Dawnhammer Origins: White Wolves

White Wolves

The look in John's eyes sent shivers up Silas' spine. Silas imagined the same look in Beethoven's eyes as he stood before the orchestra that would give life to his symphonies. There was intensity, passion and determination. He doubted there would be as much lethality in Beethoven's gaze, though.

Goosebumps tracked his arms and his flesh felt electrified. His friend's amber eyes didn't flicker. John wasn't just big, he was massive. At eighteen years old, he was already a few inches over six feet and weighed in at over three hundred pounds in a body that was chiseled with a nearly non-existent body fat index.

Silas was glad John didn't live in the time of the Greeks. Their gods would have risen up to smite the man out of sheer jealousy.

"You know, we don't have to come to every one of these." Silas stated offhandedly.

"It's the Ascension. It's a matter of honor."

"It's a matter of revenge, John. I couldn't help but notice every one we've attended has been for someone who has either bullied you for being a soft-hearted giant, or me for liking guys."

This brought a deep chuckle from the big man. Truthfully, they were hardly more than boys. In the six months leading to their own ascension, they were allowed to join in the final round of proceedings for any clan they wished to. Currently, the Timberwolves were hosting and those hopeful of completing the Rite of Ascension would shortly enter whatever the 'arena' was for that particular clan. Silas gave that some consideration. The Timberwolves, he thought, simply called it 'the Yard'. Some pirate clans took their namesakes way too seriously. Mountain Wolves called their trials the 'Predation', and it wasn't uncommon for initiates participating in the Ascension to kill their would-be pack mates or be killed themselves. One had to be a truly vicious sort to join ranks with them. It was fitting, though. The different packs within the Mountain Wolf regime tended to be some of the best mercenaries in Terran space.

"Whatever the case," John grumbled, drawing Silas from his thoughts, "it provides us with the training we need to complete our own trials."

"Not one person has lasted five seconds with us." The smaller man pointed out.

"I think the record was three."

"And he was a tough nut to crack." Silas smiled at the memory. He had gotten in two whole swings before John started handing out dirt-naps to anyone within reaching distance.

"What about that girl from Red Wolf?"

"Doesn't count."

The big man laughed. "Why not?"

"She was on our side."

"Had a hell of a round-house, though."

Silas rubbed his jaw at the memory, nodding his grudging agreement.

"Here they come!"

Silas groaned. Why did someone always shout 'Here they come!'? It was a point of annoyance for him. He was annoyed enough that he stepped in front of John to meet the newcomer.

Running at full-tilt, wooden sword held high, jostling comically under a helmet that was two sizes too big, a young man came screaming up the central path from the main corridor of the station. Basically, the distance between the rim and hub of the turning wheel of the space station was territory for a clan. The Timber Spoke was just one in the wheel.

Silas identified the boy as one "Jaul Tiller". He ran through a short mental checklist. Had the boy beaten him or John when they arrived at Canis Station? Yes. Had the boy's attitude been improved over the last few years? No. Would John receive the greater satisfaction of braining the arrogant bastard, or would Silas?