Call of the Wild: Chapter 1
A spoiler free Summary of the entire story to date, is as follows:
In a world still healing from ancient wounds, a druidic wolf named Scajaquada gathers and leads a diverse pack of companions on an adventure in a mystical land. Guided by ancestral memory, scent, and spirit, Their journey has taken them beneath the surface, into ancient caverns once protected by druids of old. It has taken them to ancient forgotten ruins of magical spires, and thought a vast wilderness. The pack - those who follow - have formed a rather interesting group, humans, elves, even a spirit and an ill formed imp. And bonds have formed - beyond the expected human bonds - wild bonds, wolf bonds. The bonds are just a small aspect which play into the deeper core of their mission. Their failure would be a loss for all.
They seek to understand, and stop the corruption caused to Nature, by a mysterious unbalance - tears in the natural order which were caused by corrupted entities seeking power and transformation.
I had no foresight of how this story would pan out, or what the plot is. The main story arcs are hidden from me, and I discover them as I write and explore with my characters. But it has been fairly epic. I will post the first chapter here, and we shall see how many others I will publish. I may want to keep later chapters behind a paywall or publish them. Currently I have progressed to roughly the middle of the third novel - tho I haven't transcribed all of that into a story format yet. We shall see. For now, I welcome all to enjoy this and I also enjoy feedback.
Chapter 1:
The ridge ahead overlooked what was known as Velnass Valley, a sacred stretch of forest nestled deep within the heart of an ancient druidic land. The woods were not just alive, but aware. Trees whispered to one another in voices only the old druids and the deeply attuned could hear, their bark etched with subtle runes that shifted in the right light. Roots twisted through the earth like veins, pulsing with the same rhythm as the land itself. Myths told of the groves that walked under moonlight and sacred circles that shimmered just beyond mortal perception. Few dared enter now, and even fewer returned with their minds untouched.
Scajaquada, a lone figure amidst the primeval silence, padded steadily up the slope leading toward the rocky spine of the ridge. The sun had just begun its slow crawl over the horizon, casting a soft amber light across the peaks and filtering through the canopy below. A mist, strange in its consistency, clung low to the treetops in the valley beyond, as if reluctant to let go of the night. Each step brought him closer to the edge, though the valley itself remained obscured, both by the curve of the land and the lingering enchantments of the forest below.
He was a wolf, and nothing more. No jewelry hung from his neck. No feathers, no paint, no carved charms dangled from his fur or tail. Nothing marked him as civilized, nothing indicated that he was anything other than a creature of the wild. And yet, he was so much more than that.
His coat was a deep earthen brown, dense and healthy, brushed by years of wind and rain. His shoulders were broad, the muscle beneath his hide earned through travel rather than battle. There was strength in his gait, but not pride. He was not a creature of dominance, but of presence—a force that existed within the wilderness without seeking to claim it.
Though he bore the title of druid, Scajaquada had long given up the rigid teachings of circle and creed. The formal lessons, the rites, the ceremonies—all had felt like chains forged from well-intended arrogance. Instead, he listened. He watched. He breathed. The world spoke to him not in words, but in scent and sound, the shift of wind over stone, the hum of insects within the bark, the taste of moss on the air. His senses wrote epics no scroll could ever capture. He did not chase power, or knowledge, or even clarity. He sought only harmony. A place where things moved as they should, and where he might rest among them.
The wind moved softly through the canopy above, threading itself between branches draped in moss and heavy with needles. It whispered along the limbs like a breath long held and finally released, brushing the forest’s crown with a hush that only the attuned might notice. In its flow rode the scent of damp earth, thick and loamy from the previous night’s condensation, mingled with the sharp resin of pine sap and the fleeting, elusive trace of movement—a distant rustle, small and quick, somewhere deep within the underbrush. Prey, perhaps, weaving silently through ferns and shadow.
Beneath the ancient boughs, where the morning light trickled through the trees like golden mist, Scajaquada moved with a grace born not of thought but of instinct. Each pawfall landed with the silence of falling snow, finding its place among damp leaves and soft beds of pine without so much as a stir. The forest opened around him as if recognizing the shape of him, though it did not open in welcome. The trees, their trunks thick with age and memory, gave way slowly and reluctantly. Ferns bowed, but not in reverence—more as if shrinking back, wary of something even they did not understand.
