Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summer, 2013; a cave in Europe

Reese had never seen anything like it before.

The sound of his camera shutter echoed sharply in the cave, the flash illuminating even more than the harsh floodlights set at regular intervals on poles. String borders dotted the ground, indicating areas of archaeological digging; the likenesses of animals long extinct stared silently from the walls they'd been painted on thousands of years prior. The man crouching near the cave wall seemed oblivious to the wonders of the cave around him, and he was solely focused on yellow-brown bones curled on a small oval shelf of stone.

Their uniqueness had piqued his interest. The more he stared, the more he noticed.

However, with all his attention on the canine skeleton he was kneeling before, he didn't notice his partner's approach until she was standing over him. He startled reflexively, nearly falling upon the bones he'd been photographing.

The woman stood with her hands on her hips, an irritated expression on her freckled face. “What is that?” Tammy knew that Reese had a tendency to fixate on unimportant things, and she needed him to photograph everything they'd uncovered that day. The workload was overwhelming; it had been a very productive dig.

Reese grinned up at her, waving a hand over the bones as if he were Vanna White revealing a letter on television, and said rather proudly, “It's a dog.”

Tammy rolled her eyes and turned away. “We're here looking for human bones, Reese. Humans. Not dogs.”

“I know that, but this is different. This one is...” Reese hesitated, then snapped another photo. “It's special.”

Tammy shook her head and sighed. “Okay fine, show me.”

Reese moved aside, giving her room to crouch before the bones. He added rather cryptically, “See for yourself.”

Tammy had a doctorate in anthropology with a specialty in archaeological dig sites, but Reese was a photographer. It was his job to record their finds in pictures before specimens would be moved, studied, and catalogued. Since he had no formal education but a true artist's eye, Tammy often had to direct him to what was important or significant scientifically rather than something aesthetically pleasing; he had a habit of finding a minuscule detail and obsessing over it to the exclusion of all else.

She also knew he would persist until she examined whatever he was obsessing over.

Craning her neck to better view the bones without disturbing them, she pushed aside her impatience and tried to see what had caught Reese's eye. It didn't take long: something off-white near the skull. She realized with a shock that it was a line of cowry shells, all uniform in size and color. Although the strands of sinew that held them together had disintegrated long ago, the shells still remained in order, as if the dog had been wearing- a collar? No, a necklace...

Her thoughts were interrupted by Reese using a pencil to point out another shell near the skull. “Some kind of clam shell, and here's another one. And some snail shells, all with little holes bored in them. These shells, they're from the ocean, right? So they came from the coast hundreds of miles away.”

Tammy nodded slowly, now as enraptured by the strange find as her partner. She gestured at the shells she'd first noticed. “We see these cowry shells on wristbands of some of the human remains from this area. It's common, we think maybe some kind of tribal or familial significance.” She swept her eyes over the other shells, noting their positions and shapes. “We've found women and children with funeral goods wearing similar jewelry.” She hesitated, then frowned. “I've never seen an animal grave with these kinds of shells and jewelry before, though.”

Reese resumed snapping photographs, while Tammy continued to examine the find.

Tammy was intrigued. Other finds in the cave dated to roughly ten to fifteen thousand years ago, and this odd canine was left exposed on a natural shelf of stone, exactly like several sets of human remains that she had been studying. It seemed like the area near the entrance of the cave was used for everyday life; the cave floor was dotted with fire pits and with scattered bone and stone chips from tool crafting and food use, but the deeper reaches of the cave were used as a tomb for the dead.

Several wolf bones had been found in the midden heaps near the cave, apparently butchered and eaten along with deer and goats, but no animal skeletons had been found this deeply in the cave. Certainly none wearing jewelry!

The skeleton looked complete and, as deep in the cave as it was, probably undisturbed for thousands of years. The only damage Tammy could discern appeared to be a round break on the skull, with a spiderweb fracture pattern. She pointed at the skull and nudged Reese with her elbow. “Look there. Maybe this was some kind of religious sacrifice?”

Reese didn't say anything, he simply moved the camera closer, photographing the skull with it's odd fracture. Tammy let her eyes sweep over the bones again, and especially in the spaces around them. The stone was stained, probably from the putrefaction of the dog, but the shape of the stain and some nearby ash suggested that perhaps the body was laid on some kind of hide or fur. Upon closer inspection, she spotted some small blue beads, carved from stone. It hit her with a jolt: such things as these shell and stone jewelry were usually reserved for what was assumed to be chieftains. The idea that this dog was some kind of symbolic sacrifice seemed more plausible to her by the minute.

Once she was satisfied that Reese had taken all necessary photographs, she called in another archaeologist and two archaeology students to help take samples from the ash and soil on the stone shelf, and to carefully catalogue and remove the shells. It was many hours later that they began carefully removing the bones themselves.

Although Tammy's specialty was ancient human remains, she decided to remove the skull herself. After all, it was damaged and delicate. As she began to carefully lift it, something thunked on the ground at her feet. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, frowning.

“Reese? Come get a photo of this. It's a river stone.” Tammy held her hand out, the smooth, round stone in her palm.

The camera whirred and the sound of the shutter once again filled the cave. Reese tilted his head to one side. “Where was that?”

Tammy frowned at the stone in her hand. “The mouth. It was in the dog's mouth.”

The mystery deepened.

Autumn 2013; New York city, a NY Animal Hospital

Tammy held the door of the veterinary clinic open as the last patient of the day left, a big German Shepherd wearing a cone and nearly dragging his owner behind him. Tammy had just acquired the rights to bring the skeleton and it's grave goods to the United States to study. An archaeological associate had offered to examine the skeleton of the dog but it would be several more weeks before he would be available; he had left for Morocco just days before the strange skeleton had arrived on U.S. soil. Her impatience had led her to call up her veterinarian, Dr. Sarah Schmid, who had agreed to take a look after hours.

