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#Post#: 20991--------------------------------------------------
Elseworld Story: The Wolf that Watches
DIR By: Coolcat207
Date: April 19, 2026, 3:23 pm
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Prolouge:
This story takes place in the same universe where it has that
"To Hell and Back" story. The universe with the specters and how
Kindron Darkfire went from powerful ruler to an exiled demon who
got screwed over thanks to Anubis' trifling ass. But this time,
we're gonna focus on a different character for this story. We're
gonna focus on the Hellsing Organization, mainly one member
known as Vendetta Zolnerowich. Now, when many people hear that
name, they would assume Vendetta is the child of Zeus... which
isn't too far off. But not in this universe. In this universe,
Vendetta is a nephilim, a hybrid of a angel and a human. The
archangel baby daddy was Ramiel, the watcher archangel of
thunder while her mother was a human.
Now, how did this young lady end up working for Hellsing? Well,
let's begin with Hellsing. The London never slept—not really. It
only pretended to, curling itself in fog and neon while the
monsters crept between the cracks. Some wore fangs. Some wore
badges. Some wore human skin so well that even angels hesitated
to judge them. And one night, in the bowels of an abandoned
warehouse near the Thames, the Hellsing Organization found a
monster of a different kind. She was small. Barefoot. Shackled.
A girl no older than twelve, with storm‑grey eyes that
glowed faintly in the dark like distant lightning behind clouds.
The traffickers called her “Lot 27.” The scientists called her
“the Wolf Vessel.” The spectators in the underground fight ring
called her “The Demon Cub.” But when Sir Integra Fairbrook
Wingates Hellsing stepped into that blood‑stained arena,
the girl lifted her head and spoke her name Vendetta with a
voice that trembled but did not break. It was the only thing she
remembered clearly. Her name and the thunder. The rest came in
fragments. A mother’s lullaby. A man of light and storm who
vanished before she could walk. Needles. Chains. A wolf made of
spectral fire snarling inside her chest. Screams—hers, and
others. The traffickers had been selling more than weapons and
Azurite. They had been selling children. Meta‑human
children. Experimented on, altered, broken, and forced to fight
for the entertainment of the powerful and the corrupt. It was
the kind of horror that governments preferred to bury under
paperwork and silence.
Integra had seen enough of that in her lifetime. She refused to
hand Vendetta over to any agency. She remembered what had
happened to Delta Raven—how “containment protocols” had nearly
destroyed an entire generation of gifted children. She would not
let another child be swallowed by that machine. So Hellsing took
the girl in. They discovered the truth slowly, carefully,
without pushing her past what she could bear. Vendetta was a
nephilim—half human, half angel. Her father was Ramiel, the
Watcher Archangel of Thunder. Her mother had been human, brave
enough to love a being of the heavens and doomed enough to pay
the price for it. And inside Vendetta lived something else. A
specter. A wolf forged from raw spiritual force, bound to her
through experimentation and pain. It's name was Ragna. Its power
was immense. It's rage match the wild nature itself. At first,
Ragna tried to tear its way out of her. At first, Vendetta
feared it more than she feared the dark. But years passed.
Training followed. Patience. Guidance. And slowly, the girl
learned to stand without shaking. To breathe without flinching.
To speak without whispering. To fight not because she was forced
to, but because she chose to. By sixteen, she could summon Ragna
without losing herself. By eighteen, she could ride into battle
with the specter at her side like a phantom wolf made of
lightning and fury. And by twenty, she was no longer the girl
rescued from a cage. She was a hunter. Not alone, either. V also
made a few friends along the way such as Senji "Voltan"
Hazeldine, a demonic dhampir who is a master of the blood arts.
Haru Ishida, a young human man who is a master archer, swordsman
and a spirit user. Last but not least, Jayda Silverfang, a human
darkness alchemist raised by a werewolf tribe who is an expert
gunslinger. With those three, V became part of an independent
motorcycle group of hunters called The Pack (the people called
them that. They just rolled with it).
