C1E14: A Complicated Relationship

As the sun sets on the swamp of Labenda, the sounds of insects crescendo to new heights. A chill wind, as though the world let out a single long sigh at the end of a tiresome day, blows through the area. Leaves rattle, and the deceptively placid surface of the Ounterloch stirs.

Alone, Phelan Ahearn stands in a small clearing, surrounded by a copse of dense and tangled trees, and the chitinous chirping of its denizens.

“All right, Moon Weaver. You’ve won another match. They’ve left. One way or another, they always leave. Really, by now you’d think I’d have given up on tangling with the machinations of the gods, but wisdom’s never been my strong suit.”

Phelan pulls his shirt off over his head, shoving it into the small pouch at his hip, where it disappears without affecting the bag’s dimensions. His boots follow his shirt. He briskly rubs his hands over his bare arms against the night air.

As he removes his belt with the pouch attached, he continues conversationally, “You know, for someone with a reputation for protecting lover’s trysts, and those who meet in the shadows, you are certainly effective at ensuring lone wolves remain ever thus.” A small and humorless half smile touches his lips.

Phelan secures his belt tightly around a thick, low hanging branch of a nearby tree.

“Your move, Sehanine.” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhales, slowly, echoing the breeze.

As the glowing orb of Catha crests the horizon, she casts her light over the body of the Ounterloch. As the light breaches the clearing, Phelan drops to his knees, doubled over in agony.  His eyes shift to a deep amber yellow. A sound escapes him, part groan of pain, part snarl.

The snapping and cracking sound of bones rearranging themselves slices the night air. Thick grey fur covers Phelan’s moon-pale skin as his head elongates into a deadly snout. Joints distort while claws rip forth from once-human hands and feet as he resolves into a monstrous form that’s neither man nor wolf.

There’s a heartbeat of space, as though the world holds its breath, as the werewolf raises his head to the sky. His savage visage is gilded at the edges, painted by the glow of the moon.

And then a howl rips through the night. Phelan turns with a low growl and bounds into the trees. The Hunt Begins.

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