World of Darkness World of Darkness: Attrition - Wild Soul [FIN]

[Owns-The-Night]

June, 1988.

Libby, Montana

"He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread."

He didn't like the truck.

His uncle had explained that it was necessary. That the machine was no different in essence than a rifle or a stove. But Declan didn't like the truck. It smelled funny, made too much noise, and for a six year-old boy who hadn't even seen or heard of an automobile before his uncle had retrieved it from the old shed and spent the last week repairing it, the contraption was terrifying.

"Don't fret, boy." His uncle told him without real impatience as he glanced sideways to where the dark-haired boy was moodily kicking at the underside of the dash. "You got to get used to riding these things. They make life's journeys a little faster and easier."

"Why can't we walk?" Declan didn't quite whine: his uncle was a kind enough man in a rough-hewn way, but didn't tolerate whining. The odd cuff around the back of the head had quickly cured the boy of that. But his question was definitely accusatory. "I don't care how far it is. I want to walk to Livvy. I can walk to any place."

"It's Libby, Dec. And yeah, you're a good strong walker. And yeah, we would get there... by evening." His uncle grinned through a short dark beard streaked with grey, pale blue eyes twinkling. "All the shops would have shut, and you and me would be stuck in Libby for the night." He reached over and ruffled the child's hair, prompting a mutinous glower from his nephew's silver eyes. Bob Perault was a little taken aback. Damn, last time I saw that look, his mama near kicked my ass. "Don't you look at me like that, boy." he growled through his teeth. "You got to get a lot bigger and whole lot meaner before you can throw looks like that one around, goddamnit." The tone worked, and Declan dropped his gaze and mumbled an apology under his breath. Bob reached out and laid a hand on the kid's shoulder.

"Is it that bad, Dec? Look outta the window, boy. Ever go this fast before?" His question roused the boy from his sulk, and Declan clambered up on the bench seat and watched the world go past, face pressed to the window as he forgot his gripe in the way children do. The rest of the trip was more harmonious. The kid was a quiet sort anyway. Apart from the occasional question, he would just watch the landscape blur past.

Pulling the truck into a parking space outside the store, Bob got out. "You stay with the truck, Dec. It needs watching." Declan's disappointment at being left behind was softened by being given something important to do. He started to get out, but his uncle shook his head. "Stay inside the truck, Dec. Folks around here aren't always friendly. If anyone causes trouble honk the horn, okay?" The large man indicated the horn button, and Declan nodded. "It'll make a big noise, and I'll come running out."

Declan nodded again, then watched his uncle walk into the general store. He spent some time watching the street, but Libby was a small town and there was not much to see. After a few minutes, however, a small knot of local children gathered to stare at the beat-up old truck and the pale-eyed boy staring out at them from inside it. Eventually, a group consensus achieved, they approached the truck behind a chubby ten year old wearing an orange t-shirt and faded jeans.

"Hey!" The leader, a kid called Joe, said, looking up at the open window that Declan was currently staring out of. He knew how this was supposed to go: harass the new kid, see how they fitted into the pecking order. But this weird-eyed kid didn't answer, he just stared at Joe like some kind of creepy dummy.

"Are you a retard or something?" Joe asked, not entirely unkindly. It wasn't nice to pick on retards, after all.

"He looks like one." giggled Steve, one of Joe's friends. The strange kid just tilted his head to one side as if considering Steve, then answered in a soft voice.

"What's a retard?"

Joe blinked and glanced at his friends as though seeking some sort of advice, then looked back at Declan.

"Wow. You must be real young to not know that." He said patronisingly. The weirdo frowned at that, looking defiant.

"I'm six!" He said with some heat, falling for one of the oldest pieces of bait in the schoolyard fishing compendium.

"Oooh! Siiiiix!" Steve giggled again. "Are you a big boy now?" The other kids laughed. Declan felt his teeth clench at that sound, shrill mockery and humor at his expense causing his hands to grip the window's edge harder.

"I'm plenty big enough to do lots of things I bet you can't! I can track, and hunt, and one day my uncle will teach me to shoot!" Declan said with anger in his voice now at their continued laughter. "Which is more than you all can do. You stink so bad that you'd scare the game away!"

"I don't stink!" Joe stepped up to the truck door, clenching pudgy fists as he looked up into Declan's silver eyes. "You come down here and say that to my face, chicken!" Declan was torn now; on the one hand, his uncle had told him to stay with the truck and honk the horn in case of trouble. On the other hand, this fatty was calling him chicken. The inner conflict didn't last long. It couldn't. A challenge had been made, and something in Declan's soul rose to it, teeth bared.

He jumped out of the truck window with a little growl, landing on Joe's upturned face and sending them both crashing to the floor. The yelp of pained surprise from Joe stifled the noise of the other kids as Declan rolled and came to his feet in a crouch, not even concerned about the grazes and cuts on his arms and bare legs under the shorts. The older boy struggled to his feet less gracefully, touching one finger gingerly to a bloody lip. He looked at the blood and glared daggers at the unflinching boy crouched before him.

"You're DEAD!" With that shrill battlecry ringing in the sleepy main street air, Joe rushed at the wiry kid with his arms outstretched. Growling under his breath, Declan swayed to one side before launching himself at Joe's ample midsection. They went down in a tangle, punching and grappling with each other. Size and experience was on Joe's side, however, and despite the wiry strength and ferocity of his opponent, the older boy gained the upper hand and was soon kneeling on Declan's chest.

"Give in?" Joe was sweating and breathing hard from the effort of the fight. Declan's answer to the civilised question was as simple as it was primal. A fist-sized stone, held in a small hand, came up and smacked the larger boy on the side of the head. Yelling in pain, Joe rolled off Declan and tried to get back to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. The watching kids saw the strange boy roll to his feet in one smooth motion, a killing light in his silver eyes as he stalked towards the still-kneeling Joe, taking a firmer grip on his rock. He raised it high, teeth bared in a snarl...

Only to have it snatched from him by a large hand. Growling, he whirled on the interloper, only to receive a cuff that sent him sprawling as Bob Perault tossed the rock to one side.

"Stay down there, Dec." Though not angry, there was steel in his uncle's voice, and the boy heeded it as Bob helped Joe to his feet and examined the lump on the boy's skull. "You're alright, kid. Get some ice on that and you'll be fine." He told the other kids to get Joe home, then turned and moved over to the prone Declan. Squatting down next to him, he reached out and ruffled the boy's hair.

