During the day, sentries guard the sleeping. When the sky is dark and the moon dances with the stars, this is when the real fun begins. Munashii Gekko's forest is the only haunt where you can find your local misfits all in one place. A land of the forbidden and forgotten, a place that is riddled with dangers of a whole different kind. The wolves here have long misplaced their rightful minds, and now live like creatures damned to prowl and lurk through the night. It's easy to lose yourself here, sanity was sure to fade away and wither; there was never anything normal about this nefarious nest. The silent threats that whispered in the breeze were enough to deter even the largest of demons around. It was not strength nor wit that ensured your survival here with Eric, and challengers would be torn down with a morose lethality - there was nothing left in his cold blue eyes that promised mercy to anyone who dared to overstep their worth. So, would you give up the sun for the moon and stars? Do you have enough vigor to become a well regarded sentry? - Put on a game face to step up and pass the sepia king's test or turn and leave before he catches your scent. You never know who wants to snack on your delicious blood in this forest.

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Posted on February 9, 2011 at 06:24:24 PM by Zombie

I lay on the ground beside my kill, letting the aroma of stale blood fill my nostrils. It hadn’t been a particularly spectacular feat, bringing this femme down. She had been old and sickly, on the verge of death already by the time I’d caught up to her. She didn’t taste as good as a younger canine might, but flesh was flesh and I was starving. I was always starving. Hunger was my main driving force. I’d pause for a second and the burning in my throat would start again, fresher than it had been before I fed, but dying wolves were scarcer than you might think, so I had all but withered away. My sunken lanterns shimmered dimly in the light, my full carcass shaking with the prospect of a next meal. Craving for canine flesh ran like razors down my throat.
I shivered with longing, stretching my bony limbs out in front of me, salivating at the memory of the warm copper-like drink rushing down my throat as the femme’s heart feebly tried to keep beating. I could feel her pulse racing through my body; hear her soft, half-hearted cries for help as I tore through flesh and sinew to gnaw on her marrow-filled bones. My breathing quickened, as I got to my feet to search for meaty scraps still left on the femme. Over the past two or three days – I lose track of time because I don’t venture out during the day, the sunlight near burns me – I had picked her clean, and yet my ribs still protruded from my chest, reflecting my gangly, emaciated build. After staring at the white of her bones longingly for a few long moments, I ventured outside to hopefully pick off another wounded stray, my dark lanterns always careful to look out for stronger, bolder wolves, who would probably view my appetite as being – no pun intended – distasteful. It was night already, although I could have sworn that a few hours ago it had been day. The nights were so short in winter, and coupled with the wind that tore through my pelt like it was nothing made it my least favourite time of year. The prey I could bring down were older and had less meat on their bones, which made them, although still delicious, less than desirable. I enjoyed summer, when I could pick off the overfed, lazy wolves. Their sluggish movements and slow reaction times made it oh so simple to bring them down, although their weight made dragging them back to my den a little difficult.
The night sky was a little too bright for hunting, so I resigned myself to going without food tonight. I’d be fine; I’d gone longer than a day without food before - many times before, in fact. With my stomach roaring angrily, I decided to explore the terra.
The pace I walked at was a saunter, with my heels dragging behind me to create a shuffling effect. Perhaps that was one of the contributing factors that give me my name; Zombie. I hadn’t been called it at birth but as the years went by and my palate and characteristics became more refined the name was thrust upon me. I no longer had any recollection of my birth name. It had been something plain and simple, I remembered that much. It was nothing like my dark new, more apt name. My breathing echoed across the plains, the shallow gasps sounding more like groans than anything else. I was truly a sight to behold, a shambling nightmare painted across the night sky, beauty and horror held captive in the same carcass. Rodents scarpered from my path, but they needn’t have worried – the meat on their bones and the blood in their veins tasted sour to me. I had tried it a few times as a young pup, and had brought the entrails back up again. Never again, I had promised myself.
I was near pack terra now, the scent barrier slamming into me like a brick wall. Normally, I would have just walked around, but something seemed off about this pack. There was far too much activity for this time of the night – the wolves should have been resting in their dens, so they could hunt the next morning, but there they were, gliding along the ground, going about their business. There was something else wrong, too. The scent of canine blood, so fresh in the air, drifted across the wind to my nose, drawing a yearning moan from my lips. Making my mind up quickly, I threw my bony maw up into the air, letting out a sombre, breathless groan that barely passed for a howl. I had never met another wolf like myself, and here, right in front of me, was a colony of them. I rolled onto my back as I had seen others do before, and waited for the proprietor of this colony – or pack, as most would call it – to come and speak with me.


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