Legends of Belariath
Beyle
Far to the north, along the ragged rise of the Granite Mountains, the Pack of the Silver Ring makes it’s home. A remote Wolven community founded not so long ago and struggling still to survive alone amongst the untamed wilds of Belariath. Battling the elements, the Goblins and Drow in their turn, and even the bloodlines of their tribe, this Pack is the birthplace of Beyle.
The Rite of Birth is the Wolven celebration of life, signs and portents are read and the destinies of Wolven cubs divined. In the Year of Darras, during the month of the Cave Bear, Beyle and 4 others, all male, were lifted before the Pack fires and offered to the Wolven Gods for recognition and blessing. By their calendar, it was a fortuitous circumstance, the unique combination of Victory and War, both ruled by powerful female deities, occurs but once every 12th year. As each child was held forth beneath the full moon, the Shaman would sing the ritual songs, baptizing the infant with blood from the sacrificial Tusker Boar. Runes were cast and prophesy made, this one to be a great hunter, another would become the Pack Shaman in his turn, and from these were the names derived. Wyrdin, which means One who hunts at dawn; or Melek, The keeper of secrets. As the only female in the time of female deities, Beyle was offered last. When the Shaman lifted her, thunder fell from the cloudless sky, echoing down the rocky slopes with a voice born on distant peaks. It was a sign of leadership, of challenge and struggle. She would be called Beyle, The Strong Voice. This one, the runes foretold, would be a Chieftain, the leader of her Pack.
It may be thought that such prophecy might influence the education of a Wolven cub, but this is not so. The destinies foretold are not discussed, except in whispered counsel around Pack fires, long burned down to dullish ember glow. Each Wolven must survive by her merits, through the wit and strength of her character. There are no exceptions, if Beyle were meant to be the Leader of her kin, she would prove it, or die trying. With her brethren, she learned hunting, skill with bow and spear, the ways of the Great Beasts, and the traditions of her people. She grew strong and by the time of her first blood, she was ready for the Little Hunt, the ritual hunt that separates childhood from adolescence. The taking of a full-grown mountain lion by Beyle’s spear was a great sign, not only for her, but for the Pack. Such animals are rarely brought down by even a mature Wolven hunting alone; for one so young it could only be taken as a sign of approval by the gods.
The Becoming is the ritual by which an adolescent becomes one with the Pack. It happened during the first full moon of Beyle’s 18th year. She and 5 others, her four brothers from the Rite of Birth, who had grown up alongside her, and another female who had been judged wanting the previous winter. The ceremony is one of supreme importance and each Wolven is considered carefully, their skills weighed and histories recounted. Each prospective Pack member is presented naked before the Council, and paraded around the great fire for all the Pack to see. Opinions are heard, arguments for and against the adolescent’s Becoming are made. Of those few, all or none may be rejected and forced to wait another year. This year all were judged ready for the Hunt of Passage, the final test before acceptance into the Pack. Here is a partial account of that ceremony, in Beyle’s own words:
“The first full moon of my 18th year, The Becoming. There were only six of us that season, 4 males, another female, and myself. We were brought before the Council fires, the winter wind lashing through the trees, no longer cubs, and not yet adults. The village sat as one Pack, a silent ring of black and silver, watching huddled this ancient ceremony. Oh yes, we kept that one and the irony was not lost on me as I bared myself in that dancing light. Because my father had died, his brother took his stead, presenting me with the low growls and soft barks of Wolven speech. He extolled my virtues in their turn, and of ills he could say naught.
“The others were not so confident and one of the males was presented poorly. He was Lespris, the youngest cub of a dying family. He was lean, with a dull coat of mottled brown. His eyes were small, and his claws more suited to crafts than hunting. I could smell the fear he exhaled with every breath, hanging in a light cloud in the chill night air. Only a few generations before he would have been turned out, driven off so as not to pollute our Pack with his weakness. But now, we broke tradition and the Council sent him back to his mother's den, to await another season, another judgement.
“I flattened my ears at the decision, marking the Council of our Pack with my eyes and baring my fangs as they spoke. Bloodlust filled me at that moment and my paws went unbidden between my legs, across the silvery sheen of my stomach and breasts. The Council sensed my agitation, but did not understand its cause.
“Vasu, the Chieftain and head of the Council by right of challenge spoke, ‘Who will be Leader of the Hunt?’ He asked loudly, a challenge, as he held the war spear Agnok aloft.
“One of my pack brothers, Wyrdin, answered the challenge, stepping forward and growling ‘I am Leader.’
“But it was I who leapt across the flames, springing to snatch the heavy weapon from Vasu's claws. I spun around, stepping towards my brother as he stood opposite, across the Council fire. ‘I am Leader!’ I howled and crouched low, gripping the shaft with both paws, pointing the great steel spearhead at Wyrdin. My body tensed and I felt the blood pounding in my ears. My nipples hardened with rage and I felt the confusion seething between my legs in their wide spread stance. You know of what I speak; the desire for blood finds it's twin, the overpowering urge to mate. To claw and bite and rut beneath that full red moon, before the fires and the village I wanted to take him. Or be taken, if it were to be so. Such is the Wolven way.
“Wyrdin straightened to his full height, and stretched his powerful arms as he tilted his head to the stars and howled with fury. It was music to my heart and I lifted my snout to join my voice with his. He was head and shoulders above me, and nearly twice my weight. His once sleek black fur raised in hackles across his broad shoulders and his eyes were burning slits as he raked the air with his claws. He would taste my blood, bend me to his will and earn not only his place as Hunt Leader, but my submission as well. I would be less than his mate, but more than a slave and the other males would ignore me after that. They would know that when Vasu called, I would come and let him have his way. I would become one of the Unchosen and my life would be empty. But only if I lost.
