mountain brought the Spiral Dancer Alpha low with a confidence shattering glare, his bale-fire wreathed hands trembling. But even as the Alphas was brought down, his life’s blood ebbing, the foul bargain was struck.
On the other side of the Hive, the vanguard came across more foes, numbering seven strong. Three fomori; one whose hide was coated in Living Silver, striking back at those who sought to bring him down. One horribly twisted in form and mind, violence and murder seeping from every pore. And one who wore Goggles. A single kinfolk lurked in the back, unassuming and quiet in his menace. Finally, three Black Spiral Dancers, of which we only saw two, until it was too late.
One of the Dancers was subdued by Astrophel into quiet bliss, along with the kinfolk. Tells-Tall-Tales drew their attention as we filed into the room. I cut down Goggles in a hail of gunfire, Voices-on-the-Wind releasing nature’s fury upon him in a wave of fire; I showed him all the mercy I could muster, emptying my clip into him and stilling his writhing pain.
The berserker flew at Wilhelm, but got no further than three steps before Scorpion Sting’s fang-dagger struck home, ending his rampage before it had begun.
Vincent lashed out with spirit axe, raking the Bane possessing the Silver fomori, but saw his torment was not to be so easily released. Instead, he enveloped him in an icy embrace with a cold stare. First Layla slashed with blade, then Fly’s-off-the-Handle stove in his head with his maul, the shards of silver biting deep and cutting both to the quick.
From the shadows sprung a near-disastrous attack. An Uktena-ikthya reached forth and sliced through Torchbearer’s link to Sister Sphinx! We fell into disarray, holding our ground through supremacy of arms and mettle. In the fracas, my head rang like the bells of a Church; a thin layer of Kevlar the only thing holding back a slug of solid silver- loosed from the barrel of one of our own.
Thank Gaia it left nothing more than a welt, but damn if my life did not flash before my eyes. I wheeled and loosed a rain of bullets behind me, each falling harmlessly to the floor in the web of our Missile Catcher. No foe waited to ravage our flank. Just a simple misfire.
The ground shook, raining cement and soil upon our heads, bringing my focus back to the fight before us.
John Smith lashed out in Lilian fury, morphean fangs sending the Uktena-ikthya to the floor in venomous torpor, and restoring the precious flow of spiritual essence between Torchbearers and Sister Sphinx. John finished the wretched assailant with a life draining bite.
Only one Spiral Dancer remained active in the fight, his vicious fangs snapping and tearing into our ranks earning him his name ‘Bitey’. His damnably thick hide and abjurations turning aside claws and blade, bullet and bite. Opens-the-Way turning aside his attacks, saving my life and Tells-Tall-Tales, both. Determined, we fell upon him, and by weight of numbers did we finally manage to put him down, ending his snapping and snarling tirade.
Vasili snapped a blade to extinguish the bedazzled kinfolk, but the Dancer slipped away, shadows covering his retreat. He would later be hunted down by Wilhelm, Sorrows-Bane and Sky-Breaker, who would fill his belly with a hand-full silver ore and end his time on Gaia.
The walls of the bunker broke, deep fissures loosing snakes and serpents, writing out like tentacles from a nameless void, turning the scene from smoky battlefield to surreal horror. Bane-fetish and talen shattered where they lay upon the ground and on the bodies of our slain foes; their ethereal occupants sucked into a vortex, raking blood and detritus into a coalescing form…
Third Strike filed into the room, then, as nemesis was made manifest. Nigloshi’i stood before us, and much to our surprise, he begged us to cut him down and end his pain. It seems that the ritual had come out just-so wrong, tainting him with Weaver energies.
At this point the throbbing the back of my head swelled forth, swallowing my vision to single pinpoints. They tell me I walked out of that Hive, but damn if I recall the trek. All I know is I came to in the Caern, surrounded by many, raising voice and howl in rejoice. I joined in, never so happy to be alive.
We won. The hive was expunged. The Spiral Pack was destroyed. The Fomori dispatched. An ancient foe ensnared and held for further inquiry. In the following weeks, Third-Strike and Earthblood Pack would expunge the Hell Mouth at the heart of the Hive… and my skull, despite its many protests, was still in one piece. I pulled out the cigarette I found at the rest stop, and had one of the best smokes of my fucking life…
Thus the tale is told and thus shall it go down in history. End of fucking story.
Or is it?
The war is not won. Herein lies a telling of a single battle. Herein lies many of our glories, but also many of our shames. And if one should be a beacon, stretching forth to encourage future generations; should not the other pass from lip to ear, whispered cautions and warnings to save the same? Should not we bear the thorns of our forays into the briars along with trophies of our kills?
