Writing Contest! (ANNOUNCED WINNERS)

Here is my entry!//

A cold wind blew through the Thiar Gaoth Pack’s camp. Curled up within the fallen log which served as her refuge from the cold, a she-wolf with an iridium coat shivered. Slate stirred, her fur fluffing up against the cold, biting wind. Her tail re-tucked around her muzzle in an effort to keep the wind chill out. She huffed out a breath, watching the white fog of her breath float toward the sky.

After some restless tossing and turning, she gave up on sleep, winter’s bite proving too much to ignore. She stood, crawling out of the fallen log den, and out into the pack’s small clearing. 

Her ice-blue eyes flickered around the camp, spotting the familiar, tawny pelt of a packmate. He was sitting still as stone by the camp entrance. She yawned and padded over to him, Rock registering her presence with a small flick of his ear.  

“Is everything quiet?” she rumbled, as she sat beside the tawny male. She gazed out into the dark forest. Leaf-bare had stripped the trees, leaving large gnarled claws that erupted from the ground as though to drag prey toward a yet-unseen maw. 

Rock’s only reply was a soft chuff of confirmation, his ears perking up as the wind whistled through the woods. The she-wolf shivered.

“We need to gather some more brambles, winter has arrived in earnest.” The she-wolf gestured her muzzle to the fallen log she had been sleeping in. Rock flicked his gaze over to the hollow, chuffing.

Rock stood, stretching his stiff muscles. “Should we go now?” he asked gruffly.

Slate turned her blue eyes out into the dark woodland. “Might as well, since I’m up.” She padded over to a young grey wolf, poking a claw into his sleeping form. The wolf yelped, jumping up, his green eyes darting around for a possible threat.

“Grey, take watch, me and Rock are going out for more brambles.” State twitched her ears as Grey grumbled in annoyance. He shook out his thick coat before slinking over to the camp entrance, flopping down into the snow, yawning widely.

Slate followed Rock out of the relatively sheltered camp and into the hash winds. Her eyes squinted in the effort to keep the wind’s sting from blinding her. She paused, her nose twitching as she caught the scent of something. 

She flicked her tail at Rock, signaling him to halt, turning her nose to the air. The warm, musky scent of prey reached Slate’s nose, and her stomach gave a small growl of approval.

“Rabbit...” she whispered. Rock perked his ears and dropped into a crouch, his head low. Slate followed the older wolf’s lead, crouching down next to him, her eyes scanning the snowy forest. There, crouched under a bare pine tree, a snowshoe hare was nibbling on the last sprigs of grass. She stalked forward, doing her best not to step on an errant twig or a thin sheet of ice atop the snow whose crunch would surely give away her position. She paused, before springing forward, the hare giving out a loud squeal of alarm.

The she-wolf’s teeth snapped in thin air as the hare took off, Rock bounding after it. Slate regained her footing on the icy snow, her paws scrabbling to gain purchase on the snow. Once she righted herself, the two wolves gave chase, the rabbit turning quickly to the left and into a small clearing. Its eyes were wide with panic as the wolves took snaps at the air.

Rock moved ahead of Slate, merely a hair away from the hare. A loud creaking drew Slate’s attention from the hunt, her eyes darting up to the trees. She barked in alarm, skidding to a halt as two impossibly-large, glowing eyes stared down at her. A huge creature the likes of which she’d never seen was perched among the trees, looming over her. With her tail tucked and hackles raised, she watched as it opened its huge maw in a low snarl. A yelp escaped her, despite her efforts to suppress it.

It’s clawlike appendage shot out, snatching the rabbit just before Rock could close his jaws around its neck. He scrambled to a halt, staring up at the beast. The monster lifted the squealing rabbit up and dropped it into its maw, devouring it in one bite. It then turned its massive head towards the two wolves, its pupiless eyes staring at the two small creatures.

Rock bristled, standing tall as the creature moved closer, tilting its head. The male wolf and this monstrous creature stared one another down before it let out a low, mournful howl and returned to the shadows of the forest, slowly retreating from view.

Several moments passed before Slate could get her fur to lay flat again, fear spiking through her pelt. She let out a low whine and slinked over to Rock, whose gaze was still fixed in the direction the creature had gone. 

“What... was that thing…?” she whispered, her ears flat. They twitched at the distant sound of a crow’s caw.

Rock shook his head, gently nuzzling the she-wolf’s in an effort to comfort her.

“The Elders told tales of a creature like that. Of a wolf who was separated from his pack in a snowstorm. They say he searched high and low for his pack, only to find what was left of them. They’d frozen solid, like ice. In his desperation, and with no other creature in sight, he violated the taboo. He sustained himself on their flesh. And he paid the price. Transformed into… something wrong. A gigantic, gangly beast with claws larger than a bear’s. His matted fur is stained with the blood of his pack. He’s doomed to roam the forest, forever hungry, consuming all he comes across to sate that eternal hunger.” Rock paused in his story, looking down at Slate, who’s eyes were wide with fear. 

“W-what do they call it?..” Slate asked, her voice barely heard over the howling of the wind. Rock raised his head up, looking back towards the deep dark forest, his ears perking up slightly at the dancing shadows of branches.

“The Wendigo.”

The Weaver

The journey had left the wolves tired, and exhausted. They had dealt with so many perils along the way that their bodies were drained. They had pushed their bodies to the brink, yet they pushed on. The territory was still dangerous, and there was no telling how far behind the pack that had started trailing them was. If they happened to still be in their territory…

Kosha would look back at his mate who followed closely behind. Elsek was panting hard, not from heat, the cold times had covered the world in the white powder. She was tired, just as he. Both were panting with fatigue, they needed to rest. He’d turn to gesture that they should find a proper place, but the sound of the trees crackling would draw his attention upwards. A bird? A squirrel? but it was too large. Behind him Elsek would begin to growl tilting her head up at the canopy of dead branches. The way she swung her head from one side to another, she didn’t know where the sound was coming from either.

