Loosely staged in the wilder areas of Nebraska is/was a Sept
known as Twilight Moon. The overpowering peculiarity of this 
Sept is the belief that Gaia has announced an end to our tenure 
on this planet of monkeys. She has granted our guardianship to 
the apes and their breed, given our job to her lesser children. 
And perhaps, somehow, we have fallen so far from her favour so 
that no manner of ransom will preserve our failing numbers. Their
thought is that Gaia’s hand has been completely withdrawn from 
us and not even the petition of monkeys can warm her heart to us 
once again. We are doomed. Woe be to the final warriors, whose 
only remaining honor is to decrease the still breeding Wyrm, 
though such duty will go unnoticed of our mother. She is 
distraught with us, and what we have meant to her. Not one of 
them understands a cause for this, yet it is their belief, 
unmistakable in all their rituals and ceremonies.


	Due to the fact of the dwindling Garou forces in the area the 
leaders, with despite against all but any thing Garou, have a 
tendency to make pacts with the wind, so to speak. A certain 
number of ill-favored and/or malevolent Garou were allowed among 
the Sept to earn positions of respect or not.  These were those 
who had gained a reputation in the area of having worked against 
the Wyrm on one or more occasion, thought to be “not so bad” as 
such Garou might be imagined to be. Those who had intimate 
knowledge of Pentex or the Wyrm and who were willing to share 
that knowledge with us -- the opposers of what the Wyrm had to 
stand for. I see alot of that here in Portland, as you who are 
born of Gaia have found reason to truce with Leeches, to work 
with Wyrm-taint toward... some evanescent goal.


	And I must continue to liken these who I have met previously, 
as I have noticed within this area a rising mention of the 
malevolent Garou -- you call them Spiral Dancers. It is with 
satisfaction that I note your tribes speak of these as enemies 
still, even with the unlikely associations I have encountered in 
your community. I mean no disrespect by the mention of your 
compulsory allies; I have heard some very interesting reasoning 
for the situation. I will warn you with this example left in 
history and let you continue to make your own stories for the 
future.


	For those unfortunate enough to be allotted life in Nebraska, 
with their beliefs fully in hand, all energy was gathered at the 
front lines of a battle to no renown, scraping out continuation 
as best they could imagine, seeking ever more concealed enemies, 
Raging further from the litany of our fathers, finding more 
inventive and tougher methods; an engine of war-to-the-death. As 
their world fades around them they hope to be a shining 
sanctuary... known through eternity as a sept not unlike the 
vision of a twilight moon.


	So it has befallen this seething mass of fur and teeth to form 
such alliances as may make the average Garou... cringe. As I have
said, to record their heritage and leave their dying mark on this
world, all manner of Garou were considered desperately valid... 
kinfolk, the ostracized, those of questionable lineage and 
background, ones who I have since been taught are anathema... . 
All are collected and taken within the Sept. Seems that alot of 
the purpose of our creation has been lost on these in the 
determination simply to be remembered... . Though it is not honor
which remembers them now; it is caution and alarm.


	And I was accepted into this Sept graciously to live and finally
be at a peace where my paws might stop itching for the high 
adventure of travel. Not hardly. Only recently returned from my 
Rite of Passage had I come to these, and still unsure where the 
Gauntlet had left me from my last great diversion. In my 
exhaustion and ignorance I was pleased to have been held fast 
into a group of my kind who cared not not at all concerning the 
paradox of my existence, and who offered a future which did not 
require exile -- however incorrect that outlook has proven to be.
I did not know then that they were completely oblivious of who 
I was.


	I was taught, I thought, according to the natural manner of the 
Garou. The bulk of my experience -- though rare and scant it was 
at the time -- named me as fostern, so not a day passed beyond my
arrival to when I fell into the hands of the training-rhya. My 
predilection to mechanical talents was praised, the cleverness 
and foresight I bore to those of the Sept who interviewed me was 
understood as the ability to See, and the loquaciousness I cannot
deny bang alongside a certain accomplishment with words was 
hailed as a crowning touch to my personality.


	I was shown the Sept’s great tools, or so they had been called. 
Not more than one among them contemplated these things far enough
to be given the most remote clue of their use. But one had gone 
before me who had known fully, and had made such employment of 
them that the Sept had gained distinct advantage over their 
perceived foes for a time. My instant recognition of these items 
and their immediate repair was embraced as a sign in itself. 
Voice Over, standing in as Sept leader, credited me with their 
ownership. Though as a city Garou he should have known these 
items and been able to manipulate them, it was I who had the most
 practical knowledge and experience. In the bawn there was a 
popular human campsite which had power enough to steal and pump 
into this technology -- the Sept was online once again.