Sarah was waiting for her at the front desk and eagerly waved her into the office. Tammy shook her hand and then offered a manila envelope with dozens of photos, courtesy of Reese. “Thanks so much for this, I owe you,” Tammy said as she settled into a chair across from Dr. Sarah's desk.

Sarah smiled and stepped over a dog bed with a beautiful, gleaming black-and-white dog before sitting as well. “It's no problem, you know I'm always happy to help out.”

“We've been calling it the Cave Dog,” Tammy said with a proud smile.

For several minutes, Sarah silently studied the glossy photographs, especially the ones of the skull. Finally, nodding to herself and brushing a hand through her blonde bangs, she spoke: “Well, for starters, it's not a dog.”

Tammy frowned. “Are you sure? I mean it doesn't look anything like the wolf skulls from the same region.”

Sarah shook her head. “No, it's definitely not a wolf. The shape of the skull is all wrong for wolves or dogs. See, here. It doesn't have a big sagittal crest, like a wolf would, and this canine has virtually no facial stop.”

Shaking her red-haired head, Tammy threw up her hands with a chuckle, “Okay, you lost me.”

Sarah smiled and reached down to stroke the dog curled on the dog bed next to her desk. The Labrador-Dalmatian lifted her head, accepting the petting with dignity. Her soft brown eyes regarded Tammy as the woman leaned forward.

Tracing the line from the glossy-coated bitch's forehead to muzzle, Sarah explained, “I'll show you on Jess. This is the stop, right here. It's like a step down from the forehead...if you look at the head of a dog sideways, the muzzle is usually on a different line than the forehead.” Her fingers halted right between the beautiful dog's eyes. “Most dogs have a more pronounced stop than a wolf. Even primitive dogs from the Mesolithic era. But this canine of yours, it's got no stop, less than a wolf even. The forehead blends almost seamlessly into the top of the muzzle. It's a canine for sure, but it isn't a dog or a wolf.”

Grabbing a book from the shelf, Sarah continued: “This fellow is old, too. He lived a full life, judging by those teeth. He's got advanced dental disease.” She began leafing through the book, eyes skimming the pages, searching.

“Okay.” Tammy reached out to Jess, who deigned to lick her had after smelling it. “Wait. You said he?”

Sarah nodded and murmured as she scoured the book's pages. “The pelvis is narrower than a bitch's would be. Also there's a baculum there...that's the penis bone. Definitely a male.” Suddenly she stopped, and turned the book so Tammy could see as well. “I'm pretty sure what you've got is either an African Wild Dog or an Asian Wild Dog.”

“I thought you said it wasn't a dog,” Tammy said with confusion while absently rubbing Jess's soft, velvety ears. She squinted at the page, with illustrations of odd-colored creatures with big, round ears and fierce, toothy jaws. The strange beasts on the page looked only superficially similar to the black-and-white bitch she was petting.

“They have unfortunately misleading names, because they are only distantly related to wolves and dogs.” Sarah paused, then added, “Based on the cave's location, and the skull shape, I think it's an Asian Wild Dog, also known as a dhole.”

Tammy nodded slowly. “Okay. So they had a pet dhole? Do they make good pets?”

“No,” Sarah said rather emphatically. “They are notoriously wild and ill-tempered. Even tamed and raised by humans, they grow up to be pretty vicious. They're really wild animals and don't do well in captivity, usually. I have a zookeeper friend who raised a pup when the mother rejected it, and when it was an adult it bit off one of his fingers.”

Tammy's eyebrows went up. “So this was probably some kind of sacrificial beast then. Probably not a pet.”

“We can't know for sure,” Sarah said as she once again began examining the photographs of the bones. “Though the age of this boy...these teeth are awful. There's a lot of pathological damage to the skeleton, but it's all remodeled. This Dhole endured a lot of abuse in his life but lived through it all...broken ribs, a fractured femur, and see here where the radius and ulna are fused? He broke his leg and it healed. I doubt he was much good at hunting the last years of his life. Maybe he was kept as a pet, maybe not. Maybe they revered him as a god, but I doubt we'll ever know.”

Nodding, Tammy resumed petting Jess. “What about that blow to the skull?”

“There's no remodeling. This was a significant injury, blunt force trauma, and probably what killed him. It would surely be fatal.” Sarah handed the photos back to Tammy.

The two women continued to speculate about the strange dhole. As outlandish as some of their theories sounded, the truth would have been beyond their belief.

NEXT CHAPTER: The black dhole struggles to survive in a harsh, primitive world ten thousand years prior to his skeleton's discovery. Can he escape the torment of the cruel Izila tribe?

Chapter Text

10,000 B.C.; Southern Region of Oros

His pelt blended into the night as if he had been born of it, or as if he were a part of it.

It was the black dhole's strange coloring that had dictated the course of his early life. A band of Udam, traveling far to the South from their snowy homeland, had happened upon his natal pack when he was just a gangling puppy. Trapped by their snares, his siblings were butchered for their meat, their skins worn as colorful decorations by the Northern cannibals. He alone with his peculiar coloring was granted life.

It had not been a pleasant introduction to captivity. Everything was a torment to him. The cages he was kept in were perpetually filthy; the meat he was given was rancid and insufficient. As hunger gnawed eternally at him, he in turn gnawed upon anything he could find: bones, rocks, and the heavy beams of the cage which was his only home.

The only times he was removed from his prison was for the purposes of Udam entertainment.

Deep within a cave they'd claimed as an outpost, they would toss captives of other tribes into a pit with wild beasts; they cheered in their clipped, guttural language as the black dhole savaged their hapless rivals. The black dhole took little pleasure in the ordeal, not because he empathized with his fellow prisoners, but because he was never allowed to feast on the flesh of his victims. That was reserved for the Udam. For them, it was literally dinner and a show.

The black dhole might have lived the rest of his life in the clutches of the Udam, but fate would place him into even more cruel hands.

Not all the Udam's rivals went quietly and without a fight. The arrival of the Izila on the face of Oros meant death and pain for man and beast alike. The Udam of that cave outpost were slaughtered where they stood by the blue-painted warriors of the Sun Walker tribe. The black beast now belonged to the Izila.

