ursinedevotee

[ursinedevotee]

Nose to the Wind, part one

Boralus, early July

Eric stepped out of the portal room in Boralus, feeling the smooth stones of the Tradewinds Market beneath his paws. He was in his fur, as he’d been for nearly a week straight now -- or had it been longer? It felt like it had been some time since he’d held himself back. That was how he thought of keeping his fur down, now; it was holding himself back. Despite the worries he’d voiced to Edith a few days prior, he’d been thinking like that more and more these past few weeks. The hulking, befurred shape he wore now was the real him; his skin was a pale facsimile, like a shadow cast by candlelight or a glove that just didn’t fit right no matter how you pinched and plucked at it. Perhaps that should’ve worried him, but in truth he hardly thought about it anymore; he just felt so much more alive in his furs -- more aware, more invigorated.

He trudged over to the ledge near the door to the portal room, passing the spindly cobbler just getting his things set up at his stall. Eric had come here early, just before dawn, after not being able to stay asleep during the night. He hitched the big satchel he wore over one shoulder, adjusting it slightly on his hip. Asher was inside, asleep; the last time Eric had left Asher alone while the cub was sleeping, he’d come back to find that the cub had awoken and had ripped his bedsheets to shreds. One of the legs still had teeth marks from where Asher had been gnawing on it when Eric had returned. He still felt bad for that; the cub had lost his mother not a month past. Eric should’ve expected him to be anxious when left alone. Well, the satchel fixed that problem for now, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to do when the bear got bigger.

A breeze from the sea gusted up to him, and Eric instinctively put his nose to the wind, feeling it wash across his face and ruffle his mane. The cool scents of brine and blessedly clean air struck his nose, and he sighed. The stink Stormwind was constantly bathed in had a way of blinding a person to it after a while, and Eric found he had forgotten what crisp, clean air smelled like. That strong breeze died down, and the scents of the Tradewinds drifted to him. The most overwhelming of the smells was that of people; men and women, mostly humans, of all shapes and sizes. They were all mostly alike, except for the hair’s worth of difference that made every person’s scent unique to themselves. Mixed in were the scents of sweat and exertion, the clean smell of the cobbler’s collection of boots, the mild cologne the stick of a man wore.

There was much more than that, of course. To most noses, the market was a nigh-indistinguishable mish-mash of dozens of different smells. Not so for Eric. Oh, there were still dozens of smells to sort through, but Eric took a few moments to do just that, to enjoy the scents of a city that didn’t stink like Stormwind did. Aside from the cobbler’s boots and his cologne, Eric caught the smell of furs and tanned leathers alongside that of gunpowder; there were several fur traders and tanners that set up in the markets, and given the Kul Tiran fascination with firearms, he found it no surprise that there was a gunsmith, too.

Still idly sorting through the different scents, Eric turned to walk through the market. Fish was a common smell, be it guts or meat or just the animals themselves. Spirits and ale, too; he saw more than one worker hauling barrels. The hearty smell of spices and herbs came to him. There were fruits of all kinds, too, and, somewhat fainter, the smells of pandaren cuisine, too; noodles, rice, their many sauces, all delicious. His stomach rumbled its proclamation of hunger, and Eric found himself eyeing a stack of barrels that smelled like herring. Well, he hadn’t felt hungry when he’d left his apartment, but perhaps some food was in order.

Eric turned his attention to his ears as he walked, angling towards the nearby stairs. It was too early for the market to be in full swing yet, but there was a fair amount of activity already; men hauled boxes, barrels, textiles, planks, bags, and everything in between in preparation for the day. Merchants and hawkers were setting up their stalls, organizing wares or supervising workers who were moving supplies. The ever-present harbor guards stood at their posts, halberds upright at their sides, watching everyone who passed with scrutiny. He even saw one of the constables out on an early patrol.

He took the stairs down near the fountain, back to the level the portal room was on. He’d made a nice little circuit of the market, but his stomach was protesting its lack of food, and most of the hawkers whose wares were food weren’t set up quite this early yet. He considered waiting for the barbecue on the upper level, but decided it would take too long. So, he followed his nose to a scent he’d caught upon arriving; the sausage vendor. She was one of the few merchants that was done setting up already; the small stove she had on hand was giving off a tendril of smoke through its chimney, and the woman herself stood mostly at her ease, her hair held back by a kerchief and a slim cutting knife idly being tossed in one hand.

She gave him an appraising look as he approached, trudging up a pair of steps to her stall. She grinned, offering him a curt nod in greeting. “Well, good mornin’ to ya,” she said, craning her neck to look up at him as he stopped. “Yer a bloody big one! Bet a man like you’s got an appetite to match those muscles o’ yers, eh?” Hefting her knife with a flourish, she set it down on the counter and leaned forwards casually. “What can I get ya?”

He chuckled at the comment, returning the woman’s grin. She had a collection of sausages to pick from, which was useful since a glance at the menu she offered told him he’d be there for an hour if he tried to pick out anything useful from the tiny hand it was written in. Did it really need so many words? It looked like a page ripped right out of one of those dense books wizards used for their magic. He gave it a few moments of consideration, then pointed out a particularly plump, smoked kind of sausage.

Within a few minutes, he was striding back towards the market with a few links of smoked sausage draped over one arm. A few links for him, anyways; the sausage vendor -- her name was Charisse, he’d discovered -- had given him an uncertain look when he’d told her how many he wanted, smelling faintly surprised. She had taken his coin easily enough, though, so he wasn’t going to complain. He knew his appetite was a bit more hearty than most. So, he trudged on, surreptitiously popping one of the links into his maw to chew on while he moved up to a better vantage point. On the upper level of the market nearest the docks he stopped, settling in near a railing to look out over the ships in the harbor. One by one, he scanned the largest vessels, noting markings and names. In his skin, his eyes wouldn’t have been good enough to pick out fine details like that, but they didn’t have any such issues in his fur. Just one more reason to prefer one over the other.

Some time passed with the city seeming to come alive a bit more every few minutes; more people came out, more merchants set up, more hawkers began hawking. The noise grew as the sun began to crest the horizon, peeking out over the waves, seeming to set the sky afire as it appeared. Then, finally, Eric found the ship he was looking for, just barely picking it out near the far end of the docks. It was a broad thing, called the Crestbreaker by its captain. Former captain, he supposed now. Thinking of that traitorous slug, Captain Pike, made him want to growl. Thinking of Pike inevitably led to thinking of Pike’s death at Eric’s hands -- or more appropriately, his teeth. That nasty business still gnawed at him. There was no doubt that the Captain had deserved death, and Eric had certainly enjoyed obliging that need, but the circumstances of it all still made him question himself.

Pike had betrayed him, poisoned him, and held him captive for days aboard his ship, torturing Eric for information on his employer at the time. Pike, through that witch Matilda, had kept him awake and without a wink of sleep for something like a week -- he still wasn’t sure how long it had been in total; his memory of that time was all a smudged blur, uncertain and unclear. He knew he had suffered, though. He had suffered pain, indignation, and deprivation. And after all of that, Pike had sold him into slavery under the care of a brigand named Aren whose hatred for worgen and twisted mind had driven him to try and break Eric, to degrade him and shatter his spirit until he became the vicious watchdog Aren had wanted. Well, Aren had gotten what he’d deserved when Eric’s fury had boiled over and he’d broken free of his cage.

Pike’s retribution, though… it hadn’t been like that. Pike had been held captive, taken in the night by Edith and Seymour at Eric’s request. Eric had wanted to rip him to pieces the moment he’d picked Pike’s scent out in that rickety building on the water. He had held back because Pike had been asleep, knocked unconscious by poison. He’d been awakened to be questioned, then executed. That still felt wrong to Eric, killing a man who couldn’t defend himself, who didn’t have that option. But that wasn’t it; Eric could stomach the distastefulness and dishonesty of killing a man that way if that man deserved it, and Pike surely had. No, what ate at Eric was the cruelty he’d displayed. He hadn’t just wanted to kill the man; he’d wanted him to suffer. He’d wanted to smell Pike’s terror when he finally died; he’d wanted to hear Pike scream as he was flayed for what he’d done.

Eric shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts, stepping off to the side of the road with a grimace. He still wasn’t sure how much of that cruelty had been because of the hatred he bore for Pike for the way he’d been treated and how much was just… him. He’d felt something primal in him when he’d killed Pike, soured though the moment had been by Seymour’s outburst. He still felt that something thinking back on it now: the rush of warm blood gushing into his mouth; the give and eventual crunch of Pike’s throat as his teeth ripped through flesh and crushed his windpipe; the vain resistance Pike had put up, the scream he’d cut off as Eric, a hulking, bestial monster, had torn out his throat; the smell of pure terror in the man’s final moments. It was the same way he felt when he hunted, especially with larger prey like deer and elk. It was a feeling that could draw him in and drown him; more intoxicating than any ale or spirits. It was a primal, elating thrill.

It scared him. No, it terrified him. Hunting elk was one thing, but to feel that way when he had his jaws around a person’s neck? A chill ran down his spine at the thought, and he shivered. That was how monsters felt, and he had the sinking feeling that he would feel that way regardless of whether he hated the person or not; Pike had not been the first man he’d killed since being Cursed, and every time he clamped his jaws down on someone’s throat and tasted blood hot with the struggle of self-preservation, he’d felt that same thrill.

