Disclaimer: I do not own Skinwalkers nor its characters. They belong to LGF, After Dark, and whoever else screwed the movie up.
Note/Warning: Gory. All canons compatible.
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Howls for Hymns
Metallic tang fills the air. It's practically tangible. Human lungs could suffocate. Copper and iron, sweet and sour; like sugar and honey in their mouths.
Cigarette smoke drowns under the weight of the damp atmosphere. It's no longer liquor; all the varieties of alcohol legal in the U.S. of A. It's the crimson flesh. It's wet fear; piss and sweat.
They're still salivating over it as they fill their gullets on their raw buffet. The hunger never fades; it's never satiated.
The moon is full, but never grants them such a mercy. The bitch is a tease, but they love her for it. She knows they never want the hunger to fade.
They never want to reach their fill. There's nothing else to live for when they finally do.
She calls them, and they answer. She always calls. She never fails them. She waxes and wanes; she always reaches her peak, and brings them to theirs.
And they never fail to praise her; lift their short muzzles to the sky and sing. Howls for hymns, bellows for old gospel music to their goddess, they bring endless sacrifices to her altar. Loyal followers to the end.
The unlucky offerings are silent now; their drunken bleats have long since ended. Lambs past the slaughter, but the wolves aren't full when their goddess falls. Yet the bittersweet shift the sun brings them doesn't leave them weak and wanting.
The moon never fails to light the way to all the mindless sheep.
