Big bad wolves can try to take you from me,
It don't matter,
If they sink their teeth deep into me,
I'll never let you go.
Ha, and I'm tellin' you all,
When you find it,
You gotta fight for it,
Harder than anything,
And when you get yours,
Hold on tight to it
Faster than anything.

-Walk the Moon, Big Bad Wolves

9

War grunted as he practically lifted the entire contraption in his hands up into the ground, out of the land that it was unraveling with every inch. Either horse that was in front of him whinnied, the more skittish one on the right bucking slightly and jerking. As the mare bounced in fear, the old man, John, frantically reached out for her reins, cursing and grumbling annoyance as he avoided her flailing hooves. War failed to notice if John managed to grab her; his foot slipped on the uneven ploughed earth and he tumbled sideways into the red clay for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

"Damn boy, you drive worse than my grandmother," called out John. "This is the thirteenth damn time that you've done gone and did this shit."

Mumbling to himself, War pushed himself up from the ground. He sat down as he dusted his hands free from the thick layer of clay from his hands in pure in frustration. With every passing moment, he was more than glad that he had decided to remove his armor and had switched to old clothes that Jessica had found somewhere buried in her house. Strife had been easier to find clothes from his armor; he was given a checkered shirt and a pair of what the humans called 'pants' -they were much too small and Strife had complained the entire time that he was around War how constricting they were. Even the boots that the White Horseman had been given had only taken several minutes of searching. Death wasn't even considered a problem since Jessica wouldn't allow him to leave the house (not that Death was planning on it; when War was with him, he was still unconscious and hardly responding to anything).

War was a different problem. Built thicker than his two brothers and taller, Jessica had taken one look at him and had mumbled as she shook her head. Apparently most human males didn't grow as large as he did. She had spent three hours searching through her house until she had succeeded in finding a shirt that had ended up being just slightly too small and some 'overalls' that he could wear with some certain adjustments. John had to give up one of his boots for the Red Horseman to wear, though those were too small as well. So now everything that War was currently wearing was too small. He didn't have to look in a mirror to know that he looked absolutely ridiculous.

"I don't see you doing any of this," War retorted as he stood.

John lifted an eyebrow, his mouth almost lost in his pearl white beard. "I've spent more time on that damn plow than the days that ya've been 'way from yore momma. I could work it with one damn hand if I had'ta."

"Damn old man."

"Least ya've ain't gone an' started cryin' 'bout how yore leg hurt or somethin'. A lotta people would already be complainin' their damn asses off an' I hate a man that complains," John remarked, giving War a warning look.

"There are more things worth complaining about than a few hours of work. I have done worse."

A small flicker of respect flashed through the old man's blue eyes. War grunted as he corrected the old plow into the right position for yet more work. They had worked for five hours nonstop already; the sun was beginning to slowly sink behind the hills on the farm and was casting weak rays of orange sunlight across the horizon. The routine was that John would lead the horses and War worked the plow. The old man's excuse was that 'a youngun as big as yoreself shouldn't be lettin' those muscles do nothin' at all.' After explaining how to use the plow, John had just left War to his own devices and shouting helpful hints over his shoulders whenever he deemed that War needed them. Otherwise he was telling stories or asking War questions that the Horsemen only gave a few words in answer. The horses, however, took up most of his focus.

On the right was the skittish but more experienced mare Minty -a black and white Clydesdale with her mane and tail braided at the moment. Even though she was experienced, Minty was always scared and ready to flee at any moment. John explained that an accident had happened to her a year back with an angel -the conflict had resulted with the scar on the left side of the horse's haunches. The left was occupied by no other War's famous horse, Ruin. John said that War's warhorse was a Shire Horse now; Ruin's mane was long and black, his thick legs with white socks at his knees and extra furry, and his body still extremely muscular. Some of the markings were still there, just without the orange colors. The strangest, not normal thing was the the fact that, when his eyes were visible through his mop of his mane, his eyes were an unnatural orange color. Some of Ruin's characteristics remained, it would seem. Even he could perfectly understand John still.

