WarbyPicus
patreon
Werewolf Nonsense [Not Sky Pride Related]
🕑 Added 2025-11-27 15:00:16 +0000 UTCThose of you who have been around for a while might remember that poll I ran about what kind of book I should write next. Sky Pride is what eventually came out of that, so, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. But 'Classic Xianxia' was the second place finisher. First place was a parody werewolf romance novel, which admitted was added to the poll as a joke. Most of you probably know the story from there- I tried to read some of the books and they were pornagraphic to the point where I'd be writing a porn parody, and I just don't want to. I just really, really don't want to.
BUT.
In my usual fashion, I wrote the first chapter of the book. Just to see what it tasted like, what it felt like, the contours of the story and it's charicters. What kind of world would my story be set in, and what would the authorial voice be. It turned into an enjoyable excersise, while confirming yet again that I really don't want to write this book. At all. Though the reason was a little different than I expected. I could write around the pornography, but I couldn't write around the werewolf. This is a problem, because the only human-ish immortal that really got it right that I know of, was Hob Gadling in Sandman. And Hob Gadling traded in enslaved Africans.
An immortal living in Western Europe, and particularly in the UK, would at some point have been involved in the slave trade, directly or indirectly, as well as the East India Company. The horrors of the E. I. C. are only imperfectly understood in the west, but they were behind several famines, wars, and the engineered pillaging of the second wealthiest country in the world. Their rule in India was the stuff of nightmares, and they were the ones who pioneered the Opium Trade in China. The results of which were likewise the stuff of nightmares, and lead fairly directly to Imperial Japan, Manchuria and Mao.
So... even if the Werewolf is meant to be 'The Worst,' do I really want to write about this prick? No. Because at the end of the day he's a billionaire immortal werewolf who is also handsome, brooding and dangerous. He is 'The Worst' but also 'Rad.' And this really doesn't seem like the moment for that kind of charicter, if there ever is one.
Still, the first chapter isn't bad, and there are some good bits, I think. More importantly, I thought you might enjoy a look behind the curtain, as it were, and see how I test out concepts for stories. So below is Chapter One of the never to be written Werewolf Romance Parody, saved in my GDocs folder simply as- Werewolf Nonsense. A nice way to start out my vacation.
Enjoy!
-Warby
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s time.” The man had cheekbones so sharp they looked carved with a sword, and flashing dark eyes under long, fluttering lashes. Whip thin, but with an unshakable confidence that proclaimed hidden power. The man he was speaking to was no less beautiful, long black hair framing his eyes like a winter’s night holds the stars. A strong and calm face testified to his warrior’s physique and scholar's heart.
“Yes.” The scholar rose from where he had been kneeling before an altar to Kali, decked with flowers and bright candles. “I have been waiting for… two hundred and fifty years.”
“A long time. Or a moment.” The thin man smiled, not revealing his teeth.
“Yes. A long time, and just a moment. I have carved the word “Hate” in every language that man has ever heard on every bone in my body. I worked with scholars and those of us who are old enough to remember those languages to make sure it was right. We invented alphabets for the many languages that had none, just to ensure that their hatred would assist me in taking all of our revenge. I studied the assassination attempts, the bombings, the explosion in the silver mine. All of it. The distilled wisdom of humanity, stretching back into prehistory. All condensed into tonight, and the killing of one man.”
He took a deep breath, though he hadn’t needed to breathe since Verelst’s bloody tenure in Bengal. “A second life well lived, I think.”
“Are you certain there is no one? No legacy, no heirs, no bequeathments? You know we would see them honored.”
“No one.” The scholar started walking for the door. “I accepted the dark embrace after the Famine took my family. In that shattering moment of transcendence, I knew two things- that I was no longer a human, and that the only person who would ever live that I could love, had died. My fated mate… had died.”
“Did she also die in the Great Famine?” The thin man asked.
“I believe so, but how could I know for certain? I have often thought about it, and I came to this conclusion- had I never been reborn as a vampire, I would never have had a fated mate. No fated mate, no agony of the eternal parting. Therefore, the blame for my suffering is the man behind the company behind the Famine. And since nothing else has killed him, let my life be the dagger in his heart.”
They walked into the ritual chamber- a cave in the heart of the Swiss Alps, as close as they could find to what they believed was their enemy’s birthplace. The enemy’s original name was long since lost, but no matter. The spell could hardly miss.
