I am Wakinyan O'ha'o, Thundering Wind is the closest translation to the waischu tongue. I am Ya'pahe by birth. Again the waischu words do not convey the true meanings, but warrior, or Ahroun is the closest. I was born of humans, though among the Siberakh it matters little. Wolves are one of the few animals which manage to survive in our home, and those born of them live among us. My homeland is Siberia. When those others who followed the steps of great father Sasquatch, mysterious Uktena, and the warmth dwellers who called themselves Croatan, and claimed to follow some great green animal which carried the world on its back, and could not help them in our home because it could not take the cold, passed through on their way to a new world where they could find purity, we stayed behind. The chieftans among us knew that great evil was buried beneath the ice, and would one day awaken and eat the world if not stopped. The others, particularly those of Sasquatch begged us to come with them, and the Uktena and Croatan tried to convince us we should go, for the pure world would be warm and give an easy life they said, but we would not go. Sasquatch was angry that day, and we saw the hate that lurked beneath the surface then, and we went from him, and he sent us away, hiding us away from even our brothers. This is well, for their war and ours are different... were different.
The wastes were a hard life, but we were a hard people. Snow Eagle took up our cause, and we followed him in exchange. He was one of the only creatures able to fly with the great winds, and survive the year in our home. He was also eternally vigilant for sign of our foes returning from their icy prisons.
Then the others came, prisoners from another land were brought to our home and left, supposedly to die. Then their nobility, the chieftans of many generations, were sent out into the wastes. At first we let them die. then after a particularly harsh winter, a sign from the winds we were doing wrong, we began to take them in and teach them to live as we did. They needed our ways, we needed new blood to keep our eternal struggle. We learned of the other tribes from some among them who knew of shifters called the silver Fangs. and while we do not agree with their ways, to rule is not part of our duty, and chiefs are chiefs for ability, not blood, we took in their blood anyway, and our fur became as white as the driven snows as our blood mixed. None ever went home, they joined in our struggle, or died in the wastes trying to find a way back to their old lives.
Why do I tell you all this? Because, to know me, you must know where I came from.
I was born at the height of winter, during a howling storm, with winds so great they could drive the snows enough to flay an unprotected man. Nothing walked that night, and even great Eagle kept to his shelter. These births are a blessing to us, as no predator may hear the cries of a mother or child, and the storm is an omen of a child who will grow up to be strong. Storms carry many omens for my people, we had lots of time to watch them for signs. Even at birth they said I had the look of heroes, taking features from both sides of my heritage well. It would be four nights before the storm lifted enough to again see the Moon, but it didn't matter, the shamans knew Muzzu Moon without need of sight of her, they knew I was Ya'Pahe, warrior born.
Children have little time to grow up among us. those who survive their first turns begin learning how they will be when grown. By six turns, three of the waischu years, I was using a knife to skin fish and whatever game could be brought. The Siberakh people would go into the wastes for many nights, and sometimes return with a large beast, which would feed the whole village for days. Other times the kin men would hunt for whatever was within a half day's hunt, no one but the Siberakh people went out at night, to do so was death.
By my next turn I began learning to throw my knife, and how to swing it to kill. I learned to walk among the snowy wastes unseen and unheard, and how to stitch leather and furs, and to cut tundra to make shelter. I was encouraged to wrestle and fight with the other children, and with the young wolf-dogs of the tribe that I would be stronger. They didn't tell me, but they hoped I would be Siberakh people, a great honor to any family, and wished that I would learn to fight like a wolf as well as a man. It was all in play, but my father would beat me if I lost, for to lose a fight is failure, and bad preparation for the times to come. It mattered little, there would be more fights.
It was after ten and two turns that I was finally allowed to hunt. The wind blew for many days, so I had to wait inside, but finally the storm lifted, and Several of the boys were set loose to hunt. Most went off excitedly, whooping and calling for blessing from Eagle to guide their aim. I knew better. Eagle cries after he has hunted, not before. I crept away the other way, hiding among the snows, and blooded my first kill within a mile of home. I returned victorious, and was the first of the boys born in my turn to be declared ready to begin training for the rites of manhood.
