A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

Growing Up Werewolf: Breukelen Girl

August 28, 2011
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My first novella – Growing up Werewolf is now available on Smashwords
for your ebook reading pleasure.

Growing Up Werewolf:
Breukelen Girl’s First novella.

This is me, BG recounting my first shape shift experience and realizing for the first time, that there is more to being a werewolf than just shape shifting to tribal form.

It’s just not what I expected. Nobody expected it to turn out like this. Because no one saw it coming. Least of all the young, unmautred werewolf pup, version of me.

You want to know what makes a werewolf?

What makes me, Breukelen Girl? This is the first in a series of novellas on my past that will give you insight into my werewolf world.

If you liked A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn’s Zines, then you’ll want to add this one to your collection.

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Werewolf fighting 101

July 24, 2010
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Some werewolf females are just bitches and should be treated as such.

It was left up to Jules, to tell Gabby that she couldn’t sit at the Alpha’s table in the club the other night. It didn’t go down well, that the Manhattan Maen Alpha female, was once again, being vanquished from the good graces of the leading pack’s Alpha male, Paris. See, status and hierarchy is a very important thing in a werewolf pack.

Being an Alpha automatically sets you up, as being far more superior and precious and better, than the majority of your fellow werewolves. So seeing a beta wolf, from a neighboring pack, sit at the leading Alpha’s table with him and his hierarchy before her, was never going to go down well with the likes of Gabby’s ego.

Especially since, awhile ago, when I was off the Manhattan scene, she seemed to be filling in the place of ‘female’ required seating at the pack leader’s table. But now I’m back, and that means, she has to go find other places to hang out in the clubs when I’m around. Paris and the boys know, we do not get along.

Werewolves, butt heads with them, if you’re bored or assured of your superiority.

I was in the female restroom when Gabby stormed in, slamming the door behind her, clearly, not taking the news that she was being shuffled around the club to accommodate my presence, all that well.

“Oh it’s you.” She said looking me over as I stood in front of the counter top.

“The feelings mutual.” I muttered back at her, not taking my eyes of the mirror before me. Which was my mistake. It’s like I forgot how feral a pissed of she wolf could be. She marched over to me.

“They treat you like you’re one of us!” She spat in my face, pushing me backwards so I stumbled over my own high heels, off balance slightly and hit the nearest wall.
“You’re not one of us!” She poked me in the chest sharply. “You’re not even an Alpha! I’m the freak’n Alpha female here and you’re the one they treat like the freaking queen of the wolves!” She said moving in front of me so I was backed into the wall with her blocking my escape.

“No, I’m not you. I’m better than you.” I replied smiling at her.

Remember kiddies, the golden rule when werewolves are fighting, is werewolves do not back down. Especially when confronted by pack. Or you know in this case, another, pack wolf bitch.

Her eyes widened, like she couldn’t believe I had the audacity to speak back, let alone throw a massive insult at her. Of course, that just made things worse.

She growled at me, I heard a sharp snap of something and Gabby showed me her fangs. I heard something similar to a popping sound and realized it was muscle and bone breaking. She was shape shifting part of herself, not smoothly or elegantly. But she was getting the job done.

Again, not a good sign, for me.

Gabby grabbed me by the throat with her still very human hand while her right hand slashed at my chest with razor sharp talons for claws. She moved fast. But not so fast I couldn’t see it coming and try and fight her off. She was stronger than me and had me in a bad position to be taken advantage of.

So I decided to play dirty.
You want bitchy, come see me when I’m pissed off. I can roll with the best of them.

I threw up my knee, hard into her body. And as she flinched in sharp pain – yes girls are just as sensitive to getting kicked in the crotch as boys, I threw out a right jab into the side of her face. This caught her off guard and she momentarily loosed her grip on my throat. Which was what I needed to get into a better position of attack, rather than defend.

Werewolf fighting one-o-one, we fight by attacking, not defending.

As she slashed back at my arm with her werewolf clawed hand, I had enough room to move off the wall and throw my elbow into face. She lost all sense of grip on me then as she cried out, her nose bursting with blood. I shoved her aside, into the counter top, which she hit hard, in the side of her body before falling down onto the floor, before she could stop herself.

I kicked her pointedly in the ribs, once, with my heels and got out.

I emerged in the club and it was only then that I realized I was in pain. That I seemed to allow the sensation through my brain haze. The stinging sensation across my arm and chest, was bleeding. I looked down at my top, which was just concealing my breast on one side.

That bitch, she’d cut the shoulder strap off it and had nicely slashed open the left side of my chest, with a wicked streak of claw marks.

When I looked up again, I swear every pair of eyes in that club was on me.
It was the blood.
Fresh blood and every werewolf in the place, could smell it.

