bad moon rising

The light of the full moon cuts like a knife across the forest floor where he stands, barefoot, out of breath and aching. What feels like electricity races over his skin, pounding through his blood, pulsing in his neck. His clothes are torn and wet and reek of the earth - pine, leaf mulch, moss. An inhuman cry pierces the night, but it feels like it has come from his own lungs. A clawed hand reaches for the tree to his left, stumbling to cling to it as a shudder passes through him, making his heart race - claws retracting, reforming back into hands.

He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth as he breathes in through his nose and counts: one. two. three. four. five.

He holds his breath for a few moments, counting again, and releases the breath slowly through his mouth, still counting. He repeats this pattern over and over, through silent burning tears and the pain of transformation, until finally his body is no longer wracked with spasms..

A slow sigh, exhaled through his nose; a hand drags down his face as he stands, shaking.

The scent of wet dog fills his nose, clinging to his clothes, and he huffs, electing to follow the scent out of the forest. He trudges his way home, limping slightly and babying his wrist. Cursing under his breath as he stumbles into the door, he lets himself in, and almost immediately collapses to the floor, unconscious.

Nightmares flash behind his eyelids - sharp teeth, taste of flesh, rising of the red moon - but he remembers nothing, only waking hours later still shrouded in the cool darkness of the night.

He has the sense to light a candle and sits down wearily on his bed, head in his hands. He doesn’t bother trying to question his sudden Change, he already knows why it happened. No herbal teas or tinctures or potions could magic away his emotional distress at the subject of his next mission.

Grace forgive me …

He has to go hunt Professor Blackwell.

Even now, in his barely lucid and struggling mind, he can’t fathom a world where that man could ever be corrupted. Sam knows him in the way each student of the Order knows their professors, though it has been a few years since his attendance. The professor was always been kind in the hallways, and never ratted anyone out to the Archmage as long as they were contrite. Easy to see eye-to-eye with. A quiet and calming presence at assemblies and and had a gentle but powerful presence when signing in his lecture hall. Could that same man truly be capable of true corruption?

Sam has seen monsters, knows the wet-dark-tar scent of corruption like an addict knows the scent of opium in the den. It’s stuck in the back of his brain like a tick, stubborn and growing fat on his dread of it. Each hunt it tastes a little different in the back of his throat, but they all sit heavy in his stomach just the same.

In his half-conscious state, Sam prays for him. He’s not religious, not really, not anymore, but he still finds himself turning to grasp for some sort of semblance of hope, however infinitesimal it may be. He prays to Grace, to Destiny, and even to Fortune for a moment. Moondrunk and shaking, sniffling, utterly desperate. He doesn’t want to have to kill this man. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to find him at all …

But he knows.

He knows somewhere deep down, that if it comes down to killing a monster, or preventing one from becoming, he will unsheathe his sword. He will bare his teeth.

He won’t have a choice.

As he drifts in and out of consciousness, he finally begins to muster himself. Gritting his teeth, he drags himself out of his delirious state. The strike of a match seems too loud in the dead quiet of his home. He drinks some water, washes his face, pointedly avoids the mirror. He tries to think about what he needs to get ready, what he needs to leave tomorrow for the mission, but it all feels like water through a sieve in his mind.

Time moves slow.