Post by Morru Magnum on Apr 21, 2012 6:49:15 GMT -5
Under the thick darkness of the autumn night, only the faint flashes of blood-red light from the Harvest Moon provided sight in the Kessig wilderness. But the cruel environment would not let this go on; in minutes, all the light from the moon was drowned in a sea of gray, hazy clouds, forming like clusters of unclean cotton in the starless sky. Not even the greatest pathfinder would be able to make out the gnarled forms of the oaks and willows that covered much of this thicket, and the rest of the twisted trees which, by now, would sport brilliant spreads of orange and yellow leaves. This, however, did not hinder one brave Beast hunter, and even though everyone else—from the Sages of Breloom’s Cap to a cobbler’s child—would consider going straight into the Kessig Wilds at this time of night as foolish, the Beast hunter pressed on; the leaves he treaded on underfoot created whispering cracks, music which creatures of the night would soon undoubtedly hear…
The hunter took out one tightly-rolled stick of Uldskein’s Cigars and ignited its tip; the small embers revealed just enough of the man’s figure: he was tall and deep-chested, and a fur scarf whose ends were Ursaring claws covered much of his face, leaving only his dark eyes revealed. He pulled down the scarf so as to put the lighted cigar in his mouth; the smoke trailed upwards, seemingly wanting to join the clouds above. The hunter also wore a chestnut-colored cocked hat, a Krokorok leather jacket and boots made of the same material. A sleek strap fastened an ornate crossbow and a spear of silver to his back, while a slender scabbard was fixed to the side of his pants, holding a rapier that has certainly drew more monster-blood than the average vampire.
The man’s name was Tiberius Gravenholt. Beast hunter, expert monster-trapper, armsman, and swordplay extraordinaire—he believed himself fully-equipped against anyone, or more importantly, anything he may happen to cross in the unpredictable Kessig Wilds. He hunted all sorts of ghouls and other kinds of horrors across Pokéstrav, usually for profit among other things (as this kind of free lance profession rewarded him by the golden sovereigns), and although the title of Beast hunter presented enough occupational hazards to make the bravest soldier white as a geist, he enjoyed himself to the satisfaction of decapitating Garbodor ghouls or staking a noble from the House of Crobat which came along with the job.
Currently, he looked up at the inky sky where he thought the moon should be, looked down as if satisfied, and removed the torpedo-shaped cigar from his mouth and tossed it to the ground; landing almost silently on a pile of damp leaves. He then produced a small canteen from one of the chest pockets of his jacket and drank from it. For some time, only the faint, echoing squawks of a murder of Murkrow from the distance made any further noise in the hunter’s surrounding. All of a sudden, though, the silence was broken by something which dashed fast near the Beast hunter, scattering the leaf litter. The figure gave off a low, fierce growl, which sounded like it came from all directions.
The hunter took a step back, returned the container he held in his hand, and removed the silver spear he had fastened to his back. The end of the spear was an intricate point of pure silver, which glowed softly like a torch of white flame.
“C’mon, you dog,” Tiberius spoke under his breath, in his deep, gruff voice. “I know you’re here. No use in playing games, now.”
He was waving the spear to examine his surrounding, and on the first few tries he saw only the emptiness of the woods. In a flash there came a snarling from behind him, and so he turned quickly and cast the spear’s light over the sight—a large, five-foot Zoroark, with its impressive, crimson mane flowing all the way to its back was snarling at him. Strangely, tattered pieces of cloth covered most of its figure. Near its front claws lay the lifeless, yellow body of a Mareep; the sheep Pokémon covered in its own pool of blue, sparking blood. The Zoroark was crouching almost as if it would pounce on the hunter any second, with its blood-stained maw open wide and ready to attack. But the Beast hunter did not move from his place, and instead chose to lower his silver spear and speak to the Zoroark,
“Aurelius Fanghart,” the Beast hunter spoke, without any trace of fear in his voice.
If the Zoroark would have wanted to lunge at the hunter, it did not go on with the thought, because after it had finished snarling, it smiled, revealing its bloodied teeth—giving off a horrible and deranged expression.
“Well,” Tiberius said, quite impatiently. “The moon is out. You wouldn’t have me talking to a damn dog all night would you?”
