"What's going on?"
The Hunt Master was crouched atop the upper boughs of a tree, watching a stampede of creatures race below him, screeching and bellowing in panic as they haphazardly destroyed all in their path. His gaze flicked to the daggers at his loincloth before returning to the trail of destruction wrought by the creatures. The Hunt Master's heart frosted as he watched the proceedings, the chaos as prey and predator fled together. What's causing this panic in the forest's hierarchy?
He had long since created the divergent trails and disposed of the elafiotéras's organs. Yet, instead of returning, he chose to investigate the forest for any irregularities. Ever since he began tracking the elafiotéras, a gnawing sense of wrongness had plagued him—a feeling that something unnatural was influencing the forest. He had kept this unease to himself, refraining from informing the huntsmen and waiting until the hunt ended. When the unease refused to fade, he set aside his joy over the successful hunt and followed his instincts. Now, he was grateful he had come alone
CRASH! The Hunt Master flinched as a large animal slammed against his hiding tree, the impact throwing it off its feet and to the ground. Before the unfortunate creature could recover, it was trampled underfoot by the routing animals, its skull crushed and its bones pulverized. In an instant, the previously domineering creature was a mangled mess of blood and skin. The Hunt Master's mouth dried as he watched, his hold on the tree tightening unconsciously. Ancestors, let this tree hold, he prayed, his grip tightening with every strike the trunk endured. After an endless wait, the creatures thinned out before slowly disappearing in their entirety.
When he was certain the creatures had left and wouldn't circle back, the Hunt Master began climbing down, his gaze flitting around the surrounding woods. As he descended, the metallic scent of blood hit him—stronger and more suffocating than anything he’d known. What is this stench?
Upon touching the ground, the nauseating fetor hit him like a wave, nearly bowling him over. The ground was strewn with maimed and disfigured bodies, their blood pooling into a crimson river of horror. The Hunt Master stared round in disgust, bile rising. There's no beauty in this death, just senseless desperation and insanity.
He stepped over a feathered and bloodied cadaver before staring into the forest's depths, a chill running down his spine. Somehow, he could sense a dark presence deep within, something ancient to be left alone and not trifled with.
The Hunt Master unconsciously lowered his hips and grabbed the hilts of his twin daggers, nearly drawing them in his fear. Barely breathing, he turned and hurriedly began sloshing his way toward the outer edges, escaping the path of the stampede. He briefly glanced back at the blood river, swamped with thoughts. This was a beacon for predators; he needed to escape before anything answered the call. Whatever stayed behind must be more fearsome than the stampede. He sighed in relief as he stepped off the bloodied ground and onto solid ground. The Hunt Master raced through the woods, leaving the destruction behind.
SKEERT! The Hunt Master had planned to avoid this forest section and return to more familiar territory. However, as he fled, something caught his eye, forcing him to stop abruptly. He crouched, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on a cluster of animal tracks.
Which creature does this belong to? The Hunt Master scrutinized the tracks, but no creature came to mind. Is it from deeper in? He thought, gaze sharpening. He shook his head. No, that can't be right. They're heading into the depths from the outer forest. He rubbed his chin as his eyes followed the tracks. These aren't the tracks of a single animal; could it have been a group? Perhaps they’re a pack circling back—but no, the tracks are too old, from before the stampede. He lightly touched the tracks, noting the deep imprints. Are they weighted down?
The Hunt Master stood and turned toward the tracks' origin, unease gnawing at him. Something about his analysis felt off, though he couldn’t pinpoint what. These tracks are confusing. Were they made by one animal or a group? They’re sending me mixed signals.
He glanced toward the cave, his hands clenching instinctively. I can’t go deeper. The forest feels... unsettled. Who knows what I might stumble upon?
GRRRR! A low, guttural growl rumbled behind him. The Hunt Master froze, his breath catching as he turned. From the shadows of the trees, a beast emerged, its glowing white eyes piercing through the dim light of the forest. It moved slowly, each step deliberate, claws scraping against the earth with a grating sound that sent shivers down the Hunt Master’s spine.
Skoteinos. His disbelieving gaze darted over its grotesque form—the hulking frame, the patchy black fur, the spiked tail that lashed the air. Then his eyes locked on its wound: a deep, bleeding gash along its side, dark blood oozing steadily and streaking the ground beneath it. The beast favored its uninjured side, each uneven step exuding menace and pain. From the stampede?
The Hunt Master clenched his twin daggers, their worn grips digging into his calloused palms. He shifted his bare feet into a ready stance, muscles taut beneath his scarred, weathered frame. His thickly braided hair swayed slightly as he scanned for an escape, but every direction seemed a step closer to death.
The beast’s white eyes narrowed, locking onto him as a guttural snarl erupted from its maw, saliva trailing between its jagged teeth. The Hunt Master’s chest heaved, his breath quickening. How is this possible, a skoteinos? He stepped back, eyes locked on it, blades defensively drawn.
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Its tail snapped against a tree, the crack splitting the air as the trunk shattered in two. Splinters rained down, but the Hunt Master remained still, his left dagger in a reverse grip, his right poised forward as the beast prowled.
The skoteinos and the Hunt Master began circling, their gazes clashing in between trees. Blood dripped from its wound, darkening the ground, but the pain did nothing to dull its savage stare.
