Chasing Diana
Two silhouettes stood against the small windowpanes of the inn they were staying.
The whistling of the wind muted the rattling of the glass windows, for the howls brought by the storm were becoming more violent as the sands of time seeped through the wolven folks’ fingers.
The flames from the fireplace swayed upon the wind that was able to penetrate the wooden ceilings and brick walls of the dingy inn. Because of this, coldness permeated the constricted area of their room which reminded the two of their homeland.
As of now, the Crescent Pack seemed to be eerily silent. The warriors, though many as they were, did not even sense their unwanted presence within their premises. Even with the raging storm, their so-called top-class security was frowned upon by the Blood Claws Pack members.
The man standing behind the other one cleared his throat to snap the latter’s attention. “Alpha, what is the next plan?”
The Beta could not contain his curiosity, for he knew what the air around his Alpha was about. It was the air when he was contemplating something significant, something big and ominous.
Alpha, a title used in the plains, the grasslands, the mountain peaks, and the forestry of the Continent, was equivalent to an elder for the Werewolf Committee.
The Werewolf Committee was made with a structure similar to a coven – multiple leaders with each group of subordinates. Each elder of the Werewolf Committee had an army of trained gammas and deltas under him or her. There was no ‘one’ head. Rather, the elders would vote and whatever choice that would garner the biggest vote would win automatically. Of course, if there were ties in voting, the respective factions during the votation would send a ‘champion’ to fight in the arena; whoever wins would get the deciding vote.
The Beta, on the other hand, was a title given to the vice commander of an Alpha. They were handpicked by each Alpha, the one most trusted among all the members of the Alpha’s respective divisions. Though in Blood Claws Pack, Betas and Alphas were highly sought-after titles, their children could not inherit the titles, for the selection of Alphas and Betas came with sheer strength and absolute trust – this was what made the Blood Claws Pack different; they valued absolute strength.
The Alpha barely glanced at his Beta before he answered with his gruff tone. “This is the power of a hybrid werewolf and witch, Seymor. How… ominous yet so powerful.”
Something clicked inside the Beta’s mind. He remembered the talks of the merchants at the reception area of the inn they were staying.
FLASHBACK…
Soaked from the heavy rainfall, Seymor shrugged his coat to the side, fully casting it off since he would not be needing it anymore. He only used the coat to conform with the locals since they were using it too to protect themselves from the rain.
Seymor was not really used to wearing coats. In the Blood Claws Pack, even amid a strong blizzard, they would not wear anything to protect themselves from the cold. After all, it was a form of training for them. But as Alpha Dylan said, they must blend it to complete their mission.
The former alpha, Dylan’s father whom Dylan defeated, had been at odds with the Werewolf Committee. Dylan would not have cared about this enmity. That was why, until now, he tolerated the Werewolf Committee’s arrogance which was growing by the day. It was also the only reason why the Werewolf Committee could reach its peak with no disruption on its way.
But the Werewolf Committee had to do this against Diana Ritchell – future Luna of the Blood Claws Pack. Technically, she was already Seymor’s luna, but it still needed the blessings under the moon with the entire pack as a witness in order to make it official.
The chatters and hushed arguments of the merchants and evacuates bombarded Seymor as soon as he stepped into the reception area of the dingy inn they were staying in. With the freshly cooked meat wrapped neatly in his left hand, he was yet to buy a bread of one or two. He could not dare to serve his Alpha with a measly meat alone!
‘The meat store owner told me that I can buy bread from the reception area of the inn I am staying.’ Seymor thought as he made his way among the sea of merchants, local wolves, and other foreign folks who were at the Crescent Pack.
Though Seymor’s aim was for the bread, his ears twitched upon the myriad of chatters per cluster of people around him, his imposing wide shoulders breadth nudged the folks around him as he paved his way forcefully.
“Coming through, excuse me!” Seymor announced as he barged in between a cluster of merchants or locals before him, his direction heading to the reception desk. “Let me through, I am going to buy slices of bread for my master! Excuse me!”
Some parted ways for him, while the others mostly regarded him with one glance before they continued what they were discussing.
One particular group of rowdy merchants and women took Seymor’s attention. They were by far the noisiest in the room and they were talking about the storm and how it was related to a witch, the witches that were forbidden to talk about openly.
The arrival of a surviving witch and how the Crescent Pack had gained this witch’s wrath. Who would not think of witches when the Crescent Pack was the only stormy land out there? Beyond its borders were all sunny and clear of any speck of rain.
“This storm is a freak one, I tell you, lassie,” said a merchant with a pipe. He was blowing smoke as if his life depended on it. His voice was raspy and deep as he addressed the woman on his lap.
Seymor reckoned that the woman was from one of the many brothels in the central town.
A stout bald merchant snorted. “Aye, ‘tis a freak one. I can wager my entire fortune that it is a witch who is responsible for this one! Such a bother, I may add.”
Clad in a cloak and a beard that almost covered half of his face, the third merchant spoke. A giggling woman from a brothel was sitting on his lap. “Blasted witches, they throw a tantrum or two and the entire pack is the one suffering! So much for being extinct, ‘ayt!”
The giggling woman nodded her head before she took the merchant’s cup of rum. “No one knows the if there is a witch among the pack members, at least, not no one from the lower-ranked wolves knows. I heard from a gamma that visited the brothel, a massacre happened and a local’s entire household died! This witch is the culprit he said. A bit of extreme, right?”
The bald merchant shook his head, taking the cup from the woman to pour more rum into it. His eyes were fixated on the flowing rum as he commented on the Crescent Pack’s action. “Alpha Nathan is too silent this time, you know. Something is not right I can feel it in my guts. The warriors are all tensed. They aren’t as strict as they were before! Must be the storm… or the witch.”
“You have a point there, baldie. The witch, if proven true, is a force to be reckoned with. No wonder the werewolves did their best to eradicate them before they multiply like the werewolves. I bet the Blood Claws Pack will howl for mercy in front of that witch hahaha!”
The merchant’s arrogant voice was followed by a shattering of the wooden desk. Splinters of wood flew from different directions.
“Hey! You have to pay for that one, mister!” The woman behind the desk slammed the packed slices of bread in front of the closed-eyed Seymor.
When the latter was yet to answer, a knot lodged deep between the woman’s face before she muttered under her breath. “Weird.”
Instead of giving the hefty amount of change to the still close-eyed Seymor, the woman swept it off from the remaining desk, keeping it as compensation. She knew when to open her damn mouth.
On cue, the werewolves around him recognized the raw strength and the powerful smell emitted by Seymor. They inched themselves away from the angry stranger, fully aware of what fate would befall them should they try to fuel the higher-ranked werewolf’s anger.
The cluster of merchants near the reception desk, the ones who talked about the Blood Claws Pack, were the ones who tucked tails and raced out their way from the reception area of the inn – hiding themselves from the angry Seymor who was yet to look at them.
But werewolves were known for their keen smell, there was a possibility that the angry werewolf marked their scents for retribution for their insult to the Blood Claws Pack.
TO BE CONTINUED...