A man, clad in leather armor and metal gauntlets, rode his black stallion across the verdant plains, passing by the graying hills that once held flowers his wife had loved, and the babbling brooks that fed his daughter's pet critters.
His equine companion raced relentlessly against the echoes of the scorching sun and the might of hurricanes. After riding for three days and two nights, the man finally reached his destination: A horde of Stygian-armored horsemen, hounds beside them.
The rider coughed up blood but bothered not with it, for he had coughed up worse. The rider's name was Thomas Stafford, known more famously as Wolf's Bane.
A knight under the service of Her Majesty, Matilda Of Blessed Memory.
Thomas was born under the guise of the full moon and, in part of his mother's superstition, had traveled through the known world to be baptized and purified by a cardinal of the Holy Roman Church.
By age ten and two, he had been his father's only son, for his mother and other concubines had only borne out daughters. As such, he was trained in the way of the knights. His father, large of ego, paid the best swordsman he could find to teach him the ways of the sword.
His father had died when he was ten and five, just as he had finished his squire's duty. Before he passed, he told Thomas of their family's secret, their birthright, their sacred mission. With it, their treasured weapon was handed to a young man, burdening him with a noble mission.
He was wed when he was ten and eight to a sixteen-year-old daughter of a freeholder in Scotland. He brought them to his fief, where they learned to fall in love. Thomas not only took the child's virginity, as well as her rather endowed dowry.
By age ten and nine and her seven and ten, she bore their only son, Sebastian. Thomas had been the happiest he had ever been that day, for he knew their duty to the sacred mission would continue.
Unburdened by the birth of his rightful heir, Thomas left his fief in search of the glory his mentor had relentlessly borne through his training. He was aged 3 and twenty. He left alongside his thirty men-in-arms and ten longbow archers; half of his demesne's military forces, excluding the peasantry.
Unfortunately, the miniature size of his forces became his undoing. Although they were elite in training and great in small skirmishes, they were nothing but cannon fodder in larger pitched battles. In the following years, none, not even the countless rebellions, allowed him to win the glory he so desired of.
By his twenty and first day of birth, Thomas decided to return to his fief and had a conversation with his wife. Having lost half of his small, albeit elite, regiment in the last skirmish with a French mercenary guild.
Later that night, a plan was borne out of their talks. Thomas, his wife and two concubines, left towards the Scottish Highlands. Returning to his wife's father's land, where they were welcomed with open arms.
Who would not? They had returned not only with their entire retinue; they had scrounged every bit of item and treasure they could remove from their fief.
In fact, Thomas had planned to do so, for his father-in-law had deep connections to the king of Scotland. It was a bribe, at least the medieval version of it.
And he was right. His father-in-law had him serve under Edward, son of Malcolm of Scotland, as a vanguard unit.
Using every last bit of his treasures and experience in battle, he rose through the ranks of his sire and, after ten years of service, finally stood by his side at the Battle of Alnwick. His and his lord's last battle.
King Malcolm had fruitfully besieged Northumbria the preceding year, but was forced into a retreat by William Rufus and his armies. A truce was made, and both factions used it to strengthen their forces.
Not long after, King Malcolm began another invasion, though, this time, a force greater than the English king routed the Scottish army. A force that forced Thomas Stafford to fulfill his duty.
The siege halted when an army of no less than one hundred and one creature revealed themselves from the back of their lines. Creatures of bone and fur, running on all fours. Creatures few dare to set eyes to, even fewer dare meet in battle.
Werewolves, they were called, feared across the aisles of men. Their claws could tear steel, bite could maul grown men, and howls could waver even the mightiest of mortals.
The army of the wolves rushed with great ferocity. Blood and tendons watered the verdant plains of Alnwick. But, to the utter surprise of the English defenders, one man fought back with an even more ferocious counterattack.
Thomas Stafford shone like a star no other. Fur and teeth clattered to the blood-soaked ground as his silver sword sliced the wolves into pieces of meat one would buy off a butcher.
But he was only one man. Before he could cut his fiftieth werewolf, thousands of his own soldiers were already dead, most were cut down from behind by the defending soldiers.
Yet that was not the only worry the Scottish army had. Along the hundred wolves came one bigger than the rest.
A werewolf with fur gray, like the hair of Malcolm of Scotland. Lord Count of the Blainsbury fief. But he had a more infamous name: The Thorn Draped In Grey.
Thomas shook his head in condemnation, freeing himself from the grasp of death.
With a WarCry, one roared by a younger that he was not, Thomas Stafford, the Wolf's Bane, took his last ride.
The riders, staring with hideous eyes, mustered forth their own cavalcade, daring to meet the great warrior in battle.
A cloud of dust, dirt, and equine manure billowed forth from the intended battlefield as, at last, Thomas, taut nerves quivering with ghastly might, swung his silver sword.
The blade, echoing with souls of its victims, filled the sight of the horsemen black.
Unlike those of quivering little men that he once fought on the fields of Alnwick, these warrior ghosts met blade for blade, wounds for wounds, and blood for blood.
He roared as hundreds of weapons passed through his sickly form, denting his armor, and turning it into a not yet invented swiss cheese.
But Thomas knew of his impending doom, for that he planned. He kissed his wife and son goodbye, and rode until his breath tore hoarsely.
Thomas swung for the last time, and with it, his memories and hope and fear and courage and love burst forth with power and wounded the first rider known only as Donda.
Donda's blood flowed freely on the smooth silver sword and Thomas smiled.
