Prelude
The birth of a family's first child is supposed to be a joyous occasion. Sometimes however, things go terribly wrong. The first sign that anything was amiss came from how long it took the ultrasound doctor to announce the baby's sex. He was fairly confident that it was a boy.
At delivery, after 18 hours of exhausting labor, the squalling newborn was taking its first breaths. This is when, in the movies, the doctor gleefully would announce "It's a boy!"  Except that he didn't. He wasn't sure.
Statistics are hard to come by, but babies born like this, with ambiguous gender or ambiguous genitalia, while rather rare, occur more often than anyone would suspect. A mother coming down from the 18 most grueling hours of her life and a father who stood by her side through the entire ordeal are in no state of mind to make any kind of tough decision.
As the newborn was given to its mother for the first time to nurse, the doctor was explaining the complication: He wasn't sure of the child's gender. There were signs of both present and it wasn't his place to make the call. Typically, this decision was left up to the family.
The father was born second and pressured to have a son first by countless family members with an old-fashioned sense of patriarchy. Compounding this was his older brother's family that already numbered twin boys as their first and second children. Of course, he wanted a son. He wanted a son more than anything.
The mother was very religious. She had brought her husband into the church she attended while they were still dating and won him over through her efforts. The church was an older, more traditional one and one of the messages it preached was the subservience of wife to husband.
These were the parents faced with deciding forever how their first child would grow up. The doctor had his own suspicions but chose to remain silent and let the new mother and father choose from the two fates available to them. It should be no surprise to anyone that they told the doctor to say the baby was their son. Tradition, thinking errors, exhaustion joined together to seal the fate of Robert Trevor Nicolas, Jr.
The doctor went on to explain how it would take some time, for the baby to develop, how there would be hormones and, most likely, surgeries before all was said and done. This would have been true in either case. The end result would be the son they so desperately wanted.
As little Trevor grew, all did not sit well with him. He didn't like all of the things that the other boys liked. He liked some of them, but also some of the things that the girls liked. He never felt right around the boys. His feelings told him that something was amiss, but experience told him that he was a boy and should act like it.
He was four the first time his father caught him playing with dolls. They were taken away and he was given super hero action figures in their place. Instead of making explosions and capturing the bad guys, his super heroes invited the villains over for lunch to talk things out. Trevor was beaten at seven, when his father caught him playing with one of his mother's dresses. At eight, he told his six year old sister that he was a girl too and made her promise to never tell anyone.
His life continued in much this fashion all through school. Girls were confused by him and boys beat him up, called him a faggot. He took Karate lessons.. He knew something was wrong. He felt different. When he was 14, he came out to his sister. Told her that he was a girl. That they were sisters and that they always had been. Jenny had always called him ‘Trev,’ because she couldn’t say the whole name when she was little. After the talk with Jenny, Trevor decided to change her name to Petra. They sounded similar and she liked the idea of being a rock.
By 16, Petra knew for sure and decided to tell her parents. Her father raged. He was furious. He beat her. Her mother cried. Neither of them understood. They both thought their precious son was gay. Petra was taken to a special prayer group. It was designed to help young men and women who thought they might be gay, lesbian or anything else that was unacceptable to their families, seek the intervention of God to take the unwholesome burden away from them.
For Petra, it was a nightmare. She didn’t need the intervention of God. She didn’t need to stop liking boys. What she needed was for everyone to acknowledge that she was a girl and had been all along. The others in the prayer group seemed to sense her frustration and unwillingness to yield. Notes were sent home to her parents, phone calls were made. As Petra swung dangerously into the realm of depression, her father contemplated having her institutionalized. Her mother begged him to find another way.
In the meanwhile, Petra had been doing research. She found out a lot about transgendered people, and she found an innocuous forum that unlocked even more doors of information. She learned about babies born with ambiguous gender and learned about the things that tend to happen to those children. The rate of suicide was extremely high. She understood why now. The anger welling up within her at the people who forced this life upon her ignited and burned away the doubt and depression she had been feeling.
Her dreams were becoming uncontrollable. They were wild, chaotic and often felt predatory. Petra had never been a particularly meek person, but the primal fury she felt in the dreams almost gave her pause. She felt as though something was coming to a head and knew that she needed to confront her parents once and for all. If they wouldn’t have a daughter. She would leave and make her own way. It wasn’t right for them to force their own view of the world upon her. There were more than two sides, more than just right and wrong and she had to make them understand.
Her sister Jenny was upstairs, doing homework when Petra called her mother and father together in the living room. She wanted to talk. She explained that she wasn’t gay, but she liked boys. This didn’t make her gay because she was a girl. She told them that, when they had decided she was a boy, they were wrong and it was wrong of them to force her to be a boy all of these years. Or, she would have explained all of this. Her father became incensed. How dare he, the son he gave his name to, question his own father? Petra replied that she was not his son.
The father lost control then and started to hit Petra. Before she could even respond to the assault, Jenny burst into the room with tears streaming down her face. Don’t you dare hit my sister! His outrage at Petra checked for a moment, the father wheeled on Jenny. The anger flashed in his eyes and he sent her sprawling to the floor with a vicious backhand and a stunning slur.
Something snapped in Petra’s mind. She had been almost willing to bear the indignities of her father’s beating if it meant standing her ground and making her voice heard. Jenny was an innocent. She had done nothing wrong but love her big sister. It was the last straw. Everything went red.
Petra came to covered in blood. Her mother was gone, fled; vanished into the night. Her father was gone as well, though not so far. Pieces of him were strewn about the room, which was painted floor to ceiling with his blood and worse. Jenny was sitting on the floor, with her sister’s head in her lap, stroking her hair. In a quiet voice she was saying that everything was going to be all right. She helped Petra upstairs to the shower.
While Petra dazedly washed blood away, Jenny was packing a bag. There was a knock at the door. Not the police, not a neighbor, but a stranger. There were four of them actually. Two men, two women, all in their early twenties. Jenny got the door, she wasn’t afraid. One of the women explained that Jenny’s great-aunt Alexa was a sort of a witch who had arranged for a warning to be sent out if something like this happened. Jenny was very fond her her great-aunt and asked them to wait. She was helping her sister to get ready.
Petra was towelling off when Jenny came into the bathroom. Auntie-Alex had sent some folks to get Petra to safety. She needed to stay here and find mother. She would be OK. She loved her big sister. Don’t forget to call and you had better come back for me! They parted with a long hug.


