Arrival [Open]

[Víðarr]

Once upon a time, there was a quaint little town on top of a quaint little hill. For centuries, this town prospered. Perhaps it is because of the hard-working, industrious men and women who worked crude, back-breaking jobs so their descendants may lead a lifestyle of magnificence and comfort. It is safe to say, then, that the town is not built upon the gargantuan beams that supported each individual household, but the unbending backs and unswerving dreams of the men and women who sweated and bled for a better future. For centuries, this town gave birth to a legion of robust, stone-faced men who worked long before the sun came up, and well after the sun came down. But over time, as their dreams materialized and the town became a model for those around them, the people grew lazy and lethargic. The workers were dying off, and a new generation of children who believed themselves entitled was spawned.

Without the strong backs and towering dreams of their ancestors, the town slowly crumbled, and decayed.

That is, until things started to change.

During times of great necessity, heroes emerge. At first, it was just a handful of men. Men with pale faces and quivering arms, but their lips were stiff and their eyes set. They were angry. Angry at the sudden disappearances of their neighbors, men and women they've known their whole lives, and the mangled bodies that appeared in the wilderness. These men, as accustomed to comfort as they are, could sense that change was necessary. They knew if they didn't fight, they may never get a chance to. So they kissed their children goodbye, told their wives they loved them dearly, and picked up a sword, spear, or even a broom, and marched into the woods. Deep in their hearts, they knew that they may never see their loved ones again, but something had awakened inside them. Perhaps it was a long forgotten trait of their noble ancestors, but they vowed to one another that they would rather die a Man, than live a coward.

[Mme. Guillotine]

The news had spread. Word of mouth moved fast, carried by villager to villager, guard to guard, merchant to merchant, until villages on the outskirts of Terrenus had learned of the town’s plight. Fear loomed about as a heavy fog, everyone was skittish and paranoid. It was foolish of them to consider that the murderer would ever find his way into their village. It was so far. The human need, the human desire for misery was a cause for constant surprise. Every time she thought she’d seen enough or heard enough, there was always a certain person more than eager to prove her wrong.

A few days passed since the talk had reached her ears, and she’d already set out to explore. People had been torn asunder, they said. Guts could be traced from the town’s gates all the way into the forest, they said. Limbs were scattered all about carelessly, they said. She’d been asked by many as to where she was headed, and they all shook their heads and sighed when given her reply. As if they had all condemned the town to die. As if somehow they had asked for their fate.

She knew very well it wasn’t a man they hunted. No bandits could ever be as cruel and deranged as to attack random villagers and dismember them without a cause. There had been no kidnappings, just murders, no money stolen, no belongings missing. Just bodies… bodies everywhere. And she could see this now as she cut through the forest and stumbled over fingers and toes, eyeballs and ears, a random nose here and there. Everything smelled of putrefaction, and maggots squirmed about happily in whatever meat they had found. No, this was not done by men.

“You! You there! Halt!” She heard the booming voice of a man, and kicked a hand out of her path before standing erect. Her face was painted in red, and atop her head she wore a headdress made of wolf-fur with a red mask attached to it. The way the fur fell over her, it covered her shoulder-length hair and her earrings. Her breasts, though already small, had been wrapped tightly in rolls of fabric to minimize their appearance even further, and fabric had been wrapped around her shoulders and arms beneath her clothing to make them appear larger and manlier.

“What is your business here?” The man addressed her once more as he approached, followed by five or six villagers behind him. Her eyes narrowed and she scowled, turning her head to a side to spit out a ball of phlegm onto the ground.
“There’s a killer on the loose here?” She asked with a disguised voice. Low and guttural.
“Yeah, what about it?” The man responded, his arms crossing defensively against his chest.
“My name is Thenor. I was sent to find and eliminate your… little issue.” She spoke with the same scowl on her face and fixed her honey brown eyes on his. His eyebrows furrowed for a moment as if to consider what he had just been told, but she was certain he’d heard the name before. Perhaps he expected someone more… manly.

“Aren’t you a bit young?” The man questioned, and in that same moment she spun her body around, her leg flying up towards him. Her heel connected with the man’s jaw and threw him to the side.
“Does that answer your question?” She retorted as she brought her leather-wrapped foot back on the ground. The man held his chin up with his hands and nodded his head helplessly. Another villager was forced to respond to her, and informed her than patrols begin as soon as the night sets.

[Víðarr]

The sun fell, like a guillotine upon a prisoner's head. Men and women whispered amongst themselves, and soon a conspiracy was spawned: this is God's way of punishing them, for they have defiled their ancestors' good name. They asked for too much, always more, never less, and now God is angry. They will be crushed, like ants, doused with oil and spat upon with Hell-fire, condemned to a fate of unimaginable and unthinkable agony. What was once a blood red sky gave way to an inky black darkness, and slowly, but surely, the full moon reclaimed its throne above them. The air was thick with tension, and the men moved at a snail's pace, as though they were wading their way through an ocean of molasses. They didn't expect night to reach them so fast, and some of them turned around, apologized shamefacedly to their companions, and wished them on their merry way.

But they too will die. None of them will survive. None, but one.

Those that remained by her side watched her expectantly. They have heard many tales of Theron's immense strength and incredible wit. To them, Theron was a savior sent by God to rescue them in their time of need. They dared not to doubt his prowess, not because they witnessed the spectacle with the flying heel and shattered jaw, but because they couldn't afford to not hope. Hope kept them alive. Hope kept them fighting. Hope was what made them abandon their women and children to do battle with an unknown enemy. Because hope was all their ancestors ever had. Hope for a better future. Hope for a day when they may share with their children the tales of their bravery.

