Halven trodded along the tiled floor of his cavern. Stone walls carved by wind and wear stretched before and behind him, their rigged demeanor giving the space a more cavernous feeling. The air was stale and cool, barely noticed however by the ompyre. Really, it was a bonus of being one of the so-called “cursed” breed. The ability to feel the temperature of his surroundings, but not have it affect him had led him to many a victory in the face of territorial enemies. Here, in this older cavern, it also allotted a certain amount of uncare for intruders. Not many ponies, especially the superstitious folk in these parts, would willingly trot into a cold, dark cave.
Another bonus. The ability to see in the dark was shared by all supernaturals, but was especially strong in the ompyre race. Having been born of two vampyres, he was the culmination of their strengths in one body. Having the ability to see colors in even the darkest of nights, and having the ability to mist at the speed of twice the speed of a galloping stallion, it was no wonder the stallion had remained undefeated as of yet. He smiled at the thought of his many victories, absently rubbing at a low gash on the bottom of his right foreleg.
The wound would never heal, he knew that. It was one of the disadvantages of being of any form of vampyre. They fed off of the blood of the living, transforming the energy to a smoky mist that transferred the energy throughout the body. Unfortunately, as part of their curse, for the unholy sin of taking another's life to preserve their own, that same life-preserving energy would not save its user. It was only a small setback, seeing as he was rarely on the lower hoof of a fight, but a setback nonetheless. With his eternal life secured by already finding “the one”, he would have a long time to plan the securing of his coven in eternity.
Halven shook his head at himself. He wasn’t going to secure his name and those of his coven in history by standing around like an old fool. Though old he was. It had to have been a thousand years since his birth, and he could not remember his birth parents as they had been killed by the good folk of Glandisdale. He had only been spared the same fate by the leader of their coven, Teir if he could remember that. Teir had refused to let him know even his parent’s names, as he said the attachments of the past had no connection to the present. Instead, he grew in the dark, learning only of blood and death, as he was trained to kill as only a weapon could by Teir.
The other curse, the darkness he was condemned to as a side effect of being born a monster. As well as having twice as much strength as his vampyre cousins, he had twice the weakness of them. The sunlight was near instantaneous death for him, and even the moonlight left him burnt and his energy sapped. All he had ever seen for light was flame, and even that made him wince back in fear for death as he had been trained to. Now, as the lord of his own coven, he allowed himself to travel outside of the caves on the three nights of no moon.
For the most part, his lycan, Sureblood, hunted for him, although Anthrax also hunted. The other thirty members of his coven mostly hunted for themselves, though he had to reign in their prey. The area they currently controlled was lightly populated with only a couple hundred ponies in six different villages. The small communities were the most threatening, because a missing member of the community would not go unnoticed like in the larger towns. The same would go with the local fauna, and thus, despite thousands of acres of land, they were only allotted a couple hundred of actual hunting ground.
Halven nearly started in surprise at his own arrival at the main chamber of the caverns. The room was dimly lit by large oil lanterns set on carved out holdings in the wall, shadows flickering to and fro as members of his coven moved about the chamber. Some gave verbal acknowledgement to his arrival and others simply nodded to him as he passed. Many of the ones he spotted were not willing members, instead survivors and traitors who, upon finding themselves without a head if they stayed with their coven leaders, fell under his wing’s spread. That was fine by him. If they weren’t loyal to him, fear would keep them in line just as well.
There was one familiar face in the large cavern, a comfortable face that gave him a bit more step to his stride. Mantris, a werewolf by birth, was standing amidst the cool stream that ran slowly through the large cavern. Much of the coven had grown tired of the mud-tasting fish that swam through it, but the earth pony supernatural seemed to still have taste for them. Come to think of it, everything he had seen her eat seemed to come prepacked in mud and coated in a light layer of dust. It may have been a side effect of her species, but Halven silently believed that it was just because the four hundred something year old was a special case. Very special.
As if to prove his mental deliberation correct, she shot her muzzle straight into the cold water. It came up just as fast, a fish flying into the air after it. It slapped the wet stone besides the stream, flopping desperately as it found its situation foreign. Mantris giggled with gross fascination, a clawed paw reaching out to pin it to the slick stone. It was something else Halven had never been able to understand, those tiny appendages at the end of where her hoof should be. It seemed that becoming a werewolf, or relatively akin to the species, changed the genetic structure of the hoof over the moons, so that the being affected would be blessed with toes, the closest to the head being opposable. Though he had never been able to prove the theory, he knew that of the three lycans and nine werewolves in his coven, all of them featured the things, born with them or not.