Now that everything is settled, let's jump right in to the one
of the most recent missions that V went through.
Story:
Spectator: It's a knockout! Another match goes to the Tempest
Queen!
V is in the women's locker room, getting changed into her
civilian clothes after taking a cool shower. Another fighting
match won along with some euros. Before anyone ask, this is a
standard fighting match. Strictly no powers. V has been coming
to this fighting arena to fight as a hobby. It's not illegal.
More like a private club of sorts. V was tying her boots when
her phone buzzed next to her foot. V picks it up and sees that
it's from Voltan. Apparently there's a body at Whitechapel. So
much for a decent night sleep. After texting that she will be
there soon, V put it in her jacket pocket. She then finish tying
her boots, grab her gym bag and head out. Though on her way
back, a middle aged man jogs up to V, trying to stop her. V
knows him as Mr. Sang. He's basically the manager of the
building.
V: Mr. Sang?
Mr. Sang: V! Whew! Glad I found you. I need to talk to you.
V: Can't you just send me a text or something? I need to go
somewhere right now.
Mr. Sang: Normally, yes. But remember that punk from last week?
The one who was trying to get a fight from you?
V: You mean that psychotic assh0le who want me to fight to the
death for some damn money and glory? What the hell, I thought
Mac kicked his ass out and banned him?
Mr. Sang: Yeah, about that... he's one of those punks who don't
take no for an answer. He spat that he's gonna get a fight from
you one way or another. I threatened to call the cops if I see
his ass again, but he laughed and left.
V: sighs Great. Well, thanks for the heads up, Mr. Sang. I'll
keep an eye out.
Mr. Sang: You sure you don't want me to drive you home or
something? I mean, I got my wife cooking tonight. I know you
love her dumplings.
V: Thanks, but I got a job to do. I'll make a rain check on
those dumplings though. She place a hand on Mr. Sang's shoulder
with a thin reassuring smile after stopping by the main exit. I
promise that I'll be safe if you stay safe as well.
Mr. Sang: groans Alright, fine. But you better at least text me
that you're in one piece, understand young lady?
V: Of course.
V wave to Mr. Sang before stepping out of the building and
heading down to her motorbike. Putting on her helmet and kicking
her bike into action, she speeds off toward her location. Rain
falls in thin, needling sheets over Whitechapel, turning the
cobblestones slick and reflective like black glass. Neon signs
flicker in the distance — pubs, pawn shops, a 24‑hour
laundromat — all of them humming with that low, electric buzz
that Vendetta has learned to associate with trouble. She steps
off her motorcycle, boots splashing in a shallow puddle. Her
white military hoodie jacket reinforced with
Hellsing‑grade Kevlar and etched with faint sigils that
glow when Ragna stirs. Thunder rumbles overhead — not natural
thunder, but the kind that answers to Ramiel’s descendants.
Ragna’s voice curls into her mind like smoke.
Ragna: Smells like blood and fear. And something else… something
old.
V: Yeah. I caught it too. Whatever hit this place wasn’t subtle.
Ahead of her, police tape flaps in the wind. A crime scene. But
Hellsing was called in because the cops took one look at the
body and noped out. Vendetta ducks under the tape. The alley is
narrow, boxed in by brick walls and overflowing dumpsters. And
in the center of it lies the corpse — or what’s left of it. The
chest cavity is torn open, ribs **** outward like a grotesque
flower. The heart is missing. The eyes are gone. And carved into
the brick behind the body is a symbol — a spiral of jagged
lines, almost like a wolf’s maw. Ragna growls low.
Ragna: That mark… that’s not human. Not specter either.
Something in between.
V: A hybrid? Great. Because those always go well.
She grumbles sarcastically as she crouches beside the body,
examining the wounds. They’re precise. Deliberate. Ritualistic.
