A Love Letter Penned in Blood

[Oberan]

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.

[Oberan]

Piercing through the thick blankets of mist cloaking the streets, the city’s skyline clawed up with steeples and spires. Many were belltowers belonging to either the grand cathedral at the heart of the city, to the several smaller churches sitting at the end of the largest thoroughfares or in the middle of a square serving as a crossroads.

The heavy bronze bells near the top hung silent, and would for some time to come. No sane person ventured out when beasts roamed the streets, doubly so on the night of the hunt. Hunters did, of course, as was their duty, but few would be inclined to call them wholly sane. Clerics and priests remained indoors like everyone else, locking themselves within their homes. Some who’d been caught unawares by the onset of night remained in their churches, seeking comfort in singing hymns and intoning passages from the holy books. When dawn finally came and all beasts had been slaughtered, they would ring the bells to signal the end of the hunt.

And yet, one particular bell would not join the chorus at daybreak.

Not all buildings were equally safe, not all locks and doors equally sturdy. At a church near the outskirts of the city, beasts had breached the premises. Priests prayed to the Old Gods for protection, acolytes scattered in all directions, the choirboys screamed shrill and off-key, frozen in place, hiding behind the altar. The organ player desperately held off the snarling beasts with a lit candlestick – a poor replacement for a torch.

[Oberan]

The hunter stalked through the fog, following the scent of beasts. Inhaling deep through his nose, recognizing the characteristic musk and tracking it through the streets. An ethereal trail created by blood-slick hair, entrails, and death. He could smell the sickness on them, the scourge ravaging the city. It stood out against the crisp night air, against the ever-present waft of old and fresh blood, against the smoke of pyres stacked with burning corpses –man and beast alike—cleansing the disease with flame.

He tracked it to an old church, brickwork discolored by age, and cracked in places. The double doors hung in splinters, broken down by supernatural strength. The stink of beast saturated the air, overpowering even the incense smoldering in ritual bowls. Despite the dark, he surveyed the nave in mere moments, eyes flitting from the dead bodies to the ragged forms of beasts tearing at their flesh and gnawing on their bones.

They turned as he stepped inside, irises glowing yellow in the dark, teeth bare, claws bloody. The hunter snarled at them as they charged, howling and snapping. He readied his weapon –an oversized cleaver with a serrated blade like a saw—and just like the beasts had slayed all the frightened people huddling inside the church, the hunter butchered the beasts in turn, but his late arrival meant he accomplished no more than retribution.

The last beast fell, the hunter’s saw biting deep, rending flesh with ease. Tearing veins asunder, spraying red everywhere. Inflicting crippling injuries to incapacitate prey quickly, bleed them out. It didn’t matter if they died immediately or after suffering a while. Many more beasts still roamed free, too few hunters to combat them. There was no time to be wasting on finishing off every dying beast.

Ripping his weapon free, the hunter shook off the fresh blood from long coat and shoulder cape, strode through the echoing nave. Past the broken benches and toppled candles, past the stained glass windows – now also stained with blood. Stepped over the numerous bodies of beast and man. Barely sparing a glance for the corpses of those he was supposed to protect, not taking even a moment to crouch, sigh, and pull their shocked eyes closed. He’d be busy all night if he did; many other citizens shared these souls’ grisly fate.

Instead the hunter ascended the stairs in search of more beasts, striking them down without hesitation. Up and up he went, scouring every nook and cranny, killing them all. Until he found himself up near the bell, back out in the cool night air. Leaning on the balustrade to look out on the mist-cloaked city below, squinting, scanning for beasts. Failing, the roiling waves of fog obscuring too much, weaving through the streets and pooling in squares, rendering the vantage useless.

It seemed almost pink, as if it wasn’t formed from minute drops of water vapor, but the blood of hunted beasts. Just a trick of the light, the hunter knew, the unusual hue caused by moonlight reflecting off the mist. He shifted his gaze up then, to the clear sky above the fog. Black without stars, an infinite void housing only the moon itself, looming large. Too large. A massive pale red sphere, like a corpse drained of its lifeblood. Pockmarked, its craters visible. Feeling close enough to touch. A giant eye staring down at the world below.

It made the hunter uncomfortable for reasons he did not –and could not hope to—understand. Did not want to either. The longer he stared back at the moon, the more he was beset by the distinct impression that some things were better left unknown. The hairs on the nape of the hunter’s neck rose, and he shivered, but not from the cold. He averted his gaze, turned his back on the pale-blood sky, and descended the long flight of stairs.

Best go back to the streets, back to the hunt. Lose himself in it, shrug off the uncomfortable sensation of being watched by unseen aberrations. Convince himself it was exhaustion, the toll claimed by the lengthy hunt. He rooted in one of his pouches, fingers struggling with the cap of a small vial of bitter medicine, gulped down its contents without pause to breathe.

He snorted, wiped his lips with the back of a hand, and threw the bottle aside. It bounced twice, chiming, then rolled for a few moments. The hunter sighed, head growing fuzzy, mind hazy and yet so much more clear. Nerves calmed, frenzied thoughts sedated by the time he stepped back into the streets. Skin no longer prickling as if many, many eyes observed him from locations he couldn’t pinpoint. Gaze no longer being cast over his shoulder ever few steps, scanning the spires up and down for beings that may or may not be there. Worries suppressed by the medicine, unable to surface. Perhaps one might break through occasionally, but he paid it little mind. There was no need to think too hard about it. For his own good. He just needed to go out and kill beasts. That’s what hunters did. That’s what he’d always done.

[Doran]

Oberan:

Knowledge: -
Loot: -
Lost: -
Wealth: -
Injuries: -
Renown: -
Magic XP: -
Skill Review: -
Points: 10

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Comments: The title of this thread immediately attracted my attention and made me want to know more – as did the opening sentence.

There was something incredibly atmospheric about your descriptions. There was a certain darkness to the thread, and there was violence, but at the same time, it was beautifully written in my opinion.

Some things were unclear to me – I wasn’t sure where the beasts were coming from or who the Old Gods mentioned in the second post were, for example (Does this thread take place in a future version of Idalos?) – but that fit the dreamlike atmosphere of this thread well.

Due to the fact that this thread was quite beautifully written, I have decided to nominate you for the following medal:

Painting With Words

This medal is awarded to those who have put time and dedication into their writing and consistently capture the attention of readers on the site.

Please link this review in "Medal Nomination Thread" when you submit the nomination.

Enjoy your rewards!