The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

“Tell me more!” Timothy begged, his legs folded on a patch of grass in the chapel, with sunlight coming down through the large windows, warming him, Arianna, and Deidre, who had been passing the afternoon by sharing tales.

“You really shouldn’t fill his head with such gruesome details,” Deirdre whispered to Arianna.

The child’s expression turned sour. “I heard that!”

“Look, another moth!” Deidre pointed behind him, and he whipped his head around.

The priestess gave Deidre such a disapproving look that she thought it might hurt. “You know, he may be an innocent boy, but he is not stupid,” she pointed out, as Timothy continued to search for the nonexistent moth. Deidre raised her eyebrows. “And as I have said in my sermons countless times, my dear, it is never too early to hear the tales of the gods. They are sacred, they are old as Netherway itself … no, even older, and their histories are woven into our blood. Our hearts, our actions, our thoughts, they carry the spirit of our ancestors into each moment as it comes and passes.

“To not know of these tales is a tragedy. The sooner the better, that’s what I say.”

Deidre thought about Fenris, and how he constantly argued with himself whether he was pleasing the gods or not, doing something that would make them happy, or whether or not he should put his happiness before theirs; she even thought of her own scruples with them. “I do not know if such a thing is wise,” is all she said.

The priestess turned toward her. “Would you rather you foster and teach the boy?” she asked jokingly, but in reality it wasn’t one.

“Uhm, well—”

“Then do not interrupt.”

Timothy came running back to Deidre, with the biggest grin on his face. “I found it,” he said to Deidre, eyes full of expectation.

“You … found ‘it’?”

“Yes!” He opened up his little palm, but what was inside was not a moth. It was a large, horned, black beetle almost the size of his hand. It was a wonder he had caught it at all. Immediately, its shiny shell burst into halves, and spread thick, feather-like wings. It buzzed angrily towards Deidre, who toppled over in an attempt to not be struck by the massive horns.

“TIMOTHY, THAT IS NOT A MOTH!” Deidre shrieked as it continued to chase her away.

Arianna muttered something to herself about foolishness and deserved retribution while Timothy edged closer.

He made room on her lap and sat down without asking. “Priest-ist Ari, will you tell me more?”

She laughed and put her fingers through his hair. “How could I say no to those big eyes?”

He blinked, not understanding a word she said. In his own innocent way, he was utterly enamored with her. “I … I …”

“So what story would you like to hear?”

“The first one. The one you said in the beginning.”

“Child, have you forgotten so fast?”

Deidre yelped again, leading the creature toward the doors.

Timothy nodded.

Arianna kept herself from sighing, and adjusted him on her lap. She took a deep breath and recalled the Story of the Ages; the First Breath of All Things; or, as some such as Timothy might call it: the beginning.

It is told countless ways, and this is just one of them, but for every story there is always some small fragment of truth.

“Now, my dear child, listen closely. Close your eyes, if need be, and try to imagine all that I will express to you. Imagine ...

“Time swept winds of darkness across all perception. A blanket of undiscovered nature and inexplicable existence, weaving an intangible plane for those who first dominated its grounds. Beings of unimaginable wisdom and passion birthed a realm, a land with which to occupy the loose fragments of their souls, dreams, and nightmares.

Morros, whose beauty and imagination was unparalleled, allowed the realm a life, and magick a breath. She danced across the barren earth, and created the skies; rain, snow, and winds that would continue to swirl in chaos.

Finding the skies to be too dark, Afimer, the Father of Moon-elves, god of Wisdom, created the moon, so it may cast light on Morros’ creations. Its silvery glow reflected the calm wonder in his eyes. The orb grew in size and light until the god could see Morros’ imagination fully. But after a time, they found the shades of darkness beautiful in their own way, such that they spun the moon and pulled it about the skies in various shades of power.

Bafimer, the brother of Afimer, Father of Sun-elves, and God of Knowledge, saw his brother’s moon and schemed with a jealousy, until finally an idea struck him. Such an idea was so bright that it in itself needn’t anymore detail. Thus the sun was born, and cast upon the skies to alight Netherway’s day. Now there were the skies, winds, and tides that had crept below the clouds. And above the swirling vortex of air and water there were Afimer and Bafimer’s two creations: the moon and the sun.

A quarrel over these ideas brewed, until a storm erupted in the clouds and tossed about the waves. Afimer’s moon controlled and soothed the waters, but Bafimer’s sun could not contain the chaos, in fact, it merely helped it along. Now there were sparks, fury, and uncontrollable cataclysms amongst the skies, water, and fire. Thus was birthed the frozen lands, the temperate valleys and forests, the fiery depths and the snow-dusted peaks, and all the shades of color and comfort that exist between.

