It was night, but a night so bright at midnight that one thought the world a different place, a place without a sun, with no distinction between day and night, where moonflowers perpetually blossom to declare the glory of the moon and the stars. Smirch had stopped sharpening his sword to bask in the wonder of the thought when once again the cool night breeze bore the sound of baying wolves. It seemed almost perceptibly closer, but Smirch wasn't sure. Years before at the Battle of the Red Rivers, a Doviello club had taken his right eye and had been such a massive blow that it also ruined his hearing, at least on the ugly side of his face. Losing both his visual and auditory depth perception hadn't cost him his exalted position as standard bearer in the mighty Golden Oak Division; it was the devastation to his face. The masters would never grant the blood rites to someone so abused by the ugly stick. Most nights he would have wished to have remained nothing but a lowly bloodpet rather than come so close to achieving the blood rites and immortality, but not this night. The beauty of the Ancient Forest was reserved for the Protectors, and even as scarred as he was, he was still a Protector of the Forest and deserved to exalt in its beauty. Other lands had soldiers performing similar functions to the Protectors, calling them Rangers, Seekers, Hunters and the like. All of them woodsmen of varying skill, the Protectors knew that their abilities were matched by none from other lands. The rangers and woodsmen of other nations had some experience with the Protectors and many of these men maintained that they could never be ambushed…
"The wolves seem to be very active this evening." a voice spoke softly from behind him.
The one-eyed man fumbled the sword he was supposed to be sharpening, but jumped quickly and cleanly to his feet and hefted his oversized sharpening stone threateningly over his head trying to judge in which direction to hurl it and hit the intruder.
“Calm yourself.” the voice spoke so soothingly that Smirch knew its source must be from one of the Defenders, the Calabim.
There was another sort of recognition as he dropped to his knees offering his neck in the subservient fashion known to all bloodpets throughout the realm. That voice also sounded somehow familiar, yet Smirch knew none of the masters...and none would demean themselves to feed on such an ugly creature as himself...
"Stand...you assume too much in thinking I wish to feed. Do you not recognize my voice?" A form coalesced just within the range of his peripheral vision and with it the scent of pine became overwhelming to Smirch.
"Now that I recognize the smell, the voice does seem to match. Yvain...I sense that you have attained the rites...or should I say Lord or Duke Yvain?" Smirch slowly rose to his feet but kept his head and upper body bowed as any governor's attendant would do to avoid unwanted attentions. He could see the vampire with his good eye. The luster, the luminescence, born in the moonlight the vampire's skin radiated cold perfection.
"No, I am simply Yvain the Wood Elf...nothing more....well at least for a title nothing more. You are correct, I am now Calabim..." Yvain approached Smirch gesturing to give him an embrace. "...but I am also still your friend."
The two embraced as only those who have shared numerous unpleasant experiences together can embrace, brothers reunited. Smirch was ecstatic. Other than Smirch, only Yvain had survived the Doviellan War from their regiment of the Golden Oak. Yvain had been the one to perform the critical healing which had sustained Smirch's life.
"I simply cannot believe it...where were the rites performed? I remember when you first showed up begging for scraps outside the Hunting Lodge in Nubia..." Smirch guffawed at the memory and the wolves responded in kind, howling for all of their worth, showing that they were not distant at all. "Sit...maybe our brothers will visit us if we are still." Smirch and Yvain sat facing one another in the glade that was Smirch's camp. The Protectors never used fire, nor do they use tents, nor any other impediments to swift travel, so the spot was barren of what one would traditionally call the 'amenities' of a camp. Neither noticed anything missing.
"Yes, your friends are very near...and yes, I had lost my way...you...Smirch...you showed me the Hidden Paths...you taught me to hunt so well that no prey has ever escaped since your tutelage...the Doviello and their horde of goblins, orcs and lizards, none of the Elohim, and even none of the Ljosalfar could escape..."
"Bah, those tribes...except for the Doviello...were weak. They were all Children of the Leaf, but they were the dull side of the leaf, they perverted our religion and chose to be prey instead of predator. Only the Doviello prized the hunt, the Elohim and Ljosalfar only fostered their forests and never learned the proper form of the hunt...or maybe it was that we taught them to their dismay. In any case...it is blood that makes the trees grow...not elves..." Smirch bellowed the last part as if by sounding it out loud that it would ring even more true.
Note: (The inscription, "Blood is the water of the Ancients", is found above the entrance to every Calabim Hunting Lodge)
"Yes...blood does many things..." Yvain seemed to lose his thought and the pause was abbreviated by the shrill howl of a wolf just on the edge of the glade. He turned toward the source of the howling and mumbled, "Yes, blood does many things."
