The full moon, a malignant eye in the ink-black sky, cast long, distorted shadows across the desolate moor. Elias felt its pull, a familiar, agonizing transformation that twisted his human form into something ancient and primal. Bones groaned, muscles tore and reknitted, and a pelt of coarse, dark fur erupted from his skin. His vision sharpened, every rustle of the wind, every distant whisper, amplified tenfold. He was no longer Elias, the quiet scholar, but Lycan, the beast, the hunter, the protector.
Tonight, the hunt was different. It wasn’t the usual deer or boar, nor the occasional foolish trespasser who wandered too deep into his territory. Tonight, the air was thick with a stench that made his lupine hackles rise – a foul, sulfuric reek that clung to the very essence of the night. Demons. They had arrived, a festering blight crawling from the fissures of another realm, drawn by a malevolent convergence of energies, a rift tearing open on the very edge of his sacred woods.
Lycan let out a guttural growl, a sound that was half challenge, half warning. He had felt their tendrils of corruption spreading for days, a slow, insidious rot infecting the ancient trees, curdling the pure waters of the forest streams. Now, they were here, a writhing horde, their forms grotesque parodies of life, their eyes burning with cold, predatory malice.
He bounded through the gorse and heather, his powerful legs eating up the ground. The first sign of their presence was a patch of blackened earth, smoking faintly, the grass around it withered and dead. Scattered across it were the charred remains of local wildlife – a rabbit, a fox, twisted into agonized shapes. A cold fury, pure and animalistic, surged through Lycan. This was his land. These were his creatures. And these invaders would pay.
He heard them then, a cacophony of chittering, hissing, and the wet slap of leathery wings. Through a gnarled thicket of ancient oaks, he saw them. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of lesser imps, their skin like cracked obsidian, their limbs spindly and disproportionate. They scurried around a larger, more imposing figure – a towering Brute Demon, its armored hide shimmering with dark energy, a massive, jagged club held in its four meaty hands. Its head was a skull-like mask, and from its hollow eye sockets, twin pinpricks of crimson light pulsed. This was no mere scouting party; this was an incursion.
Lycan didn’t hesitate. With a roar that vibrated through the very ground, he launched himself into their midst. The imps shrieked, a sound like tearing silk, as he tore into them. Claws, sharpened by ancient magic and honed by countless hunts, raked through their brittle forms. They exploded in gouts of putrid ichor, their cries quickly silenced. He was a whirlwind of muscle and fang, a dark blur against the moonlit moor, each strike precise, deadly.
One imp, quicker than the rest, managed to leap onto his back, its tiny claws digging into his fur. Lycan shrugged it off with a violent twist, slamming it against a tree trunk, reducing it to a smear of black goo. He spun, teeth bared, catching another by its scrawny neck and snapping it with a sickening crack.
The Brute Demon, initially caught off guard, finally lumbered into action. It swung its colossal club, a blow that could shatter stone. Lycan dodged, a blur of motion, the wind of the impact ruffling his fur. He wasn’t foolish enough to meet that head-on. He needed to be quick, agile, to exploit its lumbering nature.
He circled, feinting, drawing its attention. As the Brute Demon swung again, Lycan darted in, sinking his teeth deep into its armored leg. The demon roared, a sound of pure agony, and stumbled. Its hide, he found, was tough, but not impenetrable. The taste of its blood was acrid, burning on his tongue, but he held fast, tearing at the sinew and muscle beneath.
More imps swarmed him, nipping at his flanks, attempting to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. Lycan snarled, shaking the Brute Demon’s leg violently, then released his grip and spun, lashing out with his claws. A dozen imps were flung clear, their fragile bodies disintegrating on impact.
He focused back on the Brute. It was enraged, its crimson eyes glowing brighter, its movements more desperate. It brought its club down in an overhead smash. Lycan, anticipating the move, rolled, the club splintering the earth where he had stood. As the demon recovered, he launched himself at its chest, claws extended. He dug deep, tearing through the demonic hide, aiming for the pulsing dark energy at its core.
The Brute Demon howled, a guttural shriek that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself. It thrashed wildly, trying to dislodge him, but Lycan clung on, his powerful jaws finding purchase on its shoulder, tearing a massive chunk of flesh. The stench of its dying essence filled the air, a sickeningly sweet odor that made his nose burn. With a final, desperate heave, Lycan ripped free, and the Brute Demon staggered, its form flickering, then dissolved into a shower of black dust and a fading, unholy light.
