Bound Totems: A Tale of Izidakh , Madness and Blood

This Story Is True.

These words are mine but the tale is not, it took place throughout the birth and early months of 2007 within Sheffield and Birmingham, both within the UK and is recorded by McCoy on the 3rd April 2007. These tales are brought from the words of those who lived them, and from the evidence presented, and it is dedicated to the life and death of Darius, Strength-of-Conviction, Rahu, Stormlord of Thunder, of the Pack Sturmjaeger who gave his life that others might not.

May Luna grant forgiveness to him, and mercy to us all.

McCoy
Dreaming Moon of the Iminir
Librarian of the Aere Perennius

Battles against the Highborn in the City of Steel

SHEFFIELD, the city of steel, Sheffield, the hard-place, Sheffield, a knot of the People surrounded by enemies. Many are the foemen which lurk around, above, under and within. Few are the sworn of Luna, children of Father Wolf and Mother Moon. Great are the battles, great is the suffering, great the heroism but small the glory. For Sheffield is like the steel which comes from it; hard, unyielding, with an edge to bring blood flowing.

WITHIN the city of steel a great host of enemies lurk, the foul Beshilu a constant menace, the Other a haven of shining glass and shimmering metal, even the herd walking so carelessly by a threat. Always the hateful Highborn, the foul Pure Ones lurk to cause pain, to seek to damage and harm, to kill and maim, to take territory and to drive the Commoners before them where they can.

MANY of the Highborn which plague Great Britain are great and powerful, wise in the mysteries of the Shadow, great in the arts martial and fearsome to behold. One Pack of the Izidakh, chosen of the Rabid-Wolf and fervent haters of those who seek to perform the Duties of Father Wolf were abroad within Sheffield. They used the herd as a weapon, seeking to follow and assault one of the Sworn of the Moon.

BUT the children of Father Wolf are canny, Dai Moonshine, Crescent moon and Chosen of Death Wolf of the Pack called Seven-Hills-Nine-Tails turned his pursuers back and traced them to their Den – a lair made in a warehouse, converted to a church. Seeking to know more the curious Bone-Shadow made his way closer and closer until he was struck with a spiritual malaise – he choked upon his own blood, vomiting it to the ground.

HOWLS split the air and the Dreamer knew that it was not time to hunt for knowledge, but to show his tail and so he fled. Calling on the winds to speed his flight Dai called out for aid. The People of Great Britain are proud and noble, but fractured and prone to infighting. When one Uratha was caught alone by a pack of the Highborn what could happen?

FOUR Packs of Werewolves came to help their brother – Seven-Hills-Nine-Tails, Darnall Dogs and the Committee from the city of steel, Jay Pathfinder and Janesca Wiemezslaw, Calmheart of the Pack of the Shadowed Paths, Neckbiter of the Wolves Rampant and Frosty, who walks alone. Sheffield and its visitors would not let one of their own face the vengeful fangs and claws of a hateful enemy. Seeing that they did not have the numbers to tear their prey apart the Pure Tribes fled – returning to their den, their church of hate – to cower from those whom they despised.

QUICKLY a plan was made, the Totem spirit of the Fire-touched was summoned and bound, chained in servitude to a Fetish. Janesca Wiemezslaw, Calmheart the Crescent Moon of the Iminir, of the Pack of the Shadowed Paths and Frosty, wandering Half Moon of the Bone Shadow, Harbinger without Pack joined together to craft a fetish – a dagger.

LIKE heroes of ancient times at the gates of a castle of evil it took moments for the People to overcome the first of the defences, the Highborn distraught without their Patron to guide them, the Moon Tribes fierce and undaunted by their foe. Quickly the fight was done, blood split but honour satisfied – the Fire-touched driven from their lair, their territory claimed by the stronger predators.

THOUGH the Highborn are many and the Commoners are few, together we are great in number and greater in spirit, in pride, in nobility and in battle. When the Tribes of the Moon stand together, face the hardest tests and refuse to be bested it is no gift of Victory, it is taken and paid for in blood.

Highborn Prisoners in a Dungeon of their Minds

WHEN the Highborn fled from the rage of the Moon Tribes, and from the strength of four packs united their minds were unhinged. When their totem was taken from them whatever balance the crazed Izidakh had was lost. They ran and hid, hunters no more, prey scared of the big bad wolves who roam freely they became.

