For days before Rahne was born, a heavy deluge had been sweeping Sheffington Moor, the large plain outside of the solitary shack where she'd taken her first breath, and perhaps it was in part due to this particular weather, that she'd been given her name. Or perhaps it had been a family name, passed down from a great-grandmother. Maybe even, it had just been a name her mother had liked and wanted to bestow on her only child, her baby girl. Rahne would never know, for sure.
Three days before Rahne's birth, her mother had suffered a fall. She had tripped over a loose floorboard, and all alone in the middle of nowhere, had lain on the dirty floor for hours, before Reverend Craig had found her and put her back into bed, calling for the midwife.
Reverend Craig was the minister at the heavily fundamental Presbyterian church in the nearby town. Miss Sinclair had been a devout member up until her pregnancy caused for her to leave the church in shame. With no husband, and even no name to offer as the father, Miss Sinclair, had been asked to leave the church, and was excommunicated by all of its members. The reverend, however, still made visits to her home, twice a week. When asked about these visits, he claimed to be meeting with the young woman in order to save her soul; he was trying to convince her to come forth about the father, confess her sins, marry the man responsible, and then return to a life of goodness. In reality, none of this was ever brought up. Usually, he would read from the bible for a short while, and then the two would sit in an uncomfortable silence, while the reverend glared idly at the floor.
Reverend Craig had had an affair with the young Miss Sinclair, in all truth, and he now suspected that he might, indeed, be the father of the child growing in her womb. And although she never said as much, Miss Sinclair knew this to be true, for she'd had no other lovers, before or after Reverend Craig, and had not even wanted him at the time. She had grown up, drilled in the sanctity of marriage, but also taught never to question the word of the church. And so, when Reverend Craig had called her in after choir practice one fall evening, she had not known how to refuse his advances.
And so it was, twice a week, Saturday afternoon, and late Wednesday evening, the Reverend would show up, and the two would suffer through an awkward visit that ranged from twenty minutes to several hours. Reverend Craig never explained why his was there, and Miss Sinclair never thought to question him. Through his silence, he made it clear that she should not speak out against him, and she simply went pale and mute whenever anyone else would press her with inquiries.
After her fall, Miss Sinclair began having odd pains, and the midwife ordered her to complete bed rest. Although the young mother did her best to comply, living on her own meant she sometimes simply had to be on her feet, or else starve or die of dehydration. She grew progressively weaker, and fell into a swoon one afternoon only to be awoken by contractions a few hours later.
The midwife was called at once, and Reverend Craig put in another appearance. The labour was long and painful, and the mother seemed to just keep losing blood, no matter what the midwife did to stop the flow. Finally, Rahne was born, letting loose with a healthy cry as soon as the outside air hit her lungs. But her mother was not doing so well. Her face ashen, her eyes limp, she took the baby into her arms, smiling down at her with a weary smile. "Rahne," she spoke, before passing out into a fevered sleep from which she died, three days later.
Now there was quandary as to what should be done with the girl. She had no living relatives that could be found, and when none stepped forward to claim her, it was decided she would be given into government care, left penniless and at the mercy of the county. Before this plan could be set in motion, though, Reverend Craig stepped up, and said he would take the child. This gesture was painted as one of pure charity, and the baby was placed with the reverend to be raised as one of the church. The tiny town was far removed from modern society, and its close ties to the most fundamentalist Christine doctrine gave it almost a medieval feel. No one dared question Craig, or throw doubt on his reputation.
But perhaps Rahne would have been better off if she'd been left as an orphan and given to a foster family to raise. For Reverend Craig was more than just strict. He was also vengeful, and seemed to hate Rahne with a fury. As she grew, Rahne always did her best to be good and obedient, both as a charge and as a member of the congregation. She was quiet and thoughtful, devoted to God and the workings of Christ, and did all that she could to help around the house without even being asked. And still, Reverend Craig was not pleased.
Punishments came quick and often, for even the slightest infraction, or even just honest childhood mistakes. Reverend Craig subscribed to the biblical philosophy of 'spare the rod, spoil the child', and so these punishments were an insufferable mix of physical and psychological pain. She was taught that she was not good enough, that she should never have been born, that the world was cursed by her presence, and that it was her fault that her mother had died.
And all of this might have been bearable for the young girl, for she had a strong spirit and was not one to lie down and give in easily. But there was no love spared for her on behalf of the reverend. He never seemed to have a kind word for her, and his resentment of her presence was constant. She could find no solace from the pain that the only caregiver that she had ever known seemed to hate her.
