The story is where the “what happens?” happens. When a pack of Garou characters come into conflict, that’s a simple story. More details, such as highlighting motivations, imposing consequences, and testing what the werewolves really want (and what happens if they get it…), help make the story more robust and memorable.

　There are abundant resources to help you hone your skills as a Storyteller, many of them online. As a synthetic process, storytelling a roleplaying game such as Werewolf: The Apocalypse can use insights from literature, video games, screenwriting, and old-fashioned oral storytelling. Insights into any of those disciplines provide useful knowledge on how to improve as a Storyteller. This chapter assumes you’re familiar with the fundamentals of the practice of storytelling, and the tools herein are for using those skills to tell a uniquely Werewolf tale.

　Most importantly, despite the Storyteller’s title, the Storyteller is not a dictator. Storytelling in Werewolf is a troupe effort, with everyone involved in the creation of the narrative to some extent or another. Wise Storytellers know their antagonists’ motivations and capacities, have a number of events set up to prompt the players’ characters into action, and have an overall theme in place toward which those antagonists and events point. The best players are proactive in realizing their characters’ goals through responses to the world the Storyteller presents.

• As a Storyteller, don’t “script” inflexible events and structure certain “plot” outcomes — your primary job is to cultivate creativity, so plan for multiple solutions but also be flexible in case the players’ characters evade your preparations

• The desired outcome is a compelling, shared story facilitated by your versatility as a Storyteller

• After all, the Garou are building their own legends, and it’s the troupe’s job to help them do that!

Your Troupe’'s Story: Chronicle Tenets

　Chronicle Tenets form the foundation of the stories your troupe will tell. They are statements expressing the values the chronicle seeks to convey. Think of them as themes, morals, moods — overall declarations of what the troupe’s collective stories have to say. They can be general or specific, or some combination of both.

　Before the chronicle starts, the troupe should assemble a set of Chronicle Tenets, which helps creatively constrain the direction the story will take (the good kind of constraint). These tenets can state a preference for genre emulation or dramatic irony, elevate a moral direction, or plant a flag for personal taste or real-life player concerns. Deciding upon tenets can actually be one of the most fun parts of chronicle planning, when everyone can weigh in and brainstorm and make clear what they want to experience in the stories the troupe plans to tell together.

　Chronicle Tenets apply to all players’ characters in a chronicle, even if the character doesn’t hold a specific tenet as a personal belief. The struggle between a character’s individual moral code and that of their society forms one of the core stories in human literature, after all. Chronicle Tenets constitute a kind of ethical ground floor, so that if the characters descend into zealous slaughter, it carries a cost. In particular, Chronicle Tenets help establish the boundaries for Garou who go too far.



Tenets and Consequences

　In most cases, werewolves create their own consequences. Faced with an omnipresent external foe, much of the conflict in a Werewolf story leaves a wake of blood and destruction, and tragedy in Garou lives is inevitable. Before actual play begins, make sure to review the chosen tenets with the troupe, so that all players understand what the tenets mean and what kind of actions would be considered violations.

　In systems terms, Chronicle Tenets establish the moral or ethical boundaries of the chronicle, though individuals almost certainly have occasional justifications for breaking those boundaries. For the most part, this transgressiveness is good: It’s a game about being a monster, after all, and what being a monster entails. But being a monster inevitably causes problems, and addressing those problems is also part of the story. When anything goes in a chronicle, it lacks stakes and consequences, and it can become a sideshow of meaningless atrocity, which isn’t what the Garou are about.

　In terms of game systems, Chronicle Tenets define when a werewolf risks sliding into the nigh-fanatical attitudes of hauglosk. For more information on hauglosk, see p. 140.

　Some sample chronicle Chronicle Tenet sets follow:


Environmentalist

• Never cause harm to Gaia

• Do not hoard resources

• Never put short-term gains ahead of long-term goals


Apocalypse Radicalism

• Do not cling to the old ways

• Never kill an outsider

• Vengeance must be served


Traditionalist

• Uphold the Litany

• Heed your elders

• Only ritual challenge merits killing of other Garou


　For example, Paula and friends are setting up a chronicle and have agreed to aim for what they call “Rural Gothic.” They intend the chronicle to be gritty, with personal stakes, and a sense of geographic isolation that lets natural beauty and the sublime come to the fore, but that also brings the paradoxes of the Garou condition into focus. They have agreed on the Chronicle Tenets “Punish the guilty,” “Everyone deserves a second chance,” and “Never harm the innocent.” They are particularly interested in the seeming incongruity of punishing the guilty and offering the second chances — as Storyteller, Paula hopes this tension will set up some great conflicts within the pack. The players want to make an effort to respect the Litany, acknowledge the Delirium, and not become known as “those bloodthirsty maniacs over the next hill.”

The Big Picture

　At their most basic, roleplaying games are series of decisions made by characters that link together into a larger narrative. The larger narrative holds together via a theme or overarching statement.

　The status quo is established, disrupted, and a new status quo is created. Storyteller characters are introduced, grow, and change as events come and go. Players identify goals, push their characters toward those rewards, and, with a bit of luck, secure the fruits of their labor.

　Understanding how these elements work together helps you master key aspects of story design, bring the players (and characters) together, create a story with enjoyable pacing, construct a memorable antagonist, and highlight the setting elements that make playing Werewolf unique.

　Many great stories start with choosing a character-focused theme to keep the narrative tight and coherent. Here are a few suggestions particularly appropriate to a game of Werewolf.



Theme: Alienation

　The Garou are part of many worlds but are never truly at home. In contrast with their old lives, they are literally monsters and are isolated socially and mentally from the world they grew up in. Starting with their First Change, the human world is no longer for them. The Umbra is a place they can travel, but it will never be their home, because they are only partially spirit. The broken Garou Nation is the closest thing to their natural community, but even so, the fighting and rivalries can make that “home” unwelcoming and uncomfortable.

　The tension in these stories comes from the need to find a place the characters can truly be comfortable — a place and a community where they can be themselves.



Theme: Familism

　By definition, familism is a social pattern in which the family assumes a position of ascendance over individual interests.

　Wolves and humans are defined by their complicated interpersonal relationships, particularly within the family structure. Garou society is no less complex, as it comprises a mishmash of interconnected (and often contrary) familial identities and the unreasonable demands that accompany those bonds.

　In many cases, Garou lose access to traditional, human (or wolf) elements of family, beings who aren’t themselves werewolves and would probably be horrified (or killed…) if they learned the monstrous truth. As such, Garou must rely on one another, mentors, tribes, packs, and Kin. It’s very much a game of “found family” and taking what they need from a world that seems intent on destroying them. (See p. 43 for more on this theme.)

　The characters need to manage the tension that stems from the competing expectations of their social structures and the spirits with whom they share an expanded reality. With all those layered demands, when do the characters find time to forge their own identity and accomplish their own goals?



Theme: Old Dogs, New Tricks, Young Blood

　This theme shines when characters are confronted with the “old ways of doing things” and face pressure to do something because “that’s the way it’s always been done.” Even in the face of undeniable environmental Apocalypse, many veteran Garou elders are reluctant to change their ways. Their society lauded them for living their life a certain way, and refuting the old ways is a rejection of their accomplishments. Yet Gaia is dead or dying because the Garou who preceded the players’ characters failed to live up to the purpose to which Gaia put them.

　Defeat is imminent, but the Garou have the opportunity to redefine the parameters of that defeat. It’s time for someone to do something different… but to do something different, the characters are going to need to confront their peers and elders, and to secure hard-won victories that prove the tragic cycle of history can be broken.



Theme: The Path to Hell…

　In a world where such concepts as exploitation and atrocity have living spiritual equivalents, concepts of good and evil are less useful than judging actions and their outcomes. Even the Wyrm, spiritual force of entropy and decay, isn’t “evil,” it’s just that the world — and humans, in particular — are doing too much of what makes the Wyrm powerful.

