Shifted

The cougar padded silently through the thick pines, its sharp eyes locked on the young buck about a hundred feet from it. The cougar was a young male, about two feet tall at the shoulder, maybe five feet long. About two hundred and ten pounds of predatory muscle. Its fur coat was a little bit darker, almost a dark earthy brown, than most of its kind in the Balin Crags. It also didn't seem to be just a predator, its green-gold cats eyes gleamed with something akin to intelligence. The cat's incisors were big for its size, about an inch and a half long. The feline padded carefully into position, on the rise, hidden by thick brush. Just below it, about fifteen feet out was the target. A mid-sized whitetail buck, probably about three years of age. The snow and ice below would make a chase difficult, and the last thing the hungry hunter wanted was a chase.

The cat looked at the jump, sizing it up. This would be the longest pounce the hunting cat had ever attempted in its young life. A standing jump wouldn't cut it, and the hunter knew it. The cat looked around, and seemed to smile, as it saw a solution. A fallen tree, with its trunk sticking over the cliff about three feet. The hunter moved carefully to the edge of the tree, just behind the cover of the thick pine grove. It breathed calmly and evenly, realizing that once it moved out onto the solid tree trunk, the cat would be out of the bag, so to speak. It seemed to smile at the humorous literalness of that thought.

Realizing it would have to move quick, the cat took a deep breath, and without anymore hesitation, took off in a sprint. Its claws gave the traction necessary on the icy tree, and three powerful strides was all it took. The deer had no chance. As the hunting cat took its first stride, the wind shifted, and the deer smelled danger. Its head came up, but the foolish young buck looked around first, not trusting its nose alone. By the third stride, the buck was about to start running, but it was too late. From seemingly nowhere, a little over two hundred pounds of hungry predator landed on its back and side, and quickly strong jaws closed an iron grip on its neck. There was a brief struggle, the deer trying to dislodge the predator, but it was for naught. The cat's claws were in too deep, its mouth locked on the poor deer's neck. There was a snap of bone, as the hunting cat applied the necessary pressure to the vertebrae, and the deer fell, dead.

The cougar stood over its kill, seeming to admire its handiwork. Then it started to change. The tail disappeared, it stood on its hind legs, and slowly a more human shape appeared. After a few moments, where there had been a hunting cat, something of a man stood. The man stumbled, fighting the fatigue and pain of the shift back to his more human form. He was a Wilder, a descendant of the Shifter, a race of beings that could change into any animal at will. Like his ancestors, he too could take on the form of an animal, but only the one, and only for short periods of time. It was very fatiguing mentally and physically upon him. Yet it felt right being in animal form, so any chance they got, Wilders would always be in animal form. They felt closer to that part of themselves, and to nature, in their animal forms. So they spent whatever time they could in them. This young man, only about fifty, was still learning to deal with the aftermath. Wilders, like their ancestors, could live up to four centuries.

The man who now stood where a cougar had, he could pass as human on brief inspection. He looked nothing out of the ordinary, unless you knew where to look. His face was a big tell, as it took some effort to hide the inch long incisors appropriately. Two for each jaw, they looked like feline incisors, because that's exactly what they were. The one's on his bottom jaw were shorter, only about a half inch long. He also had the black/brown pupils and green-yellow cats eye irises of a hunting cat. They would even seem to glow in the dark slightly. Also his hair matched the fur coat of his animal form, a dark tan-earthy brown color, and even seemed like fur, thick, about shoulder length, and matted and messy. His face was tanned as well, and he was well built. About six feet tall, he was compact, but muscular, maybe weighing a hundred and fifty five pounds. He wore a mottled green and black cloak, very muted coloration, much like the colors of the forest around him. His upper body wore a chain shirt for protection, the steel links purposely dulled and blackened, again for stealth. Underneath he wore a thin deer skin shirt, to protect from the cold. His legs were covered by a pair of pants made from caribou hide. His moccasins and gloves were made from a grey wolf's fur. It was a cold but sunny winter day, and the man was thankful for these warm clothes to be sure. He quickly put up the hood of his cloak, to ward off the cold a bit from his ears.

