Carys Weldon Blog

Thursday, October 05, 2006

A new wolf tale

I mentioned the other day that I've started a new wolf series. Here's a rough draft of the opening. Tell me what you think.

Near twilight, the werewolf Trevyn trailed through the desert in full lupine form under a three-quarter moon, smelling the smoke billowing from the fire outside the Shaman’s tipi. There was meat cooking, so he followed the scent, and paused at the top of a rock pile not far from the Indian dwelling. Sitting, he watched the Shaman carry wood inside, and come back out to get a stick of fire. Within minutes, smoke surged from the hole atop the buffalo skinned tent.
Rustling came to Trevyn’s keen ears, and because he knew the sounds, he smiled wolfishly. Furs were being spread. The Shaman prepared for a visitor.
Not long after that, the old Indian went to the nearby stream to fill a ceremonial vessel with water. The old man walked slowly, careful not to spill a drop. Each step, he spoke to his invisible gods.
“This is for my wolf brother, who thirsts.”
He took that inside the tipi, then returned to spit the meat over the fire, slice chunks off with his knife, and put it on a platter.
“This is for my wolf brother, who hungers.”
The scent carried and Trevyn salivated. He hadn’t eaten all day. That, too, was taken inside.
Dropping to his belly, the wolf waited as several hours passed. During that time, he heard the old man chant and call to the gods. He also heard the soft sounds of whistling vessels—the god calling wind jars, and the odor of the peace pipe mingled with the smell of mesquite burning. No one came to the Shaman’s tipi. And several times as the night grew darker, and the canopy of stars rose brighter in the sky, Trev thought about howling…just to see if anyone would answer, but he didn’t.
As hunger gnawed at his belly, Trev made up his mind that he would visit the Shaman. Near midnight, a little stiff, he sat up, stretched, and lifted his nose to the air, letting out a howl. The sound of his solitude echoed out over the New Mexico desert. Despite the fact that he’d earlier seen a pack of wolves scouring the landscape for a meal, none answered him—and his self-imposed state of outcast weighed heavily on him.
He wailed two more times before he got up and ventured toward the Shaman tipi, nose to the ground, eyes wary. Outside, he peeked through the open flap. The air inside was thick—not from the fire, whose smoke rose to the hole above, but from the peace pipe the Shaman puffed heavily on.
The moment Trev appeared, the Shaman took the smoke-stick from his lips and said, “I wondered if you would come.”
When he didn’t move, the Indian said, “My wolf brother, come, eat. Accept my gifts.”
Trev didn’t need any more invitation than that. Boldly, he walked in and looked around. The place invited him, as it always did, and the Shaman had laid a thick fur pallet as usual with gifts. Braised beef had cooled on the platter beside the clay bowl filled with the freshly drawn water. And a small package wrapped in fur, tied with a leather string, adorned by an eagle’s feather sat nearby on the edge of the fur.
That pleased Trevyn, and he moved toward it, warily watching the Shaman—but the wiseman never moved a muscle, save his eyes, while the wolf ate the meal. When Trev was done, he sat on his haunches, nosing the gift. Usually, he could smell what it was before opening it, but this time, he was surprised. He narrowed his blue gaze on the Shaman.
In Navajo, he asked “What is this?”
“My wolf brother, this is a gift of vision.”
“I see well enough.” Trevyn’s natural instinct was wariness, and that raised the hackles on his back. He distrusted this because it was a riddle. And more, he found himself terribly curious. “You see more than I can know,” the old Indian said. “But this is magic from the white buffalo. He came to me when you cried on the mountain.”
When he cried on the mountain? Trev had to think about that, but not for long. At the last full moon, he’d run in crinos to the top of the highest peak and howled the whole night through. The mood didn’t strike him often—but that night he’d been terribly lonely. No one had answered him though. In fact, whenever he howled, the rest of the wolves stayed silent. Regular lupus feared him, and other garou like him—the werewolves—stayed far away. Most of them feared him, too.
His temper and lack of self-control had earned him quite a reputation. But, he’d distanced himself, and had learned some discipline. Trev closed his eyes, blocking out the memory of his last “episode of anger.”
“He said you are lonely.”
“I am alone by choice,” Trev whispered firmly, suddenly uncomfortable in his wolf skin.
The Indian puffed on his pipe. Silence stretched, and Trev realized that he was lonely—and that is what had brought him to the Shaman’s tipi. Company, conversation.