　Yet genuine victims exist in Werewolf: the innocent bystanders who pay a physical or spiritual price for being in the wrong place, or who are born into a world that has an exploitative role assigned for them, even before they’re born. In this sense, the real enemies of the Garou are people and spirits who choose to advance the Wyrm’s causes, knowingly or unknowingly. Pollution, fascism, and economic exploitation are all based on very simple, very human choices. The implications of those choices, when iterated over time, lead to human rights abuses, famine, and ecosystem collapse.

　The tension here stems from the need to act quickly, to make difficult choices when they’re immediate enough to be dealt with and prevent them from metastasizing into greater crises. It’s unlikely that the Garou will ever “defeat Pentex” or “put the Wyrm in its place” on an epic scale. That’s why, at its core, Werewolf is about the pack, first and foremost; the relationships Garou form; and the problems they deal with — what it means to be a werewolf. And a lot of times, being a werewolf means doing a bad thing to prevent a worse thing from happening, and still being regarded as monstrous for it.



The Real Problem With the Garou

　The Garou are built to act, but they’re probably too late. Worse, the resources they have aren’t what they need.

　From a thematic perspective, the Garou are often ill-suited to address many of the antagonists they face. They have a tremendous ability to inflict personal harm and property damage, but many of their obstacles are institutional, social, or spiritual. The Garou struggle with hauglosk and harano at the time they need to be decisive. They operate in packs but devolve into infighting, and they obsess about differences in outlook rather than combating the larger threat. They are part of what remains from the Garou Nation that, despite understanding the nature of the problem, still can’t get its shit together. As creatures with one foot in the spirit world, the Garou have an expansive understanding of the world and how it works, which ends up creating new obligations and complexities.

　Here is the core source of drama and tension for Garou characters. The characters are the only tool Gaia has left. Examining the character sheet and the setting, one sees that the characters have impressive assets, but they need to employ them creatively and selectively to effect real change. Creative and selective are generally not in the nature of Garou.

　But all is not lost… at least not yet. As long as the characters are the focus of the scene, hope endures. They do have a veritable arsenal of physical and spiritual tools and weapons at their disposal. The characters —and the Garou Nation as a whole — are not accidental heroes, but finally acting with decisiveness and direction is sure to be a struggle.

　We’ll talk more about the importance of the characters in this chapter, but keep in mind that the characters are special — exceptional, even. In a world that is dead and dying, they are the ones with the best chance to right some part of a worldwide wrong…

　… they just need to understand the limitations of the tools at their disposal.

慎重掷骰！

　作为叙事人的惯例，只有在成败真正重要时，才要求进行测试，以决定某件事是否成功。只有当你做好了失败的准备时，才会要求掷骰。失败往往意味着你要立即做出决定，任由骰子摆布。提前思考，并愿意即兴发挥失败对故事的意义。若通神者无法说服碍事的精魂合作，那么被困在另一边的黑怒触石会发生什么情况？

　取半、有代价的获胜和使用意志点等具体选项都有助于将胜算向预期结果倾斜。这些系统详见第119-122页。

Structuring Stories

　Planning a story or chronicle is different from writing a novel or screenplay, for one key reason: Roleplaying games are interactive. Planning a story for a roleplaying game therefore needs to provide the players opportunities for action — ways to participate with the story instead of passively consuming it.

　As a very simple model, the first three steps for a chronicle usually are:


• Decide upon Chronicle Tenets (see p. 199)

• Character creation and session zero (build Relationship Maps, choose Touchstones — see p. 203 for more information on session zero proper)

• Chronicle kickoff (establish stakes, understand the call to action)


　Meanwhile, for a story, a flowchart is an optimal jumpstart, so proposing a familiar and repeatable game loop, which the Storyteller can re-use without end, is helpful. The game loop or flowchart steps of a game story are:


• Objective: Everyone figures out what’s going on and what needs to be done

• Challenge: The central conflicts — there may be multiple challenges, or this flowchart step can be a repeated subroutine if there are multiple steps to resolving the challenge

　• For example, locating the distribution center, shredding the guards, convincing the spirit to cooperate, a climactic conflict with a Bane-possessed executive, and the escape

• Reward: This step may involve a physical object, such as the defeated rival’s klaive, or it may require the grudging acknowledgment of a veteran pack, but in general it also includes narrative progression and the story denouement. Everybody gets to celebrate the wrecking of the chemical processing plant, but who’s this dodgy individual who just walked into the caern before anyone noticed them? Aaand scene.



　For stopping points, the flowchart looks more like forks in a road; sometimes you bear left, sometimes right, sometimes full speed ahead:


• Leave them laughing: After the packmates scatter the fomori guts to the four winds, layer on a material reward or related good news

• Leave them lacrimal: Also known as “Kill the right one,” as in everybody’s favorite supporting character, such as by wounds sustained or a vengeful foe’s parting shot

• Leave them lacerated: A costly aftermath, whether as pyrrhic victory (the attackers die or flee, but the abandoned caern burns anyway), empty victory (the Garou betray their values to win), or no victory at all (despite betraying their values to win, the Garou must flee a superior foe, mutually lethal combat, or hopeless cause)


　For seeding a sequel, the flowchart calls for attention to how the players respond to supporting characters, new opponents, or novel settings.

　Some shake-it-up options for a subsequent story are:


• Determine whether the players’ feelings about a particular element of the current story are especially strong, one way or another

• Set up an expectation for a return, whether by a strong supporting character (“If we ever see you shit-eating whelps again…”) or to some resonant setting (the newly discovered Kin bids a tearfully thankful farewell to the pack)

• Optionally, add a curveball (the story’s main antagonist or an invaluable ally is last seen aflame, explosive, or dismembered; months later, news reaches the pack that the territory has had an uptick in violent… and strange… crime)

• Surprise! (that mysterious stranger glimpsed only from afar turns out to be the pack’s boon companion or blood-sworn enemy; the newly discovered Kin who experienced their First Change turns, extolling the virtues of Fenris; the formerly intransigent spirit returns to the caern to ask for help)

Session Zero

　Session zero is a popular way to kick off a chronicle before the actual first story. In session zero, players and Storyteller outline their expectations for the game. For the players, it is their chance to perform character creation, with attention paid to each other’s decisions and what goals they have for their character. It is also the chance for them to build some shared backstory and establish the facts about why the group is together in the first place.

　As the Storyteller, session zero is your chance to talk about the themes, antagonists, and thematic points you want to explore and highlight. Discuss the style of game you want to run and the types of antagonists the characters are likely to encounter. Describe the location the pack will start in. It’s also a good time to elicit thoughts from your players, who should feel free to suggest story elements they would like to see in the game.


　If you’re not sure how to characterize the game, use different genre types or titles from literature and TV or movies as a baseline, such as, “It’s an action-focused chronicle that focuses on revenge and the limits of a hidden society, like John Wick with werewolves” or “Hunting for an enemy unknown, with complicated pack relationships, like Aliens meets Bridgerton with the constant tension of Rage.”

　Of course, Session Zero is also a perfect opportunity to agree upon Chronicle Tenets with one another.



Character Questions

　Set aside some time during a new chronicle’s session zero for the players to build their characters. Prompt them to discuss their intentions for the characters and how each character fits in the pack. Allow them to identify complementary Attributes, Skills, and other Traits and work together to give them context. Watch for opportunities to deepen the backstory between the characters.

　Ask probing questions of the players about their characters. Find out why they want to play that particular type of character, and make notes so you can factor that information into how you create Touchstones, antagonists, other Storyteller characters, and the encounters and locations where the players’ characters will interact with them. Take a look at their character sheets as they complete them together, as well. What Traits they take and where they allocate their dots are indicators of things they want to do in the chronicle.

　As a group, challenge the players to think about three key questions and create their characters around the answers:

1. How does the character feel about being Garou?

2. What does the character want, both in the short term and long term, and what tools will they use to attain those goals?

3. What prevents the character from attaining those goals?

　The third question is especially important. Every character wants something they can’t get. The gap between desire and attainability is probably going to be a core motivator (and may relate to question one). Identifying the obstacles that get in the way of a character’s goal will provide great ideas for building meaningful challenges and Storyteller characters around them.



