Chapter 4 - Invitation of the Wilds

Under the branch, over the root, and into the vegetation. Trees passed at a rapid pace as breathing became hard. Behind, the increasingly louder steps of the predator could be heard coming ever so closer. Eyes, brown as Nagrand nuts, widened as the fleeing prey summoned its final shred of strength to gain distance. Muscles were lifted until, right there, it tripped. Stumbling over its own legs, the prey struggled to get back up from the puddle of rainwater it had fallen into, spluttering in confusion and fear. Then, it was as if a massive boulder fell upon it. Gripping is strong claws into the prey’s skin before strong jaws were set firmly into its throat. The prey spasmed and writhed underneath the weight, making a final effort to break free until, finally, it had made its last twitch in its physical existence, slumping down into the pool, which was slowly running red of blood. The predator lifted its head and snapped its bloodied maw shut.

-That- is how you hunt prey, straggler!

From the vegetation behind them, a young, brown-skinned orc appeared, panting heavily as he made his way to the scene of the slaughter. Unable the speak, he simple threw himself down on the ground, no longer caring about the primitive spear he carried as it rolled to the side. It had obviously seen little action. “That’s... no fair,” the orc said with a raspy voice, still trying hard to catch his breath. “The trees... they get in my way... Can’t keep up...”

You two-legs and your way of thinking. Seeking shelter underneath stone and fabric instead of good soil and leaf. You can never be one with nature if you reject yourselves from it.

The young worg, who still had its claws sunk firmly into the ragged hide of the boar underneath it, looked up to the orc. Bloodied fangs spread in what nearly seemed like a mocking, wolfish grin. The beast leapt off the carcass, only to grab it by the throat again and drag its lifeless husk out of the bloodied mess of a rain pool.

Only if you are one with it, you will understand.

The young orc muttered something to himself, only to finally get up to his feet as he made his way to the carcass, already drawing a skinning knife from the side of his leather belt. The worg looked up to him accusingly.

Come on. Really?

The orc looked back at him, before dragging a deep sigh. He sheathed the knife again, only to kneel in front of the dead beast. The wolf dug in to its tough flesh first, obviously taking the best for itself as it had made the kill and, just perhaps, felt a slight sense of superiority over the other. It also cleared a path for the orc to sink his teeth and nails into, savouring the bloodied gift that was spared for him.

Worg and orc feasted together. But it was not always like this. Before the rain season had started, such an alliance was yet unheard of...

It was on a cloudy day, that much can be said. The autumn was yet to reach its peak, and the kaliri were yet to make their long flight to the far south. The late evening welcomed a bright red sundown as it was Kozgugore who ventured through the forests, once again having shirked away from shaman training. What use are blessings and healing salves when you don’t -plan- on getting injured in the first place? He wouldn’t need any of that.

His feet, clad in simple leather and fur-linen boots, brought him to a clearing in the forest where a small river flowed through. He kneeled next to it, dipping both his hands into the clear water as he splashed it up to his face. This feeling, this reassurance, that nature could provide for any of his primitive needs, was comforting. This told him why his father had chosen the path of a hunter over that of a blacksmith, as his father had done. Normally, many sons would accept the profession of their fathers, but Thorg Cragshot had proven otherwise on his Om’riggor. It made him wonder whether he could choose a different path than that of a shaman. In his heart, however, the orc knew that such a thing would be considered not only foolish, but downright blasphemy as well. To turn away from the path of the elements if it was offered to you, would be to disrespect and, who knows, even anger them.

He sighed. Although being shaman wasn’t really that bad, the very reason he’s here is because shaman tutor Galth, despite his great wisdom, bored Kozgugore to death. Of course, it’s important to know the meaning of a certain sign in a vision, or the very origin of each element and of its ability to reach as far as to this world, but-

His thoughts were interrupted by a stirring in the vegetation on the other side of the river. His gaze lifted from the water, keeping himself as still as a rock as he watched how a lone worg, still looking relatively young, strode forth to the river. It lowered its head to drink from the succulent waters. It was then that their eyes met. The brown orc, clad in little more but some furs to warm his young frame, was an easy target to spot in the green surroundings. As their eyes locked, he could do little but sit there and wait, hoping the worg wouldn’t find a reason to leap over the small river. The bright yellow eyes on the other riverside didn’t blink, only stared, as time slowly felt as if it froze.

