Stefan Hein'
by Aaron DB
'House of the Gleaming Eye Symbol'
“Four
winds at the Four Winds’ Bar,
Two
doors locked and windows barred,
One
door left to take you in,
The
other one just mirrors it.”
-
Blue Oyster Cult, ‘Astronomy’.
Most stories start with a girl
This one doesn’t.
In
fact, the only girl in the whole thing is the one that ends this part of the
tale and signifies the beginning of an as yet unread chapter.
So now you have a basic grasp of where we’re heading with this tale,
let’s get to the crux of the matter.
What,
exactly, are my feelings as I leave the mystical light of the moon bridge and
take my first step onto foreign soil? The
air is different. Colder.
It’s a chill that doesn’t seem to come from any change in
temperature, but more from my own sense of unease.
My breath coils in a thin mist from my mouth as I sigh out this new air.
My rucksack hits the grass by my boots with a dull thud and the papery
rustling of books rubbing together. My
entire collection of worldly possessions is in that bag, and we’re talking a
bunch of Dostoyevsky and Dickens novels, and a few changes of clothes.
I
wonder for a moment if I remembered to pack my copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s
complete works.
Wait a second.
No, this isn’t working. Let’s
go back a little. We’ll go back a
good few years, before all this chaos even began, and back to a time when the
world made sense.
*
*
*
I’m
German, although this surprises a lot of people.
As is common when someone is taught more than one language at the same
time, I never really developed an accent for my native tongue.
Sure, I speak it fluently, but I have an accent-less intonation that
makes my English, my German – even my Latin – sound neutral and hard to
place.
That’s
not exactly important, you understand. In
fact, I probably won’t ever mention it again.
I just feel that a sense of perspective is required in these matters. Hey, it’s my story after all.
I
was born Stefan Jurgen Hein, a bouncing baby boy, in the summer of 1980.
If you need a frame of reference, it was around the time Lennon was
murdered. Again, that’s not
terribly important.
The
most significant memories of my youth are actually ones of sound, rather than
sight. For example, I don’t
remember the colour of my first room’s wallpaper, nor do I recall what my
mother’s hairstyle was in my pre-teen years.
However, I can recall the nine songs that my father played on the piano
on Christmas Day 1986, and I vividly remember the very first time I heard, say,
Beethoven. Or Mozart.
Or Bach.
Music,
for me, is all about answers. At a
piano, lost in the melodic storm of a concerto written for a king some two
hundred years before, I’ve got all the answers and perspective that I’ve
ever desired. It’s not a hobby,
it’s not an obsession. It’s
just a very selfish passion. I have
an understanding with music – I lose myself in it, and I no longer need to ask
the questions that plague my life with insecurity and doubt.
At first, by Gaia’s blood and bones, I hated the piano. Well, that’s a lie. I
loved listening to other people playing it, I just hated being sat there myself
and fumbling through tinkling renditions of Mary Had A Little Lamb.
The problem was one of inexperience, of course.
When I reached a level of skill that allowed my musical endeavors to
actually sound akin to the playing of the professionals, then my enthusiasm was
fuelled tenfold.
But
I digress.
For
me – for me now – there is nothing like isolating myself from my
duties, my responsibilities, and merely playing for both the escapism, and for
the simple joy of shaping beautiful sounds with your own fingertips.
Like a parasite, my true life steals many opportunities to isolate myself
in such a way, and conversely, it energises my passion in the rare occasions I
can work with my music.
I
say “my” music, as if I ever write any of my own.
Understand that I don’t ever do that, nor do I wish to start doing so.
Call it a waste of talent if you will, or name it as my being too scared
to step out on my own, but for me, the joy comes in recreating the sounds of
those who have gone before, note-perfect, without fault or flaw.
For me, that is the true basis for my escapism: that those sounds and
songs still live in my heart.
In
the times of my youth and early teenage years, when my one desire was to be a
concert musician in the national orchestra, this passion was of a more innocent
flavour. Now, however, it is just
as I have described. I was happy at
school, for they nurtured my musical aspirations.
I was happy at home, for they did the same.
I was just happy all round.
And
in a single night of rage, blood and fear, everything – everything – turned
to dust and hate and it all went very, very sour.
*
*
*
The
alleyway was one in the labyrinthine backstreets of Stuttgart, the city I’d
lived in for my entire life. In
this particular instance, I was in a very bad part of the city; a neighbourhood
I’d always try to avoid in usual circumstances.
Unsurprisingly,
these were far from the usual circumstances.
I
awoke in a puddle of something wet and cold.
I never found out what it was, although I know it’s just as likely to
have been urine as it is to have been rainwater or blood.
It was not a nice alleyway for a young teenager to awaken in.
Trash and newspapers littered the ground in a random approximation of a
carpet, and the air was tainted with the tangy scent of mildew, rotting fast
food, and the piss of homeless people.
An
enchanting musk.
My
hands were red with blood. That
took a long, long time to sink in. It
was not the red of wet Hollywood blood, but a dried, blackened dirt that lined
the tracks of my palms and clung under my fingernails.
I remember wiping them on my jeans, only to find that my clothes were in
shreds, and the scraps that remained were just as filthy with stains and blood as the rest of me.
It
was as I turned to leave that I first noticed the corpses.
They
had been homeless people, I believe. Two
of them, although with the spread of meaty chunks of body meat, it might have
been three. I’ve never been sure.
As
it was, it looked as though they’d been ripped apart by nothing less than a
monster. As I threw up a stinging
throat-full of thick bile, I knelt in another pool of liquid.
This was definitely blood, although it had mixed with rainwater to form a
thin, orangey fluid.
I
fled that alley, running like I never had before and never have since.
I do not remember covering the distance to my parents’ home.
I do not remember their reaction as I burst through the door, covered in
blood and filth and Gaia-knows-what.
All
I remember is the feeling of unease in my chest.
Right next my heart, in it, around it, was a constricting feeling I’d
never felt before. Anger, beating
in rhythm with the blood in my body, getting stronger and stronger and stronger.
That
was my First Change. That was the
night Rage was born into my soul. That
was the night I learned what it was to be a werewolf.
*
*
*
Since
then, my life has been blessed with several achievements that are very dear to
me indeed. Firstly are a collection
of certificates charting my success in musical competitions, some of even
national level. At present, those
are scrunched up in a scrunched up folder somewhere in my scrunched up rucksack.
I have the Tear of Twilight, my great-great-Grandfather’s most
treasured possession: a Bloodstone. On
a near-unbreakable silver neck chain almost as thin as the strand of a
spider-web, the crimson ruby pendant hangs on my chest.
No bigger than a cat’s eye, the ruby gem swirls with an austere light
when evoked.
