Touch is the bitter slice before the blood.
Something is closing in.
Sound is a twisted far away lullaby.
The door opens violently. The hulking bare-chested worgen moans as he falls on all fours, sniffing around the choking air filled with dust, maniacally. Fresh wounds spill blood. They are few cuts, but deep and precise.
I will find you, the Gilnean told himself.
Not.. yet.. I can hang on.
He was clearly chasing someone. Or something.
The old house, wrecked and molded by abandonment and time, seemed to willingly suffocate the wolf man's senses. Truthfully, the deathweed properties of the poison already started coursing through his blood circulation. The deadly mix was a carefully treated concoction of anesthetic and dust of decay. Hauling around and drooling uncontrollably, the worgen desperately started rustling and overturn furnishing, howling with all of his remaining strenghts.
I am sorry, Lisa.
I am sorry things ended up this way.
Exhaustion collapsed on the back of the Gilnean man. Energies weren't enough to even revert the body into the human he once only was. The tireness started being overwhelming: limbs stopped responding. Still, something seemed off. The worgen was unable to lose conscience. The eyelids felt heavy, the mind numb. But he couldn't keep his eyes shut. He couldn't pass away. The only thing he felt real was the unnatural crescent burning of the wounds.
He let out a feeble growl.
I just want to be with you.
I never cared about anything but you and the child.
Clicking bones were heard from the ceiling. The moon light weakly pierced through a hole on consumed structure of the house, shining for a moment an upside-down smirk in the darkness.
Remember to focus.
The slim figure descended upon the floor crouching and crawling towards the dormant figure of the Gilnean native.
The worgen felt completely paralyzed, and could only stare at the shadowy figure as it became clearer with the approaching of the moon shine glimmer.
This is how you die.
A young undead man with chin-length crow black hair waltzed forwards, holding a one-bladed scissor in the left hand. His bangs hung down just over his eyebrows. His facial features were pretty delicate and his body structure not overly decayed for one of his kin.
Without spilling a single word, the forsaken covered his grin with his right pointing-finger, slowly rising the blade holding hand, his eyes wide open. Bone cracking noises seemed to accompany each of his jagged movements.
This is unfair.
I want to live, Lisa.
I want once again to go to work at the bakery and smell the warm and crispy bread that I would take out of the wood oven early in the morning in Merchant Square, I want to serve Mrs. Buckley who would come with her son once every three days to buy pie, I want to go to the tavern and drink beer together with John and Benjamin, I want to go back to take night walks with you, hanging out with Amelia and Gerard who would talk bad about Chris' wife and how horrible her cooking is, I want you back, I want to be with you, I want to see our child being born, I want to smell your hair and touch your lips, I want-
One swift lunge pierced the worgen's skull.
The killer's maniac smirking and excitement faded from his face, keeping only faint ghostly eyes wide open, staring the strong creature silhouette down, slowly rotating his head on a side like a curious child.
One quick gesture retrieved the scissor blade from the beast's cranium.
The night is choking tight.
Nobody is going to remember you.
The undead chose to match the crackling bones sound of his legs marching with a feeble maniacal chuckle.
There's no place for mercy in this world.