He started off back down the road, lost in thought. He felt a similar thrill by simply being in his fur. He felt more alive, felt more himself in his fur. That felt right; he had never been uncomfortable in his own skin, not even when he’d been a gangly youth just learning what it meant to be a soldier. The Curse had turned that on its head; he’d felt disoriented, felt unsure of himself. It had taken the better part of two years to finally tamp down the distrust he’d felt for his own instincts. The thrill he felt at killing was… different. It was different even than how he’d regarded it before being Cursed; he hadn’t been a stranger to violence in decades, and killing was never something he shied away from when it was necessary. He had fought for what he believed in, had fought for coin, had fought because he liked the challenge. He had always enjoyed the thrill of battle, the exhilaration of knowing that each moment could be your last and the heady sensation that came from emerging victorious, from surviving. That was the thrill of being alive, and that was natural, whether the battle was a brawl in a tavern or a battlefield strewn with blood and bodies. This new thrill, that of hunting and killing, was still a foreign feeling to him. It hardly seemed natural.

You won’t get anywhere thinking yourself in circles, he thought with a grunt. Ed was right. Pike did deserve what he got. Stop hounding yourself over it.

It wasn’t that easy, of course, but he refused to consider the topic any further. This was the sort of thing he’d come to Boralus to avoid, and here he’d gone and thought himself into a sour mood anyways. He looked around, trying to place where he’d wandered to in the warren-sprawl of Boralus’s muddy streets and alleys. He scowled as he realized he’d been wandering towards the building he’d killed Pike in. Even worse, he realized he’d eaten all the sausages he’d purchased while he’d been lost in thought. Grumpy for not having been able to savor them properly, he stubbornly turned away from that unassuming building and strode off in another direction, ignoring the street toughs and shoulder thumpers he passed. They might size him up and look threatening, but between his size, build, claws, and the axe and knife on either hip, they left well enough alone.

He had come here with a purpose, even if he had immediately shirked that purpose for food and an unpleasant wander with his own thoughts. Well, he was back on track now and he wouldn’t be distracted again.

[ursinedevotee]

A Simple Job, part seven, finale

Somewhere in the northern Dragonblight, some months ago

The shouts and clamoring of men readying themselves for battle drew the beast from its stupor. The scent of blood, metallic and tantalizing, still hung in its nose and upon its tongue. Predatory hazel eyes refocused, seeing for the first time in… how long? There was a mass of blood and meat, torn to unrecognizable strips, beneath it. It had been kneeling over one of the corpses -- were there two? It looked like too much meat for just one man’s body to make. The clamoring drew its attention again; the worgen whirled, finding a growing group of men seeming torn between staring at the monster in their midst and fighting the roaring bonfire that had once been one of their tents where a lantern had crashed and spilled its burning oil. None yet had gathered the courage to approach. Most shied back when that wolfish stare, reflecting silver-green the firelight, swept across them.

Then, the beast was off on all fours, sprinting past the watchtowers in seconds. In minutes, it was three miles away. In an hour, the two watchtowers and the flickering orange fire between them had faded out of sight amidst a growing snowstorm. The worgen lurched suddenly in its half-human gait, somewhere between a wolf’s four-footed stride and a man’s two-footed sprint. Its paw caught on a rock; the worgen stumbled, fell onto its side. Pain lanced through it, then, and it looked down. Something both dark and shiny stuck out from its side, slick and stained with its blood. A clawed hand touched that object tentatively -- a sword, it was identified as by some dark recess of humanity -- and pain shot up its side again. The worgen let out a pained whimper; that was not the only place pain radiated from, now that adrenaline had faded and exhaustion was beginning to catch up.

I need to get the blade out. The worgen didn’t know where the thought had come from, bubbling up from nowhere, but it knew the thought for true. If it could get the blade out and just find somewhere to sleep where it wouldn’t freeze to death… Pain shattered thought for a moment when the worgen touched the shortsword jutting from its side again. Not now. Not yet. The beast stood on its hind legs, looking around. The wind howled, icy cold threatening to break through the beast’s thick fur. Snow flurried around it, obscuring sight -- there. A shallow gash in stone that led to darkness. The worgen started that way, forced to limp when pain, jagged and burning like a coal, shot from its thigh.

Lucidity returned gradually and with effort, but Eric knew that if he didn’t regain control, he’d freeze to death or bleed out before he made it out of this hell. Soon enough, the worgen found itself slumped against the wall of a dim cave, sheltered from the howling winds and freezing air outside. Slowly, gently, Eric grabbed the shortsword in its side -- in his side -- and steadied its breathing. It wanted to panic. So did he. Their heart pounded in the worgen’s chest, nearly grinding to a halt when Eric pulled the blade out in one sharp gesture. Pain wracked the creature, fluid agony soaking into the muscle and sinew around where it had been impaled. He steadied ragged, shuddering breath. He wasn’t sure when he’d realized it, but there was still the bullet in his leg to deal with. It didn’t matter how much damage he caused; that was what he told himself as he pressed a pair of claws into the wound, whimpering, to grip the metal and pull it free. Dimly, he recognized that the bullet hadn’t fragmented in his leg. Good. The cold had numbed his feet, his hands, his nose, his ears. The worgen curled up against the cave wall.

Eric awoke to the soreness of sleeping on stone. Fear jolted his heart, and his eyes sprung open to look around frantically. He was in the cave, still. It was just the rough stone of the cave floor, not a cell. He stilled his breathing, pushing himself up with a grunt. He could hear birdsong outside and could see clear sunlight through the cave entrance. He stumbled forwards, forcing near-frostbitten limbs to move despite the cold. His fur had gone down while he slept; his body felt numb. He forced himself to move forwards anyways.

He stepped out of the cave’s mouth into sunlight. The warmth on his skin was glorious; it felt like the first time he’d seen the sun in years. Stinging tears welled in his eyes. He’d done it. He was free. A laugh bubbled up out of his chest just as tears began to roll down his cheeks. He. Was. Free. Laughter shook his body, and he collapsed onto his knees, bathing in the sunlight. Thoughts roiled unbidden in his mind. He remembered what he had done to those men. His laughter turned bittersweet. He hated how vicious the Curse was -- but this time? He’d kiss the wolf if he could. More yet unbidden thoughts brushed his mind. Barry, his closest friend for the past year. Wildheart, his axe, and yet… more. Narin, who had been his responsibility. What had happened to them? He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it. Bittersweet laughter turned to wracking sobs. He fell forward, burying his head in his arms. He couldn’t stop the raw cries in his chest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

It was some time before he pulled back onto his haunches, exposing his face to the sun again. The warmth was nice; a simple sensation to distract his mind. He was caught in turns between laughing at having made it and weeping for what had happened. He cried himself out eventually, throat raw and breath coming in stuttering gasps as he pushed himself to his feet. He heard water burbling nearby, and his hands, mouth, stomach, legs… everything was coated in dried blood.

He had survived. What was the cost?

[ursinedevotee]

A Simple Job, part six

Formerly Scarlet Point, some months ago

Fury pounded through Eric’s heart as he started forwards. Aren was there, not ten paces away, sneering at him like a dog that had chewed up the bed, and Eric was no longer bound, no longer forced to heed him. The six men surrounding Aren were regarded as nothing but pests to the Curse. A few looked startled at his size, but two garnered courage enough to charge him. Either man would have been nearly as big in the shoulders as Eric was without his fur, and they wielded stout cudgels with some decent familiarity as they came at him. The first swung, and instincts even more deeply ingrained than the Curse’s took hold; Eric batted aside the blow with one arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and yanking him forwards as Eric drove his knee forwards into the man’s gut. Then, as the man doubled over and tried to suck in breath, Eric grabbed him by the back of the neck and flung him off to one side to crash into some piece of furniture that the enraged worgen didn’t bother to look at.

He took another step, lashing out to grab the face of the other man who’d had the foolhardiness to approach. The man swung wildly with his cudgel, but the only thing within reach was Eric’s arm, which held him like the cast irons they had used to bind him. He squeezed, digging claws into the man’s scalp and conjuring rivulets of blood to run down his bald head. The man screamed, movements becoming more desperate and frantic; the cudgel struck against Eric’s arm more than a few times, but no hit was any more effective than the first; the immutable bonfire of rage in the worgen’s chest made pain just a numb, distant sensation. There was a sudden crack as the worgen’s claws broke through the man’s skull, and he suddenly fell limp and was tossed aside like his companion before him.

The worgen took another step forward, snarling. Flickering lamplight caught that predatory silver-green reflection in its eyes again. Aren shouted something and pushed another two of his men forwards. The third man to approach the fell beast collapsed in a shuddering heap, wailing and clutching his face, as its claws took his eyes and nearly his jaw as well, scoring deep fissures in his skull where claws rent through flesh. The fourth man saw a demon of the night towering before him, and fled before it could lay claws or teeth on him, dropping the shortsword he’d held with a clatter, tripping over himself in his haste to run. And then, it was just the beast and his prey.