My blood, still bleeding, enticing their inner beasts to want out. To want to bear fangs and fur and shred me even more. It’s a natural instinct, a really powerful one, that’s harder than hard to ignore or see reason through. Especially if you’re a werewolf with little self control or weakened will.

Potentially, a very bad situation to be in.

Because bleeding so obviously, out in the open, indicated I was injured. Injury assumes weakness and weakness to werewolves, means prey. Prey gets attacked or eaten.

I could not be seen as prey.

I saw Addison and Jules readying in the distance, throwing hand signals at one another and grabbing their people. But there was still around fifty or so werewolves between them and me. I looked at all the wolves around me, who had stopped whatever they were doing and were now staring at me hungrily, like they were just waiting for a green light to clean me up. Or for some one to make the first move.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I picked another fight, with another wolf. A male wolf nearest too me.

I started throwing punches at him, as hard as I could. Knocking him around, again and again. He threw out a few return punches, but they lacked power. He went down easily enough and I followed him down, continuing to smack his skin with my fists, until my knuckles split open from the hitting. I can not tell you how much that hurts. Werewolves, tough, but not completly oblivious to pain.

Werewolf.
Does not back down.

I couldn’t let this pack, see me as a weakness, or think they could somehow take advantage of me because I’m not one of them, or because I’m just a beta wolf. It was a show of strength, and I think the wolf I laid into understood that. Otherwise he’d have really fought back at me.

By this time, Jules was pulling the guy out from under me. Nobody touched me, as I slowly stood back up. Aching with throbbing pain in my hands, arms, stinging abrasions across my chest. Covered in blood.

Addison looked at me.

“I got you another drink, it’s at your table, if you’d like it.” He said loud enough for everyone around us to hear.

I sighed heavily and flicked my hair back over my shoulder. Like nothing was amiss.

Addison and Jules had a guard of older wolves, either side of the crowd that had formed. Like a formation guard for me to walk through. We were putting on a show of who was who, for the pack to see.

Addison started walking beside me. But once again, everything stopped when Gabby appeared from the restroom, holding her hand to her nose. She had blood smeared across her upper lip.

I looked back at her and she at me. If looks could kill, I’d have been dead and buried.
“I hope I broke it.” I said smiling at her.
Addison rolled his eyes at me. As if to say ‘you two are so immature’.

“Shall we?” He asked as I turned around and we walked back over to Paris, at his table.

If I’d have been in real trouble for starting a fight there, Paris himself would have been pulling me off that wolf. Berating me in front of everyone. Or at the very least, instructed Addison to yank me back off him.

But they hadn’t, so clearly, I’d done something right, in standing up for myself.


Welcome to Brooklyn, now you’re dead.

June 17, 2010
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So what are you when you don’t know what you are? Lost?

Vargr, didn’t strike me as someone who was lost. A petty criminal and a shape shifter, he definitely was. But after his run in with me, back in 2009 when he robbed me of my belongings on the streets of Brooklyn, he became something else. All because I bit him. I don’t know if anyone’s every done studies on what a werewolf bite can do. When I bit Vargr, I was in human form, had very human teeth, that had all the powerful force of a werewolf’s bite and strength. I bit through his skin, till I hit bone. His collar bone. I bit so hard, I chipped my tooth.

Non’s just can’t do that. It might sound simple and easy, but muscle is tough, sinew is tougher. Breaking skin is easy, getting past the broken skin, sinking into someone’s bone, that’s actually harder than you’d believe. Of course, not to a werewolf like me. It’s kind of like forgetting your own strength and all that.

I let his words sink in, with the maniacal expression building on his face.

“I’m a, what those native indians call a shape shifter, I looked it up.”

Vargr was a shape shifter. Thanks to me? I frowned heavily. How did that even begin to work? I don’t really know how shape shifter become what they are. I don’t really know that much about their kind at all. But I am like ninety nine percent certain, you don’t become a shape shifter from a werewolf bite. If anything, he should have become a lycan.

My bite did something to him. Maybe, I infected a shape shifter with lycanthropy. Like he didn’t know he was a shape shifter or something and then I bit him and it activated it or messed things up in him? How is that even possible?

I glanced at Conall, ever ready to pounce on this guy, should he make a wrong move. What had I done to this petty criminal? Had I made a bad person, worse?

“How?”I asked him, because the question had to be asked. I had to know. I didn’t just walk through a cemetery for no reason, and not to confront Vargr. I hadn’t worried about this guy for a whole year, because I didn’t have reason to. I wanted an answer.

He shrugged his shoulders. “After you bit me. I become different.” He said cryptically.
Asshole.

“How different?”

He smiled with a cat’s got the canary kind of smile. Like he knew something I don’t know which should seem so obvious to me, if only I damn well knew what it was.

