Nightfall cloaks the eve of Sundas; the farmer's lunar festival, a time where peasants and like-minded peons indulge in a night of dance whilst intoxicated by assorted mead, ale and ruffian brewery.
Yet indulgence was something that could not afforded for now. Tonight, negligence and weakness would lead surely to death.
The air was cool and gentle, the wind a soft whisper amongst the fallen dead leaves. The moon, glorious and lustrous, hung high in her zenith. A breathtaking tableau that would prove exceptionally beautiful on any other occasion, if not for the compromising situation at hand.
The petrified grove of Aenir was not the place it once was. On certain occasions like these, where the lustre of the moon would reflect off the snow collected on the dead trees resulting in an unnaturally settling yet majestic scene.
Long gone are the majestic days of grove, for in its place, a new breed of unspeakable evil rampages free and unrestrained.
Tonight, the moon glow barely penetrated the dense canopy, let alone reaching the frosty tundra below. The forest was still, devoid of the sounds of life and all things natural.
A gentle blanket of mist crept slowly along the snow laden loam, devouring everything as it did so.
As the night settled over the grove, velvet black with the wash of faint moonlight, the cloud of deathly frigid miasma together help paint an eerie portrait, where suddenly a blood curdling howl, as if on cue, pierces the silent night and completes this novel horror setting.
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Lycanthropes or werewolves prowl freely and rampant in these parts of the woods. Never straying far from paths where travellers and merchants alike frequented. They were masters of the hunt, quietly stalking their prey from the shadows of the night, darting from between trees and rattling not just the fallen leaves, but also the nerves of their quarry. And when they get tired of playing with their now fear drunk preys, they make swift work of skin and flesh. And unlike shape shifters, these feral beasts retain their rabid forms even during the day; wearing the blood of their meals as cloaks and trophies.
These lycans were not born of luperus origins contradictory to what their savagery suggests. No, these hairy beasties were once proud and masterful hunters. Disciples and entourage of the Wild Hunt that were granted the pleasures of predatory hunting and paranoia of hunted prey by Zamiel, the Lord of the wild hunt, himself.
Now, with notorious amounts of bounty placed on these creatures’ heads, this break of dead forest has become proving grounds for those who seek to curry favours from Zamiel.
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Perilous as it seems, a lone hooded shadow limps along the trodden path, a path created by the many who died before. He aches and spasms, his every step causes ceaseless ratchets of pain to shoot through his weak frame, siphoning away the little breath he still have within him. But his journey is now coming to pass; with the target not far from sight, the stranger began towards his goal with an accelerated march, undaunted and determined.
Perched high upon granite and stonework alike, the bluff stood tall and mighty, a monument that towers and overlooks the long horizon of copse below. Bearing the insignia of the imperials, the keep represents the pinnacle of the Free-born's reign, and it is also here, where the cure to the stranger's ailment lies.
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I do wish that this short tale is to all your liking :)
-Zarae.ShortExcerpts