This land should have felt like home. Every stone, every crooked root, every breath of air between these trees should have known him as their own. He had walked these paths since the earliest memories of his youth, since the first light had touched his eyes and the wild had claimed him. And yet, there was something wrong now. It was not a loud wrongness, not something seen or heard. It was in the quiet. In the pause between bird calls that never came. In the way the forest seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for something to break.
The tension hung low in the air, just beyond reach but ever present. The trees stood too still, their branches unmoved by any natural breeze. Even the earth beneath his claws felt changed—colder, less vibrant, as though the life within the soil had curled inward and was holding its breath. Something was amiss in the rhythm of the land, and though no cry was raised, the silence said more than enough.
He halted, muscles taut beneath his coat, and raised his head to the wind. It shifted with subtle purpose, curling down from the rocky ridgeline above and slipping through the limbs with a hiss too soft to be called sound. Upon it rode the scent of rain, heavy and close, the kind of storm that drew breath before the first drop ever fell. The pressure of it settled on his shoulders, a weight not from the sky but from the world itself. But it was not just the storm he smelled.
Beneath the honest wetness of rainclouds, beneath the scent of stone and pine, there was another presence. Faint, but insistent. Metallic, like blood left too long in the open air. It coiled through the wind with a rhythm that did not match the forest’s song. It had no place here. It was foreign. Not just to the land, but to the very pattern of life that pulsed through it.
As Scajaquada pressed onward through the thickening forest, the slope beneath his paws began to level. Soon, the trees thinned just enough for the world to open before him. He stepped to the edge of the ridge, where the stone dropped away into a wide, sprawling valley. From this height, the land seemed to breathe. Rolling hills unfolded one after another like the backs of sleeping beasts, their curves draped in shadow and early light. Wisps of mist crept lazily through the trees below, weaving in and out of the woods like spirits reluctant to rise. The valley shimmered with a strange quiet, too still for morning, too hushed for safety.
Then, breaking through the calm, a sound rose from the deep. It came on the wind, low and distant at first, like the groaning of the earth. A howl, but not one known to wolves. It rumbled up from some unseen place and wrapped around the stones and treetops with a voice that was wrong in shape and tone. It was guttural and heavy, carrying the weight of something ancient and unwelcome. It did not speak to the forest. It did not speak to anything that belonged here.
His ears twitched toward the source, and his gaze followed. At the far corner of the valley, the trees grew strange and crooked, leaning away from something unseen. The forest there looked different, as though the very land beneath it wanted to recoil. Shadows clung more thickly to the branches, and the mist pooled instead of drifting. No birds flew above that stretch of canopy, and no light touched the soil below.
That place had a name, though none spoke it without caution. The Caverns, they called it. A place older than the druid groves. A place that even the elders, long before Scajaquada’s time, had marked with warning and silence. He had never gone there. Not even when curiosity pulled at his paws in younger days. Not even when the wind carried whispers from its depths that sounded like words nearly remembered.
Scajaquada kept low, his body pressed close to the uneven ground, muscles taut beneath his fur. Every step he took was measured, each motion fluid and silent. The forest around him seemed to hold its breath, and so did he, blending into the ridge as though carved from the earth itself. The wind had begun to shift, subtle at first, then steadily curling away from the valley. Without hesitation, he adjusted his path and crept upwind, ensuring that whatever lingered below would not taste his scent on the breeze. It was a practiced motion, honed over countless hunts and cautious approaches, but this felt different. This was not prey. This was something else.
He came to rest on a narrow ledge of stone, the ridge dropping away sharply beneath him. A rocky outcrop jutted forward, offering a view into the shrouded valley. He crouched there, still and silent, hazel eyes fixed on the land below. The world stretched out in swells of mist and motionless green, but it was not the beauty of the scene that held his attention. It was the wrongness that clung to it like oil on water.
His nostrils flared, and immediately he knew. The storm was coming fast now. Its scent pressed heavily against his senses—the tang of approaching rain, sharp and electric. Thunder had not yet spoken, but the pressure in the air was rising. It pressed against his ribs, urging him to move, to act, to flee, but he remained rooted.
Below, the trees no longer held the grace of ancient life. They were warped, gnarled into shapes that defied the natural curve of growth. Branches twisted toward the ground instead of the sky, and thick roots bulged above the soil like veins. The forest there was not sick—it was possessed.
