Post by Moonshaft on Apr 3, 2009 18:16:08 GMT -5
[[ Well, not really a comedy, but we can all dream, can't we? Since this is a free for all gallery, thought, since I need some constructive criticism for this random short I was thinking about, perhaps I'll throw something of my own up there. This isn't completely recent, though as far as my writing in the art of short stories for the sake of, it is. An assignment for my old Creative Writing class(which may explain it's short nature for a story since I had a maximum on how long it had to be), titled "Freedom". Coos of love or the flaming pits of hate, I don't care. Though, any review would be interesting and pleasurable to hear. Don't worry about being nice, because I can be a mean bastard sometimes too. ]]
“Of course, it’s the only pub in town that has an even decent amount of pretty little girlies, and I’m not even allowed inside!”
“Come on now den, can’t be all dat bad. We can find a new one we can!” Bright blue eyes light up at the statement, pupils condensed to small pinpoints as dirt freckled hands reached up to punch at a dark wood frame. Allowing a heavy sigh to pass through partially chapped lips, oily black hair was flipped back behind slightly tanned ears in thought.
“Dinna ye mind, Rafe? Not many ter be ‘ccepted in times like these, ‘specially you.” His companion placed a calm hand on an otherwise tense shoulder, ignoring the split ended hairs that fell upon the back of a clean hand. Air falling still for a few moments between them, a sudden snort of amusement broke the otherwise deathly silence as Rafe twisted to face his friend with a flickered smirk.
“Ah, but my dearest little Scottish friend! You have no sense of adventure, do you?” Predictably, brilliant green eyes narrowed to small slits, once apologetic smile shifting to that of a thin-mouthed scowl.
“Yestre’en, two a me buds bet a paction on da pub, ne’va seen ‘em ‘gain.”
“Would you stop talking in that ancient language of yours? I can’t barely understand a God damn word that you’re tryin’ to say,” Rafe paused for a moment, rubbing the end of his temple with a grown out fingernail rhythmically, “and don’t you try and pull the ‘but it’s been in the family for years’ rubbish. I know your game, and I know that you’re only going to keep doin’ it even after I retire for the night, Smithy.” The scowl stayed ever glued upon his friend’s face, the hand that once laid upon Rafe’s shoulder whipped forwards to flick the end of his nose roughly.
“I can’t under’stan why ye keep ‘tendin to call me dat! It aint me na—” A sudden crash and scramble was heard through the thick door and windows, golden glow from the many lit candles inside growing dark as if a looming figure dared to step across them before the light danced upon the glass once more. Gaze lighting with mischief, Rafe shifted his weight onto one foot and threw open the door, a maddening grin flashed momentarily towards Smithy before trancing inside the pub with a lightened step; ignoring the large white sign nailed to the top of the door, obnoxious and hastily written letters reading “No Werewolves”.
The source of the fray stood heaving in the large circle of onlookers, bar tender gripping the edge of a broken glass mug in contemplation of using it against the skull of the brute within the barrier. Both table and chairs stained with years of the drink and other bodily fluids lay tipped and scattered across the floor, blown out candles and platters still holding bread and cheese melding into one another both on the floor and smeared along the walls.
“All’a you blokes ‘ave no idea wha kinda trouble ya’ll’re brewin’!” Bellowed the rather brutish looking fighter within the onlookers, large hands curling into fists as he attempted a swing at one of the more scraggly beggars with a giant’s might, his weight tumbling forwards as he missed by more than a long shot due to the drink in his veins. As Rafe inched closer towards the ongoing “brawl” with curiosity, he noticed blood staining the tips of the man’s knuckles, short blonde hair appearing as though it was cut with a broad axe tussled around stubbed ears. Keeping his body to a low crouch, he melded his way among the flurry of the “crowd”, the sight of a few broken and unconscious bodies strewn across a nearby corner causing a twinge of discomfort in his gut.
Unknowing and caring as to Smithy’s whereabouts, or if he had even followed him into the scene, Rafe almost immediately noticed the thick, cloudy haze that blanketed the brute’s golden brown eyes. Both gazes caught each other almost instantaneously, intensity so great that he had not noticed that he sleuthed himself to the front of the crowd for a better view before he was pushed by another into the almost death-guaranteed arena by a foreign pair of gloved hands. It was then that a slimy, golden toothed smile spread across the lips of the brutal fighter, gaze gleaming with the sight of the newest victim to his drunken assaults.
“Oi, ready to fight me then, are you?” His husky voice echoed along the wooden walls, hesitant barkeeper inching around the corner of the bar table and towards the strife with careful steps. Rafe paused in his breathing so that his head could trail upwards to the giant of a man, bright eyes flicking from his mouth to clouded eyes quickly.