The room was lit with thousands of candles, the heat unbearable for any human. Those carrying the candles were comfortable enough. The celebrants had all accepted the night’s embrace. Their bodies forever cool to the touch. The humans in the cave were in no condition to complain.
“Let our vengeance come tonight! Bring forth the offerings!” The ritual was a Grand Hecatomb, the humans dressed as cattle and lead for the slaughter, their blood splashed on the altar, their bones and fat offered to the fire. A hundred hundred of human cattle, all slaughtered, their blood pooling and rising.
On that altar was a single candle, as wide around as a strong man's thigh and nine feet tall. It was made from the corpse wax of every suspected direct descendant of a single man, collected from graveyards and battlefields on six continents.
“I curse you to die!” The scholar lifted a stone knife carved from the heart of a mountain, and plunged it into his lung.
“I curse you to die!” He repeated it on the other side. The droning chants of the vampires chilled the air, nearly smothering the candles.
“I curse you to die!” Another knife plunged in, tearing open his guts. Nine times was the curse repeated, and each time the air grew colder, the lights slowly extinguishing, the blood drying out and blowing away on Hell winds.
“ALISTDAIR MACALESTER I CURSE YOU TO DIE!” With one last burst of strength, the beautiful scholar drove the last stone knife into his heart. The sacrifice of a vampire- an immortal life to take an immortal’s life. He collapsed over the altar. The tall candle flickered, wavered. And went out.
There was silence. Dead silence, without even a breath drawn. Ancient eyes fixed on the candle. The Alps seemed to hold their breath with them.
The candle burst back into flame, more brilliantly than before.
“Oh FUCK!”
“Compose yourself, young man!”
“Compose my ass! I spent two hundred and fifty years grooming our sacrifice for this, and what do we get? Another failure.” The thin man was spitting, his smokey eyes furious.
“That is no reason-”
“And when you get right down to it, Fredrich, aren’t you only seventy years older than me? My God, we raced each other to see who could spread the Plague furthest in thirteen forty six. I think I qualify for a discount on my bus pass by now.”
There was a cough. “A youthful prank-”
“Yeah, real youthful.” The thin man shook his head. “Alright everyone, thanks for coming out. The main event was a bust, but I hope you will all stick around for the tasting in the Chateau afterward. We have a great selection of locals lined up for you tonight, and I’m sure we would all enjoy catching up.”
The vampires murmured as they left the cave, leaving the candle burning. Soon, the only light in the darkness was carried by the name MacAllister.
Which was ironic, all things considered.
*
I stared at my phone.
“Is it extra humiliating if you are in marketing and still don’t get matched?” I asked.
Nobody answered. I’d be worried if they did. My roommates were all supposed to be out. Thirty five years old, with roommates. Plural. I have a degree. I have a steady job. I earn… not great, but okay and it’s steady. I’m steady. I’ve never cheated on someone in my life. Never been in a fight. I don’t smoke. Don’t get high. I’ll have the occasional beer to be friendly, but it’s not my life. I should be dateable.
“Is it really so terrible being Five Eleven? Should I just lie and say I’m six feet tall?”
I don’t like the thought. If you will lie about your height, what else would you lie about? Not exactly a relationship built on trust. I sighed and ripped open another can of Pringles. I wasn’t hungry, but I was hungry. I don’t know. I just wanted to eat them and maybe feel a little better.
“Maybe I should borrow someone’s dog. People love pictures with pets. Upward look at the camera, pets, mention a socially attractive hobby and a steady job. Boom. Dating.” I had eaten a third of the tube without really noticing. They went down easy with a few glugs from the two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. Diet, though. I’m trying to lose weight, but insurance won't cover Wegovy.
The secondhand chair, found by someone, somewhere, creaked under me. Anonymous, scratched up, faded, lacking enough character to qualify as Ikea. But it worked. It, too, was reliable in a way that everyone took advantage of, and nobody appreciated.
I don’t know anyone with charismatic pets I could borrow for a photo.
“It might be the haircut. I think this is okay, though?” It was floppy and a mousy brown. But my barber swore it was a fade, and people like fades. I know they do, I googled it. So it’s probably not the hair.
