The Life of Scythe

An aging Get of Fenris strides in, in Homid form. She sits among the gathered pups and waits for silence. Once she has it, she begins to speak. Greetings, whelps, and don't talk while I'm speaking. I understand you are all Homid breed… more's the pity. I grew up wearing fur and fangs, and my kind are all but dead and gone. Once, before I knew that I was like you whelps here, I was called only by my howl-name. What's that? Good question, you there in the red shirt. Interrupt me again and I'll tear out your lungs. For those who don't know any better, a Howl-Name is what wolves call each other.

I am Drinker-of-Blood-who-Wades-Through-Corpses-Wielding-the-Grim-Reaper's-Scythe, wolf-daughter of Breaks-Legs-with-his-Eyes, once-member of the now disbanded pack Legion of Revenge. I am a current member of the pack Hearts of Steel, and am vying for the role of alpha within it. I am friend and ally to Labyrinth Cathimadau Ice-Howler, Elder Galliard of the Wendigo. I am the mother of many, including two bred-true pups, Black Dog, a philodox, and Mad Dog, a ragabash. I am Modi, elder, and wolf-at-heart. I know, I know, that's quite a mouthful. You don't need to memorize my name, just call me Scythe. For those not yet past their first challenge, call me Rhya. Now, before you go around snickering about the old wolf with the long name, I'd like to tell you I've earned every word in it. Wether you need to hear it or not, I've been asked to speak to you about the life of a Lupus. Trust me, Homids, it ain't easy.

Let's start at the beginning. Whe I shifted, I learned that I was Modi, Ahroun. I was Get of Fenris. Problem was, I'm also half dog, and in my true form, Lupus, I look like nothing more than a big border collie. I was once called Switch-blade, Stiletto, or small Knife, to mark me as a simple pain and no great threat. I was considered unworthy of respect. I am small and female, two things my tribe abhors. I am also Ahroun, and many of my tribe thought it an embarrasment. I was set upon from both the outside and within my own people. I earned the word Scythe by using a harvesting tool as a weapon. I cleaved the head off a so-called elder who thought I should be killed for being so small. They added the words Grim-Reaper's when I began to pick off members of my own tribe who were tainted and corrupt. They sought to control me, and I struck them with a vengeance.

I earned the title She Who Wades Through Corpses when I rescued a fellow packmate. By then I was second rank, and when my Galliard friend spoke of my rescue of him, he said I had killed so many wyrmlings I had to wade through them to reach him. A gross exaggeration, but an appreciated title. It was then that that same Galliard, a higher ranking wolf than me, decided to teach me my place. He tricked me into going out to do things for him, with the odds against me. Often I did not win. In the process, I gained wisdom bought in blood. Finally, Kebalra Song-of-Death decided to simply get rid of me. The novelty of a small, female Get gaining honor and glory in combat had worn off. When we were besieged by Spiral Dancers, he crushed my paw so I couldn't run, and left me for dead. I am forever marked from Kebalra's treachery. Here she pauses. Grinning like a thing gone mad, she holds up her left hand, as if making a stop motion. Cut down to the bone with silver and burned with fire is the Get symbol, long healed. Her hand was crushed in the process, leaving it crippled. The hand looks like it has been frostbitten, and is now dead. This will always be with me, to remind me of the weak elder who betrayed me. I was helpless before a pack of Spiral Dancers. I will not lie to you and say I won the fight. They swarmed, and I couldn't hardly land a blow, much less fight them off. It was then that a savage Red Talon and a fierce Wendigo attacked the four Dancers from behind. Soon they were aided by a huge Shadow Lord. They became my pack, and we were terrible in battle. I earned the name Drinker-of-Blood with them, and added to it the rest of my name. We were a great pack with many more members, some were creatures other than wolf changers. I made many friends, and to this day, Ice~Howler the Wendigo and I are inseprable. The Shadow Lord, alpha of the Legion of Revenge, is long dead, and I mourn his loss. Quick-to-Snap-at-Shadows, the Red Talon, still lives, but where I do not know. She birthed Metis and slunk away forever.

When we as a pack broke up, I ran with wolves, my mind too hurt by all that I had seen and done. I was a monster, a thing that lived for the hunt, for the kill. My own rage and lack of control frightened me. I resigned myself to a life as a wolf, just a wolf. But I am half dog, and no one can mistake me for being true bred. The wolves feared me, and I couldn't hunt well with my leg so badly healed. I was trapped by a man who thought I was a dog gone feral, and I was so sick-at-heart I let myself be caught. For three years I paced, chained in a yard, fed dog food, and lived as a pet of a human who, although he liked me, didn't care for me. Not many homid breed creatures know of the horror of being a pet. I was made to fetch, to do tricks, to tolerate children. I was made to live in a small yard, when I belonged in the woods. I ate dry corn meal mixed with tough beef made in the guise of dog food, when I should have been eating fresh meat. It was a small cub that taught me that I didn't need to live for death. I was called Shawna then, and I was no better than a dog. That little pup told me that I could be a teacher, I could set cubs on the path that leads away from the Wyrm. I could be more than the useless domestic dog I had become.

I went back to the wolves I had known, and ran with them for a short time. They could sense the domestication... although they bred with me, they would not let me run with them for long. My dog-like ways made me too different for them. I raised seven litters of pups, all three quarters wolf, but one quarter dog. Three of my pups bred true... I have raised two Get of Fenris†. Mad Dog, I am not proud of. She is a coward, and seeks only to manipulate others. Black Dog, now known as Puppetmaster, my only son, lives and is a Philodox to the Get of Fenris, and is now at third rank. I returned to my former packmates, and found that the dead alpha Lord had left a cub behind, his half brother. I raised that cub, and he is now ready to challenge for first rank. I met my friend and ally Ice~Howler again, and she confirmed that I needn't be a mindless killer. Soon, I met another who was like me.

Jomik Silver~Tongue was his name, and he was a Khan, a weretiger. He, too, had been a near-mindless killer. And he, too, had been maimed. Unable to father kittens, he adopted many Bastet kits, werecats. I was soon the mother seven plus my previous pups. I will not say much, but two who have been hurt in their souls should not be together. It will never work if neither one is strong and whole.

I gave my kittens to those who would train them properly in the ways of the Cat. Puppetmaster stays with me, and he is a great help to me. Mad Dog must die, for she has betrayed Puppetmaster and I††. Jomik I have left, and I do not know where he is now.

As for me, I help with cubs of any tribe, any breed, any auspice. I teach what I know to any who wants help. I am now trying to focus my energy in positive ways. I have joined a pack, and am trying for the position of alpha. Tell me, what can I do to earn your respect? All these are words, nothing more. They are the truth, but you are forced to take my word for it. What have you to say?

At this the assembled pups are silent. None dares to ask the Alpha to prove her status, which is just as well, for I know her, and she would teach them a lesson that would leave scars forever.

Sincerely, Puppetmaster. [Lupus Forseti of the Fenris-Get]