In the twenty-eight day lunar cycle the moon is only truly full for one night, however, lycanthropes benefit from its effects for seven nights; including the three before and the three after. On the actual night of the full moon the beasts are at their fiercest, however, their strengths wax and wane on the nights that precede and the nights that follow.
Legends paint lycanthropes as nigh immortal, illustrating specific methods to properly kill them; in my battles these legends have proven themselves to be most probably propaganda purported by their kind. While it is evident that their lifespan far outruns that of humanity; there are no overwhelming tasks involved in the brutal stopping of their hearts.
By the sword, at least, they die as we die.
Passively, Markus makes his position clear to his court and people, my charge does no enjoy his full support. On the eve of definitive battles, tradition calls for a ritual soliciting the favor of Oya, who among other things is also a goddess of war. The fact that these traditions were not recognized and in light of his outburst at the announcement of my mission it rings very clear to the villagers that he does not support my endeavor.
We leave before dawn and I find myself impetuous; any true leader would have trained with her warriors for months for a battle against enemies as seasoned as these. In my fervor to free myself of my deceivers have I damned these men and myself to the mercy of beasts whose hunger grants no quarter?
Our hike is not half finished when Rahma, who had seemed the clumsiest, spins me like a top to face him and stabs me three times, hilt deep.
The wind raises violently at my summons, knocking my men to their backs and whipping furiously at the empty skies above us, but the damage has been done and as abruptly and violently as the winds rose they collapse. I stumble, my right hand outstretched as hollow warning to my hit men and my left grasping wounds, which are not full inches apart.
I fall to my knees then immediately backward onto the dry foliage, my vision becomes almost peripheral; a cloudy blue grey with frayed edges. I can not see them but I hear the steady, seemingly wordless buzz of their conversation and the beginnings of their retreat.
My movements are frantic and begging as I strain fruitlessly for oxygen to replace the blood that fills my lungs. My shivering hand reaches for the ground beneath me to help myself up, to no avail.
It is almost like I am apart from myself, my body has relaxed, no longer wracking against death and only my mind can feel the hampering suffocation. My sight remains and I can see the blanketed skies that look burgundy to my sullied vision.
Her face replaces the scarlet clouds that filled my eye line and I am thankful for her arms that coil beneath me to support my head and neck. Mostly, her crimes are pardoned yet in the throes of death I still find myself wary of her touch.
"I only hope to satiate you, Little Goddess," Mother Shanti whispers to me, inciting a wave of sadness through me. I know that if my body could heed the commands of my mind sobs would overwhelm me.
My vision clears and my body lifts from her arms, vertical and three feet from the ground. Her eyes are illuminated, not unlike the light in my eyes when I call on the elements. There is an expression akin but not identical to shock that flashes across her face at the influx of power and she immediately bows her head; I can scarcely hear her elegy of rapid-fire chants.
She looks up at me and two tendrils of purple and blue light leave her outreached hands, weaving themselves tightly around me, finally bonding with me and entering my body. A silent explosion of white light exits and heals the perforations in my abdomen.
Mother Shanti can only spare a contented look before a small ripple runs across her skin mummifying all that was left in its wake. A visible sigh manages to escape her parted lips; onthis balmy day her final breath can be seen like words in winter.
Her eyes are petrified, her skin dried, looking as fragile as fall leaves; I dare not touch her. I can not summon the culmination of my grief, the gods have afforded me no tears for my matriarch. My sorrow is in full gestalt yet I can not honor this woman with anytangible testament to my mourning and this betrayal only increases my personal credence toward my spirals.
Instinct demands retribution but I am no animal and I reason that all the dues of this village to me were paid by Mother Shanti, not minutes passed.
I stalk towards the lycanthropes, deciding that while I owe Markus and his treachery nothing, Mother Shanti's spirit would only benefit if Shari were no longer a part of this world. My lungs burn in protest to my breakneck pace but I pay them no notice because my intent far surpasses my body's worldly urgings.
It's a few hours before dawn when I reach their village. The majority of this villages inhabitants are not lycanthropes and although I loathe the casualties of war I do not baulk at all in my loyalty toward my directive. Before the Sun radiates the sky this village will burn and while I will try to minimize civilian loss, any who oppose me will not live to tell of the wraith of a goddess.