And then she notices something else — a faint trail of
luminescent blue dust leading deeper into the alley. Green
Azurite residue.
V: Someone juiced up on Azurite. That narrows it down to… way
too many suspects. She stands, cracking her neck. Alright,
Ragna. Let’s hunt. dials in Voltan with her phone Voltan, you
awake?
Voltan: "Of course, Live Wire. Sleep is for pu$$ies, anyway.
What’s up?"
V: Saw the body in Whitechapel like you said. Heart ripped out,
eyes gone, green Azurite trail. Looks like a hybrid
wolf‑type. You picking up anything on your end?
Voltan: "Funny you mention that. I’ve been tracking a
black‑market shipment of green Azurite heading toward the
docks. Could be connected."
V: Send me the coordinates.
Voltan: "Done. And Ven?"
V: Yeah?
Voltan: "Try not to die, will ya? I owe you a drink."
V: You still owe me three.
She replied with a thin smirk before hanging up. Ragna
materializes his head beside her in a swirl of spectral smoke —
a massive wolf with burning amber eyes
Ragna: The trail leads east. Toward the river.
V: Then that’s where we’re going.
Ragna dissappear as V head back to her motorbike. She swings
onto her motorcycle, revs the engine, and tears off into the
night — rain spraying behind her like silver sparks. 'Every rat
knows when a bigger predator moves in.' That was one of the
lessons taught to her by Akiba Hellsing when it comes to sleazy
people. The Rusted Lantern is the kind of pub that looks like
it’s been condemned since the Victorian era but somehow still
serves warm beer and cold fries. The neon sign outside flickers
like it’s dying of consumption. Inside, the air is thick with
cigarette smoke, stale ale, and the quiet hum of people trying
to forget their lives. Vendetta steps through the door, hood up,
coat dripping rainwater onto the warped floorboards. Ragna’s
presence coils inside her like a low, simmering storm.
Ragna: He’s here. Back corner. Smells like fear and cheap
whiskey.
V: That narrows it down to half the room.
But she sees him — a wiry meta‑human with pale, **** skin
and faint bioluminescent veins pulsing under his jaw. His name
is Marlow Finch, a low‑level Azurite runner who knows more
than he should and survives by knowing when to talk and when to
run. Tonight, he looks like he wants to do both. Vendetta slides
into the booth across from him.
V: You look like hell, Marlow.
Marlow: You should see the thing that’s been following me. His
hands shake as he lifts his glass. Not from withdrawal, but from
terror.
V: You called us. Said you had information about the Whitechapel
killing.
Marlow: Killing? Try harvesting. That thing didn’t just rip out
the heart — it took it for a reason.
V: leans forward What reason?
Marlow: swallows hard They’re building something. A pack. Not
specters. Not humans. Not hybrids like you’ve seen before.
Something engineered.
Ragna: growls lowly in V's mind He’s not lying. And he’s not
telling everything.
V: Narrows her eyes Marlow. Who’s behind it?
He glances around the pub, voice dropping to a whisper.
Marlow: A man called The Shepherd. He’s gathering
Azurite‑enhanced wolf‑types. Says he’s preparing for
the ‘Return of the First Howl.’ I don’t know what that means,
but—
Marlow then freezes. His pupils dilate and his pulse quickens.
All clear signs of fear. V feels it too — a shift in the air
pressure, like the room itself is holding its breath.
Ragna: V. Behind you.
V turns to see a figure stands at the entrance of the pub: Tall,
hooded, dripping from the rain. The patrons don’t notice him.
They don’t see him. His presence slides past their senses like
oil. But Vendetta sees him. And Marlow does too.
Marlow: whispers He found me.
The hooded figure lifts his head just enough for Vendetta to see
the eyes — glowing, feral, a wolf’s hunger trapped in a human
skull.
Ragna: Not a specter. Not alive either. Something in between.
