Clashing Colors

"Hey, you know what? I don’t like your attitude either. Look, it’s not your job to pick on me. Otherwise you’d get paid. And guess what? I don’t have anything to pay you with anyway, unless you have a hankering for a loaf of bread or two. So let me do my thing and get lost."

-Drahcir Llentrah, Fianna Galliard

Drahcir was a young Garou of about 13, though he didn’t know it yet. All he knew of himself was that he’d been abandoned by someone on the doorstep in infancy. He had no clue if his parents were poor as he was or not, but he certainly knew that the old folks named John and Ana were rather destitute. That, and he didn’t like them much. Sure, they were nice people, but something just didn’t click between them. One night, he finally got sick of this constant alienation between himself and the nice old people. He left most of his money (which wasn’t very much) on their table, took a knapsack containing an ancient, chipped sword he’d found years ago, and enough food to last him about three days. He walked out the door, looked back once, and began to walk. He reached a small abandoned shack in a seaside alleyway. It had a roof and four walls, which were the only requirement for his tiny self, so he made it a home. The first thing that he did when he got "home" was to sit down on a block of wood serving as a doorstep and have a piece of bread. He took a piece and broke it in half, dropping a small chunk on the ground. It was quickly snatched up by a raven. Drahc was amazed as he looked the raven in the eye. It cocked its head as if saying, "Are you going to give me more, or am I going to have to sit here and wait?" Enthusiastically tearing off a small yet sizable chunk, Drahc tossed it in the air where it was deftly caught by the raven. "Wow, you’re quite quick," Drahc said. "Here!" At that, Drahcir flicked his arm as if to throw some bread in the air, though it contained nothing. The raven took off quickly but soon realized it had been gypped, so it took perch on Drahc’s head and soon after began pecking at his bread. "Hey!" yelled Drahc. "Fine, fine. Here." Drahc took a large piece off the bread and gave it to the bird, swearing to it that it would get no more. Of course, it did later, when it continued to come by day after day. Drahc soon made his first real friend, naming the raven Shaker for the way he would beg for food; he would get quite ruffled as if he was a dog drying himself off. Shaker the raven had an affinity for song almost as much as Drahcir did himself. Each day after Drahc went for food, he’d come home and tell the raven a story or sing it a song as it ate its bread. The only quirk in his new "life" were the street punks who lived in the small suburb. They all constituted a sad little gang who ruled over the local dogs and cats. Of course, now that Drahc was here… The punks stopped Drahc on his way home one day from the market, crossing a bridge. "Hey, clown. This here’s a toll bridge," said one of the substantially larger boys, eyeing Drahc’s outlandish clothing. "Yeah," said Drahc. "and if I don’t, you’re going to eat me all up so I can’t get to the other side to eat the green, green grass. We’ve all heard the story. By the way; I’m not a clown." After a bit of confused mumbling among the boys, many scowls were sent Drahc’s way. "Hey, we don’t like yer attitude," said the lead toll collector. "Hey, you know what? I don’t like yours either. Look, it’s not your job to pick on me. Otherwise you’d get paid. And guess what? I don’t have anything to pay you with anyway, unless you have a hankering for a loaf of bread or two. So let me do my thing and get lost." As Drahc tried to pass, he was pushed backward. "Hey. Your ‘thing’ is to be our clown, from now on. And if you don’ like it, that’s too bad. ‘Cause it looks like you got no way of getting across this bridge." "Look, punks. I’ll put it simply so you can understand. There’s no way in hell I’m going to run with a pack of bozos like you. I sing, you fight. If you want me to be your clown, bring me a few bucks and then we’ll talk." Five minutes later, there was blood on the ground. Most of it was Drahcir’s. "Give it a thought, loser," said the punk in the lead as the group left. "Damn... when are those morons going to catch some of their own?" Drahc mumbled. He began to hobble back to his small shack. "Well, Shaker, what shall it be today?" Drahc asked upon entering. "Greensleeves?" The raven cawed with delight, and Drahc hummed a few bars of the beginning. Suddenly, the door burst open and a large boy stepped in. "You ain’t nobody’s clown but ours now, loser," said the boy. He advanced upon the crow, grabbed it by the wing, and gave it a sound smack on the head. Drahc shouted and ran to the bird. It was dead. He had felt anger before this, but the new feeling swelled within Drahcir from the very ground he stood upon. He began to grow larger and sprout fur. His newfound Rage was sent by Gaia herself into his Garou body. He became Crinos. He was Garou. The boys outside laughed when they saw a flash of red inside the house; they screamed when their comrade’s bloody, dismembered corpse fly out the door. Drahc soon emerged in human form, covered in blood and looking very frightened indeed. The rest of the punks took off screaming. What was this new thing that Drahc felt? Whatever it was, the young Garou wanted no part of it. One thing he knew for sure, however, was that he could no longer stay in the small village. That night, Drahc took the few of his belongings again and walked to the coast and stowed away on a medium-sized boat probably toting drugs. When Drahc got to his unknown destination a few weeks later (having lived mostly off of smoked fish and other commodities), he emerged from the boat very cautiously. Luckily for him, he was unnoticed… though that sensation lasted for about ten seconds. He emerged in a port of an immense city that almost caused him to wet his multicolored pants. Albany, New York. As if the city’s blatant immensity didn’t overwhelm the young Garou, the giant crowd roaming the streets certainly did. His outfit and sword certainly did not help. He ran through the streets into a nearby alley where he was able to begin the process of sneaking onto a train, which he found after a few days of playing Bone Gnawer. He didn’t care where it went. He just wanted to get away from this abomination of civilization and the Weaver. At least it let him forget about the traumatic experience of his First Change. The long train ride didn’t help get him away from the Weaver. He landed in Seattle. Very fortunately for him, he was picked up by none other than Max Scraps-For-Cash. After a long conversation and a few verbal slip-ups by Drahc (he didn’t know of the Veil quite yet, keep in mind), they made friends and traveled back to the Caern in Bellingham.