Chapter 1 - From Ashes to Fangs
Chapter 1 - From Ashes to Fangs
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Born human in the year 487 of the Second Era, Te’lana was one of nine children, a common enough number in those days, when harsh winters and hard lives often cut families down before they could grow old together. Of those nine, only three survived into childhood: Te’lana, his older brother, and his younger sister.
They lived together in a small but modest cottage at the foot of an extinct volcano on the island of Solstheim, where the earth was dark and rich, and the land smelled of ash and salt. His parents worked the fields, growing hardy vegetables for the markets in Raven Rock, a half-day’s walk across the rough land. It was a quiet life, shaped by the slow rhythm of seasons: the careful tending of crops, the creak of wagon wheels, the hiss of wind over the ash dunes.
For Te’lana, those years held the kind of simplicity that only seems perfect in memory. Long days spent running barefoot in the fields with his brother and sister, chasing each other through rows of cabbages and potatoes, daring one another to climb the twisted trees that grew near the old lava fields. He remembered the smell of his mother’s cooking drifting through the air at dusk, the warmth of the hearth fire on cold nights, and the way the light of the moons silvered the ground outside their window.
He remembered the feel of the soil beneath his hands, rich and dark and damp, and the time when his father taught him how to tell the weight of a crop by the way the leaves bent toward the ground.
He remembered, too, the first time he saw blood. It was on the snow, high on the slopes near the caldera, where the ashy land gave way to ice and the wind cut like a blade. A fox, caught in one of the snares his brother had set, its body twitching, the steam rising from its fur in the cold. The sight of it, small and helpless, the snow darkening with blood, had knotted something tight in his chest. His brother’s hand had closed over his shoulder, a quiet, steadying weight.
“Everything lives and everything dies,” his brother had said, his voice low and matter-of-fact. “The trick is knowing when to take, and when to let go.”
Te’lana never forgot those words. They sat in his bones, waiting and resting.
And he remembered the day his brother left. The ache in their mother’s voice as she told Te’lana he was the eldest now. His sister clung to him that night, tiny fingers knotting into the fabric of his tunic. She cried herself to sleep, her small frame shaking against his side. The way he stared at the ceiling in the dark long after she had finally drifted to sleep, the weight settling on his chest like stones.
At fifteen, restless and eager to follow his brother’s example, he left home too. Boarded a ship bound for the mainland of Tamriel, to the cold, wild province of Skyrim. The crossing was rough; the sea churned and howled, and Te’lana huddled in the ship’s hold with the smell of salt and pitch thick in his nose. When he arrived in Riften, its wooden docks crowded with traders, fishermen, and sharp-eyed guards, he was little more than another dark-eyed youth with calloused hands and an empty purse.
He took whatever work he could find. Fishing, hauling crates, harvesting crops, mending nets. The days blurred together, but the nights, those were his. The warmth of the fire on the docks, the sharp tang of fish in the air, the laughter of men and women who, like him, had come from nowhere and had nothing to their names.
For a while, it felt like enough.
He thought, perhaps despite his happy childhood, his parents and their farm, that he had found a new place to call home.
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To better understand this world, it is important to understand Lycan.
Lycanthropy was a common affliction across Tamriel, but the afflicted were divided into two distinct strains.
The Lycan: lucid shapeshifters capable of transforming at will, day or night, they lived and worked openly among men and mer (the collective term for the elf races of Tamriel). They retained full memory and cognitive function after transformation, though an ongoing internal conflict exists between their human consciousness and bestial instincts.
The Werewolves: the much rarer and feral strain, cursed to transform involuntarily beneath the full moons, they lose all sense of self during the change. They become wild, violent, and unpredictable creatures driven only by hunger and hatred.
Despite an undercurrent of tension, the Lycan found an uneasy peace with the cities and villages of men and mer. Those who chose to live within the walls served as guards, scouts, hunters, or bodyguards, respected for their strength but expected to show discipline at all times. Some still distrusted them, but outright hatred was rare. The rest chose the wilds.
Now, back to Te’lana’s story.
