I've just finished work on the first book in the Tribe Novel series for Werewolf: the Apocalypse. What a blast! All of the books in this series contain two back-to-back Tribe Novels. The premiere offering is Shadowlords/Get of Fenris. Gherbod Fleming is the author of the former; I penned the latter.
Get of Fenris features signature character, Karin Jarlsdottir. Karin is a tribal lawspeaker and the jarl of the sept of the Anvil-klaiven. Leading a Fenrir warband is no easy task on a good day. Karin doesn't get a lot of good days.
As a female and a philodox, Karin has faced an uphill battle from the start. She has become acutely aware of just what it takes to win the respect of these battle-hardened champions of Gaia. Lessons not easily learned nor quickly forgotten.
But fighting prowess alone will not carry her through the present crisis -- when one of her people is killed under suspicious circumstances while visiting an allied sept. And her proud Fenrir warriors demand the bloodprice.
Karin Jarlsdottir -- Jarl of the Sept of the Anvil-klaiven. Tribal Lawspeaker. As a female and a philodox, Karin has faced an uphill battle from the day she returned home to the sept to bury her father. She has become acutely aware of just what it takes to win the respect of these battle-hardened champions of Gaia.
Thijs -- Fenrir hunter. Thijs has felled a stag of eighteen points that will grace the head table at the gathering of the Fenrir warband.
Soren Hospitaler -- Scald. When the 'simple' tribal moot turns into something more, it is the Master Hospitaler who must bear the brunt of this burden. Soren was the oldest friend and most stalwart supporter of Karin's father, the old Jarl.
Brand Garmson -- Warder of the Sept. When Brand's son, Arne, is killed under suspicious circumstances while visiting an allied sept, the fierce Warder demands the blood price.
Arne Wyrmsbane -- Fenrir warrior. Arne was as tireless in his efforts to heal the Rift between the tribes as he was in battle against the Wyrm. He paid the ultimate price for this ideal.
Stalker-at-the-End-of-Days -- the Dire Wolf. The ragged spectre of Death.
Cries Havoc -- A Peace Hostage. The Child of Gaian metis is Arne's diplomatic counterpart. Cries Havoc is so devoted to the ideal of healing the inter-tribal Rift that he voluntarily undertakes to go into fosterage among the Fenrir.
Aeric Bleeds-Only-Ice -- Fenrir warrior. Enraged by his shield-brother's death, Aeric has decided to take the course of justice into his own hands.
Oksana Yahnivna -- A Shadow Lord ambassador from the Sept of the Dawn. Oksana has the delicate task of returning Arne's body to his sept.
Yuri Konitsko -- Margrave of the Shadow Lords. The Margrave is summoned to the Moot by a desperate emmissary from Oksana.
Storm Eye -- A Red Talon agitator. Storm Eye is the voice of the isolationist faction that opposes Tribal mingling.
Mephi, Faster-than-Death -- A seasoned umbral guide. Mephi can see the hammer of Fenrir vengeance already descending. He hopes to spirit away its chosen scapegoate.
Mari Cabrah -- Black Fury theurge. Mari hopes to use the Moot as cover for a clandestine meeting. She quickly finds herself drawn in over her head.
Antonine Teardrop -- Stargazer mystic. Antonine leaves his mountain retreat to bring a strange tale and a call-to-arms to the Moot.
Karin Jarlsdottir barely managed to duck beneath the rack of antlers leveled at her head. The body of the stag pushed past her, nearly knocking her from her feet. The great beast's head dipped to clear the doorway as its momentum carried it right into the longhouse. There was a sudden riotous commotion of cooks, pigs and chickens inside.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Karin followed. From the open door, she surveyed the uproar. "Eighteen points," she said. "I swear he's got a full eighteen points if he has a single branching. Well done, Thijs! He is, by far, the proudest catch we've had today."
The antlers turned toward her again and bowed as if to receive her praise. Beneath the lolling head of the deer, she could see the fierce lupine grin of the hunter. Thijs was every inch as impressive a specimen as his prize. When his back wasn't bent beneath the weight of a stag, he stood well over nine-feet in height.