Then came the scent. It hit him like a blow: rot, thick and wet. The unmistakable sharpness of blood, old and bitter. And beneath it all, coiling through the storm’s breath, the subtle but undeniable trace of magic. Not the kind that sang in the trees or whispered in the moonlight, but something deeper, fouler. It reeked of purpose, of manipulation. It had been brought here. It did not belong.
The howling came again, more distant this time, but no less dreadful. It rose and fell with that same guttural timbre, as though it clawed its way up from stone and ash. But this time, it was not alone.
From the depths of the valley, somewhere near the heart of that twisted grove, movement stirred. It was not the wind. It was not prey. Something was alive down there—alive and coming closer.
Far below, in the tangled gloom of the valley’s corner, a shadow moved between the crooked trunks. Scajaquada’s eyes narrowed, catching only a fleeting glimpse—but it was enough. Something massive prowled beneath the canopy, hunched and heavy, its silhouette blurred by mist and distance. It did not carry itself with the grace of a predator, nor the lumbering strength of a bear. It was something in between, yet neither. Its form shimmered faintly at the edges, shifting as if its shape were uncertain, as though it struggled to remain tethered to a single body.
A low growl rumbled up from his throat, unbidden. It came not from anger, but from a place older than thought—an instinctive warning, ancient and primal. Every fiber of his being bristled with unease. The forest might be still, the wind rising, but this thing, whatever it was, did not belong among the wild. It had no scent of balance, no rhythm to its steps. It was a trespasser, and its presence soured the air itself.
Scajaquada drew a deep breath, his paws steady against the rock beneath him. The storm loomed closer now, its breath curling cold along his fur. He lifted his head toward the darkening sky, clouds swirling above like the slow churn of a boiling sea. With purpose, he let loose a howl—deep, resonant, and fierce. It rang across the valley, rising above the trees and the wind, a sound of claim and challenge.
The storm winds caught it and carried it far, threading it between the hills and into the depths where that shifting shadow moved. It was not a cry of fear, nor a call for aid. It was a warning.
For a moment, the world held its breath. The howl faded into the wind, and silence followed—deep and pressing, as though the very trees paused to listen. The mist thickened below, curling tighter around the warped forest like a veil pulled over something long dead. Then the wind shifted again, rustling through the twisted limbs with a hiss that sounded too deliberate.
And in that breath between gusts, a voice answered.
It was not a howl. It was not even truly a voice, not in the way the living speak. It came as a growl at first—low, distorted, grinding like stone dragged across bone. Then it warped, stretching itself into words that did not quite fit the shape of the mouth that formed them. The sound turned almost human, but not fully.
"You... do not belong here, Wolf."
The words were broken, forced through vocal cords unaccustomed to language. Each syllable cracked with strain, as if the creature speaking was neither beast nor man, but a grotesque merging of both. Something that once understood language, but had forgotten how to use it. Something that remembered only enough to make it worse.
Scajaquada remained still, ears poised and eyes fixed on the valley, his breath caught halfway in his throat. The voice had not echoed. It had whispered directly through the air, as if the forest itself had carried it to him.
Then the scent hit.
It rolled over him in a wave—heavy, sharp, unmistakable. Magic. But not just any magic. Druidic magic, soaked deep into the soil and bark below. Yet something was wrong with it. It carried the memory of the natural world, but it had been changed, bent out of shape. It no longer sang with the rhythm of the wild, but howled with something twisted and broken.
It was wild, yes—but not in the way of storms or wolves or growing things. This wildness was feral in the most unnatural sense. It had been reshaped, corrupted from within. And now, whatever spoke from the valley carried that wrongness in its very breath.
The wind surged between the ridge and the shadowed forest below, its voice rising to a keening wail as it swept through the warped trees. It clawed at the stones where Scajaquada stood, tugging at his fur and pulling the scent of decay up from the valley like a warning. Rain began to fall, first in soft, scattered drops that darkened the stone beneath his paws, then in heavier bursts that drummed against the rocks and leaves with growing insistence. The scent of rot thickened with the moisture, mingling with the bitter tang of magic until it became nearly suffocating.
Still, Scajaquada did not retreat. He remained poised on the ridge, his body steady despite the rising storm. The distance between him and the creature below remained, but it was no longer empty. Something watched him. Something listened. And it had spoken.
