Chapter Text
Vol. II: Fauna of The Island Proper
The Hound
Entity status: Hostile
Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Chordata
Class: Mammalia
Order: Carnivora
Family: Canidae
Genus: Borophagus
Species: B. horridus
Overview
Borophagus horridus (“horrible glutton”), most commonly referred to as Hounds, are large predatory canids that inhabit The Constant. They are primarily found in the Dragonfly Desert, but can be encountered anywhere, as they frequent other biomes in search of prey. They are highly dangerous and should be avoided.
Taxonomy
It cannot be said with utter certainty in which genus of Canidae the hound resides. It is very well possible that the species belongs to an as of yet undiscovered genus or subfamily. This author has, based on inference, tentatively placed them in the subfamily Borophaginae , and not Caninae , as was once suggested. Many traits of the hound correspond to known characteristics of the “bone-crushing” dogs, for reasons which shall soon be apparent.
There is some evidence to support a phylogenetic link between hounds and vargs, but the exact nature of this link has yet to be determined. Proposed theories include:
- Two species of close relation, but different genuses.
- Two unrelated species which have evolved convergent traits, and have developed a symbiotic relationship to one another.
- Hounds and vargs are the same species at different stages of their life-cycle.
Description
Hounds are almost hyena-like in appearance, bulky, with hunched shoulders and a slight underbite. Their massive jaws are packed with rows of sharp tearing fangs and crushing premolars. They have pointed ears and long tails, characteristic of most wild dogs, and notably, a vestigial fifth toe on their rear legs. Their coats are mid-length and coarse to the touch. They weigh between 90-140kg, are around 1.5m long, and stand 130cm at the shoulder on average, making them the largest canids on record (excluding the varg, which may be in the same family, but this has yet to be confirmed). Size does not seem to vary much between males and females.
There are three observed “phases” of Hound: The Standard Hound, Red Hounds, and Blue Hounds. They are easily differentiated by their coat colors, Standard phases being a brownish-black, Red phases a reddish-brown, and Blue phases an icy white. They are not considered subspecies, as it has been confirmed through dissection that there is no discernable difference in their physiology, aside from the presence of gems in their gut. It is assumed that these are instances of accidental ingestion. These foreign bodies imbue the Red and Blue Hounds with supernatural properties that materialize post-mortem, namely spontaneous combustion and flash-freezing, respectively. These properties are generally undesirable, as they subject the unlucky survivor to additional risk of injury, and structures to damage. The gems can, however, be harvested.
Diet
The hound diet is, put simply, anything that moves and that which it can catch. They have been observed hunting numerous creatures, including but not limited to; rabbits, moles, birds, beefalo, koalefants, grass geckos, pengulls, pigs, merms, no-eyed deer, volt goats, and humans.
Their hunting style is erratic, one might even say tactless, but their objective is not to outsmart their prey, but rather to overwhelm it with voracity, and surprising speed relative to their build. They are especially deadly in a mob, quickly swarming unfortunate victims and making haste to pull off their preferred pieces, often while their prey is still alive.
Hounds are also content to scavenge, and do not seem to be bothered by the rankness of carrion. Their dentition is well adapted to processing bones and their stomach acid is highly corrosive, so as one might infer, little ever remains of a hound meal, be it scavenged or dispatched.
Behaviour
Although they tend to travel in packs, their social structure is practically non-existent, with little discernible hierarchy or intraspecific communication, much unlike other examples of canidae. They seemingly only tolerate one another, but despite having little interest in communicating with others of their species, they are very vocal. In fact hounds are rarely quiet, often baying or barking to announce their presence to all nearby. They are easily distracted by a potential meal, even when they are already eating. This is bizarre behaviour for any predator, and for these reasons, hounds are not considered to be very intelligent, or at least, not in the conventional sense.
A notable exception to this rule relates to the (as of now) poorly understood relationship between hounds and vargs. Vargs, when encountered, will howl to summon nearby hounds to aid it in combat. The hounds will answer this call to arms without hesitation, even if they are otherwise preoccupied. This seems to signify at least a loose pecking order, but it is short lived.
