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5. Thrown at the wolves
🕑 Added 2024-11-30 19:00:08 +0000 UTCI turned five years old five days ago and participated in preparing the ceremony for the first time as well. If translated into human years, I would be between seven and ten years old, a somewhat imprecise guess. I wasn't an expert, and I considered that in my estimation, but it wasn't that far off.
Turning five years old was important; it was when cubs began to learn the concrete roles they would play in the future for the tribe and when they would learn to fight, and the broad strokes of it were implemented.
In my opinion, it was a disguised game of play fighting. It would instill the basics for those who won't become warriors and hunters but hyperactive, feisty cubs need an outlet.
It didn't go against the Communion of the Twin since it was essentially the blessing of our ancestors to continue what had been planned and what we were already doing. It was a sign of acknowledgment, approval, and recognition, and it was one of the greatest honors for furbolgs.
But it wasn't a formality. I never saw it, but Oakpaw had been clear that sometimes the judgments of the spirits didn't align with what teachings had been done. Our Chieftain, Murgut, was the prime example, but it had barely happened a dozen times in my teacher's long life. So it was uncommon, not as much as in my case, though… Well, the comparison was unfair. I was an anomaly in more than one way.
Normally, my father would take me for my first training as I was to follow the 'path of wisdom and might,' meaning training as both a shaman and warrior to their fullest extent. But that was without further knowledge of the matter. Most of our shamans were already competent warriors if it came down to it, and without that, they remained people-shaped bears with an arsenal of inborn weaponry fitting to it.
No, it was different–far, far different–still a category of warriors, but calling them that barely scratched the surface of what they were. They were the paragon of strength, following Ursoc's way, and they did so by drawing the might of our ancestors, the jalgars.
Before any of that, however, came intensive preparation and conditioning. With that information in mind, I had waited at the limit between the forest proper and the village for my would-be martial teacher. Oakpaw instructed me to stay here. My ears flicked around for the last three hours to pick up any sound while my nose sniffed the air without success. I was patient, but I was reaching my limits; the nervous excitement at the start had been thoroughly replaced by irritation. It didn't matter whether it was a test or plain lateness.
Then, as if on cue, I felt a massive life force I didn't recognize, and I swiftly turned around to be met with the largest furbolg I ever saw. On average, adult furbolgs, if we counted females, were around a good bit more than two meters and a half, with males closer to three and a bit more for the tallest, and this one was above the equivalent to a large male and a half in a trenchcoat.
If my perception of the world wasn't faulty, it was taken with the slightly hunched forward position we naturally took and how our legs made a third of our height compared to around half for the average sapient biped. We weren't thin either.
All this made us massive, and it was pushed above and beyond any conception of our limits I ever had here, yet natural and well-proportioned. He had coarse dark brown fur littered with scars and adorned by greenish-white glowing runic tattoos in a closed circuit thrumming with mana. His claws were long and had a dark metallic sheen, making them not too dissimilar to bonafide swords.
And his smell wasn't unfamiliar, as I had picked it up around the village's outskirts but had never seen him, well, until now. Like any others of his weight class… for even more massive balls of muscles, claws, and teeth, they were scarily elusive. It was proven here by him sneaking up on me.
"You noticed me, but it was too late, and you would have died, cub." The ursa totemic rumbling harsh voice snapped me back to reality. I understood what he meant, but I didn't like his tone. Plus, the wasted time made me snappy, and I acted against the little better sense I had from the get-go.
"This is impro-" I froze mid-correction of his inaccuracies, a deadly claw millimeters away from going through my wide-open eyes. My heart hammered in my chest at the sight of death so close yet not; memories of how it felt flashed briefly, and then the claw was taken back, and I breathed out softly.
I wanted to say it calmed me down, but that was false. I was still pissed off, but at least I managed to keep my muzzle shut this time. I usually didn't act like this, I like to think I was pretty calm, but the big fucker played with every last one of my strings on purpose.
"Angry? As you should, cub. But it was bold and stupid for you to speak back to me. At least you didn't flee like a prey." He growled in a shockingly softer, almost pleased tone than his words led to, the hint of a smirk, but it went away the next instant. "I'm Miel, and that is what you shall call me. Now be silent and follow me. If you speak, I will let the woods care for you."
The pronunciation of his name would have amused me in another scenario in its irony, but I only nodded stiffly and did it without complaints. Questions burned in my mind for nearly two hours of marches as I awkwardly half-ran behind to keep up with his gait. Then, fifteen minutes before we arrived, he bluntly told me why we were traveling away from Greenpaw Village.
The shamans had noticed the presence of satyrs at the edge of our territory and desired them gone before they went deeper. Nothing shocking or that I hadn't heard of since my rebirth. Ashenvale wasn't the epitome of safety.
However, it didn't answer much beyond showing me examples of how ursa totemics' duties were ruthless, bloody, and violent.