“You freed me.”

A chill ran over my body.

Freedom usually sounds like a good thing. Something to celebrate and enjoy. Only this was a criminal, an from what I could tell, he rather enjoyed being a criminal. Which didn’t make him the nicest person on the planet according to my judgment scale.

He moved away from me and started gathering up his stash pile of stolen items, shoving the small bits of jewellery and wallets into the larger handbags, he’d stolen from people.

Freedom to a werewolf was open spaces, and running and roaming without fear of anything being after them. It was the moonlight coursing through our veins when we were in tribal form on a lunar week. It was…

Moonlight. The moon. The lunar cycle. Lunar week. I kept jumping my thoughts along, trying to piece it together with what I knew, as Vargr seemed to pack up his stuff.

Shape shifters are bound by moonlight. At least, I’m pretty sure they are, I’ve only ever seen shape shifters change form on a lunar week. As far as I was aware, that’s the only time they can. Where as werewolves can change form at any time but have to shift on a full moon night.

“So, how does the whole, changing shape thing work anyway?” I asked curiously.

Vargr shoved his stash into a large duffel bag. “I don’t know lady and if I did know, I sure as hell wouldn’t be telling no werewolf about it.”

“Why not?” Conall asked, beside me.

“When you’ve been on the streets as long as I have, and you do what I do for a living, you learn to have some street smarts about you. You’re the first two werewolves I’ve ever met, but I’ve heard about your type before. Plenty of times. I ain’t stupid.”

“Well, you’re something alright, wandering into werewolf territory, twice now, attacking me once, stealing my stuff.”

Vargr straightened up, hoisting his duffel bag onto his shoulder quickly.

“The crypt’s all yours. I got other places I can crash.”

Both Conall and I stepped in front of him, blocking the entrance of the crypt. So there was no way out.

“You don’t want to do that.” He said at me, his voice getting deeper. Did he think he was testing me? Frightening me? Going to intimidate me, a werewolf, into backing down? Oh he really didn’t know werewolves that well. I won’t back down for anyone. Let alone a shape shifter.

“Oh yes, I do.” I replied, letting my growl come through in my voice. Vargr flinched, taking a step backwards. What an amateur. He really had no idea about messing with werewolves or playing the card he’d been dealt. He sighed heavily and started sliding the duffel bag off his shoulder. Then he threw the bag out at us, slamming into Conall and trying to shoulder past me. Conall swatted the bag aside and moved to grab him.

I’d half been expecting him to pull out his knife on me again. I was beginning to dislike Vargr, a lot. I barely fell off balance as I growled and grabbed him first, throwing him back into the marble centre piece in the crypt. Causing him to bounce off it, grabbing his ribs. I heard something pop inside him.

“Welcome to Brooklyn.” I muttered as both Conall and I strode towards him. “Now you’re dead. For the crime of pissing me off.”

“Okay, okay, you want to know?” He winced holding his arms up in a defensive position, like he thought he was going to get hit. He sounded winded. Conall and I stood over him. What a whimp. I felt my wolf start to get restless. Whimps are weaklings and weaklings are prey, to a werewolf. Vargr seemed like slim pickings made easy.

“I can become animals, at any time. That’s it, I swear, after you bit me, I could just do it. It’s handy, It helps me get into houses easier, people have those pet flap door things, I just change into a dog or a cat and wander in, whenever I need the cash, I grab their stuff and leave.”

Vargr sounded like a stupid criminal if you ask me. Especially since it clearly didn’t occur to him to shape shift to fight either Conall or I.

“Versipellis.” Conall muttered lightly. Vargr looked over at him.

“What?”

Versipellis, the word rang around in my head. I’m sure one of the pack elders had told me the story of Versipellis before. Basically it translated to a shape shifter not bound by the usual limitations. They weren’t controlled by the lunar cycle and they didn’t neccessarily respond to the moon. The story I’d been told, made Versipellis sound like a trickester bogey man. Scary and troublesome. Of course, being told as a child, probably meant, a lot of things sound scary.

So I’d created a bogey man? Shape shifting had to have advantages. But I doubt Vargr knew that and I wasn’t about to let on. He clearly didn’t get the gift he’d been given or know how he’d gotten the way he was. He’d choosen to be criminal and now, he’d choosen to come back into my home. Brooklyn.

Conall clamped down again and continued to glare down at him. Vargr looked over to me desperately. He was literally backed into a corner. How utterly pathetic, my wolf was getting far too excited about how easy it would be to hurt him. I could feel the urge for blood lust coming on. It would be so easy for both Conall and I to take this douche bag out of existance. For god sakes, we were in a cemetary. Who’d look there for a freshly dead kill?