Personal Boundaries

　Session zero is the time to talk about expectations, particularly with regard to the story matter and narrative boundaries. Werewolf can get intense, gory, and otherwise uncomfortable. It deals with themes including exploitation, authoritarianism, and powerlessness. Everyone has their limit when it comes to discussing these things, especially in the context of game entertainment.

　It’s imperative to listen to your players during these discussions and make any changes to the planned chronicle to account for the players’ comfort level. Unless the player is forthcoming with specifics, stay away from asking why a player might be uncomfortable with certain elements of a story. Simply accept the point and move on.

　(Note, too, that not every chronicle needs to be adjusted to every player’s tastes. In some cases, a player may literally be happier playing something else or in a different chronicle. So long as everyone’s honest with one another about their preferences and boundaries, you’ll be able to find out how best to proceed.)

　Session zero isn’t the only time discussions on comfort level with certain topics can (or should) occur. Make it clear that if your players are deeply uncomfortable with a topic or plot element, they should interrupt the game and give you time to reassess the events and reorganize them to avoid the sensitive element.

　Likewise, the conversation about themes, enjoyment, and personal boundaries shouldn’t stop with session zero. Part of the Storyteller’s responsibilities is to stay engaged and listen to the players. Keep lines of communication open and be willing to admit honest mistakes. Players that work with you and communicate are the ones you want in your game.

　Certain game systems help reinforce the substance and limits of what’s fair to encounter during a chronicle. For more information on boundaries and respectful play, see the third Appendix on p. 320.

The Pack

　Werewolf enjoys a convenient and plausible reason to bring new characters together: the pack. Garou packs are artificial social constructs. Some may contain blood relations, but usually they consist of werewolves with no familial bond. In the era of Apocalypse, some packs emerge based on nothing more than the circumstance of timing, with new packs forming when enough young Garou are present to justify it. It’s also common for young Garou to join existing packs on the bases of mentorship, geography, or genuine desperation. No one wants to lose Kin to fallen tribes or worse.

　Whatever the case, packs almost inherently include Garou characters of very different backgrounds. The pack itself generally forms in response to some external problem or situation, thereby providing characters a reason to work together (if not actually to like one another).

　Although the pack structure is enough to bring the characters together, it’s usually best to reinforce the relationships rather than rely on a completely cold start. Even the youngest Garou will have opinions of packmates that can then be used to form a bit of history between two characters. The Relationship Map (see p. 111) is an excellent way to keep track of this material.




Local Conflicts, Global Implications

　Once the pack has a purpose, establish relevant conflicts so the players’ characters act locally. Where you can, plan for the characters to acquire territory that gives them ties to the local community, such as a caern or participation in a sept.

　Local antagonists (both active and passive) provide conflicts in which Garou characters can secure real and meaningful victories, and where their resources can make a difference against the environmental apocalypse. Just because the stakes aren’t epic save-the-world stories, that doesn’t mean they’re not important. Werewolf is very much a game of personal crisis and meaning in the framework of a worldwide catastrophe. And it has all the more meaning if it happens in the context of, say, retaking and then rebuilding a caern, or protecting caern territory as a responsibility to the sept.

　Straight up, the pack won’t defeat the Wyrm (and is unlikely even to confront it directly). However, the packmates can challenge local antagonists who advance the Wyrm’s agenda of greed, selfishness, and destruction, especially when those antagonists threaten what the werewolves have fought hard to attain or recover.



The Characters in Crisis

　Some of the most engaging drama comes from the characters’ making bad choices. Intentionally or no, when their choices conflict with their own values or the values and goals of the pack, they may find themselves at odds with the rest of the pack. This kind of dilemma isn’t as dire as it sounds; the character doesn’t become a permanent antagonist, but they may well have a social conflict the pack must address.

　For example, a Silver Fang may prioritize confronting a rival Shadow Lord instead of heeding the rest of the pack’s desire to help a panicked group of spirits. The pack must decide the best way forward, resolving its own disagreements — and among Garou, disagreements can get bloody, quickly.

　In these cases, the players drive the conflict, which can lead to memorable scenes. Too much of this sort of conflict can be wearisome, however. Conflict is interesting, dysfunction isn’t.

　When conflict among the players’ characters comes to the fore, even for a short while, other players may experience frustration. Managing this sort of intra-pack tension is important, and the Storyteller should watch these sorts of conflicts closely. Intra-pack conflicts, arguments, and tension are normal. In fact, these types of conflicts help make the pack’s personal dynamics feel real and legitimate, which is a good thing. Packs are fragile, and werewolves are volatile monsters. Without conflict, you don’t have a story.

　However, if the tension between the characters doesn’t resolve in a reasonable amount of time, the conflict may boil over into frustrations between the players.

分清场合

　请记住，泛灵论是现实世界中的一种信仰体系，古往今来有数百万人以这样或那样的形式信奉它。在游戏桌上要适当尊重他人。《狼人》并不假定迦鲁特定的泛灵论视角就是它在游戏世界中运作的“真相”——人们的信仰和观点不能被简化为游戏机制。迦鲁与影界间的关系只是泛灵论的一种虚构表现形式。

Storytelling the Umbra

　Understanding how to use the Umbra is an important part of what makes Werewolf a unique storytelling experience. Always consider the Umbra and spirits when you describe a scene, even when the characters focus on the physical world. Spirits are influenced by (and can definitely influence) the physical world and serve as a thematic storytelling tool to provide clues or details, and to give additional context to setting and narrative elements.



The Dying Spirit World

　Gaia is dead (or dying), and the Umbra reflects this state. The spirit world is in crisis. Even the simplest gaffling spirits are scared and uncertain about where they fit in the Spirit Wilds’ turbulent ecology. Spiritual resonance feels increasingly negative, and the number of encounters with spirits associated with the Wyrm and Weaver are on the increase. Every spirit knows these facts. The implications for the uneasy feeling that the Garou are resented in the Umbra or don’t belong there can be as significant or negligible in your chronicle as you like, but in general the Umbra should be portrayed as a place of concern and palpable tension. As the spiritual reflection of the physical world, it represents the dire state of the material.

　Hostile spirits abound. Many spirits know of the Garou’s reputation as the defenders of Gaia and may blame the Garou for the situation in the Umbra. Even to the Garou, spirits should remain cagey, entities whose ways of thought the werewolves cannot comprehend, and who occasionally challenge the Garou to prove themselves. Spirits close to a disaster site or in a region where the spiritual resonance is hostile or fearful may vacillate between terrified and enraged when they see a Garou.


　“Why did you let this happen?” “How are you going to fix it?” and “What are you going to do to help me right now?” are equally valid in a tremulous voice as in one filled with seething anger.





Known Quantities

　The Garou can travel to the Umbra but aren’t native to it, which skews the nature of their relationships with spirits. Garou are rarely seen as equals — they’re often either unfamiliar with critical conventions spirits consider normal, or the Garou are potential enemies or bullies. Most spirits recognize that a Garou character is relatively more powerful, and will be wary of the werewolf, especially as Gaia breathes her last.

　That stated, spirits generally honor pacts, no matter how long-standing, and one of the benefits the Garou have is a certain degree of expectation with specific groups of spirits. And they’re on positive terms with many of them, such as the Patron Spirits of the tribes and the general types of spirits they beseech to enact Gifts. It’s not all bad; it’s just that what’s bad seems to be growing in frequency and severity.

　Just as human relationships take time and effort to nurture correctly, so, too, are the interactions with spirits complex. Spirits are creatures of process rather than materials. Humans and physical animals are materialistic in nature — we require other physical things to eat and breathe and drink and, in many cases, to feel happy. Not so with spirits. Spirits value time, relationships, and perhaps even interaction or acknowledgement and “survive” on the same.

　Rituals are a form of relationship cultivation for many spirits. Saying the right things, performing the right actions, and exhibiting a sense of humility can go a long way to bringing a spirit around to a Garou’s request. In those cases where mutual benefit isn’t possible, most spirits’ services can be purchased — or demanded — with the appropriate act of service. Garou who don’t live up to their end of the bargain may well find themselves harassed by vengeful and spiteful spirits in later stories.

