Vanman
Two Thousand Club
Midnight’s Fury
My beginnings were inauspicious. Or maybe my beginnings were auspicious. I don’t know. My parents died when I was young. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Fact is, I don’t know what happened to my parents. What I do know is their disappearance – for whatever reason – left me as an orphan, living life at a young age in the orphanages of Kirighast.
I was born in – or my first memories were of – Kirighast, capital of Harborhead. Not having parents meant that I didn’t know my date of birth. I grew up on the streets. Ran with a gang of other orphaned kids from our orphanage. Life in the orphanage was tough. We were expected to work for our keep. And work we did. A couple of benefits, though. First, since this was Harborhead, we were taught to fight. First with fists, then with weapons. The second benefit was letters. We were taught how to read. This wasn’t a normal practice in most orphanages. In ours, it was. Our teaching wasn’t great or prolonged, but it did give us skills other than our fists.
I was big for my age. From the get go. That was good. In some ways. I was rarely picked on. And bad. In others. If there was a problem, especially with the guards, they usually looked at me. I didn’t like to fight. But it didn’t mean I wouldn’t do it. Violence is just a part of life on the streets. Comes with the territory. There was generally little violence between the kids from our orphanage. The problems came from kids from other orphanages. There were always shifting alliances between the various orphanages. One week, you’d be allied with Orphanage A, fighting Orphanage B. The next week, things would change. Now you were allied with Orphanage B, fighting Orphanage C, who was now allied with Orphanage A.
Our fights sometimes broke over into the streets. The guards would accept some disturbances, but only some. They thought it built character. Prepared us for life in the army. But they had to keep the peace. So if our conflicts affected other people, or businesses, then they came down. Hard. We learned quickly to keep our fights out of the public eye. We weren’t always successful. But mostly we were. My size was an asset in these conflicts. But it also made me a target. I learned to handle myself quickly.
Now, the dreams. The dreams started early for me. And they would serve as a catalyst for the direction of my life. My first memories of the dreams are indistinct. I can’t really remember exactly what I dreamed. What I do remember is the gut knowing fear I woke up with. There’s a vague sense of being hunted. But whether that’s from the memories of later dreams or the figment of my imagination is for someone else to determine. All I know is I started to fear the night. Because that’s when the dreams would come. I used to sit up at night, trying to ward off sleep. It was then that I started talking to the moon. Ironic, I know. Or maybe prophetic. Maybe that’s why I was Chosen. That’s not for me to say. If I ever meet Luna, I’ll ask her. But I did talk to the moon. The moon would listen. Wouldn’t call me crazy. And it helped me stay awake.
As I got older, the dreams came more frequently. And I started to remember them. Or at least remember generalities. In the dreams, I was hunted. By something big. And spiteful. And evil. The hunters took different forms, every night. One night, it would be horned apes, covered in blood. The next night, rotting bodies. Ambling after me. Relentless in their pursuit. The night after, a woman with ebony skin, great soft eyes, and long red hair, bells knotted into it. There is a keening, mournful howl that accompanies her march. And it is inexorable. There is the mad ghost. Screaming at his minions. Spurring them to the chase. There are the jade lions. Burning all things sacred in their path. Night after night. Ceaseless. Unending. No matter how far I run, I can’t escape. No matter how silently I hide, they still find me.
For the longest time, I tried to ignore them. The dreams. They’d go away if I put them out of my mind. It didn’t work. I got scared. That fear lead to anger. And aggression. I started to look forward to our dust ups. It was there where I could show I had no fear. In battle, I put my fear out of my mind. It was never gone. It was always there. Looking over my shoulder. In battle, though, I could show it I wasn’t afraid. That didn’t work, either. It always laughed. A cruel, malicious, sadistic, mocking laugh. A laugh I heard in my dreams. Haunting me, in the corridors of my mind.
My fellow orphans loved this part of me. At first. I dedicated myself to my training. I had to get stronger. And tougher. And faster. When it came time to fight, I worked myself up. To silence the laughter. Or to try, anyway. When I worked myself up, I was a terror. Or so I was told. Many times, the mere sight of me sent the enemies running. Not at first. At first, they thought it was bravado. The kind most kids use. They learned quickly. Oh, what I did was bravado. But not for them. Oh no. It was for the laughter that haunted me. What everyone else saw was implacable. Once I started, I didn’t stop. Until I was down or they were down. Whoever they were.
As I said, those from my orphanage loved this part of me. Until. Until I killed someone. Most of the time, our fights were not lethal. Most of the weapons we used were not designed to kill. Incapacitate, sure. But not to kill. The thought was, if we killed, it wouldn’t stop. And the guards’ eyes would turn our way. There were deaths. There’s no way to avoid that when violence occurs. But most deaths happened after the fight was finished. From injuries received in the fight. If someone died in a fight, it was usually from a savage beating. Sad, yes, but it was the price we paid. There were practically no one shot kills.
The incident in question, however, was different. We were fighting a lesser orphanage, really. The orphanage was smaller than ours. The fight was over an insult. Sort of an honor fight. Or a fight to save face. To me, though, it was a fight. Plain and simple. And we were there to win. The dream the night before was particularly horrifying. Bloodied creatures razing the landscape. Overrunning all in their path. The laughter was loud and close. I had to work extra hard to put it out of my mind. So I was in a state. A rage, even. There was an enemy before me. The enemy was going down. It was as if the laughter was coming out of that enemy. So down he went. With his skull caved in. One shot. That’s all it took. There was silence from everyone. Or so I was told. I don’t really remember. What I do remember is going after the next enemy. That was necessary. Because that enemy was there. And that enemy was going to destroy me. I went after the next target. Because that’s what you did in a fight. I hit another foe and then everyone ran. Enemy and friend. It took me a minute before I realized there was no one left to fight. Then I saw the dead body. I had some idea of why everyone ran. Figured I needed to run myself. So I did.
Things changed after that. They seemed the same. But they weren’t. My orphanmates were scared of me now. They used to admire me. Thought it was great. When one of the Rules were broken, though….. Then it’s different. They still wanted me in the fight. Because the story of what I’d done spread through all the other orphanages. Remember when I said that the mere sight of me sent enemies running? When I worked myself up? It hadn’t happened before. It happened an awful lot now. And there were imitators. Both in our gang and in others. They didn’t have what I had, though. They didn’t have the dreams. Or the laughter.
There’s a problem with working yourself up and then having no one to fight. That problem is there’s no one to fight. The build up was fine when there was someone to take it out on. But when those people ran? I had this….monster…..inside me, and no where for it to go. It was about 8 months after the killing. I estimated my age at this time to be around 15. Could be younger. Could be older. No way of knowing. We had met up with one of the bigger orphanages. Getting ready to mix it up. I was psyching myself up. Gettin’ nasty, as some of my friends said. I was in rare form. Such rare form that they all ran. Such rare form that I couldn’t let it go. One of my mates came over to tell me the enemy had fled. Bad move. My rage and anger was unleashed on him. Didn’t take long for me to put him down. The others had enough sense to flee. All I was left with was my rage. So I took it to the streets.