Mantris looked up from her soon to be meal, sensing her master’s approach through the silent chaos of the chamber. She gave him a cool, double-edged smile with her sharp fangs, the blades yellowed in the subpar oil lantern light. Loyal, yes. Devious beyond even her own knowledge, yes. Treacherous, never. It seemed to be against her very nature to think nothing but good of her master, so much so that he felt if he wasn’t already married, she would be pining for his hoof. Actually, she might still be, though she didn’t even have a chance at catching his eye.
“Mantris, I require your skills,” he stated in a passively commanding voice, enough to let her know he was serious, but not enough to allow others to know of the severity of the need. Not that it was much, but if those less willing to… follow were to hear, they would be less concerned of the situation. Mantris smiled sardonically, gliding one of her claws across the fish’s belly. She stuck her mouth against the open wound, sucking the insides out quietly, her eyes keenly concentrated on his face. Halven kept it demure, letting no emotion betray how truly unpleasant he felt about the whole thing. It wasn’t like he didn’t also have a taste for the softer bits of his food, but the blatant display was unnecessary.
Sighing as she continued to bite the eyeless head off and pull the skin from around its ribs into her mouth. Chewing slowly, she raised an inquisitive eyebrow as if to ask of his thoughts on her eating. To answer, he simply asked, “Enjoying that?” She nodded slowly as her eyes narrowed more with each nod of her head. It was not with hostility though, more like as if to try to put her view solely on his eyes. “Very well, then,” he said, turning slightly to enter the stone corridor that led to the cave’s large entrance. “Come along.”
Halven didn’t bother to check if Mantris was following, the distinctive clicking of her claws easily matching his pace gave her away. His own hooves clicked loudly on the smoothed over floor, though the silent shuffling as his coven members seemed to swallow the noise beyond his own ears. The small crowd parted wherever he walked, leaving a wake of lost looking ponies. In truth, he didn’t really have any current use for them. They were more for if another territorial war came about. The bulk of them didn’t know basic combating strategies or how to fight without relying on their supernatural talents. That was alright though. They were the pony shields of his army, expendable and replaceable and distractors from the real warriors. Which included the strange pony behind him.
He exited into the much narrower corridor, the smoothed stoned walls squeezing his thighs softly. The sensation was familiar from more intimate experiences, though the pony behind him hadn’t from her sudden sharp intake of breath. He smiled, though he did so carefully as to not let her see it, at the still youthful sense she had amongst the more pleasurable times of the night. She would find her mate soon enough, he knew of it. She was fair enough looking with her gently curving barrel, and she wasn’t so strange as to drive away stallions, though she might eat them before discussion. She was more intriguing upon first meeting, at least, that was what he thought of her when they first met.
They came out of the first corridor into a slightly larger corridor that had three different turnoffs on the left side. Each one led to a series of small rooms, each artificially carved for the members of the coven. There were several others deeper in the cavern for the married couples in the coven. As far as he knew, and that was pretty much everything considering it was his domain, only five married couples inhabited his cavern, including himself and his mate. The oil lanterns weren’t the only light source now, as the flowing stream that had reentered the corridor glowed softly in the pale blue moonlight from the top of a narrow ravine. Halven clung to the far right wall, the rock overhanging him protecting him from the lethal light.
Mantris walked slowly, deliberately in the moonlit water, a loopy grin on her face as she splashed the water at him. He rolled his eyes at the youthful werewolf, keeping his pace steady, hardly minding the light. He had been up here enough to know whether or not he was actually in danger. It wasn’t that he had to fear the light, more like acknowledge it. If he knew what was there, had knowledge of his weakness, then he had no reason to fear it. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t act foolishly, if not mindlessly, about where he was. He had lived without light for centuries, a simple moonbeam was not going to end him.
However, despite the constant mental conversation he held every time he passed his executioner, he found himself letting out a silent sigh of release. The werewolf besides him didn’t seem to notice due to the lack of a challenging movement or statement. Instead, she seemed to simply continue on her splashing. The noise echoed in the small chamber, and his head snapped to her as a harsh hiss escaped his mouth. She ducked her head at the intensity, though she did not protest at it. She knew as well as him that at any moment a pony could be standing at the top of the ravine and hear them.
He shook his head at her foolishness before continuing into the entry chamber. The large space was about a third the size of the main chamber, not large but far from small. In it stood three figures. One was Anathem, one of his most loyal coven members, as well as the oldest vampyre. Her sleek green coat had the ever present sheen of all vampyres, her silver mane glistening from the moonlight of the entrance. Her eyes were a soft scarlet wrapped around two black marbles, though they weren’t focused on him, but rather, the second figure in the room.