	Try as though I might, my innate self refused to adhere to the 
gifts of a Seer. You call them Theurges. I made enough 
intelligence of those things they tried to teach me that I could 
fake or otherwise construe similar things to what they expected 
as result. Mind that this was not considered unnatural or 
undesirable in any manner or intimation, and I was quite open 
with the counterfeit of these gifts. Somehow it did not occur to 
me that those who tried to teach me knew naught of what they 
taught. With none who could truly See among them, they stumbled 
about not knowing where my authentic talents are, and they took 
no issue with accepting my admitted-conjectures. I could not be 
of any real assistance to them at the time in these matters -- it
 seems that much of their rightful heritage had already been lost
 and, as I have implied, I had not had the opportunity by then to
 learn the things about myself and my people which could have 
easily answered their confusion.


	Regardless of what I felt were failings I was still treated with
great celebration. Not long into the process of pretending to 
divine a path for some of those considered to be less in rank 
than myself, there was a ritual named as a Moot --  nothing more 
uncanny have I seen carrying a traditional name since. It was 
during this so-called Moot that I first met the Sept’s eminent 
advisor, Mar. Doom was in his voice loud as locust on a 
blistering Carolina night. He was called an ambassador of the 
Deep Umbra, and Voice Over immediately became half a leader, with
Mar completing the image as the other half. I shuddered and did 
not dare speak out. It was the first time I  felt maybe I could 
really Sense something none of them could feel. But I was 
suddenly not alone in Seeing, as Mar quite obviously knew that I 
saw in him the still-malevolent Garou which he was. He chose to 
laugh at me and mock my decisions -- well enough that set with me
in my discomfort of those decisions -- while bestowing his own 
type of honor and renown upon me, so to not tip me into disrepute
with the Sept. He named other paths for those precious cubs not
yet sent out to their Rites of Passage. He said that we were at 
war, that he had found Marrow Warder, this Sept’s actual leader, 
and so it was time to prepare for his return. Mar was not to be 
opposed, especially with Voice Over’s approval standing at his 
side.


	“When darkness surrounds all worlds, we will shine at our 
brightest,” we recited the Sept slogan. And then Stole, a 
furswapping Garou and decidedly a trickster, proclaimed what had 
truly been on the minds of the Sept when they welcomed my 
arrival. I was proclaimed Web Weaver. There were gasps among 
those younger than myself who had been at the Caern much longer. 
To my enlightenment and shock, the story was told of the one who 
had gone before me. She had also been called Web Weaver, she had 
been a mongrel Garou. It was she who had enshrouded the Caern in 
a variety of electronic net that reached the Umbra and which 
could effectively be used to spy on enemies -- no one really 
seemed to understand what she had done, just that I seemed as 
qualified as her to re-initiate the net and maintain it. She had 
been a Seer, and was now presumed dead, since her disappearance 
had occurred some years before. Had I any prior knowledge of this
story, I could have told it far better than Stole. Then came the 
explanation -- which I learned was Stole’s job at these 
functions. I was being given her name to honor her, since I was 
now expected to fill her previous capacity. Do remember yet again
that I had up to then been given no reason to be appalled by the 
name or the position.


	Affinity, one of the gracious Garou, the highest ranking fighter
in the absence of Marrow Warder, sent the cubs away to do their 
various and separate Rites of Passage declaring that upon their 
return Twilight Moon would be the strongest ever and ready for 
far more direct assaults on their enemies:

Baruch -- I have since learned to call his kind Kinfolk -- tried 
to be a fighter. I never intended he should go.
Red Mite, a mongrel Garou -- you call them Bone Gnawers -- born 
of the full moon.
Star Counter, a visionary Garou -- called a Stargazer -- of the 
half moon.
and Kalaya, a gracious Garou -- Child of Gaia -- dark moon.
Pretending to cheer, I could again hear the locust Mar had set 
upon us in the voices around me. I did not expect any of the cubs
to survive the tasks Mar had given them.


