Chapter 2 —The tombs.

   The first sixty steps are always the cruellest. Yet—in spite of this—I bear it all by still counting. It's what I abhor the most. Having to walk the unknown blindly, and never am I privy to seeing their exact way.

   Your only source of comfort and sense of direction apart from your fears and the scuffing sound of shoes batting against stoned steps, are two crows: mute—like scavengers perched along your hips as they continue to guide you onward.

   I sighed a shrug of weary resignation. With such little ounce of gratitude I'm allowed, one would think that by now I'd be attuned to such customs. However, each time it becomes more and more unnerving. Each time it becomes more and more intimidating. Each time, adding into the lot a loss of sight meant—the more we descended—the closer we got to the tombs...the closer we got to them all.

   The passageway alone feels confining, and the smell—on every occasion, I'm allotted to a foulness that I can't seem to ever put my finger on. It's disgustingly revolting. Almost decomposed, like rusty metal or aged meat; reeking of something old and wet. The oldness had to have been because of its structure. Informing me on just how long it has been holding and prominently linking the tombs with the over-ground. And of the wetness? Well—I doubt affection comes to mind when you think of a wet dog.

   All too quickly, we came to that point whereupon descending, the narrower the passageway started becoming; resulting in a combination of twists and turns before deviating back to a direct descend. I figured that this was done strategically on their part, so that beast would be unable to pass through the confinement without wrenching it out of shape. Meaning that—from this point on...man alone was permitted.

   My crows no longer moved alongside me. Instead, one walked in front whilst the other: behind. Their steps as usual sounding barely there yet steady.

   It was now when I'd started to hear them. Baying away at the night like a pack of rabid dogs with ferocious aggressiveness. No longer wishing to remain quiet, they appeared to be running rampant. I'm assuming since the show is over for them—that it was time to come out and play.

   From what I can gather, they're taking a turn at each other's throats; with at least two(2) having unleashed their Lycan Wolfskins. It's probably a battle for top dog of the week. 'Who would climb up the ranks to stand as his second? And who would bear the hellhound's mark of lethality?'

   An array of chants and cheers vibrating through the walls can also be heard. Those wanting the next round I'm sure of. And others—weighing the outcome. Savages. That's what they are, and it's worse hearing the light scintillating voices of women joining in on such raucous.

   Now at ninety-two steps, the hairs on the back of my neck gradually rose as we inched closer to the inevitable. At this point, I can't say with certitude that I know of what awaits me. For—many a time when I was thrown into their humble abode after having been caught, had left me with the likes of unwanted stares and nasty taunts. Likewise the mouths of those that would shape into ugly sneers and the whispers—the whispers and pointed fingers at me for making a mockery of their 'tradition'. For making a mockery of them, and for making a mockery of their lord leader.

   To most, I should be thrown into the strains, so that I may be painfully devoured and him—finally free of a much too troubling burden. Still, he refuses to do such and this fierce obsession of me has made others rally in wanting to turn against him. I've always thought that maybe they should turn against him if it could mean answering my prayers that he'll finally see reason and leave me be.

   Caught up in my thoughts, I misjudged my footing, slipping onto a chipped step. On instinct, I'd thought to grab hold of a crow, flailing my hands out to maintain balance but—my body had a mind of its own; swerving to the left, before contacting the passageway wall.

   Whatever it was that I'd landed on felt squishy...and cold, leaving me frozen. I don't want to even think the worst of what it could be. Yet the stench I'd smelt all along seemed much stronger — pungent—almost as though it was dwelling from this particular spot. I wanted to hurl all the contents in my stomach up.

   "Walk." I'm ordered by one of the crows—the one that's behind me; forgetting that obviously they too would've stopped as well. I'm unable to see which had spoken but, I do believe that it's the one given the name Gully. He's almost as tall as him. With broad shoulders and a bald head: flaunting too those similar deadman eyes and veiled countenance. Pushing off, we forge on.

   I'd reached in total—a count of one hundred and fifty (150). By this time, my legs were screaming in agony. The raucous now was vibrating away at its fullest and telling, by the way, everything felt open—spacious that is—we'd arrived at the entrance having made it to the bottom of the passageway.

