Artyom Jorvyk

[Artyom]

Name: Artyom Jorvyk
Age: 38
Race: Human/Bear Shifter
Height: 5'7"


Physical Description:
Artyom is an imposing man. Dark skinned and dark haired, broad shouldered and built thickly, his form screams power. His body is knotted with thick muscles, a lifetime of hard work and training pushing him to a strong physique that is hard as the bones of the mountains. His craggy face is covered with scars, but it also holds it's share of stress lines and laughter lines. His hair is a shiny black, but it's started to show signs of greying and strands of silver pepper it. His eyebrows are thick and bushy, and they sit above two twinkling amber eyes that make almost everyone feel comfortable. The line of people being intimidated by him drops drastically once they look into his eyes or see his easily smiling face. Many who have felt safe or allowed themselves to be fooled by those eyes and that smile have come to regret their decision.

Artyom is covered in scars from a life hard lived before his transformation into a shifter, and before he found Zhaltev. Some of the angry and raw looking scars are from the silver weapons of hunters, but he survived those encounters, and he tells the stories (which continue to grow more outlandish with each telling) to newer members of the house he is a part of. What were once tears that froze on his cheeks and at the corners of his eyes formed scars at some point, but he has never spoken to anyone about them. Some scars that are ritualistic in nature also dot his frame, but are once again, something he has rarely if ever spoken of. Some of the more prominent scars from his life before are easily seen to be animal in nature, an attack by a large and powerful predator. The claw marks cut through his left brow, across his nose, from cheek to jawline. The nape of his neck shows scarring from thick and powerful jaws having clamped down, attempting to break his neck or drag him to his doom. His left ear is ragged, a ripped thing that never healed correctly before he changed.

Artyom's hair is long, reaching past his shoulders, most of it in heavy braids. Some of it is merely pulled back, secured with an intricately designed bronze and amber hair clasp. He keeps most of his face clean shaven, except for his upper lip. His moustaches are several inches long, greased with seal fat and braided with bits of amber and bone beards. The strands of grey are starting to show in his moustache as well, and the seal fat the greases them with only makes the grey shine a bit more. He keeps his hands clean, his nails carefully trimmed. Rings cover each finger made of bone with amber beads and carved designs. He wears several necklaces of bone and beads, and they tinkle softly when he moves, almost as a warning system that he's coming.

As a bear, he's a stunning example of the breed, standing almost four feet high at the shoulder on all fours, topping eight feet when he stands on his hind legs. He's a battering ram of raw power, weighing over a thousand pounds, several inches of fat keeping him warm even under the amount of fur he has. His skull is thick and broad, and some would say they don't see much intelligence in the eyes of the bear. There is no doubt about the power his frame holds, muscles moving fur and fat layers with every step he takes. But even his bear form is starting to show his age, the mostly white fur that shifts to brown at some spots starting to go grey at the tips, the change extending from his shoulders and down the line of his spine. But even if he has begun to age, he has retained much of his strength, in either form.

Possessions:
Story Spear: Artyom has what is called a story spear, a startlingly white piece of whale bone that has a piece of volcanic glass carefully knapped to be a spear point. Anyone who underestimates it as a decorative piece would be very wrong, for on closer inspection the spear has faint brownish-burgundy stains on the whale bone from the life's blood it has spilled. The spear has traveled with him most of his life, and the runic inscriptions on it tell his story. From his birth, to his rebirth on the plains, to the travels he took before coming to Zhaltev. It even includes his rise up through his Clan, from a bloodsworn of Jorvyk to a respected member, warrior, and third in power.

Jewelry: Artyom is a bit of a magpie, with a preference for beaten bronze and amber. He has several rings, several different sets of beading for both his hair and his moustaches, and several different hair clasps. He also has quite a few penannular brooches, cloak clasps, and other clasps for his shirts or boots that are very shiny. Most of his current belts are thick leather, heavily embossed, and the clasps for them are almost over designed, curling knots of plants and strange animals dotting them. But as far as he's concerned, the shinier, the more elaborate, the better.

Changes of clothing: Other interests of Artyom's is fashion. He loves brightly coloured clothing, with a preference for blues and reds. Throw in a gold coloured thread stitched design on it, and he's mostly sold. Merchants that return to Zhaltev generally take advantage of this. Artyom is very strange about clothing, and will never wear anything again if it gets blood or other stains on it. It's a general rule of the Jorvyk shifters that once Artyom starts to take off his shirt, then the joking or whatever is happening needs to stop, and it needs to stop now.

Prey Furs: Artyom has several prey animal furs that he wears for warmth, and they have all been taken by his own hands, either as a human with his story spear, or as a bear and with his teeth and claws. They are more than just things to keep him warm, his temperature runs hotter than a normal humans, and he could do other things about it to keep himself warm. The kind of prey animals that Artyom goes after aren't the weak sort. The Musk Ox, the aurochs, and the tusks of walrus and the horns of his aforementioned prey decorate his rooms and sometimes his clothing. He wants to exude an aura of toughness, as if to say to other predators, 'I am capable of killing the strongest of the prey, many of which you would have trouble with. What do you think I will do to you if you attack me or the Clan of Jorvyk?'

