Rakesh Morgan
Madboy Morgan

Type: Werewolf
Affiliation: Guardians of the Veil, Harbingers
Cabal: The Mortlake Division
Tribe: Bone Shadow
Auspice: Ithaeur
Born: 1975


Virtue: Clever
Vice: Curious
Long-Term Aspiration: To uncover the occult secrets of London

Background: Everyone needs a hobby. Rakesh Morgan's hobby just so happens to involve being chased by death-spirits through abandoned houses near London on a regular basis.

It began in high school. Rakesh was always one of the 'weird kids', a lonely, quiet boy with all the charisma and force-of-personality of a baby rabbit. He sat in the back, rarely spoke up in class, and made no friends. Even the bullies eventually left him alone, after learning that the scrawny, weedy kid was capable of fighting with a wild abandon, on one notable instance having to be pulled off another child.

It didn't help that Rakesh was also smart, as in near-genius. His parents, a Welsh construction worker and a British Indian waitress, failed to understand his proclivities completely. His father would take him to see the football game, Rakesh would only dream of when he could get home and do something interesting, like read a book. Books were Rakesh's only friends for most of his childhood. And what books they were, the grimmer and darker the better. For somewhere in Rakesh there was a morbid streak a mile long, the product of an upbringing in which meaningful human contact was difficult.

By the time he was accepted into King's College London on a scholarship, Rakesh had taken to haunting the British Museum and other prominent libraries. He read The Witch-Cult in Western Europe by the anthropologist Dr. Margaret Murray, and Aleister Crowley's The Book of Lies. Occult and peculiar history was his hobby, something mystical and exciting to get away from an otherwise humdrum existence.

King's College was the young man's saving grace. His intellect was for once appreciated, and pretty soon Rakesh was heavily enrolled in the anthropology and social history courses. He completed a Bachelors and began to work towards a Masters in Anthropology, and after several summers of volunteering and working part-time for the National Trust, Rakesh had a job lined up with them after he graduated. In short, everything was finally beginning to look up.

Then came the First Change. At first, Rakesh thought he was going mad. He would walk to the Tube station and spot Ankou, the proto-Grim Reaper of the Breton myths, standing behind a sickly-looking girl on the train. He'd gaze out across the street from his apartment window, and on a distant branch is an owl the size of a man, with skulls emblazoned on its feathers. For most werewolves, the First Change is a whirlwind of confusion and ignorance, but for Rakesh, it was a flood of nightmarish understanding. He saw things he'd only read about, things which were not, could not be real.

But if they weren't, then what was he seeing? Had the world gone mad, or just Rakesh Morgan?

It was on a snowy night in January. The crescent moon was high in the night sky, and Rakesh was trudging home after a long day of studying. When Rakesh looked up to check the color of a light, he was confronted with a horseman in archaic armor, clutching a spear that dripped spectral blood. Rakesh backed away, turned and ran from this hideous apparition, only to find a great black dog, the size of a pony, blocking the way behind him. Rakesh thought true madness was here, and he ran again, but each way he turned, but the death spirits that had hovered near Rakesh for so many years were not so easily dissuaded. Again Rakesh was blocked, and once more, and then something... snapped.

Rakesh's was not a happy change, but few are. When the local Forsaken finally found him, some hours later, he was in a cemetery, smashing headstones with one might blow after another. They took him in and calmed him down, and from that day forward, Rakesh Morgan became one of the Forsaken. After his First Change display, there really wasn't any question of tribe. Rakesh was one of the Bone Shadows, as ordained a choice as could be imagined.

In a way, Rakesh was fortunate. Though the First Change would haunt his nightmares for years afterwards, it did not touch his family and friends. Rakesh may have thought he was going insane, but he was a private man, and kept it to himself. When the First Change occurred, it was far away from home or work, and though Rakesh committed several thousand euros worth of vandalism and a fair bit of desecration, there was no blood on his claws. The fact that Rakesh periodically woke up in a cold sweat, sure that Ankou was coming for him, seemed a small price to pay.

Since then, Rakesh has somehow managed to maintain both his life as Rakesh Morgan and Madboy Morgan the Werewolf, largely by means of having lots of luck, a mental detachment that can periodically border on the sociopathic, and the fact that he is just really unimpressive. As Rakesh Morgan, he finished his masters degree in anthropology, and went to work for the National Trust, a British charity organization concerned with the historical preservation of old buildings and otherwise culturally or ecologically significant locations. Rakesh was their man to find such places, evaluate them on their historical worthiness (the National Trust, though a very wealthy charity by most standards, still does not have unlimited resources), and make plans for restoration and preservation.

At the same time, Madboy Morgan the Werewolf is the local brainiac and budding ritemaster. In his quiet and unnoticed way, Rakesh has settled into the local pack, and has set himself the personal task of learning everything about the spirit world that can possibly be known. Already, it's generally admitted that when it comes to spirit-lore, Rakesh is as good as some Ithaeur close to twice his age. Moreover, the scrawny fellow is also pretty good to have in a brawl, fighting in a manner more reminiscent of a rabid weasel than a full werewolf. Not particularly glorious, pretty effective.

What few realize is that Rakesh's skill at understanding the spirit-world is in large part a result of his anthropological training. Rakesh applies the rigors of modern research techniques to the legends of the Uratha, and though Rakesh admits that he'll never become a true anthropologist (at least, not unless he snags another scholarship), he can put it to pretty good work cataloguing the world of the Shadow. Of course, there's a downside. Treating the Uratha as research subjects has disassociated Rakesh from them, and though he knows in his brain that he is one of them, in his heart he's still Rakesh Morgan, not Madboy Morgan the Werewolf. This is a problem that probably only age and experience will rectify, though its unlikely that Rakesh will ever ascend to the heights of Harmony.

Recently, Rakesh was fired from his job from the National Trust after he was caught grave-robbing, and these days he runs an antique store and website, www.Morganantiques.com, which is enough to let him eat regularly. He's also left his pack over a falling out.

On first impression, Rakesh is a weed. On second impression, Rakesh is a slightly creepy weed. All his life, Rakesh has been an unprepossessing person, a mild-mannered young man with a nervous smile and a soft voice. It wasn't that people disliked Rakesh, they just tended to ignore him and forget him. Since the First Change, to this naturally unimpressive exterior has been added a slight edge, like that of a wolf on the prowl, an aura of barely suppressed violence that most people find unnerving. Considering that he's also a half-Indian man in War on Terror era London, and Rakesh gets asked for his passport and subjected to more than his share of searches, despite the fact that his accent is purest London. Still, to those who know him, Rakesh seems a mild and unassuming man.

This is rubbish. Behind Rakesh's forgettable facade lies a formidable and rather bitter intellect. The companionship of King's College, the National Trust, and the Uratha hasn't quite worn away the bitter misanthropy that emerged during Rakesh's school days, when he felt himself the sole man of the mind amongst a sea of dumb brutes. Though much softer and more pleasant than he used to be, Rakesh still has a streak of misanthropy in him that leads him to expect the worst of people. Had circumstances been not too different, Rakesh could've been one of the spree-shooters one reads about in the Telegraph.

As is, Rakesh's impressive mind and simmering resentment towards humanity is sublimated into an interest in the ghoulish and macabre. He finds it weirdly pleasant and relaxing, reading up the latest research on the Thuggee cult of pre-British India in the British Museum. Mostly, Rakesh keeps his interest under his hat, having realized that discussions of the etymology of the Arabian Ghul is not particularly socially acceptable.

Finally, Rakesh is also very stubborn, and very much a scrapper. When confronted with a problem, Rakesh rarely backs down, attacking it from multiple angles until it falls. When the problem happens to be a recalcitrant spirit-ridden, the 'attacking' just happens to be more literal. Rakesh isn't the strongest or the fastest werewolf around, but he's tough and he doesn't back down, which makes him rather useful in a fight. And he is, after all, a werewolf.

[spoiler=Appearance Brief]Eye Color: Light Blue
Hair Color: Black
Skin Tone/Complexion: Brown (about a 27 on the Von Luschan)
Hair Style: Cropped short, rarely longer than a centimeter, and usually somewhat unruly.

Figure Notes: The most polite way to refer to Rakesh is as 'slender'. A more accurate term is 'scrawny' or 'rabbity'. Rakesh is a little under the average height in Britain, standing at 5'8'', but he seems smaller due to his rather weedy frame. Up close, Rakesh has a narrow, pointed chin and large, mischievous eyes staring out from behind drug-store glasses. His hair is perpetually ruffled, and on the whole, the impression is that of something elfin, a perpetual schoolboy. Despite this, the werewolf is surprisingly tough, and if he isn't as ostentatiously developed as a bodybuilder, he makes up for it with the kind of lean, whipcord muscle that comes from doing a great deal of strenuous physical activities (running away from unhappy Fomorians, for instance).

Rakesh also has a small but growing collection of scars, the product of an exciting and event-filled life as a werewolf. The most severe of these are three parallel lines on the left side of his ribs, just above his ribs, where those ribs were pushed out through the skin following Rakesh's being rammed by a Spirit-claimed dump truck. His right shoulder also has the slender slash marks of a certain scarecrow's faerie scythe.

Rakesh has some fairly elaborate blue woad tattoos on his arms, aranged like a celtic knot except with somewhat more esoteric windings. On his neck he has a more delicate assortment of knots and concentric rings, in small, pale-brown lines that stand out against his darker skin.

Clothing Notes: Rakesh tends to dress in conservative but tough clothing, as befits his job with the National Trust. Khaki pants, a plaid woolen shirt, and a tweed jacket. He's recently taken to wearing a long greatcoat made out of wolfskin, which has the advantage of being borderline indestructible.

Prior to the First Change, Rakesh also tended to have vision problems that needed glasses (specifically, he was near-sighted enough to not be able to read a blackboard from the other side of the room). Since becoming an Uratha, this hasn't been quite as major an issue largely due to the fact that a wolf's excellent sense of smell more than makes up for his bad eyes. In any case, Rakesh still wears glasses most of the time, which unfortunately tend to have a very short lifespan.

Accessories: Rakesh has a large number of trinkets, jewelry, and miscellaneous 'stuff' that he carries around. As an Ithaeur and spirit-shaman, these are his stock in trade. When dealing with mortals, he tends to stuff these things under his shirt or into his pockets so as not to unnerve the mundanes. When dealing with supernaturals, on the contrary, Rakesh brings them into view as status symbols.
--A finger-length carving of a salmon, twisting as though it were leaping into the air, made of whalebone. It is carefully scrimshawed so that the fish looks almost alive, and is worn on a golden chain around Rakesh's neck. [Salmon Charm]
--An oval of red jasper, about a half-inch long, in a tiny, polished stainless-steel setting and worn like an amulet, next to the salmon charm. [Protective Charm -- Defense]
--A Jackal's Horn, a conical sliver of bone, a bit like a horn, a half inch long, considered a magic charm in Southeast Asia. Rakesh wears his on a cord around his wrist. [Protective Charm -- 9-Again]
--The skull of an adult male rat, worn on a leather cord around his neck. [Protective Charm -- Initiative]

Miscellaneous: Rakesh tends to put nothing in his pockets, not even his keys, but instead prefers to carry around a brown leather portfolio complete with maps, documents, keys, a swiss army knife, (and in a false bottom), his wallet. It's made of pre-stressed leather, is ugly and weatherbeaten, but is also well-nigh indestructible, given that Rakesh has had to shove it under rocks, tossed it under fences, dropped it in the Thames, and on one notable occasion, had to take it back from the Shadow after a magpie spirit took a liking to it. The curious aspect of this portfolio is that it is rather larger on the inside than on the outside, and has been known to contain things such as old Scottish claymores, stereo systems, and folding bicycles.

Other Forms: Rakesh's canine forms are likewise scrawny and quite nearly skeletal, but are all joints and gristle, grey furred-nightmares out of some forgotten myth. When amongst other Forsaken, Rakesh commonly braids black chains through his fur.

Rank 3
Mental 7; Physical 1; Social 1
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Master Occultist
Banes: Chaos Mage, Disruption (Silver)

Lisa Richardson

Type: Spirit-Claimed
Affiliation: Guardians of the Veil
Cabal: The Mortlake Division
Claimed: 2003
Apparent Age: Early 20s

Virtue: Pragmatic
Vice: Curious

Background: Lisa was smart. Really smart. Maybe even a genius. She went through college at a very early age, driven by her mother, and came out of it with a PhD in computer science. Her thoughts were always very organized — at least to her. Every person gets an associated color, which connects her to her thoughts on the person and allows her to put her acquaintances into groups. The rest of her life was a lot like that. She went to Dr. Melissa Westly for help, for OCD, for depression, for schizoid-personality-disorder, mild agoraphobia...

When 01 addressed her through her computer late at night, she almost thought she was going even crazier (an event not unanticipated). Passing the Turing test only made her think it was a trick, but the entity proved itself real to her. Communicating with her with her modem disabled proved something, and she was curious enough to want to know what. 01 could show her, it promised, if she would just let it in. Lisa's not sure how, but she did.

Lisa slowly grew… more. She was always very smart, able to keep in mind and analyze large quantities of data at one time. Her limits vanished almost overnight. She felt like she was becoming smarter and faster all the time. Her perceptions sharpened to the point where she almost never missed anything — anything that went on in her environs, she recognized, analyzed and catalogued. Moreover, Lisa found that she could do nearly anything with computers. She had always made them dance, but now they did things she didn’t think they were supposed to be able to do. But she would find ways. Best of all, her mental handicaps disappeared. It was as though her brain was suddenly cleared and expanded at the same time. Paradise.

Now, Lisa doesn’t talk to 01 anymore. It’s in her head. She figured that 01 was the construct of an experimental supercomputer AI that somehow found a way to leap from her screen into her head. Then the werewolf and the mage informed her that 01 was a spirit who'd merged with her mind. Lisa didn't mind at all. It’s what she always was, but better and more efficient. And now she's not crazy. Or at least, not in the ways she used to be.

Wherever she lives, Lisa tends to create a den. She has food brought to her door and never willingly leaves her quarters, instead letting her mind wander the digital world. She splits her time between working on projects like that, connecting with computers across the world just to see what’s on them and building her own computer (with mail-ordered parts, naturally).
She’s thinking of making it trinary.

Before the change, Lisa looked like your average, everyday 20-something-year-old Afro-Caribbean PhD computer geek. Maybe she was pretty, but it was hard to see because she never did anything to show it off. After the change, even the possibility of pretty disappeared. Her skin darkened to the “desktop black” of popular computers. Her eyes are flat, gray light-sensitive apparatus. Fingernails and hair became silvery silicon. She now moves with a fluid grace, the most energy efficient method of transport she can devise, and her voice is almost monotone.

Rank 2
Mental 8; Physical 1; Social 0
Willpower: 1
Synthesis: 3
Notable Powers: Technology & Computing

"Smiley" Reid
Olivia Reid

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Temple Guard
Tribe: Storm Lords.
Lodge: The Lodge of Crows
Auspice: Elodoth
Born: 1976

Virtue: Patient
Vice: Deceitful

Background: As the Alpha of a Pack known for shadowy activities, it is only fitting that not much of Ms. Reid’s history is known. Anyone investigating can find out that she attended Glasgow Caledonian University in order to study Archaeology. After achieving a 1st with honours, Olivia moved to London to pursue her PhD in the subject. It was at this point she hooked up with the Temple Guard. Six months later, half the Pack was dead.

Nobody knows how everything came about, but the circumstances are generally known. One Pack member was killed in a match with another Uratha he had a grudge against. Four months later, two were slain while investigating rumours of treasure abandoned in the sewers; they were eaten by Beshilu. And the last simply was spotted in the river Thames, as though she had fallen in and drowned - the case was ruled as a suicide.

How much does this have to do with Olivia? Nobody is sure. The Alpha took to her quickly, for she was clever and resourceful. The old man soon declared that he was training her as his successor. But she was no assassin - her tasks were information gathering assignments, using secrets against others. Aside from her and the Alpha, only the true Pack assassin remained alive… but not for long. His lover was killed in a fire, and he took his own life with a fact acting poison.

Perhaps all this was coincidental. Perhaps not. Both Olivia and the previous Alpha are the subject of theories, but nobody has proof. Olivia only makes a more attractive target because nobody knows her history - they say that the Alpha was training her long before she ever joined the Pack. Some even say the worked together to execute their own, but most don’t believe this - why kill their own people?

Regardless, it was their job to re-build the Pack. The Alpha declared his retirement, leaving Olivia the sole Pack member. But she was a clever woman, with wealth and secrets left to her by her mentor - she soon started to recruit, starting with two werewolf siblings dabbling in minor-league crimes and elevating them. All of the members of her Pack owe her something, and she maintains an iron hold over all of them. She has also secured continual access to the Temple Church as an archaeological site. All of the Pack have fake credentials with which to gain access at any time.

And the ex-Alpha? He disappeared, too. Only he has never been found.

Olivia is not the kind of woman one might picture as a Pack Alpha. Quiet and relatively unassuming, she is quick with a smile and faster with her wit. To those outside her social circle, she leaves a bland impression of niceness.

Those who do know her, however, have seen the iron core of determination at her centre. Olivia is a woman who knows what she wants, and who to send to get it. She rarely dirties her hands herself - instead she chooses a weapon from her arsenal and makes a surgical strike. This might be as simple as dropping the right clue in the hands of someone investigating, or as involved as sending one of her wolves out for blood. She has no qualms about using any method to obtain her goals. And if somebody she sends out never returns? Well, there are plenty more werewolves who would jump at the chance to join her.

This isn’t to say she is cruel or uncaring. If given the chance, she will do what she can to protect her packmates - just not at her expense. Despite this, her Pack is loyal - she is fair, generous with praise and rewards, and never intentionally sends someone on a mission they can’t handle. Since she only recruits capable werewolves, most in the Pack have little to fear.

[spoiler="Appearance"]Eye Color: Green.
Hair Color: Brown.
Skin Tone/Complexion: Fair.
Hair Style: She has never done anything more complex than a ponytail.

Figure Notes: Olivia might have a nice figure. Its hard to tell - she doesn’t dress to her full advantage, choosing oversized clothing that hangs shapelessly and nullifies whatever advantage she might have.

Clothing Notes: She chooses fairly plain fair, earthy colours that she thinks matches her hair colour. With the right clothing, she could look quite nice… but she doesn’t know that the right clothing is. [/spoiler.]