The creaking oaks continued to sway, at moments it seemed like the sound was all around, at other times it was distinctly coming from one direction. Then it came, the sound with meaning.

“Life. It is but a thread.”

They both heard the sounds, and the meaning they brought well before seeing the creature which was making the noise. It was more than a simple howl, or a bark. The sound made them feel small, vulnerable with such a short meaning.

”A singular weak strand, spanning through time.”

Another tree would snap, and a black mass would descend in front of them. Elsek would shrink back, cowering at the looming threat. Kosha, determined not to fail, stood his ground on shaking legs.

Two glowing orbs where eyes should be bore down on them both. It seemed like they glowed as bright as the full moon. It was captivating, impossible to look away. It seemed like all the knowledge of the night was behind the glowing eyes of the creature. It was what they were seeking, the reason to undertake such a treacherous journey. The sounds continued to share meaning, ”with little effort such a thing can be twisted, ensnared, snapped.” 

Crack!

Both wolves jumped at the sound of a tree being crushed by the creature’s fore paw.  “Yet life continues to flourish and spread, even amongst the thorns of trial and tribulation.”

Each meaning was punctuated with just the right emphasis. As if the creature had pondered each one for a century before sharing them with the two scared wolves.

“You have come to me, the Weaver, to mend your frayed threads.”

Another tree would snap under its weight, shifting the canopy enough that more moonlight could illuminate the creature that shared its thoughts with them. A massive thing, the head and body of a wolf, but with far too many legs. It was difficult to make out exactly how many in the darkness and terror. Kosha would see at least five hairy limbs supporting the creature.

There was a small bubble of hope growing inside of both Elsek and Kosha at the title. A bubble, so thin it may easily burst. The fear of such a being kept their hope from growing too large. Lest they need to flee. Though they had nowhere to flee.

The Weaver would approach them, causing the trees supporting her massive weight to creak as her weight shifts.

The size of her torso was greater than the largest grizzly. He could only imagine her size, as the darkness shrouded most of her form from him. Though one thing was certain, The Weaver was real. The creature as old as time, with body of wolf and hindquarters of an eight legger. As dark as the night, and as terrifying as the eternal slumber.

Both wolves knew that their bodies could be crushed, the blood spilled over the white canvas of the forest ,or necks snapped as easily as a spider’s silk thread. Yet Elsek would let out a warning bark from behind him. A warning too full of fright to be taken seriously.

The eyes were too alluring to look away from. She was fine, she’s behind him, there’s no need to check on her. Just watch the eyes, the glowing eyes like one watches the moon.

”Come now, gather your wits. Here I welcome you both. as a mother awaiting the return of their children. Cast away your fear and show me how strong the thread of your lives has truly become.”

The challenge was clear. The Weaver was clearly challenging them as she raised herself in front of them. Showing her height at full stature.

”Now, at the threshold of fate, tell me what I know you seek. Ask of me the knowledge which will lead you down the correct path and choose to listen or ignore it. The choice, it is the only thing which I cannot weave into your lives.”

This was what they had traveled here for. Her final message echoed in the wolve’s mind. The question, the request. What it was that he had come here for. The eyes were drawing him in, the pools of light as deep as the lake near their den. Deeper still. It was as though the depths were dragging him in. Much like the undercurrents of a river could drag a wolf under no matter how he struggled. One step. A second. But he did not struggle. It was the Weaver they were seeking, and here she stood, becoming them to come join her.

From behind he heard Elsek bark a warning at him. It resonated in his head, mixing with the words of the Weaver and then he heard her again, “stop!”

Kosha would pause, one paw hovering above the white forest floor.

Nothing more came from Elsek, the next sounds came from the Weaver. No invitation, a stern command. “Tell me what it is you seek.”

Kosha would open his maw, prepared to bark. He wasn’t certain how to convey all that was happening, the sickness of the land where they live. How close their pack is to dying. With his maw open, he begins a sound. Without thinking, his jaw moves and meaning comes with it.

“A cure.”

“Very good Kosha. I will teach you this cure and you can keep your thread entwined with your brothers and sisters.”

And so they were no longer simple wolves. With this one encounter, they had been changed. Simply being in the presence of the Weaver had taught them a new way to share their thoughts.

They stayed in her presence for a few days. She taught them more. Each time he looked at her, it was more difficult for Kosha to tear his eyes away from the glowing orbs of light. The Weaver did not make any attempt to avert her gaze. It was something Elsek watched nervously, but she did not interfere. They would only stay as long as was needed, long enough to understand the healing mixture they would need for their pack’s survival.

Though it was easy to stay with their host, they both knew they could not rest forever. Soon it was time for Kosah to tear his eyes from the Weaver one final time. He would never admit it, but Elsek knew from the way he would stare at the moon that the Weaver’s grasp never released him. He had fallen deep into her pools, and couldn’t satisfy himself with just this one answer.

Even after the pack was healthy and the lands had recovered, she felt that he would leave. He had too many questions, and he could not answer them all.

She would chuckle as the pups from the most recent litter would pounce him from behind after trying to sneak up. He had heard them, she knew from the way his ears twitched, but let them practice.

Maybe what kept him close was the the mending of the pack’s threads, a group laced together into a cord. 

Word Count: 1353

Here's my entry!

Confession

It was deepest, darkest winter, the skeletal woods cast in sharp relief by the white disc of the moon. Slate ran through the woods, with no other creatures on her path. Perhaps they were all dead. She could still see smears of red and pink in the snow. 

    “Hello?” Slate’s nose twitched. Familiar scents hit her nose at once. It’s Mother with Flame. Annoyance made her pelt itch. Can she not let me be alone for more than a few minutes? Not that she was ever intending on going back to the pack, of course.

    “Slate, is that you? You’ve been gone for so long and I’m worried.” Slate didn’t move. Being pack leader had given her mother a honeyed tongue, but she knew not to trust it. The moment she stepped into the light the honey would turn bitter and she would be torn to pieces by Hemlock’s words. Not that I don’t have my own fangs, of course.

