Stop.

She could feel his breath on her neck, hot and heavy. The weight of him suffocated her.

Stop.

He was too strong. She pushed him away but he grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinned them above her.

Someone please help!

She tried to scream out but she didn't have the air to do so.

She felt him tracing his free hand down her body, and felt the menace radiating from his very being.

Tears started to flow from her eyes. She knew that there was nothing she could do anymore. She knew that she'd be lucky to survive. Some instinct told her that even if she were to die right now, he wouldn't stop, and the thought made her lash out uncontrollably.

Thrashing wildly she managed to free an arm and felt it connect with something hard. His hold on her relaxed for a moment, but just as she began to feel hope she saw stars.

When the haze over her vision cleared, the sting of her cheek bone told her that further resistance would only hurry her death. A welcome thought, but her body betrayed her and lay still, its desire to live stronger than her willpower.

Tears ran down her face as she stared into the darkness. Even if she survived she'd be shunned, an impure outcast. It was best he killed her. She tried to ignore the ripping of her dress, and the frantic panting. She noticed that she could see moonlight shining through the open doorway of the barn. It had been such a beautiful night, before the fire...

She had run to the barn to check on the animals, but when she'd arrived they'd all been slaughtered and she'd found this man lurking in the shadows. She searched the doorway hoping to see the moon one last time, but something blocked the entrance. For a moment she could not understand why someone had come all the way out here when the village was on fire, then she felt her body go rigid.

Someone is watching me.

A figure wearing white stood in the doorway just behind her assailant. It carried what looked to be a fancy shepherd's crook and its face was covered by a hood, but she could tell it was looking at her. Not her assailant but her.

It had appeared as silently and suddenly as an apparition, and now stood gazing at the scene before it. The person's stance was calm and relaxed, as if this was something normal to behold.

At first she thought to call out to this mystery person. To beg for aid, but something stopped her. Something about the impassive way they stood there seemed more frightening than the demon attacking her. At that moment she felt as if she'd rather die here, than be saved by such a creature as that.

Then it moved.

* * *

Rashard could feel his excitement rising. This female was not like the other cattle in the village. She had ventured out here on her own, she had fought, and she then had struck him.

Few human women had the courage to strike him. He felt where she hit him in the chest distinctly. It did not hurt him, her frail strength couldn't harm him, but he felt an exciting tingle spreading from the spot, building his anticipation.

At first he thought he'd killed her. He did not mind the idea. This was not an act of desire, but part of the ritual of power. If he killed her he could skip straight to the meal. He began to salivate over the thought of her supple flesh in his mouth, and he ran his hand down her stomach once more, imagining what her intestine taste like.

He felt her body go rigid and a thrill shook him. Yes. Strike me again. But she was not looking at him...

He smelled the intruder just before he felt the air flow change behind his neck, giving him a spilt second to duck and roll to the side.

How the hell did someone sneak up on me?

His mind reeled as he landed on the balls of his feet. Before he could right himself he instinctually rolled backwards to avoid another swipe of the staff.

Fast.

He could have just let the staff hit him and pounced on his assailant, but that speed had surprised him, and as he stood he realized the blessing in his reaction. THAT was not a staff.

Now that he'd gained a small distance, his attacker held back, weary. He's been taught well.

Many would keep pushing the attack hoping to keep Rashard at a disadvantage, but it seems this attacker had noticed the speed and skill with which Rashard had dodged.

He could have pushed the attack, but if he'd been too slow it would have given Rashard the advantage. Instead he took in his opponent, poised to defend or strike at Rashard's slightest movement, he himself had no openings.

His face was hidden beneath the hood of the white robes he wore. He wore no jewels or finery, just the robe and a pair of soft white boots, the garments of a priest of Roathe.

If the garb didn't give the man away then the Shakar in his right hand did. To many it would look nothing more than a very odd staff, but to his kind it was obvious.

The long end curved like a claw, the inside curve sharper than any steel blade. The top part curved around into a nearly perfect circle as large as a man's head, with a shaft running through it.