I was given a knife of the bone of my first kill, and told I could hunt when the others went out, but not with the men, only alone or with other boys until we made a kill worthy of our families. Two of the men went with us, to insure kills, and help ward of predators, but I would elude them to hunt alone, game was always easier to find alone. I would be beaten for this, but it never mattered, I got closer to my first great kill much faster this way. Each larger beast I could kill and bring back for food would get me a knew knife of its bone. This was the goal of every boy of the tribe, to get a knife that would let him become a man, and hunt with the men. The only thing better was to hunt with the Siberakh people, who lived among us, all knew of them, as was tradition. I have learned that other tribes taught their humans to fear them. I do not understand this, the people and the Siberakh people are bof the land, and have kept close to the spirits, as it should be. It was when I was ten and seven turns old (btw, turns is as usual for many tribes, turns of seasons, but Siberia only has two seasons, Summer and Winter, two turns is a year. - Jeff) that I snuck away from the men again. I had a sealbone knife, but it was not good enough. Besides, it had taken four boys to get it. This hunt I would get something truly worthy, even though more was not expected for many turns yet. Most boys are three turns of ten before they get their adult knife. I also knew that there was nothing large near to my home, so I kept going. I did not realize how far I had gone until it started to grow dark, and the wind picked up. The snow began to blow, and I had to lock my fingers around the handle of my knife so the gloves would freeze that way, since I was losing feeling in my hands. I knew I had to turn back, but even the smoke of the lodgehouse fires was out of sight. I fought through the wind, but it was no use, Grandmother made the night for the Siberakh people and the few beasts who could survive by sheer power instead of thought.
I struggled as long as I could, my mind starting to try to escape me and lead me astray. I lost all sense of direction, and finally fell, face first into the snow. I lifted my head once more, the people say you must face death eye to eye, only then will he know you're a hunter, not prey. Hunters are renewed by Grandmother, that is our role. Prey are brought back as animals for the hunt if someone gives thanks for the kill. If instead you freeze and are buried before one of Grandmother's predators can find you and consume you, your spirit is locked beneath the ice to be corrupted by the Horned Serpent and its spirits of the wastes. As I looked up, tearing away the scarves in front of my face so death could see that I was awake and looking at him, and make no mistake, I saw not death, but Eagle, fighting the storm winds. He came to me then, and wrapped his wings around me, shielding me from the wind, and he revealed to me what was my due. when he flew away again, borne by the wind, I needed him no longer, for I was Siberakh people, and I had my rage to keep me warm. I stood as tall as an adult of the tribe, with the white fur that marks the people, and I knew the night belonged to me now. With my new senses on fire, I sought out great bear, and I called to him, telling him it was his time, and I would give thanks over his bones, but he was needed to feed the people. Bear answered, and we fought. Again and again the snow was bloodied, but my wounds would not stay open, and even bear cannot fight forever. Young though I was, I had the heart of a Ya'pahe, and knew the kill was mine. He fell at last, bowing his head to his killer, and met death with closed eyes. I gave thanks to Bear, and to Grandmother, then cut off the head for proof of my kill, retreived a thigh bone for my knife, and used the rest for shelter until the storm passed so I could bury the kill away from scvavengers, and still find my way back with enough men to drag it back to the village.
I found my way back late the next day when the winds lifted, coming in to find people thought I had died. At first the men refused to believe my story, saying the head was surely from winter kill, but I showed them that I was now Siberakh people, and told them of Eagle's visit. I showed them the kill site the next day, and the village celebrated. I was made man in the great ceremony, and as I had proved myself so young, and in such a fashion, the elders of the Siberakh people came to me, and began training me to do the wolf dance, which even most of the Siberakh people are never allowed to learn. This was old tradition, one kept since the time we left our brothers.
