The Demons Of Elsewood: 0001.01

Charley kept running as he produced

a red ink marker from the pocket of

his Cashmere coat.

The zombies up ahead were not particularly seasoned fighters. In the ways of combat, they provided more target practice than actual challenges. Slow, chunky, and thick. Charley, while maintaining a casually otiose pace of 200 mph, advanced to an arm movement speed of 200 miles per hour. Rapidly slashing open four zombies' carotid arteries was proven a tedious task for the troublesome teenager, his 17 year old shoulder-length black hair began swishing in the lightest of breezes and the corner of his leaf-green eyes creased, a devious grin being invoked on the young man's handsome face. Moonlight streaked off of his brown-tanned skin, making him seem a lot older than he already was. The last birthday that he had celebrated was only held one year ago; in lieu of supposedly mandatory attendance to his boss's wedding, Charley's three best buddies in the whole galaxy, would rather have eaten cake with their kindergarten pranksters, rather than watch "some cow in a hideous green dress walk down the aisle."

Well, in defence of Charley's manners, the latter opinion that was expressed was not one of his own, rather, his own brother saw the situation from that point of view.

Of course, on his disgustingly sweet sixteenth, Charley's brother Manuel had only invited himself because he'd heard of the Wolfsbane Whiskey that the Clawfang Inn had in stock. Exactly one day from now, the first anniversary of that hilarious incident would be fast approaching. Not so hilarious, however, were the overtones of which that specific date would incite. The first day of April and it would already consist of grief and heartache. 2015... his father's death. Currently it was midnight, and the only clan in sight was the Flintfell Clan, or rather, the Werewolf community.

Chains glistened in the smoggy darkness, stars radiating their silver light, already enhancing the shine that was tentatively emanating from the rattling restraints, many of which where either tied down to titanium signposts, or were wrapped over and underneath the bottom of the bronze-bark Oak trees. The stumps had been given many respectful generations to settle into their roots, and the bushes that sprouted from the surfaces of said trees were either rustling just as hard as the chains had been up to this point, or they were swaying gently in the decreasingly violent winds, those air-currents having been acknowledged out loud by the Flintfell Clan's Chief Leader, Markus Fell.

Markus was finally spitting venom and blood, the aforementioned substance spewing from his mouth like liquidated Silver from a Marked Alpha's bullet wound. A Chosen Alpha wouldn't have a problem with these kinds of situations, but Markus had to be elected by all five clans, Mortals, Spellcasters, Bloodsuckers, Moonbearers, and Fleshflingers, all simultaneously. Markus not only acknowledged the increasingly subtle breezes that night, he also acknowledged the fact that this particular "brand" of zombies were without means of communication, their vocal chords, tonsils and tongues having been charred in the infamous fire, sooty, ash-like remains of what they would have, no, should have been. Even Charley could sympathise with pure evil, after all, two centuries ago his great great - however many greats - grandfather, was the one to spark the flames that begat this horrifically tragic war. The war of Horus, they called it. They even called the Vampires 'adaptable', whatever the heck that had to do with the circumstance.

His mother, Prisha Dunne, would have been proud of him, and her son would have been proud of his parent; biological parent, anyway. Eric, her boyfriend, would probably hand him the Flintfell family dagger, at least if he actually needed the blasted blade. Nope, in Charley's current situation, he was safe and sound. Hearing a twig snap, he dropped down to just around the corner, after spotting what looked to be a cobblestone ledge, with some recklessly thin rope tied to the underside. A ledge, or rather, a windowsill, or that would have been the case, except there was no freaking window!

The guard on top of the stairs was fast approaching, although Charley'd prefer it be by mount, rather than an on-foot/off-foot type of thing. This was far from a predicament, and it was weeks away from risky. His stealth skills had jumped upwards of at least ten or more 'margins', but Markus had yet to explain all of the supernatural terminology to him. Charley glanced backwards, catching his cousin Markus in his peripherals. Really he was only supposed to be four years older than him, and his birthday had been celebrated 48 hours ago, but why he insisted on acting like a thirty year old CONSTANTLY, Charley had no clue.

