HundMaster

The Gaoler




The first lesson he learns is simple: only the fit survive.

The Tangled Woods are a harsh place, harsher still for a hatchling barely old enough to spread his wings. Threats lurk silent in the darkness, hidden in the thorny brambles that litter the groves and forests of the Shadowbinder's domain. The dark is oppressive, all-consuming — and his white coat makes a stark target in the moonlight for those that walk in the shadows.

His one advantage, then, is that he is still small, agile enough to slither through the thick burrs and thorns that cut and tear at his fur. Over time, he collects scars across his skin, blood matting and staining his pelt — but he learns that this, too, is a boon, darkening his fur enough to let him blend in as he travels aimlessly through the Tangled Woods.

As the months pass, he learns over and over again that initial lesson: only the fit survive. There is no room for hesitation or mercy in these woods, even as he wanders the worn paths looking for a way out.

He grows in mind and body, even as his heart grows colder, until one day, the shadowy boughs part to a blast of frigid air, the cold scent of clean water assaulting his senses.

Light. Almost blinding, the sun reflecting off of the ice ahead serves a harsh contrast to the blackness behind him. Dazed, he shuffles forward — again the white, abandoned hatchling he had been once, still nameless, still alone — as his paws hit the slushy ice beneath him, blood and dirt washing off of his paws and clouding the puddles beneath his feet. It smells like safety, like a new beginning, and his blood sings of home.

He relearns what it is to survive: the open ice presents a new set of challenges and a new set of rules to follow. He learns quickly the sounds of crackling ice, the quiet scrapes of approaching claws on the snow. Enemies, familiar and new, make themselves known quickly.

Wolves, at least, are familiar enemies. Here on the ice, their pelts grow grey and white, as if to blend into the snow. Whether in the woods or on the ice, they are pack hunters — it seems he is the only lone wolf in sight. He wanders for days, weeks on the ice, sticking close to the boundary of forest and tundra.

New life makes itself known during another battle — the closest thing to home, for him, the clash of fangs against fur, the smell of iron in the air. A small dragon, cold eyes piercing blue as it approaches.

An enemy? His breaths come ragged from the battle, but he tenses for another fight: easy prey, this small fry.

"So you're not a wolf," the stranger says, flat and bemused. "Do you have a name?"

A name. Something given, something earned; useless for a solitary warrior, an unwanted broodling. He shakes his head, eyes wary.

"A lone wolf. Hund, even." The dragon shakes out his wings, icy thin and delicate in the light, and turns. He smells like an ally. "Will you come? You seem to have nowhere to go."

"Where?" His voice is barely a growl, fitting his new moniker — but it suffices.

"Home," the dragon says, half-amused, before flitting away.

Hund hesitates — one pause gives way to another, an eternity between heartbeats — and follows.

lore by theongreyjoy


♠ by Maevepanda.