Timothee surged forward, propelled by an urgency that left his chair staggering in his wake. Each step was a testament to a storm brewing within him, a tempest uncontainable.
"Who's hurt?" he demanded, his voice a tightrope between control and chaos, his hands balled into fists so tight they threatened to eclipse his strength. The veins at his neck stood out, stark and strained, as if his simmering wrath might escape through every fiber of his being.
"I'm sorry, Lycan. The wounded... are countless," the messenger stammered, his voice a blend of fear and resignation, a stark contrast to the storm that raged in Timothee.
"Then why do you stand here before me, wasting precious moments, when our troops cry out for leadership? How could you be so negligent!" Timothee's rebuke was a whip-crack, reverberating through the tense air.
"I'm sorry, Lycan," the man repeated, a defeated echo to his previous plea.
Timothee, consumed by a resolve as silent as it was swift, raced out. Dave moved to shroud him in a protective cocoon, but I, too, was quick to follow. The brisk air outside hit my face as I called after him, my voice slicing through the cold in a plea for caution.
"Timmy... listen to me," I gasped, struggling to match the relentless pace of his wide strides, each one a defiant march against the unraveling chaos.
"I don't have time for your babble, Barby," Timothee dismissed me, his gaze cold and distant.
"I don't want to go on and on," I said, gently pulling on his arm. "Try not to get too emotional, especially not during the new moon phase."
Timothee shot me an annoyed look, his blue eyes flashing. "There's nothing wrong with my occasional rampage runs during the new moon phase. I'm a Lycan, not a mere werewolf. Listen, Barby, I can't bear to see Silver Armor crumble under the weight of those heartless humans."
I let out a sigh. "Things will become clear soon, Timmy," I said softly.
"Well, you're right. Let me finish this first. Time to move on to dinner," Timothee replied, brushing off my hand as he departed, followed by Dave and the man who reported the attack.
I chewed on my lower lip, fidgeting with my fingers in a moment of indecision. Suddenly, a wild idea struck me, and I strolled away with a hefty piece of wood in hand.
Timothee's stride, confident and unswerving, led me to the forest's edge, where the green density of fir trees weaved a cool tapestry of shade and mystery.
Hidden within this verdant threshold, voices clashed in an unseen struggle, painting the air with tension. The group gathered in a loose semi-circle, their stances rigid, words laced with fervor and frustration.
Timothee's hands gestured with controlled urgency, his opposition mirroring with equal passion. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the natural chorus of birds and rustling leaves falling silent to the human drama unfolding at its gateway.
"Leave the Hybrid to us!" The command detonated in the air, flung by one of the bald men, his physique a testament to brute strength, his stance unyielding.
Timothee's response came as a low growl, a fusion of contempt and defiance. "Don't fuck with me."
His words sliced through the tension, carrying the weight of his disdain. "You're the scum of society who doesn't deserve to enjoy the beauty of the world."
The air thickened with irony as the bald man retorted, his voice laced with mockery.
"Humans who don't deserve to enjoy the beauty of the world? Are you talking about yourself?" His sneer was palpable, as he eyed Timothee, that 'annoying creature who hurt many humans'.
Without a moment's hesitation, Timothee's hand danced through the air, tracing a mysterious symbol that seemed to pull at the very fabric of the atmosphere, a silent testament to the power that lay within.
The silence shattered, replaced by the metallic hiss of blades unsheathed in unison. They emerged from the shadows—phantoms clad in vengeance, their silver knives glinting under the moon's judgmental gaze.
Coordination in their steps, hunger in their eyes, it was a dance they had rehearsed in the dark corners of their rage. Timothee felt the air tighten, the options dwindling as he scanned the tightening circle.
With only a trio at his back, bravery flickered, a dim light against the impending eclipse. They fought—desperation lending strength to their arms, fury to their strikes. Yet, as steel met flesh, hope bled out, staining the ground with the grim testament of their defiance.
With the swiftness of my heritage, I maneuvered behind the closest assailant, letting loose a precise slash that drew a sharp cry from him. The scent of fresh blood momentarily filled the air, stark against the musk of the forest.
Timothee's gaze swung to mine, his expression a tight mask of controlled fury and disbelief.
What are you doing here! his thought thundered across the bond, more potent than spoken words. Working with you, Timmy, I shot back, my focus never wavering from the humans encircling us.
One of the hunters lunged, his movements telegraphed by muscle tens and a flash of malice in his eyes. I sidestepped, a dance with death, my heart drumming a frenetic cadence. I wasn't just any adversary.
My heritage, a blend of fae mysticism and human resilience, lent me an agility and power these hunters couldn't fathom. In the blink of an eye, I spun, my arm extending in a whip-like motion, fingers splayed. The ground beneath the hunter's feet twisted, roots snapping up to ensnare him, drawing a startled yelp as he was abruptly immobilized.
Timothee and I moved as one, a symphony of chaos to those who dared cross our path, playing out a deadly ballet beneath the canopy of whispering leaves.
Before I could blink, the hunter's hand moved like a striking serpent, flinging a cloud of shimmering powder from his red pouch towards me. Instinctively, I leaped back, feeling the whir of magic tingling against my skin — an itching warning of danger skirting along my senses.
"Crafty human," I cursed under my breath, my voice barely above a whisper.
The hunter charged, a glint of determination in his eyes that spoke volumes of his intent to capture or kill. Our dance was swift, a blend of primal rage and calculated moves. I dodged his advance, itching for Timothee's power as Lycan.
But a countering with a mysterious burst of energy that came from nowhere — a vibrant spectacle of light and force that knocked Hunter off his feet.
"Barby?"
In response, I could only shake my head, feeling every muscle tense under my skin. My right hand acted of its own accord, scratching at my arm with a ferocity that left the skin raw and tingling. Then, it came—the sharp sting of salt on my already chafed skin, a deliberate provocation.
After an intense attack, my strength began to weaken. The storm erupted without warning, a furious tempest matched by flames that danced with a voracity I had never seen.
It tore through the forest, an untamed beast in its own right, scattering the hunters in a desperate bid for survival. Trees swayed violently, their branches clawing at the sky, as fire engulfed their bases, creating a battlefield lit by nature's wrath. Amidst this chaos, Timothee and I exchanged glances, our eyes mirroring the confusion and awe at the spectacle unfurling before us.
In the eerie lull that followed the storm's initial fury, a solitary figure emerged from the smoke and shadows. Who was this enigmatic newcomer, and what role would they play in the unfolding drama?