Harry Wells was a city boy bred and born. The closest any of his kin had come to nature in the past several generations had been his granddad Michael, a miner; there had been generations of miners before that, and railroad-men, and a blacksmith or two. But nothing of nature to any of them, beyond having to work in it.
Which really fucking sucked, because it meant some celestial bastard was having a huge fucking laugh at Harry's expense. Irony galore. Oh, yeah.
Not that it mattered just now. Harry was trying really hard not to think about juxtapositions and beasts and men and nature; he just wanted to get out to his fire-pit, light a good blaze, and sit there and not remember too much.
But on the way to the pit he caught a familiar smell.
He wasn't going to be able to avoid the other man.
A cleric is trained to notice things. Preston doesn't have above-average senses like Wells, just highly honed ones.
Here's a fellow that Preston has been conciously avoiding. Not out of hatred or Malice, Wells like the rest of Jurgen's rescuers would be remembered forever in Libria. Just out of...unease. And a bit of fear. John Preston didn't like fear, but he'd managed to put two and two together as to what wells was.
There was an archival entry about it. A small short story about two young men who traveled to France and were attacked by a dog on a moonlit moor. It was a movie and (in between the sexual intercourse and chase sequences) Preston had gathered that one of the boys was a "werewolf."
He knew all about them of course, but the possibility that they might exist-actually exist-
He hesitated, spotting wells along the path. No words, just a hesitant stare.
Preston lowered his eyes, then met Wells with a serious stare, "....I don't know what to say." He paused, amazed to find that there was a lump in his throat.
How about "You should have said something rather then leaving me to face a gigantic mutated dog-monster by myself?"
Comments 48
Which really fucking sucked, because it meant some celestial bastard was having a huge fucking laugh at Harry's expense. Irony galore. Oh, yeah.
Not that it mattered just now. Harry was trying really hard not to think about juxtapositions and beasts and men and nature; he just wanted to get out to his fire-pit, light a good blaze, and sit there and not remember too much.
But on the way to the pit he caught a familiar smell.
He wasn't going to be able to avoid the other man.
Reply
Here's a fellow that Preston has been conciously avoiding. Not out of hatred or Malice, Wells like the rest of Jurgen's rescuers would be remembered forever in Libria. Just out of...unease.
And a bit of fear.
John Preston didn't like fear, but he'd managed to put two and two together as to what wells was.
There was an archival entry about it.
A small short story about two young men who traveled to France and were attacked by a dog on a moonlit moor. It was a movie and (in between the sexual intercourse and chase sequences) Preston had gathered that one of the boys was a "werewolf."
He knew all about them of course, but the possibility that they might exist-actually exist-
He hesitated, spotting wells along the path. No words, just a hesitant stare.
Reply
"Go ahead and say it," he said at last, resignedly. "I know you want to, so get it out in the open, all right? Let's get this over with."
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How about "You should have said something rather then leaving me to face a gigantic mutated dog-monster by myself?"
".....How?"
It seems like the best question to ask.
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