	From then, I found it a consuming task to compel me to stay with
this Sept. The job I had been given was well beyond my ability, 
but in lamenting with it I became more and more aware of the harm
Web Weaver’s net could do to the security of the Sept in its 
current state. No one would hear me. It had worked miracles 
before, they cared to remind me. I asked regarding and was told 
that Mar had been supposedly converted from a malevolent Garou --
they had met him only after Marrow Warder had gone away, only 
after Voice Over had gone to seek Marrow Warder in the Deep 
Umbra. Mar had brought Voice Over back, for he had somehow gotten
hurt and lost his way. They were best of friends since anyone had
met him. What Mar said invariably became what Voice Over said. 
And since Voice Over was second to Marrow Warder and judge to the
 Caern, no one could dispute what he said.  Not that they wanted 
to anyhow.


	Too soon Mar came back to inspect the work we had done in 
preparation for Marrow Warder’s return. It was then I learned the
true purpose in asking many questions and learning all the 
stories within a Sept -- no matter how small they might seem. It 
was not until after all of the rhya had reproached me and I had 
been threatened with certain restraining actions that I decided 
to be quiet. I had learned that in some private counsel Mar had 
placed me in the position I held. It was he who had assured the 
elders that I was fit for the position. I learned that Mar had 
taken great pains to plan every aspect of this preparation for 
our leader’s return, including tampering with my work on the net.
I learned that Mar had never been truly inducted into the Sept 
and had never been called to account for any portion of his life.
I had learned through deduction that Mar intended to betray us. 
But they trusted him, I was of far less rank, and it was Mar 
himself who was given the option to challenge anything I Saw.


	During the Moot-esque thing that Mar imposed upon us that night,
one of the cubs returned, bleeding near-death. When finally he 
died -- against the best efforts of our healer -- rite after 
ritual was performed, everyone gave all that they could to the 
demands of Mar in memory of the cub and final preparation for the
leader’s return. Even the best at shifting form and the most 
disciplined in spiritual ways had trouble keeping up with his 
requirements. Voice Over stood entirely aside for all of this. 
Mar directed the whole ceremony unchallenged as the locust rang 
in my ears ever louder by each moment. Eyes cautiously watched me
from each place in the circle, waiting to restrain me. For some 
reason Mar himself did not require any input or action 
specifically of me, so I hid my thoughts and feigned compliance 
among the crowd. Mar disdained me enough to be inattentive to me 
in my assumed submission to his will, and for that I am grateful
as well as able to tell this story. Even after many of the Sept 
could no longer stand or Rage, the rest doggedly dragged through
still more strange distractions. By the time everyone’s strength 
had completely ebbed, I was deafened -- the ringing in my ears 
almost too loud to bear. I lay among them genuinely exhausted. 
Then I saw it all clearly. Though I had not ever been taught to 
truly recognize Wyrm, though there was no one left there to give 
training in the variances of discernment, I knew we had already 
been betrayed by ourselves.  During that final, useless ceremony,
Mar kept at us with the idea that the taints we were feeling  
were our own iniquities, and that we must root these out before 
our leader’s imminent return. To my recollection, Affinity had 
gotten the most rigorous workout and even Stole was accused of 
confusing his ability to sense Wyrm with some vaguely-worded 
detestable trait. I could have chosen any number of clearly 
defined detestable traits for him to work off. But that’s not the
point. I went aside and disconnected Web Weaver’s net, hoping to 
lessen what hideous disaster my stunted sense of danger gave me 
premonition of. Too late.


	My hand was nearly bitten off by some spirit or another that had
just finished crawling through the device. A peculiar little bane
which seemed only capable of crawling quickly and lacerating 
flesh. When I smashed it with my foot, it dissipated too quickly 
for me to catch hold of it. I took my wound back to my friends as
proof, but before one word could be spoken the Caern erupted in 
Wyrm atrocities. Mar’s vanity and betrayal was complete when he 
presented Marrow Warder’s pelt -- unmistakable from the stories 
I’d heard. He threw it in the fire and laughed while he ripped 
out Voice Over’s stunned throat. If I had really known Marrow 
Warder, and then had spent all my Rage at Mar’s direction, the 
deep despair of our leader’s “return” would have entirely undone 
me.


	Do not misunderstand me to say that they were stupid. Twilight 
Moon had been made far too tired, they had been made dependent on
people who were not what they seemed. They did innocently 
perpetuate inaccuracies through mislaid loyalties. Mar and his 
allies got them quickly. This fight was not glorious, and I will 
not dishonor the dead with further details to you.


I stepped away, far away as I could get, nothing left to be done 
there. I must have kept moving for days. I came to myself at last
in Canada, and immediately made ponderous and inconclusive 
searches for the other three cubs that had been sent out to die. 
I alone escaped to tell the tale, I think.

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