Post by thetraveler on Jan 8, 2008 11:00:31 GMT -5
Neit and the Sky Aflame
If anyone wishes to develop some history for their wolf character, please join in; this is a reflection on the past of The Traveler, his remembrance of a dear relative from the “distant” (for a wolf) past. I will keep up this story in any case; perhaps it will inspire someone to post a historical anecdote, or to create a role-playing idea from their character’s past, or their ancestors’ past. The only requirement here is that neither Neit nor the role-player’s character dies during the course of the “adventure”. However - a fight, a struggle, even injury and / or trouble…no problems with that.
Old Neit lived many summers for one of our people. No one could recall him not being there. It seemed he was as old as the prairie and sky. Neit would say that in his youth he was a peripheral figure, not quite accepted by the old Wichita Mountain pack to which he was born. Eventually he came to our home and became accepted among the people of my forefathers. The seed wanderlust grew strong in him, though, and he was known to wander the prairie even to the north woods that I now call home.
Neit told many a story, some of his own experience, others that he remembered from other wolves long since departed. He told me of a time when prairie wolves did not hunt mice and voles, or prairie dogs; that a great wooly beast roamed the prairie in endless herds. They were dangerous but just one would feed an entire family of wolves for some time. Many brave wolves fell in combat with the wooly beasts; but there was a dignity and a pride in fighting the mighty creature, the mighty buffalo. Mice and locusts could not kill but we no longer lived as our ancestors did. I was thankful that Neit at least had the image of the buffalo in his mind. In his own way he gave it to us all, and we again knew the ways of our forefathers.
He did not live to see the destruction of my people, and for that I am thankful. One warm evening, as the big prairie moon rose above the little pups who he loved so dear, Neit lay down and departed this world for the next, where he would be free of painful bones and the sting of loved ones long gone. My spirit wailed in grief when he died, but now that I have lived through the terrors that lurked outside the grass, I am happy that his last days were full of joy and hope. It was his gift to live long and happy, and even greater, it was his reward to pass on peacefully and without sadness.
Once, on just such a summer evening, Neit came up close to me. He saw that I was staring at the big yellow moon, the same moon that stirred in our spirits, enticing us to howl into the night, and it moved him to tell a story. He asked if I had ever seen the sky aflame; I responded that I had not. It was then that he recalled to me one of his many travels, the greatest of his life, all the way to the north woods.
Neit was not yet one of our people when he went on his greatest adventure. He crossed the great and endless prairie to the north, coming to the painted hills and dusty, broken black rocks. He could almost hear the buffalo who once thundered across those slopes. He could not remember how, but there was a thought in his head, a vision of a great forest not far from the hills. In spite of fatigue he would keep up his voyage. He would cut through the white-and rust-banded stones of the Badlands.
If anyone wishes to develop some history for their wolf character, please join in; this is a reflection on the past of The Traveler, his remembrance of a dear relative from the “distant” (for a wolf) past. I will keep up this story in any case; perhaps it will inspire someone to post a historical anecdote, or to create a role-playing idea from their character’s past, or their ancestors’ past. The only requirement here is that neither Neit nor the role-player’s character dies during the course of the “adventure”. However - a fight, a struggle, even injury and / or trouble…no problems with that.
Old Neit lived many summers for one of our people. No one could recall him not being there. It seemed he was as old as the prairie and sky. Neit would say that in his youth he was a peripheral figure, not quite accepted by the old Wichita Mountain pack to which he was born. Eventually he came to our home and became accepted among the people of my forefathers. The seed wanderlust grew strong in him, though, and he was known to wander the prairie even to the north woods that I now call home.
Neit told many a story, some of his own experience, others that he remembered from other wolves long since departed. He told me of a time when prairie wolves did not hunt mice and voles, or prairie dogs; that a great wooly beast roamed the prairie in endless herds. They were dangerous but just one would feed an entire family of wolves for some time. Many brave wolves fell in combat with the wooly beasts; but there was a dignity and a pride in fighting the mighty creature, the mighty buffalo. Mice and locusts could not kill but we no longer lived as our ancestors did. I was thankful that Neit at least had the image of the buffalo in his mind. In his own way he gave it to us all, and we again knew the ways of our forefathers.
He did not live to see the destruction of my people, and for that I am thankful. One warm evening, as the big prairie moon rose above the little pups who he loved so dear, Neit lay down and departed this world for the next, where he would be free of painful bones and the sting of loved ones long gone. My spirit wailed in grief when he died, but now that I have lived through the terrors that lurked outside the grass, I am happy that his last days were full of joy and hope. It was his gift to live long and happy, and even greater, it was his reward to pass on peacefully and without sadness.
Once, on just such a summer evening, Neit came up close to me. He saw that I was staring at the big yellow moon, the same moon that stirred in our spirits, enticing us to howl into the night, and it moved him to tell a story. He asked if I had ever seen the sky aflame; I responded that I had not. It was then that he recalled to me one of his many travels, the greatest of his life, all the way to the north woods.
Neit was not yet one of our people when he went on his greatest adventure. He crossed the great and endless prairie to the north, coming to the painted hills and dusty, broken black rocks. He could almost hear the buffalo who once thundered across those slopes. He could not remember how, but there was a thought in his head, a vision of a great forest not far from the hills. In spite of fatigue he would keep up his voyage. He would cut through the white-and rust-banded stones of the Badlands.
