Wrymlung the Decayed

Hunt

Torches burn into the depths of the night as the four huntsmen walk slowly along the worn forest path through tall pines among the brush and foliage. Their heavy boot steps churn the dark earth of the path, slowing their pace further through the woods as they keep their eyes trained on the shadows around them as the soft breeze twists the flames of their torches, bidding the dark shapes around them to dance and play tricks upon them. The steel of their blades shines wickedly with the promise of the bloodshed to come.

Severo, the lead to the small party conscripted by the Mediti's for this task, looks far older than his true age with his full beard and tired eyes, "Ser Wrymlung?"

"Yes, Severo," Wrymlung halts to let the huntsman catch up.

"I hesitate to suggest this, m'lord," Severo ducks a bit awkwardly, his torch bobbing dangerously with the movement.

Wrymlung sighs, his breath turning to steam, "I am no lord, young Severo. There is no need for such formality."

"Ah, yes... ser," Severo nods and Wrymlung waits silently for him to continue, "I don't think it's the best idea-"

"Quickly, Severo," Wrymlung cuts him off, far too tired from the long nights he's had as of late.

Severo gestures out into the woods off the path, "I doubt it wise, but there’re signs of travel out that way. It’s likely our quarry believed the roads to be unsafe."

"For them, that holds true," Wrymlung moves his torch to look in the direction Severo is pointing, spotting the break in the branches and gouges in the earth where people must have moved through, "Lead on, Severo."

"Yes, ser," Severo motions for the two others to follow, their dark cloaks fluttering about them as they look about nervously.

A fellow elvenkind, Lichenor pulls her hood back, her red hair tied into a taught bun, "Ser Wrymlung, perhaps if we had more members this would be wise, however, with but four, I fear succumbing to the powers of these hollow witches."

"Fear not, Lichenor, these witches are no match for silver-oiled blades," the drakeman marksman pipes up, tapping the tip of his sword meaningfully against a tree stump.

"You are overconfident, Uther," Lichenor hisses.

"Quiet," Ser Wrymlung cuts through, putting a stop to their flurry before it can kick up into a storm of panic, "The tales of these witches have been exaggerated by the locals who see specters in the winds when the nights get long. Steady yourselves and be like shadows."

His three charges all nod to him and he looks to Severo who hesitates with a glassy-eyed stare at Wrymlung, earning a soft sigh from the knight and unfortunate caretaker of this lot. Wrymlung turns and begins walking the woods proper, keeping his footsteps careful as he follows the trail left behind by their quarry as the sounds of nocturnal life rustle around them, the hooting of an owl, the howl of a wolf. Keeping steady, Wrymlung ignores how the others flinch every time they step on a twig or a leaf, how they jump at every animal cry and Wrymlung finds himself feeling very tired indeed.

They all come upon a small clearing, more a patch of dirt than a true clearing that’s marked with footprints scattered about in confusing circles and mismatched directions. Before Wrymlung can clear them, Severo spots them and scoffs, his eyes tracking the perimeter, and points out two exit routes.

“Petty trick that,” Severo steps to the way where two sets of faint tracks brush the top of hardpacked dirt and gravel, “Seems the witches split their party to make them all harder to find…”

Leather creaks loudly as Ser Wrymlung tightens his grip on his torch severely, his eyes burning through the trees as everyone else goes on edge.

“L-look, ser,” Severo holds his hands up as if to placate the knight, “It’s an even party and I know we haven’t shown ourselves to be the bravest lot but I promise you, we’ll get this job done. I swear it, ser.”

Lichenor hisses at their leader, “Severo! What are you saying? We are a paltry lot as we stand now!”

Severo scowls at her and she quickly buttons up, clenching her jaw with fear and irritation.

“This is what shall happen,” Wrymlung garners their attention once more, “There is but one set of tracks that way.” They all follow his gesture as he points out to the west, “Lichenor and Uther shall take that path. Surely, one of these people will not be trouble for the two of you together.”

The two hired hands straighten up and nod, their pride suddenly at stake.

“Severo, with me,” Wrymlung doesn’t so much as to wait to see that the man is following him before charging into the dark forest to follow the tracks while keeping his sword at the ready.

They move deeper and deeper into the thick of the woods, the world seeming to become increasingly dark as the tangle of branches overhead becomes thicker, blocking out the light of the moon. Severo whirls left and right, his breathing becoming fast as his eyes frantically search the woods in wide-eyed terror and Wrymlung calmly continues on his path, his shoulders set as he keeps Severo in his peripheral. The pace he keeps is unhurried, making Severo bump into him several times as the mercenary keeps trying to speed things along.

“If you keep moving so, they will hear us coming,” Wrymlung warns and Severo tightens up before slinking behind him. Glancing back, Wrymlung would liken the image of the frightened merc to that of a spooked cat, the sight of which makes him sigh.

The crack of a branch some distance off to the right catches their attention and they look at each other. With a deep breath, Wrymlung nods and resolutely puts out his torch to Severo’s dismay before setting it aside to free up movement for his blade. Crouching down low, Ser Wrymlung slinks into the underbrush, pushing past low branches as he goes, and then very purposefully slams his heel onto a thick, dry piece of deadfall to be immediately met with the sound of desperate shuffling and feet scrambling over gravel. As the sounds fade away, Wrymlung lets his shoulders relax and he sinks into himself with relief.

A scream rings out behind him and a shout, “Ser Wrymlung! I’ve got them! I’ve got the witches!.”

Wrymlung crashes through the branches back to the light of Severo’s torch, his eyes wide as he takes in the woman being dragged down by Severo as she desperately tries to keep her child shielded from their gaze as they cling to her, unwilling to run. His hand tightens on his sword, the shadows morphing and mutating around him as Severo wields his torch wildly, trying to keep his grip both on the torch and the flailing, sobbing woman. Severo’s lips are stretched into a wolfish grin as he laughs victoriously, the sound of it echoing through the woods as an icy wind cuts through the air, tossing hair, fabric, and flames this way and that.

The woman screams at the sight of Wrymlung raising his sword, watching in terror as he brings it down. Everything becomes dull and dark with the light of the remaining torch snuffed out, the head of which sunk into a patch of mud by Wrymlung’s feet, and all at once there is silence. It takes a long moment for Wrymlung’s eyes to adjust to the dim moonlight, the world becoming slowly gray and he takes in Severo’s dead eyes gazing back up at him.

Turning to the woman, he’s met with wide, frightened eyes and he points out away from the others, hissing, “Run!”

She wastes no more time, gathering her child up in her arms before sprinting away from him and into the night. Once sure that she’s truly gone, Wrymlung returns to the patch of dirt only to be met by Lichenor and Uther with an elderly woman caught between them whose eyes go wide at the sight of blood on his sword.

Wrymlung’s heart pounds, his eyes that of a madman as he freezes before them. Uther swallows and opens his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by Lichenor.

“Where’s Severo?”

Wrymlung glances down at the women, his face an unreadable mask, “I managed to remove them from this world though I regret not fast enough for they managed to slay poor Severo.”

Lichenor and Uther grimace but nod, having already understood the danger of this work. The old woman, however, screams with agony, cursing them all and thrashing this way and that as she howls to the sky. Her words grow deep, reaching the back of her throat as tears stream from her eyes and a glow begins to swirl around her in hazy green. The two mercenaries freeze in their panic, leaving Wrymlung to lop her head off.