APRES

By Timothy Toner ([email protected]) (17 March 1994)

Foreword

Here's the Wereboar, an idea I got less from AD&D "let's make weregoldfish!" mentality, and more from my first terrifying moment when I confronted the Wyld. It is a creature that Rages through Stamina, instead of speed or strength (like the Garou and the Gurahl). I hope you like their origin.

Introduction

The mother looked down on all her children, still sticky and squirming from the Birth, and wondered at their power. They were to be the protectors of her creation, but then again, weren't the humans supposed to do that?

Each had its own place, its own role. The Rokea would watch the waters, the Rats would watch the cities, the Cats would watch the jungles, the Bears would watch the cold places. Each had its own place, and each respected the territory of the other.

And then there were the Garou, her special children. They would teach the humans to hunt, to respect Gaia in all the spiritual ways, and to use their gifts productively. They were to be more human than all the other groups, to guide them along the right ways, through empathy, and not pain.

Then the Corax, wisest of all Gaia's children, flew overhead, and as her reflection formed in the birthing pool, a single feather floated down, and softly landed in the center. The circles of water formed a potent picture that enthralled Gaia, and took her breath away.

The Corax, the high flyer, saw the future beyond the Horizon. It sent her an image of what it saw, captured in the feather. There, in that other time, the Garou lashed out violently, first dividing against itself, then dividing against its charges, then dividing against the other bete. Its insanity knew no bounds, and Gaia knew that if left unopposed, the Garou would wrap their strong jaws around Gaia herself, crushing out the life.

The Garou were not to blame. They were too blind to their own sin, too knowledgeable in the workings of the world. There were so many choices, so many roads to take, it would only make sense for some to take one path, and others to set out on their own. But there was a taint in their soul that made this difference of opinion lethal.

Gaia wept strong, bitter tears. Her favorite children would doom them all, because of a madness at their core. Already it had begun. In her name, to honor her, they were bringing down a mighty boar. Why would they think that the death of an animal would please her?

The boar put up a valiant fight, but the day was not his. The speed Gaia had given the Garou allowed them to sport with the creature, without fearing that the boar could do anything. The boar's suffering reached her ears, and in a sudden flash, she reached down, and touched the boar.

Something happened. The creature stood on two legs, and slammed its full force into a wolf, snapping its spine. Gaia recoiled in horror. Bete had never fought bete. What had happened?

The wolves, shocked and angered, transformed to Crinos, and let the Rage flow. The Birthing pool became thick with flowing blood. When it finally cleared, four of the five Garou were dead. The transformed boar wore wretched wounds all over its body, one arm dangling by strands of sinew. With primal fury still burning in its eyes, it reached down with its last good arm, and strangled the life out of the last.

Gaia was numb. She had created a monster, a creature born of the pain of death, and not birth. It relished in that emotion. It snapped its arm back into the socket, and did not wait for the flesh to regrow. She sensed that despite its hasty creation, it had a near-human cunning, a plan, a purpose born into its existence.

What had entered this bloody dream into its soul? Gaia could not sense it. In many ways, its thoughts, dreams, even its presence, was hidden from the Mother. She could only warn her children away from its hate. But would that be enough?


During the War of Rage, a terror stalked the night, killing and maiming, leaving whole packs dead in its wake. The corpses of the dead did not fester with the rot of the Wyrm. Bete blamed Bete, unaware that the true foe walked among them, feeding off the War, and growing stronger.

The most potent Theurges cast offerings to the fire, hoping for a sign from Gaia, but she was silent. The Garou took this to be a sign of her tacit acceptance of the War, and that the murderer was a renegade Bete. The other Bete saw the night demon as her avenger, since it struck down ten times as many Garou than it did the other shifters.

The creature, an Apres, but one of a pack of thousands, discovered its true purpose, hidden from its kind by a fearful Gaia. It was the great leveller, the Bete who would watch over the others, and strike down the cruel and the capricious. Only a few of its kind would ever manifest this level of intelligence in a given generation, but it would be enough.

It regarded its fellow Apres with a solemn sadness. Gaia had kept them stupid, lest their cunning wipe all Bete from the planet. Still, they were there, the heart of the Wyld, waiting for the Bete reckless enough to cross their paths and attack. Their ignorance was their strength. Apres would never turn on Apres. The Wyld flowed strongly within them. With thought came the Weaver, the desire to bind and enslave spirits, to fashion toxic silver. With the Weaver came the Wyrm, poisoning the whole.

Gaia had a thought in that tragic moment of creation. The One that now guided their steps stole that thought, and instilled it into the most potent Apres in times of crisis. Gaia could not destroy them, for the thought, though secret, was still valid.

And now the thought burned in the veins of this Apres, a Rage borne of Rage, a deep hatred of abused power. To stop the suffering it would bring down the Wolf, the Bear, the Cat. And nothing...nothing could stop its wrath.


The Apres squinted through his glasses, regarding the moot happening in the valley below. They sang of victory in the war against the Wyrm, against man. All but a few had forgotten the ancient purpose for their creation. It was not the job of the Apres to remind them. It was his job to punish.

At his feet, the guard who had been sent to watch for intruders stirred at his feet. She was young, but fought with courage and experience. With her klaive, she had wounded him many times. It mattered not; the Garou would never learn.

Within seconds, all his wounds had healed. He grabbed the klaive and hacked her squirming head off. With all his strength, he tossed the head into the valley below. It probably wouldn't be seen by a single Garou, but it would be the only warning they would get.

They sang of Gaia's sorrow, of the Final Days upon them now. The Apres drew his silver sabre, and began his walk down. Fools. They spoke of the Final Days long ago, during the War of Rage, during the Impergium. Whenever times became hard, they spoke of the End, of a fate taken out of their hands. The Apres would survive these Final Days, as would the world.

But the Garou below would not.