Chapter 38. A story.

  Tyriel Horace Morrell was the last Rot-Claw documented—if you could find the scrolls that is. That ancient man had the fading DNA structure of the giant prehistoric short face bear, Arctodus Simus—now if you don’t know what that is I highly recommend you go to your local library or whatever it is you do to seek bits of information. Just educate yourself for a moment—we will wait, ….big aren’t they—anyways. Yes, Tyriel had the gift to shape-shift. Skin-walk. Morph, whatever you want to call it, but he could do it. The grotesque form of the were-bear. More specifically one of those is to the Arctodus Simus. Tyriel played for the sinister Goddess of Wrath, Pandora. Upon approval the Goddess spiked his chromosomes, granting Tyriel the remaining chain of DNA, allowing him this surreal morphing and mean nasty animal shape.

  This did not come without dutiful cost, however. The Seven godly siblings, survived by the scandalous acts of their followers. In order to keep a healthy flowing current of their so-called faith, the Seven had found a way to ground themselves. A game of corruption and deceit. Doing everything in their power to trick, and manipulate as many followers they can. Fooling as many as possible into their church doors, even if it means subtracting a few from their brothers and sisters.

  Pandora granted Tyriel the status of Bear-King. A beast of power and size. There was also the hidden bead of rot. Living erosion. A vile excess of spoiled ruin with a heartbeat, just waiting to spew. Tyriel was tasked with destroying the rivaling churches, laying waste to those who opposed Pandora, and he was good at it. The man must have had the shiniest stars in Destruction. The ones in Chaos gleamed just as bright—maybe brighter. It was those stars in Revolution. Those were the stars that got the attention of Pandora’s siblings.

  Ammarosa the eldest sister, and the Goddess of Envy, was rather impressed with Pandora’s clever scheme. Even applauded her during the dropping of her own followers—she was rather a good sport, or merely only wanting a token of her own. As it wasn’t just her numbers that were dwindling, but the other siblings as well. All while Pandora slowly climbed in rank. The secret—well I think its quite obvious—it was her powerful game piece. A horrid thing. The ancient Bear-King. A vile Rot-Claw. A bad dream by the name of Tyriel.

  It took Ammarosa many years conducting her own plan. It was simple enough on paper. She was going to have Tyriel murdered—yeah it took her years to conceive that idea. However, she had to make sure that her followers killed the man before he took shape. Why?—well because it has been rumored in alleyway whispers, ‘what don’t kill the king, only make him more strong.’ Now that’s something that’s hard to play against. Men get injured on the daily—specially in those times. Well, if ancient Tyriel endured the pain and walked away guess what? That shit doesn’t really affect him anymore in the future. So, she had to diverse a plan that cut deep. Ammarosa, disclosed her plans with her younger sister, Tatheliea, the Goddess of Lust. And to nobody’s surprise she agreed with the proposal, because it was her followers that had been dropping the most dramatically. If Ammarosa’s strategy worked, well then the both of them could have a spike in followers. Meaning more tokens. Meaning control.

  Tatheliea manipulated handfuls of her most desirable. Most salacious. Worthy and wanting succubus from her closest churches. Ammarosa too, gathered a great number of jealous warriors wanting power. Land. Women. All being promised a gift of whatever they wanted. Only if the task of destroying the Bear-King was finished. Both Ammarosa’s and Tatheliea’s followers slowly gathered. Congregating into one church waiting for when Tyriel would enter through the doors.

  The youngest of the siblings, Cairo, God of Pride, overheard rumors of the scheme. He absolutely did not approve of his sisters procedure of gaining rank. Informing his older sister, Pandora. She was infuriated hearing about her sisters planning’s. Outraged. So much so she had her followers burn a town of her own. Just so she could hear the screams. Pandora was a leader through fear and the wrath behind it. She was, however, calm enough to thank her brother, letting him know she would no longer attack the church of Pride for the following frosts to come. Ciaro, prideful as he was told his sister the act was unnecessary and she should play as she pleases too, even if it means ruining his game in the process—I don’t know he was weird like that. Regardless, now she had to try and convince her wrathful anarchist the dangers to come.

  Entering a state of spiritual embodiment, she traveled between many of her church temples. Desperately seeking him. Speaking with each of her high rank priestesses, advising the push of her follower to seek out the Bear-King, and forewarn the man. None of her players were successful.

