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Un-Foretold Journey

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It wasn’t long before the screams of the dying became silence, and the clash of steel and roar of lightning faded away, as well. In no time at all, Paris’ small troupe had eliminated nearly all of the men and women that had so recklessly come to claim their lives. Only one of the marauders remained, a young man that had suffered a deep slash to his left thigh. He’d tried to hobble away, but now stared down the blood-covered length of the crown prince’s sword.

He walked the surviving marauder back to the center of the massacre, where the small campfire still burned, and the others had already gathered in waiting for their lord. He was not cruel to the man, but nor was he friendly. The tap of his sword’s tip on his shoulder was only to spur his gait into something less stagnant whenever he slowed to eye all that remained of his raiding party.

“This wasn’t all of them,” Paris said, gesturing back at the bodies with a sweep of his blade. “The reports we received said there were over a hundred, which means they likely have a settlement somewhere in the hills.”

The marauder looked away.

Paris stepped around the young man—more a child, really, barely into his seventeenth summer—until he could look upon his face. “We would like for you to lead us there.”

The child raider scoffed.

“Do you know who I am?” Paris asked.

“Some noble shit,” the boy spat.

Solomon raised his axe and took a step toward the marauder, but Paris stayed his approached. “A noble shit, indeed,” Paris said with a smile. “I am the crown prince of these lands. And while I do not condone of your way of life, that does not change the fact you are my people. I would very much prefer to resolve the issues at hand without further bloodshed, if at all possible.”

“Nothin’ to resolve. The strong live, the weak die.”

“So, your friends, they were all weak?” Paris guided the boy’s eyes to the sea of bodies behind him, watched the determination shatter and fall away from his expression.


“But you, you’re strong?”

The boy didn’t answer.

Paris let his blade rest on the furs covering the marauder’s shoulder, its edge glowing red as the firelight danced across the blood. “But you didn’t survive because you were strong,” he reminded his captive. “You survived because I allowed it; because I want to see if there is another way to go about what I’m trying to achieve. Now, I know there are more of you… and if you make me find them by myself, I will kill every last one of them. The women, the children, the elderly – everyone you have ever known or loved. I will butcher them down to the last uncivilized heathen and salt the earth where we bury their bones so that their souls stay trapped in the soil. As for you?”

Half-turning to face Okina, he nodded for her to come to his side. “I will feed you to my friend here, piece by piece. Show him, Okina.”

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Okina watched from the fire that had been built to light their night and cook their meal. Her body glimmered in the light red, the sticky substance that once flowed through the sea of bodies around them covered much of her body. Still holding the blade that cut down a good portion of their enemies and the sheathe it rested it, she carefully sat them down near a painted stump. 

As Paris led a young marauder around to the middle of the camp site where they stood together among the dead, her eyes sharpened at the way he spoke to her current master. To have the audacity to speak that way to the leader of this land without thinking of the consequences was breathtaking, which lead her que from Paris. 

Stepping forward from the blade she relinquished, Okina began to remove the blood stained clothing. Peeling away the layers and kicking off her boots, her skin began to shimmer. First a shiver ran from the top of her spine downwards, the physical tremor could be seen by her party. The sheer energy it took to manifest her transformation was immense, many newly turned werewolves could only dream of doing this without the full moon. 

Deep inside, Okina called to her ancestors; the spirits of those before her, beckoning them to aid her transformation. To allow her wolf side free, this would be a shock to the boy who knew nothing of her kind. Another shutter of energy ran down her spine sending her to her knees, catching herself by her fingertips she growled a deep bass. First her eyes shifted to an ethereal honey gold, her hair began to grow longer. Okina's body began to contort and twist, and suddenly the outer human body exploded in a shower of gore. 

Shaking out the chunks of her old body from the white fit that covered a new muscled body, Okina stood much taller than the average man. Baring her white fangs at the boy, she flexed the black claws that  protruded from her fingers.

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Startled by the woman’s brutal transformation, the young marauder yelped as he stumbled back. His wounded leg gave out from under him, and he toppled to the blood soaked earth. Kicking with his heels and clawing with his hands, he tried desperately to put distance between himself and the werewolf, only to find himself climbing onto the blanket of bodies behind him.

“There’s nothing glorious in death,” Paris called out after him. He walked toward the injured boy casually, letting his sword sway in the air. “There is no honor in it, either. There’s nothing more than the end.”