This was, of course, against the rules. Both our rules. And, more importantly, the guards’ rules. Violence on the streets of Harborhead wasn’t viewed with any kindness. Violence in the service of Harborhead, sure. But not on its streets. After putting down two bystanders, I was taken down by a guard patrol. Sent three of them to the healers. Four more couldn’t stand duty for a week. I wasn’t in too great a shape, either. My fellow orphans were done with me. Not that they could have done anything had they wanted to. But I was a liability now. So I was left to my own devices. Luckily, I didn’t kill anyone. If I had, it would have been the slave pits. But, Harborhead being Harborhead, I served six months in a work camp. Then I joined the military. Whether I wanted to or not.
Turns out I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I was getting too old to be living at the orphanage. I would have been turned out in a month or three. So the army was my next stop. I did fairly well in the army. My size served me well. As did the benefits of that size – mainly, strength and stamina. And my gettin’ nasty. I couldn’t get as nasty as I did on the streets of Kirighast. But a bit of battle fury was never frowned upon. Problem was, I couldn’t turn on my fellow soldiers. So I had to tone it down. A bit. Particularly in drills. In actual combat, it was useful. I just had to know when to ramp it up. Too soon and I’d be a danger to my comrades. I got good at gauging when to ramp it up. And when to hold off.
Again, Harborhead being Harborhead, I spent time fighting various jungle tribes. And a sortie or ten against the Varang City States. I had little trouble picking up martial skills. My preference was the axe. Most of the soldiers preferred a sword, but not me. The axe was simple and did its job efficiently. It also served well as a utility tool. So while others used a sword, the axe became my weapon of choice. I cared little for avoiding blows. If I could block them, fine. Otherwise, I let my armor do what it’s supposed to do. I picked up a little skill in warfare. Hard to avoid it. Unfortunately, the army didn’t make the dreams go away. Or the laughter. They were still there. Sometimes, they receded. A little. Other times, though, they came on stronger. With increasing degrees of the macabre. Nations in ruin. Battlefields with thousands of dead. Those thousands of dead, rising up. To carry on the carnage. When on campaign, it was less of a problem. I could work myself up and make the dreams recede. When at home, I wasn’t so lucky. And I was still scared.
My future may have been the army. Except. Except for voices from the past. I’d served close to four years. My time for re-enlistment was on me. I’d already talked to my sergeant. Tentatively agreed to re-up. When one of the orphans from my old home came to me. His name was Spiral. He was 5 years my junior. Had fought with our gang a number of times. I knew him only cursorily. But there he was. Waiting outside my barracks. It took me a moment to recognize him. He was older now. Ran the gang. A tough kid. And he was scared. I could see that right off. We spoke. He said kids were disappearing from the orphanage. From a number of orphanages. He’d spoken with other kids. They had the same problem. Thing is, he didn’t know where to go. Guards paid little attention to orphans. Or their problems. Those who ran the homes weren’t any better. Spiral may have been scared of me. But he had the stones to come to me when he needed help.
I was reluctant at first. I had my own duties. Such as they were. But I agreed to look into it. Don’t know why, really. Maybe it was because I knew no one else would. So I started hanging around the orphanage during my off hours. At night. If nothing else, it kept the dreams at bay. Ironically, the dreams were even stronger when they came. Spent a week and a half doing this. Started to feel foolish. Finally decided to call it quits. Go back to soldiering. Then it happened.
It was a dust up. Like any other I’d seen the past week and a half. Like any other I’d been in myself. I didn’t join in. Wouldn’t have been right. I just watched. Rumor had it kids disappeared during – or after – a fight. I was watching. Then I saw it. Movement on the roof. Two heads, peeking over the gables. Couldn’t make them out too well. Their heads were covered. But they had a keen interest on what was going on. Surveyed the battle. Saw two kids, almost alone. At the end of the alley. Duking it out. With no regard to where anyone else was. One of the covered heads pointed at the two. And it was there. Out of nowhere. One moment, nothing. The next, a horned ape. In blood red fur. Just like in my dreams. The ape-thing grabbed the kids and leapt onto the roof. The two figures backed away from the edge.
My mind was swirling. I always thought my dreams were just that. Dreams. Figments of my overactive imagination. Could it be there was something to them? There was no mistaking it. The ape-thing was definitely a creature from my dreams. Maybe not covered in blood, like they were when my eyes closed. But everything else about them. Most definitely. What’s more, it seemed to be working for those two on the roof. Time to get some answers.
I broke into a run. Around the other side. If I could catch one of them, I could make him talk. Adrenalin pumped through me. And the laughter. Back with a vengeance. Because the fear was right there. Riding in my chest. In my head. In my limbs. I couldn’t let it stop me, though. And I didn’t. Didn’t take me long to get nasty. Not with what was before me. Saw the two masked figures hit the ground. The ape-thing was right behind them. Guess I got the drop on it. The rage overflowed, coursing through me. Adrenalin too. The sounds of the fight covered my steps. Until it was too late. My first blow cleaved through its shoulder. It dropped the kids. The second blow cut halfway through its neck. Have to give it credit – it was still standing. Not after the third blow, though. That one removed the head from its shoulders.
The two masked figures turned just as the head flew off the creature’s shoulders. I saw their eyes widen. Didn’t take me long to reach them. I spun. Brought my axe down in a looping swing. Cut through the first man’s knee. Cut off the first man’s knee. The rest of his leg, too. Reversed the axe in my hand. Reversed the swing. Caught the other man under the arm. Axe ended up buried up to his sternum. Yanked it free in a contrail of blood and gore. Split the first man’s skull. Just like that, it was over. Just one problem. No answers. Yes, I saw a creature from my dreams. But I had no idea who – or what – it was. I just had three dead corpses. And two cowering kids. Told them to get back home. Spread the word to stay off the street until I figured out what was going on. They were awed – and scared. They beat it.
Started cursing myself. My lack of control cost me. I could have knocked one unconscious. Questioned him. Dead men tell no tales. Platitudes won’t help me. Neither will dead men. Searched the bodies. Didn’t expect to find much. Didn’t find much. Didn’t find anything. What did I know? There was someone – or something – after the kids from the orphanages. Maybe they were after more than just the orphans. Maybe they were after all manner of kids. Maybe I was just aware of the orphans. Can’t worry about that. One thing at a time. Problem was, I just killed my only lead. Could wait around again. But it may take time before they come back. Especially with the three dead before me. If only I knew who they were. If only…….
“They’re called the Salmalin.â€
I leapt to my feet. Spun around, axe at the ready. Man standing there was about 5’10â€. 185 pounds. Brown hair. A bit unkempt. Hazel eyes. Piercing. Unassuming manner. A bow on his back. A sword on his hip. Looked like he knew how to use them. Doubt he’s an enemy. If he were, he’d have shot me by now. And he wouldn’t be talking. That’s the thing I clung to right now. He gave a name. The Salmalin. That’s more than I had a minute ago. Slow down. He may be in league. He may be trying to play me. Take it slow.