The remaining imps, their large leader gone, hesitated, their chittering turning to whimpers. They were creatures of fear and chaos, and the raw, untamed power of Lycan was something they hadn’t encountered before. They began to scatter, attempting to flee back into the shadows from which they had crawled.
But Lycan was not done. His blood was up, the primal hunger for justice burning within him. He was the guardian of this land, and no blight would be allowed to fester. He pursued them relentlessly, a dark phantom hunting the fleeing shadows. He snapped them out of the air as they attempted to fly, dragged others from their hiding places in the rocky outcrops, and silenced their screams with swift, brutal efficiency.
The moon continued its silent vigil, illuminating the carnage he wrought. The moor, once peaceful, was now a charnel ground of demonic remains. When the last imp had been torn asunder, when the last echo of their unholy presence had faded, Lycan stood amidst the devastation, his fur matted with ichor, his breath coming in ragged snarls.
The adrenaline began to recede, replaced by a deep, weary ache. He felt the familiar pull of his human form reasserting itself, the bones shifting, the fur receding. But before he allowed the transformation to complete, he lifted his head to the moon, a silent howl of triumph and defiance.
He was the monster of the night, yes, but he was also the protector. And as long as evil sought to taint his sacred grounds, Lycan would rise, a beast of vengeance, a hero in the shadows, ensuring that only the whispers of the wind and the gentle rustle of leaves disturbed the peace of his ancient woods. The war was far from over, he knew. This was but one battle. But he was ready. He would always be ready.
The return to human form was always a jarring experience, a painful unwinding of the beast. Lycan felt the last of the adrenaline drain, leaving him with an profound exhaustion that settled deep in his bones. The coarse fur receded, revealing pale, sweat-slicked skin. His claws shortened, his teeth dulled, and the acute senses that had guided him through the demonic melee dulled to human perception. He was Elias again, shivering slightly in the cool night air, naked amidst the scattered, rapidly dissolving remnants of the demons.
He knelt, pressing a hand to the damp earth. The stench of brimstone still lingered, a phantom insult to his nostrils. The grass beneath his palm, though not as visibly charred as the initial patch, felt subtly wrong, a faint chill emanating from it that had nothing to do with the night air. The rift was still there, albeit faint, a low, insidious hum beneath the surface of reality. He could feel it, a persistent ache in his very soul, like a splinter lodged deep.
Elias knew this was merely the vanguard. The Brute Demon was significant, a shock trooper, but not a general. Its presence indicated a larger, more coordinated effort. And the rift… that was the true danger. If it widened, if it stabilized, then this peaceful moor, this ancient forest, would become a permanent gateway for things far worse than imps and brutes.
He pushed himself up, his muscles stiff and protesting. The moon, now high overhead, began its slow descent, painting the eastern horizon with the first faint blush of dawn. He needed to be gone before the sun rose, before any wandering shepherd or early rising farmer stumbled upon the remnants of the night’s carnage.
Though the demonic ichor quickly evaporated, leaving little trace, the sheer disturbance of the earth, the flattened gorse, the broken branches, would be enough to arouse suspicion.
Retrieving his discarded clothes from a hollow in a ancient oak—a ritual he’d performed countless times—Elias dressed quickly, his movements still a little clumsy from the recent transformation. The cold metal of his locket, tucked beneath his shirt, pressed against his skin, a small comfort. It held a faded daguerreotype of his family, a reminder of the life he fought to protect, the innocence he guarded from the encroaching darkness.
He made his way through the forest, the familiar paths a comforting guide. The trees, ancient and wise, seemed to sigh with relief as he passed, their leaves rustling softly in the nascent breeze. He could feel their connection to the land, their deep roots drawing strength from the earth, and he, as their protector, drew strength from them in turn.
His small, isolated cottage, nestled deep within the woods, appeared as a welcome silhouette against the brightening sky. A wisp of smoke curled from its chimney – he always kept a low fire burning, a silent beacon in the wilderness. Inside, the familiar scent of old books, dried herbs, and pipe tobacco was a balm to his raw senses.