"Let's get you home, boy. You need some lessons on handling your temper in a fight so's you don't kill folks." Declan took the offered hand and was pulled to his feet. "Also, you need lessons on what "Stay in the truck" means, dammit!" His uncle growled at him before walking away. Scuffing his shoes on the ground, Declan followed.

[Owns-The-Night]

November, 2008

Libby, Montana

"The cub's fear of the unknown was an inherited distrust, and it had now been strengthened by experience. Thenceforth, in the nature of things, he would possess an abiding distrust of appearances."

Large airhorns blatted from the road. He looked up from the asphalt he'd been studying and felt a sense of disorientation. The general store was gone now in favor of a large, sprawling eatery and bar. The dusty rock and earth parking lot had been covered with black asphalt that glistened in the chill November rain. Libby, Montana had been brought up to date. As a waystation on the North/South trucking runs.

The rain soaking through his clothes brought Declan out of his reverie. Well, they weren't his clothes, really. He had stolen them about 100 miles away from the back of someone's car, along with a backpack which he had filled with food. He had made the first leg of his trip in wolf shape, eating up the miles at a steady tireless lope. He could have stayed that way, but reason told him he would need a human guise at some point, and Uratha could not sleep in shapes other than human.

He walked up to the building, feeling in his pocket with wind-chilled fingers for his cash roll. He grunted as he counted it off. Less than twenty bucks and change. Well, it would get him a warm meal and some time to dry out a little next to a heater.

Entering the bar, he was assaulted with noise. It had been so quiet on the trails and game paths of the wilds that Dec had forgotten how noisy human places could be, how out of sync with their surroundings. He nearly turned around and walked back out again, and be damned to warming up.

Somehow, he wrestled his instincts under control and snagged a table. Ordering a burger and fries with milk, he managed to smile at the pretty young waitress before looking uneasily around the crowded bar. He didn't feel threatened so much as... closed in. His thoughts were dark as he sat there waiting, full of resentment against the Uratha of L.A. The Topangas for their high and mighty attitude, Ariel for being a tame doggie for the Herd yet having the damned gall to chew HIM out, and Amber, both for denying Sarah's basic right to run with Uratha and for not backing him up against the sheepdog. Figures that the females would stick together. he groused to himself. Well, hope they have fun with their little no-pack. Don't need their kinda shit: Little Miss "I've Got a Badge Ain't I Special" and Lady "Not a Storm Lord Honest I Just Crap On Folks Cos I Can". Mingled and woven in with the anger, though, was sadness. The pack had fallen apart before it had even begun, and at heart, Declan knew that some of that was his own fault. All I wanted was a damned pack, Luna. Is that so fuckin' hard? He sighed. There were no answers forthcoming. He tried to think of something else, and that usually meant Morgan. But in this noisy, smelly place, he felt unsettled and edgy, and memories of soft lips and pale skin seemed tainted, somehow, by the Herd pressing in around him.

His food arrived, and the large Rahu leaned over his plate and didn't so much eat as inhale the food in front of him. Halfway through his burger though, he suddenly paused, silver eyes flicking up and around the bar, searching faces as he chewed slowly. His eyes narrowed as he found what he sought.

There was another Uratha here. A large man, slimmer of build than he, but still in prime physical shape. Owns-The-Night watched as the strange werewolf turned and looked straight at him, giving him a close-mouthed smile. After looking around once more, the werewolf at the bar moved over to where Dec was seated. Without asking, he pulled out the chair opposite the Blood Talon and sat down, his deep brown eyes fixed on Dec's silver ones.

"Greetings, Owns-The-Night of the Suthar Anzuth. I am Speaks-With-Fire." the other man said respectfully with another smile. "I do not see harm in admitting that I have been waiting for you."

[Owns-The-Night]

There was a long, tense silence. Declan deliberately relaxed his shoulders and muscles: tension slowed the reflexes, locked muscle and sinew still when they should be ready to whip-snap in any direction. He kept his eyes on the werewolf in front of him, relying on his warrior instincts to tell him if any were at his back.

"How'd you know who I am?" Declan asked in a low tone. The other simply shrugged.

"There have been heard a few tales of a lone wolf of Los Angeles. The spirits told me of your coming, told me of your troubled soul." Speaks-with-Fire smiled. "I am no enemy to you Owns-The-Night, son of Fair-In-Her-Wrath. Oh yes, I know of your family, too." he said in response to Declan's widening eyes. "Your mother was a great Elodoth... what? No one has told you?" Now the other werewolf looked incredulous. "How strange. Why would they not tell you... ahhh, of course." He nodded now as though something made sense. Declan leaned forward, caught by his curiousity.

"What? Tell me!" The Rahu's eyes blazed. Speaks-With-Fire leaned away from that stare, looking a little apprehensive.

"Not now, not here." He held up a placatory hand. "I should consult with the spirits first... there may be something deeper at work than I first thought." Declan cocked his head to the side.

"You're Ithaeur?" A smile and a shrug. "You can tell me about my mother?" A nod, followed by a hasty qualification:

"If the spirits consent to it. But I am here to provide you advice, to help you through your troubles." Declan snorted at this.

"I don't need help, man." But the words were hollow sounding and he knew it. Speaks-With-Fire gestured expressively.

"No, you don't. But with my help, you can find your answers faster." The Ithaeur grinned tightly. "My family home is not far away from this place. Perhaps fifty miles west? I have a car, and we can be there very soon." Another smile. "My family and my pack will be pleased to meet you." Declan narrowed his eyes, and shook his head.

"Sorry, man. That's not the way I'm headed. But you can come visit me once you've done your spirit-talkin'. My place is-"

"I know where it is." Speaks-With-Fire said with a frown, then sighed. "Very well, then. I shall return in two or three days. But please, take this." He dropped a small roll of bills on the table. "You will need this in the days ahead, I'm certain. No, no, take it. For the sake of a debt owed to your line by mine."

Declan relented and, picking up the roll of money, nodded to the Ithaeur. "Thanks."

"Save your thanks until I have performed a task worthy of them, Owns-The-Night." Speaks-With-Fire gave him a warm smile as he stood. "I will return as soon as I am able."

The werewolf turned and walked away, disappearing in the crowd near the door. Declan stared after him for a long moment, then peeled off a bill and examined it. A slow grin spread ear to ear, and Owns-The-Night waved the waitress over, giving her a big smile that made the young woman blush and smile back.

"What's the largest damn steak you serve here?" The Rahu asked, the hunger in his eyes making the waitress shiver, not entirely pleasurably.