The worgen laid eyes on Aren, and started for him again, paws thumping over bodies, but a sudden, sharp pain in its back drew its attention and it thrashed, knocking the man who’d buried a shortsword in its side on his ass. More pain came as something hard thunked into its leg, nearly knocking it out from under the beast, and it whirled to face the new assailant, heedless of the blade stuck into its hide. Two men stood before it, faces set with morbid determination. One held a long cudgel, the other a spiked mace. With a roar, they charged, but their blows fell short of the beast they sought to beat into submission again; it had backpedaled swiftly, and now it dropped to all fours with a snarl of primal rage and bloodthirst, leaping at the man with the spiked mace. He was the greater threat of the two, but his threat was ended swiftly as the beast’s teeth took him by the throat to the ground a few feet away. There was a brief, frantic struggle as the man tried to find purchase on his mace to swing it again; a moment later, the struggle ended as the beast’s jaws crushed his windpipe and ripped it free of his neck. He gurgled, spasmed, hands clamping around the jagged hole in his throat.

The beast spat the piece of meat out -- it was not here for food, but to kill -- and stood to find the other man swinging the long cudgel its way. The worgen took the blow to the snout hard, stumbling to the side as its head rang from the force of the strike. Another suddenly struck against the other side; the beast saw spots, ears ringing from the repeated blows to the head, raising its arms to prevent further blows. Those blows did come; repeated strikes by blunt weapons fell upon the beast’s arms, cowing it for the moment while it shook its head to clear its mind. Not of the lust to spill blood -- never of that -- but of the ringing and the pain. Then, finally, it saw the pattern of the blows and struck, knocking one of the cudgels aside and grabbing the man who swung it by the neck, throwing him into his companion on the other side. They fell in a heap, trying to disentangle themselves before the beast reached them.

They were not quick enough; the beast pounced as soon as they fell, pinning the one beneath by holding down the one on top while it clamped its jaws around the man’s throat. It bit, blood splashing, and ripped. Blood rolled onto the face of the man pinned beneath his companion from the one above, whose hands clamped around where his windpipe should have been. He would not be pinned for long; the beast tossed the man whose throat it had ripped out aside, pinning the next man with a foot on his chest. For a moment, it seemed the beast might regain lucidity enough to offer the man a chance to have his life spared -- then its paw came up, and down sharply. There was a crack as the man’s ribs shattered beneath the worgen’s weight and the force of the paw landing on his chest. He began coughing, wheezing, clutching at his chest, but did not have much time to feel the pain of his punctured lungs. The beast grabbed him by the neck, lifted him up to stare eye-to-eye with it. He found those hazel eyes full of rage and hatred, and had time only for one ragged yell before the beast hoisted him higher and threw him into the ground. Something else snapped, then, and the man fell still.

The feral beast whirled, searching. The scent of its prey was still in the air, but Aren was nowhere to be found. The beast drew in a snarling breath.

“AREN!” It howled.

Aren swore he heard his name in that bone-chilling howl as he hustled out of the barracks. He had considered at first, for a moment, unsheathing his longsword to deal with that feral creature himself, until he had seen it rip five of his best fighters to shreds like it was nothing and send one running. He had thought Bralt had more of a spine than to break rank and flee, even when facing a beast like that. The fools had let themselves be terrified, had let their attacks fall uncoordinated upon that Cursed monster. If they had all struck at once, it wouldn’t have stood a chance. Now, Aren had a feral worgen loose in his camp. He raised two fingers to his lips to whistle.

Suddenly, something hit him in the back like a falling boulder, knocking the wind from him and pinning him to the snowy ground. He was lifted a moment later by something grabbing the back of his head; he felt the beast’s claws, and his hand darted for his longsword. Only, he couldn’t move his hand. Aren’s eyes went wide as his arm was yanked back. He felt pressure being applied to his shoulder, and despite himself he screamed. The bones in his arm cracked and splintered as tendons ripped and tore. Gashes erupted around his shoulder and bicep, and there was a ripping noise that would’ve made even him sick up. Pain flooded Aren’s mind; he screamed his throat raw. The beast took my arm! MY ARM!

He did not have much time to mourn the loss or find rage at the beast to quell his pain; he was picked up by the back of his head, and the next thing he knew, something struck him across the face hard. It took him a moment to realize the beast had found an upturned stone to bash his head against, and by the time he did another two blows had rendered him woozy. The third sent him into a deep darkness from which he would never awaken.

Harrol jerked upright in his cot as he heard that long, throaty howl. Adrenaline was dispelling his grogginess, but he could have sworn he heard Aren’s name in that howl. It could mean only one thing. That beast was loose. He had told Aren it was wild. He had warned the man! Harrol sprang up from his cot, grabbing his cloak and striking a match to ignite his lantern. Lastly, he grabbed his flintlock. It was old, but it was his, and the only other person who knew he had it in the camp was Aren. If ever there were a time to use it, it was now.

“I warned him, I did,” he muttered angrily to himself as he trudged out into the snow. Men were coming out of their tents around him, similarly clothed for sleep. Most looked groggier than he, but he paid them no mind. “I told him that pagan wretch was fit only to have a bullet through its skull!”

It didn’t take long for him to find the creature amidst the shouting and calling of men trying to figure out what was going on. The camp was starting to wake up. Good. He would need help with the beast if the flintlock didn’t work. It was on the slope leading down from the barracks that Harrol found them, and what he saw made his blood boil even as his face paled. He had seen the atrocities of men before, and had always enjoyed his work with knives, though that was reserved for creatures like the one he saw before him. But… this…

The beast was a dark shape on the edge of his lanternlight, surrounded by darker splotches against the snow. Ten paces from the beast was a dark lump far too small to be a person, with more dark streaks around it. That accursed creature was hunched over another shape in the darkness, ripping pieces off with its claws and teeth. It was not eating them, no, it was ripping and shredding just to do so. Because it enjoyed defacing the dead. Harrol had heard Aren’s screams on the way up; he knew what to expect, but even as he approached to get more light on the creature and the bloody shape it was attacking, he barely even recognized the body as Aren’s. There was just a bloody mass of bone and meat where Aren’s head should have been, slumped against a dark-smeared rock jutting up from the ground. One of the arms was missing, too, and the beast had torn Aren’s chest into bloody strips.

Harrol took an involuntary step back as the beast’s head snapped up to stare him in the eye, its eyes glinting in reflected lanternlight with inhuman hatred and malice. He didn’t remember drawing the flintlock, but even as he raised his arm to point it at the beast and pulled the trigger, he knew it was no good. The hammer fell and sparked the black powder. Light and sound blossomed from the end of his flintlock as the beast leapt. He didn’t know if his bullet struck true or not; the next instant, he was in the air, lantern and flintlock alike ripped from his hands as he was flung aside to land atop Aren’s bloodied corpse.

“You,” the beast rumbled, the word barely audible amidst the gravelly snarls and deep tone of the voice, dropping to its knees to straddle him. Anger fled Harrol’s mind; sheer terror swept through him in shivering waves. He was going to die. This beast would rip him limb from limb like it had Aren, and he was going to die, and it was all Aren’s fault. Oh, why had he cast his lot in with that crazed man?

He lifted his arms to try to keep the beast at bay, to try and desperately fight, to do something, but it manhandled him like he was nothing but a petulant child. The first swipe blotted out his vision entirely; pain lanced through his face as his other eye was taken, agony seizing his body and forcing a gasping scream from his lungs. He convulsed involuntarily, trying to clasp hands over his face only to feel pain like burning iron rods in his skin raking across his stomach. Anytime he moved his arms to protect one part of his body, the beast lashed out against another, claws cutting deep furrows into flesh and bone alike. The shock sent him into unconsciousness before long, but the beast did not stop until his body was as unrecognizable as the one he lay on top of.

[ursinedevotee]

A Simple Job, part five

Formerly Scarlet Point, some months ago

By the time the fourth week was drawing to a close, Eric had gathered all he thought he might need for his escape, and was glad for it. He was at a breaking point; between Harrol’s knives drawing blood and screams alike and Aren’s steady diet of slow, gnawing hunger and humiliation, each night was a fresh battle with the slavering Curse, chomping at the bit to be finally let free. He knew he wouldn’t be able to manage it one single night more, not in his condition. But he had a plan now, the knowledge to see it through, and most importantly, he had had time to recover from the starvation and sleep deprivation Pike had forced him to endure; the stab wound in his side was finally healed, even if it had left a nasty scar beneath his ribs. Tonight, when the guards changed -- even in this cell, he could still tell when the scents faded and changed, and had worked out an estimate of when it happened -- he would shift and break open his cell, then leave as quickly as he could. Once he was free of the barracks he was confined in, he’d stick to the outskirts of the camp, going from shadow to shadow so as to avoid notice. If any did notice him, he’d have to silence them before they could raise an alarm. Once he was past the watchtower, he could leg it, and then not even their sharpshooters would be able to track him long enough to land a hit. Even if they did, a nonlethal strike wouldn’t slow him much. He wanted to stay and fall upon the camp like the monster in the night Aren thought he was, but survival came first; he needed proper rest, proper food.