Planning and Presenting Vivid Scenes

　Each scene is a sequence of events and decisions that take place in a specific place over a defined amount of time. If you change the place or time, you may enter a new scene. No two scenes are alike. Some will be short and perfunctory; others will be complex and extensive.



The Two Questions

Why is this scene important?
What is the characters’ agenda?

　Those are the two questions you need to answer each time you establish a scene.

　Make sure each of the scenes you plan is connected to the story you want to tell. Scenes shouldn’t exist simply to fill time — that’s a sure way to lose the players’ attention. When you set the stage for a scene, make sure there is a reason connected to the plot or character development for that scene to exist.


　Note that “How must the scene end?” isn’t one of the two questions. As Storyteller, remember that you’re not writing unalterable plots. You’re proposing situations and participants, and the outcome of your descriptions and the players’ reactions via their characters is the narrative. You’re all co-creators in the scene, story, and chronicle.



Clarity of Location

　When you plan your chronicle and take time to prepare a game session, it’s worth your time to think about a future scene’s setting and location. Clarity of the scene (and connecting it to the greater narrative) is vital. Scenes with interesting details invite engagement. Locations that feel different and distinct go a long way to supporting the narrative that unfolds there.

　Werewolf perhaps suggests a broader range of scene settings than some of the other World of Darkness games. Vampire: The Masquerade is thematically urban, because that’s where the people are and, thus, where vampires feed, but Werewolf concerns itself not only with cities and their residents (and the spiritual resonance of same), but also with the state of Gaia, which includes literally every place on the planet — oh, and the spirit-world reflection, as well. Rural locations, forests, mountains, deserts, marshes, and anyplace (un)fortunate enough to contain exploitable natural resources all have potential to be a setting for a Werewolf scene.

　All of which means you have a huge range of possible locations in which to set parts of your stories.

　To this end, an important technique for Storytellers to exercise is contrast. São Paulo in Brazil doesn’t feel like Alpharetta, Georgia, which doesn’t feel like Capitan, New Mexico, not just because of cultural differences, but because population density is radically different, not to mention the community affordances (or absence of them). When a scene takes place in a high-population-density urban center, the feel of the scene is different from one that takes place on a windswept plain or in a forest with a reputation for being haunted.



Appeal to the Senses

　Use all five senses. Describe the nicotine-stained wall-paper peeling at the edges, the sound of dripping water from a clogged creek, the humidity so thick it sticks to clothes. Those times you can describe elements of a scene using taste and touch especially stand out and help make a location memorable (and visceral). Frequently describing various sensory components of a scene helps reinforce that the Garou are no longer “just” human and that their world is more complex now.

　Smell is especially important to describing scenes in Werewolf. Humans have comparatively weak senses of smell, but canines rely heavily on their noses. Garou have equally strong senses of sight and smell, and your scenes should reflect that reality. Smell is also a great way to emphasize contrast, as mentioned above. The stink of a city is an altogether different sensory experience from the smell of a lonely mesa, or an unforgiving stretch of tundra.



Realizing the Spirit

　To create a scene in which spirits feel appropriately active, take the time to think about which objects would probably reflect the most noticeable or unique spiritual presence. Defining a scene by using those spirits as narrative anchors reinforces the importance (and prevalence) of the Umbra. Also, they make for an ensemble cast — potentially memorable characters the players’ Garou enjoy dealing with or thwarting.

　When appropriate, encourage the players to interact with the spirit world by highlighting the presence (or influence) of spirits, if the scene’s conditions are permissive.

　The amount of spiritual activity in the Umbra is a “dial” you control as Storyteller. That means the Umbra can be presented as teeming with life in certain locations (and that life may be blighted or entropic) and almost entirely barren in Umbral locations that should feel appropriately desolate. Above all, the Umbra should have a very alien, “otherwhere” feeling, because even the Garou aren’t creatures wholly innate to it. Spirits might be everywhere, and solitude or privacy nearly impossible, or it might be so lonely that just being there challenges the pack’s sense of existence.


Spirits Show Activity
　
　From the Garou perspective, the Umbra is both shadow and reflection of the physical world. That means the state of the Umbra in a given place reflects the emotional resonance or other characteristics of the physical place they represent. It also means that things hidden in the physical world might be more readily discerned in the Umbra.

　Storytellers can use the state of the Umbra to turn passive obstacles into active challenges. For example, the unseasonal flash flood threatening a downriver community might not be just a simple environmental event. It might be the result of spirit activity in reaction to environmental imbalance. The community of now-violent water spirits might seek vengeance on the town, which perhaps manifests as an unending series of storms and flood. That becomes the challenge or even the antagonist: an active consciousness behind the event that can be understood, anticipated, bargained with, and (ideally) overcome.

　This aspect also means that even concepts and ideas can become challenges when a Storyteller considers Werewolf’s spirit ecosystem. Rather than a river and water-spirits, perhaps greed itself becomes an antagonist, or jealousy — as represented by malignant spirit presences who might possess physical hosts or otherwise cause physical events that perpetuate the spiritual attitudes upon which they feed and thrive.




Violence vs Combat

　As Storyteller, you are wise to consider the difference between violence and combat when they arise during scenes. Combat represents a challenge, a back-and-forth exchange of gameplay systems by which two or more antagonists attempt to exert dominance. Violence, by contrast, is just that — an exercise of force intended to hurt or harm.

　Violence needn’t be physical. It can be emotional, mental, or even environmental.

　Don’t feel like you have to call for dice rolls every time violence comes up. Garou are extremely proficient with violence. If there’s no significant contrast of outcomes from an expression of violence, don’t make the player roll for it — they can just do whatever it is, if the pass-or-fail doesn’t matter. Which is to say, let them rip a door off a car, hurl an oil drum through a window, or even kill a bystander if that’s what they do (particularly as an expression of Rage or Frenzy).

　The same can even be true for what might otherwise be considered combat. If you prefer, you can just describe it as an assault, a beatdown, or an outright murder. Does the pack really need to enter systemic “combat” with two members of a luggage crew at the airport? Probably not. The werewolves are likely to have a handle on that sort of thing and can choose how brutally it ends. Pissed at the bartender in the nightclub? Sure thing, that arm comes right off.

　Now what?

　As raging werewolves, the players’ characters are going to do awful things. The Frenzy systems are there to let players “be bad” at the behest of the game. That’s fine; it’s just fiction. The difference between it and simple mindless atrocity, however, is accountability. What you definitely must do is hold them accountable for any consequences or aftermath. Such accountability can use game systems including harano and hauglosk, or it can be narrative — if, for example, the characters’ misdeeds are discovered by someone with the ability to do something about them.

　Note, too, that the degree of detail expressed in the violence should be agreed upon beforehand. Explicit descriptions of gore might be just fine for some troupes, whereas others prefer to keep such detail abstract. Such agreements are part of calibration; see the appendix on p. 320 for more.

Building Memorable Antagonists

　Antagonists in Werewolf represent the individual, group, event, or concept that opposes the characters’ goals (or vice versa). Antagonists are the most important source of tension and threat to the characters, and the process of realizing and confronting a key antagonist provides the stuff of a memorable story or full-length chronicle.

　Antagonists are typically mortals or spirits, but not always. Natural and unnatural events, as well as concepts and institutions, can serve as antagonists, such as Pentex Group or werewolf-hunting organizations, or even a collapsing laboratory site. Indeed, the status quo as concept is the most common antagonist in any World of Darkness game, as it represents the omnipresent injustice of the setting itself.

　An antagonist usually seeks to accomplish something, and will do so (intentionally or not) unless the players’ characters intervene. In other words, antagonists generate a threat. Antagonists differ from obstacles, which passively make harder the characters’ accomplishment of their goals. A chasm is an obstacle. A fomor is an antagonist.