He lifted his head slightly, the rain matting the fur along his neck, and focused his breath. The energy of the land swirled within him—old, instinctual, and bound to the natural world in ways few understood. With practiced stillness, he opened himself to that connection and called upon the druidic magic that coursed through his spirit. It was not the magic that twisted in the valley below, but something older, cleaner, spoken in the language of wind and heartbeat and breath.
His voice reached out, carried not just by sound, but by that deeper connection—the one shared by all things that once knew the wild. He spoke in the ancient way, not just with words, but with meaning threaded through intention.
"I am passing by," he said, his tone calm but deliberate, his presence unmistakable in its strength. "But you caught my attention. Is everything... okay?"
The words floated through the storm, not forced, but offered. A bridge laid gently across the distance between them. Whether the creature below understood, or cared to answer, remained to be seen. But Scajaquada had reached out, and now, the forest would decide what came next.
For a time, there was no answer. The storm hissed between the trees, and the only sound was the wind pulling through the branches like the breath of the forest itself. Then, below, in the twisted hollow of trees and shadow, something shifted.
The shape hunched low, pressing itself toward the earth as though listening—perhaps not just to the words, but to the feeling behind them. Then it stirred again, and a sound emerged. Not in the language of men, nor in the sacred cadences of the druids, but in something older and more instinctual. The primal speech of beasts. The language spoken not with tongues, but with breath and bone and memory.
“Not… okay,” the voice rasped, a whisper pulled taut by effort. “Twisted. Changed. Not as I was.”
Each word was strained, like branches groaning beneath ice. The voice cracked with something more than pain—something fractured, as though the mind behind it fought to remain whole. As though each word spoken was a tether, anchoring it for just a breath longer against a tide that sought to pull it apart.
Below, the creature lurched forward, dragging itself up the ridge from the mist-draped underbrush. The stormlight shifted, and through a break in the clouds, a narrow stream of moonlight fell through the rain. It touched the figure, revealing its form in fleeting detail. It was not an animal. It was not a man. It was something caught helplessly between the two, in some shadowy vortex.
The creature's frame twisted with every motion, as though it could not decide what shape to wear. Limbs elongated and bent, fur grew in irregular patches over skin that rippled like a disturbed pool. Its head hung low, eyes lifting slowly to meet the ridge—eyes that once might have mirrored Scajaquada’s own. Wild, intelligent, and bright with awareness. Now they shimmered with confusion and agony, pupils dilated and flickering with the reflection of the lightning that flashed behind the clouds.
“Who… are you?” it asked, voice raw and trembling, barely more than a breath.
The question lingered in the air, heavy with something more than curiosity. It was not just a demand. It was a plea, whispered through pain and memory, from a soul that no longer knew the shape of its own name.
"I am Scajaquada... Who did this to you?"
The name left his mouth with quiet weight, not shouted, not growled, but spoken with steadiness and purpose. It drifted into the charged air, caught by the wind and carried down through the twisted trees. The storm, now more insistent, crackled in the distance, its thunder still too far to roar but close enough to flicker light across the forest in sudden, silver flashes. Each burst of lightning painted the gnarled trunks and tangled roots in stark contrast, revealing the depth of corruption below.
The creature stiffened at the sound. Its already trembling body twitched, muscles bunching beneath its uneven skin as though the very mention of a name stirred something deep and half-buried. Scajaquada could see the ripple of memory pass through it, not as a peaceful recall but as a violent jolt—a reminder of something once held, now barely remembered.
Then came the voice. Low and ragged, shaped with difficulty, it tore its way free like a wound being reopened. Scajaquada's ears focused to listen across the distance.
"I… I was… one of them."
The words hung in the air, twisted and broken by the effort it took to speak them. Silence followed. A long, aching pause, filled only by the hiss of rain and the rising groan of the wind.
“Druids… But now… wrong.”
It stepped forward—or tried to. The creature's body lurched with the movement, one malformed paw dragging through the soil while the other carved furrows into the earth with long, splintered claws as it tried to climb towards the wolf. Its form shifted again with the effort, unstable and pained, as if resisting its own shape. For a moment, Scajaquada could see it clearly—not as the beast before him, but as something else. Something that had once stood tall in a circle of stone and sung to the trees. A druid.
“They changed me. Forced it. Took my form, my mind. Said I would be… more.”
