I began this story over a year ago, and then other things got in the way, namely my "Jak and Daxter" novel, "Blackened Hearts and Desert Pearls", and this story got long forgotten. Nevertheless, I remained interested in continuing it one day, and I finally have gotten around to it. I always liked Razoff, and yet, I prefer a less goofy version of him than how he's portrayed in the game, so this came about. I am going to try to update Saturdays or Sundays, if I can manage it.

Razoff, the Bog of Murk, and other various things are property of Ubisoft. Eva, on the other hand, is my original creation.

The Hunter

Chapter 1: Secrets

To my love,

I hope life finds you well. I have not heard from you in some time, and I can only hope that you have received my letters and have simply been too busy to respond. As long as you are safe, that's all that matters. I just wish I knew for certain.

It's been thirty years since we became engaged, and I so dearly miss your smile and your eyes that never miss the smallest of details, and while I can dream that you have become so much more handsome in all our time apart, one can only live off dreams for so long.

I must see you. I can't wait a minute longer, if I had a choice. I have been hearing so many rumors about you lately, and I know they can't be true, but I hope you understand that I wish to see my doubts proven correct with my own eyes. And I have some very important news that I wish to share with you. It's something I

A feathered pen froze in mid-stroke, hovering over the parchment in a sudden loss for words, before all its hard work was smudged as the letter was crumpled within one fist and tossed aside.

The Bog of Murk was a dead place. The dark, murky waters teemed with piranhas that would eat to the bone the legs of anyone unlucky, or stupid, enough to step off the muddy banks. Swarms of stinging insects convened around the orbs of light in the twisted, black trees. And toads, many of which did not begin that way, thanks to the bog's resident hag, hopped amongst the fungi and rotten logs that stuck out of the water. But, despite these more unsavory creatures, the bog was still dead, with no beauty and no life besides the unpleasant things. Save for one.

In a section of the bog equally as inhospitable as the witch's, and much too far away for her liking, stood a grand mansion, raised above the filthy waters a good ten feet to avoid the bog's frequent floods. Inside were several floors of large rooms and a maze of hallways with red walls and crimson and gold checkerboard-tiled floors and the finest wood imported from somewhere most certainly not here, all decorated with statues and portraits of all shapes and sizes.

But, despite the grandeur of it all and the obvious wealth of whoever owned it, the mansion, too, was a dead place. A palatial tomb, silent except for the ticking of the giant clock in the hall off the foyer and the crackling of the fireplaces. Every hearth was lit in the place, too many to count, to ward off the ever-present chill of the bog. So cold was the mansion that steam came from the vents as the furnace in the basement attempted to aid the fireplaces in pushing the chill away. But, death was cold, and not even all this could warm it.

But, tomb or no, this place was indeed occupied, even if the average person would have trouble finding the single resident if he did not wish to be found. This lone being currently sat in an office, lit by a chandelier of countless candles and one of the mansion's many fireplaces. A tall and slender reptilian man, he possessed spotted, green skin and was adorned in the same red and yellow of his mansion, his wide-brimmed hat currently resting atop the tall red chair. And the scene could not possibly have been complete without making mention of the rifle propped nearby.

If a lonelier living arrangement could be found, few could think of it, but if this man was lonely, it was impossible to tell, looking upon the unreadable expression on his face, with raised eyebrows and half-lidded eyes. All that could be said with any certainty was that he was thinking, his previous task currently forgotten. A journal sat open on his desk, a large quill pen held in one hand while his elbow rested on one arm of the chair. Of course, one could argue that, being cold-blooded, this man was simply lethargic from the cold that still filled the room despite the fire nearby, but no, he was indeed thinking, secret thoughts, that he had voiced to no one in countless years. Not that he could, but it was quite likely he didn't wish to do so in the first place.

A soft grin appeared on the man's face, and he leaned forward to continue his notes, recording his most recent kills in a flowing handwriting, pen scratching on paper. No, this man was certainly not a murderer, though many would claim otherwise. This man was a hunter, a most excellent one at that. Many knew him as a villain, sentiments they felt just as strongly about every other member of his family. Jealous of their wealth, he would say. Hatred was simply misguided adoration. But, murderer, villain, fiend, or whatever other word that was given to him, whether accurate or not, the name he went by was Count Razoff Shoedsackovski.

Once he had all the details down on paper, he returned the pen to its inkwell, journal left open to allow the ink to dry, and picked up a delicate white china cup from its saucer, one of the few things that weren't red, but it did have a golden trim. He took a sip, only to find his tea had gone cold. He returned it to its saucer with the slightest clink (being accustomed to stalking prey, he had gotten used to being quiet in all things), but his usual grace was forgotten when he reached for the rifle beside his chair and knocked it to the floor.

The hunter frowned down at it. His secret thoughts must still have him preoccupied. He leaned over the side of his chair and reached for it, glancing from the corner of his eye a particular drawer in his desk. This one had been locked for some time, but to keep others out, or himself, it wasn't certain. He considered it a moment longer before grabbing his gun as if no detour from that action had been taken, and with one smooth motion, he picked his hat up with the end of his rifle and dropped it neatly upon his head.

Razoff stood and put out the candles. The fireplace would burn itself out eventually, and it helped keep the place relatively comfortable. He grabbed the teacup and saucer with one hand and went out into the hallway, rifle resting on one shoulder. It was long after nightfall, and the mansion was dimly lit, aside from the fireplaces and the moonlight coming through the windows, when it wasn't obscured by clouds.

The hunter padded through the many rooms and hallways of his sprawling home, a labyrinth to any but him, as he had roamed these passageways for far too long. Much longer than he had planned on, but it couldn't be helped, and after so long in isolation, he didn't know if he could go back to an ordinary life, where there were too many things to distract him from his hunting and his thinking.