When the figure slowly make his way to the two people, Marlow
cowers in fear behind the table, his eyes narrowing at V
Marlow: Don't just stand there! Protect me, damn it!
V: I am.
She stands, coat shifting as static crackles along her arms. The
hooded figure tilts his head. Then he speaks — voice layered,
distorted, like multiple throats trying to form one sentence.
Hooded Figure: The Shepherd sends his regards.
The hooded hybrid moves first. He lunges across the table with
inhuman speed, claws slicing through the wood where Vendetta’s
head had been a heartbeat earlier. Splinters explode. Patrons
scream. Chairs topple. Vendetta pivots, planting a boot squarely
into the creature’s chest. The impact sends him skidding across
the floor, smashing into a row of barstools.
Ragna: He’s fast. Faster than the last specter we faced before.
V: Yeah, well… so am I.
The hybrid snarls, eyes glowing like twin blue embers. He
charges again — but this time, Vendetta meets him halfway. Their
clash sends a shockwave through the pub, rattling bottles on the
shelves. Marlow cowers under the table, shaking uncontrollably.
The hybrid’s claws rake across Vendetta’s coat, sparks flying as
they scrape against the sigils woven into the fabric. She
retaliates with a thunder‑charged punch to the jaw,
electricity crackling up her arm. The creature staggers — but
only for a moment. Then it bolts for the door.
Ragna: He’s running!
Vendetta turns to her specter who just appear besides her, ready
to chase the figure down.
V: Ragna, protect Marlow. Don’t let anything touch him.
Ragna: Go. I’ll keep the little rat breathing.
Vendetta doesn’t hesitate. She sprints after the hybrid, boots
pounding across the ruined pub floor. She bursts through the
door into the rain‑soaked street just in time to see the
creature leap — straight up — claws digging into the brick wall
as it scales the building like a feral spider. Vendetta grins.
V: Oh, we’re doing that tonight.
She channels her nephilim powers, lightning sparking beneath her
feet as she kicks off the ground and vaults onto a fire escape.
The metal groans under her weight as she climbs, then she
launches herself upward, grabbing the rooftop ledge and flipping
over it. The hybrid is already sprinting across the rooftops — a
blur of shadow and green Azurite glow. Vendetta takes off after
him. Rain lashes her face. Wind howls between the buildings. The
city lights smear into streaks of gold and blue as she runs. The
hybrid leaps a ten‑foot gap between buildings. Vendetta
follows, landing hard, rolling, and springing back to her feet.
The assailant's heading east toward the river. The same
direction as Voltan’s lead. This can’t be a coincidence. The
hybrid glances back — and for a moment, their eyes lock. There’s
intelligence there. Calculation. And something else: Fear. Not
of Vendetta, but of something else. He snarls and pushes harder,
claws scraping sparks off the rooftop as he accelerates.
Vendetta channels a burst of thunder through her legs,
propelling herself forward like a living lightning strike. She
closes the distance.
V: Got you.
She lunges, her fingers brushing the back of his hood. But the
hybrid twists mid‑air, slashing at her face. She jerks
back, narrowly avoiding the claws, and lands on a narrow ledge
as he drops down into a dark alley below. Vendetta follows,
sliding down a rain‑slick drainpipe and landing in a
crouch. The alley is empty and silent. Too silent. He’s close.
But… something else is here too. A low growl echoes from the
shadows. Not the hybrid. Something bigger. Something older.
Vendetta straightens slowly, eyes narrowing.
V: Alright then. Come out.
A shape moves in the darkness — massive, hulking, with eyes like
burning coals. And then a voice, deep and resonant, rolls
through the alley:
Voice: The Shepherd does not appreciate interference.
The growl rolls through the alley like thunder trapped in a
throat too large for the world. Vendetta’s breath fogs in the
cold air as she slowly turns toward the sound. The shadows
shift. Then the Beast steps forward. It’s massive — eight feet
tall, hunched, with fur like scorched iron and bone‑plated
shoulders that scrape the brick walls as it moves. Its eyes burn
a molten orange. Older. Hungrier. Its claws are long enough to
carve through steel. Vendetta’s hand tightens around the hilt of
her claymore sword.