“What’re Salmalin?†Tried to keep my voice even. Didn’t want to overplay my hand here.
“Cult of Yozi worshippers. They work to bring their masters back into Creation. A bad sort.â€
“What do they want with the kids?â€
“Probably using them as sacrifices. That’s the thing about worshipping demons. They require a lot of sacrifices. And, unless it’s a really important ritual, they don’t usually take those sacrifices from in house. Thus, the children.â€
Made sense. Then another question popped into my head. “Why not just get slaves?â€
The man’s eyebrow arched slightly. Maybe surprise? “Good question. And one I don’t know the answer to. There’s a few theories. One is the sacrifice has to be someone with free will. Slaves don’t really have free will. Another is that there has to be some risk in securing the sacrifice. Again, there is no risk in securing slaves. You just have to have the scratch. But only the Salmalin know the true reasons they take the kids.â€
“How do you know so much about them?â€
“It’s what I do. I’m a demon hunter. Part of being a demon hunter is knowing who works for them.â€
“What’s a demon hunter doing in Harborhead?â€
This time the man smiled. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a demon worshipping cult working in Harborhead.†There was a pause. Like he was expecting a reaction. Then a shrug. “I worked a case similar to the ones here in Kirighast in Tiraktou. Apparently, the guards talk to one another. When kids started disappearing here, one thing led to another and here I am.â€
“And you are?â€
“You can call me Nariq.â€
This was all interesting. But there was one question that burned in my mind. One question I had to ask. I nodded at the ape-thing. “Know what that is?â€
The man glanced in the creature’s direction. “Yes. Erymanthoi. Otherwise known as Blood Apes. Bloodthirsty buggers, with a strong taste for violence. Not very smart, though. Good for muscle, but not good for much of anything else. The Salmalin like to use them because they’re plentiful and they’re enthusiastic muscle. Not much has to go into making them do your bidding. So Yozi cults use them a lot.â€
Don’t know if knowing made it better or worse. For the first time, I had a name for one of the creatures in my dreams. But that creature was a Yozi. One of the demons from Malfeas. Still don’t know if that knowledge made the dreams easier or harder to take. One thing was certain, though. All thoughts of re-upping were gone. I looked up at Nariq.
“You need a partner?â€
***********
Turns out he did want a partner. Or, as he put it, someone willing to face down a rampaging demon. That was me. He saw me take down the Erymanthoi and the two cultists. That impressed him. Said he’d never seen that happen before. Not sure how much was skill and how much was luck. But he took me on.
If I thought it was going to be action right away – and I did – I was sadly mistaken. Nariq told me again and again. The first weapon we have in our fight is knowledge. Without that, we’re as good as dead. Demons – and the Undead, because Nariq hunted them, too – have weaknesses – and strengths. Exploit the weakness, you have a chance of winning. Play to their strengths, you end up dead. So the first six months of my apprenticeship was spent researching. Learning to read Old Realm. Learning about the differences between demons and the undead. The theories behind thaumaturgy. Also read Nariq’s notes on the Salmalin. They weren’t many. But I read what he had. Classifications of demons. Of undead. The link between the undead and Deathlords. (Don’t know if this would be known with my level of Occult. If I wouldn’t know it, fine. It’s not a problem.) In short, knowledge that would help me in the field.
It wasn’t all book work. Nariq was a fair swordsman. Even better with that bow. We sparred. I learned some tricks from him. He learned a few from me. Turns out Nariq was a thaumaturge. When he thought I was ready, he summoned an actual demon. To give me practice fighting. Nothing quite like experience, is what he said. So experience I got. The fights with the demons. They were controlled. Nariq emphasized this. Constantly. Said fights like this didn’t happen in the real world. Had to be ready for the unexpected. That’s when he’d attack me. Needless to say, my skills got better.
The dreams. I was in a weird place with the dreams. Because they were getting worse. More horrific. More apocalyptic. Worse depredations. So many more deaths. In so many horrible ways. But I didn’t say anything to Nariq. What if this was some sort of way to control my mind? What if I was being influenced? I had to find a way to fight them. To keep the dreams – and the creatures – out of my head. If Nariq thought I was being influenced, would he throw me out? I needed to learn. So I kept my mouth shut. But they kept coming. And getting worse. Like I said. As the dreams got worse, so did the laughter. The training helped. But it was still bad. Real bad.
Still. I had a job to do. I focused my mind on what I had to do. Having a name for what was in my dreams helped me to concentrate. Let me focus my fear. My rage. Both now had a target. Nariq said it was time for the next step. It wasn’t what I thought. Leaving Kirighast, we went out into the wild. Into the jungles east of Harborhead. I thought the tribes in the jungle were infested with cultists. Or worshipped the Yozis themselves. Nothing of the sort. We didn’t go there to fight. We went there to learn to live off the land. Or, rather, I learned to live off the land. Nariq’s reasoning? You never knew where the hunt would take you. So you needed to learn to subsist on what was around you. There were a few fights, to be sure. But they were usually wild animals. The first few times, it was kind of exhilarating. These weren’t controlled fights or anything that was summoned and bound. These were actual creatures. But the fights did little for the laughter in my head. Exercised my body, yes. But not my mind.
I also worked on keeping a calm mind. To strengthen my mind. Nariq said demons – and, to a lesser extent, the undead – could affect your mind. It was important to keep your mind strong against influence. This, of course, made me even more nervous. Could the dreams really be a tool used by the enemy? If so, why have I had them all my life? Were they pointing me in a particular direction? I tried to do the exercises Nariq taught me. I had some success. But not as much as I would have liked. It was that laughter. Always in the back of my mind. Mocking me. Daring me to tell Nariq. Daring me to risk madness. I didn’t. Luckily. But it was always there.
Finally, Nariq declared me ready. After a year and a half of training. Ready to enter the fray. Full time. A demon hunter at last. So it was that I started my career as professional demon hunter. The next three years were spent traveling with Nariq. We went from town to town, seeking information. About demons. About the undead. And any other unnatural creatures who would threaten our world. When we found what we were looking for, we planned. And then we struck. Hard. Those were the times I lived for. In battle. Against the very creatures from my dreams.
I needed that. Because the dreams kept getting worse. As I got older, the dreams kept getting darker. More forbidding. More apocalyptic. Now, it was all of Creation. Burning all around me. An army of demons, undead, and horrors unnamable. The only thing that stood between this horde of death and destruction? Me. This made me train harder. Fight longer. Throw myself into the work. If I was the only one to stand before these foul monsters, I needed to be ready. As soon as one mission was over, I was ready to get onto the next one. Nariq often made us take breaks. Said he needed to take time away from the hunt to remind him why the hunt was so important. Just seemed like wasted time to me. But then Nariq didn’t have the dreams. Or the laughter. Ever present. Always mocking.
The event that changed my life started with the Salmalin. Again. We’d been tracking their movements for quite some time. Their movements had been primarily in the southeast. On the savannahs. Hitting villages located in or around the savannah. Even moving into the Varang City States. Everywhere they went, the same thing. Death. Destruction. Misery. Demons are demons. Don’t know if they can choose their nature. Willing to bet they can’t. But the Salmalin. They’re human. Why would they choose to worship the Yozis? Just don’t understand that. But we had the location of one of their bases. A small base, but it was a base.
