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Her Name is Red
2 years ago
General
A short little fiction for my werewolf character.
Her name is Red.
There are no wolves in the British Isles. The last sighting of a wolf in Scotland was 1888. The last wolf in Ireland was killed in 1786, and the last traces in Wales was 1680. The Isle of Man hasn't had wolves even that far back, but in 1182 Giraldus Cambrensis met the Ossory wolf who told him of their curse by Saint Natalis of Kilkenny, to be a Man for seven years, then a wolf for seven, and how his wife needed last rites.
So there are no wolves in the British Isles, but there were wolves, and there are werewolves. Urbanized, hidden, in the streets and the deep glens, hanging onto the Wyld where they can. Their bloodlines stretch back millennia, before the Romans, and recessive strains at times manifest in the strangest of places.
Her parents were dogs. She was born to a breeder, a litter of five and the strongest of the bunch. If the Fianna had seen her, they would have claimed her, so large was she, so brightly russet was her fur. A vibrant red-orange like a fox's. If the Red Talons had seen her, they would have claimed her, for a blood-red shock of fur rose from her forehead and down her spine like a razorback. Even the Children of Gaia might have claimed her, such a carefree spirit she had, gamboling with the other puppies.
Their eyes aren't everywhere and she was overlooked, bought by a recent divorcee to replace her husband and went to live with her, her adult son, and his girlfriend in a little village. She was called Sangria, and as they worked from home she was never starved for attention. She also couldn't get enough and the neighbour's children were often tasked to play with her to burn up her seemingly endless energy.
Red's story might have ended here as she lived out a happy life in her fur-ever home. It was not meant to be. The Son was a good son but his friends were not. Jealous of his success and drunken boasting, one of them griped to another that he needed to be taken down a peg. That seed sown took root, and grew, and one night friends of that friend broke in to smash and grab whatever they could of the Son's blissful life. Red was a happy, loving dog who never showed any signs of aggression. She was also a big dog who always jumped up on people. These men didn't have the scent of the Son on her. They were entering her territory in the middle of the night. She approached without fear and confronted them with a confused growl. A large dog can still be no match for a well placed knife to the neck.
She was not a dog, a surprise to both her and the home invaders. She exploded into her Crinos form, throwing the knifer through the wall into the yard and chasing the other thieves out into the darkness. They scattered. She tracked down each one and took a bite of flesh or left a gouge of claws. None were slain, because she was a Good Dog. They were hospitalized and left with permanent scars, because they were Bad Men and needed a reminder to not do that again.
Her rage spent, she wandered the streets marveling at all the new places and scents she'd never seen. It was wonderful, enchanting. Unexpectedly, she turned into a human. This was different! This was interesting! Finding her way home was tricky because her nose stopped working. She found her favourite hydrant, then her favourite telephone pole. She was close! Seeing her home lit up, hearing her Pet-Mom's voice, the Son, she eagerly ran home. I'm here! It's okay! I made the Bads go away!
A home invasion is a disturbing event that splashes out a wave of change. The police, an ambulance were there. Her whole family awake, confused by the ruined wall, the injured thief, the blood and fur of their dog in the hallway. A cacophony of light and questions. A naked, blood covered, teenage girl bouncing into the scene overcharged it. Her Mom recoiled, the Son shoved her away when she tried to jump up on him and lick his face. The Girlfriend went into a jealous rage and accused him of cheating. She couldn't speak, she couldn't understand. She recognized them! Why couldn't they recognize her!
The cat, Dr. Seuss, did, but he was a cat and thus an asshole and didn't tell anyone.
She was taken to hospital, examined for sexual assault and evaluated for brain damage. She couldn't explain, her limited vocabulary, mostly 'no', 'don't' and 'bad', got her no where. She had to be restrained as her habit of ripping off her clothes and attempting to go home wasn't recuperative. She was good at escaping, did so twice and almost made it out the door the second time, much to the entertainment of others. She was an enigma, but not an isolated one.
Victim services heard, social workers heard, and the Church heard. A nun came to visit. Once the Black Fury had seen her, they claimed her. She was beautiful and unbroken. She was taken to Ireland, to the convent of Our Merciful Mother, to learn 'not sniffing butts hello', 'not jumping up on people' and other esoteric things about God and Man's world. An existence which she had been adjacent to but never had the higher faculties of consciousness to fully appreciate.