But I knew it was wrong. So I fought the wolf’s urges down.

“I should thank you for what you did for me.” Vargr stammered out quickly, still gasping slightly from his rib injury.

I shook my head and fought the urge to slap him senseless. I hated myself even more for having ever bit this scumbag. But maybe it wasn’t my doing, the Versipellis thing. Maybe that was a myth. A story told to children to keep their curosities and manners in line. Maybe Vargr had always been a shape shifter and never known how to activate that part of himself. Maybe it was all just a horrible coincedence.

Turning my back on him, indicating to Conall I was ready to get out of there. We moved towards the entrance.

“Get out!” I spat at him over my shoulder. “Tonight! Don’t ever show your face in Brooklyn again. If I hear about you robbing anyone in Brooklyn, I will see to it that you’re shredded out of your skin till you’re bled dry, and cut into pet food pieces.”

We walked out of the crypt.
Me leaving Vargr behind me, for good.


Werewolf vs Werewolf

May 20, 2010
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Paris’s eyes were dark and drilling into me. His face was taunt, and looked strained. Dare I say it, but I of course, was the cause of his distress. He’d made me sit down atop a table at Addison’s house in Alphabet City, where they’d taken me, because it was closest to the area the lycan bitch and I had been caught fighting in. I had a tissue to my constantly bleeding blood nose and my head slightly tilted back, trying to stop the flow.

So there I was, sitting still, my scrapped knees dangling over a table top, keeping my mouth shut, saying nothing, and looking grim, and coated in blood, namely my own, waiting for my reprimand from my boyfriend the Manhattan Pack leader, like I was under police investigation.

But it wasn’t coming, the reprimand.

He was holding my right hand, gently and wiping the blood off the broken skin on and around my knuckles and hand. Every now and then his eyes would wander up and down my arms, silently counting, I think, all the scratch marks along them. They went right up my arms. Pink lines of varying degrees of depth, colour, scaring and blood. She’d cut through my top, shredded the long sleeves.
Not that it bothered me. Nothing about what I’d done bothered me. I was lucky I figured, but didn’t care for lucky, the corner of my bottom lip was torn, slightly away from my mouth. But none of my injuries mattered.

Getting back into the fight with that lycan, that mattered to me.I was going numb to the pain, because my anger was keeping me warm inside.

Paris being silent towards me, bothered me. A lot. Still, I refused to break the silence. I was in no mood for talking anyway. I could barely bring myself to look at the Alpha male behind Paris in the kitchen, pacing away – Addison. As far as I was concerned, he was completely at fault.

What fucking werewolf interferes in a fight that isn’t their own?

The werewolf Addison, that’s who.

There’s no real politics or ruling on this type of thing, jumping in on a regular wolf street fight. It’s just not…wise, or appreciated and I guess you could say, that in terms of the fight I’d started with the lycan bitch, it undermined me in front of her. Again.

What fucking werewolf likes to look like a weakling in front of other werewolves or more insultingly, a lycan?

Not me. I have pride, in bucket loads.
Hence the staunchly silence of my unspoken anger.

“Wanna talk to me?” Paris finally asked, as he squeezed the red coated washer out in the warm bowl of water beside my hand. My eyes flicked past him and glared at Addison who’d decided to stop pacing long enough to lean against the kitchen bench top. He folded his arms over his chest and stared straight back at me.

“I did you a favor, that lycan was going to pummel you into a new existence.” Addison fired at me before I broke eye contact.

“Addison, why don’t you leave us in private.” Paris said half turning his head towards his second in command. We both watched as Addison marched out of the kitchen area loudly and unhappily.

“Now, wanna tell me what happened?” Paris said taking up my left hand and starting to wipe it with the warm liquid.

“He was going to break both my ankles you know.” I muttered. Knowing I was acting childishly and not caring.

Paris stopped cleaning my hand wound then and looked at me in earnest seriousness.

“I’d never let him get away with doing that to you. But you must’ve pushed him to his limit, Addison isn’t one to threaten violence easily. Kingsley on the other hand…” Paris said referring to another one of the Alpha warriors in the Manhattan Maen hierarchy.

“I got into a fight.”

Paris sighed heavily and started wiping down my hand again, gently. “Believe it or not, I can see the evidence of that. Believe me, from what Addison told me of what he and Jules saw of the fight, you’re lucky they intervened when they did.”

“I was holding my own.”

“You’re covered in your own blood. That lycan has scarred you all over.” He went on.“You’re going to have to shape shift to heal all this. Pretty soon too, I would think, as soon as your nose stops bleeding.”

I pulled the bright red soaked tissue away from my nose. It was practically falling apart in my hands it was so damp.

“I need to find that lycan.”