Powers or Strengths:

Strength: Artyom is strong. While it doesn't seem like much in the first place, especially in a city full of strong men and women, it's still a valuable talent. Especially with him. His strength extends far beyond the physical push and pull of his muscles, but his strength of will is also phenomenal. The fact that he refuses to back down, that he refuses to lose, has pushed him through far more things than just how much the steel of his muscles has. The steel of his mind, the steel of his soul, is just as important. And it may be stronger. And that strength is very valuable to his adopted family. His strength extends to his patience, and the ability to not get riled up as easily. He was a hunter, and that discipline has extended throughout his life. He knows when to rein himself in, he knows when to attack, and he knows how to keep a handle on his emotions. It was a lesson hard learned after he became a shifter.

Cunning: His appearance, gruff, scarred, but generally smiling, has led many people to believe that Artyom is a bit simple, maybe a bit off in the head. His going after large prey animals on his own certainly hasn't helped that, nor has his spending much in trade for the brightly coloured clothing he so loves. But in reality, there is a very cunning and calculating mind behind those scars and smiling eyes. Artyom has used this mind to take care of what he considered threats to his clan. While the clan wars are detrimental to all, a personal challenge is not. And sometimes, as far as he is concerned, a message should be sent. And in a city full of shifters, where emotions run high in the first place, it's not that hard to get someone to lose their temper with a little careful prodding. Then, when the insult is sufficient, Artyom challenges them to a fight. While it has never been proven, some challenges between members of other clans that did not involve Artyom were said to be orchestrated by him, or he pushed and prodded at exactly the right time to make them happen. But that has never been proven by any, and no evidence exists.

Mead Making: One of his biggest contributions to the Jorvyk Clan is his skills in alcohol making. It's a pretty good trade item, and it keeps them in steady trade of furs and other things from both clanless and other clans. While it's not particularly hard to make alcohol, a few would say that his tastes better for some reason. Artyom is willing to trade with several outsiders for what he needs, and there is a merchant that comes to a close by village once a year for the express purpose of obtaining scrimshaw from Artyom in trade for honey. There are two types of mead he makes, one for sale and one that is not to go beyond Jorvyk's blood. If anyone was ever caught selling or trading this special mead for anything, Artyom would take it as a personal insult, and would most likely fight them over it on the spot. He also makes a special beverage, generally only consumed by himself, from fermented milk, mare's if he can get it, reindeer or caribou from local tribes and villages if he cannot. It's potent, it's disgusting to many, and it gets him roaring drunk. So all in all, a success.

Carving: Another thing that Artyom does that can work well with traders and merchants, is carving. He can carve intricate designs and stories on pieces of walrus tusk or whale bones, and they are quite sought after when discovered by merchants. Most of the more 'expensive' things he has were traded for in this way. He sees the merchants as foolish for this. After all, he is not the best carver. If they merely traveled a bit further north, the ice nomads, the people he himself comes from, would trade them much finer pieces. But since their fear keeps them from doing so, he gladly trades his inferior pieces that they call grand for the best of their merchandise. He has also decorated the wood in his room, the doorways of Cinder Jorvyk's house, and any other Jorvik member that has asked for it and could pay him. As much as he loves his clan, he learned long ago, no one works for free. Even for family.



Weaknesses and Flaws:

Spinal Spondylosis: A disease that affects the spine, it is present in many older male bears, especially very active ones. As someone who has been a bear for two decades, Artyom is a very old bear. Unfortunately for him, what has started to affect his other form does not leave when the change is over, but rather stays with him and hurts him just as much. Joint degeneration in his cervical spine causes him to have an uneven gait as a bear, a slight limp as a human. It also has started to progress to the point that he has begun to experience shooting pains in his neck and shoulder, a 'pins and needles' feeling in his hands and feet, and muscle weakness when he least expects it. Though he tries to remain strong appearing, mostly so no one will challenge for his position in the house, or challenge him outside of it, there are some days where he cannot fight the pain, and has to lay in his bed until it subsides. The fact that he tries so hard to project a presence in the house, in the streets of Zhaltev, doesn't help either. It causes him to ignore the pain, that if he would rest for when he started to feel it, wouldn't debilitate him so badly later in the week. He has asked for it to be healed before, and it works, for a while. But whenever he shifts, months of pain and agony crash in on his bear form, until he is just as poorly off as before. Artyom has decided to just let it be, and would rather deal with the pain as it comes and goes than in such a way.

Feral: Artyom has started to develop a problem. The older he gets, the more time he wishes for in his bear form. When he does change, he stays in that state for longer and longer. He's beginning to lose his grasp on his human side, and he's started to act more and more like a bear, even as a human. His formerly sharp intellect is slipping, and he's starting to lose his grip on his emotions. The longer he goes without changing, without wandering the frozen plains as a bear, the worse his mood starts to get. Sometimes his duties keep him away from being able to do anything about it, and he slowly starts to get more and more irritable at first, then he starts to become downright rude to people. Then he starts to snarl when he talks, swinging his head side to side, weaving it like a bear under stress is wont to do. It's not aggressive, but it's a sign that he is stressed out far more than he should be. Some would even say it's a sign he's sick. He's worried about it. Because what will happen if he lets himself go, let's the human part of his spirit be taken over by the bear? He fear the loss of his strength and his cunning more than anything, and it could very well happen if he gives in.