Questions
Who were you before the change?

I was born as a boy named Robert Trevor Nicolas, Jr. Trevor to most. Trev to my sister Jenny. Something about that never did sit right, as you can see from the above story. Eventually, I changed my name to Petra Nicolas. By legal definition, I am a male-to-female transgendered person, but we both know the truth of that. I’m female, always have been and always will be. It’s not my fault that my parents bowed to familial and religious pressure and tried to force me to be something that I wasn’t. The indignities of hormones and surgeries were never enough to make me really a boy. The boys figured this out and they hated me for it.

The lack of acceptance, being forced into a role that I wasn’t meant for and being told that I was the one who was wrong. All of this just fueled the fire lit by the injustice of it all. Some people and their black or white views on the world.

What was your First Change like?

If it hadn’t been for Jenny, I don’t know if I’d still be alive now. She kept me anchored. If not for her, I might not have changed there. My father could very easily have brought it upon himself eventually. His going after Jenny, my innocent sister, is really what pushed me over the edge. It was in the living room, no less. My whole family was there, what an honor.

In all it was really bad, but it could have been a lot worse. I’ve since heard stories of people in similar situations who lost it and tore apart everyone nearby. I think the fact that my rage was directed solely at my father is really quite telling. He was a terrible father. He beat me rather often and I’m pretty sure he hit my mother as well. I don’t know if he ever did anything to Jenny but if he did, I want to find him and kill him all over again. If only.

What have you become?