He moved mechanically, stoking the fire, heating water for tea. His mind, however, was still racing, replaying the night’s events. The ferocity of the demons, their sheer numbers… this was different from previous skirmishes. They were emboldened, perhaps sensing a weakening in the veil between worlds.
Elias poured himself a steaming mug of strong, black tea, the warmth a welcome contrast to the lingering chill in his bones. He settled into his worn armchair by the hearth, the flickering firelight dancing across the shelves of ancient tomes.
These were not mere stories; they were accounts, warnings, and forgotten lore – a lifetime of research into the hidden evils that lurked just beyond the perception of ordinary mortals.
He had dedicated his life to this. Once, he had been a promising young scholar, drawn to the arcane, to the mysteries of the natural world.
Then had come the bite, the curse, the moon’s eternal tether. For years, he had fought against it, sought a cure, a release. But with time, he had come to understand. This was not merely a curse; it was a weapon. And in a world increasingly vulnerable to supernatural threats, a weapon was needed. He was Lycan, the guardian.
Now, he needed more information. The specific nature of these demons, their hierarchy, their ultimate goal. He suspected they were of the Abyss, a realm of pure entropy and malice, but even within that vast, horrible domain, there were distinctions. Knowing their weakness, their true names, could be the key to closing the rift.
He spent the next few hours poring over dusty texts, consulting ancient grimoires bound in what felt disturbingly like human skin. He traced symbols with a finger, muttering forgotten incantations under his breath, searching for any clue, any prophecy, any historical account of similar incursions. The air in the cottage grew heavy with the scent of aged parchment and latent magic.
The sun was well above the horizon when he finally found something, a passage in a crumbling tome titled “Chronicles of the Shadow War.” It spoke of a specific demonic lineage, the “Malakar,” creatures of pure hunger, whose sole purpose was to consume and corrupt.
They were drawn to places where reality was thin, where the threads of existence frayed, and they sought to unravel the very fabric of the world. Their weakness, the text stated, was not conventional weaponry, but rather a specific alignment of celestial energies, a rare confluence of stars and moon phases, and a purity of intent that few could muster. And their commanders, the “Grave-Lords,” were not merely powerful, but strategic, intelligent.
A cold dread seeped into Elias’s heart. A Grave-Lord. That explained the coordinated attack, the Brute Demon as a spearhead. If a Grave-Lord was involved, this was no mere raiding party. This was a sustained assault.
He continued reading, his eyes scanning for any mention of rituals, of counter-spells, of anything that could close the rift permanently.
The text spoke of ancient wards, of ley lines, of the vital essence of the land itself. It hinted that the rift was likely not a natural phenomenon, but had been opened intentionally, perhaps by a cult, or by the demons themselves manipulating ancient, forgotten energies.
The mention of cults sent a fresh wave of unease through him. Humans, seduced by power, always the easiest tools for demonic forces. He had encountered them before – desperate individuals seeking forbidden knowledge, or power, or simply an escape from their mundane lives. They were usually easily dispatched, their pathetic rituals quickly dismantled. But a cult capable of opening a rift for the Malakar… that was a different breed entirely.
Elias stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. He needed to scout. He needed to find the source of the rift, to understand its true nature. He couldn’t wait for the moon to rise again; the demons would not. They would consolidate their gains, bring more of their kind through.
He gathered his essentials: a sturdy hunting knife, a small pouch of dried wolfsbane (a potent deterrent, if not a weapon, against certain types of lesser demons), a flask of water, and a compass.
He checked the sky. The day was bright, deceptively peaceful. But Elias knew the darkness lay just beneath the surface, coiled and waiting.
He left the cottage, locking the heavy oak door behind him. The air was crisp, the forest vibrant with birdsong. No one would suspect the lurking horror, the silent war being waged in the shadows. He walked with purpose, his senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the forest, the faint hum of the rift growing stronger as he ventured deeper into the woods, heading towards the moor where the battle had raged hours earlier.
He followed the faint lingering traces of demonic corruption, a subtle distortion in the air, a colder current, a faint, metallic tang on his tongue. The path led him not directly back to the battle site, but veered sharply to the west, towards a forgotten part of the forest, a place of ancient, twisted trees and treacherous bogs known as the Whispering Mire. Locals avoided it, spoke of strange lights and eerie sounds.
