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November 22nd- Year of our lord 1227
As the snowstorms obscure the passage of day and night, I can only guess at the date of this day, we measure the days by each time we stop out of sheer exhaustion. feel as if there is nothing colder than the blasted, godforsaken wilderness of the northern pass, and the men are looking like they would desert me and betray each other for even the slightest glitter of warmth. What scares me so much is that I would do the same, given any opportunity.
I don't know how much longer we can continue. The wildmen we were sent to destroy are more elusive than warmth, it seems, for each camp we manage to track down is nothing but spare scraps and embers from long gone camp fires. Such crafty and wild people are in their element here, far from civilization, and they elude us like sleep itself. The howling winds scream like an army of bloodwraiths and banshees are just outside our shelters, and the men look like ghosts themselves from the torture. We will not last for much longer in this foreign wasteland.
November 26rd- Year of our Lord 1227
God help me. I sent two of our strongest, healthiest men off to look for any kind of salvation from our misery. They did not return. Now we sit here, in a long frozen cave, waiting to either starve or be killed the the wildmen. We have been been followed by wild wolves for day, one of the man found pawprints of incredible size in the snow, and many more when we backtracked a few miles.
Other men have reported enemy movements all around us, campfires stamped out, a torn cloak, a shattered spear... and something else, something... wilder. Men now scream in their sleep, when they finally can get it, and others spend their hours curled up, muttering of wolves, yellow eyes and a feeling of being watched by some unseen enemy. I cannot sleep. Visions of my failure (which is all too near), failure to lead my men to safety, and...other things. I cannot lie and say I do not share the same flickering fears as my brothers, as we huddle around a dwindling fire to grab at scraps of boiled and beaten boot leather we are forced to eat to survive. God help me. God help us all.
Errol Fletcher stood up, boots creaking from the cold as he regained his stance. He tossed the torn leather journal to his squire Alan. It was of no use, the last entry was almost a week ago, the frozen corpses were a testament to that. He watched as Alan turned white faced and sickly at the sight of the bodies, and Errol didn't blame him, the young, scrawny boy was only a year or two younger than him, as Errol was only 16, and, even if he didn't want to admit it, they were very much alike, except from their birthrights, of course.
Giving a command to one of the men who had been sent with him, who had to be at least twice his age, the frozen bodies were burned in the center of the clearing,in the custom, and to keep whatever killed them from coming back. The stench from the pyre was unbearable, but the men still gathered around it, trying to stay warm. He had found the remains of the party, but he had been given orders to press on in necessary, the wildmen had to be eradicated. As yet another tic in a list of things that worried him, were that some abnormally large wolf prints had been found in the snow around the bodies, it was not strange for creatures to be larger and fiercer in the north, but these looked to be no normal wolves, even for the north. He watched as one of the larger, more burly men put his hand into one of the prints. Even with a glove on, the print looked to be slightly larger than the soldier's hand.
A shout from one of the men on top of the cave was enough to make every man freeze and turn to the noise. Wolves, yellow eyes shining like small lanterns in the snow, were seen in the gathering dusk, and mournful howls rang like war cries through the forest. The soldiers huddled uneasily, sleeplessly, around a dying fire, and spoke only in hushed tones when they thought Errol wasn't looking. Alan, the squire, nearly fainted when he heard the closing cries of the wolves that set all the men on edge. Errol didn't remember passing out, but the rest of the night was the same.
A strong arm pulled the young commander up, causing him to curse, and fight free, until he realized one of the men had awoken him from where he lay wrapped in in his fur cloak. One look was all he needed to know what happened.
Three missing, the men completely vanished in the snow, and no sign of them returning. This was bad, even the most experienced rangers of the group could not find anything, a falling snow had erased any sign of where they had gone. Another realization jolted the boys heart. The wolves had stopped. There were no howls, no prints, no eyes in the dark, only the whistling of a cold and lonely wind.
Errol knew it was coming, and some of the men had also noticed it. They knew what was coming. They formed a rough circle in the clearing, backs to the rocks and the cave entrance.
