The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

I can still recall the time I traveled from Crowshead to Gods’ Rest with my mother. We were sitting together in a cart that we rented, the driver an old man with few words but an abundance of smiles. It was the first time I had been driven somewhere, and the way that the scenery rolled by entranced me. I was lost in thought from the first moment to the last.

It felt nearly the same in this demented form. After shifting, it seemed something else was driving me and all I could do was sit back in the seat of this black, furry wagon and watch it all pass by. A faint voice of myself prayed that it would not be long like this.

As good as it felt to feel the cold wind rushing past my new form, the tough skin sweeping through branches and not flinching at the scratches; it was agonizing to think of what I would do with the freedom.

I remember a particular moment: a brief lapse of consciousness, when I was able to stop myself and stand on only my hind legs. I had always wondered why werewolves sometimes went on their legs and neglected the other two arms. It’s when, for a moment, they feel human again. Looking behind me, I could see the fresh mounds of dirt I’d created. If only for a second, the fire in my eyes smoldered, the heat left them, replaced by sadness.

There were images of a shrine, of Deidre. Even another beast not quite like me, with a human name given by another. Though we seemed so distant, like lands separated by sea.

Then there was a light in the distance; candlelight, no doubt for reading. It was innocent, but it was there and I wanted whatever person being illuminated by it. It meant a meal; bones snapping and fresh meat for the night.

There were many small paths which cut through the Moonish Lands, interconnecting like veins to the bigger, more worn roads. The smaller ones were unmapped and known only by adventurers, apothecaries, bandits and the like who keep their distance from common folk. In this form it wasn’t difficult to find a way to one and travel it towards the village with the single cottage lit by the light. My senses were heightened.

Earlier that day, when I was still human, I made it a point to myself to travel far from Crowshead before I shifted. That faint voice of mine whispered that I had done it, that I would at least not harm my own friends, though that thought did little to comfort me.

There are some who will tell you otherwise, but it is not difficult to spot a werewolf. Some will say the better shape-shifters are subtle, sneaky, and will get into your home before you know they’re even there, though I can tell you from personal experience that there is a world of differences between your average wolf and the Cursed.

As a human, I would have sympathized with the village in that foggy stretch of land. Judging by my distance, they would be feeling the first whispers of their intuition. Their dreams would steadily decline into nightmares, and those that were awake already would have dark thoughts that turned darker with the earliest hours of the morning—if they survived to think them, at all.

When I came to the entrance of the village, all was hushed save for the creaking of a wooden sign, and mists swirled at the doorsteps. This village was closer to Calan’s Fall than Gods’ Rest; it was obvious, because the trees were clinging to the stony sides of the mountains, not stretching into forests.

The creaking sign bore the name Ironwood, carved above was an insignia of a log crossed by a blacksmith’s hammer.

No one knows why werewolves slaughter and hunt in settlements instead of forests. We prey on smaller things, too—shadow cats can be a relatively nice snack—though in my experience it is not nearly as satisfying as man or elf flesh. There’s a hunger in us that is what some call demonic. An unbridled Cursed is a terrifying creature: angered by the response of their dying prey, and driven by the hunger of a beast. Some say it’s Siflos’ Curse, that I’m one of his ‘sons,’ but in all my days, I haven’t spoken or heard from him once, so I suppose it’s not in a deity’s hands.

I opened the gates, clumsily using what was now a strange cross between a hand and a paw. I saw a forge with an anvil resting in the fog outside what must’ve been a blacksmith’s home. There were more dwellings here than in Crowshead, but something told me that most of them were vacant.

Soon I was inside the village, going through the first cottage I could reach. I tore the oak door off, revealing two rooms containing little more than dust. What was left of the bed and nightstand was scraps, like driftwood that had found its way into a home.

When I came out, I found that most of the men in the village were awakened by the disturbance. They came out bearing all manner of weaponry.

Sadly, it did not make a difference.

There was an odd silence before the fighting. Just stares, growls, and ragged breaths as we prepared ourselves. I was lost in this new skin, trying feebly to understand the foaming rage with a mind that wasn’t my own.

I could not count how many there were. In my eagerness, I slaughtered them with little consideration, ignoring the few cuts and blows they had gotten on me before the final strokes. It made no difference. Soon I was feasting on their bodies, lost in a dream of fresh meat and blood, discovering the quickest ways to get through the ribs to the better organs.

