Cort was once again walking to get his mind off of his newfound wolfishness. It wasn't working the way he wanted it to, as it seems the extra bits, compensations and whatnot for being a werewolf, were starting to kick in.

He was seeing the world in a whole new way. Though seeing wasn't such a good word for it.

Cort's sense of smell had gone into overdrive. He imagined this is what it was like for a dog -- or a wolf -- to experience the world. Cort's eyesight had always been bad, but it seemed like he had been totally blind, to use an old cliché. The world was alive with different smells, each more distinctive than any visible attributes could be.

If this was being a werewolf, maybe it wasn't so bad... No. No, it was bad, because they killed people. He hoped he hadn't yet, and wondered when he would know.

He took a deep breath, brining the entire park into his nose. It was wonderful.

((Blar. Reserved for teh Jacko.))

A strange new smell.

It's unlike the lush green life of the park-- unlike the musk and heat of warm-blooded mammals. Unlike even the rocks and soil, the dead bones and dry skin flakes of sullen Mother Earth. It's formaldehyde without the chemical tang, myrrh without the must and incense, snow and ice without the water. It refuses to be pinned down, like a butterfly made of smoke, annoying the collector to no end. It's age and power, and has nothing to do with what's natural.

It is, of course, Azrael.

To the eyes, he seems human enough-- sure, rather more pale and skinny than is normal, but not so much that a person would exclaim. His tall form is leant against a tree that never recovered from its winter slumber-- its bare brances seem almost obscene amidst the vibrant green leaves of its fellows. The god beneath it is dressed in snowy white-- a loose cotton dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of white cotton bottoms loose enough to be pyjamas. His feet are bare, and the grass beneath them is dry and dead, as if touched by a late frost.

His eyes are closed.

For all intents and purposes, he seems to be enjoying the summer weather.

This strange new smell put in mind a certain voice. A certain look. Cort was at first amazed he could pinpoint it so quickly, and then were apprehensive as to what he was doing here. Did he want Cort? Or maybe he was here because of Cort? Following his nose, the young werewolf made his way to the god.

"You," he said. It wasn't an accusation, a question, or anything. A statement. There he was, I was right. He was sure the god had some ulterior motive.

The god's eyes open, and he gazes at Cort for a moment. I'm sure by now we all get the idea that his eyes are white, flat, and tend to be unnerving.

He closes them.

"Hello, Cort. You're looking well."

And what's that supposed to mean?

Opening his eyes again, the god takes a few steps forwards, leaving footprints of dead grass behind him. He seems to be inspecting Cort-- an impression only enhanced when he walks a circle around the mortal.

He doesn't comment further-- not right away.

Following the god with his gaze, Cort wasn't sure what to say. Did he sound disappointed that he was looking well? Was he being sarcastic? Anything could be possible with this one.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, not entirely sarcastic himself. If there was, Az would be sure to see it.

"Not at all," the god says, pausing full-circle in front of Cort and smiling.

"I see those wounds you gained last full moon healed nicely. That's good. Your oponent, though crippled, was quite nimble with his blade."

He folds his hands behind his back and nods.

"Then again, I'm sure you'll find your healing powers satisfactory."

Az was met with a blank look.

"Come again?"

First on his mind was the healing powers. Cautiously, he poked at the spot where he had been wounded on his side. No pain, no nothing. He checked his arm, and again, it didn't feel like there was a wound. He'd make certain later.

Then came the other part.

"What do you mean, my opponent?" He was in a fight? On a full moon?

"Well..." Azrael pauses to consider this.

"Perhaps I should say your prey, but he certainly put up a spirited fight, for prey. Humanity's like that."

The god shrugs, as if it were of little importance.

Blinking in disbelief, Cort tried to focus on the god.

"You mean I... I killed someone?"

This was just what Cort didn't want.

A grin spreads across the god's face like frost on a glass window.

Only more humoured.

"Oh, that's right..." he says, as if just remembering something. Maybe he is. "The wolf mind doesn't speak to the human mind. You don't remember."

He steps forward, the summer heat stripping away in his magically air-conditioned personal space.

"Would you like to?"

The chill was a slight shock. Cort sucked his breath in, half in thought and half from the cold.

After deliberating for a short while, he nodded. "Yes." If he killed someone, he might as well know about it. Or something.

The grin flashes wider.

"Oh, goodie," he says, and in an instant his dry-ice fingers are gripping Cort's skill, sinking like freezing smoke through his skin to dip sharp fingernails into brain tissue.

Memories flood in like an electric shock, heavily focused on sense of smell. Blood predominates.

So much blood. That was the most dominant The memories of sight weren't so important. Sure, it was a crippled man, but the smell of him was too much. It was a smell of soap and skin and sweat and blood. The taste of it flooded his mouth, making him gag. What bothered him more about the blood memory was the fact that a small part of his brain enjoyed it.

As the memories unfolded, the man died. Cort -- no, the wolf -- began to eat. Cort put a hand to his mouth, swallowing quickly. It wouldn't do to vomit all over a god.

"...You mean... I did that? This isn't some joke?"

Hands still clasped inside Cort's skull, Azrael grins again.

"Oh no," he says, shaking this head. "This is a joke."

His finger tightens and he leaves Cort with the memory of having rather, ahem, personal relations with Azrael. Obviously this is something he either pulled from the mind of another mortal or created spur of the moment-- either way, it seems a real memory.

