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’s eyes flicked to the patch of disturbed snow, then back up to the ridge above. “Good catch,” he murmured, voice low enough to keep the wind from carrying it. He crouched briefly to inspect the tracks himself, hands brushing the powdery surface, noting the depth, the spacing, the subtle drag of claws. “She’s keeping to high ground.”
He rose, drawing a slow, deliberate breath that hissed in the cold. “Keep your arrow ready, like you are.” He let his gaze linger a fraction too long on her, reading her posture, the way she flexed her fingers along the bowstring, the slight tightening around her shoulders. She wasn’t a novice, and that mattered. A lot.
“Alright,” he said, finally moving forward. He stepped into the narrow cut of stone and shadow where the tracks led. Snow crunched lightly underfoot, rhythm steady but careful, every step deliberate. He kept a hand on the crossbow’s stock, ready to lift it at a second’s notice.
The trek into the Fangs stretched on, the terrain jagged and uneven, broken ridges and half-collapsed tunnels marking the way like scars on the earth. Damien didn’t bother speaking at every turn—both of them were hunters, both of them tracking, both attuned to the silence and the potential for danger. He kept a loose eye on Theea, though.
They crested a ridge and Damien paused, glancing down into a small hollow, rocks piled haphazardly like the bones of the mountains themselves. The tracks vanished briefly under a fresh drift, but he spotted the faintest drag where the snow had been disturbed just enough. His chest tightened slightly, a pulse of anticipation. The Fangs weren’t just broken peaks; they were a labyrinth of stone and darkness, perfect for a predator to hide.
He signaled towards the hollow ahead, lowering his crossbow and gesturing for her to approach cautiously. “Looks like we’re close. That could be its den. Stay sharp—”
He took the first careful step down, then froze. Something in the air shifted. The snow around them glittered with a sudden, unnatural shimmer, and the breath caught in his lungs like a fist had squeezed them. A thin cloud of frost hung ahead, drifting across the hollow like smoke; bright, glittering, almost playful, but sharper than it had any right to be.
“Breath Snatch,” Damien muttered, his lungs straining a moment longer. It was a minor nuisance, no threat in itself, but its presence was a reminder: the Fangs had eyes everywhere. He flexed his fingers on the crossbow string, forcing his pulse steady, and glanced at Theea.
Then he saw it: just past the hollow, a shadow moved with a subtle, almost fluid grace. The subtle scrape of stone against stone gave him only a heartbeat to react, and in that heartbeat, the hollow revealed its secret—the den.
Before Damien could process or realize, the snow leopard struck. Muscles coiled like springs, paws pressing against the snow with deadly grace, claws arcing toward Theea as if it had chosen her first. Instinct snapped through him like lightning. He threw himself forward, planting a boot, bracing his arms, and met the predator’s full weight. It happened so fast he didn't have time to shout a word of warning.
The impact hit him like a falling boulder, snow spraying around them, claws ripping through his leather coat, his crossbow lost to him - landed somewhere in a snowdrift. Breath left him in a sharp gasp, ribs compressing against the force, as the world tipped sideways. The leopard’s eyes gleamed with cold calculation, every strike meant to dominate, and for a single heartbeat, time stretched.
Damien barely had a second to curse under his breath before he realized the truth: the beast had chosen the moment, chosen them, and he had unwittingly led them straight into its trap.
One arm shot up to keep the jaws from closing on his throat, the other fumbling for the knife at his hip.
He rose, drawing a slow, deliberate breath that hissed in the cold. “Keep your arrow ready, like you are.” He let his gaze linger a fraction too long on her, reading her posture, the way she flexed her fingers along the bowstring, the slight tightening around her shoulders. She wasn’t a novice, and that mattered. A lot.
“Alright,” he said, finally moving forward. He stepped into the narrow cut of stone and shadow where the tracks led. Snow crunched lightly underfoot, rhythm steady but careful, every step deliberate. He kept a hand on the crossbow’s stock, ready to lift it at a second’s notice.
The trek into the Fangs stretched on, the terrain jagged and uneven, broken ridges and half-collapsed tunnels marking the way like scars on the earth. Damien didn’t bother speaking at every turn—both of them were hunters, both of them tracking, both attuned to the silence and the potential for danger. He kept a loose eye on Theea, though.
They crested a ridge and Damien paused, glancing down into a small hollow, rocks piled haphazardly like the bones of the mountains themselves. The tracks vanished briefly under a fresh drift, but he spotted the faintest drag where the snow had been disturbed just enough. His chest tightened slightly, a pulse of anticipation. The Fangs weren’t just broken peaks; they were a labyrinth of stone and darkness, perfect for a predator to hide.
He signaled towards the hollow ahead, lowering his crossbow and gesturing for her to approach cautiously. “Looks like we’re close. That could be its den. Stay sharp—”
He took the first careful step down, then froze. Something in the air shifted. The snow around them glittered with a sudden, unnatural shimmer, and the breath caught in his lungs like a fist had squeezed them. A thin cloud of frost hung ahead, drifting across the hollow like smoke; bright, glittering, almost playful, but sharper than it had any right to be.
“Breath Snatch,” Damien muttered, his lungs straining a moment longer. It was a minor nuisance, no threat in itself, but its presence was a reminder: the Fangs had eyes everywhere. He flexed his fingers on the crossbow string, forcing his pulse steady, and glanced at Theea.
Then he saw it: just past the hollow, a shadow moved with a subtle, almost fluid grace. The subtle scrape of stone against stone gave him only a heartbeat to react, and in that heartbeat, the hollow revealed its secret—the den.
Before Damien could process or realize, the snow leopard struck. Muscles coiled like springs, paws pressing against the snow with deadly grace, claws arcing toward Theea as if it had chosen her first. Instinct snapped through him like lightning. He threw himself forward, planting a boot, bracing his arms, and met the predator’s full weight. It happened so fast he didn't have time to shout a word of warning.
The impact hit him like a falling boulder, snow spraying around them, claws ripping through his leather coat, his crossbow lost to him - landed somewhere in a snowdrift. Breath left him in a sharp gasp, ribs compressing against the force, as the world tipped sideways. The leopard’s eyes gleamed with cold calculation, every strike meant to dominate, and for a single heartbeat, time stretched.
Damien barely had a second to curse under his breath before he realized the truth: the beast had chosen the moment, chosen them, and he had unwittingly led them straight into its trap.
One arm shot up to keep the jaws from closing on his throat, the other fumbling for the knife at his hip.
