Werewolf: The Forsaken - Blank It

Appendix
The werewolves were coming.
He sat on a tall stone, relishing the feel of the soft
September wind through his fur. The summer had been long
and hot, and the heat had driven the humans and spirits alike
mad for a time. His scars had itched for some time after the
worst of the bloodshed. But the wind was cool on his scars now,
Mother Moon would rise soon, and the others were coming.
Far below and to the south, three pale shapes crossed a
pasture, one following the other. As he watched them, he
wondered if the sisters had stopped to help themselves. To the
north, several small lights raced along a winding road toward
the mountain. After a minute, the distant sounds of the motorcycle
engines began to roll up the mountainside. There was
the sound of a howl among them.
He rose to his paws. A fresh scent was on the wind — young
and strong and full of fire. The sight of her reddish coat came
to his imagination, even though she couldn’t be seen yet. It
was just like her; deliberately keeping from sight but approaching
from upwind, letting her musk announce her presence
without a trace of fear or humility.
They were coming. Blooded over the summer’s hundred
hunts, stained with sweat and tears, new scars in their coats,
some even with empty spaces in their packs where beloved
friends once ran. They were coming for the equinox, to boast
and scheme and posture and fight. They were coming to sing
rage and sorrow and pride to the night, to howl down the
lengthening night. To stir up their blood until it boiled. To run
under the moon. To hunt.
He raised his jaws to the darkening sky and howled.
287
THE ROCKIES