Deadpan.

Intense, ferocious, deadpan.

The Weaver stared back.

My Deadpan became a physical force that slapped away the Weaver's excuses.

The Weaver metaphysically coughed bashfully and rubbed her multiple appendixes together, not even trying to excuse the colossal clusterfuck that my existence; oh, and the destruction of the reality as we know it; represented.

A very sane, free, and amused Wyrm was enjoying the spectacle wholeheartedly, along with a smiling Gaia, that was happy to have the triad, relatively united again. Chaos has already "left the building" to throw the biggest party ever, with the liberated souls of the entire Nuwisha breed.

"Congratulations, you won". My tone was so flat it was bi-dimensional.

The Weaver flinched and tried to put together a facsimile of an excuse that did not sound like the usual bullshit. Once the Wyrm was cleansed of the madness, Weaver was cleansed too, and with the metaphorical post nut clarity, came the realization of the massive clusterfuck that the world has been since she decided to bind the Wyrm, and screw the Triad.

And those chewing sounds on the background were Selene, Helios, and several other Celestial munchings the metaphysical popcorn, at the roasting that I have delivered to the Weaver after I found myself as the only surviving dual existent individual of the entire planet. When I found myself staring at a reunite, sane triad, I focus on the Weaver with the intensity of a laser, and proceed to roast/rant like Christmas, at the abashed Cosmic entity.

Time lost any coherency at that point, and I can say how much time I was like that, but until an unknown amount of time, Weaver felt already more than chastised enough, and the rest of the primordial forces; without even pretending they did not enjoy every single second of it; intervened, trying to calm the situation.

Look, I get it, the stakes were high, apocalypse, end of the world, Ragnarok, yadda, yadda, yadda... Been there, done that, thank you. Anyhow, I was an abomination, a Garou that was embraced by vampires, and turned into an undead abomination that suffered from chronic depression and the rejection of the entire fucking universe. Except for Banes, and other very nasty spirits that the further they stay from me all for the better.

Since my embrace in 1046, in Uppsala, I tried, tried as hard as I could to make something useful of my abominable life, and, maybe, be back in Gaia's grace. However, even if I slipped from my path from time to time, enraged, and crossed with the unfairness, my main objective has always been to restore the primordial balance.

It took me about 959 years, but I finally did it. I gave all the Garous that I could the tools to free the Wyrm from the Weaver and restore the balance. What I did not expect, was that Weaver was as insane as Wyrm, and when she decided that, essentially, calcifying the entire world was a good idea, I realized, too late, that everything was about to go kaboom. Spiritually.

And, much to my internal shame, such an outcome was among the best possible outcomes.

The biggest problem with the calcification of the Gauntlet, is that it stops anything spiritual to pass between the worlds, meaning that all changing breeds will eventually wither and die, all spirits will vanish, magic will simply stop working unless you are at the other side of the Umbra, and vampires will rule supreme, as they were natives to the mortal world, and their blood was so charged with Essence that they did not need the Umbra at all to work.

Weaver's super plan of awesome was, essentially, turning the vampires into the apex predators of the world, and humanity, so devoid of anything resembling initiative and nothing new will be ever created. Drone like humans, shepherded by vampires, are the only ones that kept an inch of creativity and the spark of creation, due to the Essence in their blood.

Between laughs, Wyrm and some of Gaia's spirits tried to prevent me from throttling Weaver, even if the old spider could have vaporized me to the conceptual level with just a passing thought. Anansi was on the sidelines, along with all her's fera brood, raising scoreboards about the chewing that I have delivered to the Weaver.

Odin's balls, I almost fell bad for the spider. Eating humble pie is always a draining experience, especially when you realized that all your plans, so well thought, so massive, intricate, and glorious, look more likely madman ramblings than the pure genius that you are convinced they are. And, lass, the calcification of the Gauntlet, basically cutting short both worlds, was a very, very bad idea.

Since my embrace, I, always very discretely, tried to guide and show the Garou tribes another path. I helped found the Lazarite movement, I torched Hives to the ground, I put "lost and powerful" Fetishes in the paths of honorable packs, I tried to fix packs by cleaning up their messes and set things right when their derangements become the best of them. In general collaborating with the warriors of Gaia to fix as best as I could their worst messes, and to screw up with the plans of the Weaver, and the demented Wyrm.