　Note, too, that this difference means that the players’ characters are the protagonists, but by no means are they the “heroes” or the “good guys.” The Garou are, by definition, flawed individually, and Garou society is… well, it’s a fucking trainwreck. The players’ characters are agents of change, not necessarily improvement. The proof of the change they bring lies in the outcomes they effect. Werewolf assumes that most players’ characters do seek some sort of improvement to the world, but the game doesn’t insist on such linearity. Also, characters may be limited by their Garou nature or other things outside their control.



Variety

　Werewolf: The Apocalypse has a distinct breadth of antagonists a Storyteller can choose from, such as nexus crawlers, fomori, angered nature spirits, other werewolves, scheming undead, and squads of belligerent soldiers. Even mundane antagonists span a spectrum including selfish multinational bureaucrats, street-level fascist thugs, and even nihilistic cultists in thrall to powers they don’t understand.


　The strongest chronicles introduce diverse types of antagonists. A variety of antagonists helps keep the chronicle fresh by presenting challenges that require different sorts of solutions — as well as solutions other than a physical clash. The Garou’s tendency toward infighting means that mechanics used to create interesting characters can just as easily create memorable rivals from opposing packs.

　Avoid making an antagonist the star of the show. Always remember that the camera follows the players’ characters. No matter how interesting or detailed an antagonist may be, the focus shifts to them only in connection to the characters. A good antagonist affords players the opportunity for their characters to shine in opposition.



The Antagonist Axes: Scope and Aggressiveness

　In general, Storytellers can use two axes to help manage how they plan to use individual antagonists: active / passive and systemic / individual. In almost every circumstance, antagonists facing the Garou tick one term on each axis. Understanding these polarities can help you establish quality conflicts.

　An active antagonist is one with the power to consciously realize their agenda. Most traditional antagonists exist in the active category, but so are well-meaning but misguided allies who get in the pack’s way. Most spirits that obstruct the characters will be active antagonists, even if their intentions are benign. A wolf-spirit of unknown motivations that refuses to share a critical secret unless appeased is an antagonist as much as is a Bane-possessed human who threatens one of the characters’ Touchstones.

　Passive antagonists lack conscious direction and are often institutional, abstract, or even immaterial. Organizations such as a government-backed hunter agency are an example of a passive antagonist (whereas individual hunters or squads of hunters are active). Ideologies can also characterize passive antagonists, as in the case of a “law-and-order” community that doesn’t care how unjust the new for-profit detention center is, only that “deserving people are punished.” As with the hunter organization, the law-and-order ideology probably has numerous active adherents advocating on its behalf. passive antagonist can even be extreme weather or some other event-type challenge.

　The other axis is that of systemic / individual. Systemic antagonists are large, overarching entities or ideals. Systemic antagonists are massive and often decentralized and, in general, cannot be directly defeated. They can certainly face setbacks at the hands of the characters, but total defeat is almost never an option. Most systemic antagonists have local proxies that can be defeated, thereby hurting the global antagonist’s plans and relieving tension — the “little victories” that mean so much in Werewolf, because they address the player characters’ immediate goals. The Wyrm is one of the best examples of a systemic antagonist, as is Pentex Group. Certain conceptual or high-hierarchy spirits — an angered Luna or the embodied spirit of Greed — could also serve as institutional antagonists.

　Individual antagonists are immediate, and tend to be people or spirits (or spirit-possessed people…). They may be associated with a systemic antagonist, but they are themselves discrete, well, individuals. A single fomor is an individual antagonist, as is the pack of Black Spiral Dancers bearing down on the pack’s caern, and the private investigator looking to link a recent alleged murder-suicide to the players’ characters.



Fitting Them In

　Most chronicles are likely to feature a comparatively high number of individual antagonists. The players’ characters can (and should) overcome almost all of them, by some means, eventually. Individual antagonists’ influence can be decisively thwarted, even if it takes many sessions or even stories to do so. Many of Werewolf’s most memorable antagonists are those that operate individually to advance the goals of a systemic-level antagonist.

　Systemic antagonists have influence that stretches across a significant geographic area or conceptual category (often including the Umbra). Although they can’t be traditionally defeated, they can be slowed, set back, redirected, or made to reconsider, usually through defeating their individual agents.

　Note, too, that antagonists can often be intertwined or have subsidiaries that exist within the same category. For example, “climate instability” or “rising authoritarianism” or “ethnic nationalism” could be considered a passive, systemic antagonist, whereas any number of Pentex Group (active, systemic) fronts (themselves active and systemic) could be contributing to it, as could any number of corrupt public officials (active, individual).

　The classic Garou motivation enshrined in the Litany, “Combat the Wyrm Wherever It Dwells and Whenever It Thrives,” is an excellent example of the troubling nuances of werewolf existence. The Wyrm itself (passive, systemic) isn’t actually a thing that can be literally fought — the Garou oppose those serving its ends, or particularly those ends in its time of imbalance. The destruction of the Wyrm is a rallying cry for Garou, but in reality the Wyrm needs to exist for the Triat to function, as it’s a force that’s part of the cosmological cycle. So what, practically, are the Garou fighting in their opposition to the Wyrm? Imbalance? Agents of the Wyrm that individually grow too powerful? Anything that represents decay or entropy? The metaphysical, conceptual disagreement about their actual purpose is behind much intra-Garou conflict, and of course such vast schisms as those involving the Cult of Fenris and the Stargazers.

The Three-Act Structure

　The Classical Greek philosopher Aristotle suggested that the most effective stories are ones adopting a chain of cause-and-effect actions that build on one another until reaching a climax and conclusion. Storytellers can use the three-act structure to divide a story into three sections, each anchored to one or more challenges the players’ characters must address.

　Each act consists of one or more scenes. Act one introduces the tension, the second act presents the rise in tension, and the third act accounts for the climax and denouement, usually with a fall in tension. (If you recall the game loop from the beginning of this chapter, you probably intuited that you can also use the third act to establish or set the stage for the chronicle’s next three-act arc.)

　A rough balance for the acts is when the first act makes up 25 percent of the story. About 50 percent of the story occurs in the second act, and the final 25 percent concludes that particular story in the final act.


　Remember, too, that a chronicle consists of multiple stories, so you’ll probably be engaging this loop numerous times for something longer than a single story. Also, a chronicle doesn’t need to end when the challenge is con fronted and the goal is either attained or failed. Storytelling games are an iterative process, so instead of the final act neatly wrapping everything up, concluding one story provides the opportunity to seed the next three-act story in the earlier story’s final scenes.



Opportunities for Action

　Every scene should offer an opportunity for the players’ characters to interact with the environment and Storyteller characters, and to affect the outcome of the scene. Some amount of important stuff happens in each scene (otherwise why is the scene happening?) and can serve as a transition from one act to another. Understanding how the three acts and opportunities for action work with one another will help you keep the story moving forward.

　“Important stuff” can take the form of building player expectations or exemplifying the setting. Not every scene needs to have significant stakes. It’s possible that a scene’s importance is in helping the pack form an attachment to a specific character or showing them what they’ll lose if an antagonist is allowed to realize their agenda.

　Opportunities for action represent the possibility of change. Although all scenes change from beginning to end, opportunities for action can yield significant changes with major ramifications. A plot-point scene could include a major victory or loss, a revelation, a discovery, the emergence of a new antagonist, or the tragic death of a character (either player character or Storyteller character). Often, these types of scenes serve as catalysts for character development.

　Really tight stories may involve only plot points and use no other scenes. Sprawling chronicles involve many different types of scenes and use the plot points only as key moments of transition.


Planning Opportunities for Action

　It’s impossible to anticipate all the ways the players might react to the situations you present. Avoid trying to build an ironclad “plot”; everyone will find it more rewarding if you, as Storyteller, remain flexible and instead mark key turning points in your story to help you envision how things can unfold.

　Your opportunity planning doesn’t need to be detailed — a few bullet-point-style notes about the scene and key Storyteller characters often prove sufficient. Recognizing the most significant turning points indicates what work you may need to do to prepare for an upcoming scene. If a turning point requires the involvement of a major antagonist, you know to work on familiarizing yourself with their capacities and systems so that you don’t need to do it in the middle of a session.