"Well, if you're too stubborn to let anyone help you haul him back, you'll at least let me help you hang him," Karin said. She took a rope from a pile near the door and, uncoiling it, tossed one end up and over the rafters. "How far did you carry that monster anyway? Hold still now, so I can tie him off."
"Six miles, give or take," Thijs grunted and then let out a long contented sigh as the rope lifted the weight from his back. He straightened and stretched luxuriously, muscles rippling.
Six miles with a 300-pound deer on his back? Karin's shoulders ached at the mere thought of it. If she'd just gone through an ordeal like that, it would take a lot more than a good stretch to put her right again. Of course, she had absolutely no intention of confiding that fact to Thijs.
"And it wasn't stubborn," he protested. "The day I start letting some cubs tote my kills back to the caern! Well, that's the day they start offering to cut my meat for me."
Karin hauled the massive carcass up with an ease that belied her slight physique. Her body was taut and athletic, infused with a restless energy. She was sensual in the same way the spring of a great cat is sensual. She was as graceful as the well-placed fall of a hammer. Power coupled with precision and purpose.
She was only in her mid-twenties, but the mantle of command rested comfortably on her shoulders. She was as at ease dispensing praise or interpreting the law as in giving orders.
Her appearance was curious meeting of the trappings of two very different millennia. Karin wore the traditional warrior-braid -- a badge of honor straight out of the 9th Century -- that reached half-way down her back. At her breast hung the Mjolnir -- the hammer-cross pendant of Thror -- upon a leather thong. Her leather jacket, however, was of the most contemporary cut and straight from the shops of Firenze. It covered a mail shirt of jeweler-fine rings crafted from a lightweight modern alloy. The tails of the shirt hung down over a pair of American jeans, ripped and grass-stained about the knees. The ensemble was rounded out by a pair of mythical Seven-League Boots.
Karin deftly lashed off the free end of the rope, neither unaware nor displeased with the eyes that fawningly followed her every movement. The stag hung head-down, its majestic rack of antlers nearly scraping the floor. Reaching out, she carved Thijs's rune into the fur of the stag's brow with one claw.
He was beaming. "Beautiful," he murmured. Realizing he had spoken aloud, he coughed to cover his embarrassment. "Er, he is a beauty, is he not?" Thijs rocked back on his heels to admire his kill. "And led me on quite a chase, I'll tell you. Why it was barely midday when I first caught his scent..."
Sören, who had come up behind him carrying a long drippings pan, interrupted Thijs with a laugh and a hearty slap on the back. "If this beast is going to grace the head table, you'll need a better tale than that. To listen to you tell it, a body would think you've never so much as brought down a stringy winter hare before! It's lucky for you that you've still some time to work out the details before the feast. You don't bring down a fine specimen like this without having chased it for at least three days and three nights," he scolded.
"But the hunters were only sent out this morning. And everyone knows it," Thijs protested.
Shaking his head, the Master Hospitaler crossed to the stag and slid his pan beneath it. "You are a great moose. Now listen to your elders. What everyone knows," he said, "is that you don't bring down a stag like this without story. Trust me, three days, three nights. And you might want to throw in something about having seen it in a vision first. Nothing too showy, mind you. Maybe you saw it standing silhouetted on a hilltop at the last full moon. And you knew it was the same stag because... because..."
He raised his head, examining the majestic beast in minute detail, searching for some distinguishing feature -- the patch of silver at its breast, the crescent moon scar upon its shoulder, the...
"The eighteen points," Karin whispered.
"The eighteen points!" the Hospitaler proclaimed triumphantly. "Clear as moonrise, you can count them yourself. No sir, there's no doubting a story like that."
Thijs looked skeptical. "You really think...?"
"Only when I absolutely have to," the Hospitaler interrupted in a conspiratorial whisper. "That's sound advice, it's served me well over the years and you're welcome to it." Before Thijs could object further, the Hospitaler tore a haunch of roast pork from the nearest spit and pressed it into the hunter's hand. He herded the younger garou towards the door.
