Bitterwood: The Monster Within and Without

[Ebivoulya]

A clear yellow sun, reflected brilliantly on the glowing white snow covering everything in sight, slowly ascended to the soft beat of crunching footsteps. Its rays illuminated a speck of black all covered in white that appeared just over the last of the great hills, pausing to take a swig from a silver flask full of fresh melted snow and river water. The ebony hood dropped to his broad shoulders gratefully as he gave his wind scarred face a taste of warm sunlight. The bitter wind ripped at it in spite, and the wanderer begrudgingly pulled the hood back over his head. He would soon be leaving the mountainous Southern Salvar, and with luck, might reach Knife’s Edge within a week. The extra layer of fur stuffed under his cloth vest managed to keep his chest warm, his arms bare but for the little bit he could cram into his fur-wrapped gloves. His cloak was clasped close to him on this day, and his left hand bore the duty of keeping it closed against the wind as his steel-plated boots dug into the snow. They spread their deep indentations about the whole of Southern Salvar in a quickly blending trail of breadcrumbs that told anyone alert enough where the half-elf was headed.

The hilt of his Greatsword betrayed his innocence to those who might otherwise pass him by unnoticed, and it had served him countless times in the last ten years as he roamed from city to city. Nature can be a far more fearsome obstacle than any man or beast, though, as he found out when he crossed the mountain range on Alerar's northern border. People could change their mind given enough convincing, but the wild was unceasing, and more vicious than any person. Beasts could be killed given enough cunning, but nature was too great a force for any man or creature to slay, even in hordes. Remembering the pass through the Kachuk mountains made him grateful of the mostly flat landscape. Days of climbing with little to no food or water alone in the coldest wilderness had taken their toll on his mind, and the prospect of game was foremost in it.

“Hail there!”

Announcing himself with a far-too-enthusiastic greeting, a stubby man in a green cloak waved him over, and the half-elf regarded him with unease. He disdainfully crossed the distance between them, and the swordsman saw a deep maliciousness as their eyes met. The man was short, and bore the symbol of some fiefdom. Surely, he was a messenger, for there was no blade at his back, or his waist. The warrior slowed in his approach, keeping his hood about his head, and very abruptly asked what business necessitated their meeting. The little man smiled at the gruff request, producing a crudely drawn picture of a half-orc. The taller man stared at it, his thoughts tinting an indescribable shade of glee. He realized that he was to become the hunter once more, and his voracious maw festered with hunger. His cloak whipped this way and that, and he could hardly read the crinkled parchment, so he snatched it from the timid hands which produced it. Noting appreciatively that the stranger was unsure of how to react, he released his cloak for a moment to straighten out the paper and read its details.


Wanted

A red-eyed half-orc carrying an axe and shield, considered armed and dangerous.

Bring the white-haired head of this beast to Archen, in the province of Hanslev, and you will be rewarded handsomely

“Do you want to take the bounty?”

Flashes of gore and carnage swept through his tired mind, and he was nearly shocked at how excited he had become over the prospect of killing. In an effort to detach himself from those thoughts and keep his composure, he shoved the parchment back into the hands of its previous owner, and began walking towards Knife’s Edge once more. Despite his appetite, he tried to remain at least mostly human, but the short man waddled after him, ranting about how the beast killed many men and only one such as himself could bring it death. The rogue stopped, and turned with a bitter gaze towards the small human who fidgeted with his belongings before producing some dried meat and an old roll. He offered them as pre-payment, but the half-elf wasn't even listening. He instinctively lurched forward, snatching the meager meal and devouring within seconds. His flask came out next, and he drank deeply to quiet his rumbling stomach.

The smaller man offered his hand in closure, and the taller warily accepted it, replacing his flask while his eyes stayed trained on the little man before him. The dirty, snow-soaked cloak he wore whipped up into the wind, fluttering out to his side as the flask settled back into one of the few large pockets on his vest. He tightened his grip on the comparatively bony hand he shook, and his other arm crossed the strap of the blade on his back to a pocket on the right side of his chest. As the squatty man watched, wary of some trick, his arm was jerked forward and his forehead slammed into a waiting elbow. The blow caught him off guard long enough for both of his arms to be wrenched behind him in the iron grip of a single gloved hand, and a serrated dagger to appear unbidden at his throat.

