Post by Sylph on Dec 17, 2006 16:37:54 GMT -5
When the winter winds blow and the Yule fires are lit, from the north of Scandinavia down to Spain, it is best to stay indoors, safely shut away from the dark forest paths and the wild heaths. Those who wander out by themselves during the Yule-nights may hear a sudden rustling through the tops of the trees - a rustling that might be the wind, though the rest of the wood is still. But then the barking of dogs fills the air, with the hunters behind whooping and the host of wild souls sweeps down, fire flashing from the eyes of the black hounds and hooves of the black horses. The wise traveler falls down at once in the middle of the road, face down. If he is lucky, he will take no harm other than the cold feet of the black dogs running over his body. More foolish folk are swept up, coming to earth far from home or left dead behind the furious host.
Or non-human, as the case may be. [/center]
That which this particular Host sought was of the latter description. Once at least, the prey had been a man, just a normal man, but now he was a twisted feral beast of primeval fears and lost myths, having taken the name of the mighty wolf of Norse legend upon himself in order to add to his already impressive tale. He was a madman, a murderer and above all, a monster. This hunt should have occurred long ago.
The Host was led by a girl, one who had battled with the beast many times before, and who had lost friends to his spittle-lined jaws. The most recent loss had happened earlier that day, before her very eyes. The girl was in search of vengeance, as were those who followed her. She was a formidable sight in herself, despite a rapidly puffing eye and blood liberally spattered over her face and clothing; tall and slender but toned and powerful, a mane of bright purple hair surrounding her, changed to darksome velvet in the shade of the thick trees which towered ominously above, their bare twisted branches blocking the sun almost entirely, even without their summer foliage there to aid them. Her eyes were liquid pools of emerald, ones which held a strange light; grief, perhaps, anger, determination. They almost glowed in the gloaming forest, flashing and sparking occasionally as she looked here and there through the trunks and boughs of her enemy's home. She rode, straight backed and rigid upon a great dragon, grey in hue and possessing a very un-dragon-like intelligence, his enormous maw threading through the widest paths he could find, long spiked tail swishing silently from side to side as he walked on long, heavily scaled limbs.
The dragon rider led a procession of people, most students from Firefox, others not, through the wood in search of their friend's murderer. He would have warning, for their had been a traitor among them, a traitor to his school and to Hayzie Roberts' memory. He would also be dealt with, though perhaps not as harshly as their intended victim. A wand twitched in the girl's right hand. It was not her own, for the lycan had destroyed that also in the past few hours; it had belonged to her dead friend. Using it felt wrong, an insult, and yet it was only fair and apt that she should have taken it. Almost as if Hayzie could also take revenge on her killer through it. The wand twitched again, and this time a word came from the girl's dry lips.
"Notus"
A fiery blast of wind gusted about the girl and her companions, and controlled as it was by a wind mage, ready to be used in attack or in defence. The girl's hair rose up about her in the stiff but warming breeze, swirling behind her like a nest of snakes. A surge of sorrow washed over her for a split second as she recalled with horrific intensity the moment Hayzie's head had been ripped from her fragile body, and the wind rose and fell with her thoughts before she gained control once more, hiding her misery behind a mask of emotionless calm. At the same time, adrenaline was beginning to rush to her brain and limbs, and she felt safe in the knowledge that when the fight came she would be ready for it, and welcome it with open arms. A conjured silver dagger hung at her side, prepared for the final, terminal blow. Silver was too soft to puncture his tough hide, it would snap between his ribs before it reached his heart, but she had a different idea on how to use it. A dangerous and almost ugly smile crossed her battered face.
Come out, come out wherever you are...
Sylph wanted her pound of flesh. She wanted her revenge.
Those who join in the Hunter's cry may get as their share of the booty a piece of human flesh.
[/i]Or non-human, as the case may be. [/center]
That which this particular Host sought was of the latter description. Once at least, the prey had been a man, just a normal man, but now he was a twisted feral beast of primeval fears and lost myths, having taken the name of the mighty wolf of Norse legend upon himself in order to add to his already impressive tale. He was a madman, a murderer and above all, a monster. This hunt should have occurred long ago.
The Host was led by a girl, one who had battled with the beast many times before, and who had lost friends to his spittle-lined jaws. The most recent loss had happened earlier that day, before her very eyes. The girl was in search of vengeance, as were those who followed her. She was a formidable sight in herself, despite a rapidly puffing eye and blood liberally spattered over her face and clothing; tall and slender but toned and powerful, a mane of bright purple hair surrounding her, changed to darksome velvet in the shade of the thick trees which towered ominously above, their bare twisted branches blocking the sun almost entirely, even without their summer foliage there to aid them. Her eyes were liquid pools of emerald, ones which held a strange light; grief, perhaps, anger, determination. They almost glowed in the gloaming forest, flashing and sparking occasionally as she looked here and there through the trunks and boughs of her enemy's home. She rode, straight backed and rigid upon a great dragon, grey in hue and possessing a very un-dragon-like intelligence, his enormous maw threading through the widest paths he could find, long spiked tail swishing silently from side to side as he walked on long, heavily scaled limbs.
The dragon rider led a procession of people, most students from Firefox, others not, through the wood in search of their friend's murderer. He would have warning, for their had been a traitor among them, a traitor to his school and to Hayzie Roberts' memory. He would also be dealt with, though perhaps not as harshly as their intended victim. A wand twitched in the girl's right hand. It was not her own, for the lycan had destroyed that also in the past few hours; it had belonged to her dead friend. Using it felt wrong, an insult, and yet it was only fair and apt that she should have taken it. Almost as if Hayzie could also take revenge on her killer through it. The wand twitched again, and this time a word came from the girl's dry lips.
"Notus"
A fiery blast of wind gusted about the girl and her companions, and controlled as it was by a wind mage, ready to be used in attack or in defence. The girl's hair rose up about her in the stiff but warming breeze, swirling behind her like a nest of snakes. A surge of sorrow washed over her for a split second as she recalled with horrific intensity the moment Hayzie's head had been ripped from her fragile body, and the wind rose and fell with her thoughts before she gained control once more, hiding her misery behind a mask of emotionless calm. At the same time, adrenaline was beginning to rush to her brain and limbs, and she felt safe in the knowledge that when the fight came she would be ready for it, and welcome it with open arms. A conjured silver dagger hung at her side, prepared for the final, terminal blow. Silver was too soft to puncture his tough hide, it would snap between his ribs before it reached his heart, but she had a different idea on how to use it. A dangerous and almost ugly smile crossed her battered face.
Come out, come out wherever you are...
Sylph wanted her pound of flesh. She wanted her revenge.