Millitimed to May 1

[captainryan]

There’s something he’s been meaning to test ever since Wells told him it was possible. He had meant to try the last moon, but due to extenuating circumstances at the time, he hadn’t seen the point. And the moons before that, well, he’s not going to attempt to stay human while Wells goes through with the change, thanks ever so.

So it’s this moon that he’s finally going to attempt to hold off the change. He needs to know that he can hold it, just in case he’s ever in a situation where he needs to. He breathes deeply (earth, trees, petrol) centring himself as he disrobes. He can feel the smallest beginnings of the change, the way his insides start to subtly shift, rearranging themselves. Another deep breath (water, deer, himself) and he forces it to stop and tells it No.

Or tries to.

His eyes are closed so he doesn’t see the colour leach away from the world, but he can feel the now familiar sharp pain as his nails lengthen into sharp claws, bone spurting forth from the tips of his fingers to give them shape and substance. His gums itch madly as new teeth force their way in, the jaw bone and old teeth aching as they lengthen to points. He doubles over, grunting in pain as his organs start to rearrange in earnest, closing his hands into fists and forgetting that he has claws now. He tries again, using the new pain as a focus, to stop the change, to slow it down, to do something, but it sweeps over him regardless.

He snarls in frustration as the puncture wounds in his palms knit themselves together. If Wells can do it…but he’s hungry and the thoughts are fleeting. Belar told him that there were deer colonizing the lowest slopes of the mountains and he fully intends to put that to the test. He starts running with a tireless distance eating lope towards the god’s territory. He would be nervous about it had Belar not given him permission. And not only permission, but where the best hunting was. Already he can practically taste the deer, scent the sharp tang of fear.

The night is still young when he reaches the centre mountain, stopping just inside the tree line, downwind of the deer on the open, exposed slope. There are several fawns among the herd, new and still fairly gangly. He knows, he knows he can run them down. Hell, he could run down any deer he wanted to, but the fawns…well, why do more work than you have to?

Prey selected, he tenses, ears and eyes focused forward, nose twitching. He stalks slowly out, one careful step at a time, keeping his head low. But you can only hide so much when you’re seven and a half feet tall and there’s no cover around.

The herd breaks and he follows suit, charging forward at top speed, a blur of black fur and hide with the occasional glint of moonlight off metal. That he should black out the shine slips through his mind just before one of the fawns slips and goes down. It’s small. He’ll have to hunt again before morning.

Ryan’s looking forward to it.