Werewolf Island

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by

Toby Wolfham

© 2023 by Toby Wolfham

All rights reserved.

Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com

(For comments, inquiries, and communication)

Chapter 7

THE NIGHT

Red was dragged from the cells only a few minutes after Striker had been taken. Where had they taken him? What was that cocky bastard going to do with him? Aware that the blond man was less inclined to react violently to situations where he himself might, he told himself repeatedly that his friend's only cause for concern would be resistance. Just do as you're told, he had been told, by various denizens of the damned, and while he was not likely to put up with that for long, too hot-headed for it, Striker was a calmer man, one inclined to leanings of the brain. He needn't worry, but still, he could not help himself from being entirely worry-free.

Katana had built up some strength but due to another outburst against a particularly sadistic male, he was back in the infirmary, if one could call it that. In actuality, the impact of the fist in his gut did little more than make him puke, but it had been enough to get him sequestered. The Japanese man had been unsure about the plan from the start but he deferred respectfully to Red, and allowed himself to be thrown into the tent along with the Russian. It smelled a hell of a lot like shit, so at least there was that.

The only thing Red was concerned with now was whether there even was a way off of the demonic island once the plan slotted in to place.

They came and took him out of the cages just after his two companions had been, and for those few moments where he was left alone in a pit of stink and sewage. The loneliness seeped in. He thought despairingly of Dusk and how he must be surviving in the jungle by himself. His leg had been broken, he was sure, but neither discussed it in great detail. The urgency on which he relied heavily was now a weight bearing down on him as stressful as any other reason. If he didn't get back out there soon, he was sure that his co-pilot and gunner would not live to see many more days. Thinking of the strange animals that roamed the jungles in herds and flocks, he wondered of their diet and how interested they would be in the flesh of a man at death's door. However difficult the thoughts were to push out of his mind, they were eventually dissuaded from the forefront when the twins, Oak and Elm came to collect him. There was almost a sense of dread--a death march--about his parade into the heart of the pack's fortresses, like he was being trudged through the streets to the gallows pole; an innocent man judged guilty. It was a relief when he was brought before the chief, Gogack, who stood upon the top step to his longhouse.

"No further, human," he said with authority.

The two guards remained fixed at his sides like clamps.

"You may not set another foot closer to the throne of the wolves."

He wondered what that was but then he saw it; a grandly carved seat of wood, carved with obvious skill. Before, a mere glance, from here he could see it in great detail; the bone spikes that jutted from the armrests like ribs ripped from some unknown creature or creatures; the neat notches that flowed over the backrest was smooth and polished, coming to a head with several phallic tips along the crest. Most notable perhaps, telling of its title, were wolfish skulls at the shoulders. It was an interesting structure but looked to be even more uncomfortable to sit on than the piss-soaked dirt in his cell.

"My son has not yet chosen you for a mate, it seems. This is his way," he sighed. "His detestation of your kind, and indeed, our vast superiority to you prevents such a coupling unless you were given our seed to make you whole. However, Womack is a selfish child with only a very simple outlook on life."

Red didn't know what to make of this. The old man had been mostly obliging, so far, so he opted for a silent approach. Speak only when spoken to. He was not sitting at his throne despite its presence, instead he paced the area outside what he may call a home. He shrewdly surveyed the male slave that Red was, and deftly dismissed the two mute wolves that held him fast. They bowed their shaven heads and departed, much to Red's relief.

They were alone, now, behind the bonfire that served as adornment to the sky-spearing cock and as the old man turned to look up and admire the size and length of the unreal penis, Red followed his eyes.

Like the throne, Red had not been taken with deep interest the realistic wooden effigy until now. Its grooves, veins and the perfectly smooth shape, it was as though someone had taken a photograph of a man's member and enlarged it in to wood, it bore a realism that he was sure was as flattering as it was intimidating. These men liked to show off. Very rarely did he see a man walk around with anything more than a piece of material covering their privates, he himself had been stripped to his underwear. It was not so much humiliating to him as he was sure it was intended (he'd spent a lot of time around large groups of naked men in the airforce), but he sure as hell was disturbed by the homoerotic implication. Of course, there wasn't a woman in sight. Not a vagina he'd seen either in carving or in person since he'd crashed on the island. It was only natural that without women, they altered their outlook on sexual preference. The giant cock in the town square was not only ornamental, it was an unequivocal representation of them.

"Why are there no women, here?" He dared to ask.

"Women?" Said the elder, turning to look at him. His wrinkled face showed a blankness.

"Yes. Females. I don't see any here."

"None are brought here. Only males. And that is how we live."

"Why have you brought me here?"

"I did not bring you here, human. I would not tarnish even the soil with your presence if I had. You would have perished before reaching this place, this... sacred ground."

"I wasn't brought here," said Red, carefully. "My plane, it crashed... it was an accident. Me and my friends, you see, we are pilots, from across the seas. We were in a war, and--"

"--what are accidents if not acts of fate?

"No, you were brought here--not by us--but by them."

Red felt something--a creeping across his skin--touch him, a serendipitous quaking. A pinch of fear.

Gogack smiled. "They brought you here as they brought us and the generations before. I was brought here fifteen years ago, and brought with me my own two sons. They were not called Womack or Trayack then, but when we arrived, we were as human as you.

"We came, as I recall--my memory from the old year are hazy--from an explorer's perspective. I had my own ship, a crew, and many of us were declared lost at sea, I'm sure, when we were dragged into a drift we simply could not escape."

"Bermuda Triangle."

"It pulled us in. What started as an adventure very nearly cost us our lives."

"We crashed on the other side of the island more than a decade ago. You would have been barely on your own two feet by then. I cannot remember much about my life before--the changing destroyed what memories I had--but what I can remember, I remember in fragments.

"About a dozen of us managed to drag ourselves to shore, with more than a dozen others washed us dead. I can still remember their bloated, white faces staring up at me with accusing eyes... their faces will never be forgotten, even though their names have since left me. I was a man younger then, capable of much more, and Womack was not much younger than you now, with his babe in his arms--a miracle how a child that young managed to survive the sea that claimed so many strong men, we do not question good fortune--and we set about finding help. Some of us remained on the beach and tried to signal for help, while others, myself included, ventured into the jungles. What we found--or rather, what found us--I cannot say, as all I remember is fogged by more than just the years."

"This was done to you."

"Dreams, such dreams. Restless. Full of blood, full of death.

"We were driven mad when weeks--days, who knows--had passed without rescue. We saw ships, planes... but they did not seem to see us. The survivors from the beach vanished, and one by one they too succumbed to madness. We tried to murder each other, and in some cases we succeeded, we tasted human flesh for the first time and we... began to change. Not just our minds, our bodies, you see, also broke the mould. At first, as our names and former lives dissolved in our brains, something else took over, we were afraid. Some of my crew had taken their own lives long before the transformations could truly take hold of them. Perhaps they had been wise."

Red shook his head. "Why are you telling me this? I feel fine."

