It was getting harder to remember what life was like before the infection. He no longer remembered her, although somewhere inside he thought he still felt something about her... but feeling usually proved more arduous than thinking. Feeling anything other than hunger and hatred at least.
He hated her, that he remembered as clear as blood, but why, or for how long, or if it was deserved (as so much of his hatred wasn't), he did not know. It had become too difficult to try and know, and though for a time he had held onto that hardship as proof of his soul, he was tired of fighting. What powers had been given to him were glorious, and he relished them. He did not for a second regret them, nut he did fear the absolution of them. If he was to be a god, should he not be in control of his own hand (or more correctly, his own teeth?). Was it not his desire that governed whom he smite and whom he spare? Half of the enjoyment of power was not having it, but choosing when to call upon it. Dinner is only food when you eat it too fast, but it can become so much more when you take your time and play with your food, enjoy you company, taste each delectable bite with slow and comfortable ease. He was a gentleman after all, an intellectual. He did not just want to ravage, he wanted to gloat, to torture, to enjoy his wreckage both before and after it occurred.
Nothing about this power allowed that.
Growling behind closed teeth the massive wolf's head, punctured by a small, spiral in its center, swung over the snow of the northern lands. He lingered here most often, remembering even if he wasn't aware of it, that this was where his birthplace had been, in snow and ice and torment. He hungered, as he always did, so he followed the trails of the horses he hunted, his paws wavering easily over winter's fleece.
Behind the red eyes Öde's pinched shut, exhausted. Save me he beckoned behind the wolf, his pace deliberately slow and distracted. He could not control it for long though, especially not once a soul drew near.
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62.5/62.5 HP
