06-10-2009, 12:40 AM
The nightmare at first said nothing, looking down its long, lupine nose at the shapely, ethereal interloper. There was an ephemeral quality to everything here, where its other self could be tricked into believing a dream, it knew well the tension of true flesh, the scent of blood, the texture of meat and sinew. It had killed too many to not know the difference. And so it was that the oldest of monsters, the hoary devil from the far north, knew that it had met the foreigner in a world not its own, and still it did not forget its purpose. The reality of the situation hardly mattered. It saw werewolves.
"I have no want of their souls," it said flatly, its voice empty and uninflected. "I can only rend their bodies. The bodies carry the sickness, and so the bodies must be destroyed. You do not possess the power to oppose me." The old man was slowly drifting forward, like a cobra poised and inching--ever closer--to its prey. His arms were disproportionately--almost freakishly--long, and the implications of how far he might reach if he were also fast were terrifying. His ears wreathed his head like bat-wings from hell, and his pallid eyes--in every way a match to her own--stared out like death from his skull. His age only underline the aging wolf's affiliation with death, as if the two were partners in their dealings with the living. If any living thing might make the claim of knowing death, it was this man. For more reasons than just appearance, as the dreamwalker would soon discover.
"Your body must needs be destroyed, as well. The lycanthropy is within you." The father and daughters went on in their happy practicing, oblivious to the dark-hued counterparts, each representing death in their own right. They were clearly figments of a dream, but not conscious ones, as the two of them here. Nonetheless, it was a shame that they were not real, for a helping hand could do nothing but help against such an enemy...the werewolf--if indeed that's what he was--stood head and shoulders above the family's savior, and outweighed her two to one. If the empty shell of a wolf could feel overconfidence, it would have.
"I have no want of their souls," it said flatly, its voice empty and uninflected. "I can only rend their bodies. The bodies carry the sickness, and so the bodies must be destroyed. You do not possess the power to oppose me." The old man was slowly drifting forward, like a cobra poised and inching--ever closer--to its prey. His arms were disproportionately--almost freakishly--long, and the implications of how far he might reach if he were also fast were terrifying. His ears wreathed his head like bat-wings from hell, and his pallid eyes--in every way a match to her own--stared out like death from his skull. His age only underline the aging wolf's affiliation with death, as if the two were partners in their dealings with the living. If any living thing might make the claim of knowing death, it was this man. For more reasons than just appearance, as the dreamwalker would soon discover.
"Your body must needs be destroyed, as well. The lycanthropy is within you." The father and daughters went on in their happy practicing, oblivious to the dark-hued counterparts, each representing death in their own right. They were clearly figments of a dream, but not conscious ones, as the two of them here. Nonetheless, it was a shame that they were not real, for a helping hand could do nothing but help against such an enemy...the werewolf--if indeed that's what he was--stood head and shoulders above the family's savior, and outweighed her two to one. If the empty shell of a wolf could feel overconfidence, it would have.