“A laugh a day keeps the troubles away " Adena Ce Raphil Mabtali
Chapter 15: The Wolf on Wall Street
"I have nothing. In this world I have nothing." I have no family, no friends, and no lovers to speak of. My past leads to a dead end. A tribe is what I was born into, on the other side of this cold world. A world where Adventure holds hands with misfortune, and exploration leads to a swift death.
Death is mercy, mercy is a bone not often thrown.
The Kin are scattered across the planet from the largest of striped Tigerlen to the smallest of beady eyed Fherrahets, names are of convenience. Find convenience wherever it may hide, grab it, and hold on to it, learn to let convenience go when it becomes a Burden.
"A burden to one is a burden to another, count your burdens." Grrrhhrahhh.There was a time when I only knew of "Arggrrhh Grrrhhrahhh," this in a human tongue could be translated to 'Home and Danger', quite the convenience you see. Speech, language, words aid communication, and that in itself is another convenience you take for granted. We Kin do not have a common language, not all of us use the words of mouth to communicate.
In the Kaltamori of Mists there lived a tribe. This tribe coexisted within the confines of the Kaltamori forests. With what or whom we were coexisting with? I knew not. I in my adolescence knew the forests to be but a haven.
Those forests whose trees hid the darkened skies were a place in which I had truly known, a Home.
My Kin weren’t anything special from what I could remember. Then again, time did of my memory, what time does with everything else. I grasp at the ashes that must remain scattered. I have to keep moving, I have to keep pushing the past aside.
I am unable to survive on ashes alone. I fail to push my past to the side, in consequence, I become akin to the ashes.
I am someone who in the eyes of my betters always turns out to be no one. I can never hide my past. When I sweep ashes under the rug, they tend to find their way back into the air. Air that would roam clean if not for the coming series of misunderstandings.
I wheeze awake to find myself coughing and crying after the past has come to smother me in my sleep.
"What of the past," often did I pretend to forget it. But the Present calls for the Past as if they are long lost companions seeking to become reacquainted.
What of the Companion that has foregone great lengths to forget that of the past.
The future waits not for the present. The future doesn't care to know how it has come to passing.
Kin wasn't accomplished enough to birth a village chief; He was a warrior of the village but one to the prophetic many. And regarding She who would be called Mother. She was loving, she had a... care, like none other. I recall her arms holding onto me for dear life. I recall looking into the eyes of She who needed me alive and breathing to somehow mend her downtrodden tale. I recall a throbbing heat of my head against a chest.
"Was this before or after I returned from scrapping? You see It was common in the tribe for wee ones to fight amongst their brethren," Pathetic, those contingency plans. I go over these stories over and over by hand, in the case that I am once again able to communicate with someone willing enough to speak my language.
The truth is bitter. The truth is broken. That's what my mind wants me to believe after one hundred and seventy-three years running, hiding, adventuring. The mind doesn't heal; it stays the same, trying to brace for what’s to come. What is to come? Disappointment, loss, and a few precious moments of joy that are what some would call fleeting. Those joyous moments are there to tease, to keep you hoping to one day find more joy in life. A joy that you can't find in dark alleys, or some brothel, a joy that's more thrilling than risking your life for
I can't forget my past, I can't hide from my past, and I can't rewrite my past. What am I left to do? I can't accept it, I refuse to accept It.
There is Nothing significant about the Kaltamori, do oblige if you've somehow learned of its fate. I have yet to find any significance in the person I've become. Whoever I've become is as worthless as the day they were born. They've become overshadowed by what's to come, haven't I told you what's to come.
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“Runt,", he scoffs at the mention of a Cub whose primary directive in life wass to scamper off into a tree shadow.
The Wolf Cubs hears the call of his name, so he hobbles toward that is unavoidable. He shakes in fear though he knows that he is not in trouble. But could you blame the Child he is small, his bones are brittle, he is what a human would call "Lucky to be alive."
Do not be deceived, death would be a mercy. Death would be the Runts metaphorical bone.
"The Runt" comes from a line of warriors, yes, this is a truth. Those both Male and female living in the shadows of Kaltamori were Warrior's to be, in one word or another. Their lives a hierarchy amongst the "Kaltamori Wolven Tribe of the Mist", a mouthful that name. At the top of the hierarchy sits the Chief, but we are far from his throne of bone. Dare not look at he who could end thine life with the swipe of a claw. You think too highly of yourself, you will not be granted that glory, those of lesser Chieftan lines before him have by time ended your life in his honor.
