I watch him with my own cold, dead stare, eyes so similar and yet so different from his own glacial eyes. Perhaps, the green of them comes from my mother, but the ice they possess comes from this wolf. Years he has punished me, I can still feel his teeth in the softness of my yearling skin, I can feel the burn as they slice across my nape. I can still feel my brain banging around in my skull as he shook me. Because, like my mother, I was soft. I refused to do anything other than what I thought I should do, what my mother told me I should do. After all, I had only just come into knowledge about my father, at a year old having a mother who was a loner was difficult. She thought he was a nice wolf, she believed the lies and sweetened poison that runs off this wolf's lips. At first, I had too, but then she left. She abandoned me to the wolves of darkness, and she didn't even look back.
I keep the innate fear of him locked behind a sheet of light jade ice, watching and listening to him as he moves, giving no hint at the displeasure his proximity to me brings. I want nothing more than to tear into him for his obtuse behavior, to see rubies fly over that devilshly handsome face, to watch it run against the snow at our paws. Hatred for him bubbled up, but so did appreciation. Without his hard years of lessons and training, without him turning me and molding me into the banshee I am now, I would never have had the chance to rule these lands. In a sick way, I owe him. I listen to his words, not flinching even when he snarls and snaps at my crown. Do I think I was better than him? No. Did I miss him? No. Could I forget where I was from? Hell no, it was seared into my mind long ago. When he utters the last portions of his little tirade, doubt flickers momentarily across my face as I openly study him as he comes before me once more. I hide it, though I know it is not quick enough, for all his cruelty, Malikye is really a great father. He always knew when I was in trouble, always knew what I did or didn't do, it was like having a god for a father and not a mortal wolf. Not one who was benevolent or kind, rather he was harsh and cold as the north wind, but he knew every damned thing I ever did, did not do, would do, or wasn't going to do. He always protected me from others, if not himself, and never let me get lost.
I stay silent for a minute or two, simply judging his words against all the lies he has ever told me before, and I find shock and disbelief in my heart that he is telling me the truth. "Aid me?" I begin with a waspish tone, stinging to the ears, a growl of indignation behind them. "You? You want to help me?" Now, my own eyes narrow at him, suspicion and a willingness to trust that is insignificant next to the memories of this wolf's special brand of help. "This better not be your old version of help, come in. Welcome to Asteraia, home of shadows and The Night. It looks empty now, I have only just overthrown the old regime, but she grows each day. From what I gather we will grow only more in Spring." My own litter included, though I will not tell my father this just yet, I do not think he would handle a reunion and news that he is an old fart grandfather. I try my best to give him a smile, hope filtering in.
I only ever wanted to make him proud, only wanted to prove that I was most like him and not my mother. Maybe Asteraia will help with this, but I suppose only time and a few challengers defeated will tell if I can do as my father did before I took his pack to the Nightlands.
five year old white female with electric jade eyes; 35 inches tall and 150 pounds;
created widow, gehenna, shaddix, balor, & raum with Reaver;
possesses no wolf; devoured no soul;
Night Mother of Asteraia