　The following structure can be used as a template for planning your chronicle. You should feel free to modify it to suit the needs of your troupe, of course. Note that in this model, act one, unlike the other acts, has two turning points; one at the beginning (the inciting incident) and one at the end (the transition).

　Act One (the beginning, the introduction of tension):

• Turning point one: The inciting incident (an overall call to action), investigation (who, what, when, where, and why)

• Turning point two: The transition to act two

　Act Two (the middle, the rise in tension):

• Turning point three: Increasing action, confrontation; the transition to act three

　Act Three (the end, the climax and fall of tension):

• Turning point four: The climax and denouement, signposting the next story


Gaia’s Demise: The Garou’s Inciting Incident

　At the core of many of Werewolf’s conflicts is the imbalance of the Triat and its effect on the mother-spirit Gaia. Gaia’s time of dying serves as a universal inciting incident on a global and a historic scale, encouraging every Garou character to act now. There’s always something for the characters to do in Werewolf; there’s always a need to fight back.

　A Silent Strider may seek to regain a lost artifact in a desperate effort to hold on to one last piece of their fallen lover’s legacy, while a Hart Warden may have learned of the presence of a defiled Black Spiral Dancer caern and convinces her pack to take it back. A Bone Gnawer might venture into the Umbra to look for something… anything… that he discovers there to try to stanch Gaia’s bleeding. All three are different approaches to the same contextualizing incident of Gaia’s death and the threat the degrading state of the world still represents.

　Fighting the Wyrm or another Triatic “bad actor” and its proxies may not be the smartest or most effective thing for the Garou to do, but it’s rarely the worst thing they can do. Help the players understand that there is always something to do as a Garou. If anything, there may be too many antagonists to confront, so roll up your sleeves and commence.

　This fallback motivation can be empowering, especially when the pack needs to satisfy its Rage with a burst of cathartic violence. If nothing else, Gaia’s lament can serve as a least-common-denominator inciting incident. It may not be the most intricate inciting incident, but it is always there for you to use, and establishing that context early helps give a grounding for more complex story arcs as the chronicle develops.



Act One: The Beginning

　Act one is all about breaking the status quo and learning (often under duress…) about the coming challenges. A first act typically starts with one or more scenes that establish the parameters of the story and preview the challenges the characters will face in act two. Early in act one, the Storyteller should present the first plot point, the inciting incident.

　Act one’s inciting incident should present some kind of point of no return, thus prompting the players’ characters to take action. It should challenge the characters’ routine, if they have one, or threaten what amounts to their “normal world,” insofar as anything about being a werewolf is normal. The scene is usually the first significant event in the story, and like literature, the best establishing events at this stage are quite dramatic.

　Although the players should always feel the tension of the horror genre, their characters probably don’t risk mortal danger in act one, unless they actively involve themselves in it. This time is more often one of discovery, of learning that trouble is afoot, whether they’re going to go after it or it comes seeking them. The people and spirits around them are not actively seeking to hurt them (though they might not be friendly). This time encompasses escalating action and tension, such that the characters have a sense of control. Note that this shouldn’t mean the characters don’t feel at risk or even threatened, simply more as a guideline for structuring your escalating tension — it’s practically antithetical to a werewolf to ever truly feel “safe.”

　Act one should conclude with the players eager to get on to act two.

　Some examples for what might happen in act one:

• Someone important to one or more of the players’ characters — a Touchstone, a contact, a family member, a lover — has had an accident or falls ill, and signs point to a local business entity with a sinister reputation

• One or more of the characters discover hostile werewolves scouting the pack’s caern, and may engage in violence with them

• The Garou notice something horribly amiss in the Umbra, or a tormented spirit comes to them seeking aid


Set the Stakes

　Information flows during act one, and the characters should have some sense of what may happen if they succeed or fail in dealing with the problem at hand. Establishing the stakes creates tension by underscoring the consequences and rewards, which then encourage the players to take action against the challenge. Think of stakes as the phrase following the “then” in an “if/then” statement.

　Take the statement “If the characters don’t investigate the unseasonable locust swarm, then the community is going to have a bad harvest.” In this case, the stakes involve risk to their community. In the statement, “If the characters don’t stop the Black Spiral Dancer pack, then their pack will lose its caern,” the stakes involve access to the pack’s “home base” and place of spiritual importance.



Establish the Setting

　The story’s setting should also be established in this act. Many chronicles take place in a pack’s home territory, potentially within proximity of a caern they acquire or a certain area they feel is theirs or otherwise protect. This assumption is intentional:

• It ties the players’ characters to a specific place, where they can establish roots and build relationships

• It eases the burden on the Storyteller, who doesn’t have to have an encyclopedic knowledge of world geography on hand, and can use recurring or symbolic locations to reinforce chronicle themes and tenets

　However, feel free to set a story on the road or in some place other than the pack’s home territory, especially if you want to disrupt the pack’s comfort, force them to learn new geography, or meet new people. If most of the action is going to take place in London, for example, act one is the time to establish that fact or, at least, make the players aware that travel’s going to be involved, if the characters don’t already live in or near London.


Suggest or Reveal the Antagonist

　If your story will introduce a primary antagonist in act two or three, act one should seed a few key facts about who they are, what they want, and what tools they have at their disposal. (Chapter 9 has some general, suggested goals for antagonists, but an individual is likely to have individual goals, as well, ones that a wise pack will attempt to discern as early as possible — the better to foil them.)

　Werewolf doesn’t generally feature moustache-twirling Hollywood villains — even the most depraved of individual agendas take shape for a reason. Also, passive or environmental challenges (see “The Antagonist Axes” on p. 211) can establish dire stakes on their own and can require considerable planning and effort to positively resolve.


The Second (Transitional) Turning Point

　Act one has two turning points, with the second one transitioning into act two. The second turning point need not be as dramatic as the inciting incident, but it should serve as the event that makes it clear the status quo is well and truly gone.

　Particularly effective turning points focus on the psychology or beliefs of one or more characters, an internal struggle that, when resolved, moves one or more characters’ intentions toward confrontation with a key antagonist (for more on these types of struggles, see “The Characters in Crisis” on p. 206). For example, a Red Talon might find they have a common enemy with the nearby human community in the story’s main antagonist, or the pack’s Black Fury and Galestalker may have crossed paths with an overbearing Silver Fang at a moot in the past, calling into question overall Garou values. Touchstones are also excellent tools for bringing these conflicts to the fore, especially Touchstones who don’t know that a character is Garou and might not understand what makes a werewolf character feel so strongly about a given course of action.



Act Two: The Middle

　Act two makes the challenges real and immediate, bringing them to the fore of the conflict. A story’s middle act consists of a rising tension that leads to a crisis. Many of the story’s most actionable elements unfold. If act one is an appetizer, then act two is the main course.

　Act two raises the stakes, perhaps revealing new dangers. Characters have taken earlier actions and, in act two, realize that they have exposed themselves and are vulnerable. Danger and risk emerge in a way that feels personal to the characters, such as a direct threat to something or someone they care about. Making the danger personal keeps the players invested in the plotline and shifts the stakes from abstract and conceptual into problems with immediacy.

　This last step is important. In this way, Werewolf realizes itself as a storytelling game of personal stakes and small, costly victories, rather than as an epic “save the world!” scenario that’s at odds with the horror premise. Remember that the Garou perspective and the specific animistic conflicts represented by Gaia and the Triat may or may not be true, but regardless of whether the werewolves are correct, a preponderance of people in the places affected by their actions will see only monsters and the ruin they bring — itself a perspective that may or may not be true.


　Small obstacles should lead to larger challenges. Simple problems — a locked door, a hostile spirit, armed perimeter guards — represent larger challenges to be introduced later. These immediate challenges should reveal a bit about the larger challenge the pack is going to face. There are no “random encounters” in a Werewolf story.

