The Unlikely Alliance

Vedauwoo, Wyoming

7:45 PM

Anton Spirit-Speaker tread cautiously beneath the long shadow of the mountain, amongst uprooted trees and claw-torn trails. His many rings and jeweled chains clinked gently as he stalked while his green cloak and cowl rendered him nearly invisible in the woods.

All around the werewolf shaman enticed spirits gathered in droves, drawn to the aura of the Spirit-Speaker like moths to moonlight. They flew ephemeral through the canopy and traveled the trees, reflections of their flesh world counterparts. The animal spirits chittered in tongues long forgotten of the great guardian spirit of the mountain, twisted and malformed. The older, quieter nature spirits expressed their sorrow subtly, with winds that sighed heavily, rustling the mauled trees and Anton’s wild brown hair.

Night was approaching, and dusk spirits were dragging darkness across the land. Anton paused and pressed his hand against a violently upturned tree, sensing no life or reflection in the felled giant. The shaman felt his fury rise, and he dug his claws deep into the bark, finding a path until his hand rested in the paw print of another.

“Our guardian…in pain!” came the cries from the spirit wilderness.

The world was full of pain; it was a natural occurrence with a presence reflected in the spirit, as common as fear or love. These days though, ever since losing Xavier Hart to the shadows, there was more pain than ever, growing and spreading like a plague. The desire to shift grew stronger. It was easier to hunt with an animal’s mind.

Taking a deep breath, Anton slipped into a meditative trance.

“A bear spirit,” the shaman said, tracing the enormous pawprint left on the upturned tree. “An old guardian of the mountain, twisted into a terrible form.”

The Spirit-Speaker traced his hand along the tree reverently, his posture straight and his eyes closed. The reflection of this tree was dead in the spirit world and the physical, a revelation that shook Anton from his trance.

“The local packs were crushed. Funeral fires will burn under tonight’s moon,” Anton noted, speaking aloud to the spirits. “This guardian has turned its back on nature. It has become one of the Twisted. It has no place in this world or the next. It kills not for sustenance, but to lure in the spirits that feed in the wake of such violence.”

All around, nature cried out in sorrow and fear. Spirits of elk, moose, longhorn antelope, and bison begged the shaman for mercy. The tree, earth, and sky spirits all trembled, loosing small torrents of rain, and shrieking through the wind. The spirit world was afraid. Their guardian had become something unnatural, and the hunter had come.

A righteous fury built within the werewolf shaman. Anton could feel the shift coming long before the trembling reached his muscles. When the inevitable howl came, bursting from his jaws and announcing to all realms that the Spirit-Speaker was here, Anton relished it, savoring the release as it tore the human skin from his body.

His clothes transformed, becoming rich, cherry brown fur with tribal black patches, and in a moment of agony and release, Anton dropped to all fours, his human form locked deep within. Larger than any wolf but smaller than the bear spirit he hunted, the Spirit-Speaker opened amber eyes and breathed in the world anew. His claws were sharp as knives, his teeth stronger than bone. Anton let out a low growl and then took off into the forest, bounding along the upturned trees towards the mountain.

All around, the woodland creatures scattered, unwilling or unable to remain near such a predator. The large brown wolf paid them little mind; his thoughts and attention turned fully to the hunt. Nose to the earth, pausing only to read scent-markings left by his quarry, Anton was a blur of motion, one with the forest and the tightening terrain. The scent of blood and fear was strong, as was an aura of hate that settled over the woods like a blanket. Anton sensed spirits of malignance nearby, though not here in the physical world, and as he followed the trail of the great bear spirit, the oppressive aura grew stronger.

Anton followed the trail deeper into the small forest, passing purposefully felled trees and mauled earth. The land was scarred, and the closer Anton got to the mountain, the more the territorial markings turned to threats and warnings. Wary and on guard, Anton’s ears went back as the trail ended abruptly against a rocky outcropping of massive, stacked stone. To ordinary eyes and mortal senses, this a was dead-end. To Anton Spirit-Speaker, this wall of mountain was only the beginning.

‘An entrance,’ Anton thought, sniffing the wall before sitting back on his haunches. ‘The trail ends here in the physical world but goes on in the spirit.’

The Spirit-Speaker closed his eyes, allowing his senses to drift beyond this realm. He breathed in and out steadily, preparing himself for the plunge into a new world of sensation. Soon the shaman werewolf felt his spirit tug parallel, drifting as if on the open seas, and he opened his eyes again, seeing beyond the physical, into the realm of spirits. As always, Anton experienced a private thrill looking across the shores of one world into the next. He felt privileged and honored to witness the reflection of the physical, expressing this with a deep sigh.

The reflection of Vedauwoo was old, and Anton found himself looking out across a rocky outcropping under the brilliant glow of the great moon spirit. Darkness had already taken the land and the spirits of the night were out, hunting and playing, cavorting, and frolicking in their alien manner. Sky spirits tumbled, rumbling their song to the cloud dancers while every form of animal and forest spirit hunted, wild and free under the moonlit prairies of the spirit world. It was idyllic and to Anton, who’d never felt much connection to the lands of his birth, paradise.

