Rogan had tried his best to learn about himself, this new strange creature that he’d become. When he first arrived in Blossom Forest, he had walked across the boundary without ever having heard tales of magic or myth; the only time such things were mentioned was as a derisive aside—spitting upon those who believed nonsense that could not be tasted or touched or smelled or seen. His was a pack of literal minds and serious hearts. The russet prince faced the world head-on, blunt and bold and unafraid, because the superstitions that others feared were no more than pointless stories. Rogan had never prayed to a god or given thanks to nature. He had never wondered what would happen to him after he died, because he felt with conviction that nothing would happen. The meat his mind animated would go still forever, an inert object; therefore, only what happened here and now in the realm of the living mattered. His firm rooting in the present, in reality, drove him inexorably toward goals of carving himself into a mighty warrior. If there could be an “afterlife” for one such as Rogan, it would come in the form of the tales wolves would tell of him . . . the stories of his bravery, his strength, his accomplishments.

Imagine his confusion when the first kingdom he stumbled upon belonged to vampires . . . and when the heiress of that kingdom bestowed upon him her deadly kiss.

The once green-eyed boy had possessed no framework to explain the unnatural scarlet glow of Diosa’s irises. They had hypnotized him with their beauty . . . the way the fiery facets of those rubies glittered and shone against the dark velvet of her face . . . yet he had passed their light off as merely a trait of the royal family. Something wolves in this land wore, like white fur or short tails. A genetic trait—a bizarre and miraculous trait, but explained by mundane means just the same. And as for the sharp slide of fangs into his flesh? Rogan believed Diosa had coated her teeth in a mysterious poison found only in Caidir Olc. He assumed that her bloodline had developed resistance to the agonizing toxin, and that her bite had been his initiation into their elite ranks. Foolishly, the young brute had welcomed the Change . . . had suffered the horror of his emerald eyes turning liquid and being replaced by glowering garnets, had felt the ache of fangs pushing past his gumline. It had taken weeks for him to finally ask Diosa why he could not digest prey anymore. And when she told him what he must do to survive, when she explained that his entire universe now revolved around blood, something inside of Rogan cracked. It was not a violent fissure that broke him. On the contrary, this crackling was more akin to the splintering of an eggshell . . . and from within that eggshell, true understanding was born.

Now the muscular vampire wore his Blood Mark with pride, as if it were the warpaint of a gladiator. Its unnatural carmine hue stood out like a fresh wound against the deeper cinnamon of his robes, slashed across the side of his neck where Diosa had bitten him. He accepted, at least a little, that magic was behind the glimmer in his lurid lanterns. Lupine blood had whetted his appetite and wetted his tongue, and it was delicious. Rogan never once mourned the life he’d had before Diosa and Caidir Olc. Such misery was simply not a part of his mindset. Running with the Night Creatures gave him the purpose he’d always craved—and for Rogan, that was happiness in its purest form.

He’d been wandering, searching for food beyond the gates of Caidir Olc. The oddness of the night-that-was-not-night disturbed him . . . but then he heard his Maker’s call as if she’d sung into his ears, voice lovely and irresistible and everything he wanted. Rogan obeyed instantly, changing course on a dime and galloping toward the source of her perfect music. He smelled the war before he heard or saw it. Wind brought with it the scent of chaos, of strife, and trembling threads of some perfume that had his loins tightening and his mouth watering uncontrollably. The mixture of Tempest and Arcus Irae, although he could not know the names of either of these bloodlines, shot Rogan immediately into madness. He entered the scene with maw gaping and wine-colored windows flashing, liver-hued hackles spiked at full attention.

Rogan processed very little of the battle raging before him. Snapshots of flying fur and writhing motion and the smell of blood blood blood was enough to launch him into furious action. It was as if a malicious puppeteer had taken control of his body; Rogan leapt with terrible grace toward the heart of the war, with absolutely no concern for his safety whatsoever. Chains tugged him toward one body in particular—that of the damsel with fur of coffee-black and eyes of burning red. He could no more deny this insatiable pull than he could eat the moon itself. The smell of raw wounds and saliva and heat and mud and his princess flooded his nares; he saw only Diosa and someone attacking Diosa, and something primordial and savage and merciless clawed itself to the forefront of his consciousness. A hideous snarl shredded his chest. Lips pulled back from fully extended fangs, venom already glistening at their stiletto points. PROTECT THE SWEOSTER! PROTECT DIOSA! KILL! KILL! KILL KILL KILL KILL—

The rest of the world went black, constricting around the form of a white wolf with blazing blue pools. Instinctual hatred erupted like a volcano inside of Rogan’s brain. He thought he might be sick with that loathing, so terrifyingly desperate was he to destroy this single creature. Later, if he survived, Rogan might learn that he had no choice but to hate this stranger, to revile him the intimate and permanent way he’d revile someone who had brutally murdered his family. His large physique barreled toward the ivoro, hoping to crash directly into his side and knock him away from Diosa. Rogan wanted to tackle the soldier, to wrap his forelegs around the pallid neck and shoulders and mesh himself against the other male as if to absorb him into his own flesh—erasing him from existence. As soon as he drew close enough, Rogan would snap at the stranger’s mandible—pushing his snout under his foe’s maxilla so that he could take the lower teeth and tongue and jawbone in his maw and rip it all from its hinges. So oriented on the face was he that it was still possible he may miss his target and latch onto the alabaster bastard’s maxilla instead—which meant, in the wrenching motion he planned, he’d be skinning the tissue from the brute’s snout clear down to the bone, if he were lucky.

Should he have failed to trap his enemy in a fatal bear hug, Rogan would make a second attempt to crush him with the full force of his weight. Close. Close. Must not let him escape. Kill kill. Still oriented on the upper portion of the Tempest, the vampire next aimed for the area of the throat just under the brute’s jaw. Protecting this vulnerable section at close quarters would mean that the Tempest would be forced to adduct his muzzle toward his chest—giving Rogan a clear shot at his face. If, however, the white warrior failed to react in time, Rogan would bury his knives to their hilt in warm, yielding flesh . . . clenching around muscle and cartilage and tender blood vessels . . . suffocating the Tempest, perhaps even hitting an important channel for blood and sealing the vampire hunter’s fate. His next two attacks were executed in the same fashion, each one aiming for some section of his enemy’s throat, jaws slamming shut and squeezing as he jerked his skull back and forth, trying to sink his teeth in deeper and tear any tissue he tasted to ribbons.


Mentions: Diosa and Drizzt
Attacks: attempts to rip off Drizzt's lower jaw, then repeatedly attacks the Tempest's throat for his three remaining offenses.