Thunder Dome twai

The ravens watched her from their lofty perches, their eyes glinting with a knowing glimmer that sent a thrill of apprehension racing through her. Were they guides or watchers? Their calls seemed to beckon her further, urging her to embrace the wildness that swirled around her like a storm. With each step, Edith’s confidence wavered and grew, a dance of shadows in her heart.

A sense of foreboding wrapped around the trees, as if the woods held memories of sins unconfessed and lives untold. Branches creaked in the cold wind, a low lament that whispered through the fog, as though the very spirit of the forest mourned for the lost souls who had wandered too far. Here, the world felt old and cruel, time dilating into a stretch of silence where even the stars seemed afraid to look down.

As she walked beneath the heavy canopy, the ground, soft and yielding, threatened to swallow each footstep whole. It was a treacherous path—gnarled roots snaking out like fingers reaching for the unwary, inviting the traveler to trip, to fall, to become just another whisper among the leaves. The ravens circled overhead, dark silhouettes against the moonless sky, their eyes glinting with a knowledge best left unspoken.

In this place, one could feel the weight of unseen eyes, the lingering presence of something ancient and unfathomable. A chill crept along the spine, a primal instinct to flee from the unknown lurking just beyond the periphery. Yet, the forest held its grip tight, and the night stretched on, weaving its web of shadows, with the ravens’ calls echoing like laughter in the deepening gloom.

There was a prickling under his skin lately, an uncomfortable feeling that he didn't know how to address. Not wanting to bring the energy to his homeland, he left for a while, skirting the back half of the territory that he was less familiar with—and then beyond into fully unclaimed land.

This, of course, brought new faces—new situations that he was wholly unprepared to deal with.

He gave a gentle whuff to the rangy woman, not halting his pace as he continued to walk among the pines. If she was interested in anything he had to offer, she would call back, and he would answer. If not, he would move on.

It was the cough of something terrestrial that made her stop, made her ears twitch. The sound was so unlike the creaking, croaking, tossed-gravel sounds of the ravens — and familiar too, somehow. Standing firmly in place, the woman listened more intently. She tried to spy through the shadow and breathe deeply of the pine, not knowing what she waited for; only aware that something else had come to watch her, and she could feel those eyes upon her in the same way those ravens had been lurking.

She only stood like this for one or two heartbeats. The sense of foreboding in this liminal expanse did not waver and so she remained on-edge, even as her curiosity flooded her. Edith had come all of this way and now, what? Was she afraid? Of course, there was a sensibility to be found in fear. Properly managed, it could be put to use.

It was hard not to betray herself. Her breath quaked in, out; a plume to join the fog. Taking what she considered a bold step forward, she called out in mimicry — her own voice was childish, and she felt her throat constrict as the sound escaped her. Still, she could not see.

What was it that waited in the dark?

The strangled noise that answered intrigued him, and he moved closer, dark ears canted forward toward the footfalls. Eventually, the figure within the trees revealed itself as an agouti form, wolf-like enough for him to treat her as one of his own.

Hello, he told her, tail beating against his hocks. What brings you here?

Hex was beginning to tire of surprises. Should this femme provide something of the sort, he would not hesitate to immediately retreat.

There was silence for what felt like, a good long while. The truth was, Edith had become frozen in place, and her ears filled with the sound of branches caught in wind; the feeling of her heart racing; the want for those ravens to come back, so she wouldn't have to face this unknown.

The dog that emerged was at least twice her size. There was more than largesse, there was silence, there was composure, confidence; he moved almost soundlessly. Edith found herself struggling to decode his body language - and blamed the shock of watching this shadow emerge before her eyes.

The collar around her neck suddenly felt like a vice.

I was curious. The answer flowed from her, not accustomed to being guarded around her own people; but this wasn't one of her own. Nervousness flickers through her body and she confronts the sensation by drawing closer, wanting to study it — him? Him.

There wasn't a mark on him, none that she could see. No ornamentation. No scent of burning rubber, processed food, or sweat. Something earthy, a mineral terroir. I'm not from around here.

Obviously.

As he came closer, and she shifted, Hex suddenly noticed the bright yoke around her neck, in stark contrast against the dark fur there. He eyed it for a long moment before returning his gaze to hers, cocking his head ever-so-slightly in reply.

What is that? he asked, nodding toward her ornament.

Not from here. That much was obvious, although with a more confident attitude, she would fit in quite well. She was of smaller stature, but so was Muskrat, and the latter had taken firm command of her life. This woman only stood out by virtue of her cautious mien.

A vibe he understood, having so often been the outsider looking in. This perspective intrigued him greatly, which was why he remained still, waiting for the stranger's reply.

The nearer the two got, the more obvious the differences. Edith had seen large dogs before. The ones she'd pass in the street always seemed like giants to her; always some sort of ungainly height, or excess skin, or broad shoulders and wide heads. In this specimen of the wild there was nothing ungainly about them; they were massive, yes — to a scale she had never considered of a domestic — but nothing was out of place. The Wyrd had crafted something perfect for these wild spaces.

Was she afraid? Yes. Was she a little bit awed? Of course.

He asked after her badge of honor: the Red around her neck. As beloved as this ornament was to her, Edith suddenly felt the weight of it constricting; it was such a garish shade against the dark of her coat, and so easily spied among the greens of the trees. The giant man was curious and Edith did not know what to say at first. How could she explain this?

She felt only pride when thinking of the Red.

My mark. She was thinking as quickly as she could, trying to come up with the easiest explanation for this wildshape before her. But he was himself an avatar of Wotan! He was closer to the ideal she had always been taught to seek. If she spoke the name, would he know it? They are given to members of my family when they go to be taught.