Miel was to exterminate the invading satyrs thoroughly. He did just that, and while I wasn't a direct witness of the butchery for obvious reasons of being potentially used as a hostage. It was still dangerous, but having climbed in a tree dozens of meters above the ground gave enough safety. The protective leafy branches I made grow around me from the tree, only a logical addition. Not that I couldn't easily climb way higher if necessary; it was laughably easy.
However, my position didn't stop me from hearing the scream of terror, the sound of bone snapping and flesh ripped apart.
I didn't have the time to process much of what I felt beyond how little it disturbed me when Miel, covered in blood and pieces of organs, nonchalantly strutted out of the cave and ordered me to follow him back within.
I couldn't say no, but I had calmed down, so I didn't grumble, and I was genuinely curious, as strange as the thought was.
And that was the present. On the way, I gazed at the massacre on the stones scarred with deep claw marks, Miel's claws. I needn't sniff the air to pick up the smell, a very strong and unpleasant one, not the blood but the urine and feces mixed in. I gagged more than a few times.
Then came the morbid show of dismembered hooved creatures, the source of the smells, twisted descendants of the night elves and despoiler of the wild. Or what little remained of them.
I could tell from the number of hooves, hands, and horns there had been four or five satyrs' corpses with shredded animals strewn around the cavern. The only light was a cracked crystal of a sickly green twisting the natural flow of magic oozing mana I sensed earlier.
Evil wouldn't be the term I would use to describe the energy; it was Fel that much was clear, but it remained an energy.
Chaotic and ravenously hungry energy toward what I represented and why I was instinctively averse to its presence and wanted it gone. It was like fire; it burned, and my brain screamed at the danger it represented. My nose also hated it. The smell was sulfur-like, acidic, burning my snoot from the inside out.
With those observations, many things were floating in my mind, but one stood out, even above how I didn't react as strongly to the sight of corpses and gore as I thought I would have. Blood and gore werent new to me even before my rebirth. The same was true for butchering, even if only in this life was it a part of my everyday ritual and to large games at that.
But that shouldn't be the sole reason. It was something more profound, more innate.
I wasn't human to any extent, and what a banal realization it was to me at this point. It wasn't the sight of violence that birthed that thought; humans are perfectly capable of that. To say the opposite was beyond stupid. No, it was how I reacted to it when I doubted I would have been so calm as a regular human.
But my focus was on something less self-centered.
"This cave needs to be cleansed fast…" I spoke aloud, and Miel snarled in agreement, the mana in the air extremely unpleasant. Exceedingly worse than on the outside. And to think it was only a bunch of those satyrs that did this. It pointed out how vulnerable the balance was if they had been sneakier...
And if a bit of diluted Fel felt like this, then the coming war would be even more horrific than I imagined, and then what about the Nightmare and the fact it was Void-oriented?
Dragon Aspect, and Wild Gods, among other things, could be corrupted then what about me?
Though that was nothing I wasn't aware of, it only reinforced that I would need the knowledge to understand and respond adequately to those threats, not to save the world specifically, but at least to save my life and those around it.
"It will, cub." He rumbled angrily. I nodded, but there wasn't a smile on my snout at the good news.
"And the creatures behind that?" I pointed a clawed index finger to a closed section of the short cave, which was recently used from the look of it. And the one we were walking to—a foreboding feeling in my heart about the necessity of my presence.
The idea trickling in my mind that wasn't to be a simple observant was one I didn't want to believe...
"Yours part to play, ursa totemics is the same as the shamans in many ways, and the honorable responsibility to protect with our claws and fangs the tribe and its territories from any who wish harm falls on our mighty shoulder." He boomed calmly with pride as he tore off the blockaded part of the cave like it was wet paper and not multiple tons of wood and stone.
Supernatural shows of strength aside, it let me see what was behind it. I didn't like what I was seeing.
I saw cages of melted stones and wood; most of them were splintered and once detained what appeared to be animals, and still did.
Most were dead, though–freshly at that and by him, I presume–with the only living ones being two vaguely canine beasts in one of the intact cages left. And alive was too good of a term to describe them; they weren't in any state I would call acceptable.
Their eyes were glowing a bloody red. Their movements were jerky and erratic. Saliva poured in abandon from their ever-snarling maws. Though they weren't weak in appearance, muscles were busting from their pale, hairless skin as if fed on steroids in addition to various tumorous outgrowths on their bodies.
What the actual fuck did the satyrs do to those wolves, young ones or foxes, maybe? I can't tell.
They look beyond mutated, like the perfect image of the descendants of irradiated animals, but worse on every level... I guess it wasn't that different. Their entire beings were all messed up.
