Chapter 5: Wolf Warrior

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Thanks for all the favorites and follows! Thank you Guest: a and Mark of Three for your reviews; I love hearing your thoughts so far, and I really appreciate the kind words and support! ( :

I now have a tumblr page up with concept art, maps, and world-building notes for the story, called "Zelda Fanfics - References," under the same username, "bladeofthebookworms." Enjoy!

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Link

Ten wolf warriors, and three ordinary soldiers – that was the final count. Two of the wolves were on his sabotage team – Azwalth and Eofar. Link felt chilled at the tally, numb with horror from picking up the limbs of his fallen companions and placing them carefully with their bodies in a freshly dug pit.

"Rest now, brothers," Zothun murmured when at last all the bodies and – and pieces – had been placed, holding a hand over his heart. Link looked around at the remaining six men of his team – there wasn't a dry eye among them, not with such fresh, personal losses. Even Beira seemed downhearted, sitting with a bowed head on the edge of the pit. We'd been through much together. We'd hoped t'do even more.

Together they shoveled earth over their fallen kindred. It wasn't a proper internment, not even close, but it was the best they could do here. And it was a better send off than any of the other dead had received thus far that Link had seen, thanks to those hanged poespeaking Sheikah. Link ground his teeth at the all too familiar anger.

There was no shaman among them – it was too much of a risk to send Frokar out on a sabotage mission – so it fell to Link, as the leader of the team, to dedicate the makeshift Grafensted. He knelt on top of the freshly churned soil, his right hand spread out in the soil, his left gripping a small torch set into the ground. He closed his eyes, and then in a low voice he uttered the words every Zonai had memorized before they turned ten.

"Our parting shall be but a season. We soon shall meet again as comrades in battle, t'purge evil from th'Sacred Realm at th'Great Day. 'Til then, we bless your spirits t'find rest and safety in this Grafensted –" His voice trembled, and he fought to continue, fought to keep his mind away from the Grafensteda that had been so cruelly destroyed, that were most certainly not safe havens for the dead any longer – "We honor your courage, wisdom, and power in battle, and pray that y'lend us your strength in our own battles t'come. May we never forget th'kinship we share with you. May we never dishonor these bonds of blood and brotherhood."

A whoosh of flame. Link opened his eyes; the burial mound was now alight in ghostly green light from the flickering spirit flame now burning in the torch. He exhaled softly; at the very least, the fallen warriors had accepted this as their Grafensted.

He got to his feet carefully, holding the torch in both hands. "Wulkrik, y'have th'paints?" he asked quietly. "We're ready for them now."

The stone-faced warrior of the Owl Tribe nodded grimly, slipping a satchel from his shoulders and kneeling down. He pulled out three wooden bowls and three flasks, one for each of the colors of tribal paint, and poured the paint from the flasks into the bowls. After arranging them in a triangular pattern at the center of the Grafensted – red on top, green on bottom right, blue on bottom left – he stepped back. Link set the torch in the center of the triangle, scooping dirt around its base to secure it in place. When he was certain it wouldn't fall over, he stood between Wulkrik and Zothun. As the oldest, it was Gotvin's privilege to perform the Skeldrite first; following him, Azwalth's brother Azberth, then Durnstok, Nerik, and Wulkrik.

Wulkrik handed him a small, sharp knife as he fell in line; the other men had already shaved their faces clean while Link dedicated the Grafensted and prepared the torch. He accepted it and carefully scraped a couple weeks' worth of beard from his chin. Certain of the Skeldrite markings were to be placed on the face, which of course was hindered by facial hair.

Link handed the knife to Gotvin when he was finished, as Azberth was applying the ceremonial paint to his arms. He closed his eyes then as he waited for his turn, preparing himself mentally for his own Skeldrite. It was so difficult these days to clear his mind and heart to present himself to his ancestors in balance; the anger and hate were harder by the day to push aside. He tried to focus on the great blessing it was that they were even capable of burying these brave men, when so many others had been left unburied. This is why we fight, he reminded himself. So that our ancestors can be at peace once more. So that we can truly honor all f'our kin that have fallen. This is not – he clenched his teeth – about revenge on th'Sheikah.

