Afterthought (Silas, Tiffany, & Ionone)
Quote from Adriana on May 9, 2019, 10:58 pmI paused and looked at the ground, letting out a long whistle, "Well, I'll be. Can I follow a map or what."
Not that I'd been following it at this point in time-it was useless out here, and currently stuck out of my back pocket. I had to admit-in spite of the prospect of uncertainty dangling like a stuffed hare at the end of a dog run, I was kind of having fun in an abstract way.
It was noon about now, indicated by the warm mid day sun, and by my watch. I decided to continue through the forest versus turning back towards the highway. All of my years up and down those highways between the likes of Middlecrest and Phantom Mountain and I realize I'd never known this forest was here, just a few miles off the road. I wasn't quite ready to let that magic go.
I contemplated the story of Actaeon, my Svalnaglas namesake. I chose it purely based on irony. My family was agnostic by all appearances, but with their deep roots in Southeastern Europe and ancestral heritages, both sides held some vague belief in the Olympian Gods that led the myths and stories to be prevalent in my youth.
The ironic part was drawn from the betrayal of my last.... allegiance... that left me for dead. In the story, Actaeon stumbles upon a goddess and she turns him to a prey animal, who's eaten alive by his own hunting dogs.
Still more did the irony grow when I learned of the beautiful beta Diana, who shared the namesake of the very goddess of the hunt who condemned Actaeon. And I probably laughed for a solid five minutes when I learned the leader of our enemy pack-if they could be called a pack-named himself after the god of power and strength. Talk about a rock and a hard place. Sometimes I wondered how much power is in a name, and that maybe I should have picked something like Zeus or Thor to have given me an edge. Hindsight is 20/20.
I kept my eyes forward, my hands in my pockets. Maybe it was the nerves settling back in, but I thought I could hear a pack of dogs barking somewhere in the distance. Perhaps it was the wind, the way the branches moved in the breeze that caught me off guard. Possibly, I was still a little feverish and I was deceiving myself. Nevertheless it was a reminder to stay on guard, as I presently had no cards in my hand and a whole lot in the pot.
I paused and looked at the ground, letting out a long whistle, "Well, I'll be. Can I follow a map or what."
Not that I'd been following it at this point in time-it was useless out here, and currently stuck out of my back pocket. I had to admit-in spite of the prospect of uncertainty dangling like a stuffed hare at the end of a dog run, I was kind of having fun in an abstract way.
It was noon about now, indicated by the warm mid day sun, and by my watch. I decided to continue through the forest versus turning back towards the highway. All of my years up and down those highways between the likes of Middlecrest and Phantom Mountain and I realize I'd never known this forest was here, just a few miles off the road. I wasn't quite ready to let that magic go.
I contemplated the story of Actaeon, my Svalnaglas namesake. I chose it purely based on irony. My family was agnostic by all appearances, but with their deep roots in Southeastern Europe and ancestral heritages, both sides held some vague belief in the Olympian Gods that led the myths and stories to be prevalent in my youth.
The ironic part was drawn from the betrayal of my last.... allegiance... that left me for dead. In the story, Actaeon stumbles upon a goddess and she turns him to a prey animal, who's eaten alive by his own hunting dogs.
Still more did the irony grow when I learned of the beautiful beta Diana, who shared the namesake of the very goddess of the hunt who condemned Actaeon. And I probably laughed for a solid five minutes when I learned the leader of our enemy pack-if they could be called a pack-named himself after the god of power and strength. Talk about a rock and a hard place. Sometimes I wondered how much power is in a name, and that maybe I should have picked something like Zeus or Thor to have given me an edge. Hindsight is 20/20.
I kept my eyes forward, my hands in my pockets. Maybe it was the nerves settling back in, but I thought I could hear a pack of dogs barking somewhere in the distance. Perhaps it was the wind, the way the branches moved in the breeze that caught me off guard. Possibly, I was still a little feverish and I was deceiving myself. Nevertheless it was a reminder to stay on guard, as I presently had no cards in my hand and a whole lot in the pot.
Quote from Mae on May 11, 2019, 10:52 amThe shadows deepened. The elevation gradually decreased. The gravelly road steadily became rough and unrefined. One bend always followed another around more dense foliage and dark trees.