"Normally, I would not gauge your worth this way. Hunting with purely your body and instincts would have been enough, but as I was made aware… Normal methods tend to hamper your growth, and... I wish the opposite." Miel said in a merry tone. His savage, fanged grin only grew at my wide-eyed, incredulous gaze at what he had just blurted out.
I was at a loss for words. That's completely different! I wasn't prepared for that sudden change of plan! I never even fought!
"Go and fight till death, do you and your opponents' apart. Prove you embody the mighty ferocity of Ursoc through your fangs and claws!" He exclaimed boldly.
The next instant, I was pushed forward–thrown even–barely stopping a fall when I heard a loud bang of stone being thrown, shattering the cage housing the two corrupted feral wolves.
It all happened so fast.
I blinked.
Then, my nose was hit with the pungent smell of my blood as I was pushed on my back. A searing pain was coursing through my right arm from one of the wolves biting me, the fang digging deep in my flesh, and it shook its head as if trying to rip a chunk out of me.
All thoughts left my mind, fear and confusion vanishing as I snarled, teeth bared. Pain flared up as I dragged my bitten limb forward, and with my new reach, I bit the unsuspecting mut right back on its fully exposed nape.
Everything was instincts, blood, and violence. I didn't want to die.
The fur, hide, and muscles offered protection but were ultimately futile as its hot blood flowed to an even greater degree when my fangs dug deeper and deeper, bone scraping against teeth. Yet, the dumb beast didn't let go of me, only clamping down harder as I did in response.
Then my wide-open eyes caught a shadow, and I was reminded of the second mutated canine as it pounced to rip my throat out. But it missed thanks to a split-second jerk of my free arm, a successful sacrificial effort to protect myself. The shock of the hit, with the added pain and snapping sound, destroyed any hint of inhibitions left.
My jaws snapped shut, strengths I never knew I had coursing through me, the first mutt's spinal cord ripping apart under my feet. The corrupted beast's hold weakened, allowing me to yank my right arm, violently freeing it—the relief of the freedom from the incoming fracture and the profusely bleeding of non-importance.
The pain was all but background noise. I immediately used my freed paw to stab the second wolf's brain through one of its eyes, using two of my claws as if they were makeshift leucotomes.
The effects were immediate. It seized up shortly and went limp. The first one swiftly followed after in its paralysis and hemorrhage. Like that, the fight ended, and I hardly grasped how fast and brutal it happened.
It felt natural.
Breathing out, I extracted my limb, whimpering at the burning agony. Crawling away from the dead canines, I found myself grinning, even with the overpowering taste of blood and smell, mine and others.
This brought my attention to my arms... it wasn't a pretty sight. Both were profusely bleeding from punctures and shredding wounds matting my fur, the right one in particular from my earlier pull. But what took my focus was my left forearm was oriented the wrong fucking way.
'Better than death.' I thought, then the adrenaline began to ebb away, and with it came the unmuted pain and the frighteningly clear memories of what I had done, yet the muscles of my muzzle remained unchanged.
A few seconds passed, and I processed what had happened. And it all caught up.
I was too exhausted to be angry or even yell, but that didn't mean I was not joyous at my victory. I wanted to celebrate, but healing my wounds came first. Resting as well.
Again... they weren't pretty, and I know I should feel more at the sight of them–the canines of the mutts dug fucking deep, my morbid curiosity making me look more than the necessity to have a diagnosis–but I didn't, and I won't complain about it.
'Less thinking, more healing.'
Harder as it may be with the pain making focus difficult and my mind not all right there, in addition to it being the largest healing I had done on myself. I never healed in these circumstances, but I had the mana, well-oiled instincts, and understanding of how things should be.
Barely keeping in a whimper, I aligned my arm correctly with my other paw and magically reconnected the bones in my forearm. Then, as I was doing so, I realized that I had momentarily forgotten about my magic, the point that I likely wasn't allowed to use unimportant as it pointed to a glaring weakness to be fixed.
"You're all cobbled up in moments... I can't say I'm not impressed, cub. What a raw display of your true self it was. Ferocious little one. The old was right… There goes one of my best kegs of honey beer, a worthy exchange for a promising disciple… if you survive, that was only the first taste." The ursa totemic commented and finished by mumbling nonsense while I caught my breath, propped myself up, and glowered with a growl at him. I wasn't too weak to be angry, it seemed. The praise did little to soften my displeasure, the last part only aggravating me.
He just chuckled at my show of defiance, but it wasn't mocking; it was approving, somehow making it both worse and better. I didn't know how to feel. He wasn't only an asshole. It shouldn't be surprising in retrospect.
"Amusing to see you be this defiant; limit your glaring. You are too young for a duel, cub. Don't rile me up to it. Your clever little eyes-stabbing trick won't help here." He stated and prompted me to follow him, which I did, wisely heeding his advice and wincing at the rapidly disappearing yet still sharp pain of my healing bones, "Now let's clean ourselves in the river and tell the tale to the village.”
