Creatures of God

Monstrosity of a Grey Wolf

"That was a disaster!" the young patrol member cried.

"A complete disaster!" a second canine added.

The two junior mongrels stood inside a secret lair in the forest as they bemoaned their

unfortunate circumstance: five of their patrol colleagues, including the scout leader, were now dead -- the result of a failed operation on human territory.

The lone survivor of that unsuccessful mission was a bleary-eyed, brown mongrel who now stood with his head low, shoulders sunk and eyes closed. He'd escaped to the forest, but found no solace in its protective obscurity. No amount of stem or leaf could shield him from what lay ahead. He tried to contain a background tremble. Now he was the most senior member of the group; the default leader; the one responsible.

Reconvening with two junior officers, the new scout leader contemplated a decision he did not want to make.

"The King will not be pleased," the new leader said with glazed eyes. From his monitoring spot in the foliage, he watched as three teenage humans in the distance returned to their structure of harbor.

"It wasn't our fault!" the first junior patrol member said from behind.

"You wanted to attack the humans!" the other one added.

"No!" the leader yelled in return.

The younger canines shuddered.

"The humans were out past curfew... " the leader said in a fading tone, almost talking to himself, as if to practice a rhetorical excuse.

Why were the humans out at that time? the leader thought. Twilight was an abnormal time to frolic around. Humans were usually more predictable and easy to repress. Such a soft, conforming species. Anything out of their habitual behavior was considered something of a surprise.

Something else had drawn the canines' attention, too.

"There was also... a scent."

A distinctive smell. Musty. It had given the canines a cold, stale feeling; a strange sensation. It was something their Master -- the Grey Wolf King -- would want to know.

The previous patrol leader had decided to confront the humans, but unfortunately one of them had turned out to be armed -- a Human Protection officer. The end result was a botched opportunity to uncover the source of the rancid smell.

"There's no avoiding the Master," the patrol leader said. "We must report our findings, at once!"

—————

The journey was long and arduous -- unforgiving in some respect -- extending well past the midnight hour and into the next day. Traversing in a single file, the three patrol members trotted through the forest, brushing past thorny leaves and screeching branches; metaphoric warnings of the homeward task ahead. Following one tributary stream to another, the mongrels strode over plant rind and roughage, eventually reaching the distal tree line. From there, it was southwest; following the thin body of water as it widened and began to meander.

By early morning, the trail had broken away from the river and into an adjoining valley of towering cliffs and swerving bluffs. Below a particular overhang, the sounds of a bustling settlement began to emerge -- crackling campfires, steam hissing off a boiling ware, the clanging of random metal instruments. Despite the clatter, bits and pieces of conversation could be heard, stretches of screams and laughter. Similarly, the smell of smoke could be sampled in the air, tainted by the stench of blood and decomposing tissue.

At once, the patrol group came upon a secret world of dogs and wolves.

To one side, there was a group of canines with gorging guts, sitting at an extended table, eating in a slow and glutinous manner. One of the canines reclined and belched in a loud and overt way, while another tossed a half-eaten bone over his shoulder. A third canine gulped a bloody beverage, sloshing it against his drunken face. Meanwhile, smaller mongrels patiently waited at the periphery. They sat and watched as the others were served platters of fresh slaughter. A morsel here, a scrap of meat there -- the runts could only hope and wait for meals of their own.