But they are not your pack, you know. Or think. Or maybe I think it for you. This body isn't slowing down, you'll notice; please keep pace. And I should remind you that you're just a cub—a werewolf, but not "Garou." You're less a member of the pack than the Beaver spirit, or the van. But let's actually think about how to fix this problem. I sprint through the woods on delicate feet, leaving sad red tracks, widely spaced, then stop on a fallen pine and turn as you hurry to catch up. I look quite elegant, neck long and sleek, eyes shining. Great Gaia, I am magnificent! Not a ragged skin-puppet at all! So let's review what we know. We are at least reasonably confident that Clay ate tainted flesh. The flesh, you recall, was quite tempting. Can we learn something from that? What about the accouterments of the horse and rider? Is there anything here that can tell us about what happened to Eyes-of-Clay?
And you see that I've led you through the woods back to the site of your battle. The horse is still there, its remaining guts strewn all over the snow, already frozen. A faint howl drifts through the air. Black Tarn? You can't be sure. And if I know, I'm not saying.
"What about that weird lance the rider had?" I've never seen anything like that.
That horse saddle wasn't made of monster-skin. "The horse had a normal-looking saddle. Could we figure out who made it?"
"What about Black Tarn?" She could end up lost in the Umbra forever if we can't help her.
I'm sick of getting yanked around! I grab that cat so quickly it can't escape and demand answers.
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