Private Finished Weaseling In The Moonlight

Afraid. Running in the cold. The night moon calling. Each bush each leaf hiding a trap. Hungry, so hungry. A bird call ringing like an alarm. Free, finally free from chains. Out among the wild. Blood in the night. A stab and squeal. Meat in his belly. Kill or be killed. Need, need something! Escape! Closing in the night was closing in.

The wereweasel ran driven by frantic panic. A feral animal mind, no trace of human. They remembered the chains, could feel the scars. The agony of shifting in silver while the moon drew them. That need to run, to eat, to not be trapped in a building starved and in pain. And now, and now. The world was wide and much too big, everything a threat. There was a need in them, pulling them on, for something more than the flesh that filled their belly, blood stains on their white fur.

Fear. The smell, the call. Diving through bushes. The scent of water and something more than animal.

They pushed through the bushes. Running still. Hunched over but still on two feet. Wary but drawn on by their senses, by their need to feed on this fear. A pause, blinking at the openness, staring straight at the nymph.

Fear in the air. His and hers mingling. Chilled water and lone female. Danger? Taller, but soft. Delicate in the moonlight.

Warily the creature closed the distance between them, sniffing at the air, hunched and shuffling on two feet, head cocked listening, alert for sudden movements.

Prey making soft sounds. Almost familiar. Trap? Safe? Scared scent. Needed to touch. To feed without blood.

The weasel hesitated when it got close. Instinct told him what he needed, but the female was something more than frightened animals in the midst of the forest. And she was not attacking him yet. Whining low in his throat, squeaking at his target, he made a slow motion towards her with a spike. Not violent but prodding. Blood stood out on white fur, dripped from black stakes. His tail was coiled close, his body almost motionless except for the movement of his arm, a light breeze blowing his fur and making the scars covering his body more visible.

Want to taste this female's fear. Almost. Almost touching - Loud! Trap! Danger! Defend! Flee!

Startled by the splash, the weasel made a downward slashing movement with his spike, but didn't hit Varvara as she'd already backed up. Still, she'd probably feel the closeness of it, just in front of her chest. Then when she yelled, he let out a pained squeal, attempting mostly unsuccessfully to cover his ears without hands. Squeaking again the weasel turned and raced back into the bushes for cover. His blades were ready to defend and his beady black eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

He wanted to run, but he could sense she was scared and it was almost intoxicating. He would've attacked her then, just to protect himself, if it weren't for the fact that he'd already eaten and now he just wanted to feed on her fear.

A tail snaked out of the bushes. Fluffy white weasel tail and trail of sparkling blue magic, heading towards the possibly dangerous female. If he could share his own terror, perhaps she wouldn't attack, and he could eat.

Instinctively, the weasel had darted his tail towards the female, but its magic was really meant for more aggressive predators. There was a chill to it, which would only be noticeable if she could actually feel cold, and the sensation of the weasel's panic. The female might not even notice the difference, but now their fear would be evenly matched as long as the magic was touching her.

The weasel, however, did feel the effects of the stranger's song. He was definitely stressed enough for it to be highly effective. And if his tail lingered, she'd be able to feel his terror diminish to more reasonable levels of alert nervousness. Though his fear was a natural part of him, especially in the full moon induced feral cornered predator state.

He remained in the bushes, only his tail poking out, black eyes still glinting. For the moment he would just watch, no longer frantic.

Pretty, pretty singing. Sounds like peace. Safe in bushes, safe with sound.

The weasel's tail retreated into the bushes, and all he did was stare. He'd need to feed on fear at some point, but between the relaxation and the song he wouldn't try with this female. In fact, the weasel was exhausted. He still had a natural degree of alert nervousness, but the magic of the stranger's singing made it seem distant, nothing to worry about.

And now his lack of sleep was catching up with him. The feral creature couldn't remember many details, but it did know it had been trapped for some time, always coming to in chains and agony. This was the first time it could remember being free.

The black eyes blinked slowly, not moving from the singing female, but getting lower as the weasel partially curled up in the bush. If the song wasn't distracting him, he might have closed his eyes. As it was he wasn't going to be able to stay awake much longer.

((yeah flying off is fine. Gal's just gonna pass out))