Throckmorton

The forest is an orchestra of trees, playing one enchanting symphony after another. They were rising upward, the canopy above is distant, like clouds of green. The rustle of stale leaves soothed the two young werewolves who raced through the tranquil forest towards the mansion of Throckmorton. However it was only a small relief, for their hearts were heavy with their mission. They were counting on aid to avenge the murderers of the wolf pack of Birdwell, and they couldn't afford to leave without any.

Paul and Edgar, the only remainders of Birdwells, rushed through the forest as anger simmered within them. The urge for revenge was what drove them, the lethally sweet desire to wreak havoc and misery upon those who sinned against them. The two brothers were still shocked and devastated from what they witnessed after returning home from their boarding school in London.

They'd come back to spend the summer vacation with their family, only to find them dead, all of them, with their pale corpses drained of blood. The murderers were obvious, for there was only one race who'd dare to commit such an atrocity.

The blood-drinkers.

Nestled in the woodlands as humble as an old English gentleman, was a mansion. The two wolves howled their arrival to the Throckmortons as they raced towards the main entrance of the old mansion. Their heartbroken echoes rang through the quaint land in which the mansion was situated in.

The enormous gates of guard opened to reveal the splendid interior of the mansion, standing with the pride of ancient werewolves of Throckmorton, who were stronger than the blazing sun, faster than the swift wind, an braver than the knights of old.

Lady Throckmorton was the quickest among all of the Throckmortons to reach the two werewolves with the hope of embracing them in welcome. The need within her to hear about her dearest sister, Lady Birdwell, was rousing like a volcano almost about to erupt. "My nephews!" she cried, her virile voice overjoyed. "How good it is to see you!"

But her gleeful tone was short-lived, as she immediately registered the aching sorrow that wailed in the gunmetal blue eyes of the brothers. She stopped on her tracks.

Tear tracks grew icy on Edgar's cheeks, and Paul opened his mouth, but pursed it once again.

"What is the matter, children?" Lord Throckmorton inquired walking down the stairs, quite uneasily with a bandaged leg. Elliana, the only daughter of Throckmortons, held him by his forearms, guiding him towards the brothers.

Lady Throckmorton placed her warm palm on Edgar's cheek, feeling the drying tears. "Good lord, what happened? You're both cold as ice!"

Edgar swallowed the urge to scream his pain as Paul spoke in a quiet voice, "We were attacked."

A dreadful silence crashed over the jovial atmosphere like a tsunami wave.

Paul continued, "We came home for the holidays and found everyone dead." His voice hitched, "Everyone!"

Lady Throckmorton's hand fell from Edgar's face. Her heart sank as she gaped at them.

"How?!" Her voice thundered with despair, "How did it happen?"

"The blood was drained from their bodies," Paul carried on as his brother closed his eyes, wiping at his cheeks, "There were twin piercings each on all of their necks. The blood that was spilled on the floor was still warm. They'd just been murdered."

"The house," Edgar added in a rasping voice, "Smelled of death."

All werewolves growled together as Lord Throckmorton snarled, "Vampires."