Crowid's Hound

The night smelled of success. Crowid sat across from his assistant, Jaspen. Jas had been with him from the beginning. From the humble research of lycanthropes. Jas had cheered him on, had found things that needed finding. It had been Jas who had found that first book of werewolf lore. Jas who had found the rarest of materials for the experiments. In truth, nothing of what Crowid had accomplished would have been possible without Jas. And so, the two of them sat and toasted their greatest success to date. He had always been interested in what made one creature survive and prosper while another would die off. After multiple experiments he had made a discovery. He called it evolution, the ability to change to fit ones environment. His experiments had then turned to creating new stronger species. Many of his experiments were failures, but a few rare ones, like the catoblepas, with the body of a bull and the head of an boar as well as the protective scales of a basilisk, had not only survived but were thriving and multiplying across the land. Many had not understood his experiments. Superstitious town’s folk had felt he had pushed his experiments too far, that his creatures were evil. While it was true that the perytons, with the upper body of a stag and the hind courters of an eagle, subsisted mostly on human meat, their dietary needs were not the point. They had found a niche in the environment and had grown to fill it. Crowid had made life, life that could thrive. The harpies, however, with the upper bodies of women and the lower extremities and wings of vultures, seemed to be the tipping point for the people. By using humans in his experiments the mobs had begun to form. The threats had grown too much for poor Jas. He had worried for Crowid’s safety. He had suggested a loyal guardian, a hound. That was how they had embarked upon this quest, this triumphant journey. It took a year, crossing the traits of the most loyal, fear inducing creatures he could find within the egg of a cockatrice. Jas had even found him the blood of a Hellhound. To bind its loyalty he incubated the egg in a pint of his own blood. Soon the hound would be ready. The incubation had taken a full week, the egg had grown. It seemed like each day it had doubled in size. Now it stood in the basement a large, obsidian colored, rock like egg. Tonight was surely the night the hound would hatch. A From the basement came a cacophony of noise. A smile creased Jas’ face. Not the smile that Crowid was familiar with. This smile was one of pure evil amusement. “What is it,” Crowid asked. Jas began to laugh. It was a low and sinister thing that grew louder until the room seemed to reverberate with unholy amusement. “It is tour doom.” Jas’ face seemed to shift ever so slightly under Crowid’s gaze. His skin darkened to a dark grey, his pupils morphed into cat-like slits and small horns grew from his head. “You have been an amusing patron, Crowid, but I have grown board and so it is time to move on. But, I was able to give you this one last gift beforehand.” From the basement the sound of the laboratory door smashing came clearly over the horrible keening that must have been the voice of the hound. “You see,” Jas continued, “By using your own blood to incubate the egg, you have made yourself the prey of your newest creation.” For a moment Crowid stared hard at the demon who had been his friend, confidant, and companion. Then he threw himself from the table and dashed out of the room. “It will hunt you to the ends of the earth,” Jas’ voice taunted as he departed. Crowid grabbed the first horse in the stables and rode madly for the town.