V: Well. You’re definitely not house‑trained.
The Beast snarls at the response of V's taunt, saliva hissing as
it hits the wet pavement. Behind her, the hooded hybrid drops
from a fire escape, landing in a crouch. He bares his claws,
ready to pounce. Vendetta shifts her stance.
V: Two on one? Cute. Let’s dance.
But before the hybrid can move, the Beast whips its head toward
him and unleashes a roar that shakes the windows above them. The
hybrid flinches, stumbling backward like a scolded dog.
Beast in a layered and guttural voice: Obey. The Shepherd
commands.
The hybrid freezes at first before bowing in obedience. Hooded
Hybrid: Forgive me.
He shoots Vendetta one last hateful glare before sprinting up
the wall and vanishing into the night. Vendetta exhales sharply.
V: Great. Just you and me now. And I'm guessing that I'm gonna
beat you senseless in order to get some answers from you, huh?
The Beast steps closer, claws carving grooves into the pavement.
Beast: Questions are useless, Nephilim. You will not live long
enough for answers.
V: Worth a shot.
The Beast lunges so fast, V barely dodges the first swipe. The
claws slice through the air where her head had been, leaving a
shockwave that rattles her teeth. She retaliates with a
thunder‑charged punch to the Beast’s ribs. It barely
flinches. She tries aiming for the joints but The Beast grabs
her by the coat and hurls her across the alley. She slams into a
dumpster, denting the metal. Pain spikes through her ribs. She
forces herself up as The Beast charges again. Vendetta leaps,
vaulting over its back, landing behind it. She use her claymore
sword to slash at the tendons behind it's knee. Sparks fly, but
the blade bites deep enough to make it stagger. The Beast roars,
spinning with terrifying speed. Its claws rake across her arm,
tearing fabric and drawing blood. Vendetta grits her teeth.
V: Okay. That actually hurt.
Lightning crackles along her skin as she channels her father’s
power. The air vibrates. Her eyes glow faintly green. She dashes
forward — a blur of thunder. Her blade pierces the Beast’s side.
It howls, swiping wildly, but she ducks under the blow and
drives her knee into its jaw with enough force to crack bone.
The Beast collapses to one knee. Vendetta raises her blade for
the finishing strike, but the Beast suddenly stops moving. It's
body begins to dissolve into black smoke. Vendetta freezes,
blade still raised.
V: Oh no. You’re not getting out of this that easy.
The Beast’s fading form lifts its head, eyes burning brighter as
its voice echoes unnaturally through the alley. Then he says
something that made the young hybrid's blood run cold and her
grip of her weapon tighten.
Beast: The Shepherd sees you, Vendetta Zolnerowich. He knows
what you are. What you carry. And he knows the storm in your
blood is waking.
V: What the hell does that mean?
The Beast’s jaw splits into a grotesque grin. Beast: The First
Howl rises. And when it does… you will kneel.
The last of its body dissolves into smoke, leaving only the echo
of its laughter and the stench of burnt fur. Vendetta stands
alone in the alley, rain washing the blood from her arm. Her
eyes stay fixed on the empty space where the Beast vanished.
V: quietly: It... It knew my name.
V was only able to snap herself out of it thanks to Ragna
mentally calling out to her. That was when Vendetta finally
exhales, steadying herself before responding. She wants to head
back to Marlow and Ragna before something else decide to pop up
and say hi. But even as she turns to leave, the Beast’s final
words echo in her mind like a curse she can’t shake.
The First Howl rises."
Whatever the hell that means, it's obviously not good. And for
the first time in a long while, Vendetta feels afraid. It didn't
take V long to make it back to the pub... which is now a wreck.
