Hunting

From an outsider’s perspective, this pitiful hamlet would’ve seemed abandoned, but to the experienced eye, it was apparent the town was well occupied. An unnaturally thick fog choked the streets, flooding from the cracked outer walls and pouring into the marshes that spread vast beyond the murky horizon.

A lone figure trudged through the waterlogged road. His boots sank in the mud, squelching with every step he took. Above him a depressingly sad sign hung, in faded green and grey the poorly carved letters read “Northwick”, directing towards the haunting village that stood in the marsh.

Under his weathered coat laid the tools of his profession: bombs of salt and fire, a butcher’s hook, and an engraved tome. But the most noticeable of all the stranger’s items was the contraption hanging on his hip. A conjunction of metal, wood and salvaged mechanical parts. From this engineered oddity was a gastly curved silver blade that gleamed with an audible hum even in the sunless day. On the haft of the weapon the name “III” laid, subtly carved and weathered by the passing of time.

Nearing the sickly town, the professional felt a sickening chill pierce the air. Before him stood the gates to the town, scarred with deep claw marks. One of the gates was ripped clean from the stone wall, forcing parts of the cobblestone street into the saturated earth. Circling the wrecked gate, the professional examined the damage. Deep lashes riddled the gargantuan door. He deduced that whatever unwelcome visitor occupied the town was one of incredible physical strength.

With a flick of his hand, III unfurled his black coat. He unlatched the tome from out of its metal encasing and flipped through its weathered pages with calm and collected thought. Examining the evidence one last time, he consulted his book, which contained the knowledge of generations of professionals before him.

Thinking the professional off guard, the ghastly fog rolled in around him, luring ever closer. It closed in on him, blanketing his feet and rising at a hurried pace. A spectral arm arose from the fog, veiled in mist, with desperate narrow fingers outstretched, reaching for the hunter. Observing this spectral limb, the professional muttered an incantation of a curious spell, stood up, and snapped his book shut. A fiery ring of letters of an archaic language sparked to life, encircling him. The mist retracted with a painful hiss, then fleeing to the refuge of the dark houses within the town.

With a sly chuckle of amusement, III snapped the codex back into its proper place on his hip. The unholy chill that gripped his body in a feverish sweat loosened, leaving a coat of frost on the brim of his coat. III scoured the streets surrounding him, littered with disheveled houses, knowing that one of them contained his contract.

“A creature with massive strength, claws, and even some magical ability...”, III inferred with a watchful eye on his surroundings, his voice even and calm. “It raided the town, but didn’t stop those who fled from leaving.” The professional reached for his mysterious weapon, heaving it from his hip with a firm grip around the solid curved handle, glancing at the bright silver that shined at him. “The mist, the location, and the damage suggest one thing. A demon, and a powerful one at that.” He smirked coldly and flicked his mechanical weapon, the grotesque blade fanning out to form into a weapon of horror. “I suppose it’s time to go hunting.”

Without another word, the hunter stepped further into the town; the eire light of day passing as his footsteps echoed on the cobblestone.