Smog rises, curling tentacles reaching heavenward and blocking the light from Helios. It is an oiled, inky blackness prenatural in its beauty. Below, lies a refuse comprised ocean. Bulldozers groan, creaking as they churn waves of filth. Funneled from the pipe exhausts of these lumbering monstrosities is the smell of burning oil and gasoline mingling with the pungent, sickly-sweet smell of garbage. Plastic bottles, bits of styrofoam, and cardboard improperly recycled rattle together not unlike the roaring of waves as they are shunted into piles that quickly form mounds linking together like a chain of rolling hills.

The first to swallow Helios’ last light is a towering behemoth, gargantuan compared to the lesser mounds in its shadow. It is affectionately monikered ‘The King of the Hills’ also known as ‘The Big Mandingo.’

Seemingly solidified, the Achilles heel of this colossal monarch of rubbish is a glass window that protrudes prominently from the right side. Attached to a rusted, white frame it is quickly identified as what once was a bus for public transport. It still bears most of the original lettering not yet oxidized from exposure to the elements.

Throughout the bus, the charcoal pleather seats still remain mostly intact despite bits of graffiti and slashes that reveal frayed batting of cotton and fiberglass. They provide comfortable enough seating for those that venture within. In the driver’s seat, the Warder waits. He is thin and lean-muscled. His eyes hold a feral quality that few would dare to challenge. His crazed, piercing gaze is wide with pinhole irises ever affixed on the rearview mirror, waiting for any who would brave the umbral realm beyond to cross into this holding area of waiting.

Shifted into his glabro form, this Garou nervously chews a toothpick, rolling it from side to side of his salivating maw. A cliche blue hat with a black leather brim rests on his head. Beside his seat is a tidy bag lunch and thermos of coffee as if he is simply waiting for passengers. It appears the change slot of the bus has been eviscerated by one of his massive claws leaving a gaping hole for one to offer chiminage.

He introduces himself by asking, “Who the f___ are you?”

Should one appease the disgruntled attendant and be granted admittance, they will learn that his deeded name is Jeepers Creepers, a Philodox of the Bonegnawers, an Elder before the Garou Nation. He is a member of the only pack that remains from the previous fallen Sept. Banded beneath the totem Momma Rat they are called Bad-Company. This motley crew of four PTSD survivors is responsible for the creation of the Caern.

Called The Sept of A Fightin’ Chance, the structure is precarious indeed. The composition of garbage allows for elemental exposure to seep within. Drips of fetid water and rot from high above gather into stagnant pools on the interior’s open surface. Cockroaches skitter underfoot, averting being crushed with a supernatural grace. Sound does not travel well, despite the cavernous space. It is silenced, muffled by cardboard, bags of trash, and the plastics that offer a nearly soundproof insulation. A chittering is often heard, among the walls of the Sept from the nests of a thousand rats. Their beady eyes at times glisten throughout the structure, but only when they wish to be seen.

Only one area of the vast space of the main chamber offers any sort of enclosure. A 1973 Cadillac Fleetwood is wedged against one wall. Once at the pinnacle of luxury vehicles, this stately sedan now rests on four cinder blocks that hold its weight. Thanks to careful restorative work on the engine, the battery once again flares when coaxed to life by a flat-head screwdriver wedged in the steering column.

At times, hair metal explodes from within and all give a wide berth casting furtive glances toward whoever is unfortunate enough to be seated in the passenger seat.

Should one require an audience with the Tic-Tac-Toe, they are treated to the olfactory assault afforded by the plush interior covering the seats; it is the amalgamated pungence of age, unwashed Bonegnawer, and the smoke from his ever-present seemingly unchanging cigar.

He holds audience from the rear bench seating.