IT was to a house they fled, an old house of the Victorians in the Middlewood, a safe house for the Hatters Club which was a Pack of the Suthar Anzuth and Meninna whose territory was the Loxley Valley. In its cellar was, and is, a Locus; a precious place where the Second World might be reached from the First World, and a place of power to those who can use it. It is no more, drained like the larder and the cupboards, by desperate, insane beings no more capable of rational thought than a rabid dog.

THIS Locus of food, of greed, of meat and of hunger was enough to tip the already mad Fire-touched into the grips of lunacy. Terror prevented them from leaving the house lest the ones who had destroyed their totem and took their territory destroyed them. Hunger gnawed at them, became a pain in the belly like a shaft of silver, became a waking torment and a sleeping nightmare till no more could they stand it.

CONTRITION was offered to the spirits who had deserted them, blood and flesh offered and sacrifices made. It is not known which one died first, or who took that first, fatal mouthful of sweet flesh, but these deranged Izidakh fell further down the paths of madness to the Zi’ir, to the Broken soul.

REGARDING the deaths of their Packmates as Sacrifice to the Pack, the greatest gift being given, the Law of the Sea brought to a sad, fractured, terrible conclusion these Highborn showed themselves to be as nothing; the path of the cannibal was their choice, and the flesh of their fellows was their feast.

WHEN word of these strange recluses and their odd religious rantings and ravings reached the People they decided to act. With an air of unity rarely seen in the society of the Tribes of the Moon representatives of three packs, along with some visitors from outside of the city, came to see what oddness was within.

EXPECTING to face a Minister of the Beshilu and its diseased flock, or a Spirit with a cult of followers, or some nameless threat from the Other the People came with caution and with a big stick. Members of the Packs were Seven-Hills-Nine-Tails, Darnall Dogs and The Committee for Public Safety along with Scott and Dave, Forest of Wyre of the Meninna and Neckbiter of the Wolves Rampant arrived with stealth to the old house in the Middlewood.

WHAT they found was nothing they expected, but was worse. A nightmare of madness, chaos and despair made flesh, horror and terror made somehow worse. The carpet of broken needles telling a mute tale of drugs, addiction and withdrawal. The damaged furniture, the empty cupboards, the television blaring inane daytime television telling of despair more eloquently than mere words. The bacon sizzling in a frying pan, the tasty scent of death and dishonour filling the house. The butchered corpses of fallen Packmates in the cellar, three whimpering broken-minded cowards within the loft.

REALISING what foulness had happened the People decided to act. In a fit of kindness and mercy they did not seek to punish those who were beyond understanding and reason but instead gave them to their fellows; that the Highborn would help them, or bring them justice, or deal with them in their ways. The three were removed from Sheffield and brought to Birmingham, never more to trouble the People, or so was thought.

FLAMES lit the sky as the house with its horrors and its terrors was consigned to fire, terror and evil nothing more than fuel for a blaze of cleansing. With sadness and regret the People counted an enemy defeated, and counted the costs of that defeat on the souls of their foe, and wept.

Battles against the Highborn at the Tur of Peace's Keeper

SO it came to be that the Patron of the Shadowed Paths was named Mist, a spirit held in great regard by that pack. Those who remained of the Izidakh of Sheffield whose Totem had been bound by Calmheart and Frosty, and who had been driven insane by this act, vowed a bleak and terrible revenge on those who their twisted minds told them had robbed them of territory and fellows, of Packmates and Patron, of pride and of honour. They conspired to do unto the Pack of the Shadowed Paths as had been done unto them and called upon magics of the Shadow to summon Mist to them, and to bind it into a Fetish – into a Ring.

FEELING the link to their Patron torn from them the Pack of the Shadowed Paths gathered their number and set out to free it. They numbered four who sought Mist, Jay Pathfinder, Irraka and Alpha of the Pack, Calmheart and Cipher both Crescent Moons and armed with powerful Rites and the newly Changed Eleftheria who, only two turns of the moon a werewolf, was called Precocious Cub by her Alpha.

THREE were the Fire-touched who waited for their sworn enemies, and revenge would be theirs. Swiftly they attacked – without subtly or cunning these three Highborn warriors sought nothing other than the destruction of those they blamed for their own disgrace. The Pack of the Shadowed Paths were mighty though, and outnumbered their Highborn foes. Quickly the odds changed even more as the first of them fell – ripped apart in an orgy of blood and dynamite; a charge of explosives packed with metal the first move of a pack with only one aim – the death of those they hated above all.