Even though th'revenge is so satisfying.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, opening his eyes for a moment to gaze upon the pure green spirit flame. I must focus on my ancestors! Not th'Sheikah, no matter how much I hate them. Otherwise I won't be in balance – I'll fail th'Skeldrite.

It was like wrestling some great beast within him, a beast of anger and spite, a beast that fought to escape with each lapse of his concentration. He didn't want to release his anger, not even for just long enough to perform the Skeldrite. Not when the Sheikah had yet to pay for their crimes. Focus, he urged himself, feeling sweat breaking out on his brow. Focus!

Wulkrik stepped back into line beside him, having finished the ritual – it was Link's turn, now. He took a steadying breath, training his eyes on the spirit flame. Guardian Wolf, help me, he prayed silently, feeling the tightness of desperation in his chest as he pulled his gambeson off and bowed himself on hands and knees before the torch. He drew in a deep, trembling breath and closed his eyes again.

"Ancestors," he whispered, his voice rough. "I seek your blessing as I return t'th'battlefield. I ask y't'guide me, as y'have in th'past. Will y'watch over my battles and grant me protection?"

He opened his eyes, heart pounding as he watched the spirit flame uncertainly. A single spark drifted from the flames and landed in the wooden bowl bearing green paint, causing it to glow for a single instant. Link nearly sagged in relief, exhaling heavily. "May I never forget your presence," he murmured, rising from his bow and lifting the wooden bowl in one hand. He dipped a finger in the paint and began tracing the familiar patterns over his skin – the symbol of Farore, in the center of his chest. The crest of Nayru, just above it, level with his heart. The mark of Din on each shoulder. Three triangles – one over his stomach, one on either side. Two triangles on each forearm, an X across each thigh. And on his face, the symbols unique to the Tribe of Farosh – a line under each eye, and the outline of a triangle beneath them; a mark like a winged beast centered on his face, with its tail down his nose and its wings above his brows; three fingers streaked down his chin, with a circle above each mark.

The Skeldrite complete, Link carefully set the bowl of paint back in its place on the Grafensted, lifted his gambeson from the ground, and walked back to his companions to wait for the paint to dry as Zothun, the youngest of them, performed his Skeldrite.

A heavy, sinking feeling he recognized as guilt soon overshadowed the relief he'd felt at his ancestors' sign of approval in the Skeldrite. I… I tried, I did everything I could, but… I don't think I was near balanced enough.

He swallowed thickly, his head bowed. They… they shouldn'tve marked me worthy f'their protection. For the first time in his life, the marks of protection across his body didn't feel comforting, but rather seemed almost to burn. He grit his teeth, brow furrowing as his blood raged in frustration. It's all because f'those flameless Sheikah! he thought bitterly, clenching his hands into fists. He felt something wet on his fingers – Beira touching her nose to his hand, offering comfort in her own way. Link managed to unclench his fist enough to ruffle her fluffy ears.

Zothun finished his Skeldrite and stood to rejoin them, his rounder youthful features uncharacteristically solemn beneath the red paint.

Gotvin sighed heavily. "Y'felt it, too," he growled, looking at them each in turn. "Th'Skeldrite… it's getting harder n'harder t'perform."

Link met the warrior's gaze firmly, fighting back the sense of shame.

Durnstok looked away, towards the spirit flame. "Is it… th'Sheikah?" he wondered softly. "Is th'number f'graves f'our ancestors that they've defiled so great now, that we can't feel their presence as strong?"

Link followed his gaze, his mind turning to the freshly buried dead beneath the soil. It would be… convenient to blame these spiritual struggles on the Sheikah. To leave himself feeling guilt free, to hoard his rage like a dark dragon and let it fuel him in battle.

But to do so would be to abandon the tempering virtues of courage and wisdom, and lean only on power. To do so would be to abandon the ways of his people. For hate, truly, was a corruptive form of unbridled power.

He sighed heavily, resting a comforting hand on Zothun's shoulder. "We'd have t'ask Frokar t'be sure," he muttered. "I think it's th'hanged war. Seeing so much killing, so much cruelty and senseless violence… feeling such anger and hate… it's left us all unbalanced."