The plan was to watch the base. Scout their movements. Study their guard rotations. See what we could see. This was purely a fact finding mission. It was just the two of us against a cadre of cultists. Nariq said it was too dangerous to do anything else. Hated this kind of mission. Skulking around. Not doing much of anything. I spent time training my awareness, but it wasn’t what I did best. Or it wasn’t what I liked doing. Guess I’m a man of action. It was night. My watch. Nariq was sleeping. Couldn’t see anything happening at the base. My mind started wandering. Thought about the dreams. Heard the laughter. Decided it was time to tell Nariq about them. The severity of the dreams was getting untenable. Could be I would have to be put down. If the demons were affecting my mind, better dead than enslaved to them. Simply put – I wasn’t paying attention.
Next thing I knew, there were screams from the darkness. A horde of figures descended upon me. On us. The Salmalin. And their grotesque servants. I was up and fighting. For my life. Managed to shake Nariq awake, before they were on us. Luckily, it was a full moon. Again, the Blessed Mother proves her sense of irony. Wasn’t difficult to see. Nariq was on his feet, swinging his sword. It was a valiant fight. But sheer numbers were against us. There were too many of them. Simple as that. Nariq was the first to fall. He’s just parried two sword thrusts, dodged a third, when an Erymanthoi caught him from behind. Doubled him over. And just like that, he was done. Pierced through by three other swords.
A rage was building inside me. I welcomed it. To have come so far. To have brought the fight to the Creatures of Darkness, only to have it end here. The rage spread throughout me. And with it, something else. A power. Like the fury was feeding the power. Something was growing inside me. No. That wasn’t it. I was growing. Changing. Transforming. In that moment, time stopped. I could see each individual Salmalin. And every feature of their abominations at their sides. Then she was there. The Bloody Huntress. Resplendent in her beauty. Resplendent in her deadliness. She opened her mouth, and her voice surrounded me. Caressed me. Struck me.
“You are Chosen, my child. I know the burden you carry. I know the strength you have. You have used your strength to carry that burden, and to fight against what that burden has shown you. I admire that. And now you shall not be alone. I shall be with you. Always. You will mix your strength with mine. Your arm shall be my arm. And as my arm, you will have my strength so you can carry on your battle. I give my first gift to you now. Make me proud.â€
And she was gone. But the Salmalin weren’t. They were still surrounding me. Only now I was different. Instead of a man, they now faced a claw strider. One pissed off claw strider. I was faster. Stronger. Tougher. And had much bigger teeth. And I had the Silver Goddess’s magic. The Salmalin didn’t stand much of a chance. Nor did they deserve one. I administered the Bloody Huntress’ vengeance. With a fury. When I finished, I entered the base. And killed everyone there. For the Fickle Lady. For Nariq. For the laughter. The night glowed not just from the light of Luna. It glowed with the light from my head. And the image shooting into the sky. A huge, rampaging, crimson and silver claw strider. When I was done, I searched the base. Hoping for texts. Information. Found nothing. Retrieved Nariq. I knew he had no family. No one to bury him. So I placed him in the base. And burned it to the ground. A fitting pyre for one dedicated to destroying those who would destroy Creation.
I watched the flames burn for two days. On the morning of the third day, there was a woman standing there. With tattoos all over her body. Said her name was Featherclaw. She knew what I was. Because she was a Chosen of Luna as well. There was much I had to learn. That was obvious. If this woman could help me understand what I was, then I’d follow her. So off we went. Heading south. And east. To a Wyld Zone. The journey took a couple of weeks. She asked me who I was. What I did. I told her. She seemed somewhat excited about that. Started explaining a bit about Lunar society. The different factions within. Mostly she talked about the Swords of Luna. According to Featherclaw, they were the bastions of Creation, keeping the Fae at bay. Heard a treatise on the Fae. Heard very little about demons and the undead.
Finally reached the Wyld Zone. And my second phase of training began. Sat with the Loremasters. Learned about Lunar society. About the Castes. Was questioned about my own past. Got my own tattoos. To solidify my Caste. I pretty much knew what Caste I was. By the phase of the moon on my visitation. My own martial inclinations. And the appearance of the Bloody Huntress. But there were still rituals. So we went through them. I also completed my first ritual hunt. Tasted my first Heart’s Blood. An eagle. It was a thrill. Especially when I brought it down. The transformation was exhilarating. Tasted my second Heart’s Blood as well. A great cat. The hunt was different. But no less exhilarating. There were the trials, as well. Some of them achievable. Some of them not. Some of them…..pointless. I still persisted. No matter how impossible the task seemed. That was the point. To see how I handled adversity. I also spoke with a number of different Lunars, asking about magics that could help me against Creatures of Darkness. And I found some. And learned them.
Finally, it came time to choose my deed name. I thought long and hard on this one. Who I was before was irrelevant. I came from that person, but who I was now was who I really was. This new name would define me. Not only to other Lunars. To myself. I thought back to the night of my first change. The fury that I felt. The full moon. The black of night. The black of midnight. That’s when it hit me. Midnight’s Fury. Described all that I felt. All that I was. And so that’s who I became. My Stewardship was fairly simple. Creation. Against the Creatures of Darkness. I was the one to stand against them. Maybe get some other Lunars to join me in my quest. With more of us, we could really take the fight to them. So it was I truly became the Full Moon Lunar Midnight’s Fury.
I was sent to my fosterage. With Featherclaw. A fellow Full Moon. There was the combat training. How to fight in my war form. The survival training. And the constant hammering of the deeds and goals of the Swords of Luna. I tried to explain to her I had my own plans. Still she persisted. Finally, for the first time, I told someone of my dreams. Which were summarily dismissed. Explained away as “only childish nightmares.†At that moment, I knew for certain I would have no part of the Swords of Luna. Nor any of the other factions. Maybe I could start my own faction. To take the fight to the Creatures of Darkness. From that moment on, I simply did my time. After a couple of months, it was time for me to leave. Whether Featherclaw thought I was ready or not. So I did.
I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, but after a day or two of walking, I realized I was walking in a particular direction. And felt a particular…pull. So I followed it. I walked deep into the south. Until I reached a particular mesa. There was an opening in the rock, very cleverly hidden. Don’t really know how I noticed it. I sort of knew where to look. As I traveled deeper into cave, I realized it was a tomb. Knew there were traps. Knew how to avoid them. Not sure how I knew. It just sort of came to me. When I got to the bottom, though, my shock and my elation were about equal. Laying on a slab, a skeleton. On the skeleton, a breastplate. And an axe. Made of moonsilver. Artifacts. My artifacts. From a previous life. The axe – no. That was wrong. The grimcleaver. That’s it. The grimcleaver already had a name. Whether from this former life or not, I can’t really say. But its name is Fury’s Fang.
I exited that tomb ready to face the world. Ready to face the monsters from my dreams. And ready to face the laughter. I just have to find my path, and walk it.