    As if driven by her anger, thick clouds covered the moon. Even the snow became dull grey; the cold deepened, crystals of her breath dropping to the ground like shooting stars. “I don’t think we’ll find her tonight, and I don’t like how dark it’s getting. Blizzards come quickly this high up.” Flame’s voice had an angry rumble, and she could hear his paws crunching through the snow restlessly. He never liked it when she wandered off. Probably because her mother always insisted that he help find her.

    “I’m not leaving my daughter up here! For the sake of the stars, what’ll happen to her if a blizzard comes in and she’s all alone?” Her mother snapped, teeth gnashing. Slate smirked. When had her mother cared about her being alone before?

    Flame’s paws shuffled, but he didn’t speak up again, and she heard him sniffing the ground. He would not find anything, because the snow had fell heavily and her scent had changed a lot since she had stepped into the highest forest. They’ll still be looking for hours, maybe even days. She doesn't want to be defeated.

    Slate hissed, scratching deep marks into one of the trees until she could feel the rough bark between her paw pads. She inched closer as a soft breeze carried her scent towards them, too delicate for them to notice yet. She saw them as little smudges in the darkness. Tiny little things. Her throat thrummed; the wolves’ ears pricked.

    “What was that?” Her mother’s voice was full of fear, her tail low instead of high and proud; Slate bared her teeth in amusement. Good. You always fear what you cannot understand.

    “Snow falling in the distance, perhaps,” Flame was not afraid yet, just cautious. He shuffled his paws again. “We can’t see more than a few leaps ahead, and the snow holds no scent- if we go back to our cave she might already be back.”

    Slate growled again and stepped closer, this time letting her movements make noise, letting her claws drag across the trunks of the trees around her. Will you run away and leave me alone at last? Or are you going to try fighting me, mother? Even now?

    Hemlock pulled her ears back. “There’s something there-” And her daughter trust herself through the last cluster of trees.

    Her mother’s voice disintegrated into a whimper. What wolf, after all, wouldn’t flinch from a monster? Slate relished the moment; the trees falling aside with the slightest push, the whines of terror and despair, and the sweet scent of fear in the air. Her mother was cowed, and would not fight her. Slate’s maw gaped open and she cawed in joy.

    “Stand back.” Flame growled, acting like more of an alpha than her own mother. The bright eyes he’d been named for had always seemed so vivid and colourful to her met hers. They were actually dull, I just never realised. I was ignorant. Her own eyes cast him in pale white light like the missing moon.

    Her mother gathered herself and growled. “How dare you interrupt us, beast.” Slate wanted to laugh. Her mother was so arrogant, refusing to bend to a superior power.

    Slate stood on all fours again, bringing her face right into her mother’s. “You know me.”

    “I don’t, beast.” Her mother would not look into her eyes.

“You do. Now say my name, or neither of you will live to see daylight.” Hemlock shook her head. “Say it. Look into my eyes and say it,” Slate’s foreclaws made long bloody lines in her mother’s face. She watched Flame run full pelt away from the forest; other wolves would know this place was haunted. Hopefully few would come here now.

    “Slate,” her mother whispered; and the monster laughed, sinking her claws in deep.

(Hoping my entry isn't late... But here it is.) (Also, sorry im not very good at paragraph spacing...)

Somewhere in the world there is a forest older than time itself. Unique creatures live among its trees and branches, strange creatures of magic and myth. There are many warnings of this ancient forest among all wolf packs. Mostly the stories and legends claim the creatures who live there are not all good. That there are many who would gladly leave their forest to hunt the mortal wolves closest to their forest border. The reason they don’t, according to legend, is that the oldest creature in the forest, simply called The Ancient, guards the very edge of the blurred border. 

With long arms and legs and short thick fur covering a large humanoid body, its mere presence is enough to drive those who would cross away. There are a few mortals who have dared to near the border and attempt to cross. That is when The Ancient finds them and lowers its head to stare at them with ethereal, all seeing eyes, that do not exist. It strikes terror in the hearts of all and sends them running back too wherever they came. The creatures of the Ancients forest dare not cross against them. They know better and remain hidden. For many, many years, the warnings were enough to keep the mortal packs away from the edge of the forests. Until The Ancient, and the forest it guarded, faded into legend. Then myth, until many believed it was just a story to tell pups.

On a blood moon eclipse, something changed. A fierce young she-wolf and her best friend decided that they wanted to find out if this legend was true. The female was sick, the whole pack knew it. From the time she was born, Midnight had been smaller than the other pups. As hard as she tried to keep up with them, she never could. It was when Reno, her best and only friend, had started staying with her. No matter how much she ate, she was always small and scrawny. She wouldn’t make it through this winter. Everyone knew it. So, before she died, Midnight wanted to see The Ancient. Maybe there was a chance that it was real, and could help her. Reno wasn’t keen for her to go alone, so off they went together. Through the freezing ice and snow. Reno was loyally beside her, as always. 

They followed the vanishing light of the moon until the tree branches, heavy with snow, started to fade. They started to grow tall and thin, changing to a deep black instead of the rich brown they had been, even through the cold grip of winter. Midnight and Reno paused at the very edge of the ancient forest. It was pure instinct that told them where they were. Then there was the creaking of trees as The Ancient approached, pulling the trees that blocked its path to the side. Midnight held firm. Ignoring her shaky knees as poor Reno beside her cowered in terror. He hadn’t run though. He wouldn’t while his friend remained. The Ancient lowered its head. The strange smile on its jaws glowing in the fading moonlight. Its eyes, like the legends said, seemed to see straight through them but there was nothing at all. It’s mouth slowly parted, revealing the full jaw of sharp pointed teeth. “You dare come here?” The ancient rumbled. A strange gravelly voice that seemed to hold so much power. “W-we are not afraid.” Midnight answered firmly. Reno nodded beside her, trying desperately to stand up again.