The last word was spit out with venom, and in its wake came a sound more emotion than speech. A snarl, low and bitter, scraped from the creature’s throat and filled with a fury that no longer had a place to go.
“Lies.”
The word struck the air like a curse, and the rain around them seemed, for a moment, to fall heavier in response.
Scajaquada could smell it clearly now. The sharp edge of the creature’s fury hung thick in the rain-drenched air, mingled with something softer, more fragile—confusion, and beneath that, the faintest trace of sorrow. The creature was not gone, not entirely. But the line it walked was thin, and its footing on that edge grew more unsteady with each breath.
It lifted its head slowly, the motion strained as if the weight of its own skull had become too much to bear. Its eyes met his again, and in that flickering gaze, something shifted. Recognition stirred behind the madness, though it faltered almost immediately. For a heartbeat, it looked upon Scajaquada not as prey, nor as a threat, but as something remembered.
“You… do not change.” The words were barely a whisper, spoken with a note of aching reverence. “Still whole.”
There was longing there, heavy and real. Something inside the creature reached toward him, not with claws, but with memory. But it did not last.
A violent tremor rippled through its frame. Muscles twitched, contorted, fighting against themselves. The transformation surged again, warping bone and sinew as though the body could no longer remember what it was meant to be. The moment of clarity was gone in an instant. Its limbs jerked, lengthening unevenly. The line of its spine cracked and bent. And when its head snapped up once more, the eyes that met Scajaquada’s were wide and wild, stripped of all recognition.
The voice that followed was guttural, choked with desperation.
“Run,” it snarled, teeth bared and breath ragged. “Before I cannot stop.”
It was not a threat. It was a warning—one laced with what little remained of the will to protect, even as the storm within the creature tore it further apart.
Scajaquada stood firm, unmoving as the storm raged around him. The wind lashed through the trees and rain pelted his fur, but he did not flinch. Before him, the twisted creature writhed in its own broken skin, its form shifting and pulsing with unnatural energy. The very ground beneath them seemed to tremble with the tension of what might come next.
He bared his teeth, not in aggression, but in raw, unfiltered presence. His voice rose above the wind, not soft or coaxing, but deep and commanding—an echo of something primal that reached back through blood and memory.
"I am a friend. Fight this corruption. I command of you."
The words were not merely spoken. They carried weight, drawn from instinct, will, and the deep bond he still held with the wild. They were not a plea. They were a challenge and a promise.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and raised his leg. The act was ancient, undeniable. His scent marked the ridge with finality, a bold declaration that this land was claimed, that his presence here was not invitation, but law. It was not only a physical act but a magical one, laced with the essence of a druid still deeply rooted in the true wild.
The reaction was immediate.
The corrupted druid-beast jerked, its body tensing as though caught in an invisible snare. Muscles locked, and its limbs shook with the effort of resisting forces it could no longer distinguish. Magic warred within it, instinct clashing against the rot that had taken hold. For a heartbeat, the ancient rhythm of the forest pulsed louder than the twisting scream of corruption.
Its head dropped low, and its ears flattened against its skull. The once-wild eyes blinked slowly, uncertain, flickering with the faintest ember of submission. It did not retreat, but it no longer pressed forward. Something within it had been stirred—something deeper than memory, older than form.
But the storm was not yet passed. The wind howled louder through the trees, and the struggle within the beast was far from done. The corruption still clung to it, still whispered in its blood. The battle was not over. Not yet.
The creature let out a guttural snarl, its body convulsing as it shook its head violently from side to side. Every movement seemed to be a war against something invisible yet suffocating, a force that pressed against it from within. Its breath came in harsh bursts, rasping through its throat as it clawed at the ground beneath it, tearing through roots and mud with trembling limbs.
"I… I remember…" the words came slowly, pulled from a place deep inside that had not been silenced yet. Each syllable trembled on the edge of breaking.
Its claws raked deeper into the soil, muddying its mangled paws as it panted, caught in the throes of a battle not just of body, but of soul. The rain began to fall more steadily now, each droplet cool against Scajaquada’s fur, the scent of wet earth and blood mixing with the heavy presence of magic.
"They… they wanted me to be more," the creature choked out, its voice cracking beneath the weight of old memory and present pain.