“I am honored that you choose to come here.”
Green wood snapped in the fire pit, and Trev allowed himself to shift. His bones popped, and his muscles stretched, and within seconds his shadow grew upon the wall as his crinos form rose up. Through it all, the vision of wolf changing to were-beast, and then to mankind, the Shaman remained silent and motionless, save his pipe sucking, trusting that the wolf god would not eat him, or slash his throat, and before long, Trev shifted through that monstrous phase into his human skin.
Naked, but unembarrassed, Trevyn stood there over the old man—who held out the pipe. Without a word, he took it, and inhaled deeply, glad to feel the relaxing substance float through him. It was good, so Trev sat down and took another draw.
He passed the pipe back to the Indian, and picked up the gift. “From the white buffalo?”
The Indian smiled. “You are not the only god that honors me.”
That made Trev’s lips twist in humor. He didn’t disillusion the old man. Instead, he pulled the feather and tucked it behind his ear, then tugged the string free. The rabbit pelt fell open exposing a small leather pouch. Curious, Trev opened it and sniffed. He wasn’t quite sure what it was. Some sort of tobacco, maybe.
When he looked up, the Shaman smiled toothlessly, passing the pipe again. He gestured for Trevyn to pour the herbal mixture in, then watched him smoke it—refusing to take another turn. As Trev took another huff, the Indian picked up a white woman wind vessel and blew into it in a long, keening flute until he could blow no more. Sucking heavily on air, he did it again and again.
It didn’t take long for the gift to show itself for what it was. The smoke danced in front of Trevyn, taking the shape of a woman. He watched in wonder, transfixed, and the Indian rose, leaving him alone.
Normally, Trevyn was anti-drugs—but this took him unaware. The pipe of relaxation was one thing—and he only smoked when he visited the Shaman—but this, it was an experience he couldn’t have guessed at.
The woman walked from the smoke, her back to him, and went to the doorway. She whispered softly to the Shaman, or the night sky, or something. Trevyn couldn’t quite make out the words. Then, she closed the flap on the tipi.
He took another puff because he needed to ponder this vision. The white buffalo had sent him the vision of a woman. Why?
She glanced over her shoulder, then frowned with confusion. Unlike him, she was fully dressed in a heavy fur parka, leggings and matching boots.
Snowflakes lay on the shoulders of her coat and hood and she peeled that off, shaking her head, freeing long dark hair. A cold wind blew threw the tipi, kicking up the fire, and he shivered with instant goosebumps. She smiled at that.
He appreciated her deep brown eyes, high cheek bones, and full lips. Her skin was pale and white which seemed notable, considering he was on a Navajo reservation—but then, his own skin was a pale tan to that of his Indian brothers.
She didn’t resemble any of the women he knew from the city, either. He racked his brain, but no woman from his past held her peculiar, haunting beauty. He would have remembered that, he felt sure. So, this vision he was having, he concluded, was a fantasy, pure and simple, not based in truth of things he had known before.
“My name is Maya,” she whispered in English, perusing his naked form with interest. He sat Indian style with his legs crossed in front of him. The woman tipped her head, as if to see through the smoke and shadows below his navel—and then smiled shyly at him, ducking her head. “I heard the whistling song.”
A goddess? What foolery was this? He glanced at the pipe in his hand…and took another puff, feeling almost giddy, which was a new thing for him. His heart raced in anticipation—of what, he didn’t know.
“Come, Maya, and sit.”
“Is it hot in here or is it me?” Her voice had a lilting quality that stroked his sensual buttons. His groin tightened in response.
Trevyn watched as her thin fragile fingers undid the front of her coat. Slowly, he swallowed, and the tightening became more pronounced until he recognized it for what it was, arousal. He wondered at that, considering the woman was nothing more than a vision—and still fully dressed.
“No. It’s warm,” he said, as sweat beaded up on his brow. The temperature in the tipi had definitely risen a notch or two.
The parka slipped from her shoulders. “Gaia gives me hope.”
“The white buffalo…” He took another puff from the pipe. “Is generous and honors me with your presence.” He wasn’t sure what to hope for.
What he noted next was the layers of modern clothing she wore. This seemed incongruous with all he had ever experienced in the Shaman’s home.
She moved toward him, dragging a heavy cable knit sweater over her head, revealing a tank top. “We don’t have much time, I think.”