"Now if you will kindly quit stomping around my kitchens with those great clumsy paws of yours -- frankly you're making the cooks nervous -- we can all get back to work." He shooed Thijs out the door and the latter loped off towards the nearest knot of hunters.
Sören noted that they were doing a poor job of concealing their craning interest in the huge stag that had just vanished within the House of the Spearsreach. He turned back towards the Jarlsdottir. "You don't think you could convince them to leave these things hanging outside somewhere?"
Karin smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."
In the premier Tribe Novel, Shadow Lords and Get of Fenris, the tribes gather in a great Concolation at the Sept of the Anvil-klaiven. In response to the growing threat to the Garou nation originating deep within the Balkans, the elders decide to send three packs to check the problem at its very source. But when only a sad broken remnant of each of the first two packs returns, the words of Antonine's prophesy seem to offer one last slip of hope.
In Red Talons, Phil Boulle spins the story of Storm-Eye, a fiery garou more wolf than were. Armed with little more than her lupine instincts and a healthy distrust of all things human, Storm-Eye finds herself faced with the thankless task of forging a rag-tag collection of litter-runts and also-rans into a pack that might withstand the coming storm. A storm that has already destroyed two packs of their elders and betters.
In Fianna we see the obverse side of the coin -- the human face of the garou. In the wake of the Concolation at the Sept of the Anvil-klaiven, Lord Arkady has been judged in absentia and labeled worm-tained, traitor and exile. But not everyone is content to let sleeping wolves lie. Having caught the scent of a mystery, Stuart Stalks-the-Truth is not about to give up on his quarry -- or his story -- before he has run it to ground. Stuart sets out on the trail of the fallen Silver Fang -- a journey that will soon plunge him into the kind of dark fairytale quest that he had thought himself so fond of.
Stuart Stalks-the-Truth -- Fianna Ragabash. Stuart leaves his home and his job to follow the "story of his generation" -- the Trial and Fall of Lord Arkady of House Cresent Moon. When he arrives at the Sept of the Anvil-klaiven, however, he finds not answers, but only more questions. Stewart is not one to be easily shaken once he has got the scent of a mystery and his investigation leads him into the very belly of the Wyrm in pursuit of the Fallen Lord.
Colum -- Stuart's step-father. They didn't talk about the subject of Stuart's paternity under Colum's roof. Where once Colum thought that the only way to keep down the indignity that had been forced upon the young couple was to drown it in bourbon -- to hold its head under the thick sweet syrup until it quit squirming -- he now managed to keep the roiling anger in check with hard work instead of hard liquor.
Margaret -- Stuart's mother. A touch of the true Sight does not seem to keep Mararet from overlooking certain of her son's glaring shortcomings.
Ellen -- Stuart's younger (half)sister.
Lord Arkady -- Silver Fang Ahroun, Prince of House Crescent Moon. Since his youth, Arkady has been hailed as the purest of the Garou and the promised redeemer of the Silver Fang line. But instead of realizing this hope, Arkady has fallen under a cloud of scandal, infamy and whispers of Wyrm-taint. His failure to stand before the Concolation at the Sept of the Anvil-klaiven and face these charges leads Stuart off in pursuit of the Fallen Lord.
Father-of-Serpents -- An ancient and crafty wyrm-spawn with a strange riddle of a story hidden beneath a mountain.
Dierdre -- a Witch. Dierdre has spent the last fifty years tending the estate of Father-of-Serpents high in the Appalachians. In return, he has lavished her with gifts: Mastery of Growing Things, A Serpent's Casting, Youth Without End.
Victor Svorneko -- Silver Fang Fosterling. Prince of House Crescent Moon and kinsman of Lord Arkady. Victor witnessed Arkady's commanding the Knockerwyrm and has come to the Sept of the Anvil-klaiven to bear witness. He has honor enough to speak the truth and naivity enough to believe that the truth will steer him safely through the crisis.
Sergiy Dawntreader -- Gaian folkhero, healer and leader of the Sept of the Dawn. The Dawntreader is credited with the ambiguous miracle at Gaia's Tears.
Speaks-Thunder -- Gaian prophet and truth-sayer. It is Speaks-Thunder who first gives voice to the miracle of Gaia's Tears and he who is entrusted with defending the site.
