85th of Vhalar Arc 721
A howl of pain turned to whimper, then near inaudible groan, then silence.
Fog rolled thick and heavy over streets devoid of life, and the metallic scent of fresh blood permeated the air. Pools of it slicked the cobbles, rivulets seeking paths between, twisting and turning as they spread, splitting up and thinning out, then converging once more, swelling so it could paint more of the street. It shone dark in the lanternlight, despite the panes being stained with layers of soot, the oil-fed flame just bright enough to drive away the night in favor of a dim and flickering orange.
Barely making a difference at all, elongating the deep shadows of lantern poles and tall houses that filled the narrow streets. Projected shambling silhouettes on the waves of mist, every shape twisted and crooked, laying in ambush for whatever unfortunate soul happened to stumble into it.
Blood splashed, boots making no effort to avoid the multitude of curdling puddles, walking straight through as if it were merely the remnants of a rainy day. Making waves in the crimson, splattering it all over. Droplets spraying up, landing on footwear and pantlegs and the bottom of a long coat. Its wearer cared not, for why should he, the whole of his person had already been stained with irregular splotches of red. Some old, some fresh. Some dried and crusted, cracked. Some still wet and warm, pearling into beads, dripping off the hem of his coat to leave a trail on the ground.
It did not seem to bother him, the blood, or perhaps he’d just made peace with it. Knowing the stains could not be avoided, recognizing the futility of stopping to clean them off every time a droplet landed on his outfit. What use if they’d be as dirty, if not more, soon? Best to not waste the energy then, not waste the time. The night was short, but the hunt long, and he had a duty to fulfill. A responsibility toward the citizens huddling behind barred doors, windows boarded, anxiously awaiting the dawn.
And the trail? Beneath notice. What a paltry trail it was, only joining the rivers of red meandering the abandoned streets, just another drop in one of the many puddles. The odd drop that splattered on stone, isolated and doomed to dry, was far from the only one. A poor trail indeed.
Especially compared to the actual trail he left in his wake. The tide of blood itself, as well as dead bodies, not yet fully cold. Some still in the process of dying. Heart failing, pulse slow. Lungs rasping as breath flowed away. Slaughtered beasts. Half-men covered in tattered clothes and tufts of shaggy fur. Deformed wolf-like monsters, gaunt and starved, long of limb with wicked claws, frothing maws full of jagged fangs. People too. Hunters, gone raving mad with the taste of blood and viscera, eyes wide and shot. Now glassy and unblinking.
An easy trail to follow. That and the screams, the roars. The bite of metal rending flesh, tearing it asunder.
But it did not matter. All the easier if the prey came to him. The night was short, after all, too short for a single hunter to make a meaningful difference. Too many beasts all over, and too little time to hunt them all.