Siege (The Pack/Team Crafted)

Chapter One

Rogues. Primitives.

That's all they were, right? They didn't get to be human.

That was a privilege.

He sighed, fingers running over the handle of the waraxe. It was a shame that peace was being declared. He would miss the feeling of the blood splattered across his face, the adrenaline pumping in his veins as he made a kill against those who had defiled him and his kind...

Sometimes he wished he hadn't been pushed to such lengths. He wondered where his sanity had gone, his sense of peace. There were times when it was needed - such as now.

"Are you even listening, Aceti?"

"I'm listening."

"Good... Now, you're required to find Lachlan Powers of Nguŷen. He's supposed to be inland..."

Jerome tuned out the messenger again. Lachlan Powers, that's all he needed to know.

He traced small little shapes into the wood of his axe. His nails were sharpened into points, dried blood collected under them. The carved shapes were dark in kind, some even resembling smaller versions of the waraxe itself.

"Got all that?"

"Of course."

The messenger, a young lady of the Chaotic Court, nodded. She climbed back up on her horse. "Have a good day."

"You too."

She caused this. She and her kind. She did this. She made me snap.

The energy flooded his veins. He could feel his heartbeat leaping under his skin as she pulled her horse around and kicked it into a gallop.

He didn't feel his legs as he stood, and he didn't feel his arm as he threw the axe expertly.

He did, however, hear the sickening thwack it made as the blade sunk into the back of her head.

A cruel smile spread over his lips.

Slowly, her body slid off the panicked horse. It crumpled to the ground as he started over.

The mare was prancing nervously a few feet away. He smacked her croup, hollering for the animal to leave, and she did, pounding away.

Then, he reached down, gripping the handle of his axe with both hands. Tugging once, twice, he pulled it free, bits of brain matter and splotches of blood staining the blade. The messenger was still, green eyes stretched wide. Her black hair was still slick, but now wet with her own blood.

Jerome just laughed, kicking her aside.

He had to end this somehow, didn't he?

+

Lachlan walked on his own, curious as to where this abandoned road led. The city around him was sleeping, it seemed, even if it was high noon. Houses were empty, streets cracked and split...

The quake had destroyed the little village.

It wasn't normal, either. It had been generated by the Supreme's government, ultimately ending the war.

It wasn't pretty.

He sighed, kicking a stray piece of rubble. His thoughts were all but on Earth. He had fantasies of living among the Supremes, acting as a warlock. Maybe in another world, he would have practiced those dark arts, but for now, he was just a lone rogue from a primitive island.

He looked up, glancing around at the area. The ruined city was fading back into the woods. He was probably headed towards Asumé, which would end up being a death sentence if he took a wrong turn. Although the warriors there fought for the primitives, they were really a specie all their own. They were strong-headed, fiery warriors. Some even bordered on sociopathy.

Swallowing his fear, he fully stepped into the woods, leaving the cracked primitive city of Jüjar behind.

Far behind him, on the city limits, a thief stepped on a branch and furthermore proved he wasn't cut out for stealth.