93. The Hound of Hircine

93. The Hound of Hircine

For I am a hound of Hircine, scourge of the mortal plane,
I breathe to hunt and ravage; the warm blooded are my prey.
I hide amidst your flock and herd, live beside you through your day,
Till the horn calls out the beast within, and I suffer Hircine’s change.

I endure my each bone snapping, before setting shaped anew,
My skin ripping as it stretches over fresh tendon and raw sinew.
My blood curdles into syrup, and my hair thickens into fur,
My teeth swell into glorious fangs, and nails flourish into claw.

Once final pain doth taper, and my shriek turns into howl,
A perpetual hunger rise within, and I’ll soon begin my prowl.
My tongue shall be painted crimson, and claret mat my fur,
I crave only now the hunt begin, for man meat and blood of mer.

I’ll hunt for you up mountainside, cross crag and rocky bluff,
I’ll achieve every peak and summit; your fear shall raise me up.
I’ll hunt for you down valleys deep, and across greenest glen and vale,
Cross ravine, and barren desert, I’ll pursue your dusty trail.

I’ll hunt for you across heath and moor, wade deep through every fen,
I’ll hunt you through the polar freeze, my pursuit will never end.
I’ll hunt you though sweltering tropics, suffering jungles humid flush,
O’er creeping vine and tangled root, clambering nature’s underbrush.

I’ll be just like your shadow, haunting every step you take,
There’s no escape when the hunters mark is the fear that you secrete.
For whether rich or poor, king or peasant, you are nought to me but prey,
For I am a hound of Hircine, the scourge of the mortal plane.

S.K

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