Her emerald-green eyes shine like a beacon,

she crouches in a brush of soft heather,

Raven arches her neck and sniffs the verdant wind,

Malik's foul scent closes in.

He moves with feline grace,

an old soul,

a hunter of innocents,

steeped in cruelty and power.

What of Raven's pure blood gift?

her otherwordly heritage shrouded in mystery,

her home a den of bloodsuckers and ghouls.

Her mate's rage-filled voice travels on the wind,

the booming voice of an alpha male wolf,

guardian of the lair,

guardian of the night.

Ferocious, warlike,

locked in battle.

You mix it up with the strength of ten hunters,

you tear into your enemy's flesh without mercy,

and hear the witch's call.