Seeing the result of my work unravel to the gnosis level, and to see the planet practically reduced to a primeval state with only basic lifeforms, barely protozoic messes drooling around, hurt pretty deeply actually. I had my nagging suspicions, that the moment when Wyrm will get out of the threads and chains holding it, his "freedom!" howls will unravel Malfeas, and solid chunks of whatever umbra realms are caught on the aftershock of Wrym's orgasmic shouts of freedom. I lacked proof, as it will be the first time it happened, but I suspected that once you let the very concept of entropy run amok, free since practically the age of the world, some unfortunately collateral damages were to be expected.

The discussion about what to do with the only survivor of the reset button of the world is going to be one for the age, however, I will not be there.

Not because I did not have a lot of things to say, but because by the moment that the Triad finally seemed to agree that it was time to get things done, and this time without fuckups, The Chosen of Coyote, the biggest Nuwisha trickster and Chosen of Chaos, walked straight at me; dressed in the worst Hawaiian shirt that I have ever seen, and some torn jeans; and with a trolling smile that I reacted too slow to detect, kicked me into a gap that has appeared in the middle of fucking nowhere.

"Buddy!", the cheerful and honestly sound grateful voice of the Coyote waved me goodbye as I fall into whatever this gap is. "You are the best pal a Nuwisha can have, better than even a cuddly Ghural, but I need you to fix even more shit, and only a bastard with humanity like you had half a chance to fix that shit in the deep Umbra".

Wait, what?. Deep Umbra?. You motherfucker! even an abomination like me is utterly screwed there. How, by Freya's tits, do you expect me to do shit when I will be vaporized by the moment that I step into an Umbral realm that rejects my entire existence?.

"You are going to love there", cheerful nodded Coyote, as I tried to resist the pull of the dimensional hole. "Is just like home, but with fomoris all over the place, even more, retarded vampires, mutated humans, a complete lack of technology, very funny magic, and lots and lots of hot chicks to bang!".

Suddenly, Coyote picked up from the confines of his hideous Hawaiian shirt, one of those Number One foam hands that you can see at the stadium, and show it to me. The image was so utterly absurd that I lost focus and lost any anchor on the edges of the hole, falling to wherever the fuck has Coyote sent me.

The foam hand was in a thumbs-up posture, with a picture of my ghoul porcupine pet; I have a pet porcupine for five centuries straight, Porcupine and I were old friend since the Dark Ages; dressed as Chuck Norris, and with the letters, "Porcupine Approves".

That fry my brain. And I was assailed by a sudden sense of loss. I liked my porcupine, it was one of the few living beings that liked me, blood non-withstanding. After the shit that the Weaver has pulled, I had lost everything that I had. Everything that it has taken me almost a millennia to build. Fortunately, I never go anywhere without my dedicated fetishes. You never know when shit is going to hit the fan, and you have to run out of the continent. The Spider's Satchel that I crafted all by my own, in substitution for the Magpie's bag that I have beforehand, soon become one of my best useful belongings.

The travel was quick, as fast as the trick that I used with mirrors all over the world. But the difference is that I did not see anything at all, I was flying blind, without any reference, nothing. Supposedly, I was on my way to the deep Umbra, the kind of Umbra Realms that are very, very, odd, and that only the Mages of the Engineer Corps dare to explore in profundity.

Crashing down a cracked roof, through a cement floor, and into the concrete of parking was one hell of an entrance. And the sure method of earning me quite the migraine. I am a tough cookie. Among the powers of my blood, the disciplines as they are called stood the ability to turn myself into a walking tank.

Still, smashing through a building hurt, smashing through concrete hurt, travel...I don't even know how to call whatever gap has Coyote kicked me in but it hurt as well, and by some convoluted that I did not have the inclination or the will to investigate right now, my entire body, soul, and mind hurt.

I blame myself for do not realize it sooner, but the moment that I took a deep breath to massage the bridge of my nose, should have been a very glaring indication that something was amiss. Since when the bloody hell does a kindred breath?. Sure, breathing can be imitated through certain Thaumaturgy rituals, the kind of trick that allows a kindred to mingle better with kine, to ease the suspicions, and to help keep the Masquerade up and running.

But this was different, I was breathing naturally, like when I was alive and could walk under the sun, aye, that same sun on the sky, pretty warm, but the winds are close to the climate of the northern parts of California. By the time that I realized that I have been standing for more than five minutes under direct sunlight, and I was not flaring like the freaking human torch, I experienced what can only be described as a mixture of an aneurysm, heart attack, panic attack, Rötschrek, disbelief, and euphoria.

"What the flying fuck!", I howled with enough strength to make the rubble around me rumble a bit by sheer volume alone.

And then, something that looks like a Nosferatu, but skinnier and not kindred, stabbed me.

That's rude.