It is true that and we have set right grievous harms and prevented greater havoc to come. We have slain brothers in pursuit of righteous causes. We have wronged some of our very own in pursuit of so-called ‘truth’. Our cold shoulders have hedged others out into the storm, where they fell to shadows and ill-will. Now is not the time for justifications! Justifications will not bring back those we have lost. Instead, let us take a single moment, to hang our head in sorrow at losing more of Gaia’s children. Let us for one moment still our trill of victory, and let us lament fallen brothers- Spiral Dancer, Garou'ikthya and twisted Kinfolk alike - for what they truly are; a diminishment of ourselves.
Lest we let Pride lead us to repeating mistakes of the past.
A moment of silence. For the fallen.
The waking world intrudes like a shotgun blast. My skull rings, my eyes are gummed shut and my mouth tastes of sick. Just another Saturday morning… but my phone says Sunday. Rex’s persistent nuzzling from within the scar on my chest voices his displeasure, but the city’s background taint just a fuzzy backdrop compared to the all-consuming-fire that the Hive induced. The previous nights details rampage around in my skull, the welt on the back of my noggin throbbing in time to the herd of buffalo galloping through my cerebellum.
So now I put fingers to keys, unlocking my mind’s eye to spew its’ contents upon the screen in a metaphorical deluge. Gather ‘round the trough, wee ones, and learn from my mistakes…
The evening started like any other. I disembarked from the bus, attracting no unusual stares for a guy getting off in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. My disheveled look and half-awake demeanor lets them assume this is as far as my day's pan handling harvest could take me. I fish through the ashtray bolted to the sign post, heralding this distant waypoint as the stop for the Brown Whippet bus, proudly exclaiming far away destinations that almost seem exotic by the rustic standards. Seattle, Olympia back to the West. Walla Walla, Pullman farther ahead to the East. I find a half-finished dog-end and tuck it into a pocket for later, and elect to spark up the further wasted one besides. I enjoy the last few drags and take a deep breath of the clear mountain air… and almost lose my lunch. Scraps may be a dyed-in-the-wool coward without a lick of sense between his floppy ears, but he’s got a point about the wilderness.
It’s so fucking clean…
I made my way to the rest stop bathrooms, set farther back off the main highway. There’s an aluminum box on the roof I use to stash my city gear; a bar-b-queue grill and a few pipes make it look like an AC unit. Maybe it’s my nerves, but the whole place seems off. Quiet like a grave. At the thought of the here-after, Lies-at-Risk, sic Jumps-the-Shark flashes briefly before my eyes; a cautionary tale if ever there was one. It was not even a week ago that he met a grisly end – Sorrows-Bane plunging the fang-dagger into his brow, his body going limp. My own jaw a bloody pulp, silencing any objections I may have had. Circling ’victors’ falling in to claim trophies before his spirit had even told its’ tale of tragedy and betrayal…
His death seemed to wrap up all the misgivings I had in a nice neat bow; he had summoned the Wyrm spirit just outside the bawn, turning it to tasks unknown. He had loosed the Rage spirits on his former pack, Tigris and Erik; prodding them to frenzy on the full moon past. Mischief and grief only further souring his name in my mind. An ignoble end to an ignoble bastard.
I snapped back to that rest stop, wrapping my hands around the hilt of my own fang-dagger, the worn leather handle, polished smooth by many practiced cuts and thrusts. It slides home into my belt with a comforting bulge at my back, ‘Satahosk’ a trusted comrade, purring contentment and anticipation of battle. A satchel full of weapons and ammo, wrapped tight, leaving a handle to easily slip into lupine jaws; dropped to the bushes out of view of the road, my fore paws crunching in the dry leaves and detritus besides. I picked up the satchel and made my way to the Bawn.
On the cooling night air, I could hear the drums from miles out. Drums announcing that we few, we noble, we brave… We were going to war.
Also keen in my mind is that we’ve been watched of late. Watchful eyes on our doorstep, tracking our every move. As keenly interested in our coming and going as we are of theirs. We have watched them; aggressively seeking out where they dwell. Looking for the tumor to surgically remove, and find it we did. With eyes aplenty, in sets of two and eight, spirit and flesh and senses beyond. We knew they were entrenched in a bunker beneath North Bend. A highly fortified facility for the storage of radio-active waste and worse, a pit into which the careless byproducts of Man’s industry had been tossed and forgotten. Lost on all maps, all spreadsheets and in the minds of all who once had been warden against terrible fates.
Fates that were set to unfold upon an unsuspecting world; a tidal wave of destruction.
