A promise of a new dawn began to grace the sky with its faded golden-red sunbeams. A chili red hue overtakes the eternal clash of the morning light and starry sky, allowing the shadows on the ground to wake from their slumber, clinging to their tangible counterparts. The light's sovereign rule begins to conquer the canopy of a towering tree in a remote forest between Vacuo and Vale. Its sunbeams crept at a turtle's pace down the leafy top of the elder tree. Crickets serenade the last scraps of night that blankets the damp forest floor, courting them to stay just a little bit longer. Beneath the current domain of the light, a pack of beowolves emerged from the remaining veils of darkness to greet this wooden wonder. Their claws drag on the ground as they slink closer to the massive earthy-brown roots of the tree. Full of ire, their fur was oily and ruffled. The wolves' movements are sluggish, as if they have had little prey to go on for the past month. The pack's number is 10 and most of the wolves are around human size, though they have oversized claws for their stature, protruding from their paws like steak knives, razor sharp and very long.
However, one looms above, making the others look like puppies. It has menacing, blade like teeth whose canines extend past its mouth similar to a sabretooth cat. The claws on the beast are only marginally bigger than the others of the pack, but much denser. The tips of the claws are needles; incredibly sharp and ready to pierce even the thickest of hunter armour. The beowolf's body has callous spikes protruding from its skull, arms, and along the back as a bony fin structure; an alpha. Its movements are more refined, more focused. The alpha sniffs the air for a moment and begins to drool; the smell of human flesh and emotion rides on the wind. Its source comes from atop the mind-bendingly tall tree, which the wolves fan out to encircle. The alpha utters low growls to the younger Grimm to attack the tree. The younger ones begrudgingly oblige, and claw away at the trunk of the behemoth. To their confusion and frustration, their razor claws seem to be doing nothing to the integrity of the tree; it brushes off their ear-piercing gashes as nothing more than a scratch. The tree is outfitted with a coarse metal, encompassing its trunk stretching up to the heavens of the tree's canopy.
Irritated, one of the youngest wolves riles back and charges at the reinforced bark. It slams into the wood with a resounding thud, but hardly makes a dent. All it manages to do is startle a couple birds and shake a few leaves off of the lower branches. It howls in pain, as its dislocated arm hangs limp at its side. The howl echoes to the sky, and finds its way inside a tree house resting in the elevated branches of the elder timber. A young man lays sleeping, and has on a white t-shirt with some deep purple sweat pants. Its sole resident stirs from the shrieks of the wolf. His platinum blonde hair and baggy sleeping clothes stick to the steel plate beneath him. He creaks open his eyelids to reveal blazing blue eyes, but decides to just turn over on his gleaming bed. "I'm sure…they'll tire out eventually…" he yawned out, and closes his eyes once more.
The sun's rays finally claim victory over the canopy of the tree and commence their invasion of the ludicrously large window of the elfin house. Its interior is compact; the light revealing a modest living accommodation. Closest to the window is the lazy boy and his bed, now restlessly squirming to and fro trying to find a comfortable spot to vanish back inside his head. He seethes out a prolonged groan after his flopping about caused his foot to slam into a worn cabinet. The kicked cabinet is one-half of a set, separated by a tall and narrow door. The two shoddily built dressers looked like the wall is the only reason they stay upright, resting against the walls as an old man does on a cane. Poorly hammered in nails are smashed into the cracked wood of the dressers, presenting the inexperience of the builder. The shelves inside are angled at a small slant and shows signs of misuse. On top of the nearest, a dark tan and durable leather vest rests on the top of the cabinet. It has a distinct old world texture, being somewhat rugged to the touch. However, upon closer inspection, the vest reveals that it is made of a more modern material. Its fibers are taught and strong, but allow for a great range of motion. Two identical symbols lay just above the chest line, each depicting a blue feather, which is jagged and curved. Seldom pieces of blue lightning spring from its outline.
