(November 1995)

	The scene: Thom has been poking around the protectorate, monitoring 
what he thinks to be Dancer movements. One evening, he runs across a 
trail that only a blind man would fail to see...

Victory's Desc:
     A thick silvery-grey ruff flares about the neck and upper shoulders of 
  this wolf. The promise of swiftness and power ride along the sleek and lean 
  form to the gentle slope of the tail. The darkly brown eyes and attentive 
  posture of the ears betokens a keen awareness. Set against the shimmering 
  silvery fur and height, these features seem somehow noble and refined.
     A ragged spiralling scar pierced by an even, clean vertical scar marks 
  Victory's chest, and the triple-slash scars of eagle talons mark his left 
  shoulder.

	The trail leads up into the mountains. Every so often Thom sees a 
thread suspended from a branch or bramble, as if someone had caught his 
or her clothing on the vegetation. Eventually, he catches scents on the 
wind, three she's, up in wide cleft between the rocky hills, like a 
small ampitheatre.

	His curiousity intensely bent on felinicide, Victory pads stealthily 
forward, following close to scent and sound as he picks his way oward 
the natural amphitheatre.

	The three women sit on various boulders strewn through the space, 
calmly waiting. At least one of them looks familiar. I mean, glowing blue 
eyes aren't common.

	Victory attempts in his learned-lupine way to remain downwind of the 
trio, patiently attending to their movements, scents, and noises as if 
any moment now a clue might drift his way. As his eyes settle on the 
blue-eyed one, he stiffens slightly.

	Lachesis sits quietly, looking morose. She's chain-smoking.

	Atropos suddenly looks over her shoulder and utters a single command to 
the air. "No." She turns back to staring at a point in space in front of 
her.

	StrengthBringer sits with her hands folded calmly into her lap. Her 
expression is almost serene, but not quite, and the glow in her eyes is 
more pronounced than usual.

	Victory remains downwind in his quiet approach, drawing nearer to the 
trio with an oddly focused fascination, perhaps the parallel of his 
MacBethian approach to the Weird Sisters strikes him too sharply, too 
vividly.

	Lachesis intones in a pronounced southern drawl, obvious caricature of 
a bona fide one, "When shay-uhl we thray meet aga-yuhn, in thundah, 
lightnin' or in rain?" She looks out towards the rocks. "Come on in, 
Macbeth, sugah."

Victory contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Victory grimaces slightly as his body begins to blur and alter into Homid form.

Thom Crowley's Desc:
Tall, with long, shoulder-length hair, and just reaching the frame of 
  adulthood, this young man in his latter teens studies the world through dark 
  brown, haunting eyes, his profile aquiline and strong. His bearing and 
  demeanor seem somehow aloof, yet engaging, something compelling in his 
  occasional smile and casual stance.
Thom wears a pair of Levis (new, buttonfly), a pair of Timberlyne loafers, and 
  a light blue oxford with the initials TTC.

	"So foul and fair a day I have not seen," responds Thom as he steps 
closer, his attention moving from the drawling Hecuba to  
StrengthBringer, his eyes prying at the Get as if for answers.

	StrengthBringer regards the Fang, her bland expression broken only by 
the slightest quirk of a half-smile on her lips. She says nothing.

StrengthBringer's Desc:
          She's ugly, and there's no getting around that fact. Ragged locks of 
  grizzled, rust-red hair cover her scalp, cut unattractively short. Her hard, 
  square face is made even more unlovely by the scars, large and small, that 
  cross and criss-cross her weathered visage. An underbite causes her heavy 
  jaw to jut out in a rather bulldoggish way, and her nose is flattish and 
  rather crooked. Unnaturally bright blue eyes, without visible pupils, gaze 
  out from underneath heavy eyebrows, literally gleaming with their own flat 
  light.
          Though only of average height, her build is strong and stocky. She's 
  wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt with a slight 
  tear at the hem. Her combat boots are scuffed and somewhat mucky about the 
  soles. She wears no jewelry and no makeup.
          There are new, ugly wounds running down her neck and face. Her 
  expression is unsettling, more distant than usual, her gestures both sharper 
  and more careful.

