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Legend of the Vargs
(oral teachings of the werewolves)
Back when the terrors of the night were held tenuously at bay by the wavering flames of the hearthfire. When the snow fell deep and silent. When the skies were lit only by the striking hammers of the Gods. It was then that the warriors of the pure blood held sway over mountain, meadow and shore. The white wolves. The Vargs
The children of the children of Loki. Fenrir, Hel and the Midgard Serpent spawned a race of giant wolves who could take the form of human warriors of great power. The Vargs ruled the twilight, preying upon mankind, glorying in the destruction, one by one, of Wotan's chosen. The Vargs made a sport of hunting the strongest and most favored human warchiefs, making belts, and soon cloaks of their fallen prey's braided beards. Though they were powerful, they were few in number, and the humans managed to survive. But still, only the very reckless or the very brave would venture out into the twilight when the howl of the Vargs could be heard echoing through the pines. And thus were the tribes of Wotan culled, creating a race hard, strong and cunning. When these warriors left their icy shores in search of riches, the Vargs followed their chosen prey to the warmer lands less locked in twilight. It was in those lands that the Vargs, who had ever been the most feared terror of the night, found themselves hunted and slain and their pelts strung up as cherished trophies. Not by the humans, for the men of the warm lands were soft and fearful, but their Gods. Beings of Light and beings of deepest Dark. These Gods were powerful as they were numerous, and the Vargs felt much pain at their hands. So the Vargs, in their folly, responded in the only way they understood. They hunted, they stalked, and they threw themselves headlong at the threat. And they died. They died gloriously. They died amid the strewn bodies of their foes. They died clutching the burning hearts of they enemies. Their deaths inspired stories that would be passed down throughout the centuries. Stories that would stoke fear in the buried and forgotten hearts of the children of those Dark and Light Gods. But to die gloriously in battle is still death. And after many such deaths, the Vargs diminished into legend. Only in the iciest lands, those remote and forlorn places where the Gods of the warm lands dare not go - in fear of what may lurk in a land with no true day and no true night - do the remnants of the Vargs still stalk the twilight.
Web Weaving by Argante D.H. © 1997-2005
Content Development by Argante D.H. © 1992-2005
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