  Tyriel paid no attention to the warning visions. Messages. Dreams. Any and all signs Pandora sent for him were ignored. The man was also graced with a lovely star in Ignorance. He also had one of the most wide-eyed stars in Headstrong. Honestly if any of you ever got the chance to see that star, you’d soil your britches. It was true though he was a stubborn one who was rash and reckless. Coming to believe he had become indestructible and unstoppable. Instead, he now pursues the challenge. Crushing any who tried and stopped him.

  Many, many moons and thrice as many suns before Tyriel found the church. He walked casually, nonchalantly stalking a small group of charming ladies. The influence that radiated from those doughy gals was intoxicating. Completely under thinking the suspicion of these silky women wandering the pines. Who could think when they giggled like that though. Soft voices too. How could a tongue as soft as such dent his mind so badly. The laughter swelled in his head. And who could blame him. Drowning in gentle pools of blue. Wandering in the deep greens of ivy. Who could really blame him though. With eyes like those, even sapphires would blush. Each wearing lacy silks of temptation. Each taking turns glancing back. Each letting lashes whisper lewd secrets with a slow taste of air. Each slowly leading him to the temple.

  He followed without hesitation. Didn’t even notice how empty the settlement was. Let alone the name of such. Didn’t even care about the few who hid under market tables while he followed. The heavy air was the least of his concerns now too. Seeing those wonderful curves glide up the stairs. He followed. Taking short steps, watching the silks gently pull away, and behind a door. When Tyriel made his way inside, he never closed the large doors. Never barricaded the handles. Didn’t do the normal things he usually would. Because, something was different about this church. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the slow influential temptations were growing.

  Armfuls of lovely ladies in light silky gowns, were magnetically drawn. All while others would fill his mouth with the sweetest of wines, impairing his mental state. Eating and drinking as each gown of desire would bring him anew. Unaware of the barricade sliding against the door. With each berry popping of lustful juices, came a blurred line of influential desire. With each horn of wine temptation took control. In time that influence was over stimulating. Before too long, he was but only a bird for the worm. Just another fool for the game. Falling to urges. Losing connection with who he was. He would fail.

  Tyriel had many of the women Tatheliea had placed as a luring trick. Drunk with elderberry wine, tempted with Envy and Lust. Forgetting about everything. His mind was elsewhere, while Tatheliea’s followers did what their goddess commanded. Then just as Ammarosa had planned. Her followers became jealous. Watching from the shadows. Why should this one man alone enjoy all those women. Eat all their foraging. Drink all their wine. Seeing that nasty man with his back turned, they all took motion. All wanting to please their goddess. Perhaps at the end, each of them will be leaving with one of these lovely succubae.

  Knives. Forks. Even some spoons—yeah spoons, you’d be surprised at what a spoon can do when the temptation of a goddess is behind it. Not just the little utensils of such found a spot in his back. An axe found its way inside the building and wedged its way in, knocking kitchenware free. Hell, even the woman he was with drove a dagger into his chest. Now like said earlier ‘what don’t kill the king, only make him more strong’ and well, …gods damned if it wasn’t true, it would take much, much more than just a few forks and knives and spoons. That’s when another, another other swung their axe as well. The two of them, now swinging as if they were splitting wood rounds.

  Ammarosa, and Tatheliea were ecstatic with how things turned out, Pandora on the other hand was very upset, not so much for the loss of Tyriel, but for losing the Bear-King DNAs that made such a wonderful game piece. Pandora promised her two sisters one day she would recover the fading prehistoric DNAs. Swearing she would burn every lustful church and envy filled structure to the grounds.

  Ammarosa’s plan was a success. A very high success at that too, many of the followers in the church had been ovulating. Meaning many had become fertilized, but not just those regular DNA’s had been embedded in the chromosomes. There was now the fading possibility of a future Rot-Claw. However, Tyriel too made a promise of his own. With his last blood soaked breaths. He bellowed out for the whole church to hear. The whole settlement. I’m sure everyone in the valley heard that man scream.