“Here to fight you? Why, my dear man…I’m only here to survey your ability for the annual contest! It’s called stuffed a ball in your jaw and see if you can get it back out!” His poise shifted to that of an almost professional stance, one arm placed behind him while the other lay in front of his chest so that he could grab a nearby material for defense if needed. At that, the opponent’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, slouched back straightening for a moment in attempts to think through the drink clouding his brain.
“Bu’…wha? That don’t make no sense ‘cause your shirts all torn up and stuff, ya bloody short bloke. C’mere so that I can gut ya...” At that he lunged for Rafe, sweat stained hands groping for his hair and loose fitting shirt, although the boy was too quick for him and lunged for a gap in the crowd so that he could escape into the afternoon rays of light outside. The blur of faces suddenly subsided when he felt a pair of hands wrap around the thin of his waist tightly, unknown strength pulling him backwards into the hulking gut of the bloodthirsty man behind him, decaying teeth gleaming in a sadistic grin. Rafe (unknowing that his efforts of physical fighting would soon prove invaluable) placed himself on all fours upon the wooden floor below and bared his own unnaturally sharp canines before lunging for his opponent’s throat.
Unsuspecting a retaliation from the man that was chosen to be broken and thrown in the corner with the rest of the unconscious “misfits”, the man’s eyes widened for a moment in surprise before in arm thrust itself in front of his face as Rafe’s teeth sunk themselves into the hairy flesh of his arms, his free right hand smashing itself into the side of his assailants shoulder so that Rafe was unable to gain balance on the ground and stumble in his step. Relishing in the chance at a final victory, the brutish male was ready to impound his fist into his opponent’s spine when he noticed the edges of an imprinted scar behind the tattered collar of a white poet shirt. Unable to contain a shout of joy, Rafe knew what was found and attempted to scramble from the grip of his challenger, but was unable to pull away before his head was grabbed and shoved underneath the disgustingly hairy and sweat pungent armpit.
“Whadda we go’ ‘ear, mates? I tink we go’ us a Shifta.” He could feel the collar and some of the back of his long sleeve and hard material shirt being ripped from his body to portray scars from a rod what was appeared to be a symbol of a paw print hot ironed between his shoulder blades. Knowing that his chance of survival was coming to a close, Rafe’s face and shoulders dropped with defeat, the pull on his lungs tightening from holding his breath so that the reeking stench of sweat didn’t taint the inside of his nose.
“Aye, boys! Two girlies with two priests, get ‘em be’fo it be too late!” Smithy’s voice could suddenly be heard from the large doorway, urgency and hesitation lacing his words heavily. His opponent suddenly dropped him to the ground below, uncaring of the section of tattered shirt that lay nearby as he and his friends bulleted from the now empty pub and down the small dirt road towards the small church around the bend. Rafe lay on the ale and dirt covered wooden floor for a moment before inhaling a large influx of air and pushing himself up into a slouched stand.
The once ascending bartender seemed to be glued to the edge of wall near the door, eyes empty and lifeless as the weapon that he would have used to stop the ruthless (and rather rude) man from causing anymore trouble lodged into his throat.
“Poor bloke didn’t stand a chance against a few of that bloody idiot’s friends…ah…well…might as well get some bread from down at the market.” Rafe spoke quietly to no one in particular as he stumbled past Smithy and into the bright afternoon air of outside. “And I swear to you, Smithy, for everything’s sake, would you try and speak like at least a normal Scotsman!” He found himself snarling at the friend that had pulled him from almost certain death at the hands of what would be considered in his time as “a defender of a human’s rights”. Smithy shook his head for a few moments before patting his friend’s shoulder softly.
“I know dat you be no ‘ccepted ‘mongst evy’one else, but dat dun’ mean you can go n’ trea’ meh like som’mn dat ‘aint got no brains.” A scowl crossed his lips for a moment before it turned to a thin lined frown as Rafe stood up carefully, gaze growing ever so brighter in the light of the sun.
“Yeah, yeah, Smithy. I know I shouldn’t have ‘ave said that, but sometimes I can’t help it, y’know? As long as that bloody King Edward is in charge, I’ll just be a doggy without a pile of hay and dirt of a home to call his own,” A smile flickered upon his lips as the ends of his fingers twitched slightly in thought before he turned to shine his smile upon the face of an otherwise disgruntled Smithy, “but, that’s all right! As long as I got a few bones and I really nice knack for eating through leather thong leashes...I think I’ll get by pretty damned well.” A small snort escaped his friend as he adjusted the dark green collar of a heavy over jacket, a small hunting dagger slung carefully over the waist while a brown studded vest protected Smithy’s fragile flesh underneath; flaming red hair tied back into a large ponytail whilst the small stub of hair on his chin seemed to define his plump lips.