Here, the only one who bothered him was that horrid witch. (How lucky he was to escape from her that time. He couldn't blame her for being obsessed with him, but she had the filthiest imagination.) He shook his head to rid himself of those memories. Oh, yes, and the livingstones. Sometimes they'd wander onto his property, the disgusting, belligerent things. They would make all sorts of rude gestures at him while throwing out the vilest of profanities, but them he could handle. A few well-aimed shots from his rifle, and they were running, or limping, for their lives. He considered just killing them outright, but they would make terrible trophies. The witch, on the other hand, was lucky he didn't shoot women. And he hated to think what she'd do to him if she didn't like him.

Eventually, he made it to the kitchen, where he washed the teacup and left it to dry. He once had servants for such a thing, but he could no longer trust them to behave themselves, leaving him with no choice but to demean himself with such menial labor that was never meant for someone of noble blood. Now all that was left was to retire to his room, the day's chores complete, but upon reaching the upper landing of the vast hall containing the gargantuan clock, his feet took him to the massive wall of windows, to look out over the bog that stretched to the horizon and beyond.

As nice as the solitude was, sometimes his time here felt like a sentence. It was the rule that every Shoedsackovski, upon reaching 16 years of age, isolate themselves in some forgotten section of the land, to focus on hunting and hunting alone. He could only return once he had captured something most spectacular, as his father and mother had, and their ancestors before them. Razoff knew he was an excellent hunter, as near perfection as possible for a mere mortal, but never could he so much as find prey to match that of his relatives. It was disheartening, to say the least, and even if he no longer minded it out here in this forgotten (and avoided) corner of the world, the fact that he had to stay tarnished his feelings a bit. His family was actually long gone, killed in events not befitting hunters of their stature, but he wouldn't abandon tradition that easily. No, he would catch that magnificent prey and then… Well, there wasn't much to return to, but he'd cross that bridge when he reached it, and Polokus help anyone or anything unlucky enough to meet the hunter on that end of the bridge.

Finally, Razoff made his way back to his bedchambers (a most unnecessarily large room like every other, at least, in the eyes of anyone who was not the hunter), adorned with yet more portraits of the mansion's owner, and a large, four-poster bed with red, silk sheets. And while anyone else would have been more than happy with such sleeping arrangements, the hunter lay awake for many hours before finding rest, so lost was he in his secret thoughts.

I met the most wonderful boy today. We ran into each other when I was out picking herbs in the swamp. Can you believe it? Just like that. I'm walking along, searching for toadwort and minding my own business, then what do I lay eyes on but boots, bright, red boots that stood out like you wouldn't believe. I look up, and it turns out these boots belong to the handsomest boy I've ever seen. Why, he couldn't have been more than a year or two older than me, and he looked so dashing in a long, red coat and a wide-brimmed hat.

I don't know how long he had been standing there, quiet as a tribelle drifting on the breeze, and watching me stare at the ground like an absolute ninny. All my work that day was for nothing because I dropped everything I had spent a good couple of hours collecting, but I couldn't be seen carrying about a bunch of leaves with dirt and Polokus knows what clinging to them, now could I? No, not in front of that prince of a man. I am certain he really was rich, too, based on his clothes and that aristocratic accent he had.

Oh, but I get ahead of myself. We talked. I suppose that's pretty obvious, but we did. Not a lot, but it was enough for me to know that I might've found someone really special. People teased me and questioned why I made my mother sew me fancy clothes when we have so little and when we live in a muddy swamp, but this only proves that all my time tiptoeing around so I wouldn't stain the hem of my skirts paid off in the end, after all. If I dressed like a princess, I was bound to find a prince eventually. And I think I did.

You see, I wasn't so frivolous, was I, Toba? At least I bathe.

But, that was mean, wasn't it? No one's going to know anyway. I wouldn't say it to his face.

Oh, but come to think of it, I didn't get the name of my prince, did I? He asked me to meet him tomorrow evening, at the pond. It's such a beautiful spot. I have no idea how such a clear pond ended up in the middle of this murky swamp, but it really is lovely. And private, too. I'll ask him his name then, and once I have that, maybe my parents will believe that I really did meet a prince. A real one this time.

(But, how could I have known that that boy was just the traveling salesman's son? He had such nice taste in clothes, and he talked so fancy. I think anyone could've been rightly fooled.)

But, I'll need to give him my name, too, won't I? How can I risk him finding out I'm just a common, poor girl like everyone else? Rich people always have long, hard to say last names. Maybe if I think up one, he'll think I'm from a noble family, too.

Let's see, what can I come up with? Eva Alexandros. Eva Charlotta. Oh, I got it. Eva Bellevere. I suppose that could work, if I don't think of anything better in the meantime.

But, Eva's too short. I think I must be Evalyn. That might not be my real name, but… Well, I suppose I can't change myself too much. When I catch my prince, I still want him to fall for me, not someone completely invented.

Eva Bellevere it is, then.

For those of you who don't know, Razoff was apparently based off of Count Zaroff from the 1932 version of the movie "The Most Dangerous Game", directed by Ernest Shoedsack, which was based off of a 1924 short story of the same name (though, Zaroff goes by General Zaroff in that version), by Richard Connell. The woman in the movie (who doesn't appear in the original story) is named Eve….

I watched the movie on Youtube around the time I started this story, and Zaroff does share some similarities with Razoff, such as the fact that they both roll their R's, and Zaroff sometimes hunts with a bow, and Razoff uses a rifle that shoots arrows. Zaroff also has a pack of hunting hounds, which are referenced later in my story. Further information on Razoff came from the Ray Wiki.

Anyway, please review and tell me what you think so far.