She stayed in human form. She prayed, studied, learned to speak and read, received an education. An outdated one, but still an education. She reverted to lupus form, tore up furniture, escaped, caused mischief, came back pregnant. A problem, but not the first time a cloistered woman got in a delicate way, werewolf or otherwise. Her pup was a metis male, a double whammy for violating the Litany, but the Black Furies were patient, were kind. She was special, not in the head. Her son was special, mostly in the head and he was kept and raised too.
With her pure blood and transformation came some indications in hominid form that she was a werewolf. Pentagrams would appear on her palms on the nights of her moon. This was incredibly distressing, one of the reasons she would get frantic and finally transform to a wolf to run away. She was marked by Satan, the Wyrm, when she so desperately wanted to be a Good Girl. Man's world did not bring her happiness. It was not a world for Stray Dogs or wolves and she was brought back to the convent. The sisters told her to pray. God works in mysterious ways. God brought her bloodline back through chance recombinations. God has a reason. She prayed. Mother, Mother, why have you forsaken me? Forgive me, I'm just a dog.
And one moon the pentagrams didn't come and instead the Stigmata did. She was elated. The stigmata came every moon thereafter. It was a sign. She became a True Believer, an initiate, and then entered the orders as Sister Kaillie the Penitant. She learned and obeyed the teachings, the Order's corrected teachings of the Roman Catholic church. She was pious, mostly. Backsliding and running off into the wild, when not. Yet, she was called and a good dog comes when it is called, even if she's too distracted to hear sometimes.
The Roman Catholic Church needed some sisterly support in New Orleans, so the Convent of Our Merciful Mother sent her to the Church of Our Merciful Mother along with her son. She was ready to stand on her two hind legs. She would make new friends! She would bite bad people. She would lead the congregation in a spiritual resurgence, unite the disparate werewolves, and find the lost Cairn. She would be the bestest girl!
Her name is Red.
Her name is Red.
There are no wolves in the British Isles. The last sighting of a wolf in Scotland was 1888. The last wolf in Ireland was killed in 1786, and the last traces in Wales was 1680. The Isle of Man hasn't had wolves even that far back, but in 1182 Giraldus Cambrensis met the Ossory wolf who told him of their curse by Saint Natalis of Kilkenny, to be a Man for seven years, then a wolf for seven, and how his wife needed last rites.
So there are no wolves in the British Isles, but there were wolves, and there are werewolves. Urbanized, hidden, in the streets and the deep glens, hanging onto the Wyld where they can. Their bloodlines stretch back millennia, before the Romans, and recessive strains at times manifest in the strangest of places.
Her parents were dogs. She was born to a breeder, a litter of five and the strongest of the bunch. If the Fianna had seen her, they would have claimed her, so large was she, so brightly russet was her fur. A vibrant red-orange like a fox's. If the Red Talons had seen her, they would have claimed her, for a blood-red shock of fur rose from her forehead and down her spine like a razorback. Even the Children of Gaia might have claimed her, such a carefree spirit she had, gamboling with the other puppies.
Their eyes aren't everywhere and she was overlooked, bought by a recent divorcee to replace her husband and went to live with her, her adult son, and his girlfriend in a little village. She was called Sangria, and as they worked from home she was never starved for attention. She also couldn't get enough and the neighbour's children were often tasked to play with her to burn up her seemingly endless energy.
Red's story might have ended here as she lived out a happy life in her fur-ever home. It was not meant to be. The Son was a good son but his friends were not. Jealous of his success and drunken boasting, one of them griped to another that he needed to be taken down a peg. That seed sown took root, and grew, and one night friends of that friend broke in to smash and grab whatever they could of the Son's blissful life. Red was a happy, loving dog who never showed any signs of aggression. She was also a big dog who always jumped up on people. These men didn't have the scent of the Son on her. They were entering her territory in the middle of the night. She approached without fear and confronted them with a confused growl. A large dog can still be no match for a well placed knife to the neck.
She was not a dog, a surprise to both her and the home invaders. She exploded into her Crinos form, throwing the knifer through the wall into the yard and chasing the other thieves out into the darkness. They scattered. She tracked down each one and took a bite of flesh or left a gouge of claws. None were slain, because she was a Good Dog. They were hospitalized and left with permanent scars, because they were Bad Men and needed a reminder to not do that again.
