"Why did you send for me?" The old Garou rasped. He was sitting alone in the middle of a deserted bar room. A single candle wept hot wax, mourning the lateness of the hour, illuminating nearly a dozen bottles of tequila.
"Because I know what you want, dear. I always have."
The voice was like velvet dipped in cyanide and emanated from somewhere above his head. Tames-the-Weaver's hand clenched tight. It was just a spasm, a reflex; there was no emotion in the action, just instinctive hostility.
"Oh, you have, have you? The last time you told me what you thought I wanted to hear-"
"I was precisely right. You wanted the power to kill that Uktena, and I just gave you a push in the right direction."
Silence, except for a quiet liquid slosh as Tames-the-Weaver downed the last of the tequila. There was a sigh, and she continued speaking.
"I am content to sit here and reminisce like old lovers, but first I need to tell you how you can get what you want..."
Tames-the-Weaver glanced up, his face in a sneer. "I don't want anything you can give. I'm stronger than you."
"Of that, I have little doubt. And yet, you still have wants, and needs. You want release, and crave dissolution. But you are a Fenrir- and a cunning one at that. Your life is empty, but you would hate for your death to be similarly meaningless..."
The unseen voice trailed off, but the grey headed Garou said nothing. "By happy circumstance, the willworkers have gifted us an opportunity: three high umbral beings, timeless and potent, have been marooned in the Penumbra. They sleep fitfully, their power echoing through the years."
Tames-the-Weaver's eyes roved to and fro. They both knew the same prophecies. It was sooner than he had thought. The voice continued: "I suggest that you seize them, take them for yourself... if you can."
The scarred, silver whiskered face of Tames-the-Weaver split into a terrible grin as the strange woman's voice dropped to melodious purr: "It's suicide, in all likelihood, but I think for you that is merely part of the appeal."
"If I succeed, it is still suicide, it will just take a little longer." The words were a low, flat growl. The tall, lean creature stood and without glancing up, put on his hat, heading for the door.
"Maybe I'll even let you know if I succeed." The rough-hewn door slammed.
"Oh, I will know if you succeed, love." There was no mocking sweetness to the voice now, only ancient, patient fury.
Home 
