The Tale of St. Luza

Life-changing options come along at different times in each persons’ lives. For the Endeared Princess Luza, the chance to become something more came at the young age of twenty-eight, when her father held out his hand and asked for a duel. She knew what he was implying–show me your strength. Prove to me that you’re worthy to run this army. Luza kept a straight face when she agreed, though she knew that he had a thousand years of throat-tearing, flesh-breaking experience… but if he insisted then she must be worthy.

The fight was at dawn a few days later, attended by non other than the Council, there to judge her ability. Luza stared down her father, who looked barely inconvenience by their date, though she knew fights often ended in death. She knew her father but not that well; would he sacrifice his heir, his oldest child? It wasn’t likely. Luza didn’t want to entirely take that chance though.

By inheritance, her wolf was nearly as large as his, her long hours in the woods showing considerably. The Council looked please, nonetheless. The duel was not short, the sun making its way high over the trees by the time the two had stepped back for an exhausted breath. Luza couldn’t tell because of the fur, but she thought her father looked proud to have stood up to him this long. But he did not call it off then; he wouldn’t call it off until one of them was on the ground, the other’s teeth around their neck. Which is what happened after nearly another hour of bloody terror. Luza didn’t notice until she was pinned the crowd that had gathered far off in the trees, not near enough to be called sneaking but close enough to watch.

Of course he would win, as if there was any other outcome. But who won did not matter as much as how long the opponent survived–non others had made it as long as Luza. She had spent her teen years into adulthood studying her father’s fighting and military strategies. She knew nearly every move he could make, but non of that intelligence mattered as much as his pure strength.

Long after he was dead, and Luza was declared Queen of the Werewolves, she could easily think back on that fight and know the reason she lost, and she would vow to never be that weak again. Luza would never allow herself, or her father, to be remembered as weak. His conquests across the world were bloody, borderline genocidal, and she wouldn’t let anyone forget it. Luza took the memory of her father, still fresh in the mind of her armies and enemies, and blew it up–turned him into a horrific monster who’s detailed stories would keep her enemies up at night.
Those closest to Luza could only but look up to her–the propaganda she spread made even her father’s name a curse; he was known as the bravest, the strongest, and the best fighter the wolves have ever seen. It wasn’t long before the coin flip showed the negative attributes–the murder, the blood lust, the obsession with seeing those around him bow down in fear. Luza kept the image of her father alive, so much so that many weren’t even sure he was dead, that perhaps Luza had become his new voice, not his placeholder.

Luza was three hundred years old by the time she took the throne. She had spent so many years studying everything they had on war and fighting, though she had so much battle experience herself–after their duel, her father declared her a general in his armies. She lead countless campaigns successfully against a myriad of enemies, she walked for miles across bloodied ground, boated down rivers filled with red and brown, she stared down at the faces of those she killed, often pulling a body from the ground; usually fresh, young, and pretty.

What she did with these bodies was highly speculated, always controversial, but never disclosed fully. The most discussed theory was she bathed in the blood of those she had killed, but no reason really gets more attention than another. Images of this idea were passed around , the most impressive Luza kept and framed, hanging them in throughout the dark castle. She never worked to push down these theories or to dispel them. She found them amusing and passed a few around herself. Luza never disclosed just what she did with the bodies, but after they were picked up they were never seen again, whether as one body or in pieces.

Among the werewolves, the title of Saint is given to those who have spent their lives dedicated to the people; to those who save more than they kill, which is rare to find in werewolf culture. Luza did not become a Saint due to her generosity and mercy, though. She demanded the title, but the Council reject her; saying she had spent her whole life murdering others, and not entirely giving back to the world. Luza enjoyed living lavishly, and enjoyed her bloody sport, she could not blame them for their decision. But she would not rest.

At around her nine hundredth birthday though, a plague hit the Northern Werewolves harshly. The downfall of the Wolf empire played harshly on Luza’s troops. She felt the devastated morale of the troops made them susceptible to sickness, and being defeated made it a plague. Luza prayed each day to the Gods for help, and it took years for them to answer. By the time Luza felt herself being lifted to Acre, the sickness had already sank into her bones, weakening her from the inside out. Luza came face to face with the Goddess of Life herself, the Goddess whose people Luza had spent her life and three generations before killing. Luza did not cry for mercy at the Gods’ feet, but begged for her people. Pheryier stared down her nose at the Queen, disgusted by the thousands of souls of her creations she had had to ferry to Hesliem because of this woman. Pheryier made it very simple for the sick, childless Queen; kill yourself and your people will be free.

Luza and her pride were not fans of the idea, but the power to hold the entire existence of the Northern Werewolves in her hands, though, she was a fan of. Luza made her way, with her personal guards and a few Council members, up the side of a mountain, far to the south–now named after her. Luza, near the very top, spoke a sad, heart wrenching speech, reminding her group of what she and her father had done for the wolves. How never in history, and never in the future, would there ever be anyone as powerful as she. Luza spoke of wolf pride, how her people had always come first in her mind. At the end of the speech, mid-sentence, she fell backwards, off the edge, down a few thousand feet. It wasn’t until later, to the Councils’ horror, that she had planned it entirely–even for her body to be lost among the huge snowdrifts that covered the mountain. She had meant it to be one last surprise for the people nearest her. After the Council had learned of her sacrifice, they appointed her the title of Saint Luza, the Queen of a Thousand Lives. Luza is remembered fondly among the werewolves for her sacrifice, despite her years of murder. Luza’s father, Unoctus, is well known for his genocide, despite his friendly demeanor towards his people.