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Fields grew golden and green. Patched grass and mixed plains were thatched into rough squares, makeshift pastures and the outlines of fields for harvesting. Rolling hills and endless seas of green forests, broken up by the fields of settlement and pioneering.
A warm landscape in the summer was quickly blanketed in deep and powdery snowfalls in the following winter. Buildings communal and tall standing, built from strong lumber and braced against the harsh elements. Chimneys smoked casually in the summers and relentlessly in the winters, burning spruce and pine for heat and massive cooking fires.
Forests stood tall and covered their region in seas of green. Hunters harvested and skinned to provide for the tribe and small detachments of warriors were assigned patrols and duties. Everyone had purpose. Their childhood was filled with chores, as most were, prepping their lives to make a transition from the mindless and carefree lifestyle of a child to an independent and thinking young adult. Farming and chores could only get them so far, but the band of siblings had to strive for greater ambitions.
Leaving the smaller colony to venture out to the capitals was considered a celebration toward coming of age. There was little else to look forward to. It was an event: lining up for the armies from the capital, being selected if they had met their standards for fitness and health. They sought little else. They left behind undesirables for the next reaping. The runts were rejected until they were old enough to be left to the fate of tending fields and supplying the future generations of workers and mercenaries. It was a sign of distinction to be picked of their recruitment. Some of his siblings did not meet the armed guards’ prerequisite and as result, Caym and two brothers left the central region for the first time.
Childhood ceased immediately upon arrival to the capital. Upbringing thenceforth consisted of conditioning and preparation. Drills of endurance and fighting were routine. The young men were molded into fine weapons of destruction, strongest and most functional in numbers. Caym and his brothers were not the finest in the squad, however instead of excelling in leadership they took guidance well. Like the beating wings of the thrush, they felt the grace and precision in each movement of the men next to them. His brothers understood this and shared it; perhaps it was simply their bond and unity that caused such a feeling.
Salt air, cold and biting winds beating against the leather sails of a knarr; rain beating down in torrents so fast it would sting the skin and cause the individual with poor circulation to become frost nipped. Other times it caused them to become ill from the cold. War was not around the corner yet, but the commissioning of the soldiers was to serve a greater purpose. They started with casual guards on caravans into the mainland, escorting trade caravans until Caym and his brothers were moved inland permanently, where they were ordered with larger groups to take new land for the capital.
The landscape was much like their own until they grew further inland. Winter was harsher but it seemed Caym and his brothers were more tolerable to the cold. Upon first contact with new settlements they were met with hostility, to which their battalion rebutted with fierce combat. Shields were shaken and
spears were splintered. By the end of the fight Caym and his brothers had shed their first blood, slaying multiple rivals and earning their colors as soldiers. The blood upon their blade and armor marked their first victory within the infantry, it would also be a catalyst to the curse the Ulvärgson men would bear.
No longer pure at heart their bodies would twist and transmogrify into the monsters they truly were. Fierce men with the mind that ran tandem, they began to shift with each moon. At first their savage nature was unpredictable at best; running through settlements and even their own camps as wolf. They were shot at and even woke with the arrows still piercing their limbs, surrounded by disemboweled pray that ranged from domesticated animals to their peers and enemies. Eventually they learned to control their urges as they shifted, but still, their nature remained unstable and barbaric.
Their secret was kept intact despite their unfortunate start as werewolves; close calls were made but in return they learned to prevent the risk of witnesses. Upon each full moon they took patrol deep in the mountains, where their shifting was less invasive to the world around them. Unfortunately their choice of location was not well researched. The three brothers would race through the forests, chasing scents of elk and moose. However his youngest sibling caught scent of the game they would all prefer to rip apart: humans. They knew better; what if they were about to come upon their own faction, a camp full of armed soldiers? As the scent of blood and prey grew, their thought became less cultivated and more feral; upon the first casualty - a woman his brother began to eviscerate – a frenzy began between the werewolves.
Caym and his brothers broke ranks only when they targeted their prey. Singling their victims from the pack would ensure their success; while his brothers took off further into the village, Caym targeted a woman who attempted to seek refuge in a building. The werewolf barreled after her in such force that part of the shack collapsed upon impact; however Caym was unscathed and slaughtered her. Somewhere between wolfing down her intestines and dragging her body away to further devour it, Caym heard the yelp of another wolf in distress. Caym left his prize, rushing to his brother’s aid. However it was no use: his brother already lay limp and lifeless. Unsure if he was dead, Caym grew closer to investigate.
