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.
"Whiskey." My contemplative eyes remain locked on the surface of the bar, my acknowledgment of the bartender barely existent.
'Here, little wolf.' My father grabs my attention, outstretching a miniature glass of liquid gold tinted brown to me.
'What is it, Daddy," my childlike voice queries him, innocent eyes scrutinizing the off-colored water.
'Whiskey. Drink it. It furthers the beast's irritability for a temporary amount of time.'
'Why would I do that?' My small hands wrap around the glass to hold it beneath my nose, inhaling the new scent.
'If you ever find your feelings preventing you from doing what needs to be done it will tip the balance in logic's favor.'
My father's intended use for liquor is ineffectual for me now. My feelings shriveled up and died several years ago, making pushing them away pointless. The drink is simply a habit I choose to keep and another goading remembrance of a father taken away.
A polished shot glass housing my dark golden venom comes sliding across the smooth mahogany surface of the bar.
My hand lays open, preparing to intercept the alcoholic drink. When nothing but air meets my fingertips, my head raises to assess the situation.
In a hand as callused and cracked as the desert floor my eyes gravitate toward a shot of whiskey clasped in burly fingers.
Immediately my legs lift me from the stool and bring me to face the man with my drink. His bald head bares the strong similarities of a glassy pearl, gleaming with every movement beneath the light. His chin and upper lip are hidden by a patch of wiry auburn hair.
My fingers reaching out for the whiskey, his refuse to release it.
"Leave the killing of brain cells to the pros, girlie," his voice overflows with fallacious disdain.
"In order to kill a brain cell," the whiskey is snatched from his meaty hand, "you have to have one."
Comprehending the insult, the man's face turns red with frustration, mirroring the color of an irritated rash.
"Where the hell is the whore who gave birth to such a disrespectful brat like you?"
The whiskey is thrown back my throat, the satisfying burn I'd become accustomed to taking over my senses.
Emotion is as nonexistent in my tone as ice in lava, "My mother is dead, if you'd really like to know. But don't worry. You'll be meeting her soon."
The whole bar hangs in silence, not a soul daring to intervene. My arm comes down on the counter, the banging of the shot glass the only sound perceivable before my body is lunging at the man.
Glass shatters, wooden chairs break, humans yell - some in excitement, others in distress- as the man is forced through the center of one of the round tables. Splintered wood lay scattered around his body sprawled on the floor, opposite halves of the table on each side of him.
The desire to spill his blood is overwhelming, to taste it, to start the blood lust over again. The multitude of eyes gaping at me is the only thing saving this man's negligible life.
My back turns on the seemingly unconscious man, returning to the barstool that had previously seated me.
Tapping the glass a single time, the bartender fumbles to pick it up, hands shaking as he does so. His eyes are wide and gawking; a mixture of fear and bewilderment.
My glass is returned to me, generously filled to the brim.
One of the things I've come to know is that when terror peels the color from humans' faces, they have no limits as to what they might do just to breathe another breath. Ranging from the smallest of gestures to doing crimes with such evil contained within them that it would only lead to decades upon decades in the pen.
The whiskey is downed in a singular swift swig. Staring into the bottom of the empty glass, a particular detail stands out like blood stains in snow. The bottom of the glassware, once containing transparent clarity, is now covered in opaque whiteness.
My fingers carefully flip it end for end. A small slat of paper is attached, the side facing out being scrawled on in messy handwriting.
I know who you are.
The glass is crushed in my hand. Disregarded shards dig into my flesh to set loose the notoriously gory red substance to fill even the smallest of lines in my palm.
Slinging the debris onto the bar, it scatters to form a disarray of shining crystal fragments and blood. The bartender's collar seized and twisted in my fist, his face is jerked forward, held only a centimeter from the tip of my nose.
"Who put it there," my voice is threateningly grudging, "Name. Now."
His words come out jumbled and frantic, "I
d-d-don't know! I knew nothing about that! Trust me!"
My patience snapping like a strained thread, my fist tightens on his collar. My feet spread for balance as my arm tears upwards toward the ceiling, taking the man with it. His body is projected over the counter, my grip on him releasing to send him crashing into my earlier bald opposer still on the floor. The memorized cracking of bone comes from the pile of bodies as the young bartender lets out a vocal rattle of pain.
Rushing to the foregoing mess of glass and blood, I pluck the paper from the befouled area and bring it to my nose. Sorting through the smell of my own blood, the bartender's fingers, and the natural fragrance of the paper itself, my enemy's scent is picked out; a male's. His scent is not that of a human, but of a werewolf.
A swipe through the small puddle of crimson with the hem of my shirt and it's wiped away. The risk of leaving it behind for someone to test is one I can't afford to take.
Beelining for the door, bystanders are shoved left and right, removing them from my path.
Sprinting through the forest the muscles in my legs propel me further with every step, advancing faster than earthly possible. Once the distance between myself and "Blackard's Brew" is great enough to be out of sight, my bones begin breaking and shifting, my flesh and skin rearranging.
My body and muscles grow, tan fur sprouting once again. My appearance takes on that of a giant wolf, standing taller than a human even down on four paws.
Claws digging into the ground with every thrust of strength, the steps between I and my kill lessen.
The beast has the scent, and I won't stop until I have my prey.
///
A/N:
Thoughts on chapter two?
Why do you think she got so angry when someone knew who she was? Why do you think her identity is a secret?
Just some questions to get your gears turning.
Thank you all for reading, it really does mean so much to me. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed reading it :D