So, Eric bided his time. He could be patient for a few more hours yet, until the sun set and darkness fell on the camp. He had even kept his thread of control in hand when Aren had let him off the leash during that morning’s walk. Oh, how he had wanted to lay waste to the man, but even without the iron collar and rope leash, Aren still had five men not far off with cudgels or shortswords, ready to step in if Eric even thought of disobeying, and never mind that Aren himself was no small challenge in combat. Eric remembered that first night, remembered the sting of Aren’s longsword across his stomach, and the fury it sent boiling in his gut was quelled by the knowledge that trying to escape in broad daylight, surrounded as he was, would lead only to him getting skewered by a dozen different blades, and not even he could survive that for long.

So he waited. Waited while Aren and his lackeys took him back to his cell, only to be retrieved an hour later by more lackeys and taken to Harrol’s torture chamber. He let himself be strapped down on the table, hissed and snarled as Harrol began cutting at his stomach with his array of knives, from delicate to gruesome in shape, from sharper than any razor to nearly completely dulled; Eric didn’t get infections, so the man had no need to make clean cuts all the time. He shuddered beneath the blades, thrashing and screaming as much to control the Curse trying to rip its way out of his chest as he was at the pain the knives wrought. He lost track of the hours the bony man spent with his knives, but he knew it was hours. Harrol did not believe in short sessions, not when the man whose flesh he flayed and slivered could heal himself of it overnight with just a little sleep. By the time Harrol drew the last knife away, Eric’s belly was a mess of lacerations so slicked with his own crimson lifeblood that he could hardly tell where any of the cuts actually were. And then, the men were unlashing him, hauling him back to the cell by his arms -- he usually didn’t have the strength to walk much, after Harrol -- where they left him. That was one perk of having ‘curried favor’, as Aren put it; they believed he was breaking, and so had stopped clasping the irons around his wrists at night.

Eric curled up in one corner of the cell, pressing his palms against his stomach and hissing at the pain of it. He grit his teeth, and once the men who’d hauled him in here were gone, he started speaking, keeping his hoarse voice low. It was an old chant, one of many his grandmother had taught him. Really, it was a full melody, but only the chant was what he recited now, in a tongue older than the nation of Gilneas wherein the practices had originated. It was a plea, a request of the spirits of nature for healing and restoration. It was one of the only hymns his grandmother had taught him that he could actually make work, and then only slowly. But if ever there was a time when he needed the spirits’ aid, it was now. Just as a gust of icy wind breezed through his cell from seemingly nowhere, he felt the pain across his belly beginning to lessen. He continued the chant for a time, working slowly at healing the cuts, incisions, and lacerations Harrol had left behind. He couldn’t let sleep heal them, not tonight. The bleeding slowed, stemmed, and faded. He estimated half an hour had passed before the process was done, but it was done eventually nonetheless; he proved as much to himself by poking and prodding at his midsection. Even if he’d never be able to see it through the smeared bloodstains layering his stomach, he didn’t feel the pain of the injuries anymore, and the skin only felt a touch tender, not broken or only half-healed.

Eric pushed himself to his feet, walking over to the door of his cell and peering out. There was no one in the hall outside; the guards were posted at the entrance to the cells as a whole, not to Eric’s in particular. He moved back to one wall, sitting down. He began to draw deep, steadying breaths, focusing himself. He’d need to be prepared; it wouldn’t be long before the guards would change, and his opportunity would arrive. He focused, readying himself, breathing deep and slow. Even the Curse seemed calm, now. Anticipation stilled his nerves.

He caught a new pair of scents; the new guards for the night. It was time. He stood, letting the Curse boil free finally in the way Kyven had taught him so long ago -- was it so long? Mid-stride, Eric shifted. Where once there was a tall man, muscular despite the weight he’d lost, with his chest and upper arms etched with swirls of black ink, now there strode an even taller worgen who bore a similar, almost bearish physique as opposed to the more normal sleek leanness of a worgen’s body. The worgen’s coat was gray along most of the body, fading to a lighter shade along the chest and belly, the inner thighs and arms. The worgen’s mane and face, however, were of a deep brown reminiscent of the color of chocolate, and that same umber tone could be found flecked through the rest of the worgen’s fur, too, here and there, mostly in the borders between lighter and darker grays or where the top coat of grayish fur was thinner. The beast held the same hazel, now-gold, now-green eyes, seeming to shift color as the light caught them. And now, as the light caught them, they seemed to reflect silver-green, like the eyes of a canine cast in direct lamplight. They did that in his human form, too, but it was more common in his fur.

The shift took barely a moment, and Eric didn’t break stride for it. It was more difficult, more painful, more gruesome for some of his kin, the shifting, but Eric’s pre-existing connection with the wilds made things smoother. Larger hands, each finger tipped with a long, sharp claw, grabbed one of the bars of his cell door. He set his stance, sucked in a breath, and pulled. At first, it seemed nothing would happen -- then the metal gave way with a sudden, sharp squeal, deforming and bending so abruptly Eric almost lost his footing. He poked his head out and glanced down the hall. Nobody had heard. A wicked grin formed on his snout, and he pulled his head back through the bars to grab one on the other side of the new hole he’d made. He gathered himself, set his footing, and pulled again. Again, it seemed as though the metal would prove resolute at first, then gave way with a shrill noise.

It took him a moment to work his way through the bars -- even as a man, he’d have trouble getting through the hole he’d made, and his shoulders were only broader in his fur, but he squirmed his way out eventually. He felt relief fluttering in his chest as his paws settled on the floor outside his cell. It was a small thing, and he was far from done yet, but Light it felt good to set foot here without someone to guide or drag him. With gentle carefulness, he padded down the hall towards the lamplight that indicated the doorway to the cell block. He was not particularly stealthy as a man, but worgen were inclined for such things, and it was instinct as much as the pads on his feet that made it easier to walk silently. In the back of his mind, he noticed something different, something off, about the scent of the guards as he approached the door. He closed a clawed hand around the door to the cells, pulling it open slowly, just enough to peek through with one eye.

The guards were not there. The lamps in the room beyond had been doused, so it was difficult to see much with the lantern on his side of the door still brightly lit, but he could tell the guards were not at their posts. Maybe they had drifted off for a drink -- Captain Pike had come here with whiskey to sell, not just with Eric. His stomach fluttered. Maybe I can sneak out without anyone noticing, he dared to think as he pulled open the door and stepped out into the room beyond.

“Going somewhere?” Aren’s voice called from the darkness. Suddenly it struck Eric what had changed; the scents were not different, there were more of them. As lamps were lit in the room, casting it into sudden, stark firelight, Eric’s saw. Aren stood not ten paces away, with six broad-shouldered men bearing cudgels or hammers or shortswords.

His heart sank, and just as quickly fury brought his blood to a boil. Stark, howling, animal rage blurred his vision, and all thoughts of his carefully crafted plan fled from his mind.

[ursinedevotee]

A Simple Job, part four

Formerly Scarlet Point, some months ago

Eric tugged frustratedly at the chains binding him to his cell wall. What an idiot he had been, thinking a few hours’ rest would offset a week of exhaustion. A growl rose in his throat and the chains snapped taut with a rattle as he tried again in vain to yank them out of the wall. He was alone in darkness, on his knees on the dusty stone floor of his cell. His back stung from myriad lacerations oozing blood in dark streaks down his back; the whip they’d used had been sewn in with small, sharp pieces of bone. The Curse roiled in his chest, gnashing its teeth and straining to be let loose. Eric yearned to give in to that urge, to shift into his fur, rip the chains from the walls, and escape. He knew he wouldn’t be able to manage it, not yet. His limbs still ached, and pain still seared in his chest from where Aren had nearly gutted him with that longsword. The long slash across his belly was just healed enough that it no longer bled every time he moved.

Such a fool he’d been. Aren and Harrol had come to visit him that morning, treating him like the beast they saw. They had entered his cell, demanded to see his fur. They had poked and prodded at him, had examined him like a horse at a market. The memory brought another involuntary snarl to his lips. He had left Harrol with a nasty set of claw-gashes across his face and with one less eye before Aren had cut the back of his leg to draw his attention. The sharp-faced man wasn’t any stronger than a normal person, but he knew his way around that longsword at his hip, and Eric realized in hindsight that he must’ve had experience fighting worgen, too, from the way he’d deftly stepped aside as Eric had lunged, jaws snapping, at him, then dragged that blade across his stomach. It was then that his limbs had given out and Eric had collapsed against the wall, exhaustion sapping the strength adrenaline and anger had lent him for those bare few moments. Harrol’s shrieking about his eye still brought a wicked grin to Eric’s lips, though. That had been a satisfying mark to leave on the man, and the scent of his blood…

Eric shook his head firmly. They had brought him to this new cell after that, chaining him to the wall while Aren whipped him for his ‘disobedience’, then left him there to spend the night chained. So he knelt, back towards the wall, fuming silently because he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep like this. He would play their game, for now. Let Aren think that maybe, just maybe, he could be tamed and made to serve. Let them think that until it was too late.