Slinking, out of the dawn shadows and depths of the forest, the wolves came, some the size of the largest of the soldiers, and some bigger. They were at least twenty feet away, but there was no mistaking the hulking forms. They ignored the arrows fired in their direction, simply disappearing like ghosts back into the trees, only to surface again. They were growing bolder, each time, coming just a little closer every time they reappeared. They were also growing in number, more and more suddenly appearing silently behind them. These were not normal wolves. One suddenly stood on its hind legs, still, and howled into the desolate sky. The rest took up the call, advancing menacingly. Errol drew his sword, steel flashing in the morning light, this was no simple sword, his father had said, as he had handed it to Errol. This blade was forged from the blades of his ancestors, grey tones curling and rippling down the blade in swirls of light and dark steel.
The blade did little to slow the young soldiers frantically pounding heart, as he grasped it's handle. The beasts charged. Some on two legs, some on four, bounding across the gap that separated them. Fifteen feet away, now Ten, now the wolves were upon them, snarling and howling, these were not wolves, he saw, as they tore through his personal guard like they were fighting nothing, red blood turning the pure snow pink. They were not wolves, of the natural kind at least, and they all knew it. Werelings, shapeshifters, Loup Garou, they were all names for the same terror. All around him, his men fought and died, a few of the things lay dead, but his men were suffering far greater. The largest of them all, the one who had led the attack looked Errol dead in the eye, before charging.
Razor sharp claws tore through chainmail like cloth, jaws snapping, Errol could only try to keep the thing at bay. One of the men rushed to his aid, burying his longsword in the monster's chest, but was swatted away like he was no more than a mayfly. Errol lunged, it was not a great lunge, but the thing felt the bite of his steel as he slashed it in the chest, and blocked its attack with his shield. His company lay mostly dead in the snow, a score now reduced to a handful of ragged survivors.
Another creature came at him from behind, claws scraping his helm and leaving him dazed, and the wolf before him lunged for his shield, straps tearing as it was pried from his arm. In a desperate attempt, he swung at it with his sword, but only slashed its arm. It fell on him, its full weight crushing one of his ribs, and they struggled in the snow, the thing biting him in his right shoulder, forcing Errol to drop his sword. They fought in the snow, with Errol punching the monster in the face with armored fists, and the thing scratching at his helm. Drawing a dagger from his belt, he stabbed the lead wolf in the chest, but the werewolf would not die. Breaking free from its claws, Errol lunged for his sword in the snow. Behind him, the monster reared up, ready to strike. With a howl, it lunged for him, yellow eyes full of rage and bloodlust. With fingers grasping at the hilt of his sword, he brought it up to meet the beast, its charge and full weight falling into the blade. With a startled whine, it fell, and Errol pulled his sword free and stood up, looking into the beast's eyes. He thought he detected a second of human like sadness and fear, causing him to stay his blade for a second, before bringing his sword down on the thing's neck. It took two more strikes to take the monster's head from it's shoulders, Errol standing with torn armor and bloody clothes, before he too collapsed. The last thing he saw was the pack fleeing into the shadows.
Errol didn't expect to wake up again, ever, but his eyes fluttered open to see a field of carnage before him. His soldiers were all dead, even young Alan, dead, and a handful of the beasts lay dead, scattered around in the pink colored snow. It was dark, midnight judging by the moon's position. Using his sword to keep his balance, Errol looked up. The moon was huge, the luminescent orb hanging over his head like a watchful eye. For once, on that bloody, horrid battlefield, he felt suddenly peaceful, drawn to the rays of moonlight that shimmered and danced upon the dead like mournful ghosts. Crows called to each other in the darkness, and owls hooted, and Errol found himself encapsulated in the beauty of the moon.
A sweat broke out on his forehead, and he found that he was overheating, pulling the tattered and ripped cloak off his shoulders, and his helm was dropped into the snow.
His heart began to sound loud in his ears, as he could feel it in his chest, hammering. A shiver of anticipation flashed through his body, every nerve and hair on end. His hands suddenly felt like they were in a vice, and he quickly took off his gauntlets, dropping them to the ground, rubbing his hands now free of the armor.
