Wolf Of Fire

1* Birth and Destruction

CHETA

When I was a child, there was a very popular prophecy the Great Priestess of the village used to tell us. I remember clearly, how we used to sit under the great Iroko tree close to the only shrine in my small village, listening to the strange woman as she danced and told tales and prophecies, while giving offerings to the Great Goddess. The details of the stories had been washed away by time and the burden of duty but there was a part of the prophecy that stuck with me like a sear, branded into the roots of my heart, "the sun would dance, the winds would dance, even the stars would dance, but when the storm dances over the desert, it does not come to bless, it comes to bury."

Those words would stick with me for life, like a grinding stone at the back of my ears, a constant reminder of the horrors to come. Those words would groom me into paranoia and constant fear because unlike all around me who lived in the comfort of oblivion, I became aware...too aware. I feared of the future that would come, where blood and bones would become foundations of our homes, where love would become a story, and laughter, a distant tale.

For moons after moons the nightmares came, hunting me down like a masquerade who lost his chi. The nightmares took over my life, becoming a part of who I was and whom I was known to be. My real name, forgotten and replaced. "CHETAUJO", they called me, meaning to 'remember fear'.

²

"Mother...Mother..." The young, weak boy whispered in fear, tears streaming down his eyes. "They would soon be here! They would arrive with their blood shot eyes and their hearts beating for vengeance. Mother keep wake because they would be led by a hot and dangerous flame of fire. They would soon be here."

The land of Druala

"IJE PUSH...PLEASE PUSH...I BEG YOU...PUSH CHILD, PUSH!"

The thunder tore through the sky, like a the whip of a pained commander against the back of his horse. The night was darker than it had ever been. The sky had turned to the colour of bruised charcoal as the wind howled painfully, ramming through the trees like a restless mother in search of her dead child. The air was thick with the feel that something ancient was watching and waiting. This storm was not ordinary. It was just as the ones the elders used to speak about. The ones that were omens of evil to come. Children hurdled tightly against the breasts of their mothers and the mothers whispered prayers to the great goddess, for protection. Men stood fiercely, trying to mask the fear that they felt, legs trembling and hearts shaking.

It was in this storm that the woman's battle started-the battle of bringing a life into this world, and she was losing a great deal. In this great storm, the life of both mother and child hung in the balance, and all one could do was pray.

²

In this timeline, stories give birth to realities. Stories of the past, the present and the future. Tales passed down from generations of mothers to children, seasoned by the old touch of time.

The story goes that many moons ago when the earth was still young and virgin, untouched by the evils of wicked men, the wolf gods came down to the Earth to seek unity with men with hopes of a building a stronger shared future. They searched for ages but the mortals turned their backs on them in fear of the unknown. The only land who accepted them was Druala, the land of the First Wolves. The small town stood at the edge of the earth, marking the boundary between the land of the dead and the living, the birthplace of life as was known. It was from Druala that the wolf gods united with man and the werewolves were created.