Two weeks passed with grueling slowness. They had not been kind. Two days after Eric had taken Harrol’s eye, the self-important twig of a man had discovered Eric’s remarkable healing. The knives had come out after that; it hadn’t taken long for Eric to regret taking the man’s eye, even if it had been oh-so-satisfying to see him writhe and curse afterwards. He had stopped wearing those tattered white-and-scarlet robes the same night that Eric had first seen him, but he still acted every bit like a Scarlet evangelist. Eric had lashed out the first night; Harrol had come down with a handful of men to move Eric to another room, where he was strapped to a table. He’d shifted into his fur as Harrol made the first cut along the line of one of his tattoos, snapping one of the restraining straps and slashing across the chest of one of the men that had stayed to keep him under control. Four men had piled onto him after that to keep him from getting any further free, and before they took him back to his cell, Harrol had left a dozen fine gashes in rows on his belly, leaving Eric’s stomach drenched in his own blood once they were done.

Each night after that had been worse than the last, but Eric found solace in that he hadn’t lost anything to Harrol, yet. The man had almost cut three of his fingers off, one night, but Aren had stepped in -- he had come to watch -- and told Harrol off. Eric had been grateful the session ended early that night. They had fed him only enough to make sure he didn’t go very hungry -- his stomach grumbled at the thought of food -- and what they did feed him was barely edible slop in the first place. He didn’t think too much about where the slop came from, but even so he had to force himself to eat it at all. They had been letting him sleep, at least; that was something Harrol ensured, if only for his own twisted ends. He wanted a ‘fresh canvas’ every night, he said, and it was why he never cut deeply enough to leave scars -- not on Eric, anyways, though he did have a fresh one in the stab scar from that initial betrayal on Pike’s ship. That one had gone too long before even beginning to heal; he’d carry it for years yet, if it ever faded in the first place.

Eric had spent the time wisely; or hoped he had, at least. He hadn’t had much of it to himself. Each day started with Aren coming down with four or five men to have him ‘bring out his fur’, after which they’d clasp an iron collar around his neck and take him out for a walk around the camp. Aren led the group, but it was the handful of usually-brawny men that held the thick rope leash threaded through his collar. Eric had known better than to try running off during those walks, as much as he despised them. It hadn’t been long, either, before he realized he would find no sympathy in the camp; Aren was Gilnean, that much Eric could tell by the man’s accent, but most everyone in the twenty or thirty-man camp held his views on worgen close to their hearts, or else were too scared of going against the grain to say otherwise.

So, Eric had spent his time placating Aren by playing the hound, suffering under Harrol’s knives as best he could manage; it was always a victory when he kept from crying out in shock or pain at whatever the man thought to do to his flesh, to see Harrol’s indignant expression when he didn’t get the reactions he was hoping for. And when he could, Eric remembered what he saw; who patrolled where and when, what they looked like, what their scents were, even who they joked with and who they shot glares at behind others’ backs. He would know this camp and its people like the back of his hand by the time he showed Aren how poorly he had been underestimated.

The thought made Eric’s heart thump harder. Bloodlust welled, desperate and savage, intoxicating as the finest Gilnean whiskey. His breath came faster, shallower; his nostrils flared in anticipation of the scent of spilt human blood. His hands flexed, straining against the chains binding him to the wall of his cell. It was a long hunt with no kill, and Eric was practically foaming at the mouth in eagerness to get their blood on his claws. The Curse snapped its jaws and snarled, gnashing teeth and clawing its way up from his chest-- No. Not yet. Eric grit his teeth; iron chains rattled as his arms shook, as his body trembled with the effort of keeping his fur down. He wanted it so desperately, needed it so, so deeply… He wrenched his head aside, a snarl escaping his lips. He had been caged too long, been without all those oh-so-necessary habits that kept the Curse sated, tired, and at bay. It gnawed at him, threatening to break down what little control he still had. It was like the touch of a passionate lover not seen in years, igniting old flames. It burned, it clawed, it thrashed, it raged, it howled in him like a wildfire in his veins. It caressed, it whispered, it beckoned; he could taste it on his tongue like the sweetest honey.

He didn’t know how long he struggled, thrashing and fighting to push the Curse down, to keep himself from letting go, from succumbing to its fever. It could have been seconds. It could have been hours. Eventually, slowly, lucidity returned, and Eric the man remained in control. His chest heaved, he was drenched in sweat like he’d run ten miles, his eyes stung with tears, and blood flowed freshly from the unhealed incisions lacing his chest and arm. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up and sleep until he woke from this nightmare. But he was in control yet, and he would find his way out of this. He was in control. For now.

[ursinedevotee]

A Simple Job, part three

Somewhere in the northern Dragonblight, some months ago

Aren Dalheim stood silently on the upper balcony of the dilapidated stone barracks, one hand draped over the hilt of his sword while he surveyed his camp. A pair of watchtowers stood on either side of the short ridge, with the barracks spaced equidistantly between them. Once, this place had been called Scarlet Point, but the Scarlets had been run off years ago, and all others feared to camp here for the alleged curse the cavern against the mountainside held; it was said that cavern had been the one which had entombed the Lich King’s accursed runeblade, Frostmourne. He didn’t believe in such things, just as he didn’t believe those beasts from Gilneas had ever deserved to walk free. They were savages, fit for a leash if they could be tamed, and fit for a bullet if they could not. The camp, such as it was, was a haphazard array of tents spaced in a semicircle away from the cavern’s entrance, strung out between either watchtower and clustered most densely around the barracks -- he had appropriated that for his own use and for meetings and business.

“I saw we have a new acquisition,” said a rasping man’s voice behind Aren. He turned, regarding the whip-thin man, swathed in patched white robes which bore a crest of faded scarlet around the hem and the collar.

“Harrol,” Aren said, dipping his head in greeting to the man. The Scarlets had been run out of these watchtowers, but Harrol had found an old robe and book of scripture, and it was his opinion that the Scarlets had been right in many ways. Aren tended to agree with him. “We do,” he said, beckoning the bony man to stand beside him. “The ship captain I bought it from said it killed or injured ten of his sailors.”

“And this?” Harrol asked, pulling a piece of glinting metal from one sleeve. It was a band of silver with a cleverly hidden latch, evidently meant to be clasped around one’s bicep, though it was too large for anyone but the broad-shouldered beast Aren had bought that morning. A poem was engraved on the side, some pagan thing invoking the spirit of the moon.

Aren regarded the band of silver momentarily. “Do with it as you wish. It’s just a superstitious trinket so far as I can tell.”

“Heretical, pagan savages,” Harrol said disgustedly, stuffing the band back into his robes. “I want to see it.”

“Patience, Harrol,” Aren said. “The beast had been without sleep for eight days before it arrived with us. If we want it to be a useful hound, we need to at least let it sleep. I will take you to the cells to see it after supper.”

“But--”

“Was I in some way unclear, Harrol?” Aren said, raising his voice and whirling on the other man. Harrol’s eyes burned with hatred -- not for Aren, but for the beast in the cells below them. He took great pleasure in their deaths when those beasts proved themselves untameable, but had never seen the use in trying to tame them in the first place. And he knew the price of Aren’s fury.

“You were not,” Harrol said sullenly, teeth grit from the effort of not speaking out further. He had been allowed too much lenience recently, too much time to preach his superstitions. Oh, Aren knew the Light existed -- how could he not, when the scar that slashed down his chest proved the Light’s healing was true -- but to believe that it was looking from on high, judging you? That it had a will of its own? He would strip Harrol of that ridiculous outfit tonight and put him back to work with the men where he belonged, or have him flogged if he disagreed.

“Good,” Aren said. “Now, about these dreams the men have been having about the cavern…”

Eric awoke to dull agony that radiated from every joint and muscle he had and a gnawing hunger that seemed ready to split his stomach open and devour him whole. He groaned, rolling over onto his back. He was in darkness, laying on a beast’s pelt. He prayed he had dreamt it all, that it had all been some horrible nightmare, but the pain below his ribs and in his arms and legs said otherwise. With a grunt, he pushed through the pain and stood. At least his head was clearer, now; the past week seemed like a long, uninterrupted blur, and all the parts he could pick out made him want to either throw up or crush that Light-forsaken Captain’s skull in his hands.

Flexing his hands, Eric looked around. He still wore the threadbare linen trousers he’d been given before being handed over to… whoever he was imprisoned by now. A flicker of lamplight from down the hall outside his cell was all the light he had, and without his fur he couldn’t see much better in the dark than a normal person. He sniffed the air. Dried blood, sweat, old dust and filth. There was rust on the bars of his cell door. Shaking his hands out to try and dispel some of the aching, he stretched, clasping hands together and stretching his arms overhead as far as they would go, grimacing at the sharp pains that slashed up his limbs from that action. How many days had it been? Eight? Nine? Some small part was amazed he was still alive, after that long without sleep, but that was not where his mind needed to be.

He picked up the pelt and slung it around his shoulders -- the biting winds weren’t present here, but it was not warm in the cell -- and padded over to the cell door, grabbing the bars and peeking out down the hallways. It was then, amidst the numbness and pain in his arms, as they came into view, that he realized the silver cuff wasn’t around his bicep anymore. His jaw set, and he took in a deep, focusing breath, heedless of the pain it brought his lungs. Even they were exhausted after having gone so long without sleep save what rest he had just gotten.