Something felt wrong, like his hands were covered in stubble, and a frantic look confirmed his suspicions. Black hairs were pushing free of his skin, and he felt his palms swell into pads. Gasping in pain, his nails cracked, splitting, only to be replaced with wicked talons, sharp nails as black as obsidian. The change was speeding up, as he fell to his knees clutching his chest. The fur was climbing up his arms, up his legs, as he felt claws like the ones on his hands push through the cold, worn leather of his boots. His shoulders hunched, as he felt himself grow taller, his body changing before him. His ears shifted, growing pointed, shifting upwards through his hair. They twitched as muscles to move them grew, and he could suddenly hear everything around him, the birds in the forest, small animals crawling in the treetops, the sound of his body changing and reshaping.
The changes were getting faster, more...aggressive, as his teeth pushed out, sharpening like ivory razors in his gums. His face pushed forwards, skull lengthening into a muzzle. His nose opened, becoming black and leathery, the smell of death around him intoxicating. He could smell meat, his tongue hanging out. No. He had to fight it. He had heard of others who had fought, keeping their humanity. The curse offered power that a human could never dream of, strength beyond human limits. The it whispered in his ear, promising blood lust and anger, an insatiable hunger for more. No. He had to keep this curse out of his head, he could not submit. His spine extended painfully, and he could feel it push out of his skin. His body grew stronger, faster, muscles rippling. Give up, submit, a voice seemed to say. Don't fight these gifts, embrace them. He could feel a presence in his mind, trying to push him down and destroy his humanity. It was like being drowned, as he fought for control of his mind. Errol thought of his family, his title, his human life. That was all over, but he could still fight on. He stood up slowly, shakily on new legs. The curse could not claim him, he was strong enough. His hands felt the hilt of his sword and he lifted it, claiming his mind for his own. His name was Errol Fletcher, and he would hunt down the last of the monsters for what they had done.
Errol Fletcher is the son of a wealthy noble, who becomes a monster hunter after he became a werewolf. He meets Blackclaw, a female werewolf who has been banished from her pack after Errol killed the alpha. They travel across medieval france and germany looking for retribution. Both are OCs of mine.
As the snowstorms obscure the passage of day and night, I can only guess at the date of this day, we measure the days by each time we stop out of sheer exhaustion. feel as if there is nothing colder than the blasted, godforsaken wilderness of the northern pass, and the men are looking like they would desert me and betray each other for even the slightest glitter of warmth. What scares me so much is that I would do the same, given any opportunity.
I don't know how much longer we can continue. The wildmen we were sent to destroy are more elusive than warmth, it seems, for each camp we manage to track down is nothing but spare scraps and embers from long gone camp fires. Such crafty and wild people are in their element here, far from civilization, and they elude us like sleep itself. The howling winds scream like an army of bloodwraiths and banshees are just outside our shelters, and the men look like ghosts themselves from the torture. We will not last for much longer in this foreign wasteland.
November 26rd- Year of our Lord 1227
God help me. I sent two of our strongest, healthiest men off to look for any kind of salvation from our misery. They did not return. Now we sit here, in a long frozen cave, waiting to either starve or be killed the the wildmen. We have been been followed by wild wolves for day, one of the man found pawprints of incredible size in the snow, and many more when we backtracked a few miles.
Other men have reported enemy movements all around us, campfires stamped out, a torn cloak, a shattered spear... and something else, something... wilder. Men now scream in their sleep, when they finally can get it, and others spend their hours curled up, muttering of wolves, yellow eyes and a feeling of being watched by some unseen enemy. I cannot sleep. Visions of my failure (which is all too near), failure to lead my men to safety, and...other things. I cannot lie and say I do not share the same flickering fears as my brothers, as we huddle around a dwindling fire to grab at scraps of boiled and beaten boot leather we are forced to eat to survive. God help me. God help us all.
Errol Fletcher stood up, boots creaking from the cold as he regained his stance. He tossed the torn leather journal to his squire Alan. It was of no use, the last entry was almost a week ago, the frozen corpses were a testament to that. He watched as Alan turned white faced and sickly at the sight of the bodies, and Errol didn't blame him, the young, scrawny boy was only a year or two younger than him, as Errol was only 16, and, even if he didn't want to admit it, they were very much alike, except from their birthrights, of course.
