The Werewolf has a problem.
What, you don't know who the Werewolf is? Sloppy of you; he's the
latest blessed soul recruited for Heaven's glorious battle against
the forces of evil. Hung out with The Man in Black and the King -
you do know who they are, right? - right up to the moment where
the Powers That Be stopped being indifferent and started deciding
that making him a Saint was a good idea after all. Not that the
first had anything to do with the seco... oh, right. Damn all
Seraphic resonances, anyway. At any rate, he's now a Saint of
Judgment - His Nibs insisted, and nobody felt like arguing - and
part of a very special Triad, with an even more special mission:
track down and get a fix on a certain footloose Archangel.
No, Dominic really does thinks that this might actually work.
The Werewolf has, in his uniquely and annoyingly human way, already
demonstrated that while he certainly doesn't think like Eli, he
thinks more like Eli than, say, Dominic does (this, of course, is
merely one more thing for the Archangel of Judgment to disapprove
of). He and his two fellow Triad members (Carmelita, Cherub, and
Roland, Malakite; almost-affectionately nicknamed the Domini Canes
by the Werewolf) have been able to find Eli's old trail and stick
to it, which is more than most manage, and no one else reliably.
From there it's merely a matter of moving faster than the Archangel
of Creation does. And saving the receipts, of course: the Werewolf
tends to be a touch, ah, excitable when it comes to the materials
he needs to keep motivated. The Triad stopped arguing with him
sometime after that run of bad luck at the dance studio; he was
right and they were wrong, and they all know it.
This is where the problem kicks in. The Werewolf suddenly
announced to the rest of his rapidly becoming 'long-suffering'
Triad that he needed about six hundred gallons of paint, a gorilla,
five acres of land dedicated to potatoes and a new guitar.
Freakishly enough, everything except the paint was immediately
available - yes, including the gorilla. One of the more reliable
ways to determine how close you are to the Archangel of Creation is
to see how difficult it is to acquire a great ape - but the paint
was a problem, and right now the Triad is busy teaching the gorilla
how to play the proper melody line - hence the new guitar. It'd be
insane for the Werewolf to give his own guitar to a gorilla. It's
his guitar, for the love of God. His baby. So, he needs somebody
to nip over to the nearest local hardware store and pick some up.
Yes, the PCs will do nicely. Simple task, no? No is right. The
Werewolf will give the angels a credit card that is, completely
unbeknownst to him, hotter than Belial's throne room. It will set
off both metaphorical and literal alarm bells if anybody attempts
to use it; only a literal Divine Intervention will prevent the
user and all of his scruffy (and probably armed) friends from
being arrested. This is a prime opportunity to make all sorts of
folks regret wandering around the countryside armed for bear and
armored for sabertooth, providing that you are the sort of person
who would enjoy that sort of thing, which I'm not saying that you
are, mind you... right, stick 'em in jail and let them try to figure
out how to get out, get the paint and get back without making too
much of a stink. Or, at least, without being followed. If they're
the sort of desperadoes that tend to solve their problems with
superior firepower, drop hints about sensitive Tether-formations in
the area, assuming that you haven't already run that excuse into
the ground.
Anyway, they'll get back, hopefully not needing legal
representation, more firearms and getaway cash... and with the
paint, which will promptly be scattered across the fields, the
better to track the complex, hula-like waveforms that arise when
metaphysically-sensitive developing vegetables (a potato field,
remember?) are being pinged by a great ape playing "Just Like
Heaven" and "Friday I'm In Love" - unpleasantly; it's a gorilla,
after all - on an electric guitar. If everything works, it
should allow the Werewolf to shave a whole three weeks off of
Eli's lead.
If not, well, poor, poor, pitiful him.
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