This is fan created fiction about a character in a Werewolf: the Apocalypse live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.
A Dream of the Future
by Simon W.
"These are the words of Valka Thrice Blessed."
Since Valka, Legendary Tribal Counselor of the Get of Fenris, had returned from being kicked into the Deep Umbra by Grandfather Thunder she ended all of her messages in the same way. And it always made Inge grit her teeth. Inge very well knew the respect that Valka was due and she didn't begrudge her a single bit of it. It didn't mean that she agreed with her Tribal Councilor though, about hardly anything.
But she did always listen.
Today, for the first time ever, Valka's words made her cry. Today Valka had spoken about something that Get of Fenris rarely discuss, victory. Inge knew very well that her tribe's role in the Apocalypse was to fight and to die and to ensure a future for others that they wouldn't get to enjoy themselves. It was grim perhaps but it was what every Fenrir child was taught nearly from birth. Inge had known that she was likely to outlive her sister, her mate, and very possibly her children depending on how the war for the very soul of Gaia went. She could only hope that she would leave grandchildren in her wake, and of course, countless others, Gaian and not, would live because of the sacrifices of the Get of Fenris tribe.
And truly, there was nothing in Valka's message that necessarily said that victory in the war against the Wyrm still wouldn't require the sacrifices of all of the Get of Fenris. But the very idea that victory might be possible was a heady thought; enough to make Inge slightly dizzy as she stared out at the dark mountain on which she lived.
"What do you think, Little Foglet?" she asked the small Fog spirit that always followed her around now, "What would we do if the future was a possibility and not just a dream, eh?" Spirits have no shoulders, and yet it managed to shrug its shoulders all the same.
Inge nodded. "Yeah, I'm not sure either. I guess I'll have to think about it."
She went inside her little cottage. She had herbs that were dry and needed to be ground and stored. She had some phone calls to make in the morning. There was work to do. But she felt a little bit lighter tonight, as though a heaviness of spirit had been lifted.
"Dammit, Valka," she muttered to herself. "I am ok with respecting you... but I really don't want to start to like you."
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
Friday, May 10, 2019
Shouting At The Sky
This is fan created fiction about a character in a Werewolf: the Apocalypse live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.
Shouting At The Sky
by Simon W.
Inge looked up toward the sky. Clouds had rolled in for a rare spring rainstorm but she could feel Luna behind them, in her crescent shape that Inge so strongly identified with. The little Fog spirit she had befriended was beside her, not hiding tonight since there was no one to see it.
"The Pentex created plague was designed to kill between ninety-five and ninety-nine of all humans on earth. Through the efforts of the Garou Nation and our Fera allies we managed to get that number down to about twenty percent. By any logical measure this is a victory, glorious and honorable! We should see it as such."
The Fog spirit had no response and Inge knew the only person she was trying to convince was herself. Because 2.1 million people dead in Southern California didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a gut punchingly painful loss. Maybe less personal than the losses inflicted by the Dark Brigade nearly a decade before but the sheer numbers made up for the fact that this time she hadn't lost friends, family, and community personally. Instead she ached for the millions upon billions of humans in the world that had lost their friends, families, and communities.
Inge knew the kind of work that was needed now. She understood the kind of toll that the survivors would feel. All she needed to do to remind herself of that was to look at her sister and the crushing weight of survivor's guilt she felt after the Battle of the Sept of the Crescent Moon. Dagmar had technically survived that fight... but the woman who'd come back to tell Inge that both of them were now widows wasn't the same woman who'd left for the battle. Dagmar had stuck around just long enough for the funerals and then she had left to try and disappear.
Inge never mentioned how much that had hurt. She never told her sister about the bone achingly hard work it had been to try and hold together a community of mostly kinfolk and children who had not yet shifted together for the years it had taken for the Garou Nation to start recovering and for caern seeds to be planted and for those left behind after that battle to have new septs to live and work at. She feared that the new, more fragile Dagmar wouldn't be able to tolerate the knowledge; not if it were spoken aloud anyway. She had no doubt that deep in her heart Dagmar knew. But the sisters just pretended that the words being unspoken meant they were unthought.
Funerals would have to be arranged. The dead would have to be tended to, both spiritually and physically. Communities would need to be cared for. And the Sept of the Desert Wind, by being spared the ravages of the plague, would need a special sort of tending. Because survivor's guilt could kill and Inge wasn't going to lose any more of her sister to it. Not if she had to claw at the forces of the Wyrm herself with nothing but her all too human hands.
"You don't get to take any more of her, you bastards!" Inge shouted out at the dark. "Not today. Not while I draw breath."
She went inside her cabin, the little Fog spirit trailing after her. As she slept the clouds cleared so that when she woke at dawn she was greeted with a wobbly, watery sunrise. Battered, weepy, fragile, but not broken. Just like herself. Just like her sister. Just like the Gaians.
Shouting At The Sky
by Simon W.
Inge looked up toward the sky. Clouds had rolled in for a rare spring rainstorm but she could feel Luna behind them, in her crescent shape that Inge so strongly identified with. The little Fog spirit she had befriended was beside her, not hiding tonight since there was no one to see it.
"The Pentex created plague was designed to kill between ninety-five and ninety-nine of all humans on earth. Through the efforts of the Garou Nation and our Fera allies we managed to get that number down to about twenty percent. By any logical measure this is a victory, glorious and honorable! We should see it as such."
The Fog spirit had no response and Inge knew the only person she was trying to convince was herself. Because 2.1 million people dead in Southern California didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a gut punchingly painful loss. Maybe less personal than the losses inflicted by the Dark Brigade nearly a decade before but the sheer numbers made up for the fact that this time she hadn't lost friends, family, and community personally. Instead she ached for the millions upon billions of humans in the world that had lost their friends, families, and communities.
Inge knew the kind of work that was needed now. She understood the kind of toll that the survivors would feel. All she needed to do to remind herself of that was to look at her sister and the crushing weight of survivor's guilt she felt after the Battle of the Sept of the Crescent Moon. Dagmar had technically survived that fight... but the woman who'd come back to tell Inge that both of them were now widows wasn't the same woman who'd left for the battle. Dagmar had stuck around just long enough for the funerals and then she had left to try and disappear.
Inge never mentioned how much that had hurt. She never told her sister about the bone achingly hard work it had been to try and hold together a community of mostly kinfolk and children who had not yet shifted together for the years it had taken for the Garou Nation to start recovering and for caern seeds to be planted and for those left behind after that battle to have new septs to live and work at. She feared that the new, more fragile Dagmar wouldn't be able to tolerate the knowledge; not if it were spoken aloud anyway. She had no doubt that deep in her heart Dagmar knew. But the sisters just pretended that the words being unspoken meant they were unthought.
Funerals would have to be arranged. The dead would have to be tended to, both spiritually and physically. Communities would need to be cared for. And the Sept of the Desert Wind, by being spared the ravages of the plague, would need a special sort of tending. Because survivor's guilt could kill and Inge wasn't going to lose any more of her sister to it. Not if she had to claw at the forces of the Wyrm herself with nothing but her all too human hands.
"You don't get to take any more of her, you bastards!" Inge shouted out at the dark. "Not today. Not while I draw breath."
She went inside her cabin, the little Fog spirit trailing after her. As she slept the clouds cleared so that when she woke at dawn she was greeted with a wobbly, watery sunrise. Battered, weepy, fragile, but not broken. Just like herself. Just like her sister. Just like the Gaians.
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