Wolverins of Frost Creek (Chapter 1 Preview 2)

A new species struggles with life on Earth after it's near fatal end.

The pine forest near the swamp bustled with the sounds of birds and foul of all kinds. It was a frequent spot for moss dwellers and sometimes even murk snakes. Such creatures were almost foreign to wolverins, so much so when encountering them, they lacked any experience to judge appropriate action and mostly fell victim to vicious bites. This was the least of Conan’s concern; he was an avid explorer of the southern and northern wastes. If anyone had seen all there was to see in the world, it had been him. Conan spent days or even weeks away from the village, always searching for food or new land. Conan’s dreams of the open sea were not accepted by the rest of the village, they’re closed minds receded them to the safety of the land they knew. Conan was far from such fears, and daringly he sprung out into the daunting and unexplored world. He served as an excellent solo hunter; he preferred going solo as well. With packs it always felt stealth was not an option and Conan relied on stealth. The occasional fishing spot on the edge of these swampy creeks is what Conan was looking for this time around, not anything like a caribou or deer. He brought the bow along though, just in case. He arrived at a common spot where the Great Creators had left an artifact of their heritage. It was an interesting area and Conan admired it. Fused into the soil was the large metal and rusted towering creation left behind as evidence of greater beings than the wolverins themselves. Its large torn tail stuck out close to the tree tops and was left grown over by vines and vegetation in the local space. Conan walked passed it but at the same time admiring its age and construction. The material was unfamiliar to the wolverins, something of a mystery unlocked by these ancient beings whose only gifts to the wolverins seemed to have been the world they once called home.

Conan was use to the unnatural features despite recognizing their splendor. Other wolverins saw these long disheveled artifacts as signs of godhood. They believed the old beings, these Great Creators as truly creatures of otherworldly power. Conan had his doubts of such a belief but he did have to admit he was paralyzed with awe at the sight of the artifacts they came across. Their massive design was nothing compared to the stories of Great Creator structures, buildings of oldest craft still standing in far away places. Conan had so wished to study them for himself but never saw such buildings. He cast aside his longings and wishes and continued on. His grip on this area was not very good; he barely recognized most of the trees he had previously marked. The strong scent of dried up swamp fish was wafting in the air; a revolting smell. A wolverin’s sense of smell far exceeded other creature’s ability of smell. Smell was Conan’s ally above all. Without such a tool, he would probably have been dead long ago. Conan flinched at the catch of the scent, and he began to turn west towards the open sea. After he climbed through the overlaying pines, a flurry of commotion from birds erupted in the high tops above. Conan had caught himself another scent, something he recognized, and it made him afraid. It was meat he smelled, but the meat of a familiar beast. As the smell seeded into Conan’s mind, he pictured the unusual form that was expunging the aroma. Conan thought of the feeble naked pups that were given birth to by his species. When wolvrins are first born as milk drinkers, they take on a delicate and innocent form of a small hairless rat. Blind at birth, the newborn children scramble to their mother’s teat in a short journey to life’s first gift, food. Not to mention the second gift a wolvrin receives is that of comfort in a mother’s embrace. In Conan’s mind he imagined his younger years, even the moment he took the first tentative stride into the world.
In the wake of his day dreaming, he snapped back and began following the scent that intruded on his hunt. Hunched along the wet ground, the scent flowed condensed on the path he followed. Without warning, a piercing cry struck out into the air. Conan knew it was a mongress for sure now. Mongress were known for their figures and screams and even better known among wolverins for their brute force. They were furred creatures, gangly, and crawled on all four legs but stood high when preparing an attack. Their entire bodies remained covered in shaggy dirt covered fur, thick as tree bark. Some spots of their bodies had scruffs of fur, some ripped away to reveal their pale rough skin underneath. Their faces remained concealed under a tough bushing of muck and fur. On closer inspection, under all the matted fur was a muzzle of sorts, protruding out of their deformed face. Lying inside that muzzle was a pair of gorilla like fangs, and rows of badly sharpened teeth. The creatures' eyes remained as nothing more than bumps of the eyelids that had sealed over the very thing they were protecting. They hissed and growled constantly, almost like a siren to any would be hunters or explorers of the danger. Mongress had no other mindset than to kill and to eat, beyond most of that wolverins knew little of them and avoided them. The only problem with that strategy was that mongres had superior hearing almost far beyond that of wolverins. They were built for the wilds. Mongress were driven by instinct, blind but always aware and vicious. They would chase after anything they could catch, even wolverins. Although a wolverin was larger, even if by a fraction, a mongress was stronger, more vicious, and unafraid to die. One would be strong enough to crush a wolverin's skull with a swift pounce. If need be, the creature could call out to others, though more likely any commotion would draw their numbers. They seemingly lacked any sense or intellect, any form of reason was beyond them. Conan drew his bow and removed an arrow readying for an attack at any moment. The monsters may have been hulking sluggish looking giants but they possessed speed that defied their form. He could hear the creature shouting in the distance, possibly just one of their many unusual screams or less likely a bellow of pain. Mongress never seem to feel any twinge, not even a quiver of pain. Their thick hides acted as armor against most attacks, accept for a few soft spots. Conan had learned from his fellow hunters that puncturing a mongress in the neck would kill it, not instantly but it remained the best way to kill one. The soft skin under their ghastly heads was easily punctured by knives and arrows alike. Some believed in taking shots at the head, just like any other creature. The mongress skull was so heavily guarded that arrows either became stuck in their multiple layers of skin or smacked off of them as though hitting a wall. Their resilience always outmatched the intensity of whatever hit them. All except for a slow and painful blow to the neck.

