Stories are just words without meaning.
#1
OOC: All members of Shadowed Sun welcome. Basically Lubomir's going to tell whoever wishes to listen about his journey from the Old Country. Also, he uses haiku because that is the only form of poetry I can decent write *lame*

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He'd been with the pack for a few days now. Lubomir missed the Old Country. This new land simply did not have the same smells, the same feel of the earth beneath his paws. But he had decided that this new pack, this Shadowed Sun (the title rang poetically melancholic for some reason) had earned enough of his trust to warrant a short telling of his journey. He knew he was an outsider, that somehow these wolves had been connected before, that whatever had happened before had only strengthened a bond. But Lubomir was from the Old Country, he was from lands of cold long winter nights and scarce prey. He was had been a storyteller and this was what he wished to employ here. His skill to entertain. He'd shifted earlier in the day and now stood tall, leaning against a tree. He looked healthier than when he'd arrived.




He'd left notes around the territory, in long, flowing handwriting. It was a rather strange poem, a haiku, a Japanese form of verse he'd picked up from a travelling scholar. It read: Shadows on the sun/For many moons I've travelled./Tale of a journey and Lubomir had managed to scrounge a piece of coal and something which may have once been paper from a cave. It was not much and it would certainly mean that, if he wished to regain a position to the one in Dawn Valley, he would have to find the necessary resources. Lubomir smiled to himself and patiently waited for anyone interested.


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#2
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Hope you don't mind if I jump on in =P It sounds like they come from similar places.

Shifted again, with all of his effects at his waiste, Skoll approached the scent of the pack's newest member. Eight feet tall and scarred from head to toe, solemn in appearance, he didn't look one to enjoy stories. The truth, was, though, that he lived and breathed them. They were...not more precious to him than his fighting career per se, which gave him purpose and discipline and usefulness...but it was without a doubt a healthy portion of his soul, and something that he knew he would never have come this far without. Following stories was what had brougt him here, running after tales of his lost ancestor, what had taken him away from his original home, which--though he didn't know this--was similar to where this wolf had come from.


"Hello, Lubomir," he said calmly. He couldn't read the signs that the other wolf had left, he still wasn't very good at reading, though he hoped to learn soon, now that he knew he was in a pack with at least one wolf that he knew could do so. He did remember that Lubomir had claimed himself a bard, which meant that he would have stories to share. Skoll had many stories as well, a life time of accrued tales, and he remembered most of them perfectly. "I hear you tell stories?"

~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#3
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OOC: Where exactly is Skoll from? And sorry for the delay >_>




In this form, Lubomir was still not as impressive as Skoll. In fact, it made him feel a bit inferior, though he was sure that the other male had no intention to make him feel that way. Standing only at seven feet six inches, he bore none of the marks that Skoll did. In fact, his body was skinny and his fur matted in places. It wasn't hygiene, it was more the fact that Lubomir had been stressed. Now he could finally unwind. He grinned at Skoll, surprised to see that someone had found his messages. He had no idea that Skoll couldn't read and if he had known, he would have offered to help.




'Hello, Skoll. I trust you have found my attempts at poetry.' His grin widened and it didn't look at all frightening. In fact, it was as friendly as it had been in weeks. 'I do tell stories. As you might have heard, I used to be a Bard. I come from a place called by us Old Country. It is on the Old World, in the place the humans used to call Poland. We did not call it that. It was always Old Country to us. Tell me, Skoll, have you ever travelled that far?' This was the preamble to the story. Just to get his attention. To make him want to hear from. It was an old habit of his. Really, no one wants their audience to fall asleep during a story, do they?



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#4
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There we go. Sorry no one else jumped in.

"I don't know," the yellow wolf answered, unsure of where the place was that humans had called 'Poland'. "I have traveled far, though, yes. My home was a place called StoneTree, a pack that resided in the cold wastes many hundreds of miles north and west of here, where food was always too scarce for large packs like the ones of Bleeding Souls to reside. I left that place almost six years ago, taking a winding path that eventually led me here." Skoll knew little of the world outside of the places he'd been, though he had been to many places in North America. He had never been on a ship, his life had been bound by land from the start; he had been fascinated by the ocean the first time he'd seen it, on a rocky coast north of Inferni. Had he known the true expanse of the world, and understood the locations described to him, he would have known that this wolf had come from a land almost as far away as his friend Xander had, who had retrieved his Japanese sword in a land he'd never heard of, across a sea from the island where the blade was made.


"I have never held the rank of bard myself, though I have shared myriad tales during my travels, and lived many, as well. Stories are for fun, mostly, where battle is my profession; what others depend on me for. Tell me, do you have any tales to share?" He was always welcoming of new tales to add to his collection, though his avid hunger for them meant that he encountered variants on familiar tales quite often, not that he minded. The best stories were based on real events, though embellished, he felt. At least, those were the best to hear. There was something fulfilling about hearing a tale that resounded of the truth too, however. Tales that didn't end so happily or so sadly that they were believable. There was...justice, in the true telling of a sad story. In the preserving of truth where a lie might have been sweeter. Though most stories were better in their purified and embellished forms, complete truth had its rewards as well, especially in the uncovering of those truths, if you stumbled upon them yourself.
~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#5
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OOC: I wasn't sure about this, so instead of having 1000 words of my ramble, I'll let Skoll step it with questions. Otherwise it would be just Lubomir talking. Tell me if you're okay with this.


One had to wonder, Lubomir thought, if Skoll was indeed from Europe. While he was larger than most Lubomir had ever seen, his description of the wastes Lubomir had crossed certainly rang familiar. He had not heard of the pack the yellow wolf mentioned, but then again, if he remembered rightly, there was very little interaction between him and other wolves as he crossed the frozen plains. He listened with a smile as Skoll explained about his battles. 'Perhaps we have more in common than I thought. In my old pack, the Alpha, One-Eye would enjoy a good hunting story. I was keeper of memories there, for everyone else was too busy surviving.' He gave a low chuckle, more cynical than he had intended. 'Yes, I have stories to share. This is one is of how I came to this place and of why I no longer have a pack.'