Although the Izila were more technologically advanced than the crude Udam, they had similar tastes in entertainment. However, human captives and slaves were too easy for the black dhole. The Izila wanted better entertainment.

They pitted captured beasts against each other. Those that wouldn't fight were beaten and scorched until they complied, or died.

The black dhole had beaten the odds a dozen times; the Izila had pitted him against other dholes (of more common coloring), and when his own kind proved no match they sought more dangerous foes. To him, there was no great difference between Udam and Izila: he had traded one cage for another cage. His outrage and savagery made his battles at least somewhat cathartic, a temporary distraction from the cage and the monotony of his everyday life.

He'd bested a jaguar they'd managed to trap alive. They then pitted him against a fully-grown wolf. The next fight, three of his own kind at the same time, each of them torn to pieces in front of a cheering, jeering crowd of blue-painted Izila warriors. Finally, they forced him to face a fearsome Snow Blood Wolf, the capture of which is a tale unto itself. It had been the hardest fight of the black dhole's life, and he suffered terrible injuries at the fangs of the white beast. In the end, even the Snow Blood Wolf forfeited his life to the black-furred creature. The hatred that fueled the black dhole was more powerful than even this most legendary predator.

No assistance for his wounds were offered, and he was merely ushered back to his cage with brute force and fearsome blows from the heavy clubs the more powerful warriors carried. Alone, he was left to lick his wounds in the dark.

Hatred fueled him. It was all he knew. He hated the bars that held him, the men who enjoyed pain and death, the fire they lit the nighttime brawls with. Hatred defined him. It didn't matter to which tribe he belonged. He hated them equally.

The flickering, living light cast by the bonfires of the tribe only reached so far. They pushed back against the blackness of night in a futile, precarious way. The dhole's cage was outside the camp proper, on the edge of it, the border between civilization and the untamed wilderness. It was all well and good to see him fight and kill, but the Izila did not enjoy the smell of the beasts they kept for their sick pleasures. As such, he was shrouded in the dark, on the edge of their small, fire-lit world.

The nighttime suited him. It was a moonless, cloudy night, the kind that made even the Izila leaders huddle that much closer to the fire. But the darkness was a balm to the black dhole's rage.

His right front leg still hurt where many days earlier the Snow Blood Wolf had bitten him, the force of the monstrous white beast's teeth cracking bone. His face was gashed from the snapping fangs, the last desperate act of the white-pelted predator as the dhole had torn into his throat. He was in pain, and deeply hungry. The Izila were as stingy with food as the Udam had been. But at least he was away from the hated fires that defined the tribe.

His fur was singed in several places; at the last fight he had tried to refuse to return to his cage. It was a mistake that nearly ended his life. A survivor at heart, he'd relented at the barrage of clubs set on fire, slinking back into the reeking cell rather than be burned to death.

In the darkness, he paced the edges of his cage. Adjacent to him a captive man of the Wenja tribe, bound and caged like the beasts, sobbed quietly into the night. A few meters away in another heavy cage, a brown bear cub squalled, calling for a mother who would never again answer, whose lifeless skin was stretched on oak beams nearby. But the dhole was silent.

This was the closest to freedom he was able to remember: the inky blackness of night.

He had no way of knowing it was the last night before things changed forever.

The next morning

Dawn saw the return of sunlight, dappling his coat as it filtered through the boughs that formed the top of his cage. The captive Wenja man had finally gone silent, curled in the fetal position in the adjacent cage. The black dhole watched him impassively as he paced his own cage.

A loud, echoing aurochs-horn blast from one of the watch-towers split the quiet of the morning. The dhole bared his teeth reflexively, slinking to the back of his prison.

The horn had been used to signify the arrival of Roshani, famed warrior and leader, and a squadron of his most decorated warriors. He was traveling to nearby villages and outposts, reinforcing their defenses. Recently not one, but three heavily guarded outposts had been found burned to the ground, and every Izila guard left dead and rotting amidst the ashes. Never before had the Izila tribe known such defeats, and they didn't even yet know who had perpetrated these acts of war. Roshani was not willing to lose another outpost. His reputation with the savage Sun Daughter, Izila princess Batari, depended on it.

In most outposts, there were villagers as well as warriors, and as a matter of course Roshani was accustomed to being entertained by beautiful women or (depending on the eccentric Izila warrior's mood) young men. However, this outpost's only women were warriors and thus not obliged to satisfy Roshani's appetites. The leader of the outpost, Erandak, was desperate to appease Roshani and the black dhole would have to suffice.

The wily canine couldn't know that the pit-fight he was about to endure was also a symbolic demonstration of Izila dominance. All he knew was things were different this time.

As the morning gave way to the heat of day, no less than five warriors dragged the black dhole out of his cell to decorate him. He'd never endured such attentions and he snapped viciously at them; in the end, they literally beat him into submission. They bound his jaws shut with heavy leather strips, his feet tied together with sinews. The dhole cowered miserably at their feet. He did not understand at all what was happening.

It had been decided that the black dhole would symbolize the Izila tribe in a grand display; they would then pit him against one of their slaves, a captive from some other tribe. Roshani wanted a show, after all.

Erandak, who had decided to oversee this event, had chosen to decorate the black dhole. The idea was to make it even more of a spectacle for Roshani's pleasure. The hapless canine trembled in confusion and fear as they smeared blue dyes into his fur. Unfortunately, while the blue dye stood in stark contrast to their own pale Izila skin, the concoction did little to change the color of the black dhole. It merely added a blueish tint to his unique pelt in the bright sunlight. The stench of the dye, partly made from crushed flower buds, overwhelmed his delicate nose and stung his eyes. The still-healing gashes on his face opened and bled anew at the rigorous application of the dye.

