Werewolves, Claimed, and Other Shapeshifters

Katie Sinclair
Katherine Mary Sinclair, Kit Kat

Type: Selkie
Born: 1990

Virtue: Honest
Vice: Shy

Background: Growing up, Katie Sinclair was the terror of the North Ronaldsay Primary School in Kirkwall. Raised by her father after her mother's supposed drowning, Katie was prickly, stand-offish, too smart for her own good, and "a hellion". She was a latchkey kid, coming home from school to while away the hours alone until her dad's fishing boat came back, and she was always very bright for her age, actually skipping a year once.

This meant two things. First, Katie had a long, miserable list of disciplinary problems at school -- she got into fights, she was bored with the schoolwork, she talked back to her teachers. More often than not, she was in detention until her father, Adam Sinclair, got back to Kirkwall. Her attitude problems won her few friends among the other children, which only made her disciplinary problems worse. Secondly, Katie kind of raised herself. Adam tried to be a good father, but he himself suffered from depression, and in any case commercial fishing was an occupation with long, long hours. Katie spent most of her time alone, and she grew both self-sufficient and socially awkward.

The highlight of her days was when Adam Sinclair's boat, the Mermaid was docked, and Katie was able to explore the machinery on-board (how she didn't have a fatal accident is anyone's guess). There were so many noises and engines and whirring things, which were on the whole much more interesting than anything going on at school. Uncle Richard, who had inherited the brains of the family, quickly learned to buy constructor sets for Christmas and Katie's birthday. By the time she was twelve, then, Katie was a scrappy, self-sufficient tomboy with a penchant for the mechanical and a distinct distrust of anyone who wasn't family.

Then her mother came and took her away.

With puberty came the dreams of the sea, the urge to swim in the cold waters, the darkening of her eyes and hair. These were signs that the selkie knew, and so they brought Katie Sinclair to their Shadow-Isle of Finfolkaheem, and she swam in the spirit-seas, and transformed into a seal for the first time in the waters. When she changed back, she had a seal-skin wrapped about her, and was a selkie.

For the next six years, from 2002 to 2008, Katie lived in Finfolkaheem with her mother and her other uncle, the impetuous, beautiful, and erratic Effie Towrie and her brother, Patrick Towrie. She had a huge, extended family now, including a mess of cousins and second-cousins, and she was taught by an old selkie woman the ways of the sea and the Shadow, and more practical things by Mr. Lairn, who was a secondary school teacher in his mortal life.

Sometimes, she missed her father, but there was always so much to do... and then Effie said that he'd died, and that was all. To this day, Katie feels guilty about never going back to see him, never explaining what was happening. But she was only thirteen when he died. Finfolkaheem was always so very interesting -- there were Shadow-seas to swim in, strange islands to explore, old spirits to talk to, spirits of Gull and Wave and Storm, and cousins (Victor and Vicky Barclay) to hang out with. After her lonely childhood, it was a paradise.

Still, Katie grew up, and the selkie wanderlust set in, and a desire to further her passion -- machinery. The entire selkie community pitched in together, and they produced fake IDs, altered records, and in short order, Katie was accepted into the Imperial College, London, to study mechanical engineering. Her uncle Richard was teaching at a sister-college, and so she went to meet him. That was not a pleasant conversation, by any stretch of the imagination.

Still, in the summer of 2008, Katie and a her cousins Victor and Victoria, moved into a huge flat in uncle Richard's building, and Katie started attending the mechanical engineering program at Imperial. All of a sudden she had to deal a lot more strangers than she'd been used to, but Katie coped, and she had a stack of introductions from various older selkies to the supernatural denizens of London.

Today, Katie is still a tomboy, still prickly, and still way-too-smart for her own good. She's a proud, self-identified geek, though she's a geek in the Mythbusters vein -- how can she make things move faster and/or blow up. Her seal-skin, turned into a hoodie, is stained with machine oil, and Katie is never happier than when she's messing around the guts of some huge engine. What's more, she's good at it, having easily inherited her uncle's brainpower, but where Richard Sinclair uses it to understand the internal structure of Mithraic mystery cults, Katie uses it to build motorboats -- she's already built and sold one, and is working on her second, the Mermaid III.

Katie's selkie heritage and her natural standoffishness mix together in strange ways. On the one hand, selkies are renowned as seductive lovers and smooth-talking charmers. On the other hand, Katie's a suspicious-minded girl who takes offense easily and has a mean left hook (one does not spend that much time working with heavy machinery without developing some muscle). Still, Katie's not as antisocial as she used to be, and she mellows significantly when surrounded by friends (her cousins call her Kit Kat, because she's sweet when she gives people a break. So far, threats of violence have not stopped them from doing this.)

Katie is a good-looking, well-muscled young woman with short, unruly hair of a dark-brown color, and dark-blue eyes that are nearly black. She's on the short side, about 5'4'', and sensitive about her height, but aside from that projects a sort of vigorous, Amazonian allure, especially when she lets her selkie-side shine through. She usually wears ragged jeans and oil-stained t-shirts, with her seal-skin hoodie either thrown over her shoulders or wrapped around her waist. Her seal form is that of a grey seal, with a mottled grey-brown coat.

Rank: 2
Mental 4; Physical 3; Social 2
Willpower: 3
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Mechanics
Banes: Chronological Trigger – Seal (Spring Tide)

Victor Barclay

Type: Selkie
Born: 1987

Virtue: Generous
Vice: Vain

Background: It was a story as old as time. Alan Barclay was a minor business executive for BAE Systems, involved in Glasgow's shipbuilding business. This took him out of the city for weeks on end, travelling to this or that or the third conference, and leaving his young wife, Lucy Barclay, alone and bored out of her skull as a housewife. Enter Patrick Towrie, a good-looking, charming fellow with a touch of mischief about him, who worked as the Barclay's gardener. One thing led to another thing nine months later, and Lucy was the mother of a pair of energetic twins. If Alan Barclay ever noticed that the two little hellions (sharp-featured and raven-haired) looked nothing like their father (rounded, light-brown-haired), he kept his mouth shut.

Victor and Victoria Barclay were nightmarish children in the finest tradition of a certain kind of British children's book, the one where the kids drive away one nanny after another until eventually Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee comes along to set them straight. The twins played practical jokes, terrorized the adults, ran away about twice a year to go exploring Glasgow's shady side, and drove the school's guidance counselor to the bottle after he realized how neatly they were playing him. This not being a certain kind of British children's book, instead of getting a magical governess the twins were put on medication.