“Not gonna happen.” Paris replied firmly. “Jules is still out there, tracking her down. We’re on it. You’re not going anywhere until you shape shift and recover.”

I sighed heavily back at him.

“Don’t make me make you.”

I guess it was the only warning I was going to get. Alpha werewolves can force another werewolf in or out of a shape shift mode, as well as kind of interfering with the wolf’s will, if you want to call it that. We call it influencing. And if I didn’t do it myself, then Paris would do it to me. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a smooth ride. Especially when you’ve got fresh injuries, like mine. He didn’t even need to be in animal form to do it to me, if I understood correctly.

He put my hand back down and moved the bowl of water, which was now all watered red, not pick, away from us.

“Talk to me.” He pleaded, putting my head in his hand and turning it to face it.

“You ever been hunted?” I asked.

He dropped his hand and stood up straighter in front of me.

“No.”

“Yeah, well, I never told you I was when I was fourteen and that bitch of a lycan your guys let get away from me, was the hunter responsible.” I replied sliding off the table top.

Paris looked wounded, pained and wounded. But my anger was just so much greater.

I pushed past him out of the room. Maybe I could get through a fast shape shift, fast enough to recover and get back on my feet again to find that lycan. Or maybe I’d just go out after her in werewolf form. That’d probably be my better shot.


Lipwereri

January 28, 2010
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Have you ever seen a true werewolf fight?

Been to any of the underground Alpha dominance fights they hold around Brooklyn? They change the location after every fight, so you might find it hard to get into them. It’s kind of like you have to be in the know or know someone who knows someone who knows someone involved with organizing the fights to find out where they are.

Yeah, well I have.

It ain’t a fight unless there’s a ton of blood spilled, and someone’s almost dead or completely incapacitated at the end of it.

It’s not a fight until one werewolf, Alpha werewolf, gives in.

Can you imagine?

Take the most competitive, the most macho person you know. The toughest, bad ass and the most stubborn son of a bitch you know and roll them all into one hombre. Now pit that hombre against themself. Watch the pride and egos swell and surge.

We’re not allowed to deliberately kill one another, even in a dominance fight.

Werewolf lineages, low birth rates and all that. But werewolves are allowed to beat the absolute living crap out of each other to within an inch of death.

Go figure.

Alpha werewolves do not fuck around with that shit. They play hard and they hit harder, even in human form.

That’s the other thing about the dominance fights, they’re only held between Alpha werewolves and they’re held in human form.

No shape shifting allowed.

So you’re talking about a being who can take the hits and cope for far longer than any human could.

The beatings are mega powerful and they go on, for like forever. And one of them is ‘expected’ to give in. To take the beating, and then admit, someone else is the winner.

It’s beyond bitchy.

The tension in Crescent is so sharp, I’m beginning to think it can slice skin open just because we breathe and move in it.

But Black Dog isn’t an Alpha werewolf.

He’s a shape shifter, not that I think that holds some sort of advantage to him and disadvantage to Paris. It just means, that when my Alpha, Paris, beats his human ass to a pulp, he’s not going to going to be able to crawl away half as fast as a loser in a regular dominance fight.

I just hope Paris doesn’t murder him.

Black Dog circles around Paris, his arms up like he thinks’ he is actually going to be able to land the jabs he hopes to throw. He’s even got the boxer stance happening and is bouncing from foot to foot, lightly.

The crowd at Crescent have all but stopped whatever they were doing before this. A semi circle has formed around the shape shift and the Alpha werewolf. Paris has his shirt off again. He’s ripped. Broad shoulders, that show off a running display of back tattoos. Arms that look heavy and full of nothing but raw power. He’s just eyeing Black Dog.

Daring him.

Black Dog smirks back at him, moving far too much for someone who should not be nearly as confident as he appears to be for someone who’s going to get ripped to shreds.

This isn’t a sanctioned fight, isn’t about dominance or leadership. It’s about fighting, for the sake of fighting.

So that means, the normal rules of dominance fights don’t apply.

I guess that’s why I gasped, when Black Dog suddenly shape shifts. It’s like a slow blink of an eye. His body flows like fluid until before us all stands a giant creature.

Kind of looks like an Egyptian jackal. But that’s not right, the ears are wrong.
Then it comes to me.

Lipwereri.

More commonly known these days as a spotted Heyena.

Teeth bared like salivating wolf fangs, but a small face, and spotted fur, short ears and strong fore legs and hind legs.

Black Dog’s lipwereri throws back it’s head, and unleashes a haunting howl, that sounds like laughter filled with death.

Most of the wolves in the crowd, raise their hands to their ears and shrink back automatically, as if the laughter alone is like poison touching them.

But not Paris.

The man stands his ground, doesn’t even flinch at the horrible sound.