“Tricky to cultivate the stubble. Definitely a fine line between an attractive masculinity and divorced dad eating alone at Wild Wings because sometimes the waitress smiles at him. Realistically, though, the chin it’s growing on might be the problem. Or chins. Maybe just having a defined jawline. Women like a defined jawline. Hell, I like a defined jawline.” I pushed my glasses up and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t remember ever having a sharp jawline, but they seemed pretty mandatory.
I was in the bottom third of the tube now. I didn’t really taste them anymore, but I felt the urge to eat more as soon as I stopped eating them. Screw it. I’d go for a walk. Maybe hit the convenience store on the way back. I checked the tube to see how many chips were left. It was empty. I hadn’t noticed I finished them.
Looking down the empty tube, I couldn’t even remember what flavor they were. Life didn’t have much flavor, these days. An existence like being trapped in a reasonably clean motel two miles from the airport. AC on, curtains closed, lost in a cool beige hum. Not happy, but not in pain. Not trapped, but there was nowhere you wanted to go that seemed worth the effort of going to. Floating in a bubble of numbness, aware of the passing of unrecoverable time, bleeding the willingness to feel.
Grey Walmart sneakers on, grey hoodie over my blue jeans and out the door, down the stairs, down the next flight of stairs, and out onto the street. Block after block, just heading for the park because it’s a destination. Cleveland is fine. My neighborhood is fine. I should be fine.
I am fine.
I am.
I stopped, staring up at the setting sun. Is this it? Thirty five, and the most personal conversation I have is giving my name to the girl behind the counter at Starbucks and not correcting her when she spells it Alistair? Getting passed over for promotion again and again? Bored by my job but not daring to quit? And all for the privilege of going home to my three roommates and their questionable grasp of hygiene and sharing a fridge.
Is this really it?
I heard a horn screaming at me. I turned just in time to realize I had stopped in the middle of the street, but the white truck coming at me couldn’t.
It turned out, that really was it.
There was a period, I don’t know how long, of existence. I barely retained enough sense of self to be aware of the concept of self. An existence in a void, without a body or purpose. A void not of darkness, but the negation of color, a void where even the memory of color did not exist. Had more of me retained any semblance of mind, I would have been terrified.
Then I was in front of a woman. I think. She seemed lovely, but I couldn’t say for sure. I was struggling to attach that feeling to any aspect of her, and I couldn’t find a single word to describe what I was seeing. Blond, brunette, tall, short, nothing.
Some gibbering part of me was yelling that ‘she’ wasn’t any such thing, and that whatever this was had simply held up a sign saying “you are standing in front of a beautiful woman” and I believed it without question. I tried to ignore it. She was so pretty, after all. And focusing on her helped the scattered bits of my mind pull back together.
“You have a year to find your body’s true love. Succeed, and you will be granted a third life, one filled with meaning and satisfaction. One where you will find a true love of your own. Fail, and everything you ever were or could be will be devoured by your host. Every shred of every life you might have lived will be consumed in ways your limited mind cannot even conceive of. One of life’s few mercies.”
She smiled. She had a beautiful smile. I think.
“Who is my host?”
“A six foot four billionaire with the proportions of a Greek Hero and hung fit to scare the horses.” She sounded encouraging.
“With cancer? Or something that would stop him from having whoever he wanted?”
“An immortal werewolf. And I mean immortal even compared to other immortals. Nothing, but nothing, can kill him. Even trapping him has proven impossible, especially now that his power has grown elevenfold. Do you know what a nuclear bomb is? Yes? Good. He lay on top of one when they set it off for testing. It cost him a Savile Row suit, a shirt hand stitched by Turnbull and Asser, a really good pair of custom leather shoes, and an eighty thousand dollar Patek Philippe watch, but otherwise thought it was good fun. He has no trouble getting what he wants. He just can’t find true love.”
“I assume the underwear was custom too. Silk boxers?” I don’t know why I asked. She seemed kind of energetic. I should play along.
“Silk lined trousers. Strictly free balling, on the basis that some things simply cannot, and should not, be contained. It’s not like he is doing the laundry. He remembers running into battle stark naked except for a flashy torc and all the woad you cared to paint on yourself. Toilet paper is an exciting novelty for him, as are bidets.”
“He sounds fun?”
“Oh yes. Very fun.” Somehow, the gibbering part of me didn’t believe her, but the sensible part of me told gibbering me to shut up and not argue with the pretty lady.
“You must like him a lot.”