Haphazardly stuffed in the drawer underneath the vest, a bursting ocean blue long sleeve shirt lay crumpled into a ball. The shirt is very well cleaned, and its material handled with care, soft and inviting to the touch. On the biceps of the two sleeves, dust patterns roll across the fibers. They are woven in a geometrical pattern, depicting a yellow square from which two arrow-tips extend from opposite ends. A white outline ran the edges of the design, only drawing attention to the oddities in contrast of the otherwise cerulean shirt. The next drawer has a set of animal skinned pants; presumably the same material as the vest. As such, its feel is noticeably coarse and chafing to the touch. Another design of strange interwoven dust runs down the sides of the pants from belt to the ankle seams, this time with the same blue hue the shirt had. This one was different, looking like the tail and wings of a hawk meshed together at the edges. Oddly, the other dresser is lifeless and dusty. No signs of recent use are visible; its drawers are empty, and its colorization fades into sepia-tone. In-between the two drawers is a door, which is in good condition compared to the dressers; its wood has few scratch marks and the doorknob seems recently polished, as the light slowly washing in through the window made the metal glimmer like morning dew on a flower.
The rest of the room is just as unimpressive; plastered to a far off wall, a handcrafted coat hanger remains the only thing of note. What it cradles is of particular interest. Resting upon the hanger is a contraption that reflected the light like a mirror. It is rectangular in shape, and has two main limbs that fold tightly together to compress its size. Its metal is a sleek silvery-blue, like that of the brightest stars in the sky. At the very tip, two pieces form half crescents and hook back into the folded limbs. A grip forms at the other end, whose metal is slightly thinner than the rest of the rectangle it was a part of, and had small groves for fingers to grasp easily. This part creating a carry-able handle. Nailed to an adjacent wall, a beautifully whittled decoration brings some much-needed coziness to the living quarters. The picture frame's wire is made of some sort of charcoal colored animal hair, carefully woven into a taut string. Being cleanly cut and sanded, its frame is smooth to both the eyes and hands; its only defect being the nails pounded into the corners of each individual piece. The picture inside contained a giant tree, with a young boy standing in front of the trunk. He wore clothes that were quite baggy on him, pant legs nearly dragging on the ground. His hands clasp his forearms; eyes shyly averting the camera, but beaming excitement nonetheless. The caption read; "Iron Tree, Home of Yahto Tiama!" in a bold silver font.
A desk stands stalwart a couple feet away, just in range to gaze into the picture. A humbly built chair accompanies the workspace and a battle-worn silver briefcase is plopped on the top of the desk. The rust on the handle darkens the sleek silvery appearance of the metal, and its sides are full of scars and dents. However, when touched felt as strong and durable as if it just came out of the blacksmith's shop yesterday. A faint blue glow oozes out the sides of the container like a glow-stick grasped by an overzealous dancer at a rave. Next to the desk, an average sized bookcase holds various types of reading material. Most about philosophy and the nature and properties of lightning dust, though an occasional autobiography of some of the great contemporary hunters and huntresses are shoved in-between the other books. Their texture is smooth and some still have the new book smell, though coffee stains are abound in the more dated books. A mini hurricane seems to have scattered papers across the area, littering the ground with flimsy white sheets. A direct testament to entropy, the sloppily written pieces of paper carelessly lie on top of the chair seat, the mildly dusty floor, and a cannon fire of the in the bookcase stuffed anywhere where room is available. Most are a little wrinkled, but a select few are disproportionately crumpled up into a ball looking like an origami swan created by Dr. Frankenstein. Ironically, the barely legible paper notes are everywhere except the desk, where not a single flaky sheet dare lie. All that is allowed is the worn-out silver case. Only when close to the junker would one think it more than meets the eye. A faint blue glow oozes out of the opening crevice. In absolute stillness, the case can be heard to produce a low pitched hum. The lad manages to settle down and drift back off to sleep to this comforting hum, which is barely audible over the morning birds chirping to greet the sunrise.