As the Wolf's Bane fell to the grassy fields, so did his horse, and his sword struck itself upright on the ground. Around him was nothing but echoes of the horsemen that once roamed the lands and brought forth mayhem.
Peace stilled the land once more, leaving only the remains of Thomas Stafford, the Wolf's Bane, alongside his trusty silver sword.
●●●●●●
Irwin watched a purple banner flutter inside of the hall, an unbecoming smile plastered on his strained face.
A few meters away were Gordon and Garth, having been scared of the man's nonresponsive state for a while.
"I heard it's a family heirloom." Garth whispered. Scanning the room for any periodic on-lookers was boring, none the least, quite creepy, so he thought it best to, at the very least, know about his colleague. "Thorn draped in grey. Greythorne."
"Yeah, thanks for the assist on that one," Gordon replied sarcastically, but scrunched his eyebrows when Garth genuinely said, "You're welcome."
"I say, we just-"
"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" Irwin's roar resounded across the vast halls of the museum, startling many patrons and alarming the staff. "You!"
He pointed towards a nearby museum staff, a guide named Jeff, and strode closer and closer. "WHO STOLE THE GODDAMN SWORD?"
"I-I-I don't know, sir. Please calm down." Jeff, terrified of the man, stuttered through his answer, gazing at the entrance of the hall for any sign of security.
"DON'T LOOK AT THEM! LOOK AT ME! I'M THE ONE TALKING! ANSWER ME!" Irwin grabbed the man's button-up shirt and brought him close, close enough for the guide to feel his wrath and his breath.
Gordon, noticing the worried faces of the bystanders, hurriedly grabbed Irwin's arm and pulled him off the guide. "Goddammit, Richard! This is not the time to get arrested."
"Let's go, man. Let's go." Hurried Garth, who was waylaying the guards.
As soon as Gordon felt the fresh air hitting his skin, he threw Irwin off, pointing a finger at him. "You gotta fucking calm down, alright! What the fuck is the matter with you?"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." Irwin breathed out as he hunched down and put his hands on his knees, feeling the icy breeze and smell of smoke. "Fuck, I haven't done that since grade school."
Garth exited the museum too and saw Irwin calming down, offering the man water.
"What happened, Richard? That thing too when you found that scalp, you just went haywire and didn't talk." Gordon suspected something was wrong with Irwin. Irrespective of their current relationship, realizing his employer's psyche could save him some trouble in the future. "Does that happen often?" He asked Garth.
"That? No, man. I haven't even seen him angry." Garth answered.
"Fuck, I think we need to regroup. Let's go back to the Hilton." Irwin poured the remaining water into his face, refreshing him a bit, before descending the stairs and leaving the other two dumbfounded.
As if their day could not get any worse, rain and blustering wind pelted their forms on their way to their hotel. Although they were safely hidden under the warm contours of the luxury car, the sudden terrible weather lurched the already slow traffic into a stop.
It took nearly three hours before the hotel properly entered their sights, the sun nearly setting behind the western front.
To signify his terrible mood, Irwin slammed the door to the car. Nary a mention of propriety or greeting to the bellhop and receptionist as he made his way to the gilded doors of the elevator.
Fortunately, the staff of the Hilton had more than enough experience from other spoiled rich divas melting down in front of them. In fact, Irwin's outburst had made him even more liked for his hasty exeunt and that he didn't throw a glass vase at the bellhop.
Irwin quickly got over his so-called 'bitch fit' after a long hot shower and a mountain of chocolate-covered strawberries.
With a belly-full of the crimson fruit and unethically sourced chocolate, Irwin set about learning who in the nine fucking hells stole his fucking sword.
He called over Garth, who came in the door like a meerkat scanning for predators.
"Hey, muchacho. Are you good?" He asked.
"I'm well, Garth. I apologize for my outburst." Irwin replied, motioning him over with two fingers. "Did you bring what I asked?"
"Yep, a copy of English myths and faery lore, and some other books I thought we could go over." He came in, all happy. Strapped on his back was a backpack filled with the books he had borrowed from the public library.
"Good. Did you leave–"
"Yeah, man. They sure were happy. I have a feeling that they're under-funded." Garth placed the books on the ottoman in front of the king-sized bed.
"They always are." Irwin muttered as he perused the various tomes for any viable lead. "Alright, I'm pretty sure I'm being affected by something… but what, exactly? Is the girl connected to this?"
Gordon was right when he said that Irwin had been much like a bloodhound when he smelt the iron in the air. Then came the sudden anger and the yelling. He did not even remember the last time he had yelled at someone, more so actually grab and hurt them out of sheer anger.
As his thought delved deeper into his psyche, the astute hunter came into the room.
Gordon, a phone on his left ear, silently entered as he carried a tray using two hands, and was surprised to see that Garth had arrived from his errand. Still, he continued on with his conversation. "I'm still here, Detective Mills. Yep.. that's a long goddamn name."
Garth silently offered Gordon some chips, but the latter merely shook his head. "Alright, Mills. Thank you-wait. That G. surname, can you tell me that? That's a weird letter to be there."
Gordon's eyes widened in surprise as he thanked the detective and ended the call, placing three fingers on his forehead and massaging it. "They found the girl's identity. Mary Anne G. Suarez."
"That's good. We can look for her in the city, at least her head." Irwin nodded, rubbing his head in exhaustion. "Found nothing in the books regarding that kind of ritual."
"Well, I did," Gordon interrupted, an irritated smirk on his face. "That G. middle name I was talking about? That's short for Greythorne. As in Mary Anne Greythorne Suarez!"