Elias had always felt a peculiar energy there, a deep, resonant power that was both unsettling and alluring.
As he drew closer, the hum of the rift grew to a low thrumming that vibrated through the soles of his boots. The trees here were different, their branches gnarled and claw-like, draped in thick, grey moss. The ground grew soft, squelchy beneath his feet. The air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of decay and something else… something foul and unholy.
He came upon it suddenly. Not a tear in the fabric of space, as he had half-expected, but a dark, swirling vortex of energy nestled deep within a clearing. It pulsed with an unholy light, a sickly green at its core, surrounded by an aura of deep violet. Around it, etched into the boggy earth, were intricate, glowing sigils, pulsing with the same malevolent energy.
These were not natural; they were clearly drawn by hand, by intent. A cult.
And at the edge of the clearing, amidst the grotesque symbols, lay several bodies. Not demonic, but human. Their faces were frozen in expressions of pure terror, their skin a sickly grey, and their eyes wide, staring at nothing.
Their chests were caved in, as if something impossibly heavy had crushed them. This was the work of the Malakar, their ravenous hunger leaving only husks. This wasn’t just a point of entry; it was a sacrificial altar.
Elias felt a surge of cold rage. These people, whoever they were, had clearly been pawns, sacrifices in a ritual far beyond their comprehension. Their misguided pursuit of power had unleashed this horror.
As he surveyed the gruesome scene, a low growl rumbled from the shadows of the twisted trees. It was not the familiar snarl of a wolf, nor the guttural challenge of a demon. This was deeper, more resonant, filled with an ancient, predatory intelligence.
From the darkest part of the clearing, a figure emerged. It was not one of the Malakar he had encountered before. This creature was different. Taller, slender, almost elegant in its malevolence. Its skin was like polished obsidian, rippling with inner shadows, and its eyes burned with a cold, sapphire light.
From its back unfurled two vast, leathery wings, like those of a monstrous bat, their edges razor-sharp. Its hands ended in long, wicked talons, and from its lips, which parted in a mocking smile, gleamed rows of needle-sharp teeth.
This was a Grave-Lord.
It surveyed Elias with an unnerving calm, its sapphire eyes piercing, assessing. “A shapeshifter,” it rasped, its voice a dry, grating sound, like stones grinding together. “A mere mortal playing at being a beast. How quaint.”
Elias stood his ground, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his knife.
He knew, intellectually, that the knife would be useless against a creature of this caliber. But it was a small defiance, a human gesture of readiness.
“You brought them here,” Elias stated, his voice low and steady, betraying none of the fear that coiled in his gut.
The Grave-Lord let out a soft, chilling chuckle. “They were merely… curious. And the veil, it was so delightfully thin here. A little nudge, a few willing sacrifices… and voilà. A new feeding ground.” It gestured with a clawed hand towards the rift, which seemed to pulse more strongly at its command.
“This world is ripe for consumption, little mortal. So much fear, so much despair. A feast awaits.”
“Not while I breathe,” Elias retorted, his gaze unwavering.
The Grave-Lord tilted its head, as if genuinely amused. “Oh? And what will a singular wolf do against an army? Against the hunger of the Abyss itself?” Its smile widened, revealing more of its terrifying teeth. “We have merely scratched the surface, shapeshifter. More of my brethren arrive with each passing moment. Soon, this entire realm will be ours.”
A chilling wind, born of the rift, swept through the clearing, carrying with it the scent of decay and the faint, distant screams of unknown victims. The air grew heavy, the very light dimming around the vortex.
“You speak of consumption,” Elias said, slowly. “But you leave husks. You only destroy.”
“And what is creation, but a different form of destruction?” the Grave-Lord mused, taking a step forward. “We tear down the old, to make way for… nothingness. Pure, exquisite entropy.”
Elias knew he couldn’t fight this creature in his human form. Not yet. He needed the moon, the raw power of Lycan. But he also knew he couldn’t let it simply walk away, to continue its terrible work. He had to delay it, to somehow disrupt the ritual, to prevent more of the Malakar from spilling through.
“You underestimate the will of this world,” Elias said, his voice rising, a challenge in his tone. “And you underestimate me.”
