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The three Lycans stood atop the Church of Saint Somabra, stooped with bestial elegance at the peak of the old building’s immense stone spire. 

Ameilkas turned her lean fur-covered head, addressing the titan-like Werewolf who was crouching down to her right. 

“Brunkas,” She barked in a hard voice that demanded obedience “Christakas and Dirakas are in position by the Police Station- their scent is strong on the night wind-. The forces of law may be nothing but puppet soldiers in this rats nest, but they are soldiers nonetheless, and must be dealt with accordingly. Go with them, and sever the serpent’s head before it has the chance to slither out of its lair.” 

“Your word is law, Den Mother.” The great wolf bowed his head in respect, before leaping from the church roof, tearing through the air, and landing –unharmed- with an earth-shaking thud amidst the rows upon rows of graves below, his powerful legs bending as his clawed feet dug into the thick soil. 

“Erikas,” Ameilkas acknowledge the slender Lycan with a gruff nod “Call the others.” 

“All of them, Den Mother?” He asked in his scratchy voice. 

“All of them.” 

The lean werewolf pulled back his head, and a deafening howl thundered forth from his fanged mouth. It rang out across the city, tearing through back-alleys, streets, walkways, and roads. It beckoned to the most primal instincts within every hunter, awakening forgotten ferocities in a gurgling tide of sheer untapped power. 

The replies came back almost instantly, a whirlwind of bestial cries, bellowed out for all to hear. 

“AAAAAHHROOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” 

On the blurred edges of her view, Ameilkas could see hunched shadows bounding across the rooftops, darting across shingling on all fours, spilling out across the city in a bloodthirsty tide. 

“What next, Den Mother?” croaked Erikas. 

Ameilkas sniffed at the air with her small leathery muzzle “One of us, a rogue Lycan, was here, not too long ago.” 

Erikas grinned, showing rows upon rows of razor sharp fangs “I smell him.” 

“Find this traitor, and show him the cost of standing against the great hunt.” 

“Your word is law, Den Mother.” And with that Erikas slipped away into the darkness, leaping down from the church roof. 

“Too long have the lesser races been allowed to move about unchecked,” Ameilkas muttered to herself “a reckoning is in order; and the dammed will be held accountable for their sins. Look to your gods, rodent scum, for nothing of this earth will save you now.” 

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[center] [u][b]American West Coast, Santa Somabra, Chinatown, The Hall of Golden Petals[/b][/u] [/center]


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Nyxvira Bloodbloom stood in the main dining room of the Hall of Golden Petals, her obese form tightly clad in a scarlet red kimono, which hugged every feature of her enormous body. Her fiery ginger hair had been styled into two elegant red braids, with golden clasps on each one, which flowed delicately down her broad shoulders, and her great ethereal Faerie wings fluttered gently out of her back, stirring up an almost non-existent breeze. 

Fat little Hobbs, with gnarled faces- twisted and pointed-, and bark-like skin, waddled back and forth across the wooden floor, making preparations for the oncoming assault. A few of the stout creatures were fiddling about with an enormous black steel sentry turret, which stood proudly at the back of the dining hall, whilst others set about connecting humongous grey amps to the sound system. The primary focus seemed to be on the main stage, where Hobbs were fiddling about with sounds boards and electric instruments, methodically making note of the volume. 

“You really think this’ll work?” Vincent Tűzst, SSPD Officer turned enforcer of the Bloodbloom Syndicate, said with a doubtful look, worry lines evident on his aged face. 

“Not afraid of the big bad wolf, are we?” Nyxvira asked with a poorly hidden smirk. 

“I’d be stupid not to be.” Vincent said honestly “Taintmarsh Park, 8th of May, 1978. One of these fuckers cut two high-school sweethearts straight in half, turned over a cop car, killed four good men, and took a pounding harder than Razghul’s mother before he went down. These things aren’t a joke.” 

“Calm your tits, Tűzst, I’ve been dealing with Hunters for a good hundred or so years longer than you have.” Nyxvira replied snidely. Whilst she was young for a Faerie, and still had a youthful appearance, Nyx had a solid fifty or so years on Vincent, and a large portion of them had been spent navigating the criminal underworld, and dodging magical threats.  

