FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Apollo’s arrows made their way through breaks in the clouds, lighting the low-lying fog and making it glow like the Golden Fleece. The Canopy of Mangroves was sparse enough that one could see the roiling sky. Red and murky clouds swirled and tumbled reminding Jo of a pool of blood. In front of him was a young man no older than he and dressed in a turquoise Greek robe. His olive skin hugged his muscles in the way only a runner could accomplish. His brown hair made a messy mop of curls atop his head. His eyes were such a dark brown that it appeared that he had no iris at all. His face was gentle and kind, aided in this quality by the caring restful smile which touched his lips. This man had appeared in one of Jo’s earlier visions. The man had welcomed Jo to his family.

Behind him stood two wolves. But they couldn’t have looked more different. One was about the size of a small bear, his eyes glowed yellow illuminating the fur around his eyes a pale yellow. The face was that of a timber wolf, Browns and blacks and white. His body fur was a mass of black on top and white on bottom. It held a sheen of health. The luster of a good diet. His mouth hung open, a healthy pink tongue hung over slightly yellowed teeth. A long, beautiful tail wagged behind the wolf. Showing the mental health and happiness of the canine.

The other had to outweigh a polar bear, maybe even a tiger. His shoulder rose above Jo’s head he was so large. His fur was matted and covered in a sheen of drying blood. His eyes shone blood red and his mouth hung open revealing a dark purple tongue hanging over brown, decaying teeth and diseased gums. His tail was kinked and matted. Spraying the foliage around him with splatters of blood.

“These are my brothers, Melaeneus,” The man in the turquoise robe pointed to the healthy timber wolf, “and Demeas,” and pointed to the wolf covered in blood. “Melaeneus and Demeas are the oldest of my brothers and leaders of their respective packs. Melaeneus led the Claw clan. Wolves who believed in regaining their humanity and maintaining harmony with their wolves. His lupine form reflects this in his health. His transformation being just that. A transformation.”

Jo nodded. Not quite sure why he was receiving this lesson, but listening nonetheless. He knew one thing: they were werewolves. They killed his cousin’s husband. They all deserved to die. At least, that was what he thought. But he wasn’t suicidal. And he was now one of them. Which by his old beliefs meant that he would have to kill himself. And he wasn’t going to do that.

He looked at Demeas and Melaeneus. They seemed to be two different species. Yet the turquoise-robed man was saying they were brothers? Odd. Could a person’s relationship with the wolf inside matter that much? Maybe he did need to listen to this lesson. There was apparently more to being a werewolf than he originally thought.

“Demeas, on the other hand, believes the curse was a gift from Zeus. Giving him power over humanity and wishing to be humanity’s overlord. His beast reflects this as well. His Fang Clan wishes only death and destruction and their bloody form reflects their and their wolves’ disharmony. They are at war with themselves. Their wolves don’t ease their body through the transformation, their wolves tear their way out of their human form. Killing themselves in the process.”

Demeas growled out, “That’s not entirely true anymore, brother.”

“You tried to take over the world a year ago, did you not?” Melaeneus asked.

A growl was the only response. “Wait! You’re telling me the Blood Moon Massacre is your fault?” Jo said. Growling towards the end of his interjection.

***

Marcos watched in awe as the young teen before him transformed smoothly, a turquoise glow leaking momentarily out from behind his transforming eyelids. There was no buildup, seemingly. One second, he was human the next he was there with a nearly fully transformed primal wolf. He watched as the shards of bone which were still sticking out of his leg knit themselves neatly back together and sunk back toward the femur. They disappeared below the quickly reknitting skin. Soon, it was as if there had been no injury at all, except a white flash of fur where the bone had broken through the skin. That was the surprising thing. His jacket, boarding pants, long johns, boxers, t-shirt, even his boots all ripped from the instantaneous growth he experienced, revealing that he was completely covered in fur, from head to toe. Even the bindings on his board, which had still been attached to his feet, snapped apart from the force of the growth. Marcos had to grab the board, lest it fly down the mountain. His face became that of a wolf. His hands had taken on the padding and fur of their primal form but remained entirely human in shape and function. His feet had become that of a feral, non-were wolf. Four clawed toes and a dewclaw set up in a digitigrade format, with a tiny heel, replaced the plantigrade, five-toed format of the human.

“Gods Above! Have you ever seen this, Harold?” Marcos asked the man in the dark robe.

“No.” Harold replied, dumbfounded. A rare look for the keeper.

That worried Marcos. The Keepers were called “keepers” because they kept the secret. True. But also because they kept historical records for the werewolves. Since their birth with the death of Nyctimus and his subsequent rebirth, to the Blood Moon that April. Every piece of Werewolf History was kept within the myriad tomes kept by the network of Keepers all the world.

***

A form Nyctimus had never before lain eyes on wrestled and clawed at Demeas, the direwolf not even trying to fight back. “Yes! Embrace it, embrace the anger, the hatred, the fear! These are the feelings which will keep you alive. Be angry that you’ve been cursed by the very gods themselves. Hate them for what they have done to you. Fear the humans which will persecute you for being different. Being better.”

Melaeneus growled, “Do not listen to this monstrosity, Joseph. You are too kind a heart to ever fall to the Fangs. Yours is a brighter path. Yours is a path which will bring unity to the humans and wolves of your land. You are chosen of Nyctimus. Your eyes are not gold. Your eyes are not Red. You are not dead! You are more than Alive!”