Azberth nodded. "What now, then?" he asked. "D'we continue on t'that Sheikah settlement, or turn back?" The hate in his eyes burned bright as day – he thirsted for vengeance for his brother.

Link shook his head. "We'll complete our mission," he growled. "Th'Sheikah have much t'answer for. Zothun, take th'torch and paints back t'Frokar – they must leave this Grafensted, or th'Sheikah will… defile this one as they have th'others. Once y've done that, get in position t'be a lookout. Azberth, Durnstok, you'll be on lookout duty as well."

Zothun nodded eagerly, snatching up his gambeson and pulling it back on. Link and the others pulled theirs on as well, the paint now sufficiently dry.

"So, are we ready t'move on?" Link asked. The warriors around him nodded. "Alright. I'll plant th'powder on th'south-facing side of each cart," Link said once his head was through the neck of his armor. He cinched his belt around his waist and walked to the pile of their weapons, which they'd left at the side of the Grafensted. He was the only one to bring a matchlock; Gotvin, Wulkrik, and Nerik had greater stealth at night with their longbows, which would be necessary for this mission. "Listen for my signal, then send 'em up in flames."

The three men nodded. Link slung his musket over his shoulder, grabbed a large bag of thin, oil-soaked cotton bags full of gunpowder, and headed down the road towards the Sheikah settlement. He sent Beira with Gotvin, Nerik, Wulkrik to help them deal with any Sheikah scouts in the woods around the village; the three men waded out into the river with their bows held above their heads, and Zothun and Azberth packed up the Skeldrite paints. Durnstok was already out of sight, hiking up into the steep mountainside jutting up from the north side of the trail.

I'll cross th'bridge, then approach from th'forest, Link thought. He would have less cover in the beginning than everyone else, but he had a lot of gunpowder to keep dry – they didn't.

Leaving the light of the spirit flame behind, the night was blacker than an unlit crypt, cliffs and overhangs on either side of the river blocking out the sky, so that even if the moon was full – which it wasn't – its light would be blocked out. It was late enough that only bats and the breeze broke the stillness; Link listened closely for any sounds out of the ordinary.

The bridge came into view, and his heart jumped as he noticed the garish orange light of torches burning there. Keeping his movements slow and subtle, he edged towards the side of the cliff and pressed himself against it, narrowing his eyes down at the figures on the bridge, engaged in conversation.

They… look almost like…

His heart lurched, and he couldn't hold back a choked gasp. Hylians!

Fury jolted through his veins, and his fingers itched for his musket. How dare they! Actively aiding th'Sheikah without even giving us a fair chance – hang them all!

But even as he watched, their appearance shifted, their hair whitening and red markings becoming visible beneath the eyes of the man whose face he could see from this angle. Link's eyes widened, his pulse accelerating. Sheikah? But – but that can't be; I know what I saw…

He shuddered, his mouth suddenly dry. So they can use magic t'disguise themselves. Hypocrites! Calling us backwards for our magic while they still practice their own! Colonel Nerthin would have to hear of this – if the Sheikah could change their appearance to look like Hylians, then any Hylian remotely near their borders was instantly suspicious.

The two Sheikah passed into the woods on the other side of the bridge, the light of their torches flickering slowly away. Link licked his lips uncertainly – This is a major discovery… might be worth calling th'others off, heading back t'report…

His eyes narrowed. No. I've done this time and time again – there's no chance I won't make it back t'share this. It's a simple mission. We'll keep going.

Feeling ever warier, ever more exposed as he approached the bridge, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. But he heard nothing unusual, saw no other signs of Sheikah out and about… The fact that there were Sheikah awake at this hour was certainly worrisome; his stomach churned sickeningly as he wondered if they had been spying on the Skeldrite. Surely our ancestors would've alerted us f'something was wrong, he tried to reassure himself. …Maybe I should've kept Beira with me for this one. His blood pumped faster, sweat chilled his skin with anxiety as at last he reached the cover of the forest and slipped off the road, ferns and grass brushing against his knees as he waded into dense undergrowth –

A flash of movement.