   Soon, footsteps whispered around me, settling to my right before a repetition of ticking occurred. There's a short pause, some shuffling and then the ticking resumed. It's hard to comprehend with the raucous overshadowing it but, the ticking sounded almost much lighter than from when it had first begun. There's another short pause, before a quiet click resound. 

   Like all the times in the past, nothing happened at first until there was a shift and then a loud grind. The one barrier which had been blocking me from their humble abode gave way with a heavy groan, sliding smoothly open to then conclude with a dull thud.

   The tombs.

   A cavernous like crypt buried away beneath the over-ground; stretching into an enclosure of rough rocks, cobblestones and tunnels upon tunnels extending into hollows where they lay at night. Bearing dark depths that would cut into what little innocent light it offered voluntarily. Where no sound from the over-ground is heard and escaping? Unless you know of its small-scale of secret routes to freedom...its death do you part like him and his Command Warriors.

   I'm free of the blindfold and glancing up, I see that he's already here, casually seated atop his throne in nothing but leather pants. He's paying me of no mind, with his attention fully on the happenings in front of us.

   I remember as clear as day before the blindfold went on that, his course of direction—was the donjon. Just how did he get down below so quickly? And what exactly could I have missed? The only excuse I could fathom is that there must be another way in? Or, maybe even many other ways into which—I've overlooked.

   Old woman Grand-Mère's words before I was taken replayed in my mind, and I can't help but think that it 'is in sight'. Things are much too deceiving indeed.

   From behind me, there's another dull thud. Which— I'm sure is of the tombs being sealed off, before one of my crows stalked his way. Something round and dark rests firmly in the palm of his left hand. Could it be a key, the one that seals the tombs from the over-ground perhaps?

   Still rooted to the spot, my eyes are of yet to leave the crow as a quick hand-off occurred. Bending down, they exchanged a few words. Bloody hell! If only I was graced with the ability to hear as well as them. For once in my life, I would've gladly accepted the opportunity. It was too noisy, and I could make nothing out. One would think that the tombs were laden with hundreds of them but at most: more than fifty—less than a hundred, excluding their human matches.

   I'm undecided as to whether I should easily down the little offering of stone steps to place me directly in the tombs or—stay rooted and ignorant to them all?

   Alas, the happenings in front of me became excruciatingly hard to bypass as a roar erupted...Lycan Wolfskins were unleashed.

                                                                                       *

   A wide circle was formed around the enormously tall beasts standing at about 7 and a half-8ft in height. They were the darkest dredges of animal form parading around in thick, loose fur housing their bodies. These Lycan Wolfskins were of ash grey. Whilst others that I've laid eyes on, varied from a much darker colour. Some—the shades of dark grey. Whereas most—were pitch black.

   Never in my years would I have thought of such things existing. They're not wolves, but more so, an evolution of them. An uprising of what could  be if they given the opportunity to come out of hiding and run free. If this is the evolution of wolves, then I'd hate to see what the evolution of these mindless beasts would look like.

   An apocalypse of them.

   The air filled with hoots and bellows as one Lycan Wolfskin tore open the flesh of his opponent—drenching the sharp talons for claw-like nails with blood. Hands of a wide berth showcased the damage they can inflict with a simple crush as their fingers: fell elongated with an unusual naturalness; adding more to the damage that they can inflict.

   Jaws of death slavered with drool as they continued circling the other. Chests heaving and breaths: billowing out of them with large huffs before the Lycan Wolfskin that had his blood drawn first took the initiative, striking quickly.   

   It's a tempo of rhythms. 

   'Bup, bup, bup, bup, bup...

   bup, bup, bup, bup, bup...

   bup, bup, bup, bup, bup'. 

   With a swipe here and a slash there. The thirst for blood glittered savagely in their eyes.

   "Come on Lochna! Get a move on it. Show this mutt his place." One of the spectators—a woman to be exact, and probably a follower edged him on. She's not a match. For had she been one, she would've borne a wooden collar with metal spikes protruding around her neck. Besides that, she missed one very specific element of not being naked from the waist down.

   'Apart of tradition', the Collector once told me. The scanty attire is to show off their property and compare with the others on whose looks most promising on not being a boring bed buddy.

