by mozenwrathe on Tue Mar 27, 2012 9:07 pm
*There are always tales about how wolven go around raping and slaying members of "the lesser races." Elves, random humans, dwarves, and so on. It is not all that often that you hear of wolven telling of such tales. Mostly as they usually consider it beneath them to discuss what is not important to what is happening to others that is natural and expected. At least, this is the rationale behind the Platinum Bloodstreak Clan. For them, wolven terrorizing other races is merely keeping their fangs sharp for the real hunting: food. However, if you ask them what they think of ogres and trolls, you will here something else entirely...*
Yoke Broken And Slave Taken
by Wirameju, "Bael-blessed" wolven hunter of the Platinum Bloodstreak Clan.
Care I nothing for the "civilized" ways of the furless ones. They make me sick with the rules and laws, insisting that their weaknesses are their strengths, and must I abide by them. They who have slain more their their share of my kind, and then scream to the skies that some fool in the darkened heavens has given them the right to do such. Some long lost spirit they give lip service to like Chike or Raamiah. One of those or even their oh so revered Aden'Ver. Know I their mutterings and frothing fermentation that comes out their mouths as words. Hiding behind their steel and shield as if such gives true power to the blood and glory to the bold.
Care I nothing for the frigid whores they call their goddesses. Cold from their loftiness and whores from their lack of sense for anything but their own selfish ways. I speak of their goddess of lust Ishtar and that one charred and tarred goddess Kirva. Useless wastes of godflesh if I have ever heard of one before. They should know their place at the feet of Garn, licking his feet until they have them both cleaned properly. However, such is not to be at this moment for the land is still held by too many of the furless ones to be properly consecrated in the name of Garn himself. Then will all those who call themselves holy men and priestesses know for whom all goodness and true wisdom come from. Until that time, must I hold my tongue just long enough for those feckless and weak-minded willow tree whisperers to speak on behalf of my people... sort of.
Care I nothing for the midgets of muscle and the tiny tossers of smooth stones that exclaim themselves to be of a proper race. Are they no better than something that I would use to warm my thighs and spend my seed within when I am not seeking anything imperative . Some call it rape, but such is a lie. Rape is what those ruinous runts do to the insides of a mountain, carving where there is no need to place tool. Rape is what the little legged lackluster lemming-minded louts do to the hills, placing foolish excuses for tents within the mounds of earth or above it. Rape is their treatment of the earth and rivers, bathing in them with bodies covered in clothing still as if they had a second layer of skin, looking to rinse out their filth into the waters that The Great People drink. No, it is not rape when I use them and discard them for what they are. It is just the way of things.
Care I nothing for the elves. If you do not believe me, ask me the names of their gods. Will I tell you that all of them are named "Absolutely Nothing Of Importance." Yes, are they just as hopeless, hapless, and helpless as their human counterparts without tools of some sort in their hands. That, or their more famed crutch: magic. For all their so oft revered knowledge and wisdom, could they not stop some of their very own from going completely insane and daring to call themselves better than my kind at tracking through forests. What madness and misery must they have in their minds to call out such a lie. And then expecting all and sundry to believe it? Even more wretched worthlessness do they show. Their holes are for using by any wolven that lays claim to such, and that is all. Need they not even speak, for there is little they would tell one of The True And Chosen that was so important would they not give it willingly to their betters.
There is much I care nothing for amongst those that live within their stone homes and brick havens. Are most of them too frail and weak to know true living within the steppes or across the deeper timberlands. One mention of winter as you will see the shiver and whimper, demanding that the subject be changed. Cowards to face the elements without their artifice, so very many of them. And still to my face call they me "the savage," "the brute," "the monster." Such titles will I embrace if it pushes me far from their pudgy little bodies that squeal to be taken and tormented for my personal amusement. Know they nothing of what the truth, and do they wallow in their ignorance like pigs in mud. Nay, pigs have reason to do such things, for without it would they overheat and die. Making the pigs superior.
Interesting, indeed.
My attitude is not callousness but correctness. The natural ways of things dictate that my kind beat others into the ground and have their asses up in the air to be branded with our own special markings. There are few races who would dare challenge one of The Truly Chosen without any false claws in their hands or leathers on their body. Those individuals have I enough respect for to give them honourable demise if they dare interfere with my goals. A warrior is a warrior, and any minotaur or ogre that I would slay might I pray to Leki and Skodi both to steal that wayward spirit away from whatever god defiled it and bring them back to the wolven race. It is only just that ones of the bravest hearts and the proudest stride know to taste the air as wolven once more. After all, what else could they have been originally? There is no other race upon Belariath that have the understanding to the ways of the real world as The Truly Chosen. Even our shamans may find others who foolishly call themselves such and banish them back to their bodies, torn and terrified in spirit.
My words are not mere opinion, but the evidence of hundreds of years. The wolven are not so "young" as the pointy-eared bastards howl into the heavens. The heavens do not answer them back, for the stars need not speak with the slow and stupid. If the wolven were so inferior (as more than one elf has exclaimed before being eviscerated), how could they have survived some of the worse moments within Belariath? Wars have swept over whole lands before, leveling the strongest of cities and stealing the breath from villages and villagers alike. Have I yet to hear of multiple tribes and clans of the wolven being struck down in such a way. Perhaps one within an entire conflict, but never groups of them. Are the wolven too wily for such trickery and treachery. Know I this because of what I myself have learned to evade and avoid when necessary.
My blood even now pumps new strength and thoughts through my mind and my heart. Soon, will it be time to hunt. What for, though, remains to be seen, but I doubt my prey will be the size of a pigeon. Nay, what I wish to sink my teeth into will be far larger than that. My tongue tastes the air anew now, looking for the best way to begin the run. I know the taste of succulent steaks raw and cooked, and will I have them soon enough. A bison is what distracts me now from finishing this scroll. I write because I do not feel the need to orate to any. They will learn the old and new ways of the wolven people and honour them or perish. Any whom are not willing and willful are destined to fall to the forest floor and become food for the mushrooms. Gaea cares little who cannot understand their place in Her Domain, and do I understand that better than most.
My eyes narrow now as I look towards my future. Smell I others on the wind. More than likely frail little half elves, given the so-called "centre of civility" am I close to now. This village which the rabble and refuse on two legs call Rtythiurfo has so many spindle-legged lagabouts that call themselves masters of the wood. I am certain that if these three go missing that I distantly espy will they not be missed. They are bred and born far too quickly and easily, providing my clan most amusing sport. Will I feast more than well in at least one way this evening. Now to see which one it will be... it shall be both. I can afford to indulge myself this day and bathe my loins as well as my tongue. No expense will be spared this time, as my urge to hunt overtakes me. No longer will I mind this parchment. That will I eventually leave to some slave or two. Not necessarily ones in my possession, but ones I can possess in some form or another. After all, I only need them to write for a few hours and pleasure me the rest. I need not waste time slapping leather around a throat for that. My jaws against their shoulders will be convincing enough.
Care I for a few things though, but will I speak of them at another time. For now, need I find my prey - both the kind that prays and the kind that only knows how to flee. Whichever I find first will decide my night's prospects. And if it happens to be food and some ignorant isle of insolence tries to take it from me? Well, then blood will truly be drenching my maw and my claws. If naught else, will my night not be filled with sleep alone for a while. There is much I need get to, and my tongue already hangs out in anticipation.
current characters:
Prydain Mozenwrathe (Magi, smith, known to the Might Makes Right) ,
Ichilandar Shimmerstrike (dark elf, ranger, merchant) ,
Dasan (Sheykan, druid, real estate specialist)