"What's that noise over there?" One of the men pointed at the trees, where he heard the sound of crunching, and saw the branches quiver tremulously. He unsheathed his sword and wandered ahead of the rest. Before he disappeared into the darkness, he called over his shoulder to his companions, "If I don't come back, tell Mary-Anne I love her, that I am blessed to be sent an angel that gave me a batch of wonderfully smart children, that I am so proud of them...”

That was the last they ever heard of him.

[Anglekos]

Within the hearts of every sentient being there lies a demon.

Something that many refuse to acknowledge, but lies there nonetheless, purring and stirring at the first signs of threat or hesitation. It arises when we need it least, and sleeps when we need it most. It bares its fangs without cause or concern, and us, in our mistaken glimpse, believe it to be in doubt of our welfare. This is untrue, of course, but we continue to blind ourselves nonetheless to its existence, pretending that it is necessary when truly it isn't.

That demon is fear.

I do not know why, in that brief period of time, these thoughts arose in my brain as I stared at the circle of men surrounding me armed with their spears and their lust for my blood. Common bandits, the lot of them, with ragged breath and withered flesh from time and wear. Their apparent leader, a good-sized man perhaps in his late twenties, spat at my feet as he slammed the butt of his own polearm into the leaf-ridden ground simultaneously, grinning and thus exposing his lack of hygiene via several teeth missing and a pungent scent emitting from his breath. "Fancy dress y'got there." He grumbled out, no doubt referring to my choice in wear; I suppose that mage's robes, even the finest, weren't considered the most 'manly' of attire, and I suppressed a chuckle even as I made sure that my hood was lowered enough to obscure my visage. There was no use in hazarding them glimpsing my visage and frightening them into violence.

When I didn't immediately reply, the bandit leader, a good foot or so taller than myself, creased his smirk into a frown and stabbed the butt of his spear at my feet, upon which I promptly did nothing. "Oi, y'deaf boy?" He growled.

"...My apologies." I replied, trying to sound as sincere as possible, when truly I was trying to mask my irritation with politeness. I knew exactly what they wanted, after all; what man, dressed in such finery as this, wouldn't be loaded with money? Repressing a sigh, I merely nodded towards the scruffy gentleman, keeping my face hidden in the hood of my robes, along with my hands as I drew the cloak around myself in preparation for the inevitable. "I thank you for the kind words, but I do not see what that has to do with your stopping me here. Now, if you would please, it is getting late and I have much to attend to." Briefly I jerked my head back at the way I came, where sunset was approaching fast through the deadened trees and the swift claws of autumn's chill was slowly setting in. To make my point, I began to approach the bandit leader, but was soon stopped by the presence of several spear points pressing up against my throat and back. The bandits had closed ranks.

An amused chuckle arose from the large man in front of me as he took up his own spear in arms again. "Busy man, 'eh? We'll make this brief then, right boys?" An affirmative chuckle arose from the circle about me, confirming his rhetoric, and I said nothing. I'd been hoping to not have to resort to violence, but it would seem I was reduced to little choice. My decision, like my actions, came swift.

Before he could open his mouth up and taunt me further, I moved. Apparently too fast for his minions to see, for I was up close and personal to the man before any of them had even moved their spear points from the place I'd once been. I felt the burn of mana through my veins as I silently called upon the Earth at my feet, the energies running up through body before I returned them thrice-fold with a single stomp of my foot, opening up the Gate of Earth within my body and slamming it forward. Immediately in reaction the earth heeded my will's call, and the engraved tattoos upon my skin burnt under the clothing before a 3' diameter pillar of rock and ground pierced out from the earth itself and slammed into the leader's stomach with enough strength to dent even the finest of steel, lifting him off his feet and into the air, removing him of his breath.

Now for the rest of them. They still hadn't moved. I suppose that was testament to my speed and skill, but I wasn't exactly thinking about that at that point. Eventually they would regain their senses, and while I was far from unarmed, I was definitely outnumbered and not willing to fight a losing battle. Keeping my connection active and open with the Earth and its trembling forces, I reached out with a gloved hand and wrapped my mana around the breath I'd removed from the bandit leader, using it as an anchor for my second connection as I reached for the sky with my will.

It was difficult, connecting two vastly different elements at the same time for a single spell, even for a planeswalker such as myself, and I grit my teeth as I felt the forces of Air instinctively seek to pull away from my hold on it as I ground it down to the forces of Earth at my feet. There was a brief moment before the connection was made, and suddenly the very reality of the air about me shimmered and twisted before my vision as I distorted it to my whim. It was a familiar, yet uncomfortable feeling, and I swallowed it down before shoving both of my gloved hands down at the ground with a slight audible snarl of effort.

At this point the leader's men had begun to close down upon me, but they were too late; the forces of Gravity were far faster and stronger than they would ever be. It slammed down upon them like a hammer around me as I multiplied its effect in a short but effective distance about me, a mere ten-foot diameter that, thankfully, encompassed all of them. It forced them, all of them, to the ground face-first, pushing down heavily to the point that even I, the eye in the center of this storm, could passively feel its effects, and I dropped to a single knee to help the burden of the spell upon me.