Victor was always the creative force behind the trouble. He was a dreamer as a boy, a starry-eyed thinker who was always the first to ask 'what if...', which wouldn't be quite such a problem if the rest of the phrase didn't so often end with something along the lines of '...we put whipped cream in Dad's toothpaste?' He was the kid who came up with the games -- Victor had a limitless imagination for roleplaying, and by the time he was thirteen, he'd been a cop, a robber, an astronaut, a cowboy, an indian, a tax collector (long story), a high inquisitor, a pirate, and a meerkat (also a long story).

If Victor had turned his powers of creativity and roleplay to good, he probably could've become an excellent character actor. But Victor's creativity was equaled only by his disdain for any kind of hard labor, so he mostly used his skills to turn in virtuoso performances of 'the dog ate my homework.' He was a skilled malingerer and a master wheedler.

When the dreams and strange, aquatic urges came, Victor mostly responded by planning out great pirate heists -- up until his real father came to collect him and his sister. The Shadow-Isle of Finfolkaheem was paradise for an overly imaginative and too-curious-by-half boy. There was so much to explore -- though Victor was rather chagrined to find out that his usual tricks and pranks didn't actually work on the older selkies, who'd invented half of them.

On the island, Victor grew up out of a lanky, imaginative boy, to a creative, charming young man. But soon enough, even the wonders of Finfolkaheem began to pale. Quite honestly, even a Shadow island begins to grow a little boring when it's all there is for several years, and trips to Scotland or the Orkneys with his father and sister could only mollify Victor so long.

So when the twins' kid cousin Katie announced in 2008 that she was going to London to study, Victor leaped at the opportunity. London! The big city! Here was the chance to move from an island of about a hundred-odd selkies to a city with over ten million people. It took a bit of wheedling, but Victor was old enough to be self-sufficient, and selkies understand wanderlust quite well, and so when Victor was twenty he and Victoria accompanied their cousin to London.

London has proven to be everything Victor could want for. There was enough going on here that the young selkie would never get bored. Here were theaters, here were nightclubs, here were ruins to explore, here were parties, here were people. So many people, so many pretty girls and pretty boys, in all their infinite combinations, each and every one enticing in their own unique way.

Victor's taken to the urban life like a duck (or seal) to water. Gleefully unemployed (he claims to be allergic to work), Victor supports himself by a wide range of petty con-games and robbery, by mooching off a string of mortal girlfriends and boyfriends (Victor can usually juggle two or three at a time), and a certain amount of leeching off his cousin Katie and her long-suffering uncle Richard. That said, Victor does have a strong sense of family-loyalty, and is shaping up to be a quite competent con-man or actor, the latter of which tendencies Richard Sinclair is feverishly trying to encourage, for his own peace of mind.

Left to his own devices, Victor comes across as a dreamy young man, head lost in the clouds. He's enormously creative and surprisingly well-read (no one would ever mistake Victor for a studious youth, but he likes to read fiction and he reads quickly). He often claims to be a poet, and can actually pull out a verse with a bit of effort, though the truth is that Victor is more fond of the pose of the poet than the act of poetry -- Victor is perfectly aware that to a certain class of impressionable youth, the artist is irresistible.

There's a certain undercurrent of artifice to Victor, really. His relatives are convinced that he must be smarter than he looks, and to an extent they're right -- Victor has considerable social intelligence, always knowing what to say to disarm people or make them like him. He's simply too lazy to actually put effort into anything not related to his own self-centered desires. This does mean that Victor is an absolutely marvelous actor, however. With a flip of a switch, he can rearrange his entire demeanor, behavior, and body language to such an extent that other people have a hard time recognizing him. It's a game to him, and one he's good at.

Physically, Victor looks like a Romantic poet right before the tuberculosis really sets in. He's a lean, pale young man with dark-blue eyes and curly, pitch-black hair. He has delicate cheekbones, a sharp nose, and a distinctly V-shaped face, and he periodically experiments with little mustaches and goatees, but has yet to find something that doesn't look silly. He usually dressed in greys and blacks, with dark jeans that look like they're painted on and open shirts that reveal an expanse of creamy skin. He likes to accent with various bits of club or fetish-wear, either a neon-glowstick around his wrist or a spiky collar around his throat. His seal-form is that of a harbor seal, and his seal-skin is a mottled grey jacket that he always keeps nearby.

Rank: 2
Mental 3; Physical 1; Social 5
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Social Chameleon
Banes: Chronological Trigger – Seal (Spring Tide)

Victoria "Vicky" Barclay

Type: Selkie
Born: 1987

Virtue: Trustworthy
Vice: Stubborn
Long-Term Aspiration: To have a close friend of every major supernatural type

Background: The idea that Victoria and Victor Barclay were not really the children of the genial, mild-mannered Alan Barclay would have surprised no one. To start with, the twins looked nothing like their father and only a little like their mother, with their pale features and dark hair and eyes. Then there was the fact that both the twins were essentially small-scale demons of destruction and death (or at least annoyance and aggravation). They were unmanageable and impossible, and even a regimen of Ritalin only modulated their troublesome nature.

Blessed or cursed with a fabulist brother, Vicky (as everyone called her) rapidly became a keen connoisseur of various forms of b***-s***. There was the fresh, imaginative BS that Victor produced for his teachers, the bored lies her teachers gave them, the rather more subtle deceptions flying around her parents tossed around as they navigated their thorny marriage. Like most children, Vicky watched a lot of television, and unlike most children, Vicky read a lot of books, but she did more than merely consume entertainment -- she was given to analyze the threads around her. With as much enjoyment as Victor wove his threads of fantasy, Victoria picked them apart.

People who knew the twins, on the occasions they could tell them apart (which is harder than one might think, when dealing with near-identical pre-pubescent troublemakers), generally thought Vicky the more stable member of the pair. This was... imperfectly accurate. While Victor was the creative mind, Vicky was the one who put all of their schemes into action. She was the practical one, basically.

She also had a distressing love of maths. No one was quite sure what to make of that.