He whirled around at once, heart in his throat, and wasn't entirely relieved when he saw before him the spirit wolf he'd been catching glimpses of all day, standing mere yards away, deeper in the woods, regarding him with flaming eyes. "You again," he muttered warily. "What d'y'want?"

Shouldn't y'be more respectful f'a spirit wolf, considering th'legend f'the'Guardian? the chiding thought came, sounding like Frokar, and he winced slightly. The wolf merely continued staring at him, not running away, not moving closer – just standing still.

Link swallowed. "You're here for a reason," he whispered, setting his bag of gunpowder on the ground and taking a half step closer. The wolf mirrored the action and he froze, watching it with no small amount of caution. Eyes narrowed, he took another step, and again the wolf moved closer. All at once Link felt a strong surge of magic and the spirit glow took his right hand; he flinched in surprise and then relaxed. Oh. F'course. It's th'spirit f'an animal, and I can touch animal spirits with my ancestors' magic.

"Is this what y'wanted?" he asked quietly, squatting lower and reaching his hand out towards the wolf. It bowed its head in response, moving closer until they made contact –

My heir.

The words resounded, powerful as a thunderclap, through Link's mind. He recoiled with a gasp, hands flying to his suddenly aching head, but the demanding presence didn't go away. Stumbling back, he glared at the wolf, but it was gone – and his attention was swiftly stolen by something immensely more concerning.

The green glow of spirit magic was spreading up his arm. He grabbed at it desperately, trying to stop the power. The magic was too much for him to manage – it was burning him, as if from the inside out; he ground his teeth together fighting against shouting out from the pain. Not – not here! In enemy territory!

The glow only spread further, engulfing his shoulder and moving on to his chest and throat. At that he clutched desperately at his neck, a pained groan forcing itself out from his mouth as breathing suddenly became a struggle. He dropped to his knees, back arched in agony as the spirit magic swallowed his torso in fire and began spreading to his legs; he could feel it taking his face, too, swathing him head to toe in a rush of magic far too powerful for him to handle. He collapsed sideways, black spots beginning to smatter across his vision as he fought for each rasping breath. All at once the burn of magic flared hotter across every inch of his skin and he couldn't help the howl of agony that ripped free from his throat before darkness took his mind.

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Wake up, lad. You can do it – come back.

His mind whirled; his lips drew back over his teeth in a pained grimace as, one by one, his senses came back to him – along with a sharp, piercing headache. By th'Guardian… what… what happened?

The first time was rough for me, too. It's merely the nature of the beast, I'm afraid. A light chuckle that resonated through his mind.

Link opened his bleary eyes. Sunlight filtered through the yellowing leaves of trees above him. His heart lurched – Daylight! – and he lunged to his feet, only to collapse at once with a grunt, entirely off balance. "What –" he tried to say, only to find a low whine coming from his mouth instead. He jumped at the shock – his voice hadn't sounded so high pitched in years – and then something caught his eye that made his blood turn to ice. Breathing heavily, feeling close to panic, he looked down at his hand.

Except it wasn't a hand. It was a broad paw, coated in light silvery fur. Bigger even than Beira's – the paw of a full-blooded timber wolf.

He was dimly aware of his thoughts coming faster and faster, his breaths coming quicker and shallower. A paw – last night, th'wolf – th'spirit magic – out f'control – th'mission – it's daybreak – a paw!

And the paw wasn't the only thing wrong. Running his tongue over his teeth he found his mouth was longer, his teeth sharper, larger. Staring cross-eyed down his nose he could see that it was the black, wet nose of a dog, not a man. His arms felt compressed and oddly incapable of a normal range of motion; when he tried to move his legs he found that they didn't move right at all and his knees were suddenly to high up on his body, and –

And he had a tail!

As soon as he felt it twitch at the base of his spine, he twisted to look over his shoulder at the new appendage, only to find his breath once again stolen from him. His entire body was covered in thick gray fur. It was undeniable, now – somehow he was a wolf.

Hey – breathe! You're not breathing – remember to breathe! You hear me, lad?