Unwilling to give up his grand idea, Erandak called for some white chalk, ash from the bonfire, and bear grease to be mixed together. Blue decorations would be preferable, but white would suffice. The rancid bear grease and the smoky odor of the ash concoction mingled with the flowery stench, nauseating the dhole. For the first time in his life, fear dominated his rage. Gripped with terror he would not have moved even if they unbound him. He was thoroughly cowed.

With his captive beast quiet and immobile, Erandak set to work painting ornate swirls and half-moon symbols onto his inky black, slightly-blue fur. Once finished, the Izila warrior tethered him to a post, muzzle and paws still bound. Eyes weeping from the blue dye, the dhole waited for what he was sure would be his death.

Meanwhile, the Izila prepared his opponent: they equipped the Wenja captive with a flint knife and a spear. They promised him his freedom if he could but kill a beast in a pit-fight. It was a lie, of course. The man would never be freed. His desperation led him to believe the silver-tongued captors who saw no value in his life.

For hours, the dhole remained bound, shivering miserably, awaiting his fate.

When the time finally came, he was almost glad to see his captor. Almost. He passively allowed himself to be dragged behind Erandak to the stone arena near the center of the outpost. All fight had left him; he stood blinking in the bright light of day, the heat from the Izila's ever-burning fires pressing against him.

Roshani regarded him coldly from a makeshift throne.

The Izila leader wore a crown of woven grasses and reeds; his pale face and body painted in bright blue swirls and decorations, denoting his status within the tribe. His thin, angular face seemed carved from stone, his rather large eyes narrowed, waiting. Roshani craved blood for sport.

Within the stone arena, the Wenja man was watching the black dhole, wide-eyed, waiting. He had been a hunter before his capture, and while he'd killed dozens of dholes, he'd never seen one like the black dhole. The creature seemed even more alien and strange, painted with white. To the terrified Wenja, the beast seemed somehow supernatural compared to the natural canines he was accustomed to.

For his part, the dhole wasn't acting his usual savage self. He was confused, scared, and hurt. The stench of his own fur, crusted with white, was still overwhelming his senses. Blinking stupidly, he looked to his captor, Erandak, for succor. Something within him craved assurance; perhaps it was being raised in captivity, or perhaps it was some quirk of his unique genetics. Whatever caused his sudden need, he appealed to the man holding his leather binding with a soft, desperate whine.

It was the first time he'd ever looked to a human with anything but hatred.

His appeal for help was answered with a swift blow of a club; while stunned, his muzzle was unbound, and with an unceremonious kick from Erandak, he tumbled head over heels into the arena. Roshani leaned forward in his throne, eager for blood.

To the undying embarrassment of Erandak, the black dhole instead cowered against the arena's wall. The cheer from the crown rapidly turned to jeering and mockery. The fierce beast that had been chosen to represent the Izila's strength was lying flat on his belly, shivering with fear.

The Wenja hunter, seeing his chance, hurtled the spear at his immobile foe.

The dhole's story would have ended that moment, but for a miscalculation. The spear clattered to the ground, it's flint tip cracked. The Wenja hunter had missed.

Snapping out of his daze, the dhole regarded his opponent. Fear bleeding from him, he began to growl low in his throat. Men had imprisoned him his whole life. Men had hurt him beyond measure. And now, when he had unashamedly begged for succor, men had instead proven their cruelty to him.

In that moment, the ill-fated Wenja was just another man. Just another abuser. Just another enemy.

The dhole turned, planting his front paws, and issued forth a leonine snarl. Hackles raised from the base of his ears to the base of his tail, he began to stalk his prey. At the border of the arena, Erandak breathed a sigh of relief. At last, a spectacle worthy of Roshani!

To his credit, the Wenja tried valiantly. Left with only a knife, he held it between himself and the gleaming fangs of the enraged black dhole. It would do him little good. Less than ten feet away, the dhole ceased stalking, and instead openly charged the man, ducking under the outstretched knife and snapping at him with punishing jaws. Unable to leap high enough to snatch the man's life away through his throat (the leg the Snow Blood Wolf had bitten still pained him), he instead latched onto the man's thigh. His wickedly-sharp teeth sunk to the gums in the flesh of the Wenja's quadriceps; blood rushed into his mouth as he violently lashed his head side to side, tearing at the man's leg. A shrill scream echoed through the arena, followed by a resounding cheer from the bloodthirsty Izila. Roshani clapped and laughed in delight.

Suddenly, pain shot through the dhole; the Wenja had miraculously managed to keep a hold of the flint knife even under assault, and he had begun vainly slicing at the beast's shoulders and neck. It was a futile attempt to force the canine attacker to release his leg. With a heavy thud, the man fell onto his back, the force of the dhole's prey-shake knocking him off of his feet. He screamed again, drawing another chuckle from Roshani.

With the Wenja on his back, the dhole released his leg and turned to the man's face. His habit of ripping out the throats of men and beasts forgotten in his rage, he sought to instead crush the man's face between his frothing, bloody jaws. Rage, pain, and a strange sense of betrayal had left the dhole without reason or purpose. He acted solely with savage hatred.

The screams of the Wenja hunter ended abruptly, followed by a sickening, wet crunch. Applause and cheering deafened him as he continued to rip and tear at the fresh corpse. It hadn't even registered in his brain that his prey had died. Hatred burned him up inside as surely as fire would burn flesh. He did not stop until he had torn the man limb from limb.

Roshani was pleased. So much so that he ordered another fight.

The bear cub stood no chance against the black dhole's ferocity. Roshani was delighted; Erandak was overjoyed. If they had any other captives, the fights would have continued; as it was, they had no more prey to pit against the savage dhole. Satisfied with the spectacle, Roshani announced he would leave for the next outpost immediately, but would return in two days time for another fight. He further planned to stay several days, insisting he would bring slaves from the Eastern territory for the black dhole to war with. Erandak promised to have something special for the next fight as well. He vowed to capture another beast, something even more powerful, to challenge the black dhole. Perhaps a cave lion could be trapped alive. That would be a fight to remember, no matter the outcome.

