The way you look at it, there are two possibilities: either some potential ally is coming your way—Black Tarn, one of the local Garou, or maybe a guardian spirit—in which case you need the help; or another enemy is moving to attack, in which case it'd be funny if it ran right into the fomor at full speed.
You scramble down the hill, trying to pinpoint the sound of rustling in the tall grasses. There's definitely someone moving your way, but the problem is how to line them up with the fomor.
The other problem is that the fomor, while probably insane, is no fool. He heads you off as you skid through mud, then suddenly leaps!
A huge weight slams into you, clipping you with a sharp hook so you both skid through the mud. Then Banicki grabs you and lifts you up. The fomor seems almost surprised that he got you. His momentary hesitation is a mistake. You pull a long awl from his belt and drive it into his neck, then you just keep stabbing him—ears, mouth, whatever you can reach. Stunned with pain, the fomor tries to angle his silver scalpel at you, but you stab him all the way through the hand, severing whatever tendons hold the weapon.
Banicki finally shakes you off, then drives his other hook between your ribs, impaling a lung. He slams you into the muddy grass, then stumbles to one knee as blood burbles out of both your mouths.
Stunned by agony, your flesh boils and writhes as the fomor slams you around.
A final, brutal slam into the turf and consciousness fades, except for a faint glint of silver.
Next
You're not dead.
Consciousness returns slowly. You're lying prone in your homid form, covered in blood, grass, and mud. Your teeth are broken. You spit a few out, sit up. The knuckles of one hand are broken, too.
"But everything heals, in time, doesn't it?"
You wipe blood and filth from your eyes and spot Elton Dey. The theurge has abandoned his frock coat in favor of a long robe made out of something black and velvety you don't recognize—some artifact of Shadow Lord sorcery, you suspect. He's in his wild glabro form, and from the filth on his hands and mouth, you suspect he just fought a horrific battle in his crinos form.
Not much remains of the fomor: twisted flesh, already swarming with flies. Elton tore him apart. His death left weapons and tools scattered on the red grass.
"You lost," Elton says. "But you did find the old barrow. This place is ancient, and it was strong once. That means you're not finished. Not yet. Get up."
You force yourself to stand up. As the pain recedes, you can see more barrows and graves like the one you entered. And you hear a rhythmic mechanical hammering. The air reeks, and it's full of flies. Elton's eyes show recognition and pain as he studies the place; he's been here before, but he seems willing to wait for you to decide what to do next.
Before I say anything, I shift into my glabro form and start to heal.
"I keep hearing about the 'Three Families.' What are they? Human allies of the Garou?"
"What's that sound? It's like a diesel motor." Intriguing. I want to check that out.
"Whose tomb was that?" I head back toward the barrow. "And what was this place?"
"I came here hunting a Bane, and I think there are more. Where do you think they are?" I'm not done fighting.
"After you, Elton." I defer to the elder werewolf here.
Next