#*lucian

A rare smile lit across Tomasz Figiel's face as Damian's older sister, Ariadne, sat beside him. By his father's side, there was a cooling cup of Lavender tea with scented, soft swirls of heat rising from the rim. The floral scent permeated the room, reminding Damian of how things always were. Damian was often exposed to the scent. Sometimes his mother's tea was the only thing the old man could stomach. 

Instead of the strength the eldest male Figiel had gained from the full moon, Damian often saw a sagging, tired, wrinkled old face as he passed by his father's bedroom door. It was only on full moons that Damian was reminded of what his father truly used to be. He was reminded of what he saw through a fifteen year old's eyes. The last of his father's strength and a wolf that was once feared and revered. 

He had been reminded many times that they were the last living descendants of the original Varkolaks. And that their blood was a precious commodity that had been drying up for years, shrivelling into a nothingness that Damian carried through his veins. Damian had never feared spilling his own blood, neither had his father, nor his grandfather. The Figiels had done what was deemed necessary for years and refused to bite their lips to hold back the wails of their own suffering. Complaining did nothing for character; this was simply what it meant to be born into that name.

Damian had been shown both earned and unearned respect for years. There was that that his name brought upon himself and what he had given to himself in the dark corners of his mind and the twenty years he had been alive. It didn't matter to him whether he believed he earned that admiration or from whom it had come from. Sacrifice was pain and he had not given any offerings. He certainly hadn't acquiescent the loss of his father. There was nothing divine in the stars for Damian Figiel, his three sisters and his mother and his ailing father. The only feeling that suffused him as he looked upon his father (who strained one smile after another and filled himself with joy that had been long forgotten) was utter and absolute spite.

Damian thought of Theon Bellanger who had been the one to take him on hunt on his eighteenth birthday. The one that had been meant for father and son time, solely. He had been filled with brothers, mentors and almost-fathers, but there was nothing that could caulk the void that had been left by the ghost of a father who left new memories and scars daily.

Ariadne was content to stay by his side, to fool herself into a health that would deteriorate just as easily as it appeared, but Damian was not. He could feel the moon beneath his skin like a second beast that longed to be free and holler into the darkened and starred sky. Damian would not wait to watch another downfall. He would not watch how rapture vanished and agony carved itself onto his father's aged mug. 

Turning himself from his family home, Damian's feet pushed himself far off of the the back porch into the tree brush. He leapt, the air singing through his ears as his bones shifted beneath his skin in a deliciously familiar manner. He was coming undone and it was unadulterated ecstasy. His hands and feet became paws, nose becoming snout, and his mouth filled itself with sharp teeth that longed for the satisfaction of blood and meat. His clothing shred itself behind him, leaving grey and blue fabric littering the ground. With the moon high in the atmosphere, he longed to feel the dirt underneath his paws and to rush in full speed with nothing to stop him.

No one, not even his father, could take away the moon from him.