Gennady -- Gaian Cub. A member of Speaks-Thunder's pack.
“You sure you won’t stay?” The screen door had barely whined shut behind Colum. The big man had been out all night and looked the part. Still, he had immediately taken in the situation playing itself out over the breakfast table. He’d seen it all before. Same thing, every time. You’d think she’d get used to it, but it hurt her every time.
“Colum!” Margaret scolded. “Your manners. And Stuart will stay just as long as he likes. As long as they can spare him from that newspaper office of his.” She fussed about her son, fidgeting with the remains of the breakfast dishes. “He’s a busy man now and has his man’s work waiting for him. It’s not every boy as would take the time off and haul all the way out here just to visit with his mother. And mind those great muddy boots of yours, you’re tracking up the kitchen already.”
Colum just snorted and shook his head. He knew how to pick his fights; he fell to unlacing his boots. “So how long you down for then, son? Could use another set of hands along the fenceline before the weather breaks. That is, assuming those hands of yours haven’t forgotten what little honest work was once in them.”
“Dad, I’ve got to go. I…”
“Don’t tell me, tell your mother.” Colum sounded even more weary than he looked. “I can find somebody to help shore up the fences. Your mother, she’s not so lucky. She’s just got the one son. You ever stop to think what it’s like for her? What this does to her? Course not. You won’t be here tomorrow to worry about it. She’ll be up all night tonight, but she won’t tell you that.”
“Colum, that’s enough. The boy has enough on his mind. He doesn’t need to go worrying over some old woman who can -- now that you mention it -- take care of herself, thank you very much.”
“Mom, I can’t stay. I’m sorry. My plane leaves from Dulles on Monday morning. I’m going to be out of the country for a while. I wanted to see you before I left. I didn’t want you to…”
“Out of the country! Did you hear that Colum? Our son, the foreign correspondent. I expect you’ll be rubbing elbows in London and Paris and making a name for your…” She broke off suddenly, struck by a darker thought. Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Oh Stuart! You’re not going to be one of those war correspondents are you? I couldn’t stand to think of you…”
“No! Nothing like that,” he interjected hurriedly. “And nothing so romantic as London or Paris either, I’m afraid. I’m off to Norway.” He finished off with a half-embarrassed shrug.
“Norway?” Colum burst in, incredulously. “What could they possibly have over there in Norway that we haven’t got right here? Well, ice and snow I imagine. But we’ll have that ourselves soon enough. To think a boy should have to haul himself halfway round the world just to avoid a few weeks’ honest work.”
Margaret glared at him. “You don’t listen to a word that man says, Stuart. He was dropped on his head as an infant. His dear mother never forgave herself, but what could be done? Now, I’m sure that Norway has plenty to recommend it to an up-and-coming young newspaperman. You’ll have a wonderful time. They’re not at war, Norway?”
Stuart laughed. She loved to listen to him laugh. “No ma’am. Least they weren’t last night.”
“Course they’re not at war.” Colum scowled. “Who’d want to fight over a great block of ice like that? So what does send you over there? Seems a strange place to just up and take a fancy to all of a sudden.”
“Family trouble,” he said. “Our dear cousins in the Great Frozen North. Again.”
“Fenrir,” Colum spat the word like an invective. “What is it this time? No, let me guess. They all got roaring drunk and sacked a fish hatchery or something.”
“Well that would hardly be news,” Stuart said. “No, it seems they’ve convened some sort of ancestral High Court of Retributions and that they are actually threatening to execute some political prisoners from other tribes. There are a lot of people up in arms about some Gaian cub who is apparently on the chopping block. And you know how everything with the Gaians swells into some great ‘Intertribal Incident.’ But there’s a rumor,” Stuart leaned in confidingly, “that they’re going to drag Arkady before this tribunal of theirs. And if they are, I’m going to be there. That’s the story of our generation.”
“Arkady? Arkady. Now that’s a name I’ve heard you use before,” Margeret mused aloud.
“This Arkady, he’s a Silver Fang, isn’t he?” Colum asked. “The bluebloods aren’t going to like that one bit.”
