A Natural Order to Things

Some time ago. . .

Crunch!

Crack!

Snap!

The Werewolf looking beast ripped the throat of his last victim. He wiped his mouth across his arm which stained it with the blood of his latest prey. This dark gray Werewolf differs from his prey; he is a halfbreed, he carries the genes of his Werewolf father and Vampyre mother.

He could care less about his ilk. Which is quickly apparent as he piled up the several Werewolf corpses to burn. If there ever was a way to dishonor Werewolves, the fastest way would be to burn their bodies. Cremation went against Werewolf law. If his Elven mother taught him anything, it was that Werewolves were monsters that needed to burn. As the black smoke rose in the air, his heart soared with joy as the echo of his mother's voice cheered him on.

Voices nearby alert him, and he went to investigate. Centuries of experience aid in his stealthy approach. He reached a wide oak tree where his crimson eyes fixed on the grandest of Werewolf prizes: the King of the Werewolves, Grey Whulphe. A wicked grin revealed his snaggled teeth. The Werepyre decided against running out of the trees now since two hundred yards of grass and trees separated him from his quarry. He will bide his time and skirt around through the trees to close the gap. Without the cloak of night, nor the time to wait, he would have to attack now or never.

* * * *

King of the Werewolves, Speaker of the Tribe, Grand Alpha, and the First Werewolf. . . to Grey, those titles meant nothing. Today, the only title that matters to him is father; today was a day to spend with his two--he took a second to look around and count heads--yeah, his two daughters and wife; today was a day to unwind and family bond. His thirteen-year-old daughter walked beside him with a bored expression.

"What's eating you, kid?" he asked after he nudged her shoulder.

Her pale yellow eyes look up and lock onto his, "We are exposed out here to an ambush. We could all die out here and the Whulphe legacy will be over. This place is not defensible and you did not nearly bring enough guards."

"Wow. You really need to learn how to relax, kid," Grey laughed and tussled her long white hair.

"I really need to continue my training," his daughter huffed and crossed her arms.

Grey knelt before his daughter and stared into her hard eyes. "Are you sure you are my daughter?"

The young teenager stared back at her father. She pretended to bite off his face and continued to walk past him. A roar made him stand up and eye the trees to the west. A Werewolf charged at his guards and pushed them aside and leaped over the second wave of guards. Grey orders his royal guards to protect his wife and daughters. Grey would have to teach the intruder the strength of the First Wolf.

* * * *
With the guards easily dispatched, the Werepyre closed the distance between him and the King quickly. With the King's death, vengeance would finally be his. A wide smirk plastered his face as he leaped on the unmoved King. Suddenly, his sight is replaced with the blue sky. He hit the ground and skidded across the earth. He jumped to his feet and snarled at the King, who was patting the head of a young female in front of him. She lowered her fist and glared at him with glowing yellow orbs. Knocked down by a whelp?! His blood boiled as he charged the female. This time, he saw her come at him, and he blocked the punch. He did not, however, block her follow up attack--an uppercut to his lower jaw.

For the second time in the span of a minute, he found his eyes locked with the sky. A tug on his leg brought him down to the ground, albeit, much harder than he would have liked. He spotted the whelp leap at him, and he kicked her with a foot that covered her entire torso. The female grabbed his foot, swung her leg over his, and broke his ankle. She hopped off his leg and landed a few feet away. He was passed infuriated.

He ignored the pain and got to his feet to swipe at the female with his massive hands. She ducked. He lunged. She dodged. A kick to the back of the knee made him kneel. He saw her fist fly toward his jaw and he clamped down on her thin arm. An unexpected taste covered his tongue, the blood of a Daemon.

"Shade!" a woman shrieked. "Why are you just standing there?! Save your daughter, Grey!"

"Well, she wanted to train," Grey shrugged nonchalantly.

The Queen gawked at her King. "What if he kills her?"

Grey turned and smiled at his wife. He pinched the cheek of his baby daughter gently in the Queen's arms and remarked, "There is always Nightshade."

The Queen slapped Grey's hand away. "Go save Shade!" she demanded.

"Nah. Shade would hate me if I interfered," Grey smiled and returned to watching his daughter fight.

With the Werepyre's view of the monarchs gone, he growls in pain as the whelp dug her thumb into his left eye and bit his left ear. He shook her off and grimaced when she left with his ear. With his right eye, he saw her spit out his ear, and she punched her shoulder back in place. She glared at him with a neutral expression. He roared and charged at the whelp.

He caught her leg when she tried to leap out of the way. He used her body like a hammer against the earth. He grew angrier with each swing when he did not hear her scream nor bones break. He felt her wrap herself around his arm. He leveled his arm in front of him and howled in pain when she snapped his arm in half. Out of his grasp, she fell to the ground, collapsed his knee, grabbed his head over her shoulder, and drove her shoulder into his jaw as she brought his seven-foot frame down the two feet it took her to reach the ground. His head snapped back, and the rest of his body followed.

He stared up at the sky, stunned and in pain. He heard the whelp panting and the crunch of grass. Footsteps draw closer to him, and the visage of King Grey Whulphe filled his sight.

"What is your name?" the King inquired.

"Fuck y!" His voice is cut off by the King stomping on his chest.

"Name."

"Luçstan," the Werepyre growled.

"'Luçstan,'" the King repeated and stroked his black beard. "I, King Grey Whulphe, hereby banish you from Massenda," was the last thing Luçstan heard before darkness filled his vision.

Luçstan groans as he awakens to a throbbing head. A long yawn leaves his lungs. He shambles to his feet and braces his frame on a tree as he inhales the fresh early morning air. That memory has not plagued his mind in centuries. His ear perks up to screams on the wind. Howls follow. He shrugs off sleep and runs to the sounds of battle.He had spent the week lazing around Port Sallem, and now the town was under attack, by Werewolves no less. Nothing helps to forget memories like losing yourself in battle. He runs down the hill to slay the slobbering dogs.