The blade pressed harder, not drawing blood, but sinking into his soft flesh. This one was obviously well fed. His robber kept the knife tight against the terrified little man’s throat, reaching around in his pockets, and finally settling on a small bag of coins. His blistered lips curled into a stinging smirk, and he relieved the man of his spare change. He then finished searching him, opening his jacket to find an embroidered silver monocle, of which he also relieved his employer. Taking to one knee, he re-sheathed his dagger, the cold snow caking to his deep brown pants, and even penetrating the layer of fur beneath, which was still partially caked with the blood of the beast from which it was peeled.

As he was pleading for the money he'd surely need to make it back to wherever it was he came from, the now bankrupt man felt his arms go free shortly before a steel heel dug into his back and sent him face-first into the bitter snow. He scrambled forward sniffling, clearing the snow from his eyes and turning over onto his rear. He reached one fat hand behind him into one of his back pockets, fidgeting for something to turn the tables on this encounter. Four glittering golden coins fell to the snow before him, and in spite of his fear, he dove for them, for a knife to the throat was far better than weeks of starvation. A gruff voice bellowed through the biting winds as the traveling emissary looked up to the massive, cloaked form of the terrifying man he had hired.

“Now we have a deal."

Wide, fear-filled eyes which still held the slightest contemptuous spark for the swordsman never left his gloved hands as the fat head housing them bobbled up and down in agreement. The wind finally died down, and the dirty, tattered cloak fell back over the weather worn rogue. He pulled his hood down a little, adjusted the strap of his torso-length blade, and watched with twisted amusement as his victim and employer rose to his feet and regained his composure. He must have been sent from a weak country to not have an escort, which meant poorly trained guard personnel, and he couldn’t argue with that. He curtly asked the man the criminal’s direction as he studied his stubby features for signs of resistance. The short messenger seemed all to eager to be rid of the larger man's company, though, and hurriedly rattled off the answer.

”As far as we can tell, he’s making for the great Northwestern wood.”

The bounty’s destination was close enough to his, and the promise of better pay upon felling a single half-orc was the icing to the cake. The half-elven warrior had met few in his time to match his blade, and even if he could not find the bounty, he was certain he could extort more gold from those who wanted this half-orc's head. In the worst-case scenario, he would be given the fight of his life before finally dying a true warrior’s death, but there was more than one trick up his metaphysical sleeve. As if on cue, an all-too-familiar tingle raced up his spine, his vision failing him as soon as he realized what was happening. He threw his hand to the dagger at his waist, hoping to clarify his mind through the pain of a blood sacrifice before he lost himself. His attempt was circumvented just as he laid his fingers on the hilt of the serrated blade, his mind filled with the sensation of snapping free of some great strain.

With a blink, he went from viewing the pale white snow to staring up at himself in horror, the surety of his own death overwhelming his senses. A quick glance down to his stubby, bare hands, and crinkled green cloak about his feet made his heart sink even further. He looked back up at his own body as its skin darkened, and hardened, horns growing from his forehead. Eyes of deepest crimson shone out from a stern face of blackened scales, and it almost seemed as if the pulsing shadow surrounding his body devoured the very light itself. A guttural voice echoed in his mind, and with each reverberation, it grew to a shrill cry that would surely cause his ears to bleed.

You belong to me.

A dark room with one, sole window greeted his waking eyes. Sweat beaded from his forehead as he lurched forward, frantically trying to get away from something, which turned out to only be his sheets. It took him a moment to regain his composure, and he swung one scarred leg over the edge of the bed, and onto the noisy wooden floor below. His breaths came deep and gasping; long, raven hair flowing over his shoulders and down his back. He soon managed to remove himself from the horror that was moments ago all too real, and his eyes fluttered fully open. Dawn had barely broken in the city of Knife’s Edge, but fortune does not wait for long. Gathering up his things into one pile, the mercenary set to equipping himself properly for the voyage. He had spent the money taken from his employer on food and a few little tricks should the situation get sticky, not to mention some more herbs for his pipe. He placed a variety of simple chemical reagents and natural endurance and strength enhancers into various pockets to keep himself both alive and well as he searched for the white-haired half-orc.