	Lachesis returns to smoking. She regards the young man through a blue 
haze, head turned slightly and a small squint to the eyes.

	Atropos momentarily focuses on the Fang, then straight past him. Her 
head bobs, slightly, up and down to an unheard tune.

	Thom Crowley hooks a thumb into a back pocket. "Somebody left quite a 
trail back there," says Thom quietly, looking again at StrengthBringer.

	Lachesis speaks softly, this time in her true drawl, "Why don't you 
introduce us to your friend, sister-daughter?"

	StrengthBringer tilts her head slightly. "Bright Howl of Victory," she 
rasps. Her voice is quieter, more hoarse. "Galliard of the Silver Fangs. 
Son of... Eagle, isn't it?"

	Thom Crowley's right hand goes absently to his left shoulder. "You know 
me, Bringer." A certain tension stiffens along his forearms. "Who are 
your... new friends?"

	Atropos turns and focuses on the Get, a heavy scent of mankind drifts 
and mingles in with the air nearby as she clucks at the reply and looks  
skywards. "Eeeeeeeea-gle," she draws on in a long, mocking voice.

	StrengthBringer frowns at the Fang. "Not Bringer," she corrects. 
"Clotho."

	Thom Crowley's eyes narrow cautiously as he hears Bringer invoke her 
new name. "Clotho?"

	StrengthBringer smiles, then. "Clotho." She gestures toward each of the 
other two. "Lachesis. Atropos."

	Atropos nods at Clotho and turns to focus on Thom. "I know what it's 
like to be repressed."
	
	"Obviously," mutters Thom, the hand on his shoulder trailing down his 
side and back to his pocket. The young Fang looks at each of the Weird 
companions in turn and then steps back, slowly. "Are things ok...  
Brin... Clotho?" 
	
	"Things," replies the mule, "have never been better."

	Lachesis looks Thom up and down, a measuring glance. The blue haze 
around her seems to just get larger, depsite the wind.

	Thom Crowley draws his attention away from Clotho as the blue hazy 
grows about Lachesis. Another step back catches his foot on a stone. 
Thom half-stumbles back and then stops in a crouch. "They... They've 
been looking for you, Bringer. At the Wheel."

	The metis tilts her head slightly. "Have they?"

	Lachesis rolls her eyes. "The Blind couldn't find their butts with two 
hands and a flashlight." She smiles at the lad. "But you understand 
that, don't you. About how...frustrating they can be."

	"TC has... and others. You're a Guardian you know..." The Fang's voice 
fades as he hears Lachesis's words. "Who are you?"

	StrengthBringer falls silent, letting Lachesis speak.

	Lachesis says "I am Lachesis, as my daughter said."

	Thom Crowley looks back to StrengthBringer, almost startled. "That's 
your Mother?" He looks back at Lachesis. "Charach?"

	Lachesis says shortly, "I. Don't. Like. That. Word."

	Thom Crowley shakes his head. "I don't suppose you would." He looks 
again at Bringer, his shoulders rising slightly with the silent 
question: what's going on here?

	StrengthBringer simply regards Thom calmly, without answering. Her 
hands remain clasped in her lap.

	Lachesis sighs. "Mother, it is up to you to end his ignorance."

	Atropos points a withered and arthritic finger accusingly towards 
Thom's left side. "Stay away," she commands. "He is not yours." She 
places her cane before her and leans heavily upon it as she creaks to her 
feet, bringing her twisted body to a standing position. "He has more time 
yet. He carries the Mark." 
	
	Lachesis nods gravely.