My beginnings were inauspicious. Or maybe my beginnings were auspicious. I don’t know. My parents died when I was young. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Fact is, I don’t know what happened to my parents. What I do know is their disappearance – for whatever reason – left me as an orphan, living life at a young age in the orphanages of Kirighast.
I was born in – or my first memories were of – Kirighast, capital of Harborhead. Not having parents meant that I didn’t know my date of birth. I grew up on the streets. Ran with a gang of other orphaned kids from our orphanage. Life in the orphanage was tough. We were expected to work for our keep. And work we did. A couple of benefits, though. First, since this was Harborhead, we were taught to fight. First with fists, then with weapons. The second benefit was letters. We were taught how to read. This wasn’t a normal practice in most orphanages. In ours, it was. Our teaching wasn’t great or prolonged, but it did give us skills other than our fists.
I was big for my age. From the get go. That was good. In some ways. I was rarely picked on. And bad. In others. If there was a problem, especially with the guards, they usually looked at me. I didn’t like to fight. But it didn’t mean I wouldn’t do it. Violence is just a part of life on the streets. Comes with the territory. There was generally little violence between the kids from our orphanage. The problems came from kids from other orphanages. There were always shifting alliances between the various orphanages. One week, you’d be allied with Orphanage A, fighting Orphanage B. The next week, things would change. Now you were allied with Orphanage B, fighting Orphanage C, who was now allied with Orphanage A.
Our fights sometimes broke over into the streets. The guards would accept some disturbances, but only some. They thought it built character. Prepared us for life in the army. But they had to keep the peace. So if our conflicts affected other people, or businesses, then they came down. Hard. We learned quickly to keep our fights out of the public eye. We weren’t always successful. But mostly we were. My size was an asset in these conflicts. But it also made me a target. I learned to handle myself quickly.
Now, the dreams. The dreams started early for me. And they would serve as a catalyst for the direction of my life. My first memories of the dreams are indistinct. I can’t really remember exactly what I dreamed. What I do remember is the gut knowing fear I woke up with. There’s a vague sense of being hunted. But whether that’s from the memories of later dreams or the figment of my imagination is for someone else to determine. All I know is I started to fear the night. Because that’s when the dreams would come. I used to sit up at night, trying to ward off sleep. It was then that I started talking to the moon. Ironic, I know. Or maybe prophetic. Maybe that’s why I was Chosen. That’s not for me to say. If I ever meet Luna, I’ll ask her. But I did talk to the moon. The moon would listen. Wouldn’t call me crazy. And it helped me stay awake.
As I got older, the dreams came more frequently. And I started to remember them. Or at least remember generalities. In the dreams, I was hunted. By something big. And spiteful. And evil. The hunters took different forms, every night. One night, it would be horned apes, covered in blood. The next night, rotting bodies. Ambling after me. Relentless in their pursuit. The night after, a woman with ebony skin, great soft eyes, and long red hair, bells knotted into it. There is a keening, mournful howl that accompanies her march. And it is inexorable. There is the mad ghost. Screaming at his minions. Spurring them to the chase. There are the jade lions. Burning all things sacred in their path. Night after night. Ceaseless. Unending. No matter how far I run, I can’t escape. No matter how silently I hide, they still find me.
For the longest time, I tried to ignore them. The dreams. They’d go away if I put them out of my mind. It didn’t work. I got scared. That fear lead to anger. And aggression. I started to look forward to our dust ups. It was there where I could show I had no fear. In battle, I put my fear out of my mind. It was never gone. It was always there. Looking over my shoulder. In battle, though, I could show it I wasn’t afraid. That didn’t work, either. It always laughed. A cruel, malicious, sadistic, mocking laugh. A laugh I heard in my dreams. Haunting me, in the corridors of my mind.
My fellow orphans loved this part of me. At first. I dedicated myself to my training. I had to get stronger. And tougher. And faster. When it came time to fight, I worked myself up. To silence the laughter. Or to try, anyway. When I worked myself up, I was a terror. Or so I was told. Many times, the mere sight of me sent the enemies running. Not at first. At first, they thought it was bravado. The kind most kids use. They learned quickly. Oh, what I did was bravado. But not for them. Oh no. It was for the laughter that haunted me. What everyone else saw was implacable. Once I started, I didn’t stop. Until I was down or they were down. Whoever they were.
As I said, those from my orphanage loved this part of me. Until. Until I killed someone. Most of the time, our fights were not lethal. Most of the weapons we used were not designed to kill. Incapacitate, sure. But not to kill. The thought was, if we killed, it wouldn’t stop. And the guards’ eyes would turn our way. There were deaths. There’s no way to avoid that when violence occurs. But most deaths happened after the fight was finished. From injuries received in the fight. If someone died in a fight, it was usually from a savage beating. Sad, yes, but it was the price we paid. There were practically no one shot kills.
The incident in question, however, was different. We were fighting a lesser orphanage, really. The orphanage was smaller than ours. The fight was over an insult. Sort of an honor fight. Or a fight to save face. To me, though, it was a fight. Plain and simple. And we were there to win. The dream the night before was particularly horrifying. Bloodied creatures razing the landscape. Overrunning all in their path. The laughter was loud and close. I had to work extra hard to put it out of my mind. So I was in a state. A rage, even. There was an enemy before me. The enemy was going down. It was as if the laughter was coming out of that enemy. So down he went. With his skull caved in. One shot. That’s all it took. There was silence from everyone. Or so I was told. I don’t really remember. What I do remember is going after the next enemy. That was necessary. Because that enemy was there. And that enemy was going to destroy me. I went after the next target. Because that’s what you did in a fight. I hit another foe and then everyone ran. Enemy and friend. It took me a minute before I realized there was no one left to fight. Then I saw the dead body. I had some idea of why everyone ran. Figured I needed to run myself. So I did.
Things changed after that. They seemed the same. But they weren’t. My orphanmates were scared of me now. They used to admire me. Thought it was great. When one of the Rules were broken, though….. Then it’s different. They still wanted me in the fight. Because the story of what I’d done spread through all the other orphanages. Remember when I said that the mere sight of me sent enemies running? When I worked myself up? It hadn’t happened before. It happened an awful lot now. And there were imitators. Both in our gang and in others. They didn’t have what I had, though. They didn’t have the dreams. Or the laughter.
There’s a problem with working yourself up and then having no one to fight. That problem is there’s no one to fight. The build up was fine when there was someone to take it out on. But when those people ran? I had this….monster…..inside me, and no where for it to go. It was about 8 months after the killing. I estimated my age at this time to be around 15. Could be younger. Could be older. No way of knowing. We had met up with one of the bigger orphanages. Getting ready to mix it up. I was psyching myself up. Gettin’ nasty, as some of my friends said. I was in rare form. Such rare form that they all ran. Such rare form that I couldn’t let it go. One of my mates came over to tell me the enemy had fled. Bad move. My rage and anger was unleashed on him. Didn’t take long for me to put him down. The others had enough sense to flee. All I was left with was my rage. So I took it to the streets.
