Thick rain wreathed the land, and dark clouds filled with a malicious intent whirled in the cauldron-sky above.
Across the barren hills occasional boulders, which in better weather poked grey and inquisitive out of the heather, seemed to be trying to shrink inwards, reach the safety of the earth below. The Hunt was afoot. With a flash of lightning, a man was illuminated. Another flash, and the length of his blade was revealed, held in steady hands. Around him in a twisted dance darted shapes out of nightmare, full of teeth and claws. Howls quivered in the air, bloodthirsty and somehow other, not like that of wolf or hound at all. Though his chill-blue eyes did not show it, the man was scared – more scared than he had ever been before. In his veins the blood pulsed, whipping the hounds into a frenzy. Faster and faster the Hunt ran, tightening in, forming a wall of dappled hides and slavering mouths. But he had a purpose here, and he would see it through.
Quick and sure now that he had made up his mind, he twirled the sword in hands calloused by use in war. Thunder rumbled and rain poured in a curtain around him, cutting him off from the rest of the world. Like quicksilver, his blade moved faster and faster, matching the fevered pitch of the Hounds. A barrier of light, picked out in the blasts of lightning above, seemed to form between man and beast. And still the sword turned, alive in his hands, whirling silver before the man's face. Snarling faces lunged at him, but with a casual flick the blade parted the air where they passed, holding them off. The insane swirling of the pack slowed as they realised something – this person in his plain travelling clothes was not the easy prey they had thought. Red-rimmed eyes analysed the situation,
long, yellowing teeth were flashed. They could hear his heart beat faster, they could smell his fear. Snarling, elongated faces moved closer, some prowling to the side out of the reach of his biting metal, others advancing up front.
This is what he had hoped for. Time.
Spaaace. Nudging a bundle forward with his foot, Jodin of the Fated Knights called in a voice that barely rose above the shrieking wind. His
hard face set in steely determination as he spoke the words that doomed him.
“I am here for your master. I wish a trade – flesh and soul for his help. Bring him to me.” A single, long ululating howl answered him, the howl of a creature
who has had something fundamental taken from it. Teeth that wished nothing more than to rend his flesh from bone snapped shut and turned from him, claws that would tear him instead bore their fleet bodies away. Watching as the hounds streamed across the land, dark forms under a dark sky, the man sighed at last – the only sound of apprehension he had made. Down each of his arms dark lines of ink told a story known only to himself, a tale of blood and death, a tale of little hope. The Hunt had been under way, but they were hounds yet. They yet followed their master's will, and it was their master's will that those who sought audience should have it. Despite the evil he had called, perhaps his soul could be redeemed. Maybe the tale he wrote on his arms would speak of warmth in the coming years. The lightning flashed, revealing the face of a babe wrapped in the cloths at his feet, and he knew otherwise.
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 296522 times)