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By his eighteenth year, Te’lana had managed to save a modest sum from his wages. He began venturing into Riften proper, no longer just a dockhand but a young man eager to experience more of the world. He browsed the busy markets, marveled at trinkets he couldn’t quite afford, and indulged in occasional impulsive purchases. A carved wooden charm here, a rare root there, nothing extravagant but they were his. The city was a tangled and breathing thing, men and mer of every shade and accent bartered in loud voices, and among them moved others, the taller broader shapes that drew second glances. Lycan, furred and towering even in their more subdued forms, wandered the market too. Some wore simple belts and carried woven packs, their clawed hands selecting goods with surprising delicacy. A few kept to themselves, heads low, while others bartered openly with the butchers and tanners, trading pelts or fresh game from the wilds. Te’lana noticed them, as anyone did, but by now they were just another part of the market’s rhythm. Respected by most, warily avoided by the rest.
It was during one of these visits that fate intervened.
A city guard barreled past, nearly knocking over a merchant’s cart, and in his haste, he collided with a young woman carrying a heavy basket of flowers and herbs. The basket tipped, and a colorful spill of petals and stems scattered across the muddy stone. Te’lana, by instinct, stooped to help, their hands meeting among the blossoms. A simple touch, but one that made both pause. Her name was Relotta. She was of his own age, with quick hands and as he discovered, a quicker wit. An apprentice alchemist like her mother before her, she kept her dark hair pulled back messily, strands escaping no matter how tightly she tied it. Her fingers were often stained green from herbs or smudged with chalk from grinding powders. She laughed easily, with a sound like water over stone, light and full of life. She teased Te’lana at their first meeting, calling him “farmer boy” when he correctly named half the plants she’d dropped. He corrected her, saying “field-hand,” which made her laugh harder.
What began as a shared effort to gather scattered blooms became an hour-long conversation beneath the awning of a market stall. As they spoke, a pair of Lycan passed nearby, one with silver-streaked fur hefting a bundle of fresh pelts, the other muttering in low tones as he examined a rack of iron knives. Relotta’s eyes flicked toward them, their towering forms rising head and shoulders above the crowd, their long limbs moving with an ease that belied their size. “Folk stare at them like they’re beasts let loose, but they’re not,” she said. “Bigger teeth, longer shadows, sure… but it’s the men behind them you ought to fear, not the shape they wear.”
She stooped to gather a fallen bloom, adding more lightly, “They’re not all bad though. One of them bought feverfew from my mother last spring. Polite as any priest, thanked her twice.” Te’lana followed her gaze. The other shoppers parted instinctively, giving the Lycan space even as they bartered and browsed like anyone else. Their monstrous silhouettes, tails swaying slowly and ears perked high, made the narrow street seem smaller somehow. “They live close to the earth, same as us,” he murmured. “I can respect that. But still, I’d not like to stand in one’s path. Those big teeth…” Relotta smiled, a little crookedly, as she plucked the last of her scattered petals from the cobbles. “Then don’t. Give them space, treat them fair, and they’ll do the same. Simple as soil and sun.” She straightened, brushing a smudge of dirt from her palm. “Most creatures are like that, when you stop to look proper.” Te’lana wasn’t sure if he agreed, but he found he liked the sound of her voice enough not to argue.
They found their knowledge dovetailed in unexpected ways. He brought her samples of rich earth from the banks of Lake Honrich; she, in turn, gave him a simple poultice that soothed the cuts and scrapes of his labor. Their meetings became regular, first by chance, then by intent. She often bartered her remedies in the market square, and he made excuses just to pass her by. They spoke of dreams, hers of someday running a proper apothecary, his of owning land. Not working another man’s fields, but working his own instead. She admired his calloused hands, strong and steady; he admired her mind, always turning, always hungry for more to learn and do. In the evenings, they walked the river paths outside the city walls. She liked to hum old songs while gathering herbs, half-remembered tunes her mother had taught her. He found himself learning the words just to keep in step with her. She told him once that she believed every plant had a spirit, and that harvesting them required respect. He found that thought strange at first, alien to him, but charming in its own way.
