New Orleans, a city of culture and tragedy. One that had nearly been wiped out by a hurricane a scant half decade ago. And yet, if one were to see the city now, they would notice none of the former damage to the arguable heart of Cajun culture. But every city and every populace has it's dark side, more than just one in fact. Despite the city's vibrancy, there were souls as black as the void of space, black as that which separates the great cosmic bubbles of reality. A few souls, were even darker.
In the sleepy town of Barton Hallow, a group of those dark souls had gathered. Circling around a device that they had planted in the basement of an old tavern, this jet miniature spire, seemingly formed out of black ivory, these few dark ones coalesced. Of this group, at least four were not alive in the traditional sense. Two of them were skeletal death knights, great martial champions in life, these former heroes of the sword had now become rotting horrors, still wearing the armour and carrying the weapons that they did in life, a rictus grin of yellowed teeth ever present on their lipless faces while crimson dots of light danced in their empty sockets.
The two of them flanked a whispy, black thing that seemed to be clad in a hooded death shroud, it's face as empty as the void of night itself. A wraith, a soul that had died in circumstances so horrific that it went beyond what would form a mere ghost or spectre, something that perished in conditions so abomidable that it's very humanity had been purged from it's soul, leaving only the image of death. But the three of them were overshadowed by one shape, a black robed skeletal figure clutching a staff that seemed to be made out of an ebony spine tipped with small, fire blackened skulls. A crown rested upon the thing's head, from which two curling ram's horns, black as pitch, spiraled out forth.
The living acolytes, garbed in black and red, finished their touches on the technomagic device, standing well back from it as the spire began to float upwards on a cushion of air. "My lords...it is ready..." Said one of the acolytes to the wraith before bowing in acknowledgement to the black and red hooded skeletal figure, who was flanked by four ebony plated cyborgs with red visors, their technological forms enhanced with deadly magic in a fusion of science and sorcery. "Then activate it." The wraith hoarsely whispered in a voice that carried the chill of death itself, sending shudders down the spine of the cultist, though his face was hidden by a harlequin's mask, his fear and worship of his undying masters was palpable.
The acolyte went back to the circle of mages and technicians surrounding the device, the psychic beacon, and they began the final series of encantments that caused the device's upward prongs to open up, revealing a iridescent crystal that serenely floated above the petal bloom of metal beneath it. The crystal then made three sharp pinging noises before a low, dull throb went out through the air, the sound of freedom dying. Across the small town of Barton Hallow, every citizen suddenly stopped cold, as if someone had flicked the switch to their minds. Even the wailing of infants ceased, even the chirping of the insects had halted abrubtly.
"My lords...it works..." The acolyte said to his masters, kneeling before them and bowing his head before them. "Good...Are there any loose ends?" The Wraith asked as it tilted it's head, a low uluating exhale coming out from it's nonexistent throat as it bobbed slowly up and down the air. "The mayor, a Thomas Charleston, my lords...remains unaccounted for..." The acolyte said, finally deigning to look up at his deathless lieges. "Then cut the knot." The shrouded thing hoarsely commanded, almost hissing out it's words in a manner that made the acolyte nearly flinch. "It will be done...lord Noxus." The acolyte said as he stood up out of his bow and fled the basement.
Then the wraith Noxus turned to the cyborg flanked figure. "This will be a most excellent test run...do you not agree, Lord of Lords?" Noxus whispered deferentially to the Silent King, who simply nodded as he turned around and stepped out of the room. A long, droning, ululating and bedlam howl then pierced through the throbbing silence, and if Noxus had a face, he would have smiled...the wirewolf was loose.
Thomas Charleston returned to his home after a meeting in New Orleans proper, accompanied by a small security detail that flanked his car. But there was none of the typical greetings he usually got, even in a time of day as late as this. Not to mention, there was foreboding sense of dread and oppression that hung in the town. He saw some people walking past him, but when the security guards tried to tell them to step back, they simply strode on past, a dull, glassed look in their eyes. "What do you make of this Jensen?" Thomas asked to his aide who shook her head. "I don't know...something in the water maybe?" She asked before he caught the sight of what looked like a winged figure at first in the corner of his eyes.
An angel perhaps? He had heard of angelic superheroes in the papers, but never met one in person. While never a man of particularly strong faith, Thomas still considered himself to be Christian, and the thought of meeting one of the lord's protectors was exciting to him. He turned around to take a look, somewhat apprehensive of what he would see, expecting some comely, golden haired being that radiated divine goodness and a sense of calmness.
What he got was far worse. He was confronted by the sight of a ogre sized, wiry creature whose skin and muscles constantly sloughed off in enormous flakes, seemingly dessicating and rotting in fast motion while it's leathery wings flapped in defiance to all condition they should have had. A trail of rotted off flesh trailed behind it, while a lolling, cracked tongue fell out of it's mouth, only to seemingly reappear to start rotting all over again. It was an angel alright, but it was no angel of the lord, it was an Angel of Decay.
But before he could scream, a piercing, metallic and ululating howl pierced through the silence. Then a security guard disappeared as he was pulled off of his motorbike, screaming before a wet gurgling filled the air and the sound of metal going through flesh meshed with it. "GET US OUT! GET US OUT!" Charleston shrieked as the car turned around and began to drive as fast as it could as the security guards tried to provide some cover.
But whatever it was, their bullets merely bounced off of what seemed to be steel, and the thing was incredibly fast. It seemed to cartwheel, bob, weave, duck, and jump through the storm of pistol rounds being sent at it, those that did catch it bouncing off of what he could finally see resembled some form of animated, humanoid mass of metal with sickles for fingers and a series of whiplike razorwires coming out of it's back. But other than resembling plates of metal placed together to make a humanoid form, it's features did not remain constant. Spikes, curves, points, horns, and other features melted in and out of it's fluid structure, the only thing remaining constant being the blank, silvery curved mask for a faceplate.
Another guard was jumped and stabbed through the chest with a razorwire before being flung at another, whose head was stomped on while the ground seemed to partially melt in it's presence. Clearly, whatever it was, it's presence was something reality was not agreeing with, if only in a small way. One of the guards loaded incendiery rounds into his pistol, a large caliber magnum, and fired it at a leaking tank just as the gas vapour was piling up, igniting the gas contained in the motorcycle's tank in an large explosion, and a shrieking howl went through the air to be cut off by the explosion. and charleston breathed out a sigh of relief.
As they drove back to New Orleans, Charleston drove towards a hotel and asked for another series of bookings, which the Clerk agreed to. Then he looked at her one more time and asked. "May I have some phone books please?" To which the clerk nodded and provided him with a trio of large phone books, which he took up to his room and began to flip through while simultaneously looking for any paranormal investigators who could not only study and diagnose, but fight and defeat threats that defied logic. He contacted everyone he could, going through various organizations, always giving his thanks to any who would take the job, explaining the situation to them in a sort of panic, fear evident in his voice.
But what he did not know...was that the Wirewolf was not finished. Crawling out of the crater the exploded gas tank created, the rents in the wirewolf's structure flowed back together like quicksilver. They were simply not big enough to allow the possessing energetic iconoclasm's essence to spill out before it could regenerate it's "body." Looking at the ground, the wirewolf followed the trail of it's quarry, breaking into a tireless sprint towards New Orleans, where those black hearted folk had made a great den in.