From then on, I trained with the Siberakh people, hunted with them, fought with them, trained with them, and even moved from my family's lodge to a warrior's lodge among the Siberakh people. I was the youngest anyone had ever heard of, but the Ya'Pahe just said that would give me more time to learn. They knew the final days were coming, and we would fight the fight we had waited all the lifetimes for. I received my scars four turns later, and was declared a man of the tribe. On the day I got my scars, the wind picked up even as it had on my day of birth, and my adult name was given for the first impression of the shaman looking out into the land. Wakinyan, the sound of thunder, O'ha'o for a spirit of the cold winds. Most keep a family name to honor their parents, but I was no longer of them, I was of the Siberakh people. The Siberakh people could do things no human could, and though we lived among our kin, and we protected and honored them, the reason we stayed in Siberia, and the fight to come was ours. Though we all knew that the battle would have its cost for all. Our kin had enough trouble fighting the land for survival. It was after my scarring that I got to go on my first real hunt. Not for the beasts of the land this time, but for those creatures who would occasionally awaken and dig their way through the ice and tundra to threaten the ways, or try to fight their way through the wastes to more settled climes. The other shifters had enough troubles we knew, and we needed to train, so this could not be allowed, so we hunted. These creatures were servants of the Horned Serpent, the defiler of Grandmother, and we would hunt them to the end of the ice when needed. This was what I was born for, these fights. This was also the age most children were first finding they were Siberakh people. I had a start on most of them for my age, but that didn't matter. Once a person, human or Siberakh people was passed into adulthood, they were treated in all ways as an adult. Time passed like this for quite some time. I learned to fight well, but the older, more experienced warriors seemed to always get the kills, so it was difficult to rise in the estimation of the other Siberakh people as a warrior, and even the Wolf Dance required that I take a kill of one of our foes before I could undergo the next ceremony. Even so, I learned. Our history, our ways, and how best to follow the ways of Grandmother, and those of Eagle.
For his part, Eagle was always close to me. On hunts I would pick up the scents carried on the winds, or be the first to find the signs of the ice having been broken through. These are signs of the blessed of Eagle, the ever alert, the great hunter. I would also see him frequently, borne aloft on the winds above our great hunts, a good omen. Had I been shaman, or trickster I would have risen in rank quickly, as many signs as I saw, and omens that were given to me, but it was not so, I was, and am, Ya'Pahe, and I needed my kill. Only then would I be not only a man, but a warrior as well, and only then would I be allowed to take part in the sacred traditions, such as raising hunting parties, doing the dances in thanks or in seeking, the quest for vision, and the right to take mates, or a wife. These were things for men who had filled their role. For Ya'Pahe, this is never easy, especially as the great warriors of the tribe always seek more bones, and more glory for themselves....
It was many turns before I would pass this test, it usually is. There are even a few of the old men of the tribe, unfulfilled warriors who were never able to beat out the great hunters for a kill. They were destined wander out into the wastes one day, on their last hunt, and sacrifice themselves against that which they always sought to hunt, to weaken it for the rest of the hunters, or else to die in the wastes and come back as prey. It would all depend on how they faced death. Those who die unfulfilled always close their eyes, the cold does that. Only once have we ever found one who was able to die with his eyes open, despite being caught in a winter storm while wounded. He was unable to find a battle to finish himself, and his wounds kept him from shelter, so he cut off his eyelids and turned to his human form so they would not grow back. This is how I would be were I forced to die this way.