"The Runt," despite his Line is in a class of his own.
A class not lesser or lower in the Wolven Tribe of mist. He comes not from an Agile Line, Strong Line, any line of notice. His lineage, his "Kin", is derived from but a Warrior who has managed to find his common place at the very bottom of the hierarchy.
He could never take what he wanted. And what he desired most beyond the silken mist was the Cunning she-wolf of the village, someone of "worth." Desire all he like the Cunning would settle for nothing less than the village chief. A village Chief? He didn't have what it takes.
Father was an average Wolfman in every sense of the word, the embodiment. He sought "Thee" she-wolf as every other Wolf in the village. Greedy and lustful with no means to vent, no means to go after what he desired. The Runt was born to a Wolfman who dares not become the Chief.
An average Wolf in the village is taken by the Mist like every other wolfman. His glory comes in battle, his death will bring his God the upmost glory.
An average incompetent fool could never carry the Village on his back.
Sheviree a She-wolf said to be most cunning finds her Chief, and life goes on. The average Wolfman becomes bitter and resentful, this is a world where the bitter survives finding routine in living an incompetent inadequate life making the world a wretch for those yet to come next. Life goes on. The average wolfman is a number to be replaced by his offspring the village won't survive protected by the old, so out with the old and in with the new. The laws of exchange taking place in the Mist do in the average wolf for he has not much to offer, that another wolfman doesn't already have.
Life goes on. The average Wolfman follows his instincts to eat, sleep, and reproduce so that's what he does to, survive to stay alive. If the average wolf does not follow his instincts, a gift said to be bestowed by Wolf-God Kalmotin, The Wolf will find himself growing grey and old soon to die protecting the village or worse dying at the hands of another Wolfman who could care less about his fellow Wolfman. The average Wolfman has to provide for his Line, and though it is frowned upon and often punished It is common sport for a wolf-man to fight to the death in exchange. All or nothing.
Life goes on. The average wolfman can’t be chief. He is average, so he finds pleasure in preying on the weak. The average Wolfman finds the average She-wolf. She will say that was her choice. She who chooses to take in his incompetent Line. The average She-wolf knows what she needs, which is power, power rules the village if she doesn’t take what’s hers, she will fall victim to her brethren or worse her father and be but an outcast living in the village. The she-wolf is to be left to the mist that eats her making a whore of her or worse a single mother.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
That she-wolf has one last hope, power is in the Line, and even her child can become a Chief.
I believe you get the gist. Life goes on. The average wolfman finds a weak-minded She-wolf who is down on her luck, or not good enough to hold her own in the "Dog-eat-Dog world” as the human put it. Humans, and their words and sayings could summarize the village in many words, but one would suffice.
"Anarchy," The She-Wolf falls pregnant, the She-Wolf has a litter, and the She-Wolf grows bitter.
Life goes on. Eight pups, one is down on his luck, She-wolf has consequentially given birth to “The Runt."
This world and its system are quite humorous at times it would seem to have a mind of its own but no, it doesn't. The Administrators are said to be the voice of the system. We try our best to create the illusion of balance but this world at its core is unfair.
[*BIng!* You have unlocked the Title ~ Runt]
My life is but of disappointment for I wasn't just “The Runt", I was the pup without a voice, without a bark. I was born Mute. Pity me that's how I've survived, on nothing but. I am the small and feeble Runt, who doesn't speak, howl, or growl only beg. I am weak, and I have no right to ascend the Villages hierarchy, just like the runts that have come before me.
The Runt needs only to survive, he or she is to wait till ceremony and see what becomes of them, he can never become Chief. How can a "Mute" become Chief? It's possible, the System rewards adversity. But it is yet to be seen the System Rewarding the Runt.
I am below average, if average is the lowest line a Cub can be born into, I am lesser. I am someone who lies outside of the Villages hierarchy altogether because though I am mute and have been branded at birth the Runt it still doesn't explain why the Villages inhabitant's give me their pity.
'Why, {Runt}?' The Runt thinks to himself day and night, but he can't shake the question as to why.
'Why, this way?' He contemplates while hiding in a rug woven rug sack or wooden cupboard, darkness has no difference. He shy's away from the Lines Dog pile, there seems to be no place from him amongst his own Kin.
