some hippie werewolf stuff

Sometimes I run the forests at night.

While the sept sleeps, I slink down on four legs, and disappear into the wood. The wolf feels the forest run through its veins, and effortlessly weaves between the towering cedars and undergrowth. The eyes only see what they need to, the bare minimum. But the scents tell such a story. The thick humidity and sharp smell of the trees. My packmates, who may have come through here days ago, but to my nose it's as if they're right next to me. A family of deer, the scent of prey that certainly gets the wolf's attention.
But that isn't what I'm looking for.

I keep moving, until I can no longer smell a single other Garou. I now stand on the shore of a lake, my paws sinking slightly into the damp ground. It's time to change once more, and slowly the scent of freshwater and animals fades into the back of my mind as the priority of my senses shifts, replaced by that exquisite human vision. Ah, yes. This is what I wanted.

Here is something increasingly rare in our modern world. Somewhere completely untouched by unnatural light. Hundreds, thousands, millions of stars are cast above my head, only broken by the cloudy streak of the Milky Way. The mountains stand against the sky, black monoliths with only the barest hint of texture from the trees in the dim starlight. Luna shines down, only a thin sliver in the sky but I can certainly feel her presence, blessing this moment. The waves rippling along the lake add their gentle cadence. The wind brushes my human skin, cool but carrying the unmistakable air of summer.

I don't know how or where the war will end. I don't think anyone does. But I come here to remind myself of what I fight to protect. Not just for myself, but in hope that no one will ever lose these places, these moments, this sacred connection to the world.

If that means I have to die to make that happen, so be it.