"So what hear you of these Amurites? Or of their allies Sidar? Are they really on the other side of the world? Are the seas of Erebus so vast that these men follow some religion of the sea?" Smirch asked incredulously. Smirch was hardly a man of the world; his current hermetic status was what was allowed to those marked for the blood, but at the final test denied. It was considered an honor to be allowed to live in relative freedom and not bled on the spot for the failure. "How can the seas be greater than the forests?" Smirch continued.
"Yes, you definitely have been out here a long time..." Yvain casually replied. "We have found something worse than the Amurites and the Sidar to the East...a continent to the West with men who are the sons of angels...we do not know any more than that...the Amurites proved themselves as capable magicians they nearly took Glens of Killybegs in their first response to our invasion of their continent. It was so poetic...two hundred thousand of their living troops were drowned when they dove into the seas trying to escape their burning ships. Our fleet of Arcane Barges are the fastest ships on the sea. They could move into range to unleash their fireballs and then cast a wind charm to run out of range of any possible pursuit. Hunting the Amurite armada like jackals, or possibly your wolves, our barges only allowed one third of the invasion force through..." Yvain would have continued his animated description but several wolves had come close enough to nudge Smirch for attention.
Smirch responded instantly to the nudges, stroking the wolves behind their ears and checking their teeth while Yvain looked on. After just moments of play with Smirch, the wolves ran as if spooked and left Smirch clearly longing for their return. Smirch continued their previous conversation by asking "So what of these angels? What blood rites the elders must be planning for angel blood!"
"Yes...the angels...they are a problem." Yvain tried to delay the subject. "Do you know the elders have erected monuments to you in Acacia and the lodge in Nubia has been renamed...well...Halfmorn Hall. You alone prefer to be called 'Smirch'. No one thinks your scars so hideous as you do yourself...you are not dishonored...the elders won't ever forget what you did at Red Rivers. The monument in Acacia has a statue of you and the Doviellan chieftan with his ugly stick. You stand on top of a mountain of Doviellan corpses, you have him skewered and he is about to perform his final deed. The statue is named 'the Sacrifice of Heroes'. You won that war Duin...after that battle the Doviello were scattered...we were the advance element and destroyed their rear guard..."
"Enough. Please. It wasn't enough for me to attain the rites. Thus I am besmirched and Smirch."
"If you don't want to be called Duin and you want to be called Smirch that is fine. Whatever you want to be called, we need you. I have been sent to find you. It took me six months to locate you and another three to finally catch up to you. I have been following your brothers howling at Luna. We need you...the Bannor have removed us from the continents of the Amurites and have taken several of the northern strongholds. The Sidar are no more. The Bannor...the angel men...destroyed them but I think they are finding the Amurites more of a challenge. We need a new weapon."
"What is this talk of new weapons? Are we beaten? Predators stronger than us...the elders accept this?" Smirch was confused. He knew the forests; he knew there were no predators to match against a vampire. "These angels must bring some magic from Heaven."
Yvain was shaking his head before Smirch had finished his first question. He was nodding his head in agreement at the last. "They do bring magic from Heaven. We have a counter...a blood rite...but it has yet to work."
Smirch nodded quickly he thought the elders the most devious beings in the universe and they would surely find some solution. "They will make it work...sure of it I be."
"Lord Raven has tested it twice with poor and poorer results. The rites involve the blood of Acheron, a wyrm of some sort who terrorized the Amurites before we killed him and took his place terrorizing the Amurites. Only one third of the initial quantity remains. With the first third he tried to bond a champion wrestler with a dancing bear. The resulting were-bear ran to the fisherman's wharf, ate his fill and then went into hibernation. It has been three years now...I doubt he will come out of it. The second third of the blood went to bonding Lord Raven's attendant with a Tiger from the menagerie. The were-cat quickly became unstable and managed to retire Lord Raven, perhaps for the best. I believe it is still on the loose, eventually it will be too mad to even move or eat I suppose."
"Lord Raven has been dispatched?" queried Smirch.
"Yes...Lord Raven is no more." Yvain looked into Smirch's good eye to gauge his reaction. Lord Raven had been the single dissenting vote that turned Duin the Hero of Red Rivers into Smirch. "There are no dissenting votes remaining. The other elders constructed the memorials in your honor because Lord Raven couldn't stop them. The only veto any vampire aristocrat has is in the matter of adding to the aristocracy. They paid for the memorials from their own coffers. We want you and need you back...the elders have given the last third to me...to give to you...if you would still desire the rites. I always felt you had the best chance to succeed due to your well-developed bond with the wolves. It was my argument that the bond itself was more important than the form..." As if on cue, a great black wolf trotted into the glade, panting like it had run for hundreds of miles to get there on time. Frothing at the mouth, but beaming from his eyes, he sauntered up to Smirch and simply looked at him.
