The Chronicle of Amon
A note from the author:
The Chronicle of Amon is set place in the fictional world of White Wolf Games original "World of Darkness" games. Given the nature of these games, and due to the nature of what Amon actually is, it is highly recommended that no one under age read this story, nor anyone who may be easily offended or a bit squeamish, as the subject matter will often take the reader into the very heart of Hell and through the utter madness of the shattered labyrinth through which Amon will sometimes journey through. That said, ye have been warned.
For here, there be monsters...
One:
John "Little Claw" approached the house cautiously. Sniffing the air, he could detect no trace of any other creature near by, and being that he was in his bear form only helped to increase his uncanny sense of smell. Little Claw was one of the last of the Gurhal, the legendary werebears that had stalked the earth acting as the Mothers healers. Gaia, the spirit of the earth, the Mother, had bestowed upon the many changing breeds different gifts and duties, which the spirits had in turn done as well. Then came the War of Rage, when the Garou, or werewolves as they became known as, become murderous, wishing to become the dominate changing breed on the planet. It was only after it was too late that they realized the folly of their arrogance, though there were still whispers of some other, darker reason the War of Rage had happened. But Little Claw was unsure, and after all, the where crows, or Corax just loved to gossip anyways, so who really knew the truth anymore.
Little Claw sniffed again. Nope, the area was clear, and only a hint of musk was still present, but clearly several days old. Shifting into his smaller human form, Little Claw began to feel his clothes that he had used a rite to dedicate to his person, as well as some of the equipment he would need tonight. The ritual had been a long one, but being able to carry your clothes and tools on your person and have them merely appear as tattoos when you were in any other form made it completely worth it. The house ahead lay dark and cold, like a tomb. Little Claw felt a chill crawl up his spine, and quickly used one of his spirit imbued artifacts to "peek" into the Umbra, or spirit world. Nothing. Some spirits, but nothing out of the ordinary. And no banes. Odd, he thought. This was the home of a fallen werewolf, there should be banes lurking outside and in, shouldn't there be? He thought to himself, silently confused. There were rumors about this particular fallen werewolf, though, that had made some of the elders confused, frightened, and more then a little curious. Little Claw, having finally made it through to his third rank among his people, decided that tonight he would show his worth; either this fallen werewolf would be cleansed, or he would be destroyed, and his taint would no longer harm others.
Picking the lock on the front door was no easy task. Apparently the fallen werewolf had a very healthy sense of caution. The lock finally clicked, and Little Claw walked slowly into the house. There was a faint odor in the air, like a radioactive, toxic, burning smell. Little Paw shuddered realizing that the smell had come from Balefire, the toxic flames of the Wyrm. Little Claw thought back to his training, when he was a young man, a newly made cub. The tails singers told of a time when the three aspects onf the worl d had worked in harmony: The Wyld, the formless, chaotic essence of life, the Weaver, that which gave life and form, and the Wyrm, the destroyer and ender of life, giving the energies of life back to the universe. Together they formed athe great balance. Then something went horribly wrong. It was believed that the Weaver became self aware, and in her madness, trapped the Wyrm in her webs. And the Wyrm went made with pain and suffering. Ine it's tormented throws, it became corrupted, and now spawned forth all that was evil in the world. At least that was what the tales singers told the young ones. Then, the tales singers told of the fallenwerewolves, a tribe called the White Howlers, in their over zealotness, went into the Wyrm's home in the umbra, the dread realm known as Malfeas, and took on the Wyr's evil masinachions. What came back was something twisted and evil, calling themselves the Black Spiral Dancers, and it was all the garou could do to hold their fallen brothers and sisters at bay. Over fifteen hundred years had passed since the White Howlers had fallen, and the problem only seemed to be getting worse. Some sought to cleanse them, most believed that all of them should be destroyed. Whispers of more and more Garou falling each year persisted, and the changing breeds feared the worst. Appocalypse was coming, and there was fear that the Gaians, the changing breeds, would lose.
