Oh, how
Baeshor wished he had just been mauled before he had been able to open his mouth.
In the half a century he had served as a Venator, the man had fought through wounds that would have easily left those of a lesser caliber incapacitated, but shrugging off the jeers and playful ribbing of his comrades proved to be a different matter entirely, time and time again. He knew there would be no satisfaction torn from
Gannis’ sorry hide, no matter how hard his pride tried to convince him otherwise. Baeshor’s only recourse was to distract himself with violence. That had served him well in the past and that day was no different; splitting a wolf down the length of its spine was at least cathartic.
With
Grinnell around, even allowing himself a moment of distraction to smother his temper proved impossible. Baershor looked up from the wolf in time to see the small man blowing him a kiss across the battlefield.
‘
Puppy.’
Of all the things he could have, Grinnell chose to call Baeshor
that.
Grinnell was a bastard in every sense of the word. The whoreson always knew just what to say to twist him up inside in ways Baeshor knew neither of them fully understood –or wanted to. No, that was a lie; he knew precisely why Grinnell held that power over him. It shouldn’t have made him angry to acknowledge that, but his mind was like water. It sought the familiar path and the various droplets of conflicting thoughts ran together, converging into a rivulet that flowed out of him in violent exasperation.
Years of training and experience were too easily forgotten when emotions ran high, even for a seasoned Venator like Baeshor. He pulled his axe free from the wolf’s back and tossed it to the ground in favor of seizing the carcass by its hind legs. It was heavy, but not for Baeshor. As he threw the wolf, he did not feel its weight, only an unbearable desire for retribution. The steaming, mangled remains flew through the air swiftly, raining offal and filth along its path until it struck Grinnell solidly in the back. The sound they made – both the wolf’s carcass and Grinnell – as they collided was gratifying, but it wasn’t enough. Polearm left carelessly where it had fallen, the man stalked towards the downed Venator with hackles raised. Baeshor was blinded to the
Leshy lashing out at Gannis and to
Gottfried as she brandished steel. It was only the sudden, shrill squealing that pierced his ears that made him falter.
Several meters away, Servator had been caught in a wolf’s jaws. The young pup, who was still all leg and no bite, was pinned by the larger beast and desperately thrashing under it as he was violently shaken. Servator snapped his teeth at empty air. He was outmatched and outmaneuvered, caught by the loose skin just below the oversized, spiked collar he wore.
Baeshor did not need to look to recognize his cusos canem’s cry. Dismay curled his lip and, after the briefest battle between prudence and ego, he spun round and launched himself forwards.
His metamorphosis began the moment Baeshor saw Servator beneath his attacker. It was instinct, practically second nature to him. For Baeshor, the grinding of bones had always been preferable to the slicing of flesh. Blood magic had its place and he employed it when necessary, but, to the large Venator, the power that came with even a partial shift was well worth the risks that came with it.
His heart rate spiked as he ran and Baeshor was hit with a familiar rush of adrenaline that dilated his pupils until all but a slim gold ring was left in the uncanny blackness of his eyes.
The various parts of his right arm started to contort in a grotesque transformation that all Venari were familiar with. Baeshor couldn’t hear the sickening sound of his bones moving against one another over the battle, but he could feel it. They snapped in places, pulled apart and back together by the rapidly thickening and lengthening muscle fibers as they tried to accommodate the limb’s rearrangement. His body broke and mended itself until his arm was twisted into the shape it yearned to take -- No longer the arm of a man, but one of a
monster.
It was agony, even altering only his arm, but the flood of endorphins that quickly followed chased away that pain and left him in a state of euphoria. He stopped the transfiguration with a reluctance that he knew he could not admit aloud to any Venator -- even Grinnell. He only needed the one limb fortified. A leshy and a handful of wolves didn’t merit giving in to the beast entirely and any further transformation would leave him with no justification for his actions. The Venari did not shift needlessly, nor for the pleasure and exhilaration that it brought them. It was a
taboo that Baeshor could not allow himself to break, regardless of the temptation.
By the time Baeshor reached the wolf and seized it by its face with his unchanged hand, he felt ready to sink his teeth into the beast’s skull just to taste blood. He moved fast – faster than the wolf could react to – and caught it by its lower jaw with elongated fingers and claws. The wolf struggled as he lifted it by its gaping maw, off of Servator and higher, until its back legs pedaled uselessly in the air. It snarled and Baeshor snarled back. Blood splattered across his coat as he pulled the jaws apart in a sharp motion. The body fell heavily at his feet and Baeshor stepped over it to scoop up the crying hound. He tucked Servator under the more human of his arms as if the pup were a sack of potatoes.
As far as Baeshor was concerned at that moment, a sack of potatoes might have been more useful.