"Brainzzz."

"Blue brainz 'N hamburgerzzz..."

Charley frowned. He'd never heard that one before. 'Damn it, now I'm hungry,' this was the only thought that appeared in his adolescent mind, and now he was scared that this thought would be his last. 'Human cheeseburgers for zombies? Best to consult all the chefs in the city about this.'

'Skywalk City -- no, concentrate. Remove any and all opponents before distractions arise.'

Charley pulled out his Acid-Ant dagger and shrank to an even lower crouch, his knees now grazing dangerously near several low-cut, jagged pebbles and one almost-boulder. He stabbed the first Fleshflinger from the comfort of his bush camouflage and sighed in blissful relief. For the first time in three hours, he was alone. Time to pee!

"Ahhh, now that was good!"

Two minutes had passed since he last released himself of any discomfort, and Charley was chuckling. 'Glad most Fleshflingers are stupid wads of meat. At least we're on the same page.'

stumble

stumble, rustle

clink clink

clink clink clink

'Silence...' Charley brought his hand to his mouth, and from behind it would have appeared to be a gesture of mystified pondering, but this was an old army tactic that he gleaned from his Uncle, Sam Rivers, not in any way related to the Colonel, except he was. Charley raised his right arm arm up, palm facing inwards, and tilted his elbow to a mere 16 or so degrees, his wrist coming even further downwards. Moving his wrist and imagining the prettiest princess of all kissing his hand, he suddenly and immediately thrust his wrist to the left, his fingers only extending at a tiny amount of only 7 degrees and his elbow only extending one degree later.

Charley unexpectedly turned on the spot and saw his green-tipped dagger hurtling, whistling through the air, although the answer to the question "Did I actually hear it whistle?" was better left a mystery as the weapon found its marker, the target flopping down like a flailing fish on the deck of a pirate ship. The Jade Vines just in front of the teenager's scowling visage were left rocking back and forth as Charley pounced at a speed of 70 mph, thrusting his legs only twice in order to reach his victim, spotting her 2000 meters from Castle Grave's primary outer layer.

Charley spotted the Fedora tipped to the right of the beautiful lady's lovely pink locks, vibrant blue hair tips began clinging to the gravel and soil as she suddenly propped herself up onto one peach-colored elbow.

The youngest soldier that was deserving of a promotion had bent down and attempted to extend his hand towards the older woman's fingertips, "Here ma'am. Sorry about the confusion," which ultimately failed as he found her quickly backflip thrice and take off into the treeline. She would have succeeded in this endeavour, however, Dunne intended to make a game out of the chase. After all, the meals always tasted better after they had been frightened by their predators. Adrenaline enhanced the volume of the flavours. Exquisite, human, masterpiece dishes that even Gordon Ramsay would compliment.

In just under ten milliseconds, the teen's grey, spiky-matted fur burst from his normally humanoid skin. The dirt-coated fingernails had been replaced by immaculately translucent beast-like claws, claws resembling those of a Dragon's. Thirdly, along with the venom-tipped claws, out popped talon-ish fangs, fangs that sat snuggly, tightly compacted to make up a total number of 120 wire-sharp teeth, 60 teeth each on both the top and bottom, concealed by drooling, putrid, off-white lips, turning an almost greyish color as they were shortly found and licked by a medium-rare looking, brown-ish, saliva-coated tongue, panting left to right and flopping up and down. The last feature that consisted of this Werewolf transformation was the tail. A blacker-than-grey tail promptly found the correct shade that was needed in order to match the color-scheme for tonight's events. Tonight, just after midnight, 1:30 AM, in fact.

And Charley Dunne, cousin of the Flintfell Clan's Chief Leader, was having a hunting party.

Marked Alpha

The girl ran through the woods, her pink hair flashing tones of maroon and burgundy as the ghostly moon changed the pink to a darker, more neon color, seeking out different hues of red to add to its palette.