As
my fingertips reach up to gently stroke across the flawless surface of the small
ruby, I recall with a shiver how close to death I came on the quest to retrieve
this jewel.
Wait,
I think this deserves a little explanation.
My
Rite of Passage. I was twenty-one. This was only a year ago, although at times, it feels like a
decade has passed, and other times it feels as though it was no more than a week
ago. No Garou ever forgets their
Rite of Passage, but mine was extremely memorable. Not merely for my achievements, but for the bane claw that
nearly stole my face. On my left
cheek, from my ear to the corner of my lips, I bear the mark of that bane’s
talon. At the time, I thought the
bleeding would never stop, as redness ran in rivulets down my chin and neck.
It healed, certainly, but it aches every time I look in the mirror.
I had been blessed with the looks of my great-great-Grandfather, who was
nothing less than beautiful in the eyes of both men and women.
While I’m assured by many in members of my Caern and my colleagues in
the orchestra that the thin scar isn’t as disfiguring as I make out, it is
still galling to lose a portion of one’s handsome looks in the swipe of some
fucking monster’s claw.
Still, I kept my face, which is lucky considering the shape I was in when
I finally locked claws with that spirit of suffering.
In truth, I was lucky to even survive.
I
was so close to my goal at that point, after finally having arrived at the site
where Fights-the-Final-Winter had fallen. And
then, that damned bane launched at me from behind a screen of rocks and
undergrowth…
*
*
*
I
threw myself to the right, experiencing a second of disorientation before I hit
the ground in a wounded heap. As
the poisoned wound in my shoulder flared in protest at my movement, I expelled a
hissing rush of breath. The
footsteps of the bane were all around me, and I thought I would be dead before I
could even regain my balance.
It
wasn’t fair. I had starved myself
for days on this endless search through the Umbra.
I’d fought through corpulent banes that were fat on human suffering,
and past the haunting corpse-birds that guarded a certain gateway that I’d had
to use. I was cut from a hundred or
more little claw wounds. My white
fur was matted with dirt and red wound-stripes, and in my human form, my skin
was no better. I hadn’t quenched
my thirst in over a day. I hadn’t
eaten in four. And still, through
all of this, through every raking slice in my skin and every ache in my pained
claws as I tore through another foul creature, I had been urged on by the spirit
of the finest Garou ever to hold my family name.
When
I first saw the sprit of my ancestor, Heinrich Fights-the-Final-Winter, I’d
been stunned. While he appeared as
a man in his mid-thirties, very much in his physical prime and impressively
scarred with the markings of a thousand battles, it was still eerily like
looking in a mirror. I’d heard it
before, how I was the very image of my great-great-Grandfather, how the
resemblance was both uncanny and auspicious, but to be honest, I’d never given
it much thought. We are Silver
Fangs, for fuck’s sake. We *all*
look like each other in certain light.
Joking
aside, I was taken aback at the resemblance.
As, in fact, was he. Fights-the-Final-Winter
offered me much in our meetings: from speaking to me of my ancestry and our
family heritage, to the very intricacies of the Umbral journeys that he’d
ventured upon when he’d made his name.
In
these tales, of course, was the story of how he’d finally fallen under the
talons of the Black Spiral Dancers. As
his face twisted with bitterness, I could see the ghost of his once-mighty Rage
flickering like hollow fire in his eyes. Even
centuries dead, I feared this man. I
loved him, but I feared him.
Naturally,
talk of my own Rite of Passage came up in our many conversations.
It took very little negotiation to arrange with my Caern’s elders, that
I desired to venture into the Near Umbra and recover the lost Blood Jewel amulet
of Fights-the-Final-Winter. They
agreed with a mixture of admiration and pity, for it was assumed that I’d fall
long before completing such a noble and difficult quest.
I was expected to fail.
As
it seemed I had. After all my work,
my effort, my burning aching muscles and the pain of so many wounds that refused
to heal or even scab over – after all that, I had still failed.
As I lay prone, panting, exhausted and beaten, I reflected for a moment
that it wasn’t such a bad place to die. After
all, Heinrich himself had died here. I’d done spectacularly to even make it this far.
The
footsteps of the foul-scented creature skittered closer.
I could feel the poisoned wind of its breath on the back of my neck, and
as I brought my hands over my head in what was to be my final moments, I saw the
dimmest glint of a red crystal in the mud.
A
few feet away, almost within my reach.
I
threw out my hand for my prize, and my soul suddenly caught fire.
I
had lost the wolf within some hours before, when I’d burned my Rage like a
fuse, relying on my inner fury to keep me alive and on my feet for many hours
past human endurance. And now, in a
quicksilver rush of anger through my veins, I felt it return with a vengeance.
In
a flurry of pounding heartbeats, the bane dissolved as my claws rose and fell in
relentless rhythm. Black blood
spurted from every wound, and made the air taste foul in my lungs. And through it all, clutched in one huge Crinos fist, was the
Tear of Twilight, the Blood Jewel amulet of my beloved ancestor.
In
a great spasm, the fading creature lashed out with a fearsomely barbed talon. I believe it was already dead when it tore a strip from my
face, but its death throes allowed it some small revenge against its killer.
I roared in anger and pain, but the bane was lifeless and there was
nothing more to unleash my Rage upon. I
threw back my head and howled at the Umbra sky.
Blood ran freely down my cheek and neck as I roared, and the wound pulsed
with the hint of poison.
Damned
bane.
I
left the hidden, distant pocket realm where my great-great-Grandfather had died,
and ran as a wolf through the Umbra, sprinting through the spirit world,
bleeding and howling and roaring alongside Fights-the-Final-Winter himself, also
in lupus form.
I
burst into the Heart of the Caern, crashing to the cool, moist earth before
several surprised elders. In my
fists, clutched to my heart, was the bright red gem, glowing with a fierceness
that matched my pride.
*
*
*
Now, as I stand here, breathing in the cool night air of an English
autumn, I recall how the heady rush of my Rite of Passage faded very quickly.
In my previous caern in Germany, a year of pulling guard duty in the Bawn
wore away at my patience. Don’t
misunderstand me, I’m not some frothing Ahroun who drools at the very idea of
going out and hunting glory down just for the kicks.
Far from it. I know my duty
and I live up to what is required of me as best I’m able.
Hell, I know full well that none of us can afford to shirk our duty to
the Mother just because we might, for example, rather be playing the piano
instead of tearing through evil spirits and risking our lives every day.
But still, a year of guard duty, every few days and nights, patrolling
the territory of our caern…well, you can see how boredom set in.
Mostly, it was the fact that I felt so useless.