　The locked door may be protected by a Weaver-spirit, showing the players what type of obstacles they might confront later. The annoyingly hostile Wyrm-spirit may be the thrall of a more puissant Bane that appears in act three. The presence of the armed guards can show the players that the primary antagonist is well-funded and prepared for the sort of assault the pack originally planned. Or having their urban bolt-hole threatened by neighborhood gentrifying “development” may show the Garou that they’re dealing with opposition that fights entirely differently from the werewolves’ preferred methods.

　By the story’s midpoint, the players should understand the nature of the threat, already have encountered a series of lesser challenges, and be prepared themselves to confront the final threat. And more than once, the Garou way of problem-solving should have created its own set of consequences. As the body count rises and the trail of victims becomes ever more gory, and as the Garou’s Rage exacts its own price, the characters shouldn’t have an easy time of things, but some memorable, volatile situations should definitely emerge.


　Some examples for what might happen in act two:

• The pack discovers a camp of aggressive soldiers or PMC mercenaries established in its territory, indicating that whoever’s funding the interlopers must be well-connected indeed

• Aggressive fomori actively seek out the characters, whether they’re at the caern near the mouth of the river or climbing up the elevator shafts of a downtown skyscraper

• The Umbra becomes actively hostile as the pack traverses it, with angry spirits harrowing them and the geography itself manifesting before them horrifying obstacles like a river of liquid silver or chasms made of their own Rage


The Umbra and Spirits

　Act two offers an excellent opportunity to have the Umbra feature prominently, especially for antagonists or challenges of a spiritual nature. If act one tips the characters off to something being not right, and act three brings it all home (to the physical world), act two is when shit can get weird in the Umbra.

　The Umbra is also a strong setting for over-the-top combat sequences, where things too strange to be marauding through the physical world rear up to their full… size or height or whatever other Spirit Wilds strangeness characterizes them. It’s a place where werewolves don’t have to mind the Delirium and can go full-throttle kickass with fairly few repercussions for indulging their violent nature. Which isn’t to say that there are no consequences for dealing violently with a threat in the Umbra, just that the denizens of the Umbra know what the Garou are and won’t necessarily flee in panic when Rage and the crinos form appear.

　Act two is perhaps the best place for significant spirit antagonists to likewise reveal themselves. If the pack is going toe-to-toe with a Nexus Crawler (good luck), it’s probably during the climax of act two. Then, in act three, they’ll learn who agitated the Nexus Crawler, and what fallout dealing with the Nexus Crawler brings.


The Nudge

　On occasion, players are reluctant to take action that would move the story forward. Usually, this inertia isn’t the players being contrary. It’s often a desire for more information, more context for the decision at hand/claw. In such cases, and depending on a character’s outlook, goals, and ambitions, it’s worth roleplaying a few scenes to set the stakes so that the characters are encouraged to accept. Raising the stakes can mean having a Touchstone weigh in on something, having Resources suddenly frozen by well-connected rivals, or even having a spirit impart a vision or utter a cryptic statement. Sometimes it’s even worth increasing the threat and shifting the rewards cycle so the reward of dealing with the antagonist (or managing the consequences if they continue unchecked) is much larger.

　Be careful — increasing the stakes too rapidly can make the antagonist appear unstoppable and lead to the characters retreating from the plot even more. Character harano is interesting; player harano is frustrating and unsatisfying.


Expanding the Ensemble

　New Storyteller characters are also likely to make their initial appearance during act two. Storyteller characters exist to help contextualize or even provoke opportunities for action, thus providing the players’ characters key resources such as information, tools, or access to remote or secure locations. Remember that every character wants something, and Storyteller characters show their depth by interacting with the players. Can the pack gain something through quid pro quo? Does the Storyteller character have a goal in common with the players’ characters? Might cooperation with the Storyteller character become conflict at a later stage?

　Act two is also an appropriate time to introduce new henchmen or even significant secondary antagonists (some of whom might become recurring). They, too, can offer clues to the act three threat or contextualize it. Why are these particular fomori in the characters’ way? Why does the Silver Fang ahroun the characters oppose smell like rotting meat? If this branching lava flow can threaten the migrant camp, what does it mean for the established community that lies in the path of the main stream of lava?



Act Three: The Climax (and Conclusion)

　Act three presents the climactic confrontation and the reduction of tension that follows. The confrontation is the story’s centerpiece, wherein the characters face a point of no return. They must either prevail or fail. Failure in this sense can mean many things: a setback (losing track of a rival), a retreat (losing the caern), a damaged ego (chagrin or being abandoned by esteemed allies), grievous wounds, or even death. During acts one and two you established the stakes, so the players should know what’s on the line during act three and have some sense of the imminent consequences.

　The final confrontation is as much your payoff as it is the players’. You have probably spent some time setting up the scenarios that lead to the final confrontation. You defined your final antagonist, seeded act two with elements to foreshadow the confrontation with that antagonist, and now the players get to find out if they collected the right tools and prepared themselves accordingly to overcome whatever the antagonist throws at them.

　Likewise, the players’ characters have probably gained insight and experience, as well as a better understanding of how the setting works. Some of the characters may bear mental, emotional, or physical scars as a result of encounters in the story.

　The stakes are at their highest in act three, and it’s likely that some costs have been paid along the way. Maybe one of the Garou is no longer with the pack, or a beloved Touchstone has met their end. Perhaps one of the Garou is even responsible for the fate of the Touchstone or packmate, having lost control of their Rage.

　Some examples for what might happen in act three:

• The pack takes the fight to the Pentex front, having learned who is funding the crooked senator’s re-election campaign

• The Garou return to the blighted waterfall in the Umbra, where the circle of malignant Banes is unfortunately at its strongest

• Having found the caern that the Cult of Fenris pack seized from the young Garou, it’s time to kick their fucking teeth so far down their throats that they shit smiles in Hell


Denouement

　Once the final confrontation is resolved, the story de-escalates into a denouement, where the events wind down into a new how-things-are. If the troupe is playing a single story, that’s it — it’s time to enjoy what the pack fought for and consider all that they paid for it, and what it all means for the world.

　If this is one story that’s part of a greater chronicle, the denouement is an important period of transition into the next session. This time allows the characters to evaluate their victory (or loss) and figure out their way forward. New allies may bring new information to bear; old allies may become rivals, horrified by what they now know the Garou to be; resilient antagonists may have learned the place the pack considers sacred or have found a way into the pack’s caern via the Umbra. It all remains to be seen.

　Whatever the case, allow some time to decompress and to enjoy whatever the outcome is. It may be bittersweet, and certain developments might not even relate to the main conflict, but surely there’s something to be taken from the journey, some tale to add to the pack’s legend.

　Use these scenes to sow elements of your next session into the narrative. Perhaps the primary antagonist’s death leaves an opening for another antagonist to fill the void. Or maybe the pack returns to the caern and celebrates its victory, but a recalcitrant elder denigrates their accomplishment at a moot. Here would be the time to introduce or highlight a memento that reminds the characters of the challenge waiting for them at home.

Chronicle Rewards

　The traditional roleplaying game reward cycle is typically a player-focused process. The players’ satisfaction coming from an achievement is very real, made all the more enjoyable by “cherries on top” that increase their competency. It might sound strange for a horror game based on the awful state of the world, but a cycle of meaningful successes and rewards ensures that the players stay engaged and excited about your shared story.

　Rewards are powerful motivators and can help encourage your players to not give up, even in the face of significant adversity. Rewards in roleplaying games often come in two distinct types: feature rewards and narrative rewards.

• Feature rewards usually have a systems expression, such as learning a new Gift, or they can increase the character’s competency within an existing feature, such as gaining an additional dot of Strength or Stealth

• Narrative rewards push the story forward. They indicate the development of relationships or conditions that can help things change.

　Both of these rewards are generally endogenous. They reward the player with more of what they’ve shown themselves to enjoy. The endogenous reward of a story is more stories, whereas the endogenous reward of gaining a dot in Renown is being better at the things that Renown lets a character do.

　Usually, the more immediately useful a reward, the better, as a sense of utility makes the player appreciate and value the prize.