  “I am the Bear-King! Many of you whores carry my seed! One day I will return! I will hunt down every family name in this church! I promise I will leave every mother bleeding! Every father broke and ruined. I promise to eat every grandbaby! Erasing every bloodline! I will reclaim these lands for the name of Lako—”

  Tyriel never finished his cursing. The woman who was under pulled the dagger from his chest and stuck him in the throat. Three. Four. Five times she stuck him with that point. Until his mouth overflow. While the others stabbed and hacked with whatever they could. Both Tyriel and that woman died that night—a statue was lifted in her honor. You can pay tribute when you visit the town of Neadmoore. Her name was Gertrude L. Morritine, apparently she died at the young age of twenty-seven. Tyriel? Well his story on the other hand had been twisted in seven different ways, much like most of the history in the lands. Words bent to curve faith in their benefits.

  Many, many cycles of seasons had passed. The chill of frost came and went. Hundreds of cycles, maybe more. The Seven had assumed that that nasty DNA had been lost with Tyriel. It was a quest that seemed unattainable, something that just couldn’t be done—how the hell is one supposed to obtain that DNA let alone find it? Over the time of all those cycling seasons and melting frosts a large shifter was born.

  An old forgotten relative by the name of Grover Tyriel Birch. Now he wasn’t born large, he was born prematurely—nearly arriving a full season before he should have. However, he did not possess the Rot-claw genomes, he did though, have enough chromosomes for the were-bear transformation. The Birch family followed Ammarosa, the Goddess of Envy. The Birch family was a rude one too, always wanting what others had. Constantly praying to their Goddess for more, but never putting forth effort—same was true for the Goddess. Why should she grant her followers anything without tribute.

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  That was the Birch family curse. One that Grover learned and would pass down. Each father would then tell their kin. Until the fourth generation. Until a boy was born earning a new name. Breaking that cycle of generational naming. Grover the Third would break that name during the birth of his boy.

  During his ninth cycle of seasons, that young boy was told about the curse. It was a reminder of history while his family and friends walked with him. Priests led the following outside of town. Walking a path to grounds with ceremonial trees. It was that young boys coming age. It was his day of shifting, most of the Birch family were shifters. All thanks to the ancient ancestor. The horrid Bear-King, Tyriel Horace Morrell. The elders of the community arrived one at a time. Coming together hand in hand. The elders recited a soothing harmony of looping chants, while the priests held low notes of humming.

  His father, mother, grandfather, and great grandfather stood just outside the ring of elders while they chanted. Watching their young boy. He stood right there. Right in the center of them all. His brother and cousins. Aunts, uncles, friends and other folks from that forgotten village all gathered around as well. All curious as too what kind of token could play for Ammarosa.

  One of the elders stopped their reciting and told the crowd about the Birch family curse. A ritual that came with each ceremonial day of shifting. The day Ammarosa judges’ shapes. He warned how the child could be the carrier of the wrathful DNAs. The nasty ones passed down from his ancestor. Tyriel Horace Morrell. The ancient Bear-King. He informed the child’s parents that if he was in fact the next to heir the DNA. They would kill him. The Seven can not have something so vile ruining their game. The Rot-Claw is unstable. A rebellious creature that gains no faith, only destroys.

  His father Grover the third, thinking he had outsmarted the gods. Thinking he was more clever then a spiked bloodline. Thinking he could break the curse. Gave his boy a different name. Something as far away from Tyriel or Grover or Horace. Something just completely different, he could honestly only manage to think up one. One that couldn’t possibly be tied to this ancient curse—I’m sure we all know that’s not how curses work.

  This day of shifting would be a great one. His boys shift would become a bear like his own. The church and others would only see his boy as a great piece to the game. He would be a marvelous token to Ammarosa. His parents agreed eagerly, they too were very curious as to what their boy would become. The chanting stopped. It was time for that young child’s day to begin. Everyone gave the boy a few steps distance. There still was a chance for that negative shift.

  Starting his transformation, the boy contorted while his flesh sizzled. He shrieked. Watching skin stretching and splitting and lifting. Panicking at the smoldering bits at his feet. A jolt forced him into a new contorting pose. The pain was traumatizing. His bones morphed, rapidly growing. It ached as if they had fractured in every possible spot. He fell to the ground clutching his sides. The pain was so deep now. His organs. They had to transition with the new shape. Not just the new coming of shape, but the newly rapid growing organs as well. Things of darkness and evil. With each new pulse of growth, the boy gripped tighter. Bowing his back with unsettling twists. Pops and cracks could be heard within while he rolled in suffering. With each throb of wicked, a maliciousness coursed its way through his veins. He bawled with tear-soaked whimpers. Thrashing in the dirt with each cry out. Those agonizing screams forced faces to look away. All while the boy cry for his parents aid. The few elders fight to hold his family back, while others started to stab at the young shaping cub. The curse was true. Even with that worry seed coming to a full bloom, the child’s father, Grover, would not idly stand by, while these men murder his son.

