1 prologue
++++ "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need for you. And you, on your part, have no need for me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you shall be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world..." ++++
-The Little Prince, Antoine De Saint-Exupery
∞∞∞
The darkened sky held the sinister presence of Lady Moon, ruler of all those who hunted in the night. It was she who illuminated the softest brush of a lover's mouth and the cold glint of a dagger in a lover's heart. She was ruler of whimsical dreams, and of haunting nightmares. She watched over the animals who hunted, and the ones who fell prey. She had once stood watch over the empty grave of Man, as He dug a hole in front of her. It was He who asked Her, "Who must lay in this eternal tomb for in which I dig?"
The Woman of the Moon tilted her head, Her eyes were not quite seeing, but they knew all that was there to know in the world. A corner of Her lip tilted upward in the barest glint of a smile, her expression cold and merciless.
A soft, haunting voice, one that sounded of the night breeze whispering through the woods, whispered in His ear. You dig a grave for all humanity, and their greed that will be unleashed upon the world. And when you are finished, you will guide only those who greed no more.
He, who digs the hole for all those greedy in life created a hole wide and deep enough to swallow the world, deeper still to fill with the burning hatred of death. Death that would end all sins of greed in anyone such as you and me. And when He was done, He slew himself upon a black sword and bled the ichor of a god into the great chasm, until the golden ocean was filled to the brim.
and He becomes Death.
∞∞∞
A single figure stood atop a throne of bones, which gleamed white in the darkness on a hill above the camp. The figure was a large silver lupine mass, looking down at the clearing below him. He was silent, and frozen in place as the wicked howls of the werewolves below them feasted on prey of all shapes and sizes. Bonfires lit up the night, burning pieces of fat on the dead flesh of prey caught during the day.
There were small groups of wolves who stood around the food, cackling and cursing into the night breeze. A larger group surrounded a bloody and broken wolf that belonged to a pack. The pack wolf was being tortured, his screams of pain and sobs music to the ears of all who came to the gathering. At the top of the hill, The Leader watched the man plead and beg for his life with a stony expression, doing nothing to encourage or stop them.
Those surrounding the man laughed at his torture, yips of excitement ringing out as the man was tortured and beaten to death. In front of the kneeling and sobbing pack wolf, they were powerful. The power that the rogues held was only due to the power of The Leader, who came to them 13 years ago and was able to kill the previous leader within 5 seconds.
The rogue werwolves in the camp were haggard-looking, unhealthy, and empty, mere shells of their past selves. They had no one to look for them, and no one to care about.
Which made them all the more easy to control.
The rotten stench of dead carcasses of prey and pack wolves alike were scattered through out the settlement. Only The Leader was sane enough to know that it wasn't just for decoration, as the corpses around them masked the scent of a large gathering of rogues from any pack wolf nose, and if one were to find the scent suspicious, they would either turn back at the awful stench or be delivered as the next form of entertainment.
A group of ravens and buzzards stared down from the trees, silent and watchful, waiting for the wolves to move on to a different location before going after the dead animal carcasses. Somehow, the birds were all the wiser in knowing that the flight to the ground would be their last if they tried picking over the leftovers of the insane beasts before them.
The silver wolf gazed coldly at the number of rogue werewolves, picked up from a life doomed to loneliness and insanity. Eventually, they would all die of their incurable illness, but that didn't mean the silver wolf couldn't use them before there time was up. Being in one place with fellow rogues only slowed down the parasite chewing at their brains, for they could never belong to a pack again. It was The Leader who granted this mercy.
The Leader who sat upon his throne of bones above the clearing, his identity unknown. Not one rogue could boast to know the human form of him, for the only one he would deign to even speak to was The Second.
Most of the rogues from far and wide were gathered here, together as one driving force, one iron fang in the sides of each pack wolf that would dare cross them. Luckily, their leader wasn't so far insane that he would suggest going after the large packs just yet. No, he thought to overtake the smaller ones, spread out and away from main pack lands and away from stronger help. They would bathe in the blood of the filthy pack wolves that lived in posh human houses, hiding from humans like the weak-willed scum they were.
Once their numbers swelled in size, he would take down the larger packs, gaining more territory and hunting humans to their own disposal, killing them off one by one.
Humans were the root of all evil, and the Lady of the Moon had declared it.
The silver wolf that stood atop the bone throne clenched his jaw, ready to have his own share of torture and killing until the next raid. But first, one of the weaker rogues below him had to part this life. At the beginning of his reign, he declared through The Second that the weakest link must be offered to him as sacrifice each night.
The weak would make room for the strong.
Finally, he let out a single, bone-chilling snarl that told the rogues below to bring the weakest to him before he chose one of them himself. This command was normal for them. When The Leader snarled, it was survival of the fittest.
The smell of blood and howls of bloodlust mingled together in the night, as they all fought each other in the clearing. The rogues who had been eating and chuckling with each other like old friends one second were now turning to kill one another the next.
The forest surrounding them was still, overcome with the sound of snarls and growls coming from the clearing. All were sounds of mindless wolves, eager to be the one to find the weakest prey-wolf to fill their master.
A sharp noise that wasn't wolf signaled the arrival of another being. It sounded out from the bushes beyond the clearing, and the rogues seem to pause in their fighting as one. All shrunk in terror at the foreign and wrong smell that invaded their senses. The short, high pitched sound belonged to The Second, who had returned to the gathering at long last. The Second was the only one allowed atop the hill, and the only to return down it with their life.
It was only The Second who conversed with The Leader atop the hill. The rogues knew The Second's words were law to them. If The Leader was a god, The Second was his prophet. Whatever The Second ordered them always came straight from The Leader, and whether they truly respected or feared the other shifter, they respected him enough not to mess with his bestowed status.
The Second was a lithe and quick being, it's fur the color of leaves in autumn and it's feet the color of the night sky.
The fools among fools who dared to challenge The Second were taught a swift and brutal lesson through the price of their life being forfeit. He would tear them apart limb from limb, scattering their innards around the camp as a reminder of what would become of them if they dared step out of line.
In the mouth of the foreign Second, was a chain leading to a collar around the neck of a pack wolf mutt.
The Second hauled the wolf that was now reduced to no more than a dog up the hill where The Leader sat on his throne of bones. The clearing that held rogue wolves who had been fighting each other previously was now deathly still, the only sound coming from The Second and the chain in his mouth.
Dinner for The Leader tonight was not one of their weakest, but instead was a spying pack dog found by his Second on the outskirts of the camp, spying. As this new information dawned on the rogues, they broke off into their groups and went back to eating their own kills.
The rogues were grateful for this mercy granted upon them.
Howls filled the night.
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