Instead, he launches himself straight at Black Dog, before he can finish putting his head back down from the howl.

As fluid, as the shape shifter, his figure shape shifts in flight, off the ground. His clothes tearing to pieces as the Alpha werewolf breaks out of his skin.

It’s like watching muscle rip open, replacing all that was human about him, with nothing but the Alpha werewolf.


Blood Lust

January 27, 2010
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Blood lust

the word rings through my brain.

Blood and Lust.

Combined together.

It doesn’t gross me out. It actually sounds….nice. Because the werewolf part of me knows blood, likes blood, understands blood and when the time is right, even, wants blood. The werewolf me, also understands and enjoys, lust.

More often than not.

I guess it could be another name for what us werewolves refer to as lunar lust. You know, when the lunar week is on us and we all but get consumed by sexual energy and need. Only I’m not sure that’s quite accurate enough. For one thing, our eyes don’t bleed, blood when we’re super horny.

I think blood lust has more to do with blood than sex but I’m sure it combines the two as well. At least, this is the case I’ve been given the impression of. Not that I know any that have this affliction.

From what I’ve been told about Blood lust, it’s somewhat of an affliction, condition that is not unlike having your own overwhelming obsession. Of the blood kind. So it creeps me out, somewhat, that a shape shifter I don’t know has unwittingly taken a likening to me.

All because he hates the Alpha werewolf of the Manhattan Pack, my boyfriend, Paris.

I’ve been told that werewolf blood lust, is like embracing the love of rage. You get swept up in it and you let it take you over, completely and you enjoy it. It’s like letting the werewolf you really, have it’s hunt and kill, fix, that it doesn’t really get these days. It’s passion at its most violent, was the term I remember being used to describe it’s essence. I mean, we have to live in a civilized world so that kind of behavior is off the cards and not allowed.

And whilst Black Dog isn’t a werewolf, he does carry wolf in him, so I’d assume he react the same way as a werewolf.

So those urges, on a normal day, to hunt prey and take sport in the kill, are minimal, tiny even. Because they’re suppressed, by us barely acknowledging them, or allowing them to exist within our hybrid psychological make up. The feeling only sort of stirs a bit when we get excited about meat, or you know, in lunar weeks. But it’s not like none of everyday werewolves, don’t know the art of control. Or of ourselves.

But I don’t know anything about Black Dog, he doesn’t sound all that stable from the brief comments Paris has shared about him. So to hear Paris speak about Black Dog having blood lust, for me, it just weirds me out.

I sip on my alcoholic vanilla milkshake. Another lunar week, another night out at Crescent. I turn around to head back over to Paris and his friends. When a figure bumps straight into me.

Almost causing me to spill my milkshake. Almost.

I look up at the guy. The hair on the back of neck is pulling at my skin, dragging it to attention.

I can smell lupine but it isn’t Breukelen lupine scent, not that’s a surprise since I’m spending another night in Manhattan. There are other scents mingled and mixed in there, but it’s really hard to differentiate what they are.

Because they’re like specks, tiny, tiny specks of this and that. I can make out something like licorice. Of course, that could just be the smell of the dry ice in the air of the club. Or someone else’s bad body odor. Or his base scent.

I’m not truly freaked out, until he smiles at me and his eyes bleed red.
Bleed.

Not all messy and smearing out of the corner of his eyes kind of thing. I mean, the red drips down from under his eyelids around the whites of his eyes, leaving the irises, untouched, until all around it is blood red.

Blood lust.

“Everybody here calls me Black Dog, what’s your name pretty wolf?”


Werewolf instinct

January 13, 2010
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After hearing “Werewolves instinctively go after that which they love the most” The other day, this statement got me thinking about what that meant or could mean.

Of course, it was said by humans who were in no way inclined to be werewolves themselves. I didn’t get lupine in their scent. So the statement coming from those that aren’t what they talk about, could be seen to be ignorant. Kind of like, you know, you can’t say that’s the truth of the matter, unless you’ve lived the truth of the matter.

At first, I took this statement to mean, that werewolves will ‘attack’ those they love the most. As in your loved ones, boyfriends, girlfriends, family and anyone who means anything to them.
As if that makes sense!
Hurting the ones you love the most to show what? That you care? Care enough to rip their throats out?
Please. A little dignity.

I took this statement to mean, that it was a rouge werewolf, one who could not control itself under moonlight, and in it’s loss of control it some how only sees or targets people it loves (ie recognizes) to attack and kill.

It could be said that this is type of reaction is indeed a reflection of who we truly are. That’s of course, complete bullshit, unless you buy into the old time marketing campagain of the werewolf image that has long, ‘dog’ed us.