When puberty and the dreams of the sea came, Vicky dismissed them. When their real father, Patrick Towrie, arrived with the story of the twins' real heritage, Vicky couldn't dismiss it anymore. She was a bit more leery of the Shadow-Isle of Finfolkaheem than her brother was, but after that first swim through the spirit-seas, she became a convert. In a way, Finfolkaheem is an adolescent's paradise -- an eternally warm, green place full of adventure and places to explore, yet kept safe by a hundred generations of selkie cultivation of the surrounding Shadow-scape. When their baby cousin Katie Sinclair showed up, Vicky liked it even more, because now the girls had Victor outnumbered. Raised by the selkie community, and by her father Patrick and aunt Effie, Vicky grew into a self-possessed, confident woman, but like her brother she too was starting to find Finfolkaheem too small when Katie announced she was going to London.

London was worth the effort of talking Katie around, and putting up with sardonic Uncle Richard. One thing that Finfolkaheem was definitely missing was television, and pretty soon Vicky was neck deep back in all the television programmes and book series she'd missed while in the Shadow. Not that Vicky was a homebody by any stretch of the imagination. Slightly more go-getting than her brother, Vicky started taking night-classes in accounting and statistics (again, there was that incomprehensible love of maths). And of course, there were parties -- selkie parties are awesome, but everyone's related, so there's never an opportunity to drag someone to bed. Once in London, Vicky set about making up for lost time with due haste.

While not quite as intellectual as her cousin Katie (whom Vicky considers slightly worrisome in her enthusiasm for things that go whirr-CLICK), Vicky has a definite geeky streak to her. She worships Dr. Who, Sherlock, and Being Human, listens to Abney Park and Dresden Dolls, and is an avid video-gamer (favorite game: Portal). Vicky has a slight tech-fetish as well, and her brother tends to joke that she values her iPhone more than her seal-skin. While this is not actually true, it's a close-run thing. That said, Vicky's tastes are fickle, and liable to change at the drop of a hat, as more than one luckless suitor has discovered.

Fan-girlish enthusiasm aside, Vicky is probably the most pragmatic member of the selkie pod in London. She has a certain penchant for taking control of a situation, and is the one most likely to ask questions like 'Alright, now how do we do this?' -- not to say that she at all objects to insane, reckless schemes, she just is interested in figuring out how to carry them out. She's also the one most thoughtful about interpersonal relations, and the one most likely to actually think through the ramifications of events.

At first glance, people tend to mix the twins up, which the twins have cheerfully exploited all their lives. Vicky has the same pale skin, fine cheekbones, and sharp nose and chin as her brother, and her midnight-black curls tends to be cropped fairly short. She is, alas, rather flat-chested, which only makes the mix-up easier, and given that the twins to this day sometimes finish one another's sentences, the confusion is understandable. At home or informally, Vicky tends to wear dark jeans much like her brother, and a variety of tight, long-sleeved Dr. Who t-shirts. When she wants to impress, she has corsets and long, black dresses, which invariably produce an impact -- she has the same taste for club or fetish trinkets as her brother, and the twins often try to match. Her seal-form is that of a harbor seal, and her seal-skin is a short bomber jacket that she's never far from.

Rank: 2
Mental 4; Physical 1; Social 4
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Organized One
Banes: Chronological Trigger – Seal (Spring Tide)

Avinash Kaur Rana

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Iron Soldiers
Tribe: Predator King
Born: 1981

Virtue: Righteous
Vice: Stubborn

Background: Avinash immigrated to England when she was fifteen years old, and what she left behind was a squalid, corrupt, crime-riddled hovel that was overrun by military oppression. After that, her newer home in the suburbs of England seemed like a breath of fresh air. Like many immigrants, Avinash embraced her adopted country and strove to become a proud citizen of it. She wasn't the best student - she'd come over too late in life to fully overcome the language barrier - but she was a hard worker and had a strong sense of ethics. At eighteen, she started helping with her parents' tailoring business full-time. At twenty-one, she was married to Carter Singh Rana, a Sikh man from the local gurdwara. At twenty-three, the couple moved to Bethnal Green to start their own branch of the tailoring store. At twenty-five, Avinash became a werewolf.

In the grand scheme of things, it seemed so minor. Some young thugs were harassing and groping a woman who was trying to walk home. Avinash came out to put a stop to it, and the thugs turned on her too. One of them pulled a switchblade and got violent, and when Avinash came to, the alleyway was painted red. She found Carter cowering in the back of the shop, the only time she'd seen her cheerful and outgoing husband completely broken. There was a great deal of quiet discussion when he finally came to his senses, and the pair eventually decided to call the police. That was when the Forsaken arrived. The pack leader was a rather canny sort, and he could read the writing on the wall. He managed to convince Avinash that she hadn't been responsible for the bloody aftermath - Avinash, whose memory was a blank until she'd woken up splattered with blood, couldn't contradict him. A compromise was reached, the police were called, but the evidence was neatly swept under the rug, and the murder wound up shoved away in an unsolved case file. And that, it seemed, was that.

But in spite of this, or maybe because of this, the world of the Forsaken did not sit very well with Avinash. She did not agree with keeping her condition from her husband. She did not want anything to do with Mother Luna or Father Wolf. Avinash was a Sikh, and a proud one, and she already had a god. She was fine with helping to keep spirits down, but she refused to swear the Oath of the Moon or join a tribe. She had been a leader of some sorts in her community, and she refused to help cover up various Urathra dealings. This began to cause strain between her and the Forsaken, and some Pure, sensing an opportunity, began to sniff around the edges.

Avinash turned to her religion to give her strength through this troubling time. God had given her this power, this body, for a reason. It was not a curse, but a responsibility. Avinash used her power to hunt monsters, to keep the peace, to fight criminals and protect her community. This should have made her an asset to the Forsaken, but Avinash refused to accept her new role as one of the Urathra. The Forsaken kept shoving and arguing, and Avinash - who was as passionate and stubborn as any werewolf - shoved back. More than one time, other packs started getting personal, and Avinash asked her husband to start carrying a kirpan of silver. The last straw came when a Forsaken slaughtered a group of young men who Avinish knew personally - they had been out with video cameras, attempting to unveil the Masquerade. Avinash pinned the other werewolf down and savaged him. A meeting was quickly called by the offended pack, to pass judgment on Avinash. When she discovered that the murder of humans wasn't a crime, but offending another werewolf was, she knew she was done with the Forsaken.