“I waited as he completed his ritual, licking my lips and tightening my grip on the powerful weapon in my hands. It was a short war spear, fashioned from the First Tree and the First Stone, and carried the power of the earth in it's shaft and head. It was a talisman to our village and it was the embodiment of Wolven bloodlust. A thousand battles had raged against it and the blood of a dozen races stained it's wood, including Wolven. But this battle it would only watch, the rules of such things are clear, even to a mind clouded with the lust. I drove the spear into the frozen earth, so that the shaft quivered between us. This would be the prize, leadership of the hunt. Glory for our kin.
“Wyrdin was strong, a weakness that failed to temper the abandon of youth. He charged quickly, with a sharp bark as he bounded over the high flames with claws extended. I ducked beneath his left arm as it swept the empty air where my throat had been a second before. I leapt to my right, dragging my long curved nails across his stomach, splitting his flesh and spilling first blood. I danced on my feet, my toes scratching against the frost as he lunged for me. His size was my ally, if I could keep my distance, seizing opportunities to strike and leap away. Wyrdin intended to knock me down, to wrestle and crush me beneath his size. My right hand slapped at his face, leaving two ragged scars across his snout. He had no patience, this one, he was not a leader and everyone would know. My mind wandered, contemplating victory when his heavy paw landed on my shoulder, knocking me painfully back and leaving a painful reminder that this fight wasn't yet over. He sensed the sudden fear that filled me, only for a moment, but as plain to our senses as the raging lust, the strong taint of blood, even the night had a scent overpowering. He threw himself at me, driving his legs as wall of muscle, arms spread to envelop me, to swallow me whole.
“I knew then that I did not possess the strength, the stamina to wear him down. He could trade 3 of my blows for every one of his. I had to beat him quickly, end this before I became weary and slow. I did the last thing he expected, throwing myself at him, leaving my feet to meet his rush and driving my nails into his exposed throat. I gripped his jugular in my right hand, the cruel hardness of my claws digging deep into his flesh while my thumb curled inward from the opposite side. I jammed the heel of my paw against his chin, driving his head back even as his arms encircled me, squeezing me. The air was forced out of my lungs as he crushed my body to his. I could feel his arousal, hard and jutting between my legs, my aching nipples flattened against his hard body. I tugged at his throat, prepared to rip his life's blood away. ‘Yield to me.’ I gasped breathlessly, groaning in his arms. If I was going to kill him, I had to do it now; the night sky was growing darker, my lungs burning.
“He relaxed his grip, holding me still off my feet, but giving me a precious breath of cold sweet air. I felt his thrusting beneath me and I pressed my legs together. ‘Yield brother.’ I repeated, louder this time, pulling at the hot flesh of his neck as I did so. A vision of ripping his jugular vein free filled my mind; Wyrdin's hot blood, black beneath that wonderful moon, spilling across my face and breasts. But I closed my eyes to it when he growled his acceptance, his obedience. He lowered me to stand before him and I pulled my fingers from his neck, bringing his rich blood to my tongue, as I tasted them one by one. I stared into his eyes, watching as he lowered them, the fire gone, his shaggy tail hanging low between his legs. It would be my right to take him then, right there near the fire. To please myself on his erect passion, but the lust had fled me already. My heart was slowing as I pulled the spear free and held it high. ‘I am Leader.’ I said and stared at my small Pack, waiting to see if another would challenge my right. None of them did.
“And oh! How I led them, my brothers. We sprang wild and naked through the dark cold night, scenting the air and howling as one Pack. Our madness stirred the forest into life, the rabbits and deer quivering in the shadows, then bolting as we approached. The sleeping birds awakened with screeching protest. But it was the Great Stag we were after. We'd caught his musk on the breeze and began our stalking, our voices silenced so that only the deep lows of our breathing, like soft growls, slipped from our lips. He'd fled into the hills, up the slopes of the mountains and snow crunched under our feet as we followed. When I caught sight of him, my heart leapt! So proud, so full of life itself! He seemed a paragon, a primal god running across the night.”
It was the third and final great sign of Beyle’s life; a successful hunt and the Great Beast delivered to her had been the Great Stag, which is the sign of Abellus, Goddess of Winter and patroness of The Becoming. Beyle had taken the challenge for leadership and earned her place, then guided her small pack to success and brought favor to the Pack. There would be little doubt now in any Wolven mind that this female would one day challenge and assume the role of Chieftain of the Silver Ring. Yet, there remained one responsibility to fulfill before such a devotion could be pursued. The Wolven Packs are small by necessity, the bloodlines tracked carefully by each family line. It has become tradition for the eldest female of each family to seek a mate from another Pack. To bear the totems of her lineage and travel to distant lands in search of new blood for her Pack.
So it was for Beyle, after consulting the Shaman, making proper sacrifice and preparation, striking out with a few possessions and traveling south. She wears the skins of her conquests and the symbol of her kin, a necklace of teeth and claws from the Cave Bear. Beyle carries her spear, Loka, which means long claw in her language, and the bone handled dagger carved from the horns of the Great Stag. Arriving in Nanthalion, she had not intended to stay, but for a Wolven with an adventurous spirit and natural curiosity, such a place seems almost magical. Perhaps she will find a mate here, or perhaps she will wake one morning to find the call of duty overwhelming, and set off with the rising moon to find another place, another Pack. But surely the skills and knowledge imparted to this young Wolven will only serve to benefit the Pack to which she must someday return.