Before Caym could reach his brother’s body, he felt the force of a freight train knock him back. Rippling muscle and stone-cold flesh fought for the stronger ground. Tackled, he fell backward with a vampire on top of him grappling him into submission. Caym convulsed and snaked out of his grip, jaws snapping and claws digging in around the vampire’s neck. Though a vampire was an admirable opponent, it seemed the young werewolf was no match for his much older rival. Pinned, the vampire descended upon Caym and sank its teeth into the werewolf’s neck. Drained, Caym was thrown down once it seemed the vampire had his fill. The dying werewolf began to fight for consciousness. The bite pulsated with heat, tissue around the area swelling with ferocity that Caym could swear he felt the tissue expand in pain.
Amid the haze of blurry sight and winter fog, Caym could see the vampire standing above him. The werewolf began to wonder if he was going to have to beg for it – which in his state he was too prideful to do – but then he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Too weak and wounded to move his gaze toward the approaching figure, he instead waited for it to come closer into his view. Her face was twisted and bleeding, bruises swelling her temple and cheekbone. Scrapes ran across her face; clearly she narrowly escaped a death by one of the werewolves. Caym however recognized the face of the woman he killed in hers; as he looked into her eyes he saw the frantic, horrified stare of the woman he’d killed staring back at him. The woman grabbed at his hair, cutting a lock of fur from him. He did not see what exactly she did with it. Had she eaten it? She sobbed and screamed at Caym, her words so spiteful he could swear he felt the acid in them. The werewolf lay slipping out of consciousness until her fists and kicks no longer caused sensation. Before he could succumb to the darkness the woman stepped away from him, and the vampire descended onto his neck again as she finished her dark incantation.
Obscurity was beginning to subside. An intense fire was beginning to light up his surroundings or so it would seem. The ignition source seemed to be Caym himself; while the man did not recall waking up from the fatal attack, he found himself screaming and writing upon the ground feverishly. Within his body he could feel the venom of the vampire’s bite coursing through his veins and arteries, a toxicity that stung down to the capillaries through his body. His body felt broken and crippled, his chest was seized and unable to extend for a breath, involuntarily convulsing and twisting. Like a marionette strung up to its puppeteer, Caym’s body contorted in synchronization with the witch who stood above him. As his eyes rolled into the back of his head Caym no longer had sight of the witch as she used the full power of her black magic upon him.
Black, inky fluid began to bubble from his mouth and ooze from the wound on his neck. A deep, forceful pressure was on his gums and teeth, leaving Caym clawing at his own face and pulling on his teeth. Similar reactions began to occur behind his eyes, as though something was attempting to force his eyes from their sockets. As he begun to drown and choke upon the fluid regurgitating from
his lungs, Caym felt for the woman and began to grab handfuls of her clothing. He grabbed for her feet and ankles, trying to pull her down or himself up, but he could only writhe in panic. The pain grew so intense he found himself clawing at his face again, this time, with so much ferocity an eye was pulled from its socket savagely. Half of his body took his werewolf form while other parts of his body fought to shed the fur and rough skin the curse produced.
Whether it was out of pity or hate – Caym was unsure but grateful – the woman finally ended his suffering. Though he made no sounds Caym’s lips moved as he begged for the mercy from his Gods when he saw them in his afterlife. She knelt over him with a dagger (perhaps handed to her by the vampire; where had he went? Things began to obscure again) and sunk it into his chest without hesitation. He could feel her hot tears hitting his face and chest as she sobbed and swore at him in her savage tongue. His eyes glazed over and his breathing ceased, a shock sweeping over his body and preventing him from taking in another breath. Instead the fluid within his throat would become stasis. The remainder of blood pooled around his body, staining the snow with red and black clots. He could hear the man and woman fighting in their own tongues as his consciousness began to fade.
Twigs and leaves caught in the knots of the man’s hair as he was drug through the forest. Two villagers moved his body away from their settlement as they began to clear the dead and repair structures to keep them safe throughout the night. Though dawn was approaching, it was clearly a task better left for the present. The custodians of his body paid more attention to their surroundings, their eyes on the shadows and senses peaked for sounds of howls and growls in the wood. They neglected to see the fresh blood spewing from Caym’s mouth, as though decaying gases filling his cavities forced the liquid out of his lungs and throat. However he soon reanimated, forcing off the two villagers as they attempted to subdue him.