He cleared his throat and sat down. It would be a long story, yes, but one he hoped Skoll would interrupt now and again. 'In the Old Country, we were perhaps one of the last packs to live like this. I was the Alpha female's brother, born in the same litter as my dear Frigg. We were the only two to survive and it pained our mother to see me, the male, weaker than my sister. The weather there is harsh and the lands sometimes do not allow for large packs. When One-Eye took Frigg as his mate, she was independent enough to ask that I come. He accepted, though I was no warrior. Our pack, Dawn Valley, grew and we were happy. Our warriors kept any trespassers at bay and we hunted well. My sister had many litters, but the pups rebelled when they were old enough to know of the city-dwellers.' A note of sadness came in his voice. Lubomir had loved to see them grow up and though Charon, the guardian, was strict, she would sometimes let him watch them trot around, their eyes barely open. To see and hear the arguments that rang into the cold night, when Frigg would turn her own children away, still pained his heart. 'We became arrogant and were punished for it. My pack was slaughtered. The last image I have in my mind is of my sister, dying to protect her mate. She fell before my eyes and everything afterwards is blinding pain and the metallic taste of blood. Imagine it, Skoll. I, as you can see, am hardly a tough wolf. I was the only survivor. I fled.'




It was almost like admitting to cowardice. Lubomir drew a deep breath and waited to see if Skoll would react in any way

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#6
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It's all good. Sorry for the delay, schoolwork has been nuts. As for the story, I'll respond as often as you need, but feel free to write as much as necessary. Reading isn't hard =P Seriously, read "Let the Games Begin" if you want to see what a too-long reply looks like >.<

Skoll listened intently, his one ear erect and facing the speaker while his eyes were closed, trying to envision the pained image that was painted before him. Given his life experiences, it wasn't difficult. Flashing teeth, the morbid clamp, staring into the eyes of someone you care about as they plead for aid or widen in surprise. The sickening descent from conscious being into terrified and thoughtless animal as fear took hold and death approached.


"It doesn't sound as if you had any choice," he said after a moment of contemplation, opening his eyes. "Fleeing from battle is only dishonorable if you are expected or otherwise obligated to do battle. Since your pack did not see you as one of its warriors, I'm sure that in there eyes you would be absolved of responsibility for what happened?" He had a hard time understanding what exactly was happening in the story, but he understood death.


"Tell me, who are these city-dwellers whose existence drove the rebellion within your pack?" Skoll knew what a city was, but they were exceedingly rare for wolves, at least across North America. He had only seen two or three of sufficient size to be considered such, and even those places would not suffice for the human definition.

~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#7
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OOC: Ah, that works then. *feels like she will rake SS game points* Oh! And you should earn some for posting here too! ^_^ Also you call 2 days delay? Try me not posting in 4! >_<




Lubomir was ecstatic. He had an audience of one, yes, but Skoll listened so well. It made his heart sing to see the yellow wolf closing his eyes and trying to picture everything with his mind. It gave Lubomir purpose to know that his mere words could stir such emotion. It made him feel a part of a greater whole. That was exactly how it felt: story-telling, sharing the history of the individual or the pack, recounting events in vivid detail... it all made Lubomir feel as if he could fly out of his skin, hover above his listeners and gently place the pictures, sights and smells into their very being. When Skoll commented on his behaviour, Lubomir shook his head to regain his bearings.




He tried to relive the panic, the scramble for cover, the fear and the overwhelming possibility of death. Lubomir had to somehow try and get that across. Skoll was right, yes, Lubomir had been no hunter, but that did not mean he could excuse his cowardly attitude. 'I was not expected to do battle because we were attacked. I will try to explain. I woke to the sound of fighting and assumed that Keiro, one of the male Hunters, had again challenged One-Eye, the Alpha, to a duel. It had become almost a monthly occurrence which amused us all. I would write poetry about it. It sounded more aggressive than usual, but then, perhaps it wasn't Keiro but Aditi, our fiesty female.' Lubomir almost smiled at the memory. 'It smelled of blood. I know that was what caught my attention. One-Eye would never draw blood from one of his own. I crawled out and the sight that first greeted me was Keiro, lying dismembered. His blood was still warm. The puppies had their throats...I'm sorry.' Lubomir looked away, pain and anguish written clearly in his features. Those puppies had been a new try for Frigg, an attempt to change what had come before, to keep a least these two beside her, to leave them as Alpha pair over the pack. He drew a deep breath and shook himself, as if he were covered in icy water and needed to feel warm again. 'No Skoll, I was no warrior, but in that time and place I should have protected my kin. I ran. One of them caught me and then everything goes dark and I forget. But I hope that wherever Frigg and One-Eye are, they have forgiven me.'




Lubomir had to think harder now. He'd painted a vividly gruesome picture, that much was certain. He needed something to lighten the mood. And Skoll provided the perfect opportunity. Lubomir would have hugged him, except that would be...unseemly. And undignified. And Lubomir cared for dignity. He decided that he would share with Skoll as much as he himself knew. 'Once, before my pack were murdered, I travelled to the city. I had no been Bard for very long and I was trying to enhance my talent. I wanted to learn how to read, write and compose poetry. So I sought a city, three days' travel from my pack's lands. They welcomed me. There, they live as full-time Optime. They create clothing for themselves and the packs are less rigid. There is a matriarch or a patriarch, a male or female who leads the household. Some learn to draw, others to read, some weave clothes, for they all wear them there, others keep records. They exist outside of woods and shun those who prefer the four-legged state sometimes. I was with them for a whole moon and learned a great deal of things. Frigg's first litter were old enough to listen to my tales. They were fascinated. They ran to join the city-dwellers and returned after many weeks, bearing gifts for us. One-Eye turned them away and I haven't seen them since. It was I who gave them the idea of living somewhere else. As for the other pups... My pack were never ones to forbid a quest for knowledge. It took one journey for them to shun us, to call us backward and to forget our existence.' It was still a sore spot with him, but one Lubomir might be able to live with. If they were alive and safe, he would be happy.




Lubomir looked at Skoll intently. The story needed to move on. 'When I woke from my stupor, I was alone, cold and hungry. I decided to move on, to get away from that place as soon as possible. Thus began the time of the crossing of the Great Frozen Plains.'




767 words *collapses*

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#8
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Beautifully tragic. I like the jarring sensation of guessing the source of the fighting to finding Keiro dismembered.

The golden wolf nodded silently. It was indeed a horrible tale. The thought of seeing one's own family slaughtered in that way, especially at a time of sleep, when it was too late to take action by the time of waking. That situation seemed especially nighmarish to Skoll, to have slept through the time of action, the time of fulfilling his duty. He looked at Lubomir for a moment, his expression having fallen somewhat, out of sadness more than shock. His eyes had seen things equally terrible in his own lifetime, and though the fallen weren't blood relations, he had seen many of them, and there were many cruel forms that death could take.