“Werewolves don’t like claustrophobic spaces,” Nyx explained “and Chinatown is just winding alleyways and cramped little streets. They’ll come down here trying to cause as much of a mess as possible, but once we push back they’ll fuck off to somewhere more open, and look for easier kills.” 

“You know best, boss lady.” Vincent muttered insincerely.


Nyx’s vicious gaze bore into the old man. 

“Bitch, have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I’m the matriarch of House Bloodbloom; the oldest, and, motherfucking, meanest family of winged badasses to ever grace you mortal fucking cretins with our presence. I was enslaving humans whilst your Dad was still a glint in your Grandad’s eye, I took on the Chinatown Tong and [i]won[/i], and I have danced this merry, motherfucking, dance many, many times more than thou. So shut the fuck up, sit the fuck down, and let the baddest bitch in Santa Somabra show you how it’s done. Peasant.”   

Vincent looked at the floor. 

“Now get your arse upstairs,” Nyxvira commanded, unable to stop herself from laughing “there’s some sick puppies on the loose, and they need putting down.” 

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There was silence in Chinatown, as Nyxvira had demanded it. The first few hunters came bounding nimbly over the rooftops, and crashing down into the dull orange lantern-lit streets below with otherworldly grace. They sniffed about, a mismatch of different scents all ripe in their nostrils, and then the singing started. 

A sweet, sensual song, with the poisonous grace of forbidden fruit, drifted through the empty streets with honeyed beauty. The words soothed and provoked all at once, beckoning the Hunters to the Hall of Golden Petals, overwhelming all other scents and senses. They plodded down the winding cobbled roads, the ancient tune dancing in their pointed ears. The words were twisted yet graceful, curved in an inhuman manner, accented with tongues not of this world, and swirling with magical splendour. 

Nyxvira stood on the wooden balcony which overlooked the dining hall, microphone held elegantly in one fat hand as she continued to sing one of the fabled ballads of her people, calling the Hunters to her doorstep. 

No barricades, nor any other fortifications, barred the Werewolves from entering, and soon they had barged into the Hall of Golden Petals; great lupine beasts, hunched and snarling, standing amidst the rows of chairs and tables. 

“You look plump and tasty.” Snarled one of the hunters, his great yellow eyes drifting up to Nyxvira as her song ended. 

“What a sweet voice,” cackled another “will you sing for us when we rip open that big stomach of yours?” 

Nyxvira smiled; a grin dripping with graceful cunning. “Care for one last song?” 

The amps exploded in a fit of powerful rock, firing deafening tunes out of their ginormous mass, which vibrated through the very air itself with thunderous might. To a human such volume would be a potential harbinger of tinnitus, to the predatory ears of the Hunters such volume drowned out everything else in existence, flooding the brain with an all-encompassing tsunami of pain.  The Hunters shook and wailed, their enormous bodies contorting in agony as the music blasted them to their knees. 
It was then that the great oriental tapestry at the far end of the room, strung up between the winding wooden staircases, fell away, revealing the towering black steel sentry gun, and a tower of Hobs, stacked one on top of the other, who were manning it. 

The gun blared to life, swinging from side to side like some hellish windscreen wiper, spraying a furious hailstorm of bullets into the tormented werewolves. 

The beasts strived to move towards their prey, but the mixture of deafening music and the physical barrier posed by the roaring tide of bullets proved to be too much for them to overcome, halting the oncoming surge of feral bloodlust. 

After a solid minute of being struck by a combination of powerful rock and substantially more powerful bullets, the hunters let out a whimpering howl, muffled by the hellish cocktail of noise that was flooding through the Hall of Golden Petals, and went scampering out of the door, tripping over each other to escape. 

The gun ceased its bombardment, and the music slowly quietened, until it was gone completely. 

Nyxvira removed her rubber earplugs, grinning to herself. 

“Why don’t you go fuck with the Rats, you worthless mongrels?!” Vincent called after the Hunters, cackling darkly as her moved into place next to the corpulent faerie. 

“Come crawling into my territory again,” Nyxvira roared “and I’m taking the safety off. There’s only once monster in Chinatown; and she doesn’t have a snout and a tail.”