Crimson Fog (Part 2)
The water's dried up,
trees broken and dead,
the pleasant scent of decay
permeates from everywhere,
sinking into the pores
of my nose,
burning away any other smell.
I watch my pack...
I guess twist is the best word,
backs hunching more
as they try to become upright.
Front legs elongate,
paws dragging on the ground.
Hair falling out in clumps,
the patches left
growing longer,
all ragged and nappy,
almost like dreadlocks.
Ears wilt,
snouts shorten
and widen
sprouting more teeth
than can naturally fit.
They make the mistake
of thinking they
rule the pack now,
wrong.
I pick the one
I had given her
and rake my claws
across the gut,
spilling intestines
and gore
on the dead ground,
then while
it lays there wailing
I dip my hand
within it
and use its blood
to draw a pentical
on the soil around it,
sacrificing it,
to lock myself
in a darker state,
my old self,
the best part of me.
As the ritual finishes
I howl blood red rage
at the moon,
turning the fog crimson
as it thickens
to engulf the unfortunate.
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