The deep, trackless woods, where no regular mortal has ever stepped. Black trunks, white snow, pure shimmering streams that wind beneath crystalline ice…
The barrows of the ancestors, quiet tombs of werewolves and their allies slain at the Battle of Graves Farm or battles centuries ago, low grassy hills marked with Garou glyphs and rough-hewn stones, wreathed in ghostly mist…
The liminal zone between the wilds and the People of the Map: your right eye sees wretched urban blight, polluted and accursed, but your left eye sees a frenzied realm of teeming spiritual activity. Red bricks, rusted metal, feral cats stalking the alleys, clever spirits that have learned to adapt and survive in the shadow of humanity…
"Huguel," Elton says.
The sound of rushing water. The last remnants of David Banicki's dam sink into the mire. Cold wind races through the valley. You're freezing, your hands and face numb. Elton's lips are blue, but he's smiling.
"Did it work?" you ask.
The sky is still red. Wait, the red is to the east now. It's dawn.
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