He was well equipped for this terrain as well. On his back was a longbow, about four feet in length. The bow itself was made from yew wood, and finely crafted at that. Simple in design, just a simple recurve shape, no carved designs or shapes. Smooth, but with a leather and steel grip around the center where the bowman would grip it. The string was made from the sinew of a black bear, very strong, dependable and reliable. On his back under the bow, slung at an angle where they would stick up at his right shoulder, was a quiver of arrows. The quiver itself was made from doeskin and grey wolf fur. It was also a simple design, although had one feature. Done in brown and green dye, there was the sign of Talia, the tree of life and death. Wilder's believed amongst other things, that they were chosen by Talia and Mother herself, to be the balance, the equilibrium of humanoid and beast. They hunted wild game to survive, but also would hunt down trophy hunters or poachers on the Crags.

Within the quiver were his arrows. The quiver itself was divided into three by two thin pieces of pine, a device of the Wilder's own choosing. Each section held fifteen arrows. The section on the far left held arrows with a solid oak shaft, and tipped with saw edged steel heads, about four inches long. These were for armored foes and strong beasts, such as bears, or when the need arose, raiders and bandits in armor. They were more liable to break rather than bend upon entering flesh and meeting tough resistance, thereby lodging the saw edged tip inside the target. But they were also heavy and strong enough to punch through the common thick leather and iron chain armors of the beasts and raiders of this area. The second section held his hunting arrows. The shafts were made of ash wood, and the tips were leaf shaped, about four inches long, made of burnished steel. The final section held his most lightweight arrows. They were for long shots, when necessary. The tips were hollow shaped steel, about five inches in length, and shaped like a cone. The shafts were made of maple wood. All his arrows were about two and a half feet long, and fletched with large black raven feathers, about six to seven inches long.

On his left shoulder was a sword hilt, about ten inches in length. The blade attached to it was just shy of four feet of steel. The sword was a weapon passed down from his father, and his father's father, and so on and so forth. It was called Hound's Fang. The story was that it belonged to Boran the Bloodhound himself, the other deity his people worshipped, the God of Hunters, Justice, Wrath, of the Balance of Life and Death. Truth be told, it was the primary god of this young Wilder's choosing, the one he prayed to, such as it was, most often. He even wore Boran's holy symbol, a small detailed silver pendant of a wolf's head, blood on the teeth.

The sword was rather simple in design, a black iron hilt with brown leather wrapping for grip. The pommel was inset with a small ruby, but it was so dull that it didn't look like a valuable stone. The crosspiece was shaped to seem as two fangs coming up to each side of the blade, and they were even painted and furnished to be the whitish yellow of wolf canines. The blade itself was black, but made of volcanic iron and steel, so it had slight veins of dark red running all over it. It was razor sharp all the way up, both sides, the blade thin enough to slide into gaps in armor, but hefty enough towards the middle to pack the striking power to cleave into all but the heaviest of plate armors. It was also lighter then it looked, able to be wielded with one hand by most, although most fighters would still use two for the increased control. The inside of the Wilder's gloves also held a little surprise, each knuckle of the gloves had a small iron capping sewn into it, a painful little surprise he could sometimes use in a fight.

On his hips were his other three tools. On his left hip was an iron bladed wood axe. The single bladed axe was mounted on an iron cored oak handle. The handle was about twenty five inches, and the half moon blade was about ten inches at the widest point, the striking face. The blade extended from the handle about ten inches. Also on his left hip, was a strange leather weapon. It was made from moose hide leather, and had a grip in the middle, almost like a knot, but not quite. Three almost tubular sections of leather came off at equal intervals, each about six inches in length. Inside the end of each of these sections, sealed with tree sap and more leather, were three pound iron balls, making the weapon weigh in on contact at about nine pounds. It was a bolas, and was used to cripple, trip and break bones.

Devastating in the right hands, it took lots of practise to throw one right, without missing, or even breaking your own hands, since the whole idea was to grip it in the center, and get it spinning by using your fingers to spin it really fast in your hand, and then release it. The Wilder's hands bore more than a few scars from his months of practise to learn to use that particular tool, but it had been well worth it. It was always an unexpected attack, for it seemed so small, most opponents underestimated the damage it could cause. It could even snap weapons, if it hit them in the right spot, and tear them out of an opponent's hands otherwise.

