February 15, 2001

Let's start at the beginning.  The _very_ beginning.

Once upon a long time ago, I was a Shadow Lord named Rade Andreas Popovic, 
known to the Garou as Thunder's Wrath.  I was born in mid-April, 1973, the 
product of a long line of Shadow Lords and Shadow Lord kinfolk; my breeding is 
equal to that of many Silver Fangs.  It was said that favorable signs heralded 
my birth, and for as early as I can remember, I was pushed toward a position of 
leadership, glory, Alphaship, what have you.  I wasn't coddled, but I had the 
eye of every elder of the Sept.  They all expected me to go on to do great 
things, and (to be brutally honest) I thoroughly believed my own press.  In 
short, "Thunder's Wrath" was an arrogant little shit.  One drenched in Glory 
and good at wielding his claws against the Wyrm, but an arrogant little shit 
nonetheless.

The Rage was there, too, even back then, even during the "good old days."  I 
worked hard to control it, but the progress I made only made me more of an 
arrogant little shit.

There was another Shadow Lord at the Sept who was the closest thing I had to a 
true rival.  Anya Beautiful-Night, a Philodox.  We were cubs together, close to 
the same age.  I was the better fighter and had the more noble lineage, but 
Anya possessed the cooler head and the sharper wit.  The elders watched our 
little power struggles closely, and about four years after our Rite of Passage 
(this was in 1992, I believe; I was Cliathed in 1988), I gained what I 
considered then to be the upper hand in our rivalry by successfully Challenging 
for Fostern rank before she did.  True, Anya achieved this same rank less than 
a year later, but I got it first.

She was a Guardian then, that I remember.  I was part of a pack as well, a 
child of Wolverine; the Alpha was also the Master of the Challenge.  I won't go 
into detail of my deeds during this time; they were violent and glorious, and 
I became known for my prowess in battle.  I was even beginning to learn the 
fundamentals of the Klaive (it seemed inevitable that I would earn one sooner 
or later, I assumed sooner) when the shit, as they say, hit the fan in 1995.

If it had just been vampires, normal whining Camarilla vampires or normal 
disorganized Anarch vampires, there would have been no problem.  The Sept had 
handled vampires before.  However, _these_ blood-sucking undead were Sabbat -- 
vampires who fought in packs, who charged into battle with the same frenzied 
battle-lust that we did, vampires who wielded silver and cared nothing for any 
kind of secrecy or Veil.  The Kinfolk were the first to be attacked; the ones 
who weren't killed were turned and converted into leeches even more 
blood-thirsty and violent than their masters.  The Sabbat tore into us with 
frightening ease, and we were in danger of being extinguished.

And I, Rade Thunder's Wrath, arrogant, overconfident _stupid_ little prick that 
I was, decided that the Sept had no chance of winning this war without more 
information.  You see, there is a tradition among some Shadow Lords  to tempt 
the Wyrm's corruption; they walk within arm's reach of the Wyrm (like the White 
Howlers did only with more subtlety) and then walk out with information to be 
used as a weapon against the enemy.  It's a dangerous calling, and it's said 
that only the purest of spirit can walk it.

I suppose that I confused "pure spirit" for "pure breeding."  I will say it 
again: arrogant, overconfident, stupid little prick.  I told only my pack Alpha 
of my idea, and he told me to share it with no one else.  And then, 
reluctantly, he gave me his blessing.  Thus I made contact with the vampires.

My career as a secret agent lasted all of two hours, long enough for me to be 
introduced to the "priest" of the pack I had contacted.  After that, I was a 
prisoner for the rest of the war.

I still have nightmares about the months that followed.  As recently as last 
week, I woke in terror and didn't sleep for the rest of the night.  I'd rather 
not recount (and relive) the details.  Suffice to say that I learned a great 
deal about the Sabbat first-hand.  They probably learned a few things from me 
as well.  I used every ounce of will that I had to resist, but when they--

No.  Moving on.

The Sept won the war without me.  They were bled white, and only a handful 
survived, but they won, destroying every last vampire.  (Or so I was told, and 
so I hope.)  I was close to death, closer than the time I received my 
battlescars in the Scar.  They dragged me out of the hole the Sabbat had been 
keeping me in, bound my wounds, and healed me back into consciousness.  And 
then they put me on trial.

