Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
Damien had asked Theea to join him for this hunt, and he was grateful she’d agreed. You didn’t go after a big, angry cat without someone watching your back. The Citadel walls were far behind now, the freshest trail they could find leading them out across the snowfields.
The cold bit deeper the farther they went, a clean, sharp cold that scraped the throat and filled the lungs like glass. Snow unrolled ahead in a white, unbroken plain, flat in the way that lies are flat—hiding drifts and ice pockets under its smooth face. Beyond, the Fangs clawed at the horizon. Once they’d been sharp enough to rip the sky; now they were hunched and broken, their hollowed guts spilling the dark mouths of mines and tunnels to the open air.
Damien kept an even pace, the crunch of snow under his boots steady, his coat drawn close over layers of leather and fur. The old thing had seen more seasons than some hunters in the Citadel, and much like him, it was still in one piece because it was built to last. The crossbow slung across his back was much the same; mid-sized, serviceable, stock worn smooth where his hands always found it. He kept a quiver of bolts at his hip, fletched and sharpened by his own hand. A hunting knife rode on his belt, its smaller skinning twin tucked into his boot. The rest of his life fit in the old leather pack: food, rope, repair tools, enough to last him a couple weeks if it came to it.
Now and again, he slowed to glance over his shoulder. Not because he thought Theea couldn’t keep up—he’d seen enough to know she could—but because the snow could swallow a person between one breath and the next. He’d learned that lesson young, and it wasn’t one he meant to repeat today.
When she drew even with him, he gave her the short version of what they were walking into. “It started out picking off anyone who wandered too far from town alone. But lately it’s been getting bolder… coming closer to the villages.” He cut himself off before the details got ugly. “Last attack was this morning. Blood’s still fresh.” The words came out like frost on steel.
The wind shifted, and he stopped. Stillness settled over him, the kind that wasn’t hesitation but calculation; his mind sorting pieces into place. He hitched the crossbow higher on his shoulder, eyes tracking the silhouette of the ridges ahead. “Its tracks always lead back to the Fangs, that's where the hunters lose the trail,” he continued, “but after a meal and with the cold closing in... it’ll want the safety of its den tonight. That’s when we take it. Before it can vanish into another week’s worth of tracks.”
His gaze swept the ridgeline, then slipped back to Theea, searching her face. "How are you faring?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read her like he would a trail—seeking not just what lay on the surface, but the subtle shifts in posture, the silent language in her eyes.
The cold bit deeper the farther they went, a clean, sharp cold that scraped the throat and filled the lungs like glass. Snow unrolled ahead in a white, unbroken plain, flat in the way that lies are flat—hiding drifts and ice pockets under its smooth face. Beyond, the Fangs clawed at the horizon. Once they’d been sharp enough to rip the sky; now they were hunched and broken, their hollowed guts spilling the dark mouths of mines and tunnels to the open air.
Damien kept an even pace, the crunch of snow under his boots steady, his coat drawn close over layers of leather and fur. The old thing had seen more seasons than some hunters in the Citadel, and much like him, it was still in one piece because it was built to last. The crossbow slung across his back was much the same; mid-sized, serviceable, stock worn smooth where his hands always found it. He kept a quiver of bolts at his hip, fletched and sharpened by his own hand. A hunting knife rode on his belt, its smaller skinning twin tucked into his boot. The rest of his life fit in the old leather pack: food, rope, repair tools, enough to last him a couple weeks if it came to it.
Now and again, he slowed to glance over his shoulder. Not because he thought Theea couldn’t keep up—he’d seen enough to know she could—but because the snow could swallow a person between one breath and the next. He’d learned that lesson young, and it wasn’t one he meant to repeat today.
When she drew even with him, he gave her the short version of what they were walking into. “It started out picking off anyone who wandered too far from town alone. But lately it’s been getting bolder… coming closer to the villages.” He cut himself off before the details got ugly. “Last attack was this morning. Blood’s still fresh.” The words came out like frost on steel.
The wind shifted, and he stopped. Stillness settled over him, the kind that wasn’t hesitation but calculation; his mind sorting pieces into place. He hitched the crossbow higher on his shoulder, eyes tracking the silhouette of the ridges ahead. “Its tracks always lead back to the Fangs, that's where the hunters lose the trail,” he continued, “but after a meal and with the cold closing in... it’ll want the safety of its den tonight. That’s when we take it. Before it can vanish into another week’s worth of tracks.”
His gaze swept the ridgeline, then slipped back to Theea, searching her face. "How are you faring?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read her like he would a trail—seeking not just what lay on the surface, but the subtle shifts in posture, the silent language in her eyes.