"You do," he said with a hint of humour. "But there is more to this story than you have heard."

"Tell me the rest, then. Because I don't know what I'm supposed to do," proclaimed Red, giving in to the urge to have the history of the island presented to him. It was better, by far, than being some bastard's plaything.

The alpha came closer to Red, looked at him with an unreadable, stony expression and then nodded. "Very well.

"You know the story, because you, too, have experienced it."

Red had. He would never forget the bullets, the chaos, the fiery deaths, nor the terrifying plunge through the clouds. Even if his memory, like Gogack's, became fogged, then he was sure he would still remember his harrowing experience.

"You're not the first, as I've said before. Many others over the years have been brought here against their will. Some even sought this place out. For example, the lycan known as Gorr was part of a criminal band who sought this island for its protection. We offered him protection and he joined us willingly.

"You see, I do not remember how the change into animals started, but as if by instinct, we knew how to use it because it used us. We would run through the trees feeling all the power of nature at our hands, and over the course, we have perfected it. Many do not. Some bodies are not strong enough to contain the beast, and it destroys their minds as well as their bodies. Those Ghosts, you know roam the darkest reaches, are victims of their own insufficiency. Cannibals. Insane. Without reason.

"You asked me about women," he laughed. "There have been women. Sadly, their bodies... they cannot survive the transformation. My wife was the first. Again, the name is gone, and the face obscure, but I recall... her fears. Badly she did not want to come on this expedition of mine, and I wished she hadn't knowing now what I did not know then. The pain, the suffering. Her screams I hear in my dreams."

He trailed off, and for a moment, Red thought that the man had shed a tear, but when he turned his back to him and to the fire once more he denied him any opportunity of confirming that.

"Something on this island changed us into monsters, and murdered our humanity. But since then we have come to accept it, and ourselves as a higher power too great for your world. And so we remain here, content in the knowledge that we will not bring chaos to a world already fraught with it. Here, we find peace amongst our own, and a tranquility. It is not safe, no, but we are the slaves of no-one here, we are the masters, and that is what we strive to preserve."

"You can't reproduce. Are you telling me that all the men here were brought from he outside? You expect me to believe that?"

"Why not?" He laughed. "You are standing here now, are you not?"

Red sighed. "Yeah, but I don't intend to stay, and neither do my friends. If you won't help us find a way off of this goddamn island, then I guess we're on our own."

"You forget yourself, human.

"You are here not because we wanted you here, but because they did. And you are a fool if you think they will let you leave."

"God," he shouted in frustration. "Will you quit with the fucking cryptic--who is they?"

Gogack's face again went level. "We do not know. If ever we have seen them, they have remained elusive."

"Fuck you," spat Red as he tuned to leave, and then, turned back. "You might be willing to just sit around and take it, but we aren't. You can't watch us forever, and we will be getting out of here."

"You will make a grave mistake, my friend. Those who have tried have always died screaming, like dogs. I may have granted you the liberty of explanation, but that has no bearing on my feelings towards you humans. You are a lesser race, a race of greed and filth. If you do not join us willingly, then we will know the taste of your flesh before nightfall. Do not make me regret giving yo the privilege of servitude."

"Privilege!" He said, incredulously. "We've been treated like animals!"

"It is the only way until you are deemed ready to join us."

"Join? Who said anything about joining you? We wanna go home!"

"That is impossible, now. Even though exposure to this island is not merely enough to trigger a transformation, your very presence in our company has taken that risk. If you go home now, you may not be able to control it. It will tear you apart. You will tear your family apart. They will incarcerate you in a padded cell, no doubt."

Red halted. He felt fine. He couldn't be infected (he guessed) by their disease, could he? No cough, no fever.

"No..."

"Yes. It has been something we have been aware of for many a year. It is forbidden to return."

Red sat down on the ground, fingers in his hair.

"Do not fear: you are young, and you are strong. You are everything the pack needs to secure its place on this island. If your body accepts the wolf gift, then you will stand a much greater chance here, in our hands, where we can help you thrive..."

Red wasn't hearing anymore. He couldn't imagine it. How was it done--gas--a virus? Was there something inside that he'd inhaled, (a parasite, maybe?) boring its way into his brain, heart and lungs determined to drive him into the depths of insanity or break his body into contortions that would kill even the most skilled acrobat?

"Until then, you will serve. Tonight will be the first of many that will introduce you to our ways."

He didn't want to be introduced to anything.

"Know your place, human. There is much to be done. You may not survive more than a day if your body rejects the seed we offer you. You do not have to accept it, but if you do, you will live out your life as one of us, no longer a slave."

Gogack signalled for the tongueless werewolves to return.

"Make use of his strong body and give him something to do."

In unison, the pair nodded and lifted Red up by his arms. Once on his feet, he shrugged off their help and agreed to go willingly. His eyes burned with the threat of emotion. Too drained for it, he bit down on his own tongue.

"Have heart," said Gogack, almost warmly. "I have no doubt that tonight you will make the right decision. It will be... a happy occasion. We call it the Feast. Eat."

"Eat or be eaten?"

"That is a good way to put it."

The wolves smelled blood before Womack reentered the village, and were already gathered by the gates awaiting his arrival. The great alpha lumbered through the gates and instructed the gatemen to close them behind him, himself lending a hand to slam the barricade shut over them. He was bleeding from his side, a large gash that started at his lower ribs and circled around his abdomen to his opposite hip, cut him deep. The flow was dark and thick through his fingers as he dropped to his knees.

"Bastards!" He roared.

Three werewolves had come to his aid, already slathering him with skins and with wine.

"Fuck off," he spat, pushing aside anyone who came too close with might, he snatched the wineskin and drank heavily, much of it escaped down his body. Furiously he beat his chest like an angry ape.

The slave, Red, saw it all from his busywork in layering fruits and meats along the long stitched-leather carpet for the supposed feast to take place at nightfall. He had been hoping to put his plan of escape into action before then, but it looked as though the pack chief's son's return would delay it significantly. He saw the big wolf throw aside any help and rise to his feet, then guzzle down and throw aside the rest of the wine. In his eyes was a blaze of pure wrath. He avoided eye contact with immediate effect and continued his duties.

Gogack had poured some of the wine on to his slash and hissed through closed teeth the pain that erupted. He would survive this. Already, the injury was closing up.

He was healing before his very eyes. It was unfortunately amazing, and hypnotic enough from a distance to gain attention.

"What are you staring at, meat?"

Red steeled, effortlessly. "Nothing special."

Womack scoffed, went about his way, dripping clumps of red blood on the brown earth while shrugging of there assistance of those bringing him aid. He wrapped his own wound.

The blood, Red noticed with a stuttering horror, was moving. Not just moving, but rolling across the ground in the direction of where it came from. It was, he realised, trying to get back into the body of the thing that had shed it. It bubbled violently, like volcanic floe, until finally, caked in dirt, it crusted over and was trampled harmlessly into dust. Only an inch per spot had been made by the limited coagulate, but once it was gone, it was gone, unable to survive for long outside of the body. Disturbing, thought Red, deciding then that he would resolve to never get any of it on his skin.

