Full moon.

Out of the ancient forest, they rambled, commanded forth by the leshy. They hungered, wished to feed, but there was wetwork needing done. Revengeance for the piecemeal picking at The Lady’s remains now they found her burial site, tearing at her flesh in their lust for power.

The wolves padded through the clearing towards the town, windows still aglow in the late evening, the crust of the frozen snow soft-crunching under their paws as they spilled out of the woods, scattering towards the innumerable winds, smoke rising from their nostrils and eyes aglow with the cool light of the winter moon, reflecting cold killer eyes shining wish mission.

Willow reed winds piped and made fluting sounds as it danced around the edges of the buildings, whistling those carefree windsongs, careless of what would come, though one wind told the next and then another until they all knew what was to come. They sang it to the people of this place, though it was no warning at all, when the deaf are blind and refuse to comprehend.

Shadows circled everytight, knotting up the narrow lanes with hit breath and murderous intent. And so, the pack leader shadowglided to the desecraters door, drank in the woodgrain face etched on the surface and apologized to the old spirit slumbering within.

Then scratched as enslaved cousins scratched at the door, whining for dead scraps and sweetbreads and gruel, scratching for easy warmth fireside. All notwolf, all sickening.

“Goddammit,” the desecrator said, “‘Bout time you came back you mangy mutt.” Mangymutt was sadly nomore; he was given freedom with fangs hours ago.

The leader slipped to shadows as the heavy fall of foot came closer and the door opened. Light poured out into the night and heat followed on its tail.

Lead shadow could not hide his hate any longer. A growl escaped his tight lips and the twolegs looked in his direction.

“Are you hurt, boy?”

The answer came in fangs, blood and howls. Doors opened all around, leaking light into the night and more shrieks and howls could be heard as the wolves did their work, punishing those who would cut into the leshy’s heart and soul.

It did not last long, these sounds. Before the first light of the new day, wolves wound their way back into the ancient wood, to the grave site to tell of their revenge, to sing to the moon and stars of their triumph, leaving only blood on the crust of the driven snow.


More experimental stuff, hinting a bit at my aborted NaNoWriMo effort that failed because of wild mood swings. A leshy and his mate were central to the planned story, as were the people mining a dead mate for something akin to alchemical fuel. A wolf attack had been planned, but they were tainted man-wolves (werewolves), ordered to attack by the leshy/leshan/lesh to stop the descration of his mate.

I simplified and kept to wolves and tried to see the attack from the wolves viewpoint, rather than the townsfolk. Originally, my NaNo involved only a few dying, but tonight I decided everyone was guilty.

And, no, the leshy was not going to be the evil one — but my sympathetic element in the tale. Evil was borne of greed and wanton destruction.

But enough… On with my night.

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