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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. Itâs that yearn that canât quite be quashed, a Monster of packs and community, begging for that singular attention and obsession of a devoted muse. Itâs the evidence of success of being able to enforce your will and viewpoint through violence and force. Itâs 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 Lyceanâs 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 Lyceanâs 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 For a timeline she was ready to repress this into the back recesses of her mind, of a timeline no longer applicable to this reality.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 itâs way towards her, as it remembers the mechanics of walking once again, fills her with an embarrassment that gives itâs way to rage. How fucking DARE this thing, remind her of the person she charitably designate as âUse to beâ.
The bald and naked thing outstretches its limbs as it yawns towards the sky, its steps looking more natural, the posture more jovial.
âAaaahhh to be elevated from living like a stain, itâs liberating! But bittersweet, as I look at what was once a source of inspiration. The Bald Thing utters. And now look at you.
âOh funny, cos I literally donât know you. Skumalfar retorts.
âBut 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 âo 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 youâve come here seeking the aid of the wolf, as an ally and a comrade. What on earth happened to us?
âI got tired. Skumalfar replies, barely reacting on her face. Itâs 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. Itâs tiring, I got tired. I got so tired that I got killed. Iâm not gonna waste this second go-around of it being tired.
The Bald stance dissolves as intense fury takes over her demeanour.
âCOWARD! We had the means to protect ourselves from this horrid place! Youâre 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 canât even deny if the opportunity fell on her lap, she wouldnât again commit atrocities to keep that pie in the sky idea of being consistent once again. But deep down she knows, like she says sheâs tired and it just doesnât 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.
âI haven't got an answer that feels satisfying to either of us. Iâm just tired like I said. Skumalfar replies. I had every chance to stay dead in that cabin, Iâm 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.
âBut you also seem to be under the impression Iâve surrendered my entire person for this chance, that Iâm now some remorseful sad sack because now Iâve 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 donât like. And right now thatâs 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 Thingâs punch is tremendous, Lyceanâs 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 spellâs strength before it shattered and The Bald Thingâs 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 Thingâs 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!? Whatâs with these things? So breakable.
Skumalfar braces as she tries to ascertain The Bald Thingâs 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.
âWhat? The F..ffuck? How ar.. Rrr you stand-d-ding? The Bland Thing demands.
âThe 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.
âI donât 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.
âYou really think you can survive without me, mutt? Without my aggression, my will to survive, my paranoia. Monsters wouldâve eaten you alive, Humans wouldâve put you in a camp, youâre here cos of the parts of you I represent AND NOW YOU THINK YOUâRE TOO FUCKING GOOD FOR ME YOU WRETCHED LITTLE CUNT!?
The Bald Thing tries to struggle free from Lyceanâs 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 âdiplomacyâ.
âAnd 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?
âItâs the context. Lycean replies.
âYou what?
âI 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. Thatâs 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, youâre 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 Thingâs neck, thereâs 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 Thingâs existence, the literal image of her standing there just disappearing the more Lyceanâs 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 doesnât exist in the them shaped hole. Iâm suddenly understanding why horror authors just go for the âOh it was so horrific words canât describe itâ 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.
âHey, Skumalfar was it? Lycean requests. Do you mind like, scooting on over to my suitcase and fetching my change of clothes?
âDid you predict this would happen? Skumalfar inquires.
âOh 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.
âOkay you can think thatâs weird, but Iâm butt naked now with a spare fit, so whoâs laughing now? Lycean argues.