As the second memory washed over him, Cort clung to one thought.

It'sajokeIt'sajokeIt'sajokeIt'sajoke...

Moving on swiftly from the obviously uncomfortable joke, Cort asked a question. "Who was it that I killed?" Someone ought to remember him and never forget him. Who better than the one who killed him?

...killed, ate, sure," he says, pulling his fingers from the mortal's skull. They move slowly, as though Cort's flesh and bone were pudding to the god's digits.

"His name was Faxon. He was a teacher. He educated children on how to use their new powers." He led a righteous life, though perhaps not by Azrael's mystefying standards.

"A teacher? I killed a teacher?" And on new powers no less. Did they have substitues for that? Would he have superpowered kids after him to avenge their beloved teacher's death?

"Did he live a... a full life?"

Azrael waves a hand dismissively.

"Oh, I don't know how you mortals judge these things. He didn't want to die, if that's what you mean."

The god slips a hand into his pants pocket and pulls it out holding what appears to be a small, glowing ball of white light, hovering just above his palm. He juggles it from hand to hand, though it never touches skin.

"So I decided to keep him around."

"Oh god," Cort whispered, backing up. "That's him?"

He couldn't take his eyes off of it. Where it went, so did Cort's eyes. "Why don't you just let him move on?"

Oh God, indeed.

Death continues juggling, light-heartedly.

"Move on? Oh, why should I. He didn't want to die in the first place. I'm sure I can find something useful for him to do.'

He tosses the small, mistily glowing phere in the air and then, backing up, catches it again. It seems almost like he was about to drop it.

Jerking forward, ready to catch it, Cort sighed in relief as the god caught it. He wasn't sure he would have been able to hold onto it anyway.

"Useful? Like what, teaching spirits in the afterlife to use their powers?"

"Oh, but he's not going to the afterlife, is he?"

Azrael grins at Cort and holds the little sphere out.

"Would you like it? You could put it in a jar on your shelf and use it as a nightlight."

How... morbid. Then again, this is Death.

"Ugh," Cort replied. "No."

He watched the light -- it's a soul -- still unable to keep his eyes off of it. "Where's he going then?"

"Mmm, oh, nowhere. He's staying right here."

Azrael shrugs at Cort's rejection of his offer, and pockets the soul, pausing before dropping it in completely.

"Sure you don't want it?"

"Positive," he replied, not caring if that made him a fool.

Now, though, he wasn't sure what to do. His mouth, however, had an idea.

"Who did this to me?"

Azrael was a god. He was sure to know.

"Did... oh, you mean who put the bite on you? Which unfortunate soul passed the curse to you instead of killing and eating you, like you did to Faxon here?" He pats his pocket, then shrugs.

"Why do you care?"

Cort was at a loss for words. Why did he care? Was he going to go after him? Hurt him? No, that was what he was trying not to do.

"I dunno. Just to know?"

Azrael nods.

"Very well. His name is Morgan Walker. He's 23. He has no more control over the wolf than you."

At this, the god winks.

"Arg, don't remind me," Cort muttered. He hated the fact that he would do gods know what once a month. It was worse than getting drunk.

"Morgan Walker? I don't even know him..." As if that had anything to do with it.

"No, but you may get to. Werewolves tend to have one of two reactions: fight each other for territory, or form a pack."

Azrael smiles.

"The animal instincts may even be strong enough to govern you when you're human."

On reflex, Cort's hand went to his hand. What odd reflex this was, he wasn't sure, but he was afraid of the animal in there. Would he flip out and bite someone if they invaded his territory?

Maybe he should barricade himself in his room. "So, this smell thing I have now is part of the werewolf?"

Azrael nods.

"The wolf will never fully go away. You'll find yourself stronger, faster, able to smell better. Perhaps your taste in food will change-- perhaps the way you deal with others. The change is different for all, depending on the person as well as the type of werewolf that bit them. You'll heal faster, except to silver wounds. Silver can kill you."

Cort nodded, remebering the silver burn he had received in the bookstore. It was still there, wrapped up. It was odd, trying to find comfort in Death.

"But... isn't there any way to stop turning into a werewolf?"

"Oh, of course there is!"

It's easy to find hope, for a moment, in his broad and honest grin.

"Die, and the change stops. Remember to use silver, though."

Of course suicide doesn't seem so bad to Death.

Cort straightened in surprise and renewed hope, only to sag again in disappointment.

"I don't want to die, though. I have to do this forever?" He thought for a moment. "Wait, how long do werewolves live?"

"Depends on the type."

Azrael grins.

"Maybe you're immortal, isn't that fun?"

"Oh no."

Cort gulped. He didn't want to be immortal, especially if he was going to be killing people for all time.

"Can you tell? I mean, you should know if I was immortal, right?"

"Of course I know." Azrael pats Cort gently on the head, his touch leaving frost in the mortal's hair.

"Really, though, you should enjoy it. You have a lot of advantages over humans, you know."

A hand went to his hair, trying to brush the frost from it and failing. Advantages... maybe it wasn't all bad?

There was something that had been bugging Cort, though.

"Why are you all frosty? You didn't used to be."

Azrael shrugs, and grins.

"Maybe you just didn't notice it before."

Well, there's a blatant evasion.

Under his feat, the circle of dead grass is spreading.