Tables overturned. Glass shattered. A claw mark carved through
the wall like a warning. But Ragna stands in the center of it
all, massive and spectral, his bone‑plated form shielding
Marlow like a guardian wolf carved from stormlight. Marlow is
curled in the corner, shaking so hard his teeth chatter.
Vendetta steps through the ruined doorway, wiping blood from her
arm. Ragna’s head snaps toward her, eyes glowing.
Ragna: You’re hurt.
V: I’ve had worse.
She reassures him as she pats his head lightly. She then walks
past him and crouch in front of Marlow.
V: Hey. You still breathing?
Marlow: slowly nods I couldn't help but use my clairvoyance to
take a peek. W‑What the hell was that thing? That wasn’t a
hybrid. That wasn’t—
V: A Beast. Engineered. Loyal to someone calling himself The
Shepherd.
Marlow: Then it’s worse than I thought.
V: Start talking.
Marlow swallows hard, eyes darting around like the shadows might
bite him. Marlow: The Shepherd… he’s not just building a pack.
He’s building an army. Azurite‑enhanced,
specter‑infused, obedient to him alone. And he’s been
collecting… special bloodlines.
Vendetta’s stomach tightens.Special how?”
Marlow: ...Nephilim. Dhampirs. Spirit‑touched humans.
Anyone with power in their veins. He wants them. Or he wants
them dead.
Ragna growls low, protective. Vendetta stands, jaw tightening.
V: Alright. That’s enough to take upstairs.
She pulls out her comm device, flicking it on. The encrypted
Hellsing channel crackles to life. After a moment, a familiar
voice answers — crisp, composed, and carrying the weight of
command.
Integra: Sir Integra Hellsing.
V: Sir Integra, it's Vendetta.
Integra: "What's the status report?"
V: Straightens instinctively: Ma’am. We’ve got a situation.
Whitechapel murder wasn’t random. It’s tied to a group calling
themselves The Shepherd’s Pack. They’re engineering
wolf‑hybrids and something bigger — something older.
Integra: “Define ‘bigger.’ ”
V: Glances at the claw marks gouged into the wall. A Beast.
Eight feet tall. Bone armor. Intelligent. It knew my name. It
knew what I am.
Integra: "…Continue.”
V: The Shepherd is targeting meta‑humans and
specter‑touched individuals. He’s building an army. And he
sent that Beast to deliver a message.
Integra: What message?
Vendetta hesitates — not because she’s afraid to say it, but
because repeating it makes it real.
V: He said the First Howl is rising. And when it does… I’ll
kneel.
Silence fell. Even the rain outside seems to stop. Finally,
Integra speaks, voice colder than steel.
Integra: "Understood. Zolnerowich, return to base immediately."
V: Not right now. I have a informant here who has some knowledge
on this group. Intel that we need which makes him a target.
Integra: “Then bring him. He will be placed under Hellsing
protection.”
V: With due respect, ma’am… Hellsing protection isn’t enough.
Not for this. The Shepherd’s already got eyes on him. He needs
to go off grid. He stays with The Pack. We’ll keep him alive and
hidden until further notice.
Integra exhales — not annoyed, but calculating. Integra: “Very
well. The Pack will assume temporary custody. But Vendetta..."
Her tone then sharpens. "Do not underestimate this Shepherd. If
he knows your name, he knows your bloodline. And that makes you
a priority target. Don't let your guard down for even a second.”
V: I will remain vigilant.
Integra: “Return when you can. Good work. Hellsing will prepare.
May God be with you."
The comm clicks off. Vendetta pockets it, turning back to
Marlow.
V: Alright. You’re coming with us.
Marlow: Us? As in—
The pub door creaks open. A motorcycle engine rumbles outside. A
familiar voice calls in:
Voltan: Yo! You two done flirting with death? We’ve got company.
V: smirks The Pack’s here. You’re safe now.