The Predator Kings weren't her ideal choice, but the alliance was the alternative to having herself and her husband slaughtered. She knew they were monsters, but they offered her something the other Uratha wouldn't - respect. They were born to hunt, and hunt the strongest, and they didn't care how Avinash did it. If she believed in God and rejected Luna, that was fine by them. If she refused to hunt the innocent, so be it, the innocent were weak and unworthy foes. If she hunted human murderers, the corrupt and powerful and unjust, that was good. If she hunted the monsters, the spirits and demons of the night, that was better. If she hunted the Forsaken, that was a boon to the Pure. If she hunted and killed other Pure, they were weak and deserved it. What she hunted didn't matter, what mattered was she was strong. The respect was what won her over, in the end. Many of her brethren know Avinash will one day try to kill them, but none of them will deny she is a Predator King.

Avinash herself does not think of herself as Urathra at all. She is a woman who God made as a werewolf, and she will use that power to fight the virtuous fight. She has little love for the supernatural overlords of her adopted city, seeing in them the same military brutes who tormented her youth, and she fights them with a passion. She does not hate blindly - her husband managed to check her from going down that path, reminding her she was a werewolf and yet still a good woman - but she is far more suspicious of the supernatural than of humans. Avinash patrols Bethnal Green with her pack, and she does not tolerate anyone harming her people. She accepts the Masquerade only because she knows all supernatural nations will descend to protect it, and she wishes to see no more innocents burned. But she does not excuse the deaths that so many overlook. When the judge and jury are run by the culprits, then vigilante justice is just as legitimate.

Avinash is a 5'5" Indian woman, with her long, uncut hair pulled into a single braid down her back. Her features are rounded and her skin is a dark tanned color. As a practicing Sikh, she does not have any piercings or tattoos, nor does she wear makeup, shave, or otherwise modify her body. She wears plain black and white business clothes, though as a tailor she makes sure to remain well-dressed. Avinash always wears a bone bangle around her right wrist, and carries a small blade openly on her person. She has recently become rather wasted and frail after a vicious encounter with a ghostly-pale vampire, whom Avinash found standing over seven dead bodies arranged in a circle. In the ensuing battle, the vampire summoned a Lune, which left Avinash a physical wreck. The skin on her arms and around her lips is pale and discolored - werewolves and others with the proper sight can see that they still burn silver from the Lune's touch. This has slowed Avinash down, causing her to focus more on her own community, but it hasn't stopped her. She just finds other ways to fight.

Avinash is a woman of great passions, and has a personality as unyielding as an iron wall. She will not compromise and look the other way in the name of peace and stability. But she really does believe she is fighting for a just cause, and that she can leave behind a legacy that will make the world better. It is important to remember that Avinash is a very good woman. But to those vampires and werewolves and others who have bodies swept under the rug, a good woman is a very bad thing indeed.
Totem: Irongrass, a spirit of Verbena
Rank: 3
Mental 4; Physical 3; Social 5
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Iron Willpower
Banes: Tell (Silver Burns), Wolfsbane

Priya Adani

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Iron Soldiers
Tribe: Ivory Claw
Born: 1984

Virtue: Kind
Vice: Greedy

Background: The first word anyone would likely choose on meeting Priya is "bizarre". She's insanely superstitious, refusing to use the number thirteen and steering clear of black cats. She wears the traditional hijab, sometimes, which is offset by her hair being dyed purple and turquoise. If she wears Western clothes, it's usually offset with an elaborate gold nose chain. If she wears traditional Indian garb, it is made out of silk covered in cartoon duck prints. She's not trying to buck the system or make a statement, she just really likes adorable ducks. She has a collection of rubber duckies up in her flat, and a pair of tiny duck earrings she likes to wear.

The second word people would likely choose is "fiery". Priya doesn't care what anyone thinks, she's not afraid of anyone, and she'll fight for her opinions. She's also as strong as a draft horse, as a very few unfortunate souls have been unlucky to find out. She's a passionate woman, and she demands that she be treated well. When combined with the adorable ducks, this can lead to trouble.

The third word, which less people would choose until they got to know her, would be "kind." Priya might be demanding and proud, but she extends these qualities to others. She deserves to be treated right, and so do other people. She'll fight to be treated right, and she'll stand up for other people too. Those who can get over her fierce personality can find a very generous and loving soul beneath it all - it's not that she's arrogant, but that she has high standards for everyone, and she demands that they be met. While this can be very intimidating when she is demanding to be well-treated, it can be very comforting when she's on your side.

Priya grew up as a second generation immigrant from Bangladesh. Her parents had been modestly wealthy (hence their ability to leave the country), and though they were barely middle-class when they reached London, they impressed their superior breeding and deserving nature upon their daughter. Priya took this all to heart, but she also had a strong kind streak in her, always wanting to help our people less advantaged than her. Her parents encouraged this, feeling it proved everything they'd been saying about their child's obvious superiority.

When the First Change set in, the Pure found her first. They also espoused her superior lineage and how the Earth was hers by right, and Priya just smiled and nodded. And she still kept her kind streak and sense of noblisse oblige, and the Pure... weren't quite sure what to do with that. More than one Ivory Claw that bothered her about it got a punch that rattled their teeth, and there was more than one bloody row over a stray human. It was likely that Priya would have gotten herself killed in time, save for a fateful meeting. There had been rumors of a Predator King in Bethnal Green who had gone completely over the edge, and Priya went spying to see if she couldn't take care of it. What she found was a one-wolf crusader who was defending her people from anyone and everyone. And Priya found she liked that. here was someone who was giving back. A week later, Priya had angrily stormed out of her old pack and was on her way to forming a new one.

Priya does not act like a terribly good Forsaken or Pure. What she acts like is a feudal lord - she is obviously the superior race, and as such she demands the best treatment for her subjects. Most Ivory Claws look upon this with a mixture of confusion and contempt, but Silver Wolf hasn't abandoned her yet, and so she is still an Ivory Claw. There have been attacks by Forsaken and Pure, but they have so far been driven back. Priya cannot touch silver, but she has a tight knit community of mortals who are quite able and willing to. She is more likely to be found patrolling the ground than Avinash, and has taken over a lot of day to day affairs in Bethnal Green. In exchange, Avinash does all of Priya's tailoring. Priya has never been happier.