Thankfully I didn't have to hold the Gravity spell for long, and it was only about five seconds after I had cast it that I let go of both elements, returning them back to their proper owners of the sky and ground beneath me. I closed my burning eyes, thanking the elements in silent prayer, before I stood to my full height of five-foot eleven, shaking the fallen leaves from my cloak before beginning to walk past the bodies at my feet. A faint rustle, however, stopped me, and I cast a glimpse over my shoulder to see that one of the bandits, a hearty man with a bruised right eye, was looking up at me from his position upon the ground, lying flat on the ground as he panted heavily, staring up into my visage for the first time with wide, frightened eyes.

Ah, yes. There it was. That fear.

"Who...what the hell are you?" He whispered quietly, and I merely stared before reaching up and drawing my hood over my visage once more, walking away slowly as I slowly drew breath, calming my adrenaline.

"Just another monster."

[Mme. Guillotine]

Indeed night had come much quicker than anticipated, but she was nevertheless prepared for anything which might come her way. The villagers were of no concern to her, though it was a cold thing to admit. She could not allow them to get in the way or baby them throughout. It was useless and time-consuming. She had a creature to hunt down. Before nightfall she’d instructed them all to stay together, to keep their backs together and not wander off. Told them all to be as quiet as possible, her hearing wouldn’t function if they blabbered on like frightened children. But of course men would be men. In their arrogance and ignorance they defied her orders and continued on with their conversations.

Before she knew it, the group began disbanding. Of course she knew what would happen to them, and a small part of her felt truly sorry for their souls, but it was their fault for not listening. Malena had a silver dagger strapped against her thigh, hidden beneath the furs. It’d taken a very long time to perfect. Silver itself was far too malleable and needed to be mixed. In order to maintain the purity of the dagger though, virgin hair was sealed within the metal and the hilt was wrapped in blessed silk. She was a werewolf hunter, not an idiot, and would take no risks.

One of the men wandered off into the darkness before she could stop him, though her hand lifted and waved at the men behind her to silence them. Yes, she’d heard the crackling of branches in the distance, and thanks to the morons around her it had heard them too. Malena removed Nightwing from her back and two silver-tipped arrows. She slid them against the bow and drew them back, keeping them pointed in the direction of the noise.

“Be… very… still…” She whispered to the men behind her, though when the next branch snapped and the sound was much closer to them, they flew into frenzy and ran in all different directions. Malena dropped her head and gave a small sigh, though her eyes remained fixed on the nearby trees, following the sound of footsteps.

Then all grew quiet.
So quiet she could hear the call of crickets around her, and the leaves above brushing against one another due to the soft breeze. She could hear her heart beat within her chest, pounding so loud she feared the werewolf would hear it. And it could. She knew it could. A loud roar erupted and a werewolf launched itself at her from one of the trees. Its bright yellow eyes fixed on her, though she stood still. Her fingers released the arrows, and they flew into the wolf’s chest cavity. She hadn’t aimed for its heart. Perhaps she’d gotten rusty. There were far too few werewolves around anymore.

The werewolf fell on its torso, pushing the arrows she’d shot into it all the way through. It wouldn’t kill him, not quite yet. Malena, sensing to further threat from the werewolf approached him and withdrew the dagger from her thigh. She stepped onto its back and grabbed onto the fur on the back of its head to pull it back.

“Howl for me, pretty. Do it loud.” She whispered in the wolf’s ear as she slid the dagger’s silver blade against its throat. The wolf howled and roared in pain, alerting all other wolves that might’ve been near by.

She’d have quite the nasty fight on her hands soon enough.

[Víðarr]

The world was on fire. What was once pitch black darkness became shrouded in a fog of bright red. Numbers popped up at random intervals, signaling the energy levels and distance from which they originated. Aden could see the energy being channeled in the distance, pulled from the sky towards the earth, like electricity into a lightning rod. Somewhere out there, a mage was wrecking havoc. He saw the life spill out of the men, like liquid from a glass tipped onto its side. In less than thirty-seconds, dozens of men were dead. Men either crushed like pitiful insects by the mage, or men slaughtered by the wild creatures that slinked under the mantle of night.

It all happened too fast.

One moment, he was scanning the vicinity for any signs of trouble. Then, his fingers reached instinctively towards the necklace underneath his shirt. The familiarity of the locket and the tiny inscriptions etched along its side always brought him comfort... but tonight, there was no such reprieve. Instead of the necklace, his fingers closed around empty air. He fumbled around madly for it, delved into his pockets, his bags, but to no avail.

It was gone.

The full moon was directly above him, and he could feel the light shining down on him, like a single aurora in an endlessly black night. He gazed up at it, and his eyes glistened, then became glazed over entirely. Everything was dark. There was pin drop silence. All he could hear was his breathing. Breathing that got louder and louder. It sounded like a megaphone, blaring so loudly that he thought his eardrums would burst. His knees hit the ground, and he reached up at the moon. It felt as though the moon was falling down on him, crushing every fiber and sinew of his being. It was a weight so immense that he felt his bones shatter, his tendons snap, and his muscles tear.

In that instant, he realized he was dying.

A second later, where was once a full grown man stood a wolf. A snow-white wolf of gargantuan size, with limbs as thick as tree trunks and teeth longer than the forearms of men. Spittle hung in a web beneath his massive jaw, and the giant frame stretched. The sound of bones popping, like a thousand skulls crackling, could be heard from miles away. Then it was gone, a blurry streak that raced into the forest to join in the parade of bloodshed and violence.

