Writer's Notes: This was a werewolf character concept created for a mostly-vampire LARP. The conditions of creating this character were stringent: the werewolf had to be ronin, and able to at least tolerate vampires. This is what I came up with--probably the most intriguing and mentally damaged character I've ever played. The concept is that of Rose Marie Pierce, a lost cub Shadowlord who was kidnapped by Sabbat Tzimisce long before her First Change. After being ghouled, tortured, and Viscissituded for nearly two years, she finally was spurred into her First Change by the Red Moon rising in Chicago. Coming into her power, she escaped from Chicago, and headed north... This story is written from the POV of a wraith (ghost), a fellow prisoner who wasn't lucky enough to survive.

I'm not sure what we did to deserve this. I mean, this doesn't happen to normal people, does it? Where in an instant the humdrum, comfortable and safe world you thought you lived in turns into one never-ending nightmare? Or maybe that's the way the world always was, and we never noticed.

I didn't know her name. Not then. She was just another nameless, often mutilated face in the group of us--at least in the beginning. She was young. . .but not the youngest; just simply unremarkable. Most of us were too turned inward on our own pain to notice her--and really, there was no reason why we should. If anything, she made me uncomfortable. She was there when I arrived, and surprisingly enough, she outlived me--hell, she outlived all of us. Including some of his thugs. Heh. That was nice to see.

My first meeting with her was having her body thrown on top mine, in that sick fuck of a vampire's "game room". I was semi-aware at the time, in one of the many and varied states of consciousness--and this had sort of jolted me awake. I don't even remember what sort of condition I was in at the time, but she was messed up pretty bad; one of her arms had been broken and bent in several places, along with her collarbone, and her face had had at least half the skin stripped from it. Of course, I probably didn't look much better.

By that time, we were old hats at this--we knew what was coming. That was little comfort when the Need finally starting hitting us hard, though. It began with tears and convulsive shaking, and somehow. . .during the night, we somehow moved together for warmth--and found an unexpected comfort in each other's presence. When the cravings for the vampire blood got too strong, I held her down as best I could, and she did the same for me. We were both 95 pound weaklings at that point, so it was fairly difficult. Probably ruined that fucking vampire's fun--I still have daymares about his dead-fish eyes, patiently waiting for our antics to amuse him. And his buddies.

But they never came during the day--near as I can figure. We began actually searching each other out from where we were penned up. It was during those long, quiet hours when we were too weary to move, and in too much pain to sleep, that sometimes we'd quietly talk. Not about anything big, just trying to remind ourselves that we were human, not lab rats or cattle. I'd talk about my wife. . .and how I'd even like to see my dick of a boss again. She'd talk about her sisters, and how she snuck her cat into school once. Just small stuff--stuff that makes all the difference in this world. It was a small comfort, but pretty much the only one we had. So it became infinitely precious to us. And of course it didn't last. Nothing good could have there, I think. The bastard killed me.

You'd think after seeing so many of the others die, I'd have been prepared. Nope. I remember screaming my way through a surgery session, and falling into unconsciousness again--only this time the darkness was deeper, and I woke up on the other side of the damned shroud, with spectres and reapers fighting over my ghostly ass. Makes me glad for your friendly neighborhood reaper--at least the one that grabbed me. I refused to leave that place for long, though--it had a hold on me through pain and spilled blood that I didn't understand yet. That's how I saw her when she was brought in after my death, and man, even through the shroud and her fucked up condition, she was so. . . she almost glowed, she looked so alive. I saw her staring at my mangled corpse, thrown in a corner, as she was dragged in. She knew it was me--at least I think so. I'd managed to escape. That was something that was denied her--of all the people in that place, she was the only one without a deathmark. I didn't know why, until the Chicago War.

I watched her over the next year, between my comings and goings; I was tied to her as well. Sometimes I helped with pathos, when I could--but there wasn't much I could do. She endured that hell, though, and I watched with a macabre sort of fascination as she was gradually transformed into a beautiful stranger through the vampire's manipulations. I never knew what he had been trying to do before then--I guess none of us survived long enough for him to get that far. The others died off. . .a few crossed over, most didn't. And then the War came. A bunch of pissed off werewolves decided that they wanted to exterminate vampires--and so they spend the better part of a week trashing Chicago. There was a Maelstrom the likes of which I never want to see again, and I spent most of my time hiding from spectres inside the communal haunt in that bastard's basement. That's how I was there when she finally did snap. They were actually leaving her alone for a while--Mr. Big Shot Vampire and company were busy saving their asses, I guess. Anyway, she's just lying there, chained in a corner, when me and every other wraith feel this gradual build up of emotion coming from. . . somewhere. I look over at her, and no shit--she's almost glowing red. There was so much anger coming off her it was almost slamming you on the floor--I swear I didn't need pathos for a week after that kick.

Then she changes--into one of those freaked out werewolves, I shit you not! Dunno why she didn't do that a lot earlier, but anyway there's this jet black furry monster raging around the basement. I never saw so many wraiths move so fast to get out of the way. Some of the vampire ghouls weren't so fast--boy, was that sweet to watch. They splattered real damn well. And she takes off running--I'm not even sure if she knows what's going on. I certainly wasn't going to follow her out into the Maelstrom--becoming spectre-fodder is not my idea of fun.

I did go looking afterwards, though--I guess I owe her. Found her by following a trail of wreckage and a little judicious help from other wraiths--she was sitting buck naked in the middle of an empty lot, in one of the not-so-good parts of Chicago. She looked pretty confused, which made two of us. But I got to hand it to her, she pulls herself together pretty fast, and goes on to the business of surviving. She stole some money and clothing from a nearby vandalized store--and saw herself for the first time in two years in their mirrors. Got to be a shock, because she didn't seem to believe it at first. Ends up smashing every mirror in the place, which is only natural I guess. Then she goes and takes the first Greyhound to as far away as she can get. I hope she can find a normal life somewhere else, but call me a cynical dead bastard--somehow I doubt it.