[Owns-The-Night]

April, 1998

Capital High School, Helena, Montana

"He became quicker of movement than the other, swifter of foot, craftier, deadlier, more lithe, more lean with ironlike muscle and sinew, more enduring, more cruel, more ferocious... He had to become all these things, else he would not have held his own..."

The bell rang long and loud, and the hallways erupted with noise and motion as nearly a thousand bored and hungry teenagers spilled out of their classes. Jostling, laughing, chattering, they formed knots and whirls of friends and peers as they headed off to whatever the lunch hour had in store for them.

Declan opened his locker door and dumped his books inside, retrieving his lunchbag and running gear and trying to ignore the sight of Allanah Farden, cheerleader, girlfriend of the quarterback, and all-round cocktease as she bent down to rummage through her locker across the corridor from him. Already dressed for cheering practice, the short green skirt did little to conceal her strong smooth legs and shapely rear.

Dec, despite himself, was fascinated as only an adolescent male could be at the sight of her backside shifting like the haunches of a cat. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled to herself. Alannah liked to tease every boy in the school, but she particularly liked to tease him ever since he'd transferred in this semester. Declan didn't respond to the provocation, didn't rise to the challenge. He was on his fourth high school already, having been kicked out of the others for fighting. Something in him would not tolerate the normal dominance games that adolescents played. He was quiet and kept to himself, but was an indifferent student, preferring to look out of the windows and draw on his exercise books. All he really wanted was to get his GED and get the fuck out of Helena. Maybe he could join the Army or something? Damn, but that girl had an ass that wouldn't quit...

Abruptly he realised two things: that Alannah had straightened up and was smiling at him, and that he had a pants-straining boner threatening the integrity of his jeans. Oh shit! He spun back to his locker and fumbled to close it, taking longer than strictly necessary. Go on, go and giggle with your fuckin' friends... Nothin' to see here. He felt angry: with himself, with her, with her asshole boyfriend who would relish the chance to play hero. Fuckin' women ain't worth the hassle. Just let me get through this last semester and I'm outta this shit.

"Hey, you're Declan right?" A waft of Juicy Fruit, Vic's Secret perfume, and Female made him tense. He finished closing his locker and turned to see Alannah looking at him from only a couple of feet away, blue eyes sparkling and the fragrant fall of her auburn hair reaching the curve of her sweater-covered breasts. She gave him a little smile and shrugged. "I asked around some. I've seen you out on the field running." Her eyes took in his shoulders, broad for a 16 year old boy. "You should try out for the football team." Her smile was mischievous and inviting. We could have so much fun it seemed to say.

Declan knew he should get out of there. He should make an excuse, nod and smile, and leave. But he was trapped by his instincts, by urges that were stronger than reason. His eyes locked on hers, but he stayed silent.

"Wow. Your eyes are kinda cool." She leaned in and tilted her head this way and that, studying the play of light in his silver irises. Her pink-glossed lips were pursed slightly as Declan shifted on his feet, his own head cocking to one side as he gazed back at her. She suppressed a shudder of excitement at the look in those eyes, even as a part of her wondered why he wasn't speaking. Most guys would be either stammering or trying to be cool by now: what gave with Declan? "You're not speaking. Don't you like me?" Her blue eyes looked soulfully up at him as she stepped closer. She wanted... no, she needed to get a reaction out of him.

He nodded, then cleared his throat quietly. It sounded like a growl, almost. "Yeah. I, uh, I like you fine." In that moment, he did. He forgot that she was trouble. He forgot that she liked making her boyfriend jealous at the expense of the poor guys she flirted with. A hard hand shoving him into his locker reminded him, breaking the spell.

"You tryin' it with my girl, new guy?" Joe Barris was a high school football hero. He captained his team well, was well-regarded by most people as more than a stereotypical jock. Overall, he was a nice guy. But his clay foot was Alannah. He hated that she seemed to flirt all the damned time. He couldn't stand it even when it was obvious that she was just teasing some scrawny guy. But she hadn't looked like she was just teasing this time, and the new kid wasn't scrawny. He was nearly Joe's size, despite being a year or so younger. There was an air about him of challenge, a rival, and Joe felt himself rise to it as Declan straightened up and squared off, silver gaze narrowed. Alannah stepped back biting her lower lip, her eyes shining excitedly.

Declan wanted to fight. The whole fibre of his being wanted to lash out at Joe, to smash his opponent and take the spoils of victory. But he didn't. With a Herculean effort, he dropped his gaze and shook his head.

"We was just talkin'. Didn't mean nothin' by it, man." He kept his eyes down, the words like bile in his mouth as he tried to slip away. He didn't want yet another expulsion on his record, and if blows were struck, Declan knew that's exactly what would happen. He stepped to the side...

And was knocked down, his lunchbag going flying as Joe unloaded a powerful right hook to his cheek. Declan looked up and saw his enemy smirk, saw the enemy's woman looking scornfully at him, saw the ring of faces around him about to start jeering. His pulse thundered in his ears, his head ringing from the punch. He tasted his own blood...

And Changed, his skin rippling as fur sprouted from it's smooth surface, his bones cracking and shifting into new shapes. His eyes blazed like molten gold, silver tinted with the fire of his Rage. He grinned at Joe's blanching face, his mouth full of knives, and roared his fury at them all as he flowed to his feet.

Joe screamed once before the huge furry shape struck him with the force of a car, driving him back against the lockers across the hall. He felt bones break under the impact and dagger-like claws digging into his chest, but his eyes were terror-locked on the powerful jaws descending on his fa-

A crunching sound and a spray of blood painted the lockers with deep, dark red as Declan's teeth sheared the front half of Joe Barris's head off. He spat the wreckage to one side and howled his triumph, the sound rising above the screaming students as they stampeded for the exits. Declan rose to his feet, growling as his golden eyes swept over to Alannah. The girl was pressed against the wall, blue eyes wide in panic, her chest rising and falling as she hyperventilated, too frightened to scream. His jaws dripping blood, the thing that was Declan approached the girl.

He took her there on all fours in the hallway, the blood of his kill pooling on the floor around them, it's scent mingling with the smell of sex. He growled in time to her whimpering as his taloned hands gripped her hips tightly with each thrust into her sex. As his orgasm exploded from him to the accompaniment of a howl of lust and dominance, Declan suddenly realised that this was all wrong.

This isn't how it happened! he told himself...

* * * * * *

November, 2008

Libby, Montana

...and he sat up, sweating, his heart in his ears. Luna! That was a fucked up nightmare.