Ten and three turns after I became man, we had visitors. This rarely happens, save some few Waischu who come into the wastes, either for adventure, or seeking escape from their lives. Some of each join us, many die in the finding or returning. They do bring trade goods, or gifts, which the tribe always takes. We could never afford to turn anything away that might let one more person live out the winter, unless it bore the taint of the Horned Serpent, in which case the item, or the giver should he be the corrupted, would be given over to Grandmother in the fires. Many was the Horned Serpent Person who "escaped" the Silver Fangs or the ones called the Shadow Lords, and fled into the wastes not expecting to find others of Grandmother there. This is how we would have it. These visitors were different though, they were Wendigo people and a few of their kin, here on a great hunjt for a wounded beast which had fled their lands over the watrers into our homelands. Though both sides distrusted the other, we went on the hunt anyway, brothers in war. We found the monster, one of the worst we'd seen yet. The Wendigo people fought well, but stupidly ignored us when we tried to tell them how to hunt such things in our home, and thought to take all the glory for themselves. For this, one of their great warriors was slain, along with a number of others of lesser repute, and some of their kin. The beast even killed two of the Siberakh people who got caught up in the mad rush, and sought to keep the Wendigo people from taking all the glory of the kill. The beast sought to escape then, thinking that slaying a few warriors and driving away the first attack would be sufficient. The Siberakh people let it turn, then attacked its flank, digging our sacred knives into its hide and letting it bleed. We tracked it out into the wastes while the Wendigo people tended their hurt and cursed us for cowards, all save a couple, who followed to see what it was we did. We let the winds dig at the open wounds of the beast, always harrying it to keep it moving, never letting it so much as pull a knife from its hide. Desperate, it turned at last to fight, and we surrounded it, always attacking from behind, retreating as it turned. When it badly hurt one of the other Siberakh People, I took up his dagger in my other hand, a way to do honor to a fallen comrade who has fought well, and did my turns at wounding it. I fought this way, a knife in each hand, and discovered I could do it well. I had never thought much before of which hand to use a dagger in, either seemed to work, this was all the better. Finally we had it circling, trying to predict the next attack. I saw a brief flash of movement behind it, an eagle circling in the sky some way off, and knew my time had come. Before any of the other warriors could take my chance, I leapt at it head on as it was trying to predictr where the next attack would come from. I caught it by surprise, dug the knives in to hold on, and bit into its throat. The blood was foul, with a powerful stench, but I held on, knowing it would shake me loose if I didn't. It fell, and three warriors claimed the killing blow, driving their bone tipped spears into its side, but when I pushed its massive head away to reveal my knives through its neck, and its bloody throat in my jaws, none could deny me, especially as they were so busy arguing, they had failed to notice whether it had died with its eyes open or closed, so when I was able to tell them all to look at how the monster had died a coward, they bowed their heads.
That night was a great celebration, I was made a warrior, and made not one, but two knives from the mighty bones of the monster, my due as its killer. After the rites of purification, I was blessed by our shamans, and given the full rights of a warrior. The wolf dancers also whispered to me of their own induction. Somehow one of the Wendigo people heard this, and told me of similar stories from her people. She was one of those who had followed the Siberakh people after the beast, and it turned out, a student of the great warrior who had been crushed in the first assault. She and I talked and drank, for though we have little to make alcohol from, we save up what we can in strong brews, or take what traders and adventurers will bring us, for occasions such as this.
It is custom with visitors, someone must share their lodge, and insure their warmth while they stay. It is also customary for a warrior to take a mate, especially on the nights of celebration. She grieved for her mentor, and sought comfort. Between this, and the drink, we laid the night together. Though Grandmother prefers the strong, those born of union of wolf or human to the people, when in need of warriors, she will take the metis, especially among our people, already a crossbreeding of societies, with enough trouble surviving, but it is still best avoided. For those who grow up in softer lands, it is apparently much greater shame, for after we woke, she would speak to me no more. Just as well, she was Wendigo people, I am Siberakh people, related, but not the same.
Then the Wendigo People went away, certain, I am sure, to return home carrying tales of their glory, forgetting to mention the Sibewrakh People, just as well, this is how we wished it when we parted ways. The end days were coming though, and it became more and more evident. More creatures began to escape the ice every day. We were forced to spend less and less time hunting for food for ourselves and the people, and more time seeking the monsters. Once, to the shame of all the Siberakh People, we even returned home, bloodied and tired after a great fight with four of the blood drinkers, and had to take from the food supplies of the kin. They offered it freely, but still it was wrong, we were protectors and providers. A number of us tried to rise and hunt, but wounds would not permit it, so we ate as little as possible. That winter was especially hard, and many starved to death, many more died fighting the servants of the Horned Serpent. We destroyed those we hunted though, and at least each warrior's death meant more food for the rest.
