02. Wild Things

It was early Friday morning when Stag's Fury summoned the cubs, demanding that they leave all vestiges of Homid life behind them. He took the form of a massive Lupus, marked by ruddy fur and a scar over the face.

"Every kill is a gift from Gaia, and don't you forget that" he said to them, in a tone not one of them would have dared to question.  "Gaia provides all that we need, and there is never a need to give in to the weaver and its unneeded technologies." He turned slowly, and Aricie fought a shiver down her spine as his eyes left her. As an Ahroun, he was intimidating almost without trying to be, a fact which made her respect him as much as fear him.

From the beginning,Stag had been a taskmaster, demanding a great deal from all of them. A habit which sparked complaint from Syrus, her fellow Silver Fang, but caused her to grand him boundless respect. A social grace he paid back in full, with a willingness to present her with challenges. Opportunities to show her mettle before and against her fellow cubs. She never missed an opportunity to try to inspire them in her relentless pursuit of perfection.

Today was no exception... but nothing could have prepared her for what was to come. As usual, they went about tracking their target, sniffing out signs of its nearness, ascertaining its size, approximating its strength. They rolled in the leaves as they got closer, using the dankness of earth to conceal their collective scent.

When at last their quarry was in sight, the Beta Den Parent turned his heavy head toward her.

"You go."

Go? 


Aricie froze for a moment. The ebon folds of her damp nostrils flared once, twice, in acknowledgment of the command, and she took a moment to survey the surroundings. The foliage was deep, thick, and profound in its diversity. Strange, broad fronds sprouted from bristling trunks that reminded her of pineapples. The ground smelled of rainwater, and the stagnant stench of decaying plant matter; vines hung off the branches of dingy looking pine trees like threadbare draperies, and a sea of ground cover parted only to reveal a mud flat, wherein a lone boar stood pawing at the turf.

Behind her, one of the other cubs, the female, whimpered at Lathias, before congratulating her on the honor. This was, in effect, a commendation. To be granted a kill of one's own showed confidence in her autonomy-- and as such, this was not an opportunity she could easily pass up. She fought the fear of injury, pinning it against her subconscious like a moth under a glass frame. Failure, especially due to anxiety, was far from an option.

Young, grunting and unaware, the boar dipped his nose to drink, exposing a soft, fleshy throat.

Aricie felt her eyes gravitate toward it, the instincts of her wilder self welling beneath still pools of stormy gray. There was something strangely vital about hunting in this form, something primal and unseemly. Something she longed to embrace, as much as it repulsed her.

Her superior had not chosen any old animal for this test. Pigs were fiercely intelligent creatures who knew when to stand and fight. She knew that engaging him would mean an intense struggle; a match of wit, and brawn, and will. This would not be easy on either of them—and it would almost certainly be a competition in which the winner was not a bygone conclusion. As she had seen all too often on their hunts, victory would not always go to the strongest, but more often to the most adaptable. On her honor, by the simple virtue of what she "ought to have been", she would know what it was to win by the virtue of wit and instinct combined. To do so would surely prove her worth before Stag’s Fury, and perhaps earn some miniscule respect from her fellow cubs. Most notably Syrus, who was in dire need of seeing why his people were the kings and queens of Garou.

Hunting in Lupus worked on a single, guiding principle: kill, without being killed. There was a reason wolves (and yes, even werewolves) hunted in groups. Prey animals were dangerous. The creature in front of her, though not extremely large, was about the same weight as she was. All of it muscle, and densely packed. Its back was lined by thick, bristly hair-- the sort that you could not bite through no matter how hard you tried. His snout was crowned by yellowed, pointed teeth, that could easily impale, or even kill her, if she was not wise to them.

