• 1-The Unmentionable Incident
• 2-The Meeting Of The Ants
• 3-An Accidental Death
• 4-Nails into Flesh, My Harm into Your Heart
• 5-Listen to The Echoes in The Mind
• 6-Orders Beneath a Waxing Moon
• 7-Haunting Melodies
• 8-Curious Facts
• 9-Ripples

"Need you.

Dream you.

Find you.

Taste you.

Fuck you.

Use you.

Scar you.

Break you." - excerpt from 'Eraser', by N.I.N

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Night still reigned supreme over the lands below her, for darkness had not relinquished it's folds quite yet. By the hour it was five minutes past three o' clock, the rumoured time that demons would walk the earth and ensnare their unwillling victims.

And at this moment by and by, there lingered such a demon that was creeping in the night.

His breathe was rancid beyond compare, his eyes as cool as inanimate glaciers that held a tinge of madness within them. Springy pale grey hair bristled on ends as the wind rushed through the strands, razor edged fangs slightly brandished in a confident smirk.

If the smell alone was not enough to kill you, then his deranged mannerisms would. Quite literally, as he fancied to consume flesh of his own race.

A great hulking figure of a man lurked patiently within the stagnant fog; crouched low to the ground. He tensed, extending every fiber of his being to percieve the world through a scope of sound. Every moment was critical to the pursuit of his prey and he would not deviate from his path.

He chuckled, vocal chords stringing a tune that was deep and imbued with evil intent.

His muscles rippled as he sprung from his shroud of white concealment, the murkiness hung over his mind that was so deep it struck roots into his very soul and consumed the strands of reason. Tides of lewdness cresting, then falling in his mind.

As he moved his powerful feet skimmed over the surface of the snow, causing pufts of fine white powder to burst up into the very air around him. Like a speeding bullet of tattered rags the werewolf made his trek over the land, ever focused on his ordered endeavor.

Pale and milky white with a streak of crimson, the lunar orb hung over the gloomy forest of beech and pine as it radiated light from it's circular body. It was waxing.

The ground whizzed by beneath him effortlessly, no human could keep up with his infinite stamina, and few creatures. Pausing once more, he inhaled the crisp air sharply as his blue eyes methodically scanned the darkness.

Nothing existed out here in the wilderness, nothing but the female auror he sought. There was only her feminine scent that pulsed into his nostrils, twisting his senses and igniting the synapses in his brain.

Scents were like personal calling cards: every body carried one, and no two were ever the same. They were riddles to others, unique in their structure; and only Fenrir held the methaphorical key to unlocking their mysteries. Founts of useful information could be extracted from the incorporal blueprints that were left upon the earth like a blazing neon path. There was much to be learned about a person or thing, just from their scent, and that gave Greyback an unusually perceptive edge over other witches or wizards. His sense of olfaction was a thousand times that of a regular bloodhound, perhaps even greater.

One half of the explanation for this could be that merely as in evolution, when one's talent, or 'sense' if you will; is suddenly rendered useless and is lost, all other talents are immediately honed and heightened dramatically. The means of aqquiring these adaptations was always there within the psyche to begin with, but circumstance merely creates a more simpler, benevolent environment for these qualities to expand.

The other half of the explanation would be that the disease lycanthropy heightens all one's primary senses distinctively.

The price is the shortening of one's own lifespan.

Long ago Fenrir had lost the means and the urge to practice magic, and thusly, losing this primary skill that was considered important in the wizarding realm, was replaced by the phenomenal acceleration
of all the other more 'mundane' abilities.

Witches and wizards in their arrogance do sometimes underestimate things that they do not completely understand. To explain, these 'mundane' abilities were in truth, not so mundane at all. For if one were to contemplate upon all the muggles past that had honed their mental abilities to become telepaths, telekinetics, pyrokenetics, and such one would realize that circumstance could create a formidable opponent.

For not only did Greyback posess godly senses, but he also had an advantage that not many could detect, and this advantage had been one of the reasons that Voldemort had chosen him from the beginning. He could read people without effort, as would prove in the future when the golden trio would not fool him as easily as his companion in the pub.

Fenrir posessed a frighteningly accurate perception. It was an awareness concerning the minds of others, he could not read
their thoughts of course, but his sense of observation was excelled to such a degree that he could in a matter of seconds formulate a personality profile in regards to a person, discern whether or not they were lying *disregarding
adept occullimens of course* and thusly calculate as to ensure his dominance in a situation.

Few knew how perceptive the beast actually was. At times this knowledge escaped even his own notice.