For the dhole, however, there was no pleasure or relief granted. Once he'd torn apart the brown bear cub, he was cornered and beaten into submission, the blazing clubs that were the hallmark of Izila warriors used to force the dhole into bonds, then back into his cage. He snapped and gnawed at the bars of his cage in impotent rage, unable to reach his captors and inflict his temper upon them.

He barely noticed when a leg of the unfortunate bear cub was tossed into his pen as a reward. He would much rather have bitten the hands that fed him. For the first time in his life, his vicious rage overpowered his hunger, and the meat lay in a small puddle of old urine, ignored.

Long into the night, he paced the front of his cage, growling fiercely. After Roshani's departure, a quiet fell over the camp. The snarls from the dhole's cage seemed far away to the warriors sleeping in their woven huts. The night guards stood high on their posts, silent and watchful, as the bonfires burned throughout the night.

Shrouded in the dark, a single man approached the camp. He didn't arrive on the worn footpath leading to the camp from the North or East; instead, he crept towards the Izila outpost from the wilderness, on the West side of the camp.

If his nose wasn't still full of the stench of his own white-decorated fur, the black dhole might have smelled his approach. Instead it seemed to him as if the man appeared from darkness itself. The growls from within his throat died away as he watched the man crawl silently into the camp. Takkar had arrived.

Takkar had spent months rescuing his fellow Wenja tribemates from rival tribes; he had battled and won against entire war parties of both Udam and Izila. Recently, the Izila had been capturing and enslaving his fellow Wenja, forcing them to cut and move giant standing stones to build Izila worshiping grounds. The stronger slaves would be whipped into submission; the weaker ones were killed for sport.

Unable to tolerate the Izila abuses any longer, Takkar had begun razing Izila forts and outposts. He had managed to kill every camp's warriors, but he had not achieved this feat alone: a loyal she-wolf had entered the fray with him. Takkar had found her collapsed near a river, sick and injured. While he bore no love of warring tribes, Takkar felt a kinship with her. Once her fever was healed, she'd been a loyal compatriot. She leaped into battle at his side...until a fortnight ago, when in a skirmish an Izila warrior had gotten a lucky shot. The arrow struck her in the eye; she was dead before she hit the ground

Takkar had left her at the foot of one of the standing stones, under a pile of rubble. It was less than she deserved, but more than anyone had ever afforded a mere beast, and far better than the Izila corpses which were left to bloat and rot on open ground. Takkar mourned the wolf's death, and prayed to the totem of his tribe for her spirit to walk free.

It meant he'd be attacking this Izila camp alone. Stealth would have to be his greatest weapon.

At about the same moment that the black dhole noticed the Wenja warrior, Takkar noticed the dhole. He approached the cage slowly, to get a better look at it's occupant. The dhole bared his teeth, and resumed growling indignantly. He paced the front of the cage, longing to visit his wrath upon this stranger.

Takkar murmured to himself incredulously under his breath- they'd painted a dhole?! He scowled deeply, the stench of the uncleaned cage mingling with the overwhelmingly flowery smell of the failed blue dye. As he watched, he began to truly see the captive canine.

The scowl softened as he saw the poorly-healed gashes on the beast's face, scabbed and pus-filled. He noticed too the careful way he set his right front paw, as if the leg would not hold his full weight. The crusted chalk and ash matted into his fur couldn't hide the clotted blood on his shoulder where the hunter's knife had gouged him. To top it all off the beast was rail-thin, and being kept perpetually on the verge of starvation his bones jutted out of his body at odd angles. Takkar felt a flood of pity for the poor brute held captive by his Izila enemies; clearly, it was not just the Wenja captives they kept as slaves who suffered their torment.

Slowly he reached a hand towards the snarling black dhole. He began to speak, murmuring soothingly, quietly. The black beast snarled louder, biting the nearest bar of the cage, the heavy hardwood barely splintering. Yet Takkar was unafraid, and he did not stop speaking or shy away.

The Wenja tongue was less refined, less song-like than the Izila, and the black dhole had never heard more than Wenja screams in his life. The strange sounds baffled him, his ears swiveling back to front, and back again. His scarred face remained twisted into a fierce snarl.

Takkar knew it was a risk; if he freed the strange dhole, the beast could attack him. But he could not leave the poor creature to suffer under the Izila's cruelty and neglect. Mind made up, he swung his spear against the leather lashings that held the front of the cage together. With a thunderous clatter, the wooden bars fell to the ground.

Nearby, the Izila guard shouted a warning. Liberating the dhole had alerted them to Takkar's presence.

For a moment, the dhole stood within the cage, his brain struggling to process what was happening. The Wenja man resumed murmuring soothingly to him, holding his hand out again, his spear laid on the ground beside him. And yet the bars were gone. To the dhole it may as well have been magic. His senses returning, he bellowed his wrath and lunged towards the offered hand, ready to sink his teeth into his liberator.

Takkar was no fool, and he'd anticipated the attack. When the dhole charged, he sharply rebuffed him with a single word: “Nai!”

The word itself meant nothing to the dhole; he'd never been taught any commands and had never assigned any importance to the uttering of humans. However, Takkar had a natural presence, and a naturally commanding voice. The black dhole halted his charge, ears flattening back. Takkar once again held his hand out to the confused beast.

Before he could say more, a shout rose through the night: “WENJA!” The guard had approached to investigate, and now stood a handful of yards away, witness to Takkar's presence. She hadn't yet noticed the dhole was loose.

Takkar turned away from the black dhole, lifting his spear and hurtling it towards the Izila guard in one smooth motion. The guard yelped and fell bodily to the ground, impaled through the midsection by the spear. Her cries further spurred the other guards; the aurochs-horn sounded into the night, rousing the entire camp.

Knowing he stood no chance against the camp without stealth on his side, Takkar turned to flee. The black dhole hesitated, then turned towards the woman Takkar had impaled. She was still writhing in the spreading pool of blood, crying helplessly. The black dhole descended on her with vengeance. The cries ended swiftly.

Takkar disappeared into the night, fleeing into the wilderness.