Finally, on his right hip was his hunting knife. The hilt was four inches long, made of oak with an iron and steel core. There was no leather wrapping on it, instead the handle was carved as if it was a vine wrapping around the steel. But the gaps between the wraps were perfectly placed for the Wilder's fingers, giving it an easy grip to manage. The blade was polished steel, well kept and razor sharp. It was multi-purpose blade, about nine inches in length. The Wilder could throw it with deadly accuracy from up to thirty paces. One side of the blade was razor sharp and thin, for slipping, skinning, and slip cutting, such as when gutting or slicing up a deer, or when fighting a heavily armored opponent. The other side had two blade types on it. From the hilt up to about the middle was serrated, good for sawing bone and rope. Then from the middle up was smooth, but hefty, good for chopping tough meat or vegetables. It was his lifeline, having been raised in the way of a ranger. The knife was the key to your continued existence. With a knife, a flint, and a wood axe, and their wilderness knowledge, a ranger could survive anywhere, even thrive anywhere after a time. But the knife was the key to it all. A good knife could carve you a bow, some arrows, or a hunting spear if you had no way to make a bow string. It could even be used, in combination with wood and a piece of flint, to make fire.

The hunter bent down on one knee. He hefted the deer carcass over his shoulder, and started carrying it back to his camp about a half mile away. As he approached, he saw smoke rising from the general area of his camp. The young Wilder stopped hesitating. Something smelled odd, so he paused and listened. But before he could hear anything.................

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"Keon wake up, breakfast time." Christina called from the kitchen, as she finished cooking the bacon. She didn't hear any movement or acknowledgement, so she turned to her other option. Little three year Jayson watching his mum cook in complete awe. She bent over and picked the little guy up, and whispered to him. "You want to wake up Keon?"

Jayson laughed and responded immediately. "Yes I wake up Key." Christina smiled and set the little man down, and he immediately ran into the living room, and she heard him yelling, and could see him shaking Keon's arm. "Key!! Wake up, wake up!"

Keon blinked, his music having blocked out the sound of the child's voice, but the vigorous shaking had pulled him out of his dream. What a dream, a taste of adventure, it had been though. He quickly brought his mind into check, and smiled, seeing what had woken him. "I'm up little man!" He said, smiling mischievously, and he continued, sweeping Jayson up, and lifting him over his head. "And so are you!!!!"

Jayson squealed in delight, but also pointed to the kitchen smiling. "Breakfast, breakfast."

Keon laughed and set the little guy down, and he ran off into the kitchen to see his mum again. Keon quickly put away his music, and moved off into the kitchen as well. His aunt offered him a plate with about eight strips of bacon, and a slice of basically burnt peanut butter toast. Keon smiled, as he sat down, grabbing a bottle of apple juice from the fridge before moving to the table. "You remembered Aunt Christina." he teased.

She chuckled. "Basically burnt toast, how could I forget such a strange request, and no eggs? That's just not normal."

Keon chuckled, "I totally agree with you, but we've been over this already. I'm far from normal."

Aunt Christina came up behind her nephew, with her's and Jayson's food, and as she sat down, she smiled, and replied in a slightly mocking tone. "Nope, you are definitely unique."

Keon just laughed, not taking offense, or rising to the bait. "Yes, I most definitely am. Now excuse me, but I'm starving." In truth, it was because he could still taste the flavor of deer from his 'dream' very vividly, and that flavor was making him very hungry. So he started wolfing down his food. The first bite of bacon, he couldn't help himself, he closed his eyes, smiling and sighing in delight. He ate quickly however, wanting to get finished and shower, and start on actually doing something with his day.

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The young girl looked out in delight, seeing the large man moving up from the docks. Her father, the best fisherman in the village, but more importantly her best friend. He understood her, because their father-daughter bond was built on a mutual secret. They both could do things, things most people couldn't. Not even the young girl's mother knew, nor did either of her two siblings. Her fifteen year old brother just thought she was withdrawn and anti-social because she was twelve and 'becoming a woman'. Her eight year old little sister was just completely oblivious. Even those she knew at the school just thought she was strange and withdrawn and made fun of her for it. She was picked on and bullied regularly, yet somehow she managed to keep an upbeat outlook on life. Her dad was the main reason, for he fawned over his middle daughter, not spoiling her, but giving her abilities the attention and guidance and exercise they so desperately craved, by playing little mental games and challenges with her.

