The smug shifter replied with a simple shrug. “His pack left him.” The warg’s beady eyes went from Olvar to Simon, then back. A reassuring pat on course fur reassured the beast. He wouldn’t be chased off if his new alpha had anything to say about it.
When the knight winced, his squire did little more than raise a brow. He’d seen his mentor in far worse shape, and before his eyes came the magic that had been called upon for every such injury. A pale flicker of light, and the wound was gone, like the enemy hadn’t even landed the hit in the first place. Olvar had a trick of his own, though his was more of a passive perk. With his curse came a healing ability unmatched outside of magical users. Already his nicks and bruises were repairing themselves, leaving little more than red stains on his garb.
With no healing to offer others, he went ahead and began scavenging from the dead. Any coins were instantly stashed away by a thief’s quick hand, gloved in leather to protect him from silver’s natural burn against his skin. The caravan knew nothing of his “condition”. Flinching back from coin purses as if burned by a candle may arouse suspicions however, for his mental stability if not his other half. Much of the rest was ignored though. Daggers were tossed aside, for he had his seax knife. Longer blades were brushed over, for he had his shortsword. Armor was rejected, for in his mind he had an excellent combination of speed and defense with his specially-made suit.
As the sun kissed the horizon, Olvar settled down to warm himself by the fire. Simon beside him was speaking at length about the battle with the rugged guardsman who had assigned them to wagon three, and he listened with an aloof pride as their victories over enemies were recalled. So he and Simon had led the battle in terms of numbers. It was an empowering feeling, but a shadow of shame led to embarrassment on his part. If he hadn’t frozen at the start, he was sure he could have matched Simon’s count, if not surpassed it. He leaned his back against the warg stretched behind him, a bare hand finding comfort in the warm fur.
The more he listened, the more his early freeze bothered him. He was sure he could have done better. Enough to prove himself as a true force in battle. Apparently that was not him, but his mentor. His surprise at Simon’s new command was betrayed by a widening of his eyes, but the young man was quick to divert his gaze to the firelight, flickers of green dancing across hazel. Olvar’s jaw tightened, fingers worrying at the knuckles of one of the warg’s toes. The beast huffed, tucking the paw safely beneath it and away from bothering.
Only when spoken to did his attention return to the noble beside him. Once he’d been slapped back to reality by Simon, he had enjoyed the battle, but now he was mostly annoyed at requiring such a check. As always, the knight seemed to read his mind. Olvar sighed, gaze dropping again. “I don’t know,” he began. “It was like I’d stepped out of myself, and was watching from someone else’s eyes. Sort of like when I’m… you know.” He dared not say it aloud. Anyone could be listening. “I knew what was happening around me–everything. I just couldn’t do anything about it. It was just like my first time going to battle.”
After recalling the rest of his experience to Simon, he finished the last of his ration and gave the scraps to the warg. He would have to name him soon. The beast remained with him as he slept, or attempted to anyway. He was restless, tossing and turning despite the immense weight on his eyelids. Sleep was always difficult in the week leading up to a shift. It was something he had been keeping track of, and likely an event also monitored by his mentor. What they would do being with the caravan he could only imagine, but part of him was alight with excitement. Nothing he had ever experienced could match the raw freedom he was able to feel on the night of the new moon. Did that make him a monster? Perhaps. Was he concerned? Monsters never are.
After another length of rest was interrupted by the commotion of Simon taking his shift as watchman, Olvar was finally able to find slumber. He clung to it well into the morning, and for once was not made to rise with the sun. The extra time was well appreciated, and when it came time to move on, he did so, almost contently, from the back of a warg.
A few days passed, and with each night the sliver of moon narrowed further. When called to follow, Olvar knew there was a plan in place to keep him away from the caravan, likely avoiding suspicion with a clever lie from his deceptively stealthy mentor. He traveled with Simon, insisting on taking his mount along. He would be exhausted tomorrow anyway. Having to walk all the way back would be hell.
Upon arriving at the chosen location of the knight’s makeshift cage, the younger man eyed the tower with a frown. Solid walls of vacant stone. Small windows. Olvar barely suppressed a scowl. He said nothing to Simon, only dismounted to examine the structure more closely. Being locked in had ruined almost every new moon he had endured under Simon’s watch. Once or twice he had escaped confinement, but never with much time left in the night, and he was left to go through the agonizing transformations with nothing to show for them.
As the evening wore thin, the lycan looked to the darkening sky, shy stars peering down at him. He looked not at Simon before starting toward the tower. Heavy paws began to follow, but he turned with a growl, the sound just ragged enough to teeter on the border of human. The warg stopped, one ear swiveling backward before he sat with a low whine.
Olvar entered slowly, nudging the door closed behind him with confidence that Simon would bar it from the outside. He took a slow breath to steady his skipping heart, then began stripping the armor from his body. By the time he finished, the sun had given way to darkness, and the blackened moon was clawing upwards into the endless expanse overhead.
It began with a pain that could only be likened to a stab in the gut with a hot knife. Sudden and unexpected, burning like hot coals. The man doubled over, the heat dragging him down to his knees where the cold stone sent shocks through his legs, up his spine. It crept through his bones, leaving sharp clusters like footprints in its wake. A violent shiver shook him to the core as bone scraped against bone, joints stretching and reforming. Muscle and fur was pulled over a writhing skeleton, twitching and trembling with every movement. It began at his toes, working its way up his body as bones reformed themselves to the proper shape and position just moments before. By the time the transformation reached his head, whimpers burst forth as a ragged scream. Even as it split the air, the sound warped into something more primal, like the cry of an animal being gutted alive.
Outside, the warg had disappeared into the trees, concerned for the leader he could hear, but not see, or perhaps spooked by whatever had awoken inside the tower. Either way, the night had fallen eerily silent from the previous cacophony of agony.
The wolf could hear a rhythmic pounding in his ears, rapid and panicked, like the hooves of a startled deer. He rumbled quietly. The pounding steadied. Golden eyes pierced the darkness, making out the faint shapes of a door… windows overhead. Too high to reach. On all fours he approached the only clear exit, pushing against it testingly. It held fast, and in that instant his temper flared.
With a hateful snarl, the lupundra threw his weight against the blockade, making dust float down from above. He retreated several steps for a running start and attempted the same thing, again catching only a haze from the aged tower. A beastly bellow erupted from the beast’s maw as he whipped around, now charging into the darkness. Upon finding the opposite wall he pushed off, barreling toward the barricade keeping him in. He had to escape. Had to run. Whoever ever had put him in here, trapped him in here, he would kill them. He would kill them!
