Hunting the Hunters (D&D)
Posted: 2008-07-07 08:26pm
Reynard leaned back against the wall of his house and inspected the blade of his scythe. Another few passes with the whetstone should do it. He drew the stone against the edge of the blade at an angle, honing the edge. Some things were just like old times.
Those times, the days of blood and fire, were behind him pretty much. Sure he was the sheriff and he kept the duke's peace, but he rarely had to reach for a blade. He was more farmer than anything else. How his old friends would laugh if the saw Reynard Red Hand now.
"A rider," said Garrick. Reynard looked up and so there was. He was coming up from the village proper, riding a big black horse and wearing full plate under a green cloak.
"I see him," said Reynard. "Go inside and get my axe," he said to the field hand. "And my shield." No time to don armour.
He could retreat to the house if he needed to. It was stone, two stories tall and stoutly built. The door was thick iron bound oak and the windows were good places to launch arrows from. It wasn't a keep, but it was well fortified nonetheless.
The rider drew closer and pulled back his hood. He wasn't much younger than Reynard, with a short dark beard streaked with grey and hair that was more grey than brown. His eyes were dark and piercing above a hawk-like nose. "Reynard," he called out, "you old bastard. I didn't expect you'd really spend the rest of your days pushing a plow and staring at a horse's ass, but here you are."
"Mathias," said Reynard. The beard and the grey were new, but the voice was still the same. "You miserable excuse for an adherent to the dragon, what are you doing here?"
"Visiting a crusty, cradle robbing curmudgeon," Mathias said with a smile. He slid off his horse and embraced his friend.
"That it?"
"Riding the bounds as well," Mathias said. "Duty never ending."
"I heard you were in the south. Was it as bad as they say?"
"Worse. Better now, if it lasts."
Reynard nodded. "The harvest can survive a day without me. Garrick, get things started." Reynard lead his friend into the house. No one around here would need Mathias's help if the gods were kind.
They were not.
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The hunter sniffed the air again. Yes, definitely dog. He had approached the farmstead from downwind to hide his scent. He had no fear of dogs, but they made things more complicated by warning their owners early. The added challenge of their presence made the hunt more enjoyable.
The gibbous moon provided more than enough light to see by. Two dogs were sleeping on a mat on the farm house's porch. It was a simple building, probably just one large room, constructed from logs and roofed with wooden shingles. The livestock were in an adjacent barn and pen. The peasants in this region were rich, with good land and taxed with a light hand. That made them better sport than the half-starving wretches he had hunted in other places.
He gripped the black iron shaft of his hammer. It was an old weapon, storied and caked in death. Its name was Woe and in his hands it had wrought much misery and suffering. He had taken it from the broken body of its previous owner and no doubt some vicious half grown pup would pry his dying fingers from the haft and take Woe. That was the way of things. It did not bother him. Dying old, weak and infirm, that was a fate to be avoided. Woe would guarantee his death while their was still strength left in his body.
He crept closer. The dogs were sleeping and could not smell him. They certainly couldn't see him and they most definitely could not hear him. He was too quiet, too practiced. He neared the porch, gripping Woe with both hands. He swung.
Bones snapped like kindling. The dog gave a pathetic whelp and twitched, blood spurting from its mouth. The other awakened and the hunter crushed his spine. The dog yelped mournfully and tried to drag itself toward him with its forelimbs. The hunger kicked it away in contempt as he raised Woe again.
The door was wood, probably thick, and undoubtedly barred from the inside. Even with his strength trying to smash it in was futile. Woe made the difference. The first blow cracked the wood and the second went through. The hunter reached in and pulled the bar up. The door swung open and he was inside.
The house had a large bed on one side, a cradle next to the bed, and a smaller bed on the other. A pair of tables and several chairs were in the middle, close to the hearth. A female human was sitting up in the bed. The covers were pulled up to her neck. Her husband, naked, was reaching for a spear that hung on the wall.
The hunter noted the male's quick reactions. He would have to cripple this one quickly. He strode forward, upending a table with his left hand to clear room to fight. The human jabbed with his spear. He was too tentative, too afraid. Not aggressive enough.
The hunter feinted a swing with Woe. The human kept back and jabbed again with his spear, trying to stab the hunter while he was exposed. The dark and the human's fear betrayed him. The jab wasn't far enough. Instead the hunter was able to grab the spear just behind the tip.
The human was a farmer who had cleared land and tilled the earth. He was quite strong. The hunter ripped the spear out of his hands and swung Woe one handed. The blow shattered human's left thigh. He went down screaming, bloody shards of bone sticking out of his leg. The woman screamed as well. She had a knife.
A boy ran at him, scarcely the size of a goblin. He had a wooden club. Pathetic. The hunter tossed the spear behind him and shrugged off the feeble blows. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and smashed him hard against the wall of the house. He did it again and again. The fourth time he heard bone break. He tossed the boy at the female's feet. Weeping, she menaced the hunter with her knife. The male was gasping.
The hunter pulled the baby out of the cradle and held its head close to his face. His fangs gleamed in the dull red light provided by the hearth. "No!" the woman screamed. "No! Have mercy!"
Humans were so fun when you played with their children. The hunter spoke, using their tongue. "Slit your boys throat," he rumbled, "or I will bite off your baby's face. Choose." He laughed.