'At least we were on the same page,' Charley mentally cackled and kept being a brilliantly casual player of the game. The woman must have been running at speeds comparable to some of the best Olympians, and still, the fastest pace he'd ever stalked, from the moment he laid eyes on her, was 4 mph. By now, half an hour had passed and it was 2:30 AM. He was getting bored. Werewolf Charley was seeking to add some own hues of red to his "color palette", metaphorically speaking, anyway.

The woman didn't slacken her pace, instead only increasing her velocity as, for the first time in a long time, Charley growled while transformed; "What is your name, puny bitch?"

"D-d-don't kill me - I - I have-"

"Absolutely nothing of value to me. Nothing that would incentivize, anyway. Perhaps you could pick up the pace? I have somewhere to be and I'm already furious."

"F-f-fu-screw you, stupid mutt!"

For the first time in an even longer time, Charley willed his eyes, COMMANDED them, even, to let out an almost blinding yellow beam. His pupils fought as if they were jealous of the moon, which was still hanging quite high above the heads of both lady and gentleman, the fog wisping through the blackened, raised ears that were discreetly analysing every noise that they detected. The woman tripped and Charley growled as he recalled the curse words, two, almost three of them in fact, which were directed at his transformed state.

'I'll Mark you, slut. A Marked Beta sounds tasty enough. Even if I don't eat you, at least I'll have one pack member again.'

Her hands began rising into the dawn-greeting misty air, and he had to supress even a twitch of his mouth at the woman's bravery. Ignorance, perhaps? Maybe a combination of the two, however probable. Possibly even fear.

"Excuse me, sir?"

What do you want, mortal minded minion?"

"To see you again. Your true form. Your human form."

"Ahhh... nice try," Dunne began to cotton on, the concept of playing along and allowing himself to ACTUALLY be manipulated by a woman, a 27 year old nonetheless, sounding rather appetizing at that particular moment. Whether that was because he just wanted to tie her down, rip into her flesh and devour her mercilessly, or because he felt enamoured by the girl's appearance and personality, he did not know.

"I am not trying to analyse you... to study you, to deceive you. I simply would loveeee to take a look at your handsome body again!"

Charley felt his eyes sting at the compliment and dropped down to all fours in a blur. His fangs began to rise up into his gums, and immediately afterwards, human teeth (molars, incisors, canines and all) shot out and replaced them. The remnants of any Werewolf Venom were quickly dissolved into flawlessly fresh skin, which was quickly rearing it's head beneath the ever-shrinking, grey colored fur. The tail was subsequently sucked back into the Wolf's... ew, yeah... and the charcoal color collided like sword and shield with the moon's skeletal tints, to produce an inverted, lighter, yet still dark shade of black and white, only once more. The fully grown tailbone was replaced by a human, devolved version that our ancestors used to depend upon, thousands of years ago. The ears of a beast quickly lost all hairs (the ones that weren't already present), thus managing to return back to brown-tanned mortal ears, lobes and all attached where they should be. And then one final feature was required to be reverted for Charley to consume his humanoid form yet again. His translucent claws, claws like those of a Dragon's -- thank gosh the Mortals were oblivious to the existence of many creatures -- the claws of a wolf's were suddenly and piercingly snapped off and had regenerated from nothing but specks of blood, 11 seconds later.

His spare muscle mass began shooting into his arms and chest, the form that he originally possessed returning, the superhuman physique came from not only his enhanced physiology, but also at least a decade of weight lifting. Charley Dunne checked his watch for the 12th time that night. April 1st... He let a sigh escape his lips and tried to smile towards the noticeably mortified female, her pretty pink hair shaking alongside her prettier, pinker hands and legs. The 17 year old utilised his gifted senses and focused on the chattering of bone against bone, a jaw slamming up and down incessantly. He nodded and moved in towards the woman with all emotions void of negativity, a heartbeat or two skipping.

His hands lowered from their "I surrender" position and Charley almost tore through the material of his black leather jacket in a flustered, clumsy attempt to snatch it from his shoulders. The beautiful female grinned a tiny grin, and with the gentleness of a butterfly, pinched the end of Dunne's jacket sleeves, giving a polite tug, the movement being quadrupled and the clothing only agreeing to give way on the fifth pull. He inclined his forehead - rough, sticky locks of hair, bonded by rain and the person they belonged to - fell in front of his eyes. Peach skin contrasted sharply with the boy's own, thin wrists being compared dramatically to the male's own well-framed forearms, biceps flexing to emphasize. Boyish, emerald green eyes punctured angelical ocean blue, the female's pupils dilated underneath the fine light of a red morning sky. A stomach rumbled and the activation of Charley Dunne's Werewolf Super Senses crumbled the rocky doubts that it was his own hunger demanding a reprieve. A third glance was sent northwards in just as many minutes, towards blue tips and even bluer roots of a lady's enticing, enriched curls, and the introduction of a jacket was instigated, greeting its new friend, a plain white tank top, the sleeves reaching elbow creases, as two arms fell over shoulders to frame a man's leather overwear.

Hand against hand, fingers interwoven through fingers, racing heartbeat masking an even more alacritous heartbeat and now human-like panting, took up the middle of a pair of Birch trees, standing side by side, their branches connected as if mimicking the behaviour of two sentient beings, as if those two trees had hitherto never known intimacy, been completely oblivious of how it felt to fall in love. If wood could talk, the crispy creaks and groans were fast approaching shouting. Three leaves dropping down captured the inert security of newfound companionship. Friendship. A sparked relationship as lip collided against lip, tongue sloshed against tongue and breath warmed against breath, the frosty oxygen of a cosy four o'clock morning being tested by snowflakes, white balls of puffy, crunchy ice established the mood that was embraced yet unspoken. A lighter sky waved along with its popular seasonal clouds, white against white as if snow was competing against a chance of supressed rain. The potential for this weather was enormous. "I never did get your name?"

"Oh, my name is Arabia."

"Surname?"

"Arabia Quintellwood."

"Arabia Wood, then. Pleasure to meet you, I'm Charley."

"Surname?"

"Dunne. Charley Dunne."

"Charley, then. Pleasure to meet you, also."

Mocking scoffs interrupted the beginnings of a bird song and both heads swivelled in a general southeast direction.

"Father." And a simple glance was all that it took to confirm it. The daughter of a traitor.

Twenty guards, one sociopath, and an innocent citizen. Oh, and a soon-to-be dead war General.

Knowledge Thirst

'It's party time.'

The wrathful howls of Markus' cousin could be heard, and all had identified its source; Macrobotrys Forest. His consciousness faded into focus once more, and a blink through heavy mist confirmed it; his men were only just about to break free from their blood-bursting bonds of thick chain. One stretch of Markus' right leg had a titanium pole bent in half, and the more drawn out stretch of his left leg had the pole scrape together, making three of his soldiers, at maximum, wince and cringe at the gut-dropping metal moans. He ran as fast as it was possible for a Marked Alpha to run in their weakened state, adding on his experience and innate power levels and he came close to reaching Mach 5 speeds. Just a few thousand kilometres away from what he was aiming for. Either way, Mach 5 was his limit, for now at least, and even Mach 1 would suffice. 30 seconds later his soldiers of the Flintfell Clan were freed from their own bondage, and a swift headcount confirmed that all of the soldiers in attendance came to a total of 130 males and females, adults and children alike, many single fathers or divorced women frequently finding themselves enlisted amongst one or two groups of almost-elderly people. Succession Wolves.

"Let's leave, split up in groups of 10! A number of 13 groups in total. 3 groups take North side, 3 groups head East, 3 groups run South, and 3 groups, as silently as possible, sneak towards the West side, away from our location. The forest is 2200 metres away, let's move out!"

"Nine other people remain here with me! Let's wait and see what happens. I need my best messenger in this Quadrant to leave alone, scout any of our casualties and report back at the current campsite! Dismissed."

The man with the bayonet sent out three more stabs underneath the teen's left armpit, and Charley had, admittedly, been holding back up until now. A searing pain emerging from a wound shaped into an X, slashed deeply minutes prior, just underneath his tensed-up pecs, had the young adult lowering his shirt. He felt surprised that there was any clothing remaining on his figure, anything left of him at all. Supposedly, the duel-wielded blades equipped by the man were enchanted by mages of the highest Council ranks, and they had the power to slow or even totally prevent one's healing factor from working. A fact which was more than confirmed, at least judging by the amount of open, red-raw cut marks that were pressed deeply up and down both of Charley Dunne's forearms, the blood still richly seeping outwards, the flesh constantly being sloughed off by the pulsing pressure of his desperate veins, blue and red both working nervously to close themselves, and both working as equally as hard as each other. Charley felt sorry for himself right at the same time as an arrow seemed to be moving in slow motion.

'Adrenaline, or perhaps even a Werewolf power. Could be a new-- oh, yeah... the task at hand. Thanks, Mentor Markus!' Charley publicly giggled at this nickname, and felt no shame of it. He thrust out his brown knees, tanned from the last time he had treated himself to something nice, for the first time in a long time, a holiday seemed perfect, just what the kid needed. A foot connected with testicles and the guard before him had his hat knocked off, yee-yee'ing in massive amounts of agony, his bayonet dropped. To make an example of the man, Charley focused on time slowing down once more.

And it happened just as intended.

A blinking eye became closed before it had the chance to open, the flutter of a Hummingbird's tiny wings were freeze-framed, the second arrow nocked inside the man's bowstring had his hand at a standstill, and a foot narrowly missing his recently-acquainted girlfriend's head was caught, wedged solidly inside of a motionless, peachy-colored hand.

He raised the downed man's enchanted weapon and slowly slit his wrist, marking the first line in a long series of, well, lines. Cut marks.

"No mercy for the weak, you fucking sorry arse bastard. You'll pay without coins, instead I'm taking your life, and the lives of anybody and everybody whom you hold close to your heart -- if you even have one, lifeless monster."

A second cut mark. A third. A fourth. A fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eight, a ninth, a tenth.

'I wish that "Death of a thousand cuts." was true for you. No, instead of Lingchi, you get dix mille coupures. Ten thousand instead of one. And I shall sit here with a smirk and a scoff, and a bayonet under your arm, and I will slash and thrust. Foot into testicle, knife into heart, and only once I have reached the number "10,000" shall time be unpaused. The Chinese will be hiring me after this. Even the most evil of souls... will have to look at me with kindness... for what I inflict on YOU this day.'

'I hope you are a religious man, and at that, a man saved by Jesus -- because when you pray, I want God to hear your pleas and recognize my hand as the one that rose against your own to smite you down into the most reddish depths of Hell. And I had to capitalize that word, so you know it must be fucking serious.'

Charley checked his sheets of paper. 500 tally marks on all 20 pieces. After what Charley estimated to be 12 minutes later, he unfroze time, post-double-checking to make sure he didn't miss a single injury on the puny crybaby before his eyes. Ten thousand holes ruptured open on the man's skin as soon as time unfroze, and Charley started to howl with enthusiastic, sadistic, ecstatic pleasure.

"...AHAHAHAHAhahahaha ha ha ha ha..." The boy drew in short deep breaths, extending the time between each one more and more. "I AM THE ONE THAT KILLED HENRY QUINTELLWOOD."

A final howl was rocketed back towards the campsite again, tiny pebbles kicking up dust, amongst their disruption from the powerful vibrations, the howl caused two soldiers to stumble forwards, right into the hands (and blades) of Charley Dunne. Two throats were slit in quick succession, and then a final soldier had their head pinged away and into the treetops as soon as Charley shifted his humanoid head into a wolf's head, fangs piercing through infected-looking skin and eventually nothing, as the neck of the last guard soon became a short stump of flesh, shoulders being cut off from their attachment, and only a torso, legs and all, was found slumping to the mud patch below its once very-much-alive kneecaps.

"Hey Arabia."

"Yes, honey?"

"How old are you?"

"17, my birthday is a month and two days before your own, though. Why'd you ask?"

"Oh, just wondering, nothing bad will happen to you when you are with me. No need to panic," Charley turned around and smirked, dropped both blades, and then turned back around with a reassuring smile on his face, eyes and all creasing in an attempt to convince her.