Within a year, they married before the Gods, their ceremony small but joyful. She wore a crown of woven flowers, freshly gathered that morning, and teased Te’lana for fumbling the ceremonial words in his nervousness. Their laughter echoed off the temple walls, a sound that lingered in Te’lana’s memory long after. Together they built a modest life. Te’lana tilled the earth, preparing gardens for Relotta’s plants; Relotta brewed remedies that healed the city’s sick and eased the pain of the poor who couldn’t afford temple cures. Her hands stayed stained and busy, but she took pride in her craft. Their combined earnings allowed them to buy a small shack outside the city walls, nestled at the forest’s edge. Big enough for them, and for the gardens that thrived under their care. Relotta called it “our little green world,” and it became their sanctuary. She planted sprigs of juniper by the door to ward off illness, and strung charms made from braided grass and river stones along the windows to “keep the bad spirits away.” Te’lana humored her, though secretly, he liked the way the charms whispered in the wind at night.
Paradise, however, never lasts. Even joy can grow with roots digging deeper, branches reaching higher. Relotta began to show signs of pregnancy, her hands finally still as she pressed them to her belly in wonder. Over three blessed years, they welcomed a son and a daughter into the world. She sang to them the same old songs she had once hummed on their walks, her voice soft but steady, even when storms rattled the shutters.
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Years passed. Their humble shack expanded and grew to accommodate their own growing family, and the gardens stretched wider and lusher with each season. As their children grew old enough to help tend the crops, Te’lana sought new ways to contribute in other ways, by joining the ranks of Riften’s auxiliary guards. Bandit attacks had grown increasingly common, and though the permanent city guard held the line, there were times when every able-bodied soul was needed. Among his comrades were men, mer, and Lycan alike. Te’lana remembered back to his first encounter with a Lycan during his dockside days, spending long nights speaking with one who lived openly among men and mer, a being of immense strength, speed, and sharpened senses. The rest always said “to have a Lycan among the guards was considered a blessing from the Gods themselves”. Only after a single call to duty and Te’lana found himself agreeing fully.
But not even their strength could prevent the tragedy that was soon to unfold.
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The bandits had plagued the province for decades. What had once been swift, brutal raids for supplies descended further into senseless acts of violence. By Te’lana’s thirty-first year, he had fought off more raids than he could remember. His son was ten, his daughter seven. It was a hazy afternoon when the bells of Riften rang out. The urgent call to arms. Without a second thought, Te’lana strapped on his leather armor, took up his sword, and left with only hurried words to Relotta, no time for him to bid farewell to the children as the bells continued to toll.
But this raid was different.
While the main force of bandits stormed the city gates, a smaller group circled around the back, setting fires to homes, crops, and storehouses. The city guard, preoccupied with the assault at the gates, failed to notice the growing smoke until it was too late.
When the chaos finally subsided and the bandits retreated, the survivors were left to sift through the ashes.
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Te’lana hurried home as night fell, dread growing with every step.
He knew, even before he saw it in the darkening sky, that something was terribly wrong.
The gardens were scorched, the shack blackened and broken.
There were no walls anymore. Only shadows where their home had once stood.
He sprinted forward without care.
The smell hit him first. Choking smoke, charred wood, and something darker that clawed at his throat. His knees gave out before he even crossed the threshold. Inside, through the collapsed frame, he found three blackened bodies huddled together.
Arms around each other in eternal embrace.
Relotta. His son. His daughter.
Burned alive, a discarded torch still lying near the ruined door, the only way out, now lost to flame.
In that moment, something inside Te’lana broke.
Their loss shattered him. The heartbreak broke something inside of him that could never be repaired.
Alcohol became his only refuge in a world stripped of all meaning.
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The days blurred into nights, and the nights into endless suffering. Te’lana turned to alcohol to numb the agony that gnawed at his soul. At first, it dulled the edges of his grief, but soon he needed more and more to chase that fleeting oblivion. No drink strong enough. No goblet deep enough.
He became a fixture of pity and sorrow among the people of Riften. The other guards, the villagers and even the city’s priests all tried at first to help him. They brought him food, fresh clothing, and clean water. Some begged him to drop the bottle, come back to his duties to remember the man he once was.
But Te’lana was already beyond reach.
Each plea fell on deaf ears.
Each kindness was met with empty, red eyes.
