Post by sparkmane on Jul 26, 2016 22:41:08 GMT
STICK
Once upon a time, a Fianna Galliard by name of Pond-Drinker left a moot after proving the validity of his deed name. Pond-Drinker was well known as a mighty drinker who could quaff a whole keg without losing his faculties and would quaff two before leaving the party. He was on his way into the forest looking for a place to pass some filtered ale and came upon a tree. As he approached the tree, he told, a great serpent sprang forth and struck him!
The snake took him to the ground and wrestled him with impossible strength. The serpent’s body was so strong that even Pond-Drinker’s mighty hands could not flex it. Eventually, he managed to hurl the serpent away from himself and passed out from the great effort of the struggle.
When he awoke, the snake was gone and in its place a length of wood; a long, thin tree branch. He skinned it of bark and polished it, and when it was a beautiful staff he could see the scales of the fearful serpent embedded in its very wood. He called the serpent out, and demanded it submit to him, as he had bested it. The snake bowed to him, and entered the staff.
(Historian’s note: Other Galliards believe that Pond-Drinker was merely so intoxicated that he ran into a Snakewood tree and a branch fell on him. It is widely assumed he had a Theurge bind a snake-spirit to it simply to make his story more believable.)
The staff lent its quick strikes to its master, and even when Pond-Drinker was enjoying the courage of a few fae-brewed pints, he could still strike quickly enough to get the first blow on a sober enemy. Pond-Drinker lived in a more peaceful time, in a more peaceful sept. The staff was namely used for spars and challenges and swatting away weak banes and unseelies. Pond-Drinker had the rare privilege of dying of old age – or at least liver disease.
He passed his stick onto his son, another Galliard named Ten-Apples. Less of a warrior and more of a brewmaster, Ten-Apples told his tales in the complicated notes of his hard ciders. Peace does not last in a world with the Wyrm, though, and battle found Ten-Apples. His small sept was recruited by a larger sept of Fenrir, to go to Africa for an important task – to help the White Howlers.
In Africa, Ten-Apples was no coward, but also no fool. He had the Fenrir kin forge him a silver-steel head for his staff, and the snake’s venom bled into its new tooth. He fought in Africa for many years, gaining combat skill and glory, and he was there when the tribe fell. Using local ingredients he developed his Black Cider, a brew blended with local ingredients that the stories say paid true homage to a descent into madness. Its recipe is said to be somewhere, hidden away; there would be much renown to the Galliard who found it – if it even exists.
The Garou stayed in Africa, with the hopes of putting their brothers out of their misery if they could not save them. This proved another failure, and Ten-Apples died as a battle-worn Athro. Stick was collected by a Fenrir Ahroun, Fire-Fists. Fire-Fists, all things considered, did not want to be associated with a serpent, but did want the silver-tipped weapon. He painted the haft brown and spread the tale that it was made of ash. The snake within was not pleased; from then on Fire-Fists could call on its anger, but never its speed.
Fire-Fists survived Africa, gaining much glory there and enough rank to leave. He went back to Germany, where his long spear was not en vogue and was an awkward thing to have in the rapidly-developing Germanic society. He met another Fenrir who hadn’t had his fill of battle and was eager to go to the rainforest. This new Fenrir was an Ahroun named Ever-Forward-to-Glory. He possesses an agile silver axe named Theurge’s Kiss and traded it for Stick, leaving both parties better equipped for their desired environments.
Ever-Forward did not do well in the Amazon, nor did the Fenrir that went with him. At that time, it was still a very new place and the Fenrir were entirely unprepared for the combat conditions, monsters, and other extreme dangers. He died soon, and Stick was picked up by another. Stick changed hands many times in the Amazon, sometimes twice in one fight. It finally ended up in the hands of one of the few remaining warriors, a Fenrir Ragabash named It’s-The-Truth. It’s-The-Truth snatched the weapon from his brother after their pack had been overwhelmed by formoric jaguars, killing them down to the last. It’s-The-truth was able to kill the last of them, and survived.
His name was given to him for his complete lack of fear of any fact. When he knew the truth, he would speak and act of it, without fear of what his brothers or traditions might argue. In this case, he knew a truth: the Fenrir needed to leave the Amazon. The only service they’d give Gaia here was to fertilize some of her trees, and so he called his people to leave so that they might become stronger and smarter and come back in a better force. Some went with him; some died with no one to speak of their final glories.
It’s-The-Truth grew into an old and bitter Ragabash, a rare member of his auspice to develop Harano. He chose to operate in America, the north-east, where the weather and scenery reminded him of Germany. He tasked himself to teaching younger Fenrir to slow down and learn, to stave off Glory for Knowledge. Firey young warriors who sought to challenge the old fool found him fast, and would be tripped by his old spear and on the floor with broken pride before they could manage a proper offense.