Giving a command to one of the men who had been sent with him, who had to be at least twice his age, the frozen bodies were burned in the center of the clearing,in the custom, and to keep whatever killed them from coming back. The stench from the pyre was unbearable, but the men still gathered around it, trying to stay warm. He had found the remains of the party, but he had been given orders to press on in necessary, the wildmen had to be eradicated. As yet another tic in a list of things that worried him, were that some abnormally large wolf prints had been found in the snow around the bodies, it was not strange for creatures to be larger and fiercer in the north, but these looked to be no normal wolves, even for the north. He watched as one of the larger, more burly men put his hand into one of the prints. Even with a glove on, the print looked to be slightly larger than the soldier's hand.
A shout from one of the men on top of the cave was enough to make every man freeze and turn to the noise. Wolves, yellow eyes shining like small lanterns in the snow, were seen in the gathering dusk, and mournful howls rang like war cries through the forest. The soldiers huddled uneasily, sleeplessly, around a dying fire, and spoke only in hushed tones when they thought Errol wasn't looking. Alan, the squire, nearly fainted when he heard the closing cries of the wolves that set all the men on edge. Errol didn't remember passing out, but the rest of the night was the same.
A strong arm pulled the young commander up, causing him to curse, and fight free, until he realized one of the men had awoken him from where he lay wrapped in in his fur cloak. One look was all he needed to know what happened.
Three missing, the men completely vanished in the snow, and no sign of them returning. This was bad, even the most experienced rangers of the group could not find anything, a falling snow had erased any sign of where they had gone. Another realization jolted the boys heart. The wolves had stopped. There were no howls, no prints, no eyes in the dark, only the whistling of a cold and lonely wind.
Errol knew it was coming, and some of the men had also noticed it. They knew what was coming. They formed a rough circle in the clearing, backs to the rocks and the cave entrance.
Slinking, out of the dawn shadows and depths of the forest, the wolves came, some the size of the largest of the soldiers, and some bigger. They were at least twenty feet away, but there was no mistaking the hulking forms. They ignored the arrows fired in their direction, simply disappearing like ghosts back into the trees, only to surface again. They were growing bolder, each time, coming just a little closer every time they reappeared. They were also growing in number, more and more suddenly appearing silently behind them. These were not normal wolves. One suddenly stood on its hind legs, still, and howled into the desolate sky. The rest took up the call, advancing menacingly. Errol drew his sword, steel flashing in the morning light, this was no simple sword, his father had said, as he had handed it to Errol. This blade was forged from the blades of his ancestors, grey tones curling and rippling down the blade in swirls of light and dark steel.
The blade did little to slow the young soldiers frantically pounding heart, as he grasped it's handle. The beasts charged. Some on two legs, some on four, bounding across the gap that separated them. Fifteen feet away, now Ten, now the wolves were upon them, snarling and howling, these were not wolves, he saw, as they tore through his personal guard like they were fighting nothing, red blood turning the pure snow pink. They were not wolves, of the natural kind at least, and they all knew it. Werelings, shapeshifters, Loup Garou, they were all names for the same terror. All around him, his men fought and died, a few of the things lay dead, but his men were suffering far greater. The largest of them all, the one who had led the attack looked Errol dead in the eye, before charging.
Razor sharp claws tore through chainmail like cloth, jaws snapping, Errol could only try to keep the thing at bay. One of the men rushed to his aid, burying his longsword in the monster's chest, but was swatted away like he was no more than a mayfly. Errol lunged, it was not a great lunge, but the thing felt the bite of his steel as he slashed it in the chest, and blocked its attack with his shield. His company lay mostly dead in the snow, a score now reduced to a handful of ragged survivors.