After being used as a tool to prepare the food, the aviator pushed the resignation aside; the defeat in him compiled, built itself up. The further to enacting the escape plan in the night, however, the more he repressed it. He was not going to give up and be their whipping boy for the rest of his life, and he certainly wasn't going to give in and join their ranks, an inhuman killing machine that thrived on strange animal meat and strange sex; he was going to get out of there. Not going to give anything at all.

When they came for him again, he was surprised to find Striker, unharmed.

"God, are you alright--did he--?"

"--I'm fine," said Striker. "He didn't do anything I couldn't handle."

Still, he looked awfully pale. He touched his arm. "Are you sure?"

He managed an unconvincing nod.

"They said I should help."

Red watched as Striker bent to pick up wicker and cloth and sadly contained his anger. Do anything they tell you, the kid had told him. Just how much was anything, anyway? Red and Katana had already succumbed. And now, it seemed so had Striker. He wasn't going to just do everything or anything for much longer.

After Striker warmed up, some colour returned and he told Red covertly, though earshot was impossible to avoid, about the ranking of the werewolves, and the difference between alphas and betas, even omegas, and Red in turn informed him of the origin of the pack--or supposed origin--told to him by Gogack some hours earlier.

"I think I believe now," said Striker.

"Yeah, I think I do, too."

"His face just... changed. I've never seen anything like it, and I never want to again. Just remembering it... fills me with shivers."

The redhead knew what he was talking about. "Try not to think about it," he said, offering a wink, as if to say we'll be out of here before they know it.

"Where's Katana?"

"Still in there," said Red, pointing at the shabby tent called an infirmary. "K needs to watch himself. If he keeps kicking back, he'll end up too fucked up. He'll be a liability."

"Oh, he knows," breathed Striker.

"Yeah, well, he'd better. All our asses on the line."

The blond nodded and continued his work about the village, restocking the cock-fire once more. It really ate the wood fed to it. He looked at the phallus and its graven detail, and couldn't help but draw a comparison to it, and Red's sparse flaming red pubes. He wondered if that was why the revered him above the other slaves, prized him even.

"They worship fire, you think?" Red inquired, idly, trying to lighten the mood.

"I think they just worship prison mentality."

Red laughed. "You don't need to tell me that..

Striker could still feel his hole torn open by Tserra, and hoped that the bleeding had stopped. Though he was sure now, less wolves were paying attention to him. Often, he felt eyes, leering stares. "Is it my imagination... or are they less... wanton."

Red blinked, unsure of his meaning, and then, when he failed to catch the eye of a passing lycan, something clicked. "Hmm. Guess they're getting used to us around. They've had their fun."

"Or maybe they're just building up for something."

"Hope not." Red said, thinking with dread about the coming feast only an hour away from commencement. "His cock tasted fucking foul, man. I don't think I could do that again."

This time, Striker laughed, and he couldn't help it.

"Oh, god..."

"No, seriously! Like raw meat and damp!"

"...don't!"

The laughter quickly subsided following a mean stare from one of the guardians watching over them. They couldn't speak about their intentions in front of him, but that didn't stop them from conversing as they pleased, as long as they didn't address him, directly.

"So..." Red began, slowly. "What did you and him get up to, exactly? I mean, from what you said about alphas... that's gotta be why the others aren't as keen around me, right? Because that Tarzan-looking asshole claimed me? Then what about you?"

"I guess," shrugged Striker. "I've been claimed too."

Red looked down, understanding now why he had been so hesitant to discuss it. "I see. You at least got cleaned up by the looks of it. So, the others will leave us alone now, right?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I think, if I'm remembering right from Mr. Leroy's biology class... animals--canines, I guess--aren't specifically monogamous. They're just territorial. It's more about breeding than coupling."

"Shit. I don't know which sounds scarier."

"Ah, you'll be fine," smiled Striker. "You handled the Tarzan-looking asshole pretty good for a first-timer."

"Thanks, I think."

"If you want any tips, you know where to find me."

"Please. We need to find Dusk."

"We do," he said, and then quieter. "Do you think he's still alive?"

"I hope so. This island is huge, but these guys have noses like..."

Red wouldn't--couldn't--discuss the possibility of his dependable wingman being eaten alive by some beastie drawn to the scent of his blood.

Dusk was a good, strong man and if anyone could survive out there it was him. He knew how to treat his own wounds and sit tight until help arrived. The only problem, for Red, lied in he and his friend's early naiveté; all hopes rested on whether or not he, too, came to quickly adapting to the deceptive paradise and its lethal ways. If not, he was a sitting duck. And he was not the type.

A little after a half hour the two men had toiled, brows and backs shiny with their efforts, Red espied two lycan's taking Katana from the infirmary canvas. He struggled a little, squinted into the sun and saw him there, picking up rocks and tossing them into a pile. They exchanged knowing glances and retained a wise low-profile. Where they took him after was a mystery only momentarily, as they were all reunited again within the murky confines of the slave quarters. Depressing as it may have been, there was a comfort that came in the presence of familiar faces. Work had helped them acclimatise, but it was there in the slime and damp that had come to be as close as they had to refuge away from the claws of merciless masters. Katana's wounds had been almost miraculously healed, save for his missing eye, that no longer wept in its loss. The cuts and gashes, more substantial in their quality were to some extent fixed. Some had been dressed and cleaned, and it was this that was most baffling to the group. The monsters hurt them, sometimes very badly, only to stitch them up and nurse them back to health. Sadism was a worse that had played on their lips in that communal house of correction. Then, as if some soundless bell had been rung, one by one the werewolves that resided in the camp began to disappear from view. One male sniffed another then rounded him to vanish behind the support posts of the butchery tent. Another two went into the barracks, followed by three more that had come dow from the watchtowers. Slowly, but surely, the residents of the pack had left plain view. It was this, in effect, that had worried them more.

"Hey--what's going on--" said Red, clinging to the bars with such a grip that the splinters no longer effused torment.

When he managed to get a glimpse of that cerulean sky overhead, he saw that the sun was descending. The day before, Red thought back to the hideous faces that haunted the jungle as soon as this occurred, of the twisting hallucination he had suffered, and then the despairing confirmation that it had been in majority, not imagined.

Drums began to beat in his ears. The images of the faces flowed steadily before his wide-open eyes as phantoms in front of him. He saw the black and white and the blood, and they began to meld together, stretching, moving faster to the drumbeat, and faster until they became a blending of shade, nothing more, a bleak tornado with a pair of piercing inhuman eyes glaring out from the madness straight into his eyes, his body and soul. Demon's eyes. The jaw eclipsed the head twice over, displayed those monstrous teeth designed by nature to tear and shred. When, finally, the drums stopped, so did the maddening collage of night.

"It's time," said a voice.

