Difference between revisions of "Lost Tribes: Tribe Cat"

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lternate Names: The Cult of Bastet, The Children of Ptolemy, the Noble House of Felis Cattus
lternate Names: The Cult of Bastet, The Children of Ptolemy, the Noble House of Felis Cattus
Leader: The High Priestess of Bastet & Queen of the Canals, Contessa Isabella Grimani
Leader: The High Priestess of Bastet & Queen of the Canals, Contessa Isabella Grimani
Motherhouse: The Palazzo Grimani di Santa Maria Formosa, Venice Italy.
Motherhouse: The Palazzo Grimani di Santa Maria Formosa, Venice Italy.

Latest revision as of 11:55, 17 June 2010

lternate Names: The Cult of Bastet, The Children of Ptolemy, the Noble House of Felis Cattus

Leader: The High Priestess of Bastet & Queen of the Canals, Contessa Isabella Grimani

Motherhouse: The Palazzo Grimani di Santa Maria Formosa, Venice Italy.


A Cats (generic) view of:

Cats: potential allies, definite competition, and sometimes enemies. As long as we give each other space things will be alright, mostly, usually, sometimes.

Crows: Tricky, tricky, tricky. Don't bring anything you want to keep to a meeting but be on the lookout for things you want. They'll try to rattle you, rattle them right back.

Dogs: Slaves that believe they are the master. Dangerous and honorable, they'll chase you and if they catch you expect to lose some of your lives, but they play by the rules. Watch out for the Rabid ones, if your lucky the other dogs will put them down. If not, run, climb, and never look back.

Lions: Not many of these tossers around, they like to claim that cream rises to the top. I'd say they're cats that got the cream and then forgot where they came from. Good targets, dangerous foes, tend to hold a grudge.

Mice: Scurry, scurry, little meeses, I want to play.

Pigs: Never hire a pig as your accountant. Your tax preparer sure, just don't assume they're ever on your side. Once you accept that fact, then you can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement, unless they want what you've got. Then watch out.

Pigeons: Dammit, these stains will never come out. I suppose it could be worse, I could've swallowed.

Rabbits: Nervous gits, I'm surprised they don't all die of heart attacks as titchy as they are. Still, If you need it there fast and can't trust the Mice to pass on a message a Rabbit can make things happen.

Rats: ...they almost did it. All those years ago, they almost brought the whole thing down. Never again, I know the Dogs like to think they protect humans with their packs and laws, but they ignore the Rats at their peril. Smart, persistent, poisonous, and very, very dangerous when cornered.

Ravens: Neither of us is going to trust each other, but we do understand the rules of the great game. They have a job to do, so do we. As long as they respect the boundaries so will we.

From a letter dated April 7th 2010 posted to one Melissa Selkirk of Annapolis MD, intercepted by Her Majesty’s Black Watch Guards.

I fucking hate England. And to think seven days ago I was running a successful three star restaurant in Washington DC, and now, here I am running through the stinking sewers of old London town being hunted down by mad dogs and Englishmen, or more specifically mad dogs who are Englishmen, but I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m sure you must have questions, like who are you and why the fuck are you writing me? Well as to the first, I’m your mother, and as to the second, well, seeing how I’m not sure if I’m going to get out of this one with my ninth life in tact; I felt there were certain things I needed to say to you, things you need to know.

I know, you were told that your parents died in an accident not long after you were born. That was a lie, and not one of my own choosing. The motherhouse thought it was best -for your own safety they said- that you be brought up as far away from all this as possible. And being the loyal cat I am I dutifully went along with the Cleopatra’s decision and let you be taken away. Believe me Melissa there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t thought about you, but as much as I’d like to spend my time writing to you of past regrets and asking your forgiveness, I just don’t have that luxury, and little kitten, neither do you.

I’m a cat, a holy daughter of Bastet, a child of the Noble House of Fellis Cattus. I’m a solider in a war that has raged for millennia. My daughter, I am a totem warrior.

Okay back now, sorry I had to leave you for few Melissa, but momma cat’s trying to save her skin here, which aint easy when you have a pack of bloodthirsty hounds hot on your fucking trail, but I think I gave em the slip for a while. So where were we? Oh yeah, I’m a totem warrior of the Cat Tribe, and my daughter so are you. God there is so much to tell and I have so little time to tell it all. I don’t even know where to start, so please, bear with me kitten as I try.