"I'm sorry for your losses. The black out may have been caused by a blow to the skull, or an attempted strangulation. Both would have left you with a terrible headache a few hours later, or maybe even a few days later, in severe cases. Extreme emotional trauma can also cause a flight of memory. Whatever your experience, you have survived much. You may have run, but your doom caught up with you anyway, and you survived it. It may be that you are tougher than you think." He paused there, mulling over everything for a moment. "Still, the fight was over by the time you awoke, running may have been the best course of action. It is undignified, but throwing your life away against those capable of felling the warriors in your pack isn't something I think you would be expected to do. If I am ever killed, I don't expect you or Tayui to go throw yourselves at those who slew me. After all, what is the death of one like me but a failure to perform my duties to my pack?" He let the question hang in the air.


"What of these Great Frozen Plains, now? I am glad that your story doesn't end there. Life should always continue past such travesties of fate."



~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#9
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OOC: Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed reading that. It's strange, I'm finally piecing together what happened. ^_^




Perhaps the two were more alike than Lubomir cared to consider. Of course, he thought Skoll was in many ways his superior, a stronger wolf, a fighter, a protector. Lubomir looked up to the yellow wolf in much the same way he had done to Keiro, not for his strength alone, but for the way he chose to employ it. He listened to Skoll, he almost deferred unconsciously, out of a deep sense of respect. Where Lubomir had chosen the path of flight, the other would have stayed to fight and perhaps even died along with his pack. He listened intently to the yellow wolf and found himself nodding. 'It could be that you are right, Skoll. Like I said, I was attacked from behind and perhaps indeed knocked out. Though why I am alive today remains a mystery to me.' He paused. Tough? Lubomir could hardly consider himself a warrior, a hunter and were it not for his talent and his ability to read and write, he doubted he would be much of an addition to any pack. The next few statements, however, threw him off completely. He could not imagine Skoll dying. The mere thought was enough to make him feel ill. A strong wolf like him, hacked to pieces?




'I do not know what Tayui would do, but I could not live with the thought of someone dying in a pack yet again, Skoll. Call me a fool, but perhaps I would go after the one who killed you. Perhaps you do not see yourself as I do, but you certainly are no failure. You are stronger than I could ever dream of being and you protect the lives of those who live here. Death is not release by any means, nor is life a fetter. I would do my utmost to destroy those who take you away from Shadowed Sun.' There was raw passion in Lubomir's voice now and his eyes had almost a manic glint in them. He took a deep breath and steadied his heart beats, ready to resume his story. Right. Great Frozen Plains.




'I ate for the first time in days at the edge of one of the last cities. I scraped by, ashamed of what I looked like and afraid of meeting Frigg's children. I did not know where they were and I could not bring myself to explain that their parents were dead and I, of all in the pack, had survived. I shifted into Optime form and scavenged what I could. The Old Country was a cursed place to me now and I would turn East. I do not know why I chose thus and did not go West. Perhaps because the rising Sun gave me strength and purpose, it hallowed my journey. Whatever the reason, I made haste and a little while later, I changed back to my four-legged state and, holding the bag in my mouth, started my journey. The Great Frozen Plains begin after one crosses a sheer mountain range. Before that, hunting is good and the lands are plentiful. Many packs make their homes before this mountain range. But after... after one crosses, Skoll, there is endless snow, bitter cold and scarce meat. My reserves did not last long. Oh, there are elk and rabbits, but I cannot take on elk on my own and the rabbits there are more cunning than the ones I had known. The pack lands are few and far between, but the territories are bigger, though the number of wolves in each pack is smaller.' Lubomir drew another breath and carried on, 'For many turnings of the moon I saw no wolf there. At times, I thought I would lie down and let my bones rot in that wilderness but something drove me on. I do not know how I survived, on what little food I could catch. I also knew nothing of what lay on the other side of the Great Frozen Plains or whether I would make it there. And then, Skoll, I came across the most gruesome scene in my life: a pack torturing an innocent puppy.' He stopped. Perhaps Skoll would not care to listen to more tales of blood and meaningless murder.




707 words. I'll mark thread as mature, for the mention of blood and torture
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#10
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Dude, if Lubomir wasn't traveling through Russia, he could so be walking past Skoll's home pack of StoneTree in northern Canada =) Virtually the same description.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Lubomir, but I've been working at doing my job well for a very long time. If you ever encounter someone with the ability to kill me, well...valor is all well and good, but I'd still prefer it if you keep yourself safe." He wondered who it would be who killed him. Probably someone like the Lykois, if he was honest with himself. He had trained harder than anyone he'd ever met, barring Twilight; he had found a trainer better than anyone else could ever hope to find, and had been at it longer than most of the people around here had been alive. He would get older, slower, his body would begin to fail his expectations one day, and eventually someone of lower skill would fell him. It wasn't the way he preferred to go, but it was how he expected to.


These thoughts banished with the contuation of the story, Skoll's eyes widened slightly. Lubomir may as well have been describing StoneTree. Had the Great Frozen Plains been his home? No...he had never heard that name for it...he didn't know of any great mountain ranges, either. Still, he wondered...it would have been so...unexpected, to find someone who had heard back from his home. He hadn't heard anything about his family in six years, and hadn't felt great regret for that until the prospect of someone having heard of them arose.


Still, the next leg of the story demanded attention more than the setting, and he knew it would be rude to get hung up on the wrong aspect of the story. So, abusing the young. He had seen it before, though it had never gone on long in his presence. What do you want, you wretched thing? a faceless woman's voice said to him at some point in the past. No, this one's mine, and I'll treat it as I wish. Be gone you ripped-faced mongrel, before I set my brothers to ruin the rest of you. The little girl's ears were flat against her skull as her mother whipped her, while her uncles watched. Indistinct violence, the details of which he couldn't recall. You bastard!! Who are to do this? What are you? The mother's outraged cry had been a seething sob, seeing both of her brothers dying in the grass, one throat opened and one head facing the wrong way. 'Salvation for her. Death for them. I guess you'll decide what I am to you.'


"Go on."

~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#11
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OOC: Obviously my posting skills do not match my descriptive ones. Again, sorry for the delay >_>




Lubomir could never understand such selfless giving. Perhaps it came with being a warrior. One had to sacrifice for the good of the others, to ensure their survival. He could very well imagine that time would defeat everyone. At 4 years of age he himself was still strong and healthy and he had survived a long journey. But would not time defeat him? Lubomir tried to think of growing old in Shadowed Sun and it was certainly a painful image. Because he would not die among his kin... and that thought surprised him. Was Skoll not kin? Were Tayui and Pilot that aloof? No, they had taken him in, accepted him and given him a home. They were as much kin as Frigg and One-Eye had been. But his mind was wandering now and he needed to focus on the more gruesome part of his tale.