At the base of a tree, the alpha beowolf progressively paws deeper into the ground; the golden wheat that grew beneath its weight turned to mulch as it mauls the soil. The grunts he commands soon turned into snarls. Its pack is disorganized and hard at listening. Some lost their interest and drift off elsewhere, giving up on the search for the out of reach morsel. Others still mindlessly swipe at the iron nailed to the tree, chipping and dulling their claws on the unyielding defense. The pack gets nowhere fast, and the frustration kept building. Finally, fierce howls of the alpha permeate the area, causing the lower beowolves to stiffen in place. Their hollowed eyes slowly turn to reach the alpha, whose knuckles now pummeled into the ground. It bounds over to the tree on all fours, tearing deep into the dampened forest bed. Upon reaching the tree, the pack retreats with heads lowered, giving ample room to their leader. The blackened monster taps at the plating with the needle-like tips of its claws to test the integrity of the defense. It carefully moves its paws up to the top of the plate, where a narrow strip of bare bark is visible, and edges its way to where one of the hammered nails bore into the timber. Stopping, the animal stretches its digits.
The alpha's nostrils flare as it moved in closer to get a strong sniff of the small spike. Wafting multiple times before giving a content grunt, the beowolf stands upright on its legs and grabs the edges of the lowest metal plate. It huffs and puffs, pulling with all its might. The metal clings to the bark as a frightened toddler to her mother, but the wolf is too strong. The last nails holding it in place tear free from the bark, a blur of ashen fur launching the protective plate over to the rest of the pack. They paw at it, pushing the hunk of debris around. Each one delightfully howls that the tree's protective shell is stripping away. The alpha wastes no time in pulling off the other metal plates, contorting the iron into a wave. Its integrity wanes, making a creaking racket as it yearns to stay attached. Reverberating to the treetops, the noise burrows into the eardrums of the resting human above.
He strains to sit up, and arches his back to stretch. His chest rises up, filling his lungs with the combination of a fresh spring morning and the faintly musky stench of the wolves below. Holding it for a moment, he releases the air as a candle-extinguishing gust of breath from his puffed up cheeks. Rolling his neck around, the pajama-clad young man drowsily mumbles to himself.
"Okay, yeah. They're not going anywhere anytime soon. Stupid overgrown RATS!"
He drags himself out of bed, and manages to stand up on his feet. Looking around, his cerulean eyes dart from one corner of the room to another. Yahto scans for something, but the object wants to play a game of Where's Waldo? Becoming impatient, his foot starts to rapidly tap on the hardwood floor, and he grinds his teeth together. His delirium breaks for a frantic search. Scuffling around the room, he cranes his neck and darts his head from the desk to the drawers. Papers fling into the air only to uncover nothing. They drift back down to cover another previously searched area, only to be pitched about elsewhere for fear of missing that one square foot of floorboard. Mouth agape and quietly panting, Yahto stands slouched in the middle of the room.
"You have got to be kidding! Where was that hunk of junk kicked off to this time?"
Closing his eyes, he groans and brings his left wrist to his forehead. A clashing of plates below remind Yahto of the furry threat. After racking his brain trying to figure out where he last put his gauntlet. Yahto slowly lifts his eyelids and glances at his left forearm. Instead of the fleshy light mahogany color of skin he expects, a shiny caramel toned brace leaves him perplexed. He bites his tongue and uttered a low growl. The bronze gauntlet he's looking for was on his arm the whole time.
"Yep, fine, whatever. At-least I found it."