And Red was looking straight into those eyes again, though they belonged to a body much more human, they could not conceal the devil under the skin, as much as the flesh could. "What are you taking about?"

This time, he received no smack across the face for his insolence. Instead all he got was a smirk, a gleam. It was nevertheless menacing as the pulley system was activated and the huge stone lifted. The cage wound its way up over their heads. Nothing now, nothing to separate those gleaming deadly teeth with his soft, soft head.

"All of you, come with me."

Saying nothing, Red and Katana stood there for several seconds before they were joined by Striker and a disheveled Dmitri. They each knew by now not to ask again. Slowly they followed him out of the pit. Red was first in line, with the others carefully following suit. Was this it? He wondered, not for the first time. Have they had enough of keeping us around? A foray of fantasy blanketed the little logic left as he imagined the so-called feast to be nothing more than humans served on crude platters to a pack of slavering man-dogs. He pictured their bones on the morrow, being used as bows, as arrows, even as tools and cooking utensils. What little information they had let slip regarding the infamous event had been too intricately shrouded to inform either way, and the beat they marched to, was as much akin to a funeral drum as it was a call to dinner.

It was to be a formal affair--an affair of ceremony--for all invited to attend the dinner of the wolves. Each and every able body that could be present was solemnly obliged to do so in the preferred attire--a variation on the classic--leather loincloths, wrist and ankle cuffs, piercings through either ears, nipples, or nose, and crowns of green and red feathers; smaller feathers were tucked in the inside of the wrist cuffs and larger, longer ones, were woven into a belt worn around the waist to resemble an almost sacramental skirt. They were all dressed in the same, with some showing flare and individualism here and there. The three present alphas stood out most of all.

Womack, fresh from battle, stood stronger than ever. Proudly he showed off his latest scar and smeared the blood of himself and animal blood over his skin in raw patterns to no particular design. The pack's strongest son was stood in front of them all, facing the assembly of the entire, a righteous king in his own right, until behind him, his father made his entrance.

In exception to the others, the village's chief lycan wielded a sign of his power: a spear carved from bone, and atop his white head, a headdress of the skull of a fallen beast. From it, a patchwork cape flowed heavily as he took his seat at the throne that had for many years bore his weight. It was not a grand entrance and no words of majesty were spoken from his lips, but the waiting pack revered him nevertheless, some bearing him with honour and pride, others with envy and resentment.

In front of the throne sat the great fire which continually burned at the base of the mighty phallus standing noble and erect before the mass of men gathered at his garrison. And in front of that sat a plinth, carved for a special occasion, bone and wood and stone combined fluently to wield a singular hemispheric crucible. Its position of importance was distinguishable, placed in front of the fire for all to see, a focal point. They all faced it.

The feast would begin once all were present.

Slaves were the last to arrive, all four of them naked, linked by a long leather binding rope where neck to neck were joined in a train. It was both demeaning and deterrent: if one stepped out of line, all would suffer. The four were made to kneel facing the plinth and the fire in the same direction of the pack, in a line in front by a foot. There were jeers and chuckles from the group of thirty behind. In between the plinth and the slaves, covering the entire spread of space, was the collection of meat, fruit, and various other edible articles that had been cut, sliced, washed and displayed on the leather sheet. There was enough for everyone.

The sun, although low, had not yet cast the camp in shadow, but dimmer it had become at such rapidity that the fire, which had been fed all morning now glowed with hungry embers which fanned out, eager to touch those darkening recesses, and not just to illuminate the musculature of the makes gathered. As significant as they all were, the alphas' bodies were the most impressive, and so they were the ones that were meant to stand to the front of the crowd whilst others must be content to languish at their heels. Their feathers, the highest and brightest, and their bodies caught the most light, with the row of slaves bearing the brunt of the heat. Together they were, slaves, masters, congregating for one special purpose known only to the superior race of lycans whose treatment and carriage of the humans made their position on the ladder transparent. They were in charge and would suffer no insolence. In turn, the humans had come to begrudgingly accept this, sat back on their knees in uneasy anticipation of what deviant natures were about to befall them.

"Now, we gather," spoke the old master.

Many heads had turned to face the flames from where, even risen beyond embers, they could see his shape like a spectre within the core of the fire. This illusion was made to demonstrate further his power and control. He would not partake of the festivities, rather to be an observer and judicator of the tradition.

"It is with a heavy heart must I proclaim the deaths of our own: Kiiron, Caul; slain by the vulgar creatures that dwell--like us--in shadow, but their sacrifice will be avenged. For every one of ours taken, we will take ten of theirs--already accomplished--by the turning of three suns. It is thanks to my son, Womack, and Tserra that our debt of vengeance has been paid in full.

"Do not doubt that while this is a celebration, it is for their honour that we do so. May this feast be rich with the righteousness they have afforded us."

From the crowd there were cheers almost deafening, all in agreement that sacrifice had been a brutal blow, but revelling in it all the same.

"Gone but not forgotten," rose on some of the same breaths.

"So, that's what this is about," murmured Red.

Striker looked at him with some doubt.

"It is thanks to them that we can celebrate. They would want it as such, and it is because of the loss of our own, we must replenish our ranks, now weakened." Gogack's eyes narrowed on the slave, Red, and he spoke again. "The fates have delivered us these four humans, skilled and adept in their own classifications, and I believe that they would make worthy additions to the pack, indispensable in these dire times of war."

Dispute grumbled, but none was distinctly sounded.

"Do not forget that many of you arose from where these four human slaves are now seated to ascend to where you are now, as lycans--as warriors--as brothers! Many others did not survive, and their sacrifice, too, was necessary. Over the years many have come, few have succeeded. This is why now, more than ever we must cultivate what we are given. No longer can we risk the luxury of choice. All four are worthy and have my blessing. But it is now up to you, and the events of this night that shall precede decision. It is not up to me, but them, and all of you.

"Let the night commence!"

As he said those final words, the sun indeed did flicker into temporary oblivion, its light masked by the treetops. A different atmosphere took its place, then, while still hot and humid, the sticky night gave way to an array of things new: insects glowed above the treetops and in the crevices, while streaks of cloud floated quietly into a purple haze of wisps, and a tranquil amber phosphoresce accented silhouettes and outlines to the likeness of an abstract artist's landscape. Quite beautiful, but in many other ways, mantled in mystery too substantial for true enjoyment. Voices rose up in jubilation; names of the fallen spiralled into the beyond and fists were raised as a sign of high consideration. The werewolves did not waste time mourning when there was food to be eaten, wine to drink, and bodies to exploit. The old chief retired to his throne, leaving the night's climax to be settled by his kin, worthy or not. This was their endeavour now, to mark their own footprints in a track not his own. He knew his life was at an end, and it pained him to leave this world in the hands of those who followed the blood blindly and did not take heed the dangers it may pose. Those still loyal to him would remain in his stead and instil the values he had tried in his reign to maintain against the tide of ruthlessness and corruption. A balance would be achieved if intelligence and instinct met in duel. Bloodshed was their way and the strongest always stood at the summit, but to survive they needed more than Womack's iron fist; they needed new blood. It might be enough to quell the haemorrhage.

