Diana faces the assembled sept, tosses a wayward lock of black hair from her eyes, and begins her tale --
In days of old, when Mother Gaia and Sister Luna still had truck with their offspring, there lived a Garou named Conor. Born when Luna showed her full face, he was a strong, brave warrior, but he had one flaw – he saw no need to run with a pack. 'Why should I run with a pack?' he asked the elders when they admonished him. 'Are not my teeth, claws, and Gifts enough? Surely, I am able to defeat any foe with only the abilities that our Mother gave me. A pack is for those who have not the skills to fight alone and win – not I.'
The elders heard this and shook their heads, but Conor was young and confident, and he refused to listen. Thus, the sept gave him the name 'Conor Walks-Alone.'
Conor wandered the land fighting the enemies of the Mother, and many foul beings fell to his claws. His fame grew with each battle, and many eager young Garou vied for the chance to run in a pack with him, but to all of them, he said, 'No. My own abilities are enough – I have no need of a pack.'
One night, as Conor rested in the woods after a hard day fighting the enemies of the mother, a young girl came upon him and asked, 'Are you the Garou they call Conor Walks-Alone?'
'Yes, I am,' Conor replied. 'What may I do for you, child?'
The little girl smiled at him, her body stretching and becoming covered with patchy black fur, her eyes glowing a lambent yellow, like ghastly lanterns. Her mouth elongated to twice its size, and became filled with many needle-sharp teeth. 'Your blood will stain my claws, and those of my packmates, before this night is through. It will bring us much honor to slay a great foe of the Father Wyrm such as yourself.'
Astonished, Conor let the Rage take him and swelled into his war-form, his claws and fangs glistening in Luna's light, and buried his claws in the belly of the Black Spiral Dancer, shredding her guts like flimsy cloth, but not before she let out a howl that summoned her packmates. Three more of the twisted Garou rose up before him, and, howling the Anthem of War, he rushed to meet them, claws at the ready.
Conor fought valiantly, his claws and fangs shredding Dancer flesh as a hawk's talons shred a flightless pigeon, but as the Dancers surrounded him, he knew deep in his heart that he would not be successful this time. Against one, even two, perhaps even three, of the Wyrmish Garou, he might have prevailed, but against a pack of them even his prowess was found wanting. With his breath rasping in his lungs, he voiced the Call to Succor.
A wandering pack heard the Call, and sped to Conor's aid. Together, the pack and Conor made short work of the Dancers, but the wounds Conor had taken as he fought alone were most grievous. The pack who had rescued him bore him back to their sept, but even the mightiest healers were unable to save him.
Conor looked to the pack who had rescued him and said with his last breath, 'I know now that I was wrong. One Garou alone is never strong enough to run without a pack – only in a pack do we have the strength to fight and win. May the Mother forgive me, and let me remember this in my next life.'"
This web page and the story above are copyright © 2001 by Midori Hirtzel-Church. Werewolf: The Apocalypse and all breed, auspice and tribe names are copyright © 1994 by White Wolf Game Studios; no copyright infringement is intended.
This page last revised -- November 12, 2001