A simple farmer stood on his porch at the edge of his sward during the early morning, just before light. A day of work awaited he and his kin, but he was always the first to rise so he stood there alone. A pipe in hand, puffing at the blistering leaf inside, he conducted his morning ritual of a smoke while watching the dawn brighten the earth. The sun hadn’t quite rose above the rolling hills but bathed the world in a sort of grey ambiance to announce its inevitable arrival. Then something caught his eye...
At the opposite edge of his field, just inside the mists of the earliest parts of the morning; the still hanging moon reflected off of two discs suspended in the air. A frown rose through the smoke dancing around his face as he squinted to make it out. From here, it was impossible to tell what the strange saucers were, but the amber glow flicked this way and that. Perhaps fairies, though their frantic ways of flight rarely kept them as still as the pair being witnessed. A carriage with high lanterns still lit? Though, what would they be doing on his land, and so very far from any path carved by he or visitors? The neighbors perhaps? Strange, their household rarely roused at this hour.
Then it happened. Icy fingers scraped through his abdomen and raked along his ribs before a chill gripped his lungs and froze his breath. The sight caused dread to blossom in his core and travel down his spine upon realization of what he was looking at..or at least what was looking back at him. The pair of mysterious globes *blinked* in unison. A pair of eyes.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. His heart thundered against his chest. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
As the fog parted, a bipedal horror began to materialize gazing out at him from across the pasture. Surely nothing could be that monstrous, the creature harboring the eyes must have been thrice as tall as a normal man. Long and brawny limbs that ended in claws the length of daggers hung from thick muscular shoulders. The misty morning revealed a broad back, hunched forward yet still rivaling the height of the weeping willow towering close by. The gloom silhouetted it just enough to conceal the features that peered out from a nightmarish shroud of lustrous silvery fur. The longest moment of the man’s life ticked by and eerie silence choked the air as they stared at one another. A cold sweat started down his brow as turmoil chewed at his paralyzed body. Another blink, this time slower and accented by a tilting of its head as if the enormous thing were contemplating what it was looking at.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
The irony was not missed, and had he not been petrified perhaps he could have laughed at the juxtaposition. However, an overactive imagination told him that had he made even the slightest of sounds it would bound toward him. That it would chew up the distance between them at a rate in which not even a horse could match. Lastly, and most importantly, that fleeing would serve little purpose before he found his body gouged by a mouthful of swords. Then, the brume billowed thicker and concealed the thing from view. Just as quickly as it had appeared, and once the fog had cleared, the titan was gone...
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump..
The farmer must have stood there for an hour, dread anchoring him in place and unblinking as his eyes remained locked on the spot where the beast had been. Perturbation shackled him, narrating that if he were to look away for even a moment, it would be upon him; and that the last thing he would ever see were those giant, amber eyes. It wasn’t until the warm hand of his wife touched his arm, that he screamed.
.
.
Born of the fang, growing up was difficult. Not due the strays the would hiss or bark at the boy unprovoked. It was the abandonment that came with the loss of his mother. Being somewhere in the middle of man and wolf made you a dangerous sort, although you couldn't tell it by looking at him. He just appeared as any other little boy would. Passed from aunt and uncle, grand parents or the like, the humans in his family feared him once they learned of his unfortunate birth. Any relations on his father's side were met with hostile discrimination, a bastard born to the bitch, or so they would say. It was inevitable that Grimmer would eventually be handed off to some apprenticeship at a young age, easier to just brush your problems off onto someone else.
The merchant that hired him on as an assistant was distant and cold, going by the name Clessian and hardly as exotic as his name sounded. He rarely spoke with Grimmer more than was needed to accomplish a chore, and compassion was nonexistent. That was, until one day when he caught the young wolf's hand in the purse of another merchant. Confronted by Clessian, Grimmer prepared for the beating, but it never came. Instead, he was met with questions.
"Why didn't you try to steal from me, boy?"
The lad was honest with the man. "Why would I steal what we already have?"
Clearly, this pleased the merchant. And that day Grimmer was let in on a secret. The merchant was a thief, and a damn good one at that. Suddenly, a new world was revealed to the orphan, he had a role model, and was quick to grasp the teachings provided. under the thief's tutelage, he would grow into quite the skilled burglar. He was happy, and this was something that would forge an unyielding respect for the old man.
As the years passed, and age sculpted him, he felt himself being drawn away from the cities. Something deep inside had him yearning for the wilderness, the morning dew at his finger tips. He would dream of vast snow ridden plains, a canopy of trees and the moon barely peeking through. It was time for the thief to give into the desires that rested deep in his were-blood. The old man was sad to see him go, he had become a son to him, but he had nothing else to teach Grimmer. He made no promise that he would return, but they both knew it came with a heavy heart. Sadly, Grimmer would never see him again. In the young man's absence, Clessian would fall victim to age and pass away. Grimmer refuses to speak of the events that drove him into becoming a sword for hire, but it's safe to assume that it had something to do with Clessian's demise.
War came, and he was conscripted into service as a ranger. Bloody conflict that had torn the male's previously sworn oath to never take a life unless absolutely necessary. A conviction that seemed like a dream. Years passed, and the male hardened, quickly unrivaled in sword and Javelin. Easily one of the best rangers his unit had ever seen despite his enormous stature, and only enhanced by his unfortunate birth. Most of his family had withered as time ate away at their human bodies, younger siblings dying of old age. He wasn't jaded, but still forgotten; old, but only appearing to be in his late twenties.
Eventually, the war ended, and the werewolf would turn toward mercenary work. A scout, caravan guard, investigator, or guide. Grimmer goes where the coin takes him, and it's a vast world with many people. Perhaps someday he will settle down, but for now he wanders; his only friends: Demi, a spirited horse, a sword that he has aptly named "Rancor", and the shadow that follows in his wake, Hexrim.