George's Territory
Bay City, Lowtown
Early Summer
Just before Sundown

It's a little known fact about Wolfs that if you put one down on a featureless plain the territory they claim will come to describe a near perfect circle. There's an inherent sense in their minds that intuitively decides a single distance from a given point. In the wild, of course, their borders are often interrupted by ridges and rivers and other Wolfs' borders. They intuitively understand this as well, but they don't seem to like it much. Those few who study such things have noted that Wolfs will sometimes trade a territory's size and prestige for a more perfect circle.

Some have hypothesized, in fact, that the main reason Wolfs' avoid cities is that the tradeoff between size and circle is too great. A city Wolf has two choices: claim a territory so small that it can be contained inside one yard or lot or park. Or, they live with the fact that their territory is composed of straight lines and right angles. A city Wolf must either debase itself or deny itself. A city Wolf must deny its own nature. Its only choice is what part of its nature it wishes to deny.

George Wolfe (big for a human, small for a Wolf) has made a series of choices and was in the process of living with them. He has chosen the life of a loner. He has chosen to claim and defend a territory both larger than anything he could merit on his own in the wild, and also that was defined by streets and intersections and fences and powerlines. He has chosen to deny the Wolf in order to fulfill it. He was, in some ways, barely a Wolf at all. And he was, in some ways, stronger than the largest Alpha who ever lead a pack.

That evening, in early summer, with the sharp-wet taste of spring fading from the wind and the dull-mist-pavement smell of summer well on the way, George stepped out onto the street (his street) and immediately he breeze carried a single word to him: WOLF. There was a Wolf nearby. Several Wolfs. Usually his talented nose and innate sense could tell right away if his territory was violated or not, but he was, strangely, unsure.

Tracking the scent was easy. North, north, north, and west, to the upper left corner of his territory, bound by the power corridor on one side and the raised highway on the other.

And there, at the corner, standing on the street with their toes touching the curb (his curb), was a group of five. Three males, two females. All very tall and very broad. All with sharp intelligent eyes and brows stamped with rage. All huddled into their heavy jackets (despite the heat) with that distinctive mix of confusion and studied apathy that was a Wolf in the city. And he didn't need to be told, everything from their scent to the way they stood screamed it out: they were a pack.

The largest of them (and he was, even in Wolf terms, large, almost seven feet tall and impossibly wide about the shoulders with arms that bulged and strained the jackets sleeves) stepped from the back right to the edge of the curb.

"Brother, we seek a moot" he said, and his voice contained both respect and disdain. And after a pause. "How much Wolf yet lives within you if this is where you choose to make your home? Have you no desire left for the wide fields and open skies of your birth? This whole place smells of fat human and cave air and dead fish. We do not understand your claim but we respect it. For now."
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:55, Mon 31 May 2021.

George Wolfe (for it was still before sundown) stands tall before these Wolves.  His stringy hair lies too heavy for the breeze, and the warmth has left stains of sweat across his shirt.  It is perhaps with great irony that the shirt portrays the classic motif of a wolf howling at the moon; ironic, as he himself has denied himself the freedom that this pack seems to thrive on.

Keen eyes scan the Pack, and a sharp nose draws in a long breath.  He takes in all the details that might tell him from where these kindred spirits had come.

"Brothers and Sisters, you come to within a hair of my domain and question the heart that beats within my chest?  I assure you, it longs for the hunt as much as any of our kin.  But where you hunt the hare and stag, I seek larger prey; that which does not hunt honestly, nor feasts discriminately.  I know of what you think my life, but it is a life of which I am master.  Can you say the same, Brother?  You come groveling to my doorstep begging for a moot.  Very well, I will hear your words.  I grant you permission to enter my land, but be wary you do not step out of line.  You are but guests in my den."

George begins to lead the Pack through back alleys and under bridges, a foul smell purveying gloom.  Eyes watch from the walls and curbs as the Wolf leads a strange pack deep into his territory, towards a rundown gas station with boarded windows.  "Speak."

---

11:33, Today: George Wolfe rolled 9 using 2d6+1.  Put a Face to a Name (Night).

George recognizes the pack as the core participants of an extreme eco-advocacy group called Stand Together. The group has gotten some press for some successful, high-profile protests. They managed to stop the development of some greenbelt when a member was accidently killed by a bulldozer.

The leader is a man named Rufus Allwell. He has a rough, raw, charismatic charm that sells well on Youtube videos and news clips.

George also knows (although most people don't) that Rufus comes from a long, long line of prominent Wolfs. The line offer some shortcuts to leadership, but the families that tend the line are known to brook none of them. If anything, Rufus had to work twice as hard to prove himself worth of his own pack.

He bristled at George's words, his mouth curling up, showing teeth. "Groveling? Begging? We following the ancient Forms, the Signets of Respect that have guided our people for generations, and you mistake that for subservience? Do you for one moment think we could not tear your skin from your bones in less time than it would take you to insult guests for no reason? Perhaps you are no longer Wolf enough to treat with us. Perhaps you are just another monkey. Screeching and jumping and throwing shit for no more reason than to see what happens."