This was, of course, against the rules. Both our rules. And, more importantly, the guards’ rules. Violence on the streets of Harborhead wasn’t viewed with any kindness. Violence in the service of Harborhead, sure. But not on its streets. After putting down two bystanders, I was taken down by a guard patrol. Sent three of them to the healers. Four more couldn’t stand duty for a week. I wasn’t in too great a shape, either. My fellow orphans were done with me. Not that they could have done anything had they wanted to. But I was a liability now. So I was left to my own devices. Luckily, I didn’t kill anyone. If I had, it would have been the slave pits. But, Harborhead being Harborhead, I served six months in a work camp. Then I joined the military. Whether I wanted to or not.
Turns out I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I was getting too old to be living at the orphanage. I would have been turned out in a month or three. So the army was my next stop. I did fairly well in the army. My size served me well. As did the benefits of that size – mainly, strength and stamina. And my gettin’ nasty. I couldn’t get as nasty as I did on the streets of Kirighast. But a bit of battle fury was never frowned upon. Problem was, I couldn’t turn on my fellow soldiers. So I had to tone it down. A bit. Particularly in drills. In actual combat, it was useful. I just had to know when to ramp it up. Too soon and I’d be a danger to my comrades. I got good at gauging when to ramp it up. And when to hold off.
Again, Harborhead being Harborhead, I spent time fighting various jungle tribes. And a sortie or ten against the Varang City States. I had little trouble picking up martial skills. My preference was the axe. Most of the soldiers preferred a sword, but not me. The axe was simple and did its job efficiently. It also served well as a utility tool. So while others used a sword, the axe became my weapon of choice. I cared little for avoiding blows. If I could block them, fine. Otherwise, I let my armor do what it’s supposed to do. I picked up a little skill in warfare. Hard to avoid it. Unfortunately, the army didn’t make the dreams go away. Or the laughter. They were still there. Sometimes, they receded. A little. Other times, though, they came on stronger. With increasing degrees of the macabre. Nations in ruin. Battlefields with thousands of dead. Those thousands of dead, rising up. To carry on the carnage. When on campaign, it was less of a problem. I could work myself up and make the dreams recede. When at home, I wasn’t so lucky. And I was still scared.
My future may have been the army. Except. Except for voices from the past. I’d served close to four years. My time for re-enlistment was on me. I’d already talked to my sergeant. Tentatively agreed to re-up. When one of the orphans from my old home came to me. His name was Spiral. He was 5 years my junior. Had fought with our gang a number of times. I knew him only cursorily. But there he was. Waiting outside my barracks. It took me a moment to recognize him. He was older now. Ran the gang. A tough kid. And he was scared. I could see that right off. We spoke. He said kids were disappearing from the orphanage. From a number of orphanages. He’d spoken with other kids. They had the same problem. Thing is, he didn’t know where to go. Guards paid little attention to orphans. Or their problems. Those who ran the homes weren’t any better. Spiral may have been scared of me. But he had the stones to come to me when he needed help.
I was reluctant at first. I had my own duties. Such as they were. But I agreed to look into it. Don’t know why, really. Maybe it was because I knew no one else would. So I started hanging around the orphanage during my off hours. At night. If nothing else, it kept the dreams at bay. Ironically, the dreams were even stronger when they came. Spent a week and a half doing this. Started to feel foolish. Finally decided to call it quits. Go back to soldiering. Then it happened.
It was a dust up. Like any other I’d seen the past week and a half. Like any other I’d been in myself. I didn’t join in. Wouldn’t have been right. I just watched. Rumor had it kids disappeared during – or after – a fight. I was watching. Then I saw it. Movement on the roof. Two heads, peeking over the gables. Couldn’t make them out too well. Their heads were covered. But they had a keen interest on what was going on. Surveyed the battle. Saw two kids, almost alone. At the end of the alley. Duking it out. With no regard to where anyone else was. One of the covered heads pointed at the two. And it was there. Out of nowhere. One moment, nothing. The next, a horned ape. In blood red fur. Just like in my dreams. The ape-thing grabbed the kids and leapt onto the roof. The two figures backed away from the edge.
My mind was swirling. I always thought my dreams were just that. Dreams. Figments of my overactive imagination. Could it be there was something to them? There was no mistaking it. The ape-thing was definitely a creature from my dreams. Maybe not covered in blood, like they were when my eyes closed. But everything else about them. Most definitely. What’s more, it seemed to be working for those two on the roof. Time to get some answers.
I broke into a run. Around the other side. If I could catch one of them, I could make him talk. Adrenalin pumped through me. And the laughter. Back with a vengeance. Because the fear was right there. Riding in my chest. In my head. In my limbs. I couldn’t let it stop me, though. And I didn’t. Didn’t take me long to get nasty. Not with what was before me. Saw the two masked figures hit the ground. The ape-thing was right behind them. Guess I got the drop on it. The rage overflowed, coursing through me. Adrenalin too. The sounds of the fight covered my steps. Until it was too late. My first blow cleaved through its shoulder. It dropped the kids. The second blow cut halfway through its neck. Have to give it credit – it was still standing. Not after the third blow, though. That one removed the head from its shoulders.
The two masked figures turned just as the head flew off the creature’s shoulders. I saw their eyes widen. Didn’t take me long to reach them. I spun. Brought my axe down in a looping swing. Cut through the first man’s knee. Cut off the first man’s knee. The rest of his leg, too. Reversed the axe in my hand. Reversed the swing. Caught the other man under the arm. Axe ended up buried up to his sternum. Yanked it free in a contrail of blood and gore. Split the first man’s skull. Just like that, it was over. Just one problem. No answers. Yes, I saw a creature from my dreams. But I had no idea who – or what – it was. I just had three dead corpses. And two cowering kids. Told them to get back home. Spread the word to stay off the street until I figured out what was going on. They were awed – and scared. They beat it.
Started cursing myself. My lack of control cost me. I could have knocked one unconscious. Questioned him. Dead men tell no tales. Platitudes won’t help me. Neither will dead men. Searched the bodies. Didn’t expect to find much. Didn’t find much. Didn’t find anything. What did I know? There was someone – or something – after the kids from the orphanages. Maybe they were after more than just the orphans. Maybe they were after all manner of kids. Maybe I was just aware of the orphans. Can’t worry about that. One thing at a time. Problem was, I just killed my only lead. Could wait around again. But it may take time before they come back. Especially with the three dead before me. If only I knew who they were. If only…….
“They’re called the Salmalin.â€
I leapt to my feet. Spun around, axe at the ready. Man standing there was about 5’10â€. 185 pounds. Brown hair. A bit unkempt. Hazel eyes. Piercing. Unassuming manner. A bow on his back. A sword on his hip. Looked like he knew how to use them. Doubt he’s an enemy. If he were, he’d have shot me by now. And he wouldn’t be talking. That’s the thing I clung to right now. He gave a name. The Salmalin. That’s more than I had a minute ago. Slow down. He may be in league. He may be trying to play me. Take it slow.
“What’re Salmalin?†Tried to keep my voice even. Didn’t want to overplay my hand here.
