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.
You examine the horse-thing. Dead and by now partly frozen. Blood is everywhere. Its entrails have been eaten and blood stains the snow. But that saddle looks like an ordinary leather saddle. You don't see any Garou glyphs or anything explicitly supernatural.
Maybe you could grab the whole saddle and look for identifying marks. Your thoughts? No, mine. I'm talking again. Just talking, though. Just making conversation—nothing more. And if you find something to identify the marks, then you can do some old-fashioned detective work in town. Ask around, see who knows anything.
You can start a serious investigation after sunrise. Assuming "investigation" is a real thing? Like, can you actually hit the pavement and ask people questions, which leads to more people you can ask more questions to? Or is that just what happens on detective shows?
The first thing you do is remove the saddle, so the first thing you learn is that saddles are surprisingly heavy. There's also the problem of the gore: the saddle peels away with a Velcro noise, leaving ropey strands of half-frozen blood like pink mozzarella.
You should take a picture. That's me again, offering advice. Spider told me all about smartphones. I'm pretty high-tech for a cat.
"I don't have a—"
The cat is gone. There's a little sizzle in your brain as your thoughts settle back into their accustomed shape. But don't worry; I'll be keeping my eye on you, cub.
The saddle has a little oval that says J.L. HEANEY, MAKER. You think there's a town and state below, but it's been abraded away. You don't have a phone, so you pull out a notebook and do your best to sketch the maker's mark, and then you draw the saddle itself from several angles. Maybe the saddle's shape is important, so you try to capture that.
Your hands are freezing by the time you're done, so you stomp over to the dead horseman. The tablet is completely destroyed, every port filled with frozen blood, but you find a wallet in his camo jacket. No ID, but your numb hands fumble over $140 in bills—you stuff them into your empty zipper-wallet.
You and Scarper don't always see eye to eye, but he taught you how to survive. This is how. But now you need to start asking questions.
No, wait: now you need to get out of the cold before you die.
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