Whether from exhaustion or blood loss, the boy’s crawling slowed, then stopped. He settled against the stomach of a man who had been his friend. The other barbarian was missing half his face, exposing the cleanly cut bone of his skull and the gray meat it held. His remaining eye, a brownish red from the blood that had leaked into it, stared at him emptily.

“Is this what you want for the rest of your tribe?” Paris asked, kneeling in front of him. He slammed his sword the through chest of a corpse, keeping his hand wrapped around the hilt for balance. “You saw what we’re capable of. There could be a hundred more of you, and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

The boy nodded.

“Where are they?” Paris asked again.

“The h-hill,” the boy said. “There’s a clearing not half a day’s walk from the bend in Swindler’s River. Bojack had us make home there.”


“He’s the chief.”

"Mm." Paris nodded, rising to his feet as he wrenched his sword free from the corpse. He turned to face his wolfish companion, her brilliant white fur still misted with the blood of her former self. It was unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. Magnificent, he mused, looking her over as a man might his greatest masterpiece. You’re more incredible than I could have possibly imagined. Stepping closer, he brushed his gloved fingers over her snout, then down the side of her face. “I’ve decided we’ll use your nose, instead,” he murmured to her. “Kill him. Have your fill.”

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Okina stood larger than the average man, her muscled furred body covered with the mist of her former self. Keeping still where she transformed, watching as Paris advanced on the boy who scrambled away on his hands and feet. Watching as he fell into the mass pile of bodies, with Paris making his point with the stab of his blade into the body with half a face. A wolfish smile appeared over her black lips, as she took a step closer to him as he turned to make his way back to his werewolf. 

The feel of his hand moving along her snout to the side of her face made her amber eyes closed, feeling every hair that covered her face tingle to the touch of him. It was then his words sparked the fire inside her, the beast released was ready to sink her teeth into the weakest of prey before her. 

Wolf eyes stared at the boy who reeked of fear covered in blood, his wound was beginning to fester she could tell. Crouching down slightly, Okina pushed off with her hind legs sending all of her mass into the boy who was now screaming and choking on his saliva. Plunging herself into the boy, his hands and feet fought to kick the full force of the werewolf off of him. Ignoring the attempts to remove the unnatural strength of her from his body, Okina felt her teeth easily sink into his middle. Instead of making his death a quick release, she purposely moved for the softest part of his body. His screams turned blood curdling, sometimes silent as his fingers pulled and pushed at the white fur that hovered over his stomach. 

Okina’s black clawed hands moved to hold the boy by his pelvis, while the other just rested over the front of his throat. She didn’t dare press the claws into his flesh, as she wanted to drag out his pain as long as possible. The beast in her enjoyed the fight the boy was trying to put up, as she moved her nose around the innards of his belly. 

Paris had one thing right, she was starving. The mini battle in the dark covered woods had her excited, and again ready to shed more blood. With one command she tore into the surviving offender, his blood was warm over her tongue as she devoured him. Finally she pulled her head from his abdominal section, the fur of her face dyed the deep crimson. What little fight the boy held was quickly fading away, helping him along she squeezed his throat with little effort. Having eaten her fill of the boy, he was left lying on his back with his ribs exposed and picked to the bone. Parts of his innards she didn’t much care for were left hanging from the torn flesh, his mouth was stained with what little blood tried to escape the other orifice. 

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Paris watched with wild excitement in his eyes as the werewolf beset the young boy. So this is the beast in its natural habitat, he thought as her fangs sank into the boy’s gut, tearing it open. Blood and gore seeped out in rivers, clumpy chunks of flesh gathering on the grass. Not constrained by the expectations of society; no longer pretending to be a person at all. This is what she was born to be. That she’d made his death as gruesome and prolonged as she had spoke volumes to her true nature, the one she kept hidden beneath her glances of indifference or bursts of passion. He wondered, then, how much of this sadism was the beast and how much of it was Okina. Was there truly any difference between the two?

Sheathed his grand blade, Paris dared to make his way closer to the wolf’s butchery. The boy’s screams had turned into wet chokes, clogged in his throat with blood and bile. His eyes were wide, staring up into the starry night; his expression seemed a cross between pain, fear, and surprise at the crown prince’s betrayal. There was no place in his kingdom for the likes of such people. They were savages, incapable of domestication—the only option was to exterminate them, if he was to secure a lasting peace.