Rank: 2
Mental 2; Physical 5; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Local Knowledge
Banes: Paw Prints

Oswin Sharrow

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Iron Soldiers
Tribe: Fire Touched
Born: 1973

Virtue: Loving
Vice: Indecisive (Overly analytical)

Background: Oswin only ever wanted to be a family man. A middle aged mechanic with his own, modest, shop, he'd gotten married to a woman just as wholesome and sweet as he was. They'd settled down and tried to have children, and tried... and after many long years, and doctor's visits and heartfelt discussions, they'd decided to adopt. Oswin wanted an older child, someone who wasn't likely to find a home anywhere else. After signing into the British foster care system, they took in a South Asian teenager, Ravi. No one was quite sure about Ravi's past, and it was obvious the child was hiding something, but his foster parents didn't care. Oswin loved the boy like he was his own flesh and blood, teaching Ravi all the tricks of his mechanic's trade, and moving his shop to Bethnal Green to help Ravi feel more at home. The boy himself was cautious and untrusting at first, but the Sharrows were kind and without guile. It took over a year, but Ravi finally opened up to accept his new family. Within the next year, they had officially adopted him, and Oswin couldn't have been prouder.

Something went wrong. The monsters came for Ravi, and Oswin still doesn't know why. It haunts him to this day, that he never pressed his son about what he was hiding - that maybe if he'd known, he could have done something to stop what happened. He remembers running to help his son, and the horrible, wolf-headed things, and the scream of metal and a lot of pain. And that was likely where his story would have ended, crushed under the weight of his own hydraulic lift. Except that, driven by an agony and rage that no parent should ever have to face, he Changed.

When a man has been a staunch deist all his life, a sort of man who prides himself on being rational and driven by the evidence - and this man is also a very kindly sort who has very rarely had a malicious thought in his life, and mostly petty ones if he has - and this man wakes up naked and caked in blood, his teeth shifting between that of man and wolf, over the dead body of his own son, this does certain things to a man's mind. Oswin gathered his mind together and did what he felt any responsible citizen would do under the circumstances. He found someone in a reasonable position of medical authority, and showed them his new-found and upsetting ability to turn into a wolf. He also called the police, with the intent of doing the same, and the hope of bringing the monsters that killed Ravi to justice.

Oswin quickly discovered this was the Wost Possible Thing he could have done. That level of Masquerade breach was the equivalent of sending up an air raid siren to the entire supernatural community, and Oswin found himself running from nearly every supernatural nation in London. Some of the Forsaken tried to run him down and explain Urathra society before he did more harm, but Oswin, still grieving, politely told them all to go to hell. Avinash managed to find him before he got killed - he did live in Bethnal Green, and she'd been investigating the attack on her turf - and put the newly Changed werewolf into hiding. After a few months, the hunt died down. The cost of the cover-up had been one dead body, a few bribes, and some burned paperwork, and the event quickly faded from memory.

But Oswin hasn't forgotten. He hates the monsters that took his Ravi from him, and when Avinash extended an offer to protect others from the same sort of tragedy, he shook her hand before she even finished speaking. His induction into the Fire Touched was the ultimate expression of self-loathing, and his horror over the monster he'd become. At the same time, the spirits and his new packmates have given him a semblance of inner peace. He's still a bit of a wreck, still grasping and chasing after something he can't quite reach, but he's more like his old self again. He's not quite mad enough to make a great Fire Touched, but he listens to the spirits, and if they're not unobjectionable he helps them out. He's not mad with hate, but if the Urathra or anyone else seek to rip apart families and cause more pain, he'll be there to fight back. He doesn't know much about Luna or Father Wolf, or the world of the Forsaken.

All he knows is that they killed his son.

Oswin does not look like a werewolf, to anyone. He's a middle aged, portly man with neatly combed brown hair and unfortunately old-fashioned mutton chops. He wears glasses. He wears neatly pressed work-shirts and nice slacks. He helps his wife in the kitchen and takes out the trash without being asked twice. He's nice. When left to his own devices, Oswin is one of the most genial, good-natured people that anyone is likely to meet. He's cheerful and always tries to keep his spirits lifted, while at the same time being prudent and practical in covering all his bases. He does, on occasion, Try Too Hard. Despite being white as wonderbread in the middle of one of the largest immigrant populations in London, he is always ready to smile and treat everyone like his neighbor. The fact he does not know any language beyond English sometimes hampers him, but this is okay. He has a phrasebook. Watching him try to use it is a source of endless amusement for his packmates.

Rank: 2
Mental 6; Physical 2; Social 1
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Trivia by the Truckload
Banes: Situational Trigger - Rage (Wounded Children)

Balaraja "the Black" Hazare

Type: Werewolf
Pack: Blue Spiral
Auspice: Rahu
Tribe: Bone Shadow

Virtue: Loyal
Vice: Cold

Background: Balaraja the Black is an old wolf, and he has many stories, but the one he lives today started years after he'd retired. He'd put in his time as a spirit guardian, lost his wife to an enemy's revenge - lived to see his son Malkiat grow up, take Balaraja's mantle, and get married. At fifty-one years of age, he saw his granddaughter born, and took it as a sign it was time for him to sheathe his claws. When his son's family moved to London in search of a better life for their daughter, Balaraja followed them, having nothing to keep him in India. Within a decade, Balaraja would lose his granddaughter, strain his family to the breaking point, and cause the high profile deaths of two formerly allied mages.

Both his son and daughter-in-law worked upon their arrival in England, struggling to secure a stable future for an immigrant family. So it was Balaraja who took care of his granddaughter, little Nimi, and it was Balaraja who grew closest to her. It wasn't the easiest for the old warrior to give up on war, but he soldiered through it for her sake. She was a delight, the light of his life, all curiosity and bright eyes. He was well-practiced in raising children, having raised his son, and Nimi's parents knew she was in good hands. He told her stories from a different time, while she listened with rapt attention. Bit by bit, made his peace with peace.

When his happiness was shattered, it was in less than an instant. One moment, he was reading the paper, having given Nimi his old watch to play with. He noticed something "off" in the air, and went over to investigate it. The next moment, there was a rip in the fabric of the world, and Nimi was gone. Some esoteric, incomprehensible trigger had occurred - given the final push it needed by his own dual nature - and it had let something into this world that didn't belong. And that something had stolen his joy.

There was yelling. There were recriminations. There was a lot of crying, of which Balaraja did his fair share. Then came the search. The werewolves didn't recognize what this wound was, only that it didn't belong in this world, and it had taken something it shouldn't have. That meant it was their duty to kill it. The only problem was, they were going to need help.