Older Fenrir would not tolerate It’s-The-Truth, and so he was left among cubs and cliaths. One fateful day, a Thunderwyrm crawled its way into the city and was releasing banes into its lair – a local warehouse left abandoned. With no one else to fight it, It’s-The-Truth took his students.
The fight was fierce. The materialized banes were unspeakable monsters, and many of them had taken host in stray dogs and stray humans. These threats were weak, but many – not a problem for his brave pupils. It seemed an easy fight, but the old fool knew it wasn’t the truth.
After the banes and Formori had crowded the Fenrir into a killbox, the Thunderwyrm appeared. It burst from the concrete floor, big as a bus, and loomed over the easy prey. Made of armor and lightning, the creature was nearly invulnerable to bullets and blades, but when it spread its jaws to come down the Ragabash Elder saw a weak spot within. He could kill the raging monster with one accurate strike, but he’d have to get Thunderwyrm to bite him. He looked at the situation and his wits told him that a kill on the first strike was the only way to save his students, and the price of that strike would cost his life. It was a bitter reality, but-
-it was the truth.
The Ragabash vented his rage and shouted at the Thunderwyrm, which happily moved to devour him first. The many-jawed mouth of the worm was like an iron maiden of toxic razors as it closed around his entire body, but from his vantage point he was able to drive the tip of Stick into the bundle of nerves that controlled the monster. It spat him down, and threatened to kill Garou and monster alike with its death throes alone.
It’s-the-Truth didn’t know how to heal, and therefore, neither did his students. After finishing off the remaining enemies, the students came to him – the first at his side a Fenrir named Hands-Like-Hammers who had been brought to America by his father to escape the harsh Siberia. He tried to close the old man’s thousand wounds, but by his very name the act was doomed. It’s-The-Truth spoke comfort to his disciples, and told them to feel no Rage when there was no enemy; he told them that peace was rare as gold in this world, and even at a time like this they should enjoy it while it lasted. Stick was passed on to Hands-Like-Hammers. The Ragabash Elder used his last words to tell the young warrior, one last time, to seek his own truths.
Ahroun are not good at dealing with their feelings, and Hands-Like-Hammers decided his place was far from this painful memory. The truth of this Ahroun is that he needed to go back to the world his father had tried to shield him from, back to defend a place that was clean and pure if only because it was too harsh for even the Wyrm. He ventured alone in Siberia for much time, seeking out the darkest, most isolated places monsters could hide. His grief kept him so distant from his people that his stories had to be pried from the jaws of werecats so he could achieve his Fostern rank.
After returning to claim this honor, he decided to stay. Though to him Stick was merely another war-powered spear, he used it well and realized his skills and wisdom were meant to be part of a larger whole. He settled into the caern at Sochi, along the Crimea River. There he lived his life, battling evil and trying to teach the truths of patience to young warriors in dire need of it.
One warrior he met was a Galliard by the name of Steel’s Song, a born Bone-Gnawer Galliard who had chosen the way of battle and the mantle of Fenris. As the American Fenrir-convert was visiting the Russian sept, an attack came. It was no raid of Formori or Dancers, no; the Wyrm’s forces had taken advantage of the thin Gauntlet of lands untouched by Man and burst through in great force.
When he saw that swarm of darkness closing in from all sides, the Ahroun became a Cliath again – a frightened young warrior beset by monsters on all sides, and this time with no master to look to, as on the outside -he- was the Elder now. As the materialized banes approached from afar, he strove to honor his master’s final lesson. The monsters were coming, yes, but they were not yet here – and so for the moment, he embraced peace and was calm and at one with Gaia.
When the Banes spilled onto caern grounds, Hands-Like-Hammers’s eyes sprang back open. The Rage he had pushed down sprang forward like an arrow drawn back in a bow and he dove into the tide of darkness, staining the black wave with streaks of red. He kept Steel’s Song close, not wanting to lose a young warrior, and fought with the fullest fury of Luna.
Unfortunately, Stick did not serve Hands-Like-Hammers as it had the Ragabash. Perhaps if he had taken the time to see the weapon as more than a tool, to peel back its history and learn its nature, the battle would have turned out differently. In the end, all but two Fenrir were dead. Fenrir do not go to Hell alone, though, and so most of the banes were dead as well. Remaining alive were a few not important enough to kill first, and their horrible master – a Nexus Crawler.