In school she was always an attentive student, although socially withdrawn from the other students. She was not permitted to join any clubs or extracurricular activities, and friends were hard to come by, as she was not allowed to go anywhere but school, church, home, and to the market on Saturday afternoons. She closed in upon herself, never allowing anyone to get close to her or show her any kindness, for she honestly believed she was not worth it.
And so she grew up, and her life was simple. She went to school, did chores and her homework, attended sermons and bible study and sang in the choir, and ran errands on the weekend. She was kept busy, her mind never given the chance to wander, as Reverend Craig was also a firm believer in the tenet 'idle hands are the devil's plaything'. She would fall into bed, exhausted at night from all of the manual work she'd been given to do during the day. And really, had she been given a choice in this matter, she probably preferred it this way. She was always too tired and busy to give much thought to matters, and it kept her from dwelling and falling victim to self-pity. To her, this was just what life was, and she just had to do what she had to do, with no two ways about it.
But this way of life was not to last forever. Just as Rahne was beginning to accept that things would always be just as they were, giving up hope in any knight in shining armour rushing in to save her (for she'd managed to read a few contraband fairytales, despite the reverend's claim that they were the work of the devil, as seemed to be anything slightly enjoyable), things took a change for the ... stranger.
She'd accidentally knocked over a pitcher of milk, while cleaning the kitchen. The reverend declared her to be wasteful, and ordered her to go and fetch his switch from where it hung by the back door. Meekly, Rahne headed off down the narrow hallway, passing the stairs to the tiny second floor, and then finally coming to the line of hooks that were mounted on the wall. Reaching for the switch, she was given pause as she caught sight of her hand. She couldn't recall it being that ... furry before. And she was never permitted to grow her nails so long.
The strangest sensation could now be felt, bubbling up in her chest. She bent over, furry hands grasped around her belly, and she stumbled back, knocking into a low table and sending it flying with a clatter. The noise was enough to draw Reverend Craig to the door, and he came down the hallway, yelling at her for being too slow and wasting his time, how she was only delaying the inevitable, and he wouldn't put up with that sort of thing in his house. He arrived upon the scene just in time to see the fourteen-year-old girl disappear into the full form of a wolf.
The two stood in silent stand off, as silence fell upon the house. The revered stared with wide eyes, his break quick, his colour pale. The wolf stood in place, head tilted to one side, as intelligent eyes studied the man with a mixture of sadness and confusion. For Rahne was trapped, or so she thought, fully aware, in this strange new form.
She opened her mouth to explain, but all that came forth was a soft whimper. This noise seemed to spur Craig into action, and he suddenly took off with a run, bursting through the front door at full speed, and racing off down the street in his nightshirt and slippers, shouting out about witchcraft and the devil.
Rahne remained frozen in confusion for a long while, shaking her head now and again, but otherwise, staying stock-still. Finally, she hesitantly made her way to the front door, which the reverend had left ajar in his haste to flee, sniffing the night air before stepping out onto the stoop and taking a look around.
And what she saw made her lupine blood run cold. She could still, to this day, picture perfectly the image that appeared to her then. A mob of people; about twenty or so, most of them young men, many of them whom she recognized from church, all of them wielding weapons and screaming bloody murder. They stopped in their tracks when they spotted the wolf on the stoop before the house, all of them but Craig looking amazed that the reverend had been telling the truth. Rahne cast a quick look back over her shoulder, trying to figure out what they had planned. The loud crack of a gunshot, and then the whiz of a bullet passing just to her left quickly answered that question for her.
After an initial moment of hesitation on behalf of both the hunted and the hunters, they were off. Rahne bolted, flying down the street, the angry mob giving chase, bullets flying wildly all around her. She was amazed at how quickly she could run, how well she could hear the bullets. She was even seeing in an entirely new way, one that made the darkness work to her advantage. Everything was clear but fuzzy, loud but quiet, here but there. Perhaps it was partly due to her marvelling at this new world that allowed them to gain ground on her. Just as they were nearing the outskirts of town, she heard the whiz of a bullet stop with a dull noise, then immediately her hindquarter felt as if it had been doused in gasoline and set on fire. With a strangled yelp, she leapt into the air, jumping a high bush with one easy bound, then fell to the ground below in a crumpled heap.