Marked Man: Artyom has done many things in his rise from a newblood of house Jorvyk to the Third in the clan. His power and his prowess pushed him forward, honor and morals were for those that would be fine with begging in the streets for meat scraps. He was not held back by such things. He would use the thought that he had them to his advantage, pushing past people or slipping a knife, either literal or figurative, into their back for either his own advancement or the advancement or safety of Clan Jorvyk. Of course, any many who has done this things, even for his Clan, will have enemies. And Artyom does. But most of them think it would take a full wolf pack to take down the wily old bear, and such things are not allowed in Zhaltev. So far as long as that is the way it is, he is safe. In public at least. There's been a few knives in the dark after his lifeblood in the past decade, but he has won. And he doesn't show that he was attacked to anyone. Those that would have attempted to kill him go to the sea, where they are sunken with rope and stone until one day they rise to the tops again, so rotten by water and eaten by fish that they are almost unrecognizable. For those that attack him in their animal forms, Artyom has broken the most sacred laws of Zhaltev, the kind that would have him banished for life from the city if discovered. He has taken their furs, and he keeps them under the boards of his room. He looks at them as the trophies of a warrior or hunter, one who deserves them for what he has done. And with every would be assassin that doesn't return home, he makes more enemies. For every challenger that he has goaded to attack, he gains another enemy. One day, it will catch up to him.

History:

Before:

In the icy tundra of the North, Artyom was born to a tribe that called themselves the People. His birth sent his mother Alyona to the underworld, none of the magic or skills of the tribes Tadibya were able to save her. So he was born, Artyom, the last child his mother would bear to his father. A strange twist of fate helped save the young childs life. Another woman in the tribe had born a dead child, but her milk still flowed, and so she nursed him as he grew. His tribe wandered far over the cold and frozen tundra, moving reindeer herds across the land for grazing. Everyone helped care for the animals, because if the hunters were unable to find meat or furs for the people, then the herd sacrificed for the good of the tribe.

As Artyom grew, he became strong, but he didn't follow the path of his father and brothers, and instead chose to become a hunter. The relationship with his older siblings and father was... strained for lack of a better term. Some of his siblings blamed him for the death of their mother, and while his father never said that he did, Artyom felt that he did. Especially since his father never spoke to him other than what was absolutely necessary, and never showed Artyom the same kindnesses as he showed his brothers and sisters. His uncle Aloysha, a hunter of great renown, his mothers brother, treated him much better. Almost like he was his son. Aloysha and his sister Alyona were not the same as the rest of the People, being lighter of hair and eyes, where as Artyom's other family members had black hair and mostly brown eyes. It was said they had been found when they were young children in the burnt out homes of some other villagers, and a man and his wife who had been without child for many years. Aloysha and Alyona had been with the tribe ever since, and Alyona had eventually married Artyom's father, Senda. The amber eyes that Artyom had were inherited from his mother, and his uncles own honey-brown eyes were close enough to his.

His uncle came closer to raising him than his father ever had, and instead of learning how to care for reindeer, Artyom learned how to track animals. When his siblings were caring for the animals that pulled their sleds, he was learning where exactly to strike so that an animal would die, the creatures heartsblood nourishing him and his tribe through the long spells of cold. When the others gathered around the fires, laughing and telling stories about their days, Aloysha had Artyom tracking through the snow, finding his way by the stars and landmarks to make sure he knew enough so that he would not get lost. He was distanced further and further away from his family, latching on to his uncle as a surrogate father, one that actually appeared to care about him. Before he was much older than twelve winters, Artyom had left the crowded and happy atmosphere of his fathers hut and moved in the much quieter home of his uncle.

For several years, this is how it went. Artyom trained to be a hunter, always knowing that there was something more to be learned, especially from his uncle. It was like Aloysha could see tracks on ice, hear an animal breathe as they hunted it, could think like that animal. And maybe he could. Artyom had never asked where his uncles prowess had came from, had merely accepted it. Had tried to learn it, tried to be like him. And he had became almost as good of a hunter as his uncle. He was quiet, he was skilled, he could hide in the white furs that they had, hide in the snows until an animal was close enough for his spears. He carved his exploits, his story, on a whale bone spear that Aloysha had given to him for the very purpose. His uncle did the same on a very old walrus tusk, his story filling it almost to the point.

There was happiness, of it's own kind. Not the kind that the rest of the People would understand, because they were the kind of tribe that believed in community, in togetherness. But though one had been raised and one had been bored, Aloysha and Artyom were two kindred souls in the fact that they were more solitary. Even when camp was set up and their shelters put up, they generally left each other alone, going off in their own directions for hunting, only sharing the space to eat their final meals of the night and sleep. When they were far enough North, Aloysha would take Arytom out into the waters in the small canoes, looking for fish, if they were in a place that supported the animals, they hunted wild reindeer not part of their herds, and they even looked for lone bull mammoths, for the honour in two men slaying one of those would be great indeed. It was a good time for both of them. Artyom felt like he had a father, and Aloysha, who had never felt the need or wanted to marry, preferring his solitary life, felt like he had a son.

