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The official blog of the North American chapter of Were-Creatures Anonymous. We meet every Sunday evening at 7pm Central time. All Friends of Lon are welcome to share fellowship, stories, and non-sanguinary beverages. Smoking is permitted. Biting your fellow WCA members is not.
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QUESTION OF THE MONTH: Ah, Spring, when a young were-creature's fancy turns to thoughts of:
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Curse of the Were-Weasel is an experiment in collaborative, interactive, online fiction. Through this blog we are telling a multi-threaded and constantly evolving story in weekly installments. Readers are invited to participate by playing the roles of members of the ALPS (Acquired Lycanthropic Polymorphism Syndrome) support group."Curse of the Were-Weasel", "Were-Creatures Anonymous", and "Friends of Lon" are trademarks of Rampant Loon Media LLC. All posts are the copyrighted property of their respective authors.
3 comments:
~snuffling through garbage cans~
Boy, slim pickins here. *sigh*
~Looks nervously over left shoulder~
Gotta keep moving, sure wish my scent wasn't so blatant. Man, I'm hungry..
~shuffles off~
~writhing & rocking~
Ah, the shakes, um, I hope I don't swallow my tongue this time.
~racked with pain, transforming back and forth randomly, rapidly~
Oh God, please - make - it - stop. Aawww..
~passes out in his own vomit~
release
~Consciousness returned like a bubble to the surface~
"Where am I?" the exhausted were-bear asked the lady with the drawn face.
With a cool cloth to his forehead, she replied, "We found you in a bad way in an alley in town. You were transforming randomly, rapidly.."
"And howling your fool head off," chortled an all-together-unpleasant gnome seated on a stool at the end of his bed.
Reality, painful with the shards of a titanic headache and racking pangs of hunger, began to assert itself onto his mind, "Why did you rescue me?"
Fixing a chilling eye upon the weakened unfortunate the gnome drolled, "O, we have our reasons, of that you can be assured."
"Ssh," scolded the woman, "You're not helping." Then, as if deliberating, "Go fetch the medicinal broth, be quick about it."
As the gnome scurried out of the room under the displeasure of his mistress, she had already returned her attention to her pitiful guest, "Rest, friend, Spatbine will be back with a healing consommé momentarily."
Sensing *what?* danger? aid? the wrung-out man couldn't form a clear thought, let alone rise. He sunk down into his pillow and passed out again before his bowl arrived.
"I told you we should've just left him to the Dark Lifers," smacked Spatbine on the last of the bowl intended for the anonymous unconscious guest. "Mistress, why not just return him to the alley? Or anyplace else for that matter. He's clearly not howling now. Let's be done with him." And with a wink and sly smile, "No harm no foul, eh?"
Like a cold wind flung from a Canadian glacier the gaunt woman pierced Spatbine with a hiss, "Dismissed."
Insensate, the were-bear snored.
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