The family found two mages, a Mysterium agent called Greyfield and a Guardian of the Veil named Alvanna, both of whom were interested enough in the rift to help: Greyfield to study it, Alvanna just to shut it down. Trying to get a Guardian and a Mysterium to work together without sabotaging each other was an exercise in teeth-grinding frustration, and Balaraja's daughter-in-law, Indra, spent most of her time trying to wrangle them. When that failed, the threat of two Rahu werewolves going into death-rage tended to get things moving quickly. Eventually, the two devised a plan to shut the wound, with one small catch: they needed someone to go in and get a suitable focus for the ritual. Balaraja was the first of the pack to learn this, and went in before his son and daughter-in-law had a chance to come home and find out. When they showed up, he hadn't come back yet, and they went into the rift after him.

Malkiat and Indra returned with their father, unscathed themselves. Balaraja the Black came back with his leg twisted, his face scarred and unhealing, his right eye fogged and a shock of unnaturally white hair through his black curls. He was carrying the focus the mages needed, and he was carrying a tiny little creature with him. He explained it was their pack totem, helped the mages complete their ritual, and then asked them politely to leave. His family had a lot to think about.

That night, the little spirit called him grandfather, and asked him to tell her a story. Just like old times.

The problem with mages is that once they know about something, they're hard pressed to leave it alone. The first problem came with Greyfield, who became convinced the rift in the world had been a ruin of Atlantis (which are not always ruins in a traditional sense). That meant the little spirit was something priceless in the mage world - a supernal creature. Cursing himself for allowing the rift to be closed before further studying it, Greyfield turned his attention on the spirit. After asking repeatedly to do research on the creature, and being told repeatedly to go to hell, Greyfield turned to trying to take the spirit by subterfuge and force. He quickly discovered that it is a terrible idea to try and steal from a pack of angry werewolves, although this lesson did not get a chance to sink in, because two Rahu went straight into death rage and painted the walls with the offending mages.

This caused something of a supernatural affair, in which Civitas came down on the side of the werewolves, and that was that. He might have later had cause to regret this decision. Alvanna, his agent, found out the werewolves believed the spirit to be their lost Nimi, and became convinced of a different conclusion: that the rift had been Abyssal, that the stolen child had been warped by Abyssal powers, and that all three werewolves were slowly becoming corrupted by the Abyss. And it was certainly true that Balaraja had become very strange in the aftermath of closing the rift. The problem came in convincing anyone of this fact. There was no hard proof the spirit was Abyssal, or anything except a slightly odd spirit. There was no proof Balaraja was anything but an old wolf driven slightly batty by grief, and who had picked up a few strange Gifts during his life. On the side of the mages, it would have looked bad for the GotV to declare the wolves Abyssal after having ruled for them against the Mysterium, and in any case, Civitas was not the sort of man who ordered people killed on glorified hunches. On the side of the werewolves, they were disorganized, and while Corrupted werewolves are traditionally killed, none of the packs were convinced enough to take any action. Balaraja and his family didn't raise the hackles like the Corrupted usually did, and most werewolves took umbrage at mages butting into their sovereignty anyway.

Ignoring her orders to simply observe and investigate, Alvanna made three critical errors. The first was heavily underestimating Malkiat's loyalty to his family, and trying to talk some sense into him: this meant the pack was on guard and prepared. The second was heavily underestimating the wolf-blood, Indra, which meant she caught the mages off-guard at a crucial moment. The third was, in a panicked state, using magic in the presence of the wyrm-spirit: Alvanna discovered the hard way that this only made it more powerful.

This triggered a second supernatural affair, and one that left the pack hostile to all mages for a long time. The Consilium was also none-too-pleased, although Civitas denied he had any involvement in the attack. After a few years, Balaraja decided this was most likely the truth. After all, Civitas had his own official assassin. Had he really been behind it, it should have been Binary knocking at the door.

One might expect that the pack would avoid mages after all of this history, and yet Balaraja tends to get himself involved in mage politics fairly often. He tends to be a cautious supporter of the Mysterium, dancing the line between hostility and alliance, although he also is known to get involved with the Guardians. With the formation of the People's Republic, he's carefully circling around, seeing what he thinks of them before moving to engage.

There is no denying that Balaraja the Black is a singularly uncanny werewolf, even by London's generous standards. He doesn't feel like a man, but he doesn't feel much like a beast, either. He feels like something deeper, something that doesn't quite work in reality. His wolfish form doesn't look like a wolf, so much as some kind of power forced into a wolfish shape. Looking into his blind eye tends to leave people shaken. Back in India, when he was younger, he was a seething ball of passion, a fiery crusader - now he's always quietly observing, his mind running through hundreds of possibilities before most people even get through one. He's something magical, in the oldest sense of the word, something as mystic as an old archmage and yet far less human. He has powers that most werewolves have never seen, but it doesn't feel like something he's learned. It feels like something he is.

He is utterly, completely devoted to his little Nimi, his wyrm-spirit, his granddaughter. The idea that it might not be her isn't one he's ever seriously entertained: whatever he saw in that rift removed any doubts he had. Nimi grows from absorbing excess energies from Awakened magic, which means Balaraja encourages excess Awakened magic. He also defends her from anyone or anything that might ever harm her or take her away. It's one of the few human emotions he can cling to, one of the last unadulterated joys left in his life, as he tries to run a strained and broken family that he's slowly losing the ability to relate to.

Balaraja is an older man in his early sixties, his well-trimmed beard and dark curls shot through with natural grey and a a streak of unnatural white. His face is lean and sharp, his right eye scarred and fogged, though it doesn't seem to affect his vision. He wears non-prescription glasses to distract people from his disfigurement. His left leg is twisted and he walks with a cane, although this doesn't seem to carry over into war-form or wolf-form. He speaks very good English, albeit with an accent. He has a slight preference for wearing traditional Indian clothing, but has an array of Western outfits as well. In his werewolf forms his fur is as black as night, the tips seeming lit with an unearthly indigo glow. It does not look anything like a natural wolf at all, seeming more like a spell construct or some manner of magical beast.

Rank: 4
Mental 6; Physical 6; Social 3
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 7
Notable Powers: Being of Magic; Old Warrior; Inhumanly Analytical
Banes: Wolfsbane, Compulsion (Sleep in Wolf Form), Compulsion (Stop any clock that he can hear ticking), Unearthly Sight (Spirit World), Disruption (Wolfsbane) (Does not possess the Great Bane of Silver)

Malkiat "Death Roll" Hazare

Type: Werewolf
Pack: Blue Spiral
Auspice: Rahu
Tribe: Blood Talon

Virtue: Courageous
Vice: Hateful

Background: Things so permanent shouldn't be allowed to happen so quickly, with no warning. Malkiat went to work one day, and when he came back home his life was ruined. No foreshadowing, no do-overs. Not even the decency to make him feel like he could have affected it. Just an "oh, by the way, your baby girl is gone forever. You don't mind, do you?" That was it.