It doesn't matter what the charges were.  Treason, criminal negligence, 
stupidity unbecoming a Shadow Lord, consorting with the Wyrm... My alpha was 
dead, as was the rest of my old pack.  Anya, covered in glory, the bitch, was 
the only Philodox left.  When I told my story, she proclaimed it lies, that I 
was not speaking Gaia's Truth.  The Sept called for my blood, but I suppose 
that Anya thought that a death sentence would be too quick, too easy, so 
instead I was stripped of rank, name, and tribe and hounded out of the 
protectorate.

That was right after New Year's, 1996.  I was alone and very bitter.  I took a 
new name and turned my back on Garou and Gaia.  I got used to the cities, but 
humanity shunned me no matter how much I tried to forget that I was Garou.  
The Rage.  They sensed it.  They always do.  I wandered from Europe back to 
America (where I was born, where I had lived until I was thirteen).  In every 
town or city I visited, if the Garou didn't harry me out, my own frustration 
with every single failed attempt to lose myself within humanity put me back on 
the road.  Sometimes, the Wyrm came for me, either to kill or to cajole, and 
what I couldn't tear apart with my bare claws I avoided.  I survived.  Not many 
Ronin do.  But my Rage grew worse as the months went by until I could no longer 
control it as I used to.  Even when the moon was only half-full, I was fighting 
frenzy more often than not, and when the moon was full...

I started waking up with blood on my hands, in my mouth.  The first time, 
second time, even third time I simply resolved to increase my control, but it 
began to happen more often, and on occasion there would be more than blood.  
There'd be a half-devoured corpse lying next to me.  I almost became desperate 
enough to go to the Garou for help.  I'd avoided this before because the only 
Garou who would do anything but threaten me with death (the Children of Gaia or 
the Bone Gnawers) make me sick with their offers of charity.  "Oh, poor thing, 
let us _help_ you, let us _feed_ you and _clothe_ you and feel oh so much 
better about ourselves."  Well, piss on that.  That's what I said then and 
that's what I say now.

The solution that I finally found was perhaps not the best, but it worked.  
Street sedatives were too chancy, alcohol too inefficient.  During the worst of 
the full moon, I took heroin instead.  I'm not proud of it, but it was 
necessary, and in any case it _worked_.  Between the drug effects and the 
withdrawal symptoms, I managed to put a leash on my rage to the point that I 
only rarely had the horror of waking up with blood on my hands... and then it 
only happened during the _rest_ of the month.  I refused to take the drug at 
any time other than full.  Yes, I did get addicted, but fighting the addiction 
was easier than fighting the urge to rage and destroy.  Cigarettes helped.  
Alcohol took care of the rest.

It was in this state that I found myself in St. Claire, Washington.  Early 
1998, I think.  I suppose that it was fate that brought me there.  I didn't 
know at the time that there was a large Sept living just outside the city, and 
I probably would have avoided it if I'd known.  The first Garou I made contact 
with there were Bone Gnawers, who simpered and whined and offered me more of 
their damned _charity_.  I threw it back in their faces.  Eventually, a 
mixed-tribe pack named Edge took an interest and decided to make me their 
special case -- by force.  There was not much that I could do apart from simply 
skip town, and I was tired enough of wandering that I hesitated to leave.  I 
still remember their smug faces, particularly that of the bitch Morgan.  Damned 
Fury.  She insisted that I was Wyrm-tainted, moreso when Edge discovered the 
drug I was taking, and even dragged me out to the woods for a cleansing.  
Stupid bitch.  The only taint I had was the Rage, and no little Rite of 
Cleansing can remove _that_ kind of taint.

After the ritual, she told me to find a damn tribe or get out of town.  Not 
her exact words, perhaps, but close enough.  I went to the Glass Walkers, 
because I no longer had any desire to frolick about in the woods and refused to 
lower myself to the level of flea-bitten Bone Gnawer scum.

The Elder of the Glass Walkers in St. Claire at that time was an Ahroun named 
J.J. Malone.  Shades.  Not "Mr. Malone," as I quickly found out.  He was firm 
about that.  He was also a Metis, which surprised me when I found out, but in 
the end made no difference.  Malone was a leader.  He'd organized his tribe and 
got them working, and he approached my request as though it were business.  Not 
charity, business.  He laid down some rules (one of which involved moving out 
of the Edge flophouse and into an apartment of my own, a demand I was only too 
happy to obey) and gave me some jobs to do.  He watched me like a hawk.

Of course, he found out about my full-moon junk habit; I think by that time I 
wanted him to.  Either that or the drug made me more careless than I like to 
think.  In any case, I've been clean since April, 1998.

