World of Darkness World of Darkness: Attrition - Drunk Since Sunday [Complete]

[z-Shane O'Neally]

The great wolf lay on his side, dead to all visual senses until an ear twitched or his side heaved in a great sigh. The spirits of the Hisil gave it wide berth, despite the lack of concern the uratha was giving his atmosphere. Normally, that was sure death to one of the forsaken children of Luna in the spirit world. But several spirits, large and strong despite the weird wavering of their bodies, glared menacingly at any spirits who dared to come to close to the great wolf.

He was called Drunk Since Sunday by the spirits and so that was his deed name. The wolf wasn’t sober enough to realize he had a deed name. Any time he started to come out of his stupor, a touch from one of the alcohol spirits put Drunk right back under the haze of intoxication. He was their meal-ticket, their perpetual source of spiritual sustenance. The spirits had only had food like this once before, when the overpass in the other world had become home to alcoholic vagrants. They had been strong in that time. Drunk was feeding them better than that time, and they were loath to lose him, either to himself or others.

The werewolf heaved himself to his feet, swaying a bit. The spirits hovered close, worried until they heard his stomach growl. Though he swayed and wove an zigzag across the Hisil, the wolf was hungry enough to go seeking water and food. The alcohol spirits followed closely, their eyes sharp where his was bleary. He didn’t spot the squirrel-spirit; they did. He didn’t catch it, not until they hounded it until it was out of essence and exhausted. He ate in several quick bites before staggering over to the nearby source of water. Then it was back to the spiritual representation of the overpass where the alcohol spirits crowded close.

The werewolf slipped back into the bliss of oblivion with a relieved sigh; memories had already started to haunt him – that and the ghost. She hounded him all the time, but being a wolf and being drunk both helped to keep her at bay.

If only he were stronger.

The thought, the only truly coherent one in his head, taunted him as he sank into himself. If only he’d been strong enough to survive her death. If only he’d been strong enough to survive her ghost. He had things worth living for – a sister, he vaguely remembered that. There were other women, too. He’d met one at a grocery store and she’d wanted to help him.

But somehow, he’d gotten into the hisil and then he found peace here. It was easier to die in slow pieces here, than to get up and fight. So much easier, and so Shane O’Neally slept and dreamed of a better past.