Rank 3
Mental 5; Physical 2; Social 5
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Information Gathering
Banes: Wolfsbane, Disruption (Quicksilver)

[spoiler="Shadow Cipher (Pack Totem)"]Shadow Cipher

This totem appears as a piece of paper with writing on it. The writing is a code; Shadow Cipher communicates by changing this code. The Temple Guard must solve it.

Ban: Each Pack member must offer up a significant secret to the spirit once per season (for significant read: potentially life changing for someone, such as evidence of embezzlement or adultery). The spirit then erases this secret from the werewolf's mind. If the werewolf does not provide a secret, the spirit will take a secret of its liking instead.


Leslie Titching

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Temple Guard
Tribe: Storm Lord
Auspice: Irraka
Born: 1978

[spoiler="Oleander and his ex-girlfriend Lauren"]


Virtue: Trusting (primarily around women)
Vice: Stubborn (also primarily around women)
Long-Term Aspiration: To have a non-screwed-up family

Background: In 77 AD. Pliny the Elder described oleander as "an evergreen, bearing a strong resemblance to the rose-tree, and throwing out numerous branches from the stem; to beasts of burden, goats, and sheep it is poisonous, but for man it is an antidote against the venom of serpents." Pliny may have been one of the foremost naturalists of the ancient world, but he was woefully mistaken about oleander. The flowering shrub, with its red, pink, yellow, or white blossoms is among the most toxic in the world. For centuries, it has been used in murders and factored in accidental deaths. They called it the 'be-still' tree.

That Leslie Titching chose the oleander for his deed-name would be considered suggestive of certain things about the man. He came from humble roots, one of four half-siblings in the Council Estates of Tottenham, raised by his mother and a seemingly-endless succession of her boyfriends. He dropped out of school, working for a local florist for a time. One brother in and out of jail, one sister constantly on the latest drugs, Leslie kept things together as he grew up and his mother slid into alcohol-forced dementia. He did some things he wasn't too proud of, but when one's a broke kid in the Estates, one doesn't have all that many options.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, for Leslie, one of his mother's fly-by-night boyfriends had been a werewolf, and after a late night drug-deal gone very, very, wrong, Leslie changed beneath the black sky of the New Moon. There was blood on the streets of the East End that night, and little of it was Leslie's.

The next few nights were a haze of paranoid terror. It seemed an open question as to whether the Met would find Leslie first, or the friends of his victims did. But Leslie was just temperamentally unsuited for terror. He started moving, quietly, carefully, to cover things up. There was some acting involved, and a lot of lying, and a couple of other 'attacks' on gangland figures whom Leslie knew. He was pulling it off quite well, until a woman met him one day in a park and flashed him a sharp-toothed grin. Leslie, she asked, would you like to go professional?

And so he did. They call him Oleander now, after a hit-job that led him to poison another werewolf, a dangerous old monster out in Manchester, with a truly massive quality of oleander. There's always people that need someone dead, or something sensitive handled, and Oleander knew how to keep his mouth shut and keep their secrets. He's seen a lot of things nowadays, some of them utterly freakish, others merely horrible, but Oleander keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open. He's smarter than most bruisers, but he plays dumb, and it works.

In his private life, he's a control-freak. Powerless in youth, he has to control what there is around him. He's a health-nut, being exquisitely aware of all the things that poison can do, and he's a physically powerful man, with a gym-rat's hard-muscled body. For most of his life, he was a notorious womanizer, though that faded when he met Lauren Darrow. He actually loved her, he really did, and put up with things he wouldn't have from most other people. But some things just don't seem destined to work out. Things came to a head in 2009, [Heartless], and when the fallout was over, Lauren and Oleander were apart for good, and Oleander settled down with Rebecca Lee, the fetch, and with a crisis of conscience.

Thing is, Oleander had always been violent. His First Change had lost people their lives, and though his iron self-control kept that from happening again, he had always been someone for whom the lives of strangers never really meant much. People died all the time in the Estates, the important part was keeping you and yours safe -- it was a mindset that shifted to the pack-and-herd dichotomy of the werewolf mindset with great ease. Other people didn't much matter. So Oleander was an assassin... except the event in Highgate Cemetery has prompted him to re-examine what he did. He saw himself from the outside, and he didn't like what he saw.

Of course, it was one thing to realize this, and another to do something about it. Since then, Oleander's been trying uneasily to find some sort of moral foundation. He's hardly turned into a pacifist since Highgate, and when one's entire Pack and a good chunk of the supernatural population knows you as a killer and expects you to stay a killer... turning that around is hard. Mostly, Oleander's become pickier about his targets and much more careful about his collateral damage, realizing that the people he's killed have had lives and families and loved ones too. Some people still need killing, though -- monsters both mortal and supernatural. Of that Oleander has no doubt, and again, it isn't as though retirement is possible.

Finding a moral ground between psychopath and pacifist is surprisingly difficult, Ollie's finding.
Tribe: Storm Lords
Auspice: Irraka

Mental Attributes: Intelligence 3, Wits 4 (+1/+2 Perception), Resolve 3
Physical Attributes: Strength
4+Red in Tooth and Claw
5 (6), Dexterity
4+Beast in the Woods
7 (9), Stamina 4
Social Attributes: Presence 4, Manipulation 2, Composure 3

Mental Skills: Investigation 3, Occult 1, Medicine (Poison) 2, Politics 3
Physical Skills: Athletics 4 (+4/+10 on Jumping), Brawl (Chain x2, Grapple x2)
6, Larceny 3, Stealth (Ambush)
6, Survival (Tracking) 3
Social Skills: Empathy 2, Intimidation (Quell the Crowd) 2, Streetwise 3, Subterfuge 4

Merits: Allies (Criminal)
Tong+Temple Guard
3, Resources
4, Status (
Well-Paid, Influence (Criminal)
Tong) 2, Status (
Influence (Criminal), Where the Bodies are Buried
Temple Guard) 2, Striking Looks (Gym Rat) 1
Combat Merits: Choke Hold 2, Fast Reflexes 1, Fighting Finesse (Grapple) 2, Fighting Style (Grappling) 1, Quick-Draw (Chain) 1, Shiv (Chain) 2
Lair: Suburban House

Willpower: 6
Harmony: 4
Universal Banes: Silver, Aura of Menace, Death Rage
Personal Banes: Chronological Trigger -- Wolf (New Moon)

Initiative: 12 (15)
Defense: 4 (9)
Health: 8
Size 5
Speed: 17 (20) (x2/x4 on all fours)

Primal Urge: 5
Auspice Boon: Closer Than You Think
Aspects: Red in Tooth and Claw ●●, The Beast in the Woods ●●●●●, Blood on the Wind ●●
Renown: Cunning, Honor
Trickster's Cunning: Skin Thief (Cunning), Divide and Conquer (Cunning), Fog of War (Cunning), Deny Everything (Cunning), Exit Strategy (Cunning)
Pure Hunt: Tireless Hunter (Purity)
Insight: Prey on Weakness (Cunning)
Shaping: Shutdown (Cunning)
Stealth: Feet of Mist (Cunning), Backstab (Glory), Pack Stalks the Prey (Honor), Running Silent (Purity), Slip Away (Wisdom)
Essence: 15/5
Totem Boons: Tongues
Broken Hearts
Type: Vow
[Ollie] - Lesser Alliance (-0), Medial Forbiddance; Reveal what happened at Highgate Cemetery (-2)
[Oleander] – Adroitness: Stealth, Brawl (+2)
Sanction: Lesser Curse (-1), Flaw: Nightmares (-2)
Duration: Decade (+3)
[Exceptions] The pledge is not broken and the curse is not triggered if a clause is broken or unfulfilled for any of the following reasons:
-Refusal to betray another friend or ally.
-Either party is rendered physically or mentally incapable of fulfilling the pledge, either by external or internal conditions.
-Either party is forced to break the pledge by supernatural means or mind control.
-Either party was unaware their course of action or inaction would violate the pledge.
-Either party breaks the vow of secrecy in the context of the confessional or medical/psychiatric treatment
Broken Hearts

Attacks.............................Damage.....Dice Pool.....Special
Punch (Human)........................0B/0L.............11...........Backstab (+5), Retractable Claws
Chain (Human).........................2L..................15..........Backstab (+5)
Grapple w/Chain (Human)..……..2L…...…………18..…………Backstab (+5)
Grapple (Wolf).......…….............N/A……......…..18……....……Backstab (+5), afterwards 3L Bite
Bite (Wolf)................................3L..................15.............Backstab (+5)

Lucy Carpenter
"Quiet as Thunder"

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Temple Guard
Tribe: Storm Lords
Auspice: Irraka
Gain 9-again on Stealth and Streetwise rolls; cannot keep any property that another pack member could put to better use
Luzak, the Thief
Born: 1983


Virtue: Loving
Vice: Short-Tempered

Background: Lucy and her twin brother, Lewis, were orphaned as children after their mother died of an overdose. Even their mother did not know who the father was, so the two of them were placed in an orphanage. The two of them were adopted when they were four by a couple who had been unable to conceive on their own.

Lewis was able to remember his birth mother, thanks to his impressive memory. He thought nothing of telling other kids at school, but he and his sister were bullied because of it. Lucy’s fierce nature meant that she fought back with insults, but Lewis took it badly and became very quiet and shy, developing a stutter. She and her brother had few friends at school.

Their home life was good, however, as their adoptive parents cared a great deal about them. Unfortunately, when Lewis and Lucy were fifteen tragedy struck again; their parents were killed in a car crash. Rather than go back into the system, they ran away together.

Living on the streets wasn’t easy, but they survived. Lucy was a skilled thief and soon they realised they could turn their individual talents to good use; by going after bigger jobs. Lewis was a dab hand with computers, so they stole one and set themselves up in a small apartment. Then Lewis would penetrate and disable security systems while Lucy snuck into various places and stole things. The pair were excellent at this. When they had their first change, Lucy’s skills as a thief were further enhanced by her Gifts.

They made a good living for themselves, good enough to move into a nice little flat in a decent area of London. To this day, they aren’t certain how Olivia discovered who they were or where they lived. However, she did, and she extended an invitation to the Temple Guard to them. They accepted, and neither has ever regretted joining the Pack.

Now with a taste of real stability, Lucy established herself as a high end professional thief for hire. She is very good at her work, thanks to her skills and Gifts. Her work tends to be spread out, so she found herself a social life; a few girlfriends, though few serious. Engaging in hobbies with friends. Having a good time. Lewis still helps Lucy with her work as a thief, but only occasionally; she doesn’t need his help a much anymore.

Lucy is a very feisty young woman. She is quick to give her opinion, to criticise and to suggest alternatives. Unlike her brother, she is very outspoken. She doesn’t hesitate to speak, and her criticisms are brutal in their honesty. Yet she is always fair with them, if a little blunt. She loves her work; successfully stealing is a thrill for her, the bigger the job the better. She loves nothing more that a difficult job, and the adrenaline rush means she usually calls a friend with benefits right after. She is very in touch with her wolf side; she likes to hunt, to camp, to get back to nature.

[spoiler=Appearance]Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brown
Skin Tone/Complexion: Fair and unblemished.
Hair Style: Long and straight, usually tied back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face.

Figure Notes: Lucy is very lean; she works out hard to keep up her strength and dexterity.

Clothing Notes: Simple fare, always with darker colours.

Accessories: --

Other: --.[/spoiler.]

Rank 2
Mental 2; Physical 4; Social 3
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Burglary
Banes: Hated by Beasts

Lewis Carpenter
"Ace of Cables"

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Temple Guard
Tribe: Iron Masters.
Lodge: The Lodge of Wires
Auspice: Ithaeur
Born: 1983

Virtue: Confident
Vice: Corrupt

Background: Lewis and his twin sister, Lucy, were orphaned as children after their mother died of an overdose. Even their mother did not know who the father was, so the two of them were placed in an orphanage. The two of them were adopted when they were four by a couple who had been unable to conceive on their own.

Lewis was able to remember his birth mother, thanks to his impressive memory. He thought nothing of telling other kids at school, but he and his sister were bullied because of it. Lucy’s fierce nature meant that she fought back with insults, but Lewis took it badly and became very quiet and shy, developing a stutter. He and his sister had few friends at school.

Their home life was good, however, as their adoptive parents cared a great deal about them. Unfortunately, when Lewis and Lucy were fifteen tragedy struck again; their parents were killed in a car crash. Rather than go back into the system, they ran away together.

Living on the streets wasn’t easy, but they survived. Lucy was a skilled thief and soon they realised they could turn their individual talents to good use; by going after bigger jobs. Lewis was a dab hand with computers, so they stole one and set themselves up in a small apartment. Then Lewis would penetrate and disable security systems while Lucy snuck into various places and stole things. The pair were excellent at this. When they had their first change, Lucy’s skills as a thief were further enhanced by her Gifts.

They made a good living for themselves, good enough to move into a nice little flat in a decent area of London. To this day, they aren’t certain how Olivia discovered who they were or where they lived. However, she did, and she extended an invitation to the Temple Guard to them. They accepted, and neither has ever regretted joining the Pack.

Now with a taste of real stability, Lewis decided to go after an education. He obtained a degree in artificial intelligence and joined the research staff at his university. He still helps Lucy with her work as a thief, but only occasionally; she doesn’t need his help a much anymore.

Quiet and shy, Lewis must be prodded into giving his opinion on something. He is insightful, clever and polite - nobody would guess that he has (and sometimes still is) involved in criminal activities. He has absolutely no desire to engage in violence of any kind. If possible, he always stays at home and acts as tech support. He is unfailingly loyal to the Temple Guard; only his sister means more to him. Lewis is not very in touch with his wolf side - in fact, he is remarkably out of touch with it.

[spoiler=Appearance]Eye Color: Blue.
Hair Color: Brown.
Skin Tone/Complexion: Fair, with occasional break-outs of acne.
Hair Style: Short and easy maintenance.

Figure Notes: Lewis is a little on the overweight side.

Clothing Notes: Anything simple. He doesn’t give much of a damn about his appearance so he often ends up wearing clashing colours or things that don’t go together. [/spoiler.]

Rank: 2
Mental 4; Physical 3; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 2
Notable Powers: Computers
Banes: Hated by Beasts

Alice Pleasant

Type: Werewolf
Affiliation: Freehold of New Jerusalem
Court: Summer
Entitlements: Crimson Paladin, Knight of the Rose
Auspice: Pure
Tribe: Fire-Touched
Born: 1979

Virtue: Courageous
Vice: Violent
Long-Term Aspiration: To achieve inner peace

Formerly a Fire-Touched Paladin, and leader of the small ex-Pure pack known as Revelation. Cinder is a calm, focused individual who can seem easily distracted or careless at times. Young for a paladin, she acquired her position by means of prophecy and interpersonal skill, and so is much more a leader than a fighter. At the same time, she is also extremely comfortable in her wolf form, which can make her an unexpected foe.

Cinder currently claims a locus in Green Park, acquired with the help of spells cast by J. Ilkin Aylesworth. She also has some extremely tenuous and uncertain relations with Othello, her father.

Originally Posted by Cinder talking to J.T. Underwood
"I was born in '79. My parents were supposed to be Thomas and Phoebe Pleasant. But they weren't. My mother met a man, a strange young man who said beautiful words, and who knew magic. Who was magic. His name was Felix March. Now his name is Othello. One is as real as another, I think. My mother loved him. She never stopped loving him. After the divorce, she had a picture of him framed on her night-stand."

Cinder shifted and reached into her jeans pocket, and took out a faded, much-folded photograph. Despite the poor quality, it showed a whimsical young man, dusky-skinned and dark haired, with green eyes. He wasn't necessarily handsome, but he looked like fun, with his outsized bowtie and his outsized grin, and laughing, bright eyes.

"I took after my mother completely when I was born." Cinder said, shrugging. "I don't know why. I'm not sure how she knew I was his. Magic, I suppose. Or maybe he told her. I don't know. She'd talk about it later, you see. When she was alone, and thought I was asleep or not paying attention. But Felix took me when I was just born, and he gave me my Curse. Then he left."

"When I changed... it was some stupid argument with my mother. My stepfather had long since left. I think he knew, in the end, I wasn't his." Cinder sighed. "I Changed, and I was a monster... I have her blood in my throat."
[spoiler=Appearance]Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Dark red
Skin Tone/Complexion: Medium-brown, with freckles (about 25 on the Von Luschan)
Hair Style: Long, very unruly
Height: 6'1''

Figure Notes: Tall. Muscular. Terrifying. All of these words can be safely applied to the Fire-Touched paladin known as Cinder. Physically, Cinder is a large woman, large and powerful. She's an inch over six feet in height, her body covered in the kind of hard, flat muscle that comes of doing a great deal of running. Cinder has particularly long legs, well-developed and muscular, and she takes a bit of girlish vanity in them.

Dark-skinned and freckled, Cinder would've been described as fiery even before the Change, with luxurious, if unmanageable hair. She looked nice, with a snub nose and open, honest blue eyes. Even now, she has a bit of that tomboy-next-door' look to her, but it's smashed to bits by her most notable feature. The entire left part of Cinder's upper body is covered in burn scars. They begin at her left forearm, move on up to take her shoulder and and end with most of the left side of her face covered in red welts. She sometimes uses her hair to try and keep her scars hidden, but by and by large, Cinder doesn't bother.

Clothing Notes: Cinder dresses casually, unobtrusively if at all possible. Jeans and t-shirts to start off with. Cinder has thin blood and feels the cold easily, and so she prefers to dress up with coats, sweaters, or anoraks. Most of her clothing is second-hand or stolen, but Cinder does her best to keep it clean.

The one exception is an outfit gifted to her by Erin Lamothe, which consists of a sleek sleeveless black top, a pair of jeans, various undergarments, and jewelry. The jewelry looked more like heavy weaponry, to be honest, with metal chains and a steel necklace that could bludgeon a cow to death. Still, sometimes even six-foot-odd scarred werewolves want to look pretty. These are usually kept in a locker in the Cat's Cradle.

Accessories: Cinder's almost never bothers to accessorize, with the exception of the steel chains and necklaces she has from Erin.