He passed out often now. In alleyways, in fields, wherever the drink left him. He had become little more than a ghost haunting the edges of the city.
One night, deep into another bottle, Te’lana stumbled far beyond the city walls. The forest swallowed him whole, the trees tall, silent, and indifferent. In a drunken stupor he stumbled into a shallow stream, little more than a silver ribbon in the moonlight. He collapsed face-up in the icy waters, too far gone to shiver, too far gone to even care.
There he lay, half-drowned but breathing, as the night crept onward.
It was neither fate nor mercy that found him, but something else entirely.
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Alpha had been hunting that night.
A towering Lycan, leader of his pack, he and his kin lived by the old ways in the deep woods. Though they mingled among men and mer for trade and work, their hearts belonged to the wilds. When he caught the waning scent of Te’lana’s life drifting on the wind, a stench of death not yet claimed, something stirred deep within him. Memories of loss, of fallen kin and past failures, pressed on his heart, compelling him to act. Finding the broken man lying in the stream, barely alive with a thin pulse and cold body, Alpha moved swiftly. He carried Te’lana back to the pack’s hidden den, a sacred place where stone and roots of ancient trees entwined. There, the pack tried everything they knew. Poultices, healing tonics, even whispered prayers. But Te’lana remained lost, unmoving.
A choice had to be made.
Alpha, wise beyond his countless years, knew the strength that burned in Lycan blood. The power in it to heal, to endure, to survive what no ordinary man could. It was a desperate act, a grasp at the faintest hope. Before the first light of dawn touched the trees, the Alpha opened a vein and pressed it to Te’lana’s cracked lips.
The blood of the Lycan flowed into Te’lana. Burning, searing, changing.
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Te’lana awoke with a start, but everything felt wrong. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, louder than ever. Every sound scraped against his skull; every scent burned sharp as a knife. Even the dim light seemed too bright, glaring against his aching eyes. His first breath was deep and ragged, as if it had taken great effort just to wake at all. He was in a cave of sorts, stone-lined walls leading to a narrow entrance where light filtered through. The earth beneath him was cold and soft, covered in moss and furs. Nearby sat a figure, silent but watching. The Lycan stepped forward. Not just any Lycan, but Alpha. His presence alone commanded authority, and demanded compliance. Alpha carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen much, and endured more.
“At last, you’ve returned to the living,” Alpha said plainly. “Though not as you once were.” Te’lana didn’t speak. His mind was fogged, his body confused. Nothing felt natural. He tried to stand, staggered, then dropped to his hands, only to see fur and claws where fingers used to be.
“You were dying,” the Alpha continued. “The river would have taken you within hours. My pack tried everything we knew. Herbs, potions, prayer. Nothing helped. So I tried one last thing.”
Te’lana looked up slowly, silent, waiting, watching.
“My last hope was to gift you Lycan blood. The turning either takes, or it doesn’t. In you, it did. You’ve been asleep for five days.”
The following days were difficult. Alpha and his pack stayed close, guiding him through what it meant to live as a Lycan. They lived out in the woods, away from the cities, yet still close enough to trade when needed. Everything they had, they earned through experienced discipline. Hunting for food, protecting the den, learning how to live in balance with nature as well as the beast within. The change wasn’t just physical. It was spiritual. Becoming Lycan was seen as a kind of rebirth. The past was gone, stripped of meaning. Names, too, were left behind. The pack members often chose names for each other by deed or nature, though some chose their own. Te’lana had no name among them, not at first. He was simply “the whelp,” and he kept to himself in the days that followed. He said little, listened less, and gave no answer when the others asked questions.
“You’ve learned much, enough to survive. But there’s still one thing left.” Alpha spoke, his bassy tone reverberating in the night air.
Te’lana looked over at him, listening in silence
“You must choose your name, the one you’ll carry forward from this day.”
He thought back to all he had lost. His home, his wife, his children, his life. The fire, the blackened wood. The deafening silence that followed. The man who had lived that life no longer existed.
“I’ve become something else,” he said quietly to himself. “Away from something I can never return to.”
He looked first at his clawed hands, then at the Alpha, before speaking with certainty.
“My name is Wolf.”