He had all night. He couldn’t wait to see what she took off next.
“Come to me.” She beckoned with a hand out.
“Come to me.” If it was his fantasy, he thought, she would come.
But, she hesitated, confused. Then, she tipped her head upward as if hearing a voice from another realm.
It didn’t talk long, apparently, because she nodded, rubbed her lips together, and asked, “Will you love me?”
“Of course.” It seemed like an easy thing…to invite his vision to give him a wet dream.
Slowly, she crossed the space, skirting the fire, kneeling down beside him. So close, she looked flesh and blood. The fresh odor of crisp, clean, cold air surrounded her—refreshing him. In wonder, he watched her lean close, examining him at less than an inch range. She smelled him, and he felt her breath on his cheek, trailing toward his throat. It was sweet, and if he wasn’t mistaken, smelled a lot like spearmint gum. He distrusted that, and narrowed his gaze. She didn’t seem to notice.
Her fingers took the pipe from him and laid it aside. The movement was so slight, he didn’t even realize it until seconds later; he was so mesmerized. Her breath, lighter than a feather, crossed his lips, and her gaze met his.
“Your eyes are like the lake of tears, the color of clear water.”
He saw pleasure rise in her eyes…as she bent forward to kiss him. They kept their eyes open, and the butterfly touch of lips could have been a breeze, it was so slight. He wanted to reach out to her, but he feared the vision would disappear on him.
“I am very hot here,” she whispered.
“Take your clothes off.” He smiled. “I don’t mind.”
Maya backed away from him, standing up again. As she did so, he put his right hand over his heart—it jerked inside its cavity, and he wondered, briefly, if the white buffalo’s gift had done something to that organ. He certainly heard the blood rushing through his system, faster than it ever had before. Considering he was a crinosing garou with a bad temper…the fact seemed startling. Could he have a heart attack from this?
No. The Shaman would not kill his wolf brother, the demi-god who visited him and talked about the cosmos, and psychology of man.
She yanked her shirt over her head, exposing bulbous breasts—also pale, except for the darkened areolas that circled her puckered nipples that stood up at the exposure, and he re-thought the heart attack idea. Maybe he would have one.
Never had he envisioned an angel so perfect, so confident, so…in a hurry to undress. Her gaze followed his to her chest, and she looked down upon herself, smiling like a seductress, and cupped the orbs, one in each hand.
Trev resisted the urge to extend his fingers toward them. The image burned itself in his brain. The smoky haze added to the ethereal picture.
When her fingers dropped to the closure on her pants, undoing the buttons, he salivated—and gulped. Without hesitation, she slipped the leggings over her hips, exposing herself. She wore no under garments, and so a dark thatch of hair greeted him, drawing his attention in a heartbeat. Not that he had much time to enjoy the view before she sat on the fur beside him, and pulled her boots off, and the pants, too.
Never had he experienced a dream like this. He had to ask, “Are you in a hurry?”
“Yes,” she gasped, tossing her things aside.
“Because I will freeze if…” She rolled to her knees, facing him.
“If what?”
“It doesn’t matter. I would rather die of frostbite than stop now.”
He blinked. “You’d rather die than—what?”
Maya asked rather desperately, “Would you make love to me?”
She didn’t wait for a response. She took his hand in hers and drew it to her breast, squeezing, closing her eyes. “Gaia, that feels good. Your hands are hot.”
Her skin was cold, but he liked the feel of her breast.
“Hold me,” she begged, so he put his other hand on the other one.
The girl felt real, and at that range, he saw that she was not as young as he first thought. Perhaps in her early twenties. Not much younger than he was.
The moment his second hand touched her, she arched, gasping. “Gaia. This is all I ever wanted.”
The fingers of her other hand closed over his, too, squeezing more, insisting his hold become carnal, vulgar even. His cock throbbed at her insistence. And, of their own volition, his thumbs and forefingers shifted. He forced himself to breathe, relax, and let himself fondle her nipples. She moaned, and let go. Her hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, and she rose up.
Trevyn found her breasts in his face and he buried his nose there. Could a vision become any more erotic or real? He closed his eyes and went on feel, and her hands rode up, nails scraping lightly over his deltoids, through his black, collar-length hair, cupping his head against her.
