Hala, May Mumu Dyan!

This is an excerpt from a short story I am composing as a prelude to a cross-over novel conceptualized by my friend Jai the Schizo. The idea is to create two separate storylines that will intersect somewhere along each other's plot. Jai will take on the Vampire part of the story and I will take on the Werewolf half. The saga will be entitled "Bloodlust" and will revolve around the dark age of blood feud between the two races.

"Memento Mori" below served as a practice ground, as this is my first time to write a gothic-horror literary. It is also a preliminary gauge if I could really grasp the "feel" that Jai wanted to depict on the story (hopefully, I could... carry na ba Jai?).

Memento Mori
by Randell Parcon

"per'Nay H'rrad!! per'Bigrah!!"

The guttural roar sent chilling frights to the core of the attackers' will to satisfy their bloodlust. It caused them a moment’s hesitation to continue their onslaught on the desperate prey, the laceration on his left shoulder already bathing the white spots on his mane an ominous crimson.

But that fleeting cessation was all he needed...

His razor-blade claws instinctively dug on the dry bark of a fallen fig tree that he, himself, has contributed to uproot after he was slammed against it just a couple of minutes ago by his aggressors. With a display of uncanny strength he was known for, he hefted the log on his right arm and immediately sensed his first targets, partially concealed from the moon's eerie cast as they skillfully swept the forest's underbrush to charge at him with weapons brandished.

Shiny weapons, he observed as the silver moonlight glinted from its sharp edges.

Grunting, he twisted his hulking form to their direction, swinging the timber wildly at the attackers’ general direction. His sight was failing from the agony of pain embracing his sinuous bulk but the viciousness of the wallop alone was enough to send two wailing figures hurtling away from its lethal path.

No time to even gasp for breath.

He frantically rolled the makeshift club on his only effective hand as the other hung limply on his side, soaked in gore from its gaping shoulder wound. Just as he aimed for another swing, his muscles trembled from a paralyzing torment as the log slipped involuntarily from his clasp.

Barely summoning his remaining vitality, he craned his neck to look for the source of the searing pain while that same pain made him slump on the cold canopy floor with a loud thump. There, like an insignia of death crafted on his shoulder, a gleaming silver dagger was buried halfway into his open wound, the torture intolerable by even someone his bulk.

He fell, face first, on the fog-moisten forest grounds as he heard that ominous laugh again. From his periphery, he could figure out the familiar silhouette of its source.

"Enough, Killey. That vermin will bleed to death soon before his brethren will find him. Let this be an omen to them."

That man's mad laughter rippled sorely within his consciousness like termites gnawing at his very essence as it faded away along with his minions'.

With a graceful motion that rendered his vision totally succumbing to darkness and his breath almost stopping to heave, a slender figure nonchalantly pulled out the dagger from his wounds, disregarding how much of his sinews and tendons were torn on the process and strode to rejoin the retreating aggressors.

He was always taunted for being dumb and forgetful but he would never fail to remember the bleak image of his murderer up to even beyond death.

***

Earlier that evening, deep in the jungle known to the locals as Dürham Woods, he traversed the gloomy pathway where that familiar trail of smell wounded into the dense foliage.

“Where are my cubs?! I told em not to wander far from the hasadran. They’ll sure have some beatings when I saw them.”

He sneered then hunched his hulking form to level his head back on the ground, sniffing. His hairy, pointed ears twitched as he scanned the dark for sounds other than the usual nocturnal noises.

But heard none, except for the jagged scrapings of his bare, clawed feet on the uneven forest grounds.

Bam, and so as his brethrens on the pack of Vendetta, is a lycanthrope. His towering height, complimented with his massive pysique, solicited fear among the normal townsfolk of Dürham even when he was not in his half-wolf state - which every werewolf could transform into at a whim.

It was different within the pack though. Bam could as easily be described as dim-witted as he was uncannily strong by his fellow werewolves, whom he had lived a nomadic life with on different hasadrans he could never count anymore.

A swift slithering movement grazed the corner of his deep blue eyes, distracting his olfactory scan of the area for signs of his cubs. He reactively stretched into his full height and mustered an ominous gurgling growl, his upper lip outstretched to display his sharp canines as to warn any unexpected aggressors.

He flinched a second later when a big gray owl emerged from a nearby shrub and flew hastily away, obviously shaken by the half-wolf's reaction. Bam grunted and shrugged as he snooped back on the ground to continue his lead on the scent his cubs have left. They must return soon.

The pack Seekers with the leader - Vendetto - will hunt for food soon and no werewolves must stay far from the hasadran's radius while the leader was away. He was almost two miles away the hasadran's fringe and could not even smell the urine track that marked the boarder of their encampment. Should Vendetto hear words of his absence, the leader will surely summon the Seekers to find "that dumb werewolf". Relentless punishments will sure follow when they found him, regardless of a rational explanation.

"Grah!"

Bam's thoughts might have meandered too much because he never sensed the shadow that emerged from the tall grasses nearby and brushed past him in a blur. The surprise that the apparition incured from the half-wolf sent him a couple of steps backward, barely struggling to find his balance back after he tripped on a tangle of root jutting out of the ground.

Then, before he could brandish his claws towards the dark patch where the figure disappeared, Bam felt it. Warm blood trickling on his forearm from a slit of flesh just above his biceps. The hulking werewolf clasped it tightly as soon as he saw the blood rush at a lethal pace.

"Graaah!!"

This time his curse was drawn from a seething anger within. Bam now realized what was used to inflict the unnerving wound, and he also was fully aware that the wound will not mend even with a licantrophe's uncanny immune system.

"Silver!"

*****

Tapos na po... bitin noh? Hehe.