Just then, there was a loud clang from down the hall, towards the lamplight. He stepped back hastily from the bars, crouching down instinctively and trying to hide himself against the wall of the cell, wrapped in the pelt. Two pairs of boots scuffed on stones, lamplight growing brighter as they made their way down the hall. They stopped outside his cell, and he had to cast up a hand to shield his eyes from the lamplight. Two men stood outside; one, he recognized dimly as if from a half-remembered dream that was years gone. It was the sharp-faced man with the longsword who’d been bargaining for him. The other, Eric did not recognize; he was a slender, or perhaps bony man who was clad in a thick white robe with faded scarlet scrollwork around the hem and collar.

“On your feet, beast,” the sharp-faced man said, tossing something through the bars. “Bandage your wound and show us your face.” A roll of gauze bounced across the cell floor and rolled up against Eric’s crouched form. He touched his side instinctively -- his wound? Of course, he had been stabbed. His fingers brushed where that wound had been; it had been an open, bleeding wound before he’d fallen asleep, but new flesh was forming over the gash, now, pink and sensitive. It wasn’t healed yet, not fully, and he would likely break it open again before the night was done, but it was something.

Another thought occurred to Eric, then. These two didn’t know the wound was already well along on its way to healing. That felt important, somehow, and he grabbed the gauze to keep up that facade while he worked out why. They didn’t know about his devotion to the Twin Bears; they didn’t know what blessings that granted him. They must think he was just another worgen… Eric finished wrapping gauze around his midriff, tying it off and tossing the roll aside while he stood to obey the sharp-faced man’s command. Rage boiled in his veins yet, rage at his capture, at his treatment, at what Pike’s betrayal had cost him. But he had rested -- even if just for a few hours, it felt like he had slept for weeks, like he had just woken up for the first time in months, after how wool-stuffed his head had felt with that wicker-witch’s charm around his neck. He was clear-headed now. He could think.

Eric stepped forwards, into the lamplight, letting the pelt fall off from around his shoulders. The sharp-faced man looked him up and down, appraising yet with a smoldering coal of hatred in his eyes. Eric returned the stare with cold fury of his own -- but the other man’s gaze made him take a half-step back. That bony whip of a man had eyes like a hawk’s, devoid of the barest shred of humanity as he looked at Eric. Where the sharp-faced man’s hatred was a low smolder, the robed man’s hatred was a roaring bonfire. Eric’s heart thumped harder in his chest.

“Good, you know how to listen,” the sharp-faced man said. “Perhaps Captain Pike treated you too harshly. I am Aren Dalheim,” a gauntleted hand came up to rest on Aren’s chest, then moved aside to indicate the robed man. “This is Harrol. He will be overseeing your… usefulness to us.”

“The first order of business,” Harrol spat almost before Aren had finished speaking, “is this.” He pulled something thin and metal from his robe’s sleeve. It glinted in the lamplight, but it took Eric a moment to recognize his silver cuff. “What is it?” Harrol asked sharply. Eric remained silent, trying to meet Harrol’s baleful gaze. When it became clear he was not going to answer, that he was defying them, Harrol’s face went white in fury. He drew himself up, opened his mouth to speak.

Aren spoke, first, holding up a gauntleted hand to forestall Harrol. “The first thing you will learn under Harrol’s care, beast, is that whatever skin you wear now, whatever you think you are, it is not human. If you do not answer when we speak to you, then you have no use for your tongue and I will see it removed.”

As Aren finished speaking, Harrol hissed disgustedly. “I see now. It is both accursed and heretical. Look at the braids, Aren, and the markings. They probably recount how many men he has flayed alive. Bah! I will not train a heretic, Aren; this one deserves death!”

“You will do as I say,” Aren said calmly, turning that cold hatred onto Harrol, now. “Would it not prove a victory for the Light if you were to disprove his savage beliefs? You may deface the markings on his chest tomorrow -- for now…” Aren pulled a slender knife from a sheath at his waist, tossing it into the cell. “Cut off your braids. Toss them and the knife back through the bars after.” Aren sneered. “Think of it as… currying favor with your new masters. Harrol will be appreciative of the gesture towards eschewing your beliefs. Won’t you, Harrol?”

The robed man hunched his shoulders, glaring between Aren and Eric in turns before finally nodding his head sullenly. Eric stared at that knife like it was a viper, heart thumping. He couldn’t -- but he didn’t have a choice, did he? The braids and the charms in them were sacred, in their way, but were they worth his life? He grimaced, sucking in a breath. The thought of Pike’s face, contorted in agony, won him over. He would do whatever it took to survive, if only to see that man scream. And so, Eric slowly knelt, clasping fingers around the handle of that slender knife. Staring ice-cold daggers at the two men outside his cell, he grabbed one of his braids, bringing the blade up to where the weaving started. His hand trembled, and he wasn’t sure if it was in fury at being forced to do this or in fear for his life should he ultimately refuse.

There was a slick shunk as the braid was sliced off. He tossed it through the bars of his cell, then switched the blade to his other hand, grabbed his other braid, and it, too, was cut off. Both the braid and knife were tossed at Aren’s feet, after that. His stomach turned as Harrol bent over to pick up the braids and the knife, handing the latter back to Aren while examining the former with a look of disgust.

“Good dog,” Aren said. And with that, they were striding off down the hall back the way they had come, leaving Eric in the darkness of that cell once again.

[ursinedevotee]

A Simple Job, part two

Off the shores of the Dragonblight, some months ago

Stumbling, Eric was led by iron bindings between his wrists up wooden stairs, kept from falling only because he was being hauled up each new step before his face could meet the ground. His muscles ached for sleep, but it had not come during the swaying seaborne night, as it had not come any night in the week prior, though he had tried. That accursed wicker charm still hung from his neck, and he remembered well the vivid shrieks it had produced for him when he wanted to lull off to sleep. His breath came in ragged gulps; his throat had a new layer of bruises on it from Captain Pike, who had visited him that morning to inform him between sneers that he was going to be handed off today. Each breath brought pain with it, from the hole in his side that had started oozing blood again when he was hauled from his cell to the ache of exhaustion in his muscles; even his lungs were feeling it, now.

They had put pants on him before hauling him out, but that was all that adorned him save the wicker charm and the silver cuff around his bicep. It barely even glinted, now, as the sailor pulling him along pushed through a door into blinding sunlight, heaving Eric forward and letting him drop. He stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and collapsed on the deck as wintry air seared his skin, freezing to the core a man that once wouldn’t have felt the cold, even bare-chested as he was. Now, it cut like a knife through his skin, right to his core. He started shivering almost immediately, squinting at his surroundings as his bleary-eyed gaze adjusted to the sunlight. The ship was anchored, and he saw snowy plains in the near distance, past a shore of black sand. That was hardly what had Eric’s attention, though; no, that was reserved for the red-coated Captain Pike and the bustle of sailors he had been shouting orders to when Eric was hauled on deck.

Pike turned as Eric thudded onto the deck, sneering. He walked over, polished boots clicking on the wood planks. With a gesture to the sailor that had hauled Eric up here, he stopped a few feet away. Rough hands grabbed Eric’s arms, lifting him to his feet and keeping him there when his knees buckled under his own weight. Hunger gnawed at the bare-chested man’s stomach, and involuntarily the thought came of how Pike might taste. The silver cuff around Eric’s bicep shimmered dully, but he was too exhausted for it to be anything more than a fleeting thought in the back of his mind. He’d not be able to shapeshift if he wanted to, anyways, not with that cuff on his arm. Eric drew a rasping breath as Pike pinned him with beady black eyes set in that gnarled, unforgiving face. After a few moments, he gestured to the sailor and started to the side of the ship.

The next few minutes -- or was it hours? -- were a foggy blur in Eric’s mind. He struggled to keep his eyes open against the sunlight; all they wanted to do was slide shut and try to beckon him to sleep again, even knowing that shrieking awaited him if he so much as tried. He felt himself being moved, lifted, and eventually the hands gripping his arms released him, and he collapsed into a ball in what he slowly realized was a rowboat, shivers taking him now that he wasn’t being forced to move. They were moving again, he realized dimly, hearing the slow swish-splash of oars pushing the rowboat along. The only scents he caught were those of his own dried blood and sweat.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, shivering in the rowboat, but eventually he felt the vessel shifting as the sailors manning it stepped out onto crunching sand. A moment later, he was hauled up, too, put on his feet on that black shore, and guided, stumbling, to a gathering of people a short ways off. He caught glimpses of them in the brief moments he could force his eyes open, between moments of drifting in the shallowest reaches of sleep. He heard voices.

“This is him,” a familiar woman’s voice said. “We’ve kept him without sleep of necessity, but as you can see--”

A harsh male voice cut her off. “I have eyes, witch,” the title was spat like a curse, “and I can see that he is on death’s door. Look at him; he can barely stand, he’s bleeding -- you haven’t even bandaged the wound!”

Eric’s eyes lulled open at the man’s voice, fluttering, wanting to shut again, but he forced himself to look. The man who had spoken was sharp-faced and dark of hair, with a jaw to cut stone and high cheekbones that made him look gaunt. His eyes were fierce, almost fervent, but they were not focused on him. He was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak that looked particularly warm against the biting wind, but beneath that Eric caught the glimpse of a metal breastplate, and there was a longsword at his hip.