Perhaps it was a sort of spark that lit, caused by but the subtlest of touches. Silently and without notice, like a small fire in the cropping, only to all too quickly unfold in a great wildfire. It reached to him, over the river, but without moving. In the worg’s eyes, he suddenly saw untold stories, reserved only for the marvels of the wilds, and they slowly grasped his mind. He didn’t even notice how it happened, or for how long, but as he reached out to the furred beast, its thoughts responded in turn. It told him of a life unlike his own, as if it was his for the taking. The wildfire engulfed him, without pain or harm, but instead with a soothing warmth, wrapping him in its fiery blanket as he saw what the worg had seen, even briefly seeing himself through the worg’s eyes. Unbeknownst to himself, he let the feeling overtake him, but as the faintest of disturbance stirred in the grass, he blinked, snapping out of the sensation as quickly as it had grasped him. He gaped, and as the worg’s yellow gaze shot to the side, he followed it, resting his eyes upon a rabbit that had sprung out of the a nearby foliage.

He shook his head. For a second, he looked upon the rabbit as it seemed nothing more but easy prey, filled with wholesome meat, warm liver and little ribs to gnaw on. Nothing more but a snack, but nevertheless enough to feed on for at least a half a day. He felt strange, somehow even disgusted with the strange visions of warm blood rolling down his chin. He stood up, shirking back from the rabbit and the river, as his gaze returned to the wolf. It seemed to watching upon him with what nearly seemed to be accusing eyes. It unnerved him, and even as he turned around to slowly leave the site, he felt fierce eyes prying into his back.

Later that night, when he was safely back at his parents’ hut, resting in his furs, sleep just couldn’t grasp him. He kept twisting and turning, his thoughts still occupied by that worg that nearly seemed as if it had burned a mark of itself inside of him. Frustrated, he tossed the furs aside and got up, walking outside into the fresh, soothing breeze of the night. He deeply inhaled, his thoughts coming to a rest as he focused on the silence. The village was asleep, and any wildlife that could still possibly be up at this time of hour are far away from the village’s perimeter.

He realized this until he saw a stirring in the forest ahead. Startled, he slowly motioned backwards, before his eyes slowly narrowed down to mere slivers, trying to pierce through the dark night to spot the creature ahead. It was the very same worg, and it had been waiting for him.

“Why are you here?! This ain’t a place for you to be at! Go back!”

Kozgugore raised his hand in a fist as he made some fierce gestures into the direction of the worg, hoping to scare it away before it poses a threat to the village. Or, better yet, the village a threat for the worg.

The worg didn’t move a muscle however. Instead, those same, yellow eyes pierced Kozgugore’s own gaze, reaching out to him. It slowly overtook the young orc again, and as his senses calmed, he saw brief flashes of a pack of worgs hunting together, and relying upon one another’s skills. Many images, of the blood and gore and the thrill and glory of a hunt and of life, all forming one and the same word in the end. It was “pack”. That one word that made a difference between life and death in the dangerous world out there was the worg’s explanation. Strength in unity. As Kozgugore seemed to be able to understand him, he chose the young shaman to be his “pack”.

“I... think I understand. I understand -you-. You have more to show me, don’t you?”

The young worg briefly bowed its head in acknowledgement before it, without further delay, turned back to the forest. As it reached the tree line, it glanced back to Kozgugore. The worg’s invitation whispered in his heart: Come, hunt with me. Leave the pain behind and let your life be your own again. There is a place where all time is now, and the choices are simple and always your own. Wolves, they have no chiefs.