The Grave-Lord’s sapphire eyes narrowed, losing their amusement, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. “A brave fool. Such a waste.”
It lunged, a blur of black shadow and wicked talons. Elias threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding a strike that would have torn him in two. He scrambled backward, eyes fixed on the demon. This was it. The fight he had feared, but also known was inevitable. And it was daylight. No moon to aid him.
He was just a man. But he was Lycan’s other half. And sometimes, a man’s courage was all that stood between the world and utter darkness. He had to buy time. For the moon. For the guardian within him. For the world he swore to protect.
The Grave-Lord’s second strike was faster, a sweeping arc of those obsidian talons aimed at Elias’s head. He ducked, the wind of its passage stirring his hair. The demon was toying with him, enjoying the helplessness of his human form, a cruel cat with a mouse.
But Elias was no ordinary mouse. He might be physically weaker, but his mind, his knowledge, and his sheer defiance were weapons the demon hadn’t accounted for.
He scrambled backwards, putting the gruesome remains of the cultists between himself and the demon, buying precious seconds. The Grave-Lord sneered, its eyes flickering towards the pulsing rift, as if impatient with this trivial distraction.
“You cling to a fleeting existence, mortal,” the Grave-Lord hissed, its voice laden with contempt. “Your kind is fragile, insignificant. A single breath from the Abyss will snuff you out.”
Elias ignored the taunt, his mind racing. He needed a distraction, something to disrupt its focus, to buy time until nightfall. He glanced at the sigils etched into the earth around the rift. They pulsed with malevolent energy, but they were also a source of power for the demon, amplifying its connection to the Abyss. If he could damage them…
He spotted a jagged shard of flint sticking out of the boggy ground, sharpened by some ancient, natural process. With a desperate lunge, he snatched it, his fingers closing around the cold, unforgiving stone.
The Grave-Lord chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “A rock? Against me? How utterly pathetic.”
Elias didn’t reply. Instead, he lunged not at the demon, but at the nearest glowing sigil, plunging the sharp flint into its pulsating lines.
A shriek tore through the air – not from Elias, but from the sigil itself, a high-pitched whine of agony as its energy flickered and dimmed. The Grave-Lord roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury.
“Fool! You profane the sacred!” it shrieked, its elegant malice replaced by seething rage.
The demon moved with astonishing speed, faster than anything Elias had witnessed from it before. It was no longer playing. Its talons ripped through the air where Elias had been an instant before. He rolled, the flint still clutched in his hand, and slammed it into another sigil.
This one didn’t just dim; it flared violently, then extinguished completely, leaving a smoking, dead patch on the earth.
The rift itself seemed to shudder, its sickly green light flickering erratically. The hum that resonated through the mire wavered, a discordant note in the symphony of corruption.
“You will pay for this insolence!” the Grave-Lord shrieked, its voice echoing with the fury of a thousand infernos. It unleashed a wave of dark energy, a palpable force that slammed into Elias, lifting him off his feet and throwing him against the ancient, moss-draped trunk of a gnarled oak.
Pain exploded through his ribs, a blinding agony that stole his breath.
He slumped to the ground, gasping, the world spinning. He tasted blood – warm, coppery – in his mouth. But through the haze of pain, he saw it: the rift, though still active, was undeniably weaker. Its vibrant colors had dulled, its hum a mere whisper compared to its previous thrum. And the Grave-Lord’s form, while still imposing, flickered at its edges, a subtle instability suggesting a drain on its power.
Elias had hurt it. He had damaged its connection, however marginally.
The Grave-Lord advanced, its sapphire eyes burning with unholy fire. It raised a clawed hand, poised to deliver a fatal blow. “Your defiant spark will be extinguished, mortal. And then, this world will burn.”
Just as the demon brought its hand down, a distant, impossible sound reached Elias’s ears, faint but clear. The howls of a wolf pack. A large one. Not his own kin, not the usual denizens of these woods. These howls were deeper, more ancient, a call from beyond the veil, perhaps even from the ancestral spirit of the very land he defended.
The Grave-Lord paused, its talons inches from Elias’s throat, its head tilting slightly. Its eyes, previously fixed on its prey, now darted towards the direction of the howls. A flicker of something Elias hadn’t seen before crossed its obsidian face: surprise, and perhaps, a hint of concern.