[Anglekos]

"Fall back, beast, lest you burn at my hands." I whispered quietly, the large wolf in my vision continuing to snarl as I held it off, for the time being, with the twin small flames that burnt in both my grasps. Silently, I cursed; I'd been hoping to reach shelter before nightfall, but apparently the Multiverse had other plans as the sun had set long before I'd seen any sign of such. And now, this; the death howl of another wolf rung in my ears as I faced my predator without giving in to the small thump of fear in my chest, as this was the largest wolf I'd ever seen before. Easily the size of a small man upon all four legs, it snarled viciously at me with eyes as yellow as the waxen moon and its bloodlust running from its maw in the form of dog-like foam.

Calling upon the forces of Flame I'd managed to postpone its inevitable advance, singeing the earth at its feet with a small burst of fire that had caused it to back off, if only slightly. Off in the distance I heard several other howls answer the call of death from the first, and once more I swore. One wolf this size was one thing; an entire pack was another. Where on Valucre had they appeared from? It wasn't as if I had been unwary; nay, quite the opposite, for if my guard hadn't been raised it would have been my throat splattered upon the leaf-ridden earth at my feet rather than the essence of Fire. Even as the flames began to die away, separated from the source of their origination, the faint embers flickered and illuminated the wanton greed in the beast's eyes, and I could have sworn I saw something human in them before the beast began to pace, resuming its encircling of my form.

I kept my hands outstretched, the flames continuing to passively burn from my fingertips to heat the air and illuminate the faint zone in front of me, even as I began to slowly back away, heading for the denseness of the forest as subtly as possible. As it was I knew not what kind of intelligence this beast possessed; I did not doubt its hunger, but that faint glimpse of humanity had me doubting its purity as an animal. The back of my foot hit the hard wood of a tree, and with that I knew that I reached the edge of the tree-line. Keeping my gaze upon the faint blur of black that was mine lupine foe, I grit my teeth as I brought my 'Sight' to bear upon it.

The darkness of night blew away in favor for the supernatural sense I activated, as suddenly the life of the forest sprung up before me in essences of color and aura. I could perceive even the most minute detail as a rabbit hurriedly scurried away from its post, frightened by the scene of magecraft and ferocity erupting now within the small area, as even took note of several human-sized aura flickering like flames not two hundred feet from where I now stood. But what attracted my eye most was not their presence, nor the several wolf-shaped one beginning to encircle them, but the bright, fiery one right before me.

Not only did it take on a wolf's shape and essence, but seeming to stand with it, at the exact same time, was man's outline, like a large babe crawling on the ground. It shimmered at the edges unnaturally, at it was at that moment that I knew that it was no mere wolf that I faced. I didn't have long to think, however, as suddenly the aura crouched and, as I shut away my 'Sight', the large wolf leaped into the air, jaws wide in an attempt to envelop my throat in its jaws.

[Mme. Guillotine]

Blood spilled from the wolf’s slit throat and poured onto the ground, forming a shining puddle that stretched out, reaching towards her feet. Malena released the wolf and the corpse collapsed forward into the puddle, transforming back into the man it once was. The young woman bent over and yanked out the painted arrows from the man’s body, checked them for damage and upon finding them reusable she dropped them back into her quiver.

She noted something glimmering; hanging from the man’s opened mouth. Malena leaned down and reached for the object. It was an amulet of sorts, and it didn’t reflect light, it was emanating a light of its own. How strange that he would be carrying such a thing. The young woman rubbed the amulet clean and stashed it away in her clothing.

In the distance she heard the response of other werewolves. Their angered roars and howls were innate replies to having lost a brother, and due to that their positions had been given away. However it sounded like most of the howls had come from one direction. They were still in a pack? It was strange, werewolves though belonging to a tribe tended to act individually. The pack always had a plan, but it typically involved dragging food back to their families together. This was something different.

She stopped questioning it when the realization that she could claim an entire pack for herself hit her. Certainly news of such a feat would travel long and far, and her name would be acknowledged throughout the world of Valucre. Yes, yes she had to hurry. Had to find them. Had to kill them. Malena reached up and pulled the red mask over her face before advancing in the direction of the howls. The dagger she held in her hand would once again be sheathed so she could have her hands free.

The mask served no obvious purpose, but the furs wrapped around her body belonged to a demon wolf. The head of a werewolf tribe she’d killed a few years back. The scent it carried was naturally intimidating to the werewolves, and they’d instantly recognize her as the murderer of their kind.

As she rushed for the werewolves, her hand slid back and she drew a single arrow from her quiver. She could see what was left of the pack in the distance, or at least the ones that had stuck together. The wolves, in their ever-growing greed, had decided to attack a man. A mage perhaps? She could’ve sworn she’d seen fire slipping from his fingers as if conjured from the air. Malena released the arrow, and whizzed towards the werewolf ready to attack the stranger. It dug into the werewolf’s skull and came out the other side. If the stranger wouldn’t dodge, the arrow would’ve certainly taken his right eye with it.

“The Hell are you doing in this forest at night?” She shouted as she ran forward. Malena dropped to the ground and due to her speed she slid right between a werewolf’s legs, then quickly stood up in front of the man. Dagger already out and pointed from one wolf to the next. Stupid girl, she’d cornered herself in order to help someone.

[Pony Swag]

"Losvir di darastrix, yobolat di sthyr.
Yobolat sho'votha vur ithquenti nadot.
Ihk shafaer altiuiri di vignar yth geou lleisgar.
Shafaer haurachic di sthyr vur ithquenti lakinae."

