06-09-2009, 11:55 PM
"Come join us, elder!" The youth called out. The Snowpaw pack had accepted him into their fold, with open arms, they had taken him in in a time of need. Their pack was small, only one family and a friend, an elderly friend who had decided to stay and help them hunt through winter. It was hard to call back the details of scenes such as this, scenes that were so beautiful and content. There had been so many, and the eyes of the black wolf were blind to them. For these years, these long, long years between the two places he had called home, the beleaguered wolf had hidden within himself. The self who had experienced this, whose memory this was, had not enjoyed a moment of the family's trust or love. Not a moment of the undeserved gift granted the most unworthy of demons.
"Why are you so quiet, these days?" the mother said to him, laughing as she so often did around her oldest son, who she, through subtle device, sought to make more cheerful. The father--his name had been forgotten--was out teaching their two young daughters to hunt. VoidFane's other self had been emerging for some time, enough that the family had grown attached. Now, the dominant side, the one who always fulfilled their task, had begun to reassert himself, and it was time to complete the objective. The mother had started alright, but the father was a shifter. That meant that all of them were. Lycanthropes like himself. VoidFane rose to his towering height, and approached the two of them. His demeanor was cold, empty, not the humble and unprepossessing wolf they were used to. Something was wrong.
"E-elder? VoidFane? What's the matter with you?" The great were, staring its ghostly white eyes into those of the confused youth, casually, effortless, reached up to his face, slow and unassumingly, like he were brushing a bramble from the coat of a friend--and opened his throat. The boy could feel the touch of the claws to either side of his neck, and then the snapping, crushing force as strength suddenly surged into those fingers, opening arteries on both sides, and cutting open the trachea. He fell to his knees, eyes wide, choking. The image was more painful than anything his killer's other self had ever wanted to see. The mother's face fell, she screamed wretchedly, a sound that, even in one's death throes, one would never make. Anguish, true anguish, in its purist form. She fell to her son's side. Without emotion, without ceremony, the great, gangly terror knelt slightly on its long legs, and took her throat from beneath with its wicked claws. She gaped, and rolled onto the grass, dying beside her only son as their murderer stalked off toward her husband and daughters.
It wasn't long before he found them. Part of him, now, retrospectively, railed against what the monster intended, but VoidFane had become very good at shutting that voice out. The owner of that voice had created him, and designed him to be the stronger of the two. It was his will that would prevail. The father was in the next building with his remaining offspring. For some reason, it didn't register as incorrect that this should be taking place in the Concrete Jungle of Bleeding Souls...it had been where he died, why not where these five died, as well? He would take the father first, only to reduce injury. The black, seemingly blind ten-year-old would take no pleasure in their deaths. It was simply an objective, nothing more.
"Why are you so quiet, these days?" the mother said to him, laughing as she so often did around her oldest son, who she, through subtle device, sought to make more cheerful. The father--his name had been forgotten--was out teaching their two young daughters to hunt. VoidFane's other self had been emerging for some time, enough that the family had grown attached. Now, the dominant side, the one who always fulfilled their task, had begun to reassert himself, and it was time to complete the objective. The mother had started alright, but the father was a shifter. That meant that all of them were. Lycanthropes like himself. VoidFane rose to his towering height, and approached the two of them. His demeanor was cold, empty, not the humble and unprepossessing wolf they were used to. Something was wrong.
"E-elder? VoidFane? What's the matter with you?" The great were, staring its ghostly white eyes into those of the confused youth, casually, effortless, reached up to his face, slow and unassumingly, like he were brushing a bramble from the coat of a friend--and opened his throat. The boy could feel the touch of the claws to either side of his neck, and then the snapping, crushing force as strength suddenly surged into those fingers, opening arteries on both sides, and cutting open the trachea. He fell to his knees, eyes wide, choking. The image was more painful than anything his killer's other self had ever wanted to see. The mother's face fell, she screamed wretchedly, a sound that, even in one's death throes, one would never make. Anguish, true anguish, in its purist form. She fell to her son's side. Without emotion, without ceremony, the great, gangly terror knelt slightly on its long legs, and took her throat from beneath with its wicked claws. She gaped, and rolled onto the grass, dying beside her only son as their murderer stalked off toward her husband and daughters.
It wasn't long before he found them. Part of him, now, retrospectively, railed against what the monster intended, but VoidFane had become very good at shutting that voice out. The owner of that voice had created him, and designed him to be the stronger of the two. It was his will that would prevail. The father was in the next building with his remaining offspring. For some reason, it didn't register as incorrect that this should be taking place in the Concrete Jungle of Bleeding Souls...it had been where he died, why not where these five died, as well? He would take the father first, only to reduce injury. The black, seemingly blind ten-year-old would take no pleasure in their deaths. It was simply an objective, nothing more.