Only her father knew the truth, as she knew the truth about him. He knew why she seemed so withdrawn, and was so lost in her mind all the time. He knew why she would sometimes seemed to be able to sense and do things others couldn't. He also knew why the black kitten she'd saved a year ago seemed so close to her. He knew the truth, just as she knew the truth about him. Her father now and always was a strong man, well built, but he had a different secret. It was why he seemed so good at simple 'tricks' of sleight of hand, why her friends called her dad a magician, and why for some odd reason a old horned owl had made its home in his work shed. It was also why he had left his old life, to escape a new found threat to him and all those like him. But despite that, he indulged his daughter. Late at night and early in the morning, he would teach her the tricks, the secrets of those like them. Magic, the powers of the arcane.

Her father had once been one of the most sought after adventurers in the lands far to the west and north of Raechin. He had been a rather powerful sorcerer, quite skilled in the arcane arts, and quite knowledgeable in the magics as well. He looked only about forty, and the young girl's mother truly believed that was how old he was. He still had jet black hair, though short and well kept, from his youth, and his piercing blue eyes still shone like a young man. His body seemed rather well kept. He was about six feet tall, and almost two hundred pounds of muscle. Life on a fishing vessel would do that however.

The village might have only been on a lake shore, but it was a big lake, taking almost a two full days to cross if you went non-stop. And it wasn't called Snowstorm Lake for nothing. Storms had a nasty habit of coming down from the mountains on the northern and eastern shores of the lake, and pounding the lake itself, making it a force and threat to rival some ocean storms. Yet every day the fishermen would be out on the boats, because they had to be. Besides a small lumber mill, which accounted for a small percentage, the fishing trade was the economic lifeblood of Thalen. Her father however, looked as young as he did for a simpler reason. He was good at magic. It wasn't an illusion, it was simply that he knew spells to help himself stay strong and healthy, along with the proper exercise of course. In truth, the man was closer to sixty then the forty years everyone seemed to believe he was.

The villages fleet consisted of six single masted boats, each crewed by fifteen to twenty men. They were after whatever they could catch with both their nets, and of course the old fashioned way as well. The nets were for produce fish, such as lake bass and lake trout. They were normally hauled in by the dozens.

The real prize however, was the Icehorn Trout, or the Glacial Pike. The predatory fish of this lake, they were few in number, and normally rather big. They were good eating its true, but in reality, they had a secondary rich trade. The Icehorn Trout were normally about twenty four to thirty inches long, and up to forty or fifty pounds. Big fish, they had little meat on them, but the meat they did have was extremely delicious and filling. However, the strange horn which gave them their name was the main profit to be had. Anywhere from five to ten inches in length, this horn had strange properties. It was a single part protruding, that split into two prongs. The horn itself was tougher then the bones of the fish, and had a strange property when used by a skilled blacksmith in armor or weapons. It would create an effect where the edge of the weapon would bite with ice when it cut, or the armor would grant its wearer surprising resistance to the cold. Blacksmiths all across the continent of Valerick would pay huge amounts of coin for the powdered horn from this fish, and as such, merchants were always looking for more.

Glacial Pike, however, were a little bigger, normally about twenty-seven to thirty-four inches, and about sixty to seventy pounds. They were strong, and good eating as well, when cooked well. But they had a secondary purpose. They had a gland in their lower jaw, which produced some kind of liquid that would freeze things. This was in high demand from butchers, for obvious reasons, but also from many of the wizardly groups in the lands around Valerick, because it was a valuable spell component in many ice spells. As well it was also a moderately potent painkilling agent, useful for surgery, and as such many surgeons had a demand for it as well. So naturally the demand for this gland was also high from merchants. The average take home of these two fishes by the six boats every day was about ten to fifteen of both. This was compared to up to about sixty to eighty of each of the more mundane kinds. The reason for this was not only the two kinds apparent rarity, it was also because unlike the more mundane kinds of fish, which could be caught in rather reasonably sized groups by using a trawling net, these fish seemed only to be found in the depths of the lake, which meant it was the single line fishermen who would catch them.

That was her father's job, along with many of the other strong men in the village, because hauling a forty to sixty pound fish up and onto a ship from fifty to a hundred feet, and sometimes deeper, well that was a battle of strength and endurance. More than one man a year ended up going for an unintended swim because those fish just wouldn't quit. And almost every year, at least one man died of cold exposure in the winter, generally during one of the storms. This year had been good so far, but winter was only a quarter over, and it was always the toughest season. Roxy was well aware that her dad was risking much, but unlike everyone else, she knew that because of his secret, it wasn't as much as everyone thought.

