Chapter 6: The Black Beast
The black beast was upon her, charging on all fours, feral, crossed, a flaming monstrosity of chaos fueled with rage. Hellish claws and an infernal maw of sweltering fangs blazed in the moonlight as the werewolf Zamson, unlike anything ever witnessed, lunged through the rain.
Naia jerked aside just in time. Her movement was fluent. Too fast for Zamson to seize her save for the misty illusion left behind. The lupine beast stormed through the cat-faced fiend's watery mirage and slipped to a destructive halt, ferocious in his brutal madness as the werewolf whirled to attack yet again.
Naia saw Zamson's fearsome form in the middle of combat: a menacing, wolf-like snout—eyes bright with incredible fury. His head was somewhat long and finely chiseled, and his burning mane, tail included, lashed in violence against the rain. Amazing.
She felt him die in her grip, only to return renewed, revived by fire, indeed. Her beholding of the wulvyn mesmerized her. Excitement. Like a blood-craving moth to a flame soon to be scorched by the coming fire that had no love for her as she admired the monster's bloodlust—desiring more.
She wondered just how potent his blood had pumped. Hearing it thunder through his veins as he launched upon her again could do no justice compared to the bite she delivered. If she could taste him again—if she could delight herself of his blood—then she'd gladly drain him to the last drop, again and again, for it fascinated her.
Naia won’t be getting off from black beast's inferno tonight.
She screeched because of it. Realization kicked into gear. Her patience was a lost cause from the start and it drove her into an insane, drawn-out howl. The itch within must be cured; nothing shall get in her way. Naia's every succulent curve and infuriated form slipped into action, prepared to strike, to pounce. The ball of her heels seconds to launch.
The moment never came.
It annoyed her.
Noctavion's advocates deflected her need to appease her lust. Logan realized their swift presence before the ancient. Their intense speed was a danger to mortal eyes, but Logan's eyes, Zamson's included, did not dismiss the two keepers’ interception. And a bold interception at that.
An ancient of Naia's degree could render the advocates to ashy-strewn ribbons. But Naia never defied their interference or their suit's unique embroidery. It was fleeting. She stopped her assault as quick as she released it, glaring upon the advocates and their highly decorated outfits.
What sealed the deal was not their bravery of interference in the ancient's advance but their sudden voice whose tongues declared the language of the firsts of vampyrials. If they were ignorant to Naia's language, they'd indeed be ripped to shreds. Furry ears flicked in recognition, digesting their plea.
Their request worked into her mind, blending into the dark matter, unlocking what hope did spark inside the smothering rage that slowly took her. They told her to halt, to cease. To stand down and accept the hidden badge woven into their suits' embellishing. An ancient declaration announcing the presence of her kindred.
No attack came. Only calm. Only peace. A bit of reprieve. For however long it shall be, as the night's fresh tears covered the earth.
Logan stalked the crater's base, descending into the hole of destruction until he was but a safe distance from Zamson's flames, expecting the vampiric ancient and the advocates to do her worst. Noctavion's minions possessed a voice, after all.
Reluctance introduced itself to Naia; a wave of doubt crawled forth to keep her on guard. The vampires in her sight bore a smell inflaming her memories. The werewolves escaped her visions. Of course, she was far from her era. Senses kicking up haywire despite her seemingly invulnerable stance upon them. An ancient vampyrial of primordial origin void of flaws.
Until now, for Zamson's flame, however, begged to differ. The blazing wulvyn taunted her mind, warming her insides in a newfound force of need.
It showed her just how vulnerable she truly was. Just like that. Straight out the vault with no firm grasp of what transpired save for her first meal, and the power that flowed with him.
This was not the time to concern herself with the conquering of appetite.
Her lips moved, words forged from a time long past gently stole the air. Both seductive and dreadful in form, Naia held the voice of a thousand sea maidens, sirens of the bewitching seas living inside her throat. The keepers absorbed her reply. They nodded to one another in understanding and relief.
All the while, Zamson fell into a frenzied grunt. Naia and Noctavion's advocates witnessed Zamson's s flaming fur flickered and extinguish like a dying torch. Hot rage retreated to nothingness as the black wulvyn faded to embers and moondust, leaving behind Zamson.
The life of him paled under a crying night as nausea struck his head and all else went black. He stumbled forward before he fell; Logan reached for Zamson's arms, failing as Zamson hit the ground hard. The breath of him hanging by a thread.