-Song of Dragons, Act 2.-

Monsters in the hearts of man. Werewolves were but a physical apotheosis of the primal nature of their human half. The physical inclusion of ones own inner lust espousing to personify itself as a wolf. Even those whose blood had not been tainted by the disease still at times could exhibit the murderous, avaricious nature of the beast. And so one must ask themselves; Is it the fault of beast? Or is it the error of man that such creature falter all grip on reality? plummeting themselves into a never ending spiral of destruction for the sole purpose of negating and engorging that inner lust for fellow man's blood?

Their howls would penetrate the conventional bantering that is the orchestra of the night. From the majestic owl to the most frivolous cricket. Their hearts would be clasped by fear. The music they once conceitedly sang became disavowed as it was deafened by the sheer volume that is the holler of the wolf. And though the natural world seemed to be seized by a sense of frigid dread. There were those who ventured onward, slaying beast in the attempt to return perhaps stability. Granting both nature and man equanimity from the near fathomless endeavor for flesh. Their blemish reverberated within the woodlands. For it was not just the heart of man and beast that shivered under it's prerogative. Even the tree's of old found themselves palpitating in fear. This disturbance bore with it a ripple affect. To the dominant naked eye this ripple of fear would be undetectable unless one was at the epicenter. But from rested perched orientation, a presence of old could probe this baneful, damnable disruption that assumed what was once the hallmark of serenity.

Thus awakening it from a state of passivity. For albeit it perpetrated to be beast. This creature possessed the soul and heart of man. Its aura was a anachronism of sorts. But perhaps an aggrandizement of what it meant to be human. For all men were beast. Carrying with them the infinite rationality of good as well as evil. In this regard he had much in common with the wolf. Deep from the belly of the earth he would stir. Rising from caverns mouth as his form was contorted. As he stood at the mouth of the cavern, his body was that of man. But within moments it would alter itself, to that of dragon. With haste it would take flight, soaring high within the somber skies. It's silver scales gleaming under the influence of the lesser celestial beings. With silver eyes far more potent then that of a hawk he would gaze down on the earth. His eyes infiltrating the influence of the foliage and trees which would normally obscure ones vision. For he focused not on the physical world.

Rather his gaze saw that more of the metaphysical nature. Tracking the aberrant blemished signature that is the wolves. However he would not fail to take into account the others who seemed to be battling with these creatures. In his eyes they were his friends. For they opposed the same blight as he. Though deep down inside the silver eyed dragon knew that they would most likely initially view him as a ominousness threat. For that seemed to be the unavoidable nature of things. But perhaps in time such impressions could be put on holds long enough for him to clarify his true agendas. And so as the female annexed herself to aid the other, the silver eyed dragon would make his descent. His initial attack would serve more as a diversion to perplex the animal then it would be to disavow them. procuring the others time to undo perhaps their undesired position.

The silence of his descent would be degenerated as the silver eyed dragon spewed forth it's vomit. Adorning the foliage which stood among them and the beast. The silver eyed dragon would turn around with haste, coming in for a follow up attack. Breath of fire kindled the scene as it consumed the trail of discharge which served as a sort of incendiary. Allowing a wall of fire to stand among them and beast which burned with much intensity. The wall of fire was several hundred feet long. And stood 20 feet or more in height pending on one's location. The dragon would land, its feet dragging against the earth leaving a trail in an attempt to stop itself. Now immobile he would linger behind the two strangers as the dragon would stand on its hind legs, flapping its wings with great force. The sheer gust of its wings would expand the wall of fire, closing distance between the Werewolf with surprising speed.

The silver eyed dragon knew that the beast would evade such an attack. Unless it was void of common sense. It's entrance served more as warning. For the monstrosity stood roughly 60 feet in height. The Dragon would roar, as if to claim dominance as it made no attempt to engage the others. But then it would do something which would come as a shock to most. It spoke...

"Ixen di kornari, cuigna sepa." It's voice thunderous and deep. The silver eyed dragon forgot that his language only but a few could understand. And so he would speak the dialect of common tongue. "Vraktor di sthyr (children of man) why do you protest the sepa di kaldaka. (Soul of wolf.) If it to purify the land? Thric, (no.) such is not your nature. But mayhap you be of weyotipre maurg. (Different breed.) Regardless, the disturbance of serenity has awoken me. I must fulfill my thatheo! (Destiny.) and for now you are no wiot (foe) of mine." The silver eyed dragon spoke. Permitting but a few words of his dialect to slip in. For he had yet to master the common tongue. Nor did he care to learn fully their hueless language.

[Víðarr]

Red. Everything was bright red. The trees, the grass, the animals that scurried about in frenzied, fearful terror. It was all red, as though the world was on fire. As though the gods were dealing mankind their well-deserved perdition. As though it is time for man to shoulder the onus of their sins. As though the end has come, and man must kneel, for the gods will judge.

Burning. It felt like he was burning. Scorched to the bone, on the verge of dissolving into ash. Ash, scattered to the wind, to be forgotten forever.

His heart was beating too fast, too hard. It was not blood that rushed through his veins, but molten lava. He felt so hot that he wanted to reach into his chest, tear out the drumming organ, and crush it. To crush it in his hand, feel the lava sizzle between his fingers... and to eat it. To eat his heart, swallow it whole, spit it out again, and do it over and over.