It looked like an iron centipede with the head of a troll and claws of a scorpion. Long hairs protruding from tis back tripped a corrosive oil, and its screams summoned madness from the hearts of those who heard it. It rose above the last two Fenrir, and Hands-Like-Hammers charged it. Lacking the thoughtful finesse of his master, the Ahroun used brute strength to propel the spear through the beast’s shell and into its black heart. The Crawler fell limp at the end of the spear – but the Wyrm loves a lie.
It only took an instant; the relaxation of a clenched muscle, exhalation of a held breath; when Hands-Like-Hammers let his guard down for the blink of an eye, the Nexus Crawler sprang back to life. It forced its body up the length of the spear, destroying itself further only for the chance to sink its fangs into the Ahroun’s body. The toxic mandibles sunk deep and pumped the Garou’s body with a thick, dark venom; so much that it flowed from the wound and dripped down like ink. It swam to his heart, and he fell with the Crawler atop him – though now it’s death was true.
Ahroun are not good with words. He did not know what to say to Steel’s-Song, their visitor and only survivor. He had no final wisdom for the cliath to take back to his people. In his heart, he knew Stick as a symbol of a wiser man, and so this is what he passed on to the Galliard. “I don’t want them to bury this with me,” he made his excuse, and his eyes saw the strong young man standing with his master’s weapon before the Ahroun himself found his master’s peace.
Steel’s Song took Stick back to the Twilight Dawn sept in America. Recognizing it as awkward to carry around, but not wanting to give up the symbol of the Ahroun who gave it to him, he chose to dedicate to his flesh in the form of a tattoo. Expecting it to appear simply as a small image of itself, he was surprised to find the weapon coiled affectionately around his arm.
Stick was back in the hands of a Galliard, who could perhaps peel back its shameful camouflage and learn the true power it had only shared with two drunks and an old fool.
Appearance: Unpainted and polished, Stick reveals the beautiful grain of its snakewood construction. It is long, slightly flexible, and bears a slender razor-sharp silver tip.
System: Level 5 Gnosis 6. When activated, Stick’s silver tip deals Aggravated damage, though it can still be used as a quarterstaff that does Bashing. If the wielder knows the true nature of the spirit within and does not shy from associating with it (or is ignorant and considered worthy), the weapon has a second effect: every success on the activation roll adds +2 to Initiative rolls made by the wielder. This lasts for the remainder of the scene or until Stick is re-activated for some reason. The initiative bonus does not work when the weapon is not being wielded.
Once upon a time, a Fianna Galliard by name of Pond-Drinker left a moot after proving the validity of his deed name. Pond-Drinker was well known as a mighty drinker who could quaff a whole keg without losing his faculties and would quaff two before leaving the party. He was on his way into the forest looking for a place to pass some filtered ale and came upon a tree. As he approached the tree, he told, a great serpent sprang forth and struck him!
The snake took him to the ground and wrestled him with impossible strength. The serpent’s body was so strong that even Pond-Drinker’s mighty hands could not flex it. Eventually, he managed to hurl the serpent away from himself and passed out from the great effort of the struggle.
When he awoke, the snake was gone and in its place a length of wood; a long, thin tree branch. He skinned it of bark and polished it, and when it was a beautiful staff he could see the scales of the fearful serpent embedded in its very wood. He called the serpent out, and demanded it submit to him, as he had bested it. The snake bowed to him, and entered the staff.
(Historian’s note: Other Galliards believe that Pond-Drinker was merely so intoxicated that he ran into a Snakewood tree and a branch fell on him. It is widely assumed he had a Theurge bind a snake-spirit to it simply to make his story more believable.)
The staff lent its quick strikes to its master, and even when Pond-Drinker was enjoying the courage of a few fae-brewed pints, he could still strike quickly enough to get the first blow on a sober enemy. Pond-Drinker lived in a more peaceful time, in a more peaceful sept. The staff was namely used for spars and challenges and swatting away weak banes and unseelies. Pond-Drinker had the rare privilege of dying of old age – or at least liver disease.
He passed his stick onto his son, another Galliard named Ten-Apples. Less of a warrior and more of a brewmaster, Ten-Apples told his tales in the complicated notes of his hard ciders. Peace does not last in a world with the Wyrm, though, and battle found Ten-Apples. His small sept was recruited by a larger sept of Fenrir, to go to Africa for an important task – to help the White Howlers.
In Africa, Ten-Apples was no coward, but also no fool. He had the Fenrir kin forge him a silver-steel head for his staff, and the snake’s venom bled into its new tooth. He fought in Africa for many years, gaining combat skill and glory, and he was there when the tribe fell. Using local ingredients he developed his Black Cider, a brew blended with local ingredients that the stories say paid true homage to a descent into madness. Its recipe is said to be somewhere, hidden away; there would be much renown to the Galliard who found it – if it even exists.
