Oleander the Outcast
Oleander was born the single pup of a litter that need not have been. Her sires had already birthed a golden pup, one who repelled the Chaos of the Consumed with his mere presence. She, on the other hand, was just another set of paws that could be put to work, much like her sister.
They had hoped that she may be able to be a healer, but she crushed the herbs she was given with her enthusiasm. Then, a hunter perhaps, but that same enthusiasm meant she trampled the underbrush too loudly, giving away her position. Maybe a miner- but her eyes never acclimatized to the dark and so she found little in the walls of the cave.
On and on and on, new tasks presented her way, and failed all the same. Her memory wasn't sharp enough, her mannerisms not delicate enough, her ability to adjust and adapt far too slow to be of much use. Perhaps if there was more patience, or perhaps if there was something simpler, she could be a useful wolf in the pack but alas. There was nowhere for a pup that was only a mouth to feed to exist when their noble quest awaited them.
Perhaps this recollection of boundless cruelty was tainted by what was to come. Oleander, as she now knows herself, would like to think so. She would like to imagine that the glimpses of her sires' heads, bathed in the warmth glow of the sun that always reached them, are not figments of imagination. She would like to believe that the cries of other pups around her were from excitement and not cruelty at her own shortcomings.
There is one memory from her youth that she keeps close and knows to be true. She had ventured out with Aster one evening, the other pup bolstering her sour mood from another failed hunt by suggesting they venture out and try and find something to bring back themselves, to prove that she could be given the task. To venture out of the grove was dangerous- or so they were told. Walking side by side with Aster, she felt that there was no danger to be had, simply the chance to prove everyone wrong.
But alas, those warnings were true. Something came for them- dark, with haunted eyes. A shape or a shadow more than a thing, looming over two quaking pups, far too young.
Aster was the one who moved first, darting around the beast and barking up a storm, fear nowhere to be found. She turned and fled in the direction they came, shouting for help, glancing back in desperate hope that the other may make it out alive.
Indeed, her cries for aid were heard, and the grown wolves of the pack descended on the beast, tearing it to shreds and bringing Aster home with his first battle scars which he bore proudly. Oleander was overwhelmed with joy that her friend was alright, but soured with disappointment at her own cowardice. Still, the other pup always told her how smart she was, to go find aid, and how quick she was, that she was able to run far enough that the others heard her.
Perhaps something was meant to blossom there. A kinship that would stretch into a courtship that would turn into a lovely nest of their own pups. An expectation, certainly, one that made her feel as sour as she had when she had realized that she had rushed away to let her friend to die. Aster seemed to entertain it more than her, bringing her cooked meats from around the fire, flowers from when he left the grove to hunt, crafted her the wrap that they all adorned and forged the gem that would sit in its center. She accepted it- what else was she to do?
It was not until the rare occasion that a storm rolled in through their grove that her true talent emerged. While the rest of the pack ducked their heads and growled on about how their pelts felt when wet, she instead found herself drawn to the sensation. It was there that she found her own abilities- to dance with the droplets, to beckon them to her own will.
This skill was not unheard of and perhaps in another pack, in a different grove, it would have been seen as something to celebrate. With the pack's distinct dislike of rain, it was treated more as a parlor trick, one that had little use to the pack in reality.
Here, the frustration bubbled over. She had a skill no one else seemed to have, an ability that should provide the pack with a way to be stronger and more formidable, and she was dismissed yet again.
At first she just snipped at others. Then she denied the tasks given to her. And then it was barking and nipping, snarling teeth and bloodied claws. Her older brother became an aggressor- ostensibly to protect the clan, but she thought there might be an element of jealousy, a kernel of resentment that she conquered the one thing they found so irritating, without so much as blinking.
The day she left, limping and bleeding, is a blur in her mind. All she knew was that she had to leave, that there was no welcome and had been no welcome. Years of resentment pushed her forward and out of the Darkspine forests, forging her own path as far away as possible.
spoot
