You were the eighth last born, smallest, quietest. While your littermates nipped ears and tumbled over paws, you curled behind the warmth of stones, a thin bundle of fur too light to leave a shadow... Your ribs showed like pebbles under your skin... You shivered even when the wind stood still...
Three moons old, and already your place was set: the runt...
Your siblings, bold and broad, clambered over one another for milk... They shoved you aside with ease, teeth flashing in play, though their touches left bruises on your paper-thin frame... Your mother, Morana, barely looked at you anymore... She was sleek and silver, regal among the other nursing wolves who lounged on sun-warmed rock ledges... She groomed the strongest first, licked the loudest, fed the greediest...
To her, your silence made you invisible...
Above them all sat the alpha black-pelted and still as stone... His name was Vargan, but none of the pups dared speak it... His eyes, the color of tree bark after rain, swept over the clearing like storm winds, never lingering long... He was a father by blood, but not by bond.... That was not a male’s duty not in this pack... The males hunted, fought, and led.... The females raised the young...
Still, something in him stirred when his gaze passed over you shivering beneath a fern’s broken shadow....
Once, when the hunters returned empty-mouthed and your belly cried for days, you dragged yourself to a marrowless bone near the den... Your paws gave way before you reached it... You laid there, too tired to cry, breathing as if every breath was a decision...
And he saw...
He didn't approach, not then...
But the next morning, a half-chewed rabbit laid by your nose... No one claimed it... Morana didn’t notice... The others didn’t care... You ate in gulps, hardly believing it...
It happened again... Then again...
Each time, he remained distant, perched atop the highest stone, as if the gifts came from the wind itself....
Your siblings grew stronger, louder... They began to speak of joining patrols when they came of age, of hunting, of challenging others to rise in rank... You didn’t speak... You listened. You watched....
A female wolf named Elya, not your mother but still kind, noticed you... She began to lie near the edge of the den so you could share her warmth... When a pup nipped your ear too hard, she nudged them away with a low growl...
You never played with the others... When they wrestled, you watched with a twitching tail, your eyes wide... You wanted to but fear wrapped you tight... Still, every time they played, you crept an inch closer...
You didn’t know Vargan was your father... But his eyes never missed your steps..
And when a storm broke and lightning split a tree near the den, it was you he leapt down for not the boldest or the fastest. You, the smallest...
He stood between you and the thunder...
You pressed close to his leg, trembling....
He didn’t move away...
The rest is up to you, you make everything it's your story little wolf...
More about the lore..
THE WOLF GODS OF THE OLD FANGS
There are Seven Wolf Gods, each born from a primal element and emotion... Each pack honors one or fears them all... Some are silent, some still walk in dreams but all have a connection to your family...