Stuffing the last of the fur into his clothes, the rogue donned his cloak and made for the door, checking the straps on both his blade, and his satchel of supplies and food. He locked his room door with a rusted key, and walked down the dimly lit hallway towards the lobby and bar. The common room was nearly empty save for a lone man in the corner playing his flute for no one in particular. The inn-keep regarded him with a wary glance as he dropped the key on the front desk, a mere four hours after he had checked in. Sleep was something he indulged in rarely, and for good enough reason. It was only in sleep that he could truly see the foul darkness which had festered in him for years, and each time his eyes closed in slumber, a piece of him stayed behind as he returned to the waking world.

“Anythin’ else?”

His wandering gaze focused once more on the inn keep before him, with stubble and pockmarks covering his face. He grunted a quiet no and turned towards the exit, passing by empty tables and a broken chair from the night before. As he opened the door to the chill of a new morning, he stepped to the side, just underneath a flickering torch, and pulled an elegant wooden pipe from his vest. Filling it with a mixture of herbs he produced from a pocket inside his fur-stuffed vest, he then reached for one of the thin kindling sticks he kept in his vest. His face flared up a bright orange amidst a billow of smoke after he lit his pipe, and the cloaked bounty hunter headed towards the Northern gates with a trail of gray floating behind him as he shook the flame from the thin splinter of wood and returned it to his pocket with the others.

[Green is the new black.]

A red sun set in the horizon, flooding the frozen hills of Salvar’s northernmost province of Hanslev in a hellish crimson glow. Harsh arctic winds swept through the forests of ancient, icy pines, which blazed in a crystalline fire under the waning daylight. Crows circled hungrily in the bloodied sky overhead like squawking cancerous specks.

Blood dripped from the half-Orc’s ax, silently splattering and collecting in small pools on the dirt road. He clenched the weapon in his massive green fist as he steadied his breathing. The aroma of death stung his nostrils, the source a trio of brutalized corpses. They were opportunistic bandits preying on defenseless travelers along the road. Scum unworthy to even stain the half-blooded warrior’s blade. He snatched up the coin purse from the mutilated mass of flesh that had once been the vermin’s’ leader.

The green-skinned warrior then became acutely aware of the horrified eyes upon him. They belonged to a traveling family, a seemingly well-off mother and father with an adolescent daughter, holding onto each other for comfort in front of an old wagon. They been traveling south along the road when the bandits attacked; the half-Orc had been close enough to overhear and ambush the cowards and butcher them.

On one hand, the family’s reaction could be justified. He was a sight both revolting and intimidating, with his tangled mess of white hair matted to his face with sweat and blood and gore-splattered face defined by a snout nose and small, blunted tusks. Thick patches of leather armor encased a leanly muscular and imposing form. On the other hand, being glared at by people he’d just saved tended to spoil his moods excruciatingly fast.

“Humans,” he muttered bitterly as he turned to resume his trek north.

“Stop! Orc, stop!” shouted the father, finally finding his nerve. “The bandits stole that money from us. It’s ours.”

The green-skin turned and eyed the man dangerously, a low feral growl forming in his throat. He was not amused. “My name is Orun,” he snarled in a deep, guttural voice, his dark eyes gleaming irritably. “And you should thank me, you ungrateful swine! Those thieves would have stolen more than your coins.” He nodded in the direction of the man’s wife and daughter to accent the point. Either shocked by Orun’s implication or the fact that a half-blood could speak so concisely, the entire family fell silent.

The half-Orc left them. He shouldn’t have stopped to help them; they didn’t deserve it. It would just serve as another hint for his enemies from Archen to follow.