Yahto scratches the back of his head and walks to the far side of the room adjacent to the cabinets. Shoving his feet into a pair of tan moccasins, he proceeds to grab the metal brick that was hanging on the wall, his sluggishness nearly causing him to drop it in the process. Flipping the contraption around to grasp it by the handle, he put one arm over the other and slides the reflective object onto the gauntlet. Sliding down a groove in the gauntlet that resembled a drawer-slider, the two pieces click and interlock together. The handle of the former wall ornament hovering just over his wrist. Rotating his arm around for a quick check-up on his equipment, Yahto deems it satisfactory and grabs a lever protruding from the wall. A sharp pull reveals the wall as a door, pushing out a bit into the expanse of air and leaves. The door moves by two wheels placed on the edges of the floorboards, causing an audible rolling rumble upon opening. Gazing down, Yahto sees the beowolves working on their fourth plate, and would soon start attacking the base of the tree, likely to topple it over and feast upon anyone left once the smoke clears. He scoffs,
"Okay mutts, maybe you don't have the intelligence of a twig. Let's have some fun."
Done peering, Yahto let one leg dangle into the vast expanse of air outside the floor of the treehouse. Shifting his weight, he allows himself to tip past the floor and freefall down towards the wolves. But this momentum only continues for a brief moment. His feet start to cling to the outfitted iron on the tree. Channeling his inner surfer, he crouches upon contact and extended his arms out, skidding on the metal sea. Wind rushed through his hair and a static clacking could be heard coming from his feet. Heading directly for the pack, Yahto rushes towards them while his presence remained undetected much like mice that are too busy focusing on their next meal to notice when a bird of prey swoops down from above, the wolves continued their destruction of the tree. Yahto tilts his center of mass back and forth, skating around the tree trunk as he falls. He twists the handle of the contraption on his gauntlet, and the bluish-silver material unfurls itself as wings of an eagle prepare for flight. The weapon links together by a combination of gears, metal extensions, and an internal magnetism inside the segmented pieces. Once extended, each limb of the contraption is at a length similar in size to that of Yahto's forearm; the limbs shimmer in the dawn. In the back, the hooks spin and clanked their way to the ends of the limbs, two sparkplugs emerging from the tail end of the segments. These flicker for a moment, and surge to life a blue electric bowstring.
Dancing between the electrodes, the bowstring permeates the air with a quiet crackling sound. Yahto outstretches his arm, and brings his weapon directly in his line of sight; taking a sniper's stance. He takes his free hand and pulls back on the jittering bowstring, which repels away from his poised fingers. A sparking blue broad-tipped arrow materializes from the string, and Yahto rains a quick volley down on one of the Grimm below. The arrows hit their mark, but instead of piercing the flesh of the creature, vanish upon delving into the hide above where the heart would be. The body of the struck Grimm seizes up and judders; remaining as a statue as the current courses through its body. Channeling its inner porcupine, the beowolf's fur stands up on end in fine points for a few moments, before tipping over and hitting the ground with a thud. The rest of the pack looks up to the sky, only to see a waving boy two dozen meters above their head. The alpha's back rises up, and his teeth are on full display. It slinks away from the base of the tree, while the other beowolves were still clamoring at the trunk. Their blood red eyes focus upon the morsel above them.
"Good! Now that I have your attention, we can get this thing started. First things first; INTRODUCTIONS! I'm Yahto Tiama, keeper of peace, protector of freedom, and wrecker of your day! And you wonderful gents are?"
Yahto bows and gives a courtly sweep of his arm to the pack, actually expecting them to say something in return. He stands in this pose for a good ten seconds before jolting back upright. The beowolves tilt their heads and alternate gazes from the lunatic above them to the rest of the pack. Yahto's eyes narrow, and dons a skeptical frown. Brushing aside the platinum hair that hung down over his face, he says,
"Hey, we can't do this whole "fate of the world battle" thing until you formally introduce yourselves. You know, Ye Olden 'Hunter's Honor Code' and all, right?"
The Grimm keep staring at the kid above them. Crossing his arms, he scuffs his foot on the iron to which he clings. His scuffing creates a molten spark of metal that twinkles down to the ground, landing on the nose of a young beowolf. A high-pitched yip comes from the creature, who frantically shakes its snout to relieve the pain from the glowing iron speck. Yahto's face brightens and proclaims,
"Hi there Ipe! Nice to meet ya. See? Ipe gets it. Why can't you be more like him, guys?"