He wanted to destroy everything. Complete and absolute annihilation of everything in sight. He didn't know why he felt this way, nor did he care. There was only this all-consuming rage, and suddenly, everything he saw became a source of his anger: the trees, the grass, the villagers scurrying about like frightened cockroaches. He was pissed off, more pissed than he'd ever been in his life, but it felt good; liberating.

Suddenly, he realized: so this is how it feels to be free. Free from the accepted norms of society, free from the chains that man padlocked himself in. He smiled wolfishly, and a sickening desire clutched at his heart as he looked around him. So much life, so much potential. And he will be the one to crush it, to strangle hope, to shatter dreams, to break backs. In that instant, he knew that the rise he got out of this newfound sense of freedom and entitlement was almost sexual; a sick, sexual, deprived sense of satisfaction in knowing he could change everything, forever.

That was how, perhaps, he knew something was wrong. It was not like him to be power-hungry, to thrive off of others' misfortune. But his senses were fading, receding, like the gently ebbing waves of the sea. In a matter of seconds, the red haze will fade, and he will see nothing. There will only be him and the darkness; him, and the bloodlust. So while he still had some meager and feeble measure of control over his body, he turned in the other direction and ran.

A wall of fire rose from the ground, like an orange-red carpet unrolling. It was so hot. So hot that he felt it before it touched his skin. But it was not as hot as the organ that screamed with deafening intensity in his chest. So he dashed forward and charged through it, burst clean through like a white hot missile through rice-paper. Trees crashed around him like toothpicks, the sound of tumbling objects drowning out the roar of anguish that tore free from his lungs.

Surprisingly, his fur did not catch fire. It was largely untouched, with a few black, speckled spots. Whatever happened to him afterwards was unclear, a mystery for future generations to uncover. His aura, bright red and bent on destruction of everything around him, was gone. The heat his body generated, poof.

No fanfare, no trumpets, no smoke.

Just gone.

[hiss the villain]

Earlier that day...

Healing had taken some time, and though his back and ribs were still markedly stiff, D'eon had recovered quite well enough to answer the surging call of his blood- the call to wander. It is in the nature of the Tsingano, especially the gadjo, to never linger in one place too long. It is part of this rootless nature, one thinks, that has bred such instinctive mistrust in D'eon and his gypsy kindred. If he does not settle, we ask ourselves, then how is he like us? The image of a vagrant, of one who possesses little, has always rankled at the sensibilities of the rooted- the Fettered, as they were called among the Tsingano -for how could one truly live so freely? No, no, they rationalize, it is not possible, therefore this one who has so little is covetous of my wealth.

... in truth, this was not so far off the mark. It is not, perhaps, fair to say that D'eon was covetous of wealth (though those who encountered him in possession of said wealth almost always found themselves neatly removed of the burden), it is more fair to say that he was a creature of impulse. When one lived such a shiftless life, one must come to lean on the crutch of instinct- of feral cunning, rather than the stolid intellectualism of a mage, or the physical brilliance of a powerful fighter. His was a life of opportunity- and opportunities were to be grasped, consequences be damned.

One can imagine, then, exactly how pleased D'eon was to stumble across a clearing littered with what appeared to be bandits.

Very dead bandits.

With very full coinpurses.

He had spotted them as he emerged from the clearing opposite- travelling in a direction counter to both the disguised female, and the mage responsible for such carnage- and for a moment he stopped dead. Those unsettling yellow eyes widened in his swarthy face, and he glanced about swiftly, wetting his lips with his tongue.

Perfect, he thought, crossing the loam with an eerily silent step. His path was unerring, disturbing neither leaf nor branch, leaving rocks firmly rooted and keeping his shoulders clear of trees lest he rub away some of their mossy covering. It was instinct, bred into him at a young age at the feet of his grandfather- and then expounded when the wind came to him. While he was bereft of the spirits in this strange land, his woods-craft would never leave him.

Neither, it seemed, would his almost supernatural ability to sense gold. He was amidst the corpses in a second, his neck-knife sliding into his hand as he began slicing through clothes and crude armor, cutting stitches and pulling open hidden pockets- the contents of which he stuffed unceremoniously into the satchel that hung at his side. While he worked, he was somewhat less than vigilant- this was also instinct, left over from the days on his own world, when the sprites that served him were drifting on the winds, acting as a secondary web of awareness.

It is due to this, perhaps, that he did not realize night had fallen until the first mournful howl broke the night air. D'eon went rigid, halfway through excising the greaves of the bruise-eyed man- apparently the only one left alive- to get at his purse.

Rustling in the bushes.

The sky erupted in crimson.

In the distance, wolves.

D'eon was, in his own time, an exceptionally dangerous man by human standards. An accomplished pickpocket and sneak thief, he was as deadly as any under the cover of night, and especially adept at moving unseen through crowds in daylight. Even without the prescience afforded to him by his spirits, he was exceedingly talented in hand-to-hand combat, and before the wind came to him he made his name as one of the deadliest Tsingano knife-fighters in the world. This was all quite impressive, when one was confronted with a man.

Against the slavering, hulking, furred abomination that erupted from the same side of the clearing that D'eon himself had entered, however, all of these gifts were precisely useless.

Most men, when confronted with a werewolf, will cower in fear. Brave men would stand and fight. A smart man might look for a way out. A coward will hide. Few would consider the folly of actually fleeing from a creature bred for chasing and killing prey.

