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When the last of the distraught wolves have been attended to, Jolon runs a hand through his hair and stretches. He arches his back with inhuman agility, eyes staring up into the light of the full moon.

"The Hunter's was our patron moon cycle once," he says, a swift change of mood soaking his words with sorrow. "But I stopped believing in saints and deities the night the humans stole my father away. We're all alone in this world, Decaarr. There's no great plan for us, no ultimate purpose."

"It is a sad thing," Jolon says, "to see a spark of innocence die in one so young. But perhaps it is also a blessing. You can look at the life around you unfiltered through a lens of delusion. This life is what we make of it. At least that's what I always thought. Tonight even our free will was taken from us, and I can't find comfort in my beliefs. I'd like to accompany you back to the housing district if that's okay with you. I'd rather not walk the streets alone tonight."

It's about time to leave, and any time now the humans will be swarming into Haven for an investigation. You nod to Jolon, and together the two of you make your way back home. The huntmaster, typically full to bursting with words of wisdom and witticisms, remains silent throughout the walk. But the silence is companionable, and you'll take what company you can get at the moment.

Next

As you near your home, Jolon bids you goodnight, breaking off toward his own apartment down an adjoining street. You stalk through the silent streets of Haven ever nearer to your home, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. You round a corner, and a thin shaft of light falls to your chest, slowly traveling up to eye level as you walk. You crane your neck backward, following the beam to its source.

The Hunter's Moon gazes down on you through a pinprick in its shroud of wind-whipped clouds like an eye through the thin veil of a cataract. Ahote would say that the old gods are watching over us, you say to yourself.

"But if the eye of god truly watches us all," a voice croaks out from the dark behind you, "surely it has been blinded, its vision obscured, only witnessing in vague shapes and outlines backlit by the fugue state of an omnipotence in sharp decline."

You whip about, searching for the speaker, greeted only by the cold, impersonal dark of night. But you recognize that voice. Elan. Again the lone wolf follows you, hounds you, spitting riddles as though they were impeccable wisdom.

A rattle and rasp of breath. To your left this time. A vague shadow darts through the blackness with inhuman speed. "We children of the moon have grown up and fashioned lives for ourselves, free of otherworldly constraints while inexorably bound to matters of bone and sinew, of flesh and breath, taste and touch. We must look inward, to ourselves, to find god. We will transcend." He laughs then, the raw cackle of an unhinged madman.

"It will all be over soon." Steps in the darkness. The clicking of claws, hot grunting of breath.

Cloud cover obscures the moon, and the eye of god closes, dousing the streets in an opaque blot of ink.

You run.

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