Within their fetid lair they metastasized and grew strong. But they did not bide their time wringing idle hands; a-feared of discovery. Indeed, they invited the foe to come, and filled their ears with sweet succor and sibilant offerings. The seeds of discontent and mistrust were sewn and wrought terrible harvest. They set about machinations, ready to unfold horrors and misinformation and all the while, obscuring a terrible secret.
Rituals were in play; warding the Hive, keeping all probes at bay. But signs were there… terrible reminders and hallmarks of an ancient misfortune. A ritual so perverse… so vile… that the last time anyone had observed it’s taboo rites; Nexus crawlers were released upon the world and Reality itself was never the same…
Yet… in the face of all of this, we stood strong as we could. Though our hearts wept - some openly and some behind a thick mask. We tore at our own flanks, claws and wicked-barbed accusations soaking the soil with our own blood; whipping up the frenzy and blood-lust to a peak. All the while the shadows teemed with the ghostly faces of our fallen kith and kin; mocking whispers belying the injustice they wrought upon our beloved Gaia and stinging our eyes with fresh tears. Stalwartly, we strode forth, working the only plan of action that we could.
We are the protectors of Gaia. We will take the fight to the Wyrm, within their own damn Hive, if needs be. So says the annals of our history. So says the blood of our ancestors reaching back to the Dawn Age. So says our most sacrosanct laws, the Litany. By Gaia, by Luna, by Helios and by the Triat; say it with me!
“We fight the Wyrm, wherever it may dwell.”
Again. “We fight the Wyrm, wherever it may dwell!”
Rite and prose stirred our spirits and blood, froth in the corner of every mouth, a single pulse thundering through the arteries and the night. On the verge of that wave breaking, a vision of terrible evil overtook our Seers. Visions pierced the minds’ eye like a lance, white-hot and scorching. We knew the time had come. We loosed the horde, and began a precision strike against the Hive.
We could not open the moon bridge directly. It would be as if opening our own gates to the barbarians camped on our front lawn. Instead, we moved the Path Stone far from the heart of the Caern, and launched the attack from miles away; our home and hearth left safe under the aegis of the Load Bearers, represented that day by their Alpha, Lightbringer, Alexi and Marks-the-Prey.
Bolstered by Earthblood Pack, Alpha Echo-of-the-Falcon’s-Scream, Io Sings-to-Snow and James Quiet-Foot.
A score or more of others; Fostern and Cliath, Kinfolk and the mighty Joshua, Gurahl and ally. All of whom should hold their heads high – yes, even you, Scraps. I look forward to a Galliard among you to tell your tale.
But on with mine… From our remote beachhead, we launched our foray into the Hive.
First thru were the Torchbearers, represented that day by our Alpha, Opens-the-Way, Scorpion’s-Sting, Voices-on-the-Wind, Vinny, Tells-Tall-Tales and myself, Plays-With-Fire. With Vasili, Astrophel and John Smith beside – welcome support and bolstering of our ranks.
Hot on our heels came The Trail of Dead represented that day by Saito Rei and Kaito.
Truth Finders represented by their Alpha Layla, Fly’s-off-the-Handle and Rain-Singer.
And Third Strike represented by their Alpha, Sorrow’s Bane, Sky-Breaker, Breaks the Mountain, Drinks-Like-a-Demon, Finds-the-Prey and Silver-Chains.
Our first foe, a Spiral Dancer, was rebuffed, his fetid Wyrm Gifts falling on stronger stuff in Opens-the-Ways steely glare. John Smith and Tells-Tall-Tales took first blood, cutting the poor bastard down short. Vasili ending the tortured existence of a twisted Spiral-kin.
Onward we pressed. Torchbearer’s and the whole of the Vanguard bearing right, followed by Trail of Dead and Raven. Rattlesnake took to the left. In the bowels of the Hive, we came across our foe.
To the left, Third Strike found the Elder Pack, six strong. Twisted garou, the evidence of the Spiral redolent on their hide. The first fell to Sorrows-Bane, Woe-Blighter cutting through the gauntlet, even as he rebuffed his attempts to ensnare him with more Wyrm gimmicks. Breaks-the-Mountain brought the Spiral Dancer Alpha low with a confidence shattering glare, his bale-fire wreathed hands trembling. But even as the Alphas was brought down, his life’s blood ebbing, the foul bargain was struck.
On the other side of the Hive, the vanguard came across more foes, numbering seven strong. Three fomori; one whose hide was coated in Living Silver, striking back at those who sought to bring him down. One horribly twisted in form and mind, violence and murder seeping from every pore. And one who wore Goggles. A single kinfolk lurked in the back, unassuming and quiet in his menace. Finally, three Black Spiral Dancers, of which we only saw two, until it was too late.