He lay back and rested for a moment, calming his breathing as he looked up at the ceiling, his gaze on the past. He hadn't taken the Gauru shape and killed Joe Barris. Nor had he raped Alannah in her boyfriend's cooling blood. He had erupted from the floor in a fury, outraged by the sucker punch. The ensuing fight had raged along the corridor, wrecked three lockers, two classroom doors, and ended up putting the star quarterback in traction after Dec had thrown him down a flight of stairs. Declan was not expelled, however. A fair few people, Alannah included, had testified that Joe threw the first punch. It was one of the few warm memories the Uratha had of his teenage years.

Calmer now, he quietly swung his legs out of bed and padded to the small bathroom. He relieved himself, then washed himself quickly with cold water before returning to the bedroom

It smelled of sex in here, pleasantly underscored with the feminine scents of a woman's room. Declan sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand down the shape under the sheets, grinning slightly at the slightly hoarse feminine murmur of disbelief.

"Jeezus, Declan. Let a girl sleep will ya?" A dark head emerged from the covers, a lazy satiated grin on her lips in the gloom. Cindy had approached him in the bar. A few beers later, and the deputy sheriff, 30, divorced, no kids, and looking for Mr Right-Now, had taken Dec home, telling him that he was getting the wet spot.

They'd ended up changing the sheets. Sex had been a revelation to the Uratha, and Cindy was an enthusiastic tutor. Declan had been no less enthusiastic a pupil, and the woman had fallen asleep worn out and a little hoarse. The answering machine light was blinking next to the bed: somewhere around 1 AM someone had called from nearby to complain about the noise.

Now, he slid a hand under the covers again. He needed something to counter the poison of the dream, and as his rough fingers trailed over her smooth skin, Cindy stretched out like a cat and sighed. "I'll say this, you're ruining me for any other man. I thought I was in shape, but damn!"

Declan rumbled a laugh and leaned over her, but she put a hand on his chest. "Oh no, boy. I'm going to be walking funny enough as it is tomorrow, and I'm on duty at ten. But when I get back..." Her dark eyes smiled up at him. "I'll have all weekend for you. Now c'mere and cuddle."

Grumbling a little, Dec settled down next to the dusky beauty and folded his arms around her. He didn't tell her he'd be gone tomorrow. He didn't ruin the moment. Soon enough, though, he slipped back into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

[Owns-The-Night]

Next Day

November, 2008

Somewhere in the Montana Hills

"There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive."

He stopped at the top of the rising, his breath wreathing his head in the cold air. He did not overmuch feel the heavy pack on his back, or the cold that had nipped at his face for the fifty mile trek through hilly, heavily forested terrain. Such were his tenacity and vigor that even his exertions of the previous night had little impact on them. But memories of soft skin and the perfume of desire were far away from Owns-The-Night at that moment as he looked down into the sheltered dip in the landscape.

*The crisp feeling of snow under bare feet, the cold unnoticed against the thrilling song of the night. Of running free through pine wooded hills. Of chasing a hare vainly just to see it run. Of dancing wild circles, moon-mad. Of being chased, loving the game of it, wanting only to play.* The welter of memories flooded him, a return to a time of innocence.

He blinked once and started down the slope towards the large cottage in the hollow. As he drew closer, Declan saw that two outer walls had given way somewhat to the elements, and the roof over that corner had collapsed inwards. The large shack that used to house the truck was still mainly intact, but the outhouse was merely stubs of broken and rotted boards. There was no sign anyone had been here since he had left.

*They had come for him, ignoring his pleas to be left alone here. The law wouldn't allow it; there were rules. A twelve year old boy could not be left to fend for himself. He had screamed and fought as they dragged him to their car, crying that he was sorry, so sorry for his uncle's death, that he hadn't intended the older man to catch sick and die. The adult faces were determined, stony. They had a duty to do, and wouldn't be swayed from that. He had bitten a hand, fresh blood in his mouth making his tongue tingle, and made a break for it. But his tears half-blinded him and he had slipped and fallen: they had caught him easily.*

His tears felt cold on his cheeks as he watched the ghostly image of his younger self dragged, unkindly and with not a little rough shaking, back to the car and thrown into the back seat. Declan turned away from the scene and studied the cottage with a discerning eye, trying to determine the first course of action. The past was a world away now.

He walked into the cottage, wincing at the damage to the interior. They hadn't shut any of the windows, closed none of the doors. It had been simply abandoned. In a half hour he had made a plan of action and he smiled to himself. The project would give him focus, to rebuild what Man's carelessness had let be destroyed. He opened up the wood cellar, and smiled as he heard the chittering complaints of raccoons down there. The little bandits had made their homes here for a few of their generations now, by the tracks. Declan shut the doors again. He would let them keep their home: after all, he wouldn't need all of it yet. Let them move out once the winter was over if that was what they wished.

* * * * * *

A few days later, and work was well underway. Declan had made a day's trek to Libby and back for the supplies he needed. Self-sufficient to an extreme, he bought only tools - axe, hammer, plane, etc - and nails, along with a few thick waterproof tarpaulins. He had jogged nearly the entire trip, tireless as always even with the load on his back on the return journey. He exulted in his strength as never before: here it didn't seem to be something that could mark him apart. Rather, it was his connection with the land itself, deep and enduring as it welcomed him home.

He had cleaned out the debris of ages from the ruin, then fixed the doors and windows in the roofed portion of the building. He slept through the mornings and worked through the afternoon until it was dark.

At night, he hunted. At first alone, but by the third night he had company.

He had heard them on the first night, howling across the intervening miles. He had listened to the song and howled his reply, hearing them fall silent as his paean to Life echoed over the land. The third night he had taken down a buck, wearing down the beast over a long chase in Urhan shape before finally breaking it's neck with one strong bite of his Urshal jaws. As he had howled his joy to Luna's smiling face, he realised he wasn't alone.

Dark shapes flitted through the trees around him, circling, their scent both worried and curious. He shifted down to Urhan once more and lowered his head, growling long and low in a clear signal that this was his kill, and not to be stolen. The surrounding wolves yipped and whined to each other, sensing something like and yet not-like themselves and unsure how to proceed. Finally the alpha had approached - not directly - but sidling in a placatory fashion.

friend-notwolf? he had asked, in the manner of wolves, of Owns-The-Night, caution in his scent.

notwolf-friend Declan had confirmed, taking in the lean flanks of the pack and realising that in winter, good hunting was scarce. He looked at the steaming body of the buck, then cocked his head at the alpha. notwolf-kill-share-wolf.

As peace offerings go, it was a great way to make friends.