'At the time, I did not know it, but it prove to be the beginning of a horrendous time in my life. I have never had a mate. Perhaps I chose not to have one, or maybe I did not find the right one for me, but whatever the reason, I was a solitary wolf most of my life. My sister was the only female I could tolerate after we left Land's End. When she first had puppies and Charon joined out pack I would not let her protect them until she bested me. I nearly lost one of the puppies to a swollen spring stream and she jumped in to save it. I found every little thing enchanting, their little faces and closed eyes adorable and I doted on my nieces and nephews. I thought I had left the nightmares in the Old Country but somehow they had followed me. What I saw was a group of wolves, about 3 or 4 of them. Between them they had a puppy, probably no more than 8 weeks old. I do not know how long they were at it, but the poor thing seemed half-dead. There was the smell of a fresh kill about the scene, and only feeble sounds could be heard from the puppy.' Lubomir had never experienced such gruesome violence. The killing of his own pack had been violent, yes, but there was no torture, no purpose other than defeat. No one had wanted to prolong the ordeal. This pack, however, certainly did.




'Anger overwhelmed me. I attacked them. Perhaps some greater being protected me, because I came to very little harm. I grabbed the puppy and ran, hurting one of them on the way. Sadly, I was followed. From there, the next few days are a blur. I tried keeping the puppy alive, but it didn't last long. It died during the night and I could only hold it for warmth. I made a makeshift grave for it. That day, I was attacked. He came at me viciously and I was not ready to fight anything out there. Perhaps he wanted to torture me. All I know is that I tumbled into snow and waited for the thing to come finish the job. He never did.' Even now it surprised Lubomir that he'd survived that. 'From there, my story reaches its end. I found the burning lands and met the first shifter in days. We found food together and I crossed the mountain here, to Shadowed Sun. And that, Skoll, is the story of my journey from the Old Country to Shadowed Sun.' Lubomir stopped to breathe and looked at the yellow wolf. In a way, he sort of wanted to hear Skoll's own travels. But he also wanted to expand on his, to be asked of some things. It was really up to the other now, whether there was more to be said.




633 words
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#12
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This is turning out pretty cool.

Skoll's mind followed Lubomir's words through the tundra, into the congregation of twisted adults in their session of child torture. The next part of the story caught him by surprise. Lubomir had rescued the pup? Too late, but still. His bitterness had been growing a new callus on his already worn heart over the lack of concern so many wolves showed in the face of a fellow's adversity, even though the puppy died, a part of him was touched, and a small part of that callus melted away. He had forgotten the healing properties of a good tale on his soul, especially one which was true.


"I am sorry to hear of the child's fate, but I think you gained something very valuable in the final chapter of your story. You were afraid to fight the murderers of your pack, and for good reason. Still, that fear did not dominate you. When next the opportunity arose, you summoned the courage to do what you knew to be right. That is...well, that is much more than I have come to expect from most wolves these days." It was true. Since the relative apathy he'd seen wolves hold toward Inferni's aggression, as well as to the most recent band of cultists that he and his warriors had vanquished, he was beginning to think that honor and duty were antiquated ideals. It was refreshing to see someone else who still knew what it meant to take risks for what was right.


"By the end, most would consider yours to be a very sad tale. Your family died, the pup died, and in this way it is a tragedy you tell. Nevertheless, I see a more subtle theme which has woven itself around your life. A theme of growing, of self-improvement and sacrifice for others. You are someone that any wolf should be glad to know, Lubomir, if your tale is true." The emphasis in his last words was not such as to imply a lie. He could tell through the telling that his packmate was not selling himself as something great, and he detected no sign of pride in his words.



"It is said by some that the destination matters less than the journey. I would say that your journey, despite its hardships, has given you something to show for your troubles. It may not be immediately apparent, but someone who has experienced much has a depth of character that no greenboy can match. If you wish it, and aren't hungry or possessed of some other need, I can begin the tale of my own travels to this place, a tale spanning almost three years."

~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#13
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OOC: Sorry for being so stupidly late with this. It's a cool story exchange.




Lubomir closed his eyes and took deep breaths. His tale was finally finished. There was very little he could add to it now and the details, the fine print, was just bagatelle, colour. In a human comparison, Lubomir had drawn the big pictures, the contours and had coloured it in roughly. He had not been here long enough to paint the full picture, because he simply could not trust them enough. Yet. But his attention snapped back when Skoll mentioned a lack of sympathy in wolves. Granted, he'd had issues with his family and he'd lost contact with his parents, but his life had always seemed to be seeped with a strange sense of belonging and of needing to belong. 'Then your wolves are different from those of the Old Country. I do not mean to say there are no vicious murderers there, but from your words... Skoll do you mean to say that here they do not care?' No...this could not be. Surely they were more educated here, violence was not so prominent. It pained Lubomir to think that mindless killing could span borders so seamlessly.




The grey wolf knew very little about the surrounding packs. In the months to come, he would experience more of it than he'd initially bargained for. However, here and now, he was still a newbie, a lost little pup in a world he knew very little about. To have his tale called a tragedy made him feel slightly like a character in a book or a play, some sort of dashing hero who, against all odds, defeats fate and gets the girl. Lubomir had only managed to survive the great wilderness and there was certainly no princess to save. No glory to be had at the end of all this. It had simply been a great fight, mostly against himself, and he had been a winner. If this was what winning felt like. 'Please do not make me into a hero. I did nothing worthy of your words.' This was no false modesty. If anything, Lubomir felt slightly embarrassed, to think Skoll regarded him so highly. 'I merely survived.'




Lubomir considered the offer. He was not tired, or hungry and he could feel gnawing curiosity. Skoll was older, tougher, wiser. There was much he could learn. Indeed, it might do him good to listen to the stories of others. Perhaps one day he could pass on Skoll's story, to an eager batch of pups. Stories of integrity, courage and valour. 'I would be honoured to listen to you, Skoll.' His tone was sincere and his eyes shone with delight and eagerness. For once, Lubomir would be the one enchanted.

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#14
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I'll make sure to abridge this sucker from the biography in my profile =P

The older wolf frowned. No...the wolves here usually didn't. He had fought to save that little white wolf's life, but because the Inferni coyotes had waited until she was just over the border to try and murder her, they could say he'd invaded. The Inferni coyotes had just recently invaded Aremys at that time, without any provocation, simply waltzed in, drove the pack out, and their leader slaughtered their puppies. But when they made a complaint that someone had entered their lands and engaged them in violence, they could still count on support from both the leader of Jaded Shadows, as well as the leader of Storm. It had been betrayal, he expected that the two were afraid of them, not brave enough to stand for what was right. Maybe Fatin was just vicious like the coyotes, he wasn't sure, but he did know that she supported them and their actions. He was so clearly in the right to do what he'd done...the coyotes had even let their youngest fight him, adolescents not even a year old. He had held back as long as he could, and most of his injuries had come when Gabriel and his brother used them to divert his attention. Nevertheless, when they had gotten hurt, Inferni had used that to illicit sympathy from wolves who, out of fear, he supposed, readily complied with their demands of trying to make him a public enemy. The harm that had come to all three of the children that day was on Inferni's hands.