Interestingly, hounds have been observed hoarding the bones of other hounds in their primary territory. These loose collections are referred to as Hound Mounds, and are guarded fiercely. (It is unknown if these bones originate from cannibalism or if the individuals in question died of natural causes). Hound Mounds are posited by some to be entryways into an underground nest or den. This has never been confirmed, as they are unimaginably dangerous to approach.
Reproduction
It is generally agreed upon that hounds reproduce sexually, as they possess primary sex characteristics, however, the act of mating has never been observed, and young have never been seen. It is presumed that the females keep them well hidden, perhaps to prevent the males from engaging in infanticide, something not uncommon to canines.
Relationship to Humans
Like many animals endemic to The Constant, hounds have no natural fear of people, and see them as prey. They even periodically single out humans with alarming frequency, despite no territorial encroachment, instances which are known as Hound Waves. During these events, hounds in packs of seven or more will attack human settlements, destroying anything that stands between them and their prey, including even the sturdiest walls. As of yet, there is no known way to repel them, so they must be met with lethal force. Living hounds pose a threat to human life for as long as they are in the vicinity, and so they should be culled in human territory and avoided whenever possible elsewhere.
Thankfully, hounds do provide some resources for all the trouble they cause. Their teeth are highly prized for toolmaking, as they are sharp and nearly unbreakable. Rather ironically, these teeth can be fashioned into a trap to be used on other hounds. Hound meat is inedible to people, but it is suitable for baiting animals, or for feeding livestock. As has been mentioned, some phases of hounds can also provide the hunter with red or blue gems, which can be fashioned into a number of useful things.
There is some circumstantial evidence to suggest that hounds are tamable, but the reader should note that attempting this feat is extremely ill-advised.
Wickerbottom recoiled her hand when the thorny bush stuck her for the uppteenth time. She was not easily frustrated, but she had been wrestling with them for the better part of the day, and by this point she felt like screaming. Biting her tongue, she pressed her handkerchief into her bleeding palm. She took this time to evaluate her work.
Wickerbottom had gotten the idea from something she had seen during her stint in Kenya. The locals would construct enclosures from Acacia tortilis; thorny branches from a native tree, to protect their cattle from the local wildlife. They had called them “Bomas”.
Her boma was a little different from theirs. Some unidentified woody shrubs she had gathered in the swamp took the place of thorny acacia, and the fenceline was reinforced with wooden stakes and slats. It was circular, as is typical, and within lay her simple campsite; a firepit, a few chests for storage, a cooking pot, and a scarcely used straw bed. It wasn’t exactly Fort Knox, but if a boma could keep out lions, then Wickerbottom was certain the wall would keep out those… things.
It was rather spiteful of her, calling them “things”. These were animals, after all, and Wickerbottom quite liked animals. The frightened may feel differently of a wild dog, or about any pair of white eyes glaring by fire’s light, but it is illogical to attribute them to monsters. Animals are not malicious. They are not evil. Wickerbottom knew this.
But by god, she could not help but see the mark of the devil when last she had encountered those wretched things .
Moonlight guided her on the familiar path to her ramshackle abode. Discordant animal cries had harkened their arrival in the area some hours before, though Wickerbottom had not known it at the time. Jackals, she had muttered to herself with a shrug, nothing more. Nothing to be frightened of.
When they came for her, she’d been half out of her shoes, equal parts bewildered and terrified. Surely, they will not approach. Not with the campfire roaring.
When they gave chase, she’d panicked, throwing her remaining shoe, which had amounted to very little.
It must have been an hour or more, shivering in the forest, crouching in the underbrush and waiting for the brutes to pass her by. Socks damp. Nerves frayed.
Shivering at the memory, Wickerbottom resumed work, ignoring the tenderness in her hands. Perhaps the dogs weren’t trying to eat her for the sport of it, but they were still very much going to try, unless she had a proper deterrent.
Close to nightfall, Wickerbottom evaluated the completed wall’s strength, pressing against the vertical supports from the inside, with her full weight and then some. It gave only slightly. Passing through the gate, she admired her handiwork from the outside. At 3 meters tall, a cat may leap over it, but no heavyset hound would, and the dense mound of thorns would deter the beasts from scaling it, lest they receive gashes. Gashes, aside from being painful, meant infections, and infections meant death. No bony, unappetizing old woman was worth all of that trouble, surely!
