The Other Side of the Lie (EDITING, ON HOLD)

Two-Mist

Mist yawned and licked the congealing blood from her muzzle. The bright crimson liquid stained her white fur pink, which was in her opinion very undignified. Also, it made her smell faintly of blood even after she dunked in the stream, which alerted whichever unlucky creature she'd chosen as her prey of her presence. If that happened she would go to sleep in whatever shelter she could find with an empty stomach. Hunger didn't make her a better hunter, just more reckless, so she did her best to stay fed.

She stretched, her rump stuck up in the air and her forepaws reaching far out in front of her. She stood, and began to dig a hole large enough for the carcass of the hare at the base of an oak with an expansive canopy of golden leaves. The hare had been nice and plump in preparation for winter. There wasn't much left of it now, but Mist always buried her prey. She didn't like to reflect on why she did, so she kicked dirt over the carcass and turned her back on it. She made her way through the trees, every sense alert for somewhere to sleep, other wolves or prey. What she meant by wolves however, were werewolves.

She'd been changed at eight by a rogue werewolf with the moon sickness, the werewolf equivalent of the rabies some of the street dogs she'd seen in the city long ago. The moonstruck wolf had somehow crossed the Wizard's Peaks –mountains raised by the famed Wizard Darius– that separated the five divisions: werewolf, human, fey, vampire and witch. Mist had been human once. She'd had a family who loved her. But they hadn't loved her enough to keep her after they realized what had attacked her. No normal wolf was that big, at least five hundred pounds of muscle, fangs and ferocious claws serrated to help werewolves shred flesh while doing the most damage possible and causing the most pain.

Mist's father had shot it and hit the beast's rear left leg, but not before the wolf bit her arm. The wolf had still managed to limp faster than her father could run. The only reason she was still breathing nine years later was that her father had taken the gun with him so her mother had to resort to a knife to try killing her. Her mother had deadly aim with a firearm, but not with a blade. It was harsh, but as humans living side by side with supernaturally powerful beings who were not always peaceful, drastic measures had to be taken. Kill or be killed. It wasn't exactly a choice. So Mist had run.

She'd taken off into the woods at an angle so as not to run into her gun-wielding father. Even at eight years old, Mist had understood the consequences of what had happened, what would happen to her later. She hadn't wanted to die, not then and not now. She'd run, and had the scar to prove it. A long, white line from her throat to her right hip where the fur had never grown back. True, werewolves healed incredibly quickly, but something as severe as what had caused the scar still left its mark.

Mist had grown up on the outskirts of Pine City, named after the Pine Rush, a river bordered by a pine forest. That forest was gone now, replaced by glass and concrete and steel. The city had expanded into the forest on the other side of the Pine Rush, where there was a mix of many kinds of trees, but not a single pine tree.

Mist's backyard had once had a gate leading to the woods, on the far side of the Rush where there were no pines. Her family would hunt and forage there whenever money got too tight. Mist had known that part of the woods well and knew –at least partially– how to live off the land. She would find somewhere to live, a good spot to gather, and make herself some tools. Or that was what she'd thought.

It had been the plan of a hurt, inexperienced child. Mist had found a cave to shelter in after a long, painful trek through the woods. Unfortunately, it was already occupied. The werewolf had been asleep, maybe, but had come alert at the smell of the blood seeping from the bite in her bicep that it had afflicted on her previously. The events of that second attack were vague, and Mist was glad of it. From the length of the scar, the wolf had probably gutted her. Mist had a faint impression of whining and the creature backing away before fleeing and leaving her to the hours of pain that followed as Mist's body mended itself.