The worst part is, he didn't mind for the first week or so. The human mind, and the werewolf mind, wasn't built to deal with that kind of abrupt trauma. Malkiat went into emotional shock and simply nodded at the news, and then sat down and thought about his work assignments for the next day. He mostly just stared as his wife and father shouted and sobbed. He wondered, vaguely, how he was going to explain his missing child to the government. When his father started the search for people to shut the rift down, Malkiat agreed simply for the sake of having something to do.

The first emotion Malkiat got back was hate. Hate for the world, hate for the rift. Hate for his father, for letting this happen. Hate for his wife, for crying and sobbing and being emotional. Hate for those damn mages, who were always prying and prodding with their questions. It gave him something to focus on, at least, beyond his disintegrating relationships, beyond his increasingly disheveled appearance, beyond his work performance falling apart. He could hate that wound and everything associated with it. Abyssals. Supernals. Mages.

He really thought that finding Nimi would patch that hole in his heart. Whatever he saw within the rift, he's as convinced as his father that the spirit is Nimi. When Balaraja suggested they form a pack with Nimi as the totem, Malkiat didn't even hesitate before agreeing. But just like the news that Nimi had been taken, the totem bond didn't really make Malkiat feel any different. Maybe it was because he spent too much time working, he thought, and didn't really have that special bond with his daughter. Maybe, he convinced himself, he never really loved her that much. Any decent person would have been happy, surely this was true. But he was still just angry, twisted up inside like a corkscrew, resentful of his father and wife for finding some measure of peace at Nimi's return - a peace that seemed entirely denied to him.

It was this resentment that lead Alvanna into her fatal error - she sensed the seething rancor Malkiat had for his family, and yet failed to realize the depths of how much he still loved them, despite how ugly and rancid those feelings had turned. Left on his own, Malkiat was happy to fall apart, to neglect his wife, and to stew in his own anger. Dealing with his emotions and pain was simply too complicated for Malkiat's exhausted mind to handle. But being confronted with a direct threat to his family? That was easy enough to react to.

Pretty much everyone in the family is aware they're being held together by a very thin thread, and that thread is Nimi. In Malkiat's case, he focuses on revenge. Any Abyssal or mage-crafted monster that shows up, he kills it. It's more than a duty to him now, it is an absolute pleasure. He's become something of an expert on Abyssals, insomuch as anyone can be - mostly through painful experience. He's had a few close calls, but has managed to survive them all... probably due to irony, because a part of him wants to die. For the moment, it keeps him going. Maybe, just maybe, he and his pack can make some true peace with what happened, and finally be a real family again. For now, revenge will have to do.

Malkiat is a man in his thirties who takes after his father, with somewhat more rounded cheeks, a mustache, and similar black curls. Unlike his father, he prefers Western fashion, trying his best to fit into London society. This has fallen apart somewhat lately as his appearance has gotten more unkempt. His English is good, although notably accented. He works in a technical center for his day job, though his upward progress has stalled out ever since the rift. His wolfish form is a dusty black color, with an uncomfortably rabid look to its eyes.

Rank: 3
Mental 3; Physical 7; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Hollowed out with Hate; Berserk Protector
Banes: Lunatic, Chronological Trigger - Rage (Full Moon)

Indra Hazare

Type: Exceptional Mortal/Wolf-Blood
Pack: Blue Spiral

Virtue: Determined
Vice: Jealous

No one ever lay on their death-bed and wished they'd spent more time at the office.

But it wasn't supposed to be this way. Indra was just working to help her family get a head start, a good start in a new country. They'd have the money to give Nimi a good life in a good part of town. Once Nimi was older, Indra would leave her job and be the full-time mother her baby deserved. There was plenty of time. Sure, Indra knew something could happen. Her husband and father-in-law had explained that being married to a werewolf was risky. But driving is statistically very risky, and people never give it a second thought. Likewise, Indra never gave the Other World a second thought. There would be time. There was going to be plenty of time.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

When Balaraja came back with the tiny spirit on his shoulder, Indra felt like she had a new lease on life. She dumped her job as a stylist the next day, staying home to be with her little girl. When she learned that Nimi seemed to feed off Awakened magic, Indra swore a vow to learn everything she could about the supernal. Insomuch as she could be, Indra was happy. But it didn't fix the family. It didn't fix her self-hatred, for not being there. It didn't fix the recriminations towards her father-in-law, the envy over the fact Nimi loved him the best, the resentment that the two werewolves could bind their spirit to her daughter but Indra couldn't. It didn't fix Malkiat's slow distancing from his family, or Balaraja's gradual transformation into something inhuman. Indra once struck the old man in a fit of rage, and he didn't even have the decency to be angry at her.

So in addition to her vow to learn all she could about magic, Indra made a silent vow that she'd be a true werewolf one day. Then she could join the pack proper, be a true family member to her daughter. The magic proved easier for her to study, in the end. There were countless tomes and grimoires, many completely useless, many purposefully misleading, but having a pair of werewolves in the family had some perks. Some negotiations got Indra access to a few Awakened libraries, mostly due to the false impression Indra was mortal and therefore harmless. This was a miscalculation on the part of the mages, because Indra actually learned to cast spells from her readings.

Her progress on becoming a werewolf was decidedly more accidental. She discovered that she could shift into Gauru warform... if she went into death rage. And it turned out if something threatened her little Nimi, she could death rage quite easily. Which turned out to be another serious miscalculation on the part of several mages.

Indra, like her father-in-law, is completely devoted to Nimi, and this tends to drag both of them into the path of mages. Unlike Balaraja, she is far less cool-tempered about the past and the previous mage attacks on her family. For Nimi's sake, she puts it aside, swallowing her anger and playing nice so she can get to what she wants. She's the diplomat of her pack, as far as her pack has one. Balaraja has the clout, but has lost the personal skills to negotiate with others, so it falls to Indra. She's quite good at it, and she's surprisingly good at magic. Somewhat ironically, given her driving desire, she's standing on the brink of Awakening as a Thyrsus mage - far closer than she is to ever becoming a true Urathra.

