Of Wolf and Man

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.” – The Call of Cthulu, H.P. Lovecraft

Every time the dream was simple.

He slept. He felt the same slow drifting towards unconsciousness without trepidation. Without fear.

There was pain, first. Vis could feel his skin pulled taut. Razor-sharp knives slid between flesh and muscle flaying his body alive.

He would sweat. His lungs would inhale deeply. Sharply. Vis would shiver and then, he would sleep.

In the dream the thief stood surrounded by fog. The fog of the mind, clouding his thoughts, but more importantly, the fog of the heart. The mist blanketed emotion in a fine layer of ennui preventing love, joy, rage, or hate and leaving an empty numbness behind.

Vis could feel emotion just beyond the grasp of his perception. The dampening enraged him, of course, but he could feel it no more than the sorrow at having lost his mentor. Vis knew the pain was there. He was aware of it like a numb finger is aware of the glove. Yet…nothing. Nothing true ever bled through.

out of the mist the howl would come and Vis would freeze. The wolf. It hunted him nightly, driving the thief towards some eventual, unrecognizable goal. The wolf was connected to another; the two beings were attached in body and soul. Vis could vaguely see the outline of a face before a cloud of black feathers would explode, obscuring his vision and filling his mind with the tiniest, deep-throated feminine laughter. It echoed throughout the dream until he thought he would go mad.

Then, the mist again. For what seemed like hours, but of course, in dream time was always different. Senses could never be trusted. only rational thought and feelings. Absent the latter, Vis focused on the former to exclusion of all else.

“You. Are. Out. Of. Balance.” A clipped, choppy voice spoke in a language Vis should not be able to understand, but did. The thief would turn in the dark and gray landscape to see the large white bull’s head speaking. No. Not a bull. A man, or, perhaps a minotaur? Etchings and tattoos covered the body. The minotaur carried a great and ancient tome of knowledge.

Ioun? The thought never quite reached his lips, but the minotaur understood.

“The. Wolf.” he said, biting down each syllable, “Follow. It.” The sharp resounding words echoed deep within the mind. The rumbling made Vis sick to the stomach and he doubled over, retching dry. When he arose, the minotaur would always be gone.

What came next always woke him at its end. The mind simply could not handle input from such an alien source and would force him out of his reverie. The mist would shift, twist and wind itself into indescribable shapes like the tentacles of an octopus pouring from the mouth of infinity.

Vis would stare trying foolishly to comprehend, but unable to use reason on this thought. The dream would lurch, shifting angles, and he would be left staring at shadows on a wall. Images would play out behind him, creatures of foreign make, but the shadows would render the truth more understandable. More quantifiable. Were they real, these shapes? Or were the shadowy depictions on the wall merely the thief’s mind trying to understand a greater truth?

Xenophanes would know. Such philosophical quandaries were the bread and butter of his mentor’s life and speech. The unexplainable would reveal itself entire and the shadows and mist would part to clarity and light.

But Xenophanes the Sage was gone. Xenophanes the Mentor, long dead. Sadness would wash over Vis in a tidal wave of despair, longing, and regret. This pain he could feel, yet he knew not why. It penetrated the fog and Vis perceived the emotion rendered true. After long, blissfully agonizing moments, however, Vis would look down and see his own body, kneeling, still facing the wall.

The thoughts and feelings were his, but Vis was not feeling them from within his own mind and heart. The unraveling darkness had wormed its way into his mind like rats in the walls of an abandoned home tearing everything apart. Destructive nibbling at his soul gave way to a transfer of emotion for power. The mist-shape, this penumbra creature from beyond rational thought was feeding from his raw emotional state leaving the thief a husk. Vis was a void of physicality and rational thought. Nothing true remained.

Nothing but the blood lust that filled him and the deep satisfaction of TAKING from another’s purpose and life. Stealing that which was meant for others. Their belongings. Their life. Their blood and all the days and years ahead of them would be his. The thief felt a gnashing of his teeth, his lips and tongue bleeding, his eyes opened wide in anticipation of the meal. Truthfully, he could FEEL.

Vis felt the passionate desire for what did not belong to him and the anguish of those from whom he took. He knew the satisfaction of blood coating his blade and he would wipe the juices with his mentor’s old mantle in order to cherish the “meal” later.

Vis could see. A thousand eyes perceived even the tiniest form of life, even the smallest, darkest emotion and memory. A hundred-thousand mouths tasted his blood and the energy of his soul, his Self, his will to live and breed. Sensation overwhelmed Vis as his mind filled beyond its brim and he would look down at himself. He would scream.

Xenophanes.

The whisper, faintest touch of sound upon the ear of one straining with all his life to listen. Vis faced the wall and watched the shadows dance while in the distance his mentor whispered his name.

The thief awoke. Confused momentarily, he forget that he was in a cave with strangers. His body was taut, muscles tight with the anticipation of action. Vis could smell blood and looked down at his left arm, covered in the years of vitriolic essence of other people. Briefly, it looked as if the wrap was bleeding, blood circulating along its seams as if in veins. Vis could taste in his nose at the back of his throat.

He rolled, glancing over to see the man, Black Paws, staring into the darkness of the Watch.

The wolf was a part of this man. Was his the face in the dream? Vis could remember so very little through the mist and shadow and voices.

Did he have to kill the wolf? Perhaps the man? What connection could bring him so far and across so much time?

Aching from age old scars where his sharp ears used to be, the thief closed his eyes and held tight to the hidden key. The dreams would not come again, but he would not sleep well. The dream of the Eladrin failed to soothe his mind and he was always bone-tired.

Not long now. He would know his fate. Death, murder, or pain? Anything, so long as there was release.