Other: Cinder's wolf-form is big and russet-furred, with a rounded muzzle and somewhat uneven fur. Cinder's scars carry over to her wolf forms, and they cause the fur to grow in clumps and patches, making her look sick and unhealthy.[/spoiler.]
Tribe Fire-Touched (Rogue)
Auspice Pure

Mental Attributes: Intelligence 2, Wits 3, Resolve 4
Physical Attributes: Strength
5+Red in Tooth and Claw
8 (10), Dexterity 4, Stamina
5+Unstoppable Beast
8 (10)
Social Attributes: Presence
5+Forest Queen
7, Manipulation 1, Composure 2

Mental Skills: Crafts 1, Occult 3
Physical Skills: Athletics 4, Brawl (Bite x2) 6, Stealth 1, Survival (Urban) 5
Social Skills: Animal Ken 1, Empathy 3, Expression 3, Intimidation (Howl) 5 (+2), Persuasion (Making a Deal +2) 0, Streetwise 1, Subterfuge 1

Merits: Allies (Medical)
3, Destiny (Bane: Her Father) 5, Fast Reflexes 3, Hunting Ground (Green Park) 4, Indomitable 2, Language (First Tongue) 1, Mantle (Summer) 3, Status (
Well-Fed, Support Group, Glamorous, Influence (Medical)
Freehold) 3, Striking Looks (Amazon) 1
Lair: The Green Park Tree

Willpower: 6
Harmony: 8; +2 Support Group
Universal Banes: Silver, Aura of Menace, Death Rage
Personal Banes: Silver Allergen, Chronological Trigger -- Wolf (Crescent Moon)

Initiative: 8
Defense: 3
Armor: 2/1 (5/3)
Mind Shield: 4 (Indomitable+Forest Queen)
Health: 14 (17); 4B Regeneration
Size 6 (7)
Speed: 12 (14)

Primal Urge: 6
Entitlement Powers: Awe and Terror (Crimson Paladin); Valiant Heart (Knight of the Rose)
Pure Boon: Faithful
Aspects: Red in Tooth and Claw ●●●●●, Unstoppable Brute ●●●●●, Forest-Queen ●●
Renown: Purity, Wisdom
Honored Oath: Honest Oath (Honor)
Glorious Epic: Thousand-Throat Howl (Glory)
Pure Hunt: Lore of the Land (Purity), Tireless Hunter (Purity)
Elements: Tongue of Flame (Purity)
Rituals: ●
1st: Call Spirit, Twilight Eyes
Essence: 20/6; +8 Starting (Hunting Ground 5 + Well-Fed 3)

Attacks..............................Damage.....Dice Pool.....Special
Retractable Claws (Human)..... 1L..................15...........
Bite (Wolf)............................. 5A..................23...........
Claws (Wolf)............................3A..................19...........

Gabriel Law

Type: Werewolf.
Pack: The Thunderpaws
Tribe: Bone Shadows.
Auspice: Cahalith
Born: 1955

Virtue: Hopeful
Vice: Lazy

Background: Gabriel Law started out as baker, but now owns a small chain ("Have Your Cake") in London and the surrounding areas. Undergoing his First Change back in the late seventies, Gabriel ran with another pack known as the Thunder's Hope, up until the early eighties, when they were mostly slaughtered by an Azlu the size of a minibus. The Spider-Host cut his throat, but he survived. Only one other of the Hopes survived, the one who finished the Azlu off before they could start devouring the dead Pack members. Gabriel wanted to start a new Pack with ______, but recriminations over just who had done what in the lead-up to the disaster prevented this idea from ever getting off the ground.

It was this near-death experience that sent Gabriel into the Bone Shadows, and into the particular mysticism that they espoused. He learned an ever-increasing amount of spirit-lore, and after bouncing about as a member of a few other packs and as a lone wolf, in time created his own pack, the Thunderpaws with his Beta and (eventual) wife, Tiffany Llewellyn-Pritchard. He is by nature a fairly even-tempered, if sometimes irritable man, but the Azlu bring out a ruthless, vicious side of his personality, one that has caused trouble within the Thunderpaws.

Calm and level-headed, Gabriel has attained a position of leadership in the Forsaken society on the back of his age, experience, and diplomatic demeanor. Gabriel is skilled at conciliation and compromise, and it is largely due to him that the packs of London even occasionally work together. His bakeries and temporal wealth make him a useful man to know as well, and Gabriel leverages this for all it is worth when dealing with Uratha and spirits alike. Having lost his previous pack, however, Gabriel has a tendency towards over-protectiveness, and perhaps overindulgence, with his own pack.

[spoiler=Appearance]Age: Fifty.
Eye Color: Brown.
Hair Color: Black.
Skin Tone/Complexion: Fair/ruddy.
Hair Style: Receding hair line, usually combed back.

Figure Notes: Tall and once very imposing, but now slightly hunched due to back problems. Scar across the neck that only just missed the carotid artery. Has other scars, of course, as is usual for such an old werewolf, but none with any particularly significant stories attached.

Clothing Notes: Generally anything comfortable. Jeans and t-shirts, leather jacket and trainers. Colours tend towards the darker, with occasionally splashes of red or bright blue.[/spoiler.]

Rank: 3
Mental 4; Physical 3; Social 5
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Diplomacy
Banes: Chronological Trigger - Wolf (Crescent Moon), Paw Prints

[spoiler=Rolling Thunder (Pack Totem)]Rolling Thunder

Ban: Once a fortnight, the Pack must engage in a group hunt with all kills dedicated to Rolling Thunder. At least one kill must be made on this hunt. All Pack members must attend.[/spoiler.]

Tiffany Llewellyn-Pritchard

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Thunderpaws
Tribe: Iron Master
Auspice: Elodoth.
Born: 1965


Virtue: Peaceful
Vice: Indecisive (Over-Thoughtful)

Background: Tiffany Pritchard was a successful trainee therapist in Swansea when she went through the First Change, fresh out of the university. Rather than fall apart, she pulled things together by force of will and a paranoid fear of losing control. Offered a position helping Armed Forces members, Tiffany spent several years travelling to different British and American military bases during the early 1990s, and was very peripherally involved in the first Gulf War. She married a Welsh soldier, Dai Llewellyn, in 1991, though she never told him the truth of what she was. On military bases, never staying in one spot for too long, it was possible to stay isolated from the world of the Forsaken. But not from life completely. Tiffany was transformed, running through a forest in Bosnia, the same night in 1994 when Dai died in a botched operation, murdered by Serbian paramilitaries.

After that, travelling the world for Queen and Country rather palled. Tiffany accepted a transfer offered by a sympathetic superior and settled at London. She she continues to work with the Ministry of Defense to this day, providing mental health services to veterans, though she also has a small private practice primarily for other supernaturals.

She encountered Gabriel on a run in the city; recognising one another as werewolves, they got to talking. Tiffany was new and looking for a Pack, Gabriel had lost his own pack almost fifteen years ago and had bounced around between other packs, never truly accepted. They decided to start a new pack together, and set up 72 Zealand Road as their new pack home. One thing led to another, and a few years afterwards they were married, though Tiffany kept her Dai's name, for both personal and professional reasons.

Tiffany is the second-in-command of the Thunderpaws, and functions as the pack's ambassador. Anyone who wants to see Gabriel goes through her first. Before his exile, Tiffany had been training Michael as her successor in the role - unofficially, having taken Michael under her wing.

Kind and considerate, Tiffany is what you might expect of a counsellor - she is always thinking of others, taking their thoughts and feelings into consideration. She looks after the Pack’s mental well-being, solving disputes and smoothing ruffled feathers. She is also good for insights into the behaviour of others. She can be over-analytical and over-cautious at times, taking too much time considering every possibility rather than taking action when it is required. Like Gabriel, she'd been hurt before, and the possibility of losing her loved ones again is just too much to bear.

Tiffany's most notable trait is that she is an extremely good listener, and she tends to keep her ear to the ground. If there is something that affects the werewolf community of London, chances are good that Tiffany will be one of the very first to hear it.

[spoiler=Appearance]Eye Color: Green.
Hair Color: Black.
Skin Tone/Complexion: Lightly tanned.
Hair Style: Shoulder length; usually tied back or put up.

Figure Notes: She straddles the line between athletic and womanly, trying to keep herself at peak physical fitness but preferring the hourglass shape for a woman’s body. As a result she is somewhere between the two, with light curves and some muscle tone.

Clothing Notes: During business hours, she wears suits - a variety of pantsuits and skirt suits. Off work she keeps things simple and elegant, light pastel colours, not too revealing - reminding everyone that she is still a woman in her prime.[/spoiler.]

Rank: 3
Mental 5; Physical 3; Social 4
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Empathy
Banes: Repulsion (Marigolds), Wolfsbane

Jeremy Campbell

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Thunderpaws
Tribe: Iron Masters
Auspice: Irraka
Born: 1986



Virtue: Clever
Vice: Hasty
Long-Term Aspiration: To get Michael back into the Thunderpaws

Background: Growing up in Dublin, Jeremy fell in with the wrong crowd and got hooked on heroin. His parents were both drunks, abusive to each other and their son. Jeremy went through the First Change unnoticed, but it scared him - thinking he was losing his mind, he tried to quit. His dealer didn’t like the idea of losing a paying customer, so he threatened him. Making a break for it, Jeremy caught a boat to England and ended up in London, going through withdrawal and changing at random, unable to control it. He lived on the streets for a year, avoiding other werewolves and strung out half the time, until he ran into Gabriel.

Having experimented with drugs in his youth, Gabriel knew what it could do to a werewolf, so he took Jeremy and locked him up for a week to sober him out. With Tiffany and Phyllis’ help, Jeremy got clean - and thanks to the horrible experiences of erratic changes, he never wanted to go back. But he asked the Pack to watch him for signs he was slipping.

Living with Gabriel and Tiffany, Jeremy applied to and was accepted at a college to do animation, his big passion. His new interest in technology has also led him to join the Lodge of Wires after being aggressively pursued by some of the local lodge members, including the Ace of Cables.

Jeremy is a quiet young man. He is very opinionated, but rarely shares his opinions (or himself) without someone to draw him out. He is clever and creative, and a very fun person to be around when he has been drawn out of his shell. However it takes someone that he likes and trusts to do so, and there aren’t many people like that outside of the Thunderpaws. Jeremy is very slow to trust but once he does he is faithful for life.

[spoiler=Appearance]Eye Color: Green
Hair Color: Blond.
Skin Tone/Complexion: Fair.
Hair Style: Kept fairly short and messy, like he has constantly just gotten out of bed.

Figure Notes: Very thin and skinny, Jeremy looks like he might blow away in a light breeze. However, he is wiry and surprisingly strong considering how he looks.

Clothing Notes: Comfort above all - jeans and t-shirts. He doesn’t own much else. In terms of colour, he doesn’t have much preference, but he likes colourful things - so he avoids black and white in general.[/spoiler.]

Rank: 1
Mental 2; Physical 3; Social 1
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 1
Notable Powers: Reformed Street-Thief
Banes: Allergenic Trigger – Rage (Poppies)

Angela Citysmith
Angela Anderson, née Lang

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Tribe: Blood Talon
Auspice: Ithaeur
Born: 1969

Virtue: Determined
Vice: Arrogant
Long-Term Aspiration: To remake London

Background: Angela is a woman consumed by pride and ambition. Her goals are lofty, huge, all-encompassing. To most people they would seem too high to reach, like trying to catch stars. But Angela believes them possible – nothing is beyond her grasp. With the proper efforts, one can build cities.

It is Angela’s aim to reshape the spiritual landscape of London. It has long been known that it is possible to alter the spiritual character of a city with careful planning – by directing sunlight in the appropriate places at certain times, by absorbing lightning strikes during storms, by using the right materials. So it was done in Amarna and Heian-kyō, and it was along these lines that Sir Christopher Wren rebuilt London after the Great Fire. Werewolf ritualists routinely alter the resonance of city blocks or isolated woods.

But Angela's dreams are bigger than that – by far. By wedding modern design and ancient ritual, Angela believes it is possible to rework the very structure of the modern city. One can create ley lines and loci, nodes and power-centers. More than that, one can shape a city's resonance in such a way as to influence the mortal herd, instill emotions and habits of thought. With the right architecture and urban planning, Angela believes it possible to create a modern Garden of Eden.

Most werewolves and spirit dwellers that know of her goals think that Angela is naive at best, deranged at worst. Spiritual engineering on this sort of scale is theoretically possible -- Amarna and Heian-kyō proved it. But not for centuries. Not in a modern city of fourteen million souls. There are previous few outside her pack who believe it is remotely possible – and even within the pack there are doubts. Rather than be deterred by the logistical problems involved, Angela felt spurred on. The chance to prove her control and her mastery was... intoxicating. She made London her target because as the largest and most populous city in the United Kingdom, if it worked here, it would work anywhere.

To reach her ambition will require substantial skill, connections, resources, money and knowledge. An architecture student before she found an old alchemical text with a werewolf potion in a chest during an estate sale, Angela began by setting up a property development company, using seed money from her wealthy parents. She started small – local work, setting a standard and making a name for herself, networking with others in the property business. She quickly expanded her operations – both the scope of the work she took on and the area she covered. She secured valuable commissions, won awards for her work, and in 1995 married Theodore Anderson, the heir of the Anderson & Smithfield construction fortune. By the age of thirty-five Angela was one of the big names on the UK construction scene, a seemingly unstoppable property juggernaut with stock in several construction and architecture firms.

Simultaneously, Angela worked on raising her profile in the supernatural world as well. She ran with several packs briefly, charming them, learning all she could, and then moving on. By the late 1990s, she had the connections and resources to set up her own pack, the Architects of Steel. She bound a totem, the war-and-construction spirit Warbuilder, she headhunted quality Forsaken from other packs like Thomas Cushner, and she took her territory in the Isle of Dogs, not far from the headquarters of Anderson & Smithfield, in the Anderson Building she herself designed.

At the moment, Angela has a fair claim to being the most powerful werewolf in London. She's a workaholic, driven and incredibly ambitious. Angela's greatest weakness in her plans is that she isn't really a people person. Angela is a powerful, ambitious, intelligent, ruthless... and not very good at hiding these facts. She sees people as tools to accomplish her larger goals, and though she can maintain a veneer of predatory charm, no one who deals with her is under any delusion that she would shred them to pieces if it served her interests.

And make no mistake, she is ruthless. Citysmith may be best considered a cold, rational, self-interested fanatic. She is driven by a vision of a rebuilt London, a city of gleaming spires and silver factories, of crowds moving in perfect alignment and society proceeding like clockwork, a vision of a clean, precise, elegant city, sterile and beautiful. It is this vision that keeps Angela active, that pushes her forward into greatness and keeps her from resting on her laurels.

Angela lives with her family in a large, Neo-Victorian house in Highgate, which she herself designed. Her husband, Theodore Anderson, stays there as little as he can, avoiding a wife who increasingly frightens him in favor of alcoholism and a succession of mistresses. Angela also has a son, twelve-year-old Leon, a quiet, polite boy who has seen some terrifying things. He spends most of the year at one boarding school or another, and so Angela usually has her lair to herself.

Angela Citysmith is a tall woman of about 5'10'', muscular and physically powerful, with dark blonde hair worn long and amber eyes. In the boardroom, she is usually found wearing business suits tailored at Savile Row and holding snakeskin attache cases, on the streets she dons jeans and tanktops, but in all cases she moves as if her clothing was a second skin. She radiates confidence with every gesture, as if the very idea that Angela could be wrong never entered her mind. Her body is covered with sharp, blade-like tattoos, all spines and serrated wings. Her wolf form is a large, pale-furred beast, powerful and imposing.
Tribe: Blood Talon
Auspice: Ithaeur

Mental Attributes: Intelligence 6, Wits 5, Resolve 6
Physical Attributes: Strength
3+Red in Tooth and Claw
4 (4), Dexterity
3+The Beast in the Woods
4 (4), Stamina
3+Unstoppable Brute
4 (4)
Social Attributes: Presence
4+Forest Queen
8, Manipulation 5, Composure 4

Mental Skills:Academics 4, Crafts 2, Computer 1, Investigation 3, Occult (Megapolismancy) 5, Politics 4, Science (Architecture) 4
Physical Skills: Athletics 2 (+2 to Jumping), Brawl (Bite) 3
Social Skills: Empathy 2, Expression 2, Intimidation (Ritual Sorcery x2) 7 (+4), Persuasion (Making a Deal) 3, Streetwise (Exit Strategy) 3, Subterfuge (Deception) 6

Merits: Allies (Architecture & Construction) 5, Hunting Ground 5, Fast Reflexes 3, Indomitable 2, Resources
5, Status (
Well-Paid, Tithe
Architects of Steel) 3, Striking Looks (Amazon)
Forest Queen
1, Unshakable 4
Lair: The House on the Hill;
Security 3, Secrecy 3, Warding 3, enhanced by Megapolismancy
Security 5, Secrecy 5, Warding 5, Ritual Area (Ritual Sorcery) 3

Willpower: 10
Harmony: 2 (+2 Unshakable)
Universal Banes: Aura of Menace, Death Rage, Nimbus (Twisting black serpents over her skin)
Personal Banes: Tell (Amazon with Amber Eyes); Disruption (Wolfsbane)

Initiative: 11
Defense: 4
Armor: (1/0)
Mental Shield: 6 (Indomitable+Forest Queen)
Health: 9
Size: 5
Speed: 13 (x2 on all fours)

Primal Urge: 7
Auspice Boon: Ritemaster
Aspects: Red in Tooth and Claw ●, The Beast in the Woods ●, Unstoppable Brute ●, Forest Queen ●●●●
Renown: Glory, Wisdom
Trickster's Cunning: Deny Everything (Cunning), Exit Strategy (Cunning)
Glorious Epic: Voice of Glory (Glory)
Shadow's Wisdom: Shadow Gaze (Wisdom), Spirit Read (Wisdom), Mask of the Divine (Wisdom)
Elements: Heart of Water (Wisdom)
Insight: Prey on Weakness (Cunning), Read the World's Loom (Glory), One Step Ahead (Wisdom)
Pack: Pack Awareness (Purity)
Shaping: Shutdown (Cunning), Blessed Tool (Purity)
Rituals: ●●●●●
1st: Call Spirit, Twilight Eyes, Territory Marker, Master Key (M), Erecting the Cyclopean Walls (M), Tremors of the Crystal Web (M)
2nd: Control Spirit, Boundary Ward, Aura of the Monolith (M), Excise from the Numinous Lattice (M), Summons to Speak (M)
3rd: Bind Spirit, Jinx, Beneath the Eye of Fenris, Resonance, Eye of the Pyramid (M)
4th: Spiritual Glory, Construct Verge, Lock the Gilded Cage (M), Patient Sting of Diaphanous Steel (M), Eternal Sentinels of Stone (M)
5th: Veil, Metropolis of the Unified Diagram (M)
MegapolismancerCourtesy of her particular skills, Citysmith is able to cast Gilded Cage Rites as if they were Ritual Sorcery (including spending Essence instead of Willpower), though she does require the appropriate Ways and Means. Such Rites are marked with a (M).