A different man’s voice put in, then, and it was one that brought a growl to Eric’s throat involuntarily. “He ripped six of my men apart,” Pike said, “after taking that wound, and another four are still recovering. Matilda isn’t sure yet if two of them will survive. You wanted a hound? Here he is.”

There were a few long moments of silence before the sharp-faced man spoke again. “You did deliver, I suppose.” Another pause, and Eric heard the clinking of a coinpurse being passed between hands.

“This isn’t even half of what we agreed on,” Pike snarled. Eric heard the rustling of boots.

“I will pay you in accordance with the quality of the goods you deliver, Captain Pike,” the sharp-faced man said curtly. “And I trust you have more to offer me than just this sorry excuse for a beast? Or did he coincidentally cause you to lose all of your cargo, as well?”

Eric heard Pike grinding his teeth. “I still have your whiskey,” the Captain said, trying and failing to maintain an air of calm. Eric’s senses fled him as his eyes fluttered closed again.

It felt like an age passed while Eric was guided to and fro by rough hands on his arms or by someone grabbing the chain between his wrists. Did they have him walking for hours? Days? Or was it just minutes that stretched into eternity in a mind fogged by exhaustion, pain, and hunger? He could barely think most of the time, but his heart raced anytime he lulled off, fear conditioned into his marrow at the thought of sleep from that accursed charm. He didn’t know how long it was before he realized the charm wasn’t there anymore; a dim thought came that the witch had taken it off him when he had been handed over to the sharp-faced man with the longsword.

Eventually, Eric was dragged into another cell and released. He slumped onto the ground weakly, body giving out from under him. He shivered still from the memory of biting winds, icy tendrils wrapping around his heart and mind and numbing him to the aching pain in his muscles and to the wound in his side. It was the ember of fury and the fantasy of satisfaction at the thought of Pike’s face, contorted in horror and pain while he was flayed alive, that kept Eric’s will intact, if only by a thread.

Some time later, he managed to push himself to his knees, raising his head to look around. His wrists weren’t bound anymore, he realized sluggishly. He was in a stone-walled cell, with iron bars over the door, and a pelt had been tossed onto the floor in front of him. With shivering, numb fingers, he grabbed that pelt and pulled it around himself. The pelt felt hot like the burning sun against the memory of those lashing winds, but the warmth was welcome. There was naught else in the cell -- it looked dusty, like it had been unused long before now, but there were dark spots against some of the walls, and Eric caught the scent of old, dried blood.

Struggling against unbearable fatigue and the pain that his limbs were reminded of now that he was moving on his own again, Eric pushed himself to his feet unsteadily, took a step towards the iron bars of his cell, and collapsed again. His head struck the stone, rebounded, and darkness took him.

[ursinedevotee]

A Simple Job, part one

On open waters, some months ago

Iron chains rattled all around under the swaying and rocking of a ship on the open waters of the sea. Those chains snaked around thick wooden pillars, looped up on crossbeams overhead, and draped back down to terminate against sturdy iron manacles. The wrists those manacles were clasped around belonged to a man, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, slumped strung out between the iron bindings. His knees rested against the deck below, head hung to let the pair of messy, umber braids strung through with beads and charms dangle towards the wood underneath. He drew deep, steady breaths while he sat there, waiting and thinking. Just a simple job, it was supposed to have been…

The sound of heavy boots coming down the stairs to his cell pulled the man’s head up, staring with hazel eyes that burned in cold fury at the face he saw. It was a middle-aged man that stared back from beyond the thick iron bars, clad in a red coat with a similarly-colored tricorne atop a head of graying hair. His gnarled face was drawn into a sneer as he looked in at his prisoner, gesturing to one of the two sailors with him to unlock and open the cell. The barred door opened with a creaking squeal, and the prisoner’s lips drew back in a silent snarl as that red-coated man stepped in languidly, pointed and fresh-polished boots clicking on the deck. Neither of the broad-shouldered sailors outside followed him; they simply watched. There was no need for caution with this prisoner, vicious though his expression was.

The chains rattled again as the prisoner lunged, pulling the iron taught and halting his movement a mere inch after it had begun. The gnarl-faced man’s sneer grew as he stopped, just out of reach. The prisoner was clad in naught but his skin; save a band of silver metal around one bicep that shimmered faintly in some unseen, reflected light, and a charm woven of wicker and carved bone that hung from a thong ‘round his neck. Despite the snarl and the lunge, the man’s eyes were heavy-lidded, fluttering against drowsiness that would not relent to sleep. His breath came in heavy, sharp motions, exhaustion wearing on his mind and body alike. Gloved fingers cupped the prisoner’s chin, roughly pulling his face up so the captain could look at him, turning his face this way and that like he was appraising a new horse.

“Eric, my boy,” the gnarled captain said, his voice as cutting as the seas were ‘neath the ship right then -- as rough as his face was. The seas had not been kind to this captain. “Are you ready to relent yet?”

Eric ripped his chin away and spat at the captain’s boots. The man pulled his foot back sharply, and Eric’s head rung with the full-armed backhand he received afterwards. He groaned, spots floating in his vision as the captain grabbed his chin again, rougher now. His head was yanked up, forcing his furious, lidded hazel gaze to meet the captain’s again.

“I’ll ask you again,” the man snapped. “It will be so much easier for all of us if you relent.”

Eric met that beady black gaze steadily, forcing his eyes to remain open. “I… will enjoy strippin’ the flesh off yer grimy hide, Captain,” he spat again, catching the captain in the face this time. The red-coated captain snarled viciously, wiping the spittle off his face and grabbing Eric by the neck, hauling him to his feet. A drop of sweat began rolling down his jaw. While one hand held Eric by the throat, the other drove a gloved thumb into the bloody knife-wound beneath Eric’s ribs. Pain lashed through his side, traveling up his chest in waves like sheet lightning that threatened to grip his heart and squeeze until it stopped. The droplet passed his eyebrow, slick with sweat. Eric howled in pain, thrashing against the hand gripping his neck and the thumb producing white-hot agony in his side, even as exhaustion and sleep deprivation wove new pain into his muscles at the wild, jerking movements. Fingers grasped for anything they could grab hold of on the red-coated captain, straining against cast iron chains and manacles, digging the metal into bruised wrists. The droplet slid past his cheekbone. Breath caught in his throat as fingers cinched around his windpipe, cutting the howl of pain off raggedly. Eric thrashed harder and more frantically even as memory fled that this had happened before. Viciously, desperately, Eric bit at the man gripping his throat, trying to find purchase on anything, on something. The droplet slid into his beard, mingling with the rest. The captain’s grip loosened, and his hand retreated from that stab wound. The silver cuff around the prisoner’s bicep had grown to glow faintly during the thrashing; it now subsided, pulsing lower and lower until it returned to that faintest of shimmers.

“The witch will be back in to tend to this,” the captain touched the wicker-and-bone charm hanging from Eric’s neck, “before the lanterns are doused.” His voice was calm, collected, and his sneer had returned. Eric’s chest heaved, sucking in breath that burned his lungs as fresh blood began dripping from the wound in his side. Heavy-lidded eyes slid shut despite the agony burning a hole in his chest and through his limbs like his bones had been replaced with white-hot irons, but sleep would not come. It never would when any time he drifted off, that wicker charm around his neck produced screeches in his ears like tree limbs scraping across paned glass that jolted him awake no matter how he tried to sleep, and never mind the fact he was strung up by his wrists.

‘Just a simple job’, it was supposed to have been. That thought had wracked Eric’s head for seven days, now. Was it seven? More? It could’ve been hours or months; the exhaustion had wrung out his mind and body like a drenched rag. They had come out here to these waters to wring out corruption of a sort, he and another, an elf… Narin, his name had been. Eric struggled to conjure thoughts, drawing in a ragged breath. What had he been thinking about?

The squealing of the cell door drew his attention again, and with an effort he raised his head, one braid half-obscuring his vision. Only one sailor stood outside, this time, and the only other occupant of the room with him was a tall, thick-bodied woman clad in deep browns and greens of Kul Tiran make. Her hair was drawn back in a long ebony braid that would’ve reached her waist, were it not looped once around her neck and left to drape over her breast. She regarded him for a moment, eyes scrutinizing every bare inch, lingering particularly on the swirling, spiralling streaks of black ink that laced about his chest and upper arms. She was always so curious about those. Eric’s lips pulled back in a snarl; the silver cuff around his arm flickered brighter in unseen reflected moonlight.

The Kul Tiran woman walked over to the side of the cell, grabbing a chair that had been left there and dragging it loudly across the floor, settling it a few feet in front of Eric. Then, she walked around him, brushing braids aside to untie the leather strap around his neck, pulling it away. “Ye made him very angry today,” she commented while she stepped back around and sat down in the chair, folding one leg over the other. Her tone could’ve just as easily done for discussing dresses over tea. Some sleep-drunk part of Eric’s mind wondered if this woman had ever worn a dress. She began pulling the wicker charm off its strap.