War was beginning to learn much on this farm though, and he was enjoying his time here. Now, everything was shrouded in a sense of unreality -his older sister had just been captured not that long ago and there was practically nothing that he could do about it- but, once he managed to peer through it, he found the life that John lived every single day rather nice. As a Nephilim War's life had been that of a warrior culture; the second that he could stand he was given a sword and was taught how to use it. He had never had to stoop as low as produce his own food like this. Hunting was slightly different. The chase was accepted as a challenge in Nephilim society while getting your hands dirty by agriculture was frowned upon and seen as weakly. Seeing John, who acted and told stories almost as grand as any older Nephilim that War had known of centuries ago, was confusing to War. Where had the weak, fragile creature that he had been grown to believe that a farmer could be? In John, he failed to see anything remotely weak.

John spoke of many things in his wild stories, down to the slimmest detail of which angel feather belonged to which angel and which fang belonged to which demon. He spoke of getting between battling Angels and Demons, how he managed to duck underneath them both and, by using his trusty pistol, shot them both to death by using only three bullets. He spoke of shooting werewolves through the center of their heads -the nightmare, according to the old man, began when an infected human had wandered into what had used to be a town before the creature had ended up passing the disease on to at least eight different people that were never identified. He spoke of so many different things.

He never seemed to speak about his past. War noticed when John had mentioned a little boy named Wilson, a boy that was only fifteen who had killed a Demon with his own hands to protect his family. He had paused ever so slightly and had stared off as if remembering something. After that, he had steered clear of what stories probably had that boy in it. There was no mention of a family, but the mere fact that a pink seashell bracelet was just noticeable when his sleeves shifted just right gave away of at least one little girl. The golden ring on his left ring-finger suggested that he was married, but it could be possible that his wife was dead and he still choose to wear the ring. The man was hiding a past, that much War knew.

"No, don't start that 'gain," John exclaimed from where he was already rounding up the horses, pulling free the straps that connected them to the steel plow. "It's gettin' late an' it's still a walk home. An' we've gotta get yore brother. I bettacha 'em sheep herded him more than he did 'em! Good thin' Goliath was there or else nothin' would've gotten done."

During this time War had already happily stepped away from the plow handles and had started toward John. The old man gave the Horseman a smirk as he slung himself upon Minty, not a bit bothered that he was riding bare backed. "Ever done this 'fore, tattoo face?"

"Of course." War glanced at his stallion as he placed a hand on Ruin's side, patting it affectionately. "I have ridden this horse more years than you have been working that plow."

If John sensed any truth in War's voice, the old man didn't show it. He simply threw his head back and began laughing, saying that was a good joke before claiming that they needed to go and retrieve Strife before the sheep herded him off a cliff. War frowned. It was probably better that the Horsemen didn't tell the humans who they truly were. It didn't look like they would even believe the truth. 'Hey, we're the Horsemen; you know, the ones who destroyed their own race because they were going to attack Earth and the ones who are supposed to destroy you anyways! Yeah, those guys! Cool, right?'

John was leaving War and Ruin behind before War could respond to John's statement. Frowning, War glanced down at Ruin, taking a moment to study how different that his mount looked before he spurred him forward. Ruin was still his horse, there was no doubt about it, but War couldn't help but to wish that he could still communicate with him. It made things easier between the two of them. Besides, it was always nice knowing that you could use a stallion to clear out complete armies of Demons and Angels whenever you needed it to.

I can still understand you, you twit, Ruin snorted.

War spluttered loudly, shocked, and John turned on Minty's back to look at him curiously. He could have sworn that the mare called him an idiot as Ruin snorted up at her. Could you make it any more obvious? the stallion grunted, taking a moment to look at War for a second before shaking his head and turning back to the pair in front of them.

Making sure that John wasn't paying attention to him, War leaned down closer to Ruin. "But how?" he whispered in confusion.

I'm guessing that it's because it's one of your precious gifts that you get to keep? I dunno know. Ask your siblings when we see them again. As far as I know, I don't think they can, but that doesn't mean anything. Death doesn't even know where Despair is.

"None of us do."

And don't ever have me do that shit again. Do you know how much that actually pulls on my chest? And don't even get me started on that mare. All she does is complains about how she doesn't like Angels or Demons.

Straightening and rolling his eyes, War glanced back at the plow that they were leaving behind. This morning, when they had arrived here, on the backs of the two horses, the field had been nothing but a clear, grassy area of basically nothing besides from a few flowers. After all of the work that they had done, there were several layers of ground that had been plowed and now facing up toward the sky in dark piles. Even a large rock that they had pulled out using the two horses laid uselessly on its side, almost glaring at him. The sun was sinking in the background. Flinging a hand over his shoulder, War called out, "What about the plow? Do we just leave that here?"

