2 Lurking In The Shadows

In the heart of the Blackwood Forest, a mere six-minute stroll from Isabella's cottage, a man observed from a distance, a silent witness to the symphony of anguish, contemplation, and anticipation that accompanied the woman's laboring cries. As the echoes of her birthing pains reached him, Gabriel's thoughts intertwined with a mixture of empathy and a longing he dared not voice.

"I pray she makes it through," Gabriel murmured to himself, his gaze fixed on the unseen drama unfolding. Gabriel Moreau, a man standing at a commanding 6 feet 1 inch, possessed striking platinum blonde hair that framed a chiseled jawline. His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of grayish blue, held depths of emotion and longing. A profound desire to be closer, to offer solace in person, weighed heavily on his heart. Yet, the cruel reality tethered him to the shadows.

The clandestine affair existed in a realm where proximity was forbidden. Gabriel yearned to hold her hands, to share in the intensity of the moment, but societal constraints rendered such a gesture impossible.

Crucially, there was an added layer of complexity to Gabriel's predicament. The man he feared wasn't just a husband but a hunter, a figure responsible, in part, for the plight of Gabriel's own kind—werewolves hunted, dead, or forced into exile. The very nature of Isabella's husband embodied the reason behind the scars that marked Gabriel's people.

Thus, as Gabriel lingered in the shadows, his heart heavy with concern and restrained love.

As the haunting howls of wolves resonated nearby, Gabriel pondered, "Why are they here? Could it be the birth of the child drawing them near?" The notion of approaching the wolves to discern their presence flickered in his mind, but he swiftly dismissed it. The proximity risked triggering his transformation—it was a full moon, after all. The allure of the impending change tugged at him, yet tonight, he resisted.

The powerful urge to transform battled against Gabriel's restraint. Guided by his sorceress mother's wisdom, he had achieved mastery over the delicate control of his werewolf transformation during the full moon. However, this proficiency came at a price—an unsettling cost that involved the gradual erosion of what defined him. In recent times, a disquieting observation had taken root: a discernible delay in the speed of his healing, a phenomenon casting shadows over his once-effortless healing ability. But this skill proved essential for him to seamlessly integrate with the Crusaders, the humans who now held sway over his ancestral land.

Amidst the haunting echoes of wolves' howls, nostalgia gripped him, pulling his thoughts back to an era when wolves and werewolves freely roamed this land, engaging in the primal dance of hunting and embracing the untamed essence of freedom. Those were his childhood days, and amidst the nocturnal chorus, he fondly recalled the moments when Blackwood felt like home.

He remembered when this place was once known as Terra Luporum by the natives, the place underwent a metamorphosis into the solemn moniker of Blackwood. It now stood as a haunting testament to a history painted in the hues of betrayal and bloodshed. The werewolves, the original custodians of this once pristine land, had, with naive generosity, opened their hearts and embraced the Crusaders, refugees seeking sanctuary within the dense bosom of the forest. Little did they fathom that beneath the ancient trees, the fertile soil held the seeds of enmity, ready to sprout.

As the Crusaders sought refuge in Blackwood to escape relentless vampire attacks, their population burgeoned, mirroring the exponential growth of their greed. The tipping point, or the straw that broke the camel's back, manifested when a young lady was maimed to death in a part of the forest explicitly cautioned against by the natives. In an instant, all facades crumbled as the Crusaders abandoned pretenses and declared an all-out war on the native population. Exploiting the vulnerability of the werewolves, they ruthlessly attacked when the natives were at their most defenseless.

Hunted and slain for the richness of their territory, the werewolves faced a grim fate. The Crusaders, fueled by a desire to control and dominate the natives, succeeded in their quest within a span of a couple of years.

The surviving werewolves, survivors of a harrowing massacre, were driven from the very land their paws had once tread as ancestral home. Blackwood, now a witness to the echoes of betrayal, stood as a silent witness to the scars etched into the earth by the clash of two worlds.

Yet, not all werewolves succumbed to the exodus. Some, endowed with the uncanny ability to conceal their true nature, lingered in the shadows of Blackwood. These elusive beings, masters of the art of masquerading as ordinary mortals, harbor a subtle thirst for revenge. Quietly and strategically, they plot to reclaim dominion over their ancestral land.Gabriel is a member of this group which makes his relationship with Isabella quite conflicting, though he hasn't told her what he is.

As decades wove into the fabric of the village, the enmity between humans and werewolves endured, carried in the whispers of the wind and the rustle of leaves. The original werewolf inhabitants became spectral figures in the folklore, their stories passed down through generations like a haunting melody.

As the moon ascended, casting its silver glow upon the tangled branches, Gabriel was stirred by the cries of a newborn. The scent wafted to him, igniting a desire to cradle the infant in his arms. The stark impossibility of this deepened his emotions. Amidst the persistent howls of wolves, he felt the subtle shift in his own bones, an instinctive response.

Unable to contain the primal transformation, he hastily retreated from his position, disappearing into the depths of the forest. Aware that he couldn't halt the inevitable, and it has been a long time since he transformed, his sole recourse was to protect Isabella and their child by putting distance between them and the inevitable consequences of his dual nature.

The moon hung low in the night sky as Viktor Duval, a seasoned hunter, moved with practiced stealth through the outskirts of a nearby town. His fellow hunter, a grizzled companion named Gerard, kept pace beside him. The air crackled with tension, the anticipation of a confrontation with a pack of werewolves lurking in the shadows.

"Keep your senses sharp, Viktor," Gerard whispered, his eyes scanning the darkness. "We're close. I can feel it."

Viktor nodded, his hand tightening around the hilt of a silver dagger. The rhythmic rustle of leaves and the distant howls of wolves set the stage for the impending clash between man and supernatural.

As they closed in on their quarry, Viktor's mind momentarily flickered to the life he left behind in Blackwood—the cottage where Isabella awaited his return. A pang of guilt tugged at his conscience, but duty drowned out the softer echoes.

In the midst of their stealthy pursuit, Gerard shot Viktor a knowing glance. "You know, Viktor, what if you return home now and find Isabella has already given birth? Wouldn't that be a sight?"

Viktor's lips curled into a wry smile, his gaze fixed on the darkness ahead. "Well, that would save me from hearing her scream. I tell you, Gerard, it's not a pleasant sound."

Gerard chuckled, the camaraderie between the two hunters weathered by years of shared endeavors. "Fair enough, my friend. Let's focus on the hunt for now, and we'll deal with the surprises at home later."

In the shadows, beneath the veil of moonlight, the hunters pressed forward, their steps muffled by the secrets of the night.