Greetings and welcome to the first story I have published here in some time. The reasons for my absence are the usual ones, let us abbreviate them and refer to them simply as "life." In any case, I'm trying to get back into the story writing flow, and I figured one good way to do that was to try and just write another simple first person narrative short story. I've always found the style quite fun (though never worth the effort of trying to do a novel in) as it allows one to really crawl into the character's head. Of course as a side effect of this I find I prefer putting my readers into the head of someone who perhaps looks at the world through slightly odd-shaped and colored glasses... In any case, as a brief word of warning I'm not sure if this story will detail enough information about the whole Aetherial Realms part of Werewolf: The Apocalypse, and to be frank I didn't put that much effort into trying to explain the nuances. So, I would perhaps warn you'll enjoy the story more if you're already familiar with that. But, enough of my ramblings, let's move onto other ramblings as you listen to some...
Benedictions of the City
Prologue: The City Gates
I almost laugh as I watch the spear arc gloriously up into the air, a final fragment of righteous and indignant anger. It looks so serene and strange flitting up there amongst the murky sky and glittering lights of the great city. Then it twists and plummets downward and I recall how even beautiful strangeness can be deadly.
But I get ahead of myself, for this is the end of the tale and here we sit gloriously at the beginning. The story stretches out before you, and has infinite possibilities, and here I have been so very crass and rude as to already limit them by allowing you a glimpse of the spear.
I do so apologize, noble listeners, for though the story is perhaps indeed about the spear, it is equally perhaps not.
Perhaps the story should start with me, though already I must beg apology again. No, the story should no more start with me then the creation of the world should begin with Muhammad or the Christson. I am but the prophet of the great one's ways, and thus, as is proper, our story should begin with The City.
Imagine, if you can dear listener, that the pale and insipid world you know is but one aspect of reality. Perhaps, if your senses were attuned to it, you could look past the pitiful fog that clouds around you and seek the vast paraverse of the spirit world stretching out before you in all its glorious wonders. Sometimes, when I feel weak, I allow myself to weep for those poor human wretches who are not touched by the glory that is Gaia and thus are not allowed to see all that is her wondrous creation.
Now, you are aware there is a world of spirits, yes? Excellent, then allow me to elucidate you some more, most honored listener. Be aware that the spirit world forms its own divisions, for so great is its majesty that even it cannot comprehend itself fully. Each of these divisions is known to my people as a Realm, and each Realm is a personification of a certain thought, ideal, or time.
I have traveled many of these Realms and found them to be wanting. There is a Realm known as Atrocity, that is as puerile as its name suggests. There are Realms that cling feebly to the way the world once was when Gaia walked openly amongst us, it is a sad and dying Realm, for that time is no more and never shall be again. There is a Realm known as The Battleground, where all the wars that ever were and ever shall be are played out in a grossly simplistic tableau.
Then there is The City!
Oh, if only I could express to you its joys and wonders, dear listener! There is a great spirit known as The Weaver, that takes the stuff of The Wyld, the stuff of chaos and pure creation, and gives unto them glorious form! The City is her dream made real, and it is the shining beacon of the wondrous future for which we all march.
It is a city, or rather The City. You know how you simplistic humans have those who act superior because they live in Manhattan, or L.A., or perhaps Tokyo or Moscow, yes? You have listened to them speak of the art and culture and size and power of their glorious home city, yes?
Oh how I pity them!
Oh how I laugh!
My city, The City, is the truth of all cities, dear listener. It is the wellspring, the spiritual focus and reflection all at once. Every city is truly but a small glimmering spark of the raging bonfire that is The City, and yet even as they become stronger their reflected back light is refracted and purified and strengthened so that The City may grow ever brighter.
Some days I weep in joy that I am not struck blind for looking upon it.
Allow me then, dear and gentle listener, to now speak to you more properly of this tale and the spear and of the wondrous City in which it all takes place.
Chapter One: The Intersection
I was taking my morning benedictions, as I often do, by standing upon the spire of a wondrous building that overlooks one of the busier intersections in our grand and glorious City. I do love intersections, and indeed the roadways themselves, for they are the lifeblood that pumps strongly along with the pounding heart of The City. As always the throngs of cars filled the streets to overflowing, and inevitably some of the angered spiritual commuters had taken to the sidewalks in desperate attempts to reach their jobs on time.
It went poorly for some of the throngs choking the sidewalks, ah what a healthy city!