"It ain't like we're done," John answered, halting Minty for a second to grab his shotgun that he had left lying on the ground in case they were attacked by something while they were working. By the time that Ruin and War had caught up to them, John was already back on Minty. "We've still got five more rows ta do by tomorrow."

"How often do you do this?"

"Every single year when I can start plantin' certain kind of crops that grow through the fall. It's July and everythin' gonna start movin' from now on. It's ta prepare fer the next season. Things don't start off all that nicely, unlike ya may assume."

War sighed as they crested another one of the many of the rolling hills. "I never did expect this work to be easy." And it was extremely hard on him at the current moment; his right hand and shoulder were stinging painfully. He absolutely refused to look at his shoulder, but he knew that his hand, which he had wrapped this morning to try and protect it, had already bled through the bandages. At this rate, he was never going to give it enough time to heal. His shoulder smarted constantly and only allowed him to move it but so high before pain stopped him from lifting any higher. It was a good thing that the plow's handles had only reached his waist in height.

"Can I ask ya a question?" John suddenly blurted after a few seconds of silence.

Tell him no. Ruin snorted. You know that it's either going to be about your past or how the hell we got here.

"Go ahead."

Both men ignored Ruin as he gave a violent shake of his head.

John remained quiet for another moment, probably thinking about how to word his question. War was beginning to assume that he wasn't ever going to ask him the question when the old man suddenly gestured to his left arm. "Why the hell do ya still have that large piece of armor on yore hand still? Don't it bother ya?"

"My gauntlet?" The Red Horseman glanced over the armor that the old man was speaking about, suddenly feeling like he should have taken Ruin's advice on the matter. Ruin was particularly sending smug waves of 'I told you so' at the moment. War's eyes locked straight ahead of them as he flexed the hand mentioned. Memories flooded in almost instantly through the youngest Horseman, memories that still haunted him sometimes to this very day. He turned the gauntlet over, brandishing the dented surface to the light and frowned.

He could see himself standing before a human army, snarling as his brothers and sister stood before him as the human practically hid behind them cowardly. He could see all of them, just standing there, disagreeing with everything that he had already done. The bodies of the dead laid strewn before and behind him, dead and dismembered from his anger and determination. How dare they come and try to stop him? He was simply defying the Council; who wanted to listen to three heads tell you what to do?

Without feeling any compassion for his siblings, War glared. How could they follow the Council so blindly? He knew that he was grieving and probably not thinking clearly, but he honestly could not care. It was these humans fault that he was here right now. If they were not here, then the Nephilims would still be in existence. He would be with the rest of the Nephilim, living happily as he chopped enemy after enemy that dared defy the Nephilim kind. But it wasn't like that now. Because of these weak, disgusting creatures of the Third Kingdom, War was reduced to this. One very pissed off Nephilim with nothing left to believe in. A pissed Nephilim looking for someone, something to blame for why he was here.

That was why so many humans laid at his feet, limbs flung far from their bodies and the ground coated in a thick layer of red blood.

"War," his eldest brother shouted. War narrowed his eyes even more, nostrils flaring as he growled deeply in his chest. There was no way that he was going to listen willingly to his brother. "We've come to take you back."

It took a massive amount of strength for War not to throw his head back and laugh. His siblings waited patiently for his response, Fury sitting with her back straight on her mare, Remorse, who's black fur almost caused her to melt into the humans behind her. Strife looked how he always did; he held one pistol in his hand loosely as he cockily held his head high. The only one who hinted any sort of emotion not typical for him was Death. The Pale Horseman seemed hesitant whenever he looked up at War as if he wasn't sure if it was truly him.

"This feast for the crows..." War began, tightening his grip on Chaoseater. The crow that was perched on the end of the sword's hilt gave a caw before leaping off, spreading its wings as it took flight. "They said the same! I can never go back, not after this." He brought his sword down to his hip, silently seething as he looked at the ground, hearing Remorse's steps as the mare approached. His blue eyes darted over the ruins that he had created.

"It is not your decision to make," Fury snapped. "The Council cannot be defied, brother-"

"Ride on, damn you!"