“Hmm. Perhaps not the same as others have been no.” The Ancient rumbled again, its head slowly turning as it examined both of the wolves carefully. “Many run from the mere sight of me yet you remain.” It murmured. “You for your friend.” The Ancient rumbled watching Reno. Then turned its glowing hollow eyes to Midnight. “You, young one, do not fear death. Despite the fact its claws are already gripping you.”

Midnight swallowed and nodded. “That’s right. They say I will die. So why should I fear it?” She answered boldly. A low sound vibrated from the Ancients throat, something almost like laughter. That, strangely, put both Reno and Midnight at more ease. 

This was not a being that would attack without cause, that would just tear them to pieces or make them vanish into thin air. It could feel, speak and think the… The same as they could. Strange, the stories never seemed to show that. “Many centuries have passed since i have met a wolf, or any creature, such as you.” The Ancient murmured looking back at Midnight, then Reno. “The loyalty and bravery you show is unique as well. Many would have abandoned their companions to their fate.” The Ancient shifted, resting more on its long arms as it studied the two young wolfs carefully. “The eclipse is almost complete… Many beings have begun to forget our existence is real, and I fear that more may venture closer. Perhaps…” The Ancient paused and slowly raised its head up, looking at the vanishing red moon. “It is time for a new legend, in the two of you.” It rumbled looking back at the now confused wolves. 

The ancient lowered itself back down to their level. “I can offer you life everlasting, you will be like nothing ever seen before. Your strength will be unmatched by even the greatest packs. Your power will become legendary, and you will never be sick or in pain again. But, you will never be accepted by your fellow wolves again. You will be feared and potentially hated by your former brethren if you accept my offer.” The Ancient warned, waiting for the response. Both wolves looked at each other. What did they have to lose? Reno didn’t want to leave Midnight, and she didn’t want to die. They nodded once and The Ancient smiled. 

Under the eclipse of the blood red moon, the two wolves were transformed into creatures of darkness, turned loose in the mortal realm through its shadows and the night. Everything was as the ancient had said, they were never sick, or in pain. Their power and strength was unmatched by any other, but they were feared and shunned by any mortal wolf who saw them. The same as their creator, forever guarding the border between legend and reality.

0w0 my entry. 

Merry Christmas

Limelight

Pushing the deadline, but here's my entry!

A Little One's Fable

Cutting down to the 1500 word limit was painful for me lol. Good luck to everyone, and thank you for this opportunity! I can finally read some other entires ^^

Howdy! Here’s my entry - featuring my two wolves Rhondda and Ysbryd y Nos. Partially inspired by the song Ysbryd y Nos, for which the latter wolf is named; “And here in this peaceful valley; a breeze-borne song rings out so sweetly; and the magic in its meaning; brings comfort to my dreaming; come, Spirit of the Night.”

I hope you enjoy, and happy holidays!

Word count: 1458

Tomorrow and Memory
“Do not stray from the path, Rhondda. Wolves who do rarely return.”

It was common knowledge in the Pont-y-Rhedyn pack that the dried forests on the raven cliffs were not to be taken lightly. The cliffs were seemingly perpetually covered in gray overcast skies and thick fog, creating a seamless expanse from the ground to the skies. The horizon was only broken by the multitudes of barren trees, protruding from the dry ground and reaching into the void like a thousand looming monoliths. Countless flocks of ravens were the sole creatures to call this forest home, their harrowing croaking ensuring that no wolf would stay long. 

Most would make their journey through here as swift as possible, finding only discomfort in the land and it’s residents. But Rhondda passed through the charred woodland with a confidence that few would come to know. Though this would be the first time she travelled through the woods alone, it was a journey that her mother had prepared her well for. More than half of her short life had been dedicated to learning the skills of a proficient scout, every tip and trick well rehearsed and hundreds of different trails committed to memory.

“You will be safe as long as you follow the trail. You will not be lost here”

The young wolf trotted along the familiar path with ease, dry grass rustling beneath her paws, dirt and dust being kicked up into the air with every light step. Though the fog limited her sight, she knew exactly where she stood - the wind carrying the familiar smell of the river which marked the boundary of the territory she called her home. 

In all honesty she’d much prefer to not have to pass through the cliffs. Unfortunately the small trail was the quickest way to reach the pack from the north, and with the rapidly approaching darkness of what promised to be a cold night, she preferred not to dawdle. 

But something made her pause. 

Distant howling, a soft lullaby echoing through the trees. It was soft at first. Almost inaudible under the near constant droning of the crowds of ravens. As she approached the valley floor, it became louder, insistent. Rhondda slowed to a stop, turning her head and straining her ears to its source. It wasn’t a call she recognised. Not one of her packmates, not a wolf from a neighbouring pack. The only way she could describe it was simply ethereal.

“Do not let yourself be guided from the path. There is nothing for you in those woods. It is not a place for creatures like us.”

Her mother’s words were clear. It should have been easy to dismiss the sound and push forward. And yet, there was something in the breeze-bourne song that she couldn’t ignore. It made her heart ache and her skin itch. A kind of forlorn longing that she’d never experienced before.

She gingerly lifted a paw, taking a single delicate step off the beaten path. And another. And another. Before she knew it, she’d broken out into a sprint - tearing past the frantically braying ravens into the rapidly darkening thicket. She let out a gleeful yelp, coursing adrenaline pushing her forward through the shade. Twigs snapped beneath her paws with every heavy step. The twists and turns created by the dense spires were like a never ending maze, a challenge which Rhondda delighted in. A swift turn here. A massive leap over a fallen tree there. She could feel her fur becoming heavy with coarse dirt and thorns, though she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

The howling grew closer, louder, the hallowing song ringing out into the trees- 

And suddenly it stopped. Rhondda came to a screeching halt, almost tripping over her own paws on the process. As if a spell had broken, she all at once became very aware of her surroundings. At some point the ground had transitioned from dry dirt to a modest layer of snow, winter having already hit this part of the forest. The fog had seemingly cleared, but under the shadows of the dense forest with the quickly approaching darkness of night, she’d hesitate to call it an improvement. Surely, it was the same forest she had entered. But it was more devoid of life than she’d expected. No underbrush, no critters. Only dead trees in the form of dark spines that almost appeared to dance in the fading light.