“Cult of Yozi worshippers. They work to bring their masters back into Creation. A bad sort.â€
“What do they want with the kids?â€
“Probably using them as sacrifices. That’s the thing about worshipping demons. They require a lot of sacrifices. And, unless it’s a really important ritual, they don’t usually take those sacrifices from in house. Thus, the children.â€
Made sense. Then another question popped into my head. “Why not just get slaves?â€
The man’s eyebrow arched slightly. Maybe surprise? “Good question. And one I don’t know the answer to. There’s a few theories. One is the sacrifice has to be someone with free will. Slaves don’t really have free will. Another is that there has to be some risk in securing the sacrifice. Again, there is no risk in securing slaves. You just have to have the scratch. But only the Salmalin know the true reasons they take the kids.â€
“How do you know so much about them?â€
“It’s what I do. I’m a demon hunter. Part of being a demon hunter is knowing who works for them.â€
“What’s a demon hunter doing in Harborhead?â€
This time the man smiled. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a demon worshipping cult working in Harborhead.†There was a pause. Like he was expecting a reaction. Then a shrug. “I worked a case similar to the ones here in Kirighast in Tiraktou. Apparently, the guards talk to one another. When kids started disappearing here, one thing led to another and here I am.â€
“And you are?â€
“You can call me Nariq.â€
This was all interesting. But there was one question that burned in my mind. One question I had to ask. I nodded at the ape-thing. “Know what that is?â€
The man glanced in the creature’s direction. “Yes. Erymanthoi. Otherwise known as Blood Apes. Bloodthirsty buggers, with a strong taste for violence. Not very smart, though. Good for muscle, but not good for much of anything else. The Salmalin like to use them because they’re plentiful and they’re enthusiastic muscle. Not much has to go into making them do your bidding. So Yozi cults use them a lot.â€
Don’t know if knowing made it better or worse. For the first time, I had a name for one of the creatures in my dreams. But that creature was a Yozi. One of the demons from Malfeas. Still don’t know if that knowledge made the dreams easier or harder to take. One thing was certain, though. All thoughts of re-upping were gone. I looked up at Nariq.
“You need a partner?â€
***********
Turns out he did want a partner. Or, as he put it, someone willing to face down a rampaging demon. That was me. He saw me take down the Erymanthoi and the two cultists. That impressed him. Said he’d never seen that happen before. Not sure how much was skill and how much was luck. But he took me on.
If I thought it was going to be action right away – and I did – I was sadly mistaken. Nariq told me again and again. The first weapon we have in our fight is knowledge. Without that, we’re as good as dead. Demons – and the Undead, because Nariq hunted them, too – have weaknesses – and strengths. Exploit the weakness, you have a chance of winning. Play to their strengths, you end up dead. So the first six months of my apprenticeship was spent researching. Learning to read Old Realm. Learning about the differences between demons and the undead. The theories behind thaumaturgy. Also read Nariq’s notes on the Salmalin. They weren’t many. But I read what he had. Classifications of demons. Of undead. The link between the undead and Deathlords. (Don’t know if this would be known with my level of Occult. If I wouldn’t know it, fine. It’s not a problem.) In short, knowledge that would help me in the field.
It wasn’t all book work. Nariq was a fair swordsman. Even better with that bow. We sparred. I learned some tricks from him. He learned a few from me. Turns out Nariq was a thaumaturge. When he thought I was ready, he summoned an actual demon. To give me practice fighting. Nothing quite like experience, is what he said. So experience I got. The fights with the demons. They were controlled. Nariq emphasized this. Constantly. Said fights like this didn’t happen in the real world. Had to be ready for the unexpected. That’s when he’d attack me. Needless to say, my skills got better.
The dreams. I was in a weird place with the dreams. Because they were getting worse. More horrific. More apocalyptic. Worse depredations. So many more deaths. In so many horrible ways. But I didn’t say anything to Nariq. What if this was some sort of way to control my mind? What if I was being influenced? I had to find a way to fight them. To keep the dreams – and the creatures – out of my head. If Nariq thought I was being influenced, would he throw me out? I needed to learn. So I kept my mouth shut. But they kept coming. And getting worse. Like I said. As the dreams got worse, so did the laughter. The training helped. But it was still bad. Real bad.
Still. I had a job to do. I focused my mind on what I had to do. Having a name for what was in my dreams helped me to concentrate. Let me focus my fear. My rage. Both now had a target. Nariq said it was time for the next step. It wasn’t what I thought. Leaving Kirighast, we went out into the wild. Into the jungles east of Harborhead. I thought the tribes in the jungle were infested with cultists. Or worshipped the Yozis themselves. Nothing of the sort. We didn’t go there to fight. We went there to learn to live off the land. Or, rather, I learned to live off the land. Nariq’s reasoning? You never knew where the hunt would take you. So you needed to learn to subsist on what was around you. There were a few fights, to be sure. But they were usually wild animals. The first few times, it was kind of exhilarating. These weren’t controlled fights or anything that was summoned and bound. These were actual creatures. But the fights did little for the laughter in my head. Exercised my body, yes. But not my mind.
I also worked on keeping a calm mind. To strengthen my mind. Nariq said demons – and, to a lesser extent, the undead – could affect your mind. It was important to keep your mind strong against influence. This, of course, made me even more nervous. Could the dreams really be a tool used by the enemy? If so, why have I had them all my life? Were they pointing me in a particular direction? I tried to do the exercises Nariq taught me. I had some success. But not as much as I would have liked. It was that laughter. Always in the back of my mind. Mocking me. Daring me to tell Nariq. Daring me to risk madness. I didn’t. Luckily. But it was always there.
Finally, Nariq declared me ready. After a year and a half of training. Ready to enter the fray. Full time. A demon hunter at last. So it was that I started my career as professional demon hunter. The next three years were spent traveling with Nariq. We went from town to town, seeking information. About demons. About the undead. And any other unnatural creatures who would threaten our world. When we found what we were looking for, we planned. And then we struck. Hard. Those were the times I lived for. In battle. Against the very creatures from my dreams.
I needed that. Because the dreams kept getting worse. As I got older, the dreams kept getting darker. More forbidding. More apocalyptic. Now, it was all of Creation. Burning all around me. An army of demons, undead, and horrors unnamable. The only thing that stood between this horde of death and destruction? Me. This made me train harder. Fight longer. Throw myself into the work. If I was the only one to stand before these foul monsters, I needed to be ready. As soon as one mission was over, I was ready to get onto the next one. Nariq often made us take breaks. Said he needed to take time away from the hunt to remind him why the hunt was so important. Just seemed like wasted time to me. But then Nariq didn’t have the dreams. Or the laughter. Ever present. Always mocking.
The event that changed my life started with the Salmalin. Again. We’d been tracking their movements for quite some time. Their movements had been primarily in the southeast. On the savannahs. Hitting villages located in or around the savannah. Even moving into the Varang City States. Everywhere they went, the same thing. Death. Destruction. Misery. Demons are demons. Don’t know if they can choose their nature. Willing to bet they can’t. But the Salmalin. They’re human. Why would they choose to worship the Yozis? Just don’t understand that. But we had the location of one of their bases. A small base, but it was a base.
