It's no "Black Tarn." Even Clay is really "Eyes-of-Clay," a deed name earned for brave deeds before your parents were born. But the old theurge waves you toward the apple tree and you say your name. Then again, louder. The air feels thin. Your vision sparkles.
"Good," Black Tarn says. She laughs, then howls. "They hear us, Gilles Belet! The spirit of this place hears us. Now follow, if you can." She stares at her reflection, then…she's gone. The icicle cracks and spills onto the ground, and for a moment you see a thousand Black Tarns reflected in their facets as she disappears into the Umbra.
But you remain where you are. Black Tarn told you only that the spirit world was now so toxic that only the greatest theurges could enter on their own. And you're an untried philodox. But every werewolf must enter the Umbra and face the horrors and challenges there to become a true Garou. Why wait any longer? You're strong now. Who cares if Clay will not acknowledge your victory? The spirits must.
I use my survival skills and cunning to seek out a wild place, untouched by civilization, where I can make the transition.
Black Tarn has spoken about occult patterns in the land. I think back to her lessons—where did she say was another "thin point" around here?
I shouldn't rely on scholarship to enter the spirit world. I empty my thoughts and stay calm and composed, "feeling" my way toward an entrance.
I'll be damned if I'm going to chase Black Tarn across the cosmos to fix Clay's mistake. I head back inside.
Next