We pissed away our chance to win this war eons ago. Arrogant bastards, we killed our allies, fought amongst ourselves, and made pride and power a priority over duty and honor. Now the Weaver scabs cover the land. In them, humanity blithely carries on, oblivious to the machinations of the Wyrm that corrupt them. They eat their O’Tolley’s, drink their King beer, and play their Tellus games without a thought about the plight of the world.  

And yet, there is a thin, miniscule, thread of hope. In places around the world the fera are uniting, coming together to deal with the issues we cannot see. Some even choose to work with us. In the most despoiled of scabs our own kind is putting aside their petty differences to deal with the problem we let fester for centuries.

The Apocalypse is coming, and we ensured that the Wyrm will win through our own pride and foolishness. Our fate is to die as the Wyrm consumes Gaia. Though there are glimmers of hope, they only serve to lesson our suffering, not thwart it. But we do not whine or cower in fear at the Final Battle.


We are Garou! We are Gaia's warriors, born of wolf and human, tied to the spirit realms, blessed by Luna with rage. We battle the Wyrm with tooth and claw, klaive and axe, wit and guile. We have fought and died for Gaia for centuries untold winning our glory, our wisdom, and our honor.

The end is nigh and only one question remains:

Rage Across Portland

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