Game 3Game 3 Outline| Game 3 |
Game 3 Outline |
"Well, THAT didn't go as I planned," you say to yourself as you dust broken glass out of your fur. Looking up from where you landed, the window from which you were forcefully ejected only moments before looms as a dark, baroque-arched void in the solid stone castle walls. It's only fifty or so feet from the ground; it could have been a lot higher, you console yourself. As is you can limp away with a twisted ankle and minor scrapes and bruises. Thank Gaia for toughness of body.
The funny thing is, you don't remember shifting. Granted, you are and always have been one of the Nuwisha, the Were-Coyote, and are prone to getting the snot kicked out of you when you let a prank get out of hand (and fail to make your dramatic exit quickly enough). But, normally, you remember that point of warm-and-tingly (i.e., fiercely burning) pain and disorientation that comes with the shift. This time, it seems, you didn't get to experience that moment of bliss, for whatever reason. Maybe you blacked out? It's not like you remember the impact, either, so that must be it. Right. Of course.
"Well," you say to your perpetual imaginary audience, "time to get this show on the road." You force yourself back into your human mask, snap a picture of the broken window, and dust off your shredded khakis, fully intending to go back inside to sate your curiousity. That, and it's starting to drizzle; the rain plays heck with your hackles, and if you have to go back to "whoop-butt" mode, you'd rather do it inside where it's dry, if not warm.
You consider it a good sign that you recognize the castle - you could have just as easily wound up in Bavaria as Japan, or worse, someplace much more unfriendly to Americans. Another good sign, you think to yourself, is that the massive front door stands ajar. When you get inside, you conveniently find a beautiful antique brass candelabra, complete with four white candles, burning brightly on a nearby table. Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you realize just what your claws did to your $80 Vans sneakers.
"Aw, man. Tough break. Ah well, it's not like I can't afford some new boots after this job, eh?" You stifle a giggle as you pull off the tattered sneaks, leaving them on the table. Better to come back for them, in case you have to change again.
Just as you yank the second one off, a nearby door suddenly explodes into the hall, splinters bouncing wildly off the plush carpet and fine tapestry. Through this shattered portal steps a massive, bloodied Wedigo werewolf, a huge maul clutched tightly in clawed fists!
"Um, right..." You begin to wonder to yourself what the HECK is going on, two mental steps after deciding on flight rather than fight. Dashing down the hallway, shifting as you go, you find an open door and dart through it. Slamming it shut, you brace it with a handy end-table as your mind races.
"NOW what do I do!?"
Written by Eriol
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