Logan’s geographical memory might not have been perfect, but Zeke’s nose was never wrong. At great haste, the two had set down the mountainside, providing the hound with an opportunity to grind down his lengthy black claws by sliding across the bare stone in vicious sprints.
Ezekiel’s silent trot was one of satisfaction, perhaps due to feeling his partner’s excitement for the new project - a stark opposite to the solemn melancholy that had overcome Logan ever since his troubles began two months previous.
Had the hound been capable of human speech, Logan imagined the two might not have been as good friends, as he would undoubtedly have pointed out this shift of his humors and suggested that it was due to the human contact that he now walked with a raised head. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth, at least according to the Ghast. He was not one for prolonged human contact, but need had always fueled innovation and if anyone had the need, it would be the people of Anza. He had been provided a challenge, found a potential solution to their plight and, if his thesis was correct, it would go a long way to solve the next order of problems.
But even with these potential positives in his near future, his shoulders were heavy with an unseen burden; a burden only the hound could see or feel. But he did as he always had, served his side of their bilateral agreement - supporting his friend, partner and colleague with the ferocity deserving of his endearing title: the finest hound in all of Cradle and beyond.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Logan muttered as he looked down to see Zeke’s narrow, brown eyes stare up at him. How the beast navigated the heavy underbrush without looking was beyond him - he imagined it certainly should not have been possible by the use of smell, alone. But the hound often spent his time looking at his master with his multitude of expressions as they wandered in the relative safety of the thick pinewood forests. He could tell that the beast was worried for him - worried it would happen again. Which usually meant it was not far away, a dreadful premonition, but a problem of his own- a problem Logan would deal with. Alone.
As luck would have it, the sounds of running water meant that they had arrived at the location he could remember from their journey out to the mountain home; a small creek flanked on both sides with heavy, thick bamboo-reeds; the tubular plants he had been searching for.
As the dog had promised, he felt it coming at the back of his head - that psychic scream for assistance, the desperate plea of something.
He quickly leapt off his companion and reached inside his pocket to produce a thick log of smoked meat, extending it to the hound as provisions for as long as this would take.
“I’ve told you a dozen times before, I’ll be fine. Go find us some food for smoking, boy, we’re running low on meat. We’ll have to build up our stocks quickly as I think we’re gonna be eating for a few more, soon.” Logan felt the piercing scream shake the psyche of the ground beneath his feet, momentarily knocking him off-balance. The grass and bristles stung his knee as he dropped to support himself on the reeds.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
A single, low bark signaled his companion’s worry, but Logan assured him: “I’ll be fine. Now go. A nap will do me good, all right?” Begrudgingly, the beast huffed with offense and turned his back to the Ghast, just in time to avoid seeing him collapse to the forest floor. With another glance of worry, the red setter set out into the forest, cautious not to stray too far from his partner’s side.
Back up on the mountain, the boys stood before Ethel’s house - flanking the unnerving Ghast-Administrator.
Whereas Logan’s taps on the door had been patient and humble, the taps of this one’s knuckles against wood were demanding and cruel - slams of insistence rather than a request for an invitation.
The three had been silent ever since they had made their report to their new Master. They had been taken aback by the sudden bout of fury as he heard of the supposed crime, all suspecting he misunderstood Ethel’s actions for heresy or evil, but none had dared speak a word. Even Marcel, ever the courageous, had remained silent as they had walked the long stairs down to her humble, stone-cut abode.
“Fuck, calm down! I’m coming, I’m coming!” The Ghast’s gloves crackled as he lowered his hands. He seemed taller than he had been during their previous meetings, which only added to his threatening aura.
No sooner had the door swung open, he raised a hand to press his way inside, ignoring the initial yelp of protest before she realized who the aggressor was.
“A Ghast!” She gasped as he pressed her further into her home with the flat of his palm.
Ethel’s pristinely smooth skin was as white as a sheet; contrasting her red, curled hair. He raised a hand to her small button of a nose and pushed her the final distance, sending her topping backwards over a chair and she smashed through an ancient, dilapidated table, revealing the white, daringly tarnished underwear under her tattered burgundy dress.
“Stay!” This time, the boys were not the recipients of the will, but they could see it enacted on the poor woman on the cold, dusty, granite floor. Her head was nearly pressed in the long-dead fireplace; an indignant position for a beauty such as she.
She writhed in agony as her body attempted to right itself - desperately struggling against the mystical force freezing her muscles. Tears of pain ran in streams down her cheeks as she sought a manner to obey his command while ordering her dress as to not reveal herself so.
Without another word, the Ghast raised his mask to the ceiling, demonstratively sniffing the air.
“Come!” He shouted at the door - this time without any mysticism behind the command. Marcel led the charge into the room, but kept his mouth shut - doing his best not to follow his eyes’ desire to stare at her crotch.
“Can you smell it? The sins in the air? The thievery and the debauchery - as the town’s youth; the warriors-to-be hunger, this one steals from the Governor. She’s a fiend.”
They definitively all smelled something in the musty granite house, but what exactly, none could tell. It was yeasty, with a distinctively sour aftertaste.
“S-Sir G-Ghast…” A choked defense sounded from the weeping woman on the floor.
“Be silent, whore!” She gagged as another bout of pain sent punishing impulses through her system, incapacitating her.
Marcel wished to strike out at the Ghast, to defend the maiden in despair, but the man was a Hero - a legendary warrior, a man of the Governor. He was what they all wished to become. Yet he could not keep his mouth shut:
“S-Sir Ghast! I’m sure this is a mistake - a misunderstanding. I-” In a flash of movement too fast for any of the boys to see, the Ghast struck Marcel’s cheek and send him soaring backwards into the wall with enough force to crack the solid construct. Michael and Abraham were frozen in place, staring at the display with disbelief.
“This town is corrupted. Look how even the young - these soldiers of Lord Bravelle turn a blind eye to your crimes. I pray it is not too late to turn them and you should, too. The Order of the Ghast does not take kindly to corruption of the youth, certainly not on His Land.”
The dark figure kneeled down next to the woman’s head and promised a grim fate: “It’s already too late for you, heathen. But you’ll serve Him still.”