  

 Aricie hung low to the ground, near to the underbrush-- downwind of the creature, as Stag's Fury had taught her to be. In this way, the prey would not catch her scent. Over the course of the last few weeks, the Beta Den-Parent had taught her many things. For example, when hunting in a pack you wanted to get your prey on the run. As she had seen in the recent altercation with the Silver Boar and Shoots from the Mouth, the absolute worst thing that could happen was to encounter an animal that was not afraid of you, and would not budge from its place. If the animal ran, then you could trip it up. But that was not an option here. Stag’s Fury wanted to observe her—which would mean keeping her adversary contained. It would mean facing him, and going toe to toe.

Unlike her teachers (and most of the other cubs on-level with her) Ari could not rely on the wolf's innate endurance. While she excelled at quickness and perception, once her resources were expended, she relied almost entirely on raw tenacity to get the job done. Success would come to her through correct assessment, and swift execution of the proper technique. Not by driving the pig to its final breath as her ancestors had.

With this in mind, she doubled back on her haunches, and dashed behind the pig, straight into the other side of the clearing, ensuring that the brush rustled behind her.

Alarmed, the prey animal  raised his head, ears perked, and shifted nervously-- raising one foot into the air. Having witnessed this, Aricie dashed once more behind him. The process repeated once more, and the animal, wheeling and disoriented, finally stopped, going eerily still in the face of an enemy he could not accurately perceive.

Both of them went eerily still for at time, such that even the wind appeared to hold its breath. But then, in a flash, the sleekness of her fur caught the light of Helios like a pearl; she leaped from the foliage and struck at the wiry-tasseled heels. Like a bolt of white-hot lightening; with ears lowered and teeth bared. Her feet hit the ground, and gripped it by the claw for traction.

It was only by sheer resolve that the boar managed to steel himself, spinning about to face her with his razor teeth, his legs mired deep in the mud of the Bawn marshlands. The wet, sandy soil coagulated around his feet like blood from an oozing wound, splashing up against his belly and coating his nose as he brought the fury of its weighted head toward his ghostly pursuant. He understood the challenge as his ancestors had many times before him—and was ready to fight for his life.

But the cub was faster than he had anticipated, dodging the incoming blow at the last possible moment. With startling intensity, the she wolf uttered a low, guttural growl, one that shook her shoulders and rumbled like thunder.

It was cut short by a sudden, high pitched yelp. The boar kicked her hard in the chops, which sent her reeling through the mud, skidding as if on ice.

The indignation of it was so tangible that it could almost be smelt upon the young Fang, and in a show of sheer tenacity—if only to preserve her honor as a hunter, she doubled back and leaped upon the animal’s snout, raking his  face with her teeth, gouging at his eyes with her paws.

He grunted, and then screamed in outrage. Blood dripped over his cheeks, and into his nostrils. In an attempt to get a better grip, Ari clamped down on his mouth, slowing his breathing. The boar tossed her, this way and that, for even with all her quickness and ferocity, she was simply not brawny enough to wrestle him to the ground.

She focused on him, and tried to hold him steady. This hunt had become a match of willpower rather than brawn, and in making the creature fight for breath, she had brought him down to her level. She could feel his nostrils flaring frantically, searching for something to breathe other than her exhale. Over time, he became less panicked, and moved more slowly. His brawn seemed to turn against him, the heaviness of his body became too much for his stubby legs to bear.

As their struggle neared its end, the Boar looked to Aricie—in recognition of his defeat. It was as though the charisma of his opponent ignited in him a spark of understanding. Yes, he had fought valiantly; he was respected for his strength, and for his tenacity. He would also soon die, but he was and would do so for the good of Gaia.

At last, the boar relented, falling onto its knees. As if moved by his plight, Aricie  moved to grant one of Gaia’s children the cleanest death she could have offered him on her own. In what resembled the acceptance of an honorable surrender, she released him, and clamped down on his windpipe.

The boar heaved, nobly, and drew breath no longer.

Humbled by his strength, Ari hung her head. Her muscles ached, her blood-drenched muzzle  flared in exhaustion, her thin, pink tongue lolled out of the front of her maw, still unaccustomed to the taste of iron. Grasping his carcass by the rear leg, she heaved it over to  Stag’s Fury—highest of station.