No, she wouldn't mention the Wyrd. For all she knew, Edith was speaking directly to it right now.

Her mark.

He looked straight at it, golden eyes burning into the bright material, following the way it hugged her neck, disappeared slightly beneath her long fur. . .

I've never seen that before, Hex said quietly, intrigued. What do. . .they teach your family?

Perhaps she was part of some long line of hunters, warriors, scouts. Priests? 

Did she have the same kind of magic that the mad Mayfair man had spoken of in their meeting along the shores of that alpine lake?

To say it surprised her that this creature was oblivious about this color she wore wasn't quite right; Edith did not expect the confusing mixture of emotions to surface when he spoke, and as he looked upon her, and upon it. Of course, it made sense that someone born in Wotan's Country would have no need for marks, or seek a handler, or be driven to the same purpose as those she knew. It made sense because — look at him! This man, this giant. What guidance did he need? What purpose did he thrive to fulfill? He existed, blessed in the feral ways of the Wyrd.

The more she thought of it — hastily, mind you — the more Edith was reminded of her aunts and uncles, and their fervent telling of stories. She did not consider herself as fanatical, yet the thoughts flooded her all the same.

Edith's head raises slightly, thinking of the responsibility of her bloodline. Feeling that brace upon her neck. To be good, she recited at first, and as prideful as she felt, her voice was almost childish for that breath. A strengthening spine and straightened shoulders gave her a more solid silhouette, a moment later. And cunning, and hale of heart as well as quick of mind.

Was she doing her duty now? What would her family think of her, here, instead of at her handler's side — and suddenly enough, the Red felt too tight, and the patch which read IN-TRAINING burned against her neck, but she would not move to scratch it. She knew it was only her guilt.

We are taught what would otherwise be forgotten. What you — your people of the forest, know, and are born knowing. These were simple tenets and yet, when spoken aloud, did not have the same weight as when she had learned them back home. It felt strange to speak of them at all — to a stranger, no less, but to one of Wotan's?

A tremble creeps down her sloped haunches.

I — I came here, from very far away. From a place which isn't so green. I wanted to learn. She watched him, wondering above all else if this made any sense, or held any impact at all. Was she offending him? How little she must seem in his eye; those golden, feral eyes.

What she spoke of was esoteric, beyond his comprehension—perhaps because, as she explained, it was born within him. Second nature, to Hex. Coming so easily that he blinked with confusion now, trying his best to absorb her words.

She was small, but fierce. Strange-faced, but clearly steadfast in purpose. He gave her another once-over, examining the bright collar, the shapely limbs. . .

My home is not far, Hex explained to her. It's a safe place—at least I want it to be, anyway. It can be a safe place for you to. . .learn.

And they did not discriminate. Especially not against this woman who seemed more than willing to try, to assimilate, to serve. His golden eyes held her gaze, waiting patiently for her response to his invitation, vague as it might have been.

The way he stared at her felt to Edith, like staring in to the sun. It was usually the expression of an interested dog or eager teen who did not yet know better, except there was something more direct when it came from the wildling; something about the way he stared made Edith want to sink down. She did not, and would not, wilt before him. Beyond that, he spoke of a home — as if this whole wild domain was not his.

Maybe something was lost in translation. If he was willing to divulge the secrets of the Wyrd to her then there was reason for hope, and her tail-tip gave a few brushes of the air. You are generous, and she was surprised by this the most, given what she had been taught. Wotan's Country was a place without law; or if there was law, it was a wild sort that did not suit the cities of her handlers.

You would not be disappointed. Edith had pledged to find these creatures, to study them, to adapt and to learn. When she put her mind to something she did not let it go; and so too, she would come to understand this wildman and his people. I am called Edith, by my family. Do you — your people, do they have names?

Was that rude to ask? It might've been, the wild ones did not utilize names at all. Perhaps they knew one-another only by scent, like in the stories. Perhaps they had secret names given by Wotan when they were created; many such fantastic ideas sprung to life in her mind, and Edith tampered them down so as not to seem too animated. She was not a child, she knew better than to let children's stories interfere with the truth.

Her question brought an unexpected smile to his muzzle; it seemed patently ridiculous, but then. . .things were clearly quite different in the place she hailed from. He nodded, trying to keep his amusement at bay as he began to guide them both back toward the Ridge.

Yes, we have names, he replied, taking a slight lead as he moved up the trail, though he cast a glance back toward her as he added, Mine is Hex.

The decision could either be a stroke of genius or a complete disaster. Only time would tell whether the little woman would be fit enough to keep up. Would the wily Muskrat and martial Golden Eagle accept her into the fold? 

The dark, rippling folds of Shadow Ridge emerged in the distance, and Hex picked up his pace. With good speed, they'd be home by sunrise.

fade here?

Was she being a fool? She did not think so. Walking with giants, with these wild things that came before, was something her family had always waxed poetic about! Now she was doing it! The Wyrd had brought her here. Edith was elated as the man, calling himself Hex, led her further. She would not let her logic be overtaken by childish notions but it grew harder with each step.

What kind of life did they lead without handlers? They were people that knew nothing of the hard world of civilization. They followed the natural paths, they sought their own fortunes, and needed nothing but Wotan! Now her mind began to spin with anecdotes and children's rhymes. Her grandmother's voice meshed with aunts and uncles.

Behind them all, mother and father's wish for her to smarten up, to focus, now. These tethered her enough to keep her composure. Would it be the worst thing to display excitement? No. But it would look badly upon her lineage, and that was something Edith could not abide.