Later that day, when Adian announced the name of the town to the pack, I wished that I could have betted on their reaction; I could have used the gold. They loved it, from the reasoning behind it to the actual name. There were a few that thought we should translate it into one of the native languages, to make it 'fit in,' but Boromor just shrugged and asked, "Why? This is our place, not the natives'. I saw we call it whatever we want." That shut up the last few grumblers.
Over the next two weeks, we finished building the main bunkhouse – the long building set against the back mountain – the headquarters, the tavern, the four watch-posts, the walls, and finished the inside of the infirmary. Now that the main buildings were finished, most werewolves turned their attention to private shops, helping out friends and relatives with pet projects.
I was busy working out a schedule for the rotation of the guards and patrols, then reading the reports that they brought back. I was careful to give everyone an equal slot of time on either the watch-posts or the patrols, with a few exceptions: the Council, Eponis White-Heart, and the fastest werewolves (who were always the ones to do the sweeps to the far south, near the fort.)
Each night, we would gather just outside the main gate for our change, then scatter all over the island, searching out our own special territories. Two or three would always stay close to our abandoned city as guards, but even so, I was uneasy; to anyone who knew what we were and knew our habits, it would be too easy to mount an attack against the empty city and take it over.
When I brought it up to Calo, the most military-minded on the Council, he just shrugged, "Who would want to attack us?" To my pointed glare, he admitted, "Reiklings and Skaal and maybe some of the colonists. Alright, I'll bring it up to the Council."
"I don't want much," I confessed, "just for two or three werewolves to stand actual guard, and not just to stick close."
From then on, two werewolves stayed inside the town during the night, and we would herd Reiklings to them to sate the bloodlust. Like most things, guard- and herding- duty was subject to rotation, so that no one was always forced to stand guard in one of the watchtowers or atop the wall.
As the months slipped by, the town came closer and closer to completion, shops going up in neat rows. One by one, werewolves went to their respective homes on the island and lugged back their belongings, contributing anything of value to the shops. As one of the 'leaders,' I got my own room in the common bunkhouse on the first floor, close to the door. Adian slept in the headquarters, and always would, I suspected, and the Council members each had a room on the lower level.
Beyond that, the open room of the bunkhouse was filled to bursting with two and three tier bunks, all made of fresh-scented pine. By then, hierarchy had been worked out by way of small scuffles, but everyone found a bed that would suit them without too much conflict.
The first snow of winter – the first snow that did not melt come noon and the first deep killing frost – came on the last day of Hearthfire, the ninth month of the year, typical for Solstheim. We rejoiced that we were safe from the icy wind, snug and warm, with our species-kin all around.
As winter settled in, we applied ourselves to finishing the details of the completed buildings, leaving major construction for the spring. Pots were bought or loaned from the various shop keepers, and our alchemist handed over a few pretty and hardy flowers to decorate the main eating area of the tavern, the headquarters, and the infirmary.
Those skilled in carvings added elaborate details and scrollwork into anything they could get their hands on, teaching those who wished to learn the craft. At night, hunts were organized, ten or twelve werewolves strong, who were charged with seeking out prey for the next day; the snows were a blessing and a curse. They smothered all scents but that of the prey, but they also forced all but the strongest deep below ground for the winter, making the hunt dangerous. But with all the hunters of Solstheim gathered in one place, not even the elderly went hungry.
Then, finally, it was the longest night of the year, the most sacred holiday for werewolves. The Night the Hunter, of our greatest – and, come to think of it – only hero, Ondjage.
I impatiently finished reading the last report that night, taking less care than usual. Not that we needed to worry; even the rogues and Hircine's Hounds waited all year for the Night of the Hunter. As long as they were allowed to join us in the celebration, they were more than happy to behave themselves all week.
Stretching, I left the room assigned to me in the headquarters, slinging a new cloak over my shoulder; a gift from Eponis White-Heart, who had spent the first week of winter embroidering the edges of the fleecy black cloak with tasteful silver designs. I felt a slow shiver race down my spine as I walked out of the gates of Second Chance, a mage-guard closing them behind me, using magicka to bar the entrance. No one would be left out tonight.
In the open clearing in front of the gates, all of the pack had gathered, heads turned towards were Svetlana stood on a chunk of ice, a blood-red cloak around her shoulders. In years past, this ritual was done in the Gathering Place, but as we needed to bar the gates at night…it just wasn't practical. I stood on the fringes of the crowd, and a smile crossed my face as Svetlana launched into the tale, told each year on this night, familiar to all.
"There is a tale told among the Nords of Solstheim of a huge silver wolf called Ondjage, who was as big as an ox, who no one could slay. In this, they are true. But what they do not know is that Ondjage was no common wolf, but a werewolf with a rare silver pelt and black teeth. He was the first to throw off the bonds of madness, the first to know how to sate the bloodlust. Each night, he killed, and soon taught the other werewolves of the island to do the same. For that, Lord Hircine granted him a boon; he could change his shape whenever he pleased, Nord to wolf and back again.
"But those of the clan Thirsk feared him, feared his size and his strength and his savage cunning. Though they did not know his true species, they sought to kill him, if only for his valuable pelt. But Ondjage was a mighty battler, and anyone who faced him died. And so the chief of the Nords, Hrothmund, their greatest warrior, marched off to face the fell werewolf in battle, confident that he would come out the victor. Ondjage left him a trail through the wilderness, bringing him to grounds holy to Hircine, an ice formation that looked like a howling wolf. There they faced off, just as the last rays of the sun vanished from the sky.