"Fair enough," he intoned, skipping the first part of the conversation. "It may take me a while to get through it all, I don't think I've ever told it to anyone here...how strange to think. Well..." His amber eyes suddenly lost focus, as he began to look back instead of outward...back to seven years ago.


"I was born seven years ago, in a place much like the Great Frozen Plains you describe. Packlands were larger to support their packs, and the packs numbered fewer. Food was scarce, water was scarce, but rivalry was so great outside the barren lands that there was still competition, even for our meager resources, on the borders at least. For my family, too, only the alpha and alphess were permitted to mate, so I was the son of our leaders, along with my siblings, Skirnir and SnowOwl, my brother and sister, respectively. Our pack was called StoneTree, named after the man who had pioneered that forsaken part of the world over two decades ago, who had learned the ways of the frozen wastes, learned to eek out a life from the cold and hard earth, and taught a pack to do the same. There were only nine of us: my two siblings and I, my father Freyr and my mother SkyDance, the Beta wolf Balder, my aunts NightStar and DarkCloud, and the youngest of the adults, who I recall being called only by his color, Gray." He paused a moment, his eyes seeing something far away both in space and time. His expression was sad...with the very faintest hint of a smile.


"My father was the best fighter in the pack, it was how he had assumed leadership when he'd first arrived. Still, it wasn't his reputation that kept our pack safe, but the reputation of something called HawkWind's gift. Back in the time of StoneTree, a pup had been admitted into the pack, his mother found dead of cold. He was named HawkWind, after the two-part naming tradition of StoneTree, who had adopted him, since he was too young to remember the one his mother had given him. HawkWind was not the strongest wolf in his pack, but he was the fiercest. He was a mild-mannered and well-liked wolf, but when he was engaged in battle, or having trouble bringing down a kill, he would descend into a rage which StoneTree could not explain, save that it must have come from one of his birth parents. That unnatural blood rage didn't stop with him, but took root in his progeny, and popped up several times in his lineage."



"My mother was descended from that line, and even though Freyr was the best fighter, it was the legendary ferocity of my mother and her sisters that kept potential adversaries from our doorstep. I never saw it, but I was told the story of the first fight of the pack under my father's leadership. Freyr defeated the rival leader, a proof of his abilities, but every direct descendant of of HawkWind killed her foe. They weren't vicious people, my mother and her sisters, but they became very different in the heat of battle. My father told me that he was proud of her gift, but that he is glad that my siblings and I hadn't seen her that day."
He paused for a moment. "Forgive me, I am dwelling on unimportant details...I don't tell the tale often, and it feels nice to visit the past at times." He took a deep breath before continuing.


"As I said, our territory was a poor one, it provided scant few resources, despite our need. I was born during the summer, but my parents were concerned for the winter. We all survived it, which was...well, a blessing and a problem. You see, three additions to the pack were too great. My father and his Beta knew this. Our food would not hold with a 50% increase to our numbers. It had happened several times before in my pack's history, where members needed to leave for the betterment of the pack. I'm sure sending away one of the adults was considered, but probably thought better of eventually. Balder was my father's best friend, and his mind was too good to let go of; my mother was very close to her sisters, and knew that if they were separated, they were likely to be killed by old enemies; Gray was the best hunter alongside NightStar, neither of them could be cast out. I didn't hear about any of this from my family, but pieced it together over the years." He was silent for a moment.


"That was why, come the the next summer, when we were all a year old, it was decided that I was to be cast out. I was physically stronger than Skirnir, and SnowOwl as well. It was...a troubling experience. My father and mother stopped looking me in the eyes, just a little while later Balder began doing the same. Soon no adult would speak to me, and so I withdrew from them, spending all my time around my best friend and brother, Skirnir. He was my last hold on society, but one day, my parents took him aside as well, and convinced him not to speak to me either. I could see the pity in his eyes, and it maddened me. It infuriated me, the betrayal!" He practically spat the last word, swelling up in forgotten anger, but then calmed down again.



"I attacked my brother for that. Just, launched myself at him. Our father had taught us to fight, and I had always been better at it than he was. He yelped, and Balder and my father came rushing up. They attacked me like they would attack an intruder. I still have a scar on the back of my neck where my father's teeth first drew my blood...I probably have a few others that never healed that I've forgotten about. I fled, and never looked upon those lands again."



~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#15
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OOC: Hooray for long histories and posts!




Lubomir listened. It was out of curiosity more than politeness. Skoll had listened to his tale, and made valuable inputs. As far as Lubomir was concerned, everyone had a story to tell. There were so many facets to a wolf, so many shades of grey to be discussed that even a puppy's life would prove valuable material to the grey one. But now, faced with the possibility of learning from another, of furthering his knowledge and gaining insight into what life here must be like, he was sure to accept the challenge. Lubomir was young by Souls standards. Not in age, but in experience. He had lived his days as long dazes, broken by the brief spell with the town-dwellers, learning the art of story telling, reading and writing and basic numerics, and the return to his pack, the batch of pups, hunting and the mock-fights. He'd lived a sheltered life and subconsciously had kept to himself even here, allowing nothing to harm him. Yet, anyway. He knew very little of wars and political moves, of coyotes and blood lust. To him, Inferni was a distant cloud on the horizon and the cold that would seep into his heart slowly was not even a speck of dust in his life. He could understand vicious killing, yes, he had seen torture, but war, full out conflict where lives did not matter as individuals as long as they served a greater good... that he had not seen and perhaps in a way he was as innocent and naive as a puppy.




His introspection was broken quickly by Skoll's words. The story would begin and he had to focus. Slowly, his mind opened up to the descriptions made by the yellow wolf. He noted with some concern that Skoll was much older than Lubomir had initially thought and he was about to dwell on it when the description of the pack lands caught him. Yes, it was indeed like the Great Frozen Plains. A small smile tugged at Lubomir's muzzle when he heard the name of Skoll's father. How quaint, that two wolves born so far apart would have such similar names. His mother had been Freyja, though she could not tell him the origin of her name. Would Skoll's father had known? 'You father's name... it was similar to my mother's. She was called Freyja. By any chance, did you ever find out the origin of that name? I have searched in all written records and yet I cannot find it.' His tone was faintly sad. He had loved his mother. But not enough to seek her or his former pack after the massacre.