Slowly, she stalked forward. Ears pinned flat and tail curled tightly beneath her body, eyes shifting rapidly across the washed out landscape desperately searching for something, anything. But there was nothing. Silence. The wind had stilled, carrying no scent or sound. Even if there was something to be heard, she wasn’t certain that she’d pick it up over the pounding of her own heart. 

After a few moments of searching, she saw a break in the dancing shadows. A clearing. She picked up the pace, keeping her body low to the ground as she made her approach. The clearing was as barren as the trees which surrounded it and covered in crisp white snow. With the exception of a small shadow which stood in its center. This gave her pause. It certainly resembled a wolf, stood to attention and gazing into the trees. But it was perfectly still. From a distance, she couldn’t even tell if it was breathing. Rhondda let out a soft whine, calling out to the creature. No response. Not even a twitch. She shuffled a little closer to it, preparing to call out again -

Only to be interrupted by a large quake. Followed by another. Then several more. It was like a beat, growing closer. Louder. A tree snapped in the distance, ringing out like a gunshot. Rhondda froze in place, her body curling in on itself and her fur raising. She turned her head to the forest and willed her sight to focus on the shifting dark. As more trees fell revealing a path to the skies, the light of the waning moon fell on the outline of… something.

Her attention was no longer on the small creature in front of her, her eyes locked in on the lumbering shadow. It was almost crawling through the trees, grabbing, pushing, breaking. Slowly, it’s form came into focus. It was not like anything she’d seen before, taller than even the trees themselves and balanced on its two hind paws. The beast carried itself like a human, but its freakishly slender frame was covered in a tangled coat, thick and dark like tar. The head was suspiciously canine, long and filled with chattering teeth. Though the longer she stared, the more it began to resemble a bare skull - Glowing hollowed eyes sunken in their sockets, stark against its pitch black fur. 

The beast slowly lowered its head to the ground, the draping fur at it’s throat dragging through the snow and the trees in its grasp cracking under its weight. Its jaws parted, a silent light revealed in its gaping maw -

“Rhondda?”

The name came not from the beast. Her eyes snapped to the small creature, her lips instinctively curling up into a snarl. The figure was clear now, a young black wolf with striking white eyes. She may have thought it a child of the beast, had she not recognised her gentle expression.

“Ysbryd?”

The black she-wolf sheepishly grinned, flattening her ears and lowering her head. She spoke softly, like a mother to their pup.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. What are you doing here?”

Rhondda didn’t respond at first, instead averting her eyes back to where the beast had stood. There was nothing there. Only the familiar trees and the expanding darkness. 

“What was that? You saw it, right?”

Ysbryd was silent, looking to the empty space and seemingly considering it for a moment before turning back to her, gently shaking her head.

“I’m sure you’re tired from your travels. Let’s head home”

Without waiting for an answer Ysbryd started walking towards her, gently bumping her head against Rhondda’s side as she brushed past and started heading downhill into the valley. Rhondda stood still in silence for a moment, staring out into the darkening forest, before turning to slowly trail behind her. She threw one last glance over her shoulder. The clearing stood empty, no other wolves and certainly no towering beasts. Perhaps it was just an imagined shadow, a trick of the light. Perhaps the broken trees and disturbed snow would betray that thought. Rhondda shook her head, imploring herself to focus on following the wolf in front of her. Hopefully in time she could come to forget. 

---

“Do not stray from the path, Tanwen. It’s not worth knowing what lies beyond.”

Oh boy just in time! Made this a clean 1370 words too, which is neat. 

...

The night was cold, and the shadows stretched deep. Every breath hung heavy in the air, a silvery contrast to tree's black bark- if one watched each twisting plume instead of the path before them, they might catch the shape of a wolf racing by on the fringe of the shadows, before they melted away into the thick grey mist. 

When the singing winds bared their fangs, and the world's winter pelt grew in thick, it was not uncommon for the woods to take on a certain stillness. The winter was a time of rest, after all, a time of sleep and death- all felt the pull of sleep, even those who did not heed the land’s keen call. Those who raced after the restless elk and bounding deer often felt like the line between the waking world and the realm of dreams had thinned, with the exhaustion of empty stomachs and the coaxing call of warm dens. A certain period of dormancy was to be expected.  

The woods, of course, were still alive. There was still the rush of water in the racing rivers, the soft rustle of chickadees through the trees. The world’s heartbeat echoed through the land regardless of how deeply its denizens slept, a quiet pulse that yielded itself to all who stopped to listen. It murmured quietly underneath the ice coating the lakes, muffled below the layers of snow, waiting only for spring’s gentle touch to quicken its quiet beat.

But this silence was different, and the shadows pooled thicker than they usually did. The only sound came from the crunch of snow below cold pawpads, the soft snuffle of scenting hunters. And even that was was muffled, buried eerily beneath the quiet; the land lay still, in a way that it never had done before. 

For Faroh, at least, the eerie quiet did little more than raise their hackles. They were born among these trees, in the shadow of the mountain above; they were raised on stories of the forest and its secrets, given lovingly from the moment of their birth to the dawn of their first hunting-day. Unlike Namir, whimpering quietly everytime the wind changed, they knew better than to fear the forest for her odd moments. They could not expect her to remember how to behave, after all- it was said that the first trees sprouted before the Great Wolf opened its eyes and made the sun and the moon. Such elders were to be respected, not feared.

Still, they could not quite stop themselves from leaping backwards when the first trees cracked and fell, the sharp sound of shattering sap ringing out louder than anything they had heard in a single moon-cycle. Nor did they have the presence of mind to hush Namir, whose yelping cries filled their heart with instinctive fear, though they could clearly see that he was just afraid, not wounded. 