The Garou stayed in Africa, with the hopes of putting their brothers out of their misery if they could not save them. This proved another failure, and Ten-Apples died as a battle-worn Athro. Stick was collected by a Fenrir Ahroun, Fire-Fists. Fire-Fists, all things considered, did not want to be associated with a serpent, but did want the silver-tipped weapon. He painted the haft brown and spread the tale that it was made of ash. The snake within was not pleased; from then on Fire-Fists could call on its anger, but never its speed.
Fire-Fists survived Africa, gaining much glory there and enough rank to leave. He went back to Germany, where his long spear was not en vogue and was an awkward thing to have in the rapidly-developing Germanic society. He met another Fenrir who hadn’t had his fill of battle and was eager to go to the rainforest. This new Fenrir was an Ahroun named Ever-Forward-to-Glory. He possesses an agile silver axe named Theurge’s Kiss and traded it for Stick, leaving both parties better equipped for their desired environments.
Ever-Forward did not do well in the Amazon, nor did the Fenrir that went with him. At that time, it was still a very new place and the Fenrir were entirely unprepared for the combat conditions, monsters, and other extreme dangers. He died soon, and Stick was picked up by another. Stick changed hands many times in the Amazon, sometimes twice in one fight. It finally ended up in the hands of one of the few remaining warriors, a Fenrir Ragabash named It’s-The-Truth. It’s-The-Truth snatched the weapon from his brother after their pack had been overwhelmed by formoric jaguars, killing them down to the last. It’s-The-truth was able to kill the last of them, and survived.
His name was given to him for his complete lack of fear of any fact. When he knew the truth, he would speak and act of it, without fear of what his brothers or traditions might argue. In this case, he knew a truth: the Fenrir needed to leave the Amazon. The only service they’d give Gaia here was to fertilize some of her trees, and so he called his people to leave so that they might become stronger and smarter and come back in a better force. Some went with him; some died with no one to speak of their final glories.
It’s-The-Truth grew into an old and bitter Ragabash, a rare member of his auspice to develop Harano. He chose to operate in America, the north-east, where the weather and scenery reminded him of Germany. He tasked himself to teaching younger Fenrir to slow down and learn, to stave off Glory for Knowledge. Firey young warriors who sought to challenge the old fool found him fast, and would be tripped by his old spear and on the floor with broken pride before they could manage a proper offense.
Older Fenrir would not tolerate It’s-The-Truth, and so he was left among cubs and cliaths. One fateful day, a Thunderwyrm crawled its way into the city and was releasing banes into its lair – a local warehouse left abandoned. With no one else to fight it, It’s-The-Truth took his students.
The fight was fierce. The materialized banes were unspeakable monsters, and many of them had taken host in stray dogs and stray humans. These threats were weak, but many – not a problem for his brave pupils. It seemed an easy fight, but the old fool knew it wasn’t the truth.
After the banes and Formori had crowded the Fenrir into a killbox, the Thunderwyrm appeared. It burst from the concrete floor, big as a bus, and loomed over the easy prey. Made of armor and lightning, the creature was nearly invulnerable to bullets and blades, but when it spread its jaws to come down the Ragabash Elder saw a weak spot within. He could kill the raging monster with one accurate strike, but he’d have to get Thunderwyrm to bite him. He looked at the situation and his wits told him that a kill on the first strike was the only way to save his students, and the price of that strike would cost his life. It was a bitter reality, but-
-it was the truth.
The Ragabash vented his rage and shouted at the Thunderwyrm, which happily moved to devour him first. The many-jawed mouth of the worm was like an iron maiden of toxic razors as it closed around his entire body, but from his vantage point he was able to drive the tip of Stick into the bundle of nerves that controlled the monster. It spat him down, and threatened to kill Garou and monster alike with its death throes alone.
It’s-the-Truth didn’t know how to heal, and therefore, neither did his students. After finishing off the remaining enemies, the students came to him – the first at his side a Fenrir named Hands-Like-Hammers who had been brought to America by his father to escape the harsh Siberia. He tried to close the old man’s thousand wounds, but by his very name the act was doomed. It’s-The-Truth spoke comfort to his disciples, and told them to feel no Rage when there was no enemy; he told them that peace was rare as gold in this world, and even at a time like this they should enjoy it while it lasted. Stick was passed on to Hands-Like-Hammers. The Ragabash Elder used his last words to tell the young warrior, one last time, to seek his own truths.
