Sweetroot

mockingbird | humble | leader

-
Cycle 1 | Year 0 | Deciduous Forest

Sweetroot wasn't born into a pack or cared for by her mother for very long. As far back as her memory goes, she has always been alone, wandering through the deciduous forest and struggling to survive on her own. It wasn't until she found Goldenrod and Umber, already a sort of pack in their own right, that she was able to have a family. As an adult leading her own pack, she deeply values family and community, and she dislikes the idea of any wolf having to strike it out on their own. Sweetroot is a laidback and self-effacing leader, hating to turn out any wolf in need of shelter or food, though she will do so if someone is too aggressive or disrupting the cohesiveness of the group. She finds comfort in exploring and in the companionship of Tansy, the pack's foremost herbalist.

Sweetroot has never considered herself a religious wolf. Since she had to survive on her own, she did not put much stock in the magic of the old gods, nor did she follow their ways. Yet some of the devout have found their way into her ranks. Hierophant was born blind; though he would have been loved by his family, he left his pack as an adolescent to join Sweetroot. Around the same time, he began to be visited by the spirits of the forest in his fitful sleep, and Hierophant quickly became a devotee on a mission to spread the word of magic. Witchfinder, on the other hand, is not committed to the old gods, nor would she ever consider herself a follower. She simply sees herself as an observer, someone who can see things hidden in the trees and track things that others cannot. Some of the other wolves think that she may not even be a true wolf.

-

Cycle 1 | Year 3 | Spring | Prairie
[07.25.2023]
Three years on from the day that Sweetroot met the wolves who would become her first true packmates, she reflects on how much the pack has grown and changed. More than anything, Sweetroot takes pride in the pack's ability to adapt. They've carved out their corner of the world and flourished beyond what she had imagined.

Yet some of her packmates were growing old. Sweetroot saw it in how their reflexes had slowed, their movements becoming more pained. Fatigue took them earlier in the day and their appetites were beginning to decline. It was Vixensky who passed first. Her winter death was peaceful—so peaceful that the younger pups and adolescents struggled to understand at first that she would not wake again. Sweetroot patiently explained to them that death came to every wolf eventually, whether it was by tooth and claw or by the quiet wind-down of time. They mourned as a pack, howling lowly and keeping from their usual duties. Eventually, the pack returned to normal, hunting and playing together like they had before, but Sweetroot sensed that the death of her packmate had caused a shift. The young ones were now aware that death was not something that happened to food, but would one day be their own fate. They, too, would lie without stirring in the grass or the snow, heart stilled and blood cooled.

Sweetroot took note of which members, beloved packmates from the very beginning, would likely be called back to the earth first. Umber had grown wise in his older age, spending his days mentoring the new blood of the pack, but surely his days were drawing to a close. He had been the first of their pack to tend the young while the others struggled to eke out an existence in the deciduous forest, hunting what small prey they could with their untrained ears and noses. Cedar had struck out into unknown lands countless times; it was he who had discovered the piece of the prairie that they now occupied, not to mention the many mystifying worlds to the north and south of their home. Yet he was growing weary and spoke of staying closer to home. What Sweetroot truly dreaded was the imminent passing of Máni, her oldest hunter and steadfast friend. He would be outlived by his mate Sól, and Sweetroot knew that his passing would be most bitter and unbearable for her. They had been bonded for many seasons, huntmates for several more. Despite Sól's inability to bear pups of her own, they had rescued orphaned pups and raised them like their own. Sweetroot only hoped that Máni's death would be like Vixensky's, sweet and painless in the night, like the last sigh of autumn fading into winter. She feared it would instead be violent and bloody, with some prey or warring predator during a hunt where Máni's slowed reflexes would get the better of him.

Despite the urging of Hierophant, increasingly devoted following Vixensky's passing, Sweetroot did not turn to the old gods for these matters. They had not intervened when she was young, had not given her a pack to care for her and hunters to provide her with fresh food. All of this Sweetroot had had to do on her own. She slept in well-hidden caves, scavenged carcasses of other wolves, and painstakingly found others who were wandering without a pack. It was through her own caution and care that she went from a starving lone wolf to the leader of a pack, and no prayer to faceless wolves had borne fruit. But the thoughts followed her as she explored the north, sometimes coming across scenes of carnage or famine, skeletal remnants of other wolf packs. Sweetroot was determined that this would not be the fate of her pack. The pack would outlast her leadership, for she was only its first figurehead. One day, she too would pass and someone would take her place. This was the first cycle. All that she could do was plan for the success of the next.