He walked through the dead leaves, each step slow, heavy, silent. A predator in his territory, unchallenged by all. His breath remained steady as he climbed the forest hill, barely seen, smelled. His skin had received a fresh layer of river mud days ago, his tangled mane ripped shorter too long ago, his low prowl animalistic. He was almost naked, no tattered cloth could survive his rough existence, everything gone but for the arm cuff he couldn’t rip off and the rune stone he kept in a string tied around an ankle. He changed course when he reached a specific tree, seemingly identical to all around. In a few strides he reached a certain clearing, the manifestation of his rawest emotions when he first reached this area, full of rage and despair. His strength had yanked centenary trees from their roots, his claws had ripped the hardest stones, his blood had burnt the soil and the Pulse had torn the earth apart. Once completely gone, time allowed life to reclaime this place he had destroyed, showing him it’s passage had amounted years. He could tell his time was running out: what made him come here and unleash his frayed emotions with his destructive power was coming for him again, robbing him of his peace, of his control. He couldn’t remember the specifics, but he knew he would destroy whoever tried to take anything from him again, to force him into the abject feelings he dreaded to remember.
He would patrol more regularly his land, prepare some traps, he still hadn’t decided if he wanted to avoid or obliterate his pursuer, time would tell. He passed thrown deep gouges covered with moss, forced himself to remember the emotional pain he had endured to still his resolution, clear his mind. The beast would hinder him in preparations, would be more easily baited and trapped. He would reach his alter state if he had to rely on that extra power, for brawl, speed or agility, if he had to protect himself against powerful venoms or had to heal a deep wound in a speedy matter. As before, he would do so if he needed to block his reason, burned by whatever came to pass. As he left the brutalized glade, he longed for a time when he and his alter weren’t divided.
The laughter twirled around the bon fire as the game was being roosted. He was drinking hale that some gal brought him, swaying her hips with a very friendly smile. He smiled back, his arm around another lass, someone else patting his back for a spectacular hunt, no one died or got very injured, the community had harvest good crystals from the drakelings, this year’s trade was going to be great, there was meat for the entire winter. Despite the young years, his height exceeded most by an entire foot, he was strong, fast and brave. He would call forth his blood power, letting his nails become claws, his teeth sharpen, his muscles bulge, his senses heightened. The fighters welcomed his power and set him as vanguard of most raids, he could smell the women’s pleasure at the mere sight of his beastly form. Some would as for his claws, some would ravel at his sharper features, all enjoyed his company very much.
He would strengthen the village with the power of his descendants, the council was hinting that he was already late in this endeavour, and the lad felt proud, they wanted him, wanted more of him, his children would bring more joy and honour to the village, together they would be unbeatable. His idea of a family was hazy, he was raised by the council, one year each of them, rotating until he was eleven, deemed capable of caring for himself, put up in his own cabin, his ego boosted with empty praises to his valour and capabilities.
But he wanted one. He had watched the community’s families, had envied them, sometimes received their caring charity, felt that second hand comfort. He had chosen his gal. She stood farther out of the fire pit, pretending to ignore him and the women around him, but he could smell her envy from this far, he had his senses heightened for her and when he rumbled deep in his chest, he could feel her lust betraying her control. Yes, he had singled her out. He liked how, unlike the others, she didn’t ask him for anything: help, show of claws, lifting some weight… Still, he wanted her to ask him, to depend on him, to appreciate his prowess, his manhood.
As the night arrived and minds were clouded, inebriation brought louder voices and lethargy. Of course, he wasn’t affected, his body processed alcohol way too fast, and neither was she since she avoided partaking, had a baby brother to care for. He stalked her as she left. Darkness surrounded them as they went further away from the fire, her steps fast and steady. As she reached his cabin, he let his presence intensify, allowing her instinct to recognise she was being hunted. He heard her heart quicken, saw her head tur rapidly, trying to see what had made her alert. He grabbed her as she readied to run, looking a hand over her mouth, quickly bringing her inside his shelter, dropping her in his bed, and awaited, very still, standing next to the cot, maximising his senses to notice every shift in her. As she recognized the hut, her fear ebbed, her heart didn’t slow but the rhythm was somehow different. He could now smell lust in her, but also anger.
-You’re leaving many women cold. – he didn’t answer. – Am I supposed to be grateful to be chosen by the mighty warrior? – She raised to her knees, barely reaching his navel. – I’m not about to happily lay in your bed just because you’re feeling randy, go choose someone else!
Loam had raised to her feet, now standing above him. He could smell the hurt in her, he hadn’t intended so. All he wanted was some jealousy, to provoke her into claiming him for herself in front of the others. He reached her, pulled her in, unfazed by her attempts to get free of him, and hold her close, his head beneath her chest, comforted by her warmth, her drumming heart, her scent. She didn’t take long to rest her weight on him, placing a hand on his neck and leaning her forehead on his hair. He didn’t need to explain, she knew what he had asked of her, she was infuriated with her own cowardice, her fear of making that claim and be shunned by the others, out of spite or malice. Even worse if the council deemed her too week and forced her to reject him.
He didn’t need words with her: as he could read her emotions with his intense senses, she could read his thought just looking at him, noticing his slight furrowed brow and every other clue he’d give away without noticing. He didn’t like to feel her fear, this self-loath she wouldn’t let him dispel, so he distracted her the best way he knew how, or, better said, his favourite one. He let his hands roam downwards, one grabbing her bottom closer, another bending her knee forward besides him, as he turned and sit on the pallet, nesting her in his lap. She immediately scooted closer, rubbing herself on his hardness and spreading her legs apart. He stared deep in her honeyed brown eyes, interlacing all of him in the moment, elated that he was completely matted to this woman, bloodline and all.
The memory was quickly overlapped. He would forever remember these eyes, lifeless, begging him…
He jolted awake. His fear of that memory was so ingratiated even his subconscious would avoid it. He quickly left the somber of his burrowed cave and lashed into the moonlit forest, hunting for a beating heart to destroy, any act of violence that would keep the beastly instincts dominant, subduing any of those pesky human emotions and recollections. Weeks passed by, and at some point, he felt some power invading his land. This he recognised, a sense of belonging. He struggled with the impulse to meet his brethren, but the beast won, the need to defend the territory barely notice, for The Old One rejoiced in the intense brawl that was coming, the violence ushered by that invading challenge.