[Ebivoulya]

Beyond the gates of Knife’s Edge was a solid, bitter mass of wilderness that stretched hundreds of miles. The game was scarce, and so was the vegetation, but provided enough preparation, the swordsman believed any task could be conquered. Preparation was one thing the half-elf was good at, and as he lay completely still perched atop a massive branch with makeshift bow and arrow, he was thankful for the week’s worth of rations he had left in his pack. The hunting had barely managed to supplement his supplies, and he was just now getting into the northern territories, where his true prey was headed. He had to be wary.

Wolf tracks were abundant in this area, almost covering the few other tracks, and he had killed a few of the beasts already. It seemed he had been up on that branch for days, but he knew it to only be a few hours. After weeks of solitude in this wilderness, any man would begin to lose himself. He already had to consciously battle for sanity, and these damned woods weren't helping at all. Finally, a small group of deer straggled through what he guessed to be a well-used path, though the snow might tell otherwise to the untrained eye. He notched an arrow in his bow, silently cursing himself for using such a pitiful weapon. He adjusted as well as he could for wind, distance, and especially the shape of the arrow itself. Holding his shot, he chose his victim well. He had picked good wood for bow making, though his technique was a bit off, but he feared the string was growing weaker after so much use. He did not pull the arrow back as far as he could have.

The quartet of doe stepped lightly in the deep snow, wary-eyed and ears alert. The wind howled occasionally, most of the time resigning itself to a dull roar. One of the deer had gashes down its side, and the one in the rear was favoring it's right rear leg. It was that one toward which an arrow now soared, but luck favored mother nature's wounded child, and the makeshift projectile merely skimmed the beast's hide, leading it into an awkward dash. The others quickly followed suit, and the half-elf risked an audible curse as he began to put his bow away. The group darted into the brush on one side of the path, and the mercenary-by-trade cursed again, dropping down from his perch onto the branch of another tree, and then down onto the snow-covered ground. His armored boots sank into the cold white, and he started to follow the creatures before reassessing the weather conditions. Their much lighter forms would give them thrice the speed of his cumbersome body in this snow.

Begrudgingly, he walked back to his camp, estimating how much he would have to ration the little supplies he had left to even have a hope of finding the orc if his hunting kept going as badly as it had. He still had his bow and arrows, but they were really of no use. The only times he had caught prey before were when he invigorated himself with the strange magic his demonic side had shown him. Those times always took their toll, however, and he really was beginning to feel like he might never find the damned bounty head he was chasing. The sight of his camp brought him little relief, but soon he had a fire going and was nibbling tenatively on some dried meat. Snow had been in abundance, so water was no problem, but he really didn't want to degrade himself to eating tree bark, or grubs, if he could even find any. He still had yet to get into the chemical enhancers he had purchased, but his roaring stomach and slight rations were tempting him unceasingly.

After long hours of thought on which paths the half-orc would have to take given the terrain and time of season the would-be ranger finally found some sleep, and though the fire went out the warmth of daylight managed to keep him at rest for at least a few hours. Inevitabely he woke once more in a start, the nightmares he saw each night growing stronger as he began losing hope. He would not let the beast overcome him, however. This wilderness was his to tackle, and his alone. That half-orc's head may as well be wrapped in his cloak already.

The half-elf had been able to avoid the wolves and bears for the most part, and with the aid of one of the elixers he had he was already at the mountain's base, jittery and paranoid. It was there that he caught his first glimpse of his prey. The day was young, and the sun low in the East. Stepping up onto a large, snow-covered boulder, the half-elf surveyed the mountain before him. There were several paths he could see, all of them barely discernible in the blinding white which bit at his sensitive eyes of the elven-kin. A speck of movement caught his attention on the mountain-side, and he strained to see even one distinguishing characteristic of the creature. It was indeed humanoid, but large and muscular like himself. He closed his eyes momentarily, memorizing the position of the beast, and quieted his mind with the warmth of the sun at his back. He thought to try something which had failed him before, but he definitely needed now. He barely had to relent his focus before the demon awoke within him, a sharp tingling rushing up the young swordsman's spine as the jagged sound of twisted laughter grew to a mind-splitting crescendo.

Are you losing your nerve, or just that starved?