"Both were strong, capable warriors, and both fought with every ounce of strength they possessed. All through the night they fought, both drawing blood and taking wounds. But just as the sun rose, Hrothmund fell. And Ondjage howled his victory to the rising sun.
"Those from Hrothmund's clan came then, and buried their slain leader in a crypt in the ice formation, then called Hrothmund's Bane by werewolves and men. Then they marched off to hunt the silver wolf that had killed their chief. They claim that they killed Ondjage, and feasted on his flesh, and in but one part they are right; they did kill the great silver. But Hircine watches over those he has claimed, and at the moment of death, whisked Ondjage into the stars, replacing his body with that of a common Snow Wolf. And so Ondjage was honored by the Lord of the Hunt, and became the immortal leader of the Pack of the Moon, the pack that all werewolves join when they die, the leader of the Hunt Across the Stars.
"Tonight is the anniversary of Ondjage's victory against Hrothmund, and we will celebrate with the Pack of the Moon. Sing, werewolves, the Song of Triumph!"
At that moment, the change overtook us all, and we shed our clothes garment by garment, first growing fur to keep us warm. I was the first to throw back my head and howl, many voices joining mine as we clustered close together, lifting up our voices in rich cords. Outsiders would never guess that werewolves took the time to compose our howls into songs as they would know them, and for the most part, we didn't. But for our celebrations, we almost felt that we had to. The good news was that once a person became a werewolf, no matter how bad a singer they had been before, they became much better, instinctively knowing how to form tight harmonies.
Such harmonies were present in our song now, our heads thrown back, eyes on the moons and the brilliant stars. Then, as one, we fell to all fours and bounded northward, one large pack of werewolves, a boiling mass of flesh as we continued to sing. I worked my way along the edges of the pack, stride extending, until I was up with the fastest runners. I glanced to my left, and barked a greeting to Flyer during a break in the song. He glanced over at me, and grinned, leaping into the air like a dolphin; after he killed the necromancer, Flyer enjoyed a boost in prestige within the pack. I didn't try to mimic him, but laughed, and took up the main melody of the song, Flyer's strong bass countering me.
As we neared Hrothmund's Bane, we slowed to a trot, and I scanned the dips in the landscape; if tradition held…Yes, there were Hircine's Hounds coming from the north-west, a motley group of ten now, a quarter of their former strength, mostly the very old or the very young, led by the closest thing to a priest we werewolves had: Cleric, one eye claimed by a sword when he was still a young werewolf, the other cloudy with cataracts, pelt silvery with age. He claimed that Hircine had walked in his dreams when he first became a werewolf, and made him the leader of Hircine's Hounds, the devout. Whether it was true or not was a moot point; he had ruled his select group for many years, and made it clear that any werewolf who wished to learn more of the Ways of the Hunter was welcome to their hidden cavern.
Very few werewolves took him up on it; to 'learn more of the Ways of the Hunter' meant to devote your life to serving him as a Hound. Not fun. But it welcomed the very young werewolves, those who had been bitten as children. And, of course, the priests who managed to get themselves savaged.
Cleric took a few steps forward, a young werewolf to one side of him. He tilted his muzzle back and asked formally, "Do I catch the scent of Elder on the wind?"
Elder stepped forward, adding, the ritual familiar to them both, "You do. Is it Cleric that I see before me?"
"It is. Will you allow us, the Hounds of Hircine, his faithful followers, to join your celebration of the Night of the Hunter?"
"Come, and be welcomed."
Despite his years, Cleric's tail wagged, and he allowed Thunder and the Council to pass him at a trot, their pace picking up as they continued the celebration. Then he was bounding along with the fastest, close to myself and Flyer, the young werewolf still at his side, acting as his eyes.
We raced north, then turned east as we hit the shore, snapping and chasing Horkers for the love of it. We turned inland after a few miles, and the call went up, "To the Skaal village!" I felt my heart leap into my throat; this was the dangerous part of the night; those in Thirsk would shudder when they heard our song, but would bar themselves inside their great hall and drink mead to keep their spirits up; they knew so long as we were not attacked this night, we wouldn't seek out trouble.
The Skaal, however, had no walls to protect them, and had a deep-running hatred of werewolves and an instinctive desire to kill us all. But if we ran fast and did not stray too far from the river, did not run through the middle of their village, then we would be safe enough. It had worked in previous years.
Our paws beat the ground in time to our howling song, the pack stretching out like a flowing ribbon of fur and flesh near the silvery blue waters of the river. I caught a glimpse of the bright-painted houses between the hills, and of two Nords fleeing back towards the village as we passed…it looked as though we had caught two lovers… er…unawares. I laughed, and picked up the pace, running next to Flyer. He glanced over, trying to see what I thought was amusing, and then laughed as well, leaping up into the air. "What are you, a fish?" I quipped.
He just laughed, and vaulted over a log, clearing it by several feet, kicking his back legs out in a flourish as he landed. "Nay," he barked back to me, "not a fish. A bird!"
And thus, singing and laughing, celebrating that victory long ago, we ran along the river, then turned east at the fort, following the shoreline as it curved north once more.
By the time we reached the river that flowed inland, that would lead us home, our throats were aching, but we were still triumphant. The ten Hounds left us then to continue north towards their sacred caves; the exact location was a guarded secret, trusted to very few outside the Hound's order.
And we headed home, into our city, the city of werewolves. Second Chance.
A/N: Well, I must say, it's been fun to write this. But it's time to lay it to rest; I've never been in the habit of just leaving a story unfinished. I do have a number of plot lines that continue the adventures of the werewolves of Second Chance, and I might even get around to posting them…not anytime soon, however. And so, until further notice, the story is complete.