Nor did they have the self-control to stop their own yelp of terror when two great paws grasped the sagging trees and spread them apart, massive curving claws sinking deep into the groaning wood, or to keep themselves from peeling their lips back from their fangs as the shadows beyond coalesced into something far greater than anything they could have ever known. 

Its eyes were like stars, two pale lights shining out from the gloom; its face was like bone, the sharp angles of its bare muzzle lined with jagged, curving teeth. Its limbs were long, stretching up into the shadows gathering over the canopy, and when it breathed out in one long, rattling sigh, its breath smelt of ashen pine and rot. 

From the shadows I have wandered, and to the shadows I wish to return, it hissed, in a voice like rustling leaves, and the forest shivered in her sleep and turned the silvery gaze of the Great Wolf’s Eye away from what dwelled underneath her foliage. Namir shrank back with a cry of terror, and the two luminous eyes of the Being fixed upon Faroh, freezing them in its pallid gaze. Watcher, Hunter, your blood sings with the song of the trees. Guide me from this restless sleep to the darkness beyond the world, and forevermore will your pack sing sweetly to the silent ones, buried far beneath the earth. This I shall promise- this I shall swear to you.

A great monster of the darkness it was, with a voice that rasped and a scent of death, and yet something about it seemed genuine. A vast, fearful being it was, something beyond the scope of a simple wolf’s knowledge, a monster of the dark- and yet Faroh found themselves stepping forward and raising their head as one would do to a friend far above them, craning their neck up in an attempt to touch their nose to its skeletal muzzle. 

“I know not where the shadows lie, or in which of the realms you build your den,” they whuffed, ignoring Namir’s quiet whimpers. “But the woods between the place where the stream leaps and the mountain looms is my home. Follow the roaring waters up into the crags of the mountain, and you shall find the places where the darkness pools deep. Tread softly, and listen well, and you shall come to a place where the water bubbles up from between the stones, as if bled from the veins of the earth. There is where time stands still, and even squirrel pups slow their dance- if there is any way back to the shadows you call your home, it should be along the path you seek.”

Well spoken, Hunter. Your eyes are keen, and you listen well to the whispers of the world. I wish you well in your journey forward, for your body to remain hale and your fangs to drip with your prey’s heartsblood. The Elder’s welcome to you will be bittersweet. The great jaw creaked, the shadows rustled. From far, far away, Namir could be heard begging for them to turn away, but that meant little to them now- there was only the soft rustle of the Being’s limp fur, the luminous glare of their eyeshine boring into them. May this life serve you well.

“And may you find the lands that you seek,” Faroh whispered, as they watched the massive head turn away- they felt frozen in place, their claws sunk deep into the snow beneath them, but a tranquil peace settled deep into their heart as they watched the vast Being fade away. Soundlessly, it retreated, its claws slipping free from the groaning trees, and for a moment it seemed like it had become one of them, its visible limbs indistinguishable from the frozen trunks around it. But then a cloud passed over the moon, a shadow winking out the Great Eye once more, and when the silver light shone back onto the snow below, the Being was gone. The only trace left of its presence were the broken boughs under the leaning trees, and the sweeping silence in the space it left behind. 

And then the heartbeat of the forest pulsed once again, as the shadows shifted and settled back to sleep- the soft chatter of the chickadees returned, along with the crunch of the snow and the bubble of the brook. Namir’s quiet whines pierced through the air, near-painful in the absence of the all-consuming silence, but Faroh stayed quiet, looking thoughtfully out into the woods where the Being had wandered. 

But no other shadow-creatures came forth to ask directions, or to offer softly-hissed praises to those who dared to listen, so they shook their coat and stretched, tongue lolling as they yawned. And when they chuffed softly at Namir to follow, trotting off into the gloom, their fearful companion followed, the nervous glances into the dark undergrowth soon fading into the intense concentration of the hunt. There were pups to feed, after all- a polite exchange between neighbors was not to be lingered on, no matter how strange said neighbors may appear. The fickle scent of a fallen elk had not faded yet. Perhaps it was best if one did not fall behind.

There were more Watchers in the woods than just wolves, after all.

Oh boy oh boy I've been eyeing up this prompt for a couple weeks and finally finished an entry for it! I'm a real sucker for playing at the Misunderstood Monster trope ;w; I hope everyone enjoys this piece! Happy Holidays! 

Wordcount: 1,357

Patience

Beyond the valley and over the hills sits a near-empty territory not many miles from the old logging town. The silence here is deafening.

The sky is in motion when the sun dips down to meet the farthest hilltop, flurries of white drifting lazily between the eerily uniform treetops-- but the movement doesn’t offer so much as a whisper. It’s as though the snow absorbs every timid sound. It hushes the land and not even a breeze threatens to whistle. The crickets have abandoned the ground long ago. The last of the sunlight deepens into a hazy amber that shrouds the white ground in stretching shadow, a perfect blanket beneath towering stalks of blackened bark.

These lands had once been lush and green. Even when the blizzards would howl, shuddering pines were shelter for the vulnerable birds’ nests. Badgers and weasels carved their dens into the ground beneath the tree roots. The snowdrifts would be speckled with countless prints when the herds of elk and deer passed through on their way to water. The air was alive with birdsong and coyotes’ cries, and the forest stretched sleepily under the stars.

These trees offered no shelter. The ancient pines have been uprooted; the nests crumpled under timber. The burrows had been abandoned and the river had been dammed. Where the teeming forest once waved in the wind, rows and rows of skinny logs had been planted meticulously in its place, scraping the sky with jagged peaks until they could be harvested and replaced again by screaming machines.

Snow crunches under a single pawstep, splitting the silence like a clap of thunder. The flurries begin to thin, and the wind holds its breath when a ghostly sigh billows out of some lonely maw. These lands had all been lost-- except to the most stubborn of them all: She who made her den in the roots, She who sheltered between the skinny spires, She who marched between the endless rows of timber and listened patiently to the quiet.