“Ya know what I don’t understand, Smithy…” Rafe leaned over for a moment, bare feet scraping into the dirt below while a single finger reached forwards to poke at one of the metal studs on his friend’s vest, “is why you bother to wear so much petty little accessories when you aren’t going to die anytime…soon…” It was then that Rafe felt a new pair of eyes upon him, the hair on the back of his neck rising from the sudden feeling of another creeping closer and closer towards them. He was unready for another brawl, muscles in his shoulders raw from the punch of sheer power into him from earlier as he twisted in a small circle towards a neighboring forest quick enough to glimpse a bright golden gaze peering out between the low branches of a newborn yearling. Smithy shifted for a moment with distain as Rafe made his way towards the mesmerizing eyes, coal of a pupil melding almost too perfectly into the shadows announcing them to be the servant of none other than a beckoning wolf.
“Tink dat doog wants a scrap?”
“You wouldn’t understand, mate.” Rafe murmured softly as he made his way into and through the shadows of the overgrown brush, the speckled brown fur of the wolf ahead melding almost too well into the shadows of the branches above. Heavy steps from the hesitant Smithy could be heard from behind, large feet stumbling over upturned roots as easily as his friend glided effortlessly over them. It was not long before the over grown canine reached a man-made clearing, paws avoiding certain patches of fresh grass as it took a place near a particularly large red wood trunk. Rafe stood near the side of the hideout, the warmth of understood acceptance flowing through him as others melded into the light from their hidden nooks. Other wolves of variance of color and sizes accompanied those that were not in fur; black cloth hung loosely about their mouths while brown hoods kept their gazes hidden from all but the minds of those who knew them.
The sound of numerous bones crunching and inhaled gasps for air could be heard from behind them causing Rafe to half jump forwards into the denser afternoon light of the clearing so that the newly shifted being could properly address him from the front. Crazily tussled brown hair laid upon the head of a rather bedraggled looking man, deep set wrinkles under the eyes and mouth giving him the appearance of old age although Rafe himself knew the cause of such an array of folded over skin.
“Good to see that we have a new member to tonight’s strike team.” The man proclaimed with a silk-like voice, skin set in deep tan while no accent that Rafe knew of flowed through his terms.
“W-wha’? Wha stri’ team?” Smithy stumbled at his words, gaze flitting between the larger normal wolves and the newly arrived older male. Rafe laughed for a moment, noticing yet ignoring the scarred paw print much like his own on the nape of the other’s neck.
“Now then, mate, I don’t remember volunteering for such a run.” He laughed for a moment, naked toes playing with the blades of cool grass below. The other smiled in returned, canines much like his gleaming in the light for a moment before taking a stride towards them, holding out a greeting hand.
“You may call me by the name Rasha'al, my own apologies for not being completely honest with you.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed for a moment before taking the hand and shaking it firmly, a sure smirk planted upon his lips.
“In times like these, I be lucky to know the true name of my own mother.” Snorts of laughter from both wolf and man echoed along the trees and bushes as the air seemed to grow in warmth; causing even the tense Smithy to loosen stiff shoulders. “Now, what was that raid that you were talkin’ about, mate?”
“Ah, of course…” Rasha'al trailed into silence for a moment so that he could make his way towards an aged tree trunk nimbly. Lifting the top of the dummy stump, he retrieved a pair of old worn leather skivvies so that he could place them upon his otherwise bare skin and body as they conversed. “I’m sure that you are well aware, my wolven friend, of the ruler’s ‘regulations’ of the land?” Rafe nodded palely in confirmation, the hot iron scar between his shoulder blades suddenly burning with memory. “Then I am sure that you are aware of the ‘precautions’ he has taken to supposedly keep us under control.” One of the wolves, fur bristled from age and anger snarled particularly loud, left eye missing from its darkened socket.
“We plan a raid of his pathetic excuse of a castle tonight, to slay him where he sleeps and rid our race of the daemon that has tormented us for far too long.” Rafe laughed at that, a hand placed on either side of his waist as he tilted his body to the left with an ever so present smirk.
“Sounds like you got that from the corny ‘ittle Bard in the nothing pub a few miles out of town. Been listening to musical drunkards a ‘ittle too much, have you?” Rasha'al gave his own laugh at that fingers twiddling upon each other in front of his chest in both thought and boredom.
“I watched the fight between you and one of the King’s gaurd, a nasty little man that he is. But, that is beside the point. Do you desire to join us, young wolven?” Rafe caught his breath at the offer to slay the oppressive King where he stood, release the bond of a long aged mark on his back and live a new life without the brand holding such a curse.
“When is the soonest we can break?” His blood boiled in his veins, ready for the chance at a berserking fight against authority when he heard Smithy’s choke of disbelief.
“Yer ‘eally gonna fi’ da law of da land now, ‘r ya?” He whispered into Rafe’s ear solemnly, knees shaking slightly in fear for the life of his friend. Rasha'al bowed his head from the conversation and beckoned a select few of man and wolf into a far shaded corner for planning.
“Come now then, Smithy! Do you have no confidence in my strength?” Rafe flexed his shoulders playfully, causing a giggle to be stifled from his friend in an attempt to keep the seriousness of the situation.
