The Cahalith is the storyteller, the lore-keeper, and the prophet. She is the living history of her pack and her tribe, and in a larger sense, her People. But the Cahalith is not some lonely wise woman, dispensing wisdom to pilgrims in a hermit’s retreat. She leads the howling charge, she screams her anguish and rage to the fattening moon and entreats her packmates to do likewise.

A Cahalith werewolf is rarely subtle. She is capable of a stealthy hunt, if need be, but it isn’t her typical modus operandi. Indeed, the Cahalith prefers for her prey to know she is coming. She wants her target to hear her howls in the distance, to see her leaping across hills in lightning flashes, and to lock eyes with him before her teeth sink home. She wants her prey to understand his place in this story — just as she understands hers.

This is the tragedy that the Cahalith endures, and it is as old as Cassandra. The Uratha refer to the Cahaliths mindset as hurmas-hi, which translates roughly to “submitting to dreams.” Cahalith live in their stories, and regard endings and misfortunes as inevitable.

Cahalith werewolves are visionaries and prophets. Luna visits them in their sleep and informs them of coming hunts. Sometimes these visions are clear, and the werewolf can recount details the morning after, but more often, Luna presents the dream-hunt in allegory and symbols. What the Uratha chooses to do with this knowledge is up to her, but if she is wise, she interprets the symbols carefully, consulting with her pack and her totem, trying to exploit whatever knowledge Luna has seen fit to give her.

Note, though, that Cahalith werewolves seek Glory, not Wisdom. The Cahalith seeks to make the tales worthy of being retold, and she looks to her more introspective packmates — the Irraka and the Ithaeur — to find the lessons. A story might be tragic, comic, bloody, grim, triumphant, or Pyrrhic, but the Cahalith doesn’t know what story she is in until the story ends. The only true concern she has is: Will people remember this tale?