A pause. He has not yet stepped onto the curb and into George's territory.

"I wish no violence this night. None of us do. But I will not begin a moot with accusations of groveling ringing in my ears. Not from you, not from anyone. Will you recant and welcome us as brothers and sisters of the Blood? Or will we walk away knowing you've forsaken the honour and dignity of House and Clan and Kin?"

OOC: Small retcon, they haven't entered yet, so that last bit of your hasn't happened yet.

It had been so long since George had spoken to another Wolf, let alone followed the ancient rites.  So very long.  Very few respected him enough to include him, nor treat him with dignity and tradition.  His head bows as he lets out a long sigh.

"Brothers, Sisters, I spoke hastily.  Pardon my manners, they do not often go a long way around here.  I welcome you into my lands, blood of my blood.  I offer you sanctuary, as proclaimed in the rites of packs long gone.  I..."  George hesitates, racking his brain for the overly traditional lines that some Wolves prefer to use, lines that were far too impractical for his tastes.  "Please, come in.  If you come to me, there must be great need."

George Wolfe extends a welcoming arm across the curb, at the base of which runs a foul smelling liquid.

Somewhat mollified (but still smelling tense and volatile), Rufus nods and the pack enters. Goerge leads them deep into his domain, to a boarded up derelict gas station. Few eyes came here most night, and those few were crazy enough that none would believe it if they happened to mention a meeting of wolf-people.

The entire pack is clearly uncomfortable with the surroundings. Rufus also seems put out, but is holding it better than they.

"We come, brother," he says, "With a dire warning. And a sliver's hope of surcease. The Matriarch of our Clan, MArlyn Wakes-the-Mountain, has decreed that you, George Wolf, are Apostate. Anathema. Forsaken. She has declared your blood and your skin are no longer your own but belong who whoever takes them. You r territory too, though..." he looks around, disgusted, "I cannot imagine any who would wish to claim it. But your skin would bring honour to many young who have never experienced a Kinhunt."

A pause.

"But," he holds up one massive thick-fingered hand, "It is made known to us that this decree may lie forgotten. If you deliver to us an associate of yours by the name of Omar. It is said this Omar is a creature of the Grymrealms. A Darkling. A Fae. There is much doubt that a Darkling even resides in this world in these days. And even more that you, of all Wolfs, would know one."

Another pause.

"Is this true, brother? Do you keep counsel with a Grymspite? If so, then it will go well for you."

Another sigh.

'Shit, Omar is about the only creature I trust in this godsforsakened city...' thinks George.  On one hand, exile from his kind was a death sentence.  Rufus put it accurately, some snot-nosed whelp would try to test his mettle against an established Wolf, and likely countless more.  On the other, betraying his ally- no, his friend- would be akin to death of the soul.

"As is my right, I wish to know for what reason I am being declared Forsaken?  For generations, I have kept my distance and peace with the Clan; what has changed?"  George's eyes flitter between all the Wolves as he asks this question, to pick up on any unsaid truths.  He refrains from discussing Twiddle until he has a better idea of what's going on.

---

13:31, Today: George Wolfe rolled 10 using 2d6.  Figure Someone Out.

Hold 3 (including the extra from being the same Faction)

"What’s your character’s beef with George?" (In regards to the declaration of exile.)
Hold 2 remaining.

Rufus rumbles deep in his chest. "If you ask Wakes-the-Mountain, or the herd of sycophants that surround her, they will say say because you have lost the Wolf and have betrayed the Blood."

He pauses. Looks around at his pack. They also look uncomfortable. He turns back.

"But if you ask me, Rufus Treesplitter, Rufus Umbral-Walker, Rufus the Slayer of Soorkk the Dire Bear, Alpha Wolf of Deeptalon Sept, I will say that a deal has been made. Someone has threatened land that we occupy, but whose ownership is under some doubt. Someone has threatened to take away what is ours...."

A pause.

He sighs. He makes a disgusted face.

The woman leans forward, "Unless..."

OOC: Rufus has no personal beef with George in particular. He thinks city wolves are somewhere between stupid and foolish, that they rob the Nation of warriors where and when they need them, but he was actually a little impressed with the way Geroge handled himself at the border.

"Politics.  I must say, I always thought you True Wolves"- George makes sure to use this term, which is one used more by Country Wolves- "I always thought you managed to avoid that shit.  It is gladdening to know that we in the city are not the only who struggle with the words and barters and betrayals."

He pauses for a moment, walks to a boarded window with a crack and glances at the sky.  Not too long until the Moon.  Still looking through the crack, he speaks once more to Rufus.  "That you were sent here speaks volumes.  You are respected, by them and by me.  Your blood runs pure.  Allow me to speak honestly with you, in hopes that you see my blood, while not as wild, is still honorable as any Wolf.  I know this Omar.  I know him by many names.  I am indebted to him, for he has been an invaluable resource in all of the bullshit that goes on within city limits.  I would have time to learn what is happening behind the scenes, before I betray one to whom I owe so much.  Just as you would do the same.  Brother to Brother, Blood of my Blood, grant me this request."