Then, all too suddenly, the "ink splotch" was revealed. On a final bend, the road suddenly spread out in a heavily secluded circle. At the corner of the circle a dugout cabin poked out of the hillside. The door hung loosely on its hinges, and its pitch black interior peered out of the cracks. The circle was quiet and undisturbed, for except a few old and deeply imprinted vehicle tracks, the area appeared deserted.
The shadows deepened. The elevation gradually decreased. The gravelly road steadily became rough and unrefined. One bend always followed another around more dense foliage and dark trees.
Then, all too suddenly, the "ink splotch" was revealed. On a final bend, the road suddenly spread out in a heavily secluded circle. At the corner of the circle a dugout cabin poked out of the hillside. The door hung loosely on its hinges, and its pitch black interior peered out of the cracks. The circle was quiet and undisturbed, for except a few old and deeply imprinted vehicle tracks, the area appeared deserted.
Quote from Adriana on May 11, 2019, 6:40 pmThis was it. This was the end of the line. Right about now, I felt like the Roadrunner, walking into one of those TNT loaded plaster stages made by Wile E Coyote, with "Free Food Inside" signs hung in neon all around it. Except I was dumber than the average roadrunner, and savagely more curious.
I stopped and inspected the tracks first. They were old, but a good rain would have washed them out or at least faded them. I pulled my gun from it's place and cocked it, keeping it at my side and my finger near the trigger, then stepped lightly to the door. My footsteps were one of my few physical attributes I was actually proud of. I'd been trained in stealth since I was a pup, and it paid off. It was more effective without the dress shoes, but it's why I took ballroom dancing (off the record). What a better place to learn to master the stealth of dress shoes than on a marble floor in a hall with the acoustics of an opera theater. I was basically James Bond. Without the rugged good looks, the fortune, the woman. Maybe James Bond's younger, scraggly brother that he never talks about.
If this were a horror movie, I'd be the first one to die. I'd die before the main characters even appeared-I'd be the long dead body some archeologists found in the introduction of the movie that told them that this particular place was dangerous. Did that stop me from entering into the dark bunker? Apparently not.
I came up to the door and listened, while my eyes adjusted somewhat to the dark. I adjusted my thumb on the grip and flipped on a small LED light at the end of the barrel, then cautiously held it up and looked around.
This was it. This was the end of the line. Right about now, I felt like the Roadrunner, walking into one of those TNT loaded plaster stages made by Wile E Coyote, with "Free Food Inside" signs hung in neon all around it. Except I was dumber than the average roadrunner, and savagely more curious.
I stopped and inspected the tracks first. They were old, but a good rain would have washed them out or at least faded them. I pulled my gun from it's place and cocked it, keeping it at my side and my finger near the trigger, then stepped lightly to the door. My footsteps were one of my few physical attributes I was actually proud of. I'd been trained in stealth since I was a pup, and it paid off. It was more effective without the dress shoes, but it's why I took ballroom dancing (off the record). What a better place to learn to master the stealth of dress shoes than on a marble floor in a hall with the acoustics of an opera theater. I was basically James Bond. Without the rugged good looks, the fortune, the woman. Maybe James Bond's younger, scraggly brother that he never talks about.
If this were a horror movie, I'd be the first one to die. I'd die before the main characters even appeared-I'd be the long dead body some archeologists found in the introduction of the movie that told them that this particular place was dangerous. Did that stop me from entering into the dark bunker? Apparently not.
I came up to the door and listened, while my eyes adjusted somewhat to the dark. I adjusted my thumb on the grip and flipped on a small LED light at the end of the barrel, then cautiously held it up and looked around.
Quote from Mae on May 11, 2019, 7:32 pmThe cabin was silent, dead silent. Except for a few chairs, a cot in the corner, and a desk, there was nothing inside. There was, however, an open door in the back of the main room, and a staircase leading down into darkness.
The cabin was silent, dead silent. Except for a few chairs, a cot in the corner, and a desk, there was nothing inside. There was, however, an open door in the back of the main room, and a staircase leading down into darkness.
Quote from Adriana on May 11, 2019, 7:42 pmCreepy. Even by my standards, and I basically lived in the dark. I checked behind me, checked the ceiling. They never check the ceiling in horror movies, no matter how much I yell at them to look on the stupid ceiling. What happens? They get eaten.