The plan was to watch the base. Scout their movements. Study their guard rotations. See what we could see. This was purely a fact finding mission. It was just the two of us against a cadre of cultists. Nariq said it was too dangerous to do anything else. Hated this kind of mission. Skulking around. Not doing much of anything. I spent time training my awareness, but it wasn’t what I did best. Or it wasn’t what I liked doing. Guess I’m a man of action. It was night. My watch. Nariq was sleeping. Couldn’t see anything happening at the base. My mind started wandering. Thought about the dreams. Heard the laughter. Decided it was time to tell Nariq about them. The severity of the dreams was getting untenable. Could be I would have to be put down. If the demons were affecting my mind, better dead than enslaved to them. Simply put – I wasn’t paying attention.
Next thing I knew, there were screams from the darkness. A horde of figures descended upon me. On us. The Salmalin. And their grotesque servants. I was up and fighting. For my life. Managed to shake Nariq awake, before they were on us. Luckily, it was a full moon. Again, the Blessed Mother proves her sense of irony. Wasn’t difficult to see. Nariq was on his feet, swinging his sword. It was a valiant fight. But sheer numbers were against us. There were too many of them. Simple as that. Nariq was the first to fall. He’s just parried two sword thrusts, dodged a third, when an Erymanthoi caught him from behind. Doubled him over. And just like that, he was done. Pierced through by three other swords.
A rage was building inside me. I welcomed it. To have come so far. To have brought the fight to the Creatures of Darkness, only to have it end here. The rage spread throughout me. And with it, something else. A power. Like the fury was feeding the power. Something was growing inside me. No. That wasn’t it. I was growing. Changing. Transforming. In that moment, time stopped. I could see each individual Salmalin. And every feature of their abominations at their sides. Then she was there. The Bloody Huntress. Resplendent in her beauty. Resplendent in her deadliness. She opened her mouth, and her voice surrounded me. Caressed me. Struck me.
“You are Chosen, my child. I know the burden you carry. I know the strength you have. You have used your strength to carry that burden, and to fight against what that burden has shown you. I admire that. And now you shall not be alone. I shall be with you. Always. You will mix your strength with mine. Your arm shall be my arm. And as my arm, you will have my strength so you can carry on your battle. I give my first gift to you now. Make me proud.â€
And she was gone. But the Salmalin weren’t. They were still surrounding me. Only now I was different. Instead of a man, they now faced a claw strider. One pissed off claw strider. I was faster. Stronger. Tougher. And had much bigger teeth. And I had the Silver Goddess’s magic. The Salmalin didn’t stand much of a chance. Nor did they deserve one. I administered the Bloody Huntress’ vengeance. With a fury. When I finished, I entered the base. And killed everyone there. For the Fickle Lady. For Nariq. For the laughter. The night glowed not just from the light of Luna. It glowed with the light from my head. And the image shooting into the sky. A huge, rampaging, crimson and silver claw strider. When I was done, I searched the base. Hoping for texts. Information. Found nothing. Retrieved Nariq. I knew he had no family. No one to bury him. So I placed him in the base. And burned it to the ground. A fitting pyre for one dedicated to destroying those who would destroy Creation.
I watched the flames burn for two days. On the morning of the third day, there was a woman standing there. With tattoos all over her body. Said her name was Featherclaw. She knew what I was. Because she was a Chosen of Luna as well. There was much I had to learn. That was obvious. If this woman could help me understand what I was, then I’d follow her. So off we went. Heading south. And east. To a Wyld Zone. The journey took a couple of weeks. She asked me who I was. What I did. I told her. She seemed somewhat excited about that. Started explaining a bit about Lunar society. The different factions within. Mostly she talked about the Swords of Luna. According to Featherclaw, they were the bastions of Creation, keeping the Fae at bay. Heard a treatise on the Fae. Heard very little about demons and the undead.
Finally reached the Wyld Zone. And my second phase of training began. Sat with the Loremasters. Learned about Lunar society. About the Castes. Was questioned about my own past. Got my own tattoos. To solidify my Caste. I pretty much knew what Caste I was. By the phase of the moon on my visitation. My own martial inclinations. And the appearance of the Bloody Huntress. But there were still rituals. So we went through them. I also completed my first ritual hunt. Tasted my first Heart’s Blood. An eagle. It was a thrill. Especially when I brought it down. The transformation was exhilarating. Tasted my second Heart’s Blood as well. A great cat. The hunt was different. But no less exhilarating. There were the trials, as well. Some of them achievable. Some of them not. Some of them…..pointless. I still persisted. No matter how impossible the task seemed. That was the point. To see how I handled adversity. I also spoke with a number of different Lunars, asking about magics that could help me against Creatures of Darkness. And I found some. And learned them.
Finally, it came time to choose my deed name. I thought long and hard on this one. Who I was before was irrelevant. I came from that person, but who I was now was who I really was. This new name would define me. Not only to other Lunars. To myself. I thought back to the night of my first change. The fury that I felt. The full moon. The black of night. The black of midnight. That’s when it hit me. Midnight’s Fury. Described all that I felt. All that I was. And so that’s who I became. My Stewardship was fairly simple. Creation. Against the Creatures of Darkness. I was the one to stand against them. Maybe get some other Lunars to join me in my quest. With more of us, we could really take the fight to them. So it was I truly became the Full Moon Lunar Midnight’s Fury.
I was sent to my fosterage. With Featherclaw. A fellow Full Moon. There was the combat training. How to fight in my war form. The survival training. And the constant hammering of the deeds and goals of the Swords of Luna. I tried to explain to her I had my own plans. Still she persisted. Finally, for the first time, I told someone of my dreams. Which were summarily dismissed. Explained away as “only childish nightmares.†At that moment, I knew for certain I would have no part of the Swords of Luna. Nor any of the other factions. Maybe I could start my own faction. To take the fight to the Creatures of Darkness. From that moment on, I simply did my time. After a couple of months, it was time for me to leave. Whether Featherclaw thought I was ready or not. So I did.
I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, but after a day or two of walking, I realized I was walking in a particular direction. And felt a particular…pull. So I followed it. I walked deep into the south. Until I reached a particular mesa. There was an opening in the rock, very cleverly hidden. Don’t really know how I noticed it. I sort of knew where to look. As I traveled deeper into cave, I realized it was a tomb. Knew there were traps. Knew how to avoid them. Not sure how I knew. It just sort of came to me. When I got to the bottom, though, my shock and my elation were about equal. Laying on a slab, a skeleton. On the skeleton, a breastplate. And an axe. Made of moonsilver. Artifacts. My artifacts. From a previous life. The axe – no. That was wrong. The grimcleaver. That’s it. The grimcleaver already had a name. Whether from this former life or not, I can’t really say. But its name is Fury’s Fang.
I exited that tomb ready to face the world. Ready to face the monsters from my dreams. And ready to face the laughter. I just have to find my path, and walk it.