Lubomir's insides turned icy cold. The mention of that killing rage tugged at him. As far as he was concerned, he'd been knocked out and left for dead. The animal that would, in coming weeks, surface more and more, was still a faint motion in the pit of his stomach, a shadow in his dreams, a vision at the edge of his nightmares. So why did it ring so familiar? It struck him as odd but he decided that perhaps he and Skoll had such violent stories to tell that it was beginning to affect him. The vivid imagery was surely taking its toll on him. Still, he would go on. 'Please, I don't mind details. They add flavour and colour to your story. And you are a great story teller. Please, go on.' His own voice sounded strange to his ears, as if he was very far away. Perhaps he was. The mention of such betrayal, being shunned by his own people made Lubomir's eyes widen. He could feel it, deep in his heart, the kind of pain Skoll must have felt when his own parents and siblings chose to ignore him. 'No...' His voice was strangled now, a low cry in the back of his throat. And then fighting... Skoll could have killed his brother. He had the strength to do so. Would he have stopped without the intervention of others? 'You wouldn't have killed him. You are too valiant a warrior, Skoll. I trust that you would only have ruffled his fur, so to speak. Please, go on, what happened after you left?'


708 words

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#16
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Indeed, lol

"My mother told me that the naming tradition where my father grew up was derived from ancient human beliefs. Fenrir was the entity my father cursed or prayed to, the oldest and most powerful wolf to have ever lived, the alpha of the great pack that every wolf joins when his body is spent. Freyr was a figure from those beliefs, a god of the earth and of storms, and of manhood. My brother and I were named by my father from the same tradition. Skoll is the wolf who chases the sun across the sky each day, while Skirnir is the messenger of Freyr. Freyja is the sister to Freyr, though I never heard of my father having any sisters, so I suspect it is coincidence." Skoll smiled at this last point, before going on.


"Indeed, I would not have killed him. I had not experienced HawkWind's gift, I had simply been angry, and despairing of my plight, I lashed out, too young to see any other course of action. It was only later that I pieced together the fact that they had been trying to get me to leave all along, trying to make it easier on everyone involved...barring me. I still am not sure what to think of it. I know that my parents cared for me. Perhaps they thought it was necessary. I will always think that they executed their exile poorly." There was an old bitterness in his voice. There lie one of many scars which was unlikely to heal.


"So...I wondered what to do with myself after that. I starved for a time, for I was not a very good hunter, and sought desperately for food. It occurred to me eventually that winter was on its way, and that if I did not belong to a pack before winter set in, I would die from cold and hunger. This realization hit me late in the season, and I had very little time to flee the outskirts of my home country before winter winds blew at my back. I fled, eating when I could, sleeping when I could, as the climate grew cooler and cooler, even as I ran south. In time, snow began to fall, and the sun became obscured, and it was difficult to tell direction. I found a river, and began to follow it south. I met a lot of wolves along the way, but mostly kept my distance.



"Eventually, though, the river started freezing over, and narrowed into a creek. Eventually the creek simply stopped. It seemed to run into the ground, and had mostly frozen over. Myself, and the rest of the wolves who had been traveling along it, came upon this fact just as a blizzard hit, more powerful than anything I had experience before...or since. For months there was no escape...two earthen shoulders protected us from the wind, but a wolf could not hear or see or smell in that white hell...gods, was that a sight. Have you ever seen a wolf who is starving to death, Lubomir?"
He gave his story pause for an answer.



"Well, it isn't pretty. They become desperate, they become crazy, they become willing to do whatever need be to fill their bellies. A few fishermen had come with us, wolves with the tools and the know how to catch the fish of the creek where they had broken holes. Wolves swarmed around these men, stealing or begging for their catches, and these men were made as slaves to the starving masses. I found one who was far upstream...I had been unable to push my way forward to take any food at the other fishing sites, I was still just a yearling. The crowd around this man was smaller, three wolves surrounding him. I asked if I could have food, and their leader, who had been extorting the old fisherman's catch and leaving him hungry, told me off. Told me to run off or he'd kill me. HawkWind's gift took me. My vision flashed red, and I knew not what I did. When I awoke mere moments later, his blood dripped from my fangs, his throat rested between my teeth, and his cronies fled for their lives. I do not know what it was they saw when they looked upon me, but two grown wolves should not have run from me. Perhaps they thought I had rabies, I'm not sure."



"Anyway, the old man made a bargain with me. He would take the first fish, I would take the second, and I would protect him from others like those who had subjugated him before. Soon, other wolves approached us, desperate for food. We allowed as many as we thought his skill could keep fed. After we reached his limit, we had to turn others away. Violence would often ensue, and that was what I was for. I felt the embrace of HawkWind's gift three other times during my stay there, but for those who feared me, there were those who admired me, too. I was protecting their food...and they were grateful, and I was grateful to them for their gratitude. It was then that I decided that fighting would be my life. I could do it well, and it was a way to belong without family. We escaped from the Creek a few months after we became trapped, and the ordeal was over."


~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#17
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OOC: One of the best threads I've ever been in! Big Grin So who did you name Skoll after?




Humans. Lubomir had heard about them, during his brief spell with the town-dwellers. He'd tried to get a hold of writings left by the humans, but most had been burned and the others had been missing for years. It annoyed him, really, to think that all that knowledge had been wasted. He was completely under Skoll's spell, the image of some great wolf that became the final resting place of all shifters, that indeed was an idea to contemplate. It made sense, to think of Frigg and One-Eye under the watchful eye of some potentate, a creature beyond fault and failure. No, I doubt my mother had some brother smuggled away here. She valued family. But your father's belief in Fenrir, that truly is fascinating. It is almost a tragedy that no human writings survive in the Old Country.' He laughed lightly, amused by the thought that perhaps, through some workings of Fate, he and Skoll were related. To Lubomir, it would have been an honour.


The laugh was short-lived, however. Lubomir looked away and tried not to wince. It must have been a long time for the warrior and still he felt bitter about it. To be so left out by his pack, with very little explanation, that must have hurt more than the thought of leaving. Lubomir could remember a time when Frigg cast out her own pups and the pain it caused it for days afterwards. But then who knew what his nieces and nephews thought of the family now? The images that followed, of a possible death through starvation were gruesome indeed. But his endurance, his determination and his skill as a fighter impressed Lubomir. 'I think you did very well, considering your circumstances and what your options could have been. Did you finally settle within a pack, then?'