In short more, so much more; but also myself. Finally. I was born under the light of a First Quarter moon. They say that has played into my more typical serenity and infrequent, but terrible rage. I guess I lucked out. I’m the ‘nice’ kind of Philodox. I would say that it’s ironic to have things turn out this way, but that would be a lie. I’ve been facing down dualities my entire life. Male/Female, Right/Wrong and so on.

I finally feel free, in a way that even coming out to my family as female didn’t accomplish. I feel right. I am myself. I am Garou. It is that simple and that complex.

What do you care about?

I would be lying to say that my childhood didn’t give me an interest in the concept of justice. Everything that happened to me felt so wrong and I wanted to be sure that the right outcomes are brought about. Laws of the land are all well and good, unless they fail or are predicated on failures of logic and reasoning. When that happens is when we step in. Foolish people cannot be allowed to continue ruining everything based purely on their own arrogance.

I care about children, especially ones from apparently complete homes but which are broken from within. This is most often due to terrible fathers, but mothers are capable of being just as awful. This sentiment echoes the feelings of wrongness I experienced as a child in my own home and I want to help people avoid this kind of tragedy.

Equal rights are very important to me. Even among Garou, the idea that some types of people are innately inferior has still not died out completely. I hate to have to struggle with my own people, but if they won’t be right thinking, how can anyone trust them to instill good judgment in the others around them?

Obviously men, and specifically white men, at least in this country, are in the best situation regarding equality. I don’t want to bring them down, but I won’t let them stand in the way of elevating others to the same height. People dubbed ‘minorities’ are my primary concern. Especially the truly vulnerable: Young women, anyone in the LGBTQA community, people from broken homes. All of the tragedy in this country stands to break the hearts of the compassionate. Unlike so many others, I am backed by my real Rage against the patriarchal edifice that brought all of this into being and stands to keep it in place for as long as possible.

What do you want to do?

I know mother is still out there, but I haven’t seen her since I changed. I want to help her. I want to save her from the foolishness of her belief that one part of a relationship needs to rule over the other. Don’t set yourself up to be abused and think that everything is swell.

Ideally? I would end all injustice. Right every wrong that has ever been done by one person to another, or by people to the Earth. This ideal drives me, but I’ve found that a more pragmatic approach tends to generate better results. Must bite off more than I can chew. In the more immediate sense, I want to be sure that there is no lurking inequalities in my own people here, now. The world around needs help too, but I only have so much time. It’s hard to stay involved directly.

The Curse makes it difficult to spend any amount of time around vulnerable people. So instead, I do what I can from afar. I hardly need what little money I have, so I donate to places that I know do good things locally. If someone comes into the picture who thinks that this or that non-profit would better stand to enrich themselves as opposed to helping people in need, I will just step in to take care of that problem. The Curse isn’t all bad.

The Carrot

Here's your chance to earn extra starting Renown, xp, and even Rank. For every story of something Wise, Honorable, or Glorious (substitute Rokea, Mokole, or Ratkin Renown as appropriate) you submit we may grant you up to 1 Permanent Renown and 10xp. Based on quality. Each story should be no more than 2 paragraphs long.

This is completely optional. If you want just a base character then fill out the Five Questions and ignore the Carrot.

1. An innocent is accused of breaking the Litany. I defend them and prove their innocence.
2. Two garou recover a klaive and look to be ready to murder one another over it. I help mediate between them and set a fair challenge.
3. I observe an Adren Galliard of the sept using Call of the Wyrm to arrange a meeting with Wyrm spirits. Something is exchanged. The Galliard catches me spying and beats me almost to death with claws. I am told that he will kill me if I so much as think about telling anyone.
4. Despite the threat against my life, I tell the warder. The Caern totem sickens and, though still injured, I call out the fallen Garou and point out the implement used to poison to totem.
5. The fallen garou escapes. Most of the caern chases after, believing it to be heading to a Hive.
6. The fallen garou returns with a pack of BSDs to attack the caern. The few left, one of whom was tending my wounds, come out to fight. One of the defenders falls. I stand over them and drive off the attacker. The rest of the caern begins returning and the surviving spirals flee. The traitor is among the fallen.