Involuntary and in an obscured haze, the fallen viking soldier found his movements compulsory and machine-like; bones snapped back into place with sickening cracks as he forced himself onto his feet. Legs were severely broken and misshapen but it did not stop him, and as soon as he straightened it seemed so too did his legs: with snaps and cracks one of his femurs returned to its proper alignments rather unnaturally. While the villagers attempted to scarper away and draw their blades Caym reached for them, seizing one by the scruff of his collar. He was pulled forward as though he was a child’s toy. Caym’s grip so strong the man was dragged off his feet with such force a collarbone snapped from its socket.
As though he was shifted in his werewolf form Caym thought of nothing but devouring these men. However he stood as man, towering over his enemy and holding him like a child’s toy until he was thrown down with a ragdoll effect. Caym pounced upon him, snapping his jaws down upon the man’s neck. It was not enough. He needed more. Caym’s head was spinning uncontrollably and a dull pain was locked behind his eyes and in his mouth, a throb so demanding it drove him to desperation. Battling through screams of pain his fingers returned to his mouth, clawing away viciously. In his attempts he managed to dislodge some of his teeth – perhaps they were knocked loose already – spitting them out in a mouthful of bloodied saliva.
His hands returned to his face to rub against the round of his gums but surprisingly sharp canines had already descended into place of the removed teeth. It was so unexpected their sharp points cut his thumb and drew blood. Clotting immediately the skin sealed over with little evidence that it ever had happened. While his vision was cloudy and thought process was disconnected, Caym stumbled away into any direction that he could estimate would take him away. He crawled and stumbled through the forests until dawn came and the sun began to rise. Golden rays of warm sunshine beamed through breaks in the forest canopy. As the rays of light fell upon his bare skin, Caym’s tissue began to blister and peel, almost burning up like flame igniting paper. His surroundings became too bright for his eyes to bear, and he found himself quickly blinded.
His body smoking and covered in ember, he fought to find refuge in a shaded cave. Though it did not dwell deep into the mountain it was carved into, it was tunneled enough he could find sanctuary in the darkest of its corners. There he rested and watched as the sunlight’s reach grew until its climax of midday. He waited for death but it never came. Simply looking into the light caught an unpleasant sensation. He could feel blood welling in his eyes, ears and nostrils, trickling down his dirt-caked skin.
As he resisted a sleep he so badly wanted to succumb to, blood dripped and trailed from his tear ducts down his cheeks, from his nose to wet his Cupid’s bow and lips. It would converge with the blood of his victims, leaving the man a bloodied mess. Caym closed his eyes and took a final labored breath, feeling his burned skin start to cool in the snow.
Waking with a start, the lost warrior realized he’d drifted off. The dull ache of his teeth returned. Sleep had finally overcome him; within the cave he rest until the sun retreated below the horizon. No longer a painful, chasmal mess but instead he could feel the muscle stitching itself back together. His finger was forced out of the laceration as it repaired beneath his touch. It was slow at first, he would noticed between the panic, but as he focused upon it and slowed his breathing, the rate of regeneration increased. It was bewildering and Caym couldn’t believe it. He thought it was a miracle he didn’t wake a burned and blistered mess. He fought against the thought of it at first. Muscle stretched out to connect across the chasm and pull together the flesh that gaped open, blood seemed to flow backward and up against the gravitational pull to leak back into the wound. Caym’s eyes fought to focus upon the cut as is slowly receded. Eventually his skin looked repaired and without any scarring, like it had never even happened. His hand rubbed over his chest, expecting to feel pain and the broken tissue beneath his fingers. Instead his skin was there and quite intact, but cold and hard like a mass was beneath it.
