Wolverins of Frost Creek (Chapter 1 Preview)

Exert from chapter 1, the only piece I have written thus far. What do you think?

The pine forest near the swamp bustled with the sounds of birds and foul of all kinds. It was a frequent spot for moss dwellers and sometimes even murk snakes. Such creatures were almost foreign to wolverins, so much so when encountering them, they lacked any experience to judge appropriate action and mostly fell victim to vicious bites. This was the least of Conan’s concern; he was an avid explorer of the southern and northern wastes. If anyone had seen all there was to see in the world, it had been him. Conan spent days or even weeks away from the village, always searching for food or new land. Conan’s dreams of the open sea were not accepted by the rest of the village, they’re closed minds receded them to the safety of the land they knew. Conan was far from such fears, and daringly he sprung out into the daunting and unexplored world. He served as an excellent solo hunter; he preferred going solo as well. With packs it always felt stealth was not an option and Conan relied on stealth. The occasional fishing spot on the edge of these swampy creeks is what Conan was looking for this time around, not anything like a caribou or deer. He brought the bow along though, just in case. He arrived at a common spot where the Great Creators had left an artifact of their heritage. It was an interesting area and Conan admired it. Fused into the soil was the large metal and rusted towering creation left behind as evidence of greater beings than the wolverins themselves. Its large torn tail stuck out close to the tree tops and was left grown over by vines and vegetation in the local space. Conan walked passed it but at the same time admiring its age and construction. The material was unfamiliar to the wolverins, something of a mystery unlocked by these ancient beings whose only gifts to the wolverins seemed to have been the world they once called home.

         

          Conan was use to the unnatural features despite recognizing their splendor. Other wolverins saw these long disheveled artifacts as signs of godhood. They believed the old beings, these Great Creators as truly creatures of otherworldly power. Conan had his doubts of such a belief but he did have to admit he was paralyzed with awe at the sight of the artifacts they came across. Their massive design was nothing compared to the stories of Great Creator structures, buildings of oldest craft still standing in far away places. Conan had so wished to study them for himself but never saw such buildings. He cast aside his longings and wishes and continued on. His grip on this area was not very good; he barely recognized most of the trees he marked. The strong scent of dried up swamp fish was wafting in the air; a revolting smell. A wolvrin’s sense of smell far exceeded other creature’s ability of smell. Smell was Conan’s ally above all. Without such a tool, he would probably have been dead long ago. Conan flinched at the catch of the scent, and he began to turn west towards the open sea. After he climbed through the overlaying pines, a flurry of commotion from birds erupted in the high tops above. Conan had caught himself another scent, something he recognized, and it made him afraid. It was meat he smelled, but not cut meat of an animal but that of skin without fur. As the smell seeded into Conan’s mind, he pictured the unusual form that was expunging the aroma. Conan thought of the feeble naked pups that were given birth to by his species. When wolvrins are first born as milk drinkers, they take on a delicate and innocent form of a small hairless rat. Blind at birth, the newborn children scramble to their mother’s teat in a short journey to life’s first gift, food. Not to mention the second gift a wolvrin receives is that of comfort in a mother’s embrace. In Conan’s mind he imagined his younger years, even the moment he took the first tentative stride into the world.  

          In the wake of his day dreaming, he snapped back and began following the scent that intruded on his hunt. Hunched along the wet ground, the scent flowed condensed on the path he followed. Without warning, a piercing cry struck out into the air. Conan knew it was mongrus for sure now. Mongruses were known for their figures and screams and even better known among wolverins for their brute force. They were furless creatures, gangly, and crawled on all fours like lizards. They hissed and growled constantly and were best avoided if possible. The only problem with that strategy was mongruses had superior hearing almost far beyond that of wolverins. They were built for the wilds. Their nature was that of strict violence, always chasing after anything it can catch, even wolverins. Although a wolverin was much larger, a mongrus was stronger and usually backed itself with a pack to help take down prey. Conan drew his bow and removed an arrow readying for an attack at any moment. He could hear the creature shouting in the distance, possibly a cry to its pack or less likely a bellow of pain. Mongruses never seemed to feel any twinge, not even a quiver of damage could be noticed on their thick hides as they bled from arrow shots. Conan had learned from his fellow hunters that puncturing a mongrus in the head would kill it instantly. Some believed in taking shots at the legs to slow the monsters but this did not affect their performance in maneuverability at all. Their resilience always outmatched the intensity of whatever hit them. All except for a killing blow to the head by Conan’s experience.

          The thing, the twisted mangled accident in the cycle of life lay just beyond the brush Conan was peering out of. He could still hear the creature letting loose a sound of what seemed to be like a hushed snarl of a wound up and diseased mongrel. Conan wasn't much into confrontation of such creatures but he felt eradicating as many of them as he could was a gift of his own. The world wolverins lived in was their own, and they needed to fight back against the devolved beasts that so plentifully seeded the land; including the one Conan was now readying to be rid of. Conan propped up over the bush ready to take aim. He saw the naked and paled skinned being hunched down low on its arms and legs, its form blurred in his focus on the tip of the arrow. It hissed loudly, rearing back its head like an angered snake. A crack of twigs sounded below Conan’s feet from him shifting his weight. He looked down then back up in shock. He wasn't entirely sure if the mongrus heard him but he didn’t give it a chance to possibly show alert signs. He pulled back on the wooden end as far as he could and released it, letting it slide through his fingers. The shot fired directly at the creatures head. Although a small target, Conan’s aim was precise and the shot met its mark with deadly accuracy. The arrow protruded out of the creature’s now fractured skull. It collapsed to its side with tremendous force. Conan climbed from the bush timidly. Conan knew the mongrus was dead but the chance of others responding to its calls was far too likely.

          As tradition of wolverin hunt dictates, the arrow must be removed from the body and the killer must take a bow as respect for the dead. With mongruses, that tradition meant nothing. These were creature not worthy of respect or mercy. 

Author's Note

This is a work in progress alongside 'Winchester Grove' so don't expect this finished any time soon. Ah procrastination.