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#18
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I'm glad! Also, in Norse mythology (viking mythology), Skoll was the wolf who chases the sun across the sky each day. Hati is his brother, who chases the moon, but I figured it would be lame to name my character's brother so obviously. In Norse mythology, Fenrir is the biggest wolf to ever live, father of Skoll and Hati, and was the son of a god and a giantess (his siblings were also monsters who didn't resemble their parents: Jormungand the serpent which got so long that it wrapped around the world and could bit its own tail, and Hel the care-taker of Niflheim (hell) who was half woman and half corpse). Fenrir isn't as nasty as his brother and sister when he's a puppy, so the gods let him stay in Asgard. When he doesn't stop growing and matures into a massive monster wolf, they end up tricking him into being captured, and he stays captured for all eternity until Ragnarok (the apocalypse) where "all bonds are broken" and he as well as many other nasties that the Gods pissed off becomes free. At the big battle of Ragnarok, he fights Odin (the all father...he's basically the Zeus of the Norse pantheon) and eats him...but the awesomeness of killing Odin is offset when he ends up getting killed by Odin's son Vidar who slays him with...a magic shoe. Lame, I know. Thor fights his brother Jormungand, and they kill each other (Thor's hammer owns but he dies of poison later). The whole 'all wolves die and go to join Fenrir's pack' isn't in Norse mythology, I just figured thatg he should have more bearing on the afterlife if he was to be a primary wolf god.

"No," Skoll answered. "From there I decided to become a traveling fighter. I still did not trust packs, I had been betrayed by my family, and felt that, since I was out of the cold already, I may as well live on my own. Still...I wasn't very good at hunting, and so I often teamed up with other wolves, or maybe bands of two or three, and helped in a catch. Pack-lands stretched far there, and many wolves laid claim to catches which we had worked hard to attain. It isn't possible to mark a circle around one's territory, especially when it is so large, and so there was no way for us to know, a lot of the time. I would step in during these periods, and protect my hunting partners." He paused for a time, remembering back to those days.


"One thing I haven't mentioned is the story surrounding HawkWind. He was fierce, yes, but it was also around his time when lycanthropy first made an appearance in that part of the world. His tale is for another time, but I think I can sum it up like this: he was a kind and well-meaning wolf when his rage had not taken him, but when werewolves first made an appearance, his rage was not enough to fight them. He acquired the ability to shift unwittingly, and the next time his rage took him, he killed someone he did not mean to, and fled StoneTree forever. I knew that he would be old, but I decided that I would try to find him. He was a legend in my home pack, and I wondered if he had made an impression anywhere else. I decided that I would find him, or, if he was dead, find the end of his story, which was my favorite growing up." He flashed a slight smile at the memory. How young and innocent he had been, even after the incident at the Creek.


"So, I traveled in that fashion, asking passers-by if they had ever heard of a man named HawkWind. I met one loner who had, and he told me of a figure from his pack's history that fit the description. A wolf who had lost himself to rage, and slaughtered his friends as they tended his wounds. A darker side to the story, no doubt, but the name was correct, and he had killed unintentionally before. I felt that it was a good lead, and followed it. Soon, my reputation as a fighter grew, and I used that to keep my belly full as I traveled, trading stories with anyone I could on the way, always asking about the legendary black wolf, with blazing orange eyes and possessed of a fierceness unknown in any other man. Sometimes I was lucky, and found another lead, for other times I wasn't. Soon I had determined that HawkWind must have gone mad, for no where that his name was remembered was it associated with anything but monstrous violence and senseless destruction. He was rapidly becoming a far different figure than the one I had hoped to find. Nevertheless, I moved on, further and further south." He took a breather here, looking at the ground around where he sat, he grabbed a stick idly, his eyes a little unfocused as he tried to look backward in time.


"Eventually, I was asked for my services in the defense of a small pack named Autumn Wind. They had a nice piece of land, but it wasn't easily defensible. One of their rivals had recently swelled in numbers, as three of its children grew into adults, and they feared an attack, a territorial push. I agreed to help them, and was acquainted with their current guardian, an eight year old named Gronnor. I wasn't impressed with the old wolf, and understood why they had enlisted my help," he chuckled to himself, knowing that the next part of the story would be a little grim, but that there was humor in it.



"Well, their rivals attack. This was a shifted fight, my first. I was almost two years old now, and had the typical cockiness of a youth who has had one too many successes. The entire pack of Autumn Leaf participated, outnumbered eight to twelve, with just their leader, their guardian, and myself having any real hope of evening the odds. I descended into my rage, the one they had wanted me fore, and fought two wolves at once. I didn't see most of what happened in the fight, though I remember passing glimpses of the old wolf fighting in a phenomenally technical and practiced manner which I, being a wolf who employed feral fury in his fighting, did not fully comprehend. Autumn Leaf won the fight. I had killed one wolf, savaged another so badly that he dragged himself off the field with his arms, and was attacking my third when Gronnor came over to pull me away, the fight being over there was no reason to hurt these people any more."


"Well, I turned on him. HawkWind's gift does not allow for conscious thought. I was fighting fully on instinct, and did not recognize friend from foe. I attacked, and he incapacitated me. Easily. When I awoke, I had to cope not only with the fact that I had been so easily dispatched by a wolf who was four times my age, but that I also had fought so dishonorably. I was shamed in every sense, unmanned. When Gronnor approached me later that day, after I'd had time to cool down, I apologized, and told him that I would leave. Turns out I had two choices, given to me by the leader with some input by the old guardian. They could thank me for my help, excuse the attack on their members and I could leave, or I could stay with them, under the promise that I trained under Gronnor to learn to fight properly, in a responsible and controlled manner which limited unnecessary violence and brutality."


"My spirits lifted at the thought of bettering myself, becoming as good a fighter at this man and redeeming my honor. I accepted. Gronnor taught me everything he knew, and is solely responsible for my skill and fighting style today. I owe that man a debt of gratitude that I can never repay. I trained with him for six months before he told me my training was done. I left shortly thereafter, to lead the life of a traveling warrior again."

~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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#19
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OOC: I kinda figured he was from Norse mythology (I see myself as some sort of mythology geek) but I didn't know about the magical shoe. Great anticlimax there, huh? XD


Lubomir nodded. He could understand the reasons behind Skoll's decision. After all, he too had stayed away from packs and hunted on his own, preferring the thrill of the chase to sharing pain that was still too raw, too new. Perhaps, in away, Skoll had been lucky, for his own affinity towards fighting kept him popular, in a way. It meant he was useful to others. It was painful to think of wolves in terms of objects fulfilling a purpose, but from what the yellow wolf was saying, the wolves here would treat others that way. Lubomir tried not to think of it and keep his attention firmly focused on the story.


