Crying Wolf - 1. Chapter 1

England, 1840

Finn

Eerie silence hangs like a void around him, a tangible absence of life all the more noticeable in the fading light of the setting sun. Even the footfalls of his padded paws are muffled by the dense layer of detritus that covers the forest floor. Muzzle to the ground he searches, black nose sniffing through the decaying leaves for the elusive scent he seeks.

The traces which remain reeks of many different wolves, their trails intermingling and confusing even to his astute senses. Moving silently like a spectre through the slowly lengthening shadows of dusk, he wends his way between the tree trunks. Anything with a shred of self preservation should take care to stay out of his path as the great white wolf navigates the forest which borders the city of Leeds.

A lone wolf.

Beware a wolf who wanders with none at his side…

The eyes follow him, they always do.

It is so far beneath his notice that it’s laughable to waste even a moment's effort thinking about it. Some might believe him mad to break from his pack in times like these.

And for what?

Instinct?

It was a good enough reason for him...He’d traveled over eleven hundred miles and crossed seas...on instinct. Who was going to stop him now?

An angry scar slices down through his right eye, clouded and useless it seems to peer right through your soul. To perceive it as weakness though would prove a mortal mistake.

The world left behind after the black death is prone to devouring the weak without mercy or consideration. A far gentler fate, in his opinion than to subsist in some half cocked existence. True, he could not see what lay to his right... but he could smell, and hear… The climes of the English woods are a far cry from the Nordic fjords of his birth lands, but he was finally getting close.

Finn was certain of it.

In the aftermath of the plague, the descendants of Fenrir retreated deep into their mountain territories, isolating themselves from the rest of the world in hope of escaping the cruel fate inflicted upon so many others.

For a time, it was enough.

Managing to ignore the internal voice telling him that something was missing from his life, something that lay elsewhere…

There was nothing left out there, so what could he possibly hope to find?

Facts and certainties meant absolutely nothing to the instinctive need that lay inside him, it knew better. There was more out there and it was waiting for him. Mad with wanting he’d run the rocky shores that lined the icy streams marking the edge of their territory. Staring off into the distance, he’d howled with a sadness felt deep within his soul... but over what he had no idea…

In a mournful chorus, his brothers had called him back, urging him to return to the pack. Finn had wanted so badly to stay, to let go of this siren call that whispered to his heart and run with his own kin, but every time he returned to them, it pulled him back. Breaking something deep inside until he’d turned back once more to pace the rocky shores.

It wasn’t long before the news spread that a son of the line of Fenrir was overcome with madness, inviting usurpers to take up the idea that it was finally the time to strike. It would be the last time Finn indulged in such a piteous self-indulgent frame of mind. Taking him unawares, they came under cover of darkness, taking advantage of the weakness he’d so easily provided. Eye slashed and bleeding he’d led them off away from their lands, a son of Fenrir too rare a prize to be so easily let go…

Behind him his brothers had wailed into the night, calling him back to return to their side. Finn kept running, the infiltrators remaining hot on his trail as he’d led them far afield from the rest of the pack. With every step the pull strengthened, calling him ever further away from everything he knew.

Now here he stood...over a thousand miles from home in an English wood, the reward of his long journey so close within his grasp. The sensation burning inside him like a fire lighting his soul aflame, calling him ever onward.

One scent stands out from the others...it is special, although muddled by the myriad others that fight to overpower it.

Standing at five feet at the blades of his shoulders, there was no hiding for the wolf. Thick white fur covers lean muscles as he stalks forward in predatory silence, his long snowy tail swishing behind him in concentration. The scent was assuredly getting stronger, the musk of wolf but also the telltale allure of the smell of man…