"Fuck all this talk--let's eat--drink!" Womack declared over uproar.

All the bodies then came together before the fire, some sat some stood, but all grasped fistfuls of meat, still bloody and pressed to their mouths with lustful hunger. All week they have had to suffer through the hunt but could not taste a morsel. Now, they were free to take their fill, their share. Blood would fill those pangs, while other needs could be met after the feast.

Womack had one hand full of a thick slab of the freshest meat, blood trickled through his fingers and down his chin copiously, and in his other hand was a drinking cask made of wood. A commonly found exotic grape had been crushed, squeezed and fermented and that was enough to bring about intoxication when consumed en masse, and there was more than enough to go around, but the alpha wolf wanted more than what was fair, he wanted the lion's share and then some. With more than two casks in him, he belched loudly and wrapped a well-muscled arm around the shoulders of a friend and spoke of vulgar things in his ear. They both erupted in laughter.

"...and then?"

"Then he begged like a dog, begged... for more!"

Red was disinclined to keep watching while he knew they were talking about him, he had other things on his mind. This was, after all, the event that had been hinted to him by Trayack, the youngest wolf in the pack. It was his job, as a slave, to serve and make sure (and he was going to) that every lycan was abundant with food and especially drink. The more the better, in hopes that when their bodies were too full and drunk, he and his fellow slaves would abscond for the jungle with Trayack. He had not seen Womack's younger brother since the slave pen meeting, however, and his worries were beginning to gnaw at him. He turned away from the fire, and especially from Womack's taunting gazes.

"You see the boy anywhere, K?" He asked Katana, covertly.

The man bowed his head. "Yeah. We made eyes earlier. He looked scared of me."

"Scared of you? Did he look alright?"

"Looked better than I did when they were stitching me up. Fucking butchers."

At least everyone was still alive, Red could not help but think. Katana had received additional wounds since last they spoke and as much as that angered him, he knew his friend had temper issues, and certainly in this case, issues with authority figures. He took him by the arm and lifted it. There was a newer gash under where his armpit met his spine. It was deep, or at least it had been before it had been sewn up.

"Jesus, man," he commented.

Katana smirked. "Battle scars. Got more than you."

"This isn't a competition."

"But if it was..."

"Yeah, you'd win. If you can call that winning. Now, where is Striker?"

"Over with those two," he tilted his head quickly in a direction.

Striker was stood between the big blond that had asked of him earlier, and another male who was leering at him. Somehow Striker was calm, holding a wooden tray that had on it a couple of bowls of assorted food goods that went untouched by the two. He gave Red an it's alright look that made him feel not a bit better.

Just this night. Just one night. And tomorrow morning they would all be gone before they all came around.

The feast was generally uneventful for the first two hours (estimated) with eating slowing. Half of the food remained but nearly all of that was fruit that had been sat there since the morning. All the beat had been eaten, with lesser bones tossed into the fire and more useful ones retained for later use. Some of the fruit had been haphazardly kicked around, and others were playing with the fruits, throwing them to each other with ever decreasing accuracy the more wine was swallowed down. Wine was now the most popular and fundamental object of desire throughout, with nearly all present more than a little unsteady on their feet and those few who had consumed too much, too fast, sitting out the rest of the night already on the sidelines. Gogack had shook his shaggy head in disappointment and returned to his longhouse some time before this, leaving the last line of self-respect tarnished. They were free now to indulge to their hearts content, no wise owl to watch over, dampening the mood with judgmental chaperone.

"Time, then, for the real fun to begin," decided Womack to a roar.

"Now we're talking!" Said the same wolf that had corralled Katana.

The pair were already eyeing the slaves with more hunger than food could ever cure. They wanted something else now, and they were not the only ones. All throughout the pack, the resounding scent of arousal spread like a thick mist over their heads, their heightened sense of smell could not simply shirk such an overpowering and delicious odour from their minds. The werewolves were creatures of vice, represented manhood in bullish villainy. Inside each exited a simple mechanism--a switch--that could be flicked in one of two directions alone, and those directions were marked sex' and death,' and they were the only factors that could override any logical brain. If blood was spilled, then they became killing machines with little thought, ripping to shreds anything near until exhaustion came over them or their bloodlust was sated. Scent of semen drove them insane with lust, a need to breed and spread seed, no matter of the hole or its gender or specie. Both sex and death were integral, vital, but only one was the proper way to end a party with.

Womack stretched his sinewy body in exaggeration, popping every muscle that was visible in effortless exhibition and proclaimed: "My friends! Gather at me!"

And they did for the most part, gather around Womack by the infinite firelight in front of the well-proportioned phallic sculpture. A good twenty strong, proud bodies were present, while others were content to sit and watch and play with themselves in a drunken stupor. Night draped itself around the shockers of every wolf so that they no longer needed to wear the regalities of dress; all feathers were shucked in a soft carpet on the ground where once the food had laid. Now there were none, and a place had been cast for a new purpose, cushioned.

A part of Red knew what was going to happen soon, but he had blocked it from his mind eagerly until he had been beckoned forth to the front to stand before Womack and every bulge that was presented to him. The unnerving recollection of his size, and his taste hit him hard, turned his stomach. The sounds of his thick load spattering against him and the gravel dirt digging into his knees was a nightmarish collection that also bore the company of his lips being stretched painfully and his eyes watering. They assaulted him as bad as any post-war trauma he had ever experienced, and with them the constant fear of reprisal.

"Tonight is an important night, new-blood," said Womack.

The powerful hand gripped his shoulder so hard that it almost brought Red to his knees without the dignity of choice. He grimaced, but he held his ground, a soldier to the end.

"Not just for us, but for you as well.

"My father, as old and useless as he is, has his moments of wisdom, still! For it would be a waste--such a waste--to cast aside a gift of such a strong and capable body. You would make a fine warrior..."

Before Red could rebuff, Womack took hold of his hair again, twisted it painfully in his knuckles until it almost gave at the roots. Red twisted his body with the hand, stricken with a different type of agony. In spite of this, he did not once make a sound that would have justified his tormentor.

"Hey! Enough," came a voice--Katana--from the crowd.

Wedging his way forth through the wall of muscled bodies pressed so close to each other, Katana stepped in front of them.

A growl.

"No," whined Red, urging now his captor to a struggle with him.

As long as Womack left the others alone, he didn't care what happened to him. He shoved at him, but naturally the bulk did not budge, and only increased his hold.

Womack laughed. "So, the eyeless one returns! Did you not have enough last time, dog?"

"Wanna find out, you bastard?"

Laughter convulsed. The pack howled and hooted; they were plainly enjoying this exchange. Even the mute twins showed the barest of smiles between them. The little man had come forward to square off to the giant nearly twice his height and width without any hesitation. It was a sure sign of bravery and stupidity alike, and it got many of them aroused to the possibilities.