Overhead, the storm churned, black clouds swirling with slow fury as lightning danced in the distance. Thunder followed, a rolling growl that trembled through the ridge and valley alike. The storm’s voice was ancient and indifferent, but it seemed to echo the turmoil unfolding below.
"They said I would be free," the creature said, and its tone shifted, no longer just strained but heavy with despair. "But I am not free."
Then its body jerked violently, thrown into another agonizing spasm. Fur twisted and matted against skin as bone shifted beneath flesh, warping it into new shapes against its will. The sound of it was sickening—tendons stretching, bones grinding, joints snapping out of place only to be forced into something worse. Its mouth opened again, but no words came at first, only a roar of anguish.
"I CAN’T—STOP—" it growled, the last word a cry nearly lost beneath the crash of thunder.
Then its head lifted, slowly, painfully, eyes locking onto Scajaquada. There was nothing of the beast in that gaze in that moment. Only pleading.
The rain fell harder, streaking down both of them, soaking the ridge and valley alike as the storm closed in. The air pulsed with the rhythm of thunder and the ragged breath of the one who stood on the edge of what they once were.
Scajaquada lowered himself, pressing his paws firmly into the soaked earth. He drew upon the wild forces that pulsed beneath the surface—the ancient, unseen energies of root and soil, of stone and seed. The breath of the land answered, stirred by his command. With a sudden surge of will, he unleashed that force.
The ground beneath the creature buckled, and thick vines erupted from the soil. They burst forth in a furious tangle, writhing like serpents, each one twisting and reaching, drawn to the corrupted beast’s form. Bark split and roots cracked as the vegetation surged, eager to obey. They coiled around limbs and claws, tightening like clenched fists.
But the creature resisted.
With a roar of fury, it thrashed violently against the encroaching tendrils. Muscles bulged and twisted beneath its shifting skin as it tore through the vines, snapping them apart with raw power. Roots cracked and curled away, the earth moaning in protest as the spell failed to bind what was still so painfully strong.
Scajaquada held his ground, unmoved by the failure. His eyes remained fixed on the beast. It had made its choice—it fought to break free. And in doing so, it had revealed its focus. That would be its undoing.
Lifting his head toward the sky, Scajaquada’s gaze pierced the storm. Lightning flickered behind the clouds, and the rain danced across his fur in glistening streaks. His eyes began to glow with silver light, the ancient magic of the druids surging within him like the tide of a forgotten moon.
He summoned the next force.
From the heavens, a narrow beam of brilliant silver light broke through the storm. It carved through the darkness like the blade of a god, casting a perfect column of radiance upon the beast below. The storm parted around it, and for a moment, the rain stopped where the beam touched. Moonlight descended in its purest form—unwavering, cleansing, and absolute.
The creature shrieked.
Its body convulsed within the beam, twisted limbs flailing as the moonlight scorched through the corruption clinging to its form. Smoke rose from its skin, the rot peeling away as the radiant power lanced through flesh and spirit alike. It howled, a sound caught between agony and release, as the wild magic burned through the darkness within it.
The light did not falter. It poured down, steady and merciless, as Scajaquada stood tall against the wind, the storm, and the shadows that sought to devour the once-living soul before him.
The creature screamed—a raw, piercing howl that split through the downpour and echoed through the valley like a cry from the depths of the earth itself. Its form convulsed beneath the weight of the moonlight, limbs twisting in unnatural directions as it struggled against the final pull of the spell. The storm around them flared in answer, lightning tearing across the sky in a jagged arc, casting the scene in blinding flashes of silver.
In that moment, Scajaquada saw it.
Beneath the monster’s shifting skin, a figure emerged. It was a form caught between man and beast, tangled in the remnants of both. The face was long and distorted, but behind the eyes there was clarity, recognition—anguish. Muscles strained against their own transformation, fighting desperately as if the soul within was clawing its way free.
Then, the magic made its choice.
With a sudden rush of energy, the monstrous shape began to dissolve. The corrupted limbs, warped and multiplied by foul sorcery, collapsed inward. The elongated jaw, the jagged bone, the sickly fur—they all melted away in a wash of steam and shadow, leaving behind only the form that had once been whole.
When the light faded, what remained was no creature of nightmare.
A man lay in the dirt, broken and trembling, soaked by rain that poured down in relentless sheets. His body was gaunt, ravaged by whatever transformation he had endured. Skin clung tightly to his bones, and old scars ran like faded rivers across his chest and arms. Mud clung to his skin, and blood mixed with rainwater in the grooves of the earth around him.