THE six Uratha joined battle and fought with blows enough to destroy trees and walls, to topple buildings and fill valleys. The two remaining Izidakh fell on their enemies at the edge of Karuth – one encased in a suit of metal and carrying a mighty blade, the other relying upon his ferocity, and on the teeth and claws which were our inheritance from Father Wolf. Both took the war form and remained such through the fight, their lust for blood written bold for all to see.

SOON enough the two proved themselves as masterful warriors, the mighty sword biting deep, the jaws and claws of the other leaving great burning wounds – the very fur of this dread berserker as the feeling of silver. Fight as they could the Shadowed Paths were overmatched and could not best them.

CALMHEART was their most hated enemy, the one who stole their Patron, and it was her that was sorely struck down first. With great patches of flesh ripped from her body she was forced to flee – the Death Rage at the touch of these torturously painful fangs more than any could be expected to bear. Her pack followed, realising discretion the better part of valour they came quickly to the Tur where the People of the West Midlands had been welcomed and where Alex, changed but two nights, was being taught of our history and culture.

HEALING was begun upon Calmheart, whose very life was in the balance, with her Pack keeping her in a state of frenzied activity lest she die. As Cipher reached the middle of the Rite the two who had sent them away appeared.

UNWILLING to see any of the People die those few who remained stepped forwards to face them off. Unknowing of the great hatred and anger which drove these two beyond the normal limits of Father Wolf’s children they stood – a fragile line denying the Highborn their prey. On one side stood Mata Leao, a fierce Full Moon from Brazil and master of Jiu Jitsu and on the other stood Darius, Strength-of-Conviction, Rahu, Stormlord of Thunder, of the Sturmjaeger. The final one of these three was myself, McCoy, a Dreamer of small martial might.

IT was as if a great wave smashed upon a wall, a wall which would not break. On one side the stalwart Mata Leao attempted to grapple with the armoured foeman, attempting to rip the sword from his grasp. On the other Darius would not pause as he enfolded the other in a vice-like grip of iron.

EVEN as the flesh of his arms and chest burned, as razor-filled fangs ripped into his neck, the massive arms of the Warrior Moon bulged, seeking to crush his foe so that he would fall. The fury of the one was too much, its fangs and claws too sharp, the burning of its touch and skin too fierce. None could stand this, none could do this and live. When the strongest and toughest would have turned away Darius proved himself deserving in truth of his name – it was with great Strength of Conviction that the doughty Iminir stood and gave his all to prevent the blood of another being spilled. He fell, the marks of talons, the burnt skill and the teeth-marks a mute testimony that he did not fall easily.

WITH some humility the author must admit that one dreadful, burning, terrible bite from those harrowing fangs was enough – with an arm near-useless and ribs crushed I was forced to leave the combat, though it was certain that I remained, throwing rocks to distract and wound these loathsome creatures.

THE young Eleftheria joined with Mata Leao to keep them occupied, with a dull click showing another was in the fight still. All was looking dire as Dave Forest of Wyre boldly drove a van into the fray – knocking one down and then laying into the pair with a lashing staff made of living wood.

UNWILLING to leave others to face death without doing what I could to aid them I called upon the power of our Warrior Form and joined battle once more, knowing that one blow from either Izidakh could spell my doom.

WITH all now joined the Izidakh could not last and both fell. Though all who fought them did so with ferocity there was much honour too, each fighting to keep their fellows alive though half were not of the Shadowed Paths. Even Alex, who knew nothing of the People, was struck several times with the heavy sword of one as he struggled to restrain Calmheart that her life might be saved.

IT was with sorrow for the fallen, as well as with relief at a victory, that we surveyed the scene of battle. A battle whose cost was paid in blood – in the blood of the three whose madness made them seek revenge or the death they found, and in the blood of Darius, Strength-of-Conviction, Rahu, Stormlord of Thunder, of the Pack Sturmjaeger. Darius who gave his life that others might live. Darius who fought for those not of his Pack, but of his People. Darius, who was a rock upon which the wave of hatred broke, and who was broken for it. Darius, whose blood bought survival and victory both.

FINALLY the ring into which Mist had been bound was found, and the Meninna Forest of Wyre freed the spirit. With gratitude and with sorrow the assembled honoured the fallen and left, to fight and face another day, and another moon.

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