Surely.
Dinner that night was meager. She hadn’t found much time to forage in between bouts of construction. A necessary evil , Wickerbottom thought, admiring her work from inside the safety of her campsite. She popped another berry into her mouth, lips puckering slightly from the tartness. She daintily took out the large pit of the fruit from her mouth and set it aside with the others.
It was pitch black out. The night of the new moon. Her last hound encounter had been in stark contrast to this, with enough light to go around, Wickerbottom had been able to make out every gruesome detail of her assailants. Coal black bodies. Snaggle teeth. Grinning maws. Unsettling as it had been to see them, Wickerbottom was loath to find out the hard way that the alternative was worlds worse.
The baying on the wind drifted closer. The field researcher in her took over, counting out the length of time that passed between each round of calls. 30 minutes apart. 15. 5.
At 30 seconds apart and at a volume that was far too close for comfort, Wickerbottom steeled herself, watching the shadows on the boma flicker from the fire’s light. What would come next? A quiet snuffling? Would they prowl round and round the wall, searching for a weak spot? Would they peer at her through the thorns with glowing, greedy eyes?
Wickerbottom expected all of that.
What happened instead was pure pandemonium.
Paws thundered through the grass. They were practically throwing themselves at the wall, snarling and snapping. The sharp thorns tore at their muzzles as they stuck them through the stats. Only occasionally would one or two pull back, just briefly, to bark wrathfully, and then they would resume in their mission like creatures possessed.
Wickerbottom was absolutely floored. She’d never seen animals behave like this.
The sound of branches snapping made her breath hitch.
No.
The wall was bending.
Impossible.
Every retreat of a snout from the sea of thorns raked cuts across their faces. They whined pitifully, blood trickling down the folds of their skin, but still they persisted.
This was wrong. This wasn’t natural.
Wickerbottom shrieked as a scarred hound head broke through a section of the boma with a crack, sending wood bits flying. The thorns had little effect on the tough hide of its neck and shoulders. It wriggled it’s front paws under its chin and started pushing itself further in, the wall swaying with it and threatening to collapse entirely. The dog’s jaws dribbled with spit and blood, a stick was lodged in its palate from its incessant gnawing at the thorny mass, each swivel of its head as it thrashed its way through the wall jostled it and sent it further into the tender flesh of its maw and still it came for her.
In a tone almost chiding, but more so hysterical, Wickerbottom cried out. “ Why ? Why are you doing this ?”
The dogs didn’t answer, obviously. But she had almost expected them to.
Animals didn’t talk, but perhaps monsters could.
She scrambled for a weapon. Arming herself with a spear, she hefted it overhead and lunged at the hound. She wasn’t successful in hitting anything vital, only sinking the spearhead into the animal’s shoulder, which only seemed to enrage it further.
She delivered another blow, this time it took out an eye. The hound roared in pain. Still it did not retreat. None would retreat.
The wall was swaying all around her now. If it didn’t fall soon, it would only be a matter of time before they chewed a large enough hole through it instead.
Escape! Could she even manage to escape?
No, in her arrogance, she’d assumed the wall would hold, and like a fool she’d trapped herself inside with no chance of retreat.
They’d have her. Shredded to bits the lot of them, but they’d have her.
The hound’s teeth broke her spear in two. It glared at her with its single eye.
Wickerbottom didn’t know if animals were capable of vengeance, but she didn’t plan on finding out.
She dove for the chests. Pulling out a torch, she lit it in the firepit and did the only thing she could think of to do left.
She set the wall ablaze.
Tortured cries filled the night air. The massive impromptu bonfire lit up the forest clearing like a funeral pyre; the mass grave of these most relentless things .
It should have disturbed her to watch them writhe in agony, to wail into the sky like they were begging for forgiveness, to hear their howls fizzle out until nothing but the crackle of burning tinder remained.
It did not, though. Not like it probably should have.
Wickerbottom’s nose scrunched up when the smell of cooking hound entered her nostrils. Desperate for a distraction, and with precious little else to do, she wobbled her way towards the chests and pulled out a stack of fresh papyrus and a piece of charcoal.
The wall gave off plenty of light as she wrote.