I steeled my nerves and went over to the desk, opening all of the drawers to see if I could find something-preferably not someones thumbs or teeth.
Creepy. Even by my standards, and I basically lived in the dark. I checked behind me, checked the ceiling. They never check the ceiling in horror movies, no matter how much I yell at them to look on the stupid ceiling. What happens? They get eaten.
I steeled my nerves and went over to the desk, opening all of the drawers to see if I could find something-preferably not someones thumbs or teeth.
Quote from Mae on May 11, 2019, 8:40 pmOutside, two black-billed magpies sat huddled in a tree above the cabin, watching. The circle was empty, and quiet.
Inside, a tiny spider sat unmoved between one of the cracks in the ceiling boards. Through another crack, a worm dangled out of the exposed dirt above the cabin. The desk had only one drawer. It was empty. Like the room, it was covered in a light covering of grey dirt, and wiped clean by a touch. The floor, likewise, attested touch with each layer of its covering. The corners of the room hosted more than an inch, the center of the room had less, and the passage from the entry to the stairs had even lesser still. Withal, the whole room was covered in at least one layer of fine grey dirt from the open spaces between the wooden ceiling boards.
Outside, two black-billed magpies sat huddled in a tree above the cabin, watching. The circle was empty, and quiet.
Inside, a tiny spider sat unmoved between one of the cracks in the ceiling boards. Through another crack, a worm dangled out of the exposed dirt above the cabin. The desk had only one drawer. It was empty. Like the room, it was covered in a light covering of grey dirt, and wiped clean by a touch. The floor, likewise, attested touch with each layer of its covering. The corners of the room hosted more than an inch, the center of the room had less, and the passage from the entry to the stairs had even lesser still. Withal, the whole room was covered in at least one layer of fine grey dirt from the open spaces between the wooden ceiling boards.
Quote from Adriana on May 11, 2019, 11:33 pmSo far so good. Famous last words.
There was a visible print left where my hand touched the desk. It didn't seem like whoever owned this place would mind, if they were even alive to mind it. Still, the bunker must have served some purpose. It wasn't disheveled enough to be a squatters home-they'd leave plenty of signs of their being here. It wasn't homely enough or big enough to have been frequented by anyone.
One thing did seem strange. One cot, one desk. Multiple chairs. Why were there multiple chairs?
I had a feeling if I wanted to find anything else out, I'd have to go down that eerie flight of stairs at the other end of the room. Part of me wanted to go back and check some other spots on the map. I did find comfort in the fact that-it was by my own choice I chose this particular location first. I could have picked any other spot on the map... with that rationale, I was less convinced it was a set up. Maybe it really was just that, a game.
Bolstering my nerves, tightening my grip on the gun, I went to the door at the end of the room to find a staircase to Hade's. I shined my light down it and took a tentative step down to see if the stairs would hold, then continued downward.
So far so good. Famous last words.
There was a visible print left where my hand touched the desk. It didn't seem like whoever owned this place would mind, if they were even alive to mind it. Still, the bunker must have served some purpose. It wasn't disheveled enough to be a squatters home-they'd leave plenty of signs of their being here. It wasn't homely enough or big enough to have been frequented by anyone.
One thing did seem strange. One cot, one desk. Multiple chairs. Why were there multiple chairs?
I had a feeling if I wanted to find anything else out, I'd have to go down that eerie flight of stairs at the other end of the room. Part of me wanted to go back and check some other spots on the map. I did find comfort in the fact that-it was by my own choice I chose this particular location first. I could have picked any other spot on the map... with that rationale, I was less convinced it was a set up. Maybe it really was just that, a game.
Bolstering my nerves, tightening my grip on the gun, I went to the door at the end of the room to find a staircase to Hade's. I shined my light down it and took a tentative step down to see if the stairs would hold, then continued downward.
Quote from Mae on May 14, 2019, 12:49 pmA smell accompanied the darkness. It mixed with the smell of earth and moisture in the exposed dirt walls. The stairs neither groaned nor creaked with use. Each step down brought the smell further up through layers of subliminal acuity. Before the light shown on the end of the stairs, the smell was distinguishable. It was the aged smell of distress.
