Garou, Part III

They wove between the trees for several minutes before Greg broke the silence. “Did you catch any of what Hans and Frans said about a cub?” Greg called the Svenson brothers by the name that everyone used, but never to their faces.

“Yeah. Something about the girl who they said frenzied. That’s pretty weird though, wouldn’t we have heard something about that? There’s someone at the caern from pretty much every tribe, so you’d think they’d have been ready to pick up any cubs. And she’s not a Get, or else Hans and Frans would have brought her back with them.” Kathy lost the scent for a moment, and then noticed a trod-upon plant and set off again.

“You’re right. Someone in the sept would have mentioned something. This is pretty unusual. Then again, there’s nothing normal about a Black Spiral Dancer this close to the caern.” The continued for a few minutes in silence, and then Greg paused mid-stride. “What if she’s a Lost Cub?”

Kathy turned her head and looked back at Greg, cocking her head to one side. The future of a Garou’s offspring was a quicksilver thing; there was no reliable way of telling whether the parent’s nature would be inherited until the child underwent its First Change. Most never did, and rather than subject otherwise normal human children to the rigors and frequent terrors of a werewolf’s life, most cubs were given over to surrogate, human parents - Kinfolk of the tribe. All Garou’s children were carefully watched and protected, but only a few ever came to know of their parentage. In the joyous event that the child did turn out to be a cub, a full Garou, then members of the cub’s tribe were usually close at hand, ready to intercept and adopt the cub after the carnage that all too often accompanied the First Change and the realization that, as you were entering the already beastly phase of your life known as puberty, you were actually a creature typically reserved for bad horror flicks and vaguely Goth role-playing games. Once the bedraggled cub settles down enough, she is taken to the nearest caern to learn the ways of her people, the Garou: Gaia’s warrior children.

But this is not always the case, as Greg well knew. Sometimes the overseeing Garou and their servant spirits lose track of their charge, and the unfortunate cub is left to fend for herself. Greg had only once before encountered a Lost Cub, and he had a scar in his right side to prove it. Greg had been young at the time, barely rid of the title “cub” himself. He had met the boy wandering the bawn, the woods near the caern, and had instinctively recognized him as a werewolf. Greg had no idea, however, that the boy himself was not yet aware of his lycanthropy. Greg had also been in the terrifying crinos form at the time when he hailed the young werewolf.

The youth, terrified at Greg’s half-man, half-wolf form, had reacted on instinct and underwent his First Change, also transforming into the crinos war-form and frenzying in fear. Greg, taken completely aback by the boy’s furor, had barely escaped death at the cub’s claws, and had had to do grievous injury to the cub before he could be subdued.

Shaking his head at the memory, Greg recalled his grief at the scars he had caused the unsuspecting child. He also grimaced at the scar forever present in his flesh. Although no one blamed him for the results of that encounter, he had kept it a secret from almost everyone; only the cub and the caern elders knew. He doubted that his friends would think any less of him for it, but still he hid it from them as he had no desire to dredge it up from his memories. His train of thought, however, was derailed by Kathy’s voice.

“Greg? You okay? You're not talking like usual.”

Greg shook his head clear and looked over to Kathy. She sniffed at a large tree along a narrow deer path that wove through the forest.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” replied Greg. “Just zoning.” He scratched the back of his head self-consciously.

Kathy nodded slowly and gave him a look as though she didn’t quite believe him. “I think we’re where the fight was.”

“Why do you say tha-” Greg was cut off as Kathy motioned to the path. Greg turned from her and for the first time saw the scene laid out before them.

Almost directly in front of them was a huge, black corpse. He recognized it easily as a Black Spiral Dancer. Its snout was short and thick, its face was spotted and shaped distinctly like a hyena’s, but its enormous ears resembled those one might find on a huge bat. As if the innate ugliness of the beast were not enough, its head hung limply back from its shoulders. The tendons of its neck had been severed, and most of the throat had been torn out. The rest of the body was in little better condition; bite marks and claw slashes, black with blood, crisscrossed the creature’s torso and limbs.

Greg noted that the Wyrm-beast had not gone down quickly or cleanly, and took a grim satisfaction in it. Kathy looked on with similar approval. Though Greg had little love of killing, he reveled in the slaying of the Wyrm’s. This Black Spiral Dancer was one such creature, and a particularly hated one at that. Its roots stretched back in a story that every Garou knew well, if they did not often speak of it.

There was once a tribe known as the White Howlers. A strong and proud tribe, descended from the Picts of old northern Britain, the White Howlers led many crusades against the Wyrm and other enemies of Gaia. Flushed with victory and howling for more Wyrm-blood, the White Howlers embarked on their greatest quest – to pass through the Black Spiral Labyrinth, into Malfeas, where they could slay the Wyrm in its very den. No word ever came from the White Howlers. Centuries later, those who emerged were twisted, both physically and mentally, forever driven mad by the defiling energies and depravities they had tempted. The Black Spiral Dancers, as they came to be known, persisted since that ancient day in spreading chaos and slaughter throughout the world. They are also one of the Garou’s greatest enemies, being of the same nature, inverted. While their minds may be warped by insanity, they still hold many secrets that the Garou would prefer kept from their enemies.

Kathy turned and urinated on the dead abomination, and Greg spit. Both were startled to hear a faint groan behind them, a ways off the deer path. They pushed through the abused undergrowth, and found another gruesome sight. Neither Garou recognized it as anything but the bloodied, wounded body of a young woman. Her shirt had been torn apart and hung in limp strips from her shoulders, and her pants had been similarly destroyed. Despite the shredded clothing, she was largely covered by a splotchy coat of dried, blackened blood. It was obvious that she had several major wounds across her chest and legs, though most of the blood flow had stopped.

“Jesus,” whispered Kathy. “Did she do all this?”

Greg’s eyes were wide at the poor girl’s condition. He moved forward and knelt by the girl’s head, listening to her shallow breaths. He nodded nervously. “She’s alive, but barely. How in Gaia’s name did she survive a Black Spiral attack? If she’s a cub like they said, I don’t know how. I wonder if the Svensons pitched in after all. I-” Greg cut off as he brushed long, red hair off of the girl’s face. He blanched. Kathy opened her mouth to speak, but Greg spoke first. “Kathy,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Kathy. It’s Meghan!”