Everything went well for me during this time.  I was accepted into the Glass 
Walker tribe and back into Garou society.  I taught a bit to the cubs we had at 
the time and saw two of them (Daisy and Brandon) off on their Rite of Passage.  
(They passed, of course.)  But for the urban backdrop, it was almost like the 
"good old days" before I was subjected to the Rite of the Lone Wolf.  I even 
entertained the notion of Challenging to regain my old Rank.

And then, somewhere, things fell apart.  Like the poem by Yates.  I'm not 
certain where or how, but it did.  The old bitterness began to gnaw at me 
again.  It wasn't as bad as it had been; in fact, my Rage had long since 
returned to almost completely manageable levels.  I don't think Malone's 
decision to undergo the Rite of the Winter Wolf helped my mood any... though I 
understand why he did it.  (Not that I _agree_, but I understand Malone's 
reasons.)  To be honest, the exact ordering of events escapes me, and it's 
irrevelent in any case.  I found myself losing interest in Garou affairs.  I 
can't quantify it.  I suppose I got restless, restless in a bad way.  
Eventually, I snapped.

It was probably all to the best.  I'd gone down to the Rialto to pay Pete 
Barlow a visit; he'd been part of Edge and part of the grief I'd experienced as 
a Ronin, and I'd planned to pay him back a little in kind.  It was sheer 
coincidence that the local law decided to make a full-scale raid on the place 
right at that time.  I lost control, killed several SWAT, and promptly skipped 
town.  I didn't even pause to collect anything from my apartment; it was all 
chaff anyway.  I simply didn't care.

One of the Glass Walkers found me soon after: Bowen, a Fostern new-moon.  We 
exchanged a few words and came to an agreement.  I assured him I would stay out 
of town for a decent amount of time and let him lop off my claws to take back 
to the Bone Gnawers.  (Let them draw their own conclusions, and all the better 
if they think I'm dead.  The Rialto was on Gnawer-controlled territory.)

That was near the end of the century, November 1999.  I think.

For months afterward, I did little more than wander from Sept to Sept, 
returning to a Ronin lifestyle with was is, in retrospect, a disturbing ease.  
However, I wasn't bitter; I planned to return to St. Claire by the next spring, 
or perhaps even earlier.  I was confident that I could come back any time I 
wanted to; I simply didn't want to.  I became rather mercenary.  Somehow, I 
didn't find it surprising how eager some Garou were to enlist the aid of an 
anruth.  A symptom of my own cynicism, I suppose. 

July of 2000 found me in Las Vegas, at the Casino Royale Sept.  Vegas was 
bright, loud, and crass to its core, and at the time I arrived, a power 
struggle was in progress between Cockroach and Rat.  Naturally, I was enlisted, 
and I can't say that I was at all hesitant; the rat-dogs of Vegas were all too 
typical of their kind: filthy, disorganized, morally bankrupt, and full of an 
overinflated idea of their own importance.  Vegas is run on money, not garbage.

Yes, there is Bone Gnawer blood on my claws.  A good deal of it.  I lost my eye 
when three of the little bastards ambushed Lara Gray and myself outside her 
hotel.  (A cheap little place; though she was also working for the Glass 
Walkers of Vegas, she was Ronin and naturally distrusted.  To be honest, I was 
trusted only a little more, but at least I was given more comfortable 
accommodations... close to Hunter "Fluid Master" Wood's pack, of course.)

My acquaintence with Lara Gray ended not long after the ambush I described a 
moment ago, perhaps one or two weeks.  Long enough to make it clear that the 
eye I'd lost wasn't going to grow back any time soon, if at all.  Things had 
been quiet for the past few days, and I had taken myself out of the city to a 
shooting range to see how badly the loss was going to affect my aim (answer: 
too much).  It was a small place, unpopular with the Vegas Garou because of its 
distance from the city.

Lara met me as I was leaving.  I had taken on the worst of our fight with the 
Gnawers, but despite this she had gotten rather battered, and she'd laughed it 
off with a cheerful fatalism that I found quite admirable.  But that day she 
looked ill, even frightened.  She was leaving town, she said, and urged me to 
join her.  "It's going to get ugly real fast real soon," she said, but she had 
few other details than that.  I asked her repeatedly how she'd received her 
information, and finally she confessed she'd read it in the cards, by which I 
assumed she meant her Tarot deck.

Prophetic mysticism has never sat very well with me, and eventually Lara left 
Nevada by herself.  It was a shame, too; she was a good fighter and much better 
company than my aloof tribemates, but if I believed every doom-laden 
portentious mumbling uttered by a fellow Garou, I'd crawl into a fucking heroin 
needle and stay there.  (But not before slapping the moon calf who first 
vomited the Prophecy of the Phoenix.)