The Zoroark uttered a partly stifled laugh. Slowly, all its lupine characteristics dissolved; its voluminous brick-red mane becoming shorter by the second. And suddenly, from where the Zoroark had been crouching a man stood: he was thin and blue-eyed while his face was rather bony; and his hair, although it was now short and spiked, was the same ruddy color as the Zoroark’s. He was wearing tattered clothes, and blue-tinged blood was smeared all over his mouth.
“Tiberius,” the thin man spoke, in a hoarse, almost inaudible whisper. “The Alpha…he requests that you make your presence felt in our pack…”
Aurelius Fanghart was a werezoark—humans that would transform into berserk Zoroark depending on the face of the moon. Most werezoark had completely no control over their transformations, and most of them would have no recollection of their rampage. Fanghart, however, had no trouble shape shifting and remembering his nocturnal escapades.
Tiberius’s eyes twitched and he seemed off-put by Fanghart’s statement. He quickly regained his composure, however, and holding up his silver spear he said, “You can tell Render he can feel my Argentus Spear up his furry hide.”
Fanghart snickered; the grim expression on his messy face was no different from his Zoroark form. “What else would you be doing in Kessig, then?”
“I’m on my way to the province of Gavony. There’s something the Lunarch wants me done,” Tiberius began, returning the Argentus Spear to his backstrap. “And I didn’t mind taking this route, I was hoping to cage a beast or two on my way—” here he paused to examine Aurelius’s form; he looked rather miserable if a little grotesque and horrifying. “—and then you came along. With one member of a shepherd’s flock, I might add. The Harvest Moon is ending, but farmers would still have the bonfires up until after twilight… I’m surprised you’ve risked your pathetic neck for a cheap kill.”
“Ha, but you wouldn’t cage an old friend, would you, Tiberius? And I don’t think you have any right lecturing anyone about risks,” muttered Fanghart; the Mareep’s blood now dripping from his pointed chin.
“Old friend indeed,” said the Beast hunter, putting back his scarf over his mouth and nose, so that only his eyes could be seen. He straightened his hat and was ready to be on his way.
Tiberius turned and started to walk away from the werezoark and its dead victim, like the encounter had not happened at all. Before disappearing into the thickness of the trees, he did, however, manage to warn the literal beast of a man.
“And don’t let me catch you anywhere in Zoroark-form again, Aurelius,” Tiberius said, the Ursaring scarf muffling his already deep voice. “I fear that I would not be as merciful as I would feel tempted to bind you, permanently.”
He never looked back to see the agitated look of the werezoark, who was, by then, turning back into his Zoroark form, dragging with him the carcass of the mangled Mareep, as the red-orange moon finally emerged from the clutches of the dark clouds.
* * *
The hunter took out one tightly-rolled stick of Uldskein’s Cigars and ignited its tip; the small embers revealed just enough of the man’s figure: he was tall and deep-chested, and a fur scarf whose ends were Ursaring claws covered much of his face, leaving only his dark eyes revealed. He pulled down the scarf so as to put the lighted cigar in his mouth; the smoke trailed upwards, seemingly wanting to join the clouds above. The hunter also wore a chestnut-colored cocked hat, a Krokorok leather jacket and boots made of the same material. A sleek strap fastened an ornate crossbow and a spear of silver to his back, while a slender scabbard was fixed to the side of his pants, holding a rapier that has certainly drew more monster-blood than the average vampire.
The man’s name was Tiberius Gravenholt. Beast hunter, expert monster-trapper, armsman, and swordplay extraordinaire—he believed himself fully-equipped against anyone, or more importantly, anything he may happen to cross in the unpredictable Kessig Wilds. He hunted all sorts of ghouls and other kinds of horrors across Pokéstrav, usually for profit among other things (as this kind of free lance profession rewarded him by the golden sovereigns), and although the title of Beast hunter presented enough occupational hazards to make the bravest soldier white as a geist, he enjoyed himself to the satisfaction of decapitating Garbodor ghouls or staking a noble from the House of Crobat which came along with the job.
Currently, he looked up at the inky sky where he thought the moon should be, looked down as if satisfied, and removed the torpedo-shaped cigar from his mouth and tossed it to the ground; landing almost silently on a pile of damp leaves. He then produced a small canteen from one of the chest pockets of his jacket and drank from it. For some time, only the faint, echoing squawks of a murder of Murkrow from the distance made any further noise in the hunter’s surrounding. All of a sudden, though, the silence was broken by something which dashed fast near the Beast hunter, scattering the leaf litter. The figure gave off a low, fierce growl, which sounded like it came from all directions.