“I jus’ worry ‘bout you, Rafe. Wha’ if ya dun’ come back?”
“Then carry on with your life and get over if it, if it does happen.”
The once briskly warm afternoon air turned to that of cold fingers trailing themselves across ones skin as the gathered troupe pushed themselves through the dirt and rock infested road before them towards the stony home of their self appointed “leader”. Rafe stood shirtless against a dark purple banner, golden emblem of a lion glaring down at those who dare enter the confines without invitation as he watched what appeared to be a legion of beasts stealthily pushing themselves up the stone walls and courtyards. Turning to see a bright light flicker in one of the tower walls, a large lump grew in his throat as the fear of being caught and thrown into yet another chamber of torture filled his already jumpy mind. It was not long before he glimpsed one of the more bedraggled werewolves slip in through an uncovered window and bite out the throat of whatever guard or servant hovered among the possessions of the room.
It was then that a series of snarls emanated from the depths of the portcullis, the once human Rasha'al stood in the shadow of one of the larger chains connecting the wooden bridge to the ground below, light brown snout tainted with sweat and blood while piercing eyes glared down at him in a beckoning way. Acknowledging his call, Rafe slide through the shadows and up the darkened hallway quietly, the blood in his veins begging wildly for the shift to come upon him, bones and muscles to twist to and fro to give way to a more powerful form. It was not long before the final chamber was reached, hair on his arms and shoulders grown out to a thick tuft of bristled black fur while his eyes glowed brighter than that of ice.
The golden lock to the otherwise fragile wooden door gleamed within the firelight of the torch set upon the wall nearest to him, outgrown nails and canines appearing more menacing as the shadows grew upon his partially wolven face. He could hear the quickened heartbeat of those inside the chamber, pungent smell of sweat floating through the crack underneath the door and into Rafe’s attuned nostrils. Grinning deeply with the thought of a final destruction, he slipped one of his more jagged nails into the lock and turned it this way and that; determined to hear the click of acceptance. Pausing as he heard a chair skid from its place on the wooden ground, the sound of heavy leather boots thunk against the floor below as an unknown being made its way towards the entrance.
“Cool it, cool it, matey! I’m openin’ the door all ready! Gawrsh…the younger generation…” Rafe heard one of the guard mumble to himself before the tumbles of the lock twisted upon themselves and opened to reveal a partially decorated room, the King examining himself in a glamorously decorated mirror while two guards including the one who had opened the door for Rafe to trance inside stood only to guard him. The man’s babbling surprise was completely evident as Rafe grinned maliciously and brought himself upon the enemy, sharpened teeth and nails tearing into the skin below. He could feel the blood pulse between the space of his finger and soon to be claws, thin tuft of fur that covered his otherwise bar chest tipped from the blood that had been drawn from the lifeless men below him.
King Edward jumped at the noise of his guards being slaughtered and tossed out the open window. Howls from pack members could be heard from down the hallway and outside the portcullis, angered and hurried yells to “slay the maniac beasts” echoing from corners of the open courtyard. Rafe turned to face the living royalty slowly, attempting to hold back a wave of joyous bloodlust as he took half quickened steps towards the trembling man.
“W-what do you demonic beasts want with me?! Gold?! Land?! I can give you anything you want!” Rafe paused for a moment, distance unknown so that he could cock his head to the side in thought, eyes squinted with perplexity. Taking the notion as a sign of interest, King Edward clasped a hand in front of his waist while the other adjusted the golden crown upon an otherwise clean shaven scalp. “Y-yes, you heard me, did you not? I can give you anything…anything that you desire…”
“You can give me women and gold, ya say, mate?” Rafe rasped lowly, a grumble ever present in the back of his throat as he took a few steps closer to the frozen king. The royalty member paused for a moment, a flickering smile replacing the otherwise horrified and open-mouthed gape.
“Women! Gold! Anything that you have your heart set on!...You say that you despise the law of one deer per man? Well, three for you and the brothels are priceless to boot! What say you to that, then, good sir? A deal between honest men such as you and I.” The king seemed pleased with himself as he spoke, eyes closing so that he could wipe a bit of the excess sweat from his brow.
“Freedom.”
“What was that, my boy? Free dames?” Rafe narrowed his eyes for a moment as he bared his teeth to repeat himself.
“The bane of my paw print, I want it gone, you fat arse.” At that, King Edward immediately scowled, pushing back a red velvet cape as dark blue eyes bore down on Rafe as any royalty would to a dog.
“Freedom? To a monster that can’t seem keep his devil’s magic at bay from the world? I think no—” Vowels were cut short as the sound of flesh and muscle being ripped from otherwise fragile bone echoed along the walls, smooth waves of crimson liquid dribbling from the now opened flaps of skin and onto the floor below. Rafe’s now fully formed claws lay embedded in the royalty’s neck, wrist twisting left and right to assure victory as Edward’s eyes stared up at him with disbelief before slumping forwards onto the furred and muscled arm of his assassin. Scowling with disgust, he untwined his fingers from the open wound and shoved the body against the wall, once human limbs and skin shifted to that of a wolven figure; large ears pressed against the back of a bristle furred neck while thick lips curl to reveal the glistening fangs to an otherwise dirtied muzzle.