Neither. I need your eyes.

The tingling pain which had come to rest at the base of his neck invaded his brain, searing its way into every cell of his mind until he thought his very skull would explode from the heat. Gasping, the mortal fell to one knee, clutching at his head. His arms and legs ached, and he felt the strong pull of unconsciousness grasping at his throat, but he focused his will as a small ball of light in the center of his vision and slowly beat back the black waves which assaulted his mind. He couldn't say he was surprised, considering he was attempting to cooperate with such a twisted soul. Finally, though, the onslaught came to a momentary halt, and the half-elf felt his mind open up as the echoes of the demon's speech reverberated through his head before the words even came.

Your wish is granted, this time, but do not think you will force me back to sleep so easily, young Nyadir.

I'd expect nothing less.

The dark tide receded into the corners of his mind, but he dare not relent in his focus. Warily opening his eyes, he could immediately tell the difference. The very flakes of snow themselves shone out individually, and as he brought his gaze up to the mountainside his prey was not hard to find. It was indeed a half-orc, and the white hair of the beast brought a grin to his stubble-covered face. He was off down the hill-side with renewed vigor, not only from the now persistent demonic inclination, but also from the thrill of spotting his prey. That head would be his soon enough, and momentarily he imagined feasting on the flesh of his prey at the end of the hunt. The sheer animosity of it excited him, and he began towards the mountain, keeping a wary eye on his prey and the paths he took. Sheer luck led him to spy the light smoke a far-off flicker of a fire just before it was stomped out. He had not seen it before, and concluded it was shielded from view from most angles. Whoever had lit it was hours ahead of him, and between the hunter and its prey.

Tracking his possible competitors through the wilderness was easy with the aid of his demonic sight, though his concentration began to waver in the hours to come. Still, he pushed forward, following their trail after he found the hastily-hid campsite. By the time he had to worry about being seen by them, he was forced to forgo his enhanced vision, and subdue the demon whlle he still had a chance. This proved to be an exceptionally difficult task, and he was on his knees with tears in his eyes before the throbbing ceased and his mind cleared again. He paused for a moment to summon the energy he had become acquainted with upon recieving this demonic parasite, and after a few seconds his muscles seemed to thin, but harden. This lightened his body some as almost all his excess fat was burned away in those few instances, what little he had.

It took only an hour more for the swordsman to circle ahead of the trio of bounty hunters, and position himself for a pleasant surprise. The largest of the men, who also appeared to be their leader, was clothed thickly in still-bloodied wolf hides, and wore a spiked mace at his belt which hung almost to his tall leather boots. Long, blond hair was tied behind his head into a ponytail, a stark contrast to the dark hair of his shorter companions. The second largest of the group wielded a heavy spear, and had one large bear hide cloaked over his shoulders that seemed cleaned and well-worn. A short, stocky form waddled next to them, armed with a bastard sword on his back, and a small buckler shield on his hip. He wore just a brown cloak, with some meager bits of fur stuffed under his shirt. All three talked about the half-orc as they walked, seemingly careless of the bitter wind ripping through dead and frozen trees.

"Abandon your hunt..."

In the time it took for the casual half elf to saunter out from behind a large tree, all three men were on guard and with their weapons drawn. The cold, hard dirt thudded as his steel-plated boots came to a stop a few paces from the trio, and the angered glares the barbarian received almost made him smile. He idly drew his serrated dagger, and scraped at his face as if shaving while he recited the words of the wanted poster he had been shown. His gaze moved to each of them in turn, and with each word all three grew even more nervous and angry. Finally, the spear wielder burst from his standstill, crossing the few paces between them swiftly and leading in a thrust towards the swordsman's chest.

A backhanded swipe brought the steel of his glove against the shaft of the spear as he stepped into the attack, and he hooked the dagger underneath the weapon for insurance. His other arm tore forward and collided solidly with the man's jaw, forcing him to the ground and loosing his grip on his weapon. The half-elf dropped his dagger and grabbed the spear in the same motion, twisting his torso to catch the small serrated blade in his other hand, the shaft of the weapon dissuaded anyone from attacking immediately. As he came around he hurled the pole arm towards the smaller man, who shrieked and turned in time for it to glance off the shield at his hip. The blow sent the smaller man careening, and in a moment of concern the remaining bounty hunter turned his eyes in time to see a large blade at his throat.