If you asked me now, I would not be able to tell you why I did it. I can tell you that there’s something—a rush of adrenaline; a surge of anger and desire, a perfect concoction for instinct and manslaughter—that went through me whenever I shifted. But words won’t help you empathize, will they?

That night comes back to torment me. That beast is a nightmare for even myself, though it devours me with self-loathing instead, and eats up the parts no one sees. Now, things are more ‘controlled’ after I shift, though if you asked me where I was several months ago, around the same time of this night I am speaking of now, I would look away in shame.

We all have our weaknesses, I suppose.

After the initial slaughter, there were wails coming from new mourners inside the cottages, though I did not pursue them. I was beginning to feel satiated. If I’m being completely honest, I was oddly content … happy.

Then I heard the arrow, felt one whiz by my head—the lucky demon I am. The steel arrowhead clattered against the cottage wall behind me. My ears pricked up at that, and my whole head as well, until I was staring at an elf. He had the keen eye of an archer, holding a bow almost as tall as he was.

“Fight me, demon!” his voice ruptured the silence. He released another arrow, but I sidestepped its path.

My snout was dripping with blood, yet he stood unwavering. He was more armored than the rest, though it was only leather and a spot of steel here and there.

The Moon-elf was bathed in Afimer’s light, his pale skin luminous under the moon.

I took his challenge and charged at him. He took the chance with another arrow and landed it on my left thigh. I fell unexpectedly to the ground—no doubt roaring and writhing—but it is a blurred memory. The arrow did little, as I was on my feet again in another moment.

He stopped with the bow, then, and unsheathed a formidable sword of steel with runes engraved along the fuller. The magick glowed about the weapon in a silver hue. To my surprise, he came charging at me. I took several of the blows with my forearms, sending my own black claws after him and barking to try and stop the attacks.

This elf had blue eyes as stark as the full moon. I remember because he had let me think I was getting away with his life, several times. Once he stood in front of the wall of a cottage, taunting me with shouts and brandishing the weapon until I charged at him. In my rage, I did not see his ploy. He leapt at the last second and I crashed into the wall of an empty cottage, razing the entire structure.

When I emerged from the rubble, he spoke once more, quieter this time.

“Fight me, or flee.” The next time I charged, he slid under my legs and rose behind me, tearing a new cut down my back and retreating. His movements were deft, and each step I took was rivaled by one that was two ahead of mine. When I turned to face him again, he was grinning at me mockingly, as if this was merely a game for him. It only enraged me more.

After each strike and stroke of his sword, he would step just far enough out of reach. This elf was not a mere farmhand. There was something in his movements that intimidated even me in that form. Before long, I wasn’t feeling so immortal, not so much like a demon rather a weak, cowardly imp before this elf.

“Turn back!” he screamed as he cut again. I meant to grab his arm with a claw, but he swatted mine away with an armored hand and slashed at it with his sword to keep it down. Had it not been for the Curse’s blood in me, I would have long been dead.

I was panting, unable to continue. It surprised me to find his shouts were no longer threats or taunts, but pleas. “Leave! There are still children here!” I limped away, growling and yelping at him, even more surprised to find his words were reaching me.

Just when I turned my back, I heard him growl the words: “Filthy beast.”

I sprinted toward him with a renewed fury, thinking this time I would finally kill him, kill this seemingly unbeatable warrior. But he was prepared. And even as he was about to kneel before the body of one of the villagers, and I was about to clamp my jaws down on him, he spurned me with a slash upward from jaw to eye. The steel dug deep, and I howled loud as I could; it was not the metal that hurt so bitterly, there was something unique and vengeful in the sword, which made each cut like a wound of fire and ice.

As my blood trickled down into the etched runes, I saw them glow brighter.

We fell silent. Still within arm’s reach of him, he stared defiantly, and sheathed his sword with a final clink that told me I was defeated. I panicked, unable to comprehend how such a fragile body compared to mine had so effortlessly, so nearly slew me, but instead spared me.

It left me with nothing to do but simply sprint away.

When I was far enough, I was not looking through the eyes of a beast, instead my own. I felt his eyes still on my back, and when I turned, I saw him staring at me; a cognizant stare, as if he understood me entirely, saw through this shell of a body, and observed even the heart of my human self.

That scar still remains to this day, just as deep as the initial wound. I touch its edges every now and then to remember myself, to think with gratitude towards the elf who let me live. I’ve long since known the location of Ironwood, but I do not possess the courage to visit him.