“…Freedom…”
“Of course, it’s the only pub in town that has an even decent amount of pretty little girlies, and I’m not even allowed inside!”
“Come on now den, can’t be all dat bad. We can find a new one we can!” Bright blue eyes light up at the statement, pupils condensed to small pinpoints as dirt freckled hands reached up to punch at a dark wood frame. Allowing a heavy sigh to pass through partially chapped lips, oily black hair was flipped back behind slightly tanned ears in thought.
“Dinna ye mind, Rafe? Not many ter be ‘ccepted in times like these, ‘specially you.” His companion placed a calm hand on an otherwise tense shoulder, ignoring the split ended hairs that fell upon the back of a clean hand. Air falling still for a few moments between them, a sudden snort of amusement broke the otherwise deathly silence as Rafe twisted to face his friend with a flickered smirk.
“Ah, but my dearest little Scottish friend! You have no sense of adventure, do you?” Predictably, brilliant green eyes narrowed to small slits, once apologetic smile shifting to that of a thin-mouthed scowl.
“Yestre’en, two a me buds bet a paction on da pub, ne’va seen ‘em ‘gain.”
“Would you stop talking in that ancient language of yours? I can’t barely understand a God damn word that you’re tryin’ to say,” Rafe paused for a moment, rubbing the end of his temple with a grown out fingernail rhythmically, “and don’t you try and pull the ‘but it’s been in the family for years’ rubbish. I know your game, and I know that you’re only going to keep doin’ it even after I retire for the night, Smithy.” The scowl stayed ever glued upon his friend’s face, the hand that once laid upon Rafe’s shoulder whipped forwards to flick the end of his nose roughly.
“I can’t under’stan why ye keep ‘tendin to call me dat! It aint me na—” A sudden crash and scramble was heard through the thick door and windows, golden glow from the many lit candles inside growing dark as if a looming figure dared to step across them before the light danced upon the glass once more. Gaze lighting with mischief, Rafe shifted his weight onto one foot and threw open the door, a maddening grin flashed momentarily towards Smithy before trancing inside the pub with a lightened step; ignoring the large white sign nailed to the top of the door, obnoxious and hastily written letters reading “No Werewolves”.
The source of the fray stood heaving in the large circle of onlookers, bar tender gripping the edge of a broken glass mug in contemplation of using it against the skull of the brute within the barrier. Both table and chairs stained with years of the drink and other bodily fluids lay tipped and scattered across the floor, blown out candles and platters still holding bread and cheese melding into one another both on the floor and smeared along the walls.
“All’a you blokes ‘ave no idea wha kinda trouble ya’ll’re brewin’!” Bellowed the rather brutish looking fighter within the onlookers, large hands curling into fists as he attempted a swing at one of the more scraggly beggars with a giant’s might, his weight tumbling forwards as he missed by more than a long shot due to the drink in his veins. As Rafe inched closer towards the ongoing “brawl” with curiosity, he noticed blood staining the tips of the man’s knuckles, short blonde hair appearing as though it was cut with a broad axe tussled around stubbed ears. Keeping his body to a low crouch, he melded his way among the flurry of the “crowd”, the sight of a few broken and unconscious bodies strewn across a nearby corner causing a twinge of discomfort in his gut.
Unknowing and caring as to Smithy’s whereabouts, or if he had even followed him into the scene, Rafe almost immediately noticed the thick, cloudy haze that blanketed the brute’s golden brown eyes. Both gazes caught each other almost instantaneously, intensity so great that he had not noticed that he sleuthed himself to the front of the crowd for a better view before he was pushed by another into the almost death-guaranteed arena by a foreign pair of gloved hands. It was then that a slimy, golden toothed smile spread across the lips of the brutal fighter, gaze gleaming with the sight of the newest victim to his drunken assaults.
“Oi, ready to fight me then, are you?” His husky voice echoed along the wooden walls, hesitant barkeeper inching around the corner of the bar table and towards the strife with careful steps. Rafe paused in his breathing so that his head could trail upwards to the giant of a man, bright eyes flicking from his mouth to clouded eyes quickly.
“Here to fight you? Why, my dear man…I’m only here to survey your ability for the annual contest! It’s called stuffed a ball in your jaw and see if you can get it back out!” His poise shifted to that of an almost professional stance, one arm placed behind him while the other lay in front of his chest so that he could grab a nearby material for defense if needed. At that, the opponent’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, slouched back straightening for a moment in attempts to think through the drink clouding his brain.