It took some time to get over the fact his skin regenerated. Enough of that, he would think, why did he not feel the cold of winter? Walking out of the cave for the first time Caym was surprised to see the world in a new light. No longer was the darkness forbearing and opaque; the stars above him shone so brightly in the sky he could see for miles. As he focused upon things in detail Caym realized the extent he had changed. The ground shone with a luminescence he recognized from his shifts as a werewolf. He could follow the path he crawled from, a path that Caym didn’t remember taking - but he could see it. He could smell the blood and the soot from the camp they’d raided. Why could he smell it so closely? Why did he have such powerful senses now, while he was out of his werewolf form? Why couldn’t he stand the sun and why did he not feel the cold? Caym had questions and he didn’t know how to answer them.
His first thought was to return to his caravan. Secondly, he wondered how he would find clothing. Neither seemed easy at this point. He could only walk out into the world as he was, attempting to use his senses to guide him in a safe path. It was a laughable thought. Safe? He walked barefoot and naked through the forest, beginning to follow a blood-stained path that could likely lead closer to his camp… or toward his death. He was willing to take the risk as it was the only clue he had to follow and investigate. Perhaps in a more… approachable state as man than a wolf, he could find out answers as to why felt the dull pain in his mouth. What had she said, just before she sunk the dagger into his chest? Was it the reason why he was changing?
Following the bloody path he produced Caym came across the villager who aided in the transport of his dead body. Caym’s interest in the body was piqued and he was unsure why, but uncontrollably he knelt next to it. A piercing pain in his gums returned with ferocity as he stooped next to the corpse. His hands rose to inspect his teeth, and to his surprise, they had become pointed and sharp. To the touch, accidental and rough in their excitement to feel what was new, had nearly left his finger cut and bleeding. The corpse before him did not have any fresh blood, but even as it dried on its skin he could not resist. This blood was a new obsession that he could not peel his eyes off of. Sinking his fangs into the cold, dead skin of the body he fed off of what he could; it was not pleasant, but sustainable and it seemed, at this point, it was all Caym needed.
Outside the small settlement it was clear it had been abandoned. He lingered on the outskirts, taking in its scents for a few minutes before he worked the courage to approach in his unnerved and naked state. He could only smell death, but it was silent enough to feel as though he was alone. Their village was in shambles after Caym and his brothers had torn through. Buildings were broken and blood stained the snow and ice. The bodies had been collected and piled to burn; their remnants lay smoking, reeking of death and ash. It was all that Caym could smell.
Luckily he was able to find clothing in the ruins of a villager’s tent. At this point it was primarily for modesty, but he theorized the clothing may protect him from the sunlight. Since there was little left here for him to follow; he prayed his brothers were not among the ash pile as there were no bodies to find and mourn.
As Caym began to walk from the overturned village he was once again struck with a force that knocked him off of his feet. Sent backward, Caym nearly managed to land on his feet. He struggled onto his knees. With a snarl he felt his werewolf self nearly trigger; why was he affected by it after the full moon? How was he turning… almost willingly? Looking up to his assailant he suddenly was struck with a smell that was so familiar it was sickening. Caym stood but he didn’t engage. It seemed he could not even though he had the instinct and will to react. He could not even step toward the man with such thoughts it his head until he began to wonder who he was. As Caym’s thought pattern changed he was able to take a step closer toward him.
Unfortunately he did not dare do more as this aggressor was clearly unnatural, just as Caym was.
It took a moment to understand what the man said as he started to speak. He spoke the common tongue and Caym was not exactly fluent. While he understood somewhat he could not reply. The man before him asked Caym if he had enjoyed what he did to the villagers. Had he enjoyed the killing? It was hard to admit... but he did. The ripping and tearing of the flesh was hard to resist as a werewolf, but it was tenfold after the witch and her ritual. It was all Caym thought of at times; traveling as a soldier left his hunger for violence sated, but it would not last. As he could not respond Caym remained silent.
His silence angered the man before him. He reacted once more to Caym, throwing him back and slamming him against a wall. There the attacker held Caym, pinning him tightly. Caym would only resist until it was clear his efforts were in vain. The man drew closer until he was just a nose away from Caym’s face. He smelled Caym deeply, causing goosebumps to rise over Caym’s skin. The man seemed to take pleasure in the discomfort he caused the young werewolf. As though it were as simple as snapping his fingers, the man’s teeth lengthened into sharp fangs. Though Caym prayed against it, the man sunk his teeth into Caym’s neck and began to drink from the flow of his artery. To add to the horror of his experience, the man began to moan with pleasure as he fed from Caym. He withdrew from his neck and with a grin, began to speak of something along the lines of: “It worked!”
