Tragus

LAWFUL NEUTRAL | ISTJ-A: The Logistician | Enneagram 8, 9-Wing [The Bear]
51% Introverted | 58% Observant | 88% Thinking | 89% Judging | 74% Assertive

A distant, somber figure that seems almost out of place in the light. He is certainly not the warmest wolf, but he treats everyone he meets with the same superficial politeness, speaking when spoken to and not much more. He's very tight-lipped about what happened to him before he came through the Rift and will become agitated if pressed. The only sliver of insight he's ever divulged is that he was wrongfully banished, and did nothing to deserve his sentence.

In truth Tragus is terrified, but refuses to show it. Showing weakness is what got him cast out from Herth. The old wolf is touchy about accepting help from others - suspicious of everyone's motivations no matter how well-meaning or harmless they appear. He has little sympathy to spare for suffering wolves either, hardened by years of harsh living. A stickler for tradition and rules.

Most of the time he sticks to the shadows, watching others and hiding his disdain for them well. Surrounded by sinners in a strange world, he clings to his faith like a drowning man - he may have been forsaken by his pack, but not by his goddess. This world is full of Her light. Pride will not permit him to give up, and he zealously believes that She still has a purpose for an old grym like him.

The world he called home was a dark, desolate place, a plane of endless night. A wasteland. Tundra and arid, crumbling ridges as far as the eye could see – when one could see. The sun rarely ever rose above the horizon so deep in the north, and if it did, one would be blessed to catch a glimpse through the ever-shifting fog that shrouded the land.

Denizens of Herth were as dark as the realm itself; clad in shades of black, gray, and deep, night-blue; it was unheard of–and an auspicious occasion–for new pups to be born bearing any other color. Silver and white were marks that destined the bearer for greater things, like the exalted daughters of Liraal who guided the ancestors from the Rift all those years ago:

Tyrimh, the eldest, the stars woven in her coat.
Siamot, the middle sister, with pale eyes like the sun.
And Rega, the last, a silver moon-mark upon her brow.

In all the generations that Herth has lived in their barren home, very few marked wolves followed the sisters. These wolves were remembered in history as lirkin; the blood descendants of Liraal. Every mother of Herth prayed for a marked child; in a world where prey was as scarce as light, status meant everything. You either fought for your right to eat, or were born lucky enough to raise yourself above the laws that shadows abide.

When Evaga and Hestor saw the silver in their third pup’s brow, there was no question that he was blessed by the sisters.

Proud to claim kinship to the lirkin of old, Tragus is prepared from an early age to become Herth’s next Dreld - the priest who communes with Liraal, tending to the dead and sentencing wolves to the Rift in accordance to Her will. His predecessor–a half-blind wolf named Deodem–was no lirkin, but a devout and faithful servant of Liraal all the same, and honored to mentor a marked descendant of Her children. Tragus drank up every scrap of wisdom and history that the old wolf had to offer, even as the Dreld’s face began to gray with signs of age.

By the time he was a yearling, Deodem’s muzzle had turned as gray as the dawn. They both knew what it meant— in Herth, a wolf who was too old to serve the pack must earn the right to live on. It was the Dreld’s duty to test their strength; at every turn of the moon, if they wished to live, an elder wolf had to defeat the Dreld in a trial by combat. Life in the wastes was ruthless; Herth could not afford to care for wolves who failed to keep up with the rest. This was the law.

But Deodem did not intend to live. He did not fear death; he was content with all he achieved in his life and wished to join the stars as an honored soul. He would fight, but only to impart one last lesson on his successor: not all grym will be at peace with their end. Wolves emerged from their dens, gathering around the yearling and elder who faced each other in the ring.

Remember this fight, Deodem told him, for it will be the first of many.
I’ve done my duty, and now you must do yours.

The full moon-eye of Liraal’s gaze shone through the mist to witness as the old wolf’s wish was granted. Deodem fought hard, but in the end was struck down by Tragus’s jaws, and the blooded Dreld lent his voice to the chorus of Herth sending their fallen packmate’s spirit skyward.

Time passed quickly after that night. Tragus served Herth faithfully for many years, sending honorable grym to their brethren in the stars and guiding the pack in accordance to the Mother’s will. Any wolf too weak, sinful, or problematic was condemned to the darkness of the Rift; those who fled Herth to escape their fate became shunned, and driven away on sight by patrols… if the wilderness didn’t claim them first. Death came swiftly for lone wolves in the tundra.

Trouble brews when the land is struck with a sickness that claims wolf and prey alike.

As more and more packmates fall ill, Tragus orders all patrols to scour far and wide for herbs that will cure the disease; the longer the search stretches, the more desperate Herth becomes, but their Dreld assures them they can overcome this trial. We will weather this. The Mother will not allow sickness to be our end.

But words can only do so much when afflicted wolves begin to succumb to their symptoms. Within two months, a dozen wolves had perished… in all his years of leadership, he had never laid so many packmates to rest in such a short time. Even the elk herds- which Herth had relied on for generations to survive–start to dwindle in number. Words are not enough. Tragus doubles down, ordering patrols to hunt down the shunned in their travels, unwilling to leave even a single elk to the sinners in the shadows.

A clan of deserters is discovered during one such hunt; four shunned, with several pups and youths among them. When Tragus is brought to the young for Liraal’s judgment… he deems them innocent of their parents’ crimes and orders they be taken back to Herth, leaving the sinners to be slaughtered. Only two of the young wolves dared to rebel and were made an example of, cast into the Rift as a warning to the rest: life in Herth is the only life available to them.