How can he possibly be an average wolf when he is the only Runt in the village, the last to drink mother's empty tit, the Cub always bitten and picked on by his seven brethren made the chew toy out of spite, the cub looked at with disdain by mother.
"'Why live? Worthless.' She-wolf shows a spite that would never meet the average Wolfmans eyes, so she found ways to direct that spite toward me, the family chew toy. She could barely smell the sight of me, the smell of me. Her eyes couldn't help but leak venom, a venom she wouldn't use to put me out of my misery. No, she would not give me that mercy.
Her happiness was my desolation. There is nothing more glorious than offering one's blood.
[*Bing!* You have unlocked the Title~ Survivor]
Seven Pups, children of hers, they follow in her footsteps. I would survive on the whims of a village. I would survive on scraps, often less. The eyes that pity me often are the eyes that feed. And these eyes hidden in the mist burn with rage if I look back at the hand that feeds.
Life goes on. Five years have passed. My body eats what I do not have, ashen gray fur smelling of piss and dirt refuses to grow, and pale skin over bruised rib is dotted red from bug bites.
Worry not these are telltale signs. I will survive. A sign that the village still pities me. I will continue my life of disappointment and loss as the Runt. Two more years will pass, and I'll make it to year seven to unlock my first Class. Would the system take pity? Would the Administrators show me kindness if I plead my unfortunate case?
God Kalmotin would not bat an eye in sacrificing my life, my birth disgusted him the most to ask for his help, to pray to him for blessing was blasphemy. It didn't come as a shock to hear of my ill-gotten fate.
Life goes on and the day has arrived. The Runt does not participate in village Kalmatori's seven-year festival for he would be sacrificed in Kalmotin's name. He has convinced himself that his presence would take away from the "Gift of Life" Kalmotin has granted the Wolfmen, so he keeps his distance during the gathering.
A gathering of Pups come of age, and like the last gathering and the one before that "everything will go as planned," in the Chieftan's words.
The Runt imagines the face of his Line when they find out that he's disobeyed father's direct orders. He imagines the faces off those who had pitied him all his life filled with hatred and outrage. It would be his turn to pity those undeserving of all they'd denied him.
Unfortunately, no pity would be offered on this night.
An obstruction of ritual would be an unwise obscenity, the death of him. And the Runt wasn’t granted the title of a {Survivor} just for being slow, malnourished, and feeble. He had thoughts of his own. He couldn't lie down and die not even if he wanted, so he hobbled far away from the village's ears and eyes trying his best to muffle his ragged sobs, mask his putrid stench, and catch the salty tears and mucus streaming down his snout.
Father Wolf had looked down on him early on with those hopeless eyes to bestow three teachings. "No weaklings," the Runt never understood the meaning of this for he was born weak, lesson number two "Keep away," purple stones carry a potent stench from the Chief. These stones outline the village and are a warning to wild beasts roaming the Kalmotori, tying into the third teaching. An unspoken rule is "Stay away", from the mist. The Runt learned this the hard way early on in his life after having his tail manhandled.
There would be no further explanation, call it the village's way.
Life goes on. The village had this ritual every seven years. It took fourteen years for man to spot a pattern; it took one day for the village to be raided in the Mist. Howls of glory and thanks were transmuted into screams of affliction and fear. Runt found himself disappointed by his fate, hadn't he harbored those small embers of hope he wouldn't have cried so longingly into the mist.
Not that it mattered how heavy his heart weighed, or how many unspoken rules he'd already broken. Death and loss were in the hearts of the Kin of the Kaltamori, fire consumed the home many held dear. Humans had raped and pillaged basking in the chaos making slaves of women and children. The average Wolfman was arrogant and prideful, the average Shewolf was willful and fierce. The Runt's life would go on; he was unlucky, most would say. Death still would not take him, no matter how much he longed for its embrace.
[*Bing!* You have been granted the title~ Outcast]
The Runt had not died; he had spent the Night of tradition wallowing in his pain tucked away in a lower cabinet. He wasn't much of a hider. His Blood would sniff him out eventually to continue his pitiful life as the chew toy of the nameless family. Only the families of Chieftains and Wolf Bravers were allowed last names. And the Runt wasn’t even given a first. He couldn’t run away because "Danger" meant death. Death was all the Kalmatori forest had to offer. Both a Runt and a coward, a hopeless combination when confronted with one choice, instant death. I'm sure it would be anything but instant.