Happiness in the frigid Northern wastes of the world does not last for very long. Artyom and his uncle felt like they had finally found the mammoth that they could bring down. Aloysha swore the bull was old, was weak, and with proper planning and preparation, easily brought down by two hunters. Artyom had already made plans for what he would do with the furs of the creature, presenting them to the father of a young woman in the village that made his heart beat faster and his mouth go dry. So they left their shelters, telling those close that they would return in three days time, and if they had not, to come looking for them to the east. Then they tracked the bull. For a day and most of a night, barely stopping for any rest, the desire for the hunt burning the need from their bodies. But they had underestimated the creature, and it had went farther than they thought it capable. So they had to rest, and then continue tracking. The dawning of the third day came, and they knew the People would begin to look for them. They cared not much, for then that meant they would enjoy the harvest of mammoth that much sooner. But, when they finally came upon the mammoth, they were not ready for what they saw.

It appeared the mammoth had fallen, it's foot getting lodged in a crack in the ice, and it had been unable to get out. Then the bear had came, and the mammoth had not been able to fight back. Even now, they could see it chewing on what would have been their prize. It was truly a monster of an animal, almost taller than Artyom at the shoulder and surely taller than both men on top of each other on it's hind legs. It's white fur was turned pink and red with the blood that was soaking through it. While Artyom wanted to take the bear, wanting any prize to take home, his uncle knew that this enemy was too much for them to handle. Even wounded, the mammoth would have been a challenge, and they only would have been aided by their nimble feet and the bull's old age. This giant of a bear was not old, but strong. They would have to be quick, have to be strong, and they had no dogs with them to worry at the bear while they stabbed with their spears. But in backing away, they alerted the animal. And it charged them.

It bowled through them, batting Aloysha away like he was nothing but a puff of tundra grass in the wind, the almost casual swipe of its paw ripping through the furs that he was wearing and deep into his guts. The bear didn't stop, slamming into Artyom with all the force of a great iceberg crunching into land. He fought as hard as he could against the flashing claws and crunching teeth. But what was his strength compared to that of a giant bear? The creature batted hima across his face, ripping into his skin and tearing his left ear away and leaving what little bit remained in shreds. Aloysha tried to throw things at the animal, his own lifesblood and innards spilling on the ground as he tried to distract the creature. It turned to him with almost a look of annoyance, but that was all that was needed for Artyom to roll onto his stomach and try to crawl away.

The bear turned back to his meal soon enough, great jaws clamping down, or attempting to, on Artyom's neck, the thick furs from both his over coat and hood bunching around the tender flesh of his neck and saving him from instant death. Aloysha found the last of the strength that remained in him, and fighting his way to his feet, he felt parts of his inner body that never should have been exposed to air begin to shift and fall through the gaping holes in his stomach. But still he used his last bit of strength to fling his spear, the stone point barely penetrating the bears thick hide and fat. But it did enough to cause the animal to turn from the meal under it in anger, and once again attack Aloysha, ripping him apart. With no weapons to defend himself anymore, and his lifesblood ebbing out of his body along with his strength, the old hunter could do nothing but roar defiance in the face of the bear as it ended his life.

Artyom watched this all through the haze of blood that covered his vision. Weak and scrabbling hands reached out, finding and wrapping around the spear he had dropped. He pulled it close to him, holding it with the line of his body as he rolled over, shouting at the bear. He planned to take it with him, to take it with himself and his uncle, so they could show all the People that went before them what a monster they had killed out on the tundra, even if it had killed them as well. The bear, angry that his meals kept being interrupted, turned to this annoyance, this nagging fly on his body, and huffed angrily. Artyom shouted again, just nonsense words, but fueled by hate and anger and pain, and the bear charged. Once he was sure that it couldn't change it's path, he lifted his spear, bracing it with his body. When the bear slammed into it, the shaft flexed, but it held true. Piercing the layers of fur, fat, muscle, finally going into the cavity of the beasts chest and piercing it's heart, it gave one last attempt at trying to end the young hunters life. It's jaws had no strength, and they couldn't close around his head. But the animal gave it a valiant try. Artyom didn't care. His uncle had died in front of him, and though none of the wounds from the bear attack would be fatal, it was cold out on the tundra, and he had several hundreds of pounds of dead bear on top of him. The wolves could come, and he would be dead. His only options was to hope the People came in enough time to save his life. The irony that his life rested in the hands of the very tribe that he had chosen to remain cut away from did not escape him.

He was under the weight of the bear, slowly dying (or so he thought), for he did not know how long. Eventually, he heard the shots and felt the hands of his tribe, pulling him out from under the heavy body. He thought it was a dream at first, something brought on by his being so close to death. His father was there, and the worry in his face as he asked his son if he was still alive could only be a dream. His father didn't care that much for him. They set up their camp around the battlefield where man and beast had strove together, and began to try and heal him. Artyom's father took as much of the fur from the bear as he could, with the plans to give it to his son when he woke up from the healing sleeps the Tadibya had placed him in. He wanted to make up for the rift that he had allowed to grow between him and his son, for the rift between his children that he had allowed to grow as well. Aloysha was burned on a pyre, some of his personal belongings piled around him, and his name was forgotten by all but his family, the only ones that would use it now.