Ahroun are not good at dealing with their feelings, and Hands-Like-Hammers decided his place was far from this painful memory. The truth of this Ahroun is that he needed to go back to the world his father had tried to shield him from, back to defend a place that was clean and pure if only because it was too harsh for even the Wyrm. He ventured alone in Siberia for much time, seeking out the darkest, most isolated places monsters could hide. His grief kept him so distant from his people that his stories had to be pried from the jaws of werecats so he could achieve his Fostern rank.
After returning to claim this honor, he decided to stay. Though to him Stick was merely another war-powered spear, he used it well and realized his skills and wisdom were meant to be part of a larger whole. He settled into the caern at Sochi, along the Crimea River. There he lived his life, battling evil and trying to teach the truths of patience to young warriors in dire need of it.
One warrior he met was a Galliard by the name of Steel’s Song, a born Bone-Gnawer Galliard who had chosen the way of battle and the mantle of Fenris. As the American Fenrir-convert was visiting the Russian sept, an attack came. It was no raid of Formori or Dancers, no; the Wyrm’s forces had taken advantage of the thin Gauntlet of lands untouched by Man and burst through in great force.
When he saw that swarm of darkness closing in from all sides, the Ahroun became a Cliath again – a frightened young warrior beset by monsters on all sides, and this time with no master to look to, as on the outside -he- was the Elder now. As the materialized banes approached from afar, he strove to honor his master’s final lesson. The monsters were coming, yes, but they were not yet here – and so for the moment, he embraced peace and was calm and at one with Gaia.
When the Banes spilled onto caern grounds, Hands-Like-Hammers’s eyes sprang back open. The Rage he had pushed down sprang forward like an arrow drawn back in a bow and he dove into the tide of darkness, staining the black wave with streaks of red. He kept Steel’s Song close, not wanting to lose a young warrior, and fought with the fullest fury of Luna.
Unfortunately, Stick did not serve Hands-Like-Hammers as it had the Ragabash. Perhaps if he had taken the time to see the weapon as more than a tool, to peel back its history and learn its nature, the battle would have turned out differently. In the end, all but two Fenrir were dead. Fenrir do not go to Hell alone, though, and so most of the banes were dead as well. Remaining alive were a few not important enough to kill first, and their horrible master – a Nexus Crawler.
It looked like an iron centipede with the head of a troll and claws of a scorpion. Long hairs protruding from tis back tripped a corrosive oil, and its screams summoned madness from the hearts of those who heard it. It rose above the last two Fenrir, and Hands-Like-Hammers charged it. Lacking the thoughtful finesse of his master, the Ahroun used brute strength to propel the spear through the beast’s shell and into its black heart. The Crawler fell limp at the end of the spear – but the Wyrm loves a lie.
It only took an instant; the relaxation of a clenched muscle, exhalation of a held breath; when Hands-Like-Hammers let his guard down for the blink of an eye, the Nexus Crawler sprang back to life. It forced its body up the length of the spear, destroying itself further only for the chance to sink its fangs into the Ahroun’s body. The toxic mandibles sunk deep and pumped the Garou’s body with a thick, dark venom; so much that it flowed from the wound and dripped down like ink. It swam to his heart, and he fell with the Crawler atop him – though now it’s death was true.
Ahroun are not good with words. He did not know what to say to Steel’s-Song, their visitor and only survivor. He had no final wisdom for the cliath to take back to his people. In his heart, he knew Stick as a symbol of a wiser man, and so this is what he passed on to the Galliard. “I don’t want them to bury this with me,” he made his excuse, and his eyes saw the strong young man standing with his master’s weapon before the Ahroun himself found his master’s peace.
Steel’s Song took Stick back to the Twilight Dawn sept in America. Recognizing it as awkward to carry around, but not wanting to give up the symbol of the Ahroun who gave it to him, he chose to dedicate to his flesh in the form of a tattoo. Expecting it to appear simply as a small image of itself, he was surprised to find the weapon coiled affectionately around his arm.
Stick was back in the hands of a Galliard, who could perhaps peel back its shameful camouflage and learn the true power it had only shared with two drunks and an old fool.
Appearance: Unpainted and polished, Stick reveals the beautiful grain of its snakewood construction. It is long, slightly flexible, and bears a slender razor-sharp silver tip.
System: Level 5 Gnosis 6. When activated, Stick’s silver tip deals Aggravated damage, though it can still be used as a quarterstaff that does Bashing. If the wielder knows the true nature of the spirit within and does not shy from associating with it (or is ignorant and considered worthy), the weapon has a second effect: every success on the activation roll adds +2 to Initiative rolls made by the wielder. This lasts for the remainder of the scene or until Stick is re-activated for some reason. The initiative bonus does not work when the weapon is not being wielded.