Werewolf: The Forsaken - Blank It

The detective pushed through the crowd of onlookers
and the gaggle of beat cops standing around on the street. He
looked at the feral claw marks left on the woman’s body, and
gave his handiwork a small smile of satisfaction. Then he
made an excuse and left, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a Farsil
Luhal, an Iron Master.
There are werewolves of all tribes in the cities, but the
Iron Masters would argue that the others are never truly in
the cities. In the same geographical location, certainly, but
never a part of the city itself. The city isn’t somewhere you
live, it’s something you plug into. It’s spiritual, mental,
physical, sexual and visceral, all at once. And
it’s their territory.
According to tribal lore,
the Red Wolf, Sagrim-Ur
spent his every
waking hour
asking Father
why the rain fell,
why the mountain
stood, why
the wind blew… For
every question, Father
Wolf’s answer was the
same. “They do, and it is
good. Nothing more need
be known.”
But Sagrim was never
satisfied with this answer.
He asked because he wanted
to change things and
watch what would happen
if he could undo some of the
rigid equilibrium that it was
Father Wolf’s duty to maintain.
He would never have advocated Father Wolf’s death, but
neither did he act to stop it when the fateful attack came.
Even as Father Wolf lay dying and snarling in impotent
rage, Red Wolf stared at him in hidden wonder, imagining
how things might be if they were allowed to proceed
unchecked. But it was Sagrim himself who was changed
when Father Wolf caught him and held him down under
one weak paw to speak to him. “Things will not be as
they ought,” he told his son. “Note well how they go, and
remember what I told you was good.”
Red Wolf has passed down this legend and his personal
portion of the Oath to his prodigal Forsaken, and
the Iron Masters have honored his wisdom. They know
the Uratha will never again be the lords of the Earth
FARSIL LUHAL
that their ancestors were, but they see the potential for
humanity to fill that role. Therefore, they keep up with
the rapid pace at which humanity changes, marking
how well it goes. And as humans change the face of the
world and shape its Shadow, the Iron Masters apply the
best products of human ingenuity toward bettering and
honoring their territories.
Yet the Farsil
Luhal do not forsake
their own kind. After
all, they don’t want to be
humans. They want to be able to
take what they need of humanity’s
strength when they want it, and
maintain a connection to the Shadow
humans cannot see, remembering what
Father Wolf once told Red Wolf was
good. They embrace the logical and
resourceful human mind as they
embrace their own predatory
instincts. Their game
is adaptation, not
slavish worship of
a flawed ideal. They
are the camouflaged
predators of a modern
age. In the city, actually
in the city, they are unequalled.
Appearance: By and large, Iron
Masters prefer modern fashions
that are acceptable or expected
of humans in their surroundings. Some prefer average,
unassuming middle-class, business-casual attire, while
others try to stay on the cutting edge of corporate fashion.
Still others dress like members of various subcultures that
reside in their territories, from mortified and tattooed
exhibitionists to ‘do-ragged, muscle-shirt-wearing urban
predators. Regardless, all Iron Masters exude the air of the
predator that marks any werewolf, making their efforts to
blend in that much more challenging.
In the war form, some Iron Masters develop disturbing
visual personas, mirroring an urban environment of noise,
angles and horror. Some alter their fur, dying shocks of it
in threatening colors. Others braid chains into it, hanging
metal or glass tokens and glyphs from the links. Still others
eschew such vanities and let the savage reality of their
natural Gauru form serve as a reminder that they are so
much more than the humans they might appear to be.
Iron Masters
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