The Change:

Artyom was not waking, nor was he healing. He burned with a fever, screaming and roaring in his dreams. His roar no longer sounded human, but sounded like that of a bear. The Tadibya watched as hair sprouted over his body, his skin turning black as white fur burst from it, his fingernails turning into black claws that raked the furs he laid on, his mouth deformed and lips bloody and ripped as teeth that were never made to fit in a human mouth tore it apart, bones breaking and lengthening as his body tried to turn into a different shape. She spoke worriedly with his father, with the members of the tribal council, and a choice was made. Artyom was now dangerous. Shifters always were. And the People had never allowed a shifter to stay with their tribe. So they did what they felt they must. They held a funeral for Artyom as well, commending his spirit to the underworld, and the Tadibya carved ritual scars into his body, the magic to make him unable to follow them, unable to send his dark will to them, if he felt so inclined. It was nothing more than superstition really, but they believed in it. And that was enough for them to feel safe.

They left him covered by the shelter he and his uncle had once shared, and the only possession they left him was the story spear he had spent most of his life carving. They tied it to his leg, leaving the loop wide. If he woke up as a human, he would know it pick it up. If he woke up as something else... he would drag it until he could get it off. Artyom shivered and roared for three days before the tremors passed. And then... he changed. It was the most incredible pain he had ever felt in his entire life. Bones broke, cracked, shifted. New ones grew, some disappeared, his spine lengthened, his shoulders shifted and his body screamed in pain. Muscle swelled, splitting skin as it hurried to keep up with the changes. Blood sprinkled the snow as it was put under too much stress, his face splitting open as it grew a snout and jaws, before muscles and skin covered it once again. His skin turned black, transparent hairs that appeared white in chunks sprouting up everywhere, with little splotches of brown colours here and there. The bear, having destroyed the hut that Artyom's human body was sleeping in, stood on it's hind legs and roared to the arctic sky. Then it fell back down to it's all fours, shaking it's head slowly.

So many thoughts. Instincts, telling him to hunt. To find meat, to taste the blood of his prey animal. Other thoughts, foreign thoughts, not the thoughts of a bear, telling him now, that he wasn't an animal, he was Artyom. The bear did not listen. It was not a human. It was an animal, a predator, his muscles strong, his teeth and claws sharp. And it hungered. Like it had never eaten before. The bear cast his nose to the night sky, searching for scent. It searched around the area, smelling old blood, old bear dead now, and burning ashes that had once held some meat. It nosed the burnt area, seeing if there was anything that could be saved, but there was nothing to eat. The bear snapped in fury at the thing that was dragging behind it, but there was nothing that could be done about it right now. It was tight around his leg, and it was not enough of a nuisance for him to consider chewing on himself to free it. He was hungry. He had to find food. Maybe fresh meat would assuage the screaming voice in his head, not instinct, not bear thought, something different. Screaming that it was Artyom.

For his part, Artyom was fighting. The bear had taken over, and was firmly in control. But Artyom was not letting this go without a fight. He was a human, not an animal. He owned his body, and this dark spirit would not control him. Artyom was in control. But there was nothing that he could do. The bears will was so fresh, so strong, that it was blocking him out. Completely. It's hunger was so ravenous that it drowned out his screams out want for control with the gurgle of it's stomach. He screamed, and he railed, mental fists beating against the cage that the animals mind had put him in. But it was to no avail. The animal kept moving, kept hunting. And Artyom felt the despair. What if he was never able to take back control of the creature? Would he be sentenced to this life forever? He knew about shifters. His tribe had driven reindeer down to the plains once a year for the merchants of the city that they lived in. But he had never asked them anything about themselves. He had always held himself away from them. Now he wished he had just asked them once or twice about themselves. Or just listened. He was sure his uncle had said something about them before. He felt a pang of loss rip through him. His uncle... his uncle was most likely gone. If he had survived, he would have been like Artyom. But he would have stayed, either way, to keep his nephew safe. That must mean that he was gone. He screamed in pain and loss, but the scream was inside of his soul. And the bear paid no attention to it. It was hungry, and it would find meat.

The bear wandered for what felt like days. But then it saw it. It's instincts had brought him here, to the edge of the land where it met the waters, where it could find food. And it could almost smell food here, bloody salty tang on his tongue already. It wandered closer and closer, a little fat body on the ice his desire. The bear got as close as he could stand to before his hunger took over, and he charged forward, a giant paw batting the seal high into the air. The fat little animal barked and yipped, but the bear was waiting when it hit the ground. He was on it like a flash, razor sharp teeth going for it's soft neck and biting deep. The second the blood hit the bears tongue, it soothed his anger and his hunger, but still he ate the seal like it was the only thing that would keep him alive. Eventually, the seal was nothing but blood stains and bits of bone on the ice, and the bears mind was quiet. And that was when Artyom, who had been waiting, attacked.