Siflos, an outcast, but a god nonetheless, crept from his introspection to see what the other gods had created, whereupon he found Netherway in its abundance of creation. There he sat, and twiddled his hands as he had done many times in search of company that he would not find. Instead of waiting, he crafted the animals. The birds for the skies, the critters for the trees, and the insects for the dirt. Their simple nature and lack of intelligence made perfect friends, and soon they began to fester and frolic about Netherway without hesitation, seemingly careless and free. Seeing his creations run wildly, Siflos left Netherway silently, hoping they befit the other—more silent and regal—creations.

Now the wolves howled and creatures bayed in the night. Siflos cringed in embarrassment as their calls grew louder, wilder, and more frequent, so he stayed silent and watching from afar.

Calan, Morros’ sister, the Goddess of Healing was a quiet observer, a calm yet expressive goddess, who could not control her curiosity any longer. She followed the calls through the darkness and the noises of Siflos’ creation. Here she found the animals delightful, their environment beautiful, but scarce of any intelligence capable of acknowledging the beauty they ran about in. So Calan attempted to design her own creatures, ones that could gaze about the moon, sun, and clouds and see her own reflection with wonder. Using Siflos’s design, Calan crafted the Leors; humanoids half-human, and half-beast. They were neither of Calan nor Siflos, but a mixture of the two. Calan saw these creatures and their conjoined bodies, thinking they were beautiful in their own way. Some had the legs of goats, or the wings of birds, but all seemed confused and unable to make sense of their features. Calan, like Siflos, crept away silently as she recognized she was unable to give her sons and daughters a sense of contentment in their mixed features.

Only when the three gods quit their arguing over whose creation was best did they see what had become of Netherway. They did not find these additions amusing or particularly graceful. So now they argued over who was to blame for the creatures. Finding no fault in themselves, they thought of Siflos and instead blamed him for the Leors.

Carefree like his critters, but lonely nonetheless, he accepted the blame and made it his responsibility to look after the leors, in all their misunderstood, twisted beauty. Quickly did they become his children, and he their father.

Calan returned to Netherway soon after, with another idea for a creation. She wanted a united race, who would not be confused, and thus humans were made to transverse Netherway, using the environment’s overflowing resources to thrive. So Siflos, Afimer, Bafimer, and Morros applauded this. Now the template for true creation was set, and every god besides Siflos wanted to manifest creatures capable of intelligent thought. Afimer melded the Moon-elves, with pale skin like the moon and long, pointed ears like trees. Bafimer mimicked his brother and crafted the Sun-elves. Their skin was a light bronze like the dawn sun and their ears rose not like the trees but more stout, like mountains.

Morros became annoyed by this, that these creature’s intelligence were incapable of mirroring her own. In her usual way, she scattered a wind, a whisper of herself across Netherway. Instead of creating an entirely new race, she instead gifted a few of each gods’ creations the capability of her wisdom and power. Thus the Touched were born; scattered across the races.

It was not long before more quarrels erupted amongst the gods. Anger clashed and was parried like swords. The glint of passion and jealousy birthed the stars, exploding from the gods and creating a cascade of cosmic accidents. When the ignorance died and the gods saw what they had created through their fighting, they once again grew peaceful. Unfortunately, the creatures they had created knew only how to mimic their fathers and mothers. So instead of peace on Netherway, there were wars. Swords were made to reflect the glint of stars, their mirrored edges to gaze into with passion.

So the creatures found themselves distracted. Some still gazed up at their gods in peace. Others kept their eyes on the ground. Thus Netherway was born: a realm of both peace and turmoil; both love, and hate; walked by both immortals and mortals alike. But no matter where you go in your own journey, Timothy, you can rest assured: you will never be alone.”

Arianna was proud of herself. She had not told this tale half so well last time, or any other time that she could recall.

But alas, she glanced down at Timothy, and found him with a string of drool connecting from his mouth to her chest, and his tiny hands losing their hold on her robes as he passed into a nap.

“He, at least, heard all of it in his dreams, I hope.”

He murmured in his sleep, then rustled in her arms.

Arianna was incapable of feeling anger toward someone so innocent and blameless, so she simply laid him down in the center of the grass, whispering gently to him: “Dream well, my dearest,” before leaving to see what that young witch could possibly be up to.

Certainly, she had gotten rid of the beetle by then.