Far outside of the walls of Gothenheim, a wolf and a man looked up to the moon. They saw from the same set of eyes and from within the same body, but they saw quite different things. The wolf saw directly, and saw light enough to hunt. The man saw indirectly, not from the eyes of the wolf but more behind the eyes of the wolf, a silent and powerless observer, seeing the otherworldly light, the only light he deserved to be in.
A monster in the land of monsters, he was in his element. If he- Or more accurately, they hungered, the wolf would take control and find prey. With no civilization, no other humans, there was no need for secrecy or restraint. The wolf reigned here like Ferrick had reigned in the city. It could hunt and roam to its heart's content, the only thing in the way still were the quiet suggestions of the human soul.
The wolf looked up to the moon, only for a moment admiring it. Night had fallen, the moon was up, they would be here soon.
The hunter knew when he was being hunted. He'd never seen them directly, caught only glimpses, but knew that they were after him, knew they were trying to catch him. And the animal spirit of the wolf refused to be caught.
He sprung into a run, just seconds before he heard the whispers begin, a quiet and insidious chant. It seemed to come from nowhere in particular, surrounding him, or coming from within his ears. He could stop and listen intently to determine the source of the whispers for hours and find no answers. But he didn't have the time to sit and listen, he had to run.
The whispers continued, following him, surrounding him. The winds seemed to pick up, become more insistent, more forceful, tugging at the wolf's fur. Something like a mist collected in front of the wolf's path, beginning to rise. The wolf swung a claw through it, finding nothing but mist. Natural or not, the mists collapsed and dissipated away.
He began to rise into the mountains as the chase wore on, the ring of small peaks that partially encircled Gothenheim, the Mountains of Darraskun. It was something the human wouldn't let go of, a fear of leaving the city behind. The wolf didn't understand.
He was now in a dark, hidden space between trees, trying to lead the whisperers astray and confuse them so that he could sink his teeth into them, rip them to shreds with his claws. But he never saw them, and the whispers died down into silence. Well, that was an opportunity to flee further.
He prowled through the undergrowth, moving softly and silently, ears held high and attuned to every sound. He was still jumpy, and when a halfway-to-unnatural noise came from behind him, he bounded forward, leaping over a boulder and finding himself suddenly in a clearing. He prowled around the edges, peering into the trees, but there was no sign of anything but him.
To say that he noticed the silence then would be in correct, rather he focused on it then. To a human, the silence would have been deafening. To the heightened hearing of a wolf, the silence was shaking the earth. All sounds were dampened; even the wolf's growls seemed distant and weak. And then he looked up.
What he had taken for a boulder in the middle of the clearing was far from it, instead a massive rising stone, the peak reaching above the tree line, perhaps high enough to see the city. It stood between the wolf and the moon, dark and imposing, made of straight lines and strong angles and exuded power. There was something great and terrible about it, and for an indeterminably long time he stared at it, and perhaps the monolith stared back.
He didn't notice what broke the spell, perhaps some noise from the trees behind him, but the wolf tore his gaze away quickly, his pulse suddenly racing. The whispers began again, but not the same as before. This was a different voice, almost a different language judging by the sound. Lower, angrier, more powerful, with a harsher edge to each syllable. The wolf was torn between staying and leaving, looking frantically from side to side, seeing now that what had looked like boulders strewn around the clearing were instead shattered pieces of other monoliths, broken and scattered.
There was a wind again, but this time it blew towards the monolith, as if trying to pull the wolf towards it. The whispers grew in volume and intensity. Did the stone change, or was it the angle he viewed it from? It looked craggier, more twisted, more looming. It was too much for the wolf, he turned and bolted, springing over one of the destroyed monoliths and diving into the trees, trying to put as much distance as he possibly could between himself that monolith before sunrise came.
The salve pressed tighter to his face and someone spoke his name. He recognised the tone. Swivelling his uncovered eye, Corben looked up at his wife. Her dress was half-torn, her hair dishevelled. Perhaps she had been caught in the stampede of guests. Her other hand was stroking his wrist, where the lacerations from Lilith's whip still stung. 