He wrestled with the bears mind for control, pushing it back and away. The body they shared reacted, caught between changing back to a human and stubbornly staying a bear. It roared in pain as the warring minds within it battled, but the bear was tired now. It had eaten, and was no longer hungry, and Artyom was fresh and angry, and wanting his body back. He took control, pushing the growling bear down, telling it to sleep. To go away. Reluctantly the bear did. But it would come back when it felt hunger, or when Artyom was least expecting it. When he was angry, or distracted, he would return, and the bear would walk longer. The sound of snapping bones and shredding skin appeared once again, the roars of pain scaring off any seal for miles around. But there he sat, shivering, retching from pain, in a pile of shed fur and blood. He tried to stand, but was too weak, and fell back into the puddles of his own sick and his own blood. He managed to bring himself up a little, and he looked around for some sign of where he was at. He had went to the far North, where the whaling tribes lived. His own tribe had traded with them before. Where he remembered fighting the bear was three days away as the bear had walked. The city of shifters was at least two weeks from that point. He shivered again, finally pulling himself to his feet. The rope that had been tied around both his and the bears legs slipped off his much smaller human leg, and he followed it. His spear was still there, but the tip was gone. Reindeer antler, it hadn't been good for hunting. But he would use it now. He picked up a sharp cracked seal bone and lashed it as a makeshift point with the strands of rope that had once been tied to his leg. That would have to do for now. He checked the sky, and started walking south. He would need clothes soon. He didn't feel as cold as he should, maybe because of the- no. He quickly shoved those thoughts from his mind. He would ignore the other as long as possible. He just needed to find furs.

Two Years Later:

It had been two years. Two very long years of breaking his back in this city. Hauling up the salt blocks, helping hunt the caribou, guiding traders who had lost their way. All to prove himself worthy of joining Jorvyk. And it had finally happened. His fingers rubbed across where they should have been a scar on his hand, from giving his blood to the oath. But there wasn't one there, except in his memory. And now he sat in what was the main hall for those that chose to eat with their clan, and he looked around. He knew how it worked, he knew how to rise. But not tonight. The words that he had heard stuck with him. This clan was now his family. And they treated him like it. He thanked the woman next to him that spooned more stew into his bowl, telling him to eat, he was too skinny. He had never had that. Not from a woman. His uncle had just told him to eat until he was full. He had been lucky to get anything but scraps in his fathers home. And now here... they cared. They treated him like family. He pretended to be wiping sweat from his face as he wiped tears from his eyes. This was going to be a home to him. This was going to be his new family.

He kept the look of his face, but in his mind he smiled, and he felt the bear rumbled along with it. He would protect this family. And he would rise. He would rise as far as his stars would take him, and he would go as close to the top as he could. He had already met the head of his clan, and Artyom knew in his heart that he would never challenge that man. He saw too much of his uncle in him. Maybe not physically, but there was a steal there, that told him they were similar man. And that was just something he wasn't going to challenge yet. But to challenge enough to get close? To see if there was something of the same kind of man his uncle was in his new leader? That Artyom would do. To feel that kind of emotion again. To feel like he was close to someone who cared, someone who could teach him things. To feel like he had a father figure again, even if he was a man grown.

Artyom was a Jorvyk for two months before he challenged his first opponent. Artyom stood in the circle for such duels, stripped naked, swinging his arms to keep his goose pimpled flesh warm and his muscles stretched. He knew that he wasn't tight from the cold. It was nerves. He had studied Gunnar hard these two months. The man was quick, and could only be quicker once he shifted into his wolf form. He had never wondered why a wolf had joined Jorvyk. Did it matter? He aimed to make a statement today. His opponent fairly swaggered into the ring, raising his hands to the cheers of his clan mates. He himself had recently been raised to the position he now enjoyed, and Artyom knew that he was a favorite, considered strong and quick. He had many friends, many supporters. So it was time to send a message. To make them understand how strong the newcomer truly was. And that he was going to challenge as many as he could, as soon as they would accept his challenge. And he was going to rise.

There was no need to explain the rules to them again. No weapons except tooth and claw and strength. Artyom smirked, considering his advantage unfair. Not many besides the upper four had seen his bear form, and not since his blood sworn ceremony. Many people in the Clan thought that because his human body was as short as it was, that he himself would be a small example of a bear. He screamed as he transformed, his skin sloughing off and tearing as the bear inside of him ripped out, his bones cracking and lengthening, resetting and regrowing, before he stood before them on his hind legs, a towering example of nothing but claws and teeth and raw animalistic power. In the back of the bears mind, Artyom took a note at the silence of the chamber. Always make an entrance if you can. People would later swear they had seen the bear smirk. Gunnar was still so cocky. Even as he shifted to the much smaller wolf body, Artyom was on him. He knew that he had to end this quickly. A wolf was fast, and could nip and bite at the larger and slower bear, draining him of power and blood quickly. But Artyom bowled through him like he was nothing but a put, a giant paw slapping him to the side like a bothersome tree sapling. The wolf yelped in pain, and Artyom was again on him before he could rise, blood already pooling around his body. The bear rose to his hind legs, roaring his dominance to the assembled members of Clan Jorvyk before he slammed his front paws and prodigious weight down on the rib cage of the wolf, roaring again as the entire silent assembly heard the snap and crack of rib cage and the yelp of pain.

