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The resonance of bone flexing and bending in unnatural angles, now take up residence in the corners and echoes of the street. The stain grows and spreads and heralds a new interpretation of Lycean crossing the barrier into this world, separate from the physical. Between the blood, sinew and ribs that her shoulders have pushed past with such hurricane force, the fragments shoot in all directions, a shape can be comprehended. Of flesh and baldness across her entire body, something completely alien to the context of Lycean, at least to those who do not know her.
To those that do, this is what the Full Moon heralds, this is the Human that she becomes, even if the ears, the claws and the tail betray her true nature. It’s that yearn that can’t quite be quashed, a Monster of packs and community, begging for that singular attention and obsession of a devoted muse. It’s the evidence of success of being able to enforce your will and viewpoint through violence and force. It’s the constant fear, in a twist of complete irony, of being in the exact position she finds herself in and the ability to destroy the circumstances which could let it come to pass. Abhorrent thoughts, but not a call that is easily ignored.
Indeed every Full Moon it was down to Lycean’s comrades to minimise this violence when the moonlight shines on her and the fur started to fall off her person. Again, it was perhaps this ritual that wore down Lycean’s pack and taught them the value of ostracising something difficult to maintain the unity. In this place and time where her worst case scenario, her apocalypse, her doomsday, is now just the mundane present, why not aim the barrel to your temple and just… See what happens? Their fears or their stability, something dies tonight, or already has.
For Skumalfar the familiarity of this creature is maddening. For a timeline she was ready to repress this into the back recesses of her mind, of a timeline no longer applicable to this reality. But this monument to Humanity drags it’s way towards her, as it remembers the mechanics of walking once again, fills her with an embarrassment that gives it’s way to rage. How fucking DARE this thing, remind her of the person she charitably designate as “Use to be”.
The bald and naked thing outstretches its limbs as it yawns towards the sky, its steps looking more natural, the posture more jovial.
―Aaaahhh to be elevated from living like a stain, it’s liberating! But bittersweet, as I look at what was once a source of inspiration. The Bald Thing utters. And now look at you.
―Oh funny, cos I literally don’t know you. Skumalfar retorts.
―But I remember you, when I was trapped in that cranium of yours and sadly wrest away as a part of that miserable wolf's existence, before I could help ‘o mighty Huntsman. The Bald Thing recites with a bow. But now look at you, succumbing to the rot, with those claws, those ears! This is what we fought to repress in ourselves, even worse you’ve come here seeking the aid of the wolf, as an ally and a comrade. What on earth happened to us?
―I got tired. Skumalfar replies, barely reacting on her face. It’s tiring, hating yourself and everyone around you, even the people you care about. Putting that ideology over happiness. Need to spend every waking moment flexing that little muscle that lets you distort reality enough to convince you that you feel disgust looking upon Monsters, and not envy to just live with your kin. It’s tiring, I got tired. I got so tired that I got killed. I’m not gonna waste this second go-around of it being tired.
The Bald stance dissolves as intense fury takes over her demeanour.
―COWARD! We had the means to protect ourselves from this horrid place! You’re content with being debased? Attacked politically? Socially? And based on how much effort it takes to even remember you as a Huntsman, even historically you are being vandalised! What else can this wretched story take from you just to suit its needs? Its need you to suffer?
Skumalfar sighs to herself, she can’t even deny if the opportunity fell on her lap, she wouldn’t again commit atrocities to keep that pie in the sky idea of being consistent once again. But deep down she knows, like she says she’s tired and it just doesn’t hold the value it may have had before to be so unchanged by the settings which she finds herself in. To even argue it with This Bald Thing feels exhausting. Skumalfar shrugs.
―I haven't got an answer that feels satisfying to either of us. I’m just tired like I said. Skumalfar replies. I had every chance to stay dead in that cabin, I’m still here conditionally, because of pity or something else out there wants me to keep going. I dunno.
Skumalfar begins to walk forward, her finger tips glowing with blue magic.
―But you also seem to be under the impression I’ve surrendered my entire person for this chance, that I’m now some remorseful sad sack because now I’ve lost motivation for some great cause at the behest of a dead race. Skumalfar declares. No no no, I get to live for myself exclusively, not Humans, not Elves and I will bring the ferocity of that life into this one in regards to having to suffer things I don’t like. And right now that’s looking like a chicken nugget looking dog, who stands between me and my future ally over there. Serial killer arc: Still ongoing, bitch.