Summer was looked upon as a relief, as a time when we would get a chance to recover, but that was not to be. In the first thaw, the ground was rent asunder as blood drinkers tried to claw their way out in a greater horde than had ever been seen. Most were insane monstrosities, out to take any blood they could get without tactics or subtlety. Some few, however, had powers we'd rarely seen before, and used them with careful precision. We fought hard, but there was always more. Then we received unexpected aid. As we rushed towards a most recent excavation, we saw from afar that those emerging were already being attacked... by other blood drinkers! We kept scouts watching these others from afar, but decided to let them have their fights, and aid us as they were going to. We had our own hunts, and watched as the blood drinkers fought each other tooth and nail, the whole area a place of war for the Summer. Finally as winter hit, the ones emerging apparently knew that if they did not recover the rest of their brethren now, they would likely be locked away for at least the winter turn, and perhaps more, so they went out in a great horde, a female of the most hideous countenance I've ever seen at their head. They brought in more aid from the cities, I could tell by the clothing these newcomers wore. One of our scouts was able to spy on the blood drinkers who were fighting against the ones arising, and brought us back news of what the fight was about. Our unwitting allies called themselves 'Brujah' and 'Gangrel' with some 'Nosferatu', none of these words mean anything to me. The ones rising were more Nosferatu, apparently powerful ones, and their leader, the horrible woman, was named, in whispered tones, Baba Yaga. This was the name of an old witch of Russian legend, perhaps derived from this one.
We fought her forces, and let the blood drinkers do all they could. There was a great battle, blood drinkers against others. Baba Yaga was joined as well by many servants of the Horned Serpent, which decided us once and for all which were the worst of the blood drinkers. In this battle, the Brujah and Gangrel fought hard, but were slain before the hordes. Just as Baba Yaga was screaming her victory though, there was a greater cry, as Eagle called us to battle, and all the Siberakh People of the nation rushed as one. Many fell, but these Nosferatu could not match us for ferocity, and we knew this land like no other. Our spirits aided us as well, and the beasts of the land, the great bear, tiger, and the hawks and eagles joined our fight. The ice was broken away beneath our foes feet when they crossed off the tundras onto the ice sheets by orca, and the wolves, ever our brothers, circled and circled, picking of those who sought to escape to heal their wounds. Baba Yaga was at the center of it all, using strange powers to slay warrior after warrior who would approach. She called out words, and even the mightiest would turn on allies, she would gaze forth, and none could approach her, and even our animal allies would change sides when they approached her too closely. Thrown weapons did nothing to her, or healed in instants, and even those who fought through could not match her for strength. We were defeating her hordes, but this would do little good unless we could find a way to defeat her. Finally Eagle himself aided us. He entered our war chief, who had fallen before her, and he rose again, ignoring her powers, and matching her for strength. We knew this was wrong, for Eagle is no scavenger, he is not to touch the things of the dead, but he made this sacrifice for us, and we knew he would never be the same. He helped us win the day though, and the chief, backed by Eagle's power finally toppled the witch, along with warriors who could aid now that she was distracted. Then we heard Eagle cry in victory, the call of the killer, and we were given new strength even as our foes seemed to lose all of theirs. Then I felt a sudden tearing sensation, not from a physical blow, but as though something was suddenly separated that had always been mine. I fought my way in near blood rage to the chief, once again lying still before his kill. I turned over his body, and discovered the horrible truth. The weakling had been unworthy of Eagle's sacrifice. His strength was enough to defeat the witch, renewed as it was by our great totem, but Eagle was still within when he died, able to be released only upon the departure of the spirit. We had thought that his spirit after such a task would surely return to the great cycle, and Eagle would fly free again within hours, but as I turned him over I realized the horrible truth. Our great war chief, slayer of Baba Yaga... had died with his eyes closed, now frozen shut by the cold winds. He, and Eagle with him would be reborn as some small weak animal to be hunted, and could only be freed if that animal were to die, summoning the courage at the last moment to meet death. The chances were few.
I flew into a rage then like none before, and none since to me, tearing through every standing foe within my reach. I was joined in the blood fury by my brothers, realizing the significance, it was to be the last great frenzy of the Siberakh people. The blood drinkers gave way before us, going to death screaming in terror for their unlives. The servants of thew Horned Serpent found no escape, as they too melted like so many snowflakes. As the last one fell, as one, the rage ended, as though suddenly there was no more anger to be had. We found we were few, most of the Siberakh People having fallen among our foes. We gave thanks to the spirits, but heard no manswer, and we said the rituals for the dead for each foe, then returned home, weak and weary.
