"Not silver," Black Tarn says, holding the dead rider's lance. It's still freezing cold and the metal sticks to her palms; you need to get her wrapped up, but she's poking around the crime scene at the speed of a cop making overtime. "But I feel there's something spiritual about this lance. What is his name, do you think?" She pokes the dead man's arctic camo jacket partially open with the lance.
The man's tablet is completely trashed, every port filled with frozen blood, but you peel the jacket open—blood, stringy and pink, half congealed—and find a wallet. No ID, but $140 in cash.
"Don't let Clay see that," Black Tarn says, gesturing for you to take the money. Her voice is shrewd and clear, but she doesn't seem to remember what happened to Clay. And you don't know where her clothes are.
As you transfer the cash to your duct-taped wallet, a receipt appears among the twenties.
"Banicki Gunworks, Northampton, Massachusetts," you read automatically. Maybe the guy you killed (or who Scarper killed, to hear him tell it) shopped there.
"East," Black Tarn says, her tone haunted. "The lost caern. Why did Clay never tell you? Why?"
A caern: a place of spiritual power, treasured by the Garou—and their enemies. What does she mean? But you can't wait here any longer—Black Tarn's lips are purple. You peel a thermal blanket off the dead rider and wrap it around Black Tarn, then point her back toward town. She hobbles through the snow, leaning on the lance.
You walk along the side of the road for a few minutes before a familiar yellow van screams to a halt, blasting slush across Black Tarn's bare feet before lurching and stalling. Scarper yells something, then rolls down the passenger's side window because you can't hear him and screams it again.
"Where the fuck have you been? Why didn't you call?"
"I—" you start to explain.
"'I, I, I!'" Scarper mocks, perfectly mimicking your tone of voice and yet adding a tone of absurdity to it. "I'm so sick of your voice. 'I did what you demanded!'" You wince at your words coming from Scarper's mouth.
"I don't have a phone, Scarper. Stop yelling." Black Tarn isn't exactly great right now.
"Trying to learn more about that rider, and not having a lot of luck." I'm not feeling good about my prospects.
"I was keeping Black Tarn safe!" At least one of us actually cares about elder werewolves.
"I've got my own business to attend to, Scarper." This "elder" doesn't deserve my respect or explanations.
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