preacher man hanging by a rope

Ghoul

Snow.

Snow was a wonderful thing. Light, crystallized, perfection. Each one is unique in its own way. Formed by the heavens that linger heavily with grey clouds above. Twirling around until they land gently upon his nose. Covering his pale coat that is splotched with those liver-colored spots. Thick, full, and warm despite the environment he has traveled to. Paws as large as plates spread out, toes crunching with each step, as he makes his way around the mountain.

Tall peaks rise up around him.

Threatening, foreboding, ominous. A dark shadow spilled across the land as if to warn him.

Turn back.

Turn back now.

A chant. Deafening, repetitive, chilling in the back of his head. He pushes on. There is no going back now. Not to Insomnia. Not to Somnium either. He hasn't slept in days. Not since he saw his mother. Recluse. Every time her memory is brought to him, tears come. Welling up, brimming along the edge of his ruby eyes, asking to spill across his face. He cannot. He will not. He has no time for such weaknesses.

Weak.

He's weak. A shell of the wolf he used to be. How could he? He wasn't supposed to be a force to be reckoned with. Others were supposed to cower at the sight of him. And now? Now he is simply a bodyguard. A dog at the feet of a queen. It hadn't bothered him at first. That was when he was at the bottom of his hole. There had been no light at the end of his tunnel back then. He had nothing left and took what he could. Grasping at straws. Not anymore.

He would rise. Whether through them or without them. He would be something. Something that his mother could and would be proud of.

Mama.

No more weakness. Instead, he turns inward. Away from the frozen shores of the western ocean. A wind picks up and pushes against his chest. Pressing into him, fingers digging into his skin, warning him to go. Turn away. He didn't need to be doing what he was doing. There was no care. All caution was thrown to this winter wind as he made to move forward. Without his companions, without his gear, he is open. He is a walking target that asks to be attacked. He begs someone to try him.

And someone does.

Towering, lumbering, a definite force to be reckoned with. Like the tall peaks that rise ahead of him, so does the beast. Teeth, white and brilliant, show full and grimacing at the wolf. A rumbling bellow throws spittle and dirt across the plateau. Ghoul stands firm and trains his ruby gaze on the animal. It is large, massive, everything that he wished to be. Not that he wasn't. He was bulky, strong, full of muscle, and not a shred of fat. Yet, this... this animal is monstrous. From the beady eyes to the scars mangling its fur to the claws that extend into the ice and snow.

"Bring it," Ghoul rumbles in those gravelly tones of his as he lifts his teeth upward to reveal fangs of his own. Ears pulled back against his skull and paws spacing ever so slightly, centering his balance. He is frozen, patient, waiting for the bear to make its first move. Deep in his belly, he feels a rumble. The build of adrenaline as it lights him from within and radiates through every limb. He cannot wait to paint that white fur red.

Ghoul Klein

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