Werewolf the Podcast: Why a Werewolf at War? (Episode 224)

This week, we learn about Fenrir Wolf Soul and how he came about. How he is attracted to conflict and how he owes the devil her due. 

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Transcript

Fenrir Wolf Soul.

Long ago, when my tribe first split their souls from their own physical bodies, the wolves who gave themselves did so under an oath that bound them for eternity. 

Maybe if we had known then what we know now, we might not have bothered. To save ourselves and do this is painful and repeated grief.

Our gift was not carelessly tossed to humankind; it was a covenant of blood and sorrow.

The covenant decreed three things:

First, Choice. A wolf-soul cannot be forced into flesh. It may only bind with a mortal whose spirit rings true with its own. 

The Wolf sees not only what a person is, but what they may become. 

A coward might one day grow into courage, just as a brave man might rot into cruelty. 

The Wolf must choose carefully of its human skin because a great affinity grows between us, and that hurts once it is broken. Sometimes it has to be broken. Sometimes it is broken. This leads to the second part of the covenant.

Second, Patience. A wolf-soul is eternal, but the flesh it borrows is not.

Although when we bind the human, it grows only to the age of the corresponding Wolf in its level of maturity. I will not lower myself to say it's age in dog years because I am no dog, but Wolves do not live as long as men, so even a wolf of five winters is thought to be middle-aged, and the human it haunts will also stop ageing at that point.

It will become amortal, but every host will one day fall or be left behind. And when the Soul departs, it must rest and wander, resisting the hunger to bind again until it has tasted the passage of years. 

The covenant demands this restraint because a human who does not suit us and is left fails quickly. I must admit, in the past, I did not care, but each one leaves a small scar as a tiny part of themselves. An irritation of the mind, a... niggle, and they build over the years. 

Now I wait and choose well. It is just less annoying that way.

And finally, the third part

The Mourning. For every fitting bond, a terrible price. 

When a wolf leaves its host, the human shell withers and dies, robbed of the soul-fire that kept it strong. 

I have been with humans for a few years. I have been with them for centuries. They are not immortal. They do die. Sometimes, even the combined powers of us are not enough to overcome injury or accident. Additionally, there are those we choose to leave and those who ask to leave.

To love a host and then abandon them is no small cruelty. To love a host and have them abandon you is like a small death.

Some I mourn for years, some for centuries. The longer the bond, the deeper the grief and some I never have really...

So it is that centuries may pass without a new partner. The covenant binds me in a way — not chains of silver or sorcery, but of honour, choice, and sorrow. I am a wolf at the end.

My origin. There had been one wild winter in some mountains somewhere. It was in Russia, I think, from what I know now, but as I left well before the area had been mapped, and I never tried to return.

There had been a pack of wolves and a pack of people, both starving, both hunting each other — not a good situation for either of them. The top predators in the area will clash as their potential prey dwindles in numbers.

Both humans and Wolves were living on borrowed time. Each pack would fail.

Luckily, the humans had a magic man they called Wülstaff. He was strong in spells, and he was linked by family and the wyrd to the wild things.

The people fell, and it was looking bleak, so as a last rite, Wülstaff made strong magic. I think it was magic.

By the evening light of a ripe full moon, the mighty Shaman had the village take some of the local Magic Mushrooms. Maybe this is the reason why the idea of Werewolf and Full Moon are linked. Why we are lunatics. I must admit my mind does work clearer on those nights where he shines his glowing face fully. Although I think I can just see better because of it. 

The mushrooms they took are called Fly Agaric mushrooms.

These are those you see the Fae sitting upon in every fairy tale picture book. You know the red ones with the white dots, and they are magical enough for those who take them with no real intention to use them as a tool, to see things that they usually would not. The things that are really there.

But I warn you. They are red for a reason. Nature's warning sign. For your poor, weak human constitutions, they are very poisonous. If not prepared properly. The only safe way to do this is they need to process them through another creature. 

The Shaman would usually use the Reindeer for this purpose. Reindeer were kept and herded by the people in this area, but by now, the winter, the people and the wolves had devastated their numbers. There were none to use.

The only animal the Shaman had available for this filtering process was a wolf that they had trapped the night before.

Yeah, I know it sounds like utter bollocks. It sounds like utter bollocks to me too.

But that's the story. The Wolf ate the mushrooms. He would have. He was pretty hungry, too. 

The Shaman collected the Wolf's piss and then distributed it among the small band of villagers that were left. I often wonder about that task. He must have lost a finger or two.