Finally, Womack released Red and allowed him to step to Katana's side.

"Hey, K. Back off. We don't need any of this right now," he said, hand on his chest.

"You're wrong," chuckled Womack. "You all need it. And you will get it before the night is through. You have my word on that."

"Son of a--" Katana lurch forward.

"No!" Red stepped in and restrained him.

Striker pushed his way into the fray at the same time to help subdue the situation, holding back the surprisingly strong smaller male.

Womack huffed: "Let him go! He's just asking to lose the other one."

Dismissively, Womack turned away while the struggle reached its zenith and he finished an entire drink in one long sitting. It went down his throat with ease but much of it went straight to his bladder. He was full, drunk, horny, and had no more patience left for these foolish humans and their petty squabbles. He reached in and parted the three. Striker was knocked clean off his feet and landed some distance away to choke on the dust that he rolled in to. Red kept his balance and held on to Katana, still fierce in his determination to calm the hotheaded Asian man, who only showed further fury; he simply could not be calmed. He wanted blood, revenge and honour, but there would be none forthcoming.

Womack grabbed him by the back of his neck. One hand was all he needed to haul his much lighter body off the ground and he held him up, mimicking the action of weightlifting, using his entire body to do so. Audibly, Katana's bones creaked with the strain of being treated like a puppet for all to hear. When the big wolf lifted the struggling male with both hands--one on his neck, the other at his ankles--and held him high above his head, the struggle became much more fatal.

"Stop..!" He wheezed as he was stretched, joints slowly popping out of place.

That was it. To hell with the plan. Right now, his friend was in danger, and with how much alcohol the lycan brute had consumed, his fun and games was going to end in more bloodshed; the male had no conception of restraint, he just did as he wanted and forsook any repercussions. There was only Red there to put a stop to it.

"Hey, put him down!" He belted.

"You have a nerve," scoffed the alpha. "Can't you see he likes it? Now he can truly have his head in the clouds! It will be like he's flying all over again, but maybe this time his landing will be less fortunate."

The threat loomed closer to the fire, and as Womack jerked Katana back and forth, Red held his breath. There were a few lycans at his back, holding him steady, keeping him from interrupting. They all had smiles on their faces, elongated grins more hideous than any animal could produce. This was fun for them, to torment humans and dangle before their eyes the constant reminder that they were mere toys to be played with and disposed of on a whim, lesser beings, worthless. For all his strength and skill, that was how Red felt watching this disturbing scene unfold. He felt useless. Not even the strongest man on the planet could break loose from the solid grip of two werewolves, and utter dismay fell upon him. What could he do but watch? At this point, he would--must--do anything, whatever it took, he would do it. No hesitation at all held back his bold pleas from reaching the elfish ears of the werewolf.

"What was that?" Womack turned his head. He was seconds away from throwing Katana into the flame, but the curiously broken voice of the redhead was an allure he was willing to address.

"Please... put him down, let him go. I'll... I'll do anything," he panted, heart racing so fast that he was sure that they could see it through his chest. Then, he made eye contact, pleading further with any semblance of reasoning in the male's fucked up head. "Anything."

It was a trick, Womack knew. "Do you think I'm stupid? As soon as I let him go, you'll all go right back to being insolent, petty children. Disobedient pets. No. You will all know this lesson."

Red cried, "no, no! I won't, I promise. You can't hurt him any more, he's already bleeding, just... take me, instead. Like last time. I'll do it."

Womack laughed. "Will you! You seem to think you have a choice."

A sullen, nervous drift strangled Red for what felt like an eternity as recklessly Katana was flung through the air, mercifully not towards the fire, but towards the crowd. A lift of shouts clattered and rumbled as a sea of hands jutted skyward to grab the man before he hit the ground. The werewolves had him now, and to Red, that was not much better. He turned to the crowd, but as he did, he was forcibly turned back. Womack held him tight, with hands on his arms. There would be no turning away from what he had just promised now, no time to check on his human friend, none of that. Now, all he would do--all that should be on his mind--was doing what he was told, nothing more nothing less. He heard Striker put up some resistance behind him, calling for Katana to be put down, which sounded to amuse the wolves mildly, and was followed by a dull thud. It made Red's heart stop because he knew that they had done as he had asked, and it hadn't been a pretty landing.

"Katana! ...are you alright?"

For a while, there was nothing from him, no sound nor stir, and Striker turned him on to his back urgently, intent to check his pulse, only to be yanked away by a pair of arms that dwarfed most present.

"Ha! He'll live!" Tserra laughed. "Come away! You worry too much!"

They were rough arms, but they were arms in which Striker needn't fear attack from. Such was a dominant male's benefit.

Red heard this going on but he was stood stiff, held in place, the fierce eyes of Womack, although dimmed by drink were still strong and focused now solely on him. No escape. The relief that Katana had been spared had been momentary as now the surmounting terror that he was faced with replaced it. The male's body heat radiated close, so close. It was a motivator; he didn't want Womack spilling his anger any more, the heat he could stand, the closeness he could endure, but the anger was unrestrained.

"Ignore them," said Womack in a low tone.

Red did not even blink.

Once the body of Katana showed movement, Striker allowed himself to relax against the solid body of the alpha wolf who had claimed him. Romantic, it was not, but at least there was presence behind him that had no intention of letting anyone else come close. One was more palatable than a mass of swarming monsters. He saw them all hungry for it, too, now that drink had been pushed into their systems, eyes that conveyed lust; they would bend him over and fuck him raw, until he bled, until he breathed his last. Tserra was the lesser evil that he was begrudgingly thankful for, despite the conviction of truth: he, too, was one of them, on occasion worse, and he was still terrified of him and of that face. The truth that they all bore, the masks they wore were of man, but under that mask the animal inside lurked with merciless opportunism. Katana was alive, that was the important factor that he reminded himself of as he watched them drag him away.

"Look at me, boy," Womack growled.

Red did nothing but.

"You've a taste for it now, don't you? Now that you've tasted it. You want it, don't you?" Lewd. Unashamed.

He neither confirmed nor denied, tight-lipped.

Womack stepped back and smirked. "That's alright. You don't have to say... I know you want it." Alcohol affected his patience, somewhat, his mood, alike was on a tipping scales, always uneven, unpredictable. He wanted to look at Red, at the piece of meat the others were so envious of him for. "Oh, yes... you will make a good slut, but... an even better wolf."

"What?" Red's voice cracked. There were lycans at his back, he could hear their footsteps and feel their booze-soaked breath.

They wouldn't dare touch him. Womack was always took first pick. He chose the best meat, the best wine, the best carcasses to hunt down. In his eyes, he had chosen the best slave, and the others--lesser wolves--could only touch his property with his permission, and none was given. They could sniff all they liked. Why not? Let them have their wishes and wants, they were not going to take anything that he didn't want them to have. Couldn't blame them.

