Wolfen Chapter One: Vorwuk
Plot driven smut.
:3
Fear. It clenches the gut. Vylik is a strong, able-bodied warrior of a tribe of warriors and hunters. The Wolfen stand second to none in this region. However, his tribe may not survive the coming winter; some of the strongest or most keen have been stricken by a wasting illness. The Bitch-Crone seems unable to do more than offer a stymieing to the symptoms. Her ministrations nothing more than stop-gap. Sacrifices have been made to Elunestra, their Goddess of the Moon. Orken and Gobliks seemed paltry, as such, they battled in small ambush melee a few stronger opponents. He, Vylik, captured three Clydesdale Hoofmen, nearly as tall as himself. One to be a burnt offering, another to have his heart displayed prior to smashing with the smith's hammer, and the last as a sexual sacrifice. That one had pity given him; he had simply been unfortunate a youth out with his elder brothers. No doubt, in the warriors mind, less than sixteen winters of age. When the village found him to be untouched by the feel of others, Bitch-Crone decided he would be good practice to be taken under the tail for the older cub boys. None over fifteen winters; they needed to begin looking for bitch or mate; or become one to a superior male.
In memory, the Wolfen warrior curls a smile; smirking to the thought of his freshly gathered horse seed. Creamy, delicious, a product of his first taking by the warrior that captured him. What a pleasant memory indeed to have forced another male to bursting his seed with the entire village watching. Quite a few of the younger Wolfen had been massaging growing boyhoods, blushing as they did such. Wide-eyes and large smiles, bright with being allowed to view such a taking for the first time. Over-flowing joy when it had been announced they could take this Hoofman, boy truly, in his flank as often as they wish. Of course, they would be required to bathe and feed their slave-pet; no one allowed to geld him having found his seed to be quite a delicacy. Even the Bitch-Crone takes many a meal of broth with this one's topping for flavor. Salt had been increasingly difficult to find in recent times. There had even been talks among the Elder Council, should the wasting be halted, of over taking the River Otter tribe for this express purpose. The glory, the thrill, that is what he had been whelped for.
The thought brought a spreading warmth to the groin of Vylik causing his loincloth to bulge as he trudged up a narrow mountain trail. "Yes...if only we can survive." His pride pained halts his gait. Sorrow begins to dawn upon the visage of this noble Wolfen. His young, strong twenty winter frame that stands proudly a head taller than most began to wilt. His mother a larger breed of Dire Wolfen and his father, the fallen Champion and first to fully succumb, wither, and die from this plague; his father had died not in combat or to great years. Vylik's heart-thoughts brought low the pacing of his paws.
"I can not fail. In this, I must not fail. Bitch-Crone says a Vorwuk lives here," the thought brought a chill to his spine. A childish response not befitting one of his winters; stories told to scare children. Glancing up into the twilit rocky, expanse. Rising moon and setting sun prisming colors about the small snow drifts of this late autumn. A few shrubs grew from under a crag to his right. He turned, pulled spear to his chest and reclined back upon the small vegetation. A moment's rest to regather strength, of course, and not to purge his thoughts.
Having continued his journey up this nigh barren mountain, Vylik begins to feel the effects of hunger. His stomach rumbles and only having a few meat rations, salt preserved, in a low slung pouch above his tail. The Wolfen began his trek upon the night of a new moon; looking out, yet careful to not glance below, the silver sliver of the quarter moon reflects light within his deeply blue eyes. Had it been a darker eve, only the foolish would try mountain trails; though, he dare not light a torch. Fat oils were difficult to make and a warrior never bothered with gathering tenders to make typical path-lightings. That is the labor of slaves, boys, and the elderly wanting to feel useful before passing. There were things that lurk in the dark, "Yes, like Vorwuks...," ending in a half chuckle to help his growing discomfort.
The winds are calm, still, and silence clings to the narrow path he trod. Even the small stones under-paw seem reluctant to crunch and grind when tread upon. The night scents are puzzling to his growing battle-hardened nerves. He never had great talent as Hunter; preferring the grace and honor of vanguard, Vylik feels a swell of pride and prestige towards his placement as Warrior. The hackles of his neck scruff rising, the empty feeling of his stomach, and the twitch of muscle near Vylik's left eye are certainly not fear. He feels the weight of his duty and needs of his tribeskin; he does not feel fear towards a blight-damned Vorwuk!
Courage renews with resolute determination, Warrior Vylik tightens his jaw and places one pawpad ahead of the prior. A few dead shrubs harboring small mushrooms among the debris give off a preternatural viridian luminescence; the path lit as if walking into the very heart of the underworld. Awashing his scent and revealing new dread, the sickly, sweet aroma known well hangs palpable and thick in this new area of the mountain's trail. Vylik feels the air, more chill, at this, he can only assume, halfway up the snow-capped mountain. Damnably forcing the stench into his very bones and clutching more readily his trusted spear, the Wolfen proceeds forward into the gloom of the nearby Vorwuk's cavern lair. The opening can be seen, dark with sulfurous mist lazily fuming from the entrance, gashing the rock face ahead of him above a small rising plateau a handful of paces above his head level; the rock below the rise running slick with blackeningly, vermilion waters draining from hot spring pools unseen in the darkness above his path. Vylik nary willing to swallow back his rising gorge continues a steady, slow pace.
Standing before the rivulets cascading as a deluge of sludge and muck he could only liken to spring snowmelts, Vylik confirms his. . .thoughts of just what this ichor is, blood among other things. His knuckles fade to white under his granite grey, fur. "Bravery," the Wolfen ponders, " strength, and blood of my kin; keep me safe."
**Vylik reaches the top of the short climb to the lip of this small plateau; peering above the rim and spear clenched between his teeth, gazes intently over then small area before the sulfurous cavern's entrance. A hand flies from the cave's arch and lands but a short span before his eyes. Although, it was only a hand, if one can even call it such. It has three yellow-clawed talons, wickedly curved, and each a length greater than his forearm. Who or what might have been the owner one can only guess. The Wolfen pulls himself up, paw over paw as he scrabbles forward with his weight; the slick, moist rock-face assisting his ascent.
Standing up and balking at his appearance with a short glance upon his soiled form, Vylik calls out in a strong, only slightly squeaking as a newly ball-dropped pup, voice, " Vorwuk, I have come to ask your assistance on behalf of my tribe. We are willing to barter whatever you wish. We have a disease that wastes the muscles and makes weak breathing." His request stated, Vylik stands tall with spear clutched in the curve of his elbow. A few fat drops of viscera-laden snow fall with an audible plop from above the cavern's edge.
Bubbly, mirthful, gleeful, bemusing came the high-pitched voice, "That's unfortunate!" A chuckle reverbs with a lyrical sound. "I'm trying to bathe away this filth; I'm a bit soaked from late Grexlior," joyfully resounds the, now obviously boyish, voice.
The type of statement and befuddling that prompts one to ask, "I...uh...who was Grexlior?"
"The Vorwuk."**