It seemed like the thing to do—to suck first one nipple and then the other, then both at the same time. His breath heated her skin, and he liked that.
What he really wanted to do was lay her back on the fur, though, and untangle himself from the position he was in. So, he lifted his lips, letting them glide upward to her throat. She met him with her mouth, and they kissed. It was a hungry thing, and he plunged his tongue inside her mouth, swallowing another moan.
How could she be so cold? Even her lips were like ice, only melting under the heat of his. His fingers made their way around her body—and again, he noted that she felt near frozen, except for where he held her…which made him draw her closer, wanting to touch her everywhere. His hands roamed, squeezing possessively.
She pulled him as if she was going to lie on her back, but the moment her skin hit the fur behind her, she arched up, squealing into the kiss, and forced him with a push to drag her over him instead. So, she climbed astraddle, kissing him with fervor.
His arousal was complete by the time she detached her lips from his, and asked, “Do you mind?”
“What?” He was mindless at that point.
“If I make love to you…?” She removed the feather from his ear, looked it over, and he took it from her, tucking it behind her ear, kissing her again with both his hands cradling her face.
Instead of talking about it, he let his hands glide over her, down to her hips and helped her settle, riding lower onto his shaft. While her thighs spread, and were chilled, the center of her womanhood truly melted over him, warm and wet, tight and wonderful.
He groaned; she felt so good.
With a firm grip spanning from her waist over her hips, fingertips on her ass, he encouraged her to find the rhythm that worked for both of them, but she had a measure and tempo all her own—and it enflamed his desire, teasing his cock with its arrhythmic gyrations— that worked in cadence with the little noises that escaped her throat, driving him.
“Gaia!” he exclaimed just when he thought he was getting close to exploding.
Maya stopped moving, though, and looked down at him, her fingers firmly spread over his pectoral muscles—which bulged in their definition from his present state of energetic workout.
“Come for me, please.”
She’d stopped, right then? Heaven help him for the sweet torture.
“I’m trying.” His fingers pinched into her skin; all he needed was a few more strokes.
She squirmed above him in opposite rhythm to what he needed, not allowing him the depth of thrust he wanted—but she reached her climax that way, and as she let loose with a cry, he managed to roll her and pump into her. One. Two. Three. In as deep as he could go, balls slapping against her body….
He kissed her, covering the last strains of her orgasmic release, fucking into her with hard, driving plunges. His jism pulsed into her in spurts that made him jerk roughly, but he held on, and so did she. Her nails dug into his biceps, but he didn’t mind.
Collapsing on top of her, he whispered, “Gaia.”
She drew her knees up, and applied pressure, warming the inside of her thighs against his skin. That made him drag himself up, off of her, to look at her face. Her hair splayed out around them, and he blinked—because it looked there was snow around her, under her head, and flaked in the strands of hair.
Trev’s fingers grazed her cheek, and she was icy to his touch. Suddenly, he realized that she was cold everywhere, except where they were joined. He panicked, rising off of her completely, kneeling between her legs.
Maya reached upward, her fingers trailing over his chest as she smiled with the languid look of satiation. “Thank you, brother wolf.”
Like the smoke she came from, she disappeared in a wisp. He tried to grab hold of her again, but she was gone. He was left, looking around at the tipi, seeing nothing but the smoke from the dying fire. The pipe had gone cold.
Clutching the small pouch, he shifted to crinos, angry that she’d disappeared so swiftly. With a roaring, he bounded out of the tipi, taking the Shaman by surprise. The old Indian jumped from his squatting sleep, drawing his hands in front of his face.
Trevyn didn’t stop, though. At his fastest pace, he ran away. It wasn’t until he was in his own place that he stopped to think. But there was no sense to make of the vision. Hours, he meditated on it…until he fell asleep—where he relived the whole thing again.
In the morning, he awoke with the pouch still in his hand and the crust of sex unwashed upon his manhood. And he wondered, What was that all about?

Posted by CarysWeldonblog :: 6:45 AM :: 2 Comments:

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I like this quite a lot. It's very engaging. :)

By Blogger Jen, at 7:12 PM



By Anonymous Anonymous, at 9:03 PM  

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