But what disturbed Rashard the most was the veil covering the man's face.

Priests only wore veils when they performed burial rites, meaning he didn't merely mean to steal Rashard's prize.

Why is it white? I don't understand. Shakar were always black to Rashard's knowledge, he'd never seen a white one, nor a priest wearing white either.

The priest began to move to Rashard's left, and turned the Shakar over, gripping the coroal and so he now wielded it more like a sickle.

Rashard tensed. If it was anything like a normal Shakar then one scratch could have him in maddening pain.

The priest rushed him, Shakar pointed to the ground. Rashard dashed forward and just as the priest swung the blade in,upwards to the right, Rashard rolled left, towards his abandoned spear next to the horse stall.

Reaching out he grabbed the weapon and spun towards his attacker, just in time to block a low swing with the shaft of his spear. He growled. That was the second time the coward attacked him with his back turned.

He felt the rage build inside him. Sneaky little bastard. He spun the shaft in his hands, pushing the blade away and bringing the weighted end of his spear up and across at the priest who stepped back from the blow.

Rashard reversed the spin and jabbed quickly with the point which the priest lazily knocked aside. Cheeky bastard.

He felt the rage filling him. The fire burned deep in his chest, warming his limbs and heightening his senses. He knew he had to finish this quickly before it blinded him. So he drew his spear in and lunged, bringing the spear down onto the priest's head with inhuman speed.

He heard a satisfying crack of bone, but quickly realized that the priest had used the Shakar to block the blow. Rashard's growl was filled with primal rage.

How? The priest was calm. Rashard knew that he must be faster than the priest right now. Then how? The rage set his limbs on fire. The damned cunning bastard is using tricks!

Rashard pushed out with his left hand, making the spear's butt come up towards the priest's leg. As predicted the priest tried to step back, and just as he did Rashard reversed the swing and brought the spear sideways and down. He was rewarded with blood and the smell was gratifying.

It seemed that he'd only managed to nick the priest's hand, but it seemed that he'd disrupted his opponent's calm, which was risky.

He'd seen a group of priest's go berserk before, when they were done they'd slaughtered over a dozen sacrifices and the seasoned guards, along with mutilating their brothers and themselves in the process.

Afterwards he'd watched every priest walk away unfazed, some carrying their own limbs. No one else survived, but no priest died.

His companion that night had sworn he saw one of the priest's decapitate himself and put the head right back on his shoulders before walking away, and Rashard half believed him.

If this priest lost control, Rashard didn't know if it'd be possible to kill him. He had to finish this before then.

Vision blurring, he lunged, spear leading the way, the fire in his legs speeding his assault. He slowed and shifted balance, expecting the priest to dodge the initial blow, when he did; Rashard swung the spear after him.

The priest blocked with his Shakar and continued his momentum towards Rashard, sliding the blade against the shaft of Rashard's spear.

Rashard drew back, but not quick enough to avoid a score on his own hand. Rather than extreme pain, he felt, nothing...

A glance at his hand assured him that he had been cut, but it seemed this Shakar did not pocess the same poison that others did, or perhaps this priest chose not to use it. Either way, it was a mistake.

Rashard raised his spear high and brought it down hard atop the priest with all his might. The priest blocked and Rashard put all his weight into the spear. If his speed wasn't enough, then he'd win by sheer force.

The priest held firm, he seemed to be unaffected by the struggle. Not possible. Rashard was a black. The strongest of the blood lines. Only another black could possibly compete in terms of strength.

Rashard stepped back cautiously, measuring the priest up. This priest did not have the build of a black, he was much too slender. Could he be blue? They often could hide what they lacked in physical ability, with keen senses. No, he was too fast, too strong. He must be a mutt!

Rashard growled, disgusted. Mutts were not uncommon occurrences, but they knew better than to take on their superiors. Rashard's consciousness was dimming, but he did not care, his path was clear, he would shred this cocky priest into a thousand pieces.