After that night, Declan had found them waiting for him as darkness fell at the end of each day's work. Each night, he hunted with the pack, running over crisp snow on wide paws. The pack respected his prowess and size, and the alpha was glad that Declan did not seem to want to lay claim to his females. Over the next few days, the pack came earlier and lounged around the clearing while waiting for sunset, watching their notwolf friend with quiet amazement in their wolfish eyes as he clambered over the strange wooden cave doing incomprehensible things with metal objects. As the sun sank and the pack stirred, Declan would jump down and remove his clothing, stashing it safely inside the house before sprouting fur and trotting four-legged across the packed snow to join them. It was a time of innocence regained, a time of healing. But Luna didn't bring Owns-The-Night up here solely to heal. She required change, and growth.

True to his word, Speaks-With-Fire found Declan six days after their meeting in Libby.

[Owns-The-Night]

"He was sounding the deeps of his nature and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time."

"I have spoken with the spirits." the Ithaeur told him as the two of them stared at the fire. The pack had gone to hunt without their notwolf ally this night, and Owns-The-Night was relaxing in his newly rebuilt lounge. The chimney, made of riverstone packed with mud, was drying out, and Dec would have had to stay by it anyway as the fire blazed in the newly-laid hearth. He had welcomed Speaks-With-Fire into his home, and the strange Uratha was grateful to get out of the bitter cold.

"And?" Declan passed the other a large mug of strong bark tea. It lacked the stimulants of caffeinated drinks, but the taste and smell were warming enough. "What did they have to say?" The Ithaeur looked at him with a smile.

"You were drawn here because there are questions you have in your soul." he began after taking a sip of the his mug. "The spirits guided you home, Owns-The-Night, back to the resting place of your mother."

"My... mother?" Declan looked at the Ithaeur, wide-eyed. "Her grave's around here? My uncle never told me. Where is it?" He leaned towards the other werewolf, silver eyes intense. The Ithaeur nodded, setting his cup down.

"Of course. Her resting place is about fifteen miles from this place. Not far, as the wolf runs. Shall we go?"

The burning firelight reflecting in Owns-The-Night's gaze was all the answer necessary.

* * * * * *

The gravesite sat in a small hollow in the landscape, smaller than the one that the cabin nestled in. Declan crouched in his wolf form at the edge of the clearing and studied it, nervousness apparent in the quiver of his broad shoulders. A cairn of stones lay undisturbed by time and scavengers, and the whole area was infused with an area of peace. Uncaring of the cold he shifted to Dalu form and approached, hardened bare feet crunching on the frost, and stood over the cairn. Speak-With-Fire joined him there, and the two werewolves stood silently for a long moment. In the distance, the pack howled the chase; closer by a creature scurried away from the claws of an owl. But here in this clearing, all was perfect stillness.

"Fair-In-Her-Wrath was a Blood Talon, and a fine asset to the tribe." Speaks-With-Fire began softly. "She was a master strategist, always capable of seeing the next ten moves of a campaign, of balancing the impulse to act with the need to make the right decision. There were few indeed who could match her in that."

"How did she die?" Owns-The-Night asked, his rough voice hushed. Speaks-With-Fire sighed, but when he spoke, his voice was alive with anger and sadness.

"She was murdered by her own pack." He flinched back as Owns-The-Night spun on him with a low snarl, the urge for mayhem in his moon-silver gaze.

"Lies! No pack would murder one of their own!" The Rahu took a step towards the other werewolf, his large hands flexing.

"Would you shame her by desecrating this place with the blood of our kind?" Speaks-With-Fire's voice was sharp, commanding, and Declan stopped his advance. "And do not presume to say I lie! I would not, could not lie to you, Owns-The-Night. There is too much you must know!"

"Fine!" Declan nearly spat as he tried to calm down. "So tell me... please."

The Ithaeur squatted down, gesturing for Declan to do likewise. "I will. For your sake, and the sake of your mother, I will tell you the story of Fair-In-Her-Wrath, and how she came to realise the truth of the Uratha and was slain for it."

He voice dropped into the cadences of First Tongue, growling softly into the still winter air.

* * * * * *

<This is a story that is true.>

<Of all the Blood Talons, many were mighty in battle, covered with scars well-earned. But the sons of the Destroyer Wolf measure cunning and cleverness as mighty weapons also, for the perfect warrior must know all the tools of war, from blade to brain. And few minds were as keen as that of Fair-In-Her-Wrath. A student of war from her earliest days, her mind was her primary weapon. Any she could not outfight head on, she could certainly out-think. To contend with her was to lose a war, even if one was the victor in the battle.>

<Many victories she won for her pack before the first blow was even struck. Many alliances she forged between Uratha packs that would otherwise have been easy prey for their enemies. But all was not well with her soul. She came to realise that the great war that divides the People was a tragic blight on our kind, preventing us from knowing our true greatness. A mind like hers could not let the problem rest; a soul as noble as hers could not reconcile the slaying of the Pure. "There must be a way towards peace!" she would argue with her packmates, but they would shake their heads and murmur that such was not possible. So unsatisfied she went from her pack, seeking the Pure. She heard rumors that not all Pure Ones were terrible killers, and indeed it was so. She found the Fire-Touched.>

<It was there that I first met her. Aye, I am Fire-Touched, Owns-The-Night. Wait! Do not spring upon me. Still your warrior heart and listen first. By the totem of my tribe, I have not told you a lie yet. True, I am not Ithaeur, but I did not claim to be: I simply did not correct your mistake. Truthfully now, if I had told you my nature there in the bar, you would never have found this place. Or if you had, you would not realise the significance. So yes, I am of the Pure. And I was a cub just past my First Change when your mother came among us.>

<She was heartsick, you know. She found no support amongst the Uratha for her cause to end the war between us. Everywhere she turned, they cited tradition and duty as the reasons for kin-slaying. So she came to us, to learn why we fight the Uratha. And we told her.>

<Now, I know you know the tale of the First Times. Of Urfarah and Luna. But the tale is wrong, Owns-The-Night. It is a lie! Luna was the one to court Father Wolf, and she did it because she wished to acquire his power, the dominion over Pangea and the Shadow that he had won by his own strength, nobility and guile. She was a greedy and fickle female, but she was beautiful. Urfarah trusted her, against the advice of some of his children. Oh, aye. The First Pack were born of Father by himself. From Dire Wolf down to Red Wolf, they were all part of Urfarah that he had given life to. But Luna wanted children of her own, and so Father gave her us. And when he grew old, and began teaching his first children their duties in preparation for the time he would be gone, Luna grew jealous.>

