His nose for magic manifested in several ways, he could draw on the spirits of a place to help him track or guide, to hide or obfuscate him or his fellows, and to heal casualties, slowing blood flow, binding wounds, reducing pain. It also kept him and his Snarl-mates out of magical ambushes, which in later actions became alarmingly more frequent.
Grr flowed easily to Goddess worship, a manifest belief that life, nature and its cycles were Her, that the Moon was a visual reminder of that. He took what aspects from established religions he felt matched what he knew was true and filled in the rest with the direct logic of the Wild. That may have been the time Grr first started questioning the rightness of the 7RAR-L, its mission and his part in it. Hunting and killing were natural and right. Defending and taking new territory is the same. What they had been doing was far beyond that. Humans were not normal prey. Rabbit, deer, goat, sheep these were normal. It suddenly seemed amazing that his Snarl-mates were only too happy to feed on that which they were part of. More so because so many of them were Fleshie-born themselves.
One way Grr looked to deal with this was to learn to cook. Field rations being what they where he often didn't have much to work with, but fast hands and deep pockets kept him supplied him with the little extras that made combined rations, and any prey or local flora handy into not only decent, but fairly tasty meals. There were always those who made a show of not caring and eating raw carrion, freshly killed prisoner or whatever, but it seemed to Grr that this was taking for granted the subtle heritage that being on the edge of Humanity gave them all, and overcompensating trying to be “more bestial” than nature needed. Fruits, root vegetables, shoots, insects, rodents, livestock and crops all made it into the bellies of the Snarls who either went into the field or stayed in camp with Grr. Their pelts were healthier, and their eyes clearer than those how took the other path. Grr was taking the first steps as Shaman, tending his Kin, offering wholesomeness in the midst of carnage and decay.
This took a more practical sense after the incident with the 90mm shell. Spending a lot of time traumatised, strapped and caged as he recovered his higher functions, then bed-ridden thinking of healing, his purpose and his nature. Calling on the deep instinctive feelings of connection to the flow of life, he was first able to sense deep within himself to "see" the damage that was holding him back from healing fully. He looked to the other casualties, some in better shape than him, some worse. He reached out to them and found he could heal some of their hurts. When he told the medics, they ran some tests and confirmed he did indeed have "The Touch". Field medics were rare in the 7RAR-L, few Lycans had the feel for healing, more interested in dealing out the damage than mending it. Perhaps for this or maybe because of it, the regenerative nature of most Lycans made first aid generally unnecessary. Yet modern warfare brought many dangers even famed Lycanthropic healing couldn't quickly cope with. Shrapnel, phosphorous, napalm, DPU spall and explosive dismemberment would all took their toll. So when Grr requested Combat Medic training over Advanced Firearms, the brass allowed it, always mindful of keeping the 7RAR-L as self sufficient as possible: a self supporting, self feeding, self healing killing machine, just like the individuals that made it up.
When Grr was returned to the field, a new leader had been brought in, from the rifle company that formed part of the Al Muthanna Task Group in southern Iraq. The feel of the unit had been changed. More "training" was carried out, on prisoner or to discipline Snarls themselves. This was exactly the behaviour that Wulf brought to The Pack during the "Alpha Struggles" when Pack Leadership was as changeable as the moon in Toxia. Grr waited, endured, and watched. He tended the fallen, as best he could, healing them, easing their passage or helping them recover. He never shirked his duties, but on more than one occasion, was reprimanded for un-warranted displays of mercy to non-combative targets. It was only his feral savagery to opposing forces, and field-craft that stopped his Officers demoting him, in favour of younger, more unilaterally brutal Snarls. When it was obvious that the corruption of the Unit had degraded it so far that they began to turn on each other, he acted. Only officers were ever issued the generally Lycan-toxic silver ammunition, but his time in the field and in the recovery hospital taught Grr how to kill his own kind convincingly without it.
White Phosphorous incendiary grenades. Several of them. After that it was only the hardly trivial matter of eluding capture by motivated and dedicated, military trained Lycans, and finding lasting freedom. His keen senses, stealth, insurance and counter-insurance training and natural way with those he encountered along the way made that possible. Not a complex plan, just a deep set drive to be free, wild and part of something that felt right. Sneaking in to a regular Fleshie RAR base at a port town was only too easy, as was re-stocking on kit. It was just a matter of putting a word on his buddy in logistics to know which crates held gear ear-marked for the 7RAR-L, skimming off one set of what he needed, being a creature of habit, the only gear he had ever known was either standard issue kit, whatever they could get from the PX, or looting. When “off duty” Grr had taken to wearing shirts with slogans that meshed with his particular brand of humour. About as dry as a paper towel in a monsoon. Fleshie morals, and qualms amused Grr, taking delight in flaunting his feral nature at times, in the face of tradition, whilst at the same time, being quite shy about his own, and rigorously following them; Pack Hierarchy, Territory Protection, Matriarchal Mating Rites, Protection of the Young. Often Grr felt the need to educate his Snarl-mates on the ways of their Four-Legged Kin. In this, Grr was also acting as Shaman to what he considered his Pack.
It was also in these “off duty” times he took after that other grand old Australian tradition. Drinking. Beer never really appealed to Grr, to biter and bloating, but he revelled in the fruity combinations of fresh fruit and strong spirits. With whatever contraband or looted booze they could supply him with, Grr made drinks for his Snarl-mates, a battered Cocktail Guide made its way into his personal effects and Grr realised another aspect of his nature, He could combine scout and healer, cook and soldier, combine them and make them more than their parts. When he stood or crouched beside the makeshift bar in their Den, his fellows would sip at his creations, and start to talk to him, voicing their grievances, giving opinions they might not ever dare give otherwise. It was as if the Rank vanished, the Unit vanished, and all that was left were two beings, one with woes and trials, the other with open ears, and given the trust to judge and advise. Grr learnt his potions well, mixed his drinks, and tended the needs of his fellows. His bartop confessions never passed up the chain of command, save as general recommendations to his Alpha, when he thought the situation needed to be known, for the good of his Kin. In this way too, Grr took on the aspect of Shaman, as Bartender.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment