Wolves only felt alive in carnage. To hunt and prey and dance with death had them raptured. She was no wolf anymore and still could seek nothing else to make her heart beat madly.
The memory of blood had the curse in a frenzy.
But their first exchange was tame, the spear easily keeping her opponent out of reach. He likewise had an uncanny ability to dodge and forced her to close the distance.
Another swing: the spear's pole got cut clean, then cut again and she finally turned the iron head against him. The blade grazed her ear, making it fume as if pressed on red hot metal. It had her grin, extatic.
With just one motion her weapon plunged on the man's chest, open and defenseless, only to miss again.
Only then did she see the saintess' pendant at his neck. It had been hidden so far but with Grisval forced to leap back the trinket had flown into view. With that blessing she could go all out, none of her attacks would reach.
Not unless she took hold of him first.
But in that moment where they had separated he pulled the red ribbons on his dagger, freeing slits that started to shriek in the air as if the realm was torn. It shredded her ears each time the dagger moved to the point of nausea.
Grisval seized that moment of surprise to lunge, missed her but barely; her whole chest turned black from the scorch. She dodged the dagger as well, saw his neck but once again the blessing made her miss.
All Joan had to do to win was grab him.
She broke off instead, threw the broken spear away and brought her hands into fists, claws piercing her palms.
This made Grisval pause. What sorcery, his eyes yelled, would push a werewolf to cripple her own hands? She was on him again, dodging his blades as if there was nothing but air. The two collided, him thrown back from the charge.
He stumbled back, regained his footing, felt the necklace missing and saw it broken in pieces at his feet.
She charged again but the shrieking dagger had her dizzy. A swing slashed her forearm, the metal unable to make a dent, the blessing tearing in with licking flames.
He watched the werewolf stumble back and face him, not even grunting from her arm ablaze.
There was nothing on her face but a bestial joy.
Both of them had time as their enemy. He knew the second beast would soon pull the bolt of and recover. She knew men-at-arms would come back in force, with blessed weapons, to comb the fields and hunt her down.
She welcomed it, but it was not quite as thrilling as facing that hunter, those black hair, that black beard so defiant.
Grisval waved the dagger some more, then charged and aimed for her neck. He knew the beast's bones would resist a blessed weapon and so the heart, for now, was out of reach.
Her punch put an end to these thoughts.
A second punch stole his breath and the third his balance. He fell on one knee, felt his entire defense crumbling and, out of tricks, just yelled and lunged at his enemy. His whole body rammed her, so puny yet with enough strength to push her back.
When his sword dashed, just too wide to burn her face she felt her fists coming apart, her claws begging for this man's flesh.
And behind her Brenin had taken the bolt out.
She felt the other werewolf finally catching air now that his blood could flow freely. He still struggled but brought himself on his arm, forced all he could to stand up.
The hunter watched Joan turn her back to him and strike that monster with enough force to crack his skull.
Brenin fell back to the ground, blind, but the curse was already at work, bringing his face back into one piece. She was ready to follow up when the iron sword pierced her chest.
The moment she had offered her back to him, Grisval had not even hesitated. Her heart was wide open, ready for him to strike and so he had pressed his blade with all of his strength, pushed hard enough for it to come through the other side.
Just then the hunter thought he had won. Already the monster's body was catching fire; the heart could not survive a contact like this, the cursed blood could do naught against that blessing.
His silver dagger was plunging in turn to strike.
But she seized the iron blade with both hands, broke the metal in pieces even as her fingers bled and burned then turned to block his attack, forced him back and he watched that wounded creature, her torso a torch, glare at him.
Of course Grisval knew fear. He was but a man and this was more than he had ever faced.
And now all he had left was a dagger to fight a devil.
But she turned again and struck Brenin with both blessed pieces, right in his shoulders, planted him on the ground screaming as his own flesh, where the metal touched, turned to ash.
His beastly shriek was heard all the way to the village.
It was brief. The next moment she had slashed him into silence. And with that, finally, the werewolf's eyes lost their bloodthirst.
Brenin awoke with his body burning, feeling broken and torn. His own head rang like the village's bell and all he could see was a veil of rage and hunger. But he could tell he was lying in mud and people were fighting nearby.
Her fists undone, Joan had lunged at the hunter.
For a few moments he had been able to keep her at bay, to give her a few cuts the curse could not heal but those gashes hardly stalled her.
When he went for her heart she lost it, slipped through and and grasped him at the shoulders. Her speed and weight did the rest; Grisval slammed on the ground hard enough to give him a concussion.
It took all she had not to clutch. Already the mantle was clawed but she moved instead to hold his neck with one forearm and with the other to press his wrist and keep the dagger down.
He was at her mercy.
Her maw was drooling over him. Her heart was unbound, lost in bliss. To bite him, to taste his blood, to go hunt with him and stand on a mountain of corpses. Even now Grisval still defied her and it only added to her cursed frenzy.
Behind her Brenin was screaming in vain.
His throat had healed and with the blessing finally consumed he had been able to remove one blade. Still his body felt limp, his arms too weak.
He could only watch as the beast feasted over her prey.
Now she knew why she had spared the spread back then. She had thought it was because his resistance had stunned her. But it was because once a beast tasted blood, it could not stop. Once she started killing, she could not stop.
She didn't want to stop.
Her heart beat so hard, her hunger was so great, days of denial crashing unto her. It was so much. She could not stop.