Soon he would fall asleep in a dusty wooden cabinet not that it mattered exhausted, scared, and alone with only his fleas to keep him company.
Life went on and the village hidden in the Kaltamori Forest of Mists would be wiped out. The Runt slept through the event like a baby, a baby as far as the system was concerned, he no longer was. Failing to acquire a Class in fear of the swift death that would await him for doing so, on this day and the next. Unable to come out of the cupboard for that would also spell death. The most pitiful thing of all was the Runt was in so much turmoil and misery that he was feeble even in heart, scared most of all of killing himself.
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The Runt wakes in his sorry excuse for a home filled with smoke. It is a miracle that he doesn't die in his sleep, A miracle to anyone but the Runt himself; tears had dried from a night he would barely remember. Then again no one would hear the story of what took place in the mist. A Runt sickly, smelly, alone, and most afraid but worst of all Mute.
If he was to survive the night surely, he would tell no tales.
The seven-year-old Pup exited the cupboard after hearing the silence that echoed through his house a ghost who never smiled for, he had “no right!". He lowered his head for the day to greet him, it was time to continue his life of pity. to make his rounds of silent groveling. Silent groveling that would get him killed but maybe if he started early-
Exiting the wooden door carved then bound by vine from what was supposed to be his home he was greeted with ashes. Huts were burnt to cinders, trees were blackened and dry to the singed root. His eyes were drying at the sight of bones, ash, and blood permeating what was once a village.
The Village hidden of the mist had gone up in smoke.
Runt looked in horror for the mother who greeted him almost every day with words of hatred and disdain, but no one came. He tried to scream but grief wouldn’t change the Runt from being a little unimportant mute. His one good ear clung to the left because the right had been bitten off by one of his brethren. He could barely hear from the mangled mash on top of his head.
The Runt was most surprised by what greeted him to his right. It could only be identified as a monster for it had no fur to speak of, not that he was any runt to judge. It had holes on the side of what the Runt assumed to be its face, a face stained in blood with a sword at its waist, and ashes smeared across its stark-naked chest.
[Identifying] the Monster the Runt shook and peed himself for in his village's native tongue the words given to him by the system meant ‘Warrior’ and it was the scariest warrior he had ever seen.
The Runt's body had frozen in fear, unable to scream for help he stood there looking at the monster's broad and bulky back unable to gain control of the weak limbs that wouldn't be able to get him far, if he decided to run.
The warrior turned around with his eyes of black and his crooked teeth of yellow. The runt lost his breath seeing that there was more to the Warrior who had yet to face his direction, until now.
Mortified at the sounds escaping the warrior's putrid mouth the Runt could not understand a word, but he knew when death was afoot. He could feel Death's cold touch grazing over his spine down his crooked tail. He felt a chill whenever it would visit. Starvation was a slow process and Death never chose to take him no matter how much he begged.
[*Bing!* You have unlocked Skill [Deaths Call] - When danger and death is near feel, it's coming touch, it's cold embrace, its numbing chill. Do with this call what you will.]
The Runt's piss-covered hind legs moved as he attempted to run away from the bipedal chilling sounds of unreason. Unable to comprehend the naked warrior's language the Runt's dying body decided for him in one last burst of adrenaline to give him a surviving chance.
“Aye, Boys look at what we've got here, The Runt of a litter!", the warrior one boot in front of the other was in the mood to play. It had been hours since he'd worked up a sweat. The Hunter thought it a blessing, the gods would offer him another Wolf Cubs Hide. He had scoured for hours only to find that these Beast-Men didn't have the same tastes as the next. The Runt would have to do.
Morning, a time when the Kaltamori's flora reached for what semblance of sunlight that made it through the forest's high branches. A time when real monsters ran amuck in the Forest of Mists, mankind. To the Bandit hunting his prey, there was nothing to worry about; he was still basking in the glorious anarchy that had taken place in the past seven hours.
The ash in the air was a warning to most wildlife such as deer, rabbits, and birds. Where there was ash there was a fire. But the reality of this world was that magic gave way to monster. A forest fire was nothing to fear to that burdened with unnatural appetite and a twisted taste for hunting strong prey.
Warrior, Hunter, or Bandit, a Human would soon meet their end as a meal for one of the Kalmatori's invasive species when testing the Forsest's unseen benevolence.