EXAM HIATUS

Barghest, The Grim by *Valhalrion

   his kind? nadav wonders what “his kind” were – witches? some may see it as “people of magic” as the term witches varies from warlock, mage, wizard, he has heard it all. witch was simply a term his family used and has used on him since he was born, so he stuck to it. in folklore, however, witches and wolves, sometimes shifters to be exact, are related to one another, work together. MAYBE that is why nadav finds himself so interested and not afraid. plus, he doesn’t think he needs to be afraid. 

   ‘interesting though, I would definitely not call you a werewolf then. werewolves are more so of a curse, often from witches, but I do not carry such a power.’ not that he ever would want to. ‘though, I believe that just makes you more in control with yourself even if you don’t know what quite you are. I am not afraid though, I am everything that is interested.’ he offers a similar friendly smile, rare for nadav ( in fact ). 

   ‘witches and shifters in the past were apparently related. I have always been interested in shifters, never had the chance to meet them though.’ 

        Nadav’s quite right – he doesn’t need to be afraid, not of Leiston, of Shuck. He has no orders at the present, nothing telling him where to go or what to do or who and what to be, and he’s beginning to enjoy his free time, seeing it as an opportunity for exploration and education rather than, as he’d previously seen it, moments he had to wait until his next command.

         “Not a werewolf, no.” Far from it, as he’d just explained – he is no curse, no hex or enchantment, nothing that can possibly be transferred. Nadav understands that. But as for the rest of it…

        In control of yourself. Leiston smiles. “I am control of myself for a given amount, yes.” He’s not in control of himself fully, oh no. He never has and fully expects he never will be – there’s always part of him, lodged at the back of his mind or the core of his bones or between his countless unknowable eyes that belongs to something other, something ELSE. It’s the quiet part that only speaks to give orders, to relay information, and Leiston can no more disobey the commands that are given to him than he can shut off the sun. He must obey. It has always been as simple as that.

              “I may not know who, exactly, distributes it, but I have no doubt that the paperwork will still exist. Things cannot go undocumented, after all.”

He should know – he’s been the cause of a fair amount of carnage and mayhem himself, and even if he’d never had to fill out paperwork for any of his ‘crimes’ (after all, how exactly do you go about charging a mythological dog who’s mostly fallen out of common knowledge) he knew from age and experience that paperwork would always exist, no matter what.

            “Why not?” Admittedly, there had been no such thing as a police force when this particular person was killed, but still... He wouldn’t have said anything even if there was.

Oh.

… Can I see? I mean, I get it, kind of not really, but seeing at least makes more sense to me. 

There’s silence for a few moments as Leiston thinks over the suggestion. Really, there’s no reason not to - they are out of sight and will not be disturbed, and Leiston rather gets the impression that Canuos will not stop asking until he knows.

So Leiston sighs, and nods, and stands.

There’s a shift in the air, and a twist, and a moment later there’s a colossal black dog standing before Canuos, five foot high at the shoulder with an unknowable number of burning eyes. Shuck - he is Leiston no more - looks at Canuos, and holds back the death in his gaze.

                                 (         See?         )

That’s not a very good answer.

I’m a pomeranian. Kind of. Technically any dog now, I think, but I started out as a pomeranian.

“I don’t have a form of any specific species - my answer truly was the best I could give you.”

The best bit? It’s not even a lie.

What kind of dog are you?

“...I am exactly myself. What kind of dog are you?”

Noah listened intently, yet it weren’t really the words themselves he was paying attention to. He picked up on them, of course, memorized them, but much more interesting than that? The way he said  and took his time to pick them, mimic, gesture and alike. Noah couldn’t help but feel like there was more to the story - not just Shuck’s, but Leiston’s, too. There was no doubt he cared a lot about the legend.

No judging, really. He was all for people being passionate about their home’s history, including both real occurences and myths alike. It just … seemed like an oddly personal matter to Leiston. Was there some bitterness about the fact that people didn’t seem too aware of the myth of Black Shuck? He couldn’t tell, no matter how much he tried to read the answers right from Leiston’s face, or pick them from his tongue. 

So, naturally, more questions were to come. Whatever it was that bound Leiston to the furry myth? It was good enough of a lead to learn more. 

“What’s Black Shuck to you? You say most people don’t even know about him. You do, though. Why? I mean, are you just into your town’s culture? Its history?”

Another thing he had noticed - Leiston had mentioned how knowledge of Black Shuck seemed to have faded over the years. That also meant he must have kept a close eye on the myth and its awareness level for quite some time, riight?