Patrolling a strong caern’s borders is not the same as actively hunting
and fighting back the Wyrm. There
were a few Kin girls I’d set my eyes on, and received more than encouraging
glances in return – my noble lineage and my hugely successful Rite of Passage
were well known facts in the Garou and Kinfolk community – but I knew from the
start that I was being “saved for marriage”, in the exact words of the
council of elders.
Now, in all truth, I’d never really given it any real thought.
You have to understand that when one of the lovelier Kinfolk girls would
glance at me, a Cliath well spoken of and known as a promising prospect, I
imagined that my arranged marriage would be to one of them.
Never had I considered that I’d be joined to a Kin girl in another
Caern, let alone country, purely to cement a political alliance between two
territories.
I found out last night.
I
was only moments off-stage, after a performance with the Stuttgart City
Orchestra, when I was called to the caern.
The message bearer, one of my cousins a few times removed, clearly knew
something I didn’t, and because I knew I wasn’t due for guard duty that
night, I began to worry. I skipped
the shower I’d usually take after playing for three hours in front of several
hundred people, and walked to the outskirts of the city, before letting my wolf
strides eat up the rest of the distance.
By my best guess, as I look at the way the moon hangs low in the
brightening sky, it can only have been a few hours since I left Germany. Yet, here I am, standing on English soil, carrying my most
treasured possessions, ready to embark on the most unexpected twist in the path
of my life.
I was told nothing of the girl I am to marry.
I can only assume she is even English.
I know not her age, or her family bloodline, or even her name.
The only thing I can be certain of is that she will be of impeccable
blood, for such arranged marriages are designed specifically with this in mind.
It’s a fairly common deal amongst my tribe, and helps keep the blood
pure, as the children of such unions inherent the qualities of both parents.
I look for a long moment at the stars dotting the deep blue of the
dawning heaven, and shoulder my rucksack once more.
Figures approach – the Garou of the caern I have arrived in, no doubt.
As I straighten my back and prepare to meet them, I feel the corner of my
hardback Crime and Punishment digging into my spine.
I’d packed the rucksack in a hurry.
“I
am Stefan Hein, Cliath Half-Moon of the Silver Fangs.
I seek two nights’ sanctuary before I travel onward.”
England.
Oh,
great.
*
*
*
Character
Notes
The
Tear of Twilight
Blood
Jewel
Level
Two, Gnosis 6
The Jewel takes the form of a ruby, soaked in the blood of a felled
opponent, set in gold; usually the fetish appears as a brooch, though it works
perfectly well as a necklace or a bracelet.
Once activated, any opponent the wearer faces in combat will find it
highly difficult to take his eyes off the Jewel, suffering a +2 Difficulty to
all strike and dodge rolls as a result.
In addition, the spirit of Rage within the ruby pushes the opponent to
further and further distraction. Every
round, the opponent must make a Rage roll.
The Difficulty begins at 8, but drops one for every round afterwards to a
minimum of 4. (If the opponent does
not possess Rage, none of this occurs.)
The
Tear of Twilight is an ancient fetish of the Hein bloodline of Silver Fangs.
It was made by the Theurge Franz Fragments-of-Falcon’s-Claws Hein in
the winter of 1199, when he bathed a ruby in the still-hot blood of a crazed and
utterly Wyrm-tainted magician.
Passed down the family line since Franz passed away from old age in the
mid-1200’s, the Blood Jewel only comes to family members who have gone through
the Change. If a generation lacks a
Garou amongst their number, then it is guarded, and never worn or used, by an
elected Kinfolk guardian.
The Blood Jewel’s most renowned wearer was the mighty Ahroun
Fights-the-Final-Winter, who carried the Tear of Twilight after his Change in
the late 1700’s. A respected
warrior and cunning fighter, Heinrich Fights-the-Final-Winter delighted in never
wearing or carrying any other fetish, glorying in his ability to overcome his
foes with his Gaia-given fangs and claws. His
favoured tactic was to storm through his opponents with quick killing blows as
they remained distracted by the Rage-spirit within the Jewel.
Since his death, the Tear of Twilight remained lost in the Umbra, laying
in the very spot of its owner’s death, until it was found in an exceptional
Rite of Passage by the cub, Stefan Hein, who tracked the mystical Jewel with the
aid of his great-great-Grandfather’s spirit.
*
*
*
Ancestor
Ally (1 point Merit)
The Ancestor-spirit of Heinrich Fights-the-Final-Winter, by far the most
renowned and accomplished Ahroun of the Hein family line, has taken a personal
interest in his great-great-Grandson’s life.
It was he who guided Stefan to find the Tear of Twilight, for he believed
his Philodox descendant, while of a different Auspice, worthy of carrying the
fetish. As a warrior of incredible
skill and a learned Garou of Elder rank, Heinrich has aided Stefan several times
in the past, adding his abilities to those of his descendant in a variety of
situations.
He has an insatiable hatred for the Black Spiral Dancers, for he died
under their claws while vastly outnumbered and as the sole surviving member of
his pack.
Appearance:
Stefan is a handsome, relatively well-built young man of European
descent. He has broad shoulders,
but is far from hulking or overbearing, and tends towards the more slender side
of muscular. He is of average
height, at around 6 feet, and weighs 190lbs.
His eyes are a bright and unsettling shade of blue, resembling the clear,
chill waters of Germany’s lakes in winter.
His hair, as a mark of his pure blood, is unusually blond to the point of
appearing white. Previously, it was
in chin-length dreadlocks, and had been since before his Rite of Passage.
Rather than washing these, he used scented powder to keep them clean.
Recently, he cut his own hair, and the slightly scruffy result is usually
kept slicked loosely back.
In most situations, Stefan dresses in (usually) clean jeans and owns a
wardrobe of loose shirts. He has
two pairs of sturdy hiking boots which he is fond of wearing over any other
footwear.
Around
his neck, on a thin silver chain, is the small ruby Blood Jewel, the Tear of
Twilight. He usually wears it
exposed, on top of his shirt.
Heart
Songs
“Great
Lady of the greatest isle,
Whose
light like Phoebus’ lamp throughout
The
world doth shine.”
-
Spenser, ‘The Faerie Queene’
I
close the door to my room, feeling the quicksilver rush of my blood in every
inch of my body. My eyes ache in a
chillingly familiar way that contrasts starkly with the heated rush of
adrenaline through my heart and hands, and some seconds after the door has
clicked closed, I walk haltingly to the strange bed that I will eventually call
my own.
I have not slept in it, yet. For
the last two nights, Father Wimbish has had that honour. Now, as my heartbeat slows to a sullen thunder in my ears, I
sit on the mattress, breathing deeply.
I need to sleep, but I fear the return of the nightmares.
The irony of my situation is not lost on me.
In truth, I wish to sleep because I fear remaining awake.