Essence: 25/7; +2 Starting (Hunting Ground 5; Tithe -3)
Totem Boons: Megapolimantic Restructuring

Attacks................................Damage.....Dice Pool.....Special
Claw (Wolf)..................................0L............7..............
Bite (Wolf)...................................2L............10..............
Heart of Water (Water)............... 2B............ 20……….....Minus Defense
Heart of Water (Ice).....................4L..............22.............Minus Defense

SuffocationCitysmith's favorite trick in a fight against conventional foes is to force a tentacle of water down their throats. This a water attack, and is further penalized by the target's Stamina. Instead of doing regular damage, the victim starts to drown for the next (Successes) turns. This has two effects:
• The victim takes 1L damage per turn. This damage cannot be healed until the victim is able to breathe once more.
• The victim cannot speak, which may inhibit the use of certain supernatural powers.
Suffocation can be resolved early if the victim takes an Instant Action to vomit forth the water in their lungs. They are denied their Defense while doing so.

Thomas Cushner

Type: Werewolf
Pack: Architects of Steel.
Tribe: Bone Shadow
Auspice: Elodoth
Born: 1955

[spoiler=Thomas Cushner][/spoiler.]

Virtue: Peaceful
Vice: Treacherous

Background: Even as a child, Thomas was quiet and thoughtful. His brother and sister would run and play, shout, scream, make a nuisance of themselves. Thomas was so quiet that people often forgot he was there. He never caused trouble, and he hated conflict – his siblings fought each other often, his parents would tear into one another. It was left to Thomas to play the peacemaker, a role which he never grew to quite enjoy, but in which he got an awful lot of practice.

Upon finishing secondary school, Thomas still didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. He had brains enough to go to the university, but no direction – so he did what any confused young man would do. He enrolled in a philosophy course. Furthermore, he found that he enjoyed it. Human belief, he found, was interesting. Why did people think this? Why did people think that? What were the ramifications of belief, how did seemingly paradoxical ideas become resolved in the human psyche? It was a puzzle, and while Thomas was perfectly aware that it was one he was never going to actually solve, not completely, one could find out an awful lot about how the human mind worked. So, in 1977, Thomas finished with a combined degree in Philosophy and Comparative Religion, and went on to higher academia.

A man studying philosophy and religion finds an awful lot of dusty old books, and it was while a graduate student at the University of Exeter that Thomas found a few books that talked about physical manifestations of belief. These conceptual entities were everywhere, and they both changed and were changed by what humanity thought of them. Thomas didn't actually believe those books. But they were interesting, and so he read them, and he kept them in his tiny flat on extended loans from the library... and pretty soon he was starting to see glimpses of the spirit world. Thomas became a Wolf-Blood in 1980, and he went through the First Change on his thirtieth birthday in 1985. Somehow, those books didn't seem quite as quaint anymore.

Not to say that those books were entirely accurate. Spirits were shaped more by physical objects and by the effects those objects had on others, but belief did fall into that. Even so, Thomas was enthralled by the Shadow. It was so strange, so alien, and yet so almost-familiar. And so, Thomas talked to them. And talked to them. And talked to them. Thomas has perhaps better contacts with the spirit world than any other werewolf in London. He isn't necessarily the best ritualist or the most respected by the spirits, but Thomas has put shoe leather to the ground and simply talked to more of the local spirits for longer than anyone else.

In the meantime, Thomas lived his life. He got a job as a professor at the University of East London (which is... not exactly a plum position, but it keeps him fed and gives him time enough for werewolf things). He married. He had children. He joined a pack that operated in the East End, and stayed with them for some years.

Then along came Angela Citysmith, who in 1999 managed to headhunt Thomas for her new pack, the Architects of Steel. Thomas considered himself a good man, and he liked his old pack well enough, but when Angela offered a position as chief ritualist of the Architects and a pay raise for quite a lot of money and the chance to be part of the biggest spirit project London's seen in centuries? He said his goodbyes and he took the offer. Every man has his price, and Angela paid Thomas Cushner's.

The Architects paid for Thomas to go back to school, and now the werewolf has a shiny new degree in Urban Development to go along with his doctorate in philosophy. He still teaches a class each year at UEL, but most of the time he works as a consultant/contractor for Anderson & Smithfield, making sure that their buildings 'merge with the local environment,' which is a Masquerade-friendly way of saying he placates any upset local spirits. He still keeps up with his considerable networks of spirit-contacts, but now he does it on the company's dime.

Physically, Thomas is a black man in his fifties, though the life of a werewolf has kept him in excellent condition. He has a slender, tapered face with a neat goatee (he went through a phase when he tried his hand at soulful poetry, and since he met his wife that way he's kept the look even after he realized that poetry was not his skillset). He prefers nice but not overly formal clothes, usually a neatly pressed, buttoned-down shirt and slacks, and could almost be mistaken for a harmless accountant or clerk if not for the intense sensation of heat that follows him. In wolf form, his coat is surprisingly tawny, almost the color of a lion’s.

Ultimately, Thomas is a man of ideas. He's an extremely rigorous, logical thinker, which makes it a simple matter for him to understand the viewpoints of spirits. He has a profound understanding of beliefs and thought-processes and a deeply-irritating tendency to psychoanalyze those around him, though ever since Angela broke his wrist he's kept his analyses about the Architects to himself.

Nevertheless, Thomas puts a great deal of emphasis on getting along with people. He comes off as very laid-back and relaxed, always willing to talk things out with others, whether they're students, spirits, or rampaging werewolves. He's a peacable sort who doesn't make waves, which tends to conceal the fact that he is, to some extent, available to be had by the highest bidder. Right now, that's Angela, but if he ever got a better offer he'd drop her in a New York minute.

Rank: 3
Mental 6; Physical 4; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Spirit Contacts; Insufferable
Banes: Power Object (Gold Ring), Disruption (Bone)

Judge Paul
Paul Lessner

Type: Werewolf
Pack: Architects of Steel.
Tribe: Hunters in Darkness
Auspice: Rahu
Born: 1984

[spoiler=Judge Paul][/spoiler.]

Virtue: Code of Behavior (Law)
Vice: Short-Tempered

Background: Joining the police force was Paul Lessner’s destiny, his fate, his dream. His home life may have had something to do with it, raised in the Council Estates of South London. His parents marriage was not a happy one -- it had started happily enough certainly, his father James strong and handsome, his mother swept off her feet, but then it turned sour. James drank. He lost his job. He drank more. He hit Paul's mother, and struck Paul himself. And when Paul's long-suffering mother finally filed for divorce, James grabbed him and tried to flee the country. Half-drunk and out of his mind, he told Paul that if he tried to run away, he’d go back and kill Paul’s mother. So the six-year-old child kept quiet. The police caught up with him on a ferry to France, and James would go on to spend a good many years in prison. A uniformed British bobby returned the traumatized boy to his fearful mother.

From that day forth, Paul was obsessed with the idea of being a hero, just like his rescuers. His mother, now raising him alone, encouraged the idea and gave him toy police helmets, batons, toy guns, plastic handcuffs, the works. When he got a little older, he watched marathons of Dixon of Dock Green and The Last Detective, and read every Sherlock Holmes and Judge Dredd story he could lay hands on. Law enforcement were his idols and one day he would become one of their number. There was no other option.

He applied at eighteen, was accepted, passed all the physical and mental fitness tests, though the former a bit better than the latter. He entered the training program, learning how to work as part of a unit, how to fire a weapon, how to use a taser. He was zealous and dedicated, as honest as the day was long yet filled with contempt for those who broke the law. Then two things happened in quick succession that shattered his dreams.

The first was Paul’s First Change. Perhaps it was all those nights walking beneath the full moon with a warrior's heart. Perhaps some quirk of genetics from his rage-filled father. Perhaps his beat on the Isle of Dogs, associated with werewolves since ancient days. But shortly after he was put on active duty for the first time, the Full Moon shined down on him, and the face of Luna the Destroyer was burned into Paul's blood.

Never the most restrained of individuals to begin with, the full moon burned with a malignant fury upon him, unmooring him from all thoughts of holding back. If there were other Uratha about, they'd have marked him as Lunatic, for the moon's rays had an ill effect on his thoughts. So when in the course of his beat he came across a petty pimp 'instructing' a teenage runaway with a broken bottle, something snapped. Paul didn't fall into Kuruth. He simply collapsed the man's lung, broke three ribs, a jaw, the left arm, and rendered the man permanently blind in one eye with his bare hands. For some time, it was entirely questionable if Paul's victim would survive.

No one was terribly upset about this, and Paul's early experiences were certainly an exacerbating condition. But at the same time, London bobbies cannot just go around handing out beatings, however justified (the fact that there was a CCTV camera nearby also prevented things from being swept under the rug). Paul was discharged from the police service and ordered to seek counselling, though no charges were brought. It was a harsh enough punishment. In just over a year, Paul had gained everything he had wanted... and lost it. He was back to living with his mother, without a job, without a future, and without his dreams.

He fell into depression and alcoholism. It takes a very great deal of alcohol to render a werewolf drunk, but Paul tried gamely every night. It was during this time that other Uratha finally made contact, but he was such a wreck that none of the tentative contacts felt like recruiting him -- this was before Brick & Bone's arrival in London. The few who did, Paul turned down.

Most importantly for Paul's future, however, he kept walking his beat, even if it was as a civilian and with a bottle instead of a truncheon in hand. Which was why, since Paul's beat was the territory of the Architects of Steel, he came to the attention of Angela Citysmith. Hauled up into the Anderson Building, Paul was sobered up and questioned, and after some consideration, Citysmith made him an offer he couldn't refuse - join their pack, become the Chief of Security for Anderson & Smithfield, train them and run them and protect their territory. It wasn’t the police, but it was the next best thing for Paul. He took the deal.

These days, Paul Lessner (or 'Judge Paul', as his packmates call him after the Judge Dredd comics he's still fond of) is the rather improbably young Chief of Security for the Anderson Building on Canary Wharf. There are certain rumors that he got his job because Angela thought him cute (these are not entirely inaccurate), but in the years since his arrival, Paul's proven his worth. He's a Hunter in Darkness, after all, and he considers the corporate HQ of the Anderson Building to be his own sacred territory, a cathedral to the modern age.

Judge Paul is a broad-shouldered, dark-haired young man in peak physical condition, with skin the color of teak (his mother is from the subcontinent) and light grey eyes. He keeps his unruly curls in what is essentially a military buzz-cut, and usually wears the clothing of a security guard (navy pants and shirt, ironed to within an inch of their lives, and a visored cap) -- as close to a uniform as he can manage. He can usually be found either on duty in the Anderson Building or checking up on the many Architect properties in Canary Wharf. The rest of the time, Paul's either training the other Architects, practicing in the gym, or at home reading police novels and Judge Dredd comics (he still lives with his mother).

It should be noted that Judge Paul is not a very imaginative or clever thinker, but that he does have an absolutely prodigious memory for rules, regulations, and the like. When confronted with problems, Paul refers to those precedents, or else tosses problems up the ladder to the proper authorities, that is, to Angela and Thomas. This actually makes him really quite useful to the Architects, as Paul is the very definition of 'too dumb to fool', and he tends not to ask awkward questions. He still has a volcanic temper, however, which the Architects try and keep under control.

Rank: 2
Mental 1; Physical 6; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Police Fanatic; Too Dumb to Fool
Banes: Lunatic

Persuasion Benefits Stored: Focus

Melanie Chan (Legal Name)

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Tribe: Hunters in Darkness
Auspice: Rahu
Born: 1991

Virtue: Courageous
Vice: Shy

Background: Little enough is known about the young werewolf commonly called 'Mouse'. As far as most of London is concerned, she appeared one day in 2007 as the youngest member of the Architects of Steel, when Citysmith took her around on a meet-and-greet of the neighboring packs. Those who pay attention to such things know that the Architects are one of the pickier packs in London with regards to their membership, and so assume that Mouse must have some hidden strengths or talents that make her worthwhile.

Certain individuals, such as the other members of the Architects of Steel, or their allies among the Guardians of the Veil or the Lancea et Sanctum, know a bit more. They know that Mouse was sixteen when she joined the Architects, speaks with an accent that is equal parts North China and Liverpool, is of average intellect and has a poor education, is uncomfortable with people, and has difficulties with the concept of self-preservation. They know that she works as Angela's private aide at Anderson & Smithfield, and that she actually lives in Citysmith's magnificent Neo-Victorian house in Highgate.

Angela, of course, knows a great deal more. Not because Mouse told her -- the past is a closed book as far as Mouse is concerned -- but because Angela had the DNA testing done discreetly, and she has a folder of clippings on the Princes Park Murders of August 27th, 2006. Angela is very good at reading between the lines.

Presently, Mouse is the junior-most member of the Architects. Mostly, this means that she gets stuck with the boring but necessary work that can't be entrusted to mortals or spirits. She runs messages, takes notes at pack moots, stands watch during summonings, and otherwise makes herself useful. She also picks up Leon from school every so often. It's not much of a life, but she has a job and she earns money, and Citysmith's home is enormous and far more comfortable than anything Mouse has ever had, even if her alpha is far from a pleasant person to share a home with.

Overall, this situation suits Mouse right down to the ground. She doesn't have high expectations for her life (surviving to twenty-five is sort of her goal right now), and being the center of attention causes her social awkwardness to multiply tenfold. One-on-one, or with people she knows very well, Mouse is a soft-spoken and shy young woman, but not unfriendly. More hostile or uncontrolled environments tend to send Mouse into a panic attack post-haste. Best case scenario? She squeaks and runs away. Worse case scenario? Death Rage. So far the rest of the Architects have kept the worst case scenario from happening, though there have been a few close calls.

Aside from being as quiet and skittish as her namesake, Mouse is reasonably put together. She's sort of an anti-social work-hard, play-hard type of person, in that she'll do everything the Architects ask of her with brisk efficiency, then go and enjoy herself to the hilt. Mostly, this involves a great deal of retail therapy, lots of eating and drinking (and no one can put away food quite like a werewolf), and watching movies on Citysmith's enormous plasma TV with Leon. Mouse likes Leon. He's almost as quiet as she is, and he doesn't judge.

Physically, Mouse is a short Chinese woman with brown-black hair going just past her chin and large, liquid eyes. Positively waifish when she first arrived, steady meals and the Architect's training program have given her a layer of muscle that is nothing to sneeze at. Mouse is dangerous. She's a nervous and twitchy young woman who just so happens to transform into an extremely lethal werewolf when sufficiently provoked. Normally, Mouse wears limited clothing of a loose type, with a particularly fondness for shirts that hang off one shoulder (so as to easily get dressed and undressed for shapeshifting). As a wolf, she's a slim, long-legged creature with a sandy-colored coat.

Rank: 2
Mental 3; Physical 5; Social 1
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Survivor; Mouse
Banes: Chronological Trigger - Rage (Full Moon)

Leon Anderson

Type: Mortal (Wolf-Blooded)
Profession: Pre-Teen Werewolf
Born: 1998

[spoiler=Leon Anderson][/spoiler.]

Virtue: Ambitious
Vice: Mischievous

Background: Leon Anderson's childhood could be fairly said to be unusual. Some aspects were more unusual than others. The palatial house in Highgate, the private tutors, the fact that his parents were loaded, these were uncommon but not unimaginable. The fact that his father could regularly be seen drunk at eleven in the morning, that was also not as uncommon as one might hope, nor the parade of strangers wandering about the house. The fact that his father is terrified of his mother, and his mother holds his dad in contempt, also not uncommon. The fact that at age seven he came across his mother laying out a binding ritual for a particularly grisly murder spirit in the basement... bit rarer.

Despite this, Leon's about as well-adjusted a kid as one could reasonably expect, which is to say he's not crazy or traumatized but he is kind of a brat. He's not what you normally think when you think of a brat. He's small (about 4'7'' at this point) and extremely polite, and is quite good at getting along with adults (which is to say, he knows how to stay out of sight when various tall and scary people are working, his mother not least of these). He's reasonably intelligent and thoughtful for a kid, and he's had one of the best educations money can buy.

At the same time, though, Leon has a tendency to want things, and unlike most thirteen-year-olds, he's very goal-focused at getting what he wants. He considers, he plots, he plans. If wheedling and whining do the trick, then he has no shame. If stealing something is easier and safer, well then, he has zero qualms about doing that. It's not quite accurate to say that Leon doesn't understand the meaning of the word 'No', it's just that he always has serious doubts about how it applies to himself.

What Leon mostly wants is to hunt things and mess with people (the quiet kid has a rather skewed sense of humor). About a year ago, puberty hit, and in addition to things like getting (slightly) taller and having a deeper voice, for Leon this involved finding out that he could turn into a wolf. Not the full suite of supernatural lethality that are the Uratha forms, but he can turn into a regular, silver-grey wolf with a short muzzle and a long tail. Being a wolf is fun. It's one of the things Leon likes best about his life right now.

Currently, Leon is sort of the mascot of the Architects of Steel, a wolf-blooded kid who is cute in the way that most kids are cute, and who happens to be the son of the most deadly werewolf in London. He and Angela have a complex relationship (Angela Citysmith can summon Incarnae, rework local ley lines, and maul Azlu, but she was clearly standing at the back of the line when maternal instincts were being handed out), characterized by mutual incomprehension and a fair amount of struggle. His dad, Leon holds in about the same contempt that Angela does. In fact, the person Leon likes most nowadays is Mouse, who is a full werewolf and therefore awesome and admirable, while at the same time being much closer to his 'level', and neurotic enough not to be too intimidating.

As mentioned, Leon's a small kid with a slender frame, who regularly looks younger than his age (people are still asking him if he's ten yet, which makes Leon wish he could Death Rage). He has dark hair inherited from his father, and dark brown eyes that can look almost black at the right angle. Despite this, he has a definite confidence about him, as if he is the master of all he surveys.