Reaching for his coffee and keeping the warm cup almost fondly between his hands, Noah inhaled the familiar scent, nose hovering mere inches above the liquid before he finally took a sip. Maybe these people didn’t know a whole lot about their own culture, but they surely knew how to make damn good coffee. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I found someone who knows his shit”, putting the cup back down onto the table between them again, “I’m just curious. Like, big black dog, omen of death … that’s a common symbol. It’s all over popculture, you’d think people would want the world to know where it’s coming from. Or just be aware of it in the first place.”

Honestly, Noah still had the theory that someone - possibly one of those farmers Leiston had mentioned? - was sending black dogs after every tourist who made his way into this small town. And if that was the case? Noah wanted to know more. 

What’s Black Shuck to you?

                       (       Everything, child, and more besides.       )

If only Noah knew. If only Noah were permitted to know, to understand, to see for himself the being that Black Shuck was. To see everything that Black Shuck was.

Black Shuck was more than just an omen of death. He was more than a source of fear, a source of warning, a source of vengeance from God or punishment from the Devil or righteous orders that left claw marks burned into an abbey door and a score of bodies scattered within. He was punishment and protection and solitude and safety and death in an emptying hourglass, grains draining away day by day, second by second.

Protector. Punisher. Guardian.

Shuck was everything to Leiston – how could he not be? – but right then, in that time? Shuck had to be a myth, a legend. He longed to speak up, to explain the truth of his creation, of every myth and tale of the height of his reign.

But he could say none of that.

“Ah, well…” Leiston looked down, giving a slight, almost bashful grin as he reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “It’s rather been a mixture of factors that drew my interest to him. I’ve always been interested in folklore and myth, so knowing that there was this ancient legend of a hound of death in my hometown? I couldn’t resist it.” And really, what he had just said wasn’t entirely a lie; hellhound as he was he had what he considered a natural curiosity in other ‘myths’ – werewolves and vampires and actual, legitimate hellhounds had all drawn his interest over the years. After all, he’d interacted with them from time to time. The more he knew about them, the better.

“And also- my last name is Shuck, if you recall.” A pause, a shrug. “When I was younger I was curious as to it’s origin, and a little research brought up Black Shuck himself. I still don’t know why I have the surname of a hellhound, but at least it’s an interesting conversation topic, wouldn’t you agree?”

The truth behind his name, of course, was much simpler – Shuck had needed a name, had required a name that would allow him to pass amongst humans and mortals unnoticed, unknown, unrecognised as what he was, and when he had first started transforming to his human-form he was rarely in it for long enough to necessitate the use of a surname. By the time such a thing had become necessary the truth of his being had long since started to fade. ‘Shuck’, as far as he was concerned, was a harmless enough surname in the modern age.

At least, it hadn’t been called into question yet.

The mention to pop culture had him tightening his jaw, but only for a second before he once again relaxed, no sign of his bitterness mild annoyance to be seen. “Yes,” he agreed, “You would think that. I had rather been hoping that the third Harry Potter book and film would rejuvenate interest in Shuck, but- no such luck.”

   magical as in…magical. he forgets magic is different to many people, many species in fact. magic to him was simply the impossible, what was not known to the more common world of humans. of course magic comes in many variations of definitions, magic, or magical, to him simply meant abilities beyond the “norm”. turning into a hound was certainly “magical”, that wasn’t normal. just like raising the dead wasn’t normal, but that was usually seen as more sinister. 

   ‘yes, I believe it does.’ never met a hellhound before, or rather any type of “shifter” type that holds the ability to change into something else. it only makes nadav more interested in who just stands before him. ‘though, when you change is it like…’ how does he put this without offending the other? as if he ever cared about offending people. ‘a werewolf or something along that nature? and, you don’t have to respond. I am only curious.’ 

       “I have no reason not to respond,” Leiston replies, and offers the other a smile. Omen of death though he may be he has always strived to be polite, to be as open and friendly with mortals and immortals as it is possible for him to be. Mortals, he’s found, are often friendlier to him – they do not know who or what he is, after all. They are not afraid of him from the outset. “Besides, it’s nice to be able to talk openly about myself for once. So many of your kind come to fear me when they first hear of what I am.”

        Not this one, though. Not Nadav. Nadav is simply curious, his mind and thoughts and being flickering candle-flame bright to Leiston. There is no fear here. “Not remotely,” he says, “Werewolves and the like are subject to their transformations – they have no choice but to shift. My transformation is entirely voluntary, occurring whenever I wish it to.” Whenever he needs it to. “What I am is not an affliction – it cannot be transferred. It is just… myself.”

Are you saying I’m wrong? Because it doesn’t sound like you’re saying I’m wrong.

“I’m simply saying you’re impolite. Whether you are wrong or not is a matter of opinion.”