Dean_the_Young
King
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2009
- Messages
- 811
Spoiler Werewolf Warfare :
Three hours after the raiding party was supposed to be return, Katut was concerned. Primarily for his brother, who had left in it, but also for the party as a whole. Three dozen Chislev warriors were no small force to be ignored, but they were not a conquering army. As more Grigori soldiers returned home, the Chislev war parties faced more and more dangers.
This was not the Yokaido swamps or the Bannor front: the Grigori had long ago cut down their trees for the previous war effort, and had left the Chislev nowhere to hide or hole up. Using mines as safe bunders had been the great idea of some fool in the back, but the Grigori had soon learned that they only needed to collapse the exits and starve the Chsilev into surrender. Katut had been one of the few groups to be rescued after such a counter, and to this day refused to go underground. He was glad that the Chislev War Leaders had learned of the follow soon: the Grigori made no secret of their trade for elementalism with the Amurites, and it was only a matter of time before their mages simply shut mines from a distance.
No, the Chislev were where they had always been meant to be: safe in the trees and forests. It was almost criminal that those existed only at the Grigori border, though: the Grigori now controlled the open plains, and now the Chislev forces were divided between the western Yokaido swamps and the Chislev homeland.
Katut did not reflect or even care that the two were days of travel apart, and that the Chislev in their rush to attack the Grigori had left a great army isolated and stuck in the poisonous and dangerous Yokaido swamps, where no more Medicos were there to help cure them of poison snakes and Midgarsomar. Oh, there had been some sense to it: so long as that army was there, the Grigori would be unable to focus on the Chislev border. If they did, they would be raided endlessly from behind.
As it was, though, the Grigori were content to keep them divided, much as they were dividing him from his brother. And that was what worried him.
Katut's ears perked at the birdsign. At last, the band had returned! He and others scrambled to safe positions, ready to guard their comrades if pursued.
No Grigori force followed, but that didn't stop Katut's face from paleing at the sight of the returnees. They were all limping, walking unnaturally. Their faces were lowered, and but their shoulders were tense. They all, to a man, were covered in warpaint and blood.
And there were only twenty or so left.
Katut's heart lept as he recognized his brother, damaged but walking. He bounded from his battlements and ignored his chief's commands as he ran out to help his brother.
"Ca! Are you alright?" he asked, coming to the man at the front of the pack.
"Ka...tut?" his brother asked, voice mangled, still suffering from the battle-rage blood lust.
"Yes, it's me," he said, gripping his brother tightly. It didn't matter that his brother looked like something a wolf had chewed on, that his mangled hair, more than he remembered really, was course and poked him. His brother was alive, that was all that mattered, even as... even as...
Even as his brother's hand emerged from the whole in his abdomen. Katut looked up at his brother's face as he collapsed, and what he saw he did not recognize. A snout had replaced a nose, claws gripped the war club instead of hands, and the snarl that came from his mouth...
Katut lay there, on the precipice of death, as the pack of werewolves charged into the forest. The men were caught of guard, desperately fighting hand-to-hand with a foe that used clays and teeth as well. Many fell like Katut, maimed by the werewolves as blows and teeth met vital veins or fragile organs. Others simply died, and the werewolves bloodfury lessened as their claws continued to rend their remaining foes to shreds.
Katut lay there, and then the Curse gradually took effect. He wounds healed, his form shifted, and all he could focus on was the sent of blood that hung in the air. Bloodbloodbloodmustkillbloodbloodbloodmustkill...
The first thing he saw not like his own form was a a group of men striding towards them. He and the other Ferals turned and bounded as one, desperate to kill the humans.
The first to leap was pounded in the snout. The next was kicked in the teeth. The third and forth were slammed together with enough power that their magically altered bones shook and cracked before healing again. In the space of three steps, the man had turned into a werewolf himself. With a single snarl every feral bowed and simpered to the Alpha.
The Alpha told them what they needed to do. That to cure their hunger, they would have to kill the enemies of his pack. But, he said in a form that allowed no refusal, only certain humans could be killed, any any who struck at the good ones would be torn apart.
What was left of Katut's mind could only focus on his words, and sought to do it. He and the other Ferals left to the ones their previous minds remembered, the weak supply men and cooks behind the lines. Their blood would be just as satisfying. They were joined as well by the older blooded werewolves, who shadowed them and ensured that they did not come to grief in their new forms.
The Alpha turned to one that Katut's vaguely remembered. "You seem attached to this one," the Alpha said in human tongue, which was not their tongue so he ignorred it to keep on the scent of the fresh blood.
The blooded werewolf looked at Katut with a expression he vaguely remembered as pity and compassion, not that those mattered right now. There was only bloodbloodbloodblood-
"He is, was, my brother," said the older werewolf, and the Alpha batted him on the back.
"Then look after him," he advised, "because all that we can count on is our pack and eachother. Until he regains his senses, he won't even know who you are. Now go," he commanded.
Katut didn't care about the human-words until they had finished slaughtering the rear support. Then, as the next batch of ferals left to find more blood, he stopped as his mind came to him.
He looked at the others, at himself. He was covered in blood, some his own, ever more of it his former kinsmen. Except they weren't his kinsmen, the Pack was, and the Pack was at war with everything he had ever known and loved. And yet, for all his memories and ties and affection with them, he could not bring himself to run into the woods, to shout the warnings. "We are here! We are cursed! Kill us, flee, before you are made to join us!"