Link's mouth was dry as bone. He let his head sink back to the forest floor, gulping down short, desperate gasps of air. What, by th'Dragons…?

A familiar spirit-green shape hovered above his vision – the wolf from the night before. Link snarled, distrust and fear shooting through his veins as he struggled to get to his feet again, only succeeding in pushing himself backwards. Rage and panic jolted through him at his sudden helplessness; all he could do was watch and wait for the inevitable attack –

But the wolf just stood there, as it had the night before. It tilted his head curiously at him. I'm not going to hurt you, the voice resonated in his mind. Erm… does this help? The wolf dropped to the ground and then rolled over, flashing his belly upwards and regarding him upside down with a lopsided lupine grin.

Link wondered if it was possible to actually feel his mind shutting down. What… what…

"You're th'wolf?" he managed at last – his mouth wasn't forming the words, nor did his voice obey him. It was like he was thinking at the spirit, even as a nasally whine escaped his mouth. It was… something, at least.

The spirit wolf rolled back over onto its stomach, paws stretched comfortably in front of it, tail wagging. Yes, I am, he answered, sounding relieved. Glad you put that together! But, er… well, I'd like to apologize, first off, now that we've established communication.

Link's lips curled in anger. "Apologize?" he spat, the word coming out as a snort. "Y'think? What th'lerk have y'done t'me?"

The spirit wolf's ears flattened back against his skull and he avoided Link's gaze, looking almost guilty. I didn't know this would happen, he said solemnly. I guess I can see why it happened, looking at it now – but it was never my intention, I promise you! I just wanted to contact you!

Link narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?" he growled. "I've used magic on dogs before – sheepdogs, back home. And a wolfdog, too. So unless wolves're even more intelligent than dogs, more'n we thought they were…" He trailed off, not entirely sure what he was trying to say. "Why would th'spirit f'a wolf want t'contact me?"

Well… The spirit wolf scratched his neck with a hind paw. I'm not a wolf, for one. And for another, you're my heir.

Link winced, remembering the words that had pounded through his mind at the initial contact with such force, right before his… transformation. "Explain."

The spirit wolf shuffled his paws. It's quite the story, he prefaced. We might be here for a bit. Are you… sure you're comfortable like that?

Link scowled. He was laying on his side, all four… legs… stretched out in front of him. "Not particularly," he grumbled. "But s'not like I know how t'move like this! Y'saw how well my first attempts turned out!"

The wolf gave him a flat look. Oh, and you tend to give up easily, is that it? Ten years of getting your hide thrashed at the tournaments – and continuing to try anyways – say otherwise!

Link growled and rolled his eyes, feeling the slight stirrings of shame in his gut. I'm helpless like this – I must figure out how t'move in this body, he told himself firmly. He took a moment to stretch each limb, experimenting with what range of motion he had available. His arms – front legs, he reminded himself, fighting back nausea – bent the same way as they did normally, but his hind legs were completely different, with joints where there hadn't been joints before; moving them felt entirely alien. Concentrating, he pushed downwards with his hands – paws – and lurched into a somewhat sitting position, his hind legs sticking straight out in front of him. He eyed the spirit wolf warily. "Better?"

Amusement danced in the spirit's eyes. You're getting there, he approved, tail wagging back and forth behind him. Now, to get into it… you're my heir.

"You've said that already," Link huffed. "Twice. How's a wolf my ancestor?"

You know the legend of the Guardian Wolf, the spirit said calmly. Link's eyes widened; he felt suddenly as if his stomach had dropped out of his body. Well… he wasn't always a wolf. Originally he was a man, a Hylian, who was transformed into a wolf by… shall we say… a peculiar form of shadow magic. Eventually he gained the ability to shift between his wolf form and his human form at will, with help from a friend.

Well, anyway, this Hylian – he ended up being chosen by the Golden Goddesses for a particular mission, overthrew a couple of dark kings, saved the kingdom… then for the rest of his life, he was tasked with guarding a powerful weapon. So he, and a group of people from his homeland in Southern Hyrule, traveled north with him to keep watch.

