Prologue

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The Song Of The Wolf, written by Pien M. Pouwels

STARTED. 1st of June, 2015
ENDED. ongoing

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© 2015, Pien Pouwels  

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Thousands of years ago, there lay a land in ancient Greece called Arcadia. It was there, in the time that gods stepped down from Olympus to indulge in human delights, that king Lycaon had his reign.

As the intelligent and bright man he was, he introduced a high level of culture and civilisation to his land and ordered temples to be built.

The king forced his own beliefs upon his people, and commanded them to worship Zeus as the supreme deity. He thought himself high and mighty, proof of that were the many different women with whom he'd sired twenty sons. These sons were considered the most wicked of all, not to be trifled with.

It was known among the gods of Olympus that mortals were easily seduced by the charms of wealth and luxury. As time passed, Lycaon and his sons began to neglect their royal responsibilities, the care of their people in particular.

Zeus learned of this change and decided to put Lycaon to the test. He travelled down from Olympus, dressed as a peasant and knocked on the palace doors. As perceptive as he was, Lycaon figured out his visitor's true identity. He welcomed him and accommodated him generously. But blinded by his own arrogance, he committed a dire crime. With the encouragement of his nineteen other sons, the king served the youngest of the brood as a roasted dish, to give the god prove of his faith and the sacrifices he was willing to make.

Zeus noticed what it was that had been placed on the table and raged against his host, filled with intense wrath at the unjustified death of an innocent baby. The supreme god was known far and wide as merciless, but never without reason. As punishment, he changed King Lycaon and the rest of his sons into giant wolves. He resurrected the youngest son –now as a grown man– and named him the new king of Arcadia.

Not having foreseen the outcome of his actions, however, the almighty god had made a dreadful mistake. For the one he had brought back to life was cruel, more sinister than his predecessor had ever been. The new king sentenced his father and nineteen brothers to death, planning to give them a taste of own medicine by offering their flesh to the gods. And thus, in the name of their leader, the people of Arcadia chased the wolves, futilely attempting to hunt them down.

The creatures proved to be too fast, their size and enhanced senses no fair opponent to meek humans. With luck on their side, they managed to escape the land they once called home, each of them fleeing to a different part of the world in order to keep their whereabouts a secret.

Time passed and there was no sign of the wolves –or lycanthropes, as they were now referred to. Still, their story continued to exist. Although because of the lack of sightings, it eventually faded into the books and left whispers on the tongues of many cultures.

That is, until the year 132, when a nude, unconscious stranger was found on the island of Hibernia. The creature appeared human but looked physically different from the Hibernians, the Celts that had discovered him. The main difference being his eyes, which were almond-shaped and glowing like brilliant, topaz gemstones even in daylight. His skin was rock hard, making it impervious to dirks and arrows. He had two, almost fang-like incisors and seemed unaware of the concept of language. All that ever escaped his mouth was the odd growl, or animalistic snarl.

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