He looked to his brother with despair. His life, their life, as Chislev was beyond their reach. No one would accept them as they were now.
"What have we become?" he asked.
This was not the Yokaido swamps or the Bannor front: the Grigori had long ago cut down their trees for the previous war effort, and had left the Chislev nowhere to hide or hole up. Using mines as safe bunders had been the great idea of some fool in the back, but the Grigori had soon learned that they only needed to collapse the exits and starve the Chsilev into surrender. Katut had been one of the few groups to be rescued after such a counter, and to this day refused to go underground. He was glad that the Chislev War Leaders had learned of the follow soon: the Grigori made no secret of their trade for elementalism with the Amurites, and it was only a matter of time before their mages simply shut mines from a distance.
No, the Chislev were where they had always been meant to be: safe in the trees and forests. It was almost criminal that those existed only at the Grigori border, though: the Grigori now controlled the open plains, and now the Chislev forces were divided between the western Yokaido swamps and the Chislev homeland.
Katut did not reflect or even care that the two were days of travel apart, and that the Chislev in their rush to attack the Grigori had left a great army isolated and stuck in the poisonous and dangerous Yokaido swamps, where no more Medicos were there to help cure them of poison snakes and Midgarsomar. Oh, there had been some sense to it: so long as that army was there, the Grigori would be unable to focus on the Chislev border. If they did, they would be raided endlessly from behind.
As it was, though, the Grigori were content to keep them divided, much as they were dividing him from his brother. And that was what worried him.
Katut's ears perked at the birdsign. At last, the band had returned! He and others scrambled to safe positions, ready to guard their comrades if pursued.
No Grigori force followed, but that didn't stop Katut's face from paleing at the sight of the returnees. They were all limping, walking unnaturally. Their faces were lowered, and but their shoulders were tense. They all, to a man, were covered in warpaint and blood.
And there were only twenty or so left.
Katut's heart lept as he recognized his brother, damaged but walking. He bounded from his battlements and ignored his chief's commands as he ran out to help his brother.
"Ca! Are you alright?" he asked, coming to the man at the front of the pack.
"Ka...tut?" his brother asked, voice mangled, still suffering from the battle-rage blood lust.
"Yes, it's me," he said, gripping his brother tightly. It didn't matter that his brother looked like something a wolf had chewed on, that his mangled hair, more than he remembered really, was course and poked him. His brother was alive, that was all that mattered, even as... even as...
Even as his brother's hand emerged from the whole in his abdomen. Katut looked up at his brother's face as he collapsed, and what he saw he did not recognize. A snout had replaced a nose, claws gripped the war club instead of hands, and the snarl that came from his mouth...
Katut lay there, on the precipice of death, as the pack of werewolves charged into the forest. The men were caught of guard, desperately fighting hand-to-hand with a foe that used clays and teeth as well. Many fell like Katut, maimed by the werewolves as blows and teeth met vital veins or fragile organs. Others simply died, and the werewolves bloodfury lessened as their claws continued to rend their remaining foes to shreds.
Katut lay there, and then the Curse gradually took effect. He wounds healed, his form shifted, and all he could focus on was the sent of blood that hung in the air. Bloodbloodbloodmustkillbloodbloodbloodmustkill...
The first thing he saw not like his own form was a a group of men striding towards them. He and the other Ferals turned and bounded as one, desperate to kill the humans.
The first to leap was pounded in the snout. The next was kicked in the teeth. The third and forth were slammed together with enough power that their magically altered bones shook and cracked before healing again. In the space of three steps, the man had turned into a werewolf himself. With a single snarl every feral bowed and simpered to the Alpha.
The Alpha told them what they needed to do. That to cure their hunger, they would have to kill the enemies of his pack. But, he said in a form that allowed no refusal, only certain humans could be killed, any any who struck at the good ones would be torn apart.
What was left of Katut's mind could only focus on his words, and sought to do it. He and the other Ferals left to the ones their previous minds remembered, the weak supply men and cooks behind the lines. Their blood would be just as satisfying. They were joined as well by the older blooded werewolves, who shadowed them and ensured that they did not come to grief in their new forms.
The Alpha turned to one that Katut's vaguely remembered. "You seem attached to this one," the Alpha said in human tongue, which was not their tongue so he ignorred it to keep on the scent of the fresh blood.
The blooded werewolf looked at Katut with a expression he vaguely remembered as pity and compassion, not that those mattered right now. There was only bloodbloodbloodblood-
"He is, was, my brother," said the older werewolf, and the Alpha batted him on the back.
"Then look after him," he advised, "because all that we can count on is our pack and eachother. Until he regains his senses, he won't even know who you are. Now go," he commanded.
Katut didn't care about the human-words until they had finished slaughtering the rear support. Then, as the next batch of ferals left to find more blood, he stopped as his mind came to him.
He looked at the others, at himself. He was covered in blood, some his own, ever more of it his former kinsmen. Except they weren't his kinsmen, the Pack was, and the Pack was at war with everything he had ever known and loved. And yet, for all his memories and ties and affection with them, he could not bring himself to run into the woods, to shout the warnings. "We are here! We are cursed! Kill us, flee, before you are made to join us!"
He looked to his brother with despair. His life, their life, as Chislev was beyond their reach. No one would accept them as they were now.
"What have we become?" he asked.
)