The wolf was watching him steadily now. Time passed. The man died at the end of a long life; the settlement he'd created grew in size until most of them were forced to migrate back south. They kept the legend of the Guardian Wolf, and the sacred worship of the Golden Goddesses, alive.

The wolf got to his feet and walked closer, his gaze solemn. They were the people that would eventually become the Zonai.

Link swallowed thickly, avoiding the spirit's gaze. "So… when y'say I'm your heir…" He felt the weight of hundreds of years of legend crushing down on his shoulders. "You're the Guardian?"

The wolf's tongue lolled in a lupine grin. That's exactly it! I have many descendants, of course, especially in the tribe of the Dragon, but you are my true heir. The Goddesses have willed it to be so.

Link shook his head. "Why choose me?" he challenged, eyes narrowed. "I'm not anything out f'th'ordinary; ask anyone. Ten years f'losing at th'tournaments, remember?"

I prefer to think of it as ten years of trying, despite failure, the wolf grinned. You've got grit, lad. And anyway, I feel the reasons may become clearer to you in time, but just look at yourself! The fact that contact with me via spirit magic turned you into a wolf, as I once was – er, as I am now, I suppose – only proves that we have a powerful spiritual connection. Thus, you are my heir.

Link grit his teeth, glancing down at his paws. It did make sense – he didn't like it. The strongest spirit magic was heavily tied to the abilities and magic of one's ancestors. So f'th'Guardian Wolf was a man, who could turn into a wolf, and I'm his heir, and I turned into a wolf…

"So y'go around getting folks t'reach out t'y'with spirit magic, is that it?" he grumbled. "And I'm th'only one so far who's turned into a wolf? That makes me your heir?"

The spirit rolled his eyes. I don't go around like that, no, he admitted. You'll just have to trust me, alright? Goddesses above, was I ever this difficult?

"So how do I get back?" Link asked, and felt anxiety instantly squeeze his chest as he thought about it. Th'mission failed – I never got th'gunpowder in place, so th'team didn't have anything t'shoot at, and th'Sheikah got themselves a nice new load f'guardian materials and everyone probably thinks I'm dead –

Well done, you've figured out how to pace!

Link stopped, hardly having realized that he'd somehow gotten to his feet and begun walking back and forth. He stared at his paws for a moment, then glared at the spirit in frustration. "And how's that helpful?" he snarled. "I can't fight like this; I'm alone in hostile territory –" A sobering thought occurred to him and his eyes widened. "My own comrades would kill me f'I tried t'go near!"

The spirit winced. Ah. Yes. I remember that feeling.

Furious, Link whirled to face him. "You remember? S'why didn't y'think f'that when y'went and lerkin turned me into a beast?"

I didn't know that would happen, I swear it! the spirit exclaimed. I just wanted the chance to talk with you; I didn't know that using your magic on me would cause such a reaction! His ears perked. In fact, if spirit magic is what caused this, perhaps spirit magic can change you back?

"Now there's a thought," Link muttered, looking down at his right paw and focusing on his tie to his ancestors. Should be easier, now that one's literally right in front f'me. The familiar green enveloped his paw; he pushed harder, his head aching from the strain, and slowly he watched as the fur receded and his toes elongated into fingers. Breathing hard, he reached for more magic, watching human skin stretching up his forearm –

Black spots danced across his vision and all at once standing was too great an effort; he stumbled sideways with a pained grunt, the woods smearing all around him. He crumpled back to the ground, panting heavily.

The spirit wolf shook his head. You've exhausted your reserves of magic, he deducted. Transforming the first time took everything out of you – and out of the spirits lending you their power. You'll have to wait for your power to regenerate.

"And how long will that take?" Link snapped, his anger laced with desperation. "There's a lerkin war going on – I can't just wait here in th'forest and do nothing while my people are killed and graves defiled by flameless Sheikah and their hanged machines!"

I never said you had to wait here and do nothing, the spirit said, a steely glint in his eye. You'll find that there are some benefits to your wolf form. You're injured, but not badly – you can still carry on the fight in this form.

