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As told by Svorn Winterclaw, Get of Fenris Forseti:
I listened to the banshee wail of the winter wind as it howled past my wolfen ears, and watched as the mass of encroaching Black Spiral Dancers stalked towards us with murder in their eyes. The wind brought their scent to my nose, a horrible stench like that of a decomposing corpse. Other scents came, as well. The loamy aroma of the hoary, frozen ground that had been broken and torn up by the first wave of the battle. The coppery odor of the blood spilled from Garou both Wyrmish and Gaian. The tang of fear-sweat emanating from our hideous foes. The most vivid, pronounced smell was the hot stench of flesh and wood burning; it came from the fire that blazed all around us, destroying our home and devouring the ragged, broken bodies of the fallen. I felt the Rage stir within me, filling me with a revitalizing energy and with a fury that would be horrifying to face.
Rage. Not just anger but a mystical, supernatural force bestowed on us by Luna, the spirit of the moon. I called upon Luna's power now, feeling the Rage flooding my veins like divine adrenaline, fueling my actions. Keeping me going, keeping me alive. The Rage kept me strong when otherwise I would have collapsed from exhaustion long ago. I glared at the Dancers, the Wyrm-wolves who had invaded our land, our home. Our caern. How dare these Wyrmish abominations defile our land? Defile Gaia's sacred grounds? The flickering red flames, a sharp contrast to the cold, stark white of the frozen tundra, crackled and popped as they engulfed more and more of the big stand of trees--virtually the only trees to be found on this tundra--that enclosed the heart of the caern.
We couldn't lose it. We couldn't lose the caern.
Gaia was dying. Every caern lost was another detrimental defeat for us, Her sacred warriors; every caern lost was another catastrophic tragedy, another of Gaia's holy lands corrupted and lost to us forever. We were fighting a losing battle against the Wyrm--or Jormungandr, as many of my tribemates called it--and its ghastly minions, but we would not roll over and die. I threw back my Crinos head and let all the anguish, despair and fury inside of me escape in the form of a savage, primal howl that thundered violently across the tundra. My packmates joined in, and our wild cries echoed across the frozen land. As if in reply, lightning flickered momentarily on the distant horizon. Thunder rumbled supportively as I glanced up at the roiling, wind-driven storm clouds in the dark skies above. The clouds parted for a brief instant, and the light of the full moon, Luna's silver light, shined down on us while the wind blew great torrents of wet snow through the air. The flames sputtered and died down, but even this sleety snow was not enough to put them out fully.
I hefted my huge war-hammer onto my shoulder. I met the maddened, raving eyes of the Dancer who seemed to be in charge, a hulking black beast with shaggy, blood-matted fur. His piercing green eyes locked onto mine, a hellfire of seething hatred smoldering in them. His upper lip--a lip of a gangrenous, diseased black--pulled back in a menacing growl.
I snarled back in reply. These Dancers would soon learn just why the Get of Fenris were known as the greatest warriors of the Garou Nation. Never again would they underestimate the Get. Never again would they invade a Gaian caern. Never again would they serve their twisted, corrupted master.
Never again.
I tensed, waiting for the right moment to spring, to leap at my adversaries and tear their tainted hearts from their chests. My own heart pounded wildly, beating faster with the thrill of the oncoming fight. Adrenaline pumped into my veins, into my blood. Time stood still as we stared each other down... waiting... waiting... just waiting for the perfect moment to tear into battle, to take out our Moon-given fury on our enemies.
The wind shrieked louder as it picked up speed, throwing a huge flurry of heavy, wet snow into the air. As the wind whipped about with a ferocity that rivaled that of the gathered warriors, the last of the dancing flames sputtered and choked into nonexistence. Both sides broke out into a wild cacophony of feral howling and savage roaring... then charged, slamming into each other with the raw force of a hurricane.
Inside the cyclone of whirling snow and blood and fangs, I saw a ghostly, spectral shape... the shape of a massive wolf. He howled, his voice the sound of the violent winter wind roaring past us.
...I smiled.
Great Fenris was with us. This was only a shadow of his true self, a fraction of his incredible power, an avatar of the mighty Incarnae himself. Even so, it plowed into the mass of Dancers with unbelievable strength, fighting alongside its children with fearsome savagery and might. Only an avatar, I told myself again. Great Fenris himself was imprisoned somewhere in the Umbra, bound by a legendary chain called Gleipnir. When Ragnarok dawned upon the world, Great Fenris would break free of his unholy bondage and unleash his primal wrath on the Wyrm and on all enemies of Gaia. Grinning savagely, I charged into the fray, mighty war-hammer held high and ready to crush the skull of each and every accursed Wyrm-wolf who had dared challenge the Sept of the Storm of Thor.