War roared, spinning Chaoseater around to point at his siblings, glaring at his sister, who immediately straightened and lifted a side of her mouth, baring some of her pointed canines. He waited as Despair reared, tossing back his mane and snorting as Death unsheathed Harvester. A human approached him; with a simple swing of his sword, War relieved the human's body from its top half, already seeing the speeding form of Strife and Turmoil racing at him from the corner of his eyes. Turning to face his brother, War brought Chaoseater down with both hands. The impact caused the ground to shake, tossing dirt and dust wildly into the air. Turmoil neighed loudly as the blade just missed him, causing the horse to dart wildly to the side as Strife leapt clean from the saddle, training both pistols upon War. At the last second possible, War was able to lift Chaoseater and block the bullets until Strife landed hard on his back, the ricocheting sending loud metallic noises bouncing across the battlefield. A few more humans ran at him; with simple gestures, War sent one's arm flying through the air, sword still attached in the hand. He could just hear Strife in the background; "We must get the sword -we're just feeding it, making him stronger! Sister!"

A flash of purple darted across the side of War's vision. His sister's purple whip flashed threateningly around him, Fury high in the air as she swung her whip toward him. Grinding his teeth in concentration, War tangled her weapon, knowing well not to touch it because of its poisonous material, around his own before slamming it down toward the ground. Fury was jerked from the air and he felt a small sense of pride pass through him as he watched her strike the ground. Her whip, now pulsating in anger, darted away from him back to its owner, awaiting for order. This was his chance now to remove her from this fight as she tried to recovered from being slammed onto the ground.

He leapt forward, pulling his arm back to attack her. His sword was in his left hand -how could he possibly forget? He hadn't saw Death until the Pale Horseman was before him, Chaoseater entering his chest almost as smoothly as if he was butter. No blood dripped from the Horseman -how can Death bleed? Purple wrapped about War's arm before he could do anything else. War's blue eyes lifted from the rather large and disturbing injury, meeting Death's orange eyes. He was unprepared for what he saw.

Disappointment.

"Wisdom is a great gift," his brother said almost too softly, his eyes narrowing. For a second War saw pain flicker through them, like the sword that was currently resting in his chest actually hurt him. Strands of white hair fell into War's eyes to the hide the panic that he was beginning to feel as he struggled to pull back his arm that was effectively stuck from Fury's whip.

Pain flashed through War before he knew it, the pressure on the lower half of his arm disappearing in a flash. He hardly heard his brother shout as his eyes widened in surprise; "Remember well!" Like a newly cut down tree, War tumbled backwards until he fell, eyes locked upon what had used to be the other half of his arm. Blood flew through the air as well, falling and dripping like a river. He watched as it sailed through the air and landed on the ground in a bloody mass about the time that he struck as well. Pain sang from every pore of his body. As he propped himself up with his good arm, he turned to check out the other one. More than three fourths of his biceps were missing and the remaining part of his arm was a twitching, jerking muscle that was trying to comprehend what had happened. Nothing felt right -his balance didn't even feel right now.

Death swooped down to scoop up Chaoseater, brandishing it high with one arm as if War might get up and attack once again. Fury was just beginning to stand behind him now as her whip flickered back and forth aggressively. Two clicks sounded in front of War and he turned, slowly meeting the intense yellow gaze of his brother and the barrels of two pistols pointed directly at his chest.

"It's a good thing that Death's damn near invulnerable. You, on the other hand-," Strife began, anger hinting at his voice.

"I need no lessons... from any of you," War growled as he tenderly felt at his wound, eyes darting around the humans that were beginning to gather around them. Eventually he would meet each of his siblings' eyes and every single one of them reflected the same thing.

Disappointment.

"It is a tale that I would prefer not to speak of," War rasped out, fisting the gauntlet to hear the satisfying clinks as the metal worked to obey. It comforted him. At least his arm was still there, even if it had been replaced by a metal heep. His dreams always contained missing arms and being too weak to fight.

John looked at him for a moment, silently studying the Horseman. "Why don't we go and get that brother of yores? He should be right 'head."

Minty picked up her pace to a jog. War didn't move for a moment, self consciously moving his hand about as if to double check that it was still there, before urging Ruin to do the same. The stallion gave him a short look, his radiating orange eye half covered from his black forelocks, but then fell in place behind the Clydesdale with the slight limp in her back leg. The old man faired no different; his hand was constantly reaching up to readjust the weapon slung over his shoulder the further that the sun sank on the horizon.