The black dhole remained, and he tore and worried at the woman's corpse until the Izila warriors charged him with their flaming clubs. He knew only too well how effective their blazing fire was, and with a final defiant snarl, he bolted into the underbrush. For a full two hundred yards he ran, blindly fleeing the fire, paws clattering over stones and slipping on wet grass. Finally, he loped to a halt and turned; the bonfires stoked to their maximum at the camp the only light in the consuming blackness before the dawn.

The dhole stood, staring at the light of the camp. Enveloped once again in the night, he realized at last, he was free.

NEXT CHAPTER: The black dhole tastes freedom for the first time! And little else, since he's never learned to hunt. Can he survive in the wilderness alone?

Chapter Text

10,000 years B. C., Southern Region of Oros

Most creatures raised in captivity would feel fear at suddenly being lost and alone in the world, but the black dhole was wild at heart. All terror had left him in his final Izila pit-fight. Now, it was his time.

He strode unafraid along a worn footpath in the darkness, heedless of the reek of man. Thirst was his first priority, and as luck would have it, he was freed from the Izila outpost into a marshy river valley. It took little effort to locate a stagnant puddle; the muddy water tasted as sweet as wine compared to the filthy urine-tainted water he'd been forced to drink in his cage. His hurts momentarily forgotten, the dhole basked in the night air, awash in moonlight. The night was his.

Staying on the man-made footpath, he began to consider attending to a second need: food. He had been too enraged to eat in his cage, now hunger drove him to explore. Every step took him further from the Izila fort, and it seemed that each step made him feel more fully alive. His wild heart leapt at the feeling of freedom!

A goat herd, huddled near the river, drew his attention. Food, living food on the hoof! With an eager bark, he veered from the path and charged towards the goats...who fled, bleating in fear, up a sheer cliff and out of the brazen predator's reach.

The dhole stared up after them, head cocked to one side, confused. He'd never hunted before, and had no idea why the goats fled instead of lying down and dying to be eaten. His education in being a wild animal had begun in earnest.

He returned to the path, determined to figure out how to make these animals into meat.

Twice more he left the path to chase goats, and twice more they fled out of his reach onto the sheer cliffs on the sides of the river valley. Frustrated, he turned his attention to deer instead, hoping they might be easier prey.

While the deer couldn't climb out of his reach the way the goats did, they were far more wary. Long before they ever saw him, they would smell the reeking dyes in his coat and ran in graceful bounds, nostrils flared, leaving the frustrated black dhole far behind.

It was nearly dawn when the hungry dhole smelled blood off the beaten path; a pack of wolves had made a kill in the night and left a pile of goat bones, picked nearly clean, in a stand of ferns just off the worn trail. To any other creature, it would be slim pickings indeed, but it was more than the dhole was accustomed to. He settled beside the carcass remains to gnaw the bones, cracking some for their marrow. Once he'd extracted all nutrition that was left, he stretched out to sleep through the balmy heat of day.

Once night had fallen, the black dhole resumed his trek along the worn path, exploring the valley and wondering where, exactly, he could find sustenance. Water was plentiful, and prey equally so, but nothing in the dhole's life had prepared him to hunt the wary goats and deer who called the valley home.

Shortly after sunset, the dhole heard a sound that stirred his instincts: the low, staccato bark of another dhole. Normally, members of his species hunted and lived together in tight-knit, family packs. Alone since puppy-hood, something in his soul resonated to the sound of the other canine's call. He immediately headed toward the sound, tail wagging. For the moment, his hunger was forgotten.

A pack of four adult dholes were hunting at the river's edge, stalking a nimble four-horned goat. He was old, and had fallen behind his herd. Alone, he nibbled at the soft plants growing at the waters edge, unaware of the patchy-coated dholes stalking him from a stand of reeds.

The experienced matriarch of the pack would have surely guided them to victory...except the black dhole blundered directly into their hunt.

Having already decided that goats are impossible to kill, the black dhole trotted right into the old goat's sight, heading towards the hiding pack. Even with his advanced age and the heavy weight of four massive spiral horns, the goat was sufficiently sure-footed enough to escape up a rock face. The black dhole barely spared the hoofed creature a glance.

The pack of common dholes watched the goat exit their range; all their stalking and planning, gone. Worse, the beast who ruined the hunt was alien to them. His black fur was strange enough, but the stench of man combined with the dyes he'd been soaked in were too much. This new beast was Other, some kind of enemy, and they reacted to him as an enemy.

It was not their fault, they could not be blamed for their averse reaction; even a dhole of common color and untouched by man would be unwelcome to a different pack. It was merely a result of his captivity that the black dhole was clueless. His own pack-mates were long forgotten, and he'd grown up never learning the subtle nuances of pack communication or behavior.

The pack would have attacked, but their fear of the stench he bore was too much, snarling and hackles raised, they melted back into the reeds, slinking away. The black dhole, uncomprehending, began to follow.

This was too much for the matriarch. Her belly hung loose, her teats swollen with milk. One of her half-grown daughters was awaiting her return, watching over pups whose eyes had only just opened. Losing their prey was bad enough, but this was unbearable. She would die before leading this perceived monster back to her den and her helpless brood.

The angered matriarch turned to face the black dhole, jaws agape, snarling. At her side, her mate and two mature bitches wheeled to face the beast as well. Hackles and tails raised, they darted forward, then back, making feints of attack to the black dhole.

In an arena, forced by the Izila, lashing out in rage and hate, the black dhole would have reacted in kind. Instead, here in the cool night air, free from human bondage, he instead turned and moodily stalked away. The lesson was learned: there would be no kinship with others of his species. He would from then on regard them then with as little attention as the goats: unimportant. Non-entities.

The relieved pack turned and trotted silently away from the river, off to seek prey in some other region of their territory.

Not knowing what else to do, the black dhole returned to the path, hunger once again foremost in his mind. If he didn't eat soon, what strength he had left would leave his starving body. He'd never walked as far or for as long as he had since his liberation; exhaustion threatened to rob him of what little energy he had left. He needed food, desperately.