Link took up his pacing again, considering. When he didn't focus on how alien the wolf's body felt and simply let it respond to instinct, it was much easier to move. I could figure out some combat. Stealth should be simpler now – I have th'natural camouflage f'a beast, at least out here in th'wilds.

He caught sight of the bag of gunpowder that he'd dropped last night, and his shoulders drooped with shame that burned from the inside. I let them all down. They were counting on me, and… I failed. Now they probably think they've lost yet another wolf warrior t'th'Sheikah.

Eleven wolves gone, all in one day…

He snorted, realizing now that he was more of a 'wolf warrior' than he'd ever been. Before, Beira had been considered the 'truest' wolf warrior on his sabotage team. Now… now I suppose that's me, he thought. He narrowed his eyes, molding his shame into grim determination. Better live up t'th'title, then.

He glanced back at the spirit wolf. "D'y'have a name?" he asked.

You can call me Twilight, the wolf answered with another grin. I'll be watching, lad. And with that he turned around, as if to walk deeper into the forest, only to fade away into nothing. Link's heart lurched.

"Wait!" he barked, darting after him. "Wait – Twilight! Y'can't just – wait!"

There was no response. Link growled in irritation – the ease and effectiveness of growling as a wolf was surprisingly satisfying – and walked back to the bag of gunpowder. Its light sulfuric scent was particularly strong as a wolf; he wondered distractedly how far away from it he would have to be to lose its scent. My gun and clothes better hanged well come back with my human form, he thought bitterly, his tail twitching.

Now, what t'do with all this…

He could drag the bag along in his mouth, but there went all his stealth benefits as a wolf. Even f'I could get it into position, how would I light it?

Sighing heavily, he took the bag in his mouth – urgh, th'taste f'cotton – and dragged it deeper into the woods. Can't let th'Shiekah find it.

After shoving it into a bush and dragging a few fallen branches across it, he left it behind and loped in the direction of the Sheikah village, paying close attention to the scent of sulfur on the breeze – that's how I'll find it again.

He would start by scouting out the village. His old plan flat out just wouldn't work anymore, without backup, without the cover of night – without hands. He huffed in irritation, shaking himself. Urgh! All these – these canine instincts – hang them! His neck was itching, but when he paused to scratch it, it was his hind paw – his foot – that instinctively came up to do the job. Why am I scratching my neck with my foot?

He smelled the village long before it came into sight and quickly came to hope that his own village didn't smell as bad. The sweat, the unwashed skin, the refuse – it made his lips curl and his stomach churn in disgust, and the stench only worsened the closer he got. When he could see the fenceposts through the trees he dropped to the ground and covered his nose with his paws, soaking in the natural scents of dirt and grass and moss until his stomach felt stable enough to continue.

He quickly noticed that it was the Sheikah themselves that stank, not necessarily the village. He shrank deeper into shadows as a village guard crossed his field of view, all at once thankful for the heads-up his nose has given him.

Hang it all, he thought, watching the soldier lean back against the wall and gaze out into the woods. I'm a wolf! They'll attack me as soon as they see me. And it's the middle f'th'day; everyone'll be awake…

He licked his nose, considering. It's just one man. Maybe f'I'm fast enough, he won't alert others?

If that was successful, he could take out the guards one by one, crippling the village's defenses – or at least, severely denting them, depending on how many he could kill before someone raised the alarm… his lips twitched upwards at the thought.

Th'trick'll be attacking with my jaws, not my paws, he reflected. He'd watched wolves hunt before, from a distance – their jaw strength was devastating, capable of crushing bone.

Decided, he broke into a run, lunging through the browning ferns far faster than he'd anticipated – sooner than he expected the man was right in front of him, eyes wide and mouth open to scream; Link lunged upwards, his powerful hind legs sending him much higher than he anticipated so that his forepaws struck the man's throat, cutting off his cry of surprise. His momentum sent them both toppling to the ground, but he recovered first, snapping his jaws at the man's neck. He felt his teeth sink through flesh and heard the crunch of bone and instantly a deep chill went through him; he leapt off the man's chest, spitting blood from his mouth, feeling suddenly nauseous.