"Why did you comfort me? Say nothing bad would happen?"

"I said it because you are super young, but just old enough to join up on the battlefield, so I meant that, if you decide you would like to fight, the offer is open, and of course your whole life is in front of us. Both yourself and me. It would be great if we made it out of this fight together."

"Yes well, unfortunately, there are hundreds more soldiers approaching."

"Hey, don't worry baby, I was fighting in my normal human form earlier on. As soon as I shift into a Werewolf, any and all injuries that I have sustained will heal. Tell me when it would be best to transform, and if you don't do it after one minute, then I'm going to take action for myself."

"We're fighting, not convincing, Charley. They already attacked us once."

"Listen, maybe they aren't with this lot. The group from five minutes ago were a bunch of amateurs, pure Un-Mentored fighters. Could smell it on them, and I do mean that literally."

Arabia Quintellwood held a pink-peach colored finger to her lips and suppressed a deep, hollow, intense sigh. The urges of a whimper threatened to follow, milliseconds afterwards she found herself approaching the Nobleman's carriage.

"Horse and cart, you've done well for yourself here. England, United Kingdoms. Britannia. We are the guards that have been assigned to this post, and we--" "Urkkk!"

A spurting water fountain of blood began to shoot from the back of the man's head, and the steeds began to kick blindly at the Hispanic looking woman that they saw in front of her.

Arabia pushed up the woods with the man clinging protectively to her arms, as a group of a dozen soldiers galloped close to the cart, in an attempt to find the Mortal and the Moonbearer.

Breaker

Charley saw Markus pacing back and forth, his feet clip-clopping like the horses he'd encountered earlier. Boot heels were being scraped over concrete and appeared worn down now, much like his cousin's own physicality. Charley flashed his eyes yellow and started to see a BPM counter near Markus' chest, as well as a heart monitor with a line on it, ticking faster and slower, and stopping and starting, each time that Charley's cousin turned around. Before him, just underneath the Bronze-bark Oak trees, sat a tent. Towards the left side of that tent, there was a campfire, still damp but not burning anymore. Up until this point, Charley had tried to avoid any sort of direct conflicts, but once his leaf Green eyes settled on the neon Jade Vines to the right side of the tent, he sprang into action, producing the bayonet that he had used on the man he fought against beforehand. Strongylodon macrobotrys. This would be useful...

His yellow eyes were now being turned orange and Charley saw a man with a trenchcoat and a white top hat on both arms. There, in the treeline, the man still had his back turned to the boy. The teen leapt upwards, high into the air, and within 3 seconds he had reached a height of 90 meters. He pushed off of the air above him, and tucked his legs into his stomach; twisting in order to find the right posture and angle, Charley came down with his right leg, first his heel and then his toes, both connecting with the man, who must have weighed about 270 lbs. The man stumbled four-- no, five times -- and Charley Dunne had simply used at least one percent of his power. That was nothing, and he felt worried for the man, reacting like that over such a measly thrown kick. The thrust didn't even have any momentum carried throughout it, the end stage of the pose being less than what the young man had previously hoped for.

Finding himself disappointed, Charley let himself glide to the meadow below, the campsite now over his left shoulder, his body to the side of the man's and a new circle of trees surrounding both of them. Charley pulled his top down and found that there weren't any scars left on his body, not even any outlines remaining. "Must have healed once I killed the Nobleman," he clarified, both for himself and for the mysterious person standing tall above him. The man's curly, fire-red hair was like a newer, more lively variation of the color that the Amber leaves were sporting, 3 of them slowly swirling down to meet 4 more of their friends on the patchy ground below his black cowboy boots. His silver-grey eyes flickered toward Charley's Converse just then, as if judging him for his fashion choices, while simultaneously declaring, "Hey, look at me! I'm richer and better dressed than you!"

