“They call themselves the Broken,” the Corax began, “and they fight to stop the apocalypse.”
The gathered Garou listened to the ancient Wereraven. This small Irish Fianna sept had lost many in the fight with the Hungry Ghosts and the Fiery Crown, but Corax like this one had been restoring hope one story at a time. They’d heard rumors of these Seattle Garou who struck at heart of the Weaver’s domain on Earth.
“This pack once was the lowest of the low; none in their Sept respected them and call them curs, outcasts and pariahs. Yet they’ve defied Tomorrow-Shinzui and rescued packs of all kinds from BSD and the Wyrm. Nexus Crawlers and Banes fear their name, for they have never faltered to bind and contain them. They’ve slaughtered a vampire more than five centuries old without so much as a scratch.
“They’ve cured hoards of zombies of the Red Death, risked their lives in the darkest pits of Malfeas and now some say they walk the Abyss seeking to end the life of the Nightmaster themselves. A brother of mine says that the First Ronin himself gathers an army of Fallen, damned and tribeless, if only to stand a chance against them.”
Many of the Garou’s ears perked up at the sound of that.
“Let begin with the first tale I’ve heard of them, wolf-brothers. It is how they saved a Red Talon sept from a powerful Weaver-child. Afterward, they earned that tribe’s trust and comradeship, something most might say is impossible in this age…”