<You see, she wished HER children to inherit the Lordship that is, by right, that of the First Pack. As mother of the Lords of the Border Marches, she would be Queen of all that is; at least, that is how she saw it. So she went to the First Pack and told them that Father's time was done. But for three, the First Pack agreed that he had taught them all he knew. Dire Wolf, Silver Wolf and Rabid Wolf disagreed: Urfarah was older and wiser and stronger than any of them still, therefore it could not yet be his time.>

<But the others, led by Skolis-Ur (who secretly wanted the leadership of the First for his own) rose up and slew Father. Luna, as fickle as ever, grieved for Urfarah's death and cursed us all, a weak female in a fit of temper.>

<So you see how they have lied? You wear proudly, and rightly so in your mind, the brand of your auspice there on your chest. You claim dominion over the spirit realms. But you have been lied to, Owns-The-Night. The knowledge that should have been granted us all died with Urfarah. The purity of purpose that should be ours was tainted by the trickery and greed involved in his downfall. That brand, to us, is a slave-mark. A shackle chaining you to a lie.>

<This is the truth that your mother discovered. With an Elodoth's judgement and gifts, she used the discernment given by Luna herself to rid herself of Luna's lie. It was the master stroke of a true strategist: to use the chains around her soul as a weapon to break free. And she joined us, the Fire Touched. But her pack, unwilling or unable to see the new joy that Fair-In-Her-Wrath had found, sought her out and slew her and her lover, a wolf-blood named Raphael Perault, as traitors. But they had already brought you forth and hid you here, with your father's brother.>

<Now all that I have told you is true, Owns-The-Night. But you do not need to accept merely my word. This place... you can feel it. It is a locus. A locus born of your mother's sacrifice for you. Small though it is, you can step through to the Hisil. Wait there, and one will come who will show you that all I have said is true.>

* * * * * *

Declan looked hard at the Pure in front of him, flames of anger tinging his silver eyes golden. <I will go.> he told the other in First Tongue. <But if this is a trick...> He left the rest of the thought unspoken and rose, walking towards the cairn. He concentrated, feeling the spiritual energy of this place and, taking a deep breath, crossed over.

[Owns-The-Night]

In the Hisil, all was quiet. Luna's full face shone down on the Glade, prompting a partially-distrustful look from Owns-The-Night as he looked upwards. Despite himself, he could not look on the sight and be angry, however. Here in the Shadow, there were no clouds to obscure the gleaming pale orb, and the sight called to something deep in his very essence. Luna seemed closer, as if leaning down to peer at him, curious as to what he was up to. He waited, looking around him. Despite the anger in his soul, despite his sense of betrayal at the lies he had been told, Owns-The-Night felt a sense of calm anticipation here. Something important was happening.

...my son...

He whirled, looking around. The rocks of the cairn were not moss-covered and worn by time as in the 'real' world. They each seemed to thrum with hidden energy, emitting a light that pushed back Luna's radiance. From the stones seeped an insubstantial mist that coalesced and solidified into the shape of a woman. Her face was beautiful, if careworn; possessed of inner strength that radiated out from her. Dark hair spilled to her shoulders, and pale blue eyes regarded Declan with a fierce pride.

<My son.> The voice was firmer now, coming not from the figure of the woman but from the cairn behind her. <You have been tricked and lied to, and now it is time for me to tell you the truth.>

<I know the truth, mother.> Declan stepped towards her, his eyes full of anger and sorrow. <I know what I must do.> The woman looked at him, her head tilted curiously.

<And what is that?>

Her answer came in a leap, a snarl, and a flash of fangs. The woman dissipated with a thin shriek as the jaws of the Urshal form tore at her throat. Owns-The-Night wheeled and scattered the spirit-stuff further, his heart sick at what he had done- no, what he had appeared to do.

<Did you think I would be so easily lied to?!> he snarled into the stillness of the Shadow. <Did you think the pathetic orphan would lap up any filth as long as it was made to smell like honey? You insult me with your lies, Speaks-With-Fire!>

<And you are a troublesome one, Owns-The-Night.> Speaks-With-Fire appeared at the edge of the Glade. Behind his human form, four other shapes loomed in Dalu and Urshal shapes. <I admit, the Deception spirit was a bit much.>

<ENOUGH!> Owns-The-Night's growl was sheer menace and defiance. <Now tell me the truth before I die, for it is damned certain you will find no ally here this night.>

<I would not be so sure. You see, your mother did not join us willingly... at first. It took some time to convince her of Luna's falsity and the lies of the Forsaken. So will it be with you.> The five Pure stalked forwards slowly, eyes glowing in the radiance of the cairn. Speaks-With-Fire swelled, taking the Dalu shape. <Pain is wonderfully cleansing, Owns-The-Night. It burns away corruption and filth, leaving only the Pure behind. The task was never completed properly in your mother. She allowed her packmates to slay her when they rescued her from our grasp. The shame was too much for my mentor. He took his own life in an act of penance. Now I will purify the offspring of Fair-In-Her-Wrath and restore his name.> He took another step forwards along with his pack. Now Declan was backed against the cairn, it's pale blue glow illuminating the Glade. <But it does not have to be this way. Look at what you have, Owns-The-Night. The Topanga Pack scorn you: do not even correct one of their own for denying your deeds. A soft-bellied child of Red Wolf dares to question your authority. A runaway Storm Lord who denies the truth of her own family. The closest link you have to the People is a bastardised Dead thing who desperately wants to be what she is not. And 'your' female? The umma woman who lets scum abuse and degrade her, but refuses you the right to tear him limb from limb. What is there for you, Owns-The-Night? With us, you would have a pack. Recognition. Support. A family.>

Owns-The-Night stood at bay and snarled at them as they spread into a loose half-circle before him. <You are a torturer, a liar and a coward, Speaks-With-Fire. And so are all your jackal followers. Have none of you the belly to face me in combat? The Pure stopped and looked at Speaks-With-Fire, who cocked his head and looked as though he were considering it. Finally, he answered.

<No, I think not. Take him alive, brothers and sisters.> They started forward, only to be checked by the sheer fury in Owns-The-Night's voice.

<You forgot one thing I have, Pure bastard.> Declan planted his paws, half crouching as he let them see his teeth. Molten gold began to tinge his silver eyes. <I have Luna. She sees me, her full face is on me. And your song of pain will please her long after I am dead!>

The blue light that filled the Glade with eerie light dimmed slightly, and the silver of Owns-The-Night's gaze became ever more brilliant as he heard distant singing borne on the light of his Mother, his Sister, his Lover. It was madness, but it was beautiful madness. It was the madness of battle and passion and purity.

