Shielding the Beast (discontinued)

Two | Whiskey

Rain sprinkles down lightly, pitter-pattering on the dark green leaves of the trees and plants rooted into the forest's earth. The half crescent moon displayed in the turbulent, raging grey sky matches the presently hidden ones on my wrist and neck.

The clouds roll and tumble with the manor of black smoke from an over-fueled fire, closing in on the moon and swallowing it whole like a python would its prey.

The first night of my survival alone the forest was caged beneath a storm of choler. Trees uprooted like carrots from a garden, bodies of water surpassed their banks, lightning set forth its thirst to burn.

The memory of thinking that the rain would cleanse those monsters of their vice remains carved into my mind. It took only seconds before the childish thought was cut down, buried with hatred. After all, if rain washed away sin, we'd all be saints. And I can't think of anything more frightening than that.

Thunder rattles the sky like a sledgehammer on a heavy gong. Lightning makes its cracking presence known, a light-show behind the dark curtain of clouds.

The thick atmosphere of a thundershower lays heavy in the air, stirring something inside of me; yearning to shift into my true form once again.

Ever since my birth I'd felt a connection with the storms that would frequently visit our castle. As long as a storm is alive I am not alone. We are similar, it and I. Causing destruction whether it is wished or not. A totem of terror embraced.

A desolate path bare of any vegetation guides my mud-plastered feet. The rain begins to worsen with the rage of a madman, soaking me. My stolen clothes cling heavily to my body, putting slight restrictions on my movement.

My hair sops, sticking to my back and shoulders. Dirty, rust-colored water slides down my biceps and forearms; the old, dried up blood washing away from my scalp.

My pace slows, allowing for me to enjoy nature's cleansing shower. Days' worth of filth is rinsed from my body with the encouragement of my hands scrubbing at my skin.

In the distance a golden-orange glow radiates from the windows of a one story building resembling that of a large shack surrounded by wilderness. Numerous scents flood my senses, all from the same reservoir of humans inside the building. The telltale smell of alcohol lingers thickly in the air, drawing me closer.

Approaching the front side, my head tilts upwards to rest my eyes on the overhanging roof baring a large sign the color of the shadows surrounding me. Golden letters are carved elegantly into it, standing out among its abysmal background. The outlandish swirls connect and curve to form the words "Blackard's Brew".

The door is propped open by an aged and wooden chair, exposing easy access to me and any other creature to wander along.

A step through the arch of the door's frame and multiple pairs of eyes land on me, lazily watching my every move.

A large bar stretching across the length of the room is on the opposite wall from the entrance. Tables are distributed across the entirety of the floor, flat and round like the face of one of the halves of a sphere cut apart.

The crowd of differing spectators do exactly that; spectate. Some are as robust as lumberjacks while others strongly resemble mange-ridden mutts. Perching myself lazily atop a barstool, my disregard for them is transparent to even the dimmest of dullards.

"What's your poison, lass," a bartender of his mid-twenties asks as if on script. His appearance strikes me as ordinary; brown hair, grey eyes, and the sleeves of the white shirt clothing him rolled up.