Brave Mor'du Novels & Stories

He swallowed, however, he understood that he couldn’t just stop at Cillian, “Mordeu is a red wolf and regarding what Thaymor and The Pinnacle proposed, Mordeu is our best bet to win this war. He still has his sanity, he is strong, I cannot even begin to list his abilities. And although the Princess is of Thaymor, I’m sure they’ll understand, I’m sure they will allow her to do this.” “And what do you think they’ll ask in return?” Alvitir asked.

POV: Morga, Queen of the Raven Coven "Don’t move another inch, Rhea. If you take one more step, the seal on the child’s life snaps, and your 'miracle' becomes a tomb." Morga’s voice was like ice cracking under a winter moon, sharp and brittle. She stood atop the shattered remains of the Moon-Drowned Altar, her raven-feather cloak fluttering in the unnatural wind that still whipped through the ruins. Her violet eyes were no longer filled with the terror of a woman facing a goddess; they were filled with the cold, calculating triumph of a strategist who had just played her final, hidden card.

His arms were bruised, his face swollen, and his chest ached with each breath. — Am I alive… or barely alive? — he wondered. Then he heard it. A faint click. The sound of a lighter. The flame illuminated a face that looked carved from stone. Salvatore Al Moro. The Black Scorpion. Seated behind an antique desk, with a glass of cognac in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, he watched him unhurriedly. His dark eyes, deep as bottomless pits, pierced through him with that stillness that is more terrifying than a scream.

He smirked: "I'm not so easy to die, you go first." Elias charged at two hairy beasts with red eyes just like them. His claws are also longer and sharper than usual. His claws cut deep into their flesh, blood trickling down to the ground. But just a few seconds later, those cuts completely disappeared, as if Elias had never cut sharp cuts into them. The two beasts let out a few ghastly screams, their whole bodies emitting a strong fishy odor, and jumped towards him. Elias raised his arm covered in steel to support it.

Came the voice of the huge tall one who is their leader. He is Bradly and we know him as the orphaned boy. A nicknamed he was given from childhood before, he disappeared from Muldoch long time ago, only to return home a different person. He had come back with people who share similar interest with him and also, he had incited the inhabitants of the city to wedge a holy war on the witches. Unfortunately, I was one of the victims. Many of my people have been burned alive while, the remaining ones cannot be accounted for.

She was just standing there under the harmattan sun, in front of her dusty white Range Rover looking around , with Chad. The man approached them, he stood in front of them and said nothing with his arms by his side and eyes looking into thin air. Chad simply went to a tree by the side, and broke a short branch from it and came forward presenting it to the black Goliath. He took the branch gently, then studied Chad and Roma. " peace be unto you also..." his very deep voice sounded. " who do you seek?" " Mr and Dr Mrs Okorie, ochiri ozuo one of Duruewuru gburugburu" Chad replied

She mumbled words that could cause the enemies to kneel, burn, and experience tingling pain in their bodies as Emily exerted control over her power over them. Emily’s body was glowing, transforming into a moon goddess, wearing a white dress and a jeweled star on her forehead. “Morsus...” (Pain) “Combustum...” (Burn) “Interficio...” (Kill) Emily was saying those words, and slowly, the grunts and roars of the hunters and rouges were subsiding. Her eyes darted at the King and Queen of Rouges. Her eyes were dangerous and made her shudder.

Other breeds filled in: >The Morvath breed: broad-shouldered and iron-eyed, wrestled one another in displays of strength, tearing stone pillars from the ground and hurling them like spears. >The Velmari, pale and lean, drifted through the crowds. Their bites left no scars but sickness—small, deliberate kisses of plague that they gifted as souvenirs to mortal thralls who begged for the honor. >The Draemiri, ash-skinned and crowned with bone horns, they were known for binding mortals into dream-trances that lasted weeks. >The Zeryth, whose mouths split too wide and whose laughter bled into sobbing, the cruelest tricksters among the clans.

"Y-yes s-sire?" The old man stepped towards him and lifted his hood, showing his grey beard that covered almost half of his face. His dark raven hair was neatly tied up to his back. Dark crimson eyes stared at the young lad intensely as black smoke rose from the hood and creeped down to his hands. "You... To have the nerve to travel as far as this land young lad. And to have known of me, a being perhaps only known from stories told by your great forefathers..." Sensing the slight tension in their master's voice, the crows screeched excitedly as they saw him walk closer to the young lad kneeling down on the ground, looking so vulnerable and helpless like a small child.

"She broke the elders' lines just to keep them from touching her." Madox lay broken and bleeding near the northern craters, his graying fur matted with ash, his eyes staring blindly at the sky. He had wanted to break the Moonvael line to secure his own pride, but as he listened to the sudden, hollow silence of his own warriors, he knew he had achieved nothing but the absolute ruin of his pack's honor.