God's own blood burning through mortal veins.
Teeth hard as stone and sharp as spear tips snap. A great gaping maw snarls death's invitation. There is no mercy or quarter in the hound's eyes, and this is but one way in which we are the same.
"I am here at the behest of the King."
But this mountain of muscle, fang, and claw would not give passage to the mightiest of men, let alone to a boy as small as I.
Still, even now I am mightier than most men.
Eyes full of hate; straining sinews; a body taught to tear men asunder. Springing forward heavy paws dig into my shoulders, jaws snap at the air where this young child's head should be.
Blood boils. Steam rises.
Preternatural strength contorts muscles, spine snaps, shifting; I am somewhere between wolfhound and man. Hand balled tight around the sliotar shoving, unstoppable, greased with slobber, down the dog's gullet. Not even those wet choking sounds that announce certain death can stay this rage. The beast will die and die and die again. The writhing body breaks apart between me and the standing stone.
The skies open, and cold torrents of divine blood stay the wrath of gods beating in my heart. Poor Culann weeps harder still than the sky and I swear to stand guard where his beloved hound once stood until the day I have reared its equal.
Before I am through many mothers will mourn; and the mighty will fear until carrion birds pick at my corpse.
The wise?
The wise will continue to fear.
For many are my sons and daughters, each like that solitary stone at Knockbridge. Their blood burns like a prayer, finding my ears even before that last blade finds my throat. Howls through time, ríastrad answering ríastrad.
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