Little Claw shuddered again, shaking the memories of the stories from his mind, He needed to focus, he was in the lair of a supposedly powerful Black Spiral Dancer, and who knew what could happen. Little Claw looked around. The place was clean, very well taken care of. The entry way held a family crest, a ornate coat rack, and an overhead chandelier. The main foway was beautiful and dark, with another chandalier, black candles, and various decorations of a macabre nature (display cases with some skulls, and other occult items of various nature) that Little Claw could scarcely make out, nor did he want to. At the center of the two staircases stood a statue that caught Little Claws attention: it was solid marble, and depicted a beautiful woman with a chin length bob hair cut, in a flowing dress, her arms spread as though to depict the virgin Mary. The statue was obviously lovingly crafted, and a small plaque at the bass of the statue simply read "Rose Gaelo, my love and soul-mate". Little Claw stared at the inscription and read it over and over again. The stories of the Black Spiral Dancers were always of evil, slobbering monsters that loved nothing and cared for nothing save serving their corrupted master. So what the hell was this? A war trophy? No, Little Claw thought, this was not some trophy to be displayed, this was a true labor of love. Little Claw was feeling uneasy. What in the name of Gaia was going on here?
Little Claw moved further into the house. Large as it was, Little claw had no problem figuring the layout of the place. He moved forward into what was obviously the study, and stared in awe. The room was a massive library dedicated to not only understanding the Umbra, but the very nature of the Triad of Wyld, Weaver, and Wyrm. Little Claw looked through the many shelves, examined Umbral maps, and what had to be the rarest of occult tomes. Several caught his eye, one being der unsprekthicalkultzin, and a sinister volume which simply read The Chronicle of the Black Labyrinth. Little Claw could have spent hours looking through the different books, gathering what he could tell were forbidden secrets the changing breeds could use against the minions of the Wyrm, but tonight was not the night for learning such secrets. He had to learn more about this Black Spiral Dancer who was so peculiar, and either cleanse him or kill him.
Little claw moved further into the room, realizing now that the corruptive taint of the Wyrm lingered in the room. The fireplace was dead, but the smell of the Bailfire which had been burning still clung to the air. Little Claw nearly jumped when he came to the large desk and saw four different framed records and two pictures behind it: the albums belonged to the local artist Amon, and in the pictures was a man of maybe twenty seven, with long black hair, and glowing green eyes slightly sunken in a pail face. He was maybe six feet tall, and all things considered, looked very handsome. In the picture beside him was the woman who was so artfully depicted in the statue. The two were holding each other lovingly, and it was obvious that they loved each other deeply. The other image showed the man, Amon, surrounded by an entourage of what could only be other Black Spiral Dancers, some hideously deformed, others not so much, and several bane possessed humans, the much hated Fomori. The caption read "Amon and the order of the followers of the true Wyrm". Little Claw stared in disbelief; this artist, this musician, this man who had so lovingly held onto the woman in the photo, this was the Black Spiral Dancer that had caused so much worry and confusion. A chill ran up Little Claw's spine. This was not what he'd expected to happen, and for the first time, Little Claw felt a trickle of fear run through his mind.
On the desk was a much used and worn leather journal, and a simple black pen next to it. Little Claw picked the journal up, and opened it. The language was utterly alien to Little Claw, similar to the glyphs the changing breeds used, but different, almost...reptilian. Little Claw looked deeper at the language, thinking to himself "I can't help if I don't understand this, what language, what language...?". The writing suddenly burned bright green, and began to reform. Words in plain English suddenly appeared where the odd language had once been, and on the first page was an inscription that utterly stunned and frightened the Gurhal:
This is the journal of Edrick "Amon" Blackwyrm, Black Spiral Dancer Theurge. Only those of pure heart and intention may read what has been written here, and may it be a guide for those that may one day return the balance to this world. For only when the balance Wyrm, the true form of our dark father is freed, may things be set to right.
Little Claws hands shook. This was not what he was expecting at all. He turned the page, both curious and afraid that what he might read would inexorably destroy his reality.