Claws Cause had scared me. She
had scared me in a way no-one had since Lord Brimble and Milos were readying to
fight over the death of the boy’s sister.
For a moment, a heartbeat – no longer – I wonder if Milos is with her
now. Are they together in Gaia’s grace? They deserve to be…
The fingers of my left hand twitch suddenly of their own volition.
No,
please.
Fight this. Fight it.
I regain my feet, and the weakness in my knees powers a surge of sickness
to my stomach. I can’t throw up. Not
here.
I blink, and the room seems suddenly larger, ominously pressing down all
around me. No, I’m just on my
hands and knees. I feel my breath
coming into my lungs in quiet, shallow gasps.
It almost sounds like I’m whispering to myself – this pathetic
wheezing. As my visions swims into
focus once more, I see both my hands shivering on the wood of the floor,
trembling as my arms support my weight. There’s
no fighting it now.
Seizure coming.
A violent one.
The only sound I hear is the cacophonous roaring of my heart, pumping hot
blood through my body in deceptively slow drumbeats.
My hearing is wracked with hissing white noise and the sounds of
screaming humans and dying animals. Although
I know full well I am on my hands and knees, on the floor of a house at a Caern,
all I can see is the blackness of the Bane Pit where I found Milos.
I turn my head – he is here somewhere…he must be…
Darkness.
*
Darkness signals the passing of time.
I awaken to the tick-tock-tick of the wall clock recording the turn of
the world. I was unconscious for
only a few minutes. This time,
unlike last night, I did not dream. Through
churning senses and an aching skull, I rest myself back against the foot of the
bed. Blood of the Earth Mother,
there is something wrong with me. I
have been away from my home Caern for less than a month, and already doubt and
fear has taken root within my heart. Is
it merely my perceptions of certain events, or are they the truths I should
seek? The Silver Fangs are not
well-loved. I was always told this
was because the other Tribes were jealous of our station, but…
Another tremor runs through my fingertips, and I clench my pale hands
into fists. I hate my traitorous,
scarred body. I hate it.
What kind of warrior can live in a body that barely obeys him?
These fucking seizures. I
have had them ever since my Rite of Passage, when that bane took part of my face
and damaged my skull.
The shivering in my hands subsides, like a wave broken on the rocks.
I exhale a sour breath, swallowing the lump that had built up in my
throat.
This is all wrong, I am sure. The
other Tribes do not resent us because they harbour jealousy.
If only it were that simple. Their
resentment is born of a loss of faith. What
is there left to believe in, when the Silver Fangs themselves present aloof,
condescending attitudes and never prove why they are worthy of
leadership?
We
are leaders who stand at the head of an army who have long forgotten why they
follow us. We preen and pose and
speak of the past, while the future dies in the heat of the Wyrm’s Eye.
This must change.
This will change.
I knew this after the death of Arnod.
I knew this after the death of Milos.
I am not the man to restore the Silver Fangs to the lost days of grandeur
and eminence, but in avenging the deaths of Milos and Arnod, I will show those
who stand by me that the Silver Fangs are not all vainglorious and ineffectual.
We can each make a difference.
This will be mine.
The Eye of the Wyrm is open, and the Silver Fangs must rouse to action
before it is too late. The Tribes
must be united before the End, one way or the other.
If we…
My hands, resting in my lap, begin to shudder once more. Another seizure coming.
Another big one. Almost in
musical mockery, the scar on my cheek begins to sting with a pulsing that feels
no less painful than when the wound was inflicted.
No, the irony of my situation is certainly not lost on me.
For all my grand ideals and dedication, I still sit here on this wooden
floor, teeth gritted, shuddering my way through another spasm, drifting into
unconsciousness and dreams.
Fucking Bane…
*
Rain trickles down the stone skin of the angels.
Their skin is grey, and the cracks of wetness that split their faces are
a silvery-white. Once, perhaps,
these angels were polished marble, gleaming in the sunlight.
Now, they stand humbled, greyed and filthy, as the rain makes them cry
bright tears. The flared wings and
beauteous faces present an ironic majesty, for only a fallen angel could appear
so dirtied.
Some of the assembled host display stains of black, where the kiss of
fire has left bruises of charred stone. They
are the sentinels that watch over a small church.
Like
the church itself, the angelic guardians are tainted by the passing of time. Where lines of age crack the faces of the living, these
unliving statues are marked by weathering, erosion and the death of the church
they were erected to defend. The
angelic guardians have ever every reason to weep tears of rain, for they have
failed beyond measure. The church
was burned out years ago, and the holy defenders were found lacking.
And then, I turn away from the church.
I see her now.
She stands there, her head slightly tilted to one side as she regards the
church, chestnut brown hair framing her face.
Her legs are bare as they were last night, slender and smooth.
In the dirty T-shirt, plastered to her skin with rainwater, she does not
look so young. The material clings
to the shape of her curving, rounded breasts, and the tight material betrays the
hardened nipple bumps underneath.
I take a step closer. I wish
to approach her, to tell her how I enjoy her company, and how she makes me feel.
How I wish my elders had chosen her instead of the Italian bitch in
Dover. I say nothing, though.
I just look at her, and think of her, and say nothing at all.
The dream fades into a hazy recollection of the events of the previous
evening. I remember as she climbed into the boat, one slim leg sliding
over the side, then the other. Her
pussy fur was unshaven, and I remember the dark, downy hair between her legs,
glistening with droplets of silver seawater.
Climbing into the boat, she arched her back, like some kind of
rain-soaked panther, revealing…
*
I open my eyes.
It is nightfall. The sounds
of the evening carry through my open window.
Soon we must travel for the Blooding of the two pups.
After that, I must speak with Lady Nikki about leaving the Caern on my
quest for the lost klaive of House Conquering Claw.
I had considered taking Laura, for such a journey would no doubt help her
acquire more of the practical skills required for a Head Theurge.
If she…
Gaia’s
Blood.
My
dream comes back to me in a haunting rush, and the room is silent as my breath
catches in my throat.
Laura…
'The Umbral Step'
The Letters
Lady
Rosanna,
I am well aware that a
letter from my pen is the last thing you wish to have grace your eyes, and yet I
am compelled to write to you.
In truth, I know I have much to say, and little time to say it, let alone
that I lacked the words to speak when we first met.
My non-confrontational nature has often led me into moments of silence
and stillness when boldness and action was required.
I make no apologies for this, my lady, for it is my nature and the core
of who I am.
It is duty that bade me
travel to meet you, as well you know.
It is not my place, and neither is it yours, to question the wishes and
plans of our elders and betters.
While their desires may not follow our own hearts’ paths, it is our
duty to obey with all honour.
Despite my personal
grievances with this…arrangement…I am willing to fulfil the promise to our
elders. I
find myself lost, however, staring into both sides of fate’s coin.