Ruin easily kept up with the more experienced mare over the beautiful, light green landscape with the gentle hills. The shadows were beginning to lengthen as the sun set in the distance, casting out orange and pink hues. A random black shadow darted across it; the shape suggested that it was an angel on a heavenly mount, but War wouldn't have been too surprised if it was just some strangely shaped Demon that he had yet to see. Earth seemed to now be producing anything when it came to the two. He had never seen some of the Demons like he had here before; the Angels were the same, some having speckled colored wings or having different weapons that they swung and twirled expertly. John had mentioned werewolves... War hadn't heard of werewolves since the Nephilim had wiped them out centuries ago. A small flicker of curiosity shot through him- did that mean that vampires were here too? Witches and warlocks as well? Perhaps not. Magic was always a little sketchy when it came to Demons and Angels; Angels refused to acknowledge that it existed and Demons had no talent with it.

"Hey, wait a minute." John pulled Minty to a spot and War followed his example immediately, wondering what was wrong. "Somethin' ain't right.... Ain't that his horse way over there?"

John pointed and War looked over to see a pearl white andalusian stallion was standing, furiously devouring a patch of clover as his long tail, almost long enough to brush the ground, swept back and forth. The plain saddle that was on the horse's back, who was clearly Turmoil who had always been a blinding white color in any form that he could take, had two pistol on either side of it. War frowned as Ruin halted beside Minty, nickering out to Turmoil, who paused in eating long enough to look at them, flick his ears up in acknowledgement, and then returned to back to his munchies.

The man was beginning to shift his gun into his hands when War heard a familiar voice cursing. "That's Strife," War told John and not even three seconds later, the White Horseman appeared.

It was probably the saddest entrance that War had ever seen his brother enter with. His brother was bent over double, chasing down a little brown ball of fluff that was a baby lamb bouncing and jumping out of the Horseman's grasp. He was cursing and spluttering as he fought to stay after the surprisingly agile baby sheep. To make matters even worse... there was a split in his jeans. And to make that even worse, the underwear that he wore had red hearts on it. War watched with horror as Strife finally managed to tackle the baby lamb by jumping upon the little creature and then hurling the baaing mess of the baby up into his arms. Smiling wide, completely ignorant of the smear of mud (hopefully) across his forehead, Strife held the lamb out toward them.

"I finally caught it!" he announced proudly.

Blinking, War felt his mouth drop open in surprise as John leaned forward on the horn of his saddle, propping his chin up in his hand. "Boy, what the hell do ya think that ya are doin' chasin' that lamb?"

"Herding it..." Strife trailed off, suddenly looking midly confused. "That's what I'm supposed to be doing..."

"Not like that ya ain't."

"You don't find it funny that you had to pick up a lamb just to herd an entire group of sheep?" War managed to get out. Ruin was laughing hysterically in War's head and had turned away from the White Horseman, lips pulled back to laugh a horse's laugh.

"No..." Strife turned the lamb to face him before looking at War with narrowed eyes. "You don't understand how evil this thing can be."

"Ah, well..." John shook his head, fixing his gaze once more upon the andalusian stallion that was still busy eating. "I just gotta ask ya, is that clover yore horse is eatin' way over there?"

Strife looked up from studying the lamb in his arms. "It would appear."

"I've heard that clover gives a horse gas."

War lifted a hand to snicker behind it as Strife's face paled. Turmoil lifted his head, stamped his back leg into the ground, and nickered loudly I don't care, deal with it! in a sing-song voice. When he returned back to the clover, a large, shaggy black dog barked as it ran by the horse, causing the stallion to hop back in surprise. The dog, a large Newfoundland that belonged to Jessica named Goliath, barked in welcome before darting up the hill and sitting down before John, barking once more with his tongue lolling from his mouth.

"Goliath! Did ya herd all of 'em sheep?"

Yup yup yup! War stared at the dog; he hadn't expected to understand the Newfoundland that was sitting proudly before the old man and Minty. Ruin and Turmoil at least made sense. War had known them for a very long time -he had only known Goliath now for a day or two. Minty was at least a fellow horse, no matter how skittish and annoying. Everything done! Everything done! Sheep in the pen! Sheep in pen!

John smiled, even though he couldn't understand the animal. "See here," the old man stated, turning to look at War. "That dog can herd better than what yore brother can here. Herdin' one lamb."

"Hey, leave me alone. I've never messed with these damned creatures," Strife growled, stamping a foot and brandishing the lamb once more. "I deserved some damn credit."