  It was at this point the terror of multiple shifting’s started to take place. The Birch family may have been repulsed at the chances of the family curse being true. However, seeing how Grover reacted, they were not going to let the people of the church kill the boy. The family of shifters consisting of two were-bears, his mother and father. Three were-wolves, his brother and grandfathers. Three were-lionesses, his aunt and two cousins. Finally, four short and stocky were-boars, his other cousins and uncles. All shifting in only heartbeats. It was rather quick—I don’t know maybe the family all had a bold and shiny star in Rapid Mutation, maybe some real squinters in Hurried Evolution. I personally think it was the grand stars in Swift Shifting—that’s just me though, remember I don’t even think the sky or mountains are real—but yes the small Birch family of shifters tore skin, ripping into their primal shapes in only a matter of breaths.

  It was the beginning of a bad dream. The sky clapped twice. Like it was calling for rain. In a violent flash of light, a downpour showered, as requested. The air was tense, heavy with static. Thick with the fury of screaming disapproval. Another crack from above and the rain fell harder. Same was true for the infuriated shouts that roared. Both held a taunting boom that said seek shelter. Shoving and grabbing grew with each snarl and snap that rippled back.

  A man, casual as the coming day lunged for the lance an elder held. The two locked their grounds, trying to floor the other. It was a short match. The man was in his prime. Practically rooting himself like a strong oak. The elder was, well an elder. Those folks are older than all the trees in the valley. The only ones possibly older is—maybe the gods—and that’s a big maybe. The elder trembled in the dirt. The prime victor thrust the lance above head. A motion that only intensified the situation. The crowd cheered. Taking the weapon in both hands, the man of victory charged, driving it into a were-lioness. It was that act of violence. The one that could be argued as responsible for starting the true outbreak. The one responsible for the hysteric riot to be.

  The lioness only looked at the dimple in her fur. The deep leaking dimple that grow with a long wooden handle. Golden yellow eyes followed the shaft staring down on her attacker. A man who only tremble at the pressure of gold eyes. Gold had never been so terrifying. The large cat growled, swiping the lance free. Than again at the man. Four of the most beautiful gashing’s opened across his face. Twice as many into his chest. She turned leaping for another. Her daughters—such sweet girls—each did the same. Each leaping onto one of their own. Each slashing and swiping and ripping then leaping again. Until they couldn’t.

  Those who married into the Birch family—the ones unable to shift—became conflicted. Unsure who to side with, take arms against those of the same—pig skinned and fleshy. Or against those of unity—well unity only through the words of proposal. It was an easy debate. One for the simple minded coward. They all sided with the terrified common folk. Each taking part with the slaughter of shifters. Each assisting in the destruction of the ones they are supposed to protect. Betraying vows of preserving safeguard. Each deceiving their family without even thinking twice, hell they didn’t even think once. The only thought was ‘don’t die.’ or ‘kill the beast’—mankind is but a simple creature, a stupid class really, but we all know that.

  Only a mile away in a high tower at one of the many temples of envy, Ammarosas’ priestess waited for the return of the new shifting game piece. Now Ammarosa didn’t typically have a lot of shifters in her wheelhouse of wonderful tokens—well not until that brilliant ambush of hers centuries ago. Ammarosa and Tatheliea had been breeding their followers in disgusting amounts. Their numbers were growing remarkably. Not only that, but the sisters were now churching families of shifters. The same was true for their siblings but the two had the higher poolings—numbers are the only things that count in this game, numbers are power, power is control or so they believed. The clever two, now with powerful tokens, were back in the deceitful game of corrupting destruction. A piece of influential power was flowing from their doors. Easily manipulating those simple minds into doing heinous acts against rivaling followers.