"If you try to claim my trophy, I'll kill you myself."

The statement had a calm and chilling feel to it, reinforced by the soft groans of the mace wielder's comrades, the smaller one rolled up into his cloak and holding his hip, and the larger one nearly motionless underneath the thick bear hide. After a moment or so, the remaining man began to mouth a question, but was taken off guard by a steel-knuckled fist in his eye. The pain came quickly, and began throbbing like waves, but being an experienced bounty hunter the man was on his feet in moments and looking around with his good eye. He saw nothing, and could find no tracks either, which he could not explain. Baffled, he began to help his partners up from their predicaments after packing some snow onto his swelling eye.

[Green is the new black.]

Weeks passed as Orun traveled through the bitterly unforgiving wilderness of northern Salvar. The harsh weather gripped the land and battered the half-Orc, grinding him down, a chisel chipping away at stone. He felt his resolve waver more and more often as the winter season grew increasingly relentless. Travel had grown demanding as he ventured through miles of jagged rocks that jutted from the pine-covered landscape like the spines of a great beasts.

He had no real direction other than away from Archen. He supposed he could turn west and head for the old city Lovstek, the largest settlement that close to the frozen sea separating Salvar from Berevar. The thought of the Orcish homeland made the stoic half-blood sigh, a small, crackling fire casting a demonic glow over his face. Every story he’d heard growing up told of a savage, untamed land ruled by mighty clans of Orcs and other tribal races that had been chased from Salvar by the humans. He longed to go there one day, to return to his father’s people.

The Orcish blood pulsing through his veins and the pride it brought kept him moving where any human would have surrendered to their icy fate. He would not be deterred, not even by the constant struggle through knee-deep snow, the numbing cold, and the frigid winds that bit into his face and body like needles. No wild beast would frighten him from the wilderness. To give in would be to shame his noble heritage.

Foul winds howled through the desolate valleys that night like the cries of tortured souls. It kept Orun awake, as it had for the past several nights. The locals called the region the ‘haunted mountains’ and spoke of sinister demons stalking in the forests. They were just superstitious rumors, of course, and all he’d seen thus far were the merciless mountain predators. They stalked him constantly – bears with might of ten men and insatiable hungers and wolves with dagger-like fangs. They would wait, watching for the first sign of weakness in their potential prey. Orun, a predator in his own right, would show them none.

A branch snapped several meters to his left. He froze, his sense on edge as they probed into the silence. He heard an almost inaudible series of footfalls against the frozen earth and hushed breaths. They were not the noises of a wild hunter, but of a man. Their stealthy approach and the tingling of apprehension between Orun’s eyes meant one thing; more bounty hunters had found him.

He grit his teeth, but kept his composure through sheer force of will. Let them think that they could sneak up on him, he thought. Let them believe that they could prey on a predator.

Slowly and naturally, he stood, stretching his back and acting oblivious. He glimpsed movement in his peripheral vision; three shadowy forms lurked in the darkness like rats, weapons in their hands. He curled his lips in a silent snarl and pressed his back against a tree trunk. The trio of intruders neared him, whispering conspiratorially amongst each other.

“Don’t you know that demons stalk these mountains?” Orun called, his voice booming hellishly through the frosty trees. He spun sharply, drawing a knife from his belt and hurling it into the darkness. He was rewarded by a gurgling cry of pain, confirming that his half-blind throw had hit its mark. A feral grin flashed across his face as he kicked snow and dirt over the fire, extinguishing the light. He could hear the panicked hunters scrambling to reposition. Now he would hunt them.

Orun’s Orcish eyes adjusted to the darkness instantly and his cold-numb muscles burned as they came to life and propelled him into a sprint. He reached the wounded human first; he was crawling through the snow, leaving a bloody trail in the snow. The half-Orc executed the man coldly, lopping off the bounty hunter’s head with a swift slash from his axe. Orun removed his shield from back as the last bits of air gurgled from the dead man’s lifeless neck stump.

