They remembered the moon.

In those brief moments before the old gods most had forgotten stopped dreaming, when the moon fell and the ocean rose in anger, they remembered the moon. Not just that it existed, but what it meant. They remembered the times their dead ancestors danced naked under him in firelight, they remembered his absence on the nights when they felt coldest, and most of all, they remembered how much she loved him. She would not let them forget.

After the fires and crying and screams to the night, there was nothing. Nothing except for one lingering piece of the ocean’s children left floating in the distance that could only be filled by a broken heart.

The knowledge that we are born in a dream, and we die in a dream.

I will certainly miss our world…but at least there are no more werewolves.