[Sale Bête]

 

[The Wolf and Her Fetters]

[x] 

Once upon a time, in the age after the fall of the King of Beasts, there was a forest. And in that forest, was a Den. And just outside of that Den, having stepped from its shadows, was a Wolf.

From that Den the Wolf paced alongside the Warden, but her stride was so slow. To rest in that Den so long had made her stiff, and weary, and wary of so many. When she emerged, the heft of so many fetters hung about her shoulders.

Though these things were heavy, and though the light stung her eyes, she kept faithfully her stride at his flank:

To flash her teeth at those that might threaten him.

To offer him the Wisdom of Beasts and all that she knew. Dark magics he bid her to ply, though the world looked on them with scorn.

She wove forgotten things into his garments, and made them to look like the skins of her people.

She took his blade and gave it her Blessings, etching it with that language which Wolves so covet.

She made for him gifts in silver and steel, tokens of her adoration.

She offered unto him her strength. She offered unto him her Black and Bleeding Heart - a thing which few had witnessed and even fewer had ever held.

And for a time, it was good.

In that time after they had joined their Hunts together, the Warden spoke many Oaths. He promised to her all that she craved.

The Wolf did naught but believe him. She believed the Oaths so dearly, and those words became a silken fetter around her neck.

Yet what was one more binding if it was so soft and beautiful, and if it tied her to the Warden? 

What was another binding if all the others would be gone? For he had promised to aid in her Freedom, and surely it would come soon.

Then it came to pass that the Warden left. 

Without word. 

Without warning.


With the weight about her neck, she searched and searched and searched for him. Wherever she went, she called in mourning:

“O’ Warden! Warden for whom I have waited! Whence have you gone?

Would you not return to me?

Would you not return to the children you called yours?

Would you not return for this wretched, Bleeding Heart I have given you?

What will become of what has been Promised? Of the great Home you swore, and the Freedom there?”


But there was no answer. 

And as time went on, the fetters around her neck grew heavier.

And heavier.

And heavier still.

The Beast knew no succor, no peace. She fell to Despair, knowing only the growing wound in her Heart.
So it was then that she looked down upon all the fetters which held her fast.

Some of sweetest silk and wildflowers. Some of the Dead King’s coldest iron. Others still of woven Prophecy, of the Redeemed Beast’s Fire and a Cunning Cat’s Blessings.

But all of them were so painful.

And all of them were so heavy.

How she howled! The forests echoed with grief, boughs shook with her anguish. Abandoned by the Warden. Lost.

Forgotten.

Her grief became anger. Anguish turned to rage, but Despair still rang through her very bones. One by one, she turned her fangs upon her fetters. 

One after another, they crumpled in her jaws. She devoured them, and with each that she sundered her strength grew. Yet the stronger the Wolf grew, the more that her Heart wept with fresh blood.


For the Wolf would heed not the call of Horn nor Master’s voice.

The Wolf would know no King.

The Wolf would know no God.

The Wolf, by her own Power - began to break Free.

And soon, Man would know their Folly.