Prolonged dead silence is their only response. Yahto seems frustrated until he has a revelation from heaven dawn upon him. Covering his mouth in embarrassment, he apologetically squeaks out,
"Oh wait a minute! You guys are mutes aren't you? I'm sososososososo sorry! I just assumed you were ignoring me; instead I've been dragging the intros out for all this time when you guys can't even speak! How silly of me!"
After a few rounds of bowing and asking the wolves for forgiveness of his blunder, Yahto eases his humiliation. He returns to a docile mood, begins to rub his arms, and rolls his neck around in its socket.
"Alright. My bad, but if it's all the same to you fine gentlemen, I'd say that…"
Stopping mid-sentence, Yahto turns his head and nuzzles his scraggly face in-between his bicep and forearm, letting out a heavy yawn. Raising his other hand towards the wolves, he signals the "one moment please" hand gesture to the pack of claws and fangs below.
One of the wolves has enough of whatever this human was up to, and crouches low to the ground, tensing up its muscles. It releases the energy stored in the pose and wooshes up as if it jumps off a springboard. Glancing over, Yahto draws back his timeout hand and cranes his neck backward. The wolf closes in towards Yahto and comes inches from Yahto's face, snapping with its fangs making a sick, clasping pop. The hot breath of death and decay blows straight into his face from the wolf's nostrils, and Yahto grimaced at the stench. In response, Yahto's body starts glowing a luminescent blue; sporadic sparks of electricity appear, circling around his arms and legs.
A swiping paw of knives is about to tear his arm off, when he reaches out and touches the cold, wet nose of the beowolf. He raises his voice an octave and playfully quips,
"Zap!"
The beowolf momentarily seizes up and freezes in midair. It fell as a fleshy stone free falling to the ground, crashing right into another member of the pack. The wolf has its ribs crushed, but remains reaching out from underneath the charcoaled body attempting to free itself. It yelps to the other beowolves, though they remain focused on the meal just out of reach.
"That was kind of a cheap shot." Yahto remarks to his audience. "Come on now, why don't you play fair? Well, I mean, you could go all sleazy on me, but you'll just end up extra crispy like your friendo down there."
The beowolves growl, and tear at the base of the tree with a newfound vigor. Chucks of exposed bark come splintering off the trunk, and the rest of the pack are trying to tear off the other pieces of armor. Mouth agape, Yahto's eyes widen.
"Heyheyhey! I'm your target here wolvies! Stop attacking Iron Tree! She never did anything to you!"
The wolves ignore the cries of the distressed boy and continue to slash at the bark. Yahto sighs and shakes his head. His attention turns to his weapon, this time completely detaching it from the gauntlet. Clasping one of the limbs, he gives the grip another sharp twist. The weapon clinks, and responds with extending its limbs to twice that of what they were. Tesla coils morph into place three fourths of the way up on both limbs, and a brilliant maize colored electricity arc around each of the coils. It plays inside its confinement and sometimes dances outside them, but the bolts never escape from the weapon. The grip elongates, making for easier handling and target acquisition.
Yahto snaps his fingers, remembering something from a once long lost train of thought. He begins to tap his foot on the iron. Sparks of static electricity jump from his moccasin to the metal, and he brings his bow up to a firing position. Drawing back, an ever-growing blue arrow of electricity surges into existence. Having reached about 50% of a maximum draw, the arrow hovers around the length of one of the wolves' claws. The broad tipped arrow crackles and pops as muffled firecrackers; its energy blade sporadically sparking and shooting off flicks of energy into the air around it. Yahto half heartily sings to himself,
"Took all the windows from prisons and schools
Now what's a poor man left to do?"