She lay there for several long minutes, bearly able to hear the angry shouts of the mob nearby over the beating of her own heart, the rushing of her blood in her ears. Knowing it wouldn't be long until they found her, the wolf-girl pulled herself up and kept going, limping far from the town limits, finally finding a nice grove of trees. She pulled herself into an obscured clearing, and collapsed there, passing from consciousness. When she awoke, she had no idea how much time had passed, only that she was hungry, thirsty, and that her buttock didn't hurt nearly as much as she'd expected. Inspecting the wound gingerly with her fingers, she was surprised to find that it was only now slightly tender to the touch, and the skin had already regrown.
Knowing the town would no longer offer any safe-haven for her, she took instead to the woodsier areas, fleeing from civilization as much as she could; she returned again to the land around Sheffinton Moor where she'd been born fourteen years ago. She lived there in the wilds for some time, using the cover of the forest and the outskirts of farmland to learn about her gifts.
She lived off of the land, learning to hunt and also stealing what she thought could be spared from nearby farms. A few legends began springing up about the wolf-girl, as word from her hometown began to spread outwards and intermingle with tales of people spotting her in her transitional form, or in mid-transformation. She retreated farther into the wilds, only venturing out now at night, when darkness again became her ally, cloaking her from human sight while leaving hers unhindered.
The freedom was liberating, and Rahne had never felt so alive, although part of her was still scared that she was cursed by Satan and that using these powers willingly was an affront to God, a doubt that would never fully go away, although she would get better at ignoring it and hiding it. But though she enjoyed her time in the woods immensely, she was still a human, and the company of the wild animals could not fully keep her sane, as she began to realize. She was growing wilder, losing touch with all that kept her human. Although she was half-tempted to give up the human life that caused her nothing but pain her entire childhood, something deep inside of her told her she simply couldn't.
By now, as well, the legends of this werewolf or wolf-girl had begun to spread, and she was finding it harder and harder to get around unnoticed. She could no longer blend in with the scenery, and get away with skirting around the borders of sprawling farmlands. Now, they were beginning to actively hunt her, fearing and hating her, especially as the stories from her home town grew and morphed into urban legends in their own rights. And beyond the populace trying to kill her, life on the roam was hardly one of leisure. Rahne was growing weary of the challenges of day-to-day life.
And then one night they found her. Rahne was awoken from a rather pleasant dream to face a familiar sight. She'd build a small hideout in a hollowed out tree stump on the side of a hill, giving her a good view of the ocean-side town below while the brush kept her own movements hidden well enough from anyone not looking too hard. But perhaps it hadn't given her cover enough, as now she could see an angry bunch coming up the side of the hill, sweeping the general area. The flashlights and hunting rifles looked far too familiar, and Rahne knew in an instant what they had planned.
Morhping, she bolted from her makeshift home, trying to disappear into the shadows before they spotted her. But the plan didn't work, and they soon gave chase. It was like reliving a nightmare for young Rahne, and she ran wildly, without thinking. She finally managed to lose her trail, and was by now down by the docks, the shadowy, poorly-lit area working to her utmost advantage. Still, she could hear them coming closer, her enhanced sense telling her they were closing in on all sides. Finally, as a last resort, she sprang aboard a large cargo ship, just ready to set sail, slipping in amongst the dingy storage unnoticed. And before she'd had any time to give it any real logical thought, they'd set sail. Rahne was leaving Scotland. Leaving Europe entirely, in fact.
The boat was a long time at sea, and the voyage was a hard one, especially for young girls who had no purpose being there and had to remain hidden at all times. Still, her time living wild had toughened her up considerably, and despite going hungry more nights than not, she managed to survive the voyage. When the ship finally pulled into harbour, she was smelly and dirty, half-crazed from isolation, and longing for the freedom of dry land.
It took her very much by surprise when she realized she was in America now. In New York, to be precise. She was young, only seventeen, and an illegal immigrant, but at least now she was free of the prejudice she'd faced back home, or so she thought.
But life was completely different now. New York City was nothing like the small towns of Scotland and the wilds surrounding them. She couldn't live as she had before - neither of the lives she'd known fit the situation. And so she was forced to adapt. Being a hard-worker, she managed to find employment. Of course, it was not on the up-and-up, since she was not actually allowed to be in the country, let alone work there. She worked in the back of a dry-cleaners shop, run by a pair of Latino brothers who knew nothing about dry cleaning. She did most of the work and got paid next to nothing for her efforts, but they let her live in the tiny apartment above the cramped shop, and her meager wage could buy her enough food to live off of. Really, it was the most civilized life she'd yet to live.