When the last family of crows had fled the barrens, only a shadow had been left in their places: A shadow of fur, bone, and teeth. She had emerged from the echoes of all that had been stolen, a tiny pup that lingered at the bare tree-lines and waited. It waited for the migrating birds and it waited for the roaming herds. It waited to hear cricket-song and for the grass to sprout through snow. It had waited until the trees were toppled again. The trunks had screamed and splintered, the ground rumbled and shook beneath shining yellow behemoths that feasted on the forest until its plate had been licked cleaned and left in ruin.

She waited among the splintered trunks until the black trees grew again. She, too, would grow along with them each time.

Her pelt grew with creeping carpets of lichen and draped loosely over her great bony frame. Her claws curled like roots to turn her toes into digits. Her muzzle stretched beyond the limits of her skin and gave way to a toothy, grinning skull. She grew with every harvest and now rivaled the tops of the wood that she patrolled with tall, crooked limbs, waiting still for the birds and the herds to return. Such a mangled beast as the spirit of loss itself would surely garner horrifying stories to her name. Perhaps there would be terrible words to echo her story if there were any soul left to witness her in this empty farm. Her only witness was the moon overhead and the sunbeams she shied away from in daytime. Her only company was the fading memory of what had once been. She could scarcely imagine the pointed horns of hooved neighbors, the feathers of flying critters, the fangs and claws that she thought had once been like her own.

She has waited for them for years without knowing a word to call them back with. She doesn’t remember their names or their scents, but she knows she will recognize them when the time comes. She waits alone in hiding, her shaggy pelt of shadow bent unnaturally around the tree trunks while she lurks and wanders on her constant patrol. She doesn’t know the language of those she waits for, but one word whispers in her mind with every step.

Patience. Patience. Patience.

Patience is all she knows, and Patience is all she is.

And so, Patience lurked beyond the tree-line, eyes of hollow light staring through the dusk with timeless composure. She tracked the moments by counting her foggy breaths, unbothered by the coat of snow on her back now that it had stopped falling.

Snow crunches, another thunderclap. She jerks at the distance of the sound. Her own paws unmoving, limbs scarcely creaking in protest of her subtle motion, the disturbance hadn’t been her own. There are no more cloudy breaths to count when she tenses, unbreathing, eyes glaring from between the dark trunks on every side, quiet. Waiting. Patient.

Another rustle, a new sign. Had she a heartbeat, she would be deafened by its drumming. For the first time, she cannot afford to hesitate. Moving swifter than her legs had ever carried her, Patience charges blindly for the sound. She dreams of antlers and wet noses, cloudy breath and warm blood, voices that speak to her in words she doesn’t understand but loves anyway. The still forest erupts with her movement; the trees groan as she shoves past them, bodily forcing her way through the aisles of barren timber, body melting in their shadow and reemerging paces ahead. The snow is scattered beneath her claws, sunset casting darkness over her spine, night threatening to swallow her whole before she meets the clearing ahead. Patience rears her paws forward and forces the final trees to bow before her. Their roots crack and split in protest, the ground trembles as limbs crash down over the empty border.

Looming on tall, crooked legs between the crooked trees, her bony fangs confront a pair of foreign bodies.

Three pelts as black as shadow stand on claw-tipped paws, facing one another with bewilderment. The air settles again, still, as it has for years. A mighty cloud of breath billows and fades in front of her face. The breath of the other two creatures can be seen much the same way, as she has always dreamed. For what felt like an eternity, they were each unmoving as the old forest.

Tentatively, afraid to frighten these specters back into emptiness, Patience bows from her towering posture and leans towards the little figures who have disturbed her silence. One cowers in its patch of rustled snow, but the other does not flinch. Her muzzle stops low to the ground and on the proud creature she can sense all which she had lost years ago and dreamed of since. Her quiet is broken by a pulse. Warm life flows like a river through every limb on this stranger. Its fur smells of flesh and green, of dirt from more fertile land, of feathers and water. The snow crunches again as it did before when it takes another slow step towards her. One more brings their muzzles together and she can smell pine on its whiskers when it sniffs at her bone.

As though they’ve been familiar for a lifetime, the phantom and her visitor draw slowly away from each other. Their eyes meet as night shrouds the splintered forest in darkness, leaving the two wolves’ paws dipped in their waning patch of light while some silent understanding settles in the space between them. They are tugged back by the retreating sun, and the wolves pace slowly backwards as their eyes linger on the lonely specter. Only after a long moment, they turn and follow their tracks away from the arid forest again. Patience watches them go, hollow eyes following their pelts until after the pair has disappeared over the blanketed hills, left alone again but noticing that her one word in her mind is beginning to whisper something new.

Soon. Soon. Soon.

From somewhere within the trees, crickets begin to sing. 

I hope I'm not too late! <3

Rebirth, they say, comes at a time when the first blades of grass peek out from their shelter beneath the earth. It is when blossoms billow out, petals looking to the sun for warmth and nourishment. Young ones follow in the pawsteps of their parents with eyes made of wonder. They call this time of year Spring – in honour of Sprinth, the guardian of life itself. Sprinth oversees all that is beautiful, kind, and good. With one paw on each of her two sister’s shoulders, Sprinth guides lost souls throughout the seasons, from first to final breaths, until they, too, take their place among the stars.

This is a story oft passed from mother to pup, from generation to generation, as has been the case for hundreds of seasons. There’s just one simple, minor detail they’ve forgotten…

Sprinth is a liar.

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Light hasn’t touched the earth when Sprinth drags her sister out to the Rubbing Tree. As a daughter of Alanta, the leader and protector of their pack, Sprinth takes her job as scout with a level of utmost importance not seen in her three sisters. Wintolar, of course, being the worst. So says she, anyway.