Marlow looks up at her — terrified, exhausted, but trusting her
more than anyone else in the world right now.
Marlow: What happens next? He ask as Vendetta steps into the
rain, eyes scanning the rooftops. She cracks her knuckles,
thunder sparking along her skin.
V: We hunt The Shepherd.
Epilouge:
Deep Beneath the Thames, somewhere unknown, The chamber is lit
only by cold, blue lanterns. Their glow crawls across the stone
walls like ghost‑light, illuminating runes older than any
human civilization. The air hums with power — restrained,
waiting, hungry. At the center of the room stands The Shepherd.
Tall. Hooded. Cloaked in a mantle of wolf‑fur that shifts
like living shadow. His eyes are hidden, but the air around him
bends as if refusing to touch him. Before him floats a scrying
pool — a surface of liquid darkness that ripples with images of
Vendetta Zolnerowich. Her fight. Her lightning. Her defiance. He
watches her with the patience of a predator who has already
chosen his prey. Footsteps echo behind him. Two figures enter.
One is Hugo “Sollix” Garnier, a Faust wolf cambion. His eyes
burn with a wolfish gold, and his aura radiates barely contained
violence. He bows his head slightly.
Sollix: She survived the Beast. Impressive… for a half angel.
The other figure is Valka Amkhar, a werewolf and human hybrid
who came from a forgotten tribe that was wiped out long ago. She
lazily rest her hands on her belt which holds her guns, a lazy
sneer form on her face.
Valka: Let me hunt the little brat. I would like to see if that
hunter organization taught her anything useful. If what we saw
was it, then I'm gonna be disappointed. But not as much as being
blue balled into going after the bastards who treated me like a
damn lab rat.
The Shepherd raises a hand, demanding silence which falls
instantly. He then speaks, his voice calm. Too calm. Like a
lullaby sung by a wolf before it bites.
The Shepard: Your rage is justified. Your scars are earned. But
vengeance without purpose is wasted. He turns from the scrying
pool, facing his lieutenants fully. Mankind will pay for what
they did to you. To all of us. Their cruelty. Their cages. Their
experiments. Their arrogance. But not yet.
Sollix: growls under his breath We have the numbers. The hybrids
are ready. The Beasts obey. Why wait?
The Shepherd steps closer, placing a hand on Sollix’s shoulder.
The cambion stiffens — not in fear, but in reverence.
The Shepard: Because our greatest weapon is not ready. He
gestures toward the scrying pool. Vendetta’s image flickers —
her lightning illuminating the alley, her blade buried in the
Beast’s hide. She is the storm Ramiel left behind. Untamed.
Unshaped. Unaware of her true potential.
Valka tilt her head curiously, though her smirk widen when it
clicked Valka: You want to test the pup, don't ya?
The Shepard: Yes. His voice deepens, layered with something
ancient. Before the First Howl rises, I must know if she will
break… or ascend.
Sollix: “And if she ascends?
The Shepherd: Then she will kneel.
The lanterns flicker violently, as if recoiling from his words.
Valka steps forward, her form flickering like a candle in a
storm.
Valka: And what of Lord Anubis? Has he answered?
The Shepherd turns back to the runes carved into the stone. They
pulse once — a heartbeat of dark power.
The Shepard: He will. The Demon God has his own plans against
those who will oppose him. He is confident that his plans will
work, especially ever since he exiled the former ruler of Hell.
But he won't say no to a bit of extra help here and there.
Sollix: So the demon lord joins our cause.
The Shepard: In due time. His support will come when the world
is weakest in exchange that we stand by his side once he reigns
over all. For now… we watch. We wait. And we prepare. Soon, my
wolves. You will have your revenge.
A low, collective growl echoes through the chamber — dozens of
unseen hybrids answering their master.
The Shepard: And soon… we will see what the Nephilim of Thunder
is truly made of.
The lanterns extinguish. The darkness howls.
End Story
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