He was going to do it anyway, of course. The fun part was making her choose which child would die before he killed both children, her husband, and finally her. Slowly, piece by piece. Would her mind break before she died? He would soon find out.
Those times, the days of blood and fire, were behind him pretty much. Sure he was the sheriff and he kept the duke's peace, but he rarely had to reach for a blade. He was more farmer than anything else. How his old friends would laugh if the saw Reynard Red Hand now.
"A rider," said Garrick. Reynard looked up and so there was. He was coming up from the village proper, riding a big black horse and wearing full plate under a green cloak.
"I see him," said Reynard. "Go inside and get my axe," he said to the field hand. "And my shield." No time to don armour.
He could retreat to the house if he needed to. It was stone, two stories tall and stoutly built. The door was thick iron bound oak and the windows were good places to launch arrows from. It wasn't a keep, but it was well fortified nonetheless.
The rider drew closer and pulled back his hood. He wasn't much younger than Reynard, with a short dark beard streaked with grey and hair that was more grey than brown. His eyes were dark and piercing above a hawk-like nose. "Reynard," he called out, "you old bastard. I didn't expect you'd really spend the rest of your days pushing a plow and staring at a horse's ass, but here you are."
"Mathias," said Reynard. The beard and the grey were new, but the voice was still the same. "You miserable excuse for an adherent to the dragon, what are you doing here?"
"Visiting a crusty, cradle robbing curmudgeon," Mathias said with a smile. He slid off his horse and embraced his friend.
"That it?"
"Riding the bounds as well," Mathias said. "Duty never ending."
"I heard you were in the south. Was it as bad as they say?"
"Worse. Better now, if it lasts."
Reynard nodded. "The harvest can survive a day without me. Garrick, get things started." Reynard lead his friend into the house. No one around here would need Mathias's help if the gods were kind.
They were not.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The hunter sniffed the air again. Yes, definitely dog. He had approached the farmstead from downwind to hide his scent. He had no fear of dogs, but they made things more complicated by warning their owners early. The added challenge of their presence made the hunt more enjoyable.
The gibbous moon provided more than enough light to see by. Two dogs were sleeping on a mat on the farm house's porch. It was a simple building, probably just one large room, constructed from logs and roofed with wooden shingles. The livestock were in an adjacent barn and pen. The peasants in this region were rich, with good land and taxed with a light hand. That made them better sport than the half-starving wretches he had hunted in other places.
He gripped the black iron shaft of his hammer. It was an old weapon, storied and caked in death. Its name was Woe and in his hands it had wrought much misery and suffering. He had taken it from the broken body of its previous owner and no doubt some vicious half grown pup would pry his dying fingers from the haft and take Woe. That was the way of things. It did not bother him. Dying old, weak and infirm, that was a fate to be avoided. Woe would guarantee his death while their was still strength left in his body.
He crept closer. The dogs were sleeping and could not smell him. They certainly couldn't see him and they most definitely could not hear him. He was too quiet, too practiced. He neared the porch, gripping Woe with both hands. He swung.
Bones snapped like kindling. The dog gave a pathetic whelp and twitched, blood spurting from its mouth. The other awakened and the hunter crushed his spine. The dog yelped mournfully and tried to drag itself toward him with its forelimbs. The hunger kicked it away in contempt as he raised Woe again.
The door was wood, probably thick, and undoubtedly barred from the inside. Even with his strength trying to smash it in was futile. Woe made the difference. The first blow cracked the wood and the second went through. The hunter reached in and pulled the bar up. The door swung open and he was inside.
The house had a large bed on one side, a cradle next to the bed, and a smaller bed on the other. A pair of tables and several chairs were in the middle, close to the hearth. A female human was sitting up in the bed. The covers were pulled up to her neck. Her husband, naked, was reaching for a spear that hung on the wall.
The hunter noted the male's quick reactions. He would have to cripple this one quickly. He strode forward, upending a table with his left hand to clear room to fight. The human jabbed with his spear. He was too tentative, too afraid. Not aggressive enough.
The hunter feinted a swing with Woe. The human kept back and jabbed again with his spear, trying to stab the hunter while he was exposed. The dark and the human's fear betrayed him. The jab wasn't far enough. Instead the hunter was able to grab the spear just behind the tip.
The human was a farmer who had cleared land and tilled the earth. He was quite strong. The hunter ripped the spear out of his hands and swung Woe one handed. The blow shattered human's left thigh. He went down screaming, bloody shards of bone sticking out of his leg. The woman screamed as well. She had a knife.
A boy ran at him, scarcely the size of a goblin. He had a wooden club. Pathetic. The hunter tossed the spear behind him and shrugged off the feeble blows. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and smashed him hard against the wall of the house. He did it again and again. The fourth time he heard bone break. He tossed the boy at the female's feet. Weeping, she menaced the hunter with her knife. The male was gasping.
The hunter pulled the baby out of the cradle and held its head close to his face. His fangs gleamed in the dull red light provided by the hearth. "No!" the woman screamed. "No! Have mercy!"
Humans were so fun when you played with their children. The hunter spoke, using their tongue. "Slit your boys throat," he rumbled, "or I will bite off your baby's face. Choose." He laughed.
He was going to do it anyway, of course. The fun part was making her choose which child would die before he killed both children, her husband, and finally her. Slowly, piece by piece. Would her mind break before she died? He would soon find out.
. (Like the next line 
).
