Hoarder of Souls

[Fez_The_Kid]

Closed to Eteri

Gauntleted hands pulled on the reins as Azaranth guided his white-mottled horse to a halt. He could sense the beast’s hesitance as its weight stumbled beneath him; the stench of blood had engendered weariness in beast and rider both. They now stood at the edge of a vast swathe of steppe, the afternoon wind shifting the yellow grass blades. Before them was a narrow, yet deep, stretch of forest, timber trees and cedars arrayed in their scores. Azaranth was motionless in his saddle, studying the wounding forest trail that slithered its way through the wood. And covering that trail, were the footprints of a lone monster.

Azaranth dismounted, bent into a crouch to study the mark. The creature walked on its fours, had two pairs of claws in each foreleg, and five - one of them an overlong dewclaw - in its hind legs. The trail was fresh, he concluded. Whatever it was, the monster prowling this area was far from sizeable. “Need to be careful,” he said, for size alone did not decide what was deadly and what was not.

The sun overhead hid behind an uneven blanket of cloud. It would be few bells before dusk settled. More than enough time, he considered.

Azaranth returned to his horse. With a click of his tongue, he set the beast into motion once again, flanking the trail as it led them deep into the woodland. The forest floor was cloaked in a sea of underwood, the shrubbery overshadowed by the still-growing trees on either side. His only guide thus far was the trail, disappearing in some parts underneath the bush and reappearing in others. The footprints themselves, however, were consistent.

Until it came to an abrupt end, vanishing altogether. His suspicions were then confirmed. His target was winged, after all.

And not ten paces ahead, he suspected, would be its current location. Where a ring of mudstone houses centered a single well, a couple spires of smoke rising from back end stacks to foul the suddenly still air. Some of the houses’ wooden doors lay wide open, some were left ajar, and only one was closed shut, its surface bleached with old age. The stench of blood was now distinct, and, Azaranth decided, it came directly from the entrance-closed house.

He paused at the edge of the circle of abandoned houses, slowly left his saddle. He then led his horse behind the outer fence and hitched it there. A few moments later he was at the house’s door, where the stench was strongest. Faint grunts sounded from behind the woodwork. Azaranth sharpened his senses, and the grunts shaped up into acute, throaty growls, the sickly sound of torn flesh manifest in his mind.

The monster hunter spied a side window, and, slowly, spared a peek inside. The house was a ruin, everything now reduced to ash. He could spot a few bodies, reduced to nothing but charred bones - and directly before the front door was a knee-high, winged figure, feeding on one, unburned cadaver. Azaranth, holding his breath, took a few steps back and retraced his way back to the door.

His silver sword left its scabbard with an acute, metallic hiss.