[ The instant the wolf crosses the threshold of the woods, it throws back its head and pierces the quiet night with an ear-splitting howl.
It waits, as it always does, listening.
And as it always does, it never receives an answer.
It does what it does best, after that – running through the woods, hunting whatever poor creatures have the misfortune of falling along its path. There's no art to how it hunts, no strategy. It runs and runs and runs, killing anything it happens upon, rendering its prey into fleshy ribbons and mush when it has devoured what it could.
Its wounds slow it down, keep it from reaching its full potential, and as much as its body begs it to stop, to rest, it doesn't. That ungodly hunger, the desperate twisting pain in its stomach, drowns it all out.
(If Faraday were in his right mind, he might wonder how badly this night will have set back his healing.)
The wolf is intelligent, but it loses that as the night drags on, madness and rage and blood thirst overcoming its senses – until eventually, it's nothing but a feral, volatile monster. There's a wide-eyed wildness to its gaze when it sights Vasquez from a distance, and it only grows worse as the hours pass.
And eventually, it happens – it turns on Vasquez, barrels into him, tries to rip him to shreds as it had with all its other prey. Unlike its other prey, though, Vasquez is more than a match for it, is able to fight, is able to hurt it with silver and claws and teeth. But the wolf doesn't back down, doesn't shy away, as it should – even after that bitter, corrupted blood washes over its tongue, tasting like goddamn poison.
But Vasquez makes good on their agreement, taking what he needs from the wolf to keep himself in fighting condition, until eventually— the blood loss is enough to slow the wolf down. It manages to throw Vasquez off with its last bit of flagging strength until exhaustion finally overcomes it, sending it to the dirt.
The only blessing, Faraday will think later, is that he's unconscious when the sun rises and forces the wolf away.
For the second time in as many full moons, Faraday wakes up in pain.
He's covered in blood again – and when he recognizes that dark, tar-like shit that Vasquez claims as his own, his gut twists. He's clawed to hell again, but the wounds look largely superficial, and the lingering throb at his neck tells him Vasquez must've gotten another taste. Faraday has no goddamn idea if he ought to take that as a good sign or bad.
He forces himself up onto the elbow of his good arm, in spite of how every inch of him pleads for him to stay down, and he casts around a little desperately.
no subject
It waits, as it always does, listening.
And as it always does, it never receives an answer.
It does what it does best, after that – running through the woods, hunting whatever poor creatures have the misfortune of falling along its path. There's no art to how it hunts, no strategy. It runs and runs and runs, killing anything it happens upon, rendering its prey into fleshy ribbons and mush when it has devoured what it could.
Its wounds slow it down, keep it from reaching its full potential, and as much as its body begs it to stop, to rest, it doesn't. That ungodly hunger, the desperate twisting pain in its stomach, drowns it all out.
(If Faraday were in his right mind, he might wonder how badly this night will have set back his healing.)
The wolf is intelligent, but it loses that as the night drags on, madness and rage and blood thirst overcoming its senses – until eventually, it's nothing but a feral, volatile monster. There's a wide-eyed wildness to its gaze when it sights Vasquez from a distance, and it only grows worse as the hours pass.
And eventually, it happens – it turns on Vasquez, barrels into him, tries to rip him to shreds as it had with all its other prey. Unlike its other prey, though, Vasquez is more than a match for it, is able to fight, is able to hurt it with silver and claws and teeth. But the wolf doesn't back down, doesn't shy away, as it should – even after that bitter, corrupted blood washes over its tongue, tasting like goddamn poison.
But Vasquez makes good on their agreement, taking what he needs from the wolf to keep himself in fighting condition, until eventually— the blood loss is enough to slow the wolf down. It manages to throw Vasquez off with its last bit of flagging strength until exhaustion finally overcomes it, sending it to the dirt.
The only blessing, Faraday will think later, is that he's unconscious when the sun rises and forces the wolf away.
For the second time in as many full moons, Faraday wakes up in pain.
He's covered in blood again – and when he recognizes that dark, tar-like shit that Vasquez claims as his own, his gut twists. He's clawed to hell again, but the wounds look largely superficial, and the lingering throb at his neck tells him Vasquez must've gotten another taste. Faraday has no goddamn idea if he ought to take that as a good sign or bad.
He forces himself up onto the elbow of his good arm, in spite of how every inch of him pleads for him to stay down, and he casts around a little desperately.
He croaks out, ]
Vasquez?