She watched him, as she flattened her clothes to herself. For a twelve year old girl she was oddly dressed, which only added to the whole business of getting teased by her brother and her peers at the school house. Instead of dresses or pretty shirts and skirts, she was wearing black cloth pants, much like a smaller version of her father's work pants. Much like her father's, they were dusty, dirty and faded, and in some places worn and torn. Also like her father, she was barefoot rather often, and if not, would only wear the faded brown leather boots that seemed smaller versions of her dad's. They were up to about the lower third of her shin, and had two diagonal straps, one across the other in an X shape.

She had her shoulder length blond/brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail, revealing her pretty face. She wasn't unattractive at all, and the body of a young woman was beginning to form. But her face, though pretty, was also dusty and a little sunburned, like her father again. She had her father's odd dark deep blue eyes, almost a purple even. For a shirt, she wore a simple grey cloth jerkin, again like her father. It earned her many insults about her gender at the school from both the other girls, and most of the guys as well. But she didn't mind, for she had her best friend in the world, and he was her father as well.

She suddenly opened her eyes, as her dad got to the bottom of the hill that their house was upon. She smiled, proud of her mastery of her new trick. She rose quickly, and ran through from her room through the small hallway into the kitchen and entrance way. Her older brother, was there, just taking off his cloak. He'd obviously just gotten home from his first day working at the mill. She didn't even say hi to him, as she ran past her mom and her little sister, who were preparing dinner. As she rushed out the door, no shoes despite the cold, she simply yelled. "Dad's here, at the bottom of the hill. I'm going to meet him." Her mother went to say something, but Roxy was gone, the door closed. So she just shook her head, smiling at her youngest daughter, who was playing with the diced onions.

As Roxy moved off down the hill, around her everything started to fade. She slowed, confused, as darkness engulfed her. As the world spun and changed, she heard a woman's voice "Soon you will have the chance to make such a story your reality, my daughter. Your love will offer it to you. This is simply a taste of what could be. The choice will be yours." Then it ended.....

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Katie awoke to her mother's voice. "Wake up, you've got to get ready for school. Let's go." Katie groaned, annoyed as always about being woken up so early. She moved off to the washroom after picking out her clothes for the day. She changed quickly, and as she brushed out her hair, she thought about the dream, the riddle of it all.

She was seventeen, and in love it was true. She was in fact engaged, and had been since April. It was October, and soon she would get to see him again. Keon would be there in less than a week, to stay for three wonderful days. Then unfortunately he'd have to go back to Lindsay for another two months, to continue his schooling. They always tried to make the most of those three days, but it was difficult, being so far away from each other and only getting to see each other for such small periods of time, after so long. They'd learned to deal with it, but both of them still wanted it to be done, wanted it to end. He had six months left, and then he would finally be done, and out working. That and the eventual wonderful reality of marrying his high school sweetheart, according to him, were the only reasons he kept going.

She was very pretty. Her face was beautiful, she had gorgeous blond-brown hair, down to just past her shoulders. Her eyes were a beautiful toned green color, almost an earthy green. She wore thin framed glasses, and almost always kept her hair tied back in a loose pony tail. She was about five foot six inches, and maybe about a hundred and thirty pounds or so. She had all the curves in all the right places, and she was definitely a good looking young woman.

She finished brushing her hair, and quickly tied it back into a ponytail, and moved down the stairs and quickly picked up the plate of breakfast that her mom had out for her. A scrambled egg and a slice of toast, with a glass of fruit punch. She thanked her mom, still thinking about the dream she'd had, trying to make sense of it all. She sat down and started eating, not too sure what to think. It didn't make sense. Was it real, or had it been a dream. It had felt all too real, yet was such a thing even possible? Also, if it was real, what had the voice she'd heard meant by 'her love would offer her the chance'? How could Keon, her fiancee, possibly know what she'd dreamed and how could he be connected to it?

It was all very strange to her, and as Katie and her sister Samantha moved off almost an hour later, to go to their bus stop, she was still contemplating, turning it over in her head. After all that time in vain, however, she finally just shook her head. It was a dream, there was no point in taking it to seriously. Even if it was real. She had to concentrate on her schoolwork anyway, the last thing she needed to be doing was daydreaming in class. She sighed and resigned the mystery to the back of her mind. Either it would all make sense at a later time, or never. Either way, it wasn't worth her stressing over, especially on a Friday morning.