*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*

When they arrived back at the house, the first thing that War noticed was the smell. It drafted out from the windows constantly, distracting War the entire time that he, John, and Strife put things away and prepared the farm animals for the night. John claimed that the second the sun went down, things took a strange turn; already, with darkness beginning to creep across the hills, the howls, growls, giggles, and screams were echoing across the landscape from the Demons waiting impatiently for the night.

But it was that smell.

He had never felt so hungry as he had during that hour and a half of feeding those animals, cleaning pens, and putting them away as that smell just wafted around the barn. He found himself stopping occasionally to stand there and just inhale the delicious scent. Was this what it was like living like a human? Working all day before coming home to a well-made meal? Envy washed over him for a few minutes. As he tossed Ruin's heavy equipment to the plow up into its correct spot, being careful not to harm either his shoulder or hand, he couldn't help but to think how easy that humans had it. Work, sweat a little, take care of animals so they could eat later, and then come home to eat. What War would have given up one day in the past to do just that. It was a life full of gold and promise. God had been good to the Kingdom of Man.

Jessica's barn was extremely large to house a herd of cows, sheep, a small groups of goats, and then horses. John said that Jessica took great pride in those. They were beautiful; there was at least twenty-three, five of which John said were once champion bred creatures of great ancestry lines, three of which were American Mustangs, one so black in color that it rivaled Remorse. Each of the horses' names had been carved into the wood above the horses' stall and were left even when the horse had died, suggested by the random, empty stalls. The horse's reins were hung beside their stall, shared saddles were placed between the horses. The roof was high and on either side, stacked barrels of hay were stationed on a level higher than the animals below. Even the roof of Ruin's stall had pieces of stray hay sticking out. The horses were further in the barn; cows that had stalls were behind the goats and sheep that flocked to the entrance to stick their heads out, baaing and pleading to be feed. Inside was a comfortable warmth and smelled of animals. Ruin was housed in the very last stall, where he liked to kick the wall as if to enjoy the empty sound that answered back. Remorse, who was a small Arabian mare, was across from him, constantly flattening her ears against her skull and pulling her lips back to bare her teeth at anyone who walked by; the hole in the back of Strife's jeans was almost made bigger when she just missed getting a grip. Turmoil was beside Remorse, chewing on a piece of hay and looking incredibly content as long as he had something to chew.

And then there was a sickly looking horse in a stall up front. War had almost missed the animal; he had happened to peek in at the right moment to see the horse standing in the back of its stall, eyes staring blankly at the wall across from it. He had paused long enough to catch a fleeting glance before Strife had urged him to keep moving. The horse was incredibly tall with long legs, its mane and tail unhealthy, long, tangled, and knappy. It almost seemed out of place. All of Jessica's horses were well-kept, fit, and active. This one hardly even moved when they walked in. Red blood stained its speckled gray and white hide and bandages had been wrapped about the lower half of its legs. It was almost as if the horse was in despair, as if it had lost something important to it.

As time wore on, darkness crept closer, bringing with it noises that War did not like the sound of. A particularly close howl caused War to pause in hanging Ruin's Western saddle onto its stand, Ruin's head lifting to flick his large black ears forward to listen carefully. Seconds later, the click of a gun being cocked echoed about the now quiet farm. John walked by soon after, eyes narrowed in focus, the brim of his hat tilted further up than it had all day. His steps were surprisingly silent as he made a slow trek to the entrance of the barn. When War glanced at him, he curled his fingers in a motion to follow. The silent message was instantly understood.

War didn't have Chaoseater. It seemed silly to bring the large, bulky weapon when he was just simply working with a plow. Now, however, he was beginning to regret his decision. "What should I use?" he hissed, intently listening for any noises.

John was about to answer when one of the horses further down released a panicked whinny, its hooves smashing down as it reared and nervously moved about in its stall. The noise of dragging claws drug down the back wall of the barn and the Red Horseman whipped his head around to see just the tips pierce through the wood. With a clunking noise, Ruin nickered and smashed his right back hoof into the claws as they passed him; a yelp came and a series of growls and howls followed. More noises of destruction rang out in the barn, causing more of the animals to get worked up into a panicked frenzy.

"Shit. It's a damn werewolf." A nervous glint had appeared in John's blue eyes. "Ever fought one afore?"