His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, as if even the act of living had become foreign. His eyes, wide and unblinking, darted across the trees and the sky above with wild, frightened confusion. They were the eyes of someone awakening from a nightmare so deep that the waking world now felt unreal.
“I… I…” he stammered, his voice hoarse and weak, each syllable breaking under the weight of memory. His lips trembled, and tears mixed with the rain streaming down his face. “What… what have I done?”
The question was not aimed at Scajaquada, nor the storm, nor the forest. It was flung into the world itself, spoken by a man who had just seen the ruins of the soul he used to be.
Scajaquada stepped forward with deliberate calm, his paws pressing into the damp soil, each movement fluid and grounded. His ears tilted forward, catching every shift in the rain, every rustle of leaves. His nose twitched, taking in the scents that the storm had not yet washed away. The world around him slowed, sharpened, until every detail became unmistakably clear.
His senses flared—eyes, ears, and scent working in perfect harmony.
In that single breath, he understood.
The rot that had once clung so thickly to the air was gone. The stench of corrupted druidic magic, once twisted and rancid, had been scoured clean by the storm and the spell. The creature that had fought and howled, that had clawed at the earth and cried out in madness, no longer remained. It had been burned away in the silver fire of the moon’s judgment.
What remained was only a man.
Yet, there was something else, something deeper that clung to the silence between raindrops. It was not dark, but it was heavy. Not corruption, but the residue of suffering. Pain, not from the transformation, but from the memories it left behind. The loss of self, the loss of time. The ache of being alone for far too long.
This was someone without a pack. Without belonging. Without a name that still felt like his own.
The man shuddered where he knelt, the rain rolling down his bare shoulders, his breath still uneven. His eyes turned to Scajaquada, not with fear or instinctive caution, but with something deeper. Something searching.
“I don’t… know what I am now,” he said, his voice hollow, like it had not been used for truth in a very long time. He swallowed hard, lips trembling as the words fell from him like broken pieces. “But you—” his throat tightened, and he forced the rest out with quiet certainty, “you saved me.”
For the first time since the storm began, he did not flinch at the sight of the wolf before him. He did not recoil from the strength, or the stillness, or the power in Scajaquada’s eyes. There was no fear left in him for the wild.
Scajaquada moved with steady intention, his steps soft against the wet earth. There was no menace in his posture, no dominance in his gait, only the calm presence of something certain in its place. He approached slowly, stopping just a few paces from where the man lay curled in the dirt. The storm had passed into the distance, its fury spent. What remained was a gentle drizzle, a whisper of rain that softened the world around them. Mist clung low to the ground, wrapping the forest floor in a pale shroud that blurred the edges of root and stone.
He settled down onto his haunches, lowering himself without a sound. There was no rush in his movement, no demand in his eyes. He simply remained—present, solid, unwavering. His gaze never left the man, but there was no pressure in it. Only quiet observation, the kind that came not from curiosity but from patience.
The bond he called upon was older than words. It lived beneath the skin, beneath the breath, deep in the marrow of all things born of earth and forest. He reached out again—not with speech, but with something woven from instinct and memory, something that came not from the throat but from the soul.
“I knew I couldn't leave you like that.”
The words did not fall into the air like normal language. They pulsed instead, carried through the weave of nature itself. They flowed as meaning, as feeling, passing through root and leaf and rain until they reached the one who needed to hear them.
At first, the man tensed. His shoulders stiffened and his breath caught in his chest. The magic touched him like the brush of a distant wind, stirring something long buried. But it did not frighten him. It simply surprised him.
His breath began to slow, the panic retreating in slow waves. His hands—still roughened and thickened by the remnants of transformation—pressed into the mud with purpose. Fingers splayed, grasping the earth like an anchor.
“I… I can hear you,” he whispered. His voice cracked, not from fear, but from the strain of remembering what it felt like to speak as himself.
His eyes widened as he looked up, not with alarm, but with the fragile wonder of someone awakening from a long and bitter sleep. “Not as before. Not as the beast. But… I understand.”
There was doubt in his tone, the uncertainty of a man who did not yet trust the shape of his own thoughts. But deeper than that, beneath the shaking breath and raw throat, something stirred—something old, something familiar.
