~THE WOODS OF LOS PADRES, CALIFORNIA
THE RAVENS CALL THE SONG OF DEATH as the sky darkens to dusk. The fall of night comes in gray colors and with the cries of the birds comes a cold wind, whispering fierce and strong.
The eerie shadow of a dark cloud descends over the numerous trees marking the forest, blotting out any persistent streaks of sunshine. The ambience is ashy and the woods color in noir.
The skies blacken until it chokes the blossoms of the forest trees. The leaves hang like the black tails of scorpions, while the branches peek like mangled limbs.
The air is still and a very notable scent of wet blood coats the atmosphere. The smell is metallic, pungent and thick.
In the ominous atmosphere of the forest, the sound of heavy paws echo as rumbles on the moist soil. Shadows of great beasts flash behind the tall Oaks and Dogbanes. These beasts, illumined in only the lurid light of the pale moon above appear to be wolves. Yet, not the kind known to the human world.
They are bigger, denser and far more horrifying. On four paws, they stand the height of the average human female. Their fur is a lustrous shade of fine, swarthy hairs.
These roaming creatures were born in the night, made of it, and now, they walk in it. Their paws pound the earth with the sounds of a marching band and a variety of intense eyes peer into the darkness of Los Padres.
Crimson orbs. Amber rings. Emerald glows. And even haloes of silver.
These beasts are massive and monstrous. Perfect hybrids of both man and wolf, all born with paranormal canine eyes.
It glows red. It shines green, and it shimmers in diabolical light. A predatory gaze that roots down everything in its path. Any unfortunate rodent to pass by is quickly reduced to a horrid mass of blood and bone. Nothing is spared in their way of destruction and all is consumed under the razor claws of these dire wolves.
These creatures, once humans are no longer. Under the silver light of the moon, they've been transformed. Shapeshifted, into the ghastly sights that surge through the woods. They move as a pack. They prowl as a clan. While the humans sleep, they rouse to train the pups.
Hunting is their culture and since the birth of their legend, death is all they've come to know. Though come morning, they may wear skin like mortals and bear eyes without the glaze of war. However, with the fall of dusk comes their true natures. And as the moon clears through the sky, they revert from whatever path of their human lives to the single path of their hunt.
Legends of old had once called them the Werewolves, the Shifters, Lycans and even the Lion-men. But in this age and era, where technology abounds. In the 21st-century where magic is weak and dwindled in nature, they have also learned to evolve with the changing times.
No longer do they go by the name Werewolves, Shifters or any other ridiculous title. Now, they go by the CANINES: beautiful and intelligent superhumans, capable of shifting their mortal forms to devastating Lykae.
Humans may control the day but the night is theirs.
The darkness is theirs. Moreso, the hidden things. For in the umbras the mortals fail to see lies the true treasures of the supernatural world. With the moon as their only guiding light, these fantastic beasts dwell in their own world.
A realm parallel and integral to the technological world of humans. A realm called the Canine world.
But even the angels go to war, and demons are not left out in acrimony. So is the plight of the Canines, as in a shared world—even in one as magical as theirs, dissension is bound to arise.
Currently in the dark forest of Los Padres, two packs clash in a death duel under the silver light of the moon.
The battle had begun in blood and now all that remains of it is the exact same thing. Blood.
It soaks the earth scarlet and paints the trees red.
The victors of the battle, a pack of the Canines known as the Ferals strut around in the disarray and pillage left behind. Their great sizes meld into the shadows untouched by the moon's light and their rangy, dark furs wear the same cloak as the night.
One of the Ferals, a great wolf with canine eyes blotted in irises red and fiery canters away from the others and rises to a mound of earth. Standing atop the hill, his great jaws spread out. Huge bloodied teeth gleam out from frothing lips.
Almost immediately, a terrible howl pierces the night.
The singing ravens scatter at the shrill sound. The black birds disperse, seeking out some other woodland to perch on. Clearly, the masters of the night had begun their own song.
This huge black wolf with the red eyes marches down from his earthy pedestal and the others lower their muzzles at his passing. Undoubtedly, the black wolf was their Alpha and with his crimson canine eyes, he commands his pack to take leave of the forest.
They all rush out into the night and only whispers of their dark presence is left behind. Ghosts of the second pack that had been vanquished in the battle.
At their exit, a mild breeze blows over the forest floor, and in the encroaching darkness, two dozen pale bodies lie cold and unmoving on the soft earth. Wide gashes the shape of claws peek open from the dead flesh and leaking blood glints black in the silverly light above.
The air is stale with a sanguine odor and the wan luminescence of the moon floods the entire forest in a ghostly aura. The woods remain silent for what seems to be minutes with only a cool night air siftering by.
Suddenly, a bloodied hand pushes up from a pile of three bodies. It's fingers gleam a deathly red in the waning light above. A moan sounds beneath, and slowly the corpses give way as a lone entity rises from the mass of dead bodies.
Sodden clothes stick to the figure but the shapely silhouette is undoubtedly that of a female.
A tangle of obsidian waves fall wet from her hair and only fierce eyes gleam at her lurid surroundings.
The full moon slowly breaks forth over the darkness that had swamped the Woods, and her glossy black hair shines in the night. Sticky, wet blood glues her hair to her skin and she smells greatly of death and dirt.
Looking down her body, she gulps down a glob of bile.
She wants to scream. Shout at the moon for allowing this to happen to her pack but she is weak as a pup. As a wolf of the vanquished pack, she was lost.
So she walks instead. Across the cold blue bodies of all the men she had known and loved. Women she had respected, smiled and laughed with. Their eyes' stare back at her, glassy and pale, like the prey they hunted.
She was supposed to protect them. But when the Ferals came, her pack ended up protecting her.
What an Alpha she was?
Her bare feet move across the blood-soaked soil and with every step, her heels dig into someone's life essence. The moonlit night makes the contours of broken bodies more horrorful. She sights the body of young female impaled on a large tree branch. A flood of guts peek from within her chest and it's as if the tree grew from within her.
At this horrific sight, the bile explodes into her mouth and she spews it all over the ground.
She retches continuously for a few awful minutes until she successfully subdues her gag reflex. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hands, she straightens and looks up, straight at the moon.
The silvery rays whisper down to her, washing over her face covered in black blood. Slowly, she feels her strength returning and her wolf stirring within. When she looks back down at the forest of corpses, her eyes light with a bloody wrath.
Her wolf echoes her thoughts in deep, rumbly growls.
'Take your revenge!'
'Destroy the Ferals!'
'Slaughter the Pack!'
'Kill the Alpha!'
As she digs up holes to bury her fallen kin, she makes up her mind. She vows to be different. She vows not to be the girl people saved anymore. She wouldn't be a flower or a spring.
She would be a thorn and a waterfall.
No one would give their lives for her anymore. She would be ruthless. She would be fierce.
As the last survivor of the RavenClaw pack, she vows to be the ultimate.
A One-pack Terror.