And as the pack closed on him in a rush of muscle and fur and ripping talons, Declan laughed with the joy of it.

[Owns-The-Night]

"He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived; unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive."

The Pure pack was young: with the exception of their leader, Speaks-With-Fire, they were not much more past their First Change than Declan. In fact, none of them was as old as him in years.

Nor as old in battle.

For Luna had marked Owns-The-Night as Hers before he had ever Changed. The blazing silver of his eyes had been that mark, showing the glory of the Full Moon in his soul even as a young nuzusul. His whole life, a burning need to do battle had been his driving force, reducing the shades of grey in the human world to primitive black and white. He fought with instinctive skill, bringing to every battle an intuitive flair that were it expressed as poetry or mathematics would have been dubbed genius.

As the four followers of Speaks-With-Fire buried him under their mass, a huge fist collided with terrible force against a Dalu knee. There was a crack, a pop, and a howl of pain that rose to Luna's laughing face. The Pure had erred, attacking him here in the Glade. Such places were meant to be areas of peace and harmony, and in these places, the aggressor in a fight is always in the wrong. And in the Hisil, harmony was all.

Owns-The-Night roared his defiance and fury as he rose, himself in Dalu, catching up a Pure in near-wolf form by neck and crotch, swinging her and sending her bowling into Speaks-With-Fire. His moon-brand burned brightly on his chest here in the Hisil, and the song of the Ralunim throbbed in his veins. As the one he had just hurled thrashed to disentangle from their alpha and the Pure with the busted knee gritted their teeth and waited for the bone to knit enough to bear their weight, the Blood Talon faced off against the others, blood streaming from bites in his shoulders and belly. They were torn between the sensible course - waiting for their allies to rejoin the fight - and the desire for personal glory.

Glory won. The one wearing the Dalu shape leapt forwards to be met with a crushing body blow that snapped three ribs and hurled them to the ground, gasping for breath. The Urshal shaped Fire-Touched slipped through, their teeth fastening around Declan's lower leg and biting down hard. He snarled at the pain, nearly dragged from his feet as the great Dire wolf shape tugged at him. Speaks-With-Fire and the one he had been entangled with found their feet and advanced, snarling their own rage at the recaltricant prey.

Declan fixed the younger of the two with a fierce stare, letting the pale-furred Urshal feel the full force of his anger and will. The young Fire-Touched flinched back, hesitant to attack a foe that suddenly seemed all the more terrible, blazing with the fury of a Mother the Pure denied yet feared. Speaks-With-Fire looked at the cringing youngster beside him and snarled encouragement and threat, urging his packmate on.

Owns-The-Night took advantage of the pause, using every moment bought as further means to wreak havoc on his foes. Once more calling on his anger and focus, he channeled the power taught to him in his first days by the War spirit of Fenris-Ur, giving his hands the power to shatter wood, stone... or bone. His fist drove down on the skull of the fanatical Urshal with it's teeth in his leg, cracking the bone and caving the top of the cranium in with a sickening crunching sound. The werewolf dropped, it's teeth opening spasmodically, and the Rahu used the opportunity to channel vital essence to the wound it had made, speeding the healing.

This couldn't last. Already the Pure he had injured first was standing, eyes alight with rage as they tested their newly-healed knee. Speaks-With-Fire had put some backbone into the pale-furred Pure, and both were advancing on him. He had two enemies down, one of which was healing. Owns-The-Night fixed his gaze on Speaks-With-Fire, studying him. The anshega leader was the strength in this pack of near-cubs. He was also their weakness. Declan circled, aware of the Dalu moving in behind him, the pale Urshal warily pacing in front of him. Speaks-With-Fire flanked him, waiting for the right moment. They would rush him together: front, back and side. And this time they would do so with precision and coordination: he would be taken down like a stag at bay.

Owns-The-Night moved first. His form blurred and shifted as he spun on his heel and leapt for Speaks-With-Fire, the massive jaws of the Blood Talon's Urshal form fastening on the Pure's throat and, with a twist, tearing it out. Blood gouted over Declan's dark fur, the Dalu-shaped anshega going down with a hideous gurgle. The pale-furred one struck at Declan's flank, but the chill of fear slowed and stiffened her muscles, and the wound was minor. The other werewolf slammed a fist into Owns-The-Night's ribs, and this one hurt badly. He coughed blood as his massive Urshal shape reeled away from the blow: the Dalu had utilised the same spirit magic as he, imbuing his fists with pulverising force, and Declan knew that the strike had been nearly mortal. He felt several ribs sticking into his lungs and coughed blood again, forcing yet more valuable essence into his regenerative powers. It wouldn't be enough: he saw the Dalu with cracked ribs rising, able to fight again. He would fall here, and if he was lucky would die.

A warrior makes their own luck. The thought made him grin internally. There was one surefire way to guarantee that they would not take him alive. Fenris-Ur, be with me in my final battle. Let my death be clean and worthy. As he reached down into the pure fire of his heart and turned it loose, he smiled through bloody fangs as one last coherent thought came to him. A name and a face that he held to as though it was a rock, finally bidding it farewell as the white hot fires of Destroyer Wolf carried him away from laughing green eyes.

Owns-The-Night's silver orbs became brilliant molten gold, blazing with the force of pure Rage. The already massive Dire shape swelled further, becoming bipedal, long fingers ending in knife-like claws. The pain disappeared, washed away along with any finer feeling. Here in the incandescent beauty that was the Rage, there was no love, no hate, no mercy, no cruelty. There was just a need to destroy and kill that transcended anger, a desire to rend flesh and fulfill his ancient purpose that was old when humanity climbed down from the trees.

The huge Gauru shape lifted his blood-flecked head and bayed at his foes, and the three still standing hesitated for a moment, trying to see how they could take the Forsaken one alive now. The decision was easy: better a dead Forsaken than a live one. The hesitation lasted a second before they advanced on their foe.

They shouldn't have waited so long.

Owns-The-Night leapt on the Dalu who's fist had caused him such grievous hurt. A whirlwind of teeth and claws shredded the anshega's guts, leaving him howling on the floor. The two remaining Pure were both in Urshal form and rushed at the Rahu, teeth snapping at him to little effect. He was a blur of motion and fury that would not be checked or slowed. A bite, a twist, and the pale female's fur was splashed in her own blood, a large chunk missing from her shoulder. Her yelp was loud and sweet to the enraged Rahu's ears. A swipe of razor-edged claws, and she went rolling away kicking and howling, her guts trailing on the churned show.