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Time passed. Seasons turned.
Wolf became one of the pack, training daily. He ran with them, hunted with them, every new reflex and new part of his being carefully honed. Learning to control the strengths and instincts now at his command. But even as he adapted to his new life, a fire smoldered beneath it all. No longer the grieving man who had almost died from his grief, a quiet, slow-burning anger for everything he had lost began to smoulder inside his heart. For the way it had ended. For those who had caused it.
He returned to the city in canine form, taking up his old work among the city guard. His appearance had changed, his presence was different, but the moment he spoke, there was no mistaking it. The voice, the way he moved. He told them the truth: that he was Te’lana, changed but still himself. There were questions, some uneasy silences, but no orders to leave. Lycan still walked freely among men back then. And whatever had changed, the man beneath the fur was one they remembered, a good soldier and loyal friend.
But something else lingered now, something they noticed but never dared to voice. The way his eyes burned when they rested too long on strangers. The tension in his shoulders that never eased around the bandit raids. The weight in his steps, as if pulled forward by something they could not see. They said nothing, perhaps believing time would soothe the scars he carried, or perhaps not wanting to face what those scars might become.
No one questioned where he had been. No one asked why he was now Lycan. No one asked why he had returned. He used their silence carefully, watching, listening, and gathering what he needed.
He needed information.
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Five years passed.
Then, one night, Wolf vanished from the pack.
The bandit camp that had shattered his world, the same camp that had stolen the lives of his wife and children from him, never saw him coming. He moved through it like a shadow. Methodical, silent, and lethal. No words. No growls. No warnings. No survivors. By dawn, the fires had died down. The smell of blood and smoke lingered in the air, thick and bitter. Bodies lay where they had fallen. A slaughter, plain and brutal.
But the wider world was still broken. Bandits remained elsewhere, threats to others, dangers that would not vanish because of one act of vengeance. Wolf’s war was personal, but the pack’s mission endured beyond it, so he stayed his claws. He’d gotten his revenge.
As he stood in the center of the carnage, breathing heavily, his claws still wet with their blood, he heard footsteps behind him. Soft, measured. It was Alpha.
He had followed at a distance, unseen, suspecting what Wolf had been planning for some time. He stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The stillness. The silence. The finality.
Then he spoke, his voice steady but heavy with authority and care:
“You have disappointed me,” Alpha said. “You call yourself Lycan, yet tonight, you acted as nothing more than a beast, one of those feral werewolves. The Lycan way is a code of honour, we do not kill without need. Your pain is real, your loss is deep, but vengeance alone will not heal, nor will it build what we must protect. It will only destroy.”
Wolf said nothing at first. His hands curled into fists, squeezing so tightly that his claws pierced his palms. His fury still burned within, not yet spent.
Alpha stepped closer, his eyes locking with Wolf’s. “You carry the blood of your family in your heart. That burden is heavy. But it must guide you, not consume you. You are part of my pack now, part of something greater. Our fight is for survival, not just revenge.”
He let the silence settle before continuing, his voice softer.
“Everything lives. Everything must die. You must learn when to take… and when to let go.”
Without another word, Alpha turned and walked away.
The wind carried the quiet between them, settling over the battlefield. Behind him, the camp burned, but the fire inside Wolf had died. In its place, something colder took root.
Those words… he hadn’t heard them since his brother spoke them long ago. The same lesson, now falling from the mouth of another. It struck him like a stone to the chest. His brother’s voice, his brother’s memory. It rose unbidden, pushing through the fog of rage, cutting through the beast’s hold on him. Maybe the lesson had never been meant for vengeance. Maybe it was always about this. About knowing when to stop. About knowing how to live. About knowing when to let go.
He had done what he set out to do. His family were avenged. But as he walked alone through the trees, stripped of purpose, he understood something he hadn’t before:
Strength without discipline was no strength at all.
From that night on, he would carry the guilt not as a chain, but as a compass. A reminder that the beast could be guided, that even in shadow, one could choose to walk with purpose.
It was time to become more than what he had become. It was time to follow Alpha’s example. Alpha had shown him the path, now it was time to walk it. That’s what Alpha would have expected.
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