“What is this?” the Grave-Lord muttered, its voice losing some of its chilling arrogance. The howls grew louder, more distinct, echoing through the desolate mire.
Elias, despite the searing pain, managed a weak, blood-flecked smile. “You are not the only ancient power in these woods, demon.”
The Grave-Lord’s gaze snapped back to Elias, a new intensity in its sapphire eyes. It understood. This wasn’t merely a random pack; it was something drawn by the disruption, by the threat to the natural order. Something old.
Suddenly, the ground around the rift began to tremble. Not from the demon’s power, but from something else, a deep tremor that pulsed from beneath the earth. The gnarled trees groaned, their branches swaying as if in distress. The vortex, already weakened by Elias’s sabotage, began to destabilize further, swirling erratically, emitting flashes of chaotic light.
The Grave-Lord roared, a desperate, frustrated sound. Its form flickered more violently now, as if struggling to maintain cohesion. “The balance… it rejects you!” it shrieked, directing its fury at the shuddering rift. “This is not how it was foretold!”
The tremor intensified, and from the deep, dark heart of the Whispering Mire, a raw, primeval energy surged upward, pushing against the rift, fighting the demonic intrusion. Elias recognized it – the lifeblood of the earth, the very spirit of this ancient land rising in defiance.
The Grave-Lord, caught between its rage at Elias and the escalating instability of the rift, had to choose. The gateway was its priority. It turned from Elias, its wings unfurling with a leathery snap, and shrieked a command into the chaotic vortex, pouring its own failing power into it, trying desperately to stabilize its failing connection to the Abyss.
This was Elias’s chance. He forced himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, his head throbbing. He stumbled towards the nearest remaining sigil, the one still glowing with a faint, malevolent light. He had to finish it. He had to sever the connection, even if it meant risking tearing the fabric of reality apart.
With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, he plunged the flint shard into the sigil, grinding it, destroying the intricate lines. The sigil pulsed once, violently, then exploded in a shower of sickly green sparks, leaving a smoking crater.
The effect was instantaneous and cataclysmic. The rift, starved of its anchors, screamed. Not a sound, but a tearing, rending agony that ripped through the very air. The swirling vortex inverted, collapsing inwards with a sound like a million shards of glass shattering.
The Grave-Lord cried out, a sound of pure anguish and impotent rage, as its connection to its realm was violently severed. Its obsidian form flickered wildly, dissolving at the edges, a painful process of unmaking.
“You… you have merely delayed the inevitable!” the Grave-Lord shrieked, its voice fading, its form dissolving into swirling motes of shadow. “The hunger… it will return! And next time… next time, your moon will bleed!”
With a final, desperate howl of frustration, the Grave-Lord was gone, unmade, sucked back into the nothingness from whence it came, or perhaps merely banished, its essence scattered. The clearing was silent, save for Elias’s ragged breathing and the distant, fading howls of the unseen pack.
The rift was closed. For now. The air no longer thrummed with corruption. The foul stench was slowly dissipating, replaced by the damp, earthy smell of the bog.
Elias collapsed, utterly spent, his back against the cool, damp earth. The pain in his ribs was a dull ache now, a reminder of his brush with death. He looked up at the sky, still bright and blue, an innocent canvas after the horrors it had just witnessed.
He was alive. And the world was safe, for a little while longer.
But the Grave-Lord’s last words echoed in his mind: “The hunger… it will return! And next time… next time, your moon will bleed!”
It was a promise, a chilling prophecy. This was not the end. It was merely the end of the beginning. The Malakar would return, their hunger insatiable, their methods more cunning, their forces perhaps even greater. And the next time, they would likely target the source of Lycan’s power itself. The moon.
Elias closed his eyes, drawing a slow, painful breath. He had won this battle, but the war, the true Shadow War, was far from over. He was Elias, the scholar, and Lycan, the beast. And he would be ready. He had to be. For the moon, for the forest, for all of humanity, he would wait. And he would hunt. Until the last demon was banished, or until he himself became the last sacrifice.
The sun climbed higher, casting long, golden rays into the Whispering Mire. The forest was silent once more, holding its breath, waiting for the night. Waiting for the moon. Waiting for the hunter.
To be Continued….
