[S] Running the Wolves [The Killing Moon]

[Ruriska]

The Killing Moon woke into the dream.

He rolled, stretching his limbs, long and slender, furry cheek brushing against the earth, tail giving a heavy thump. This was a familiar form - but different, not quite what he was used to. This body was lean and strong, swift and deadly. A wolf body.

He sat up slowly, pushed upright and yawned. His tongue lolled out, pressing against his sharp teeth. When he dragged in a deep breath, it was all the scents of the swamp in one. He could taste them at the back of his throat, sift them through his mind and study the ones of interest.

The thick musky scent of other wolves nearby, familiar. The rich earth, the lingering scent of prey, cloying flowers blooming close.

It always felt good to have such keen senses.

When he was an Eaglehound it was much the same, but even now his sense of smell was even better, his hearing more acute.

A whine distracted him, pulled his attention, eyes easily piercing the gloom to spy Fate. The other wolf slunk towards him, eager and happy, tail wagging. The Killing Moon huffed and they greeted each other.

Fate licked submissively at Killing Moon’s mouth, appeasing.

They would hunt together as a pack, as they had many times before, except Killing Moon would run with the same form, shadows through the night.

But first they played, tussled in the dirt, teeth dragging through thick fur, never quite biting.

And through it all, Fortune watched.

The second wolf, standing by, tense and ready to strike. Ever the wild one. She had challenged Killing Moon in every form and she would do the same now, waiting for her turn to try to prove her strength

The play fight ended and Killing Moon immediately loped towards her, big paws, heavy steps, deadly intent. He didn’t wait for the other wolf to initiate, just dove in, quick, strong and unrelenting.

Fortune snapped back, all teeth and claws, the heavy bulk of her body trying to push Killing Moon down. But he would not go down. His soul burned brighter and his will was stronger. She would show respect. A quick and vicious tumble but no blood was spilled, just clumps of fur torn free and indents on the skin that could have been fatal.

When it was done, she rolled, showed her belly and throat.

And he nudged her, huffed in gentle acceptance of her submission and fond familiarity.

MotherFather help him if he ever was given a foxbun form.

But now they could hunt.

The world of grey night had never seemed so bright.

He could see the shadows of shadows, the dark and light in intricate detail. With the moon as his guide, he ran. He listened with perked ears to the rustles in the undergrowth, the hoot of the owl, the endless drone of insects.

It all wove together, the perfect backdrop to the kill that would come and the fresh blood that would rush down his throat.

This was a dream he would enjoy to its fullest.

There was freedom in being a wolf.