One of the Dancers was subdued by Astrophel into quiet bliss, along with the kinfolk. Tells-Tall-Tales drew their attention as we filed into the room. I cut down Goggles in a hail of gunfire, Voices-on-the-Wind releasing nature’s fury upon him in a wave of fire; I showed him all the mercy I could muster, emptying my clip into him and stilling his writhing pain.
The berserker flew at Wilhelm, but got no further than three steps before Scorpion Sting’s fang-dagger struck home, ending his rampage before it had begun.
Vincent lashed out with spirit axe, raking the Bane possessing the Silver fomori, but saw his torment was not to be so easily released. Instead, he enveloped him in an icy embrace with a cold stare. First Layla slashed with blade, then Fly’s-off-the-Handle stove in his head with his maul, the shards of silver biting deep and cutting both to the quick.
From the shadows sprung a near-disastrous attack. An Uktena-ikthya reached forth and sliced through Torchbearer’s link to Sister Sphinx! We fell into disarray, holding our ground through supremacy of arms and mettle. In the fracas, my head rang like the bells of a Church; a thin layer of Kevlar the only thing holding back a slug of solid silver- loosed from the barrel of one of our own.
Thank Gaia it left nothing more than a welt, but damn if my life did not flash before my eyes. I wheeled and loosed a rain of bullets behind me, each falling harmlessly to the floor in the web of our Missile Catcher. No foe waited to ravage our flank. Just a simple misfire.
The ground shook, raining cement and soil upon our heads, bringing my focus back to the fight before us.
John Smith lashed out in Lilian fury, morphean fangs sending the Uktena-ikthya to the floor in venomous torpor, and restoring the precious flow of spiritual essence between Torchbearers and Sister Sphinx. John finished the wretched assailant with a life draining bite.
Only one Spiral Dancer remained active in the fight, his vicious fangs snapping and tearing into our ranks earning him his name ‘Bitey’. His damnably thick hide and abjurations turning aside claws and blade, bullet and bite. Opens-the-Way turning aside his attacks, saving my life and Tells-Tall-Tales, both. Determined, we fell upon him, and by weight of numbers did we finally manage to put him down, ending his snapping and snarling tirade.
Vasili snapped a blade to extinguish the bedazzled kinfolk, but the Dancer slipped away, shadows covering his retreat. He would later be hunted down by Wilhelm, Sorrows-Bane and Sky-Breaker, who would fill his belly with a hand-full silver ore and end his time on Gaia.
The walls of the bunker broke, deep fissures loosing snakes and serpents, writing out like tentacles from a nameless void, turning the scene from smoky battlefield to surreal horror. Bane-fetish and talen shattered where they lay upon the ground and on the bodies of our slain foes; their ethereal occupants sucked into a vortex, raking blood and detritus into a coalescing form…
Third Strike filed into the room, then, as nemesis was made manifest. Nigloshi’i stood before us, and much to our surprise, he begged us to cut him down and end his pain. It seems that the ritual had come out just-so wrong, tainting him with Weaver energies.
At this point the throbbing the back of my head swelled forth, swallowing my vision to single pinpoints. They tell me I walked out of that Hive, but damn if I recall the trek. All I know is I came to in the Caern, surrounded by many, raising voice and howl in rejoice. I joined in, never so happy to be alive.
We won. The hive was expunged. The Spiral Pack was destroyed. The Fomori dispatched. An ancient foe ensnared and held for further inquiry. In the following weeks, Third-Strike and Earthblood Pack would expunge the Hell Mouth at the heart of the Hive… and my skull, despite its many protests, was still in one piece. I pulled out the cigarette I found at the rest stop, and had one of the best smokes of my fucking life…
Thus the tale is told and thus shall it go down in history. End of fucking story.
Or is it?
The war is not won. Herein lies a telling of a single battle. Herein lies many of our glories, but also many of our shames. And if one should be a beacon, stretching forth to encourage future generations; should not the other pass from lip to ear, whispered cautions and warnings to save the same? Should not we bear the thorns of our forays into the briars along with trophies of our kills?
It is true that and we have set right grievous harms and prevented greater havoc to come. We have slain brothers in pursuit of righteous causes. We have wronged some of our very own in pursuit of so-called ‘truth’. Our cold shoulders have hedged others out into the storm, where they fell to shadows and ill-will. Now is not the time for justifications! Justifications will not bring back those we have lost. Instead, let us take a single moment, to hang our head in sorrow at losing more of Gaia’s children. Let us for one moment still our trill of victory, and let us lament fallen brothers- Spiral Dancer, Garou'ikthya and twisted Kinfolk alike - for what they truly are; a diminishment of ourselves.
Lest we let Pride lead us to repeating mistakes of the past.
A moment of silence. For the fallen.