dream beast - the god of werewolves
so a recently I had this WILD dream. A man was running through some strange, twisted woods - with golden flowers and fungus, and thick gnarled leaves in sections. He was obviously injured, but couldn’t remember how he got hurt or how he got there in the first place.
So he’s running, fully aware that Something is chasing him. He can’t see much behind him, the semi-tunnel of trees and leaves making the little light he has sparse. But occasionally he catches a glimpse of bone-white glinting, or a shadow shifting high near the canopy, and he runs faster.
But then the scene warps - he’s strapped to a bed in a hospital setting, thrashing and sweating and screaming. Someone grabs his face - he can’t see anything, it’s all blurred, but he KNOWS that voice - Don’t Run, Prey Runs, Stop Running! And the face fades away, leaving him in the twisted woods again.
The running man slows, breathing heavily and bleeding and shaking in terror. He stumbles to a stop, and he slowly turns, pulling his fists into a boxing stance. And all he sees is the dark, impenetrable and ominous. And then teeth gleam in the darkness, and the dark peels away from the shadows, leaving them empty and pale in comparison.
It’s enormous, clearly at least three times his size, maybe four at the tallest point. It’s shaped like a wolf, in a way, like someone described a wolf to someone who had never even met a dog before. Its legs are too flexible, its head just a mass of shadows that light cannot escape nor penetrate. All he sees in that void is a single set of canid teeth, set in a rictus grin.
And then another
and another
Mouths sprout like weeds from fertile fields, and low feminine chuckles emanate from the main mouth, mixed with a cacophony of wolf howls, canine barks and whines, and childlike giggles from the other mouths.
You Led Me On Quite A Hunt, Pup, she says, And Now It Be Time To Rest. You’re Mine Now.
(Here, it became apparent that she was the god of Werewolves, in all their multitude forms, and that the man had been infected. Running was killing his body, and the person who spoke was trying to keep him alive. Her catching him was the infection winning, but also that she really was a god.)
The man trembles as she approaches, languid and wispy, and rests her front face on his uninjured shoulder. Hands, just as void black as the rest of the god of werewolves, emerge from her maw, and embrace him gently. The man sobs, in pain and fear, and she coos in a thousand voices.
Be Well Cub, Grandmother Is Here
and the dream ended
