The cavern is dimly lit by a slow-burning taper, smouldering pathetically in the dank shadows. The air, of an earthen mustiness in the narrow confines of the burrow, almost possesses a texture of its own, rich with character and history. It is a fitting place for Malice to live-- an archaic batcave, so to speak. But it does not share the sterile unforgiving darkness of its television counterpart. This little chamber under the ground, hidden away from unwelcome eyes, is beautiful in that it radiates personality from its walls. It smells of Malice. It is the unguarded heart of his being, and that gives it the special warmth that he may lack in person.
Little alcoves dug into the walls mount native artifacts, cloths, beads, paintings of mediocre quality splashed onto their earthen canvasses with ochres and ground coal. The decor is austere, noble, and cultured in its array of amateur art made beautiful by feeling. And everywhere are the weapons. Rifles, pistols, swords, spears, and varied exotic arms line the walls. It is a curious marriage, but each tool of destruction has been immaculately cared for and looked after and set down with such love that they become one with the art. And this is Malice at his soul: the artist of war.
But the ceiling is most captivating, for it has been blackened by wisps of soot drawn in deliberate lines which grow into letters, and from letters to words and sentences. The text sprawls across the vaulted roof down the hall in an awe-inspiring journal. The first entry begins at the entrance. [Translated]
"I am Malice Ardens. That will be my name. It sounds strange, but so be it. It sounds of the wasichu, but I do not look so very different from them anyway. To you who should inherit my treasures, I write this so that you may understand from whence they came. All that you see here is what I am. As it is before me now, it is empty. In time, it may grow to be less so, but now it is empty, as I am empty, and this is how I begin." "Mourns-Ghosts was born to his lupine mother in a private game reserve in the Canadian Algonquin territory. The reserve was built for wolves such as me-- an effort to resupply the wolven blood in Wendigo Kinfolk. The Great Wolves, the wolfchangers, the 'Garou' held this land to defend us from the evils of the wasichu world. It was, I suppose an intelligent idea, and it succeeded for a number of generations. I was the last. Such an establishment cannot avoid the eyes of the Horned Serpent, and Pentex, in its disgusting power, soon laid its bureaucratically sanctified claws on my homeland. They came, and in the name of 'progress,' they overran the protectorate and crushed us under the weight of concrete and glass, smoked us out, shot us, dispersed us. I lost my family then." "I underwent the Change the night of the massacre. I broke one of the Pentex men. He was probably only a pawn and possessed little understanding of his destructive power. It is an excuse as old as history itself. I thought it was strange, to be a cub, looking down at the man, his body twisted backward, his eyes caught in timeless agony. They lie when they say that revenge is a sweet thing. It is not. It is terribly bitter. The pain stays and it sours within you, and the only way to soothe it is to cause someone else pain, to watch them feel the pain. I was a lonely, bitter cub, and I sought revenge." "I missed my family. They called me Mourns-Ghosts after that. I missed them so much that some heard me and began to come to me. I could see the ghosts. As an angalkuq, I was thought to have great promise for this gift, this talent with the ancient souls. Among a people starved of their identity, I represented a memory of our lost grandeur. But I was a fake. It was passion, bitter passion, that fueled my power. I knew that under my ability lay the seeds of darkness, and perhaps others did, too, but we all turned a blind eye, because people see only what they desire to see. I rode my bitterness to its fullest, and using it, I accomplished praiseworthy things. My combination of talents, mostly my fanaticism, earned me a place of respect among the Warpath, and when I became a Fostern, I was attached to a pack of ecoterrorists." "That was work I enjoyed. They needed wolves with wolf talents. Homids cannot do everything. And they needed someone with power over spirits. I needed to satisfy my thirst for revenge. So out of a relationship of mutual need, Mourns-Ghosts became a trained terrorist, a wolf who understood guns and bombs. I fought alongside the Ya'apahe, and took some pride in excelling even among them. I was blind anger and pride, and I shot, slew, and sabotaged for them." "The last of my missions failed disastrously, costing at once all the lives of my packmates. I prefer not to think of it. Some blamed me. It is easy enough to blame the sole survivor, for his crime lies in failing to die honourably. Perhaps I was to blame; I cannot remember. I remember only blood, much blood, and running, the stabbing pain of three bullets in my lung punishing me with every breath. They would have let me continue working for them, but I had had enough. Out of shame and spite, I left. I defied them all in much drama, to the satisfaction of both sides, and I Renounced my vocation as an angalkuq, exiling myself to distant isolation. Eventually, my path ended at the bawn of the 'Wolves' Den.'" "Now I am Malice. I understand that Ardens means 'burning' in one of the ancient tongues. I like that. That is who I am. The fire consumes all, and leaves the body an empty husk. I may die empty still. But to you who will carry my weapons long after I have walked the Path of Souls, I say this: take neither pleasure nor pain in killing. Never feel guilty for doing your duty, but know that it is duty only, and never more."