Atropos's Desc:
        Old. Old beyond time, but not quite having succumbed to its tireless 
  embrace, the woman before you stoops with the weight of ages upon her 
  shoulders. She seems to manage with the support of her weathered and 
  battered walking cane, wrapping her gnarled fingers around it in a caressing 
  death grip. A grisly row of scars across her face has claimed her left eye, 
  the flesh knitted together to cover the empty hole. Her touseled white and 
  grey hair is frail and brittle should you dare to touch it, though her black 
  eye carries an alert keenness and wisdom rarely seen in those her age, as 
  well as an intangible coldness. She seems to look upon you like a scientist 
  about to carve open some menial insect to prod at its innards. Her light 
  blue dress hangs limply over her body, showing the very bones of her 
  hunching spinal column, while an ancient-looking red shawl wraps itself 
  about her rounded shoulders. An old handbag is draped over her left 
  shoulder. Frequently, a humming sigh or a smacking of her lips escapes her, 
  but other than these noises or the rap of her cane upon the ground, she 
  moves as silently as a rat through a tomb.

Lachesis's Desc:
A tired, almost dried-out woman, wiry tough like a ranchhand, or maybe a 
  coffee shop waitress of too many years and too few tips. Her teeth have the 
  yellow patina of a chronic smoker, and she squints as if peering through a 
  gray-blue haze. She wears well-worn jeans, and a simple red blouse. Her 
  lifeless, frizzy black hair is cut short, and she wears neither make-up nor 
  jewelry; it wouldn't surprise you to hear some idiot scream "Dyke!" at her 
  as he drives by. Her brown skin has a grey, almost dusty pallor, and her 
  eyes have the same weary, ancient cast.  The ornately sculpted brass 
  bracelets around her wrists clash with the overall effect, however.

	Almost startled, Thom looks to his left as if expecting to see something... 
  something that isn't there. He turns back to trio, eyes narrowing at the 
  mention of something... something the old hag shouldn't know about.

	Lachesis narrows her eyes, and says quietly, "The Dark Angel could not 
be here this night. So she has scent us, the Handmaidens ofthe 
Apocalypse, to complete your education."

	Thom Crowley's eyes widen at the mention of the Dark Angel, his mouth 
drawing tight and white across his teeth, bared as his banked Rage rises 
with the bile in the back of his throat. "I didn't care much for the 
first lessons... I'll have to bow out."

	Lachesis makes an irritated tchk-ing noise. "Control yourself. Yes, 
she was unpleasant. But necessary things often are. And it's obvious you 
didn't find the experience completely distasteful. It's written all over 
you."

	Thom Crowley's clear voice snaps out. "Just what the fuck are you 
talking about, old woman?" His left hand opens and closes slowly as if 
gripping something.

	Atropos murmers in an odd tongue and gestures with a hand, carving some 
sygil in the air before her with an index finger. The air behind and to 
the Fang's left shimmers briefly and a familiar face, a wolf-spider made 
with barbed wire, phases into view as it manifests from the umbra. 
"Now," the crone commands, "You may assist."

	Glistening barbs and inky blackness moves as the all-too-familiar 
creature turns its void-filled eyes on the Silver Fang.

	The young Fang's reaction to the beast at his side might strike one as 
an odd combination of fear and practice motion. He veritably springs to 
the right and back, shifting with lightning speed into a silveryfurred 
crinos beast, a long, pale blade in his left hand.

Thom Crowley contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Thom Crowley grimaces slightly as his body begins to blur and alter into 
  Crinos form.

	Lachesis looks at her mentor's "pet", and frowns a bit. "I didn't want 
this to be messy, Thom." She speaks over the noise of shifting and 
battle. "I wanted you to come to us willingly. It's much easier later..."

	This creature is larger than its dead brother, nearly six feet at the 
shoulder. It simply watches the Fang, its misshapen head lowered. It does 
not attack, but it seems to greatly discourage escape.

	Victory edges even further away from the creature, more toward Bringer. 
~What the fuck do you want with me?~ His blade-bearing hand comes up 
toward the scarring on his chest. ~I rid myself of you long ago.~

	StrengthBringer cocks her head. "Truth," she says quietly. "Truth and 
sight."

	The barbed-wire spider-wolf utters a low, grating, metallic whine.

	Atropos's eyes disfocus. "A wolf marks its territory, its prope..." She 
snaps, "Not now!" Easily sliding back to her previous speech, "... 
property. You are claimed."

