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31_days2008-07-04 08:02 pm
bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2008-07-04 08:02 pm
[July 4] [Dog Soldiers] Progress is Progressing
Title: Progress is Progressing
Day/Theme: 4: New ways, old things
Series:Dog Soldiers
Character/Pairing: the first werewolf in the glen
Rating: PG
The old one had watched from a distance. It had been there longer than the family had. When the family’s first ancestors had come to this spot, the old one had watched them build the cottage and the fences, had noticed with interest the sheep and the cattle, and the merry-voiced, running children.
When their paths had crossed, as was inevitable, the old one had taught its new progeny the old ways of the woods and the wilds. They had obeyed, but they always went back to the cottage, back inside.
Generations had passed, and the old one had seen how the younger packs became more and more accustomed to cold metal and the stinking materials that they carried. The old one stayed far out of range of that. The old one was powerful, but hadn’t gotten that way without caution.
So that when the new strangers came, reeking of weapons and malice, the old one had stayed in the background and let the youngsters play. It began as well as could be expected, but then things went wrong fast. Now the cottage was destroyed and the pack, new and old, was gone.
The old one watched the last survivor limp away from its territory. The moon was sinking away, and with it, the feral uncertainty. The survivor could be killed, perhaps, if haste was made, but he had already killed the rest of the pack, even the new female that had given the old one hope of sensible cubs that would stay far from the new ways that killed.
That hope would have to wait. The woods would be changed, and if the old one meant to escape that change to, it would have to hide again. Until the new fears were forgotten and the new weapons put aside.
Day/Theme: 4: New ways, old things
Series:Dog Soldiers
Character/Pairing: the first werewolf in the glen
Rating: PG
The old one had watched from a distance. It had been there longer than the family had. When the family’s first ancestors had come to this spot, the old one had watched them build the cottage and the fences, had noticed with interest the sheep and the cattle, and the merry-voiced, running children.
When their paths had crossed, as was inevitable, the old one had taught its new progeny the old ways of the woods and the wilds. They had obeyed, but they always went back to the cottage, back inside.
Generations had passed, and the old one had seen how the younger packs became more and more accustomed to cold metal and the stinking materials that they carried. The old one stayed far out of range of that. The old one was powerful, but hadn’t gotten that way without caution.
So that when the new strangers came, reeking of weapons and malice, the old one had stayed in the background and let the youngsters play. It began as well as could be expected, but then things went wrong fast. Now the cottage was destroyed and the pack, new and old, was gone.
The old one watched the last survivor limp away from its territory. The moon was sinking away, and with it, the feral uncertainty. The survivor could be killed, perhaps, if haste was made, but he had already killed the rest of the pack, even the new female that had given the old one hope of sensible cubs that would stay far from the new ways that killed.
That hope would have to wait. The woods would be changed, and if the old one meant to escape that change to, it would have to hide again. Until the new fears were forgotten and the new weapons put aside.