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Grandfather’s Tears
500+
This place—it was sickening. That empty soul of darkness was trapped within this place—but he must get Cwmfen. There was simply that, and then he could leave. They—the things that lived here—were not fit to live. They were weak, incompetent. And yet they persisted, as if the earth were in need of punishment. The crow-wolf had been a wolf before he had been turned, and he hated the things humans had done to the earth. But the wolves, these things that called themselves wolves, continued the legacy that the humans had left behind. Indeed, he too had become a luperci, but that had been a necessity. In the next life, there would be none of that shit. The next time, he would achieve what it was that he sought. And that was why he was here. It was a circle he had brought upon himself, a step that he knew was necessary. But this place was not above him—he could not be conquered. He could conquer this place. If only they—the things that lived here—were blessed enough to be worth his time. But they failed to grasp him attention. And he—he who was so close to the gods, who should have been a god himself—did not help them. The darkness sought to destroy them. To destroy life.
The world was mounted by the night, raped once more as it was every night. And the Darkness sneered. Corvus sneered. He walked silently, sensing that soon the Darkness would be done satisfying himself. And then the light would come weeping back into the world (did they not see the power of the Dark? The helplessness of the Light?). The black claws tore the earth beneath them even as he traveled with that silent, wraithlike fluidity. The blackness clung to his fur, those tendrils tugging at him, requiring something and yet wordlessly unable to say. But he ignored them, with each stride shaking them off only to have them return. It was like a sent, and yet rather than carry a sent they carried a feeling. Those black orbs looked up at the dark world, seeing the trees passing by him, but they no longer spoke, not in these lands. Above him, the pied Raven called, whispering things to his passing form before it turned away, heading north once more. Corvus sneered.
The large secui paused in a clearing, a pool beyond him. The half-light of night sought the whiteness of his fur, flashing it like a serpent’s warning of death. And in his country, white was the colour of death, not black. He stood as he was accustom to, his posture erected as if to display his dominance over these lands. His raised tail carved a sinuous path in the air, his black fur like the down of a nighttime mist. It was as if he expected someone, and yet he did not. His mind called out to Cwmfen, that cold, grating laughter echoing mercilessly in his head. It is inevitable. The cold, emotionless façade twitched with that sinister intent but did not move as he stood like the effigy of some demon god.