Dragons above, he thought, breathing hard, staring at the dead man before him in shock. By th'Guardian…

The taste of warm, fresh blood – human blood – remained in his mouth and he spat furiously, the action manifesting as more of a strangled cough as a wolf. Th'river – where's th'river –

He darted away even as the sound of footsteps running to investigate the man's cry reached his ears, grass swishing at his passing, low-hanging pine boughs brushing lightly across his back. He emerged from the woods onto the main path and followed it to the bridge over the river, skidding down the riverbank until his paws met cold water. He plunged his maw into the water and drank desperately, struggling to clear his mouth. When at last the taste was gone he trotted under the bridge and settled down on the narrow strip of the bank beneath it, his brow furrowed.

I wasn't expecting it t'be so… visceral. And… not really in a good way.

He bit back a growl, torn. His jaws were his greatest weapon as a wolf; he knew that from watching and training Beira. And biting the neck of his victims was the surest way he could think of to kill them, but… the human blood in his mouth, the human spine crunching between his jaws… it unnerved him, and he didn't know why. I don't have a problem with killing when it's with a sword or gun – why's this different?

He knew the answer immediately – because this was so much more all-encompassing. He'd never had to taste his victim's fresh blood before – contrary to popular belief, he thought wryly, the Zonai did not drink the blood of the foes they slew.

And he'd never felt the killing blow with a part of his own body before. It would be like – like strangling a man with his bare hands as a human, he guessed.

He sighed heavily. So this's what it means t'truly be a wolf warrior, he thought grimly.

He froze as he caught a whiff of a familiar heavy musk on the wind. Livestock.

Moments later his ears caught the sound of cart wheels and hoofbeats, as well as the rhythmic tromp of soldiers' feet. His lip curled. Sheikah, harvesting leftovers from th'battle, he guessed. His hackles bristled. By th'Dragons, f'they dug up our Grafensted from last night, t'doesn't matter what becomes f'me afterwards – they're skinned!

The ox lowed nervously as it neared the bridge. Link sniffed as deeply and silently as he could, straining for the scent of damp earth and dead bodies. There was stone, undoubtedly – a strange-smelling stone with a cold tang that left his nose tingling, likely the scent of guardian pieces – but no corpses that he could tell. At least our brothers still rest in peace for now.

The cart trundled along, its armed escort of Sheikah surrounding it on their march back towards the village. Link didn't dare move until their scents had been sufficiently staled by drifting winds; then as he crawled out from under the bridge and felt the midday sun quickly warming his fur, an idea struck his mind.

They have oxen. They'll have t'have a corral somewhere in th'village – or, more likely, on th'edge f'th'village, so that there's enough room for th'animals. Outside th'walls.

The beginnings of a plan were coming together in his mind. He trotted back into the cover of the forest and meandered back towards the village, not planning to engage this time. He avoided the stretch of fence where he'd left the Sheikah guard's corpse, smelling a strong human scent in the area, implying a decent number of the lowlifes investigating. It wouldn't do any good to be caught now that he finally had a solid idea. He heard them speaking quickly in their own language, voices betraying confusion; he caught the word 'Zonai' a fair few times before they were out of earshot.

He rolled his eyes. They're not wrong, but f'they can't even identify th'bite f'an animal as th'cause f'death, they're even dumber than we thought.

Although maybe they had identified the cause of death as a wolf, and thought the Zonai had trained wolves to fight with them. Not that far off from th'truth…

He fought back a pang of loneliness. I miss my friend. Maybe Beira'd have some tips for me.

He reached the entrance to the village just as the cart of salvageable guardian pieces was permitted inside and watched as two guards closed the gates behind the tail end of the escort. I could probably make that climb, he thought, lifting a paw and examining his claws. They were sturdy and thick, meant for gripping, not slashing. Useful for climbing, I hope.

He darted across the road a fair distance from the front gates, hoping not to be seen, and the strong scent of livestock – a heavy musk of sweat, hay, and manure – struck his nose. Yes!

A corral, just as he'd thought. He didn't dare get close – not yet. He would cause a panic only when everything else was in place.

And that meant fetching the bag of gunpowder, then waiting for nightfall.