Branwen Blackknife was born the third child and only daughter of the Pack Blackknife Chieftain, a moderately powerful Pack within Clan Nightriver. Her mother was a warrior of great renown, who won Chiefhood of the Pack through honor duel, and led alongside her mate, a warrior of almost equal might.
Branwen, though, was a scout. Her strengths were keen eyes and sense of smell, and great skill in interpreting birdsong. Although a fierce fighter, her methods were not those of a proud warrior, but those of an alley-scrapper. Where her parents stood tall and fought with sword, and shield, and spear, and bow, Branwen crouched low and favored knife, and fist, and fang, and thrown stone. And as such, she was a disappointment.
Living ever under the shadow of her parents and brothers, she had to journey outside of the village to gain respect, to escape the continual damning by faint praise. She found a place, for a while, guarding trade caravans. First small parties as they passed from her village to the next, then larger troupes as they traversed all through Nightriver territory. From there, she joined a large coalition of merchants who had traveled from one coast to another and over the mountains in between, and required a replacement guard for their return journey.
Branwen guarded that caravan, led by the Watchwolves, through two more trading runs without incident that summer, crossing the mountains twice each time. But the third trip came in autumn, and winter arrived early in the high mountains.
After freeing themselves from the first storm and coming to rest below the treeline, where the snow was still light, Branwen climbed the highest tree near camp to try and spot the trail ahead. From there, she saw a treacherous path ready to collapse, smelled strong winds sweeping up from the still far-away sea, tasted frozen dryness in the air, and heard only the faintest birdsong – the quiet song that went “Fly south, line your nests. Winter is here.”
The group did not want to hear her, when she told them to go to ground, to stay where they were. They all just wanted to go home. The argument lasted until the first flakes began to fall.
Two and twenty Ulven went up into the Great Wolf’s Hackles that fall – sixteen merchants and artisans, six guards and scouts. Five stayed there come spring. The first three perished in an avalanche after the first snowfall, and were left to the wild. The next two, Griogair and Edana, fell during the winter, each during their turn to hunt or gather firewood.
After returning to the lowlands they had longed for months to see, the caravan rested, and healed, and let themselves be rejuvenated by the spring rains washing over Mardrun. Some were content to stay where the ground lays flat for the rest of their days, but the rest found themselves drawn back to the mountains by the time the summer sun rode directly overhead. None moreso than Branwen, who saw most clearly that it was not the snow which had doomed them, but the earth. Snow would always fall in winter, but crumbling footpaths could be widened and shored so they would not collapse, and boulders cleared to where ice cannot break them loose from their resting place.
Their mission clear, the remaining travelers went to their Packs, to gather what assistance they could, be it food, tools, or Ulven hands. Chieftain Blackknife saw no honor in building roads. “The Great Wolf does not hear the names of children playing in the woods,” she said, and denied aid to the mission. “The Blackknife family will not have a coward bricklayer in its midst,” she said, and disowned her daughter.
When the group that would become known in a few years as Pack Coywolf came back together to begin their mission, the other survivors of the original caravan gave Branwen a new name. They called her Stormherald, to honor the day she saved all their lives simply by climbing a tree. Although the Coywolves have never had a formal Chieftain, whenever Branwen Stormherald was near, they would listen most closely to her. She always seemed to know when the weather was about to turn, and when the path was not as stable as it seemed.
For the rest of her life, Branwen pondered the need to destroy Ulven flesh before the journey to meet the Great Wolf can begin. Custom dictates that fire be the preferred means. What is done with the bones after they have been stripped of flesh – be they sealed in jars or buried in hollow hills or kept and burned again at midwinter – varies from Clan to Clan or even Pack to Pack, but to be burned seems to be the wish of all Ulven. It is accepted that being consumed by animals will do the job as well as fire, but she could not help wonder if that didn’t truly send you on your way, but merely dispersed one’s soul through the local fauna. She suspected that was why Edana and Griogair seemed to follow her wherever she went, and wondered if they would one day haunt her children, as well.
When she died, Branwen’s heirs laid her body in a clearing where the ravens gathered and the coyotes prowled, as per her wishes. She wished to test her theory, you see. If she was right, then there were far worse fates in her eyes than following the wild things for all eternity. And if she was wrong, she could only hope that the Great Wolf might have once heard the name of a childish bricklayer.
