This is the start of a serial story I'm starting. A friend at work suggested he be a werewolf character in one of my works, and I finally seized on that idea for the #FlashFriday. It will certainly keep me working on the storyline.
The scent of blood drew Karl on. He told himself it wasn't bad, that dinner had struggled a little too much. The sheer quantity of blood broke through his lie, and he increased his pace.
Some of the adolescents could have gotten too rowdy, and simply lost control. It wasn't unheard of during the first changes. Karl had the scars to attest to his own troubled youth.
He saw the first human body, and couldn't maintain any hope. Heart in his throat, Karl raced to the clan hold, the change building beneath his skin. It would be easier to deal with a threat in his wulfen form. But the scent would be stronger then, possibly sending him into a frenzy. He ran on two legs, looking human.
There was no threat to deal with at the clan hold. The battle had ended hours ago, any survivors gone.
Karl stared at the carnage, stunned. Several humans had been torn apart, their weapons gleaming of silver. Blood soaked into the clearing, dark in the sunlight.
In the very center of the clearing was a wulfen baby, obscured by gore.
Karl went numb, mind attempting to deny what he was seeing. The clan, slaughtered. Humans had found them, had attacked them. More humans would be coming, or could be looking for other wulfen clans.
He stumbled to the longhouse, searching faces as he found more dead clan members. Everyone he'd loved was at his feet, but he didn't understand what that really meant. His subconscious was protecting him from insanity.
The longhouse was where they'd made their stand. The doors were bashed in, shattered and hanging from their hinges. Wulfen warriors had been hacked apart, in various stages of the change. The room was awash in gore, and stank worse than any abattoir.
Karl walked past more humans, more silver weapons, more dead children. His focus was the head of the room, the throne of their clan. His father's throne.
The clan's trophies were bloodstained, some pulled from the walls. There was nothing that wasn't touched by violence. The throne was on its side, body parts clinging to it.
His father lay, broken and wounded, in front of the throne. Karl dashed to his side, touching his shoulder. What could he do to fix this?
The clan leader groaned, eyes fluttering open. "Karl?" Disbelief filled the older wulfen's voice. "How did you survive?"
Guilt stabbed at him, and Karl closed his eyes. Had he not been with his human lover, he would have been here, would have fought and died. "I'm sorry."
His father tried to squeeze Karl's hand. "Avenge us."
Karl nodded vigorously, opening his eyes. "Yes, of course." Then his father died. The last member of the Blood Hills clan howled his grief to the sky.