---

21:53, Today: George Wolfe rolled 12 using 2d6+2.  Persuade an NPC (rolled with Blood from 'Alpha Dog move').

The woman mutters "Politics," and spits on the ground.

Rufus holds up one hand. "There is wisdom in it. What Alpha would not sacrifice everything, skin, kin, honour, status, for those under one's care. Perhaps Wakes-the-Mountain feels one small city wolf, already half-Apostate by choice, and her own honour, is a small price to pay for so much, for so many. I cannot say."

A pause.

"What I say is that you cannot lead unless you look into the eyes of those who follow. The Nation has decreed Wakes-the-Mountain our Aplha. But I have never bared my throat to her, and in my heart she just another monkey seeking to take more than she can carry."

The pack rumbles and mutters. Wakes-the-Mountain is very popular leader.

He looks up at George. "In truth, we did not come to offer you a bargain. In truth, it is not ours to offer. In truth, we came to take either your skin, or to take this Omar's location from you by tooth and claw. We did not expect..." A growl. "Listen. Brother. I can entreat for you. I will if you wish it. But I fear for the power of my words to prevail over your status. I fear it will not be enough."

A pause.

"But there is a possible solution. You could join us. Join the Deeptalons. We are few but we are mighty and they sing of our exploits in front of a hundred fires. As one of us, we might find a way to speak you name to the Matriarch in a way that makes hear the wolf inside her once again."

At the mention of possibly joining a Pack, even one as famous as the Deeptalons, George narrows his eyes and stands tall.  His height is nothing to be scoffed at.  His voice deepens with the gravity of the discussion, "You know that life is not for me.   I have gotten to where I am by carving my own path, tooth and nail and oh so much blood.  I will not give up my position, my territory, my status, to be subservient to another.  You have acted honorably here, and I wish you no ill-will.  I cannot join you, but I would be proud to provide assistance when called upon."

That is," he lets out a little fatalistic chuckle, "assuming I survive long enough.  I will handle this from here.  Go tell the Matriarch that I have requested time for this command.  With any luck, she will listen.  With any luck, I can save my own hide."  George glances through the crack once more to the sky.  The moon will be here soon.

---

OOC: Is tonight one of the three days involving a full moon, or another moon?  Is it waxing or waning?

Rufus snarls a little at George's refusal, but not at George. He stands a moment and looks at the sky. His nostrils flare as he scents the air. He looks back at George.

"This place may separate you from the Earth Mother, but it cannot protect you from her. There's a storm coming. For you, for this Omar. For everyone who lurks in this loathsome place."

He looks back to his pack. They are fidgety and anxious to be away.

Rufus snarls again and turns back. "Farewell, Brother. I one pray I need never face you across the field of battle. For I will kill you. But I will sing your death for many days."

And with that they vanish into the night.

Leaving George alone.

OOC: You can tell me what the moon is doing. Your choice completely.

George does not turn for any of this, his back facing the Pack and his eyes locked on the sky.  He nods in acknowledgement at the warnings, but does not turn.  The moon was bright, and he could not look away.  'One last night before the moon is full.  One last night before three nights of hell rain down upon this territory and all the wrongdoers within.  I should make the most of it.'

Standing and staring at the moon, his busy mind slowly starts to slow down.  He takes all of the worries and buries them deep.  Being afraid would do nothing for him.  He focuses on Omar.  Not on finding him, not on betraying him, but on discovering what the Fae had gotten itself into.  With a flourish of his long, ratty coat, George whirls around and begins his search.  He searches for any who might know the man, who might also be Fae.  But most importantly, he searches as a Wolf.

During the turn and the focusing of intention, his form begins to change.  Bones grow and twist and morph.  Teeth sharpen.  Eyes enhance.  His hair grows.  His smell... well, that doesn't actually change.  To any who witnessed, the transformation would look quite painful, but this was not his first nor hundredth such change.  The moon shines bright in the sky, but he keeps his presence of mind (for the most part), managing to tame the beast inside.  He prowls within his boundaries looking for any scents that might lead him towards Omar, but finds nothing.  Well, not quite nothing.  There is something odd...

---

OOC: Given that George would have been patrolling when he smelled the Pack, I'm going to roll for "Comes With the Territory" now.  I'm also rolling "Hitting the Streets", which is what I am currently trying to do.  George is searching for anyone who might have information or deeper knowledge about Twiddles.  If George smells any Fae in his turf, that's his priority.

George's territory is mostly stable, but something supernatural (+haunted) is amiss.
George failed the second roll.  It would seem that Omar keeps his Fae-ness hidden from those, at least in George's territory.

09:13, Today: George Wolfe rolled 8 using 2d6+2.  Comes with the Territory (Roll+Blood).
09:15, Today: George Wolfe rolled 4 using 2d6+1.  Hitting the Streets (Roll+Wild).