“Beast!” A second human charged from the gloom, a thrusting out with heavy spear in his hand. Orun sidestepped the attack. He lashed out with his axe, but failed to land a blow as his opponent merely backed away, taking full advantage of his superior range. The hunter jabbed again, but the half-Orc blocked the blow with his shield, pivoting sharply and driving the heavy blade of his axe through the wooden shaft of the spear, breaking it in two. The human stumbled and faltered, and Orun capitalized on it, viciously hacking into his flesh until his body was reduced to a bloody, mangled heap.

The forest fell eerily still. The half-blooded warrior closed his eyes and inhaled slowly and deeply, the frigid air stinging his nostrils. He waited in the silence. For several long moments he heard nothing. Had the third attacker fled? No. He could feel the tension in the air.

Suddenly, he sensed movement again from behind him. He dove to the left just as a spiked mace swung through the air. Orun rolled and climbed to one knee barely in time to raise his shield and deflect a vigorous blow from his attacker’s blunt weapon. The strike resonated painfully through his forearm. The half-Orc snarled.

“Savage,” spat the human, before swinging again, the second hit even more agonizing than the first. Even in the dark, the third man was clearly taller and more muscular than his two fallen comrades.

Orun grinned wildly and lunged forward with his powerful legs, driving his shield brutally into his foe’s face. Fragile teeth and facial bones gave way in a series of satisfying cracks and the human roared in pain. The half-Orc pressed his advantage, pummeling the hunter with the butt of his axe again and again until he dropped his mace and fell. Orun grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him against a tree.

“Now, maybe we can have a civilized conversation,” he growled, smirking cruelly. The human’s eyes widened in shock. “Didn’t expect an Orc to be smarter than you?” He laughed. “You should know how this works, now. Who sent you?” The hunter spat. Orun’s muscles flexed as he tightened his grip.

“You know who sent me!” he shouted through his choked throat. Blood ran freely down his face like a crimson stream.

“Not good enough,” Orun snarled. He lowered his captive until his feet rested on the ground a few feet in front of him. With a single motion, the half-Orc stomped on the human’s knee full force. The earsplitting crunch almost drowned out the man’s tormented scream.

It took nearly a minute for the fallen hunter to catch his breath and speak again. “No-nobody… crosses the investors by accident! Nobody destroys their property without retribution! How could you not know?”

“The investors? From the Vogruk-Stokes Trading Company?” asked Orun. “I’ve never gotten involved with them.”

“Idiot! You mucked up a massive slave trading ring in Archen!”

“All this because I freed some slaves?”

“You stupid Orc!” cried the hunter. “Did you think that they only traded in wood and furs? The flesh trade is worth more than anything in this wasteland of a kingdom!”

Orun growled furiously and crushed his captive’s other knee before hurling him to the ground. “You’re as pathetic as they are. Any establishment that seeks to profit from selling the lives of others deserves to lose everything.” He pressed his boot down hard on the man’s destroyed knee again for good measure. “I’d send you to pass that message onto your masters, but it seems that you’re in no condition to walk. Try not to freeze to death too quickly.”

Orun disappeared into the shadowy mountains, leaving the man to die.

[Ebivoulya]

He was on the mountain by nightfall, and though his prey took rest in a cave along the pass, the half-elf did not sleep, and continued to slowly gain on the white-haired half-orc. His rations he ate more freely, but he spared himself no fire, no moment of rest, only the time to catch his breath and reassess the location of the target. Some of the paths were narrower than others, but most were passable. A few times he had to double-back, but he was still getting closer to his prey. The night seemed to drag on, but luckily the snow was sparse, though the wind did not relent; even though the half-elf was an experienced tracker, he almost felt himself losing his nerve. Every instance of his insecurity would lead to a momentary inner battle as the demon took advantage of his exhaustion.