We do not project the monster from within, even after taking wolf form, because it’s not a reflection of who we are. We have needs, baser needs when in werewolf form, but that doesn’t make us all that different to the rest of the animal kingdom and just because you’re labelled “a predatory animal” that doesn’t make you a monster. It just means we won’t be stood on or roll over for anybody. Werewolves, know how to survive.

Nobody truly reflects who they are to the outside world right? I mean, if they did, then why use make up, cosmetic surgery?

But people, we’ve come along way from the dark ages of werewolf persecution and scalping trials of the 1600’s. But the werewolf image is still more monster than any other supernatural being since.

So then I thought, what if they mean this statement in a good way?

Go with me here, let’s just assume those speaking were playing nice and tolerantly to my kind.
Because it’d sure make a change of pace.

Anyway, so what if this statement meant, that werewolves, instinctively go after that which they love the most, in a protective sense. I mean, you’d be hard pressed to find too many random attacks from werewolves these days. We aren’t mindless animals you know. When we shape shift, we still have a mind, an animal’s mind as much as we still have the instinct of our wolf shape and the predatory hunt.

And most creatures know, who’s top of the food chain and automatically who not to fuck with. I’m happy to say werewolves command respect in that sense. Do not fuck with the werewolves and they will not kill you. Simple really.

Werewolves are pack animals, they do not live alone. They do not work alone, they do not isolate themselves on lunar weeks or full moon nights. We instinctively go to what we know. We work with familiarity and routine. We adapt to circumstance. We protect those that we love and we will fight to the death, to ensure our pack survives.

Now if these people, had known that, their statement might make a lick of sense. But I’m guessing, they didn’t know that. Or they really just don’t have a clue about modern werewolves. Which got me thinking, they’ve heard to many kids stories. Like the most famous of them all, Little Red Riding Hood.

That ‘fairy tale’ has been told so many times, and changed, that nobodies really sure who started it or why or weather it’s got truth to it or it’s pure fiction.

There are a few popular versions that the Breukelen tell it as. Apparently they all have different meanings, that’s why there’s so many versions.

But I’m going to tell you a version, I was told of that fairy tale, only the Breukelen don’t call it Little Red Riding Hood.

We werewolves call it The Ravening Red Wolf. So stayed tuned for Part 2 of this post.


Dog Vs Werewolf

January 10, 2010
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“His hideous howl a dirge of death!” – tagline for The Wolfman, (1941).

I’ve spoken about how werewolves can’t really be your regular pet owners before, you know with big-ish animals, like cats and dogs, those type of pets because despite our very regular, daytime appearance, underneath it all, the animals scent the animal in us.It’s freaky really.

The other night recently, I was walking through the neighbourhood and what happens? But I see this little dog in the middle of the road, just wandering around.

Not leashed, and nobody else is around in the street. Presumably the dog came from one of the houses on the street I was walking down. Whatever, I was just walking by, minding my business, letting the dog do its business, whatever that was in the middle of the road. When it stands dead still and spots me.

So I stopped, stood still and wondered what it was going to do? Was it going to charge me, or yap me to death with little dog barking? Show me it wasn’t afraid of me, even though we’d never met before and I wasn’t doing anything threatening.

It decided to try and bark me to death. Well more correctly, to scare me away, which can mean only one thing. That it sensed the werewolf in me, a predator bigger and more bad ass than itself, entering its territory. You see, werewolf scent is not canine smelling, there’s an underlining scent of lupine mixed with the pheromones of my human skin.

Clearly the dog had decided it owned the road, even if I was crossing it.

So it starts going crazy at me, barking it’s little head off. At first I laughed, thinking it was amusing, because to anyone else it’d just look like the dog was going nuts, for no reason. But then it got annoying when I tried to continue to the other side of the road, and it kept following me and barking at me.

The inner bitch as well as the werewolf in me, raised its head. The dog needed to learn some respect since I wasn’t technically doing anything other than passing through it’s territory with no intent other than to go past the little yappy thing on my merry way.

So I stared down at the dog, hard, and unflinching. Fuck with the werewolf be prepared to get spanked is my motto. So I started growling back at it. Too quietly at first, but then louder. Which in return made the dog get louder but at the same time, run down the street away from me. Giving me a chance to make it to the other side of the sidewalk.

Yeah, yeah, who’s your daddy now bitch?

I kept growling and kept my eye on it as I walked on and noted when it stopped outside the driveway to a house. Obviously it’s home. I was just about to snarl at the little fucker when a local kid on his bike rocks up and says “Is that your dog?”

I stopped growling, looked at the kid, wondering if he’d heard me, and why the fuck he was out so late and wondered if he thought i had torrets and said “Not mine, doesn’t even like me” and walked off on both the kid and the dog.