Artyom could have killed him, then and there. But Joryvk had special provisions. An opponent could be left alive, if they could not continue, or if they showed the sign of submission. it was up to the fighter who had the upper hand to decide. Artyom spared Gunnar's life that day, choosing not to end it. It was a simple thing, but the power rush from it swelled his heart. He held that mans life in his hands, and could have ended it at any second, could have tasted his fresh blood and raging heart on his teeth and tongue. But he hadn't. And now, even if Gunnar didn't know it, that mean that he was Artyom's man. Anything he asked, he knew that Gunnar would do for him. Or he would be forced to challenge him again, and he knew that Artyom could defeat him. It was power. It was the first true taste of power that Artyom had ever had, and he found that he liked it. It was sweet tasting, and it was richer than any liver meat that he had enjoyed. He couldn't wait to challenge again.

And so he did. As many times as he thought he could get away with it. As he climbed, the rest of the twenty would come and watch him fight. And he threw them all off one day as he reached the seventeenth spot. He immediately looked at the sixteenth, and he challenged her there. And he beat the snow leopard into the ground with his very paws, and cracked her skull with his mighty jaws. The first challenge he had let himself go all out in, and let himself kill in. She had wounded him greatly, and he knew that she would never let him continue to rise. He had seen it in her eyes, or so he told himself. If he won and let her live, she would challenge him in a month, or two, depending on how long she took to heal. Jorvyk was abuzz for days. He had fought two fights back to back, and won them both. And then he challenged for the fifteenth only three weeks later, and he was bruised and battered after that fight, almost broken. The fifteenth had been a giant of a man, and had said that he would fight Artyom unshifted, even if the bear had came out. Artyom knew it was a bluff. The fifteenth was a wolverine, and a wolverine would lose to the bear. But Artyom knew these politics. If he faced the man as a bear, even if he won, no one would look on him with favour.

So he faced the much larger man as a human, and even though the fight was touch and go, and was very closer, Artyom came out on top. The fifteenth had been helped from the arena, he useless arm dangling from the socket, his now empty eye socket weeping tears of blood and eye fluid. But Artyom had won. Even with bare fists and nothing else, he had fought and defeated someone much stronger than him, much bigger, and he had proved to the members of his clan that he was strong. That he would continue to rise through the ranks, as far as his stars would take him. So he fought. For all those long years, he fought, and fought. And he built up his power base in the house, those willing to listen to him, the ones that considered him a confidant, that considered him their friend. And he never betrayed those who would call him such. But he never considered them friends. They were family. Family and friends to him were very different. The only members of Jorvyk that were not family were what remained of the twenty. They were merely obstacles. And he had been raised to be a great hunter, had been raised by the greatest of hunters. And hunters never let obstacles stop them, the only obstacle they listened to was death. And even then they tried to strike a killing blow. The memories of the bear that had attacked him reminded him of that.

And so his rise continued. Sometimes he would challenge as close as he could, barring injury. Sometimes he would wait, letting the remaining members stew and fear for when he was coming for them. He faced his own challenges as well, those who thought they deserved his spot, his place in the pack, but he sent them on their way with broken bodies and blood filled lungs. But he rarely killed in the challenge, letting so many live that he could have ended. Gunnar, the first he had ever beaten, almost like a trusted lieutenant now, followed closely on Artyom's rise, moving up a space behind him everytime he rose. Others that Artyom had became friends with, had helped train, had treated like younger brothers, younger sisters, nieces, nephews, they also rose into the twenty. They followed his rise, his own personal group of shifters that treated him like their father. Their teacher. Their uncle. And Artyom liked this power. He liked this feeling of people looking up to him, of following him, of trusting in him to lead them the right way. And he started to think of Cinder, and how he no longer reminded Artyom of his uncle. By this time, Artyom had grown a bit. Was more mature. But he knew that if he challenged Cinder, it would take planning. A falcon versus a bear was a strange fight, and some would think it one sided. But the bird could take his eyes, and Artyom would have to find a defense against that first.

By this time, he had risen to four of the twenty, a formidable position indeed. He was 37 years old, and his birthday was coming. He had no intention to turn another year as anything but third. If he was not third on his birthdate, then he would be dead. So he challenged Bjorn Jorvyk, another bear shifter. One of the few that Artyom had seen that came close to him in size. A scary prospect indeed. Someone that was slow like him, but could match him pound for pound for hitting and jaws biting. But he had not risen this far by being afraid of others. His uncle had not been afraid when his gut rope had spilled on the ground, and had still faced the bear. Artyom gathered his own together, the shifters that he had molded, that he encouraged to call him uncle, as many of them did. They laughed, they played games, and he passed out the special mead that was only for his clan. And then the next day, he challenged Bjorn Jorvyk to battle for their placements. And as they all had before, Bjorn accepted.

The day dawned, grim and cold, as they both stood in their places in the arena space. The clan members stuffed every space, those that held bird forms filling the rafters, just to be there. The smell of so many pressed together, the sheer heat of them, made Artyom's heart beat and his blood heat up. Bjorn postured and gesticulated, trying to draw support, but he received none from the side of the arena he had stood on. Artyom's 'nieces and nephews' had arrived early, and taken those spots. And they sat quietly, neither cheering nor booing for the other man. It was more unnerving than anything else Artyom could have thought up. But when Artyom stood to his full height, naked of all except for ritual markings and his scars, the benches behind Bjorn erupted with cheers, and so did much of the rest of the crowd. He could practically smell the nervousness that the other man now held in his body. He could see it in the tension of his muscles, the flare of his nostrils.

