The House of Wolves

Whispers of War

Before his eyes could process, before his ears could catch the spilling, before he could feel the liquid as it distorted his solid world, he smelt the blood.

Like copper from deep under the ground. It was familiar to him, for most coppers he had seen came dyed in crimson. Crimson, the color of revenge. Only he had yet to feel such a sensation.

Like an arrow it emerged from the depths and struck his soul, penetrating it with a smell reserved for coins. He liked copper, for it gave him power over the rats and the dark things. Not as much power as gold, but gold burned. It held a desirable yet insatiable luster, but not one which could be grasped yet. No, for now he would settle for copper. Intermingled with the coin's complexion was satisfaction, but not enough to be called nourishment. He hated that word, for words had power over the hearts of man, and a word like 'nourishment' was especially dangerous. So were all the other words engraved into gold, for they could not be bound to the