Let the Ghosts Laugh At Us, We'll Laugh Right Back

The darkening of the world had been a welcome evolution as far as Alastor was concerned. He was a creature of shadow, a demon born of darkness and sin. This was his realm and he felt most comfortable and at home wandering the twilit days and the pitch black nights. If that weird firefly demon wanted to leave the world this way, well, he wouldn't exactly have many complaints. The howls of the dead in the middle of the night were a tad obnoxious and kept him from getting his full eight hours of sleep, but otherwise, he was quite enjoying this new world. His children glowed with such a magnificent light like living stars come to earth at all hours of the day, their beauty and brilliance amplified by the changes in the world. Why would he ever want to take that away from them? No, as far as Alastor cared, this was perfectly fine!

Wandering through the dim twilight of midday, Alastor meandered around the island that was supposed to become their new home. The loss of their rightful pack claim to the fleabag cur had been a blow to everyone in the family, but it didn't get the dire brute's spirits down. They would bounce back, and one day he would snuff out that bitch's flame for good. It did mean that at some point his family would need to leave the island. It was such a heartbreak; Manea loved the island, as did their children. The dark-furred behemoth sighed, stepping through firefly-laden woods, weaving between evergreens that seemed to glow with the fireflies, even during the day. Hmm, how queer, he thought while he watched the lazy bugs go floating by without a care in the world, glowing with their spectral blue-teal light.

A gentle breeze rippled through the trees, cold to the touch from the arctic weather. Thankfully, Alastor's fur was dense from a lifetime of living in caves and northern climates, so he felt nothing. He did, however, notice the voice in the wind. Red-tipped ears flicked to catch the sound, peering off in the direction the wind came from. Had he been hearing things? Were the voices in his head back again? They'd been silent since the day he found Manea—was today the day he descended back into madness? Another ripple of wind from a different direction, and again came a whispering voice, too faint to make out anything, but it did carry with it a certain smell... a scent that made Alastor's fur bristle. Butterscotch and rum.

Obsidian eyes shot in the direction of the wind, narrowed to deadly points as an anger and hurt the likes of which he hadn't felt before rose within him. Giant black paws turned to trudge through the snow after the scent. It was so very faint, but it was there. His nostrils flared, catching the smell again, and his gait picked up to a lope. How dare she—how fucking dare she! Lips curled back into a violent sneer as the dire wolf burst from the woods to find... nothing. Just the openness of the fields around the island's lake, its placid waters rippling in the twilight. Alastor's gaze scanned everywhere, looking for the bitch. If she was here, he was going to find her, and he was going to kill her. Growling under his breath, Alastor followed the scent to the edge of the lake, sniffing about to pinpoint where on earth she had gotten to and trying to figure out how she'd slipped onto the island undetected.

"Alastor Mendacium"