The Bothe-Napa Valley State Park was in its off-season, but the temperatures in California never actually made the wilderness uncomfortable.

The area had been spared by the fires and was a nice retreat for students looking to make the time. Some of the Freshmen didn't bother waiting for the long weekend, classes trickling out in favour of cheaper flights and impatient minds. Garrett's investment in Kine connections paid off with an eager invite to the camping trip. A few of the students who thought they were his friends chuckled a bit at the foreign trust-fund kid roughing it in expensive cars and luxury tents. Quality weed and exotic booze; Prosper always provided. He treated his food with respect, and the second hand chemicals that came with the rush of liquid sex was nothing to scoff at.

The Savage had picked the site, having scouted it weeks in advance to know the entire layout like the back of his hand. A wild refuge for the unforgiving sun and a thick, hidden copse to ditch the car come morning. Walter Lang was indeed too much of a puss actually spend the night in the muck.

Garrett plays his game throughout the evening, locking the Coil as his sharp tongue is met with hard, drunken shoves; vulnerable moments leaning on each other was they whispered in the shadows; the bonfire flaring dangerously as the Kine throws a chemical in the pit, just to test the flame. The Savage walks the edge with his Beast as the hunger builds, beating it back to affirm his control. It is a moment of delicious pride that the trials of the Change had all been worth it.

With the height of revelry, Walter is exceptionally sober as he ducks back to his car, earning a ripple of laughter as the suggestion of a morning polar swim is countered with the dare of an evening skinny dip. They holler at their friend in disappointment as he drives off, with promises to return for the next round. The party is left to flood the forest with the pollution of sound, smoke and vomit.

Distance established well off the beaten track, the lights of the vehicle are switched off. Garrett covers the impressive carriage with brush, humming to himself as his eyes flash red in the pitch black of the evening. He changes; earth tones to meld with the environment, as black casts a distinct silhouette to the trained eye. The hunting rifle is left in the valet safe.

The Savage stalks along the periphery of the campground, stepping softly with years of training frozen in a pallid corpse. These moments of embracing his cursed condition were private, the line of separation of his humanity as clear as the moonlit stones signalling the edge of civilization. The hunting ground was his design, with vehicles and amnesties a winding walk away from the light and shelter—steep ledges and missing poles. A feral growl rumbles from its chest: it was only a matter of time before one stumbles away from the herd.

The Beast is loud and bright,

Es macht Spaß, wenn sie laufen.