Her rage spent, she wandered the streets marveling at all the new places and scents she'd never seen. It was wonderful, enchanting. Unexpectedly, she turned into a human. This was different! This was interesting! Finding her way home was tricky because her nose stopped working. She found her favourite hydrant, then her favourite telephone pole. She was close! Seeing her home lit up, hearing her Pet-Mom's voice, the Son, she eagerly ran home. I'm here! It's okay! I made the Bads go away!
A home invasion is a disturbing event that splashes out a wave of change. The police, an ambulance were there. Her whole family awake, confused by the ruined wall, the injured thief, the blood and fur of their dog in the hallway. A cacophony of light and questions. A naked, blood covered, teenage girl bouncing into the scene overcharged it. Her Mom recoiled, the Son shoved her away when she tried to jump up on him and lick his face. The Girlfriend went into a jealous rage and accused him of cheating. She couldn't speak, she couldn't understand. She recognized them! Why couldn't they recognize her!
The cat, Dr. Seuss, did, but he was a cat and thus an asshole and didn't tell anyone.
She was taken to hospital, examined for sexual assault and evaluated for brain damage. She couldn't explain, her limited vocabulary, mostly 'no', 'don't' and 'bad', got her no where. She had to be restrained as her habit of ripping off her clothes and attempting to go home wasn't recuperative. She was good at escaping, did so twice and almost made it out the door the second time, much to the entertainment of others. She was an enigma, but not an isolated one.
Victim services heard, social workers heard, and the Church heard. A nun came to visit. Once the Black Fury had seen her, they claimed her. She was beautiful and unbroken. She was taken to Ireland, to the convent of Our Merciful Mother, to learn 'not sniffing butts hello', 'not jumping up on people' and other esoteric things about God and Man's world. An existence which she had been adjacent to but never had the higher faculties of consciousness to fully appreciate.
She stayed in human form. She prayed, studied, learned to speak and read, received an education. An outdated one, but still an education. She reverted to lupus form, tore up furniture, escaped, caused mischief, came back pregnant. A problem, but not the first time a cloistered woman got in a delicate way, werewolf or otherwise. Her pup was a metis male, a double whammy for violating the Litany, but the Black Furies were patient, were kind. She was special, not in the head. Her son was special, mostly in the head and he was kept and raised too.
With her pure blood and transformation came some indications in hominid form that she was a werewolf. Pentagrams would appear on her palms on the nights of her moon. This was incredibly distressing, one of the reasons she would get frantic and finally transform to a wolf to run away. She was marked by Satan, the Wyrm, when she so desperately wanted to be a Good Girl. Man's world did not bring her happiness. It was not a world for Stray Dogs or wolves and she was brought back to the convent. The sisters told her to pray. God works in mysterious ways. God brought her bloodline back through chance recombinations. God has a reason. She prayed. Mother, Mother, why have you forsaken me? Forgive me, I'm just a dog.
And one moon the pentagrams didn't come and instead the Stigmata did. She was elated. The stigmata came every moon thereafter. It was a sign. She became a True Believer, an initiate, and then entered the orders as Sister Kaillie the Penitant. She learned and obeyed the teachings, the Order's corrected teachings of the Roman Catholic church. She was pious, mostly. Backsliding and running off into the wild, when not. Yet, she was called and a good dog comes when it is called, even if she's too distracted to hear sometimes.
The Roman Catholic Church needed some sisterly support in New Orleans, so the Convent of Our Merciful Mother sent her to the Church of Our Merciful Mother along with her son. She was ready to stand on her two hind legs. She would make new friends! She would bite bad people. She would lead the congregation in a spiritual resurgence, unite the disparate werewolves, and find the lost Cairn. She would be the bestest girl!
Her name is Red.
Certainly, she was not the first of her kind...
Vix
(Because it's entirely too much of a coincidence not to mention, I drew a werewolf nun myself not so long ago, based on a friend's character. Thought you might get a kick out of it!)
Thanks for the comments on the story. I got involved with a Discord server running WoD and plan to have a bunch of things happening with Red. Let me know if you'd like a link, you can have a look or we could always use new players.
I'm just a dog, but yes the feline Dr. Seusse deserved an unexpected hello with an icy cold nose when he least expected it.
Which was a brand new puppy to train all over again.