The most devout among the pack grumble that shunned-kin have no place in Herth, but the pack needs new blood, so their protests fall silent. For a time.

And then one night, a stranger emerged from the fog.

None can believe their eyes when a giant, unearthly white wolf approaches the pack’s densite. She introduces herself as Vanys, a lirkin born in exile and claiming to have “redeemed” the flock of young shunned-kin with her. The ghostly visitor has but one request: entry, for herself and her kith, to the family that even those cast from the light spoke of with such reverence. Tragus is wary of her motives and the sheer amount of strange wolves flanking her… but with the pack still in dire straits, so he agrees– provided they earn their place in Herth as a grym would.

All of them succeed except the last, a scared youth who lost their nerve and ran to Vanys. For a moment Tragus can only watch, feeling strangely chilled, as the white wolf throws the yearling into the dust and keeps them there for him to deal the fatal blow. There is no hesitation in her actions. Her eyes lock with his and burn.

There is no place for weakness here.

Vanys and her remaining followers are integrated with Herth swiftly after the ordeal. One of the new arrivals recognizes the sickness ravaging the pack, aiding the hunters in locating the proper herbs to save lives. Liraal came to their aid, just as Tragus assured she would. This gains the young lirkin more favor with affected families and the pack at large, who were already impressed by the ferocity of Vanys and her children. Many wolves look to Tragus, curious if he has heard Liraal’s will for the strange wolf… and if she was sent to succeed him. She is lirkin, after all.

But for the first time in his life, the Dreld is hesitant to abide by tradition.

Something is off about the way Vanys watches him, her eerie blue gaze ever-burning. He has never felt so unsettled by a packmate the way he is in her presence. While he debated his course of action during the pack’s recovery, life went on… and so did the herds, which continued to thin. Prey became scarcer, forcing patrols to go farther afield to hunt. More than once packmates are lost or return injured from expeditions, and as the pack demands to know what wisdom he has received from the Mother, Tragus begins cracking under pressure. Liraal had sent no omens, no dreams. Sickness could be cured, but what was he to do if the elk disappeared from the tundra? Herth would not survive without their main source of food.

It’s then that Vanys approaches him. The wight had shared little of her connection to Liraal when he broached the subject… but now, she claimed that she was to prevent a great darkness from befalling the pack. She cited visions of horror and death that plagued her relentlessly, though she has never seen the source of them, until now.

We must follow the herds south. Beyond the tundra.
A deep winter will come to bury us all if we remain.

Tragus is shaken by the revelation, but refuses to believe it could be true. Herth had lived in their ancestral home for generations– it sounds like no vision of Liraal to him. He couldn’t convince the pack to leave on the vague suggestion of settling in a land beyond the tundra. No one is even sure the tundra has an end, as no one has reached it and lived to tell the tale. He rebukes Vanys and insists that she is too young to realize this was simply another trial to weather, and the elk would return. They must. You will aid me in assuring the pack of this, do you understand?

Eyes aglow with the same searing light, she agreed.

She stood aside when Tragus rallied the pack, leading several hunting expeditions himself to mollify those most dissatisfied by his assurances… but in his absence, the wight sings a different tune. Vanys and her faithful turn heads among the devout and restless alike, feeding into the pack’s fears, capitalizing on their discontent and resentment. It’s not difficult to paint herself as a savior, a lirkin of purer descendance with her snow-white pelt… not to mention that Tragus was nearing the age that most grym would be faced with their first moon trial. Not even the Dreld was above that law. Strength trumps all else.

Is Tragus truly faithful, or was he only strong enough to never be challenged?

Patrols continue to return empty-handed from hunting, and discontent with Tragus’ leadership reaches an all-time high. Now it is not only Vanys who looks at him with a strange fire in her eyes, and the Dreld finds his allies are few and far between. It all comes to a head when he is confronted by his own sister Al-Hala, a mother who’d lost her pup to starvation. Driven mad by her grief and– thanks to Vanys’ influence– the belief that Tragus had put his pride before the will of Liraal, the altercation quickly turns into a vicious brawl for all the pack to see.

The battle is savage and grisly; Al-Hala lies dead as the dust settles, but Tragus’s is not unscathed, left with a mangled foreleg in the aftermath.

Vanys takes advantage of the situation to condemn Tragus, citing his weakness and pride as corruption – he was no lirkin, but a deceiver. A red dawn breaks during her speech, the fog thinning just enough for the light to catch on her fur and appear to blaze while Tragus is cast in her shadow. The spectacle is the tipping point that convinces the most devout of the pack she is their goddess reborn.

Three nights of carnage break out as civil war overtakes Herth; Tragus and those still loyal to him fight to oust the true deceiver from their midst, but Vanys proves too strong, and too influential. One by one his faithful packmates are overpowered and in the end, the Dreld is dragged, starving and badly wounded, before Vanys. A chilling grin splits her maw as she offers him a choice: swear loyalty to the born-again goddess and be spared, or perish.

He refused, of course, accusing her of plotting this takeover from the beginning and branding her a false prophet. I am no liar. My faith belongs to Liraal and Her Children, not monsters who seek to play God.

Very well then, Vanys replied, eyes glittering with delight. To the Rift I sentence you, shadow.

The pack descends like a wave of shadows, hounding the old wolf towards his doom despite all attempts to die where Liraal’s light can still reach him. Oblivion takes him as the maw swallows him whole… and then he wakes, disoriented but alive, in a world utterly unlike the wasteland he’s known all his life.

A world of sinners.