Rank: 1
Mental 2; Physical 2; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Arete: 1
Notable Powers: Blood of the Wolf

Kevin “Moxie” Moxley

Type: Werewolf
Pack: Brick and Bone
Tribe: Ghost Wolf
Auspice: Irraka
Born: 1973


Virtue: Righteous
Vice: Cowardly

Background: Not every werewolf gets to be someone. For every one with a good education and a lofty goal, there are two more with no real hope and no real goal beyond surviving each day. Some of them have lived that way all their lives; others end up on the run from the authorities and the Pure. Brick and Bone is both. The pack is full of misfits and dispossessed, all Ghost Wolves and all with something to hide from. They never know whether the people keeping an eye on them are from the local benefit office, or whether the Anshega have found them. Other Forsaken consider them a bunch of screw-ups, which is accurate if not particularly nice, and none more so than their alpha, Kevin “Moxie” Moxley.

Some people just don’t get a break. Kevin’s one of those people. Even before his Change, he couldn’t hold a flat for more than six months, and with a criminal record including drugs, petty theft, burglary and a count of arson behind him there was no hope for him of getting a real job. The stupid thing is that none of it was his fault. Sure, he nicked the odd car and sold some speed on the side, but nothing serious. Nothing really bad. He wasn’t getting kids hooked on crack or mugging old people on the street. At least, he’s pretty sure that he wasn’t. He just couldn’t get by with what he had, so he took things he thought nobody would miss. He was wrong.

In and out of prisons through his 20s, Moxie couldn’t settle down. In his own mind, he was the victim. Things went wrong for him, and every time he tried to fix them, they just got worse. A friend got in trouble with a loan shark in Manchester, so Moxie did his best to destroy the evidence. A small fire turned into a large fire while he was helping himself to the contents of the safe, and he was arrested for arson. He underwent his First Change before going to court, and ran. He didn’t stop running until he was in Germany with just the clothes on his back and a rusty knowledge of the language. He tried being productive, putting himself to use on a building site, but the local werewolves wanted him out of their territory yesterday. He stuck around for as long as he could before running back to England.

In Sunderland, he found others in the same position as he was. No territory, no pack, no direction. Werewolves just trying to get by when the world didn’t want them to. Moxie could deal with it if it were just him, but seeing others in the same position ticked him off. He gathered them together and formed Brick and Bone. They quested for a patron, looking for a spirit to watch over them, and they found one willing to take them. If only he’d paid more attention to the way it worded their ban, Moxie might have saved them all some trouble, but he just couldn’t follow everything. He’s regretted that for a long time.

For a while, the packmembers plied their trade across the north of England and overseas, under the cover of a group of cheap laborers who don’t mind being paid cash-in-hand with nothing going on record. All of them had a shady past, with the police after them for everything from petty theft to arson. Worse, wherever they went, the Pure soon find them and use them as prey. Brick and Bone had a high turnover, but just about everywhere the pack ended up there was a Thihirtha Numea who needed to skip town but didn’t want to brave the journey alone. The situation was made worse by the pack’s patron’s ban — a particularly convoluted bit of wording that has a habit of attracting more trouble than the pack can handle. When things get too much for Brick and Bone to handle, they moved on again — often leaving the local werewolves to clean up the pack’s mess.

All this travelling started to wear on the pack, and so Moxie had a bright idea. There was one city where even a bunch of screwups like Brick and Bone could settle down. London. A few years back, they moved to London, took a tiny slip of territory that no one else seemed to want around the Blackheath, and tried not to get on the bad side of every other werewolf in London.

Unfortunately, the pack isn’t very good at it. If something can go wrong for Brick and Bone, it will. Beshilu hide in the building sites the packmembers work on, and the number of off-the-books workers who end up Urged or Claimed skyrockets whenever the pack is around. It’s not the pack’s fault, but no one ever believes them when they say that. Their reputation follows them like the smell of burning buildings, their totem’s ban just causes more and more trouble with mortal and supernatural authorities alike, and just when things couldn’t get worse, Moxie found out why no one wanted the Blackheath when a psycho crow-faerie with a disturbingly keen smile paid him a midnight visit. Moxie doesn’t sleep very well any more.

Moxie can’t help but worry. If he were on his own, he’d be fine, stealing what he wanted when the dole money and illegal laboring dried up. Now he’s got a pack to lead, and he doesn’t want to let his packmates down. He helps them out, and they help him out. It’s the closest he’s had to a family in a long time. He’d do anything to keep them safe and keep them together. Now if only he just wasn’t so bad at it.

Moxie’s a short, scrawny man in his late 30s. He’s perpetually dirty, and the grime settles into the lines on his rat-like face to make him look almost 10 years older. He keeps his hair hidden under a woolen hat even in the height of summer, and wears at least three layers of grimy clothing at any one time. His jeans always have holes in the knees, and his boots look one step from falling apart. In his Urhan form, Moxie has long, midnight- black fur that harkens back to Black Shuck.

Rank: 2
Mental 3; Physical 4; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Jinxed
Banes: Hated by Beasts

[spoiler="Ebon-Eyed Magpie (Pack Totem)"]Ebon-Eyed Magpie

Ebon-Eyed Magpie is a small, black-and-white bird, indistinguishable from most of its kind but for its eyes of black cut-glass. It is a very talkative and active totem, albeit a troublesome one.

Ban: Ebon-Eyed Magpie demands that Brick and Bone steal one small thing that will be missed from every person who gives them anything (money, information, a job), and leave it where it will be found. If they fail to do this, Ebon-Eyed Magpie tends to take matters into its own beak rather than punish the pack for it.[/spoiler.]

Jake Carter

Type: Werewolf
Affiliation: People's Republic
Tribe: Ghost Wolf
Auspice: Cahalith

[spoiler=Jake Carter][/spoiler.]

Virtue: Righteous
Vice: Hasty

Background: Jake Carter sees the machinery of control wherever he goes. Faceless corporations brand every street, marking their territory. Cameras monitor everyone as they go about their lives. The police and the ambulance service and schools and universities, all set up to instill control into people. Other people can see everything that happens on his territory from miles away, and there’s precious little that isn’t locked down in meaningless social rituals or local politics. That hampers his ability to protect his territory, putting him out of touch with the scrap of the city that he claims along with the rest of Brick and Bone. Outside control strangles his city, and Jake is sick of it.

It started at university. Bored of the trashy paperbacks and the dry course texts and sick of the petty backstabbing of students and faculty alike, Jake retreated to the library in search of other ways of doing things. There, he found Bakunin, Proudhon and Goldman, and something caught in his mind. He thought he’d found something. Not a better way of doing things, but something different, something that would put him back in touch with his surroundings. How could he feel at home in a city that was controlled from miles away? He had big ideas, but didn’t have the capability to do anything — at least, not until his First Change showed him otherwise. Along with other werewolves who wanted to change things as much as he did, he set about making things different.

He had mixed success. Protests and marches are all well and good, but they don’t go far enough. For a while he gave speeches, led rallies, and wrote articles for underground newspapers, but that never really changed anything. So then he shifted to direct action, bombing a small house that the local Fire-Touched used. Except the bomb fizzled, the Fire-Touched survived with minor wounds, and now Jake's on the run with an arrest warrant out for him and his name on a domestic terrorist watch-list. He ended up joining Brick and Bone just to get out of town quickly.

Jake’s a burned-out idealist at heart. He’s taken to psychedelics, losing himself in visions of what could be and what should be. He wants to make things better, change his territory for the better, but these days he's in hiding and on the run. When there’s nothing he can do toward his cause, he turns into a bitter, depressed man, drinking or drugging himself close to a stupor. The rest of Brick and Bone have noticed his problem, but he’s kept the depth of his fanaticism hidden from them. They don’t realize just how much he’s invested of himself in a cause that seems to be going nowhere.

Since the People's Republic has come up, he's left Brick & Bone on amicable terms and is trying to make another go of it. Only time will tell if this time things will go better than the last.

Looking to be in his late 20s, Jake looks rather ragged around the edges. He doesn’t shave for weeks at a time, and his dark hair falls well past his shoulders. His green eyes sweep every room he enters, looking through everyone and making sure he knows where the exits are. He tends to wear jeans and a sweatshirt in any weather.

Rank: 2
Mental 3; Physical 2; Social 4
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 2
Notable Powers: Rabble-Rouse
Banes: Technophage

Maddie Wishthound
Madeline Archer, Wishbone

Type: Werewolf
Pack: Brick & Bone
Tribe: Ghost Wolf (Formerly Fire-Touched)

Virtue: Prudent
Vice: Pessimistic

Background: Maddie's parents separated when she was four, and she has vivid memories of a messy divorce that left her mother clutching the neck of a gin bottle. Fostered away to the home of an abusive mother and an uncaring father, Maddie was taunted about her family life at school whenever the subject came up. She dropped out of school early, and spent her time in libraries learning a little about a lot of subjects. If ever she came across someone who had really studied a subject she’d be in trouble, but to Maddie's mind that didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking for other intellectuals to woo; her goal was just to find a group to impress. Maybe then people would look to her as something other than a problem and an out-of-towner — and if they happened to look up to her, then so much the better.

Maddie did her best to fit into any social group she finds herself in, and that didn't change just because she found out about her Uratha heritage. The Pure found her before anyone else did, and Maddie still has a broad burn scar on her left arm from her initiation. Let No Untrue Statement Lie. It's burned onto her very skin, in elegant cursive script. In the months that followed, Maddie meandered through life, still looking for a group to fit into. Finding herself near Stoke-on-Trent, she heard that the Ivory Claw Lucas King was setting up a pack of his own. He was going to go to London and take the fight to the Moon-Born. Maddie offered to follow him.

Maddie was exactly what the Cold River needed. Her skills run the gamut from computer programming to classical music; she speaks four languages, holds two degrees and can make men do what she wants with a few well-placed words. She’s a polymath, skilled in any field that she puts her mind to. She can't fight very well, but that's the least of her concerns. In her own mind, she's living a lie, breaking Rabid Wolf's oath with every breath she draws.

Maddie is a werewolf being run ragged. She knows she's not really as smart as she pretends to be. She knows she's not as educated, or as clever, or as strong as everyone thinks she is. If her pack weren't a bunch of thugs, they'd realize that. The pressure to perform is starting to get to her. She does her best to keep everyone aware of everything they need. She aids the pack on hunts and journeys into the Shadow, but recently she’s been spending more and more time on her own. None of her packmates have followed her to the small apartment that she rents, but if they did, they’d see Maddie drowning her fears in cheap whisky and worthless men.

Away from her pack, she plays to others’ expectations, building herself around what they know of her and what they expect her to be. Although that’s an advantage in many social situations, being all things to all people means that it’s more and more likely that someone will catch her out. She’s guilty about the lies and half-truths she tells, but there are so many of them, and even Maddie doesn’t really know if some of them are true or not. In the small hours around dawn, she wonders if she really has any truth left in her, or if even her memories are just another patchwork of falsehoods.

Then came the events of Halloween, 2009, when Lucas King tried to blow up an entire pleasure-boat full of tourists as a sacrifice to Jenny Greenteeth. Maddie had gone part of the way along, telling herself that the explosives were to destroy some large commercial freighter, that it was going to be all property damage. When she could deceive herself no more, she snapped and fled her pack, and after the dust had settled, Maddie joined Brick & Bone -- she knew Jake and Moxie, and they were thrilled to have her. Of course, now her new pack thinks of her as a moral bastion as well as a brilliant werewolf -- Maddie finds it kind of darkly hilarious. She thought of joining the Forsaken, but she's not quite ready to make such a leap.

A tall and attractive woman in her late 20s, Maddie has long, dark hair that frames her face. Her brown eyes sparkle behind the glasses she wears to aid her intellectual look. She typically wears long skirts along with long-sleeved shirts that allow her to show off her figure while hiding the branded letters on her left arm. She often wears tasteful golden jewelry, and her fingers always sport a multitude of rings. In Urhan form, she’s a slim wolf with an unearthly white coat.

Rank: 2
Mental 5; Physical 1; Social 3
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Jury-Rig; Genre Savvy; "I don't know how to do it, but I can find out."
Banes: Allergenic Trigger - Wolf (Gull Feathers)


Type: Werewolf
Pack: Brick & Bone
Auspice: Cahalith
Tribe: Hunters in Darkness
Born: 1948

Virtue: Honest
Vice: Fussy

Background: There is a joke around Brick & Bone, "Don't do drugs, kid, because if you do, you'll end up like Moonbeam. He took drugs once and now he's a werewolf!" This joke is not actually funny (it's Brick & Bone). It is, however partially accurate.

Moonbeam doesn't remember an awful lot of his early life (the drugs may have had something to do with that). He was a literature major in the late 60s, reading a lot of Chaucer and writing a lot of bad poetry, and he was deep into the hippie subculture. Peace, love, brotherhood, natural fibers, and more drugs than most pharmacy majors dealt with. Marijuana, LSD, peyote, that was old hat. Salvia, he tried. Heroin, he flirted with. There was probably not a chemical on the market that Moonbeam didn't stick into his body at some point. So when someone at a party gave him a recipe for a werewolf salve (monkshod, henbane, devil's cherries, poppy flowers, sweet flag, water parsnip, moon's allure, boiled in the fat of a human child and cooled with the blood of a bat), he tried it. Admittedly, he did use pig fat as a substitute. It worked. It also sent Moonbeam into a trip that lasted for months (most of those plants are heavy-duty hallucinogens, even before magic is added).

The next, oh, four decades are pretty much a blur in Moonbeam's brain. He dropped out of society, did even more drugs, wrote even more bad poetry, and tried to be a werewolf. He kind of sucked at it. He had Changed under the Gibbous Moon, the Storyteller's Moon, he was a literature major, it should have been natural. Unfortunately for Moonbeam, he was far better at critiquing creative output than he was at putting it together (between being a fundamentally honest person, being regularly zonked out of his brain, and having his social skills atrophy, Moonbeam's never quite grasped that one should not call one's pack leader a 'controlling bully-boy with delusions of grandeur,' even if it is the truth).

So, Moonbeam got kicked out of one pack. A while later, he got kicked out of another pack. This was also the trajectory of Moonbeam's halfhearted efforts to get a job. Still, he could chase squirrels and the occasional cat that didn't run away fast enough, and he pretty soon perfected the art of quoting poetry at people until they gave him money (after all, if the dirty tramp is yelling some incomprehensible gibberish at you, wouldn't you give him money to go away?)

Eventually, Moonbeam hooked up with Brick & Bone, the only pack in London desperate enough to take him in. Sozzled, weird, and perpetually high Moonbeam may have been, but he was a Cahalith, and he'd picked up a decent bit of spirit lore over the decades. Spirits, who rarely understand the human mindset anyway, don't much care if the person they are dealing with are tripping out of their brain during negotiations. Indeed, the openness to spiritual logic is sometimes an asset. Not often, but it has been known to happen.

As befits a member of Brick & Bone, Moonbeam's a misfit. Decades of living rough and doing whatever drugs he can get his hands on have left Moonbeam with more than a few oddities, even if werewolf regeneration means that the aging hippie is in surprisingly good shape.

Most notably, Moonbeam considers himself to be a great writer and storyteller, just one that the world isn't quite ready to appreciate yet. Others cloak their words in velvet lies and insinuations, but Moonbeam tells it like it is, describes the world as he sees it. Everyone else is either a sell-out, or someone who just didn't try hard enough. The werewolf's the worst kind of fussy, judgmental perfectionist, which tends to make him hard to live with.

Moonbeam's also... not very good at people skills. Decades of living rough (half the time as a wolf) have resulted in his social skills atrophying away. He does not have a good grasp of the concept of 'little white lies', nor that it is not always appropriate to spout his own poetry at people. Since he's also got a perpetual slur in his voice, the full unnerving nature of the Uratha, and only a limited concept of volume control, this tends to make people think that the scary hobo is yelling at them as opposed to serenading them.

Now is also an appropriate place to note that Moonbeam's greatest inspiration for poetry is roadkill. At some point in the 80s, the old werewolf decided that he can get the best, most truthful, most raw poetry if he listens to dead animals. Drugs may have been involved in this realization. All the same, Moonbeam's held to it. He collects dead animals from around London, usually off the street or from dumpsters, and then he cleans them and stores their bones. Most, he promptly throws away when they tell him dumb stories, but a few he keeps and cherishes as his most favored muses. The rest of Brick & Bone has insisted that he keep his cleaning efforts away from the squat that the rest of the pack inhabits, on pain of being dunked in the Thames.

Still, if you can get past the ruthlessly critical personality, the tendency to yell bad poetry at people, and the fact that he smells like a week-old dead rabbit and talks to skulls, Moonbeam's not actually a bad person. He still believes deeply in the ideals of peace and equality and universal brotherhood (he tends to call people Brother and Sister a lot). He's a peaceful fellow, thoroughly nonviolent despite being a werewolf, and he wouldn't hurt a fly if he could help it. His near obsessive honesty, while discomfiting, can also be occasionally useful (Moonbeam is no one's idea of a genius, but one does not get to his age without picking up at least a few nuggets of wisdom).

To those that see him shambling around, Moonbeam looks like a sixty-something hobo. He has lightly bronzed skin (his father was originally from Hyderabad in southern India, his mother was an Englishwoman), a shiny bald pate, heavy brows, and a bushy beard that is regularly dyed in odd colors and braided with tiny animal skulls. Moonbeam is extremely proud of his beard. He usually wears multiple layers of coats and jackets, as well as a faded, tie-dye headband, and he keeps his worldly possessions in a shopping cart (lots of dead things). He also, not to put too fine a point on it, smells of dead animals and marijuana.

Rank: 2
Mental 4; Physical 3; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Ritualist; Uncomfortable Hobo; All the Drugs; Bad Poetry
Banes: Arcane Maelstrom

Colin Barrett
Gregory Watson, Michael Jones, Bernie Moore

Type: Water-Horse
Affiliation: People's Republic
Clan: Ceffyl Dŵr
Born: 1976

[spoiler=Colin Barrett][/spoiler.]

