I still have wistful dreams of Werewolf the Wild West.
Brand Foe-Hammer walked down the main street of the abandoned mining town, sniffing at the air and fingering his six shooter. He didn't normally carry silver rounds, but for them damned injun garou--them 'Wendigo'--he'd make an exception.
The Get of Fenris circled the town wearing his crinos form, with an iron rider girl named Nails at his shoulder, and no matter where he went, he couldn't catch there scent. It was like the wind kept shifting...
Shifting away from that old saloon!
He spun, six iron drawn as the three wendigo lept through the second story windows, raining a spray of razor sharp shards over them.
"Hold!" Another man bellowed, a voide they didn't know, stepping into the path of an arrow meant for Brand's chest while knocking his gun high so that fire belched towards luna and silver shot into the air like an ascending star.
"My brothers and sister!" the injured Child of Gaia entreated them. "Why do we fight amongst ourselves? Have you not seen? Not three miles from here, three dozen mockeries and a pack of black spiral dancers dig poisons out of the abandoned mines, and it is each other that we fight?