The black room is now filled with many packs. You are not sure that in your long life, you've seen so many werewolves gathered in one place. There are packs of your own White's Howlers of course, great Crescent Moons grizzled by their constant contact with the Underworld. However you are nearly in the minority as representatives of the other fifteen tribes are there. Fianna brothers laughing and smiling while they sip the contents of their skins, a female Child of Gaïa clothed in linen sitting cross-legged on the bare stone alongside a weary Stargazer clothed in red. Three red-skinned packs come from what they call "The Pure Lands", you are happy of their assistance but their pride irks you. The Fenrirs, as often your allies as they are your enemies stand in a corner with the Shadow Lords and the regal Silver Fangs. On the outskirts, Bone Gnawers and Silent Striders, always at the border, always on the edge, eye warily the gaping maw of the portal while the one servant of the Rainbow Serpent who came mumble prayers.
Chants begin to fill the air, while bodies begin to shake, possessed of the ecstasy of the rites. The two rite-mistresses, a Black Fury and a Red Talon, lead the prayers and the responses, the dances and the bloodshed. You shift shapes and forms in rhythm following the music of acolytes, the opening in the veil of reality seems to dance too. Shrinking and widening like a snake dancing to a charmer's flute. It sings in your head and in the recesses of your mind. This is the last chance you've offered. Follow the piper's tune, follow the call and the dance. Dance until your feet are bleeding against the rocks. Sing until your throats are burned with praise. Accept your place, and your fate.
The vision fills your head, fills all your heads with the glory of what you could become, what you should become. Black furred monsters stalking the smog-choked streets. Rite masters worshipping worm-gods under the earth. Glorious warriors teaching humanity new ways to kill, to despoil, and to revel in joy. The world could be yours, to walk as masters with no pleasure refused to you, with no pain refused to your slaves.
And then the Wyrm would have manifested itself through your desires and your appetites. You would have been such free slaves marveling at the gilding of their chains, bound to service through unlimited freedom.
The thought sickens you and no White Howler try a single step towards the portal.
Then all go to hell.
First comes the wrath. You hear nine walls crumbling, nine rivers drying up, nine gates being broken. The Shattered labyrinth have served and failed its purpose so its creatures can be used elsewhere. You sense the spite of the three heads of the Hydra strikes you like a burning hail, the caress of a blade and a cold in your lungs. The Beast-of-War promises you the hatred of every living thing under the sun, it roars every creatures under his vast shadow will fight you to the death. The Eater of Souls paints your lands as a paradise to its servants and you'll see Caledonia defiled many times through history. Last, the Defiler mocks you saying that your Kin will accept the gift you so foolishly refused.
Then comes the laughter, long and deep, as if something had realized a great cosmic joke. It enhances its tone and volume until it's a raging fit shaking in your veins. Madness, sweet and intoxicating like a fine wine. A new Urge is born in the raving mind of the Wyrm, the Urge to Mock, to laugh at its own predicament, the broken understanding of its condition only the mad can grasp.
The portal has become a sphere of impossible hued fire and something will come out to punish you for your defiance.
What will it be?
[] Hatred
[] Laughter