Obviously there was really no threat, to either the little dog or to me in return. But as werewolves we are taught to not back down, it is not our way and it is most certainly not in our nature.

Werewolves are a proud sort and our image doesn’t depend on being tough, our reputation does. There is some part of all us werewolves that exists, even in us beta wolves, that says, never say die, don’t back down, and get in there first, if you have cause to.

I may live the life of a human-animal hybrid, but that does not mean I am soft or can in fact, ignore the part of me that adds up to the whole me. I must acknowledge it with more than knowledge that it is there. I must let it out of the leash too, once in awhile.

We’re all told this, us werewolves. To acknowledge the aggression, to control it so it doesn’t control us. For if we don’t we risk doing far worse, when a lunar week is upon us and the ability to judge and juggle control tests our limits.


Night time

December 22, 2009
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I am a creature of the night.
Literally.
Ha ha – yes, I even have fangs

My werewolf soul is more stated at night. Like it’s in it’s rightful place. Like I have all the energy I need. Like I’m where I should be and able to do anything I please.

Werewolf’s were born into a relationship with night time and a conflict with daylight.

Our culture’s history have been linked forever with night time, like it was something to hold us back, rather than kept a place warm for us, waiting for us to just release ourselves into it.

Like night time and werewolf together were something that should only be feared, because it controlled us.

Our shape-shifts, whilst they can be called on in any time of day or night, (and must occur during lunar weeks) much prefer the natural progression that the moon gives us, at night time.

Although granted, when there’s an eclipse, that can seriously be challenged. That’s when it gets really wiry and weird for us. There have been werewolves who have been known to be unable to shape-shift in an eclipse. But have all the urges to do so and other traits. I guess the best way to describe it, is it would be like being caught in half-half mode permanently. You’re in human form, but every other part of your body is howling for the werewolf.

But night time for us, it’s like a blanket of relief, an easy comfort that we slip into at any given chance. It doesn’t even have to be about lunar week.

Night time is representative of a very core part of the werewolf. It’s not a cover of darkness we hide ourselves in shame in. No it’s more like a sexual seduction, a silken touch, that let’s us unwind just that bit more, than daylight does.

We can be ourselves, in our clubs, and under a clear night sky. We can engage in romance that is pleasured by our sensors feeling heightened, by night time.

Playing in the dark, only adds to an allure we seem inherently built with.

Night time, one of my favourite times.


Werewolves are not pets

November 12, 2009
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Okay I need to clarify something I’ve said before in various posts on this blog.

Werewolves are not monsters.

When I say we – werewolves are not monsters, I mean to say, we’re not mindless and without reason.

As many a movie might have you believe. It’s odd, the movies seem to go for the scare factor, make us the big scary, fury, thing that will not just go bump into the night into you, but will bite you as well. Novels however, in more recent times, seem to put us in a more genuine light, whilst focusing it might seem, on our animal nature and issues of romantic entanglement.
Hands up who hasn’t been there.

Notice how both my hands are down?
Been there, done that, got the t-shirt and wrote the postcard back home.

So when I say werewolves are not mindless monsters, that’s not to say we’re completely cute and furry either.

You can’t just walk up to us and pet us when we’re in our tribal form. Most likely cause we’ll react like any animal – suspiciously, if not defensively and probably bite your hand right off. Yep, through the bone and then we’ll probably drink the blood, bury our snout in it, while you run around screaming the last of your breath out.

Werewolves are not pets, you don’t get to have us for the holiday season then dump as at the pound after that. You can not control us. You can not take us home with you and train to do circus tricks.

We are beasts, animals, at least in part.

So please, for the love of Loki, don’t believe the hype when the latest version of those twilight things come out. I mean, they’re only make believe. And they make me believe that whoever was doing the so called special effects on that film, didn’t have a fucking clue when it came to werewolves.

We are a proud race, no matter what pack you find yourself from.
Our heritage is distinguished and our culture is ancient.
We are absolute warriors when in a fight for blood and life.

Just ask the Braganza Pack who recently tried a thing or two on Breukelen turf and got handed their furry butts back to themselves on stretchers for the animal hospital rescue squad.

Even not in werewolf form, I could still smack down most things, if I was any good as a fighter.

But in werewolf form, I am damn near unstoppable, and fairly, it has to be said, indestructible.
But that isn’t to say I am without thought or reason.

I may not retain my memories of my time in my tribal form. But I have been around others when they are in werewolf form. I’ve seen the way they think. The way the werewolf sizes up it’s prey, their surroundings. You can see the werewolf calculating, going on their survival instinct on what they need to do for whatever reason.

So whilst we can be the fiercest fighting machines in the uber-animal kingdom, we are not just wildly rampaging the cityscape, attacking people.

At least, not without true purpose.
There’s always some dumb reason to fight.


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