It was then I did hear the howling and the cursing. It cut unnaturally through the wailing and the honking and caused me to falter in my prayers. Curious was I, as no doubt you are sweet listener, so I craned my neck forward and peered about with perhaps a touch of immodest urgency. Yet, The City forgave me, for soon I could clearly see what the trouble was.
Garou, ah my dear sweet brother Garou.
There were five of the mighty defenders of Gaia, each of them in their fearsome aspect of crinos. They stood around nine feet in height, massive wolfmen straight out of some amusing movie as would be shown at the cinetheaters. It had been some time since I had seen any of my kin here in The City, and so I was fascinated to see them again.
They bellowed and snarled as the leaped across the street, their potent claws causing no end of mischief and mayhem upon the poor, innocent, and ensnarled cars filling the streets. Behind the Garou came a swarm of police. Their black body armor and glistening black helmets giving them an appearance of beetles, perhaps, though I had always preferred to think of them as white blood cells, protecting the priceless body of The City.
One of the wolfmen turned, a statuesque female whose eyes burned a brilliant and painfully cold shade of blue. She bellowed a challenge as the police surged forward across the sea of shifting cars; for who could expect them to stop trying to drive when their jobs might be on the line? I certainly blame them not, and I suspect that the policeman who slipped and toppled down to be ground into a fine and wondrous paste held them unaccountable as well. We are all quite understanding here in The City.
The she-wolf held a bemusedly ancient spear in her hands. Feathers, beads and other laughably archaic bangles were hung around the sharpened stone tip. Still, the cutting edges of the tip seemed to be functioning quite well enough, as she lashed out with a sharp backhand that split open the gut of the leading officer.
The men behind him considered this dilemma, for I am certain you will agree precious listener, which is that it is unwise to perhaps charge a nine foot tall werewolf wielding a large spear. Thus, ah, glorious assessment, they did quickly draw forth their firearms and begin to take aim.
The woman, deciding it unwise to allow her fine and supple body to be riddled with bullets, turned and sprang atop a passing truck. Upon it she howled out orders to her pack to head for a nearby alley, an alley that by the beneficence of The City lay directly next to the building I was in.
Why this beneficence? You ask?
It is because The City understands my weakness and The City provides. The City always provides.
Even as the confused wolves continued to hop and weave amongst the rushing cars I was turning and springing down the spiraling stairway behind me. I dropped down the final four flights of stairs in a truly indecent haste and did not even pause to thank the great City for her kindness in developing stairs so that we mere mortals might ascend to worship her more properly.
Knowing exactly where the wolves would have stumbled to I advanced and eased open one of the hidden doorways, that while obvious from this side of the wall would be near undetectable from the other. I poked my head out into the alley and smiled at the supple female and her panting allies.
"They're going to trap you here and kill you, come inside quickly."
Perhaps it is desperation that makes them react, perhaps fear of the coming white blood cells known as police. Perhaps it is the simple sight of seeing another Garou here in a place they would not have expected to find one. Perhaps, and here I admit it is my simple pride that compels me, but perhaps the female did look and find my form as pleasing as I found hers. Simple and immodest pride, I do so humbly beg you to forgive your flawed tale teller, dear and honest listener. But I merely do speak of my thoughts at the time, and at the time they were quite muddled.
In any case, they do not speak, or argue, or even hesitate. The striking white furred female leads the way and the others meekly follow.
I seal the door not a moment too soon, for the police do now flood into the alley with a tramping of boots and a shouting through the blessed walkie talkies. I turn slowly on my guests and hold a finger to my lips to encourage them to maintain silence. I smile to myself as I take the chance to study them curiously.
There is an older wolf, his fur patchy with white. Next to him stands the largest of the wolves, a hulking gray furred beast with long braids that hang down around his blue tattooed face. Collapsed on the floor and panting for breath is a young female, her ripeness clearly not yet achieved by the obviously underdeveloped tiny mammary glands. She hisses softly and painfully through her teeth as she clutches at a torn and bloody leg. Working on the leg is a sallow faced Garou whose wild shock of brown and gray fur is held back from his face with a red bandanna.
Finally there is the glorious leader. Her lines all lean and supple whilst still having all the appropriate curves that should be asked for. She holds her spear before her, ready and alert, and though she scans the building carefully she is mindful to keep her eyes on me as well.
I allow simple and puerile thoughts to flicker through my mind and attach odd significances to the looks that were inevitably proven incorrect.
Ah, I do weep for my weakness sometimes.