“Must I?” She asked, tilting her head ninety degrees to the right.
“Well, you are sending me to help him find true love, aren’t you?”
“Ooooh. I see where the confusion is.” She nodded. “It’s not to help him. The hope is that if he finally experiences actual, genuine, normal love, he will stop being so awful to the rest of the world. Let me give you a little summary of some of his greatest hits. Just the ones you might have actually heard of.”
She rolled her probably-shoulders, took a deep breath, and began. “He didn’t invent the triangle trade, but he funded a lot of it. He ran guns to the Kingdom of Dahomey just for the love of the game, he was already absurdly rich. Relatedly, his name is on the original subscription list for the East India Company AND the Royal Africa Company, and he was a board member of the E.I.C. off and on until after the Mutiny. Speaking of mutinies, he was the guy who convinced An Lushan to go for it, and told Cassius that he was a bitch if he didn’t take down Cesar. He also told Cesar that Vircingetorix was a bitch, told Vircingetorix that he could win this thing, then turned rats loose in both their food supplies.”
She started putting up slides in the dreadful void, illustrating what she was talking about. I wish she hadn’t. They were horrible.
“Now, he didn’t put Henry VIII up to killing his wives, but he did suggest selling off monastic lands and laying the foundation for the merchant class that would eventually dominate the world. He did that because he didn’t like one particular abbot, and wanted to turn his beloved abbey into the most depraved whorehouse in the West Riding of Yorkshire. He succeeded, and they say if you visit the ruins on the night of a full moon, you can still get a full set of STD’s from the stones. He is also behind the Clearing of Scotland, just so he could have a nice range to run around on when he fancied a weekend in the country. I’m just going to gloss over what he did in the New World, but the Vampires are still salty about him tricking them into crashing Spain’s economy by mining all that silver. They really thought it would kill him, for some reason.”
That made my guts clench. I’d heard about some of the things the Spanish and Portuguese got up to, and the term ‘genocide’ felt too clean.
She switched to a new set of slides. There was an awful, awful lot of red in them.
“In Nineteen-Ninety-Three, someone told him about the game “Fuck, Marry, Kill.” He thought that sounded stupid and changed it to “Fuck, Marry and Eat. You had to pick someone, and if you didn’t do all three, he would eat you alive. He filled a swimming pool with the organ meat of eight hundred lost pets then soaked in it, because he heard it was the secret behind Bill Belichick’s youthful vigor. He has twice annual trips to Dubai for his standing challenge- who can go through the most IG models in a weekend. He draws challengers from all across the Middle East, Russia, Asia, and we can’t forget the hard cases from Brazil! They always put up a good fight, but so far, he remains undefeated.”
“I… I think I follow her ‘Gram.” I pointed to a staggeringly lovely blond woman pressing her tit’s together and pouting with duck lips as she knelt on a beach at sunset.
“Simp. He’s had her in ways that haven’t been legal since the days of Hammurabi. The only reason Big H didn’t add them to the code was he didn’t want to let anyone know such things were possible. No prohibition without a practice, and all that.”
I awkwardly laughed, trying to edge away from the vision of loveliness my brain insisted was in front of me.
“Look, we will be here all day at this rate. Let’s cut to the chase. Did you ever feel like the universe hates you?” The beautiful? Woman? asked.
I nodded vigorously. “Often!”
“It does. You are the twelfth schmuck I’ve sent on this job. The rest have already been consumed by the werewolf and made him far stronger. Strong beyond hope and reason. You see, from his perspective, the world loves him, and the world is his true love. He is therefore happy and blessed above all others. Anyone or anything else would simply be an insult. Good luck…”
Comments
Veridescent
Different context, and hope. Plenty of reasons to not have a focal "can get away with it" type comparated to a series with a nomainal focus on overturning some level of status quo.
Notcreepycreeper
What if he fell in love with a suitably awful person, his one true love? Then they went on to fuck the world together. Every Epstein needs their Maxwell
Evan
It’s weird to draw the line a one aspect of slavery considering the narly stuff you don’t shy away from in Sky Pride.
Hammy
I honestly would enjoy a werewolf story that was not romance or immortals. Just a story about werewolves.
BarbecueSteve
I recommend Patricia Briggs, if you need more material. Either her Alpha and Omega series or Mercy Thompson series. They're a slow burn on the romance side but that seems... beneficial.