He hadn't gone far when a familiar sight greeted his eyes: the bobbing, flickering light of fire.

Two travelers were risking traversing through the harsh wilderness of Oros at night. The woman was an experienced gatherer, knowing exactly which plants her tribe needed; she carried no weapons, merely digging tools. She was not so far from civilization in the dark of night by choice, she was seeking an herb that flowers only in the light of the moon. Her escort, a tall hunter with a heavy spear, was carrying a torch to light the way. It was also to keep the predators at bay; many beasts would attack in the dark, but the flickering light of the torch kept them away. Instinctively they feared it's searing touch.

To the black dhole, the torch was of no consequence. He'd been beaten by the flaming double-handed clubs of the Izila, so a simple torch was immaterial. It instead became a beacon, drawing him toward it...and to the sound of man. To the sound of food.

The woman halted, spotting a small cluster of the night-herb. She crouched to begin harvesting it's leaves while the hunter stood watch.

Driven by starvation, unafraid of their fire, the black dhole loped right to them. As he had always done when sicced on a human in the pit-fights, he announced his intentions with a fierce snarl.

The hunter whirled, holding the torch aloft, expecting it to be a wolf grown too bold, something he could scare into leaving them unharmed. What he saw instead shook him to his core.

Fearless of the torch, his eyes gleaming crimson red in the dancing torchlight, his pelt still covered in the Izila swirls and moon signs, the dhole was nightmarish to behold. To the hunter, it was surely an evil spirit. Unconsciously he took a step back, eyes wide, stammering a prayer to the totem of the tribe for protection. The woman turned, and at the sight of the dhole, screamed.

The dhole's jaws became slick with saliva. At last, prey he knew how to hunt!

Unwilling to turn and flee, knowing the dhole would surely be able to outrun him, the hunter instead swung the torch low, igniting the underbrush. Flames sprouted where the torch kissed the ground. The dhole barely noticed the spreading fire.

He was instead fixated on the woman, who was backing away from the dhole...and away from the flames. Suddenly, she turned and ran. It was almost an invitation. The black beast cleared the kindling brush fire with a single bound, and easily dodged a jab of the spear from the startled hunter. It was a matter of but a moment for him to catch up to the woman, fleeing in the dark. Her screams resumed as he tripped her with a savage bite to her ankle.

Once bitten, she stumbled and fell to the ground. Her screams reached a new pitch before being abruptly cut short. The dhole had found her throat.

The hunter vainly chased after the attacking dhole, hoping he wasn't too late to save his friend. The torch-light reached the scene of the kill, and what the hunter saw would haunt him: the black beast, drawn all over in white swirls, head soaked in blood and standing over the brutally mauled woman. Her eyes stared up to the sky, unseeing. The dhole whirled to face the hunter, snarling and snapping his bloody jaws.

Knowing it was too late to save his friend, and fearing the creature was truly an evil spirit instead of just an animal, the hunter backed away again, chanting prayers desperately in a faltering voice, torch clutched in a shaking hand.

The dhole watched the man for a few moments, then turned to his prey. Desperately hungry, he began tearing chunks of meat from her corpse and swallowing them whole. One he'd begun, it was as if he couldn't stop; it was almost as if he were trying to make up for all the lean days of his whole life with a single meal. He ate until he could eat no more, belly distended beyond comfort.

It was the first full meal the dhole could remember.

Finally satisfied, he stretched out beside the mangled corpse, blinking in the light and warmth of the still-burning brush; by then half of a small hillock was ablaze. The hunter who'd lit the fire was long gone, and all but forgotten by the ravenous beast.

Over the next two weeks, he preyed upon any man or woman who dared to walk the forest at night. Udam, Izila, Wenja, to him they were all prey, mere prey.

Word spread quickly of a demon, hungry for flesh, haunting the river valley.

West Oros, Wenja village

Takkar had temporarily abandoned the war on the Izila to return to his village. He had been away for too long, and worried for his people.

The village had started with but two Wenja: himself and the eccentric gatherer Sayla. She had remained there as he had traveled Oros, locating and recruiting more of the tribe. The Udam had scattered the Wenja years ago, it was now up to Takkar to rebuild the tribe.

As he strode up the hill towards the village gate, he marveled at how different it looked. Every time he returned, it was bigger. More populous. New huts had been built. The corners of his mouth curled into a small smile as he noticed a new watch-tower as well.

The smile disappeared when he heard a familiar voice hail him with the greeting: “Smarkaka, Wenja brashtar.” It was Manoo, and if he was out to greet Takkar, it meant some kind of trouble.

The soft-spoken hunter was a great asset to the Wenja; it was said that nothing in the village happened that Manoo didn't know about. Many Wenja owed their lives to him, directly or indirectly. Manoo was wise, too, for he knew when he was outmatched. For problems he could not resolve, he would unashamedly turn to Takkar instead. Manoo had quietly put faith in the equally soft-spoken Takkar.

Setting his pack on the ground, Takkar returned the greeting: “Smarkaka, Manoo.” He continued in the Wenja tongue: “What does the tribe need?”

Manoo nodded once, the shells of his necklace jingling. “Wenja have gone missing in the South, some found killed and eaten. Udam found killed too. One Wenja lived, he told me it was an evil spirit. A black beast with white moon marks.” Manoo lowered his voice and leaned closer, to avoid drawing the attention of nearby villagers. “We need to stop this demon.”

Takkar scowled, and hefted his bag. “It is no spirit. I will find the beast...and kill him. We will lose no more Wenja.”

Manoo nodded, and turned away, confident in Takkar's word.

For his part, Takkar felt no guilt for having loosed this black-furred monster. Oros was a harsh world, and it was not uncommon for people to die before their thirtieth year. Besides, he could not have known the black dhole would become a man-eater. It was in his nature to focus on the present and the future, rather than worrying overmuch about the past.

Still, he wanted to at least spend one night in his own hut, among his own people. It was all he asked for in reward for the seemingly endless warring with the other tribes: the comfort of home.