“Bu’…wha? That don’t make no sense ‘cause your shirts all torn up and stuff, ya bloody short bloke. C’mere so that I can gut ya...” At that he lunged for Rafe, sweat stained hands groping for his hair and loose fitting shirt, although the boy was too quick for him and lunged for a gap in the crowd so that he could escape into the afternoon rays of light outside. The blur of faces suddenly subsided when he felt a pair of hands wrap around the thin of his waist tightly, unknown strength pulling him backwards into the hulking gut of the bloodthirsty man behind him, decaying teeth gleaming in a sadistic grin. Rafe (unknowing that his efforts of physical fighting would soon prove invaluable) placed himself on all fours upon the wooden floor below and bared his own unnaturally sharp canines before lunging for his opponent’s throat.
Unsuspecting a retaliation from the man that was chosen to be broken and thrown in the corner with the rest of the unconscious “misfits”, the man’s eyes widened for a moment in surprise before in arm thrust itself in front of his face as Rafe’s teeth sunk themselves into the hairy flesh of his arms, his free right hand smashing itself into the side of his assailants shoulder so that Rafe was unable to gain balance on the ground and stumble in his step. Relishing in the chance at a final victory, the brutish male was ready to impound his fist into his opponent’s spine when he noticed the edges of an imprinted scar behind the tattered collar of a white poet shirt. Unable to contain a shout of joy, Rafe knew what was found and attempted to scramble from the grip of his challenger, but was unable to pull away before his head was grabbed and shoved underneath the disgustingly hairy and sweat pungent armpit.
“Whadda we go’ ‘ear, mates? I tink we go’ us a Shifta.” He could feel the collar and some of the back of his long sleeve and hard material shirt being ripped from his body to portray scars from a rod what was appeared to be a symbol of a paw print hot ironed between his shoulder blades. Knowing that his chance of survival was coming to a close, Rafe’s face and shoulders dropped with defeat, the pull on his lungs tightening from holding his breath so that the reeking stench of sweat didn’t taint the inside of his nose.
“Aye, boys! Two girlies with two priests, get ‘em be’fo it be too late!” Smithy’s voice could suddenly be heard from the large doorway, urgency and hesitation lacing his words heavily. His opponent suddenly dropped him to the ground below, uncaring of the section of tattered shirt that lay nearby as he and his friends bulleted from the now empty pub and down the small dirt road towards the small church around the bend. Rafe lay on the ale and dirt covered wooden floor for a moment before inhaling a large influx of air and pushing himself up into a slouched stand.
The once ascending bartender seemed to be glued to the edge of wall near the door, eyes empty and lifeless as the weapon that he would have used to stop the ruthless (and rather rude) man from causing anymore trouble lodged into his throat.
“Poor bloke didn’t stand a chance against a few of that bloody idiot’s friends…ah…well…might as well get some bread from down at the market.” Rafe spoke quietly to no one in particular as he stumbled past Smithy and into the bright afternoon air of outside. “And I swear to you, Smithy, for everything’s sake, would you try and speak like at least a normal Scotsman!” He found himself snarling at the friend that had pulled him from almost certain death at the hands of what would be considered in his time as “a defender of a human’s rights”. Smithy shook his head for a few moments before patting his friend’s shoulder softly.
“I know dat you be no ‘ccepted ‘mongst evy’one else, but dat dun’ mean you can go n’ trea’ meh like som’mn dat ‘aint got no brains.” A scowl crossed his lips for a moment before it turned to a thin lined frown as Rafe stood up carefully, gaze growing ever so brighter in the light of the sun.
“Yeah, yeah, Smithy. I know I shouldn’t have ‘ave said that, but sometimes I can’t help it, y’know? As long as that bloody King Edward is in charge, I’ll just be a doggy without a pile of hay and dirt of a home to call his own,” A smile flickered upon his lips as the ends of his fingers twitched slightly in thought before he turned to shine his smile upon the face of an otherwise disgruntled Smithy, “but, that’s all right! As long as I got a few bones and I really nice knack for eating through leather thong leashes...I think I’ll get by pretty damned well.” A small snort escaped his friend as he adjusted the dark green collar of a heavy over jacket, a small hunting dagger slung carefully over the waist while a brown studded vest protected Smithy’s fragile flesh underneath; flaming red hair tied back into a large ponytail whilst the small stub of hair on his chin seemed to define his plump lips.
“Ya know what I don’t understand, Smithy…” Rafe leaned over for a moment, bare feet scraping into the dirt below while a single finger reached forwards to poke at one of the metal studs on his friend’s vest, “is why you bother to wear so much petty little accessories when you aren’t going to die anytime…soon…” It was then that Rafe felt a new pair of eyes upon him, the hair on the back of his neck rising from the sudden feeling of another creeping closer and closer towards them. He was unready for another brawl, muscles in his shoulders raw from the punch of sheer power into him from earlier as he twisted in a small circle towards a neighboring forest quick enough to glimpse a bright golden gaze peering out between the low branches of a newborn yearling. Smithy shifted for a moment with distain as Rafe made his way towards the mesmerizing eyes, coal of a pupil melding almost too perfectly into the shadows announcing them to be the servant of none other than a beckoning wolf.