  Only a mile away at the ceremonial grounds, the riot had become a muddied massacre. That young boy had come to his full shift. Just a rotting cub. Even as a cub he stood tall—maybe a man and a half tall, give or take a few hands. Unfortunately, by the time that young boy came to full shift, his grandfathers, cousins and uncles had fallen. Watching specific sections of the crowd hurdling. Groups pulverizing the ground at their feet with whatever they could. Watched while another uproar thrashed before pulling one of the lionesses to the ground. Barely seeing the sharp point running for him.

  The cub pawed at a weapon, a long lance. Holding such a tool for destruction was but a boy. A peppery-haired grey-looking boy. How strange, a child that looked to be weathered and time tested. The boy took his lance and swiped at the foul cub. Screaming for it to leave and to be gone from the area. Slashing the lance at one of those reaching paw. That young yet oldish looking boy only managed to cut a single appendage free. That cub wailed at that now missing a finger paw—odd coincidence I know.

  It didn’t take long before the village outnumbered the rest of the Birch family. Impaling the shifters with any sharp pointed object they had—or could find. Breaking limbs from trees using them like clubs. Slamming down with hefty two handed boulders to smash the bones. The cub was horrified and in shock. It called out with a heart twisting sound—I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a bear cub cry in panic, but it could be one of the saddest sounds you’ll hear. Something about nature being frightened. Crying—there is just something soul crushing about it—and if you don’t agree with that, well than maybe you’re just heartless. Maybe your name is Alex.

  Only could that young cub watch while the last of his known family bleed out. A lifeless gaze followed the carnage. Looking for a sheltering relative. That empty stare was resurrected. A piercing pinch in his shoulder, brought him back to the reality of the situation. He turned around quickly. Smacking the lance from the hands of that scared young boy. Never attacking he only trampled over. While another point held onto his shoulder.

  One of the elders stabbed the young shifter. Forcing the cub to trip and stuble in the mud. That old man forced the point deeper, screaming for others. Pressing and twisting anytime that cub moved. That odd child. They young old boy, he quickly came to a stand. Grabbing his weapon from the mud. Ran for the pinned cub. Lance point leading the charge. That boy tore through. Ripping internals and scraping bones. Knocking the elder to the ground. That boy yanked free the one in the cub. Screaming for the thing to leave.

  A group of screaming men exploded. Bursting into the air as Grover roared to a stand. Letting out a colossal, hair rippling predatory scream. He clawed and mauled. Each arm sending three or more sailing back into the crowd. Grover was a massive Silver Grizzly Bear. Taller than two men stacked. Stronger than ten men combined—twenty on a bad day. Grover did his best to create an opening for his young cub. Allowing his son just enough time to flee. That cub wailed into the depths of the woods. None gave chase. I don’t now maybe they were all to frightened to wander the woods at night. Perhaps they were far to occupied with the beasts they already grounded. Maybe they didn’t care at all. The boy can’t hold the shape forever. He would have to take on his human form soon, the nature will extinguish the boy in time. He was but only nine, he would most surly fall in the coming frost.

  The curse died that day, as that boy was the final descendent. He was the last heir of the ancient DNAs. Not only did the curse fizzle that day, but that boy would be the last shifter born from the Birch family tree. Possibly the last Birch standing—what a load of crap.

  Sid was not buying into this story at all. Abram told him a very small portion of The Legend of The Bear-King. An ancient story that had been forgotten—not forgotten as nobody talked about it—no that’s not really true, nobody really talks about it anymore—but what I truly mean is forgotten as nobody knew the truth. The Seven had mutilated the legend. Completely butchering it in a way that benefits their own. Each Legend of the King has its own rendition of how their influential desire brought the King to his knees. Each revised edit of how the King had been expelled. Each telling how only playing for the Seven is the true path to power and desire—but those were old stories for tutoring elders—not just that but Abram wasn’t doing Sid or the Legend any favors starting the tale where he did—practically in the middle. He did this on purpose though. It was the reaction he was looking for—Hmm, what’s that? Why did Abram start in the middle? I believe he was hoping to spark some sort of memory. Perhaps he was seeking a face of recognition. I think he thought this story may be of some familiarity to the big guy. Abram was still on the fence about Sid being the one he seemed. The one he needed to collect. Abram could be losing touch with who he was. Falling out of instinct—what would become of him then—no, he had to trust his gut. Sid was definitely who he was searching for. Pushing the worry aside, he continued to rant about the Bear-King.