Meren Re:Prologue

PROLOGUE: ON THIS PATH

A cool evening wind danced in the treetops. The glow of fireflies reflected on the surface of a small pond. Dark clouds obscured the silvery moon. The grass rustled the same melody he heard every night.

He shook his head, muttering something in Latin. The breeze ruffled his earthy-gray hair. He took a sip from the bottle in his hand. He was alone, once again. Only 24 years, and so much had already happened. He wanted to forget... Another sip, another lost dream. He was sinking into the void that, like a patient lover, welcomed him into its bosom every night. Dark blue eyes glazed over. He couldn't afford the slightest weakness. Red Claw couldn't. An unfamiliar sound tore him from his reverie. He reached under his coat for his weapon, a .50 AP Desert Eagle. Heavy footsteps. He was convinced it was a human gait, though his senses were slightly dulled by the alcohol. The person walking must have been wearing combat boots or combat boots. He felt a slight tremor in the ground behind him. He turned sharply, aiming his gun at the spot. About three meters away stood a dark-haired girl with a guitar slung over her shoulder. Only after a few minutes, when he was sure she posed no greater threat, did he notice that her hands were covered in blood. Crimson drops ran down her palms, down her fingernails, soaking into the ground. She couldn't see him. Her eyes, seemingly gleaming, gaped into a terrifying, black abyss. She sat down under a tree and began playing a melody. He tried to identify the piece. It reminded him of Mozart's "Requiem." Her wounded fingers slid deftly over the metal strings.

Suddenly, she stopped. She pulled a bottle of cheap liqueur from her worn backpack. She took a casual sip, then lit a cigarette. She raised her head and closed her eyes. He watched her. This strange girl carried the distinct scent of garou. She wasn't tainted. He wondered about the wounds on her arms. Where could they have come from? They were fresh, so it must have been recent. But he didn't hear any sounds of fighting. Evenly distributed. Three on each forearm. He tried to take in her entire figure. He noticed a bloody, silver klaive. So she was self-harming, but why? He found himself intrigued by this unknown garou. She was certainly not typical. The girl continued to stare toward the lake. She either didn't notice him or didn't want to see him. She was more occupied with emptying the bottle.

He looked at her, then at the spot where her empty eyes were fixed. At first, he thought it was just clouds dancing in the sky. But after a long moment, he saw a faint, hazy star. A howl, long, painful, and drawn out from the girl's lips. He felt a vague pang in his heart. That sound, so long forgotten... He brazenly watched her do it, as if reveling in her pain. As if filling himself with it. She stopped howling. She looked at him. Her eyes were no longer clouded. They were bright and clear.

"You enjoy watching others suffer," she said into the air, but he knew it was directed at him.

"You're disturbing my peace. Get out of here!" he replied without looking away.

For a brief moment, a spark blurred their gazes. The girl ignored his words completely. The gray-haired man felt anger rising within him. He stood and began his path. He didn't even notice his klaive slipping from his belt and falling to the ground. She would have run to pick it up. She didn't know why. An impulse, a semblance of purpose. Sensing movement, he immediately transformed into a lupus and hid among the trees.

"Your klaive," she shouted as he disappeared into the darkness.

He stopped by a tree. "Perhaps she will leave. Then he will take the knife." He didn't want to look into those strange eyes. She reminded him of someone. She nodded and threw herself into the darkness.

"I am Sorrow, you will find me and claim what is yours. Search by the scent of blood..." She smiled to herself; finally, something was happening in her world. Full of decay and stagnation. A semblance of purpose...

As she was leaving, he stood before her in the form of a black-and-gray lupus. He growled. The girl bared even, white teeth in a parody of a smile. She held his knife in her hand. It cut the skin on her hand, creating another scar on her left forearm. He wondered if Sorrow felt physical pain at all. He took on his homid form again.

"Give it back!" he growled.

"Why?

" "If you're looking for death, you've come to the right place. Here you'll get it quickly and painfully." His words were as cold as ice.

"Maybe..." She still held the knife in her hand.

"Are you that strong or that stupid?" he asked sarcastically, a little surprised by her utter indifference.

"That depends on your perspective," Sorrow replied calmly.

"You wanted...

" "And what good will it do you?" She smiled, lightly touching the blade to the cut.

After a moment, she felt the impact. She fell over, landing on her back. He held her hands and, sitting on her hips, pinned her legs. There was no fear in the girl's eyes. Perhaps only some imperceptible spark of hope. A strange peace. Hazel brown flooded his mind. The color of her eyes. After a few seconds, he awoke. Too many memories...

"Feel better?" she asked sarcastically.

"Shut up. Be glad I didn't blow your head off." He released her and took the clavicle from her hand.

"Maybe I should have," she said to herself, and after a moment decided, "Nemesis—taedium vitae

." He remained silent.

"Fine," she stood up, brushing the sand off her.

She walked over to him and ran a bloody finger down his cheek. He looked at her pale smile with hatred. Sarcasm radiated from her like evil and destruction from the Viper.

"People like you should die," he muttered.

"I know." She lit a cigarette, adjusted her guitar on her shoulder, and began walking away down the path, toward the city.

He aimed his gun at her head. He held her at gunpoint for quite a while. Sorrow knew this perfectly well. In response, she only laughed bitterly. He was left alone on the road. For a moment, he wondered how she knew who he was. She wasn't afraid of him. He suspected she might be mad. But even madmen don't behave like that. Sorrow... A name completely unsuitable for Galiard. And he had no doubt that she was one. He touched his cheek. A bloody stain drawn just like that... A sweetish scent... Crimson color... Nut brown...