I am promised to a woman of grace and beauty – a woman of incredible
importance, wealth almost beyond measure, and linked to a most noble and worthy
bloodline. To
say that such a marriage is both an honour and a pleasure is an understatement
of epic scale. It
is the kind of marriage any Silver Fang would die for.
And yet, despite your
impressions of me, I am not a fool.
I know full well that as the current scion of my noble lineage, I am
offered to you as a way of cementing an alliance between Caerns and Houses.
My honour, let alone my pleasure, at such a betrothal is of no
consequence at all.
As I said, I am not a fool.
I know I am a pawn in the games of our elders.
As are you, Rosanna.
As are you.
It is my personal belief
that I do not deserve a bride of your qualities or breeding.
My own bloodline has no shortage of heroes, and I carry the Hein name as
best I am able, but I am under no delusions as to my own worth.
I am the descendent of a great hero, true, but I am the descendant of a
hero in an entire tribe of heroes.
I do not see myself worthy of your hand in marriage, let alone your love.
In fact, I ask for neither.
The former, I am duty-bound to accept.
The latter, I doubt I will ever know.
So be it.
My…rash…decision to
take you from your accommodations at the Sept of the Falcon has not met well
with your guardians, as you must know.
I realise that in my somewhat headstrong attempts to spend time with you,
I have disgraced myself in their eyes.
In this, I offer apology.
My
honour as a Silver Fang would not allow me to speak ill of another Garou, let
alone another of the First Tribe, but suffice to say that I was less than
impressed with that which I beheld at the Sept of the Falcon, and I doubt I will
relish any return visits.
I imagine you have been told of Lord Jean-Paul’s refusing my re-entry.
This came as no surprise.
I was told to await contact in regards to my marriage, and I shall do so.
However, I have pressing
business elsewhere, and I may be too distant to contact with ease.
Of course, this business is forced into a short delay, until the
defending of the Caern of the Lost Pups, and my plans to return to the Sept of
the Falcon and investigate the death of my travelling companion.
I will not bore you with the details unless you wish them to be told.
Either way, I doubt I will be granted time to spend in your presence
while I am in Dover, and I acknowledge that this likely pleases you a great
deal.
This letter is in your
hands for two reasons, my lady, for I would ask your advice on separate matters.
Firstly,
I have the opportunity to challenge Lord De Grace over a matter of personal
honour. While
that act would involve suicide of unsurpassed quickness, I find that I cannot
let his…behaviour…pass without some attempt at retribution.
I intend to speak with him in private, to see if reconciliation is
possible. If
not, I shall resort to a formal challenge.
I
realise this will mean my death, and that does not sit well within my mind.
“A Silver Fang lives and dies by his honour”, so we are told.
An ancient phrase, and sexist by today’s standards, but still one of
the many creeds we must live up to.
Of
course, my death by challenge would negate our betrothal, and this places me in
a dilemma of honour.
I cannot go willingly to an expected death because it violates my duty to
father a son with you.
Therefore, I intend to offer an honourable compromise to De Grace, asking
for a year and a day before we meet in challenge.
This will give me both the time to fulfil my marital obligations and
attain rank enough for the challenge to be legal by Garou law.
I
ask you, my lady, if you accept my decision?
Your agreement in this matter is of incredible import, for if you have no
wish for me to challenge Lord De Grace, then I must accept your desire and not
do so.
Secondly,
I ask you for the chance to do you a service.
I am far beyond the desire to ‘’prove’ myself to you.
I am not some love-struck schoolboy.
However, I realise your station and I wish to honour you as best I may.
You asked for a betrothal gift, and I did indeed have one prepared.
However, I have something in mind that I believe is infinitely more
fitting.
As
I collected my thoughts upon your status and bloodline, I have considered an
Umbral quest to locate and speak with the patron spirit of House Conquering
Claw. It
is my intention, once I am in its presence, to find out if there are any lost
fetishes that belonged to your closest Garou ancestors, even if they date back
many hundreds of years.
If the patron spirit of the House knows of any of them, then I shall
locate as many as I am able, or die in the attempt.
I shall also research into the lore of House Conquering Claw, seeking any
rumour or fact regarding such heirlooms.
Your
pride in your bloodline was a strength that I much admired, and I would be
honoured to trace any lost artefacts that relate to your lineage’s past.
As Kin to the Silver Fangs, I know you will realise the value of my
offer. I
possess the Blood Jewel of my most renowned ancestor, and well do I know the
value of a treasured family heirloom.
“A
loveless marriage is a cold comfort”, so James Dillinger wrote.
I hope, with my offer, that you might find some worth in the betrothal.
If you yourself have any legendry or knowledge regarding your
bloodline’s lost treasures, then I swear on my soul I shall do my utmost to
find them for you.
I
await your reply, my lady.
Yours,
Stefan
Hein,
Bearer
of the Tear of Twilight
Half-Moon
of the Hein Family of House Gleaming Eye
'Autumn Symbol'
Dear Stefan Hein,
I write
these words in response to the humour of your last letter. I must admit that the
unfortunate arrangement that I myself have been forced into is both offensive
and obtrusive. The pressure for me to sire a litter of brats for a failing
family is at best belittling toward me. I would sooner be attached to a sodden
Fianna bar keep.
However I am too honour bound, nay, forced, by my
half-witted elders to continue with this marital charade. However if you would
like something more than a cold marriage, then I suggest you start behaving and
looking like the notable fang I am told you are. A haircut would help for
starters, regal bearing, courtesan skills and some repute to woo a lady of my
standing. I at least want to marry a Garou of some respect, rather than a
nobody.
Yes, a shower of Fetishes would please me; maybe I
could use them to buy some sanity for the Silver Fangs here, and the freedom
that I crave. Here I am little more than a prisoner, a proxy to a new
generation. My line was a great one, it generated many fabulous artefacts and
the names of a few items come to mind...
Paulino Et Dexter – A Klaive Gladius
Amphora of Spirits – A spiritual drink that is ever
full.
Feather of Antonius – A Fetish that turns cowards to
heroes.
Julius’ Bane – A sort of Fang Dagger that has since
been taken by the Wyrm.
Claudius’ Papyrus – A lost Fetish whose powers I
never learned of.
I am sure you would be pleased to marry into my line,
who would not? However I would
recommend that you take my wishes into consideration. Maybe we could form
equality within this relationship to the better of both of us. After a child is
born we shall divorce honourably and put an end to this facade.
I could then follow my heart, not my elders’ wishes. You could find a
more suitable companion to wear as a trophy by your side, after all, that is all
I would be.