Experience

　The easiest and most obvious reward is experience points. Experience points are efficient mechanical ways to show progression and to break the status quo. The more the players’ characters do (under whatever definition of “do” — see p. 11 for examples), the more opportunities they have to expand their competencies and accumulate new ways to interact with the world.



In-Setting Rewards

　Consider the narrative progression when you plan scenarios with which you’ll challenge the characters. Narrative rewards feel meaningful because the player sees their value during the course of the story, or can reasonably assume they’ll be useful at some point in the future.

　A new Bone Gnawer ally in an otherwise “protected” part of a rival pack’s territory might open up new options in the next scene. The stolen fragments of a shattered klaive can be reforged to tap into the legacy of a slain mentor. The fomor den, once scourged of its possessed malefactors, can serve as a temporary base of operations behind enemy lines. All of these examples exist solely in the setting, and though they may have some systemic or feature impacts (such as in the klaive example), they are unique to your story (as opposed to experience points or Trait increases, which constitute a universal reward mechanic).



A Sense of Accomplishment

　The premise of narrative progression is that rewards can take the form of advancing the storyline, making the characters learn and mature, and tying up unresolved issues. Closure, or a sense of completion (even if it’s only the completion of a subset of story elements), is a form of reward. Saving an ally, vanquishing a foe, and finding the previously unidentified Kin all have immediate satisfaction for the characters and the players. A threat is eliminated, tension is reduced, or a new Garou can find their way in the world. The characters have a freer hand in their actions now that the challenge is overcome.


The Long Payoff

　As is appropriate to narrative planning, the characters may acquire a specialized Skill, Gift, or strange McGuffin that is not immediately useful, but under specific circumstances you introduce later, the reward becomes essential. Such rewards encourage engagement, commitment, and experimentation with the world. It’s like finding a key and knowing the lock is going to turn up sooner or later.



Anticipating Rewards

　Going back all the way to the game loop model at the beginning of the chapter, the reward cycle moves from objective to challenge to reward.

　The objective-challenge-reward cycle moves in a loop but can be broken easily in the transition from objective to challenge, thus resetting a step. Failure to confront the antagonist in a viable way can result in failure or setback, and potentially put the pack in a position where it might even rethink its objective. And let’s face it, the dice play some role in decision. Bad luck can also result in delays or defeat, and in a step backward to the objective.

　With a bit of forethought, though, you can foreshadow the next antagonist through incremental midloop rewards. For example, searching the body of the eviscerated businessman might produce a key to a lockbox at a nearby bank, which holds important documents linking the Pentex Group front the pack has been investigating to an illegal arms purchase. Here, the reward is not only ripping the guts out of the antagonist, but also gaining access to important information that can prove useful to confronting the next challenge.

　Some players appreciate a few hard-won rewards that serve as trophies marking their victories. Other players enjoy a faster rate of wins, possibly with smaller but progressive gains. In each case, players should come away with a sense that they invested their time, made the appropriate effort, and earned their rewards.



The Storyteller’s Role

　As the Storyteller, you’re no exception to the reward cycle. You’re not the players’ adversary, aligned against them, though you do challenge them and present them with obstacles and antagonists. As such, your rewards come from other sources, including a sense of building a shared story or celebrating with the players when they finally throat a particularly odious Black Spiral Dancer.

　Take some time to ponder what you enjoy about Storytelling and let the players know. Give them the same chance and the same tools you are using to help promote their enjoyment.

Problems Werewolves Face

　Much of this chapter is about structure, about building frameworks and sequencing and things progressing from one logical portion to the next.

　As a Storyteller, though, you know that the structure is just that: a skeleton upon which the rest of the body of the chronicle depends. The first two chapters of this book — about the state of the world and being a Garou, specifically — provide substance for much of that body, but what follows are several topics that merit particular attention as the Storyteller plans conflicts and scenarios to showcase them. Remember, you’re mostly not building traditional plots, you’re proposing situations to the players’ characters, and the story emerges from how the players interact with them.

　Consider these topics as “dials,” which is to say that you don’t have to go full-tilt on all of them in any given story, but can adjust them to your troupe’s preferences. Some troupes very much enjoy the feeling of isolation, of being the lone pack of monsters in their territory, whereas others like the complicated relationships that arise from septs and moots. Some troupes enjoy ripping apart Wyrm-things for Gaia and glory, and yet other troupes prefer the fraught consequences of taking any action while the Triat is imbalanced.

　The more you and your troupe communicate together, and the more stories you tell, the more you’ll have a handle on how to adjust these dials for your chronicles.

The world of Werewolf is beset by things from outside it that want to steal it away for themselves.

　Gaia created the Garou as her defenders, to protect her from human greed and the cosmological entities that wanted to plunder her. And Garou share the world with humans and other creatures that rightly fear them. They are imperfect tools, but they nonetheless defend what’s theirs, according to their original purpose.

The plight of the werewolf is to be considered a monster by those around them, which is why the pack is so important.

　Much of being Garou means isolation. On a personal scale, the individual is horrific by the standards of the humans around them — but those same humans behave selfishly and horribly in a Garou context. On a community scale, the Garou find a volatile comfort in one another — in packs, in septs, and in what remains of the Garou Nation, where it endures. That comfort is unreliable, but at least it’s among others who know what it’s like to be an outcast. The grand irony is that, if the Garou perspective is accurate, werewolves are the chosen champions of a world that fears them and flees their presence.


The Wyrm is winning because it has adapted.

　Part of the tragedy of werewolves is that they’re monsters, able to protect their world only with monstrous methods. Whereas the forces of entropy have adapted to emerging technologies, commercial techniques, and the more nefarious tools of modern civilization, werewolves are still largely using fang and claw, Rage and Gifts. Garou methods haven’t changed since the misty times of legend that birthed them. Meanwhile, the ascendant Wyrm uses the features of modern life on Gaia against her. The players’ werewolves have the opportunity to pull the Garou out of their destructive traditions and actually be a part of the solution — or to continue the cycle of tragic brutality for which the Garou are known and feared.

Werewolves are creatures of Rage and spirit; werewolves are creatures both wolf and human.

　The Garou are a powerful combination of things, but they are not wholly any of those things. They have spiritual proclivities, but they also have bodies that are Rage-ruled and physical. And though they can take the shapes of wolves and humans, they are truly neither wolf nor human, and the revelation of what they truly are can terrify both wolves and people. Ultimately, the only thing Garou are truly like is other Garou, and even among other werewolves, the differences in tribe, auspice, and manifold other perspectives run deep. All of these conditions can make for a tragic loneliness — and all the more acute when felt among one’s peers.

Werewolves live their own legends, building them as they perform deeds in service to Gaia.

　Garou culture, despite being fractured and isolated, is big on tale-telling and honoring the accomplishments of others of their kind, especially because they’re so rare and hard to identify. And individual Garou often want to live large, make their mark, and be the subject of the signs around the fire. It’s better to burn brightly than be forgotten, but the point is more than just becoming notorious — werewolves have a purpose, even if they don’t always agree on how to fulfill it. For a werewolf, Renown is worth more than gold.

Werewolf society walks a perilous line.

　Werewolf society has strong champions and traditional hierarchies. Those are certainly strengths, but should the righteousness of those champions or that hierarchy slip, Garou society lies perilously close to authoritarianism. Headstrong leaders can quickly become monstrous dictators, and tradition can become tyranny. Look no further than the Cult of Fenris to see the peril of such brutal intransigence. Regardless of whether every Garou personally experiences hauglosk, it is real.

The werewolf instinct is to rage and destroy.

　The inclination to let their Rage drive them to action is part of werewolves’ makeup as warriors fighting in Gaia’s name. Werewolves aren’t great at actually solving problems; they are exceptionally effective at fighting symptoms. How do you rend a blizzard asunder? How can you shred coastal loss? Werewolves cannot change structural or institutional problems by slashing them to tatters. These lapses are part of their monstrosity, and part of their tragedy — and part of the opportunity players’ characters have to rise above the volatility of Garou society. Look no further than the fact that the tribes associated with Wisdom are often mistrusted or sidelined by tribes of Honor and Glory. ■