“Not a Silver Fang, the Silver Fang,” Stuart said. “The one they’re always going on about, holding up as the epitome of their centuries-long pedigrees. They say the bloodline bred truer in him than it has in a score of generations. That he’s got a pelt as pure as moonlight on seafoam. And they’ve always insisted, ever since he was a cub, that he’s the one -- the one who will lead the tribes in the Last Battle.”
“That’s gonna be a tough if the Get hand him his head first,” Colum said.
Stuart seemed alight with a restless energy. “I’ve got to be there.”
“Well you can’t very well print that sort of thing in that newspaper of yours,” Colum prompted.
“No,” Stuart admitted grudgingly. “I… I’m taking some time off.”
“Oh Stuart,” Margaret turned away. She knew when he was lying, had always known.
“I quit the job at the paper,” he admitted. “They said the Richmond Times didn’t really need a correspondent on the ground in Norway just now. Go figure. Hey, it’s no big deal. I can always talk my way back in when I get back. It’s not like they’re gonna forget who I am or anything.” He crossed the room and put his arm around his mother’s back.
Her voice, when it came was soft, subdued. “Course you can dear. Gift of gab. You get that from your father’s side of the…” She broke off abruptly and threw a worried glance towards her husband.
Colum had gone red. They didn’t talk about Stuart’s paternity under his roof. Time was when the very mention of the subject could send him into volatile rage. But that was years gone by now. Back when Colum thought that the only thing that could keep the indignity that had been forced on them in check was submerging it in bourbon. Holding its head under the thick sweet syrup until it quit squirming.
Things were different now. The fire of resentment still roiled within his gut, but now he kept it banked with hard work instead of hard liquor. It was easier now that the boy was grown, out of the house, out from underfoot.
Colum said nothing, just glared at the boy.
A long, uncomfortable moment passed. At last Colum spoke, “Well, as I don’t imagine anyone’s gotten round to the morning’s chores yet, and since they aren’t likely to do themselves, you all will have to excuse me. Ellen will give you a ride back into town. And don’t even think about sneaking off before she gets up. She may forgive you after a while - she gets that from your mother. I won’t. Nice seeing you, Stuart.”
Colum tromped back out onto the back porch, without either the sleep or the breakfast he had come in for. He left without ever telling Stuart that they had found the bodies, the young couple. They couldn’t have been dragged more than a half mile from the car. Not that the boy cared, Devil take him. Colum’s bootlaces, still untied, lashed out at random as he walked.
Hi folks,
A bunch of you have written to ask me just what the heck it means to be a Series Developer for the Tribe Novels. I thought that a little behind-the-scenes peek at how we put together a multi-author series might be of interest to folks here.
Basically, being a developer means that I -- and my fellow developers, John Steele and Stewart Wieck -- are responsible for taking the project from the "Hey, I have an idea -- let's do Tribe Novels!" stage to the point where you can hold seven brilliant and attractive volumes in your hand.
The first step of the process for me was devouring all things Werewolf: the Apocalypse -- all the sourcebooks (published as well as those still in production) and all the existing fiction. During this process I was frantically scribbling notes and trying to boil everything down to what I thought were all the coolest, most intriguing and most definitive elements of the game, setting and mythos.
Armed with these notes, I flew to Chicago to meet with my partners in crime for a weekend of intense brainstorming for the new series. Looking back, I guess we put in better than 12-hours a day in the War Room. I hazily remember breaking for meals and sleep. But the time flew by because it was a lot of fun.
We were armed with a pile of sourcebooks (taller than the table) to consult as the need arose. We had a huge standing easel of paper which we scribbed on madly and then tore pages off and taped them up all over the room for easy reference. We had the art notes on the 13 signature characters for Werewolf Rev -- the only thing ever written on most of these folks. We had a variety of evokative props ranging from a Grand Klaive to a South American borduna warclub (Hmm, where will this appear in the series?). We had a cell phone and Ethan's (W:tA line developer) direct line and we harrassed him mercilessly.