Caym learned a great a many things in the beginning of his new life. It took some time for him to learn the name of his counselor; the language barrier between them was one of the first things altered in their relationship. Caym was taught the common tongue even if he had been quite stubborn in learning. With their communication Caym was taught that this man was his caretaker, a guide and something of a protector to Caym. Unconditionally Caym felt an appreciation and a devoutness toward this man. It was an emotion he could not explain. At times Caym hated him; his maker was unfair and cruel. Even within the animosity Caym felt an uncontrollable admiration for him. A loyalty that, even in his darkest of times, Caym could not turn away from. Without the inquisition to he would come to his master’s aid. Whether it meant the sharp blade meant for his master would pierce his skin, Caym was more than willing for it. Caym did not need to hear his name leave his master’s lips to know his presence was warranted.
His name was Raul and like Caym, he was doubly afflicted. The witches likely had some part in Raul’s transmogrification as well. Caym did not ask as the answer would have been a cuff to the face. There was many things Caym was not allowed to know about Raul’s agenda. The maker had his own motives and intentions, using Caym as his pawn and a scapegoat when he could. Though Caym had suffered at the hand of his maker, he could not deny that they also enjoyed their time together. Without Raul, Caym would not have learned how to feast with control upon the flesh that sustained him. Time would not stand still for him, leaving Caym to enjoy whatever pleasures he had to set his mind to. His werewolf life was still very mortal, and though he aged slower, death would have still been inevitable. Without Raul, Caym would not have the opportunity to remain stasis through the ages. Eventually he would learn this beauty was not everything, but for now, he was still very young.
They could shift willingly if they wanted. The full moon didn’t control them, nor did the sun. The witches at Raul’s employ (he was unsure of their arrangements) were able to enchant items to protect them. Raul displayed multiple rings; perhaps one or more was his enchanted item. Caym was given a ring and also a necklace; the chain of the necklace was so long Caym would wind it around his ankle, where it was less likely to slip off. It was one of the only gifts – besides his immortality – that Caym received from Raul. At first Caym could not bear the sun; the hybrid lived in a constant state of paranoia as he recalled the night and then the following day that he turned. He would not combust when the rays of light hit him and it took some time for that fact to sink in. It did not help that he could not fully trust the witches who enchanted his items; they were the same witches who had a hand in his 'death.' The adjustment to his internal clock left him bleeding at the eyes and nose for weeks before he learned to acclimate, leaving the hybrid in a state of malaise and exhaustion until his body could learn to function for the daylight.
Though their lives were one, Caym and Raul did many things separate. They hunted separately once Caym was trusted. Though he wanted his own life, Caym was not allowed to stray too far from Raul as he was always there to serve a purpose. Raul used his progeny to hunt down packs of wolves through the ages, leading them to the same fate that Caym suffered. His witches aided in subduing them and attempted to bind the mix of viruses with their black magic. Unfortunately it was worse. Their victims rarely turned, succumbing to the horrible transformation that Caym barely managed to live through himself. After their failures Caym knew it was a time to leave Raul to himself. His creator’s devastation was unrivaled. It was something they went through every other decade and so Caym knew that Raul’s nature was predictable. Eventually they would find another area of interest after Raul moved on.
His maker was something of a weak man; emotionally he was erratic and unstable. To Caym it was laughable, but he was just as guilty of having similar traits, and just as stubborn as he would refuse to admit this. Becoming a hybrid was a horrific experience that Caym saw no desire in ‘sharing’ with another. It was a plague. To Raul, it was a way to expand his family. His brothers, he assumed, had succumbed during the attempt to turn them, as many did. It was an unknown that Raul chose to constantly dismiss. However, Raul remained with hope that their numbers would grow. As their existence carried them into the next few centuries with the same procedure over new demographics, they were blessed with only one other hybrid. It was then Caym understood the curiosity.
When the ritual had completed, the twisted and misshapen body of the new hybrid did not perish, Raul experienced a joy that was not present when Caym had turned. Then again, Caym had fled and nearly succumbed to the light of day; if Caym did not run into his maker sooner or later, he would’ve been hunted down anyway. This time Caym could admit that this ceremony was more precious; Raul could cradle and nurse his progeny for the first time. It was customary for Raul’s entire order to be present with each turning despite the odds. Among the staff a compelled human who sat and waited for their orders. A sacrifice to sanctify the transformation was willing, but coerced; unfortunately for Caym, his personal blood source had been slain as his ceremony was assumed a failure. He did not receive a fraction of the warm welcome that this new progeny was receiving.