Charley grabbed the white trenchcoat wrapped around the man's right arm, and then grabbed the even whiter top hat that he had sunken his fist into. Deep inside, a rustling and bustling started to emerge, and then a few squeaks and squeals, and then the brown fur of a baby bunny rabbit, his tiny black button nose twitching from top to bottom. The baby bunny rabbit pounced up and started levitating, and then Charley realised... the man in front of him was a Mage. A Spellcaster.

"Well, kid, my name's Fitch, and my cute friend here is Zooper." His voice sounded like a Wood Watcher being toppled to the ground, a large boom whisking through the air and Earth alike, every time the man spoke his deep, rough, vibrating voice echoed past anything and everything that it could find. The man's brown skin guided Charley towards one more conclusion; an African-American magic user... That lot had cowered before the Great Orcs long before 200 years ago, and had started hiding themselves well past 150 years after that. 50 years ago, the last ever Tribal leaders joined forces with the Flintfell Clan, and then there was no hope but to continue practicing their transformations. Of course, only thanks to Charley's great grandparents had he learnt about his history, and while they were teaching him about that, they decided it would be nice for him to get the full education. From the age of 11 months old, Dunne had been taught everything from Geoscience to Cellular Biology, as well as many other subjects, for example; Combinatorics, Knot theories, Algebraic Topology, that sort of stuff. His favorite topic of all time had to be Quantum Mechanics. Charley said his first word as soon as he turned 1, and his birthday celebration consisted of Hoplology lessons within the main sparing quarters. His great grandfather Samuel and his great grandmother Nicole had both been Hybrids, or, if one was rude, half-breeds. His great grandfather was a mix of Vampire and Werewolf, and his great grandmother was a mix of Witch and Faerie, her wings always sparkling brightly whenever she saw her great grandson's handsome smile. He knew they were both alive, but Charley didn't really desire any sort of contact with them right now. The last time that Charley had spoken to either one of them was one year ago, and that was only to congratulate Charley's eldest brother Manuel about his admission into the Spanish military.

Now that Charley Dunne thought about it, why should he do something that he had no interest in?

The sparing quarters were located within the Fell Mansion, Markus's great uncle Duncan Fell having purchased it from Charley's father, Casanova Dunne. Prisha and Casanova... Mom and Dad. What he wouldn't sell to see them right now. A cancer diagnosis and a car crash. 'The doctors say she has one year left to live.'

Charley felt a hand on his shoulder then, Fitch's eyes releasing a few tears and his mouth permitting a faint smile. Charley drew the man into a hug. They stayed like that for 1 minute and 30 seconds before Charley felt it was right. So he stabbed Fitch in the stomach ten times, and then rapidly began clawing at the man's throat. The force started weighing him down, and Charley Dunne, the teenager who had turned 17 just this morning, was now finding himself flying towards a tree branch. Quickly curling up into a ball in mid-air, he spun around and twisted to the left. The right side of his body safely glided past the trunk of the Bronze-bark Oak tree, his heels kicking off from the side in order to push himself forward and down to the ground. Charley felt himself tumbling over and over into the grass and dirt below, and he released a fatigued exclamation of exasperation. He burst into full Werewolf form in just under 1 millisecond, which was of course long enough for the Mage to fire off two red energy balls at him. Charley tried dodging the first but was caught with a blackout spell to the head, and then the second blast lightly tapped his shoulder.

"WEAK FOOL! YOU ..." Charley felt the onset of lassitude begin to wash over him, and all he wanted to do... was... sleep...

Saviour

The man removed any and all protective magical seals, his runes getting absorbed into both palms of his hands. His arms turned green and putrid and then became healthy once more. He removed his Elemental Headband and threw it into his satchel bag. His belt pouch contained a smoke bomb and he threw it into the air with a bowler's posture, and it came down faster than he sent it up. Fitch then slid his face mask over his mouth and turned around. Straight into a much older, much more experienced Werewolf claw. And then, claws. All 9 of them that were currently hanging free just in front of him. His shield proved unsuccessful, as, without runes, Junior Mages could only perform basic level protective magic, so all he could do was set up a weaker ball of energy around his form. Even this proved to be futile though, as the man in front of him, Markus Fell, Chief Leader of the Flintfell clan, simply pounced through the defensive spell.