Believe it or not, in that single weekend we turned these eclectic resources into:
1) a solid character sketch for each of the 14 sig characters
2) a core "pack" that would run throughout the series, helping to hold it together
3) an overall story that would run throughout the series as well as several intriguing subplots
4) a way to tie each of the diverse sig characters into one overarching story
5) a rough series plotline, showing the milestones of the story and each of its major subplots.
From there, it was a simple (!) matter of determining the order in which the 14 novellas must fall. And selecting the author for each book. And, of course, creating the master document, the Series Outline, that would lay down a detailed synopsis of each of the novellas. This document would go out to all the authors and they would use it as their guideline and instruction manual.
If you are shaking your head, yes, this is an amazing amount of detailed material to summon out of thin air. It was a very exciting, very creative weekend.
From there we had to "sell" the end result to Ethan and the other folks at White Wolf. This involved a few hectic weeks of flurried email exchanges in which everyone tried to tear the snot out of what we'd created. (This is one of the least pleasant parts of the entire process.) We weathered the storm, shouting, hagging and compromising our way to the Revised Series Outline. Some very interesting ideas got left bloody by the wayside, but in the end, Outline Rev (tm) was stronger and everyone was onboard.
At this point, Outline Rev (tm) has already earned its combat pay, but it is still an evolving document. As Gherbod and I sat down to write the first volume in the series, we were fleshing out that skeleton (and probably breaking a few bones in the process). A big part of the continuing job of the series developer is to make sure that the series stays on course. Each author is going to introduce new elements and he's going to take existing elements and characters in new directions. The developers pour over each of the drafts as they come in. We work closely with the authors to help them improve their manuscripts and we keep a careful eye on how each new book works with the overall series continuity. Basically, we have to ensure that the series storyline flows smoothly and remains true to the original vision.
Stewart's the heavy (did I mention that he had a war club?). He is in charge of making sure that the wheels keep turning -- that the authors turn in a ms. on time, that the copy editor and the layout folks do their thing in turn and that the book gets safely to the printer. He's the one who pays these folks, so they tend to listen to him.
I guess that's about it. Looking back over what I've written, I may have glossed over some of the unglamorous businessy aspects a bit (contract negotiations for example, shudder). It's fun actually getting to hold the finished product in your hands -- an idea given form, made real.
I think that for these Author's Notes on the Tribe Novel series, I'd also like to set down some thoughts about my philosophy in writing each of these tribes and characters. I realize that many of these treatments may be a bit revolutionary, so I'll take some space here to give you'all a peek into what the heck was he thinking:
When I think about the Fenrir, the first thing that comes to mind is their Passion. These folks don’t do anything by halves - be it fighting, feasting, mourning or loveplay. Everything is enacted on a grand scale. The garou are the chosen of Gaia and the Fenrir are the champions of the garou. The whole of the earth is the stage on which they play out their epic contests.
The second characteristic that springs to mind is that they are Kenetic. When writing about the Fenrir, I find it useful to contrast them to the Fianna. Both tribes share many common themes. While the Fianna may be renowned for their passions, these emotions often run to the reflective. A Fianna’s consuming passion might be a glory or failure from the past; or a hopeless love from afar. Fenrir passions tend towards the active, towards the now. The Fenrir are always doing. They keep the life-sapping Harano at bay through a flurry of frantic activity.
Third, the Fenrir are Certain. This is not to say that they are dim or simple. They are certain like a master craftsman or a seasoned warrior or an experienced judge is certain. They are very good at immersing themselves fully in a situation and knowing instinctively where the next stroke must fall. They are very comfortable with who they are and what they are called upon to do. They see a problem, they enact a solution. It has often been pointed out that the Fenrir make superior shock troops, but they make even better war leaders and law speakers.
Fourth, the Fenrir are Authentic. What you see is what you get. Even the Fenrir tricksters do not so much connive as allow others to stumble over their own pledges and passions. There is a wonderful story along these lines (“the House of the Spearsreach”) in Get of Fenris - relating the only time Jotun Threeships managed to get the better of his long-time friend and rival the Old Jarl.