He struggled to ride the tide of battle, to keep to the Oath. Despite his anger at these Pure, they were still of the People and to kill them, even in battle, was a sin. He was winning the fight, he did not need to be a kinslayer. The magic of the Glade helped him here, reminding him of the innate harmony of his existence, of the balance that must be struck. He turned on the last opponent and with an effort of will spoke, the words vibrating with Rage held in check only for a moment.

<Go! Now! Or Die!> The last Pure backed away, unwilling to fight further. Owns-The-Night shrank to Urshal form, his wounds still healing, and looked around swiftly. Speaks-With-Fire was unconscious, but his breath still steamed in the air despite the horrible wound in his throat. The other Pure were in various states of pain and injury, three out cold in total. The one remaining standing stood ten feet away; not defiant, but unwilling to abandon their packmates. Declan nodded to him.

<Take your pack and go. But first I will have your oath, on your totem, that your pack will not trouble this place or me again. You are the last one standing, you can make that oath and it will bind you all. Make the oath, and leave in peace. Or die.> Declan was weary. His reserves of precious spiritual energy were low, his injuries were many and serious. But in that moment, he was a terrible and indefatigable foe to the awestruck anshega before him. There was no sign of his weariness in his posture. No sign in his words that his wounds pained him. A harsh life had bred a hardy body and soul, and Owns-The-Night felt strong enough for one last battle if it came down to that. In the realm of war, in the choice between fight or surrender, win or die, he was truly of Fenris-Ur's brood. He would win every battle, save his last.

And in that one, he would die.

[Owns-The-Night]

Late December 2008

The Montana Hills

"It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It caused him to feel a vague, sweet gladness, and he was aware of wild yearnings and stirrings for he knew not what."

The rest of the winter had been peaceful following the battle of the Glade. Declan's wounds had healed with some small scarring from the worst of them: his leg bore light scar tissue from the jaws of the Urshal and his arm and chest bore tiny faint marks, barely distinguishable, which were all that remained of the savaging he had received. By dusk the following evening he was running with the wolf pack, leading them in a song of joy and love for his Mother who still shone above him in all her glory for that night. If something in his soul was sad or thoughtful that night, surrounded by the voices of his distant cousins but with no Pack of his own to share the victory with, he did not express it.

The following weeks he kept busy. He restored the cabin, making sure it would stand for at least a few more years. But after that he grew restless, lacking a focus for his vast energies. Loneliness crept in, for the wolves were not so active during the day time. Declan hunted and ranged around the area, making sure to visit the Glade at least once every few nights. After the hunt was done, he would sit by his mother's cairn and meditate, or sing mournfully to Luna as she soared above the chill winter air of the Hisil.

He was thus engaged one fine cold night when he heard answering howling on the Shadow winds. Owns-The-Night sprang to his feet looking around as a large dark-furred wolf trotted out of the trees into the Glade. Other canine shapes haunted the shadows between the birches, and the Uratha tensed for a moment before he realised that these were not werewolves, but Wolf spirits. The spirit pack's alpha, a wolf the size of an Urshal approached him, and Declan shifted to wolf form to communicate.

notwolf-friend-wolf the alpha stated rather than asked, it's demeanour friendly, if somewhat wary. packhunt-icetimes-friend

wolf-goodfriend-notwolf the Rahu answered. packhelp-notwolf. notwolf-sad-nopack. The alpha nodded, head cocked to one side as it considered Declan.

notwolf-always-friend-wolf. alpha-teach-friendspeech-even-twolegs

Owns-The-Night blinked, the alpha's meaning plain. The wolf spirit was offering to teach him something: a Gift. notwolf-grateful

The 'lesson' did not take long. The wolf spirit lightly bit into Declan's shoulder, tasting blood, then had Declan do the same to him. With the blood came a transfer of sorts, a strange feeling of discovering something that he already knew, an opening of an inner door. Declan changed shape to Dalu, squatting down on the snow.

notwolf-friendspeech-now? Declan ventured, then smiled as the alpha's ears pricked up. Satisfied, the wolf spirit started to turn away, then paused.

notwolf-packneed He stated with a curious finality. angry-toolong. friendwolf-but-notpack-wolf. Declan's head tilted, his eyes narrowing.

alphatell-notwolf-go? he growled. The alpha stayed calm, gazing into Declan's eyes with ancient wisdom.

notwolf-goodfriend. notwolf-notpack. notwolf-packneed-notwolf The alpha sighed, a soft sound. notwolf-proud-strong-mighty. notwolf-packneed-anyway. thisplace-not-home-notwolf. thisplace-refuge. The alpha's eyes gazed into Declan's. notwolf-need-home. home-far-stoneplace.

Declan stared back for a long moment, then dropped his gaze. He felt the alpha nudge his shoulder.

stoneplace-home-now. thisplace-refuge-always. And the alpha was gone, trotting back to the trees as a chorus of howls rose up. They were bidding him farewell, telling him that this place would always be here for him, should he need a refuge.

* * * * * *

Early January 2009

Libby

He had come down from the hills, leaving the restored dry cabin. Leaving the pack that had made it through the worst of the winter with his help. Leaving the family of raccoons in the wood cellar. And leaving his mother's grave.

He left many things behind him as he entered the town that evening, clothed warmly with a pack on his back. Many things, and not all of them physical. He stopped at the city limits and turned towards the hills, his ears picking up the distant song of his friends, not his pack. He would return someday soon, maybe next winter. Maybe the winter after that. When he came back, he would build some furniture for the cabin. Perhaps.

What was important was what he had learned of himself in the Montana winter. He was Uratha, a child of the Moon. He was Rahu, the glory and purity of Her wrath in his eyes. He had run to this place with his heart sick and his soul filled with prideful anger, and had discovered things about himself.

He turned away from the forest, from his refuge. For the time being, he did not need it. He set his brightly shining eyes to the south, where waited a sprawling, noisy, stinking city filled with vileness, crime, vampires, rival werewolves, malicious spirits and ignorant humans. Where also waited glory and tests of valor, loyal friends, beautiful women, and a duty to be upheld.

In a place so civilised that chaos had taken hold, so structured that the structure groaned and cracked under its own weight, Owns-The-Night might have seemed a fish out of water. But for a child of Fenris and the Full Moon, a life lived without challenge was merely an existence, and no true life at all. He had come north thinking that his wild soul could not stand further battering from life in the world beyond.

In truth, his wild soul thrived on it.

"Let teachers and priests and philosophers brood over questions of reality and illusion. I know this: if life is illusion, then I am no less an illusion, and being thus, the illusion is real to me. I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content."

Closing Credits Music & Video