21 October 2021, 11:03 PM
WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
Specifically, this thread is marked mature because of: animal death.
Quote:Preistess Rank I progress:
"Make an offering to your chosen deity. Remember, different gods expect different things from their followers." 914/1000
New Caledonia boasted many people. Its members were comprised of survivors of old, fallen clans, and those who somehow came to her in her creation, or afterwards. Woodsmoke was a newcomer, but she had been there for a year now, soon to be two. She had learned many things about her pack in that time, and about herself. The woman had made friends and managed to not create enemies, which was surprising to her.
She did not live like her packmates. She did not walk like they did, speak like they did, nor did she share their beliefs. Everyone had a house, where she had a hole. Everyone wore clothes, where she only wore them to be in disguise. For a long time she was an embarrassment to her daughter who left their shared way of life to embrace New Caledonian belief. Woodsmoke did not stop Smokecloud, but it made her feel so much more alone.
That feeling she had never shook. Since day one, the woman felt as if she wasn’t, or could never be, fully integrated. The rest had moved on from their shared ancestors’ way of life, while she carried it as best she could in the changing world. A changing world that seemed to leave the past far behind. Instincts left unhoned, preferably forgotten in the name of bow and arrow, and blade. Did they not remember that they were born with everything they’d need?
Every time Woodsmoke’s large paws kicked up earth as she chased prey in secui form, these thoughts fluttered passed like butterflies. As she careened through the air, the fragile-winged ideas were left behind. Her focus was on acquiring prey, this time specifically for one with a notably strange gait. Regardless of what she was chasing though, those thoughts always seemed to enter her mind. The woman’s shadows were absent from this hunt, as she preferred to keep her skills sharp, should she ever be without assistance again.
There were others like her, she supposed, but would there be in a generation or two? Will the pups forget or let go of the past like her child did? Would there be anyone like her after she was gone? Would New Caledonia persist after their bows broke and blades dulled. When and if the bowyers and smiths could not bow or smith? Would they forget their teeth and guillotine jaws? Instincts were powerful and spoke to everyone, but taking one look at Calan made her fearful that those too would be forgotten or fall of deaf ears.
She tried to instill this in the pups of the pack, however she hadn’t enough time to fundamentalize them. Too much time spent with their parents would pull them into the more modern life, leaving Woodsmoke and her weird ways in the dust. All of them moved on, but at least Smokecloud took the ways to heart. She was no teacher though, so who would teach the next batch and those willing to listen? Who would make sure they didn’t forget. Who could do that? Woodsmoke was capable, but these were not mere lessons.
One leap up, teeth sunk in. A mouthful of fur, but Woodsmoke had her target. Life was over for the young deer. An easy meal, as she had been wounded prior. A failed hunt lead to this animal’s painful existence. If a wound was dealt, a kill had to be made. Life must be worth living for all. It wasn’t just lessons, this was a way of life that was being replaced with sport and ease with ranged weapons. If the games hosted by Casa di Cavaleri were anything to go off of, she was certain there were those who killed animals for the thrill and nothing more.
Slowly the deer stopped struggling as Woodsmoke stayed on top of it, jaws tight around her neck so the animal was unable to breathe. Soon her pain would be gone, and all of the pain she endured would be erased. The huntress, or someone else, would get to enjoy this meal, and then the wound would mean something; the doe’s life would mean something more. The fact that deer hurt in the first place angered Woodsmoke. Life was sacred. All life was. Including those of animals that were hunted.
Her youth was filled with hunger. It was imbued with hate and strife, unfair and brought about by an uncaring mother. Now she lived in plenty, and in love, despite her daughter’s life choices. No one deserved to be hungry, no one deserved pain, and everyone deserved love until they lost that right. She carried the doe, now still, dragging the animal towards home. Many bellies would be filled by the beast. Her pelt would warm someone, or be used in tool making. She did not die in vain, but Woodsmoke knew she’d be the only one to give her thanks… Perhaps she could change that?
There wasn’t any room, it seemed, in the Pantheon that members followed. She was certain that if she were to practice her beliefs verbally and in view, she’d gain the ire of her peers. It was worth it to Woodsmoke. By using this animal, thanking it, spreading its gift to all, Woodsmoke gave praise to what once lived, and now would live on in her and in others. This was the way of the wolf. It always had been, and if Woodsmoke had any say in it, this is how it would continue.