"They like you," he slurred, leaning close to Red, but not touching him. "Can you feel it? Their sex..." he inhaled deep. "When you're one of us, you will smell it, too; every cock from here to the other side of the island, you'll be able to smell, every splash of come that isn't yours. You'll want everything that isn't yours, as well. We all do."

"I don't..." Red shuddered; Womack sniffed him, loudly, from neck to ear in a curved, roving jaunt. He closed his eyes. "Why do you want me?"

"Because you belong here. Didn't my father tell you: everyone on this fucking island belongs here. They brought you here to breed and be bred."

Red reopened his eyes. Again this mysterious they; he knew he wasn't going to get answers any time soon, so didn't ask, but the unnerving closeness of the wolf had Red willing to say anything to distract him from whatever filthy thoughts that were running through his mind. "Maybe you should have more wine."

"Do you think so? Well," he shrugged and stepped away for a second. The cup that laid on the floor by the fire was half empty but it bothered him not a bit and he picked it up. Then, however, he retained his position and offered the cup not to himself, but to Red. "Maybe I think it is you who should drink more."

Confused, Red shook his head. "Uh, no. I think I'm fine." He wasn't fine, and he would have killed for a whole jug of the stuff but he needed his wits about him. "Thank you, though."

Womack sneered, devilish, then seized Red by the head. "You will do as you're told, boy!" He roared, spit flecking the redhead's cheek as he forced the lip of the cup to his lips and tipped them back. "Drink! Drink as much as it pleases, you ungrateful..."

Red swallowed. His eyes burned, his throat ached. The drink was more like acid than alcohol, undiluted, it scorched its way down his throat and roiled in his belly. But the hands from behind had brought him down to his knees and held his wrists out so that he could not use them in reprisal, and the crushing force of Womack's insistence meant that he had to drain the cup before he was told to do it again. It got steadily less harsh the more mouthfuls he gulped down, and mercifully some of it was allowed to drizzle down from his mouth in the sluggish churl of movement. As soon as he was finished, Womack detonated into laughter and threw the empty vessel aside, leaving Red to choke and splutter. When he was released by the lycans holding him, he managed to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Small moments of minute pleasure.

"Tough as you look!"

Red coughed, the sting in his eyes brought tears.

With hardly a moment to recover, Red's mouth was filled again, not with liquid, but by something solid; it stretched passed his lips, and further still.

"If I feel teeth, you're dead," grumbled the drunk wolf.

Eyes wide in surprise, Red panicked, grasped for something to hold on to, anything that could extradite him from this situation. The beast was pushing his semi-hard cock into his mouth again. In such a short time he had managed to unfurl his member and it had sprang out without him even seeing it, its girth and mass, all of it was in his face and pushing to the back of his throat in earnest. So unexpected, he pushed back the bile that rose and whined miserably to no avail, a hand was at the back of his head and two others were holding him down on his knees, like a dog. Red's body convulsed and arched, every instinct that told his brain that he was not ready kicked in and it took every fibre of his resistance not to give in and throw up. Then fingers intruded, pushed into his mouth, pulled his jaw wider, coming in between teeth and cock in marriage. He knew not whose fingers they were but they tasted every bit as foul as the savage member that slowly eased in and out of his mouth.

"This is what you're in for," he groaned. "Your mouth, my cock."

Little sense was being spoken, but it was no doubt down to the amount of alcohol consumed. Red closed his eyes and felt the splash of something hitting the back of his neck, then over his head. It was bitter tasting when it came spilling down his face and on to the invading cock. Someone had poured the last of their drink on to him with a cheer, and another cheer onward, he could feel hands all over. None of them were in unison, multiple men were storming over his firm muscles, exploring reaches unintended for them. He tried to fight, but desperate, he recalled the lessons from last time, quickly adapting and learning, he managed to breathe and take his mind to other, more worthwhile places as his nose did the work. In his mind he pictured everything he had before that had distracted him from reality: the crash, the fights, the jungle, and the faces of his fallen ones and friends. Womack was slow, less rough, his rocking movements became less inclined to purpose as he stabbed his thick cock in and out, one such thrust had slapped Red across the face and smeared his cheek with his own saliva and pre from the beast, washing away the firmament. Other werewolves were stroking themselves, drunkenly slicking up their stick shafts in an unadulterated display of incorrigibility; they wanted to play with Womack's favoured pet too, and in his inebriated state, who was he to stop them? A particularly long spear of a cock had touched his jawbone, and he recoiled, disgusted at the touch, like a blood-engorged, living piece of meat, he wanted nothing to do with it. Even one was more than he could--or was willing to--handle.

"Suck it," said he.

Red knew who said it but in some ways, the alcohol had mercifully taken hold that had been shoved down his own throat. There was a buzz in the back of his brain and a blearing of the lines he could see. Strong stuff. The burn in his stomach had become a pleasant sort of tingle, and in a clutching second of abandon, he rocked his own hips up and down, as if eager for it. There had come, with drink, a shimmering mist of fuck it, and fun is fun that caressed his brain with nimble, well-timed fingers.

So, doing what he was told, he sucked it.

Womack became less and less aggressive. His arms went limp at his sides and his head rolled on his shoulders, letting the slave at him with a barely-aware go for it. It felt good, his swollen lips wrapped around him and stretched, reaching half way down his cock. On occasion, he regained attention that was lost, and thrust in, if for no other reason than to hear the delicious sounds of Red's stomach tighten and retch inside his throat.

"Enough," he slurred, and pulled out.

Red gasped for breath, surprised. He reached out and tried to take him again, get it over with. His hands were knocked down.

"Wh-what..." mouth hanging agape, still rich with essence.

"Gotta do it, first," he said, barely distinguished from the monosyllabic dross. He stepped back, his cock barely hard, and let it go.

It was odious but imperative for the moment. The werewolves practiced scent-marking, staining their territory, and their property, or sometimes, in this case in particular, they did it just because they enjoyed it. It was fun for them, like a boyhood game, like a spit handshake or a blood-brothers bond. To the human it was nothing more than a disgusting act of defilement, an added humiliation that only served to enrage and further run a permanent course of defiance, but to the lycan it was ritualistic, it was eroticism, and he did not care if the human did not understand their ways; they were not his to understand--yet--in time he would learn to appreciate this ascension from unmarked scum to marked scum. Now, they would all know who got to him first, and that was important in the werewolf hierarchy. Whoever was on top of the ladder went first, got the best meat, had the best slaves, and everyone was afraid of them. And those that had designs on greater power within the pack had to maintain distance and demonstrate his dominance.

In particular, Womack's sights were forever set on his father's throne. He did not remember his old human life nor did he care to--it didn't matter now, did it?--all that mattered was that he be seen as the king that he was. A god amongst men, a wolf amongst dogs.