As for challenging Lord De Grace, it is tantamount to
suicide and dishonourable due to your low social standing. But if you must, I
have nothing to lose or gain from such an action. Nay, maybe some time, until I
am forced into another such arrangement. If you must do something suicidal then
break me out of this confinement, and take me to a Caern where I could be
treated with due respect.
Rosanna Testini
First and only Daughter of Antonio Testini, First of
the House of the Conquering Claw.
'Quest Symbol'
To
the Caern of Lost Pups,
The last seven days have taught me more than all my life lessons
combined. In
honesty, I feel somewhat intoxicated with revelation.
To be raised as a Silver Fang is to be raised with the knowledge of one
overriding truth:
That we are heroes.
We are the alpha tribe, we are the first tribe, and we are the tribe who
are destined to lead the final battle against the Wyrm itself.
The lessons learned from both the Caern of the Lost Pups and the Sept of
the Falcon have struck a poignant chord within my heart.
I was unprepared for life outside the circle of Silver Fang society –
in truth, I was unprepared for life outside my home Caern.
As I said before; lessons have been learned.
It is not enough to simply be of Silver Fang blood.
To demand respect purely because of the blood a man carries is not always
fair. Yes,
I am descended of the finest warriors and seers in the Garou Nation, but I,
Stefan, am no such hero.
My bloodline rightfully earns me respect, for it is noble blood that
beats through my veins.
I deserve respect purely for my family name and my heritage.
Respect, however, is not everything.
I have learned what it is to be offered respect, despite acting
dishonourably. I
have learned what it is to be offered respect, despite failing myself and
others. I
have learned that respect, without honour – without truth – is worth
nothing.
To be a Silver Fang means action and result, strife and success, deed and
consequence. It
means glory, honour and wisdom.
I
have shown precious little of any of these, I fear.
I am a Silver Fang Half-Moon, and I must live up to both my tribal
heritage and auspice.
I will travel, and I will work to spread unity between the tribes; unity
that they might all disregard their differences and fall into place under Silver
Fang leadership before it is too late.
I will work to be worthy of my bloodline.
Two
Garou lie fallen because of my actions, one directly, one indirectly.
Both with the inner core of strength and lineage that bespoke of true
potential for greatness.
One was but a cub, and had many failings himself.
However, let it never be said he was not brave when he needed to be, and
had resilience that heroes would envy.
He would have made a fine Garou.
He was a fine Garou, despite the ‘unpolished exterior’.
The other, a Garou of another tribe, was the descendant of a true hero.
Our great-great-grandfathers were packmates, connected by the spiritual
and emotional bonds of unity, dedicated to the honourable name of a heroic and
renowned alliance of Garou.
He himself, fallen due in part to my ill-conceived ideas, carried the
klaive Thunder-Star.
The very fact he wielded such a weapon speaks more highly of his
character than my humble words ever could.
Milos and Arnod.
Both fallen.
Both fallen despite my oaths and promises to merge them as a pack and
fight alongside them.
It is clear to me now.
It is all so clear.
I, not they, have failed.
This is my fault.
I could have saved both of them, and it is this truth that eats at my
soul.
It is the custom amongst those of my tribe to award ourselves with our
deed names. I
have done so, in honour of the two Garou who have died because of my failures.
I ask two things, one of Johnathon Brimble, the other of Father Wimbish.
Lord Brimble, if you could make sure that any communication from the Sept
of the Falcon reaches me, either on my travels or in my new residence, I will be
exceedingly grateful.
Father, I ask you to perform the Gathering for the Departed on the boy.
I realise that it is dishonourable for me to leave before the funeral,
but I cannot, in good conscience, bid farewell to Milos when I had sworn to give
my own life to save his.
I do not deserve to be at his graveside.
More than this, I do not want to be there.
My own failure rests heavily on my shoulders.
You will find my hacked-off dreadlocks by the boy’s body.
Bury these with him, Father.
Lord Brimble, I thank you for your hospitality and the comforts offered
at your Caern. Know
that I will speak highly of you all, and your fine home.
I have shed blood and suffered wounds of my own to defend your Caern, and
I regret none of it.
Should you require my assistance, you know how to reach me.
Call, and Gaia willing, I shall come.
I doubt you would ever truly need my presence again, but I offer it
wholeheartedly.
Please give my best wishes and blessings to Swan.
Please do not distress her by letting her know of my grief at the boy’s
death. He
died for her, and that is a grand deed in itself.
Yours,
Stefan
Sorrowbringer
Bearer
of the Tear of Twilight
Half-Moon of the Hein Family of House Gleaming Eye
'Jean De Grace Family symbol'
To
Stephan Hein, of the House of the Gleaming Eye,
I
regret to have to resort to this type of communication, however the Silent
Striders could not be trusted with matters of this magnitude. I write to inform
of the conditions of your marriage.
The
Lady, Rosanna Testini, of the Conquering Claw is to remain here until the Garou
Wedding which will be a rite performed in the traditional Conquering Claw
fashion, at the Lady’s request. The scheduled time and date is Helio’s
Zenith 1st November (that is 22 days away – ST), and the rite is to
be performed at the Sept of the Falcon. I am wary about having you back at my
home, but the need far outweighs any personal feelings I may have. A similar
wedding will also be arranged for the Human world. The intent of the later is to
legalise your union in both worlds. It will be done quietly in a small church
with a few visitors. This is scheduled for later on in the same day at 4pm by
the Human hour.
Despite
my councillors’ advice, I will not have you here for any longer. So a
‘Honeymoon’ period will be arranged of two weeks to consummate the marriage.
The Lady will travel with my best two honour-bound warriors, as to protect her.
Despite the dangers involved to the Lady, I would only be comfortable with her
remaining at a Caern. Since you have made ‘Lost Pups’ your home, this will
be a suitable location as I may also count on Marques De Grace of the Gleaming
Eye to act as an Honour Guard.
After
this the Lady will be returned to the safety of the Sept of the Falcon. Further
visits from the lady will be limited and with Honour Guards, as and when we can
provide them. This will be for her Lady’s benefit, and also to ensure that you
can perform your honour bound duty.
The
first-born and the first boy, if not the same, will belong to the Sept of the
Falcon, and we will take full responsibility for his education and Instruction.
The Lady will have only contact with him that is deemed good for his mental,
social and physical development. Additional children you may deem to do as you
wish, providing they are well cared for. The Lady will continue to remain under
our care.
I
hope that these arrangements meet with your approval, as there is no room for
their debate.
Lastly
I write to inform you, that now the day is closing I have seen it wise to put a
permanent watch on the lady, for your benefit. My Head Theurge, and Warder of
also advised that a Kin-Fetch be assigned to the lady, as a spiritual protector
and observer. Although the request is unusual for her age, I can see the wisdom
of it, and a gaffling of the tribal totem will watch over her.