A very, very long time ago, back when Nephilim could strangle a beast like that with their bare hands and the attacks from the creature could not effect them had War seen his first werewolf. He had only encountered a few. Now.... War simply shook his head, now wondering where the hell Strife had disappeared too. John bit his lips before dragging his tongue across his teeth in worry. Another noise similar to before happened toward the front of the barn, causing some of the sheep to begin to panic as cows began to moo out in worry. Of course the wolf goes after the sheep...

Another flicker of worry flashed through John's eyes. Ever so slowly he moved over to a trunk, flipping up the hinges to the front with one hand as he balanced his shotgun against his shoulder and pointed it at the only entrance of the barn. Once the trunk was opened, John lifted it up and whispered, "Grab the pack with all of the silver bullets."

"Why silver?" War muttered, moving forward to search for them. Weapons of all sorts glared back at him; knives, numerous guns, hundreds of bullets in little packets that were mostly labelled by whatever gun they belonged too (one was called Big Bessie for some strange reason), and even a sword laid hidden underneath everything. Without asking, War slung the sword across his shoulder, which was light and most likely a rapier.

"Silver is the only thing that kills 'em blasted beasts. Shoot 'em with a regular bullet and they just come back like nothin' happened to 'em." John's eyes darted the wall again as the Demon outside dragged its claws again, this time taking enough time to try digging underneath to try its luck. "Hurry up with 'em things!"

Ignoring the urgency, War checked inside one of the bullet packs, nodding when he saw what he was looking for. He passed them to John as the werewolf growled. Both of the two men paused as if the werewolf knew that they were secretly passing bullets between themselves. Minty, the horse that was across from them, suddenly jumped, tossing her head up, the white of her eyes clearly visible, and began stamping her feet as she nickered in panic. War and John exchanged a look as the sounds of popping boards began to jolt through the barn; the werewolf was beginning to pull through the barn.

War leapt into action. Unsheathing the rapier he had just found, he ducked underneath the net that kept Minty from leaving her stall. He was slightly surprised at least to see that a hairy, four-fingered hand was prying at the wood of the wall. Claws that were easily five inches long picked at them almost casually, testing them silently to see how strong that they were. The palm of the hand was clear of the black fur that dotted the back of it; a black nose twitched just outside of the hole that it already created. Minty was panicking even more now that War had entered her stall. She had reared back into the corner and was almost refusing to allow her front hooves touch the ground as her eyes rolled back, nostrils flaring. Counting to three and ignoring John's comments, War slung his arm in a classic swiping motion directly into the werewolf's hand with the thin but sharp blade of the rapier.

It sliced through the Demon's hand easily due to the sharpness of the blade. The effect was immediate; it pulled back its hand as a howl of pain erupted from the beast on the other side as its scuffling followed. War could only assume that the beast was dancing in pain. When he tried to glance outside, the thumpings of Minty prancing behind him and the flashing of white fangs outside convinced him to leave the danger zone. John angrily clutched his wounded shoulder by accident when the Red Horseman had slipped back out of Minty's stall.

"Ya idiot!" he hissed, yanking the sword from him. "Now all that ya've done is piss it off!" An answering howl followed, backing up John's remark.

"And you would have just stood there as it rampaged through the horse's stall?" War spat back.

"Boy," John growled. "Ya've gotta understand that ya can't save everyone. When ya've gotta make a choice between human and animal, ya choose the human. I'm sorry, I love that mare -hell, I raised her- but I would let her die before I could ever see Jessica get hurt." The old man tossed the weapon at him, forehead crinkling in slight disgust. "Oh, and don't get killed. If ya do see it, run right 'way. It'll take a minute to study ya to know if it wants to eat ya."

He was gone then, sprinting up to the front of the barn. War watched him run, letting the information that John had just revealed sink in. Jessica obviously meant something special to the old man; was it possible that he was her father? It didn't seem so. She referred to him as John instead of father and the two never acted like they had that relationship, just close friends that had been through hell and back. But John would take a dagger in the heart before he saw Jessica hurt, that much was sure. There was something that those two had not told them yet.

Though he didn't have any weapon, War found himself at the front of the barn, where John had just walked out alone. The animals panic around him flustered him; their loud voices shook through his frame and caused him to only partially hear through them. But they were a welcomed distraction as he peeked through the door to meet nothing but pitch black darkness. The only light was the porch light and then the golden glow coming from the farmhouse. War watched silently and felt his heart leap in surprise when a large shape darted through the light for only a split second.