Virtue: Confident
Vice: Violent & Hasty

Background: Colin Barrett was, in the delicate parlance of the small Irish town he grew up in, a 'handful'. He'd walk up to other children and talk to them, and he always knew exactly what to say to make them feel so bad that they cried. At school he was a compulsive thief, and despite being a dumpy, freckled redhead, he was also the ringleader of a small gang of hooligans. Catching him was next to impossible, since he could lie with the best of them, and even when it did, detentions, groundings, even suspensions were met with a blasé shrug. The local pastor said that Colin had the devil in him, the school guidance counselor muttered about lack of empathy, his parents simply despaired. They had two other children, and so when Colin hit eighteen, he was out the door and off to the university, never to see his family again. Not that he really cared. Colin didn't care about much.

He went to the University of Manchester for schooling, and eventually fell in with the programmers and engineers there. The University of Manchester was where they'd discovered the nucleus of the atom and where the world's first programmable computer was invented, and it had always had a steady supply of boffins and eggheads. Something about computers appealed to Colin -- they were so nice and clean and straightforward -- and in short order Colin became involved in computer engineering.

Now Colin was only an indifferent computer engineer, but he had some rather notable talents. First, unlike the greater percentage of computer geeks, Colin had charisma, at least in the short term. He was charming and personable and always told people what they wanted to hear, and people always liked him at first. Later on they might have noticed the utter lack of empathy, or his capricious, random behavior, but that was later. Secondly, Colin was very good at looking at what the boffins were doing and understanding the practical ramifications of it. Since this was in the mid-90s, this put Colin in a rather nice position.

Colin rode the tech-bubble for all it was worth. He gave a lot of tech demos, talked to a lot of venture capitalists, and helped set up several websites towards the end of the nineties that promised to revolutionize this or that thing -- he was involved in a website for rapid vegetable delivery, an early dating website, and a project to provide digital legal consultation to people, among other things. He bounced around a few companies, never quite settling down, mostly since Colin had a distressing habit of getting fired for this or that shady activity (bald lies in the tech demos, selling source-code to competitors, etc), though he never got arrested for anything. He always had a ready excuse and a bright, cheery smile, and so Colin just kind of glided on through... that and he killed a man to avoid being revealed once.

His name was... Walter something-or-other. Colin only vaguely remembers or cares now. He was a software developer who had a peanut allergy, and was annoyingly persistent in trying to figure out who had sent the basic code for their digital-lawyer project to another company. So Colin ground up a few peanuts, slipped them into his coffee, and watched him choke to death as his throat close up late one night. Then Colin replaced the coffee cup with a normal one, edited the security camera footage (he may have been an indifferent computer engineer but he was perfectly capable of doing this), and got away scot-free. The police suspected him, certainly, but he breezed through questioning without any problem and found a new job later that paid him more.

Colin made quite a lot of money in the dot-com bubble, but he was never all that good at keeping it. While a masterful and charismatic liar, he was abysmal at any sort of long-term planning, and so would spend money on the most random things, whatever crossed his mind. A trip to South Africa, an indoor waterfall for his London home, a massive donation to an animal shelter, whatever seemed like fun. He made a string of very bad investments, and more often than not ended up having to steal just to make ends meet.

Then the bubble burst. All of a sudden, there wasn't enough money in the dot-com world for Colin to make his way through charm and deceit, and people started paying attention to things quite a lot more. Suddenly, a lot of chickens were coming home to roost... and one of those chickens ended up killing him. To this day Colin doesn't know which of the people he managed to cheat broke into his house and held his face under his own, ornamental waterfall until he drowned. Truthfully, Colin doesn't care all that much.

He woke up a few hours later, lying next to his own drowned corpse. This was just a bit weird. Still, Colin handled the problem in his own classic, calm fashion. He chopped his own body into small pieces, stuffed them into plastic bags loaded with rocks and dumped them into the Thames. He was planning to change his name and move out, but for some reason, it hurt to leave his waterfall -- so he was still there when the Bard arrived a few months later to initiate Colin into the society of the water-horses. The murderer never tried again, possibly freaked out by his or her failure the first time around.

For the next few years, Colin lay low – he changed his name, moved to Wales for a while, studied the occult, and did a lot of thinking, about occult principles and next-gen computing and the machinery of murder cults. He’d visited a few of the old-school Eleusinian Mysteries in Wales (some of which now have some very advanced servers), and he’d always been good at getting people to do what he wanted. So in 2006, Colin return to London and star started his own cult, Intelligent Mysteries, a tech-startup focused on pushing the limits of artificial intelligence, using good old fashioned human sacrifice.

Intelligent Mysteries (IMYS on the London Stock Exchange) is a small, publically traded web-firm with an office in London’s Tech City, a growing tech-hub in the East End. It employs about thirty people, of whom a little over half (and some of the investors) are also members of Colin’s budding mystery cult. Recruiting cultists proved to be pretty similar to sweet-talking venture capitalists, and Colin’s designed his cult to appeal to the young, tech-savvy, and immoral. In part, it’s a hedge against punishment in the afterlife – his cultists help him out, and in exchange they can lie, cheat, and swindle to their hearts content, knowing that they’re in the good books of the gods of the afterlife. But the cult’s also a key to more worldly power as well, because not all the human sacrifices go down into the river. Some of them feed other spirits, particularly the growing brood of computer- and information-spirits that Colin, in a burst of marketing inspiration, calls the Data-Nymphs.

Here’s how it goes. First, the new recruit just gets told about the “spooky s***” going on after hours. Then they see some of the meetings, first just the ones where Colin talks about the future of supernatural computing, and then the ones where one of the Data-Nymphs makes an appearance, or Colin spreads his wings. Then before they know it, they’re driving through the cities of Britain, chloroforming drunks and prostitutes and teenage runaways and then stuffing them into the trunk of the car, back to the cult’s yacht. There’s a ritual and a prayer to Persephone and Demeter Aganippe and a whole lot of drugs and drink, and then they’re chained and wrapped in a whole lot of chicken mesh and sunk to the bottom of the Thames. Sure, some of the new recruits balk around this point, but Colin tends to dispose of conscientious objectors pretty thoroughly – after watching a hideous horse-fish monster slurping on someone’s entrails, most of Colin’s tech-cultists keep any qualms to themselves.

Besides, the perks are awesome. For the first time in his life, Colin has a product that he doesn’t have to lie to sell – though he lies anyway, because it never occurs to him not to. He’s got a few people thinking that Intelligent Mysteries is going to be the group that develops true Artificial Intelligence, and they want to be on the ground floor of that. Truth is, Colin’s actually downplaying the abilities of his software, because spirit-possessed computers really are self-aware. So far, Colin’s company hasn’t actually produced all that much, but there’s a couple of corporations and banks that have his pet Data-Nymphs nesting in their servers, which given how easily bored Colin gets, is a recipe for disaster.

Actually, Intelligent Mysteries is a disaster waiting to happen. The cult lurches forward more by accident by design, because Colin is horrible at long-term planning. He’s constantly improvising, always keeping the cult running for just one more month, never really looking ahead – which wouldn’t be such a problem if Colin’s go-to problem-solving technique wasn’t to simply lie to people and tell them what they want to hear, storing up trouble for later. A few of his savvier cultists are starting to realize that Intelligent Mysteries is the Titanic and there’s an iceberg dead ahead, but Colin’s managed to rope them into helping keep the cult going. The threat of disembowelment concentrates the mind wonderfully.

It’s in order to keep Intelligent Mysteries going that Colin’s started to sell his services to other supernatural creatures in London. He’s charismatic enough to pose as a very competent trouble-shooter, and he has just enough skill at deceit, magic, and murder to actually be quite good at making short-term problems go away. His true talent is at selling himself, however, and so it’s only a matter of time before he turns his mercenary activities into the same disaster as the rest of his life, and then the entire house of cards will come crashing down. When that happens, assuming he survives, Colin will just walk away, because he doesn’t really care about any of this.

People who just meet Colin Barrett find him enormously likeable and pleasant. He’s a vivacious, good-looking redhead who seems genuinely interested in other people, and who has a near-endless supply of interesting stories and jokes. There’s an attractive confidence about him, a casual certainty that people react to without really being able to help themselves. It’s only on closer acquaintance that the realization dawns that something isn’t quite right about Colin in the head – that everything about him is only an act, how nothing is quite real to him.

Colin’s grasp on reality is actually highly tenuous. He gives the impression of not really taking anything very seriously, as though everything in existence, even his own life, is no more real than a book or television show. This enables him to do some truly horrible things, because even the most vicious crime has no more effect on him than a gory movie has on most people.

This also means that Colin is constantly, horribly bored. Very few things are able to hold his interest for any length of time, which means that he tends to be impulsive and capricious in the extreme. He’ll do something right now because it interests him, without any real consideration for how it will affect him later on. He has enough self-preservation that he does make an effort to avoid getting arrested or killed, but that just means he’s careful not to get caught.

Together, his considerable charisma, weak handle on reality, and extreme boredom combine to render Colin into what is basically a serial killer. Colin mouths platitudes about the coming Singularity, spirit-interfaced computing, and the sacred duty to Demeter Aganippe, but at heart, Colin kills people because it feels nice and he can’t think of any reason not to, so long as he can dodge any repercussions.

That said, crazy does not necessarily mean stupid, and Colin has learned quite a lot about covering his tracks. In Intelligent Mysteries, he’s not the CEO or founder or any such thing, but rather the head of sales, the better to deflect attention. When dealing with other supernaturals, he always gives the impression that he’s working for someone else, that he’s only the messenger or secretary. He’s learned to shapeshift, and uses that ability frequently, maintains several aliases, several hideouts, and has a bag with a fake passport and plenty of cash in a locker in Heathrow.

In his natural form, Colin Barrett is a boyish, good-looking man who looks noticeably younger than his actual age. Before his transformation into a water-horse, Colin had been decidedly on the pudgy side, but apparently drowning is great for one’s figure, as he’s lost thirty pounds since then, though he still looks a little on the rounded side, as though he hasn’t lost all his baby fat. He has curly, dark red hair that always looks a little damp, copious freckles, a cherubic smile, and amber-colored eyes. He usually dresses in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt with the top button left undone, and a variety of silly ties with computers or question marks all over them. His water-horse form is pure white, with glowing yellow-red eyes. His wings are rather like those of an eagle, white with flecks of grey in them, and give him an unexpectedly angelic look when he manifests them in his human form.

Rank: 3
Mental 3; Physical 5; Social 4
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Superficial Charm, Murderous Violence
Banes: Lunatic; Repulsion (Salt)

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

[spoiler=Oswin Sharrow][/spoiler.]

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

[spoiler=Balaraja the Black][/spoiler.]

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

Brian "Renfield" Pardew

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Catford Crew
Auspice: Pure
Tribe: Predator King

Virtue: Code of Behavior
Vice: Gluttonous

You are what you eat.

There was always something a little "off" about Brian Pardrew. These days, it's easily explained away by the fact that he's a werewolf. All werewolves have something a little "off" about them, an aura of predatory menace that even supernatural creatures can feel roiling beneath the surface. For the most part, this is ignored. Every werewolf has it, and when every werewolf seems a little off, a supernatural can easily become jaded. It's very easy to forget that feeling of wrongness is there for a reason.

It's not really certain why Brian wound up with his strange obsessions. His home life was not a happy one, and he wasn't treated better at school, but that's the case of many children. The neighbors would shake their heads and say he was a creepy child and a bad seed - mostly to assuage their conscience for doing nothing when he showed up with bruises. But there was some kind of imbalance in his brain, something that made him obsessed with blood, something that convinced him that it would make him stronger. If anyone had noticed (or cared enough), they might have done something when he started catching pigeons and eating their organs raw. But children can get up to all manner of things in secret, especially when their parents don't much care about them. Those who might have cared, had little way to know.

Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered anyway, as mental issues can ruin lives even while under treatment, and Clinical vampirism hasn't gained much in the way of official recognition in the psychiatric field. Beyond his obvious issues, Brian was a very quiet, softspoken young man, with a heavy interest in making dolls and exquisite papercrafts (one of the reasons he was mercilessly bullied at school). For his "extra-curriculars", he mostly stuck to rabbits and pigeons, by virtue of them being easiest to catch and rarely missed. The warning signs were starting to appear that he was on the path to becoming a violent killer. Others shied away from him, somehow sensing he was a ticking time-bomb, but as he wasn't otherwise violent there wasn't much to be done about him.

It might be assumed, in the World of Darkness, that the natural step for this young man would be to wind up a ghoul. But fate had a different trick in mind for Brian: perhaps even the most foolish vampire knew well enough to stay away, or perhaps, given the vampiric tendency to live the lifestyle of the rich and glamorous, none ever noticed him. What he found instead were werewolves, two massive Gauru roaring and savaging one another, splattering blood across the pavement. Caught in the throes of both Lunacy and his own insanities, Brian could only cower as the horrific beasts ripped massive claws through each other's flesh. Finally, one ripped out the other's throat, leaving it's ruined foe lying on the grass. Once the monster had loped off, Brian couldn't help himself. He crept over and smeared a hand in the creature's blood. He had to have a taste.

It was everything he wanted and more.

Not being supernaturally aware, Brian had no way to know that the sudden brightness of colors were from his eyes gaining better night vision, that drinking werewolf blood based on sanguinary obsessions was a fast pass to becoming a Wolf Blood, and his need to drink more blood and run madly out of the city was the precursor to his First Change. He only knew everything made sense now. He'd been right. He'd just been drinking the wrong kind of blood.

(The donor werewolf got up and stalked off a few hours later. The victorious werewolf had been a Forsaken that, oathbound not to kill other werewolves, had simply savaged the opponent into a death-like torpor and left. Even Brian's further tampering was no match for lycanthropic regeneration.)

The First Change had a bizarre effect on Brian's mind. It essentially codified his madness into something incurable - The Wolf Must Hunt, and his need for hot blood was now seared into his spirit. On the other hand, spirits have bans, and bans put some measure of internally consistent logic on a stressed and fractured brain. Most importantly, Brian became aware there were far more tempting targets in the World of Darkness than mere humans.

Of course, this revelation does not make him popular in the supernatural world. The Predator Kings took him, because it was certain no one else was going to - the Predator Kings delighted in his unwholesome obsessions, and the way it creeped other people out. That being said, his new pack, the Catford Crew, Pure though they may be, was not quite so keen on cannibalism, especially when it's quite likely that they would be cannibalized first. To that end, they've found him an outlet in vampire subculture, both human vampire subculture and actual vampire subculture. He drinks the blood with other blood-drinkers, and it keeps the beast at bay long enough for him to remain functional. But he's very active at devouring supernatural things around London, and leaving little papercraft figures or dolls at the site of his kill. The Crew does its best to ensure he never goes too long in between a hunt. His regeneration prevents his other bizarre compulsions, like trying to inject animal blood into his veins with syringes, from affecting him much.

The thing that keeps him from needing to be put down - and makes him capable of working with the Forsaken - is a quirk of his obsession with blood. He believes it makes him stronger... but after his taste of werewolf and spirit, he's come to believe that the wrong sort of blood is not going to do much for him. He wants the blood of things that are stronger than him, and the stronger, the better. His transformation into Urathra forestalled his transformation into a serial killer, because humans are weaker than he is and not worth eating. What he wants is supernatural blood, preferably those of the biggest, baddest, nastiest things around. Fortunately, this tends to coincide with "things the rest of supernatural London wants to be dead", because most things that have displayed how big, bad, and nasty they are do so by causing huge amounts of trouble for other people. Sure, Brian could go after a vampire, but a Strix sounds even better. Abyssals, True Fae, Hobgoblins, Incarnae, Bale Hounds... there's usually something out there that needs a good killing, and Brian is quite happy to provide it, so long as he gets to eat choice bits of the corpse. Supposedly he can tear apart and eat ghosts as well a spirits and other intangibles. His packmates tried to dub him Ghost-Eater for a while, but it was quickly replaced by a different name.

Maybe it's because of the fact he actively hunts the nastiest things he can find, but he is an abnormally strong werewolf. As such, he can be an incredible asset in the often-violent life of the Catford Crew. Just so long as his allies don't mind the fact he seems to be sizing them up and considering if they're worth eating. He hasn't killed and eaten any former allies yet, at least. Not any that anyone knows about.

As for his current deed name... the Crew didn't pick it, but even they use it, now.

"Renfield" Pardew is a tall, dark-skinned man in his thirties or so, with slender fingers and thin-rimmed glasses. His fingernails are incredibly neat, and his head is completely clean-shaven, with the exception of a small soul-patch beneath his lips. He's very softspoken and very polite, though his way of speaking is quite obviously lower class. In theory he lives off the dole, but his share of the Catford Crew's earnings means he has a nice flat and very nice, neatly pressed clothes. He tends to prefer browns, beiges, and blues. He tends to be idly cutting paper for his papercrafts when not doing anything requiring concentration, or possibly crocheting or stitching little dolls. There's always just something a little "off" about the way he interacts with people, although many supernaturals don't quite pick up on it as much as they should.

Rank: 3
Mental 2; Physical 8; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Vampire Groupie; Creepy; Inhumanly Strong
Banes: Magical Tell, Wolfsbane

Penny Ash
Penelope St. Hill

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Catford Crew
Auspice: Pure
Tribe: Fire-Touched

[spoiler=Penny, minus scars and tattoos][/spoiler.]

Virtue: Loyal (to her pack, to her people, and to her spirits)
Vice: Short-Tempered

Background: Penelope St. Hill was going to be a statistic no matter what happened. The third of fourth children, each by a different father, only two of whom were known, Penny's earliest years were a time of deprivation and despair. After one of her brothers burned his hand touching the radiator, their mother stopped turning on the heat when she was out -- even when she was gone for days. Toys were not a thing ever seen, nor were full meals, and when Penny walked off at age twelve, no one looked for her.

Under those circumstances, Penny could have become a corpse, a streetwalker, or a gang member. She ended up as the third of those three, and in the one stroke of luck her short life ever granted her, she took up the Catford Crew. Operating in Lewisham, the Catford Crew was notable for a few things. They were a superstitious bunch, but they saw themselves as giving back to the community, and as keeping a lid on the worst of the world. They were also quite open towards female members, since their revered leader, Grandmother Fury, was a woman with a mean right hook. And they got away with it because the Catford Crew could be one of the most viciously violent gangs in London on the rare occasions they were roused to fury.

When your gang lieutenants are werewolves, that happens.

Penny's first job was to be a lookout, flashing gang signs (a stylized pair of fangs) at strangers and keeping an eye out for rival gangs. When she was fifteen, she graduated to being a runner, which meant she visited the many businesses in Catford who paid 'protection' to the Crew and brought back money. At age nineteen, she was now a full-blooded member, with the wolf's-head tattoo on her back and scars from a number of tussles with the Holy Smokes and the Nineteens.

