Arthor's note: This is a story I've been working on. I'd really appreciate some constructive critisicm so don't hesitate to review.

PS: Thank you to the ah-mazing K.R. Maxon for beta reading. ;)

Prelude

Jonathan Velkan stood guardedly before the council, all confidence and swagger, knowing that behind these powdered men lay a real cloying fear that nearly strangled them. Pompous, overstuffed men in their over sized velvet robes of noble scarlet sitting upon high-backed gilded chairs, who were content to let others fight their battles, yet sought and hoarded glory for themselves and fought amongst each other like starving pigs.

No, John reflected sourly as he endured the twelve heated stares of calculation and met them head on with indifference. He neither envied nor admired these men who molded and twisted other's lives to suit their own twisted values.

Yet, he remarked expressionlessly, they manage to create a covenant that efficiently scoured the empire of all those who threatened humanity. John Velkan was sure of this; it was through his blood and sweat that the werewolves had been pushed into obscurity. He had spent half a century fighting to make sure.

Bragnor, the lead councilman, raised his head, marking the beginning of the hearing and the passage of one endless moment to the next.

“Johnathan Velkan,” he rasped, shuffling sleeves of loose parchment with leathery hands. “We called you hear on grievous charges against Velkadian and through it the council.” Somehow, he managed to hide his excitement at finally bringing the renegade hunter into his control, though his piggish eyes gleamed with barely suppressed glee. “The punishment for such actions, especially during these harsh times, is usually…extreme,” he murmured softly, savoring the moment of power. “But,” his eyes narrowed as he shot his comrades a resentful glare, nose wrinkling as if smelling some foul stench on the stuffy air of the circular chamber. “We have decided that your past duties warrant some kind of reprieve.”

We? John thought smugly as his eyes passed all but one glare of open hatred. John knew that if it had been up to Bragnor, his head would have been on a pike a long time ago.

Thankfully the council ruled by rank, not majority, and by rank Master Raynor, the only man in all of the council who treated the renegade with any ounce of respect, was the true Head behind the council's image. The other men, John observed, might have hated him, but were too smart to dispose of their strongest hunter despite his…flaws.

Meeting Bragnor's arrogant stare, John cleared his face of any emotion and shifted slightly in his stance, the soles of the stiff boots that cradled his feet whispered against the floor of frozen stone. “A reprieve?” he questioned suspiciously. The high vaulted ceiling of the domed chamber threw his words in a distorted echo like the chime of a bell.

“Yes” Raynor's deep, melodious voice sounded amid the rustle of his robes as he rose from the head table to replace a furious Bragnor at the pulpit. “But hear me when I state this now, John, you will not like it.” He looked down his long hawk nose into John's golden eyes. When no sound of challenge rose from John he continued gravely.

“There is a village, far into the rise of the Hellebores Mountains, where a man by the name of Orpheus Moreau lived with his family, ” Raynor explained, “Orpheus was a troubled, troubled man. Loyal to the Valcadian, yet headstrong to a fault-”

“I remember the man,” John interrupted respectfully, picturing the haunted man with the fiery gaze he had met nearly twenty years ago.

Yes,” said Raynor distractedly. “I forgot...” he sighed wearily, years of age showing visibly in his sagging shoulders.

“Then you know that Orpheus lost many of those closest to him to the werewolves, particularly the brutal death of his brother, and it made him reckless. He became restless and angry with the Valcadian's ways until one day he stole an important artifact from the shrine of Cortes.” Raynor paused, regret lacing his words.

“As you probably already know, Orpheus went missing before he could be punished, and hasn't been seen since. But that is just history.” Raynor sighed once more. “However, the real danger lies with his children, for they have inherited every bit of bitterness and more. Armand Moreau, while proving himself to be a valuable assent to the convent remained loyal to his father's vicious quest-”

“What quest is that, may I ask?” John interrupted again, ignoring the resentful glares the other men shot him.

Raynor nodded, unaffected. “His quest was to find a cure to the werewolf affliction in order to put an end to immortality and…” the man gulped and continued with obvious difficulty, “…kill the Immortal King, the Anarcain.”

Like a witch's spell, the words seemed to ignite the council. The men exploded at once, shouting over each other to be heard like squawking pigeons.

“Foolishness!” Bragnor's bellowed croak sounded above the other cries.

“Enough,” Raynor ordered. The council hushed at once. “With that quest, in mind Armand proved difficult to control. Rumor says that he had launched raids of his own to destroy some of the more dangerous of the mountain's werewolves on his own. While dangerous, that is nothing so bad as to warrant a hearing, so we did nothing.”

“But, we have learned that for two months, now, Armand has been missing, never once contacting the agents we had posted near his homestead in the mountains and for once we are at a loss as to what to do.” Raynor's expression grew somber. “If he were turned, the results would be…detrimental to the Covenant. Armand knows too much, and his usefulness to the werewolves is only too apparent.”

“Has anything been done to find him?” John asked carefully, knowing full well where this conversation would be headed.

Raynor grimaced, as if in pain. He ran a gnarled hand through his mane of peppered brown hair. “His sister, Vivian, has proved to be…difficult.”

“We sent a man to investigate, yet he hasn't returned.” Raynor drew himself taller. “This is your mission: to travel through the Hellebores mountains, reach the Moreau Stead and find Armand.”

Bragnor stood, with a snort of disgust. “As always Raynor, you gloss over the harsher details,” he snarled, glaring at John with contempt. “Your job, hunter, is to find the Moreau boy, and bring him back alive, but only if he's still human,” he raised his brows. “If he has been turned, kill him. And while you’re there, find everything you can about those accursed Moreaus.” With that Bragnor marched from the chamber, massive girth and all, his followers trailing him devotedly.

John stood back, allowing the men to pass without a backwards glance in their direction. He could feel their disdain searing his skin like stabs from a hot poker.

The chamber echoed silently, the only sound the quiet shuffles of papers as Raynor prepared to leave. “I suppose you are dismissed.” he said ruefully. The man paused. “John, should you complete this assignment, your punishment for disobeying Bragnor could be lessened.” he hesitated. “Good luck.”