Chimera Fields long intervals of horrible sanity

“Cypress…is that you?”

The sulphureous-eyed wolf started violently at the sound of his name being uttered by that impossibly familiar voice, his wild fur made wilder by the virulent hackles that stretched skyward like the hands of so many dying men on a battlefield. Air seethed into his lungs with a gasp virtually agonal, and his sides heaved with the force of it — the haggard rattle that burst from his jaws emerged in an unearthly, guttural groan: “Stop — ” he begged, weary legs buckling. Cypress’ surefooted paws were his saving grace as he veered violently to the side, catching himself at the last possible second to stand like a poor parody of a sawhorse. Breathing raggedly, he squeezed his eyes shut. “Not real,” he muttered to himself. “Not real.” Turning his head obliquely, the tortured raven cracked open his eyes — but the turquoise-eyed wolf with the familiar grayscale pelt remained. “Noch?” came his hoarse, ragged whisper, and he cast his gaze to the field that was devoid of phantom corpses. The thought that his beloved littermate was not dead was one Cypress found himself completely incapable of entertaining, despite the evidence: both wolves were taller, now evenly matched in height though not by breadth; there was a maturity in the salt-crusted Frostfur’s lengthy muzzle and legs that matched Cypress’ own; and there was hardship too written in the way the gray bear handled himself. “Rannoch?” repeated the youth uncertainly.

It could not be Rannoch.

It could only be Rannoch.

It was in this moment that the comfortable acrylic casing of shock shattered fully, and Cypress saw the world around him in sharp relief — all the anger and hurt he’d been suppressing broke over him in waves that blurred his vision, and suddenly he was running, for all he was worth —

In a matter of seconds he closed the distance between himself and the wolf who could not possibly be Rannoch and leapt with fangs bared, his execution sloppy as he sought to bury his teeth into the apparition. A terrible roar razed the air, the keening wail of a funeral dirge at its back, in tandem with his frantic, desperate lunge. He was a crazed beast in that moment, his snapping jaws relentless but poorly aimed, and the long weeks of diminished appetite revealed themselves in the lack of muscle mass that cut his body into sharp angles and jutting crests of bone.