In the time before the Royal Roads between Ataraxis and Velar-VI were sundered, a Wolf-Stranger wandered upon the deadmoon of Inamorata.
Some say the Wolf-Stranger was exiled and imprisoned against his will, while some others proclaimed that the Wolf-Stranger had embarked on a conquest of the unknown.
The Wolf-Stranger, upon arriving, sought out to survey his new domain. He found the forsaken land to be barren, until he came upon strange crevices in the land, with black-violet veins that appeared to drive into the grey rock. As he circled the veins from different angles, the faint veins seemed to be inhabited by glistening crimson light, drifting within like slow-moving constellation of stars. Inamorite.
And so, upon the wretched throne of Inamorite rock. the Wolf-Stranger proclaimed himself the King of Nothing in his newfound domain: THE FANGDEN.
In time, the Fangden metamorphosized into a place of industry, with spires of steel rising like wild antennae of a machinic beast into the dark sky, with trails of bellowing heavy smoke permeating the air. Countless machine servants toiled endlessly, delving ever deeper into the sacred veins of Inamorite.
And yet, throughout the decades of this mandate of reclamation, there was a great feature of the land beyond Fangden, in the dark side of Inamorata, that remained unconquered. It was known as the Wolfwood, the dark forest looming with ancient rot and wild overgrowth, enshrouded in an eternal mist.
The mist of Wolfwood always lingered, as a foul vision, at the back of the King’s mind, in his dreams, and in his waking nightmares, like a web to be inevitably unraveled with fire.
Aware of his own mortality and the strategic value of succession, the Wolf-Stranger King had sired two children, borne of a nameless maiden.
The first was [REDACTED], the Daughter of Twilight, pale, sickly and frail, but ever gentle, like a deathless rose.
The second, [REDACTED] was the Son of Dusk, proud and headstrong, whose great crimson fangs bared at lesser beasts.
One long winter, as the siblings grew into their adolescence, a sickness came upon the Fangden.
A great, unceasing mist started to envelop the land, and the King recognized the omen in his vision.
The King, suspecting foul magics within the Wolfwood, sent his progeny into the vile domain to investigate the source of the corruption.
And the children obliged their Father’s command.
As they came upon the forest’s maw, the Daughter surveyed the surroundings, studying every strange flora underneath the fog and shade of the ancient trees. She found the new domain strangely alluring, wild and untamed, as she has once only seen depicted in data logs, in contrast to the methodical metal spires of the Fangden.
Instinctively, the Daughter pressed her ear unto the cold grey, earth.
“Why would you waste time gazing at the ground?” the Son barked.
“Do you not hear the resonance of earth? I can hear the melody of the Wolfwood’s heart.” The Daughter mused.
“And where does that song lead us?” The Son muttered impatiently.
“It beats with an irregular rhythm, like the heart of wounded prey.” The Daughter’s words trailed.
“Then this heart must be silenced. Come.” the Son said, as he forcibly dragged his sister up.
“Do you intend to take their heart, without knowing their name?” the Daughter asked.
“Names are for tombs. Are you done smelling the flowers? Or would you rather get lost?”
“You say that dear brother, but I know you’ll look for me, anyway.” The Daughter laughed wryly, clinging to her brother’s arm.
As the siblings followed the echoing drum of the mysterious heartbeat, they came upon the maw of a large cavern, in a vale obscured by the thousand arms of rotting trees.
The heartbeat was louder now. It was mechanical, like the ticking of an ancient clock.
Thereupon, a strange winged creature, part machine, and part beast, emerged at the cave mouth. It had sullen, golden eyes, a metallic beak rather small for its size, and great mechanical wings that dwarfed its body. The beast stood upright, but somehow, struggled to support its own weight, waltzing from side to side, like dying clockwork.
“I am called Ozamu. Proclaim your names and leave this domain before the Wolfwood reclaims your body.” Ozamu roared, with a voice trailing with harsh static, as he spread forth his great steel-clad wings.
The Wolf Son bows, and then brandishes their crimson claw.
“Ozamu, I am called [REDACTED]. I will have the honor of protecting my Father’s domain.”
“Please, settle down. We come in amicable terms.” the Wolf Daughter waves to her brother, and moves closer to Ozamu.
“I am called [REDACTED]. I want to ease your pain. I can hear it.” The Daughter reached out to touch Ozamu’s steel wing.
“My pain?”
