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Letter to Julia from Lobo del Lago Lunar, Lupus Philodox Child of Gaia

What is it like to be born a wolf, you ask? Turn your question on its head. What is it like to be born a human?

How much do you remember of your first two years of life? An impression here, and image there? Perhaps a recollection based more on the stories you’ve heard of the event than something you can truly remember? And yet those experiences you have forgotten define you, shape you into a human. If you were cherished and encouraged in those early years it will echo in who you grow up to be. If you were neglected or abused, that too will mark you for the rest of your life.

My memories of my life as a wolf are a lot like that. It has been nearly eight years since my First Change. I was only a wolf for two. Certainly I was at least an adolescent by the end of those two years, but a wolf brain is not a human brain. I don’t remember much about my life before I Changed, but sometimes I’ll catch the whiff of a scent or hear the call of a bird that brings me back to my birthplace, back to that den a few yards away from Lake Luna in the wooded mountains of Arizona.

Homids often wax poetic about the sensations of being in Lupus form — the intensity of the sounds, the sharpness of the scents, the pure joy of running on all fours. These are all wonderful sensations, but lupus don’t obsess over them nearly as much as homids do — or even as much as humans obsess over their own humanity. That’s simply not our way. Lupus is a familiar form, a useful form — swift, strong, sharp of nose and ears, and capable of holding its own against most natural opponents. Crinos and Homid have their advantages, as well.

In spite of what you might hear, lupus are not wolves — at least no more so than homids are humans. Think about that for a moment. An ordinary human cannot understand a werewolf’s Rage. A human who lost her temper as easily as a Garou would not survive very long. It’s not your fault, but you’re simply too physically frail to lash out at every enemy that opposes you.

A homid, though, is a different creature. Even in his breed form he knows he has Gaia’s gifts to call upon. If things get really bad, he knows he can shift to Crinos and tear any opposition into bloody meat. What’s more, a homid radiates that quiet confidence, that almost smug certainty that any fight with another human is really beneath him, and other humans pick up on that even if they’re drunk and have no idea what kind of beast is grinning in the face of their empty threats.

A lupus is so much more than a wolf that can change shapes. A lupus is all the instinct, power, and cunning of a wolf, plus the full reasoning faculties of a human. Yet in some ways this also makes us less-than-wolves, too. Homids feel more confident and closer to Gaia after their First Change. The rage introduces complications, but it makes decisions simpler somehow, renders all the tiny dramas of ordinary human life inconsequential. Who cares what brand of gizmo is in style when there are world-destroying monsters to fight?

The lupus come to the First Change from the opposite direction. Oh we’re proud to be Gaia’s chosen warriors, to be sure. You’ll never find a prouder werewolf than a lupus! But we lose our innocence in the process. We can frolic and rejoice in our wolf bodies. We can hunt with our Kinfolk and rightfully lead their packs. But we are wolves no longer, for we cannot live entirely in the moment as once we did. We can look to the future. We can regret the past. These are gifts we did not ask for — could not even have imagined when we were still wolf — but they are ours.

How does the First Change feel to a lupus? Take all the cognitive development a human child goes through from her first birthday to about twenty years old — from facial recognition to “cogito ergo sum” — and cram it into a few minutes. All that happens at the same time thatyour body completely changes shape and size. Throw in a surge of rage that no wolf and certainly no human can comprehend. Sound terrifying? That’s because it is.

Unlike a homid, a lupus can’t just curl in on himself afterward and maybe pretend nothing happened. The rage rises and falls, and a quick bath can wash the blood out from under a human’s fingernails. But a lupus cannot just walk away from his newfound self-awareness. We’re stuck with it, and it takes us some getting used to.

Homids and lupus are both a little emotionally conflicted after their First Change. For homids I’d guess there’s a sense that maybe they’ve become a monster, and all those fictional portrayals of werewolves wash over them. Maybe they even feel guilty if they hurt or killed someone. The flood of emotions a lupus experiences aren’t colored with superstition or morality. On the contrary, I think that if we weren’t so completely perplexed by our newfound sapience and confusing new bodies we’d probably immediately go on a killing spree.

It takes some time after the First Change to adapt to our new situation. We lupus often tease homid cubs when they first start spending time in Lupus form. They forget they don’t have hands. They forget that humans react very differently to wolves than to other humans. They are unnecessarily cautious and more than a little clumsy. They have a wolf’s senses, but they haven’t figured out what all those scents and sounds mean. Yes, we may even lose our patience with them, sometimes, but most of them practice diligently and grasp as much as they’re likely to need of the tricks to being in Lupus. Those who let frustration win out simply avoid shifting into Lupus unless they absolutely have to.

Compared to the lupus, homids have it easy. Lupus have no native tongue to use in Homid — a form that’s incapable of comprehensible wolf howls — so we’re forced to learn human language. We don’t have the benefits of an education in mathematics, science, or reading. Gaia in her mercy gives us as much coordination in our Homid form as most humans have, but that doesn’t mean we automatically know what to do with our hands. And human social graces? Definitely not a part of the starting package, as the Glass Walkers say. Unlike homids, lupus don’t usually have the option of shunning their human shape. Our enemies largely hide in or near human places, and a wolf would stick out there.

I know what a lot of homids say about lupus when they don’t think we’re listening: they think we’re too stupid to understand human things like tools and technology. They think that we’re too backward in our thinking to attend a human social event without acting inappropriately. They think that we’re just too ignorant to grasp the nuances of politics and law. They think that they have to speak to us in human languages very slowly if they want us to understand what they’re saying.

None of this is true. Lupus learn human skills quickly — much faster than humans do, in fact — but we start out knowing so much less that it still takes months or even years to achieve mastery. Our pride can also be an impediment. It goes against our instincts to admit weakness. It’s often easier to snort in disdain about the weaknesses of Homid or complain about the uselessness of “monkey babble” than it is to master the form or become fluent in human languages. The impatience of many of our homid tutors does not help matters.

But we can learn all these things. It was not easy for me, either. If it hadn’t been for my extremely patient mentor — a lupus who had spent most of her life in Homid form — I doubt I would have gotten this far in my human education. And I speak as a lupus who doesn’t favor Homid form in the slightest. I’ve learned that all our forms serve a purpose, else Gaia would not have given us so many.

Respected Elders, Enclosed, find my first report on our wolf Kinfolk. Respectfully,