At the bottom of the stairs, a secondary room opened. The walls were made of dirt. Bare wooden boards composed the floor. The room was windowless and empty, save for two large cages resting at the very back.
A smell accompanied the darkness. It mixed with the smell of earth and moisture in the exposed dirt walls. The stairs neither groaned nor creaked with use. Each step down brought the smell further up through layers of subliminal acuity. Before the light shown on the end of the stairs, the smell was distinguishable. It was the aged smell of distress.
At the bottom of the stairs, a secondary room opened. The walls were made of dirt. Bare wooden boards composed the floor. The room was windowless and empty, save for two large cages resting at the very back.
Quote from Adriana on May 14, 2019, 3:39 pmThat's not good.
The atmosphere was permeated with it, and it seemed as if they very boards that made up the room had things to tell me but couldn't manifest the words to do so.
I exhaled, and the air seemed to stream out of my mouth forever before I inhaled again. My lungs were filled with dusty air, thick with smell of wood rot, earth, and pain. The seconds ticked by like minutes. I approached the cages and touched a hand to one of the bars, looking inside. Not expecting to see anything. The same way one peruses a museum, looking to fill in the blanks of an unknown history, left only with the physical evidence of an existence having blown away with time.
It wasn't all too distant.
My family bloodline was of proud nature, only breeding the "best" families of werewolves to produce stronger, more capable werewolf offspring. They were "safe", guarded, watchful.
My family-I use that term in it's loosest sense-with the Svalnaglas was of a similar mindset. But these were exceptions, not the rule.
Kratos' rogues in Phantom Mountain were an example of Werewolves coming from what my blood-relative pack called "rogue stock", and are far more common.
Where I came from, and why I left-these rogues were treated worse than the cattle that fattened my ancestors. They were gathered up, less to protect the humanity they may have threatened, and more to protect the status of my family. They wore slaves clothes, ate like starving beggars and were segregated by gender to prevent the mingling of rogue blood.
Some were allowed to live-the ones deemed fit enough to keep, their lives spared because of their strength, abilities, usefulness. Not because of their humanity. The rest...
I tightened my grip on the bar of the cage.
I don't profess to be a good person. Living and dying, that's life. However... my kind does a lot more of the latter. The "rogues" such as those on Phantom Mountain-scattered, few and far between, coming together to try and create a new, feasible society, often end up running from death more than ever living. Truly living.
The honest truth is, if you're not in a syndicate pack like my current one, then you're an outsider, which puts you at risk. If you're an outsider, your risk of death is already higher, because you face scared humans who can't come to terms with the reality of our existence. You face those who's lives you may threaten. If you're in a syndicate pack, your life is planned for you, and is as short or as long as your strides are straight and true to their design. Villagers like Logan are at risk of death by terrified mobs, rogues around Reknab bend might be captured by the likes of hunters like Harvey and sold to the highest bidder-and who knows what the bidder wants.
Then you have highly organized packs that, in an ode to the true wolf packs, are organized by an Alpha-Omega hierarchy and are extremely efficient in their ways, but remain isolated to unpopulated regions of the world where the chance of discovery is scarce. The offset is, not unlike a cloistered religious group, they sacrifice modern society for a more peaceful, albeit primitive, lifestyle. Safety is worth that sacrifice to many, but finding these societies is hard, and joining them is almost impossible.
People like the Chapman's were the closest to the ideal as they could get-skirting the reaches of syndicates, on the side of justice and a figurehead for modern society. And even so, the Chapman's alone are helpless to bring a face to our existence without condemning themselves.
My work within the Svalnaglas was first to them, however... it wasn't entirely unselfish. I had shelves upon shelves of books I've read, I've written, on the werewolf virus. Trying to find a way to reverse it, or manipulate it.. if not, a way to bring it into light somehow, so eventually we could live in peace with ourselves and the world around us.
And yet-places like this existed, and in a moment, brought me back to the present time and marred my vision.
I left, only after opening the doors to both of the cages, and only after my face had dried. When I climbed the stairs and reached the door to the outpost, I broke it off the hinges and rested it against the sidewall of the building, then began to my vehicle without turning back.
That's not good.