Suddenly, the skoteino charged, the ground trembling under its immense weight. The Hunt Master held his ground, waiting until the last moment before sidestepping with a fluid motion, his blade slicing deep into its side as it thundered past. The beast unleashed an earth-shaking roar, wildly swinging in its fury. The Hunt Master rolled away, his head marginally avoiding the beast's claws. Springing to his feet, he dropped into a low stance, ready to spring in any direction. Its swings are weak and slow. His sharp eyes traced the bleeding wounds marring its hide. Still, I need to be careful. The Hunt Master pointed his toes outward, poised to pivot quickly. I can do this, he resolved, his breath steady. As long as I keep moving, and utilize my flexibility and agility, I can stall until it bleeds out, or escape if the opportunity presents itself.
Their eyes connected, the air drawn and tense as they stared each other down. With a final, spiteful growl, the skoteino turned and stalked back into the forest, its malice palpable.
The Hunt Master kept a wary eye on it, his grip on his weapons firm, refusing to relax until the creature's bloodlust fully faded. Is it really leaving? he wondered, brows furrowing as he lowered his daggers. Something about this felt off. Even with that injury, it still held the advantage. So why retreat?
The trail of blood leading into the forest caught his attention. He squatted beside it, his eyes tracking its path despite his mind's focus on the skoteino. What could have harmed it so severely?
His eyes widened as a realization struck, and he shot to his feet. Was it truly injured during the stampede? His hand moved to his chin as he mulled over the beast's wound. That was my assumption... but wasn’t the cut too clean for an animal's claws or teeth?
His gaze swept the clearing, finally landing on the scattered tracks. In fact... it looks more like the slice... of a blade.
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Within the forest, a man sat in the shadows of a sturdy tree, a canopy of branches swaying gently overhead. His figure and clothing were concealed beneath a hooded cape, yet the outline of his lean build was visible against it. Even at rest, he exuded an air of grace and nobility, his blonde hair framing a serene expression. He crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands behind his head, listening intently to the murmurs of the woods.
CRACK! His eyes twitched as his arms lowered, fingers inching toward the scabbard at his side.
"Knight Müller."
His hand stilled, and his lids opened, revealing deep-blue eyes. His lips curved up as he gazed at the figure before him. "Squire Charles."
Squire Charles was a stern-faced man in his middle years. He wore a billowing white robe, with a scarf held by a black band draped over his head. A brown strap ran diagonally down his shoulder, securing a sword sheathed behind his back. Noticing his gaze, Charles shut his eyelids and bowed his head low, silently waiting.
Knight Müller raised his leg before gently resting his hands upon it. He took a few moments to observe his face before speaking. "Did you get it?" he drawled.
Charles didn't flinch and calmly responded, "Sir, per your orders, we attempted to capture the wolverine but lost it after chasing it into a ravine."
Müller folded his hands and tilted his head thoughtfully. "Oh really, you lost it?" He grew silent and stared at the Squire's face. "Make your excuses; perhaps it was too strong for you?"
"No sir, we gave it a severe yet nonfatal injury and were moments from capturing it."
"Then how did you mess it up." Müller casually inquired, tapping his thighs.
Charles bowed his head lower. "It was my mistake, I relaxed too early and as a result, it escaped."
Müller pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "No matter, there is a more important task to take care of." He carefully got to his feet, his cape glistening a brilliant silver in the faint lighting.
He smiled faintly and ruefully shook his head. "Majestically riding a wolverine into the tower would have been nice. I can just imagine the look on his face," he finished with a chuckle.
Charles kept his head bowed and didn't comment.
Müller glanced at him and frowned. "I told you to stop that, you can raise your head."
He raised his head. "Yes sir."
Knight Müller dusted off his cape, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the woods. "Where are the men?"
"I left them searching for the wolverine's trail," Squire Charles replied.
"And?" Müller asked. "Was it a lost cause?"
Charles gave a curt nod. "It dove into a stream and disappeared. Maybe it found an underground cave—I’m not sure. Either way, the blood and scent are gone, washed away."
Müller sighed, shaking his head. "What a shame. Even if I couldn’t tame it for my mound, with that hulking body and spiked tail, it would’ve made fine sport for some southern Lord’s brat. That kind of amusement fetches good coin." He stretched out his arms. "You said you injured it?"
"Yes, a long cut across its side," Charles replied, his voice nearly drowned out by a sudden draft.
"Maybe after I finish up I'll search for it," Müller mumbled, placing his feet upon a gnarled exposed root, and turning toward the outer forest. He waited for the air to settle before pursing his lips and whistling a strange tune into the woods.
Suddenly, a braying cry shattered the air, and a creature emerged from the shadows between the trees. It loomed tall on two elongated front legs that hoisted its massive frame high, while four shorter, muscular hind legs anchored it firmly to the earth. Its short brown fur bristled with ridges that caught the dappled light, giving it an almost rippling appearance. Three eyes gleamed on its head—two set parallel, with a third perched higher in a triangular arrangement. Slowly, it advanced toward Müller, its gait uneven and unsteady.
The Knight frowned as the creature lumbered closer, his eyes narrowing. The deeper we go, the rougher the ground and undergrowth become. He strode toward it, calmly seizing its reins. Any further, and I’ll have to leave it behind.
With a weary sigh, he vaulted into the saddle. It'd be a shame to lose the supplies, but there’s no other choice. His gaze drifted to the creature’s furless head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Its sluggish movements remind me of old Danger.
He patted its side with a rueful hand, momentarily lost in the memory of his long-departed pet. Another sigh escaped him as he tightened his grip on the reins, turning the steed back toward the trail.
Müller pulled up his hood and turned to Squire Charles. "Let’s hurry and round up the men." He stared into the forest's depths, where even the faint light through the canopy failed to reach. "I've grown weary of this quest."