Another creature came at him from behind, claws scraping his helm and leaving him dazed, and the wolf before him lunged for his shield, straps tearing as it was pried from his arm. In a desperate attempt, he swung at it with his sword, but only slashed its arm. It fell on him, its full weight crushing one of his ribs, and they struggled in the snow, the thing biting him in his right shoulder, forcing Errol to drop his sword. They fought in the snow, with Errol punching the monster in the face with armored fists, and the thing scratching at his helm. Drawing a dagger from his belt, he stabbed the lead wolf in the chest, but the werewolf would not die. Breaking free from its claws, Errol lunged for his sword in the snow. Behind him, the monster reared up, ready to strike. With a howl, it lunged for him, yellow eyes full of rage and bloodlust. With fingers grasping at the hilt of his sword, he brought it up to meet the beast, its charge and full weight falling into the blade. With a startled whine, it fell, and Errol pulled his sword free and stood up, looking into the beast's eyes. He thought he detected a second of human like sadness and fear, causing him to stay his blade for a second, before bringing his sword down on the thing's neck. It took two more strikes to take the monster's head from it's shoulders, Errol standing with torn armor and bloody clothes, before he too collapsed. The last thing he saw was the pack fleeing into the shadows.
Errol didn't expect to wake up again, ever, but his eyes fluttered open to see a field of carnage before him. His soldiers were all dead, even young Alan, dead, and a handful of the beasts lay dead, scattered around in the pink colored snow. It was dark, midnight judging by the moon's position. Using his sword to keep his balance, Errol looked up. The moon was huge, the luminescent orb hanging over his head like a watchful eye. For once, on that bloody, horrid battlefield, he felt suddenly peaceful, drawn to the rays of moonlight that shimmered and danced upon the dead like mournful ghosts. Crows called to each other in the darkness, and owls hooted, and Errol found himself encapsulated in the beauty of the moon.
A sweat broke out on his forehead, and he found that he was overheating, pulling the tattered and ripped cloak off his shoulders, and his helm was dropped into the snow.
His heart began to sound loud in his ears, as he could feel it in his chest, hammering. A shiver of anticipation flashed through his body, every nerve and hair on end. His hands suddenly felt like they were in a vice, and he quickly took off his gauntlets, dropping them to the ground, rubbing his hands now free of the armor.
Something felt wrong, like his hands were covered in stubble, and a frantic look confirmed his suspicions. Black hairs were pushing free of his skin, and he felt his palms swell into pads. Gasping in pain, his nails cracked, splitting, only to be replaced with wicked talons, sharp nails as black as obsidian. The change was speeding up, as he fell to his knees clutching his chest. The fur was climbing up his arms, up his legs, as he felt claws like the ones on his hands push through the cold, worn leather of his boots. His shoulders hunched, as he felt himself grow taller, his body changing before him. His ears shifted, growing pointed, shifting upwards through his hair. They twitched as muscles to move them grew, and he could suddenly hear everything around him, the birds in the forest, small animals crawling in the treetops, the sound of his body changing and reshaping.
The changes were getting faster, more...aggressive, as his teeth pushed out, sharpening like ivory razors in his gums. His face pushed forwards, skull lengthening into a muzzle. His nose opened, becoming black and leathery, the smell of death around him intoxicating. He could smell meat, his tongue hanging out. No. He had to fight it. He had heard of others who had fought, keeping their humanity. The curse offered power that a human could never dream of, strength beyond human limits. The it whispered in his ear, promising blood lust and anger, an insatiable hunger for more. No. He had to keep this curse out of his head, he could not submit. His spine extended painfully, and he could feel it push out of his skin. His body grew stronger, faster, muscles rippling. Give up, submit, a voice seemed to say. Don't fight these gifts, embrace them. He could feel a presence in his mind, trying to push him down and destroy his humanity. It was like being drowned, as he fought for control of his mind. Errol thought of his family, his title, his human life. That was all over, but he could still fight on. He stood up slowly, shakily on new legs. The curse could not claim him, he was strong enough. His hands felt the hilt of his sword and he lifted it, claiming his mind for his own. His name was Errol Fletcher, and he would hunt down the last of the monsters for what they had done.
Errol Fletcher is the son of a wealthy noble, who becomes a monster hunter after he became a werewolf. He meets Blackclaw, a female werewolf who has been banished from her pack after Errol killed the alpha. They travel across medieval france and germany looking for retribution. Both are OCs of mine.
Category Story / All
Species Wolf
Size 82 x 120px
File Size 110 kB
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