A/N: Hi all! like the description says, I originally posted this on my linked FictionPress account, but I feel that it will do better on here. If you have a monster you'd like to see and/or a time period and location you'd like me to cover, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Enjoy!
17th Century France
The music stops. The noble applauds and chuckles with glee. Thomas Stanley puts his flute down, bows, and leaves the room. He can't remember the fat slob's name, but then again, he doesn't need to. He puts his wooden flute into one bag, next to another one made of silver. Certain performances require one or the other, he had told the too-curious noble earlier today.
Thomas walks out into the night. It's warm tonight in Marseilles, he says to himself. Once he is clear of Baron So-and-so's manor, he opens the other bag, the long black one that he refused to let the Baron ask about. He removes his favorite hat, as well as a long coat from the bag. He puts on a different belt than the one he had as a musician, this one having a large buckle, emblazoned with a black hammer across a large shield. He hooks the flutes onto little rings attached to his belt, pulling the light coat over himself to conceal the instruments. A sharp whistle summons a brown horse, which Thomas mounts and rides into the night.
His destination is only an hour away on horseback, a small homestead in the countryside, far from most other people. It's not much to most people, but Thomas Stanley isn't most people. He knows he's travelled all the way from London to come to this exact spot. He knocks on the door, once, twice, pauses for two seconds, then thrice. A voice asks, "Is there a friend where friendship is wanted?"
"No, but kin where kinship is needed," Thomas answers. The door opens and closes behind him just as quickly. The man at the door, a tall, dark-haired Frenchman in his 30s, introduces himself as Hercule Pouliot, Jäger-Kapitän of Blackwatch forces in France. "Thank God you have arrived, Monsieur Stanley. Kapitän Thatcher recommends you highly for what we have called you here for." Roland Thatcher, Jäger-Kapitän of England's branch of Blackwatch, is a friend of Pouliot's.
"Just tell me where to go." Thomas follows Pouliot into the basement, where he is given three poultices filled with a sickly green liquid. "If you get bitten, drink one. The attacks, they have been happening in the area around this homestead. The first attack killed its residents. Normally, I would not ask England for assistance, but this one, he has killed four of my Jäger, all good men…" Pouliot pauses, indicating to Thomas that one or more of these men were close friends, or maybe more. "Bon chance, my brother." Stanley nods and walks back upstairs to the exit.
Hunting a hunter is never an easy task, but it's the one that Thomas has been given. He keeps low to the ground, his footsteps barely audible in the golden field. His eyes dart back and forth, catching the rustling of bushes in the distance…no, that's just a rabbit, Thomas reassures himself. He quickly shuffles to the woods in front of him, eyes open and alert, ears focused on the slightest noises. He reaches for his flute, the silver one, and begins to play a soft melody, one of his own conception. He isn't sure why he's playing – maybe it's for his nerves, or maybe he's hoping it will draw the creature to him.
Thomas stops. He can hear it now, a slow rustling sound. Movement, straight ahead, he registers. Coming straight towards him. He begins to back away slowly, foot over foot. The rustling gets closer. He can see the bushes shake, the branches crack…and a deer pops into view. Thomas breathes a quiet sigh of relief and relaxes a little. Big mistake.
The attack comes quickly, from a blind spot on his left side. Thomas is knocked to the ground, but scrambles up quickly to discover…nothing in sight! He turns around, but there's nothing but grass and the homestead. He whirls back around, and finds himself staring at a column of black fur.
The werewolf stands 2 heads taller than the Jäger. Its mouth, lined with razor-sharp teeth, is open as it pants excitedly, sensing that its quarry is shocked and trapped. With a snarl, it swipes upward, knocking Thomas Stanley a few feet backwards. "Bugger," he hisses, feeling the bloody slashes across his chest with his left hand, the right hand's fingers wrapped tightly around his flute. He scrambles back another dozen feet, and the werewolf charges, running on all fours towards him like the animal it is. "Just a little closer, you overgrown mutt," He snarls, a grim smile crossing his face.
The werewolf leaps, claws in front of it, mouth open and ready to bite. Now, Thomas screams to himself. He pops off a small cap on the end of his flute to reveal a spike underneath, and as the beast lands, Thomas shifts to his left and stabs upward. The silver spike punches through the werewolf's chest, piercing its heart, and the monster staggers backwards, knocking the flute out of its chest. Thomas stands, clutching his own chest, and kicks over his target with a yell, more out of pain than victory. The beast gasps once more, and then breathes no more. It does not become a human again at death; werewolves are born as such, as every Jäger knows. He picks up his flute, replaces the cap, and collapses in the field.
"Wake up, Mr. Stanley." Thomas opens his eyes and looks around. His chest is bandaged and he lies on a white bed. The voice belongs not to Hercule Pouliot, but to Roland Thatcher. "Had a good sleep, did we? Welcome home, and job well done. We picked you up not long after you succeeded. You've been out for at least a week." Thatcher has a penchant for answering people's questions before they even asked them – some argue he may actually be telepathic.
Thomas rises with a wince and looks up at his superior. "Orders, sir?"
"Ah, ever the stalwart soldier. Rest and relax, Mr. Stanley. You've earned yourself two weeks off."
About bloody time I went on holiday, Thomas says to himself, and closes his eyes to sleep again.