Red fought the stream of piss as it came spraying from his length. With all his dignity in tatters, he rebelled for those last few scraps as his skin, hair, face was splashed by the bastard's waste. It was hot and the steam from the contact stung his eyes and nostrils so badly he knew that he would have difficulty seeing or smelling again for a long time. He gagged by smell alone and did his best to throw off the hands of his captors. There was two of them--fuckers--laughing and cheering, pinning him in place as he was pissed on by a drunk bulk of a man.

He would have screamed, roared, swore, any act of opposition he could--to hell with how much he'd be beaten for it afterwards--but the prospect of opening his mouth, only to have it flooded instantly with the golden fluid overrode his desire to fight. No one did this to him. No one used him like this. Anger swelled and surged, pumped his muscles full of blood and rage, but nothing could be done to fight against strength that was inherently predominant. They held him, and he could not move. So, as the anger subsided and died, it was replaced with an intense feeling of complete desolation, depression. He was a toy after all, to be used, fucked, beaten and pissed on. This was his destiny. He deserved this; to be on his knees, begging for it like a depraved little whore that craved the bruises and longed for the ache in his bowels to be filled with something thick and substantial. Yes, he thought these things with a heavy heart, a dismal recession in to defeat and self-isolation, but then, he thought of something.

He laughed.

This was really happening, wasn't it? Held prisoner on an uncharted island--overrun by predatory creatures that would taste his flesh if they had the chance--by men calling themselves werewolves, who routinely cast aside their morals. Red was a man who had a life, a family, an airborne hero protecting the skies from foreign threats, and now, he had nothing. Skies open for the taking, unreachable. They would keep him here until he died, of that he was certain. Dead or as crazy as they were. They ate raw meat and subjected him to a variety of tortures, unrestrained by fictitious faiths. Animals, in human skin. And they were insane.

He couldn't help but laugh.

Some of it seeped through the spaces of his teeth, tasted bitter, but it was done now, nothing really mattered. The arms that held him slackened, he tried not to flee anymore.

"Idiot," he heard someone say through the ringing in his ears.

The stream staggered, then hit him again harder, over the face, it ran through his hair, dampening the vibrant red to a duller dark brown, and even through this torment, the silver lining: he could feel the dirt washing away. It was like a christening, a rebirth.

After it was over, he shivered. It was not cold but the stark difference of the hot urine soaking him all over, to him, played upon his imagination. It was a shower, he had imagined. Stepping out of a hot shower always resulted in goosebumps. An extramundane shower. Maybe he was seeing humour in something he shouldn't have been, but the star shower of piss was about as funny as anything else, so why not laugh? Again.

"Thought you drank more than that, big guy," spat Red.

Womack blinked. He hobbled back, dumbstruck.

Red spat and spat again. The taste wasn't going away any time soon but it helped. As long as he didn't swallow any of that shit, the taste he could live with. But he needed a drink to rinse it out, and he needed it now. Wrestling he way free of the meagre grips that now hovered rather than held, Red clambered to his feet and found himself stronger. Stronger for the experience, stronger inside; better than these savage cavemen with a few extra brain cells than a household pet. He wasn't going to be better than them, and cast over pettiness and selfishness. After all, what else did he expect? Civility? Common courtesy?

They didn't stop him when he got up and they didn't stop him when he swilled the strong wine around and expectorated. They weren't going to stop him, either. If they were going to kill him, let `em.

"Rust... are you alright?"

"I'm just fine, Striker," he said, taking a good mouthful just for support. "Pissed on by a werewolf. Hell of a bar story when we get back home."

Striker smiled and touched his arm. "Stay strong."

"Always," he said, firmly. With a cock of his head, he downed the rest and turned back to the party.

Others had rejoined. There were a couple of lycans sat on the ground, their backs supported by a sawn log. At their sides their empty cups were upturned and feeding the earth while in their hands were their flaccid cocks, idly pumped between bouts of unconsciousness.

Red scoffed his feigned amusement and walked on, wiping his face of the bitter damp with the palm of his hand before approaching the centre, where the congregation was coming together, ready for another bout of preaching. Hapless. Subversive.

One look back revealed that Striker and his happy master were retiring for the night. It was gutting to watch; a close friend already slipping into their way of life, accepting as normality. It served to polish his desire to make a break for it before their sense of freedom plunged in to fathomless, unreachable depths, even if it meant he spent the night with the obnoxious alpha. They would fly again. Some sacrifices were small, if it meant that they got their wings again.

"The star of the show," said Womack.

The werewolf had found his feet again after minutes of swaying, stumbling and once tripping. Alcohol ran fast through their bodies, working its magic required the beasts to be devout in the ways of drinking if they had any hope of losing sobriety. At least twice the body weight. Womack drank four times that. In a matter of an hour, it was wearing off. Poisons wouldn't work on them easily, unless they consumed it like water.

Where would he get poisons? Red consulted himself. The spectrum of flowers and plants that germinated beyond the borders of the camp were positively poisonous--of that, he had no doubt--but which might he use, if he used any? A pretty big blue one, with fronds waving? A pinkish nymph that sparkled in the moonlight? The toxicity of the mystery ran as deep as he wanted, there would be no late-night ploy to pick flowers, to siphon of their venom like a cow's milk. Red just did not fancy his chances of getting back alive. They would find him laying dead in the jungle tomorrow morning, bloated from infection and disease no doubt. His body would be heaved back with ease and tossed to the wolves to be torn apart, a piece of meat to be devoured to feed their insatiable appetite. He wasn't going to give them that. He was not going to be their meal.

He looked delicious. Womack licked his lips, tasted the blood already present. "Think we're done? We've just started, boy. On your knees."

Red sighed and got down on his knees, hands flat on his thick thighs. "Now what? Gonna piss on me again? That's what you do, right. Marking territory. Lucky me."

Womack sneered. "No..." his eyes drifted, looking at the swelling numbers of lycans. Just like him, they had recovered quickly. It was a trait humans could only dream of. Their bodies, full of drink, remained physically drunk for a short time only, before reverting to normality, metabolism rapidly ripping them from their fun. A downside? A positive? Sometimes it was a matter of perspective. "That was just... just for fun. To keep you in your place. Sounds like it didn't work."

"No shit. What are you going to do to me?"

"What do you think?"

Red shrugged.

Womack flinched, fists tight.

"I don't think," Red was quick to correct: "You think for me. I just get on my knees, right? And suck your fucking dick."

There was more than a little spite infused with his tongue but he couldn't help it. Too much had been done to him. Even the idea of having his cock in his mouth again, that fat bulbous head roughly rubbing against his tongue, was preferable to hearing him bang on and on about lessons and knowing your place. "Just fucking do it," he said, defeated.

"Silly boy," he said, a prescient tone. "More is bound to happen tonight, with you at the centre. Don't you feel important yet? Filthy human."

Important? Red felt many things, but important?

Womack turned his back, approached the crafted altar. "It's a Blood Moon tonight. Can you see it? When it's up there in alignment, then will be there perfect time to initiate you."

"And if I don't want to be initiated?"

Womack turned back sporting a dangerous smile.

Red already knew the answer.

"Then you die."

He was accustomed to it.