I tried to sell my soul last night.
Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
Fuck!
It’s the first thought in his mind when his eyes snap open. The first word that spews from new lips when realization dawns. “Not fucking again,” he grumbles in a low pitched voice as he jerks upright. A voice he barely recognizes. A child’s voice.
Sure enough, as he glances down, back, it is not his body that greets him. Or rather, his body, but too fucking new! God damn, this was getting fucking ridiculous. He couldn’t believe it. Again. Bloody fucking again!
A low growl (or rather, a childish keening that should have been a growl) escapes his throat as he makes his first attempt to scramble to new feet. New feet that struggle to support his weight. A few more stumbling attempts and he has made it. A suddenly youthful body propped upon four spindly legs. The scruffy, dull black of his coat stands in stark contrast to the formerly pale hue, reminding him constantly of his state. Of his bloody fucking curse.
Every time, every damn time, a new body. Or rather, his body reverted to its once youthful state. It doesn’t feel like his, though he should damn well recognize it by now. Fresh and new, no scars or markings, nothing to tell of what had occurred during this last round.
He hates being a child. Hates it. So fucking useless.
With a sigh, he stumbles forward, heaving his young body into a tree, a solid trunk that easily supports his slight weight. With a scowl upon his dark lips (somehow entirely adorable rather than thoroughly menacing as it should be), he glances about the small clearing, attempting to discern his whereabouts. After a few moments of fruitless searching, memory slowly begins trickling back in.
Beqanna. He’s in Beqanna. Again.
Well, fuck.