Hiding back behind the door, War took a second to catch his breath. The werewolf was obviously hungry. Was it chasing after John now? Or how about his brother Strife, who had yet to make an appearance? War's gaze fell upon a light switch -Jessica had used them earlier that day to flip on the lights in his room, claiming that it was morning in a chirpy voice before opening his curtains and dancing out happily. Half thinking that it wouldn't work, War pushed the switch up. Nothing happened inside the barn. Taking a deep breath, the Horseman slowly turned to look outside of the door.

Like the house, a golden glow was being produced from a light that was above the doorway he was standing in. At first, nothing was there. Footprints, both human and strangely not, littered the dirt that was visible through the light. A small snapping noise sounded and War focused his gaze upon it.

To say that he was scared shitless was an understatement.

The beast that walked into the light then was a creature from a nightmare. Like any other werewolf, it had both the qualities of a wolf and a human being; the glowing red eyes and drool that was falling from its mouth were most certainly wolf. Those red eyes had locked upon War the second that he could see them in the light, the glow so sinister that War found just an inkling of fright crawling up between his shoulder blades. Bared fangs glistened in the light. Brown fur, not black, bristled from the beast's neck, shoulders, and back threateningly. Its front arms were insanely long, almost as long as its body was, and the hands on the beast could have cupped War's head in them. The claws left nothing to imagine; blood from something already dripped from them. God, don't let that be John's, War managed to think. Hunched over, the beast was easily taller than him and the muscles that were visible underneath its thin fur flexed and twitched, prepared to leap upon him at any second. This was what John was scared of. And he certainly had every right to be.

The werewolf snarled at him, announcing its attack. John's small, quick warning echoed through War's head again and he noticed his mistake instantly as the beast took a step forward, spreading its arms open. He was beginning to place his hands on the door, readying himself to try and hold back the creature, when a roar sounded on his right. By the time that the werewolf was turning to look at whatever had roared, it was too late.

Perhaps it was all done on purpose -the werewolf attack had been planned, this new beast had a timed arrival- but a large, winged creature jumped on the werewolf then, rolling them both into the golden light. It was almost impossible, War found, to make out the new one; they were black in color and its movements were insanely fast. He could tell that it was bird-like though. Flashes of an orange beak and golden eyes were occasionally visible through the lightning fast assault. One minute, the two were fighting, snarling and growling and biting and yelping, and the next there was one audible snapping noise and all fell silent. The body of the werewolf fell down onto the dirt. Its frightened face was forever frozen into fear, eyes wide, mouth opened wide. A paw landed upon its chest, claws unsheathing much like a cat's. War had just a moment to recognize the body shape of a griffin before the creature was morphing.

Wings became smaller before the creature had hunched down, blocking itself from his view. A few seconds later that he spent staring at the shifting going on underneath a black jacket, a woman peeked out from behind, a forced grin on her face. He knew who it was long before she spoke. It was almost as if her image had already been imprinted in his head. The woman with black hair, the stunning grin that seemed to catch him off guard, and the simple beauty. The woman who didn't take shit and had promised to help him.

"Nice to see you again, War," Abbygail said in a soft voice.

Relief spread over War. Nothing that had happened had came crashing into reality for him yet. To him, this woman wasn't the griffin that had just literally tore apart the bleeding, dead Demon lying at her feet. To him, she wasn't the one that had caused the look of terror across that werewolf's face. She was just simply Abbygail and nothing more.

He found himself walking out to greet her, the reality still failing to grip him just yet. "It's good to see you again too."

A smile grew across her face. A smile that was tired, but yet grateful. It was contagious and War felt the corners of his own mouth beginning to curl up into its own smile. But it was then that he heard the gunshot and things came smashing back into reality. It took the very fact to see her standing there one moment, smiling tiredly with a black jacket and a white shirt, and the next with blood beginning to spread through her clothes that she had been shot. Straight through the heart. She stared at it for a moment as his jaw dropped in shock. As she began to stumble backwards, he reached out for her, catching her before she could fall onto the ground. He knelt, watching in a stunned silence as she lifted a hand to feel the wound.

Her stunned brown eyes locked onto War's and he knew instantly that she was dead.

And there was nothing that he could do about it.

So, I've had two people respond to the previous chapter; make sure to get those characters in! I'll work them into the story in some way, so no worries if you don't get them to me by the time I finish the next chapter, which is where that rebel group is going to come in.

But I hope that you guys enjoyed this chapter!