Wade Crowmane

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User: Jace
Race:
Gender: Male
Description:
Wade Crowmane. "Old Crow"

Blood Talon Ithaeur / Crescent Moon

He's a retired Soldier, a First Sergeant from the All American Division, a Green Falcon. He never intended to be a Soldier but had no real future on the Res. Drunk and poor versus a few dollars and a place to call home. Tough, poor tough. Up early to feed the cows and pigs, rancher. Horse-breaker. Until the Change. Didn't happen early. In fact, it happened so late and was so similar to all the FM descriptions that he made his peace with God (and the Ancestors, if he was being honest), because he was sure it was a heart attack. The palpitating heart, pain, lots of pain, dizziness, shortness of breath. Sure. The day after retirement and I'm having a fucking heart attack. Figures... He was a 12 Bravo, Combat Engineer for two plus decades, and all he got for the deployments and the pain were an ex-wife, three estranged kids, and some shrapnel; that and a nice retirement and disability check, courtesy of the "US Gov'ment".

His limp is a memory of days gone; a revenant of old pain and older loss. The Wolf Gift shed the grinding of bone on metal, and the shrapnel's digging, burrowing search for a final resting place.

The tanned and weathered, kindly visage of a forty-something year old man peer at you with black eyes from under a battered cowboy hat. He wears jeans and a once white, sleeveless now, button up shirt; a pack of smokes tucked into a breast pocket.

His arms are wiry and hairless, corded muscle plays beneath the skin of his forearms telling of a life hard lived. The tattoos on his back tell a story as well: A wolf crushing Panama, Somalia, Haiti, Iraq, Afghanistan in it's fangs. The long hash marks on his right forearm scream another tale. A long braid shines almost purple, contrasting locks of silvered hair lend an air of wisdom to the Old Crow.

Slow to speak and deliberate in delivery, his words carry weight beyond his years. He plays the part of wise-Injun better than any actor. Average height, but lean and spry, for a man in middle age, yet he seems to be dragging a spiritual burden of some sort, a weight tethering his worn cowboy boots to Earth. Or maybe, just maybe its Father Moon pressing him into the Hunt...

His Medicine is strong. The Dance, the Ritual of the Blood Talon, binds old religion to an ancient religion. The Great Spirit to Luna, Father Wolf, the Chase to the Kill. The Hunt. Always has been, always will be. The broken totems of the Lost Pack will fall, to the Talon.

The Ancestors...they speak. Through the rustle of branch on branch, the babble of a brook, the hum of a power-line, and the inane jabberwocky of the city. Non-stop, they provide wisdom and lies, ignorance and truth. Damned Thunder Spirit, going on and on about his power. You ever consider that your deceased ex-mother-in-law might nag at you from the grave? No? She does. When the tether of a flag pings against the flagpole...her Boston accent and scorn pummel me. Then again, there's always the charming and mirthful chatter and advice of Grandfather, my guide in all of this. Even though he passed before I could know him, he held me as a babe, when the Mississippi was a creek. He's always with me in my medicine. And, don't get me started on Coyote; his heckling and laughing, tricks and skulking. Damned wanna be Wolf.