The Day After... {{Open}}

[fen]

The scent was strong, as he ran through the woods. The branches tore at his nude body. The moon above was almost completely bloated into full form. His mouth was open, the night air entering in huge waves as he ran almost blindly through the thick brush. His eyes were fading from their normal dark color, a pinpoint of red lit deep within the soulless orbs. His teeth were already elongating, and sprouts of course hair was moving over his tight, rippled muscles. His hair, already long, was growing wild and moving over his body. His neck muscles bulged, and he dropped to the ground. A strangled yelp escaped his torn lips, blood dripped from his nose, and mouth, and then the moan became a long, hallow howl. His head rose to worship the moon high above him. His body crunched into the form of the wolf, and Fenrir was once again in the shape he loved the most. Fenrir was once again lycan.

He roared through the brush, his mind slipping into the state of bliss that the hunt always produced deep within him. The only real emotions were the hungry, mixed with the rage that the hunt pushed through his veins. Thick strained of saliva dropped off what was now his muzzle. His eyes rolled in his head, and he moved against the wind. He knew that he had to stay down wind of his prey. If his own deep smell were to be caught in the wind, the prey would get away, and then he would be forced to haunt another. Fenrir slowed his pace, his senses catching the sharp change of wind and the location of the form ahead was almost clear in his ravaged imagination. Soon the blood would flow, soon the night would be his, soon Fenrir would eat all he wished to eat...

There was nothing that could stop him.

And the time crept forward, the night turned to day, and the day dawned a new morning...

He grunted, a deep pain in his chest brought him almost fully awake. He laid in the middle of a clearing, the sun beating down on him from high above. He shielded his eyes, peered around, and made an attempt to discern his location. He groaned, and lifted his muscular body off the ground. This time Fenrir had no clue where he was, or what he had done. The previous night was more like a black-out than the normal hunt he had experienced in all his years past. He thought it might be the stress he had been under lately. His clothes were missing, blood dripped down his shoulders, and off his hands. He stood, stretched, and looked himself over. Several cuts had been ripped into his flesh, most of them superficial, but one deep enough for concern. He tried to exhale, and a sharp pain moved through his side. He reached down, his dark eyes moving over a newly discovered wound. With trembling fingers he pulled out what could only be a long tooth. He spat blood, and pushed his finger deep into the bite. Fenrir frowned, he would need his wand and that was back at his hiding place. He did not know how far away that would be. Fenrir moved to the brush of the woods, and looked to the path. If he could follow his own trail then he could at least found where he had come from. One foot in front of the other.

It took several hours before he came to another clearing. It was obvious that he had been there. Puddles of blood lined the dirt path, several rocks held what could only be animal hair, and broken limbs from the shorter trees rocked in the cold wind. He saw no signs of a victim, but this did not surprise him much. He would not have left anything unconsumed. That was not his way, he would rather eat his fill and ditch the rest of the body where no one could find it. He could not even tell what sort of animal had been last night's feast. He moved down the path in the opposite direction, his sharp eyes picking out small traces of the hunt as he went. It was not long before he found where he had transformed. Fenrir had tossed his clothes aside, and most of them were still intact. His shirt was mostly shreds, so he moved to bury the material. He pulled on his ripped and dirty pants, inserted his feet into the old leather boots, and ran the belt through the loops. He knew he had to look awful, but this did not bother him.

What bothered Fenrir were the two wounds that required attention. He pressed his hand against the cut on his hand, and saw a small white line deep within the folds of the skin. This was bone, the cut was that deep. The bite in his side might have hit rib, because he was having to gasp to breathe. Fenrir could do nonverbal curses, but nothing to heal himself. He would have to get to his wand, and the only way to do this was to find a safe place to apparate. Fenrir moved within the woods, dropping back a step to remain in the shadows. The opening lead to what looked like a part, and he figured this was his best chance at getting to his wand. Fenrir moved to the closest tree, peered around, and waited a moment to catch his breath.