Yours
with honour,
Witness
Andrea
Betoise
Penton
of Bradton
'Pregnant Symbol'
Lord
Decese,
I understand and accept
your terms. I
am currently residing at the Caern of the Sea Bird, on the south-west coast of
the Welsh nation of Great Britain.
My dealings here are my own
business, but rest assured they are conducted with all honour.
The Caern is remote and secluded, and intensely difficult for the minions
of the Wyrm to reach, let alone locate.
The lady, I am certain, will be safe here for the honeymoon period you
mentioned.
Time is short, and I have
matters that require my attention.
I thank you for your correspondence.
Enclosed is a private letter for the eyes of Lady Rosanna, which I trust
you will see given to her.
Yours,
Stefan
Sorrowbringer
Cliath
Half-Moon of the Alpha Tribe,
Bearer
of the Tear of Twilight,
Betrothed
of the last scion of House Conquering Claw,
Of
the bloodline of Fights-the-Final-Winter,
Of
the Hein family of House Gleaming Eye
'Sex Symbol'
Lady
Rosanna,
You speak out of turn, and you know it.
Stop this.
It benefits none of us.
If you truly crave freedom, then cease and desist this foolish berating
of your elder’s decisions.
Perhaps then, in time, they will see you as a beacon of maturity and
allow you to live your life as you see fit.
Remember,
Rosanna, it is the will of a living Goddess that you are only Kin, while they
are Garou. Gaia’s
intentions are far above your complaints about being mistreated by the Silver
Fangs at the Sept of the Falcon.
If you would, in all truth, rather be “attached to a sodden Fianna
barkeep”, then I suggest you hold your tongue.
A Lady of your bloodline and grace would be further mistreated for
desiring such a union.
You gravely insult my honour by using such language, although I accept
your words as a part of your dislike of me and our position.
Other Silver Fangs may not be so understanding, and you will lose much in
respect and honour should they discover your desires to be married to a Celtic
alcoholic who works in a pub.
You may detest me, Rosanna.
I no longer care.
My
eyes have opened of late, and while your good opinion is something I would
always enjoy, it is past the time where it would be required.
I will venture into the spirit worlds to attempt to recover one of the
lost treasures of House Conquering Claw, for the honour of your fallen family,
for my own honour, and for the honour of our unborn children.
Not
for you.
My Lady, do not misunderstand me, I know full well you are a diamond in
the rough. You
are a living example of a Princess of the Silver Fangs.
There is much about you a man – any man – will cherish, adore, and
love. You
have made it clear you have no desire for that man to be me.
As you wish, Rosanna.
As you wish.
Yours,
Stefan
Sorrowbringer
Cliath
Half-Moon of the Alpha Tribe,
Bearer
of the Tear of Twilight,
Betrothed
of the last scion of House Conquering Claw,
Of
the bloodline of Fights-the-Final-Winter,
Of
the Hein family of House Gleaming Eye
'The Caern of the Seabird'
Lord
Brimble,
I have arrived, as well you know, at the Caern of the Sea Bird.
It is…intriguing.
While there is so little here, it is a wilderness of undeniable purity.
Honour lies in increasing the strength of this Caern.
Much honour.
I have never before seen the sea.
It is breathtaking, literally.
But I digress.
The reputation of this holy site is in tatters.
I intend to repair it as best I am able.
However, the Caern Leader and her cohorts do not seem thrilled with my
presence. Perhaps
I was ‘too honest’ in admitting to the deaths of Milos and Arnod.
Father Wimbish informs me I may be blaming myself needlessly.
I will not call him a liar, however.
Merely incorrect.
I
am unsure as to my welcome, in truth.
Their shock at my arrival coincided with the rescue of a new pup, and
perhaps their attentions are elsewhere.
Either that, or they have a reason to fear the arrival of a Silver Fang.
I
will look into this, my Lord.
Please allow me to apologise for the untimely departure of Father
Wimbish. There
was an incident here with the training of the new pup that required a Garou with
the good Father’s talents.
I
am given to understand that you are pulling in reinforcements from Colchester
and are engaging in a campaign against the local Bane Pits.
I wish you all the luck of Gaia in these actions.
I must confess that the memories of the one I destroyed personally still
haunts the edges of my dreams.
It was a hostile, unholy place.
I pray that the others fall as swiftly to your might as that one fell to
my claws and to purifying flame.
My Umbral venture to locate one of the lost treasures of House Conquering
Claw is almost upon me.
Upon my return, I would like to visit your Caern, if possible, to assist
for a small time in your strife against the filth of the city.
Be well, Lord.
Yours,
Stefan
Sorrowbringer
Cliath
Half-Moon of the Alpha Tribe,
Bearer
of the Tear of Twilight,
Betrothed
of the last scion of House Conquering Claw,
Of
the bloodline of Fights-the-Final-Winter,
Damon Wright
Damons
Diabolical Devices
Take Hollow point bullet.
Fill hollow tip with Hydrofluoric Acid.
Bind Pain Spirit to make into a Bane arrow Talon.
Load Firearm.
Aim for head.
Do horrific dehydrating catalytic reaction to Heaphodant, paralyse Bane or just mere aggravated damage to inside of target per round. Do horrific dehydrating catalytic reaction to Heaphodant, paralyse Bane or just mere aggravated damage to inside of target per round. Do horrific dehydrating catalytic reaction to Heaphodant, paralyse Bane or just mere aggravated damage to inside of target per round.
Atlantis
In my Rite of Passage, set by James Purcell, I was asked to recover the 'Pearls of Atlantis'. When I asked James the specifics he said to ask Ian Henrys who said "I am an Umbral Explorer, I expect you to do the same". So began my quest.
Atlantis is a legendary island in the Atlantic, west of Gibraltar, that sunk beneath the sea during a violent eruption of earthquakes and floods some 9,000 years before Plato wrote about it in his Timaeus and Critias. In a discussion of utopian societies, Plato claims that Egyptian priests told Solon about Atlantis. Plato was not describing a real place any more than his allegory of the cave describes a real cave. The purpose of Atlantis is to express a moral message in a discussion of ideal societies, a favorite theme of his. The fact that nobody in Greece for 9,000 years had mentioned a battle between Athens and Atlantis should serve as a clue that Plato was not talking about a real place or battle. Nevertheless, Plato is often cited as the primary source for the reality of a place on earth called Atlantis. Here is what the Egyptian priest allegedly told Solon:
Many great and wonderful deeds are recorded of your state in our histories. But one of them exceeds all the rest in greatness and valour. For these histories tell of a mighty power which unprovoked made an expedition against the whole of Europe and Asia, and to which your city put an end. This power came forth out of the Atlantic Ocean, for in those days the Atlantic was navigable; and there was an island situated in front of the straits which are by you called the Pillars of Heracles; the island was larger than Libya and Asia put together, and was the way to other islands, and from these you might pass to the whole of the opposite continent which surrounded the true ocean; for this sea which is within the Straits of Heracles is only a harbour, having a narrow entrance, but that other is a real sea, and the surrounding land may be most truly called a boundless continent.