Hala, May Mumu Dyan!

This is an excerpt from a short story I am composing as a prelude to a cross-over novel conceptualized by my friend Jai the Schizo. The idea is to create two separate storylines that will intersect somewhere along each other's plot. Jai will take on the Vampire part of the story and I will take on the Werewolf half. The saga will be entitled "Bloodlust" and will revolve around the dark age of blood feud between the two races.

"Memento Mori" below served as a practice ground, as this is my first time to write a gothic-horror literary. It is also a preliminary gauge if I could really grasp the "feel" that Jai wanted to depict on the story (hopefully, I could... carry na ba Jai?).

Memento Mori
by Randell Parcon

"per'Nay H'rrad!! per'Bigrah!!"

The guttural roar sent chilling frights to the core of the attackers' will to satisfy their bloodlust. It caused them a moment’s hesitation to continue their onslaught on the desperate prey, the laceration on his left shoulder already bathing the white spots on his mane an ominous crimson.

But that fleeting cessation was all he needed...

His razor-blade claws instinctively dug on the dry bark of a fallen fig tree that he, himself, has contributed to uproot after he was slammed against it just a couple of minutes ago by his aggressors. With a display of uncanny strength he was known for, he hefted the log on his right arm and immediately sensed his first targets, partially concealed from the moon's eerie cast as they skillfully swept the forest's underbrush to charge at him with weapons brandished.

Shiny weapons, he observed as the silver moonlight glinted from its sharp edges.

Grunting, he twisted his hulking form to their direction, swinging the timber wildly at the attackers’ general direction. His sight was failing from the agony of pain embracing his sinuous bulk but the viciousness of the wallop alone was enough to send two wailing figures hurtling away from its lethal path.

No time to even gasp for breath.

He frantically rolled the makeshift club on his only effective hand as the other hung limply on his side, soaked in gore from its gaping shoulder wound. Just as he aimed for another swing, his muscles trembled from a paralyzing torment as the log slipped involuntarily from his clasp.

Barely summoning his remaining vitality, he craned his neck to look for the source of the searing pain while that same pain made him slump on the cold canopy floor with a loud thump. There, like an insignia of death crafted on his shoulder, a gleaming silver dagger was buried halfway into his open wound, the torture intolerable by even someone his bulk.

He fell, face first, on the fog-moisten forest grounds as he heard that ominous laugh again. From his periphery, he could figure out the familiar silhouette of its source.

"Enough, Killey. That vermin will bleed to death soon before his brethren will find him. Let this be an omen to them."

That man's mad laughter rippled sorely within his consciousness like termites gnawing at his very essence as it faded away along with his minions'.

With a graceful motion that rendered his vision totally succumbing to darkness and his breath almost stopping to heave, a slender figure nonchalantly pulled out the dagger from his wounds, disregarding how much of his sinews and tendons were torn on the process and strode to rejoin the retreating aggressors.

He was always taunted for being dumb and forgetful but he would never fail to remember the bleak image of his murderer up to even beyond death.

***

Earlier that evening, deep in the jungle known to the locals as Dürham Woods, he traversed the gloomy pathway where that familiar trail of smell wounded into the dense foliage.

“Where are my cubs?! I told em not to wander far from the hasadran. They’ll sure have some beatings when I saw them.”

He sneered then hunched his hulking form to level his head back on the ground, sniffing. His hairy, pointed ears twitched as he scanned the dark for sounds other than the usual nocturnal noises.

But heard none, except for the jagged scrapings of his bare, clawed feet on the uneven forest grounds.

Bam, and so as his brethrens on the pack of Vendetta, is a lycanthrope. His towering height, complimented with his massive pysique, solicited fear among the normal townsfolk of Dürham even when he was not in his half-wolf state - which every werewolf could transform into at a whim.

It was different within the pack though. Bam could as easily be described as dim-witted as he was uncannily strong by his fellow werewolves, whom he had lived a nomadic life with on different hasadrans he could never count anymore.

A swift slithering movement grazed the corner of his deep blue eyes, distracting his olfactory scan of the area for signs of his cubs. He reactively stretched into his full height and mustered an ominous gurgling growl, his upper lip outstretched to display his sharp canines as to warn any unexpected aggressors.

He flinched a second later when a big gray owl emerged from a nearby shrub and flew hastily away, obviously shaken by the half-wolf's reaction. Bam grunted and shrugged as he snooped back on the ground to continue his lead on the scent his cubs have left. They must return soon.

The pack Seekers with the leader - Vendetto - will hunt for food soon and no werewolves must stay far from the hasadran's radius while the leader was away. He was almost two miles away the hasadran's fringe and could not even smell the urine track that marked the boarder of their encampment. Should Vendetto hear words of his absence, the leader will surely summon the Seekers to find "that dumb werewolf". Relentless punishments will sure follow when they found him, regardless of a rational explanation.

"Grah!"

Bam's thoughts might have meandered too much because he never sensed the shadow that emerged from the tall grasses nearby and brushed past him in a blur. The surprise that the apparition incured from the half-wolf sent him a couple of steps backward, barely struggling to find his balance back after he tripped on a tangle of root jutting out of the ground.

Then, before he could brandish his claws towards the dark patch where the figure disappeared, Bam felt it. Warm blood trickling on his forearm from a slit of flesh just above his biceps. The hulking werewolf clasped it tightly as soon as he saw the blood rush at a lethal pace.

"Graaah!!"

This time his curse was drawn from a seething anger within. Bam now realized what was used to inflict the unnerving wound, and he also was fully aware that the wound will not mend even with a licantrophe's uncanny immune system.

"Silver!"

*****

Tapos na po... bitin noh? Hehe.