A dark ocean, with waves as black as night, rages just meters away. Its salt lay thick in stagnant air, lingering with metallic ichor that oozes from between the Lyander's teeth. Drop, drop, drop it stains the onyx sand. Pain used to be foreign, in his mortal life. The monks had beaten him til' his nerves could no longer feel their bite.

But now, reborn, he is in agony. Forced to relive the pain he experienced before his death. With a shaky paw, he presses against his chest. There's a scar there, hidden beneath short fur; it's where he himself had driven the blade into his heart, so that it may be harvested for the sacrifice.

It beats now, beneath his palm. Unsteady, frantic, painfully alive. Panic quakes through him as the waves rip through the ocean. There is confusion too, and grief. Anger will simmer soon within his veins, and soon he would scream at a god who's turned a deaf ear.

Was this punishment? Hadn't he done everything instructed of him? He gave his life, the most precious gift one could give. Only for nothing in return but torment.

A voice startles him, deep and gravelly. The man-born-wolf stumbled backward amidst the sand, the fur along his spine risen. Bloodied teeth revealed in a fearful snarl. Eyes of ice glint with untamed fear, as he faces the beast.

It speaks to him, in a language foreign. He wheezed as he shuffled another step back.

Do not touch me— a demand. His flesh had already bore much pain; he is unsure if he can sustain more.

Then, he deflates. I do not understand. Where am I? And who are you?