The hunter took a step back, returned the container he held in his hand, and removed the silver spear he had fastened to his back. The end of the spear was an intricate point of pure silver, which glowed softly like a torch of white flame.
“C’mon, you dog,” Tiberius spoke under his breath, in his deep, gruff voice. “I know you’re here. No use in playing games, now.”
He was waving the spear to examine his surrounding, and on the first few tries he saw only the emptiness of the woods. In a flash there came a snarling from behind him, and so he turned quickly and cast the spear’s light over the sight—a large, five-foot Zoroark, with its impressive, crimson mane flowing all the way to its back was snarling at him. Strangely, tattered pieces of cloth covered most of its figure. Near its front claws lay the lifeless, yellow body of a Mareep; the sheep Pokémon covered in its own pool of blue, sparking blood. The Zoroark was crouching almost as if it would pounce on the hunter any second, with its blood-stained maw open wide and ready to attack. But the Beast hunter did not move from his place, and instead chose to lower his silver spear and speak to the Zoroark,
“Aurelius Fanghart,” the Beast hunter spoke, without any trace of fear in his voice.
If the Zoroark would have wanted to lunge at the hunter, it did not go on with the thought, because after it had finished snarling, it smiled, revealing its bloodied teeth—giving off a horrible and deranged expression.
“Well,” Tiberius said, quite impatiently. “The moon is out. You wouldn’t have me talking to a damn dog all night would you?”
The Zoroark uttered a partly stifled laugh. Slowly, all its lupine characteristics dissolved; its voluminous brick-red mane becoming shorter by the second. And suddenly, from where the Zoroark had been crouching a man stood: he was thin and blue-eyed while his face was rather bony; and his hair, although it was now short and spiked, was the same ruddy color as the Zoroark’s. He was wearing tattered clothes, and blue-tinged blood was smeared all over his mouth.
“Tiberius,” the thin man spoke, in a hoarse, almost inaudible whisper. “The Alpha…he requests that you make your presence felt in our pack…”
Aurelius Fanghart was a werezoark—humans that would transform into berserk Zoroark depending on the face of the moon. Most werezoark had completely no control over their transformations, and most of them would have no recollection of their rampage. Fanghart, however, had no trouble shape shifting and remembering his nocturnal escapades.
Tiberius’s eyes twitched and he seemed off-put by Fanghart’s statement. He quickly regained his composure, however, and holding up his silver spear he said, “You can tell Render he can feel my Argentus Spear up his furry hide.”
Fanghart snickered; the grim expression on his messy face was no different from his Zoroark form. “What else would you be doing in Kessig, then?”
“I’m on my way to the province of Gavony. There’s something the Lunarch wants me done,” Tiberius began, returning the Argentus Spear to his backstrap. “And I didn’t mind taking this route, I was hoping to cage a beast or two on my way—” here he paused to examine Aurelius’s form; he looked rather miserable if a little grotesque and horrifying. “—and then you came along. With one member of a shepherd’s flock, I might add. The Harvest Moon is ending, but farmers would still have the bonfires up until after twilight… I’m surprised you’ve risked your pathetic neck for a cheap kill.”
“Ha, but you wouldn’t cage an old friend, would you, Tiberius? And I don’t think you have any right lecturing anyone about risks,” muttered Fanghart; the Mareep’s blood now dripping from his pointed chin.
“Old friend indeed,” said the Beast hunter, putting back his scarf over his mouth and nose, so that only his eyes could be seen. He straightened his hat and was ready to be on his way.
Tiberius turned and started to walk away from the werezoark and its dead victim, like the encounter had not happened at all. Before disappearing into the thickness of the trees, he did, however, manage to warn the literal beast of a man.
“And don’t let me catch you anywhere in Zoroark-form again, Aurelius,” Tiberius said, the Ursaring scarf muffling his already deep voice. “I fear that I would not be as merciful as I would feel tempted to bind you, permanently.”
He never looked back to see the agitated look of the werezoark, who was, by then, turning back into his Zoroark form, dragging with him the carcass of the mangled Mareep, as the red-orange moon finally emerged from the clutches of the dark clouds.
* * *