Heed my Words, Youngblood...
I've came to know a few truths over the last two years. My dreams are haunted by the name "Moon Child." My sleep becomes rather erratic on each full moon, complete with fits of fevers and nausea. I don't actually change into a wolven creature....or do I? What form I take in mortal eyes may be different in my own mind. Even still, I am plagued by feelings that belong to more an humanoid wolf than an actual person.
Every month I dread its approach. My restlessness increases, and I'm forced to take to this diary to record my emotions. My desire to feed on flesh becomes great, and my countenance takes on a dark shade. This isn't the life a mortal is supposed to truly live. This is a pale-blood nightmare, and I want to scream in furious agony.
What will become of me in future years? Will I ever come to accept and cope with my curse? Am I doomed to become a mindless animal for a brief period each cycle? This is what my spirit has changed into, a transformation of both mind and body. The desire to hunt is great, and I hate what mocks my noble cause. My weapons are derived from arcane nature, not foreign to my crazed state. Is this reality, or merely just a waking dream?
My writing has become more fervent. Little regard rests in my prey. There is no tolerance for man who becomes beast, and I seek to prove my immortality as I continue to drift. If I sleep through the day, wake me in the night, and make sure to tell me my task. There is no limit to my ferocity. Death is what makes my evil blood boil.
This is a mindless incarnation of my former beliefs. What fanaticism I've done for the church has taken on a new, demonic form. The bells toll for my blade as I cleanse the streets of my past abode. My masters attempted to tell me to go back. No, no, I didn't listen. Why would I? They were fools for trusting their inhibitions.
What message I pass onto what readers that I may is one of....hope. Yes, hope. Don't become what I am. Turn back. You won't get what you want. You'll be damned, and voracious, clinically demented. This isn't a play or a novel, not even a horror story. This is a grim form of existence that belongs to those who are forced to walk each night. Not for one second in these last two years have I felt any sort of comfort. Joy is a momentarily accompaniment to slaughter. When humans become beasts you'll fully know the true nature of this pandemic. They'll twist your heart into despair and you'll transform into something just like me. It's pointless to fight it. Prayers are beyond your capacity now. You're like me, condemned to roam this ghastly plane forever.
As I close off my diary I'll attempt to give you the coded meaning to my scribbles. He didn't want us to be happy. The God prayed for other Gods to control us. It was through our separation from the heavens that our Lord truly took pleasure. We'll never go back, nor care to. We will hunt our own, and drink their blood. Our pride is a greater asset than our strength. Hunter's don't fear anything...except themselves. One slip down the rabbit hole will lead you to a den of wolves. Take your sedative, and relax, young hunter, you have forever. Why rush your perdition? The afterlife was too good for you but it's only suiting for our foes.
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