   She was beautiful, mind you, the spectator. With dark ebony skin, big round brown eyes and kissed with plush like cherry lips. Black Forest. That's what filtered through my mind, for she embodied the epitome of it. I'd wanted to taste her, yet—I knew that such an indulgence would've brought nothing but a betrayal of my expectations and imagination. This isn't a fairy-tale...This is purgatory.

   Consequently, I kept regarding them all in cold scrutiny and forced patience; wishing that I could get as far away from them as quickly as I possibly can. Every time blood was spilt, the louder they rose with their cheering, the more aggressive they became in their chanting. Swearing and laughing scandalously, many kept calling to one another, whilst others: jostled against and thwarted each other.

   His aloofness to everything, in general, was starting to rub off on me and now, I knew why the passageway felt and smelt so wet...Wet dogs were clearly lurking not far from it. Sweat encased with dirt and blood.

   "Affection my rats arse. These dogs are of no one's best friend," I murmured heatedly. That remark has eyes on me. His as well but, could he have honestly heard that from here...through all this commotion? Ducking my head quickly, I refused to stare too long as though I'm showing interest.

  "Me thinks, that she had better adhere to tradition...and quickly," said a Lycan Wolfskin, covered in grime and dried blood. His tone had an added bite to it and presuming by his appearance and mood, he'd not long ago partook his turn at top dog...and lost.

   He had a woman, his match, collar adorned with a leash attached to it in his hand and naked from the waist down, kneeling on the stone floor by his feet. She too, like my crows was mute, emotionless and stone stiff. However, I wouldn't count her as emotionless, for the evidence of some 'unwanted emotion' was the dried tear stains that left a streak of black down her oval pale face.

   She also had the territory pack's sigil. Like mere cattle, the sigil is burnt onto her arm, wrapping all the way into her wrist showing ownership. This one won't ever be leaving, or thrown into the strains...Fully bound and property of a Lycan Wolfskin until he's extinct. 

   "Do you have a problem, Santos, because if so, then I'm happy to oblige right here, right now?" said a deadly calm voice yet—there was no mistaking the underlying threat.

   No longer lounging atop his throne he stood beside me; hands clasped neatly behind his back and eyes: still upon the happenings.

   "My sire," said Santos with an exaggerated bow, "I only thought to engage in conversation with your match, who appears a little—if not too overdressed."

  "Whether she is overdressed or not need concern you," he told Santos monotonously.

   "But sire, many of us finds it of much concern. Is it you that holds the leash...or she?" came Santos's smart reply with a nod of his head in my direction.

   Naturally, I'd thought that Santos's remark would've vexed him. However—he seemed neutral. "Well, what can I say except in truth—I see it fitting at times to give pardon. So that the bearer of the leash wields it," he said. Pushing my hair aside to trace the back of his knuckles along the hollow of my throat, his tone was whimsically soft when he spoke. "It's the only freedom that she'll ever truly be allowed." Lip curled into a sneer, Santos merely nodded.

   Fingers began to circle slowly upon my racing pulse; stilling me like a paralyzed prey. As of late, such reactions have been occurring with him. Neither can I make sense or even begin to understand it. The only logical answer...is that I've been here too long.

   "Santos," the Wolfskin called nonchalantly.

   "Aye, sire."

   "Were I you, I would worry about the fact that I am back to the lower levels of kitchen duty than whether my match is upholding tradition. At least mine has yet to add an attempted gelding to her list of mischievousness. So, resign yourself to where you ought to be."

   From the corner of my eye I saw Santos tense visibly. Breathing heavily, he then began to wrap the leash more around his hand, giving way with a hard tug. His match shrieked, having been yanked forward as though she were a dog to rest on all fours. "Aye, sire." Another exaggerated bow is given on Santos's part, before turning around and sauntering away into a nearby tunnel.

   "You really are a bastard," I said.

   "Be careful not to rouse their beast, Jaxsa. Match or not, they wouldn't hesitate to mount what is not theirs...Especially if it means getting you in line," he stated firmly.

   I could hear the seriousness in his voice as his gaze roved intently over my face. The happenings in front had been long forgotten however, one part of his words struck me with curiosity.

   "She tried to geld him?"

   "I warned you not to rouse their beasts and yet—what comes to mind is that she tried to geld him?" He seemed rather nonplussed by my question.