“Listen to your heart, young wolf. Listen to your instinct, young hunter. Listen to your Alpha, young Beta. You are destined for greatness. Never waver in your steadfast belief in morality. The goodness which is innate within humanity. Believe that they and you can and will find brotherhood and friendship.” Nyctimus added, “This is your task. This is your duty. Your brothers, your pack, they all rely upon you, young wolf.”

“Listen to them and you will be weak! Listen to their message and you shall die before your time, hunted to the brink of extinction. Persecuted for your differences, alienated for your gift, destroyed because of a curse which was forced upon you. This shall be what thread be given you by the Fates themselves, cruel as they are.” Demeas interjected, his voice laced with venom and hatred.

Jo looked between the three brothers. Listening to what each was saying. He understood what was on the line: his fate. The life which he would lead would be dependent upon which path he chose. Lead the life of a chosen wolf of Nyctimus. The life of a dire wolf. The life of unity with humans. The life of peace and harmonious co-existence with the beast which he now held inside himself. Or the life of an overlord. The live of power and of pleasure. The life of the wolf which saved his life. Or the life of the wolf which took the life of his cousin’s husband. This was the dichotomy he was given. The life of a were. The life of a Claw. The life of a dire. Of a Fang. Which one should he choose? There was no choice. Demeas’ own decisions and machinations had led to this.

Jo looked down at Demeas, growled and slashed his throat. The dire wolf dissolved underneath him. He stood and faced the two remaining brothers. Melaeneus took human form. His curly brown hair cascaded down his back. And his form, much like the wolf who’d saved his life, was that of one who consistently worked out or went to the gym. Bulging muscles and chiseled valleys contoured his olive skin much more dramatically than his younger brother. He also wore a thick beard. A beard which would have looked at home on the faces of the Norse Gods. Not the face of a thirty-something Greek Prince. He was taller than Nyctimus. He also looked much statelier. Like he belonged on the throne. Or behind a podium bearing the Great Seal of the Republic. Nyctimus smiled. Melaeneus mirrored him. The two looked at him fondly. “You’ve chosen wisely, young wolf. May Selena’s light be ever-present in your life. Now wake, young wolf. You’ve kept your compatriot waiting long enough,” Nyctimus chuckled.

***

Jo’s eyes opened to see the stars. As many as could breach Selena’s glare. The moon shone just the same as it had when he’d passed out. He groaned. He sat up, curling into his knees, bringing his hands around them, his tail wrapped around his paws… Tail? Paws? Wait what? Jo opened his eyes and noticed that he was lain bear before the world. Naked as the day he was borne. Yet, not an inch of skin could be seen. He was covered from head to toe in soft, downy fur. A black coat, with golden markings, reminiscent of the god Anubis of Egyptian mythology. “What. The. Fuck?”

A hand fell upon his shoulder. “This is a primal form. One that’s only become a possibility for us since the Blood Moon.” Jo looked up to see the wolf who’d bitten him, “I’m Marcos, by the by.”

“Thank you, Marcos. You saved my life.” Jo stated matter-of-factly. As he stared down at his transformed hands, he thought to himself that he truly could be Anubis. His fur was black as night. His eyes glowed the heavy amber of one who was at peace with their wolf. His fur held golden markings coating him in swirling patterns. He would just need the headdress and the staff. “Wait a second…Marcos? Don’t you run the ski rental place down on Main Street?”

“That I do. Good memory.” Marcos commented. “Let’s get you out of the cold. Your fur can only help for so long.”

“Good Idea.” Jo replied, “Let’s get out of here.”

Marcos helped Jo up, the two hobbling toward the forest. There, Marcos led Jo to a ski-do it was jet black and shining with the moonlight save for three diagonal slashes against the very front artistically painted to appear as if some beast had slashed through the fiberglass shell of the vehicle. Marcos helped Jo onto the back then mounted the mechanical steed himself. Turning around, he said, “Hang on,” and then depressed the throttle. With a growl the ski-do took off like a shot. Nearly throwing Jo from the vehicle.

His nerves and his nudity in the frigid temperatures kept him in his anthropomorphized version of his primal form. As the wind whipped through his fur, though it relaxed him and quickly his fur began to fade. His ears shrunk and began to migrate back to their human position, momentarily deafening him.

As his muzzle and tail disappeared a house came into view, a modest log cabin with a homey feel and an up-kept appearance came into view. Smoke billowed out of a natural stone-and-mortar chimney, whose stones varied in color from slate gray to a dark burgundy. The whole thing reminded Jo of a painting. Its logs looked worn but well cared for, their color that of a dark maple syrup. The windows—because there were windows—were covered in a layer of frost, but Jo could tell from their style that that said nothing of the interior’s warmth or lack thereof. Their double panes made sure the cold wouldn’t seep in through thin glass.

Marcos stopped in front of the structure and dismounted the ski-do, its engine clicking from the temperature difference as it cooled down. The smell of gasoline and exhaust nearly overwhelmed the woody scent coming from the cabin and surrounding forest. The slightly dry, airy smell of freshly fallen snow. His nose could smell practically everything it seemed. He could even smell something coppery that immediately brought to mind that night in April. The night his cousin lost his husband. Blood. As Marcos came up to him, Jo got off the ski-do and then proceeded to stumble into Marcos’ waiting arms.

This would take a while to get used to. Both his new abilities, and this new man in his life. Whether he be a new fatherly influence on his life, or a potential boyfriend, would be something that would have to be seen. Right now, Jo craved food. Meat. And a nice, warm bed.