This is a little tidbit I put together, a character oigin story, Luna willing that werewolves be available. More to come, watch this space.
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Moonlight shone above and below, its presence captured and revealed by the endless puddles that lay throughout the rain consumed city. The light gave sharpness to the dark as a man staggered through narrow streets. Heedless of the cold and the dark he staggered and slid in his erratic route, his eyes never moving from the bright moon far above.
A flickering street light revealed a coarse but young face as the struggling human tried another step and then fell, his old clothes sprayed around him as he stared into the blurred but perfectly sharp image of the moon shimmering in dirty water. A hand splashed the reflection, attempting to banish the eternal, overpowering image, but as the moon shimmed and rippled, so did the hand which had reached out to touch it.
The moon reformed in the now crystal clear surface, its gentle light burning through mere flesh and into mind. The figure it communicated with reared back, his mind full of images that somehow formed alien, but understandable words, words not heard, but felt.
“Cursed child of mine..”
The hand that had dared to strike at the moon was slammed into the hard stone of the ground, great claws growing into it and tearing it as if it was paper.
“Listen and see…”
A head thrown back, a scream of agony that could not escape the throat it was born in as bones shifted, broke and grew.
“They are lost… find them…” Images flashed and spun, the Awakened, the Urathu, smothered in darkness.
Clothes tore and were cast off as fur sprouted and consumed the growing figure, claws from hands and feet, and fangs, terrible fangs.
“Bring them… to Pangaea.” A final, beautiful image, so bright with its wonder that tears ran from the eyes of the twisting and changing figure. “Forget who and what you are, become what you must be!”
A wave of intense power flowed through the transformed figure, shattering his memories and identity like a mirror, the shards scattering throughout the dark places of his mind, that shining image and purpose taking their place.
The eight foot Gaaru stood among the cast off clothes, the torn remnants of a forgotten man. It looked up at the moon and spoke the First Tongue, just three words.
“Mother. I hear.”