Eric remained there in silence, staring cold fury at the woman but making no move to stop her; there was no point, anyways. She was stronger than the captain was, and less tolerant of his aggression. She was the real reason for the bruises around his throat; he’d passed out three separate times before he learned his lesson and stopped snapping at her. She met his stare of daggers with a pleased look. “No words today, doggy? A shame.” She pulled the last of the strap free of the charm, leaning forwards. She gave the wound in his side an appraising look; the flow of blood had slowed to a trickle, but the red streak down his abdomen and leg was still there. “Still no infection,” she muttered, sounding vaguely impressed. “I do wish we had more time. I’d so like to know where you’re pulling your strength from. Perhaps a new wound…” She procured a skinning knife. Eric groaned shrilly, nearly a whimper, staring at that knife.

The Kul Tiran woman cocked an eyebrow at him. “No? Oh, very well.” She put the knife away, and leaned forwards to press the wicker brush at the top of the charm against the gash under his ribs. A fresh yelp was ripped from his chest, but this was not the stab-and-twist the captain liked to do; she pressed the brush into the wound just long enough to coat it with fresh blood, and pulled it away, beginning to thread the leather thong through its loop again, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. Her voice took on that conversational tone again. “Captain Pike’s going to sell you at our next port,” she said idly. “Some lot with a need for a new guard dog. We’ll be stopping there tomorrow. How do you do with the cold?”

Eric slumped back onto his knees, head hanging as she spoke. He didn’t hear, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to, or because he couldn’t. He was to be sold like a dog, was he? He should’ve cared, should’ve felt something more than cold. Dimly he was aware of the witch standing, tying the leather cord around his neck again and making sure the wicker charm was centered against his chest. With a final pat to his cheek as for a dog she was fond of -- and would be sad to see go -- she left him, leaving the chair there where she had put it. His heart felt gripped in a frozen vice, and for the Light knew how long his only thoughts were of the cold.

[ursinedevotee]

In Wolf's Clothing

Seradane, near the end of the Fourth War

Night had long since fallen upon the tall pines of the Hinterlands, the mottled moonlight filtering through a clouded sky acting as the only source of illumination amidst the trees and foliage. The night was quiet, save the soft patter of receding raindrops upon foliage and the occasional creature shifting in the undergrowth. A petrichor hung in the air as the rain slowed and the clouds overhead passed. The White Lady, half-obscured in darkness, shone overhead as a large, lone wolf sprinted through the night, panting in time with each bounding stride. The great beast leapt its way through the forest until it reached a ridge overlooking the pines below, where the moonlight shone upon the ground, uninterrupted by branches and pine needles overhead.

Finally, the great wolf slowed, and reared onto its hind legs to stand upright, like a man would; indeed, this was no mere wolf. It was a worgen, a wolf-man, freshly-turned and supposedly tamed by the grace of the White Lady overhead, though the unfamiliarity of its gaze as it looked upon the long claws tipping each of its fingers, glinting red in the moonlight, spoke volumes on how ‘well-tamed’ it thought itself to be. The clawed fingers slowly curled into a fist, falling to the great wolf’s side. It turned its hazel eyes onto the forest below the ridge, looking yet not truly seeing anything. The coppery taste and smell of blood still hung in its mouth and nose, especially powerfully on the latter. Its heart still throbbed rapidly in a visceral response to… something.

Images fluttered about in memory, not one of them any more tangible than the last and every one part of a rapid-fire procession: a low, long howl, to announce the hunt; the feeling of wind rushing past as the beast sprinted on all fours; the scent of elk-- no, the scent of prey; the prey, spotted drinking from a river; the intoxicating, nigh-arousing smell of fear; the thrill of the chase; claws and teeth; blood gushing into the mouth and spattering the claws; and then... nothing. The beast had gone wild at the taste of blood, and there was a long spot of blank nothing in memory, save one last image: a mangled mass of meat, viscera, and blood draining into the river, staining the water dark in failing sunlight. Then… wind, running, and now it was here, upon this ridge. The beast’s chest heaved more and more even as its mind calmed from the bloodlust -- or perhaps because its mind was calming, allowing itself to realize what had happened.

The soft thumping of bare feet -- or paws, in this case -- upon grass announced the arrival of another wolf-man. This one’s fur was far darker than the great wolf’s, nearly a shade of black rather than the gray-brown of the great wolf’s coat. The black wolf cast its vibrant blue eyes upon the great gray wolf, rearing back onto its hind legs as it approached. Its maw opened, and the great gray wolf turned away. It could already see it; that great, fanged maw, gnashing and thrashing at the taste of blood… But the pain of fangs puncturing and tearing flesh never came.

“Eric,” the black wolf vocalized, voice gruff thanks to the transformation.

The great gray wolf turned back, hazel eyes refocusing upon the black wolf. Another layer of the beast’s mind -- of the bloodlust -- peeled away. The black wolf was a trusted friend -- and the great gray’s name was Eric. His name was Eric. He took another shaking breath as the black wolf took a few steps forwards, holding out a calming, placating hand. Eric nearly turned away again, but steeled himself; the black wolf’s mannerisms were not hostile -- indeed, they were far more kindly and human than Eric’s were still. What was its-- what was his name? Eric struggled through the fog of bloodlust.

“Kyven--” Eric managed, the word catching in his throat as he said it. His voice… why was it so gravelly, so gruff? It wasn’t normally like that, he was sure of it. He looked back down at his hands. He nearly jumped when he found the bloodied claws again. The fog in his mind parted further as he realized the reason his voice sounded so different.

The black wolf, Kyven, approached further, placing a hand upon Eric’s shoulder. Despite those long claws, Eric found the gesture comforting, humanizing. He wrenched himself further from the wolf’s mindset. “Wha’ happened, Kyve? I… remembah some fings, bu’...” Eric rubbed at his face with one hand, forgetting briefly that the hand was smeared with blood.

“You… hunted an elk,” Kyven said, his tone slow and deliberately controlled. Eric was thankful for the lack of detail. “It’ll get easier,” Kyven said again, hopeful. Seemed like the hundredth time Eric had heard that line from the witch. “C’mon, let’s get back to the river and… get you cleaned up.” Kyven took a step back, letting his hand drop away from Eric’s shoulder. His blue eyes peered silently at the bigger worgen, waiting.

Eric nodded numbly, still struggling to fully reclaim himself. He felt… hollow. Numb. The bloodthirst was gone, but it had left him with horrible nothingness in his heart instead, as if it longed for the cadence of adrenaline again. Kyven’s hand falling away only made the feeling more pressing, so Eric reached out to grab the black wolf’s clawed hand. He gripped it tightly, not intending to let go. He fell into step with Kyven as they departed the ridge, letting himself be led by the hand through the dark forest; he didn’t trust himself to keep his balance anyways, so the big wolf was appreciative for being led like a babe.

The mottled moonshadows in the forest danced in Eric’s peripheral vision. They taunted him, sought to draw the wolf out again to thrash and cleave and rend and rip and tear and… Eric shook his head firmly, banishing the thoughts. He focused on his other senses instead, hoping it would buy him solace. The night was silent, almost eerily so -- the rain earlier had passed, leaving just the occasional drip of water falling from the trees overhead and the squishing of the undergrowth beneath his and Kyven’s footfalls. It seemed like nothing was moving tonight but them. He wasn’t sure he liked the quiet; it gave too much room for the mind to wander, so Eric focused elsewhere.

Scents were particularly fascinating; his nose was already strong as a man, and the wolf’s form only made it stronger. He had long since grown blind to his own scent, but he hadn’t been around Kyven long enough yet to have grown blind to his. The other worgen had a certain earthy smell about him, no doubt aided by the petrichor of the night. It was a smell that Eric knew wasn’t quite real; it was the way nature smelled, the way druids smelled. Beyond that, though, the black wolf smelled also of… adrenaline and exertion, from the night’s run and hunt; of the assortment of flowers and plants he tended near his cabin here in the forest; and of course that certain natural smell that he bore as a druid.

Beyond the black wolf, though, there was also the world around them as they walked. Eric shut his eyes, trusting Kyven to, by word or body, tell him of any pitfalls in the footpath they took while he focused. The main scent of the night was the petrichor from the rain. It harkened back to Gilneas, for Eric, though in his befuddled state of mind that was only a vague recollection. There were also the smells of the undergrowth; a deep, earthy scent, and the smell of the forest’s creatures. A rabbit here, an elk there, some beast’s mark upon that tree. Eric let himself be lost in it for a while while he and Kyven walked, until finally the other worgen slowed to a stop as Eric heard running water.

He opened his eyes, and before him was a small forest stream, no deeper than his knees by the looks of it. The water glistened in the moonlight that managed to shine through the branches overhead. He walked forwards until he was about ankle-deep in the water, taking a knee and putting both his clawed hands into the water. It darkened immediately as blood sloughed off his claws, flowing downstream. He began to scrub as best he could, glad for the numbness in his chest to keep the sight of blood from riling him. He kept his movements methodical, rhythmic. Nothing extravagant or wild, nothing to excite. Once his hands were clean, he moved on to splashing water onto his snout and face, rinsing blood from them as well. He was sure his chest would need some rinsing, too; the fur on his neck felt wet, and not from the water.

The seventh night was over. For now. Eric would return to Kyven’s cabin once he was free of blood, and enjoy the quiet while he could. Before the wolf reared its head again.