Besides, he'd promised to meet with Tensay, the tribe's spiritual leader. The burn-scarred shaman would be incensed if Takkar did not arrive as promised, and Takkar's respect for the holy Tensay was paramount.

He would deal with the black dhole tomorrow.

Southern Region of Oros

The black dhole was a creature transformed.

Three solid weeks of being well-fed had filled him out with strong flesh. His bony frame now sleekly muscled, he barely resembled the starving beast caged by the Izila. The only similarities from his former life were the scars from his arena battles, and the oddly persistent white designs matted into his ebony-black pelt.

Night was falling, the stars beginning to show in their slow, eternal march across the skies as the dhole stretched and yawned; it was almost time to hunt. But first, he'd visit the river for a drink.

Hunting fire-wielding hunters was thirsty work, after all.

As he approached the river, the light of a small campfire from upstream caught his eye. Someone had been foolish enough to try and stay the night in his new territory. The dhole licked his chops and began to trot towards the light, eager for a fresh kill. The odor of cooking meat wafted towards him...his prey was making food.

Even though he was brazen and unafraid, the dhole wasn't stupid, either. As he approached, he slowed to observe his prey before attacking. The fire that had drawn his attention was nothing more than a small cooking fire, with hunks of pork suspended on wooden slats sizzling over the flame. Fat cooking out of the flesh dripped into the fire, making it crackle and leap like a thing alive. The smell was overpowering to the dhole.

Hunting had been increasingly difficult; as word spread of the predator targeting humans in the valley, people began traveling in larger, more heavily armed groups...or not at all. The dhole felt lucky tonight, however, for a single hunter was crouched by the fire. A spear, longbow, and quiver of arrows were laid against a rock; the man's hands were held towards the fire for warmth from the evening chill.

The dhole stalked forward, growling fiercely. He'd learned that frightened humans made for easy prey. The hunter turned, as the dhole charged for the kill- and the sight of the hunter caused the black-pelted canine to skid to a halt, for it was Takkar scowling at him in the circle of light thrown from the fire.

Had the dhole been capable of speech, he would not have been able to explain what checked his assault. He certainly felt no immediate connection or kinship with this human, but somewhere within he felt compelled to halt. Compelled somehow to obey. Confused, he resumed growling.

Takkar considered his options. He'd lured the beast out easily enough, and the sight of the hale and hearty looking man-eater surely didn't elicit as much pity as the starving captive in the cage had, but something gave him pause. For one thing, the black dhole clearly didn't fear the light of the fire.

For another, the dhole had stopped when he recognized his liberator. Takkar began to wonder if there was something redeemable in this savage beast after all.

Slowly, Takkar reached for a chunk of the boar meat he'd been cooking. The dhole followed this movement with gleaming red eyes, nostrils twitching at the pungent aroma of the sizzling pork.

Takkar silently tossed the hunk of meat at the feet of the dhole.

As if afraid the meat would disappear if not immediately claimed, the black creature grabbed it and gobbled it down nearly whole. His sharp gaze remained locked on Takkar's face as he ate.

Takkar repeated his action, tossing another chunk of meat to the dhole. This time, he didn't throw it as far, forcing the beast to come closer. The black dhole stepped forward, still unafraid, and bolted the offered meat. Takkar narrowed his eyes, considering his options. On the one hand, dholes were known to be terminally vicious, second only in poor temper to honey badgers. On the other hand, this particular dhole had surely already earned a reputation among all tribes as a man-eating beast, an evil spirit, even. Takkar found himself wondering how the enemies of his tribe would react to the savage beast were he controlled by the Wenja.

Mulling these things over, he tossed another chunk of pork onto the ground, a larger piece than the canine could eat in one bite, and not more than a foot from his own knee. The dhole bared his teeth in warning, and stepped forward to claim his prize. This time, Takkar broke his silence.

He began to speak soothingly, quietly, the way he had on the night he'd given the black dhole freedom. He slowly reached out to the dhole, who was still watching him as he ate. Even with his mouth full of the delicious pork, the dhole growled threateningly.

Takkar was as unafraid as the dhole. In a way, they shared a fearless temperament.

Still, the black dhole was resistant. He'd never been touched except with cruelty, and he had no desire to allow even this man to whom he afforded respect to lay a hand on his midnight fur. He dropped the pork, half-eaten, and snarled viciously.

Yet even that did not cause Takkar to stop. He was determined to tame this beast.

Partly out of a primitive and instinctive desire for companionship, partly out of respect borne of knowing this man had given him freedom, and partly due to some genetic quirk of his makeup, the dhole at once craved and detested the calm hunter's advance. He planted his front legs wide apart, head lowered and jaws dripping froth, and glared defiantly at the ever-approaching hand.

Within, the black dhole was at war with himself; he felt compelled to resist, for the wild heart within him loathed the touch of man, but the strange circumstances of his captivity and genes held him immobile as the hand descended onto his head. The growl slowly died in his throat.

He had never been petted before.

Takkar watched the dhole struggle to remain motionless as he ran his fingers over the short black fur of his head, over the almost comically large ears, and the scars on his face; the man pondered a moment at how close the dhole came to losing an eye. Finally, he withdrew his hand. The dhole, exhausted from the emotional battle he'd waged, dropped to his belly, panting. He could not decide if being stroked was pleasant, or hellish. The wildness in his blood screamed for him to run from the man, to flee for his life. His fighting spirit, however, felt a kinship with the hunter and warrior who had shown him the only kindness he'd ever experienced.

Takkar sealed the deal by dropping the entire roast of pork between the dhole's paws. He watched as the scarred canine tore into the meat, still staring back at him with glittering ruby eyes. Speaking aloud to himself, Takkar mused: “I should give you a name.”

Between bites of pork, the dhole growled softly as if in reply.

NEXT CHAPTER: Takkar and the black dhole are a formidable team! But can the famed Wenja beast master curb the man-eater's taste for human flesh?