Branwen, though, was a scout. Her strengths were keen eyes and sense of smell, and great skill in interpreting birdsong. Although a fierce fighter, her methods were not those of a proud warrior, but those of an alley-scrapper. Where her parents stood tall and fought with sword, and shield, and spear, and bow, Branwen crouched low and favored knife, and fist, and fang, and thrown stone. And as such, she was a disappointment.
Living ever under the shadow of her parents and brothers, she had to journey outside of the village to gain respect, to escape the continual damning by faint praise. She found a place, for a while, guarding trade caravans. First small parties as they passed from her village to the next, then larger troupes as they traversed all through Nightriver territory. From there, she joined a large coalition of merchants who had traveled from one coast to another and over the mountains in between, and required a replacement guard for their return journey.
Branwen guarded that caravan, led by the Watchwolves, through two more trading runs without incident that summer, crossing the mountains twice each time. But the third trip came in autumn, and winter arrived early in the high mountains.
After freeing themselves from the first storm and coming to rest below the treeline, where the snow was still light, Branwen climbed the highest tree near camp to try and spot the trail ahead. From there, she saw a treacherous path ready to collapse, smelled strong winds sweeping up from the still far-away sea, tasted frozen dryness in the air, and heard only the faintest birdsong – the quiet song that went “Fly south, line your nests. Winter is here.”
The group did not want to hear her, when she told them to go to ground, to stay where they were. They all just wanted to go home. The argument lasted until the first flakes began to fall.
Two and twenty Ulven went up into the Great Wolf’s Hackles that fall – sixteen merchants and artisans, six guards and scouts. Five stayed there come spring. The first three perished in an avalanche after the first snowfall, and were left to the wild. The next two, Griogair and Edana, fell during the winter, each during their turn to hunt or gather firewood.
After returning to the lowlands they had longed for months to see, the caravan rested, and healed, and let themselves be rejuvenated by the spring rains washing over Mardrun. Some were content to stay where the ground lays flat for the rest of their days, but the rest found themselves drawn back to the mountains by the time the summer sun rode directly overhead. None moreso than Branwen, who saw most clearly that it was not the snow which had doomed them, but the earth. Snow would always fall in winter, but crumbling footpaths could be widened and shored so they would not collapse, and boulders cleared to where ice cannot break them loose from their resting place.
Their mission clear, the remaining travelers went to their Packs, to gather what assistance they could, be it food, tools, or Ulven hands. Chieftain Blackknife saw no honor in building roads. “The Great Wolf does not hear the names of children playing in the woods,” she said, and denied aid to the mission. “The Blackknife family will not have a coward bricklayer in its midst,” she said, and disowned her daughter.
When the group that would become known in a few years as Pack Coywolf came back together to begin their mission, the other survivors of the original caravan gave Branwen a new name. They called her Stormherald, to honor the day she saved all their lives simply by climbing a tree. Although the Coywolves have never had a formal Chieftain, whenever Branwen Stormherald was near, they would listen most closely to her. She always seemed to know when the weather was about to turn, and when the path was not as stable as it seemed.
For the rest of her life, Branwen pondered the need to destroy Ulven flesh before the journey to meet the Great Wolf can begin. Custom dictates that fire be the preferred means. What is done with the bones after they have been stripped of flesh – be they sealed in jars or buried in hollow hills or kept and burned again at midwinter – varies from Clan to Clan or even Pack to Pack, but to be burned seems to be the wish of all Ulven. It is accepted that being consumed by animals will do the job as well as fire, but she could not help wonder if that didn’t truly send you on your way, but merely dispersed one’s soul through the local fauna. She suspected that was why Edana and Griogair seemed to follow her wherever she went, and wondered if they would one day haunt her children, as well.
When she died, Branwen’s heirs laid her body in a clearing where the ravens gathered and the coyotes prowled, as per her wishes. She wished to test her theory, you see. If she was right, then there were far worse fates in her eyes than following the wild things for all eternity. And if she was wrong, she could only hope that the Great Wolf might have once heard the name of a childish bricklayer.