A week later, things went quite completely to shit in Vegas, though not quite 
as Lara had thought it would.  It was a good deal worse, and finally even I got 
sick of the level of ruthless slaughter that my fellow Glass Walkers indulged 
in.  (The fresh dog-skins I saw myself, spread across Hunter's king-sized bed, 
and Gnawer Ragabash and failed spy Lucky-Sevens suffered for five days before 
Hunter's Beta would let him die.)  Bone Gnawers are scum, make no mistake, but 
they are still Garou.  On my way out north on I-15, I called up a Glass Walker 
contact that I'd made in Los Angeles to inform them of the situation.

From there I returned to wandering, but being a travelling anruth-for-hire had 
lost its flavor.  I thought about St. Claire more often than I had before I'd 
gone to Las Vegas, but somehow I found myself going in the opposite direction.  
Winter in Boston was less than comfortable (though the weather matched my mood 
perfectly), and two of the tribes there distrusted me completely -- the Shadow 
Lords because I looked like one and wasn't and the Fianna simply because I 
looked like one.  When the winter and the welcome got too chilly, I went 
south.  February in South Carolina is a mixed-bag affair; the climate changes 
from winter to spring and back again in the space of weeks.  The Sept of the 
Hundred Stars is a mixed-bag as well; I understand that less than ten years ago 
they were beseiged by the Wyrm and controlled by the likes of the Get of Fenris 
and the Shadow Lords.  If that's so, the balance has shifted significantly.  
The Wyrm is still strong there, but weaker than it had been in past, and the 
Graves of the Hallowed Heroes contain the bones of many Get martyrs.  Most of 
the Sept here seems to be run by Glass Walkers and Children of Gaia, and 
despite the forces of the Wyrm gnawing at the borders, it's almost restful 
here.

Almost.

                                                  *  *  *

	Jack Salem's a cynical bastard and has been ever since he was ousted 
from the Shadow Lords.  Las Vegas was too much, though -- too much blood, too 
much callous ruthlessness even for _him_ to swallow.  The fact that the Glass 
Walkers were the wrong-doers was only an extra straw on the camel's back, but 
his loyalty to the tribe as a whole has not been diminished.  In any other 
Garou, Salem's state of mind after Vegas could have easily been interpreted as 
Harano, but the ex-Ronin's too stubborn to give in to this particular kind of 
depression.

	He did, however, let himself come under the influence of the Garou of 
Hundred Stars -- in particular a Glass Walker Philodox named Paula 
Speaks-Through-Pager, and perhaps for only the second time in his life, he told 
his story -- every sordid detail -- to another Garou (much as it's been written 
above).  It was Pager who suggested to Salem that he should, perhaps, consider 
Renouncing his auspice.

	"You're still hanging onto the ghost of Thunder's Wrath," she said.  
"That's what it looks like to me.  He's haunting you, and you can't sit and 
wait for the Ghostbusters to take him out for you!"  She added that he was a 
damned good warrior, but (in her opinion) being a warrior was the last thing he 
needed.  "You shed your skin once.  Twice, if you count joining with 
Cockroach's brood.  So, why not finish the job, and quit being ex-Thunder's 
Wrath already?"

	That was in February.  Pager was persuasive, and her Child of Gaia 
packmate agreed with her, but even so, Salem (stubbornly) deliberated on the 
issue for quite some time.  On April 15th, 2001, Salem underwent the Rite of 
Renunciation.  Though the decision to Renounce had been a difficult one, the 
choice of auspice was less so.  Ragabash was too frivolous, Theurge unsuitable 
(Salem's never been great shakes in the spirit world).  Galliard was almost 
tempting (he certainly had the voice for it) but too close to an Ahroun's wild 
rage.  Which is how, in a move that would surely have surprised anyone who knew 
him previously, Salem chose to become a half-moon.

	Though it's been almost four months since the ritual, Salem is still 
adjusting to his new role, and it hasn't been easy.  Once upon a time he'd been 
a child of Wolverine, and his fighting habits remained almost unchanged even 
after he'd been subjected to the Lone Wolf -- a swift flurry of Rage and 
claws.  It would be simple to become an Ahrounish Philodox, but unsatisfying.  
He's never been much of a one for wishy-washy half-measures; if he's going to 
be a Philodox, he's going to be a damn Philodox.

	And he's going to be a damn Philodox in St. Claire, assuming they don't 
throw his ass out.