   "Yes. For you never know, she and I could become wonderful companions in crime. "

   "Hmm, really now?" Something sounding like a purr resonated from him. "Interesting."

   "Yes, interesting indeed."

   "Lochna!" All the happenings in front ceased upon hearing the Wolfskin's voice. "That is all for now. Change back."

   Patches of fur and leathery like skin started to recede on mindlessly tall beasts whose bodies; having been exerted from the pummelling of blows and tears were breathing harshly.

   Their beasts of ash-grey were a huge contrast to the skin colours they wore in human form. One—whom I presume to be Lochna, reminded me of the Black Forest beauty, only that he had an added touch of brass. Dark ebony skin on a sinewy body walked with a sinuous grace like a cat towards a woman whom—was actually the Black Forest...Interesting. I can even see how some would probably think him brazen with such a display.

   And that of the other? Well, apart from the lengthy scar cutting into his lips and hair: long, matted down because of sweat and grime, was as black as a raven's plumage. Eyes like silver laid in a bronze of tawny steel, seeming almost feminine yet—masculine at the same time.

   "I should find it insulting that you deign to look upon others instead of me with that kind of desire." It's coolly whispered into my ears.

   "You call it desire and I call it of interest. Their merchandise seems far more appetizing, yes?" I chanced a glance at him, surprised to find his gaze upon me and wanting desperately not to show weakness. Those dead man eyes always bring about a weariness from deep within.

   "W-w-what?" I stammered.

   "Lochna!" he called out yet again, eyes never leaving mine and voice: strong and powerful. "From here on out, I crown you as my second." Instant rupture of cheers cackled throughout the tombs.

   "Ahwooooooooooooooo ou, ou, ouuuuu!" Lochna's head is tipped back, shoulders splayed apart, chest puffed and curving outward as his fingers spread wide open, before curving inward to release into the air his gratitude.

   Their like horses prancing around. Jumping onto the backs of some as well as parts of the tomb's rocky walls only to backward somersault with their arms and legs stretched out.

   It's like a bloody circus.

   I gauged on many; drawing bites out of their characters getting a little too carried away with wanting to take their pleasures out here in the open. For some—they've either thrown spectator or match over a shoulder and carried into a tunnel whilst others —continued to circus away.

   One— in particular, cared nought for the fact that he was before eyes, and that his collared adorn match—was shedding large bouts of tears. She was not a willing participant.

   Five steps more would've placed me directly in front of him before I found my path blocked. "You look spent. Why don't you turn in for the night?" It's an order disguised in the form of a question. He knew how passionately I felt about such things. The act of forcing one against their will for your selfish pursuit of pleasure is beyond heinous. 'It's tradition' I'm always told. Well, fuck their bloody traditions...

   It's rape.

   Steely fingers are then hooked into my elbow, pulling me into the opposite direction of what's to take place. The impulse to intervene, the need so strong to rip her from beneath him is bitterly frustrating and yet—I'm still following the leader. I may not bear an actual collar and leash, but the imaginary one dangling off me coils tighter around my neck as I'm wrenched back.

   The master dog leading his dutiful human.   

   Meanwhile, there's a cry of despair. Looking over my shoulder, I see that it's not just one but all who have remained in the outer cavity with their eyes upon my receding back.

    Once, I'd thought of the Wolfskin as one of Hell's Guardians, however, surveying this crowd here has me noting how evidently wrong I've been. Pitch black eyes met mine, accessing what they could from their Wolfskins in this form. Dozens of lips curled into ugly sneers in bodies partially hunched, staring me down as that one Lycan Wolfskin had his match by her hair, a hand clamped over her mouth and squeezing. Daring me to intervene with that twisted smile of his, her eyes are shut tightly as the violation begins.

    No—the Wolfskin himself is Hell. And they...they are his Guardians.

   "Dear God and Heaven's above," I whispered, my throat half choking on a sob.

   Feeling a slight pressure biting into my arm, I peered up at the Wolfskin. Frighteningly, I watch as a chilling, slow-growing—mocking smile curved his lips. "Indeed, Jaxsa...He's our God too."

SO I HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY THE CHAPPIE BUT NOTE...I WILL BE EDITING SOME PARTS THAT I'M SEEING COULD DO WITH A MUCH SMOOTHER FLOW OF WORDS HEHE.