Now, to my mind, these are the strengths of the Fenrir - they are Passionate, Kenetic, Certain and Authentic. Many other characteristics which we think of as being hallmarks of the Get can be derived from combinations of these four (ie. fidelity, ferocity, rashness, self-righteousness etc.). Not all Get, of course, will be poster children for these virtues and vices.
A good chronicle can engage a Fenrir character simply by playing to these strengths - by putting him in situations that invoke and reinforce these traits. A great chronicle might challenge the Fenrir by immersing him in scenarios where these strengths simply cannot be brought to bear upon the problem. Strip him of his passions and feed him self-consuming bitterness, regrets, revenges. Check his frantic activity and force him to a fretful waiting for the opponent’s next move. Shake his certainties with doubts (self-doubts, doubts about friends or loved ones), moral ambiguities and damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t conundrums. Present him with difficult choices where his authenticity may prove the undoing of himself or his friends.
If you’re finding yourself stuck in a rut of two-dimensional combat-junkie Fenrir, try some of these scenarios to encourage everyone to stretch a bit.
Yes, Karin is indeed a female philodox Get Jarl -- a very unorthodox combination. Everyone involved really went out of his way to ensure that the Rev Sig Characters cut against the grain of comforable tribal stereotypes.
Karin is a strong Fenrir leader precisely because she does not accept the limitations that others would impose on her and her people. She certainly does not wait for "windows for leadership" to open up. She breaks some glass.
May Grandfather Wolf shelter you within his jaws and raise you up by the scruff of your neck on the Last Day,
--Eric
Stalker-at-the-End-of-Days
To continue the tradition we started in the Author's Notes for Get of Fenris, I wanted to set down some thoughts about my treatment of the established signature characters. This time around, I'm going to concentrate on Arkady, since my take on him might be seen as a radical departure by those readers who are expecting some rabid, wyrm-deluded arch-nemesis.
I’ve found myself thinking a lot about the interactation between Arkady and Albrecht of late. TN:Fianna features Arkady’s first onstage appearance since the battle with the knockerwyrm in Shadow Lords. So I thought I'd share with you a quick barometer I use when writing about the interaction between these two pivotal characters.
For me, Albrecht is the ultimate ‘kid brother makes good’ character. I realize that the pair are not actually siblings, but damn it if they don’t act that way.
Albrecht - like so many young Silver Fang’s of his generation -- has grown up in Arkady’s shadow. Arkady is their (collective) older brother. He was always held up as an example to them -- the purest of lineage in a score of generations and therefore (in that twisted SF logic) the best, the brightest, the one destined to lead.
Albrecht on the other hand, is the marginalized, black-sheep of the family. Nobody really expects him to amount to much. He spends most of his time running with a pack of folks that also don’t measure of to his “family’s” expectations.
Both Arkady and Albrecht really bought into these expectations very young and haven’t yet managed to shake them. Both care much too much what other folks (especially their kinsmen) think of them and each suffers greatly under the weight of the limitations that their tribe’s expectations place upon them.
Other overachieving first-borns out there (guiltily raises own hand) may well recognize something of themselves in Arkady - the competitive drive to be First at any cost; the need to always be in control of the situation. Arkady can be casually cruel and bullying and doesn’t think twice about whomping Albrecht once or twice just for good measure or about snatching away Albrecht’s pretty silver toys.
Younger brothers may find something sympathetic in Albrecht’s second-child traits - his conflicted resentment/idolizing of his older brother, his penchant for the dramatic, his emphasis on acting and doing over contemplation. His fierce loyalty to his friends. His feeling of being dispossessed, etc, etc.
I think what gives this sibling relationship even more of an edge is that both Arkady and Albrecht realize that they are surely the last generation of their long and illustrious family line. Each feels that it’s up to him to vindicate his entire people - to fulfill the prophesies, to redeem his kinsmen, to restore the glory of the garou nation, to give meaning to the sacrifices of his proud and noble ancestors.
It’s a Herculean task and each must realize at some level - even if he’s not able to admit it as yet -- that there’s just no way he can pull off something of this scope alone.
--Eric
Copyright © 1997-2006 Eric Griffin