The thing, the twisted mangled accident in the cycle of life lay just beyond the brush Conan was peering out of. He could still hear the creature letting loose a sound of what seemed to be like a hushed snarl of a wound up and diseased mongrel. Conan wasn’t much into confrontation of such creatures but he felt eradicating as many of them as he was a mission of his own. The world wolverins had been given was their own, and they needed to fight back against the devolved beasts that so plentifully seeded that land; including the one Conan was now readying to be rid of. Conan propped up over the bush ready to take aim. He saw the shaggy monster hunched down low, its arms hanging down in front propping it up on it's massive back legs. Its form blurred in his focus on the tip of the arrow. It hissed loudly, rearing back its head like an angered snake. A crack of twigs sounded below Conan’s feet from him shifting his weight. He looked down then back up in shock. He wasn’t entirely sure if the mongress heard him but he didn’t give it a chance to react. He pulled back on the wooden end as far as he could and released it, letting it slide through his fingers. The shot fired fast, flying on past the bush right twoards the beasts neck. Although a small target, Conan’s aim was precise and the shot met its mark with deadly accuracy. The arrow crashed into the monster's neck, making a thin but definite slash into the jugular. Conan could almost hear the creatures neck rip, it satisfied him. It turned to face him with it's muck covered head, blind eyes completely masked behind its weeding hair. It attempted to growl, but under a chocking of blood, sounded like a guttural spitting sound. It slowly began to crawl towards where it felt the shot come from. Conan didn't even back up, the creature's time was very short. Though it may have smelled its attacker in its last seconds of life, it no longer mattered, death had come first. The massive beast slumped forward, it's arms coupling under it letting it's body splash into the watery much it had been standing in. Conan knew the mongress was dead but the chance of others responding to its calls was far too likely. Conan approached slowly, bending over the corpse for the arrow. He slowly pulled the blood soaked spear from the creatures pierced neck. For other creatures, Conan was use to a sign of respect to the creature, sometimes a bow or a closing of the eyes symbolizing sleep. Conan glared at the body of his fresh kill. Having both a personal vendetta against the mongress and knowing this kill would provide no food pressed Conan with anger. Drawing his metal dagger from his fur belt, he carved his tribe symbol into the creatures patchy furred back. The symbol was known as the 'Fangs in the Bow,' a mark used by the wolverins in the region. The strange motif was a circle with line down the lower half and a split down the middle. The two triangles on either side of the split represented the 'fangs' in the symbol. The symbol was devised from the drawings found in the ancient text of one of the many artifacts. The artifacts left behind by the mystical beings of another time. Almost all of the wolverins went by the symbol, as did Conan. He liked it, it made him feel like he had purpose again, even as petty as it was. Though his people would not condone such disrespect for the dead, he didn't care. This monster was unfit for pity or any form of respect.