	Lachesis says sententiously, "It is the Litany, after all. Honor the 
territory of another..."

	Victory twists his head slightly toward Atropos. ~Marked property? 
No... she never called. She /didn't/ call.~

	Atropos inclines her head, having re-focused on the real world once 
more. "She did not call." She focuses on the Fang. "You called for her. 
The spirits have spoken. Come. Let us show you the path to your Father."

	Victory turns his head again, the blade lowering only slightly. ~My 
Father runs in England, Crone, against your kind.~

	A twitch flits over the crone's face. "Your mortal father is nothing. 
Betrayer. Fool. Deny it all you wish. Destiny has spoken to me. Your Time is 
at hand. The /true/ Father awaits."

	Victory straightens slightly, carefully, blade turning repeatedly in 
his clawed hand. ~True Father?~

	Lachesis gives Thom her measuring glance again. "You have a destiny 
among us." She drawls again, "Is this a dagguh I see befoah me?"

	StrengthBringer remains silent.

	Victory's growling voice darkens. ~Avaunt, and quite my sight! let the 
earth hide thee! They bones are marrowless, they blood is cold; Thou has no 
spculation in those eyes Which tho dost glare with.~ Rendered in the thick 
speech of the Garou, the lines hesitate and halt,,, mimicking perhaps 
Victory's ambivalence and curiosity.

	Lachesis just watches the young man without saying anything else, for 
to speak now would be to cut the cloth oo long.

	StrengthBringer is also quite silent, regarding Thom.

	Atropos finally speaks, a single word. "Time." She turns slowly, aided 
by her cane, and starts hobbling off into the woods, occasionally 
bringing her cane down hard on a rock sticking out of the ground.

	The wire-creature whines, it's voice like nails on a chalkboard.

	Victory swings his muzzle angrily. ~You talk in riddles, Crone.~

	Atropos doesn't turn or acknowledge the existence of the Fang in any 
way. She continues on her wayward path, back to him.

	StrengthBringer stands slowly, putting her hands carefully into her 
pockets.

	Lachesis gets to her feet, flicking the butt of her latest cigareete 
into some dry leaves, whispering, "May the burning be bright." She 
ambles along behind Atropos. "Come if you are ready, young dagger."

	Victory lowers more dangerously into a fighting crouch, the pale bone 
blade's turning ceasing in the tightened grip.

	StrengthBringer regards the Fang for a few more moments. "Truth," she 
says again. "And true sight." Then she smiles, an oddly warm expression, and 
turns to follow Lachesis.

	The wire wolf beast remains where it is. It might as well be a statue, 
but for the fact that it breathes.

	Victory watches the Weird sisters as they move away and his taloned 
feet carry him forward, cautious but vurious, intensely curious.

	Lachesis and her companions walk for long miles, often taking the 
form of wolves to make the miles go more quickly. Eventually they come 
to a deep cave in the mountains which Clotho should find very familiar...

Victory contorts and blurs as he is transformed.
Victory grimaces slightly as his body begins to blur and alter into Homid form.
	Thom Crowley has followed the dread trio the entire way, never 
drawing so close as to be 'part' of the pilgrim company, but never far away.

	StrengthBringer smiles fondly upon seeing the cave and seems to relax 
just a tad.

	Lachesis turns to the young man. "It is time to decide. Within lies our 
sacred mysteries. It is my duty as mother and midwife to lead you 
within, or not. Will you give over your ancient allegiances, at embrace 
the Father, whom you call the Wyrm? Will you Dance the Spiral,a nd 
become flesh of our flesh?"

	Thom Crowley turns toward Bringer for a moment, the realization dawning 
in his eyes darkly. Slowly the young Fang looks back to Lachesis. "Lead on."

	Lachesis enters the cleft, disappearing into darkness.

Thom Crowley pages to Atropos, Lachesis, and StrengthBringer: At this point, a 
  bit tired, Thom thinks he can 'fake the spiral,' enough to learn about it, 
  to find the weakness that he can exploit, the advantage that he can gain to 
  destroy the Dark Angel.