“This is ‘Long-Tail’…he is the alpha male among wolves…at least in these woods.” Smirch explained casually.
To Smirch, the words ‘these woods’ have a simple meaning. To anyone else, he means the gigantic, continent-wide ancient forests of the Calabim, not farmed, not milled, not crowded with elven cottages, but pure unadulterated primeval ancient forest. Bands of tax farms providing and propagating irrigation to nearby food resources and the occasional mine could be found in the domain of the Calabim, but the land of forests is only interrupted when absolutely necessary.
“I am as familiar with him as he is familiar with you.” Yvain replied. “He is truly the greatest wolf in any forest of Erebus.”
“I would be bonded with ‘Long-Tail’?” Smirch inquired, squinting with his good eye while petting the wolf from behind his ears to his neck and shoulder and back to his ears.
“The rite involves you consuming the wyrm’s blood. You transform into something that I can’t describe since I have never witnessed it. From Lord Raven’s notes I have deduced that you will then be required to attack the wolf and consume his blood and therefore his essence. The two of you will become one. It will be the last thing you remember. No, it shall be the first thing you remember. You will be born again. You will be the greatest wolf of the age not just of these woods.”
“Hmmm.” Smirch contemplated the offer briefly. “If this sacrifice will protect the woods I will do it. ‘Long-Tail’ has obviously decided the same or he would not be here.” As if in answer the wolf bellowed a throaty howl that shook the leaves on the nearby trees. Wolves near and far responded to his call and howls were echoing through the hills continuously thereafter. “So what must I do to prepare?” Smirch asked.
“You must choose an honorific. You will be part of aristocratic society whether you want to be or not. I don’t need one; I can remain in the forests and be just Yvain. You will be unique, the pre-eminent hunter of the Calabim, and therefore something to be marveled at and fought over in the vast social schemes of the Calabim. You just may become the alpha male of the Calabim...So…what say you?” Yvain smirked at his friend knowing what the choice was going to be…he was sure that the first words his friend had ever written were Baron Duin Halfmorn.
“Baron…Baron Smirch…No…That just doesn’t ring…Baron Duin Halfmorn. That’s it…that’s what it has always and always shall be.” Smirch seemed happier than Yvain had seen him in many years. “So is that all? Give me this wyrm’s blood then.”
Yvain marched over to Smirch putting as much sarcastic pomp into his walk as possible. He kissed Smirch on the cheek and then gave him a large vial.
“Fare Well Smirch.” Yvain whispered as Smirch pulled the top off of the vial and poured the contents down, gulping the blood.
At first nothing seemed to happen. Smirch looked at Yvain, then looked at ‘Long-Tail’ and then back to Yvain. “What…” Smirch started but never finished. He seemed to explode in flame. His sparse clothing, hair and skin burnt in the flash leaving a waxy, malleable looking humanoid shape standing in his place. The wolf began to growl menacingly and Yvain made a hasty retreat to where he could observe the proceedings without becoming part of them.
‘Long-Tail’ leaped through the air taking a throat hold on the waxy creature that had been Smirch. Bringing it to the ground, he shook the waxen figure violently spraying Smirch’s blood all over the glade. The wolf shook harder and harder and blood was sprayed through the moonlight coloring the night breeze. After hours of attempting to decapitate, amputate and eviscerate the waxy form of Smirch, the wolf tired and stopped.
When ‘Long-Tail’ laid down to rest, he seemed to fall asleep. The howling in the distance stopped. Yvain rushed to attend to his friend, who was still a waxy roughly humanoid shape with countless fang impressions, wolf spittle and wolf hair covering his surface. Seeing nothing he could do…he went to attend the wolf. It was panting in very shallow breaths. Yvain made a healing blessing and motioned to the moonflowers to provide the wolf with their nectar.
There was nothing to do but wait. Yvain lit his pipe…the brambleweed was not as good this year as in years past. He didn’t smoke it for effect any longer…it had no effect on a vampire…he smoke it out of habit to help him think. He thought. Soon, he was thinking he had better get deeper into the forests so that the trees could protect him from the sunlight that would destroy him…dawn was winking on the horizon.
The following evening, Yvain returned to the glade. The full moon had not yet risen and thus visibility in the glade was limited…at least to any normal creature it was limited. To Yvain it was as illuminated as well as many a winter day in the southern clime where vampires were able to walk during the daytime due to the constant twilight.
‘Long-Tail’ was no where to be found. The waxen form of Smirch was no where to be found. A small totem had been erected on a hill in the middle of the glade. From a tall oaken pole there hung an exceptionally long wolf’s tail. At the base of the pole sat Baron Duin Halfmorn.