His ears perked at the mention of lycanthropy. How had it arrived here? Lubomir had been born with the ability to shift, as had Frigg, but One-Eye had acquired it in a fight with a shifter. His sister, Charon, she too had been infected, possibly by her brother. But he had limited knowledge of how the virus had spread here. He knew, from tales of others, that not everyone back in the Old Country had been infected, that "normal" wolves still existed, though Lubomir had never met any of them. It felt a bit strange to think of it in these terms, that some had waited more than others to gain the shifting ability. 'But if your HawkWind was truly so powerful surely someone would know about him... I do not mean to say that you were merely chasing a chimera, a figment of pack mythology. It just seems strange that someone so powerful and prone to such deadly urges as the ones you have described could disappear without a trace.' He listened intently as Skoll went on to describe his experience with professional fighting. But to leave after acquiring skills? That was certainly a new method of repaying them. He couldn't quite grasp why Skoll had acted that way. 'But surely you would have stayed with them! Why leave when you could help protect them?' A trace of annoyance in his voice now. He couldn't quite understand why Skoll would be... selfish, it seemed.


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#20
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There we go, story completed!

The bronze wolf was given pause at Lubomir's outburst, but then a faint trace of a smile appeared. He had a good argument, he understood why, without explanation, that would seem a little out of place. Still, he thought it made sense given the master-apprentice system.


"You would have to know Gronnor," he said after a moment. "He didn't think that Autumn Leaf was the only place in need of protection. He taught me a lot more than how to fight, and those other things were probably more important. He gave me a new honor code, part of which entailed how to be responsible with my abilities, which he identified to be the major flaw with my form of berserk fighting. He told me that fighting like that would get me killed someday, and that I would kill a lot of people who didn't deserve it in the meantime. So, when he told me I had learned everything, he began talking to me about where I planned to take my skills. I remembered the traveling life I had put on hold to stay there and learn from him...and resumed it, but as a better warrior and as a better man." His smile was full blown now. He remembered those days fondly. The work had been hard, extremely hard, but he had used those skills countless times since then, and Gronnor had been one of the most memorable people he had ever met.


"As for HawkWind, his story evolved as I traveled. He had allegedly been killed by a wolf named Malros, who had been made into a king by his countrymen for slaying the 'Wraith Wolf.' Apparently, HawkWind's mind had turned itself toward a long-term predation of lycanthropes, and someone had once heard him proclaim that he would 'destroy the seed of lycanthropy.' Malros lured him out of hiding in a nearby bog where he had dwelt to avoid the eyes and noses of the masses, and slew him with a sword.


"By the time I heard this much of the story, I had taken on a student of my own, a young man named Art. I was only two and a half years old, experiencing my third winter. Art was a little younger than me, but had chosen to travel and learn from me, rather than live as a hunter in his home...a position he had been ill-suited to. We learned of a brewing conflict between four nearby groups of wolves...packs belonging to each of the four sons of Malros, the king who had been murdered two years prior, five years or so after he had slain the Wraith Wolf. We got involved, and joined the pack that seemed most in the right: a pack which had named itself BloodScar, for the crime committed against its leader, one of Malros' sons who had been killed by two of his brothers in a heated argument over territory." He paused a moment, his appearance thoughtful.


"I would spare you most of the details of the conflict, though it could serve as a story unto itself if you wish to hear it at a later date. I found love there, I found friendship, I found betrayal, and I found weaknesses within myself that I am to this day ashamed of. BloodScar won the conflict, and Art and I still lived at the end of it, but battle had not been what he had expected, hadn't been as grand as I had made it sound, I suppose. He did not leave the war the same as he had gone in, and I have not seen him since." There was regret here...the things that had happened to Art's mind during that conflict were failings of his...one of his greatest failings, there was no question. Still, the tale was too long to go into as a side-story of the narrative of his life.


"I was broken after that. I helped who I could, fought when I felt I needed to, but I had failed to uphold Gronnor's honor. The Four Pack War had involved human weaponry, and human weaponry kills fast and easily. Cleavers of all kinds, piercing weapons...what Gronnor had taught me had been useful, but I had incorporated many new elements, to compensate for fighting in a setting that included steel. When death is that easy...a wolf with a talent for killing finds himself responsible for a lot more than he bargained for." Again, his winsome tone added a depth that his words could not.


"I entered another conflict shortly thereafter, and that was a dark time. The Raven Feud included weapons also, but it was on a smaller scale, dozens rather than hundreds were involved over the course of the conflict. In my grief and my anger, I began to slide back into my old habits, HawkWind's gift would take me at times, and it would be all the more devastating for the battle instincts I had learned in my time with Gronnor. I was more than the wolves of this new conflict had bargained for, it was more localized, wolves whose lives had been battle were not expected nor prepared for. I was a celebrated war hero...but I left that place too, for the sake of my honor, as well as my sanity. I would have become something dark indeed had I kept on that path. I determined that I did not know who was right in this battle, and so had no right to participate in it. I left, and healed my mind and body, seeking HawkWind again." He waited a moment, knowing that this statement would raise questions.


"You see, Malros did not kill HawkWind. I think it is safe to say that he wounded him grievously, and that he took many years to fully recover from that battle, but recover he did. I learned later that he had returned, after years of hunting easier prey, and been the one to murder Malros in his old age. HawkWind had gone by many names at this point, and somewhere in the middle of his journey, he had begun to refer to himself as VoidFane, a name attributed to an alternate personality, a mechanical and merciless killer responsible for the vast majority of his attacks. I had to begin asking for a different name, and stories of the wolf VoidFane eventually led me to a place called Bleeding Souls." Silence. His story was reaching its end.


"I met the old wolf, dying just a short ways over that peak," he pointed up Halcyon Mountain. "There was an abandoned human city beyond that mountain, and it was in that concrete waste that I found him...ancient, dying. His eyes were white as death from sickly growth and his breaths were coming shallow. I learned the end of HawkWind's story from HawkWind himself, and in the precious hours before he died he told me everything that had happened. My great great grandfather had led a tortured and miserable life...driven by guilt and anger. He had fashioned the persona VoidFane long before he had given it a name, and it had sought his vengeance for him while he was paralyzed with grief. Twelve years ago, when his rage had driven his shifted body into frenzy, he had killed his mate with a back-handed blow that sent her careening into a stone outcropping, breaking her back. He had never forgiven himself, and he had never forgiven the curse of lycanthropy that now resided in his blood. He died in Bleeding Souls at fifteen years old, and asked that I repay the Storm pack for their kindness to him in his final days. I did so, and was with Storm for almost three years before it finally dissolved with the onset of the fire. That is my story."

~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.
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