"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster..." -Nietzsche
August 30, 1773
When Sean Hooke was bitten on the Blue Moon, at first he knew nothing and then pain: only pain. Pain not like being stabbed with a sword in his heart, but a dull pain, like - how could he describe it? - like leaning on a body part for too long.
At first he knew not what was happening to him as he passed out from the intensity of the growing pains, but by the end of the hour he had changed from a small yet fit and strong man into a lumbering and lanky yet very athletic - what's the word? - lycanthropic beast. His hands had changed into paws with four toes with his thumb a vestigial dew claw; his feet were now four-toed and digitigrade; his ears were pointy and resting on top of his head, highly sensitive and articulate; his spine had elongated into a tail while his face had elongated into a muzzle; and his chest had barreled out to be able to fit larger lungs, the shoulder blades no longer attached to the collarbone. The man who had bitten him, for that was all he was now, lay quivering on the ground, clearly in the last few minutes of his life. Glancing around at the group of hunters gathered before him, Sean Hooke gave his last order, "Why art thou all standing there? Shoot me," but all that came forth was a blood-curdling growl.
That was when everything changed. He knew not what had gotten into him, but before he could stop the beast inside of him that had changed his form for, for all he knew, an eternity, the man had been ripped apart and devoured by his teeth and claws. My teeth and claws!
As his body claimed the sustenance to build itself, the villagers began to charge him in a riot. He fled, not knowing whether from fear of being killed by the mob or from the revulsion at what he had just done. Into the forest he fled, oblivious to the pain in his paws from the rocks and thorns. My paws!
He fled, not stopping even for the faint scent of a rabbit's droppings, not odorous to even the keenest of human sinuses. The thought occurred to him that he should dig the rabbit out of its burrow but he pushed it aside. He was still recoiling from the events that seemed to take a day although they only comprised an hour and a half. He fled until he could flee no more, exhaustion forcing him to stop at last. Finding a shelter situated underneath a tree root, he lied down in what appeared to be a fetal curl, but was more a lupine resting position.
God, help me find death here, he thought, terrified of what he had become and what was to come. As his eyes closed, he drifted into dreams filled with the howling of his newly found ancestors.
Sean Hooke found himself in a landscape that could be described as ethereal: auroras dancing amidst stars and a full moon, his lupine form floating in the emptiness above the world. He ran just to see if he could, and to his surprise, he found himself rambling amidst the heavens, worries falling away like shooting stars. Then, he heard a voice, a voice that he had previously only heard as howls and growls, calling out to him: "Sean Hooke, come here..."
"Thranthrope..." he replied, coming to him at once, his ears guiding him to where he stood, his body - lycanthropic again - standing tall and strong like a god. "Why...why hast thou done this to me? Why?!"
"My child, did thou not ever stop to think about what thou were doing all those years as a Lycanculler? Thou thought us the monsters, and rightly so in thy heart for thy bedside stories taught thee to fear us, but we and thou art not what thee believes. On orders of the king to secure the colonies from threats, hunters - Lycancullers and others - have committed nothing short of genocide, and those who fight monsters must make sure not to become them. Thou and other Lycancullers failed in that regard, but now is thy chance at redemption.
"Shall thee lead the last Lycan pack to its doom, or will thee help it to be fruitful and multiply and to roam free in the wilderness once again? A time of war is coming, Sean Hooke; be ready.
"Now is the time to receive thy new name, the name thou shalt bear as the heir of Thranthrope to the pack. Sean Hooke was human, but thou art more than that: thou art Otherkin. Therefore, thou shalt be called Hooklaw, the new Alpha of the last Lycan pack...or the first in a new era. Thy pack calls for you, Hooklaw; arise!"
Hooklaw awoke to a snarling wifwolf just outside his shelter. "Who art thou," she growled, "and what art thee doing here on Thranthrope's territory?"
"I art Hooklaw, his heir," he replied, using the name Thranthrope had bestowed upon him in his vision.
At this, the wifwolf whined sorrowfully. "Oh no... The prophecy... Theaswif told him not to go; that he, her husband, would die at the hands of Lycancullers... THEASWIF!" she howled, a mournful cry raised up for one who had been widowed.
"I come," came the reply, and before long, a white wifwolf came into view, wearing what seemed to be an Indian-style shoulder robe. Hooklaw remembered how his own clothes had been stone shards around him after he had transformed, and could not help but wonder how she managed to wear the fabric. "Sworfitch, I know it's hard to deal with the loss of our Alpha, but... Oh. Oh, my." As Hooklaw picked himself up off the ground, she examined his form with glowing eyes. "Thou resembles Thranthrope, but when he was younger. Thou must be the new Alpha. Come with me; there is a pack with whom thou must meet and familiarize thyself. I see thou has met Sworfitch already."
Looking at himself, Hooklaw noticed that he had a coat of reddish-blonde fur. Thranthrope's was almost white... Scratching the back of his head with his right forepaw, he muttered, "Uh...yeah." Not the most pleasant or formal of greetings from the welcoming party...but Sworfitch seems nice, as does Theaswif. I think the former is trying to hide a strong person under that tough yet insecure wifwolf shell, yet I know not why... I wonder what the rest of the pack is like...
___
A/N: Slightly shorter this time, but hooray for double-updates! I have finger and wrist cramps now... XD
I could really use a cover for this novel I'm writing, but I have one condition: No heptagrams! This is meant to be just for fun and (mostly) SFW and family-friendly, and I don't want any parents getting the wrong idea from a look at the cover. Comprendé?
Thanks for reading, and be sure to tell me what you think so far! Leave a vote if you really liked it!
I decided Imagine Dragons' "Believer" fit this chapter as a sort of conversation between Hooklaw and Thranthrope - see if you can guess who is singing on the different lines! (Update 1/06/2020: I have replaced "Believer" with Sam Tinnesz's "Man or a Monster" - let me know what you think of this one!)
The part about clothes turning to stone came from a Halloween assignment in my first year of Latin. It seemed legit, so I used it.
If you're wondering why I use the term "wifwolf" when referring to the ladies, I suggest you follow Haggard Hawks on Twitter and check out his newsletter archives for some word-nerdiness. All words tweeted by him are 100% legit; however, I coined the term "wifwolf" myself from the Old English for "woman", wif, as compared to the Old English for "man", wer, which, as Haggard Hawks notes, "...oddly enough, is preserved in the word werewolf." I'm sure you can surmise the rest.
Until next time!
*Last edited October 13, 2019*
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The Otherkin Chronicles ¦ Book 1: Lycan
Fiksi Sejarah"When he got bitten on the full moon, at first he felt nothing, then pain - only pain." Sean Hooke was the best Werewolf Hunter in colonial America. A fervent believer in their need to be eradicated after the death of his wife five years earlier at...