It was during those years that Penny developed into the woman she is today. Denied respect, worth, and education, Penny built up an impregnable sense of her own worth to compensate. The world didn't like her, didn't value her? Well then, **** it, Penny would value herself. Every scar was a sign of survival, every new tattoo a sign of the Catford Crew's appreciation of her. And anyone who didn't like that could take a long walk off a short cliff.

Despite her belligerent exterior (a sign, perhaps, that Penny wasn't quite as casual about others esteem as she acted), she also developed a profound fascination with the ritual of the Catford Crew. Even by criminal standards, the Crew was superstitious. It was perhaps one step shy of being a cult, with rituals and ceremonies and marks of membership, hero-worshiping Grandmother Fury and a small pantheon of patron spirits led by the Devourer. The most valued members were given pendants of human bone and wolf's fangs, signs of the protection of the spirits. And it seemed to work, since people with those pendants didn't die as easily as the rest, came back from lethal wounds, became somehow larger than life, larger than reality. Grandmother Fury had one. She had the original.

Penny threw herself into the lore of the Catford Crew. It provided her with a system of values and beliefs in which she was a someone, and she studied it and took it more seriously than anyone else in the gang. She held vigils, made offerings, and shadowed Grandmother Fury. Where some of the other gang members would joke about their supposed supernatural protection, for Penny it was as serious and somber as a Mass to a priest.

Eventually, Penny's devotion paid off, when she received a bone-and-fang pendant in a firelight ceremony in the dead of night. And no sooner had she taken the pendant than Burning Wolf came calling, whispering through the flames and into the depths of Penny's soul. It took three other members of the Crew to hold her down when she Changed, all the while Grandmother Fury smiled to herself. The old werewolf had clearly made the right choice here.

In short order, Penelope St. Hill the gang member became Penny Ash, the Fire-Touched Priestess of the Catford Crew. Some people are by nature reverent and mystically-minded. To them, ceremony and ritual, incense and liturgy are important and valuable even if they don't believe in that specific faith. They have a sense of the sacred. Grandmother Fury, despite her years of experience and magical skill, was emphatically not such a person. She only cared if it worked, and for getting it over fast enough to catch her favorite TV show. But Penny was such a person, and spirits like being flattered just as much as the next person.

These days, Penny Ash is the shaman/priestess of the Catford Crew. She doesn't lead them in worship (the Catford Crew is more a personality cult than anything else, and any slavish devotion is going to be directed Grandmother Fury's way, thank you very much). But she supervises the ceremonies, illustrates the skin of the Crew with sacred tattoos, hands out the trinkets and fetishes (some magical, most nothing more than supernatural placebos), cares for the holy spaces of the gang, and placates the spirit allies of the Crew. And she does it with a sense of reverence and devotion that Grandmother Fury never had at her best.

On the outside, Penny Ash is a prickly, foul-mouthed, hair-trigger gang girl with a chip on her shoulder the size of a two-by-four. She takes her place and her prerogatives deadly seriously, and any disrespect is liable to end badly for the other party. But there's more to Penny than just free-range violence. She takes her duties as seriously as her rights, which means she cares for her 'people' and her Crew, and she's somber as a priest when it comes to matters of the supernatural.

Physically, Penny Ash is a tiny, skinny slip of a girl who looks years younger than her actual age. Courtesy of early childhood malnourishment, she stands at five-foot even and weighs about 90 lbs sopping wet, though she's put on a bit of muscle since joining with the Crew. Her skin is of a pale brown shade, a sign of her own indeterminate racial heritage (her mother was half-Jamaican and half-Bengali, and her father is anyone's guess), with hazel eyes and a narrow chin. She has several scars (two knife tracks over her left ribs, a stab mark in her shoulder, and a slash down her right cheek) and a number of tattoos, most prominently a wolf's head emblazoned in flames on her back. Depending on her goals, she either dresses down (tanktop and shorts) to show off her battle marks, or wears jeans and hoodies to pass as someone more normal. She also has a pendant of bone, fang, and steel, which she always wears around her neck.

Rank: 2
Mental 4; Physical 4; Social 1
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Ritual and Ceremony; Something to Prove
Banes: Power Object (Bone Pendant)

"Crowbar" Morris
Lawrence William Morris

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Tribe: Blood Talon
Auspice: Cahalith
Born: 1949

Virtue: Prudent
Vice: Violent

Background: For much of the middle of the twentieth century, the most powerful and infamous pack north of the Thames were the Howling Dogs. It was founded just before the Second World War by Vlad Morris (birth name: Wladyslaw Morowitz, a Polish Jew who thought it a good idea to get out of Eastern Europe while he could), who started competing with the other gangs of the East End, using the edge that being werewolves provided. In the 1950s and 1960s, the Howling Dogs rose to their greatest heights under the leadership of Vlad's son, the notorious Billy "the Barber" Morris, who turned them into a proper criminal 'firm', with protection rackets, illegal gambling, and lots and lots of violence. In 1973, a rival firm tried to get the drop on Billy the Barber, paying off some Yardies to shoot him in the face. Billy survived, but he also decided that he was really getting too old for this kind of thing, and turned control of the pack to his sons, Jack and Lawrence Morris, the Chainsaw and the Crowbar.

Lawrence "Crowbar" Morris was the older of the two brothers by about a year, but it was Jack who had the charisma and who had the risk-taking attitude that kept the pack on top. Lawrence was his number two, his most loyal henchman, his right hand in the business. He cooled Jack's ardour, Jack fired Lawrence up, and between the two of them, they raised hell in the corrupt criminal world of London in the 70s and early 80s. There was money, there were women, there were drugs, and it was the high life all around.

But by the time the mid-90s rolled around, Lawrence wanted more. Twenty years of always being Number Two had left Lawrence with a powerful sense of sibling resentment against his younger brother, not helped by the fact that Jack was starting to partake of the chemical proceeds more than Lawrence thought healthy (there are few things more terrifying than a coked-up werewolf). So when some new werewolf named Angela Citysmith started wooing Crowbar Morris with promises of better pay and more authority, he parted ways with Jack. It wasn't exactly an amicable parting, but neither was it all that acrimonious -- Jack was as glad to get out from under his brother's thumb as Lawrence was to make his own fortune.

So Crowbar Morris was there when the Architects were founded in 1997, and for the first five years, Lawrence was Citysmith's best adviser. He taught her everything he knew about being a werewolf, about being an alpha, and about being a hard-edged bastard in a fight. Citysmith may have been the sheltered child of privilege, but she learned fast, and she listened to him. Morris was feeling pretty on top of the world...

Till one gruesome night, Chainsaw Jack Morris leads the Howling Dogs into a brawl with a council house full of about three times more Weeping Wolves than the Dogs were expecting. The building burned down. Most of the Wolves died. So did most of the Dogs. So did Chainsaw Jack, born down under a tidal wave of flesh and claws and slavering teeth.

Maybe, Crowbar thinks, if he'd been there he could've knocked some sense into Jack's fool head, convinced him that it was too big. Or maybe Crowbar would've died too. Probably, even. Lawrence knows that. But maybe. Just maybe. The end result, of course, is that Lawrence has come to resent both his dead brother and Citysmith something fierce, and himself as well. If only things had gone differently...

Still, there wasn't anywhere else for Crowbar Morris to go, so he stuck around with the Architects of Steel. Nowadays, Citysmith doesn't really need (or take) much advice, so Morris's consigliere days are mostly over. He's still sometimes called upon for his veteran's experience or knowledge of the London underworld, but mostly, Morris is the pack's War-Howler, the guy who makes sure that their enemies know the Architects are coming, and that they are goddamn terrified. Morris isn't on the books at Anderson & Smithfield, but when dirty tricks and deniable intimidation is required, Morris obliges.

What Morris really wants is for the name of the Howling Dogs to be heard once again. He dreams of the Architects creating some kind of true memorial to the dead Dogs, something that would make the Morris clan something other than a footnote in London's supernatural history. Morris hasn't got the foggiest idea what or how, but he's thinking and he's thinking hard.

Personality: Morris comes off as an absolute thug, and this is true. He's got not an ounce of refinement in him. But he's an old thug, and that means he's a bit smarter than he looks. Crowbar Morris has a good sense of the odds, when to push, when to fall back, and when to let some young buck with more guts than brains run into a meat-grinder. He's always been a bit of an oxymoron, a cautious Blood Talon, but Morris figures that he can make more an impact by staying alive than by getting his damn fool head killed.

Description: Crowbar looks younger than he is, courtesy of werewolf health, and most people peg him for early fifties at the oldest. He has the look of a boxer or a wrestler gone to seed, heavily muscled but with a paunch, and he keeps his head shaved. He's pretty much the classic London East End thug. He's got a klaive-crowbar that hits better than most katanas, and he's fond of some old brass knuckles for when things don't quite rate murder.

Crowbar lives in Highbury with his wife Nancy (a former flower shop girl whom Morris loves unreservedly). He has three kids, two sons and a daughter, all of whom are Wolf-Bloods but none of whom have had their First Change yet. His family is broadly aware that Morris is an unreconstructed villain, though not of the supernatural details. Worse, from Crowbar's view, the new generation's gone respectable on him. Jill is studying design in Canada, Kenneth is training to be a rabbi, and Frankie is studying business. Morris is actually quite wealthy -- not at Citysmith's level, but forty years of salting away for a rainy day means that Crowbar's got about a million pounds sterling sitting in the bank.

Rank: 3
Mental 5; Physical 4; Social 3
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Unreconstructed Villain; Consigliere; Bloody Terrifying
Banes: Wolfsbane; Symbols

Heddy Trinkler

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Tribe: Blood Talon
Auspice: Irraka
Born: 1983

Virtue: Loyal
Vice: Violent

Background: Violence works. This is the philosophy by which Copperhead lives by. If you wield violence, you get what you want. You get stuff, you get money, you get respect. And if someone was better at violence than you, then you got screwed over.

Growing up in the slums of Manchester, it was a philosophy that had something to recommend for it. A scrawny girl, all limbs and elbows, Heddy Trinkler found that they key to respect and status in the semi-feral packs of street children was to be meaner, more vicious, and more dangerous than the next person. She was the one who always went for the jugular, she was the one fought dirty. It didn't make Heddy popular, but it did keep her safe and keep her in cigarettes, and it was a lot of fun. By the age of sixteen, Heddy was second in command of a small pack of street kids, led by her older cousin, Tommy. They were a hard cell of juvenile delinquents, the kind of people who'd grow up to spend years in prison.

Then they killed a werewolf.

That hadn't been the idea, originally. He'd just seemed like some pasty-faced businessman who'd wandered into the wrong part of town. They planned to take his money and watch, rough him up a little, and then skedaddle. Except he turned out to be a lot bigger, and a lot meaner, than they expected. Things went haywire, the street kids went literally feral, and somehow Heddy managed to stick a knife into the werewolf's eye, a little before her cousin hotwired a car and rammed the werewolf with it. Then the gang ran, leaving four corpses behind.

And the next new moon, they transformed into werewolves themselves. Things got even bloodier then, and Heddy's still got a Person of Interest in her cousin's murder rap in Manchester as a result. But the remnants of the street kids pulled themselves together, and they turned themselves into a proper pack of werewolves. They were tough, they were loyal to each other, and they also had the sense to get the hell out of dodge.

At first, they were just a bunch of refugees. But slowly, they coalesced, started making money -- first with robbery, later with extortion and drug running. They bought motorcycles to move faster, turned into a biker gang of sorts. They'd cruise down to Germany, then swing on back through Belgium and northern France, into the UK and up to the Midlands. They made some friends, made a lot more enemies, and lost a few more people. By the early 2000s, though, they were a lean, mean, and dangerous pack of monsters.

Heddy -- Copperhead now, she'd hated the name Heddy anyway -- was their scout. She'd range ahead of the pack, look for trouble, and if she didn't find any at all, she'd start some. It was, in her private view, the best life possible. Money, power, respect (or fear, which is close enough), she had it all.

Except that one of the pack's enemies had caught up with it. A demon-worshipping cult, out of Cornwall, with whom the pack had had a few dealings. Someone had tried to cheat the other, there'd been blood, and now, years later, there was an ambush. Copperhead's entire pack died, leaving nothing but charred bone, flesh sloughed away by the hellfire the cult summoned up. Copperhead survived because she'd been a day ahead of the others. She went back and she found their bones and their melted and slagged bikes. And that was all.

Citysmith had offered a place to Copperhead a few times before, as Angela was ever on the look out for quality violence in her enterprise. Copperhead took her up on it then, in exchange for vengeance. Angela destroys the cult, Copperhead joins the Architects of Steel. Citysmith took her up on the deal, and a few weeks later the Architects descended on a cult compound out in Cornwall. In and out, under the cover of night, while Warbuilder shook the whole building right over. The few survivors were run down and shredded.

Since then, Copperhead's been a reasonably loyal member of Citysmith's enterprise. She doesn't have anywhere else to go (her pack's dead, and she's wanted by the police back in Manchester), and being a member of a powerful and dangerous pack suits her right down to the ground. She thinks Citysmith's a little too boring, that the pack doesn't raise nearly enough hell, but it's more a gripe than a serious complaint. As for the rest of the pack, Copperhead holds Crowbar Morris in considerable admiration, and she's had a brief fling with Rafael (he was cute, what can she say?) She and Judge Paul tend to fight like cats and dogs, though, being the local pack epitomes of crime and law respectively.

Personality: Overall, Copperhead's not a complicated individual. She's loyal to 'her people,' but otherwise she follows a fundamentally Darwinian world view. You're either a predator she has to respect, or prey she feels no compunctions about exploiting. Being in the Architects has led her to respect forms of power that don't come from violence a little more than she used to, but ultimately, where you stand in Copperhead's world view depends on whether you can take her in a fight.

Description: She hasn't been a real biker in years, but Copperhead still dressed like one. She's a skinny, mixed-race girl of about five-foot six, with light brown skin, freckles, and plenty of auburn hair she keeps in a messy ponytail (best guess is that she's Afro-Caribbean/White). She's reasonably muscular and has a wide array of scars from her combative existence, and tends to wear jeans, dark tanktops, and leather jackets. Her prized possession, however, is a copper armband that Rafael made for her, like a copper serpent wrapped around her right arm. It's a spirit-fetish, and when activated, Copperhead's fangs turn long, sharp, and hollow, filling with serpent venom. Her wolf form is an auburn-furred, rangy beast, with long legs and lots of wiry, corded muscles. She has a particularly long muzzle, and a lot of teeth.

Rank: 2
Mental 2; Physical 4; Social 3
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Violence is the Answer; Career Delinquent
Banes: Silver Allergen

Melanie Frakes

Type: Water-Horse (masquerades as a Bone Shadow Cahalith)
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Clan: Pooka
Born: 1986

Virtue: Kind
Vice: Pessimistic

Background: Melanie Frakes and her two older sisters were raised by their father in Newcastle, after their mother committed suicide when Melanie was three. Left to her own devices by their perpetually overworked father, Melanie gravitated to art. She was drawing at six, painting at ten, and submitting a portfolio to London's Ravensbourne art school at eighteen. Which was where the problem started, really. Melanie had been plagued by depression for most of her teens. It never completely incapacitated her, which is probably why no one really noticed. Some weeks it was worse, some weeks it was better, but Melanie soldiered on as best she could.

In London, however, Melanie was alone, far from home, and stuck in this huge, impersonal city. She was utterly miserable, and she was adrift from the usual supports. Compounding matters, she'd bought into an idea that afflicts artists often, falling in love with her own depression. So many great painters and writers had been these tortured geniuses, Melanie thought, that her own creative powers would only benefit from her illness. It meant that Melanie didn't seek help, and it meant that things got worse.

Ultimately, this toxic combination led to Melanie leaping off the Thames Barrier one freezing February night. She drowned almost instantly... and then came back. The fledgling Pooka was found by an Architect patrol immediately after her rebirth, who were themselves following the spirits going absolutely bonkers around her. Several cups of tea with Angela Citysmith later, and Melanie Frakes was joining the Architects of Steel.

Citysmith pulled some strings and got Melanie into the Slade School of Fine Arts, and now Mel's the designer and interior decorator of Anderson & Smithfield. Essentially, where Angela and Chilling Murmur make the buildings, Melanie then goes in and makes sure that they look appropriately pretty.

In the pack, Mel's technical role is that of aquatic expertise. The Isle of Dogs isn't actually an island, but it is a peninsula surrounded by the Thames on three sides. Water is important to the Architects of Steel, and as Melanie is fully amphibious, she's the one that has to go swimming in the Thames to check out their borders. She also maintains a Pooka healing spring beneath the Anderson Building -- Citysmith pulled some strings, made some contacts, and sent Melanie on a six-month apprenticeship to a Nykur in Blackpool, where Melanie got a thorough education in water-horse culture, society, and magic. Past that, Melanie is also the Architects' "face" every so often, being a friendly, pretty, fashionable girl with fewer social hiccups than most of the Architects.

Among the Architects, Melanie spends the most time with Mouse and Rafael. She actually has something of an on-again, off-again relationship with Raf. They're the youngest of the Architects, and also lack the violent edge that some of the others possess, so they tend to be a gang. She also works with Citysmith and Chilling Murmur more directly as part of her A&S work, and so tends to be a bit less intimidated by them than most of the rest of the pack.

Personality: Melanie tends to convey a "nice girl next door" vibe. She's friendly, she's kind, she avoids violence and actually maintains a reasonably healthy moral outlook on life. She can come across as an innocent as a result, but between her own suicide, her time with the Architects, and her apprenticeship with an old murderer in Blackpool, Melanie's seen a lot of dark things in her life.

Truth is, Melanie's nice and outgoing and friendly at least in part to compensate for her own mood swings and bleak depression. Melanie is in a much healthier place now than she used to be -- her suicide was the kind of shock necessary to push Melanie towards some form of recovery, and she's been getting treatment from a mortal psychiatrist (lots of lies necessary, but better than nothing). The fact that she's now a valued pack member, a terrifying monster, and noticeably hotter than she used to be before has also been a bit of a confidence booster.

But she still has her black moods, days when she doesn't leave her house except when dragged out by the rest of the pack. She also has mood swings, and can be sunny and friendly one minute, before crashing down into the depths of despond by some unexpected word. She always tries to make up for it later, and the rest of the pack knows not to talk about certain things when Mel's around, not if they can help it. Melanie's on the road to recovery, but she's not there.