And Artyom changed. His body had learned to make the change less painful, but it would always hurt. But he still shed his skin for this, the fur erupting, the jaw snapping, and he faced the other on all fours, his mouth wide open and spraying saliva as he roared loud enough to shake the rafters of the building. Bjorn finally hardened, and shifted. Artyom was impressed, the other man was a large example of a brown bear. Artyom did not know if they were close in height, nor did he care. The bear could smell another of his kind, a male. Wolves the bear would tolerate. Cats. These things were small, they were weak. Small and weak always existed in a territory, and were simply difficult prey to take food from. Either from their flesh, or their kills. Whatever the bear decided. But this was a threat. This was something that encroached. To take meat from him, to take the blood taste, to take the females that could be had. The bears roared at each other once more, and then the human sides of their mind pushed the great beasts, titans in their own right, into battle.

Claws flashed, teeth shined in the light of torches and what sun could filter in, clumps of flesh flinging out and sticking to the floors and walls, chunks of fur drifting lazily through the air as they ripped and tore each other. Teeth sank into massive slabs of muscle, tearing as shoulders crashed together and pushed away from a bite and a winning blow. Slowly, weakened, bleeding, they circled each other, the humans inside their mind tired even from keeping the mental part of helping the animals fight, to counter the other humans moves that were alien to an animal brain, to push and goad their inner beasts that extra mile. Artyom could feel the weariness in his bones. He was going to need at least two caribou carcasses after this. But he saw more blood pouring from the other bears body than he thought he felt from his own. That meant he still had a chance. He forced it for one last run, one last push, his shoulder digging hard into the wounded and bleeding Bjorn. He rose with the shoulder, just like Artyom had hoped for. And then they were both on their hind legs, but Artyom was low enough for damage. His body pushed the other bears skull up and away, exposing the throat, and Artyom and the bear shared a single mind and thought at that very moment, and in perfect unison, sent the command to bite down and tear the throat out. And that's what they did.

His opponent fell, his lifeblood leaking onto the hard packed ground of the challenge floor. All sat in stunned silence as Artyom swayed, injured, having lost much of his blood, but he still managed to stand his ground. Gunnar started first. Stomping his feet on the stands, he started to chant. Just like Artyom had told him to. "Ar-ty-om. Ar-ty-om. Ar-ty-om." Soon, others started to pick up the chant, and the whole hall began to shake with the sounds of stomping feet and shouting human throats, howling wolves, roaring cats, shrieking birds. The bear, wounded, tired, hungry, shrank back, and Artyom came to the front of their mind, shedding pounds of wounded muscle, lacerated fat, and torn skin, all to stand in front of Cinder Jorvyk in the form of his mannish self. Some of the wounds had been carried over to him, and fresh blood stood out on his skin, but he stood a bit steadier, a bit straighter. He stared Cinder straight in the eyes as the older man clapped along with the cheers and half heartedly smiled. Did he know? The thought plagued Artyom. Did he know that he would be coming for his position someday? But it didn't matter, did it? He was only third of the twenty. He had a place to defend, and he still had to climb further. But now... Gunnar and others rushed the stage, lifting him up on their shoulders, carrying him around the circle of the hall, people still chanting his name. Like a war cry. Like the revered name of a leader. Like someone they loved.

Artyom smiled, and then his smile grew into something that covered his face, and he laughed and held up his arms, ignoring the screams of pain. His family loved him. He could hear it in their voices, see it in their faces. His family loved him, and they would only continue to love and support him. And one day, they would support him and love him as the head of this clan. Or he would die trying to make it happen. Die as number three, die as number two, die as number one. Or even die as the leader. It didn't matter anymore. He had reached to touch the stars, and had skimmed his fingers through their dust. Anything else that came after this was merely a reward for all of the hard work he had put in. They would all love him. They would all be his family. As soon as he was able to challenge Cinder Jorvyk. And he would do so when he knew that he had the whole clan at his back.

Later that night, he thought of his plan. Everyone else was drunk in their cups, the mead and alcohol he had supplied flowing freely. How much had he changed in these years? How much was Zhaltev, how much was himself, how much was his need for love? When had Cinder became a potential target? When had he decided to take that beloved mans place? When he stopped reminding me of Uncle. When I finally realized, Uncle is dead. And there will never be another like him. Artyom drained his cup, and then stood. That was right. When he had realized, that family changed, and nothing could bring back who someone was. And there was only being the most loved of the family, or nothing. Zhaltev might have changed him a little, but for some reason Artyom knew. Deep down in his heart. He had always been like this. It just needed time to grow. It was like his entire life had been a shift, starting with the bear. He looked around at the people in the room that followed him, loved him, believed in him. The old Artyom, the one who killed his mother, was unloved by a father, lost his uncle, and had came here, he was gone. But the new Artyom. The man who controlled the bear. The man who had fought his way to third of twenty. He was here to stay. Artyom smiled as he poured another drink.

He quite liked that.

[Saruna]

Approved.