This ability had it's own limits though, as all things do. He never had been able to read more enigmatic individuals
or those who were well practised in veiling their mind from the unwanted gaze of others.

Voldemort would be an extreme example of this. Severus Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy. Those sorts of wizards/witches practiced in occulimency.

After all Fenrir's primal abiliity could not accomplish the impossible, he was not without his own weaknesses.

He merely followed the orders that led to meaningless outcomes to easily obtain victims without any rebuttal.

Fenrir halted briefly, tasting the woman's sweet scent that lingered on the air. He already was deviating in his thoughts and relishing the idea of what he was going to do to the auror when he found her.

Breathing for a moment longer he continued, springing up from his crouched position to leap over shrubs and logs with fluid reflexes.

Silver grey hair ruffled behind him as the wind blew upon his stubbly whiskered
face,which was coated with fleckings of dirt, presumably; and dried blood. Appearance really wasn't something Fenrir had ever concerned himself with, he could have done himself a favor by having a shave - though the chances of that were next to nil.

Unlike other creatures, he was not bound by such suffocating regulations. In his opinion he found wizards to be
useless meatsacks that abided by dead end rules. So many daily rituals they endured were foreign to Greyback, his life was a much simpler one in comparison.

Magic User regulations did not apply to beings such as himself, he was not part of their worthless race. He was a werewolf, and werewolves had no social laws outside the pack, there was none. Only kill or be killed, only the natural order of things, the laws of nature. Prey on the weak, and advocate the strong.

Cruel yellowed ivory fangs glinted in the sparse moonlight, Fenrir's rugged features spread wide in a mirthful grin reminiscent of a sinister jack 'o lantern that bobbed in the night grinning form ear to ear.

The hunt gave him infinite pleasure. Stalking prey, twisting and turning beneath the dark. This prey was clever though, and it filled him with amusement to stalk her. Her trinkets and potions did her no good. All he required was simple chemistry to light the way.

The bitch may have been clever, but this was his element. He owned the night, and in this world he reigned supreme. She would come to realize this soon enough.

He had been given this task as a diversion from the going ons within the tower. He enjoyed the fresh air and the excuse for a mid night jaunt. It had been supressing to reside with the tower amongst the Death Eaters.

The Dark Lord's pets did not appreciate the more brutish mannerisms that Greyback so tactlessly provided. In his perception, he found the witches and the wizards to be exceptionally close minded to ideals that threatened their own, to opinions that they found unsightly, or ways that they abhorred. He was what he was, and he would not bother attempting to fit in with those that would barely tolerate him if at all.

All the better to underestimate the lycanthrope, all the better if the opportunity ever presented itself when their vulnerabilities would be exposed and he would rip into their soft little jugulars. The liason of the werewolves and the magic users was strictly business. Voldemort had made that plainly apparent, from the moment he denied Greyback the Dark Mark , and everafter.

Test the leader's strength, for if the leader is weak, then he is unworthy to lead..... Ah, that was true,and yet...

Long ago Greyback had reasoned there was no point in ever crossing Voldemort, as he made a powerful ally, and a reputably worse enemy. Besides, what was the point of challenging the alpha of a pack that would clearly never accept him as one of their own? It was obvious that Voldemort had earned his status within the dark wizard heirarchy. He was no weakling. Fenrir grunted, bitter that he was considered by their standards to be lower than an omega wolf, which was easily one of the more insulting ranks one could be bestowed with.

Fenrir never tried to delude himself that their arrangement was anything more than a manipulation of his ... unique skills. In truth, Fenrir would never forget that , and what it meant to him.

For now, the wizards and werewolves were allied, but just so. Were the details of their agreement ever to change, there would be no hesitation at violence.

Fenrir did admittedly dislike taking orders from arrogant wizards, but he found it to be tolerable when he was given full reign to do whatever he wished in referance to children and other less fortunate souls. He was exceptionally good at waging psychological warfare, and made a fine bargaining chip when it came time for Voldemort to coax unwilling parents or persons in general to seeing his way of things.

Fenrir was a nefarious example that other werewolves admired. A true pioneer of his time, for until Greyback, there had been no place in the world for werewolves. They may not have had respect, but at least they had a common desire to revenge themselves upon the wizarding realm.

Panting, plumes of breath exuded from him, his iridescent blue eyes dialated with passion as he trailed his quarry with ease. Fenrir recalled with some mixed feelings the clandestine meeting he had with He -Who -Must -Not -Be -Named, previous to this journey.

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