The atmosphere was permeated with it, and it seemed as if they very boards that made up the room had things to tell me but couldn't manifest the words to do so.
I exhaled, and the air seemed to stream out of my mouth forever before I inhaled again. My lungs were filled with dusty air, thick with smell of wood rot, earth, and pain. The seconds ticked by like minutes. I approached the cages and touched a hand to one of the bars, looking inside. Not expecting to see anything. The same way one peruses a museum, looking to fill in the blanks of an unknown history, left only with the physical evidence of an existence having blown away with time.
It wasn't all too distant.
My family bloodline was of proud nature, only breeding the "best" families of werewolves to produce stronger, more capable werewolf offspring. They were "safe", guarded, watchful.
My family-I use that term in it's loosest sense-with the Svalnaglas was of a similar mindset. But these were exceptions, not the rule.
Kratos' rogues in Phantom Mountain were an example of Werewolves coming from what my blood-relative pack called "rogue stock", and are far more common.
Where I came from, and why I left-these rogues were treated worse than the cattle that fattened my ancestors. They were gathered up, less to protect the humanity they may have threatened, and more to protect the status of my family. They wore slaves clothes, ate like starving beggars and were segregated by gender to prevent the mingling of rogue blood.
Some were allowed to live-the ones deemed fit enough to keep, their lives spared because of their strength, abilities, usefulness. Not because of their humanity. The rest...
I tightened my grip on the bar of the cage.
I don't profess to be a good person. Living and dying, that's life. However... my kind does a lot more of the latter. The "rogues" such as those on Phantom Mountain-scattered, few and far between, coming together to try and create a new, feasible society, often end up running from death more than ever living. Truly living.
The honest truth is, if you're not in a syndicate pack like my current one, then you're an outsider, which puts you at risk. If you're an outsider, your risk of death is already higher, because you face scared humans who can't come to terms with the reality of our existence. You face those who's lives you may threaten. If you're in a syndicate pack, your life is planned for you, and is as short or as long as your strides are straight and true to their design. Villagers like Logan are at risk of death by terrified mobs, rogues around Reknab bend might be captured by the likes of hunters like Harvey and sold to the highest bidder-and who knows what the bidder wants.
Then you have highly organized packs that, in an ode to the true wolf packs, are organized by an Alpha-Omega hierarchy and are extremely efficient in their ways, but remain isolated to unpopulated regions of the world where the chance of discovery is scarce. The offset is, not unlike a cloistered religious group, they sacrifice modern society for a more peaceful, albeit primitive, lifestyle. Safety is worth that sacrifice to many, but finding these societies is hard, and joining them is almost impossible.
People like the Chapman's were the closest to the ideal as they could get-skirting the reaches of syndicates, on the side of justice and a figurehead for modern society. And even so, the Chapman's alone are helpless to bring a face to our existence without condemning themselves.
My work within the Svalnaglas was first to them, however... it wasn't entirely unselfish. I had shelves upon shelves of books I've read, I've written, on the werewolf virus. Trying to find a way to reverse it, or manipulate it.. if not, a way to bring it into light somehow, so eventually we could live in peace with ourselves and the world around us.
And yet-places like this existed, and in a moment, brought me back to the present time and marred my vision.
I left, only after opening the doors to both of the cages, and only after my face had dried. When I climbed the stairs and reached the door to the outpost, I broke it off the hinges and rested it against the sidewall of the building, then began to my vehicle without turning back.
Quote from Adriana on May 20, 2019, 6:59 pmI decided I would search for the locations in Middlecrest first, then circle around to Pinerich when and if I found out what this was all about.
Since I had gotten the more remote of the locations out of the way already, I decided to work methodically to quickly seek out and investigate the rest, starting at the North-Eastern most mark on the map and going from there.
I pulled Arcadia to a stop as close to the marker as I could get here, then stepped out to see what I was up against.
I decided I would search for the locations in Middlecrest first, then circle around to Pinerich when and if I found out what this was all about.
Since I had gotten the more remote of the locations out of the way already, I decided to work methodically to quickly seek out and investigate the rest, starting at the North-Eastern most mark on the map and going from there.
I pulled Arcadia to a stop as close to the marker as I could get here, then stepped out to see what I was up against.
