As soon as he got to battle, he felt the surge of adrenaline fill him up. He felt regenerated; fully fired up to fight, kill. He quickly assessed the situation through his wolf's eyes. No one had noticed him yet.
The rogues were clearly overpowering his men. Hell didn't like the advantage the filthy rogues have on his warriors. They were growing weak, allowing the trouble-lust crazed rogues overpower them.
To them, his men, they considered it child's play. They believed the rogues to be just...rogues so they grew lax with their fighting techniques. Only his Beta; Nyle, and his head warrior that was battling all the wolves but it was just two strong men and a few others against hundreds more. They couldn't handle it all.
Hell quickly noted to reward them, if they weren't killed and the rest were going to get what they asked for. Double their training, supervised by him. That done, he flung his big burly body into the rogues—starting from the ones who thought they were gaining.
As silently as he had arrived, he went through the fight, and just as quickly, finishing all the rogues in an instant. It didn't take much—he didn't even feel a strain. The rogues didn't even see that coming. When they first started to fight and saw the Alpha was a no show, they had jubilated knowing they could get through all of them as easy. Their Alpha was the real tool. Surprise when all of them had their heads angrily bit off and body parts strained all around the grass. No one escaped Hell's merciless canines and death grip.
Hell was still angry and was wondering why the rogues and come so far into his land and had the audacity to pick up a fight. They never did in his past. They were scared of him. His name. His Pack. Who was causing this? Fueling their lust, making them think they could just get away with this?
Rogues are wayward creatures. Unfortunately, they were spawns of the Lycanthrope race. At another time, another place, Hell had wanted to be one of them. He clawed on one dead rogues chest roughly in disgust, not minding the strips of bloodied skin that clung to his sharp claws.
He didn't ever want to go back to that stage of time. It was now a thing of the past.
Being a Lycanthrope, they had the ability to shapeshift from their human form to their wolf form and vice versa at any given period of time. Not like those baseless fairy-tales that claimed they only shifted on a full moon. Though, when it was a full moon, they all had an added energy coursing through their bones which was translated into different things.
For any wolf fighter, they felt the added rush to kill. Hunt, and kill. Most had to be restrained but Hell liked to let them loose. It was especially the best time to catch any body or animal that didn't belong.
For females, they went into heat; an horny drive where mating was all that they could see. Sex. And if mated to in a full moon, you were rewarded by conceiving a healthy child.
To Hell, it was full of many cons that night. He went on a crazy blood lust. And it took him a whole week to recover. He didn't care, wouldn't be able to care of he killed his Pack member or someone close to him then. It was only after a week before he realized it. Nothing could be done about it. He couldn't even be restrained. Those that tried didn't live to tell the tale.
He was only after one thing and one thing only; Blood. To taste its metallic red. Pain. To watch life drain from one's eyes. It excited him beyond reasonable doubt. Gave him pleasure watching you cry, part, beg for mercy, beg for death.
It gave him release. Cliché it might sound but he needed the liberation pain brought to him—freedom from the demons in his head that didn't want to leave and hunted him every chance they got.
He craved the superiority that giving woe gave him. The burning rage that inflicting pain eased from his shoulders. He is complex like that.
All the rogues had shifted into their wolf form before he killed them all. The distinguishable way to tell a werewolf as his human form was the colour of his eyes—which was the same as his human eyes, and his mane which most had it blended to the colour of their fur. The rogues fur was as death and filthy as their sight. The two words most commonly associated to them.
As soon as you cut off ties with your Pack members, you go through a bad transition. You never know pure, clean would actually repulse you and you'll have no other thought in mind except for survival and to cause trouble. Catastrophe was what they would live to exist for.
Hell knew they clearly asked for the trouble coming this far to him. No one dared and left unscathed. Evidence lay like corpses around him.
But he had a terrible foreboding about it all. Like it was all a ruse, an heist. He only hoped that Rowan was safe underground with his sister and the rest of his Pack members. No harm could reach them there if they stay put.
Finishing off the remaining rogues took little effort now. After he completed his mutation, he still wasn't satisfied.
More blood!
Seeing it was all settled, no one questioned it when their Alpha took off into the far distance.
Author's Note:
Information ⬆⬆⬆for those new to the werewolf word [welcome!] and also some filler for those oldies [🌊👋]. Hope it didn't bore you guys much.
If there's something you feel I need to explain, something you don't understand, then feel free to point it out. I'll be glad to help ♡
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Werewolf(Book One of the The DEATH series) Running...that's what she was doing. Known to always do. She wasn't strong. Far from it, but she was fast at picking pace and getting far away from hell. And it wasn't much different than what she was doing no...