"Mourns-Ghosts was born to his lupine mother in a private game reserve in the Canadian Algonquin territory. The reserve was built for wolves such as me-- an effort to resupply the wolven blood in Wendigo Kinfolk. The Great Wolves, the wolfchangers, the 'Garou' held this land to defend us from the evils of the wasichu world. It was, I suppose an intelligent idea, and it succeeded for a number of generations. I was the last. Such an establishment cannot avoid the eyes of the Horned Serpent, and Pentex, in its disgusting power, soon laid its bureaucratically sanctified claws on my homeland. They came, and in the name of 'progress,' they overran the protectorate and crushed us under the weight of concrete and glass, smoked us out, shot us, dispersed us. I lost my family then."
"I underwent the Change the night of the massacre. I broke one of the Pentex men. He was probably only a pawn and possessed little understanding of his destructive power. It is an excuse as old as history itself. I thought it was strange, to be a cub, looking down at the man, his body twisted backward, his eyes caught in timeless agony. They lie when they say that revenge is a sweet thing. It is not. It is terribly bitter. The pain stays and it sours within you, and the only way to soothe it is to cause someone else pain, to watch them feel the pain. I was a lonely, bitter cub, and I sought revenge."
"I missed my family. They called me Mourns-Ghosts after that. I missed them so much that some heard me and began to come to me. I could see the ghosts. As an angalkuq, I was thought to have great promise for this gift, this talent with the ancient souls. Among a people starved of their identity, I represented a memory of our lost grandeur. But I was a fake. It was passion, bitter passion, that fueled my power. I knew that under my ability lay the seeds of darkness, and perhaps others did, too, but we all turned a blind eye, because people see only what they desire to see. I rode my bitterness to its fullest, and using it, I accomplished praiseworthy things. My combination of talents, mostly my fanaticism, earned me a place of respect among the Warpath, and when I became a Fostern, I was attached to a pack of ecoterrorists."
"That was work I enjoyed. They needed wolves with wolf talents. Homids cannot do everything. And they needed someone with power over spirits. I needed to satisfy my thirst for revenge. So out of a relationship of mutual need, Mourns-Ghosts became a trained terrorist, a wolf who understood guns and bombs. I fought alongside the Ya'apahe, and took some pride in excelling even among them. I was blind anger and pride, and I shot, slew, and sabotaged for them."
"The last of my missions failed disastrously, costing at once all the lives of my packmates. I prefer not to think of it. Some blamed me. It is easy enough to blame the sole survivor, for his crime lies in failing to die honourably. Perhaps I was to blame; I cannot remember. I remember only blood, much blood, and running, the stabbing pain of three bullets in my lung punishing me with every breath. They would have let me continue working for them, but I had had enough. Out of shame and spite, I left. I defied them all in much drama, to the satisfaction of both sides, and I Renounced my vocation as an angalkuq, exiling myself to distant isolation. Eventually, my path ended at the bawn of the 'Wolves' Den.'"
"Now I am Malice. I understand that Ardens means 'burning' in one of the ancient tongues. I like that. That is who I am. The fire consumes all, and leaves the body an empty husk. I may die empty still. But to you who will carry my weapons long after I have walked the Path of Souls, I say this: take neither pleasure nor pain in killing. Never feel guilty for doing your duty, but know that it is duty only, and never more."
Malice has risen through the ranks slowly, the "hard way," since he joined the company of the wolves of the Den. He was an orphan of the Garou Nation when he appeared in this region, and he suffered for it, never having a mentor of his own. The Wendigo is, in every respect, a self-made man, and it is only through a combination of miraculous luck and a touch of savvy wisdom that he managed to survive beyond his early ranks as a stranger to the Den.