The Bald Thing snarls, foaming with rage at the thought of being betrayed like this and lunges forward towards Skumalfar with a punch. The Elf summons a shielding spell, in the form of a huge blue symbol covering her person. However, The Blad Thing’s punch is tremendous, Lycean’s previous size being compact to this little thing, increasing the tension in her fists, muscles, giving her strength of three fighters. Luckily Skumalfar is able to intensify the spell’s strength before it shattered and The Bald Thing’s fist manages to reach her. The Thing reaches back and keeps striking with her punches, hoping to break the spell, but little does she know that Skumalfar has already summoned the spell and her gestures are just for show. She waits for the point in which the spell breaks under The Bald Thing’s assault and as she strikes the ground, Skumalfar dodges and twirls to the right and as she spins to faceThe Bald Thing, she grasps her head and summons a current of electricity through her grip. The rain of course intensifies this spell as it leaves The Bald Thing with a hand shaped burn across her face, she screams in frustration as she screams obscenities at the Elf before striking her stomach with her foot. I cannot stress the Strength Of Three People thing enough, Skumalfar goes flying across the street, reeling from the pain of skidding across the street with an exposed back (Mental note: Summon a shield spell to avoid friction burn) as well as... Fuck a broken rib again!? What’s with these things? So breakable.
Skumalfar braces as she tries to ascertain The Bald Thing’s movements from the sounds of her approaching to decide her next move… But the cues never come. Just the constantness of the rain pattering on the tarmac, a calming reprieve as if the conflict has already come to an end. The Elf peers up to see The Bad Thing still standing up, but her expression of terror and shock, the only thing holding back her anger. Something looms and obscures her neck, that blends into the darkness, yet is showered upon by the moonlight itself, hulking and furry.
―What? The F..ffuck? How ar.. Rrr you stand-d-ding? The Bland Thing demands.
―The Moon. Lycean snarls. She blesses this body.
This is when Skumalfar notices the sounds of breaking ribs again, but the visual accompaniment is like an injury played in reverse. Bone reaches out, before sinking back into the husk and hounds close and hair grows around it once again.
―I don’t need you anymore. Lycean continues, mouth still full of neck. I know what you embody, the fears and anxieties that give you presence and life in this world. But how trivial those terrors compare tracing the doorframe of death with your fingertips. Only through death can I move past desires, so pathetic they can manifest you, worm.
―You really think you can survive without me, mutt? Without my aggression, my will to survive, my paranoia. Monsters would’ve eaten you alive, Humans would’ve put you in a camp, you’re here cos of the parts of you I represent AND NOW YOU THINK YOU’RE TOO FUCKING GOOD FOR ME YOU WRETCHED LITTLE CUNT!?
The Bald Thing tries to struggle free from Lycean’s bite, only tearing what little connects the head to the form in the process. She stops, deciding diplomacy is the only option, if you can call calling someone a wretched little ka-noot “diplomacy”.
―And who will protect you now? You were so unbearable your pack left you to die in a ditch, as everyone does, as everyone will, how can you live without me? Who else will be your sword, while you snivel like a impotent child?
―It’s the context. Lycean replies.
―You what?
―I still gave aggression, survival instincts, perception. You were me, if you were all those things, then those things are inherant to me. The context is the key, your anger comes from fear, your survival based on a lack of compassion for anything around you and your paranoia… God we just hated everything and everyone, never really letting anyone in, even the pack, even after the years we spent together I treated you like an occasional problem, rather than something to be healed with them. That’s what makes you so repugnant, but you are not the only place to find Anger, Will and Smarts. There are other places, where I now live. We have nothing in common anymore, you’re no longer relevant to my existence, a non-canon entity, you may as well not exist. Lycean suggests. Let me grant you a context to this world befitting of such a truth.
As Lycean tears away from The Bald Thing’s neck, there’s an expectation of the most gory and horrific scene you may have ever witnessed in your life. Well not GORY but, the other thing maybe. As not unlike the image of removing a tablecloth, Lycean seems to tear away the very visual evidence of The Bald Thing’s existence, the literal image of her standing there just disappearing the more Lycean’s bite moves away. No no no, not as if The Bald Thing was a shower curtain being moved away, but the very things that make someone visible in our world, being dragged off to the side in an art program, into somewhere that doesn’t exist in the them shaped hole. I’m suddenly understanding why horror authors just go for the “Oh it was so horrific words can’t describe it” bit. After all this is done, the worst implication occurs, as the sound of footsteps and rain being kicked up from the floor can be seen, as something flees from the scene. Skumalfar sends a little blessing that she cannot sleep, thus depriving the nightmares this would create, access to her psyche.
Lycean comes stepping towards The Elf, as small tremors accompany her new gigantic form, as much as the cover of night will allow visage of such. As the Wolf exhales, a shine of glistening moonlight can be seen escaping from her mouth, as she returns to a more recognisable shape, though still retaining the bare nakedness of her previous titanic form. She looks exhausted.
―Hey, Skumalfar was it? Lycean requests. Do you mind like, scooting on over to my suitcase and fetching my change of clothes?
―Did you predict this would happen? Skumalfar inquires.
―Oh you know… I mean this is my first time becoming a Full Werewolf-ass Werewolf, but after all this time it was always a symbolic possibility you know?
Skumalfar gives the Wolf a confused look.
―Okay you can think that’s weird, but I’m butt naked now with a spare fit, so who’s laughing now? Lycean argues.
