Crimson Fog (Part 2)

The water's dried up, trees broken and dead, the pleasant scent of decay permeates from everywhere, sinking into the pores of my nose, burning away any other smell. I watch my pack... I guess twist is the best word, backs hunching more as they try to become upright. Front legs elongate, paws dragging on the ground. Hair falling out in clumps, the patches left growing longer, all ragged and nappy, almost like dreadlocks. Ears wilt, snouts shorten and widen sprouting more teeth than can naturally fit. They make the mistake of thinking they rule the pack now, wrong. I pick the one I had given her and rake my claws across the gut, spilling intestines and gore on the dead ground, then while it lays there wailing I dip my hand within it and use its blood to draw a pentical on the soil around it, sacrificing it, to lock myself in a darker state, my old self, the best part of me. As the ritual finishes I howl blood red rage at the moon, turning the fog crimson as it thickens to engulf the unfortunate.