But by the dice of Fate, the determined and dutiful timberwolf survived indeed. Shortly after attaining the rank of Adren, the elder Fianna, Terri Wyrmsbane, admitted him to the Golden Heart Sept, which he served with a passionate ardour. Having spent his former lifetime seeking personal ends, he now devoted himself to his penitence with equal fervour, developing a reputation for a very respectful, efficient, and trustworthy soldier. All the while, though, Malice left his past shrouded in secrecy, and thankfully, no one ever inquired about his background.
The Adren distinguished himself among his septmates such that Terri came to rely on him as a near-sidekick, an apprenticeship he dearly appreciated, now finally receiving the attentions of a teacher who, for the price of his loyalty and effort, rewarded him with her knowledge of Gifts of combat. In these formative years, Malice taught himself a style of fighting that characterized him and gave him his better-known reputation as a guerrilla fighter.
His varied experiences had familiarized him with the tricks of many auspices, and being a survivalist above all else, he realized that versatility was the sole martial art that could turn an otherwise lost battle. He furiously trained himself in as many disciplines as possible, harnessing his connection to his Ancestor-spirits to reveal the trade secrets of such martial mysteries as the Stargazer combat style of Kailindo, for which, as a child of the wind, he possessed some natural affinity. Malice became a "student of war," an expertise which, combined with the self-reliant resourcefulness he had acquired in his exile, made him both an admired tactician and a deadly opponent, one of the few who could repel the likes of the notorious Kayin Dreadslay.
His biography is not so clean-cut as "rags-to-riches," however, and his reputation is far from untarnished.
As an Athro, the Ya'apahe fell in love with a Wendigo girl by the name of Senca Never-more, a Debaudjimoot whom he had taken as an apprentice of his own. Ever the dutiful one, he refused to consummate the relationship, but love, like rage, stems from the same capacity for passion, and his love for her caused an ugly chain of events, leading to several deaths and harano for many others still. His infraction of the Litany haunts him to this day.
Suffering from a rare disease among the lupine wolfchangers, Malice's lifespan is unnaturally short, and he bears the appearance of a man aged well beyond his true years. In reality, the warrior has little concept of time, as wolves never learn to count the passing seasons, so his natural age stays a mystery. But, shamefully, Ardens has defied Grandmother's will, and postpones the inevitable by drinking vampiric vitae to sustain himself. He consulted an allied Gangrel, the late Sonja Blade, to these ends. He now fights a bitter battle with his own Beast, and must cleanse himself regularly, and woe to anyone in his path should he ever succumb to the thirst of blood. His relationship with the said vampire, of course, raised suspicions, provoking many an accusation of betrayal to the the Wyrm, most of which remain permanently held against him. It stabs at his honour, but he pays the price to live.
After the death of his beloved mentor and Alpha, Terri Wyrmsbane Barks-at-Strangers, a controversial debate surrounded the question of the right of succession of the Golden Hearts. Bright-Eyes-of-Pain, although the most legitimate inheritor, declined the leadership, leaving the Khan, the renowned Walks-with-Thunder in the place of deciding the future of the sept. Time passed, and no decision had been reached. Malice grew impatient-- his old demon, the desire to lead, inspired him again. But the Wendigo's intentions, at least, were honest enough; he was determined to resurrect the withering sept, and he remained stalwartly convinced that he could had he the authority. He posed challenges, but they went unanswered. Eventually, in his frustrated impatience brought on by his vampiric blood, Malice launched his declaration of the seizure of the sept--a coup that was staunchly opposed by an Old Guard of traditionalists and Walks himself. Malice was defeated in this contest of wills, not possessing any position of authority of his own in the sept. His place at Terri's side had been purely honourary. The Khan denounced him as a fool, and the Wendigo seethed in silent resentment for some time afterward.
Nevertheless, Malice Ardens held a stature of significance among the Garou of the Den, possessing numerous titles of rank. His major contributions to the Den have been in his political restructuring of intertribal relations, military defense, and the mentoring of countless Cliaths. At heart, he remained a honour-minded Garou, devoted to his Grandmother and to his Litany, and to the service of his people the code of penitence he followed to his end.
"It is so easy to be courageous when one has little to fear. A Cliath who lifts his sword against the Serpent has a hundred fold the courage and honour of any glorious elder." -Malice Ardens to Joie, Siberakh, on the occasion of her first kill
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