The Umbra: the spirit-shadow cast by the Living Earth. Once a place for Garou to heal, seek enlightenment, and—if you believe Scarper—ambush enemies from the fourth dimension—now it is nearly inaccessible. You heard vaguely about the "Umbra," the spirit world, before your First Change, but even then, you struggled to understand what werewolves really were. The movies talked about flesh and Rage and madness, and yes, there's plenty of that, but also much more. Werewolves are the warrior-mystics of the Living Earth, heirs to a spirit tradition that stretches back before recorded history.
"The spirit of my pack has been asleep for a long time," Black Tarn says, her voice tired. "The spirits sleep because they are too weak to act. But we may be able to awaken them for a time. They alone can help Clay."
You start to contemplate how much that matters to you. Then Black Tarn squeezes your wrist hard enough to bruise. "Tell them who you are, cub," she says.
You are no true Garou yet, and have no deed name. You hope the spirits will react to either the first name on your New York state ID, or the names your normal friends called you back when you had normal friends, because you don't have anything else.
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, Viktor! 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 if you want wisdom—answers to questions you've asked, to questions you don't yet know how to ask—you know where they wait for you: the Umbra.
Maybe you could rely on your occult education if Black Tarn had formally instructed you, but she didn't even teach you what a philodox needs to know. But now, your hopes lie in the sensitivity of your faculties and your spiritual focus. You remember Black Tarn telling you that her rite used a reflective surface to enter the Umbra. But presumably not just anything will do. What is suitable for your journey? You close your eyes and concentrate.
The air here is thin and images assail you: useless howling nonsense, the echoes of half-formed or long-extinct spirits. You feel the cold sinking into your bones. A healthy werewolf can regenerate from almost any injury, but you're still screwed if you freeze solid. Ignoring the spreading numbness, you listen until you sense something. You start to walk, following an elusive trail, a faint tug.
A snowy tree branch brushes your face, and you open your eyes. You're before a frozen stream, as yet uncovered by snow, that glitters in the starlight. A great sense of rightness assails you here, so clear it feels almost violent in its intensity. This is it. Breath coming quickly, you focus on stars and spirits, and stare deep into the ice. And there, moving behind and beyond the ice, among the stars, is Beaver—the spirit of Clay's pack.
Beaver floats in slumber, tumbling slowly like a civilization-ending asteroid, rimed with frost and glittering with starlight. Trails wind through the frozen river made of stars or spirits or ice. A canine shape slips along one of them, a flickering black shadow, then disappears.
Your fingers touch the ice. You're off the Map now, close to the Umbra, but not there yet.