Werewolf: Exalted of Gaia

Chapter 3: The Art of Not Being Seen

A spotty recollection of the temple raid

Gunjar’s never been one for being quiet.

When he was a child, his dearest friends’ jobs were, largely, to make sure Gunjar shit his mouth when he needed to. He was quite vocal about his thoughts, and would ramble for ages, his mind wandering and zooming along like a lost rabbit once he got going, shifting from his favorite way to eat deer, to the best way to hunt them, to the best places to hunt, to the best places to hide, to his favorite games, to his favorite dreams. Needless to say, for a tribe of hunters and solemn warriors, he was an annoyance.

That said, he’s never been the greatest hunter, either. Stalking meant little to him. When he saw prey, he’d charge straight after it, grabbing the fastest piece of prey – be it rabbit or elk, he’d charge straight up and leap. Needless to say, this pissed off the elder hunters, for reasons he never understood. When finally he was told to cut it out with charging in, and was told he had to be quiet, he refused to hunt at all, and shifted his focus to the noisiest thing he could thing of – fighting.

So, the plan for that day was bittersweet for him. On one hand, fighting and looting!… On the other hand, having to do it quietly. Ever the Get, he told his friends that a frontal charge on the church would be the best plan, but he was swiftly outvoted and subdued with a beef bone – thankfully, not in public, as for whatever reason humans are weirded out by a burly teenager gnawing on the business end of a potential marrow club.

When he finally snapped through it, the group had decided on their plan – they’d search the tavern that the church members had been recruiting from… which already struck Gunjar as odd. Not the plan, for he simply grunted, figuring that, nice as it would be to get another bone, he’d abstain rather than object. No, rather the fact that a religious organization would be recruiting form a den of gambling and alcohol… curious. This, of course, was born from a very narrow viewpoint on religion outside of his own. As Gunjar pondered this, his pack mates went their separate ways to prepare for the night, leaving him to thoughtfully suck on his marrow-filled bone like a pup at his mother’s teat.

Come night, they stalked from inn to tavern, those of them with gear decked out to the teeth. Getting in was no problem – Gunjar proudly presented a brick, but, once more, he was overruled.

This was beginning to look like a boring night for Gunjar.

Instead, they quietly picked their way in… typical Ragabash fair, giving Mushtak some time in the limelight. When the door opened, they slunk in as quietly as five Homid-form Garou could, which was actually surprisingly well. They fanned out, finding themselves in a store room, and began searching. Their intrepid sleuth immediately cast the blame to a crate of casks, while a quick once-over proved the poor bottles’ innocence when the real culprit, a crate for of grain, was pushed aside to reveal the accomplice to the crime of disguise, a trapdoor.

Dropping themselves down inside – or, at least, that’s what Gunjar did, most of his pack mates had the common sense to climb down the present ladder – they found themselves in your stereotypical hidden underground passage – liberal application of dirt, cobwebs and old torches for ambiance, a few rats here and there for, as Gunjar knew, rats would nest in any space that at least two of them could comfortably fit in, then promptly house five in that space. As this was a rare occasion, the rats, which the teenage Get took to chasing for amusement, were disappointingly rare. And stringy.

When finally they reached the end of the tunnel, they found themselves in a small chamber, with very little to it aside from the obnoxiously-oversized cages that lined one wall. Something shouted ‘hey, these guys might be a little fucked up!’ It might’ve been the cages, or it might’ve been the few bonds, chains, and ropes scattered about. It might’ve been the occasional blood splatter on the flood, or it might’ve been the tasteless bright purple carpet. Either way, Gunjar was immediately wary and on edge. This place didn’t feel right. No religious institution should have a damn dungeon in their basement.

Unless this was a common thing. He didn’t claim to be an expert on the matter. Still, it was quite unsettling.

But that was the tip of the blood-and-semen-stained iceberg. Investigation behind a hefty door – the only visible one – revealed an opulent room flooded with silk curtains, pillows, cushions, and garish colors. Oh hey, a rape room. This just keeps getting better. Gunjar mused as he looked about the room. He prodded at curtains, kicked cushions, and tripped over the odd sex toy whilst his pack mates busied themselves with admittedly more productive tasks. Curtains fell from the walls, revealing a door beyond them. This one, however, had shiny, fancy security measures that were likely effectively, but plainly not intended to be tested by nosy Garou. The riddle spell guarding it was easily bypassed, though it was cut a little close. Another door, another room, Gunjar thought, sighing as the silently trundled in to the next little cha- holy shit.

The room beyond, as it turned out, was stocked to the damn ceiling in pilfered gold, pinched money, and stolen guard uniforms! That initial distaste of this institution, a feeling that Gunjar had been nursing since he first had when he heard about it, now grew in to a full-blown abhorrence.

Honestly, it was more a surprise that it took until after the rape room for this to happen.

[To be finished later. Creativity’s been exhausted for now.]


Zephier WolvenCarnus

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