She would feast upon the fresh blood and consecrate the binding of the two afflictions. Caym did not linger for the remainder of the ceremony.
Caym had to admit she was precious. A younger sister that was adored by Raul and Caym, but it was in different ways. Nevertheless, it was another member to their ranks. At first, it was a task to have another mouth to feed. It was tedious to guide another to match their guise with the shadows and have their feedings subjected to criticism. Caym could remember when his most urgent desires could lay around the procuring of the next subject to feed on. Though Raul’s unrelenting gaze hardly left their sister, Caym managed to find the odd night to steal her away and show her a night upon the town. They could ravage as a pair, lusting as a couple swinging or as a vendor selling his flesh inventory. It was fun and games until Raul recognized their patterns and had to exert dominance to stop their fraternizing.
They found almost eight more subjects that survived the transformation within the next few centuries. Caym did not show any of them his previous generosity as, by now, it clearly was not allowed. By the last ceremony Caym was unable to bear the slavery any longer. He could not bear the treatment and, though he would not admit it, the fact the spot light had moved on. Perhaps it was not the attention he missed, but instead the freedoms that came with living his own life. After much contention, Raul released his grip as a maker and an employer to Caym. After all, he had plenty of hybrids at his reach now; Raul would not long for company or for a slave to have at his will. Caym wanted to bury the animosity that seemed to reignite every other day when Raul reminded him of it.
When Raul gave his consent Caym left and made certain he kept the world’s distance between them. It was not exactly a mutual parting, but Caym was permitted to leave the coven and start his own path. He did so begrudgingly, spending the first decade of his freedom in a haze of bloodlust and murder. He flocked to cities and found himself among the ranks of soldiers, never straying far from war and death. He had an affinity for killing and this role would never left him far from potential meals of flesh and blood.
Through the years Caym found it easier to adapt to the current state of the world. In his solitude he would eventually thrive as he learned to control his lust for feeding. It seemed he would always toe a line when it came to blood. It would take decades of discipline to prevent him from falling back into the savage lifestyle. For years had been effortless to survive, especially when the world was younger and war was constant. Finding a niche as a soldier meant he would always have a constant supply. When war broke out within the countries he resided in, Caym made a point of staying to enjoy the blood bath. He was never far from falling into a hole dug out by blood lust and soon Caym would have to make a choice. Remain a mercenary, never far from losing himself to blood lust, or find a new path that allows him to keep his sanity.
As the world grew so did Caym’s methods of self preservation. By the modern age he was established, moving on from the mercenary lifestyle. No longer was Caym constantly at war with blood lust and an addiction for killing. Though the desires would always linger, he was far more reserved. In comparison to his past, he was but a husk of that person. He could not deny that the shadow of this person lingered beneath the surface. To keep himself contained, he busied his mind with new obsessions: things of value, whether it be shining jewelry or a vast property. Instead of obsessing over blood and tearing apart his next victim, he instead focused on surrounding himself with luxuries and pleasures that would ultimately lead to Caym living a very high-end and comfortable lifestyle.
The change in priority meant that Caym was more reserved; he did not indulge and feed carelessly any longer. Any blood sources were private and claimed solely by him. He no longer found pleasure in nests or covens as he now cared for his reputation and he was persuaded into falling into bad habits too easily around them. Those who knew him in his hybrid infancy would be surprised to see that he was even capable of such a huge change. Those who knew him in this 'new' life were convinced that they were always in the presence of a great friend when they were around him.
He had made contacts and affiliations in the right places throughout the centuries to make dropping and adopting identities effortless. His wealth would be recycled through foundations and enterprises within his name and others, posed as a family fortune, carefully orchestrated through the last five decades to ensure a comfortable lifestyle. Compulsion was a way for one to get what they wanted, but when a paper trail was required the documents would be forged by his trusted sources. No longer did he live in the ages of castles, bearing steel and armor in the name of a king or religion.
Instead it was the world of capitalism, industry, growth and change. It was a world that he adapted well to.
under construction.