He lets loose the hungering arrow towards the Grimm, zapping one of them knocking it unconscious. After firing the first arrow, he starts the next verse. Bolts of blazing blue lightning thunder from the sky unto the monstrosities, scattering their ranks and sending them into a panic. The beowolves drop left and right, all ending up as smoldering chunks of flesh. Three wolves remain: the distant and cautious alpha, one coward running for is life, and another ignorant fool clawing at the base of the tree. Yahto decides to take aim for the one scampering away. He brings the bow unusually close to his face, the string nearly blocking out everything else in view except his peripheral vision. Yahto angles his head, and bites over the string, pulling back with his head and teeth. The bowstring tenses up, and another cackling arrow forms. Yahto gets a bead on the beowolf, sufficiently leading the target for accuracy. Singing through his teeth, he warbles,
"Revolution, on its way!"
Releasing the arrow, it bolts straight into the fleeing back of the beast, ceasing all motor functions, tumble-weeding into the amber wheat; only a couple dozen meters from Iron Tree. He turns his attention to the wolf at the base of his home, still hacking up the sturdy bark. The gash it creates is over a foot deep, but it is hardly a flesh wound for the gigantic tree. Yahto smirks, and spins around to face the cotton candy sky. Making his arm chicken-wing behind him, his bow is blindly pointed towards his enemy. Drawing the string and pulling forward past his head, Yahto thoughtlessly fires below him, exclaiming,
"Bonus points!"
The arrow whizzes through the air with a drone, finally drawing the beowolf's attention away from the gaping hole it badgers to create. The wolf freezes, unable to avoid the harbinger of death that zips towards him. Bracing for impact and tucking its bushy tail between its legs, it waits for the eventual end. The arrow slips past its face, and darts into the ground next to him, leaving no injury to the beowolf. It tilts its head to where the arrow landed and gives a delayed howl of delight.
Yahto dips his neck back to see his handiwork, and sees the beowolf still standing, not a burn mark on it. Yahto rolls his eyes and groans, quickly turning around and firing with a normal stance. This arrow pierces the air and screams directly into the eye of the Grimm. The beowolf was still celebrating his fortune when the arrow hit, sending it into seizure, collapsing into the ground.
"Next time just move into the first arrow, this stuff doesn't come cheap."
Yahto's final target was the skittish alpha, who whimpers quietly having watched his entire pack be obliterated by this lone jester. The beowolf makes quick dashes back and forth, frantically trying to come to a resolution. An internal struggle of urges goes through its mind; that of running for its life, and feasting upon the human that stands above him. The wolf flattens its ears and wails, frustrated at what to do next.
Yahto laughs at the confused creature and starts to mimic the movements of the alpha. He hops over to one side and then the other on the metal armor of the tree; prancing about as a kid on a snow day.
Yahto takes one giant leap and falls back onto the iron, though this time; his feet have no quarrel with gravity. They slip and hold no traction against the slippery surface beneath him. Yahto's smile vanishes and he inhales a quick gasp of air. He starts skidding down the trunk at a greater and greater acceleration. Hysterically waving his arms to stay upright, Yahto slips straight for the hard, unforgiving ground as a drunken surfer on a rogue wave.
"nonononoNONONO! SSSTOOOOOPP!"
A couple of meters before impacting Remnant Wile E. Coyote style, Yahto thrusts his arms down towards his moccasins, sending a jolt of electricity to them. Feet slamming into a brick wall, he postpones his death to another day. However, the momentum that carries him all the way down is unrelenting, and his body swings down as a clock-hand on cocaine. Feeling his weight shift and wind screeching in his ears, Yahto braces for collision between him and the tree. His chest slams into the metal knocking the wind out of him. Surely his face is about to become a pancake, but all he struck is more air. Yahto ends up falling right above the hole Ipe has so generously dug out for him. Grasping at any stroke of luck he could find, Yahto lifts his arms and pushes off the jagged bark, diverting his movement parallel to the ground and towards the alpha. Corkscrewing in the air, he lands with a sloppy tumble and roll, managing to somehow springboard himself off the ground at the last chance. Ornate with wheat stalks sticking to his clothes, Yahto comes to a stumbling halt, bending over and hacking up a lung. Fist over his mouth, his stomach convulses, yearning for the sweet air to reenter his body. The alpha beowolf freezes, watching his opponent as attentive as any desperate animal would. The wolf licks its lips, and a string of drool hangs down its lower jaw. A standoff between the hunter and the hunted commences, unknowing who would come out on top.