“I was… like you once, wasn’t I?”
The question hung in the damp air, not needing an answer, not truly. His gaze met Scajaquada’s, steady this time, even through the trembling of his limbs. He made no effort to rise, his body too battered, his spirit still fragile. But he did not flinch, and he did not look away.
“You are… alone, too.”
It was not asked in pity or accusation. It was simply spoken as truth. As something recognized.
Scajaquada leaned forward slowly, his body still as stone, his nose twitching as he drew in the man’s scent. What he searched for was not something the eyes could offer. It lived in the space between breath and blood, in the ancient language of musk and magic, in the truth only instinct could reveal.
The scent reached him, and immediately his body tensed.
There was no longer the overwhelming stench of rot. The thick corruption that had once clung to the man’s flesh had been burned away by moonlight and spellwork, seared from bone and sinew. But what remained was not clean. It was not entirely natural. There was something buried deep beneath the surface, just beneath the skin—something subtle, something quiet, but wrong.
His scent carried a shadow. It was not the same violent corruption that had twisted him into a monster, but a remnant of it, like ash in the cracks of stone after a fire. There was something clinging to him, not with claws, but with memory. A sickness that no longer screamed, but whispered. The beast was no longer in control, but the mark it had left had not faded. It lingered like a wound that refused to close.
Scajaquada held still, his gaze steady. His eyes met the man’s, and in them, he saw uncertainty—not fear, not malice, but the hollow space of not knowing. The man could feel it, too. That much was clear.
“You smell it too,” the man said quietly. It was not asked. It was stated with grim certainty. “I can feel it.”
Scajaquada did not answer. Not with any words at least.
He gave no growl, offered no challenge. There was no comfort in his silence, but neither was there rejection. He simply remained, his presence as constant and unreadable as the rain that continued to fall around them. The forest listened. The storm moved on. And between them, something unspoken passed like a breath of wind through old leaves.
The simplest of acknowledgments. A slow, deliberate nod. It carried no pressure. No demand. Only the weight of a choice freely given. The moment settled into the earth like dew, quiet and without ceremony.
Then, Scajaquada turned.
He moved with purpose but without haste, his paws pressing silently into the damp forest floor. His tail swayed behind him, low and relaxed. It was not a gesture of farewell, nor was it an invitation. It was merely movement, the quiet continuation of a path that had never truly stopped.
The trees welcomed him back with rustling leaves, their limbs shifting gently in the breeze. For a long stretch of heartbeats, the only sound was the fading echo of thunder, distant now, rumbling through the far hills like the last murmur of a dream.
Then, behind him—footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Not the erratic scramble of panic or the heavy tread of desperation. They came measured, paced with care, each step chosen rather than forced.
The man followed. Placing one foot in front of the other, not to chase, not to cling, but to begin. To find his way forward, through the wet leaves and moss-covered roots, into whatever would come next.
As the storm drifted into memory, the forest breathed once more beneath the dripping canopy. The trees, dark with rain and heavy with silence, stood sentinel as two figures moved through their shadows. One moved with the effortless grace of something born to the wild, his steps silent, his breath steady. The other followed with careful intention, still uncertain, still finding the rhythm of movement not bound by fear or fury.
Overhead, the sky remained heavy and low, blanketed by thick clouds that dulled the light into a muted gray. The sun, if it shone at all, was hidden beyond the overcast veil. Dampness clung to everything. Rainwater dripped steadily from the tips of leaves, pooled in the hollows between roots, and soaked the moss-covered stones with a quiet persistence. The air was dense and cool, and the mist had not lifted.
It lingered in strange ways, curling close to the ground, wrapping around trunks and threading through undergrowth in slow, unnatural patterns. The storm had passed, but it had not left the forest untouched. There was something in the mist—something watching, perhaps, or remembering.
They passed through it without pause.
The path was not marked. There were no signs, no trails worn into the soil. Yet they moved forward all the same, one leading, the other learning.
Scajaquada did not look back. He did not need to. The presence behind him was no longer something to guard against. It had shifted into something quieter, something still unnamed, but no longer foreign.
The forest would test them both. That much was certain.
And though his path remained his own, shaped by paw and instinct and memory, Scajaquada now walked it with another at his heels. Not quite as a burden. Not yet as a follower. But simply as one who remained.