My name is Brendan Cadeyrn and I am the sole survivor of my pack, this is my story as told to the M.H.I. operatives who saved my life, then interrogated me, then welcomed me.
A month ago my pack had sanctified a new Caern. It was only a small one, just the beginning of a Caern really. There were eight of us in the pack, sent here to start the Caern and to scout out Gotham city. There had been hard rumors from good sources that the Wyrm was moving into Gotham. The rumors were dead on, more than the tribal elders suspected, much more. We encamped about five miles outside of Gotham set up in a small cave in the forest for about a month. The den mother sent me to represent our small pack at the moot and report our findings and progress so far. So it was my blessing and curse to be away when the Wyrm struck.
I returned from the moot to discovered blood, death and desecration. My pack had been betrayed to agents of the Wyrm. All dead, all but myself and the betrayer. As I approached the Caern the wind shifted and the stench of rotting flesh and evil drifted too me on the breeze. I was already in lupus form so the scent was clear and sharp telling it’s story light a sign post to human eyes. Four leeches waiting in the shadows, waiting to finish their unholy business, waiting to kill me. Foolish really, overconfidence in their night time abilities, forgetting they are not the only creatures who hunt and kill at night. A few moments later, 1 minute or 10 minutes, I really don’t know, the leeches lay torn asunder, embraced in their final death. I smelled the death of my brothers and sisters long before I had killed the leeches, but now I scouted slowly and carefully. The ground told me the story, the scents confirmed what the ground said, the dead leeches echoed the final judgment. The Caern had been attacked, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Ghouls, Blood Dolls and Leeches and something else, something darker, but what I don’t know the scent is vague, combined to kill everyone. The pack fought hard, I scented the final death of many of the Wyrm’s agents, yet they were doomed from the start, ambushed in a hail of silver and claws. All my pack killed save one, one who watched, one who led the Wyrm to the Caern, one who betrayed his blood and kin.
Agnar had always been something of a misfit, full of anger, ever ready to kill. Still this was not unknown in the Get of Fenris, always ready to solve a problem by bathing in blood. Yet Agnar’s anger went deeper, hotter, crueler. Agnar nursed a hatred of mother Gaia herself. A hatred soon sensed and used by the Wyrm. What I found in my investigation was that Agnar had joined with the Sabbat in his angry quest for power. I think the final straw for Agnar had come when he challenged me as war leader and lost the ritual combat to a Fianna, a bard, a poet and story teller. He could not comprehend, or did not want to understand more like, that Fianna are warrior poets, as the Celtic tribes of old. We hunt, we fight, we die hard, but all with a song in our hearts; sometimes a song of rage, sometimes a song of joy, sometimes a song of pain, but always with a song. So Agnar, called Snarl by his murdered pack mates, shamed by his defeat at the fangs of a poet, betrayed his Caern for the sweet promises whispered by the Wyrm; sweet promises cloaking the sickly sweet smell of corruption, sweet promises surrounding an ugly lie. Yet Snarl knew the value of the Wyrm’s promise, the true nature of the Wyrm’s being and still he bowed to the Wyrm, betrayed his pack, betrayed the Earth Mother. So I sang the howl of mourning, the requiem for the fallen, I shed tears for my brothers and sisters, my sacred Caern desecrated, my pack murdered. Then, once all was given unto the flames, my howl changed; the timber of my voice became dissonant and starting low in my gut it became a song of revenge. It was fitting my return was when the moon was full. My howl unanswered, by pack mates in this world, yet I know my pack still hears my song of revenge, my solemn oath to show our betrayer the justice of the pack. As the human poet Kipling said, “Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky; And the wolf that shall keep it shall prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die!”
I followed Snarl’s scent to the city, a city reeking of the Wyrm, but lost it as Snarl’s sent faded like a mist in the growing light. I sought to find his scent in Homid form, using the human detective skills I had learned, not the same as tracking by scent, but sometimes more useful in a city. I found that Snarl had taken to hunting humans, killing for the joy of killing. My inquiries yielded no more information so my plan then was to ride the human’s train as it circled the city, hoping to catch the scent of my prey. At the point where the sky train and earth train meet I found Snarl’s scent. Swiftly I changed to Hispo form, the better to catch the scent, the better to run Snarl down, yet I was too eager, too filled with rage and found I, the hunter, was the hunted.
When I entered the human made cave I was ambushed, catching the scent of the Sabbat leeches too late in the oil and smoke filled cavern. There were ten of them, ready with claws of silver, puppets of some greater leech, a promise fulfilled to Snarl. I fought hard and killed four even as I took crippling wounds, the Children of Gaia do not die easily. Not being prepared they would have won the fight, yet fate intervened, tonight was not the moon of my death. A band of human hunters intervened, skilled they were and struck my attackers by surprise in turn killing all the leeches with fire and steel before the Sabbat killers knew what hit them. These humans were surprising indeed, unaffected by the usual fear of prey. I thought at first they might turn on me, there would not have been much in my crippled state I could do to stop them. I was wrong, they gave me succor, they healed my hurts, they fed and clothed me. Later, once i had been healed, they offered to help in my hunt, for they too sought the killer Snarl as he had victimized their kind as he did mine. They asked me to join them, to hunt with them in their pack they call M.H.I. (who can truely understand a human?). It was a debt of honor I could not refuse, it was a debt of honor I am happy to claim. So now again I have a pack, a strange pack, with odd scents, no Caern, and living in a steel cave. They reek of liquor, drugs, steel and other stranger things, yet I scent their inner souls, souls of warriors and they are my pack now, my brothers and sisters claimed in the blood of battle, fighting the Wyrm. I am satisfied, tonight I hunt again, tonight I hunt with a new pack. Soon the Wyrm will fear our scent, soon I will taste the sweet blood of the betrayer, soon I will howl at the night my song of victory, my song of honor for my new pack.