Werewolf the Forsaken : Trouble in Manitou
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Tavi Irraka/Iron Master
Octavia Nasir “Nine Lives”
Born: May 11th, 1980 (19 years, 2 months, 29 days)
First Change: February 10th, 2005
Occupation: Pickpocket, burglar
Parents: Sigbjørn Einarsson and Sanaá Nasir
Height: 5’5”, Weight: 125 lbs
Eyes: Light Brown, Hair: Brown
Race: European Caucasian/North African
Auspice Moon: New Moon (Irraka)
Tribal Affiliation: Iron Masters
Told from the perspectives of three characters who have encountered Tavi during her life. In reverse chronological order.
“She’s a bit overconfident, perhaps..”- Santos Silver Heart
She is a wiry young girl with dark hair, disheveled and a bit dusty. Her light brown eyes betray a wild intelligence as she immediately surveys her surroundings, eyes darting around the room. She is the calmest of the bunch, Santos notes. The least flustered. She is looking for escape routes, of course. There are none. There is nothing in the large, bare room, but the girl, her fellow hopefuls, and an enraged spirit. Most the hopefuls are playing it cautiously, cowering in the corners, waiting for some kind of instruction. They are waiting for answers to fall into their laps. But not this girl. Santos watches her size up the opponent, gazing up at the lumbering spirit in front of her, it’s giant ursine paws made of pure crackling electricity. The girl’s face betrays no emotion, no fear – but the eyes are alert. This is not the easiest test I’ve ever devised, the old wolf thinks to himself. He hopes this pup is as clever as she thinks she is.
The test is simple: The hopefuls are thrown into a room with the giant spirit. They’re given no warning and no time to prepare. The goal isn’t exactly for them to defeat the thing, that would be impossible for Uratha as inexperienced as these. The purpose is simply to watch them try. The spirit growls at the young wolves, but doesn’t move. It is a terrifying sight to behold, bigger than most Uratha in Garou form and much more dangerous. Even on this side of the glass, Santos and his fellow judges can feel the tension in the room rising. Suddenly one panicked boy takes out a gun and empties his clip. The girl is still standing right in front, and the bullets whiz right by her ears and pelt the spirit. Provoked, the spirit roars it’s warcry, a deafening screech that fills the room with electricity. The girl does not flinch. It’s over for him, Santos mumbles under his breath. His fellow judges nod their agreement. The spirit charges at the fearstruck boy. His eyes are wide with fear. It’s far faster than the girl could have expected and it runs through her like a freight train, knocking her aside. She’s also done for. Within a second the spirit is on the boy. The other initiates scatter like roaches under bright light.
The boy is crumpled on the floor, unconscious. He will probably survive, but she will not become an Iron Master. Not today, at least. Santos scans the room for the body of the girl. The spirit had barreled right through her. Secretly, the old wolf is a bit disappointed, he had expected more somehow. It takes a minute for Santos to realize the girl is just fine. She is lurking in the far corner of the room, still scanning the beast. She is standing just outside the creature’s vision, completely unhurt. Did she dodge? Was she that quick? “That girl!” Santo turns to the other judges, pointing to the corner “She’s not Rahu?” The other judges are preoccupied with the violence on the other end of the room. They don’t even see her yet. The girl looks up at the ceiling and reaches into her pocket. She throws something at the lights, and darkness descends upon the room. Irraka, Santos thinks to himself. Impressive.
Life on Main Street
“The kid is a fuckin’ ghost.” – Detective Eddie Brill
Detective Eddie Brill took one last drag of his cigarette then tossed it down a nearby drain. It had taken weeks, but he’d finally found her again. The girl had taken Brill’s wallet on a crowded sidewalk a couple weeks ago, He had caught the little punk out of the corner of his eye and tried to grab at her, but the girl slipped him immediately and ducked into the crowd. Vanished. Like she had never been there at all. Brill had been searching for her ever since.
Normally it would’ve been no big deal, Brill didn’t carry any cash on him or anything. Normally he’d chalk it up to bad luck and a bit of carelessness… Except… in that split second when Brill had turned to grab the kid, their eyes had met, and his finely honed instincts told him something undeniable – This kid was no ordinary pickpocket. This kid was trouble. His instincts told him there was something dangerous inside this girl, and after 27 years on the force, Brill had learned to trust his instincts.
Brill had done a lot of searching, hitting up the usual haunts, getting in touch with some of his old contacts and even calling in a couple favours – but information on the girl was scarce. Apparently the kid was a fixture on the east side of Main Street and had been robbing unsuspecting commuters blind since ‘09. Barely 17 years old, been on the street since 12 – just another street rat destined for a life of trouble. Sad, really. Finally the Detective had managed to get a name. Tavi. Nine Lives, they called her. Not much to go on, but still he ran it through the police database. The girl’s recent brushes with the law included some small-time burglaries and a couple of collars for pickpocketing. Nothing major. No drugs, no violence. So just what was it that had given Brill such a scare? Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to leave it alone.
