Tragedy loves a martyr, and those who follow the path of righteousness often find corruption the price of their faith.  Such is the story of the White Howlers, a noble tribe not dissimilar from the Fianna.  Once the bastion of Gaia's grace, now grunts of perversion's army.  The Black Spiral Dancers are Garou who have turned to the Wyrm. They live away from other Garou, generally underground, stroking the coils that bind them.  Generations of inbreeding and radiation from close proximity to the Wyrm have twisted and warped this giggling gathering into ragged mutants; a curious, if not apropos parody of Garou themselves. Many have patagia, a thin membrane under the arms, similar to a pterodactyl, and ride the currents of darkness in delicious flight.

Insanity is nothing if not a trademark of these forfeit creatures.  If Metis, they claim this pathological idiosyncrasy as their birthright. Those "turned" must undergo malicious, psyche rending ordeals, much like the initiation of Sabbot Malkavian, and are forced to walk the Black Spiral, after years of conditioning.

Their physical appearance in Homid is generally a bit... disconcerting, though some are breathtaking to behold.  In Crinos, Dancers resemble Garou with large, oversized heads, and the long ears of a bat.  Their eyes spark red or green, revealing the fevered insanity within, and their fur grows in either  alabaster or grayish-green patches.

In return for betraying Gaia, the Dancers are granted magnificent boons; Wyrm gifts, as it were.  Being of the Wyrm, they can sense others of a like kind.  They can manipulate their senses like the sonar of a bat, and sense objects or foes, even in total blackness.   They can use their bat-like "flaps" to glide at rapid speeds through the currents of the night.  Rabid with taint, a bite from a Dancer can send even the most staunch and willful Garou into frenzy.  Toxins are another heritage, and claw or tooth may unwrap Garou fingers from this mortal coil.  And dire most foul, a Black Spiral can concoct spheres of Balefire to jovially toss in warm welcome of the coming Apocalypse.

Whatever you do, never ask a Spiral if he's ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight... and never tell them they look like a cross between a donkey and a flying squirrel.

Sanity is not measured by static reverence, but by every corpse offered unto our master... Hear the Whippoorwill wail; my cup spills over with laughter;  we die-dream of you, dogs of the mistress damned.