To start a totem is an animal or other natural figure that spiritually represents a person or a group of related people such as a clan, a tribe or a family. I know you’ve studied new age religions so I’m sure you’ve heard the term Spirit Animal, and in this sense that is what a totem is. But in certain bloodlines it is deeper than that, for in those cases the apical ancestor of the clan is nonhuman, it is the founder of the bloodline and therefore that clan’s totem, the spiritual ancestor that represents the clan and the wellspring from which flows the clan’s power and authority.

You see throughout the ages there have been women and men, be they called witches or shamans or mambos or holy men who have had within them the ability to call upon the powers of nature, specifically the animal kingdom to affect the world around them for good or for ill. I am one of them kitten, as are you. Down through history there have been stories told and told again of those like us, those few who could call upon the power of their totem: Men who by wearing the skins of wolves could become the wolf, Women who by putting on the skins of seals could become the seal and others who when they draped themselves in a cloak of feathers could become the swan. There are countless cultures where the shaman or hunter would don a mask representing a specific animal and by doing so would become the animal itself and could invoke that animal’s power to enpower the tribe.

These are the ones who gave rise to the legends of Werewolves and Selkies in Europe, of the Monkey King in the far east and of Raven and Spider in North America. Even today’s pop culture is influenced by these stories kitten, just browse the pages of any popular comic book: Cat Woman, Black Panther, Wildcat and Batman, men and women of great power symbolized by a specific animal totem and each of them wearing a mask. That's right kitten, the God Damn Batman is real, but then again I suppose that makes your momma Catwoman, or at least she was or thought she was in a different lifetime. I had hoped I'd escaped that life, thought I'd put it behind me this go round, but apparently I was wrong. Well kitten it’s looks like I’m lost and for good down here. I thought I’d found a way out, thought I got a whiff of fresh air, but it turned out to be a dead end and had to double back, but in the process I nearly stumbled right over a fucking rat warren. I ducked into a side passage and I think I’m safe for now, safe of course being a relative fucking term at the moment, considering what I just found.

Riku Morimoto, we called him Ricky just to burn him. No sense of humor on the guy, but he was good with a sword, that’s why he was on the job with us. Simple job they told me. One last run for old time’s sake and then you’re free to live out your ninth in peace. A simple pick up and delivery they said. Idiot! Should have guessed something was out of sorts when I saw there were six of us assigned to make the run: Ricky, weapons; Blago, tech; Laz and DeJohn, muscle; with Wellington the local playing tour guide. And then there’s me, chosen for obvious reasons and driving the get away car, a fucking mini-van of all things. The ride over was uneventful if not a bit tense. Laz was zoning out on some old time cartoons as was his custom any time he was getting ready to kill a stray. Apparently Ricky didn’t appreciate the levity and let Laz know it. I’m surprised Laz didn’t claw his eyes out then and there, but then again Laz was a professional. Would have been better though, for Ricky, in the end if Laz had just said the fuck with professional ethics and just taken him out on the ride over.

Like I said kitten I turned into that dead end and there was Ricky. The humorless bastard was floating face down in a river of filth, and stinking to high heaven of piss, shit and malt vinegar. God I hate England! So I dragged the sorry son of a bitch up unto the embankment in the faint hopes that he might still be alive, or if not maybe he still had a gun on him. I was out of luck on both accounts. He had 10 major wounds on him- a mosaic of gun shots, stab wounds and slashes, and each and every one of them fatal in their own right. Nine to kill him off good and one for good measure. Somebody was making damn sure this was one cat that won’t coming back the next damn day. But that won’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. Bastard was unmasked. They’d stolen his mask. God Damn it! They’re rules to this fucking game! You can’t fucking do that to someone!

And this is where things get scary kitten, cause I aint dealing with dogs here. A dog’s got a sense of honor about him. He may kill ya, but he’ll be polite about it. And he won’t fucking break the rules. But whatever killed Ricky; whatever the fuck is hunting me, they don’t care about the damn rules, and that makes them a whole hell of lot more dangerous than I want to think about.