Unfortunately for the beast, D'eon was one of those few. To add insult to injury- he was very, very good at running away. He was gone before the beast fully landed, skidding in the loam as its powerful forepaws dug into the soft ground. The creature's roar was cut off, as it was confronted not with the easy prey it expected, but with the rapidly-shrinking outline of D'eon's back as he darted through the woods.

Growling deep in its chest, the beast surged into motion after the gypsy, anticipating a swift conclusion to the chase- only to be confronted with another wave of bewilderment as after some few long, breathless minutes, he did not seem to be gaining any ground- to the contrary, every time the monster would catch a glimpse of D'eon's sprinting form, the gypsy actually seemed to be escaping.

To say that D'eon was fast is an understatement. To say that D'eon was ridiculously fast is an understatement. To say that D'eon was possibly one of the fastest men alive, in terms of footspeed, this was closer to the truth. His breath burned in his throat by now, and his muscles ached for relief. It was good that this boon had not deserted him, he found himself thinking. Ages ago, when his destiny had been read in the wind by the ancient Crones of his tribe, he had undergone the Quickening, an ancient and mortally dangerous ritual held sacred by his people. While his spirits were gone, and afforded him none of the protections of his own world, the magical workings of the Crones were puissant indeed, to retain their power even in this strange land.

The Quickening reinforced his muscles, made them able to withstand the kinetic energies that the enchantment that bound him sucked out of surrounding matter. The air where he passed grew noticeably colder, thin layers of frost forming along the trees as he ran, and ran, and ran-

He broke the tree line in a rush, his charge nearly carrying him straight into the woman with knives drawn. There was another there, he noticed, though the night was too dark to make out any defining physical features. He screamed as he ran, not seeing the threat they faced, not really seeing anything other than what appeared to be safety with these two.

"HEY! Holy shit, hey, hey! Big fuckin' wolf, trying to eat my ass, somebody help me!"

Unless their reflexes were beyond superhuman, D'eon had little to fear charging into their little twosome. The light was far too fleeting to make out anything more than his shifting silhouette, and the Quickening propelled him at speeds nearly impossible to track with conventional projectile weapons.

The downside to this ritual became apparent, however, as D'eon "stopped". It is one thing to accelerate a human body, and reinforce it to survive the strain placed on one's musculature. It is another thing entirely to be able to stop gracefully- or at all. D'eon's particular brand of "stopping", it seemed, involved missing his step and crashing rather painfully into the loamy surface, rolling madly for no few feet, and finally coming to a halt in a crumpled heap against one of the broader-trunked trees.

He was on his feet in a second, and green-flecked eyes glimmered in the moonlight as he, for the first time, looked at the situation he and the other two were in.

"Oh. Shit." He remarked unhelpfully.

[Warden]

As the fog rose, through the forest walked a tall but small muscled figure. He had in between his lips a dimly glowing cigarette hand rolled by himself, and he took a deep drag before tossing it to the ground of the forest and stomping on it. His boots pulverizing the small object into a ground up mess of dirt and grass. The figure took a deep breath before bending over and scratching his one exposed leg and adjusting the chainmail a bit. He took a few steps forward before hearing a low growl nearby him. The growl just loud enough to make his snow colored eyes scan the area around him, as his hand reached for his claymore.

"I came out here to hunt, not be hunted."

The figure spoke and drew the claymore with an impressive show of strength despite his small muscular stature, and he gripped the sword with both hands the chain of his armor hanging loose tapping gently against the pommel of his sword. A werewolf stared down the figure and snarled before putting out it's paw to grab onto the large claymore being swung at it, and it grabbed it with great succession. Payne cringed a little and laughed nervously before pulling the sword with a great heave out of the paw of the werewolf and recoiling for a second swing.

"Gotta think on my toes a little more," He stated bluntly and slammed the claymore tip first into the ground before planting himself behind it and staring at the large animal before him. "I'll go a few rounds with you though," He laughed half heartedly and tapped the tip of his boot against the ground as the beast trudged closer to him. Payne laughed a little remembering something his dad told him to do whenever he was confused about a creature he could be faced with that walked upright, he figured it was a bad time to try it and sighed lightly, the beast closing what little distance Payne had gained brought forth his only available move at this time. Payne tilted the sword back towards himself and tapped his boot one last time on the ground before bringing it full force into the flat edge of the blade. The sword dislodged its tip from the ground and as it flew out of the ground the warrior wielding the blade twisted it in a quick motion to have the sword go blade first.

The creature seeing the reckless move jumped away misjudging the distance by inches as the heavy blade sliced across it's abdomen and left a decent gash. Payne fixed his hair a little before winding back the sword holding it blunt side first saw side out. The werewolf looked at the sword confused at first before drawing near again, close to it's prey and Payne laughed a little as he swung the sword, saw side first into the werewolf's arm. The beast let out a howl obviously not phased much by the saw in it's arm... Till Payne decided to pull the sword back and show what the saw was meant for.

The arm of the wolf was cut with a large gash left behind by the teeth of the saw, or at least what few teeth were left on the saw in the first place. Payne grunted a little as he winded his claymore back and swung with all his might at the throat of the beast and felt the blade sink in and cut across the beasts throat. He sighed gently as he watched the werewolf try for a second to swing at him, before dropping over dead.

"One down... Dunno how many more are left, I hope I got some help out here... This sword is too slow for me alone," He stated bluntly and walked slowly through the forest. His clothing and armor, and size of his sword, making it quiet the task for him. He stopped as he heard a person yelling and ran into a clearing seeing three wolves ripping someone apart piece by piece, then stopping and looking at him. Payne looked at them, and muttered under his breath something about how much his luck sucked and then gripped his claymore tightly before taking a deep breath, his eyes set on the wolves, and jumping from wolf to wolf, sizing up each one after the other.