“Tink dat doog wants a scrap?”
“You wouldn’t understand, mate.” Rafe murmured softly as he made his way into and through the shadows of the overgrown brush, the speckled brown fur of the wolf ahead melding almost too well into the shadows of the branches above. Heavy steps from the hesitant Smithy could be heard from behind, large feet stumbling over upturned roots as easily as his friend glided effortlessly over them. It was not long before the over grown canine reached a man-made clearing, paws avoiding certain patches of fresh grass as it took a place near a particularly large red wood trunk. Rafe stood near the side of the hideout, the warmth of understood acceptance flowing through him as others melded into the light from their hidden nooks. Other wolves of variance of color and sizes accompanied those that were not in fur; black cloth hung loosely about their mouths while brown hoods kept their gazes hidden from all but the minds of those who knew them.
The sound of numerous bones crunching and inhaled gasps for air could be heard from behind them causing Rafe to half jump forwards into the denser afternoon light of the clearing so that the newly shifted being could properly address him from the front. Crazily tussled brown hair laid upon the head of a rather bedraggled looking man, deep set wrinkles under the eyes and mouth giving him the appearance of old age although Rafe himself knew the cause of such an array of folded over skin.
“Good to see that we have a new member to tonight’s strike team.” The man proclaimed with a silk-like voice, skin set in deep tan while no accent that Rafe knew of flowed through his terms.
“W-wha’? Wha stri’ team?” Smithy stumbled at his words, gaze flitting between the larger normal wolves and the newly arrived older male. Rafe laughed for a moment, noticing yet ignoring the scarred paw print much like his own on the nape of the other’s neck.
“Now then, mate, I don’t remember volunteering for such a run.” He laughed for a moment, naked toes playing with the blades of cool grass below. The other smiled in returned, canines much like his gleaming in the light for a moment before taking a stride towards them, holding out a greeting hand.
“You may call me by the name Rasha'al, my own apologies for not being completely honest with you.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed for a moment before taking the hand and shaking it firmly, a sure smirk planted upon his lips.
“In times like these, I be lucky to know the true name of my own mother.” Snorts of laughter from both wolf and man echoed along the trees and bushes as the air seemed to grow in warmth; causing even the tense Smithy to loosen stiff shoulders. “Now, what was that raid that you were talkin’ about, mate?”
“Ah, of course…” Rasha'al trailed into silence for a moment so that he could make his way towards an aged tree trunk nimbly. Lifting the top of the dummy stump, he retrieved a pair of old worn leather skivvies so that he could place them upon his otherwise bare skin and body as they conversed. “I’m sure that you are well aware, my wolven friend, of the ruler’s ‘regulations’ of the land?” Rafe nodded palely in confirmation, the hot iron scar between his shoulder blades suddenly burning with memory. “Then I am sure that you are aware of the ‘precautions’ he has taken to supposedly keep us under control.” One of the wolves, fur bristled from age and anger snarled particularly loud, left eye missing from its darkened socket.
“We plan a raid of his pathetic excuse of a castle tonight, to slay him where he sleeps and rid our race of the daemon that has tormented us for far too long.” Rafe laughed at that, a hand placed on either side of his waist as he tilted his body to the left with an ever so present smirk.
“Sounds like you got that from the corny ‘ittle Bard in the nothing pub a few miles out of town. Been listening to musical drunkards a ‘ittle too much, have you?” Rasha'al gave his own laugh at that fingers twiddling upon each other in front of his chest in both thought and boredom.
“I watched the fight between you and one of the King’s gaurd, a nasty little man that he is. But, that is beside the point. Do you desire to join us, young wolven?” Rafe caught his breath at the offer to slay the oppressive King where he stood, release the bond of a long aged mark on his back and live a new life without the brand holding such a curse.
“When is the soonest we can break?” His blood boiled in his veins, ready for the chance at a berserking fight against authority when he heard Smithy’s choke of disbelief.
“Yer ‘eally gonna fi’ da law of da land now, ‘r ya?” He whispered into Rafe’s ear solemnly, knees shaking slightly in fear for the life of his friend. Rasha'al bowed his head from the conversation and beckoned a select few of man and wolf into a far shaded corner for planning.
“Come now then, Smithy! Do you have no confidence in my strength?” Rafe flexed his shoulders playfully, causing a giggle to be stifled from his friend in an attempt to keep the seriousness of the situation.
“I jus’ worry ‘bout you, Rafe. Wha’ if ya dun’ come back?”
“Then carry on with your life and get over if it, if it does happen.”