Standing tall on his hind legs and nearly twice the height of a regular pony, Sureblood was talking near silently to the third figure. His snout was slowly shrinking back to its regular size, his fangs shrinking with it. Sticky, half-dry blood clung to the bristles of his muzzle, evidence of a successful hunt. His sharp silver eyes were beginning to return to their usual size, becoming more circular than slitted. His voice was still transferring from a low growl to the smooth, yet unsure volume it transferred. Like Anathem, the lycan’s eyes weren’t focused on the entrances of the chamber, but the third and final figure.
Omen stood on all fours, the might and dignity of an entire civilization held in his stance as his sharp black eyes bore into Sureblood’s. His loose brown mane flowed gently in the low breeze that drifted through the entrance to the cave. His pure white coat shimmered in the bright moonlight, the sheen of an ompyre making him look even more commanding. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was already Halven’s second, he would’ve become a fierce rebel amongst his ranks. He was the most loyal in the coven, and why not? They were mates after all.
He was the first one to notice Halven, as he was positioned so that the entry into the chamber from the main hall was within eyesight. He nodded towards him, catching the other two’s attention. All eyes turned to him as he approached them, sticking to the outer edges of the chamber. He kept his demeanor poise, slow smile spreading across his face as he neared them. It was a strategy, really. Allow them to not know whether they were truly being congratulated on a successful hunt, or being mocked for an unknown failure. Of course, with this lot it was always the former, seeing as they were all only the most loyal of the coven. Even Sureblood, who was barely fifty years old, seemed to have the dedication of an adoring child.
Mantris giggled furiously at the whole display, her tail twitching this way and that as she watched her master’s movements. “Well,” he asked imperiously. “What is the report?” The sudden production of sound gave the young lycan a start. He was usually one to wait for the report to be given, and then ask questions, but tonight required a different approach. He had felt the evil eye of Galtry, one of the oldest conquered lycans on him, and knew that a time was nearing when there would be blood shed. He needed to be prepared for it, which was why he had brought Mantris along.
The report was really just a front amongst the other… less trustworthy of the coven. Really, he had gathered them together -without their knowledge- to discuss the matters of their arising enemy. Once the report was given, he would discuss such matters with his makeshift counsel of allies. He needed to make sure that their loyalties lied firmly in him, and that they knew what they must do to keep the rest of the coven in line. If he was indeed correct, there would be more than one insurgent to dispose of when the fight was done with. He actually was looking forward to it.
“Well, master,” the nervous lycan began, “I was out hunting the usual area, when I came across a filly. It had been forever since I’d tasted pony flesh, and I couldn’t stop myself from taking her. She was delicious, nice and tender, with just enough size to her to fill me up but not overstuff me. Then, in the middle of feasting, a colt slightly larger than her came around the bend. He was really foolish, charging me like some knight of the Royal Army. I threw him aside for later, believing that the colt would be easy prey seeing as how I had already injured him.
“I was gonna bring him back to you as a gift, but when I finished the filly, I couldn’t find him. The swampwater covered his scent, and I couldn’t see him in the shadows. I was going to search longer than I did, but I picked up another scent, an unfamiliar one. It came from a copse of trees just to my left, and was strong enough that I knew it was real. When I backed away from the swamp, I took a detour to circle back to the point. When I got back, I found the epicenter of the scent. It was one of a lycan, though not of our coven.”
During Sureblood’s rant, Halven’s eyebrows had been slowly rising until they now touched his mane line. All thoughts of Galtry and the insurgents had vanished in light of this flood of new information, his mind racing through the situation. If there was now an injured colt out there, tarnished by one of his own, he would have to go collect them. He had never dealt with a situation like this, but he had thought through this kind of situation. He would go personally to collect the young one, as his charisma allotted the respect and trust of many he spoke to.
He also had something else to dread. The fact that there was another lycan in the area that more than likely bore witness to Sureblood’s failure was concerning. Was this a lone roamer who just so happened to chance upon the same prey as one of his own, or was it worse. Was this a member of some newer coven, sent to spy and report his own’s hunting grounds and activity. If so, would it report about the missing and injured colt, or was it the leader of its own coven. The colt was now an essential commodity, one that he needed to have in order to keep ahead of them. In his experience, he found that a single lycan could tear apart a small coven of five or six vampyres. If he had another, he would surely be ahead of the competition.
“What does this mean, master,” Mantris asked expectantly. Halven turned away from them as he contemplated his answer. What exactly did it mean, for him and the coven? It meant that they now were locked into a new territorial war nopony had anticipated, and that they had a disadvantage. It meant that he now was facing enemies from within and from outward sources, and that he would have to divide his attention between the two. It meant that he was either finally going to meet his match , or he was going to add another notch to his metaphorical belt. Most importantly-
“It means that we will be welcoming a new member to the family,” he replied, looking back at his faithful followers.