2 The Wolf is Coming

The Wolf King goes by many names. Most were given by the fortunate souls who managed to survive the wolves' murder spree. What he has taken a liking to, however, is "Whitetooth". He earned the moniker because his teeth were the last the thing his victims would see before his crippling bite lands on them, tearing the limb from the body it used to be attached to.

One could say Whitetooth was destined to be king. He believes it himself, as a matter of fact. How could he not? He stands tall at six foot, five inches with fur white as snow. If his heart were as pure, no one would have to fear for their lives every single day. Thanks to an influence that awakened magical powers within him, he had become more formidable than ever: Whitetooth is now able to walk on two legs and has acquired intelligence equal to a human scholar. While he did lose some of his otherwordly speed after becoming bipedal, his leg strength had dramatically gone up, giving him unparalleled jumping ability and a mastery of kicking techniques which he learned from fighting against humans. He dons a pair of ripped black trousers with a bracer attached to an arm sleeve in his right arm. Perhaps his most dominant characteristic, however, is a scar that runs from the right shoulder down to his stomach —a scar so deep, he is shaken to the core every time he recalls the face of the human who gave it to him.

Whitetooth stands hushed among the other wolves, gazing at the moonless sky. After tasting defeat for the first time, he had learned to be tranquil yet calculating. It had taken him a while to recuperate from his wounds and gather an army that would assist his conquest. His previous warriors had been defeated by Roger and an unknown child who seemed to have been possessed by a wild beast. He vividly recalls how that human child mindlessly swung her insanely huge scythe and decapitated his skilled soldiers. The thought made his blood boil. He cannot fathom how such power and murderous intent could fit in such a tiny body.

Whitetooth and his soldiers are gathered somewhere in The Dark Forest. Death seems to follow everywhere they go: the trees surrounding them are now just remnants of what once was a salubrious woodland; the air had gotten stale and stifling that any flora or fauna would be apprehensive of even getting close to it: and ground they stand on appears to have been desolated for decades.

The night reaches its peak. What was once an impenetrable darkness is slowly being lit by a blood red moon which descended from a sea of clouds. As the moonlight grazed his fur, Whitetooth gulps the air around him, filling his lungs, then lets out a piercing howl that reverberated across the entire Dark Forest.

"Tonight, we feast!" he roars.

The rest of the wolves howl in unison, signalling the bloodbath that awaits every living creature in the Dark Forest.