DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
Damien’s brow ticked upward and he took a step (or a few) back as the man all but tore himself into another shape — bigger, darker, all fangs and shadow. He let the surprise settle for a heartbeat before adjusting his grip on the crossbow and ensuring the strings were drawn.
He slipped off into the scrub where the snow thinned under the pines, finding a low hollow that would keep him out of sight until the herd broke into view. He knelt, the cold biting through his trousers, crossbow balanced loosely across his knee while his breath slowed to match the stillness around him.
The guild. The word had a weight to it, heavier than the weapon in his hands. He’d been dancing around purpose for years now, never letting anything stick long enough to be called one. Maybe Deimos was right, sometimes it found you. Maybe.
He pushed the thought aside when the first snap of branches carried on the wind. The hellhound’s bark echoed faint and sharp, and the quiet ahead of him began to ripple with movement. Damien brought the crossbow to his shoulder, sighting down the line where the deer would break into the clearing, finger resting light on the trigger.
Then the ground shivered under pounding hooves, breath fogging in the cold as the herd broke through the treeline. He didn’t waste time on the lead buck—they were already blowing past—but tracked a slower doe veering toward him. The bolt struck deep; she stumbled, went down in the churned snow.
He was already reloading, fingers working by feel, stepping off and sideways to let a thick spruce take the brunt of the oncoming wave. Another shape cut close—a young buck, eyes wild—and Damien loosed again, the shot thudding home just before the rest of the herd thundered by and was gone. The woods fell still except for the ragged breath in his lungs. Two down. Good enough.
Stepping out from behind the trunk of the spruce, he glanced around for Deimos and his companions as he made his way across the freshly-disturbed snow. One of the deer he'd shot lay on the ground, its flanks heaving in shallow bursts. There was no celebration in Damien, no thrill of the hunt. Only a quiet, efficient mercy as he knelt down and pulled a knife. The killing blow was delivered quickly.
He slipped off into the scrub where the snow thinned under the pines, finding a low hollow that would keep him out of sight until the herd broke into view. He knelt, the cold biting through his trousers, crossbow balanced loosely across his knee while his breath slowed to match the stillness around him.
The guild. The word had a weight to it, heavier than the weapon in his hands. He’d been dancing around purpose for years now, never letting anything stick long enough to be called one. Maybe Deimos was right, sometimes it found you. Maybe.
He pushed the thought aside when the first snap of branches carried on the wind. The hellhound’s bark echoed faint and sharp, and the quiet ahead of him began to ripple with movement. Damien brought the crossbow to his shoulder, sighting down the line where the deer would break into the clearing, finger resting light on the trigger.
Then the ground shivered under pounding hooves, breath fogging in the cold as the herd broke through the treeline. He didn’t waste time on the lead buck—they were already blowing past—but tracked a slower doe veering toward him. The bolt struck deep; she stumbled, went down in the churned snow.
He was already reloading, fingers working by feel, stepping off and sideways to let a thick spruce take the brunt of the oncoming wave. Another shape cut close—a young buck, eyes wild—and Damien loosed again, the shot thudding home just before the rest of the herd thundered by and was gone. The woods fell still except for the ragged breath in his lungs. Two down. Good enough.
Stepping out from behind the trunk of the spruce, he glanced around for Deimos and his companions as he made his way across the freshly-disturbed snow. One of the deer he'd shot lay on the ground, its flanks heaving in shallow bursts. There was no celebration in Damien, no thrill of the hunt. Only a quiet, efficient mercy as he knelt down and pulled a knife. The killing blow was delivered quickly.
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