Wülstaff was hoping that the gods, through this strange process, would grant someone an idea of how to get through the shitty situation in which they found themselves. 

I do realise that it does sound incredible. They were dying, but they decided to drink wolf wee, but I'm sure at this point you would have tried brushing your teeth with your own shit if you had thought it would have saved you. At least they would die off their faces. 

It does not seem like it could have happened.

I mean, should it have happened at all?

Think about it. Who was the first person to... You know, drink piss? Think about it. Who was the first person to think: 

'I know, we will feed these poisonous mushrooms to the deer, then drink their wee?' How did that happen? 

Humans are such fucking weirdos. Some of the things you guys do are not right, but hey, thank something for you guys trying things like gargling piss.

Humans never fail to amaze me or make me feel... uncomfortable with your actions. 

So, the wolf urine gave everyone a shared hallucination, where they melded their minds, with the local pack.

The humans during this shared trip came to a deal where the wolves would give their spirits to the people — this way, both packs would have a better chance to survive the winter. 

So by some Shaman magic bollocks, the Wolves released their souls so that they could combine with the humans and become a joint force for survival. The deal seemed a bit one-sided to me at first. 

The wolves were sacrificed in a very bloody, shamanic, proper religious rite. 

The Wolf's spirits chose a human host from the humans on that day. The human, the wolf soul, chose, would eat the heart of the Wolf that chose them. They ate it raw, too. That's proper, as humans find it difficult to swallow raw meat.

Then there was a big feast, mostly of Wolf with a side order of Wolf and Wolf to follow. They may have had a cheeseboard at the end, who knows.

The chosen humans all lived extraordinary lives. They also ate the other members of their tribe quite soon after. Why not they were now Werewolves.

It seemed a little unfair that the wolves sacrificed themselves, but as always, the wolf souls had been devious in the deal.

The Wolf's spirit would become immortal, while the human would stay under the control of the Wolf.

If the Wolf wanted to stay with the human, then the human would be timeless, too. As I have said before, they would age to the point where the Wolf felt comfortable, then remain at that age until the Wolf wanted out of the relationship or the host human died.

The wolves were independent but able to bind with a human when needed.

They could be fully independent if they wished, but this would mean a lonely life. 

They tried to take on humans from the same tribe, but would have to be careful who they chose.

The wolves would then be passed on from human to human for all time — not a bad deal when you think about it in those terms.

Fortunately, the wolves and humans worked it out, and the human band survived, becoming the first tribe of werewolves that ever existed. 

The wolf Souls could always move on and find a fresh person when they wanted to. 

The Soul would find the best human mind that would match their own. This would mean that the relationship would be more likely to be successful. 

Why do I share all this unwanted knowledge with you? 

It is the prelude to why I am here on this war-torn bit of turf at this time. War and violence attract me. I do not know why. There is something visceral and fascinating in the energy of war. All emotions are felt at extremis. 

I eat no food, so I feed off this energy, I think in a way. Not that I need it. I don't know what keeps me going, to be honest. I consume nothing. Nothing. It is an empty part of being something like myself. 

So here I am at the fore of some new offensive. A new war beckons. I thought I had found my way here on my own, but not so. She is here, and of course, she is. This place will bring out the worst in men. She is here for the worst in men. 

We meet every now and again. She is part of this new Christian religion thing. I know it is probably not new to you, and you probably understand it, but I really don't get it. I spent a lot of time in the North lands bound to the leader of the chief of the Northern tribes. 

He was a vicious and vital brute. He lacked tenderness and craved power, and together we found it.

His religion made sense to me. It had many gods, and they were as foolish as the people that they stood over. Their stories were powerful and full of heroic deeds. Men were judged by great deeds, not by being meek and mild, for some future benefit. 

I don't understand why these Christian people don't live for now. They live for the promise of a better future instead of just simply living. I find it strange. 

Not my call, though. Although I have been part of some horrific deeds in the name of their God. He does not seem to be afraid of getting his people involved in bloody acts. I don't understand it, but I have not met him, so I can never judge someone or something until I have met them and spoken to them myself. Maybe someday in the future that will happen.

I have met his messenger, though. Gabriel, briefly. He is... I don't know a primping fop of a thing. He does not strike me as a thing that the greatest good would see as their second in command. Though who am I to Judge? I mean, I am not a God. Thank fuck.