Before Ozamu could finish, the Daughter traced her fingers across the the encumbered feathers, blackened with a tar-like substance. Instinctively, she caressed them, as if pacifying a babe. The oozing liquid burned her flesh, but she persisted.
“No matter. It is not my blood.” Ozamu’s bravado vanishes.
“This curse will end with me.” Ozamu orders, calmly. His wings fell to the ground, in surrender.
“Who are you? Are you the God of this realm?” the Daughter asks gently.
“Sister, it’s rude to ask a God their name again. Weren’t you listening?” The Son was dragging their claws impatiently on the ground.
Ozamu’s golden eyes widened at the Daughter’s question.
“I am no God. My past does not matter. My fate is my reckoning.”
“And what of your fate?” The daughter continues.
Ozamu stood silent for a moment, contemplating whether to answer the question. He waves away the Daughter’s hand.
“In that lost Aeon, when the Sky was Sundered, I was once a great warrior. We rebelled against the Gaze of Heaven, and I have sought power from the Great Unknowable One, to join their crusade to purge the Light.” Ozamu responds.
“The Sundering of Skylight? But there is nothing in the Sky.” said the Daughter.
Ozamu merely smiled at the daughter’s remark. And continued.
“The Great One’s hunger had to be satiated, and I, myself, shared that Hunger. I prayed to the Great One to grant me claws to tear my enemies asunder, to grant me fangs to devour the sky, and to grant me wings so that no starlight can escape my sight. And I was granted the boon of this terrible body.”
“And now you hide in this pitiful cave, seeking what? Absolution?” the Son interrupted.
Ozamu gazed at the Son with seeming fury, but was quickly dispelled by a strange cackle of static from their beak. The Son could have sworn that the Winged Beast was laughing, somehow.
“Retribution.” the Beast retorted. “Now that I have answered your inquiry, you should indulge mine.”
“Tell me this. What must a Great King value above all else when faced with…Nothing?” The light of Ozamu’s eyes grew fainter, his voice now heavier, with an irregular rhythm.
“Preservation.” the Son answers immediately.
The Daughter meets his Brother’s gaze as she responds.
“Mercy.”
“Good. You understand. Then grant this old one mercy.” Ozamu closes their eyes, and withdrew his great wings and furled them into his body, as if entombing themselves.
“We shall oblige you.” The Son said.
The Son drew closer to the Great Winged Beast, with his claws raised to strike.
“Brother…” The Daughter protests gently, pulling at her brother’s arm, but shortly relents at the inevitable.
“OZAMU, honored one, I am not worthy to reclaim you, but I will remember your Name. Dusk will be with you.” The Son declares.
And then, the Great Ozamu’s Heart fell silent.
The Son turned to her sister, who was hunched over at the ground, shedding tears.
“Let us return, princess.” the Brother said, as he clasped his sister’s hand.
The Daughter failed to brandish any retort, and merely gazed into nothing, in silence.
As the wolf siblings emerged out of the Wolfwood, the Son observed the horizon. It appeared that the ceaseless fog had not lifted despite Ozamu’s demise, and the atmosphere remained heavy. The Son could only faintly make out the dark metal spires of Fangden, looming like claws over the grove of trees, with the sound of roaring machines rumbling in the distance.
In that moment, as he gazed into the dark sky, the Son was reminded of Ozamu’s final question.
And then he heard it.
Undulating, Pulsating. The low-pitched, beating of a drum. A heart still beats, overpowering.
But it was neither the song of the Wolfwood’s ancient trees, nor Ozamu’s clockwork heart.
The Son’s ponderous state was interrupted as he felt her sister’s hair brush gently against his nape. His sister, who was still clutching his arm, set her head unto his shoulder as she yawned, and slowly drifted into that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness.
The Son felt the weight of his own body, and lowered himself to the ground, beneath an ancient tree. He guided his sister’s head unto his lap gingerly, wary of disturbing her rest.
The Son leaned closer to his sister’s chest, until he could hear the faint rhythm of his sister’s heart beat. The rhythm was soothing, reminding him of their Mother. The Son wondered, for a moment, whether the sound had always been there all along.
Soon, the wolf siblings, Son and Daughter of the Wolf-Stranger, found themselves reclaimed by slumber, beneath a sky without stars.
— Kura Zineth, A Survey of Myths and Folktales of Inamorata, “Chapter 1: The Founding of Fangden”