We found that the Horned Serpent had been there first, and had wiped out most of the villages. We went on the hunt, even hurt as we were, and began tracking the killers. We slew many, including every blood drinker of either side who had fled the battle successfully, and the Horned Serpent creatures who were still standing, the ones cowardly enough to strike at women and children when there is a war to be fought. Finally the wastes were purified, but at great cost. We could count those left alive in only a few tens, including both Siberakh People and kin.
It was then that the Siberakh People among us felt a great calling, and the winds rose. Most felt they could not leave their homes, especially as they felt they had to find Eagle, or had to heal their wounds. Finally, it was agreed. I would answer the call for all of the Siberakh People, going wherever it led me. I was warrior, and I had spoken the most with the Wendigo People, one at least, and so was thought to know the most of their ways.
I took up my two knives, and what supplies could be spared, and set off. I made myself a boat of hides and bone, and set out across the strait. The journey took many days and nights, and frequently I was tempted to turn back, or a storm would threaten my life, but always I went on. On my third day over the seas, the water began to boil and rise, and a great monstrosity rose from the seas, towering high over my boat. It attacked in a rage, as though its existence depended on destroying me, and from those tales I've heard since, perhaps it did. We fought for a long time, it crushed my boat, taking with it all that I did not carry with me. I dug my knives into its neck under the scales, and dug with teeth and claws as it tried to shake me away. One of the knives broke away, imbedding itself deeper and deeper in every time the monster moved, and I fought on with one. Finally with a roar like the greatest thunder, it fell, toppling back into the water. Fortuneately the head and neck remained floating, enough that I was able to dig out bones to make a new knife, and tear up enough of its scales to make a boat, not a proper one, but a floating surface which could be paddled to shore. Two days I went without food or clean water, when finally I reached land. I reached the place those I've met since call Alaska, and began to walk in the direction of the call. I hunted and fished as necessary, but slept little in this strange land. I fought five more battles, all with corrupted beings in a state of desperation, but none would match the great sea monster, and by the end, I had five more knives, though not as great as those of the two great monsters, so I kept these others merely for throwing.
I finally got through Alaska and Canada, crossing much of the distance with an old native man in his car. I had seen these before, but they were rarely of much use in my home. Here they were much faster than walking. He taught me a little of what I know of these lands, and asked few questions. He simply dropped me off in Washington, and drove away. I felt the call still even as a great storm raged, which I plunged into. When the storm died down, I found myself near a town on what I've learned was a reservation, the air filled with the sounds of crying. I found from those few people huddled in what buildings still stood that they were Wendigo kin, and that the tribe had just sacrificed itself in answer to the call of Wendigo, burying forever one of the greatest forces of the Horned Serpent.
I found also a few others, Uktena, and former Wendigo People who had left the tribe for the Uktena, or been deemed unworthy of the sacrifice, including one I knew. They invited me to join them in a new pack, the best way to survive the hard times sure to come, and I accepted, having nothing to return to at home now.
We have joined together as the Klukwalle, the wolf dancers, the one tradition shared by all our tribes, a pack composed only of those of the 'Pure Ones', those who turned away from the rest of the nation in search of the Pure Lands. Wendigo, Uktena, Croatan... and finally reunited, Siberakh. We have been apart long, much has changed, but once again I fight alongside my brothers and sisters. For this, this is how we would have wished it.
It matters not that these new garou refused to acknowledge that I am not just man, but warrior (He was fostern, near adren, but the other garou don't recognize the Siberakh renown, and only his deeds and proof of them made them call him cliath instead of cub) It also matters not that most garou have never heard of my tribe. What matters is that I live, and I fight on. This is a new world, but it is one with many possibilities for rebirth and renewal, we will find a way. What matters is that I am Wakinyan O'ha'o, Ya'Pahe of the Siberakh.