~~**~~
The once briskly warm afternoon air turned to that of cold fingers trailing themselves across ones skin as the gathered troupe pushed themselves through the dirt and rock infested road before them towards the stony home of their self appointed “leader”. Rafe stood shirtless against a dark purple banner, golden emblem of a lion glaring down at those who dare enter the confines without invitation as he watched what appeared to be a legion of beasts stealthily pushing themselves up the stone walls and courtyards. Turning to see a bright light flicker in one of the tower walls, a large lump grew in his throat as the fear of being caught and thrown into yet another chamber of torture filled his already jumpy mind. It was not long before he glimpsed one of the more bedraggled werewolves slip in through an uncovered window and bite out the throat of whatever guard or servant hovered among the possessions of the room.
It was then that a series of snarls emanated from the depths of the portcullis, the once human Rasha'al stood in the shadow of one of the larger chains connecting the wooden bridge to the ground below, light brown snout tainted with sweat and blood while piercing eyes glared down at him in a beckoning way. Acknowledging his call, Rafe slide through the shadows and up the darkened hallway quietly, the blood in his veins begging wildly for the shift to come upon him, bones and muscles to twist to and fro to give way to a more powerful form. It was not long before the final chamber was reached, hair on his arms and shoulders grown out to a thick tuft of bristled black fur while his eyes glowed brighter than that of ice.
The golden lock to the otherwise fragile wooden door gleamed within the firelight of the torch set upon the wall nearest to him, outgrown nails and canines appearing more menacing as the shadows grew upon his partially wolven face. He could hear the quickened heartbeat of those inside the chamber, pungent smell of sweat floating through the crack underneath the door and into Rafe’s attuned nostrils. Grinning deeply with the thought of a final destruction, he slipped one of his more jagged nails into the lock and turned it this way and that; determined to hear the click of acceptance. Pausing as he heard a chair skid from its place on the wooden ground, the sound of heavy leather boots thunk against the floor below as an unknown being made its way towards the entrance.
“Cool it, cool it, matey! I’m openin’ the door all ready! Gawrsh…the younger generation…” Rafe heard one of the guard mumble to himself before the tumbles of the lock twisted upon themselves and opened to reveal a partially decorated room, the King examining himself in a glamorously decorated mirror while two guards including the one who had opened the door for Rafe to trance inside stood only to guard him. The man’s babbling surprise was completely evident as Rafe grinned maliciously and brought himself upon the enemy, sharpened teeth and nails tearing into the skin below. He could feel the blood pulse between the space of his finger and soon to be claws, thin tuft of fur that covered his otherwise bar chest tipped from the blood that had been drawn from the lifeless men below him.
King Edward jumped at the noise of his guards being slaughtered and tossed out the open window. Howls from pack members could be heard from down the hallway and outside the portcullis, angered and hurried yells to “slay the maniac beasts” echoing from corners of the open courtyard. Rafe turned to face the living royalty slowly, attempting to hold back a wave of joyous bloodlust as he took half quickened steps towards the trembling man.
“W-what do you demonic beasts want with me?! Gold?! Land?! I can give you anything you want!” Rafe paused for a moment, distance unknown so that he could cock his head to the side in thought, eyes squinted with perplexity. Taking the notion as a sign of interest, King Edward clasped a hand in front of his waist while the other adjusted the golden crown upon an otherwise clean shaven scalp. “Y-yes, you heard me, did you not? I can give you anything…anything that you desire…”
“You can give me women and gold, ya say, mate?” Rafe rasped lowly, a grumble ever present in the back of his throat as he took a few steps closer to the frozen king. The royalty member paused for a moment, a flickering smile replacing the otherwise horrified and open-mouthed gape.
“Women! Gold! Anything that you have your heart set on!...You say that you despise the law of one deer per man? Well, three for you and the brothels are priceless to boot! What say you to that, then, good sir? A deal between honest men such as you and I.” The king seemed pleased with himself as he spoke, eyes closing so that he could wipe a bit of the excess sweat from his brow.
“Freedom.”
“What was that, my boy? Free dames?” Rafe narrowed his eyes for a moment as he bared his teeth to repeat himself.
“The bane of my paw print, I want it gone, you fat arse.” At that, King Edward immediately scowled, pushing back a red velvet cape as dark blue eyes bore down on Rafe as any royalty would to a dog.
“Freedom? To a monster that can’t seem keep his devil’s magic at bay from the world? I think no—” Vowels were cut short as the sound of flesh and muscle being ripped from otherwise fragile bone echoed along the walls, smooth waves of crimson liquid dribbling from the now opened flaps of skin and onto the floor below. Rafe’s now fully formed claws lay embedded in the royalty’s neck, wrist twisting left and right to assure victory as Edward’s eyes stared up at him with disbelief before slumping forwards onto the furred and muscled arm of his assassin. Scowling with disgust, he untwined his fingers from the open wound and shoved the body against the wall, once human limbs and skin shifted to that of a wolven figure; large ears pressed against the back of a bristle furred neck while thick lips curl to reveal the glistening fangs to an otherwise dirtied muzzle.
“…Freedom…”