Finally, he came close enough to the half-orc that he could stop for a moment's rest just as the sun began illuminating the horizon and staving off the dark. That moment turned into many and he awoke with a start to see the sun mid-way up the eastern skyline through the dead branches of the tree under which he had slept. No curse in elvish or common tongue could express his anger, but a wary venture from his resting spot to a better vantage point assured him that his prey had not moved far during his slumber. Surprisingly, he was not startled awake by a nightmare, but he shrugged it off. He was either too fatigued to notice them, or the demon was growing lax in its boredom.

The improved vantage point also offered him a clear view of what looked like a corpse dragging itself through the snow. Upon further inspection, the wolf-furs covering its back brought a sadistic grin to the half-elf’s face. He raced down a steep hill and into a thicket of trees in the hopes that he would reach the man before death claimed him. Only a few minutes after he began his trek, a brutal scene loomed in the distance. Not far from a bloody and disgusting heap of flesh lay a man staring at his own corpse several feet away through a waxy haze. The snapped shaft of a familiar spear lay close to his body, explaining everything the bounty hunter needed to know, despite the lack of tracks or other evidence of struggle.

A brisk jaunt past the massacre found the swordsman following a thinning trail of blood through the fresh snow, and he caught up to the wounded man in very little time. Propped against a trunk, his twisted legs were bent underneath him in an unnatural way, and his breathing was haggard. Some bit of pity found itself into the mortal’s mind, but he washed it away in the tides of gore which lapped at his consciousness. The bounty hunter crouched beside the dying man, slowly edging his dagger from the sheath. A pleading look crossed the cripple’s face as soon as he saw the blade, and the half-elf smirked as he heard the man’s silent cry for death. Just as his lips parted to voice his request, a steel edge slid between his teeth and secured the back of his throat to the tree.

“I told you I’d be the one to kill you.”

It took the mortal mercenary a few hours to catch up, but soon he was close enough to make a move. He had one more endurance enhancing concoction left, and honestly he felt strung out on the things, but he might not be able to take the beast down without a little boost. Off the cork came and up the vial went, the literally vile liquid oozing down his throat slowly. He swallowed hard, a strong tingle taking hold of his esophagus as the potion moved down into his stomach. He shook his head a little, the snow dropping of his soaked raven locks, and continued on. Reaching for the makeshift bow at his back, he removed an arrow from his cloth and leather quiver. He would prefer to take the giant down in one shot, but knowing his luck he'd only wound the beast, or worse, miss entirely; either one of those would lead him into a melee fight.

Though, now that he had a closer look at the creature he stood no taller than the half-elf himself, though a bit stockier. The shield he carried gave him a defensive advantage, but that could be taken care of easily enough. A quick death was preferable, and though he longed to slowly kill the half-orc, chopping him down bit-by-bit, he didn't want to waste any more energy than he had already. The reward for this monster's head, half-human or not, was foremost in his mind. It was especially so now that he was so close he could glimpse the beast occasionally through dead tree trunks covered in ice and large boulders tipped with white.

After several wary minutes of tracking and observing, the half-elf found an exceptional vantage point from which to take his shot. The trail had widened to several paces, and large boulders cluttered each side, while the tree line moved back and thickened to form a wall of frozen death around the two. The timing was perfect, and just as the swordsman drew his bow and lined up his shot the half-orc sauntered out from behind frosted stone. A moment’s hesitation cost the inexperienced bowman his accuracy, and the arrow seemed to fly too high to find flesh. As his curses flew the mercenary pulled another makeshift arrow from his quiver and fired once more, this time managing to get dangerously close to his prey.

With an audible grunt the barbarian by blood dropped to the hard-packed dirt and began running towards the half-orc. The experienced tracker attempted to dodge between boulders and confuse the one he hunted, but it didn’t work as well as he’d intended. The crazed eyes and snow-white hair of his enemy were always staring him down when he darted between obstacles. The incessant and piercing nature of the creature’s gaze began to irritate the half-elf, and he threw his cloak to one side of a large stone as he fired one last arrow from the other. He immediately tossed his bow to the dirt, and darted towards his prey as steel slid out into the biting air, screaming for blood.

“Your head is mine, half-breed!”