The Call of the Wild

Rising from the earth was the most natural thing for him. He did not know how long had passed since he had gone to its embrace, but the moon was waxing on the horizon, and the air held that familiar feel, those familiar scents. Rabbits and foxes, and in the distance, the acrid smells of chemicals and burning. The stink of modern man. It felt stronger, closer, but even that was a poor judge, as they spread like wildfire and bred like rabbits. The Beast stirred deep within him, but it was a familiar stirring, and old friend, and he pushed it back into place, for now. He would let it roam later, but for now he needed to orient himself, to be free to hunt.

His eyes pierced the gloom of the moon lit night with the acuity of a hawk at noon. His nostrils flared, testing the air further, as he shook out his long mane. Powerful muscles fuelled by ancient blood flexed, and he began to move. It was less a run and more an animal lope, a strangely proportioned predator roaming its territory. He could change his shape, but the tax that would place on his blood would give strength to the Beast. He would feed before allowing himself that freedom.