August: Revel
Tonight, for the first night in over a year, the Wyrmfoe is calling upon the caern to share its gift -- its something-or-other -- of erosion with the Garou. He is joined by a friend, a Theurge who is not of his pack, to draw the spirits of memory around them, spirits who take as much as they can give.

Some can see whisps in the shadows of these spirits, hints and flashes of dim life, settling on the shoulders of the gathered wolves. This they remember, these hints of spiritual existence, before everything else that transpires fades from their minds.

But there is this: when they wake up, wherever they wake up, with whomever they wake up, there is something more there in place of memory of the actual revel, the hunt, the fight, the party, whatever it was.

Something forgotten is returned: maybe as small as a childhood memory that had no reason to surface. Maybe as vital as a name or a place or a face or a strand of a song for those poor wolves who lost all memory when they changed. But everyone who participates in the revel this August comes away from it holding something in their mind that had, previously, been lost.
my whole life is thunder.

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