I have met her. She... Well, she is something different. She reminds me of Loki from the sagas. She is the punisher of evil-doers. She is a tempter, although she never makes or forces people to do the things she calls sins; she does, however, allow them to happen and tempt humans to do so. 

I wonder if she enjoys her... job.  

You want to know why I owe her? 

Why the Devil can crook a finger and I come sniffing like some chained cur? 

Sit close, then. But don't think less of me after, because if you'd stood in my place, you'd have come to her heel.

It was the First Winter. The one where everything bled into ice and silence. 

We'd bound ourselves to the humans, aye, but the binding didn't fill bellies. Children wasted, ribs poked through skin. 

I could feel the hollow in my gut like a fire eating me from the inside out.

Humans prayed to their sky gods, begged their ancestors, and rattled bones. Nothing. Silence.

But when I howled — oh, something answered.

It wasn't the moon, though she looked fat and ripe that night. No, it was her. 

She slipped in on the silver light, not a goddess, not a saint, but the Lady of Ash. 

She smelled of charred feathers and roses rotting in the snow. 

She whispered, 

'You want prey, Wolf? I'll give you more than prey. I'll give you blood enough to glut yourself for centuries. But you will owe me.'

And what did I do? 

I said yes. Of course, I said yes. 

Better to hunt and live than starve noble and dead. That night, the herds came down from the mountain like they'd lost their wits — deer, boar, even elk crashing through the snow, straight into our jaws.

I fed. 

We all fed.

And I've been feeding ever since. 

On war. On slaughter. On fields where men paint the earth red. You think I come to these battlefronts for sport? 

No. It's her gift. Blood calls me like meat hung in smoke.

But it didn't end there.

See, the covenant had rules. 

Choice, Patience, Mourning. Shackles dressed up as honour. 

And I thought myself stronger than them. I was Fenrir, mightiest of the pack — why should grief bind me? Why should I be patient? 

Why should I wait centuries to claim a new host if I wanted flesh now?

So I howled again. I howled at the moon, to split the covenant, to tear free from my brothers' chains. And the moon answered not at all. But she did. 

She came back with that same voice like velvet cutting glass. 

'You would be free of law, Wolf? You would stand apart, unbound?'

I said yes. I was proud, foolish, hungry for more. And she touched me. 

Just once. Right here— in the heart —and ever since, there's a mark in me.

A crack. The covenant still holds, but it slips around me like ill-fitted armour. 

My brothers and sisters mourn as honour demands; I mourn as little as I please. They rest, they wait; I hunger, I hunt.

That's the debt. Not silver chains. Not holy fire. Just a whisper in my marrow.

When she calls, I come. Because I said yes twice. Once for the meat. 

Once for the pride.

And I'll tell you something else. 

You think me cursed? You believe me broken? You're wrong.

Every time I tear a man open and taste the fear boiling off him, I thank her.

Because hunger and pride — those are the only truths that never die.

You want to know if I'll ever pay her back? 

If the tally will be wiped clean? 

Ha. No one ever pays her back. Not really. 

That's the joke. She deals in promises the way gamblers deal in cards — and every hand's already marked.

But I've thought on it, aye. 

Thought long and hard across centuries, chewing the bone of it till my teeth ached. 

How do you outwit the Bright Serpent? 

How do you unshackle yourself from a debt owed to the Lady of Chains?

There are only two paths I can see. One is the path of patience. Outlast her. 

Wolves are old, but she is older. 

Still, even fire burns itself out if you starve it of air. 

Maybe one day the world forgets her, and without names or prayers or wicked whispers to feed on, she fades. And if she fades, then her hooks slip free of me. Maybe.

Or maybe she just waits in the dark, grinning, and I'm the fool thinking myself free.

The other way is the Wolf's way. 

Trick the trickster. Bite the hand that fed me, sink my teeth so deep she bleeds stars. 

You see, I owe her a favour. 

Not obedience, not fealty. 

A favour can be twisted, aye? 

Favour is a slippery word. 

Maybe I can give her what she asked for, but not in the way she meant. 

Maybe I can find a way to make the payment poison in her own throat.

Will it ever end? Hnh. 

Don't ask me that, cub. 

I've walked too long under her shadow to believe in endings. 

Every pact is another snare, every promise another chain. But listen well — even chains rust. Even the Devil bleeds.

And if the day comes when I can put my jaws round her throat… debt or no debt, covenant or no covenant, I'll tear free.

Until then, I watch. I wait. I play the loyal beast when I must. But inside, I am sharpening my teeth.