Description: Before her dive into the Thames, Melanie was a typically pretty twenty-year-old college student. Now that the Pooka transformation has worked its magic on her, she's gone from 'pretty' to 'knock-out'. She's petite, standing about five feet, one-and-a-half inches in height, and has brown hair that goes down to just past her shoulders. Pert nose, pixie-ish lips, large eyes, she's not exactly a classical beauty, but she's thoroughly enchanting in her own way. She's also one of the more fashion-conscious Architects (no one trusts a badly-dressed designer), always dressing in the latest in jeans, overcoats, or dresses. She likes monochromatic arrangements, or earth tones.

As a Pooka, Melanie also has a number of other forms. Her typical 'horse' form is that of a fine-boned black mare, while her war-form adds a seaweed mane, fangs, claws, and fishy spines to that ensemble. She can also turn into a black rabbit, a black dog (one that looks a bit like a
black English Mastiff), or a fox. She uses the Anybeast gift combined with her Pooka's dog form to masquerade as a werewolf, as she and Angela are both rather aware that kelpies and pookas do not have the best of reputations in the supernatural world.

Rank: 2
Mental 3; Physical 2; Social 4
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Artist; Pooka Magic; Good Lord She is Hot
Banes: Holy Ground

Chilling Murmur of Laughter
Khalida Anwar

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Tribe: Storm Lords
Auspice: Irraka
Born: 1977

Virtue: Ambitious
Vice: Prideful

Background: Forgotten by all but historians in the modern era, Sikandar Butshikan was the second sultan of the Shah Miri Dynasty of Kashmir, reigning from 1389–1413. They called him Alexander the Iconoclast, for the legendarily cruel Sikander smashed the idols and holy relics of the Hindus and Buddhists, and massacred those who would not convert to Islam. Yet one cannot destroy temples without raising forces beyond mortal control, and the loss of its idols raised the madness and fury of the Ilkhan of the Twelfth Storm. The wounded Incarnae raced through the valleys of Kashmir, knocking over mountainsides and smashing torrential storms at every mortal that caught its eye. It fell to the werewolf Night's Call to Arms to unite packs of Kashmir, and in the Great Hunt they slew the mad Incarnae.

Fast forward six hundred years. For centuries, the descendants of Night's Call to Arms kept the story of their distinguished ancestor, and to educate their children in the ways of the Uratha. Some became werewolves. Most did not. But the family kept to their duties, even as their fortunes rose and fell through the tides of history. Mostly, however, they fell, and in the days after the Partition of India and the end of the British Raj, the family fled their ancestral homeland, to arrive in London.

In 1977, Khalida Anwar was born in Bethnal Green, a fourth generation immigrant and a twenty-seventh generation werewolf. The family's fortunes had degenerated to such a point that her father drove a taxi and her mother was a hairdresser. Khalida grew up knowing about the supernatural from as soon as she could be counted on to keep her mouth shut, and when she went through the First Change on a moonless night in 1993, it was as smooth as slipping on an old coat.

With the weight of twenty generations of ancestors on her back, and the more immediately relevant gaze of her proud and demanding parents and grandparents (all wolf-bloods, the last werewolf of the Anwar line dying in 1989 to cancer, of all the mad things), Khalida set about making them proud. She clawed her way into a university acceptance, took to the sports field, and as soon as she showed up at the University of Bath, she took up fencing competitively. By 1997, she was twenty years old, most of the way to an Upper-Second in Mathematics, and had taken the prize at the West England Regional Fencing competition (being a werewolf may have helped a little there).

It was at that point, when Khalida went back to Bethnal Green to visit her folks, that another very driven young werewolf named Angela Anderson made her an offer. Angela was setting up a new pack, and it could use someone of Khalida's talents. Khalida signed up, and she took a Deed Name then, to honor her ancestors. In the style of Kashmiri Forsaken, she became known as Chilling Murmur of Laughter, the killer, the assassin, the deadly right hand of the Architects of Steel. She's been with them ever since.

Personality: Perhaps no other werewolf is as invested in the Architects of Steel as Khalida is. She's been with them since their foundation, and she's been with them her entire adult life. She went on to architecture school on Angela Anderson's dime, joined Anderson & Smithfield, and when Jo Final Strike died in 2004, she became second-in-command of the pack. She's killed for the Architects (her first kill was on a spirit-claimed tramp who came at her with a fire axe, and she got blind, stinking drunk afterwards), and she might be willing to die for them. It's important to her, in a deep and very serious fashion. See, the Architects and Citysmith let Khalida relax. Not in the obvious sense -- she's one of the hardest workers in the Architects, and that's saying something. But they let her get away from the pressure that comes with her heritage.

As a person, Khalida Anwar is intelligent, ambitious, and driven. She has to be, with the weight of so much ancestral and familial expectations piled onto her shoulders. She has to make her parents proud, she has to make her grandparents proud, she has to make her dead ancestors proud, she has to make Night's Call to Arms proud, and that worthy united a fractious mass of packs and turned them into a weapon with which to slay a mad demigod. Khalida tries to be worthy, but all that effort is quite simply exhausting.

So Khalida lets Angela be ambitious enough for the both of them. After all, being second in command in London's most powerful pack is good enough, right? It means that Khalida is doing her heritage proud, right? Of course, the problem with knowingly ceding power is that Khalida ends up feeling dreadfully guilty about the whole business, but she's not quite ready to strike out on her own or try and make a bid for power. Some day, she tells herself, suspecting that that day will never come.

Due to her neurosis concerning family, heritage, and ambition, compounded by the Architects' villainously high workload, Khalida doesn't have a great deal in the way of personal life. She reads, she dates intermittently (she's the only one of the Architects' higher echelons to be single), and she continues to fence competitively. She's been thinking of marriage and children, but blessedly, she has an older brother and a younger sister to carry on the family bloodline, so at least that isn't an issue.

Description: Chilling Murmur of Laughter is a fit Pakistani woman in her mid-thirties, with a hawk-like profile and black hair usually worn in a single braid. She usually dresses modestly but practically, in double-breasted coats, business pantsuits, or sweaters and jeans. She's a bit thin-blooded and finds London weather to be perpetually chilly, and also is one of the people who considers that body armor is a good idea and that jackets and sweaters conceal it effectively. Her wolf form is a black-grey beast with a long muzzle and angular ears.

She also has an enchanted, spirit-bound saber which she usually keeps close at hand. A normal saber (a bit heavy for fencing, but within normal limits) when Chill is in her human form, it doubles in size and length when she transforms, becoming appropriate for Chill's greater size and reach -- even if half of Chill's fencing skill is lost when she goes into Gauru form. Unusually, this means that Chilling Murmur is arguably more dangerous in her human form than in her werewolf one.

Rank: 3
Mental 4; Physical 6; Social 2
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Champion Fencer; Weight of Generations; Right Hand
Banes: Heavy Hand of Fate; Repulsion (Hamsa and Nazar charms)

Rafael the Nomad
Rafael Myllyniemi

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Tribe: Hunters in Darkness
Auspice: Ithaeur
Born: 1980

Virtue: Adventurous
Vice: Lazy

Background: Born in Hull, Rafael Myllyniemi left on his eighteenth birthday with a backpack, fifty pounds, and a map. There wasn't much to hold him back. His dad had been on the dole since the fishing industry went under in the 80s, his mother didn't need one more mouth to feed, and the prospect of choosing between the dole or fishing somehow failed to appeal. His mum always said he'd been born under a wandering star, so Raf set out to prove her right.

He traveled down to Switzerland first, worked at a gas station outside of Geneva and built a tunnel in Bern. When he got tired of cuckoo clocks, he came down from the mountains and hitchhiked his way across the autobahns of Germany. Ended up touring as a roadie with a heavy metal band, did enough drugs to knock out an army and got left behind in a motel in Bavaria while he was sleeping off a drunken stupor. Met a very cute girl in Nuremberg, put in almost a year in a garage there before his feet started itching again.

Raf crossed the Baltic in fishing boat, working for his passage by fixing engines. He landed in Norway, was completely broke, so he got right back onto the boat and spent a season learning entirely more about haddock and smelt than he would have liked -- and to think he left Hull because he didn't want to be a fisherman. When the fishing season ended, Raf kept right on walking, crossing the border into the land of his forefathers -- Finland. Spent almost two years there, mostly working as a wilderness guide and ski instructor. Not that Rafael knew the first thing about skiing, but he was big, blonde, and cute, so that covered for him till he figured out what he was doing. Learned to shoot too, and once put down a moose from almost a half mile away.

And all the while Rafael was learning and picking up stories. He wasn't a very good student back in Hull, but freed of the strictures of society he blossomed. Raf proved to have a natural ear for languages, picking up French, German, Italian, Norwegian, and Estonian in addition to Finnish and English. He read a lot, going through the Bible, the Koran, and the Bhagavad-Gita cover to cover. He spent a lot of time talking to old men in roadside taverns and village pubs, and he knows more folk tales than most anthropologists. Not to mention there's nothing with an engine that Raf can't fix, no wild animal that he can't butcher, and no wound he can't apply at least basic first aid to. Plus he can shoot in the way that only someone who's had to depend on it for a meal can.

It was in Finland that the First Change came upon Rafael Myllyniemi. He was camping out in the snowy wilderness when the crescent moon rose high, and the next thing Raf knew he was covered in gore and sitting naked in the snow over an elk. It said something about Raf that he adapted without much trouble. He was a werewolf. He could deal with that. It wasn't like Raf hadn't heard a lot of weird things in his travels, or that he hadn't seen an oddity or two in his wandering life.

Raf left Finland when the local werewolves refused to accept a British nomad into their packs (though Raf wasn't exactly trying very hard to get in). Raf crossed the Baltic again, this time into Estonia. But it was while working as a mechanic and picking up girls in Tallinn that he had a realization. Raf was getting homesick. Not completely, since he still didn't want to go back to Hull (he'd phoned maybe three times in seven years). But he wanted to hear English again, and he wanted a decent fish and chips. So Rafael the Nomad moseyed over to London.

Angela Citysmith found the Nomad when he was living rough on the London streets, looking for something that he didn't even know. Citysmith being a clever sort, she realized just how valuable Raf could be, and she spun him a tale of a future where the very city streets vibrated with power. Nowadays, he's the Architects' third ritualist, and though junior to Citysmith and Cushner, he's perfectly competent at it. Given that three is a number of considerable symbolic significance, this gives the Architects the ability to carry out ritual workings of significant complexity (traditionally, one to raise power, one to channel it, one to direct it).

Personality: Rafael is a charmer. He's easy-going, friendly, and effortlessly sexy, and this has served him well in life. People tend to like Rafael, and Rafael likes people right back, the weirder and more memorable, the better. As far as Rafael's concerned, everyone's got stories, and those stories are always interesting. He's a very good listener, and he pays attention to what he hears, even if people would sometimes prefer that he didn't.

He's also an incorrigible square peg in a world of round holes, and Citysmith hasn't had that much more luck making Raf fit in than anyone else has. Rafael is just congenitally unable to follow anyone's rules but his own, and this has caused trouble on more than one occasion. He makes more of an effort to fit in with the Architects than he has before, but even now, seven years on, it sometimes seems that he'll just blow on out of London some day.

This lackadaisical, friendly demeanor does conceal a dark side. Rafael wouldn't know responsibility if it came up and bit him. The idea of something that he has to do scares him deep down to the bones, and it keeps Raf just coasting along in life, swimming shallowly along, but never going deeper into life. He'll never try to be alpha of a pack, he'll never try to hold a steady job for long... and he'll never form a really long-term relationship with anyone. He and Copperhead were lovers for a while, and he's got an on-again, off-again relationship with Melanie, but neither of those have gone anywhere (he's flirted with Amy as well, but Nine-Claw was smart enough to shut him down). He's got a ten-year-old kid in Nuremberg, though he doesn't know it.

Description: Physically, Rafael is a tall, blond Finn with grey eyes, a crooked nose courtesy of a bar fight in Germany, and a heart-melting smile. Fairly muscular, with very long hair which is the subject of fairly persistent discord between himself and Angela (who wants her pack to at least pass for professionals in dim lighting). Very fond of 'urban camouflage' type clothing, jeans, heavy jackets, and knit caps with ears, though is occasionally bullied into at least putting on a shirt. His wolf form is a skinny, pale-furred beast that looks like it's got way too much in the way of legs.

Rank: 2
Mental 3; Physical 3; Social 3
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 3
Notable Powers: Polyglot (French, German, Italian, Norwegian, Estonian, Finnish and English); Autodidact; Practical Mechanical and Wilderness Skills
Banes: Chronological Trigger - Wolf (Crescent Moon)

Courtney Baptiste

Type: Werewolf
Pack: The Architects of Steel
Tribe: Storm Lord
Auspice: Rahu
Born: 1969

Virtue: Determined
Vice: Callous

Background: Courtney Baptiste grew up in the slums of Kingston, Jamaica, which gave him a quite overpowering desire to leave the slums of Kingston, Jamaica. Being a tough, no-nonsense sort of kid, Courtney sat down and figured that his best shot for leaving Kingston far behind was to join the army.

Not the modest Jamaican Defense Force though, but the British Army. Jamaica is part of the Commonwealth, and by historical quirk, citizens of Commonwealth countries have the right to enlist in the British Army. About eight or nine percent of the British Army is actually drawn from outside the UK, the bulk from places such as Fiji or Jamaica. To them, as to Courtney, it offers the chance to join an actually large and well-funded military, one which goes to exotic places and one in which there's some chance of advancement.

Courtney passed the physicals and exams, and pretty soon he was doing push-ups and stripping rifles in the Highlands, being shouted at by irascible sergeants with incomprehensible accents. On the other hand, the food was better and the pay was much better than being a Kingston street kid, so Courtney put up with it. And if anyone tried to shoot at him, Courtney was allowed to shoot back, and he was given a very nice gun. So on the whole, life was fairly good.

Courtney missed out on the first Gulf War, having been stationed in Kenya at the time, but no long afterwards he was part of the British peacekeeping efforts in the Yugoslav wars. He served tours in Bosnia, Macedonia, and Kosovo, managed to snag a few promotions along the way, and by the early 2000s he was a sergeant in the British Army. He was part of the army that went into Afghanistan after 9/11, and it was at that point that Courtney's well-planned life fell to pieces.

To this day, the details are still murky. Officially, Courtney's squad was patrolling in the mountains of the Hindu Kush when they were ambushed by Talibani insurgents. Three people were killed and Courtney was wounded by what reports hold to be an IED. The medical officer who signed off on the reports did comment on the strange injuries left on Courtney's body by the IED shrapnel, noting that they were very regular and very sharp, and resembled claw marks more than flying shrapnel. When a few days later, Courtney started complaining about nightmares and hallucinations, the higher-ups decided to fly him back to Cornwall to rest and recuperate.

Then came the Full Moon. The supernatural infection in Courtney's blood twisted and transformed his body, and he ran wild through the moors of Southwest England. Luckily for all involved, the only victims of his bloodlust were some local sheep, but for the next couple of months Courtney was pretty sure he had cracked. Werewolves didn't exist, right? This had to be some new kind of PTSD, right? It was, Courtney suspected, just his luck. He'd be a medical marvel for finding a new way of going completely loco.

Then in early 2005, four months after Courtney was bitten, he was recommended to a psychiatrist who specialized in odd cases of PTSD. The psychiatrist was Tiffany Llewellyn-Pritchard, and she happened to be a werewolf. After convincing Courtney that no, he was not crazy (beyond the usual tolerances for terrifying shapeshifters), and that no, she wasn't crazy either, the two of them put their heads together. Courtney was given a medical discharge from the armed forces, collected a full pension, and went to look for a pack.

He joined the Architects of Steel. Why? Simply put, Courtney has within him a careerist streak. Sure, he was as patriotic and loyal as the next man, but at the end of the day, Courtney joined the army because they offered steady living and steady pay, and it was the best opportunity on offer. Same thing with the Architects. Angela Citysmith had the deepest pockets and the most convivial management style, so Courtney signed up. He's easily the best trained and most combat experienced of her wolves, and is more or less in charge of the violence side of things.

Courtney sees himself as a mercenary, or perhaps a kind of Private Military Contractor, to use the more politically correct terminology. He is not, by nature, a very introspective individual (philosophy is for officers, not for non-coms), but to the extent he's articulated his worldview, it's as follows. Courtney has put in almost twenty years for Queen and Country, and Her Majesty was good to him. But that's over, and now Courtney is putting the skills he used to good work. He's not a monster, he's not some amoral psychopath, he won't kill old ladies or children, but knocking around spirits or teaching some young punk werewolves some respect does not twinge his conscience in the least. He doesn't believe in Angela's rebuilding London creed, but it's not really objectionable as these things go, and while he'd move on to a new job if anyone paid him enough, he'd give Angela six weeks notice.

Outside of his work for the Architects, Courtney is still enjoying the freedom that comes from no longer being in the actual military. He got married in 2009 to a very nice girl eight years his junior, though children are on hold until Courtney figures out how to make dead sure they are neither wolf-blood nor werewolf. He plays amateur football and is reasonably good at it, and has a hobby of building model armies.

In demeanor, Courtney's a quiet, reserved man who tends to keep his mouth shut and his ears open. He's not an enormous fan of strict discipline, but by this point military hierarchy has been drilled so deeply into him that it's not really something he likes or dislikes -- it's just a fact of life. He almost never raises his voice and he's usually very polite, though when he goes into what the rest of the pack calls 'Sergeant Mode' he can chew someone out in five languages (He only speaks English and Jamaican patois, but he can swear fluently in Serbian, Bosnian, and Urdu).

Physically, Courtney's a hard-looking man in his early forties, who still keeps up military habits of grooming. His black hair is always neatly trimmed, he keeps everything spic and span, and at first glance he looks like a clerk -- an impression heightened by his black-rimmed glasses. He no longer carries any weaponry on him (the Architect's Totem Ban makes that a bad idea all around), but when he transforms he's a black-furred wolf with impressive musculature.

Rank: 3
Mental 3; Physical 6; Social 3
Willpower: 1
Primal Urge: 5
Notable Powers: Trained Soldier; Rough Upbringing
Banes: Chronological Trigger - Rage (Full Moon)