He lunged towards the priest again, his legs fueled by fire. He no longer had control of his limbs, but that didn't matter, this is what he trained for, his body knew what needed to be done.

His first strike was a feint to the priest's right hip, but just as the priest side stepped, he brought the spear across savagely to force the priest to block. This time the mutt wasn't so lucky.

Fueled by the rage burning within him, Rashard's blow threw the priest off balance. Rashard roared with victory as he retracted his spear and thrust straight for the priest's heart, throwing his entire weight into the assault.

The priest, unable to parry in his position, dove forward and under the spear, barely missing Rashard himself. Rashard ducked his shoulder and allowed his momentum to wear itself out by rolling sideways; he came up right as he faced behind himself, toward the priest.

To Rashard's surprise, the priest was not attacking. He'd planted the Shakar's tip into the ground, and rested his hand gently atop the coroal. His posture put Rashard on edge; the rage that once boiled, now barely simmering.

Rashard took a cautious step to the side to circle his opponent, now uncertain. He barely felt anything when his knee made contact with the soft dirt.

The priest continued to stand there, relaxed, never taking his eyes off of Rashard. Rashard smelled the blood coming from his leg, he looked down to inspect the wound, to find that the priest had managed to slice clean through his leg, from mid-thigh to ankle, and he'd felt nothing.

Rashard felt uneasy. This was the second wound he'd taken from the Shakar, yet instead of the blinding pain that he'd expected, he'd felt nothing at all. If anything it was more like a complete absence of pain, not numbness, but a soothing sensation that spread from his wounds, relaxing him.

His mind cleared as the poison spread, leaving a calmness in him, and with the clarity came his realization. The poison is meant to prevent the rage, tricky priest.

This explained a lot. Most priest's delighted to see others suffer before their power, but this was the night of the hunt. He would not want his ritual interrupted, so having Rashard screaming would not do, also by containing Rashard's rage, the priest could keep the playing field even, without having them both go berserk and destroy everything.

Rashard cautiously got to his feet. It was not easy with his injury, not to mention all the blood now covering the ground. He needed to stand though, he needed the think. This priest had planned this, and had been playing Rashard from the beginning. Rashard could not let it continue this way.

Rashard took an uneasy step forward, his boots having difficulty finding traction in the congealing blood. He watched the priest with intently as he carefully side stepped to sturdier ground. He had to use his spear to balance himself; his leg was far too damaged to hold weight for more than a moment.

As Rashard slowly circled the priest, he did not move. It seemed odd considering that just a moment ago the priest starred at him with such intensity, yet now he didn't even bother keeping his eyes on Rashard. He's looking down on me, that's my window. Rashard was a seasoned raider, he knew that looking down on an injured foe could be dangerous, especially with his own kind.

This priest was too confident in his abilities, and he would pay for that error. Rashard stepped forward with his good leg and thrust his spear in a feint. Using the momentum, he then rolled to past of the priest, to come up from behind and thrust again, through what should have been the priest's back.

The priest had not reacted to the feint though, instead he'd waited until Rashard had come up behind him, then had turned to parry Rashard's thrust, and failed. Rashard felt his spear bury deep into the priest's side, and he grinned. But something was off.

On instinct, Rashard released the spear and stepped back. Not quickly enough, as the tip of the Shakar slid across his throat. He didn't even bother checking if he was bleeding or not, he charged forward, swinging his fist towards the priest's face.

The priest was faster this time. Spinning away from the punch, and Rashard felt himself falling backward. Once he hit the ground, he saw the priest step over him, raising the Shakar and beginning to chant the rites.

Rashard tried to block the Shakar as the priest slammed it into his chest. Rashard felt his heart's fire begin to bleed out of him and saw the tongues of flame crawl slowly up the Shakar. It was then that everything began to fall in to place.

A primal scream tore through Rashard's throat, one of utter terror. He knew now why the Shakar was wrong. He screamed because he knew that it was not Roathe who'd be welcoming him, but the mother, and he knew that she'd not be pleased