"One at a time, please form a line before proceeding to attempt at mauling me!" Payne yelled to the wolves who didn't seem to understand a word he said, mostly because they didn't care. "Well, glad to know I went unheard... Alright dad lets do this" he stated happily before looking at his great blade that was handed down to him. "And if I die, well I'll help you find the chain for it ol' man."

[Oni.Li]

Oblivious to the game of cat and mouse that took place in the forest, Oni left town and headed for the ridge a few miles out. He had made a few little inventions that should, if he got it right, assist in cliff climbing. So with a pack on his bag, ragged clothes and worn boots, he ventured into the woods along the same trails he was used to for three years now since he first came into town. As an orphan, he never stay in one place very long as there was no family ties holding him down, so he was left to adventure and learn from what the world had to offer.

Oni had made it a little over a mile and a half into the woods when he heard the something not too far away. The moon was out, but he could still see quite clearly. Not sure what he heard and being curious as he naturally was, Oni went to see what was going on.

Hunkered down and moving slow -n- quiet, he snuck up to a large Oak. Silently he made it up the branches till a little past halfway up the trunk. Looking down he could see a few people. They looked alarmed and ready for a fight. He watched in suspense with an intense focus.

[Mme. Guillotine]

Werewolves seemed to be coming out of every corner, behind every tree and behind every distant hill. It would seem they had come across quite the large pack, and everyone was getting in her god-damn way. The next thing she saw was the dragon and the wall of fire he put up, however his dialogue with them was confusing to say the least. As soon as the wall came up, Malena hid her dagger and quickly withdrew her bow and arrows once more. One after another they were fired at the werewolves in order to prevent them from coming through the fire. A loud roar erupted behind her, and Malena turned wide-eyed to witness a great silver werewolf jumping above their heads and into the wall of fire. In her mind, time slowed down.

The seconds dripped as slow as honey, and it gave her the perfect opportunity to release an arrow into the werewolf’s leg. It would push right through his knee-joint and come out the other side. Her hand reached back for more arrows, only to find the quiver empty. “FUCK!” The woman shouted out in as a manly tone as possible, the turned to look around. She noted a man had suddenly appeared behind her, and another was fighting off some werewolves in the distance.

Her head turned towards the dragon. “You! I don’t know if you can understand me and I don’t much care for whatever values you might posses.” Malena shouted as she hung the bow over her back and withdrew her silver dagger once more. “There are innocent people here, and they will die. Help me!”

She then turned to look upon the figure in the distance and the werewolves getting closer and closer to him. She bent over and picked up a rock, then spun back and quickly forward once more before releasing the rock from her hands. It whizzed through the air quickly and would hit the man right between the shoulder blades, though the impact would be massively minimized by his armour. “We need to get out of here… We need to get out of here…” Clearly the only two who could fight were the man beside her and the one not far away, and she wasn’t willing to risk everyone’s lives and her own for some stupid vendetta.

Malena shouted for the armoured warrior in the distance to run towards them before addressing the dragon once more. “If you want no more blood to be spilt tonight, you will burn the ground. I will lead these people out of the forest and into the village where we have the safety of the walls, but you need to watch over us and prevent the werewolves from coming, do you understand me?”

If he refused to help, the young woman had one more trick up her sleeve though she was hesitant to use it just yet. It wasn’t a skill she had harnessed well, and it took far too much energy to use and attempt to control. For all she knew, she could harm the very people she was trying to protect. Malena turned away from the wall of fire and waved her hand for the three men to follow her as she ran in the opposite direction as fast as she could.

[Víðarr]

Wolves with pelts black as night streamed into the clearing, like bad blood from a slit wrist. They roared with ferocious intensity, their cries burning with a note of fevered passion as they watched their comrades fall, one by one. Spittle hung in clumps under their massive jaw, dribbling onto the ground before they tore into the villagers nearest them. Necks were snapped and spines shattered. They left the mangled bodies to hang like towels against the trees, their entrails spilling out and gushing to form a puddle of gore at their feet.

With a squelch, the wolves dashed through the puddle and towards the dragon.

To say the wolves were intelligent was an understatement. They knew that they couldn't match the dragon teeth for teeth, claw for claw. Instead, they banded together, and catapulted themselves forward, one at a time, like a machine gun on rapid fire. Each time they saw an opening, they attacked it with every iota of strength left in their tired bodies.

The villagers, instead of assembling into lines, split. They were scrambled and chaotic and confused. Each man was willing to throw their neighbors into the path of a hungry werewolf, if it meant they could go home and see the smiling faces of their women and children. They thought about how much grief their wife would have to endure, if they do not return home intact. They thought about how their children will be without a father, the supreme authority over their life and North Star of their path, if they falter now.

In times of desperation, men show their true colors. And men are, by nature, no better than animals. Some act no better than beasts.

The werewolves, on the other hand, were united in a common goal. They realized, in their wretched and shriveled hearts, that tonight is not the night of the slaughterhouse. This time, the villagers are fighting back. They realized that if they do not sacrifice themselves, the whole pack may be annihilated as a whole. They also realized, if they do not rid the forest of this threat, for the forest has become their home, their children may be the next ones to go.

A single question arises: who, then, are the beasts in this epic tale of werewolves versus humans?