Bloody and Wild

Every Man Bleeds

Scattered in American forests roam packs of werewolves. These wolves guard territory lines far more ancient than the time bloodthirsty little men crossed the ocean to discover them. Their ways are strange and we are not meant to understand them. For our eyes they appear as men, and the white man has joined their ranks now as is important in all camouflages. The times must be obeyed. These beings that change from men to beast at will, skulk in the shadows, at the very edges of society. Like molluscs they stick rooted to their father's laws, their father's allies and their father's wars. They lie scattered and no cause will unite them. Prowling in the dark they are far weaker than they realise.

The Mors Pack huddled to the east felt safe behind their stone walls. The walls are constructed from thick grey blocks, not shaped smooth but instead resolutely rugged and sharp despite the years weathering. The walls are so thick that they become homes for the lowest kind of pack wolf, the Omega's. These miserable wretches are the dregs of society, pissed on in the hierarchy. They are slaves, descendants from wolves stolen in battle. Never will their children know freedom not unless they risk going rogue. But the life of a rogue is revolting and feared by all. Few chose it for the meagre prize of freedom. Life is bloodier and wilder out of a pack. So their Alpha's would have them believe. 

The Alpha of the Mors Pack had been a grand, blustering fellow. He had been proud and traditional with an appropriate amount of snobbery for a man in his position. It had cut him deep when, his pack attacked by a foe they could not name, he had been forced to plead for aid from others, from a usurper no less. In the end his shameful display had been for nothing. His grand stone walls hadn't fallen. They just belonged to another set of hands now. No longer did the glowing eyes of the wolves glare down from the seven watch towers. His wolves were for the most part dead. The proud Alpha's head decorated a rather handy basketball hoop that acted in the stead of a more traditional spike. The man, Zeke had been his name, had hurtled into battle and done all he could to defend his people. For that he had been granted a clean, swift death. It was mercy not often shown.

Now behind these high stone walls and seven watch towers is huddled the ghost-like settlement of a very close knit community. The school house has become extra space for prison cells. The square, that had once seen carol singers now housed a soiled execution platform. The people scurry passed it, eyes averted save for the twisted few that look up at the blood stained wooden slats and smile. The Alpha's mansion has been transformed. It works as a community hall, a place for prayer, communal dinners and debate. But washing lines run along its gloomy corridors like creepers and damps clothes and sheets create a labyrinth.

We follow now a set of feet that lightly progress through this labyrinth. The owner of these feet does not mind the obstacles but walks confidently the quickest route, navigating with ease. It had been his idea after all, so he had no reason to complain. He had been tired of his sheets stinking of smoke and so had hung them up in the billiard room instead. He reasoned that this old house seemed to encourage the cold and the wind so the clothes would dry just as well as if they had been left out doors.

We might examine his boots, old, black made from soft leather. They're not new but they've been well cared for, recently polished and the laces are fresh and tied with severe harshness. His feet are narrow but large, supporting a man who towers over most. On his left foot, though you can't see it, he has a tattoo of an eye and on that foot's heel, a daisy. The floral decoration can't be ridiculed. He has no shame in it for he knows the story behind it. Besides, he's not a man to have his masculinity questioned.     

His past is his to tell. You only really need to know that he is not a werewolf. He knows their ways though and sympathizes for he is not fully human either. But he's busy, much too busy to sit and speculate about what it means to be him. So instead he strides out of this crumbling mansion and heads purposefully across the yard. Men and woman nod respectfully as he goes by, fear but also admiration in their eyes. Perhaps for a few there is even more than admiration. Walking tall and confidant, a jacket dons his broad shoulders but still reveals his chiselled torso. His muscles ripple as he walks with the deadly saunter of a jungle cat.