Suddenly, a flash of emerald light, brighter than anything natural and reeking of magic, lit up the sky, startling thunderbirds and storm crows. It came from a cave in the distance, darker than the surrounding area and encircled by spirits of death.

Without thinking, Anton leapt through the stone gateway into the spirit, shedding his physical form as quickly as he’d shed his human. His quarry was there. His paws hit the ancient dirt of the spirit realm, and he was off, racing towards the pulsing green light.

“Spirit-Speaker!” cried the spirits of the moon, motes of silver light that followed Anton. “The one who calls himself Lord has come!”

“Spirit-Speaker!” called the animal spirits of the land, giving the sprinting spirit wolf a wide berth.

Anton did not stop or slow. He paid them no mind, his focus singular.

The cave ahead grew brighter and brighter, the deep, carved structure of the stone amplifying the mystical glow. As Anton approached, he slowed to a stop, sniffing at the cave entrance and studying the territorial claw marks of his target. This was the home of the guardian spirit of Vedauwoo, and the bear spirit was not alone.

Someone else was in there. Anton’s lupine senses could detect the smell of cologne and sweat, a familiar combination of sandalwood and vanilla, but he couldn’t place it. The green glow came again and with it a plaintiff rumble, the wounded growl of a colossal bear spirit. The spirits of the land had called the intruder Lord. The title bothered the shaman intimately.

Rage filled the Spirit-Speaker. Anton had come to fulfill his duty, but another had interfered, an interloper in the lands of the spirit. Steadying himself, Anton stepped into the cave. His fur bristled, reacting to the fading pulse of arcane energy. With every step, Anton gathered more of his power, becoming a veritable spirit weapon as he rounded a corner, stepping into the heart of the small cave.

About thirty yards away, there lay the heaving, bloodied form of the great guardian of Vedauwoo. Larger than a bull elephant, the bear spirit resembled a gargantuan grizzly. Its claws were like swords, and its low eyes burned with a fiery red aura. The great spirit lifted its head to stare at Anton, his gaze searing into the shaman wolf. It let out a low growl, its mouth twisted and decayed from a diet of pain and death spirits.

Anton took a step forward.

There was a pool of blood around the great spirit and in that crimson wake were human footprints. The feel of magic was overpowering, like standing close to something charged and electric. When the green pulse came again, it rose from behind the colossal spirit, washing over the bear and stitching deep lacerations shut. The bear spirit gritted its teeth and gauged its claws deep into the stone, wincing in pain. When the glow subsided, the spirit seemed to breathe easier.

It shifted its weight, rolling slightly, and from its side, a tall, imposing man in a startlingly white three-piece suit stood up, wiping blood from his hands on a handkerchief.

“May I help you?” the man asked, eyes flashing emerald then gold.

Anton was stunned. He shifted, standing up first on his hind legs before allowing the transformation to bring him back to a human appearance. The werewolf’s hands and feet were clawed, and his body still bore lupine elements. He growled uncertainly.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” Anton asked, circling warily around the mage.

“My name is Dominus,” the mage said, tossing the bloody rag aside. “You are interfering in Brotherhood business. I suggest you state your intentions and quickly.”

The darkness in the cave seemed to come alive, encircling Dominus protectively. Anton glanced at the spirit bear. In the creatures’ eyes, so filled with hate and pain, something else swirled. The spirit's aura was one of regret and longing. It looked away, unable to meet Anton’s gaze.

“I am Anton Spirit-Speaker. I’ve come to remove this Twisted from existence,” Anton said.

Dominus shook his head and wrung his wrists, readying his body for battle.

“That won’t do. Shash Akeki is under my protection. He will serve as a general in my spirit court once he regains strength,” Dominus said. “I will not allow you to harm him.”

The dark seemed to echo the mage's words, and Anton listened to an inhuman echo, whispering promises of violence and death. The shaman sniffed again, taking in the scent and appearance of Dominus before nodding in remembrance.

The Spirit-Speaker made a quick decision.

“I know you,” Anton said, sitting down. “Your people are the Brotherhood of Kings, yes? You fought in Detroit.”

Anton patted the cave floor, and Dominus narrowed his eyes.

“What is this?”

“I want to talk, to know more,” Anton said, gesturing for Dominus to join him. “You said his name was Shash Akeki. I know that to mean Bear of Pain. Do you know what he was called before that?”

Dominus nodded, sitting cross-legged in front of Anton, his back to the resting spirit.

“Shash Tanka,” Dominus answered.

“Yes! The Great Bear. He has become Twisted now. Subsisting outside of his natural diet. He hurts those he once protected. He hunts for pleasure,” Anton said. “He has no place in this world.”

“He has a place in mine,” Dominus said. “I fight for our dark world. He and his Twisted brethren shall fight beside me as warriors."

Anton had never heard of such a concept. He smiled genuinely and shifted entirely back to human, reaching into his green cowl and producing a long wooden pipe.

“Smoke?” Anton asked.

“I do not,” Dominus said.

Anton shrugged.

“I’m interested. I can help. Tell me more,” Anton said, eyes flashing with spiritual power.

“An alliance?” Dominus asked, smiling. “How unlikely…”