Hexers never die in their beds.

[Joltastik 506]

Spoiler

 

 

Silence. Naught but peace and silence enveloped the Dominion's dense forestry, as the faint hum of nature lingered on. The undisturbed wilderness painted an idyllic picture, though unfortunately, that was not to last..

 

Frantic huffs. Panting. The sound of shriveled bushes kicked to the side as a dirtied, grizzled Mali' ran into the peaceful frame. His clothes were torn, though the distraught elf cared not. He ran and ran in panicked demeanor, taking no account of his surroundings-- instead seeking only safety from whatever came after him. Meanwhile, plenty of paces back, thick boots struck against the dense underbrush, as a well-equipped figure stomped on. Tufts of puffy smoke trailed after his broad visage, as a sloppily-rolled cigar hung from his mouth.

 

The supposed man pulled his cloak back, revealing a disfigured set of features, cast apart by various scars of past endeavors. Perhaps they signaled experience, or maybe incompetence, the only thing certain being the objectively unsettling nature of these lesions. His hair, once black as coal, was now littered with white strands; a clear sign of old age. His eyes, of a faded grey, had a strange glint to them-- signaling the consumption of some sort of narcotic, or perhaps elixir. Of course, that was a clear given, as his nostrils still held the residue of a strange powder. Nevertheless, he walked onwards with extreme diligence, eyes stuck to the ground; following the very tracks left by the Mali'.

 

He came to an abrupt, albeit brief stop, as to check his equipment. A well-oiled arbalest was tightly held in his grasp. Two sword scabbards hung from the back of his baldric-- each holding prized swords. One of Aurum. One of Steel. From his belt, several gimmicks hung. A pouch filled with firecrackers. A lowly scroll, kept within short-reach. A crude, iron hook, predominantly kept for a hunter's trophy. There was no doubt about it, the old man was prepared, and as he assured himself of this one last time, he resumed his stride. 

 

The hunter incoherently mumbled to himself as the tracks led him to a clearing, readying a bolt which he'd promptly tuck within the arbalest's wooden frame. As he did so, the sight of a hunched, kneeling individual diverted his gaze, and he set on carefully approaching it. It was, without a doubt, the fleeing Elf.

 

"P-. . .Please. . . leave me be. . I did nothing. ." The distraught Mali' pleaded, facing away from the Hunter. The man ushered no response, eyes kept unto the prey as he worked at the crossbow's stirrup. Something was off, though, mostly prevalent within the exhausted Elf's voice.

"G-. . Go away. . .Please. . . Now!" The elf called on, though his voice seemed audibly distorted, bearing closer semblance to a canine's wails. The Hunter stood stiff, deadpanning the beseeching Mali' with beady eyes. He'd finally wind the crossbow's string back, aiming it towards the prey.

 

"Morea's good Graces. . . I do not wish to hurt you. . ." The elf's voice devolved into a deeply distorted dialect with that phrase, as his very body convulsed and contorted into a disgusting mass of transmuting flesh. Tufts of fur grew at a rapid pace all over the Mali's body. His very mouth bent out of shape, giving way for a rapidly developing snout. His frame grew and grew out of mundane proportions as the assumed creature took form. . . A disgusting, apalling lycanthrope. A Feral, as they called it.

The Hunter took aim as the beast took it's form. Deep, rhythmic breaths were taken as he adjusted the grasp upon his weapon. All this, as the wolfish creature reeled back, ready to pounce upon the Hunter's form in a self-defensing act. None took their time as the scene went on. Both hunter and prey, whichever was the one and the other, were ready.

 

"Click!" the faint sound of the crossbow's trigger ensued, as a murder of crows rapidly took off from the treeline, into the dark-lit sky.

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Spoiler

 

A few hours later...

 

The once idyllic frame of nature was disturbed by all accounts. Instead of a kestrel's peaceful chirps, one would hear pained grunts. Instead of healthy, green grass, tinted by the pale moon's light, one would see the ground splattered with copious amounts of blood. A crossbow laid a few paces back, thrown out of reach. The deep marks of sharp talons littered the surrounding trees, and alas, the body of a cut-down Mali' laid still and bloodied, a prevalent slash wound running down it's spine. By the cadaver's side was a bloody blade, it's edge shimmering a golden tint.

 

The hunter's pants were still audible, as his disgruntled frame laid slouched against a tree's bark. His forearm remained glued to his cleaved abdomen, quite literally holding his guts from spilling. The pain was mostly numb, as a result of the drugs consumed prior to the fight, though it was of clear sight that the hunter was not to get back up. Nevertheless, he kept holding at his wound, driven by an instinctive need to survive, however longer that would be. In such a state, the man brought his free, left hand to his mouth, promptly tugging at his glove. Removing it revealed the brand of a Sparrow, burned into the back of his palm a long time ago. Though it was part of him, he did not gaze upon it for a long, long time. A glint of awe appeared within his eyes, as he started chanting to himself. . .

 

"Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

. . . Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

 

This mantra, repeatedly uttered by the old veteran, issued the names of his former, deceased comrades and mentors. Though all came to pass, he was to join them, and this brought a certain sense of peace to the decadent frame in which the poor hunter found himself situated. Alas, in his last moments, he could only reminisce. Reminisce of his time as a young swordsman. An idealistic Initiate. A war-torn veteran. He let out a highly uncharacteristic chuckle as he thought of the past. Of the dangers he had to contain. Of the odds he and his comrades fought against.

 

"Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

. . . Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

 

Until the crack of dawn, as his body slowly expired, the man kept uttering these names. As light invaded the sky, and as his eyes slowly fluttered shut, the old veteran kept repeating this single set of names.

 

"Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

. . . Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

 

 

"I'm coming. . . I'm finally coming. . ."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[GDPR 014 48]

A hunter grumbles, 

 

"I'm alone now. Figures."

[Zacho 2177]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.