At the wolf’s side, Paris stroked a gloved hand through her long mane, drawing his fingers across and down her scalp. “You’ve done well, she-wolf,” he purred, gazing down at the remains of her meal. “I’ll be sure to find you something more savory when we return to the Capital.” There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the malnourished teen hadn’t been much of a delicacy. Looking over his shoulder at the stalwart knight, unmoved by the brutality, Paris nodded in commanded. “Stack the bodies and burn them.”

Solomon grunted in acknowledgement and set to the task. Helaine, however, busied herself with pawing at a small trinket dangling from one of the corpse’s hips.

“Will you stay like this for the night?” Paris asked, returning his attention to the wolf. “I’d like to admire you for longer.”

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Having filled her body with what she could of the malnourished boy, her eyes stared at the bloody remains. Feeling Paris bring his hand through her thick mane of white fur, she turned her amber gold eyes towards the man whose orders brought her to this form. Although she felt no fight in her when asked to do so, as she had a thirst for blood. 

Shifting her eyes over the other two who were busy now, she brought her werewolf form to stand straight on her hind legs. Pulling her thick black claws through the fur around her face pulling bits and pieces of the boy’s flesh from the mangled bloody spots. 

“Yes, I will remain in this form for some time..” The way her lips moved as she spoke was so unnatural for a wolf, but oddly fascinating to watch as she stood in this form. Looking to the place she left her swords, she glanced at the horse that had been tethered away from the mass killing. Knowing the horse may be accustomed to her like this, it would be very difficult for her to pack her blades among the saddle. 

“I will have to wait till I return to human form before I can do much with the horses…” She could smell the tinge of fear from them as they eyed her while they tugged and pulled at the reins that kept them tied to nearby trees. 

Unsure whether or not she should help pile the bodies, she just sat back near Paris. She knew it wasn’t something that was asked of her, but it would move things along much faster. “I can choose how long to stay in this form, so however long you wish..”

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Indeed, it was rather strange seeing a wolf’s face producing human speech. Growing up, Paris had often wondered what it might be like if certain animals—lions, wolves, bears, tigers and the lot—could speak their minds. What it might look like, sound like, to have a person’s voice coming out from behind those razor sharp teeth. Watching Okina now, it was almost comical seeing such a tall, imposing creature speak in his tongue, and the crown prince could not help but chuckle in growing amusement. “Yes, I would rather like that,” he said as she pawed away bits of the boy’s flesh from her face. Paris assisted in the endeavor, swiping away some of the flesh that had managed to make its way down to her breasts and stomach. “It isn’t every day that I get to see a lycan’s transformation.”

Neither Solomon nor Helaine requested help from the other two, more than content to occupy themselves with good conversation as they loaded the bodies into a heap. The knight was accustomed to the grisly work, and Helaine’s days of pilfering about the ruination left behind by marauder raids also made her a worthy candidate. Moreover, the she-cat had developed something of a wild curiosity with her sparring partner—and all the manners of battle he’d yet to teach her. When she was not lounging about the palace, serving her prince, or demanding attention in that fickle way cats do, she was in the training yard, pestering Solomon for yet another lesson in the spear and shield or sword.

Paris took his seat closer to Okina than before, gathering up one of her massive paws in his hands. “So much power,” he said as he fondled her fingers, spread them, weighed her palm and found it daunting. “It’s incredible to think that all of this… raw… untamed power is lurking just beneath such a pretty surface.” The intrigue in his eyes was so heavy, so thick, that it darkened the jade to a rich emerald. He carefully ran his fingers up over her arm, squeezing the taut muscles beneath the fur. “I wonder then, if you were a pureblood, born as you are, which do you consider your true self? The wolf or the mask, darling?”

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It seemed to please Paris that she stayed in her current form, her beast form. Watching as the man she fought side by side with moved closer to her than before, picking up her paw in his hands, allowing him to move her fingers about. Her deep amber eyes watched his hands move over her large paws, finding their way up her muscular arm. 

“It’s not everyday a human witnesses such a transformation and lives to talk about it..” Meeting his gaze, she gave the briefest of wolfy grins. It was hard to believe she was kind of warming up to the man she pledged her service to, a man who seemed to be a beast without a transformation of his own. 

While he continued to touch her wolf body, she glanced over at the other two who happily did as they were ordered to do. The question Paris left with Okina made her eyes move back to him, flexing her fingers carefully. She was pure raw power, a beast that could pop his head like a melon if she so chose. 

“I believe my human side to be my true side, as we are all born in that form..” It was true her kind didn’t turn until they were in their adolescent years, a trying time for parents who must educate their young of their traditions. 


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