He had been searching for the girl ever since, and it had finally paid off. He spotted the kid by Rollo’s on 12th street. He followed her as she walked down the boulevard. She walked with an easy confidence, seemingly unconcerned with the people around her, yet the Detective had the eerie sense that if he even blinked the kid would evaporate into the air. She crossed the street without looking in either direction and Eddie followed close behind. She turned a corner and then another corner. Brill kept close step with her, straining every sense and every muscle to keep pace with the girl, whose feet fell on the pavement with no sound at all. He might be getting old, but it’d be a cold day in hell before some street rat gave Detective Eddie Brill the slip. The girl’s dirty black hair was whipping around wildly, her hands were in her pockets. Suddenly the girl turned to look at Brill and smiled. For a second the detective was startled. Where was she leading me? Brill reached his hands down to feel his pistol in it’s holster. Relax, old dog, he told himself. It’s just a kid. Finally she turned down an alley. Brill followed, and suddenly they were standing face to face.
“What do you want?” Tavi asked him. Her voice was low and quiet, utterly calm.
“You took my wallet.” said the old man.
“You want it back?”
“I want you to come with me down to the station.”
“That won’t happen.” Said the girl matter-of-factly. “If I ran you’d never catch me.”
“Well then do me a favour, kid. Don’t run.”
The kid smiled. “I’ll give you a chance.” She said. “But it won’t be easy. It’s pretty dark tonight.” The girl pointed to the sky. “See? No moon.”
Despite himself, Brill looked up at the pitch black sky. When he looked back in front of him, the kid was gone. Vanished. Like she had never been there at all. The detective shivered as the wind whipped up around him. He pulled his peacoat close. There’s no catching that girl, the detective thought to himself. The kid is a fuckin’ ghost.
A couple months later when the Octavia Einarsson case fell into Eddie Brill’s lap, he would think back to that night he had stood right in front of the girl. What could he have done different? Could he have stopped it? His instincts told him no. There was nothing he could have done. There was something way bigger at work with that kid. Yet still he felt responsible somehow. He would look up at his calendar. Only a couple weeks off from retirement. He remembered the chill he had felt run up his spine that night. Can’t rest yet, the old detective thought to himself. I’ve got a ghost to catch.
“There’s something not right about that girl.”- Sigbjørn Einarsson
Though children are taught to choose one over the other, Sigbjørn Einarsson taught his daughter early on that it was in her best interests to be neither seen nor heard. His wife, a woman of frail constitution, had died during childbirth, and Sigbjørn resented the girl for it. Sigbjørn was a hulking man, a drunkard with a gruff exterior and a gruff interior as well, he had no talent for childrearing. The girl was left with neighbours until she was old enough to be left to her own devices. By around 7 or 8, she was living almost entirely supervised. Sigbjørn worked nights as the bouncer for a local strip joint and spent his days sleeping off the damage of the night before. Those were the good days, at least. On the bad days, Sigbjørn came home in a rage – pumped full of Gentleman Jack, resentment, and raw adrenaline. Swinging fists and feet at anything that could move. Lucky for Tavi, she could move very quickly. She had learned to dodge and evade the stumbling drunk’s clumsy swings. It became almost a game to her. “You think this is funny, girl?” Sigbjørn would shout. And sometimes in response, Tavi would smile.
The truth is, Sigbjørn knew very early on that there was strange about his daughter, and he would tell that to anyone who would listen. “Can’t trust her.” He would grumble, “There’s something off about that girl.” For one, there was always that look in the girl’s eyes that made him uncomfortable. That look that said she knew more than everyone else in the room. Not many people were comfortable looking her in the eyes for very long. Not that many were given the chance to. Tavi mostly kept to herself. The girl made no friends at school, in fact most her classmates barely even knew she was there, and when she finally left forever, hardly anyone noticed at all.
In hindsight, it’s not really that surprising that Tavi left home. She wasn’t exactly an orphan, but she didn’t exactly have any parents either. She spent most his time outdoors anyway, playing in backalleys, climbing trees or fences into other people’s yards. Looking back it does seem like she had spent her whole life preparing to be on her own – but it was that day that finally sent her through the door for good.
Sigbjørn had come home in one of his rages, and caught the girl asleep on the floor. The girl was not prepared for Sigbjørn that day, and he beat her bloody. Broken bones, bloodied face. He kicked and threw her, broke chairs onto the poor girl, and yet not once did she make a sound. She just looked up at the glowering man. “Say something, damn you!” Sigbjørn shouted at her. “Stop looking at me!” The girl’s silence fueled her father’s violence to near delirium, until finally the drunk ran out of steam, passing out on the floor. When he woke, the girl was gone. She had limped out the door and didn’t look back.
Three years later she returned to that house one final time. She was on the cusp of her first change. The burgeoning wolf instincts in her went to the nearest familiar place. She lay on the floor, wracked with pain from fangs and fur growing in, her spirit half finally bursting free from the shackles of her human skin. She was writhing in pain when her father came home. Drunk as always. Only this time, she was the one in a rage. When she came to, his blood was everywhere, and the taste of his flesh was on her tongue. What bolted out the door was not a young girl who had killed her father, but a wolf who had finally had its revenge.