The late evening sun glows brightly against the snow, glinting off the frozen hills and hurting your eyes. It's simple enough to alleviate the pain, just having to look away, but you find that you can't. If you look away, you'll have to turn back to the angry scar on the land- the black char where your home used to be. Fires still crackle in your ears, and with the lurch of your stomach, you realize that you can smell burning flesh.
You were meant to stay within sight of the gates at all times, the wooden pillars carved into points at the ends, steel bands reinforcing the length of them, and guards stationed on every corner. Wolf skins were hung in plain sight on either side of the heavy doors, piles of scales and fangs and bones heaped on the ground- atop the highest mound an ancient skull, yellowed with age, foreign in its structure, the animal of its origin long-forgotten- all of them clear warnings meant for the people of the forest. Humans aren't half so powerful now as they were when those sorts of trophies were taken, a species driven to the edge of extinction by their own hands. Those pieces of their culture, remnants of what used to be, are the only things that keep them safe in a time when they are on the run, just trying to survive.
Your father was one of the rare men left, chief of this outpost. You know that you weren't supposed to be out so far, especially not when it's so close to sundown. Only thing was, the forest was where everything exciting happened. It was filled with all manner of people, of animals, and some creatures that were a little bit of both. There were plants that could kill, beasts that refused to, and best of all- magic. Magic hummed through the veins of the trees, sighed through their leaves, ran as deep as their roots- and out there, you could feel it all.
You went out there to feel like yourself, to just exist without the lens of everyone else saying what you ought to do and say and feel. Because although your father was one of them, you are not. You are a halfer, a mutt, a bastard. If you had been born to anyone but him you would have been dashed on the rocks, left in the cold, set to the river. For as few humans as there are, there's even less of your kind. Considered abominations by nearly every race, children like you are accepted no place, safe no place, happy and healthy no place.
Your mother was leanan sidhe, lured your father to her barrow, kept him for years until you came along. When she knew she was with child she let him go, love transferred to a being she couldn't bring herself to feed off of. The two of you stayed together as long as you could, but without someone to draw life from she soon began to wither, and was unwilling to give you up for a lover. It was the ultimate bane for her kind, an affection that finally turned against them, and she died. She asked you not to blame yourself, but you've never been able not to.
With no one else to turn to, you searched out your father, accepted his refuge, grew to respect and admire him, even if he could never truly love you. Unlike your mother, you weren't something he was willing to give everything for, he had already given himself to too many others. There was nothing left for you. You were given shelter, if not a home, and kept safe by his people, though they spat at you and cursed you and kept you at a distance. You didn't begrudge them, stayed to yourself, spent as long as you could in the forest, where you belonged. It had been a true comfort, until now.
Now that they're all dead, that there's nowhere to go back to, that the only possible culprits live in those very trees, the landscape is different. Suddenly everything is thrown into sharp relief, the shadows darker, the lights blinding, all of it stark. With shaking limbs you move closer to the wreckage, sidestep ruins of belongings, houses, the bodies of people they belonged to. You don't even make it to the center of the outpost before you have to turn back, running this time, doubling over as the sour stench of your own sick adds to it all.
You wipe at your mouth and try and control yourself, try to come back down so you can begin to plan, so you can keep on surviving. You realize that you've pissed yourself in fear, and along with the vomit down your tunic, you decide to shed it all- ripping away these garments that you never cared for anyway- baring your skin to the air. You are a child of winter, like so many of the things that live here, and the snow barely registers as you steel yourself again.
You make your way to where the gates used to stand, determined to salvage something from this place, from these people, besides pain. Out of all the riches stacked there, little remains intact. The bones have splintered, fangs and claws and scales ground to dust. One of the giant wolves' pelts, stained with soot, half burnt, sticks out among it all. You wriggle it free and shrug it over your shoulders, pulling its head to cover your own.
Crouching down you gather a palm full of ashes, and set to smearing them across your skin. You cover yourself in runes and symbols, strength given to them by the dead. You have maybe ten minutes' light to make it to the treeline, to get yourself lost in the depths before the beasts of the night open their eyes. You have enough clothes to keep from freezing, enough food to keep from starving, and might have enough sense to keep alive.
You try not to think on it much as you dash towards the trees, draw your blade, and ask whoever's listening to be spared.
Aggression isn't something a person would ever accuse a Were of lacking. A proud people, a strong people, an impassioned people—they know hate and love and violence and tenderness more acutely than most. But this—this massacre, for it can't be called anything but, is something even they cannot stomach. Searching out the scent of death that had permeated the forest, the pack had come across the site of the human's tragedy. The great gates bust open, the weapons and trophies destroyed, the people burnt, it was a ruination of their kind.
This was no defense of encroaching territories, not even an usurper's attack. This slaughter was designed to do one thing and one thing only—salt this earth, wither this species. For all the contention between the races, the grudges and tensions, this goes beyond protecting your own kind. This is a message to everyone in the area. Weakness will not be tolerated. Strength will be challenged.
No one is exempt from suspicion—whoever this challenger might be. Another tribe of human, a clan of fae, maybe even another pack. All you hope for, is that it wasn't the spirits, that this isn't a blight upon the forest's inhabitants. If nature is the one that's been offended, there is little likelihood that anyone will escape unscathed.
Those who are inclined search through the refuse and scavenge what can be saved. Laura goes ahead with them, determined to know all she can about what happened here, and though you would rather be beside her, making sure to keep your alpha safe, Cora is trembling and pale beside you, and you know that you have to take care of her first. Laura's one of the toughest things here, but it doesn't keep you from feeling uneasy as she streaks across the open ground, winding around the other creatures heading in and out.
You only turn to leave when she is inside the gates, cannot be seen. You grab Cora by the shoulder and try to usher her away, gentle at first, but firm when she stays rooted to the spot. Still she refuses to turn and you yank at the agitated swish of her tail, biting harshly at an ear. It's enough to gain her attention and you shove her forward, growling low and sub-vocal, to put your higher status into effect. Her eyes glow gold at the command and with a half-hearted snarl she leads the way back into the trees.
The two of you cut a crooked path back to the den, doubling over and crossing rivers to keep the trail unclear. When you finally reach the small cluster of caves set into the mountainside, the pack has been set wild. Everyone is on edge—snapping at each other, pacing the ground, hackles raised, claws drawn. You leave Cora with the omegas, pulling Isaac aside and making sure he knows to keep a close eye on her, before heading to the highest ledge, the entrance to the cave only Laura and her mate share.
It doesn't take much to get their attention—the betas looking for orders while the mated omegas try to placate and the unclaimed tend to each other against the cliff-face. You draw yourself up to your full height, assume every ounce of power that you have, and steel yourself. Weakness will not be tolerated. "The humans have been attacked." You sweep your gaze across your people, registering a distinct lack of empathy, until you elaborate, "It was genocide. They are gone. All gone."
The pacing stops, if there was any lapse in attention- it's gone. Ears flatten, tails twitch, shoulders hunch. "Laura and the other leaders have gathered in the remains of their fort to see if there is anything in the Knowledge that can let us know why and by who these attacks were carried out." You pause and breathe deeply, swallowing past the nervous lump in your throat, determined for your voice not to break. Strength will be tested. "Until proven otherwise, we are at war."