Week Seven(Dec. 8 - Dec. 14) Topic: Moon
Winner: Olivia
In Pursuit of the Moon
By Olivia
She ran, as fast as a wolf. Her pursuers in the white van were gaining. Their stares, hard as steel, told her that they did not just want to question her. These bears were out for blood, and not prepared to give up their fleet-footed prey. She turned a corner down a one-way street, hoping to force the van to detour, but they turned down the street and merely bashed the sign down with casual ease, as a cat might bat at a bird. Now she was getting jumpy, like a rabbit chased by a fox. Nervous as a conspirator, she zipped around the streets, a zephyr on the breeze.
And then the van coughed and spluttered. The ailing old van’s heart had given out, and now the pursuers were being left behind far behind, as they slapped the dashboard, and they ripped at the steering wheel with animal fury. The girl, the lone wolf, had already become lost from sight when they left the van, the smoke of the Underworld billowing from the hood, at the side of the road. The fastest started to run, to sprint, with nearly inhuman speed, but she was quicker, and he soon showed that he was only human, slowing down until he became only as fast as a turtle. However, this was an unsteady turtle, and the rabbit, the wolf, would win the race this time. Fleetness was to be the winner of this race, not slow steadiness, for a snail’s pace without stability could not hope to defeat a cheetah’s pace without inconsistency. He yelled his defiance to the skies, but had to acknowledge that he was no longer the Alpha of the pack. She, the lone wolf, the Kerl, had beaten him. The prey could easily become the hunter at any moment now, and when two factions next met on even more unsavory terms than the preceding ones, without her as a bargaining chip, he was certain that they would be doomed.
She had circled around and climbed a house in the moonlight as the man cursed the situation. Watching from the shadows, with sharp eyes, she was concealed. She blinked once, and another pair of eyes flickered into existence on the other side of the street. They blinked twice and moved onto the house opposite her. Stealthily they simultaneously moved forward until they were lying flat on the edge of the houses, concealed in grey and prepared to leap off the roof. Suddenly she stood up, and the figure opposite her did with her. It snapped its fingers once. All of her disheartened pursuers turned around to watch. “Next time you tangle with a wolf, you should remember to cut the claws first.” She turned and started to stalk off. One of the men cried out and started after her, obviously snapping out of his reverie and chagrined at the thought of the object of their night’s work escaping. But before he got farther than two feet, there was a flurry of movement on the rooftops and a figure stood up on each, coming out of concealment, and leaped. In a blink of an eye the man who had stood up was dead, and in a few more all but one were left. That one was smiling. “Come along, Gildain,” said Carna Lornar, ruler of the force the Wolves of Tyrria, without glancing back. “The charade is over, and you don’t want to keep our friends waiting.” Looking up from the corpses, Gildain the Infiltrator slunk over to her and they loped off together. The others were already gone. The police would be puzzled in the morning, when the found the bodies of several large men, seemingly torn to shreds, but they would never find the perpetrators. The pair running off in the middle of the night in the wispy moonlight didn’t know any of that, and they didn’t care. They didn’t look back at the men that they had had murdered. They never had.
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