Name: Boulder (translation: "Plum", but the plum in question is probably rotten) auspice: Galhardo, the Moon Gibosa (translation: "The guy who thinks is the bonzão of the party, but in real only is ashamed in the corner") Anger: ● ● ○○○ (The revenge gas tank is in the reservation. Only you can threaten to fill the bag.) Vitality: ☒☒ □□□ (had an intimate encounter with the cold, and the cold was more catcher. Now you do not regenerate nor a Feeling bruised.) Current form: Hômad, man (the most pathetic way, but the only one that allows you to hold a lighter without crushing it) Attributes: · Force: ●●● ○○ (Piano charges, but stumbles on the foot) · Dexterity: ● ○ ○ ○○ (diverts from bullets ... as long as they shoot in slow motion) · vigor: ●● ○○ ○ (Hold a drip, but a flu takes you) · charisma: ●●● ○○ (would convince a Old lady to give you a shelter, but only if she was deaf and did not see the streamable state in which you are) · Manipulation: ●●● ○○ (knows how much to you believe) · Self-control: ● ○○○○ (A mim of panic crisis is considered control) · intelligence: ● ○○○ (knows that water wet and burning fire. Sometimes.) · Reasoning: ● ● ○○○ (if you see a trap, falls on it first to later think) · Determination: ●● ○○ (stubborn enough to continue alive by pure irritation) skills (the curriculum of disgrace): · Academics: ● ● ○○ (knows to sign its own name ... sometimes) · Athletics: ● ○○ (Run well, but only if you have something very large and with teeth chasing you) · Combat: ● ○○ (Soca as a boy of 12 Years brave. What are you.) · Research: ● ○○ (find things you did not want to find, like hands inside gloves) · Leadership: ● ○○ (LEADING a revolt if someone, by a miracle, decided to follow you) · Persuasion: ● ● ○○ ("Please do not kill me" counts as persuasion, right?) Convictions (the excuses you give to yourself): · The litania failed ○○ | ○○○ The litany sustains us (translation: the most Old men clearly do not know anything. But I also do not have a better idea.) · Humans must pay ○○○ | ● ○ ○ Human must understand (prefers to explain politely before tearing up someone's throat. Sometimes.) · Our weapon is anger ○○ | ● ○○ Our answer is the spirit (shouting with ghosts rarely works. But it is therapeutic.) · I just want to survive ○○ | ○○○ We can still win (the "We" It is optimistic. At the moment, it is only "I" and is lousy.) · Find purpose in dignity ○○ ● | ○○○ Find courage in laughter (laughs not to cry. And because sometimes the situation is so ridiculous that you have no other reaction.) Shooting: · Hunting clothes (translation: dirty and stuck clothes that smells the wet dog) · a knife (to pass butter ... and defend from scary shadows) · David Banecki field notebooks (the only map that You have a crazy and unreadable. Perfect.) · A library card (to pick up books borrowed on "How not to be a total failure: for werewolves") Job: Gardener in the Gorsky mansion (ie the guy who It is paid not to ask questions about what is buried under the rosaries) --- Diário de a Almost-Lobo Almost-Morto the only thing worse than being lost in a cursed forest is to know that you are almost in the right place. Werewolves do not build walls; They build ways that lead you to the opposite direction of what you want, like a possessed and sarcastic GPS. I spent hours being kindly led to nothing. It's humiliating. To make matters worse, there is something following me that it smells like a mechanic who died inside an old sofa. I feel the stench when the wind turns, as a natural alert to "go away" that I ignore heroically, because I am dumb. I could only move forward when the forest, with all his arrogance, suggested that I went down a hill. Of course, I turned ninety degrees and went up the crap of the hill on the four, like a drunken baby fleeing from the crib. Behold, I am meeting: a tricycle of the skilled capeta in the snow. A leather glove lies nearby, with a drawing of a crowned dragon trying to poop in the sun. Clearly, it's not a Garou thing. I turn the glove with the muzzle and ... surprise! Still have a hand inside. Retreat faster than recoil of my responsibilities. Enough muzzle. Time to return to the pathetic form of Homo sapiens. I hide behind a tree, I transform myself (the most painful part, which is watching my glorious muscles wither Milch) and seen me. The crime scene now includes: a revolver .38 that turned a rusty brick, a bronze sword that is now a moss vase, and a wallet. The wallet has $ 7 (fortune!), Two fuel cards and a "Banicki GunWorks" card - a dead end that I've ever investigated. The main trophy: a library card from such a harmonie palys. Great. Something to tell the others Garou when I finally find them, if they do not laugh at my face first. I go down the hill and come across a semi-frozen swamp, a labyrinth of shit islets and black water and ice cream. An erected stone, all tinced by vandals (or worse things), arises from the sludge. The air is hot and smells like death and devil's flatulence. Flies try to put eggs in my eyes. But I recognize this place. I have not been here, but have seen a photo ... wait. I pull the Banicki Field Notebooks, the Macabras Galaxy Backpacker Guide. The zig-zagues on the map ... are this! That pie stone, that mound there ... it's a map! The most useless discovery in history, as it is a map without an "X" that marks the treasure. It's like winning the Wi-Fi password but do not have a cell phone. The night falls, and with it, the temperature of an industrial freezer. Retreat. This marsh will wait for me. He does not seem to be in a hurry. The bus saves me and takes me back to "civilization." I think of going back to the abandoned house, but a police car is parked in front, like a cat waiting for the mouse to go back to the tie. I'm the mouse. My new home is a shipping container. I repeat the magic trick of making fire with old newspaper and sticks. This time, the smoke is black and stinky, as if it were burning the hopes of some clown. The container heats enough for me not to turn a popsicle, but not enough to stop shaking. I agree with the world covered by a layer of bright ice. Even the frozen misery is beautiful to see. I'm trembling so much that I look like a cheap vibrating machine. Arrives. This can not continue. I need a ceiling. I need a blanket. I need a victory that is not "survived another night being a complete idiot." Next (probably my death, but who knows?)
