Ariane Primrose-Morton
Ariane Primrose-Morton. Galliard, Silver Fangs.
Daughter of Tarquin and Janice Primrose-Morton (her mother is the werewolf). Her family (see Primrose-Morton Estate) have been Silverfangs for generations and she has issues living up to the family name but is very defensive of it, is engaged in ineffective rebellion against capitalism while being privileged, studies Law and loves acting, stories, and the history and stories of the Silverfangs. Oh and I guess maybe some other garou heroes. Frequently seen carrying a Grand Klaive that she only damaged once (so far). Played by User:Tabitha.
"The star of Pulp's Common People" - Carlie
"I didn't know it was possiblt to be bitten by a radioactive Tory." - Carlie
I suppose we had to tell her some time. I asked your parents about it, Ari. When you were a baby, you suffered a terrible accident. Physically, you were fine, but the fall drive a needle right into your brain and completely destroyed your sense of irony. I'm sorry I have to tell you this, but... You can't be a part of the oppsessed socialist masses when you have no student loans, your enormous stipend and your family owns half of Wessex. You're the rich bourgeoisie elite!
By the way, I borrowed your hair straighteners.
Love, Alpha.
The Tale of Sir Jeffrey Morton and the Mage
You see, it was one of my ancestors, Sir Jeffrey Morton who was out running with his pack of hounds one day, hunting until they were lost when he came upon a strange tower in the Kings Wood. It was late in the day and the smell of cooking was drifting out of the chimney high upon the tower. They raced around the base of the tower 3 times blowing their hunting horns and searching for a door to request entry for the night, but there were no doors in evidence. Eventually they camped for the night hoping and made a meagre stew of a couple of rabbits they'd caught.
During the night the guard-hound howled, alerting Sir. Morton to the change, him and his hunters rose, and there silhouetted in the moonlight was an open doorway, with a strange man in a pointy hat. Sir Morton bowed in greeting to the man, asking him if he could trouble him for directions out of the Kings Wood and return to his own lands. The man nodded, and told him he must follow the trail of the need-nail, the northern star which everyone moves around. The two exchanged looks, as if testing each others mettle and Sir Morton got a strange sense the man could see the wolf within him and within the man he could see the stars in his soul. Recognising his chance for knowledge he invited the man to leave his tower and join them for wine and bread, but the man shook his head, his work required he not leave the tower, but he invited Sir Morton inside, although the rest of the Hounds must stay in the woods. He and his pack exchanged uneasy looks, growling between themselves before finally his Theuge sent him forward to get knowledge for the pack.
He entered the tower, the man walked him through the rooms, silent as the grave, no other people. They took stair after stair upwards and finally arrived at the man's study. The room was lit by strange lamps and piled with scrolls and strange devices and the most peculiar scent. Sir Morton took it all in, they sat and talked of the deep Kings wood, the man knew it well but his accent was strange, he evaded questions of what lay outside the wood. In the middle of a game of chess there was a knock at the door, and when the man answered it a tray with bowls of thick stew was evident but no servant. Sir Morton grew wary, some sorcery was afoot surely, but what?
They talked for hours, Sir Morton and the old man slowly dropping their polite disguises, talking openly of Spirit, of Fae, of Weaver, and even as the lights dipped of the Wyrm, and Sir Morton kept smelling something, picking at hints of things myrrh like Church, cinnamon like Yule, Arabian blue ginger, and sweet cassia from the East. Eventually the lights grew low and the stars started to rise outside the study, the old man took Sir Morton out onto the balcony, tiled in black and white, lit by strange scented oil lamps and rings by statues with the heads of wolves, cows, and hawks. There the sorcerer pointed out the need-nail, the northern pole, and as he did Sir Morton could see its truth, the absolute point, fixed and still, the spirits that called it home arbiters of solemn and eternal truths, with a creaking he could see that the star was fixed but the wood, the sky, the mountains in the distance, even the tower itself rotated around it, slowly and first, with Sir Morton needing to hang onto the railing as the tower looped in a circle around the star - while the magus merely watched with a smile, and then faster and faster until eventually with a great howl of outrage Sir Morton was hurled off the balcony and into the night.
He awoke with a start, wrapped in a blanket in a warm pile of his fellow hounds. The night was dark, the stars were up, the tower had vanished and they were still in the wood. He woke the others, who looked at him strangely, denying the existence of a tower or an old man, but following their alpha as he lead them towards the north, and out of the accursed woods. He told the pack everything he could remember, but they never encountered the old man ever again.
"I... What? What the hell kind of moral is that? Be sent looking for knowledge and get thrown off a balcony? That's fucked up." - Jules
"It's a warning tale about the dangers of messing with mages designed to teach pups to be careful of magic they don't understand. We need to be careful around them who knows what they can do, but also who knows what they could know that could help us fight the wyrm!" - Ariane
The Tale of Duke Williamson
A (not very) famous artist who happened to be Garou. He was in Paris in the 17th century starting to make a splash but he died in a duel with someone, or something, and his body was dumped in the Seine.
The Tale of the Sheriff of Normandy
A werewolf who hunted someone who had stolen religious artefacts all the way from France to Egypt during a crusade, killed him in a confrontation and returned the stolen goods. A story told to Derek Watford during a meeting with Lydia (Season_Six#2022-03-28) as a comparison to how dogged he can be about pursuing crime.
The Tale of Sir Lambert the Bloody
A questing knight and garou who was adopted and wanted to tell his parents, he sought a spirit out for a boon to calm them when it happened and hunted through the woods. They ignored his pleas to stay inside and came out into the night to look for him, he frenzied hunting and tragically slayed them.
The Last Letter of Ariane Primrose-Morton
If you are reading this my pack, my bond family then I, the latest leading child of the Primrose-Morton family have fallen in battle with the Wyrm tainted heart of the corrupt City of London. I hope that I go to the hunting realms of the garou ancestors with a clear conscience having given my all for our people, I wish to die as I have lived, as a burning inspiration to the long howling song of our people.
I leave my books to Carlie, my dairies to my dear cousin Lottie who will hopefully benefit from the wisdom of our family hidden within. The rest of the pack may take anything they wish from my possessions.
Look to the sky and watch the moon and the stars for I will be doing my best to watch you from the beyond. Remember me when you fight, remember me when you tell the stories of our people and our victories. Remember me every time you gather around a kitchen table with coffee and Sunny's cooking to talk and argue long into the night. I will forever be honoured for the part you let me play in the formation of our pack, the tales you helped form with me that I hope will go on to inspire our people to either victory or to a glorious stand for our great mother Gaia. I am sad that I will not be there to grow old with you, to see you grow up into the fine Garou that I know you can be (yes even you Lydia).
Do explain to my parents that while I love them I knew they would never approve of this mission at first, but I know they will eventually see the wisdom and honour we demonstrate here, to refresh and renew London, to give us a chance to rebuild a newer, better, more just city that cares for the land as best a city can.
If at all possible recover my sword for the family to gift on to another generation and my skull for the catacombs so more may seek my wisdom and tales in future.