Now in this island of Atlantis there was a great and wonderful empire which had rule over the whole island and several others, and over parts of the continent, and, furthermore, the men of Atlantis had subjected the parts of Libya within the columns of Heracles as far as Egypt, and of Europe as far as Tyrrhenia. This vast power, gathered into one, endeavoured to subdue at a blow our country and yours and the whole of the region within the straits; and then, Solon, your country shone forth, in the excellence of her virtue and strength, among all mankind. She was pre-eminent in courage and military skill, and was the leader of the Hellenes. And when the rest fell off from her, being compelled to stand alone, after having undergone the very extremity of danger, she defeated and triumphed over the invaders, and preserved from slavery those who were not yet subjugated, and generously liberated all the rest of us who dwell within the pillars. (Timaeus)
The story is reminiscent of what Athens did against the Persians in the early 5th century BCE, but the battle with Atlantis allegedly took place in the 8th or 9th millennium BCE. It would not take much of an historical scholar to know that Athens in 9,000 BCE was either uninhabited or was occupied by very primitive people. This fact would not have concerned Plato's readers because they would have understood that he was not giving them an historical account of a real city. To assume, as many believers in Atlantis do, that there is a parallel between Homer's Iliad and Odyssey and Plato's Critias and Timaeus is simply absurd. And those who think that just as Schliemann found Troy so too will we someday crack Plato's code and find Atlantis are drawing an analogy where they should be drawing the curtains. Plato's purpose was not to pass on stories, but to create stories to teach moral lessons. What can we expect next from these lost scholars? A search for the grave of Cecrops, the serpent-tailed first king of Athens? The discovery of the true trident of Poseidon?
Different seekers have located the mythical place in the mid-Atlantic, Cuba, the Andes, and dozens of other places. Some have equated ancient Thera with Atlantis. Thera is a volcanic Greek island in the Aegean Sea that was devastated by a volcanic eruption in 1625 BCE. Until then it had been associated with the Minoan civilization on Crete.
To many, however, Atlantis is not just a lost continent. It is a lost world. The Atlanteans were extraterrestrials who destroyed themselves with nuclear bombs or some other extraordinarily powerful device. Atlantis was a place of advanced civilization and technology. Lewis Spence, a Scottish mythologist who used "inspiration" instead of scientific methods, attributes Cro-Magnon cave paintings in Europe to displaced Atlanteans (Feder, 130). Helena Blavatsky and the theosophists of the late 19th century invented the notion that the Atlanteans had invented airplanes and explosives and grew extraterrestrial wheat. The theosophists also invented Mu, a lost continent in the Pacific Ocean. Psychic healer Edgar Cayce claimed to have had psychic knowledge of Atlantean texts which assisted him in his prophecies and cures. J.Z. Knight claims that Ramtha, the spirit she channels, is from Atlantis.
The serious investigator of the myth of Atlantis must read Ignatius Donnelly's Atlantis: the Antediluvian World (1882). In the spirit of von Däniken, Velikovsky and Sitchin, Donnelly assumes that Plato's myth is true history. Much of the popularity of the myth of Atlantis, however, must go to popular writers such J.V. Luce (The End of Atlantis, 1970) and Charles Berlitz, the man who popularized the Bermuda Triangle and the discovery of Noah's Ark. His Doomsday, 1999 A.D. (1981) comes complete with maps of Atlantis and drawings by J. Manson Valentine. Graham Hancock is doing much to keep alive this tradition of "alternative" and "speculative" history and archaeology which seeks a single source for ancient civilizations. Scientists and the BBC don't think too highly of Mr. Hancock's efforts.
Atlantis and the aliens
These "alternative" archaeologists have credited the Atlanteans with teaching the Egyptians and the Meso-Americans how to build pyramids and how to write, etc., arguing similarly to von Däniken that ancient civilizations burst on the scene in a variety of different places on earth and have a common source. Atlanteans or aliens, either way the case can be made for a common source for ancient civilizations only if one selectively ignores the gradual and lengthy development of those societies. One must also ignore that the writing of the Egyptians is no clue to the writing of the Mayans, or vice-versa, and that the purpose of their pyramids was quite different. The Meso-Americans rarely buried anyone in their pyramids; they were primarily for religious rituals and sacrifices. The Egyptians used pyramids exclusively for tombs or monuments over tombs. Why would the aliens or Atlanteans not teach the same writing techniques to the two cultures? And why teach step building in Meso-America, a technique not favored by the Egyptians? If you ignore the failures of the early pyramid builders and ignore their obvious development over time, including the development of underground tombs with several chambers, then you might be able to persuade uncritical minds that Giza couldn't have occurred without alien intervention.
Finally, one should wonder, I suppose, if the Atlanteans were such technological geniuses who shared their wisdom with the world, why did Plato depict them as arrogant warmongers?
Unfortunately for the New Age Atlanteans, there is no credible and convincing archaeological or geological evidence for either Atlantis or Mu. That has not stopped hundreds of people from concocting theories to the contrary. To paraphrase Whitehead, the belief in Atlantis, the ancient and great civilization, is another footnote to Plato.
Also for a laugh I looked up the information on Werewolves...
A werewolf is an animal from folklore believed to consume human flesh or blood, which can change from human to wolf and back again. (Wer is an Old English term for man.) While there are no documented cases of any human turning into a wolf and back, there are documented cases of humans who believed they were werewolves. To suffer from such a delusion is known as lycanthropy.
Some have speculated that certain excessively hirsute individuals resemble wolves and that the legend of the werewolf may have a basis in the genetic disorder known as hypertrichosis or in some other endocrine disorder, such as adrenal virilism, basophilic adenoma of the pituitary, masculinizing ovarian tumors, or Stein-Leventhal syndrome. (See the Merck Manual.)
The delusional belief that one has turned into an animal, especially a werewolf. In Europe during the Middle Ages, lycanthropy was commonly believed to occur due to witchcraft or magic. One modern theory is that the rye bread of the poor was often contaminated with the fungus ergot, which caused hallucinations and delusions about werewolves.
Stories of humans turning into animals such as tigers, swans, monkeys, etc., are widespread and seem to occur in all cultures, indicating shared human fears (e.g., fear of the wildest local beast) or desires (e.g., wishing for powers such as great strength or the power of flight), or common brain disorders.
