Meanwhile, surrounded by a pinewood forest, a Werewolf Tribe resided peacefully on the bottom of a tall mountain.
These Werewolves, unlike the Brownbloods who could be identified by their brown fur clothes and unique tattoos, used ornate and opulent gold jewelries to denote their statues within the tribe.
This was the Goldbloods, led by none other than their savage leader, Chief Klaus.
A limping old man whose body was filled with both scars and gold ornaments sat on an austere throne.
In front of him was a group of men and women the exact opposite of the Goldblood Chief. They looked young, inexperienced, and almost juvenile. These were the prototypical scions of established families who only got their start because of their lineage.
Usually, Chief Klaus wouldn’t even give these people the time of the day. They looked like they hadn’t even spilled blood.
But his and his tribe’s circumstance didn’t exactly give him the luxury of spurning them at the door.
"As we said, Chief Klaus, we will be able to provide you with the Moonstone that you need."
"You can be assured that we shall also give you the resources for the Lunar Celebrations. We can dispense 10 Maugnetics, at the very least."
"We aren’t even asking for much, Chief Klaus. Our services do not require Sand Dollars, which I’m sure other companies have tried to do."
Chief Klaus looked at them, askance. "Then what do you want? I find it suspicious that you’re willing to give so much without something in return. Is the Faux-Stil company really that affluent to be doing charity to a disabled man like me?"
The young scions of the Faux-Stil company shivered upon hearing that self-deprecating joke. They felt like their hearts would seize if they laughed at him.
"No, sir! We do not think lowly of you or the Goldblood tribe. It is the exact opposite. We value the valor, strength, and wisdom that you provide! Because of that, we want to have you as our ally.
The Faux-Stil company only asks for you to lend us a hand during times of trouble. That is the only requirement that we ask."
The Goldblood Chief got up from his chair, limping as he paced left and right.
"A seasoned veteran like me is only good for war. Are you expecting it, or are you the one asking for it?"
The young representatives of the Faux-Stil company squirmed as they sat on their knees. They shot looks at each other, with no one wanting to be the first to speak.
Eventually, Chief Klaus got bored. "If you don’t even have the courage to speak, then—"
"Yes! Chief Klaus. We do not want war, but our leaders are expecting it. There will be people who disagree with our way of living. They fear the strength that we possess."
Once they said that, these little fledglings showed a crazed, savage look.
Chief Klaus was unnerved for a moment.
They shouldn’t have that kind of strength in their eyes. That look could only be forged through hard work, experience, and wisdom. Yet, these kids had the same look as a warrior that was bathed in blood.
It felt unnatural, like seeing a small cub barbarously take a bite out of its own parent.
From the moment he met these people, he felt that there was something wrong with them. He just couldn’t tell what.
Then, he realized. These people were cold. Humans and Beastfolk all exhibited heat during times of stress. But these kids only got colder as he pressured them.
"We need your strength, Chief Klaus. We know that you will understand our ways. You empathize with our understanding of strength: power at all costs.
If you help us, we can take care of that treacherous brother of yours."
A sharp pain ran through his left leg. He winced, feeling weak and vulnerable as the day he lost control of his own body—the day that he was betrayed.
Chief Klaus immediately steeled himself. Immediately, all that pain and vulnerability was transmuted into anger and fury. His eyes turned red, his hunched body starting to grow bigger.
He was on the verge of transformation.
"Think about it, Chief Klaus. You can finally get rid of that problem once and for all. We’ll be waiting for your word."
And with that ominous offer, the scions of the Faux-Stil company left the room, leaving Chief Klaus to stew in his own emotions.
AWOOOOO!!!!
Tables and chairs slammed across the wall as Chief Klaus’s anger ran amok. His fervid hate for his brother was only exacerbated by the pain he felt in his leg. It was ever-present, even during his transformation, making it a constant reminder of his own blood’s betrayal.
And in his anger, he couldn’t help but start to consider the youths’ words.
He knew they were suspicious. Their motives were up to no good.
And even though the price to pay for their help looked cheap, he knew that they would be trapping him in an insidious promise.
War was never cheap. And if he helped them with their war, he’d be selling out his own Tribe. He’d be making them fight and risk their lives for something that they didn’t care about.
It was only rational for him to reject their offer.
But the pain was making him irrational. After all, they promised him something that he’d been waiting for his whole life. And he was willing to throw away everything in order to finally get justice and closure.
With his blood still steaming with anger, he went to the door, intending to rush and catch up to the Faux-Stil company.
But the door opened before he could get to it.
There, in front of him, Chief Klaus saw an old friend.
"You..."
A Dwarf with a braided beard almost down to his feet leaned by the door, a distinct beer scent emanating from his body.
"Klaus, old buddy... What’s that look on your face? Still bitter huh?"
It was none other than the Dwarven King.