• The wind cackled with the howling of a thousand leaves, screaming in denial and agony as their impending doom approached. Otherwise, the forest was engulfed in an eerie silence, both unnatural and unnerving. The trees hid behind their rotten, gnarled bark, cowering before the pale face of the tyrannical full moon and its army of sparkling minions. The forest floor was carpeted with a blanket of leaves that would protect it from the bitter cold of the coming winter.

    Through this scene of twisted serenity strode a creature that was neither human nor fully inhuman. His name was Scathe, and he was a vampire of the Alcohe’al family. He wore black leather, from top to bottom, and sunglasses that both emphasized his look of abnormal calm and shielded his overly sensitive eyes from the dim light. His black hair was slicked back, revealing a white scar that ran down the left side of his pale face, from scalp to chin. A black cape swirled behind him.

    The vampiric demon was on a mission of utmost importance, to take a renegade werewolf into the custody of the Fectorial Council and its allies for examination. Unfortunately for the feral beast, ‘custody’ did not necessarily mean ‘alive’ when orders were given by vampires. As long as the job got done, the mission was success, regardless of the manner in which it happened.

    That pleased Scathe greatly. He hated werewolves from the very bottom of his heart. He had actually been given his scar by one on his first hunt. He had been on hundreds ever since. There was no shortage of ‘renegade’ werewolves because all werewolves were considered ‘renegades’ when they were alone. Otherwise, they were considered conspirators. Either way, werewolves didn’t last long after the Fectorial Council heard about them.

    Scathe trekked through the dense forest with a growing apprehension, and finally came across what he was looking for- an obvious trail, where a wild creature the size of a werewolf had trodden. He bent down as far as he could to examine the first footprints, his movement restricted slightly by a sword strapped across his back. ‘Fresh… No more than an hour old,’ he thought to himself.

    The approximate distance it was from him and the time it would take him to cover that distance was an easy calculation for a hunter with the near two-hundred years of experience that he had, and he discerned that it would take him approximately half an hour to catch the creature. Soon he was off, hustling over the leaf-covered terrain his prey had passed over less than hour ago.

    True to his prediction, Scathe found himself a few easy paces from the oversized, overly muscular beast within twenty minutes. Instead of going for a quick kill, however, he stalked the beast, measuring his strength and potential weaknesses. Scathe had not survived as long as he had through carelessness.

    The werewolf was about nine feet tall (a full three-and-a-half feet taller than Scathe) with a snout that must have extended at least twelve inches. From that snout extended two large fangs that looked primitive compared to the very sharp, precise fangs of a vampire. The being had nothing in the form of clothing, save its thick coat of fur. Its arms were longer than a normal man or vampire’s in relativity to its size. Wicked claws jutted from its five fingers and toes.

    In other words, it was a common, every-day werewolf. In other words, it posed no specific challenge. In other words, it was going to die.

    Scathe unsheathed his silver sword and ran off the trail the werewolf was following. He picked up speed and hid behind a tree that the werewolf would be passing within a few seconds and readied himself for a nice, clean beheading. Unfortunately, his plans never came to fruition.

    Instead of passing by the tree, the werewolf barreled right into it. Scathe never knew whether it was dumb luck or if the wind had momentarily changed direction and brought his scent to the idiot creature. Either way, he managed to roll out of the way of the toppling tree and ended up in a perfect line to strike with his sword. The werewolf lay momentarily atop the tree and presented itself as the perfect target.

    Scathe stabbed at it, but something seemed wrong as he swung his sword into position and thrust it forward. When the sword came into his vision, he knew what. The blade of his weapon was smashed, dented, and bent. The werewolf, seeing its advantage, rushed at him with primitive fury. Scathe didn’t lose his head, chucking his sword at the werewolf to distract it and simultaneously slipped his left hand behind his back.

    Out came his silver dagger, which he promptly hurled at the werewolf. When this didn’t stop the thing, Scathe practiced what can be called a ‘calculated retreat’, but was in reality was no more than a mad rush away from the feral prey-turned-hunter. Scathe knew that the poison in the dagger would slow it down, possibly kill it, but he wasn’t ready to wait around and find out which it would be.

    Above all else, Scathe had learned one real lesson in all of his years hunting for werewolves- his life was more important than ending any werewolf’s. Scathe ran for his very life, which would extend for all eternity if he never did anything stupid (like getting caught by a feral werewolf bent on killing him).

    After a short while, the heavy breathing of the werewolf faded into the distance and Scathe was safe. He hadn’t entirely failed, and his record was long enough to cover any minor blotch like this. In any case, he couldn’t care less about his record. All he relished was the adrenaline of the chase and the death throes of wild werewolves. Scathe was already anticipating the coming of the next full moon.