“Wintoooooooooooooo,” she howls in frustration, “you’re gonna make us late!” Haven’t you learned by now that-”

With a loud oof, Sprinth hits the ground as Wintolar dashes past her. Wintolar turns back with a mischievous grin. “Is that better?” She calls. “Last one to the Rubbing Tree has to scout for rabbit holes!”

Sprinth huffs and pulls herself up. “Oh, now you’ve done it!” She takes off after her sister, the two matching each other pace for pace as they draw closer to their first checkpoint of the day.

Wintolar snorts in response. “Maybe you’ll get kicked in the teeth and then I won’t have to listen to you barking all day.” She lifts her tail high, then steps beyond the Rubbing Tree and raises her nose to the sky.

Sprinth rolls her eyes and follows suit. She’s the first to catch whiff of anything interesting—again, as per usual. “Wintolar,” she murmurs, “I think I know where the herds are heading. Follow me!”

She dashes headfirst into the snow, leaving Wintolar to fall in line behind her. It’s a constant struggle between the two of them, but Wintolar can’t say she minds it. It keeps life interesting, so to speak.

The two race against each other, their breaths wavering in the cold season’s air, and before long Wintolar recognizes where the thinning of the trees meets shoreline. They’re at the lake, albeit a frozen one at this time of year.

Wintolar frowns. “Sprinth, did you really lead us into a dead end?”

Sprinth’s ears flatten and she grumbles, “No, squirrel-skull. They’re across the lake. We’ve got to go around.”

“Ugh, who put you in charge of scouting? This is gonna take forever.” 

“Our mother,” Sprinth replies with a grin, “and no it won’t. Not if we’re fast about it. All we’ve gotta do is locate the herd, then we can alert the hunting party. And then, bam! Dinner!” She licks her lips thinking about it.

Wintolar shakes her head but moves forward, taking the side closest to the still water’s edge. Sprinth scents the air like a good hunter would—it’s just as her mother taught her. The herd is stationary, so if they stay down wind-

Oof! She hits the ground for the second time today with a distinct thud.

“Wintolar!” Sprinth growls, “I was tracking!”

Wintolar sticks out her tongue. “And I’m helping. ‘Always be aware of your surroundings,’ remember?” She snickers.

Sprinth huffs, fur fluffed, and headbutts her sister across the ice. When Wintolar struggles to stand, instead slipping and falling, Sprinth laughs and bites back, “Not so aware of your own surroundings, were you? It’s a mistake to mess with me when you’ve got a frozen lake to your right, you know.”

Wintolar takes a step forward and opens her mouth to respond. What comes out aren’t words, but a shocked yelp as the ice gives way and she plunges into the frigid waters below.

It’s cold.

Her vision blurs. The water clouds her thoughts.

She thinks she’s thrashing

She knows she’s sinking.

The last thing she hears is Sprinth’s laughter dying off into horrified howls.

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She watches, frozen, as her sister’s final paw dips beneath the water. The yelps cease. The splashing fades into quiet waves lapping against the cracks in the ice. She watches, frozen, as her world crumbles down around her.

Wolves howl in the distance, but Sprinth has never felt so alone.

It’s a long trek back to the Rubbing Tree. Her paws lag behind her, almost as though her heart is begging her to turn back—to look for some sort of sign that Wintolar saved herself from the water’s grave. Each rustled leaf from a fleeing bird gives her hope. Each time her heart is gutted.

Their mother is waiting beside the Rubbing Tree when Sprinth manages to drag herself over the last hill. Her tail stands tall and her ears prick forward as Sprinth creeps forward, nose down. Worry flashes across her face when she can’t smell Wintolar in the distance.

Before she can speak, Sprinth flings herself at her mother’s paws, choked sobs erupting from her throat. “M-mother,” she gasps, “I tried.. I…I…I couldn’t save her—the water—it was deep and dark and cold and—and Wintolar wouldn’t listen when I told her not to go out on the ice, and now she’s—she’s..!”

She lurches forward and buries her muzzle into her mother’s chest. Tears stain her cheeks.

It’s a long time before her mother can respond.

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It’s mid cold season, one-year post Wintolar’s passing, when it appears for the first time.

It has no eyes, only deep, cavernous holes where eyes should be. Its teeth are rotting from its skull. Bones stick out in odd places where patches of skin have worn away into nothing. Oil-slicked, black fur covers a majority of the figure’s body, but the fur flies away in tufts whenever the creature moves.

It’s hideous.

Her mother cowers to her right, hackles raised in warning. Sprinth puts on a brave face. She won’t stand down to this…this thing—not when it threatens her family and everything she’s worked so hard for. Even when Solstimer and Falumn flee for their lives, she still stands tall.

She’s a leader now, after all.

The figure glances from her to her mother, then back again, its eye holes boring into Sprinth’s soul. “You did this,” the creature growls, a hint of pain in its voice. “You’re the one who caused my suffering, the one who caused your mother’s suffering!”

Sprinth’s ears flatten against her skull. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” She spits. “Who are you?! Why have you come to hurt us?!”

The creature opens its jaws wide. “You hurt me. You watched me die. You lied to your pack. And worst of all, you left me behind.”

Sprinth gasps, shuffling back in shock. “I-I did no such thing! I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve come here, or-”

“Lying again,” the figure seethes. “Always lying, always hurting. It should have been-”

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Sprinth wakes with a start, heart pounding. Her head whips all around, but there are no signs of her mother or… or it.

She lowers her head back down to the ground, but the image is burned into her mind. She wonders, if only for a moment, whether… whether Wintolar has come back to haunt her in some way.

The figure was right. She is a liar.

Out of fear.

Disgust.

Self-loathing.

She can’t forgive herself. Would Wintolar forgive her? Would she blame her?

She shakes her head, eyelids drooping. 

She can learn to live with a nightmare.

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Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! <3 I had a lot of fun making this look like a little mini-series.

Thank you for this opportunity, and good luck to everyone who is entering!

word count:  approx. 1366