Indra is a short Indian woman with a pleasant smile, when she still smiles. She, like her husband, trends towards Western clothing - Indra prefers wearing red, with brightly patterned cloth. Unlike her husband, she tends to have impeccably styled hair and nails, along with well-matched accessories to go with them. Her Gauru form is modeled after a simple grey wolf, insomuch as nine feet of slathering, red-eyed rage can be considered "simple".

Rank: 3
Mental 4; Physical 4; Social 4
Willpower: 1
Arete: 5
Notable Powers: On the Edge of Awakening; Blood of the Wolf (Gauru); Spellcaster (Castigations & Rites du Cheval)

Grandmother Fury
Florence Nemariam

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Catford Crew
Auspice: Pure
Tribe: Ivory Claw

Virtue: Ambitious
Vice: Untrustworthy

Background: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, even more so when it comes to the supernatural. In Florence's case, it was a very little knowledge. Her parents had very strong opinions on what subject matter was appropriate for young girls to be exposed to, which did not involve Hammer Horror Films, murder mysteries, or anything that Florence considered to be exciting reading. On the other hand, despite being bright and meaning well, her parents were not always the most well informed of guardians. This ended with Florence having a near unrivaled collection of faerie tales among her classmates. After all, it had 'faerie' in the name. That had to mean they were sweet, wholesome, and appropriate for little girls.

So Florence gleefully read about cannibal witches, selling your soul to the devil, and big bad wolves eating people right up. This was, incidentally, the point in her life where she learned to lie very well. She also learned one very important lesson regarding the supernatural, which was however powerful the big bad wolf was, it could be beaten.

At eighteen years old, she wound up trapped in a romantic relationship with a very, very bad man. Like most bad men, he'd started off seeming sweet enough, and when he showed his true colors she had no way to leave without making him mad. Unlike most bad men, he was a wolf man, who could turn into a terrible creature by using a magic talisman. It changed the situation surprisingly little. Knowing he'd burn at the touch of silver meant Florence could be a scared, overpowered woman with a silver knife instead of a normal knife. Being a wolf man didn't make it notably easier for him to ignore restraining orders, it just meant he could rip up her parents too if she asked them for help. So Florence smiled, and make believed, and said nothing all the times he tried to bait her. Then she stole his magic talisman and ran off into the night with it.

That night, Florence dreamed, and in her dreams she met Silver Wolf. Either the Firstborn mistook her for her ex because she was wearing his pendant, or it figured if he'd lost it, he'd never deserved to have it.

Her ex never bothered her or her family again, likely suffering the consequences of acting like he was untouchable for years and years. This left Florence with a mysterious set of new powers, and a strange legacy. It didn't take her long to start experimenting with the pendant - it was too fascinating not to. Which meant it wasn't very long before the pendant bound itself to her, and wasn't too long before she started to wonder if there were others. She stayed away for the longest time, given her previous experience with her ex. But the wolf is a social creature, and given how territorial a pack can be, she couldn't remain unnoticed forever.

There were, in the Pure enclave, some very bad people. Perhaps she would have been happier if she'd joined the Forsaken. But Silver Wolf had been the first spirit she'd ever seen, and she somehow knew there was a bond there she could not deny. She could also not deny the attraction of Silver Wolf's vision. It was never about Luna for Florence. It was the promise of a land where the wolf walked openly, revered as something special, a land with old ways and old magics come to life.

She was none too pleased with her options for packmates, though, so Florence had a particularly heretical idea. Namely, if she could become a wolf-blood and then werewolf by stealing a pendant, then surely other pendants could be made, and other people could be elevated. This was met with heavy revulsion by most the Ivory Claws, but some of them seemed to be intrigued. If one did not hold to the belief that humans were inherently inferior, then the gift could be granted to the brightest and the strongest, or as a reward for faithful service. It was an idea with possibilities... if Florence could actually pull it off.

She did, it just took her a very, very long time. She's rather amused by how old she is at this point. She also hasn't bothered to tell anyone about it, beyond her packmates and those she's elevated. She sat through the Ivory Claw indignation the first time around, and figures she's too old to put up with that crap a second time around.

Finding people who'd make good werewolves, however, isn't as simple as it looks. It takes a certain state of mind to become an effective werewolf, and Grandmother Fury has high standards. She wants people who are competent, who can keep their eyes open and their mouth shut, not blind followers but people who'll remember that she's in charge. So, Grandmother Fury turned her pack into the Catford Crew, a superstitious street gang that runs in the South of London, just out past Fae territory. The jump from mortal predator to supernatural one isn't that long, and watching the gang members work means that Grandmother Fury can pick out the survivors, the smart ones, the ones that would do her pack proud. They're the ones that get the magical talismans, pendants of bone and fang, that stand to elevate them to a new level. The transformation isn't perfect, often being object dependent and usually creating wolf-bloods, but it certainly is effective. And sometimes it does make werewolves, werewolves like Penny Ash.

Many have noticed that the Crew always seems to pick up unusual amounts of new werewolves, but most figure it's a result of newcomers flocking to power. After all, Grandmother Fury is very old, and surviving that long as a werewolf means she has power. In truth, the Crew is growing slower than might be expected, as Florence doesn't trust so easily and has no use for anyone who might spill her secret. But it is growing steadily.

Grandmother Fury is an old woman now, with dusky skin and a shock of white hair. She's wiry and does not look particularly strong, although her muscles are easy to hide under jackets and long pants. She's got a generally good sense of humor about living quite this long, and is generally grandmotherly and good natured - that being said, the deed name "Fury" didn't come from nowhere. She's an old fashioned woman who does not believe that violence is never the answer, and is quite willing to slap someone with the full force of her unnatural strength if they disrespect her. She is is also rather willfully deceitful, a habit that began with her parents and was exacerbated by her ex and the Pure. She never considers herself bound by her word, given how often said word is extracted with implicit threats of punishment or violence. She assumes the worst reaction from everyone, put simply. As such, she always does whatever she thinks to be the best for her and hers at any given time. If that forces her to make an enemy, well, best to remove that threat as quickly and neatly as possible.

Her parents died many years back, which means she watches as much freaky, lurid, and violent television as her heart desires now.

Rank: 4
Mental 5; Physical 5; Social 5
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 7
Notable Powers: Silver Wolf's Favored; Been Around the Block Before; Grandmother Fury
Banes: Power Object (Bone Pendant), Silver Allergen, Wolfsbane


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