Yahto manages to ease his coughing, and gulps down some air to stop himself from passing out. He struggles to say,
"Urgh…well that…could've been worse."
Regaining his composure and brushing off the clinging stalks to his clothes, Yahto returns the animal's gaze, eyeing him up as a piece of meat. He notices the hide of the creature seems to be incredibly thick, blanketing the vulnerable points with a tough natural coating. Its bony mask hangs over the eyes and outlines the lower jaw with protrusions of some sort of natural red coloration. The wolf's defenses seem to have grown specifically to avoid death by humans and their weapons. It slices the ground with dagger-like claws, and its tail raises, swishing back and forth. A deep, guttural warning growl comes from the throat of the alpha, signifying all the intentions it needs to.
Yahto snorts and grabs his weapon from the gauntlet, standing tall against his opposition. He cracks his knuckles and activates his aura. Yahto glows a luminescent blue, and wisps of cyan electricity swirl around him. Determination swells in his chest, and he brings his bow up to eye level, drawing back a beautifully destructive broad-tipped arrow. His hand lets the arrow slip from its chains, aimed directly at the alpha. The arrow shot is on its mark when it reaches the end of the bow, but upon leaving the limbs, it pulls a Houdini, vanishing in the blink of an eye.
Yahto gives an overemphasized gasp, and whips his bow clear out of sight into the brush-line; he woefully wails,
"OH GOD WHHYYYY?! Why did I have to run out of dust now!? There is absolutely no possible way for me to beat this strong, intelligent, powerful, -and might I add handsome- Grimm now! He will surely eat me up like the pathetic human I am!"
Yahto collapses to his knees, comforting himself by plastering his hands to his face, and sobs as if he was auditioning for Vytal's next big soap opera.
The Grimm is anxious more than confused, and the primal urge to destroy humans eventually wins over. This is its chance. Its moment to scratch that itch it has had for months; that instinct to consume would be satisfied, if only for a couple days. Springing from its powerful hind legs, the Grimm charges at Yahto for all the bloodlust it is worth. Yahto remains in his curled up position, rocking back and forth and wailing like a banshee. However, he watches the incoming wolf with hawk eyes through the cracks in his fingers. The snarling beowolf leaps into the air and blocks out the sun, casting a malicious shadow upon Yahto. Seeing the huge claws glimmer in the light, closing in for their final devastating attack, Yahto's body flashes for a moment and following suit of his arrow, vanishes without a trace.
The alpha slams into the ground, swiping at nothing but soggy wheat and lost opportunities. It rolls over onto its feet and feverishly looks around. The boy is nowhere to be seen. Crying out into the sky, the alpha becomes furious, but his howl did not last long. Upon exposing its throat, Yahto reappears right below the creature, palm clutching a condensed ball of lightning, scattering small bolts of electricity in every direction. Its brilliant light is the only thing the beowolf manages to glimpse before Yahto shoves his attack straight into the base of its unprotected throat. The creature absorbs the static ball into its hide, and its body shakes violently. Its neck almost breaks on the spot from the spasms that rocks its nervous system. Arcs of electricity spring from the sails on its back as the current travels down the spine of the Grimm. After the tail puffs up into a fluff, the beowolf collapses and moves no more. The last thing it hears before fading to black is the boy uproariously laughing.
Yahto walks up to the limp creature, knocks on the alpha's bony head, and jokes,
"Good acting right? I was just kidding! Learn sarcasm ya juiced up weasel."