A/N: This update took longer than it should have, but you know how it is in the business; real-life obstacles and writer's block are the banes of a writer's existence. I took my time to illustrate the dire bubbling within the community and the FTL. Hopefully, I drove that point across.
Thank you for following this story and taking time out of your day to read it! As always, reviews are welcomed!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: It only took one tragic moment to turn his world upside down. Experience a tale of transformation that will shake the foundation of friends and camaraderie in Astera. But one thing's clear; the Hunter will become the hunted. Who will rise to stop them from painting the New World red?
Chapter 5
Death was inevitable. Whoever claimed to gain exception from it lied about death. The formless entity touched all; no one gained exception from its mighty tendrils under the protectorate of the Sapphire Star. Death's tendrils touched all. At the break of dawn, thick, gray clouds cloaked the New World, an omen of evil as some would believe it. Hunters clamored around the Council Table with worried and panic-stricken faces. Each man and woman expressed one of two expressions; fear or uncertainty. The Council members stood in front of the sea of eyes staring back at them, eager for answers to this morning's gruesome discovery. The Huntsman drew a deep breath as he pushed off his rickety stool. It creaked.
The Provisions Manager rested a hand on her chin, recalling the frantic cries of several Hunters rushing into the Tradeyard, almost tripping over the uneven floorboards. Three women and a man screamed at the top of their lungs, spewing out gibberish until someone mentioned a body—Hunter's body—submerged in crimson, and their head was gone. Revoltures circled the corpse, round and round like death's merry-go-round, an invitational to scavengers prowling about. The woman's stomach rumbled, bile on the verge of making its grand entrance until she forcefully subdued it. Shaking her head, she looked over to the Huntsman, who cleared his throat.
"Everybody," The man said with a raised hand, a gesture to silence the chatter. "As many of you know, a body was found this morning close to the Southwest Camp."
The air tensed.
"The deceased's name is Lyre, one of our newest recruits to the Fifth."
The Huntsman was sickened to his core, unable to fathom the tragedy the Hunter endured. Drawing in another breath, he continued.
"The Council will launch a thorough investigation to determine what exactly happened to her and prevent further atrocities in the New World. Rest assured, we will find the culprit and punish the perpetrator to the fullest extent of the law. This, we promise you, Hunters."
His words brought little comfort to their shaken hearts. The Hunters dissected the Huntsman's words carefully; the way he addressed the crime pointed to one possibility; the crime was committed by another human. Human. If it were a monster, the Huntsman would have said so. The man wasn't about song and dance; he always went straight to the point. Why? Why would anyone do this to their fellow Hunter? Their friend? Their comrade?
"The Guild is informed about today's events. Please, it is in your best interests to cooperate with the investigation. The quicker the interrogations are conducted, the faster justice is served to Lyre."
The rest of the Council members nodded; they weren't excluded from the investigation, either. Landing in the canteen, the Field Team Leader noticed the cluster of human bodies pooling around the Council Table, each person still as a stone pillar. Heading to the Meowscular Chef, the buff Palico looked up at him from decapitating fresh broccoli.
"What a horrible event to start the morning,'' The Palico grumbled. "This morning, a group of Hunters found a deceased Hunter in the field, a poor soul named Lyre, a new recruit. I hear the details are gory, m'boy. Apparently, jagras and revoltures picked at the corpse when the body was discovered. It sickens me to my stomach hearing the state of the body and the disappearance of her head. Even I wouldn't wish that fate upon my worst enemies."
"That's horrible," Richard crossed his arms.
Meowscular Chef nodded and expelled a breath. He didn't like talking about death; it gave him goosebumps every time. "Poor thing; what did she do to die? She had a bright future ahead of her. But I guess that's life, isn't it? You can't control death when it decides to come knocking on your door. And when it comes, pray to the Sapphire Star to guide the soul to the next life with ease."
Richard's eyes remained focused on the group of Hunters as bodies departed from the Council Table in clusters. The Huntsman returned to his seat with arms crossed, clearly disturbed by today's events. Perhaps the worst was yet to come, the man mulled; no one reported the incident to the Commander, either. The man was in poor health, and the last thing he needed was another reason to worry about the Fifth Fleet losing a Hunter. An arm rested on his shoulder, prompting him to look up through the thin slits in his helmet.
"We'll get through this," said Luna, the Provisions Manager. "We always do."
"Hn."
The Field Team Leader strolled to the elevator, his mind processing information. At the same time, his ears picked up the Palicoes' silent chatter about the incident. He sensed their uneasiness. Stepping onto the metal bar, the elevator descended. One of the Palicoes made eye contact with him and got spooked, dashing off into the distance, almost knocking another Palico over. Richard shrugged. Landing at the Tradeyard, he witnessed the grim expressions etched into each Hunter and worker's faces, with each man and woman focused on resuming their assigned duties. Hell, it was easier said than done, knowing one of their own was lost to a savage beast. Despite death looming over their heads, they pressed on; that was all they could do.
Reaching the Council Table, his hazel eyes dropped to his mentor, Frederick.
"Hey," he greeted the tinman. "I've been updated about this morning's discovery."
"Hn," Was the reply. The Huntsman's shoulders lifted, then slumped again. "Where the bloody hell is the Admiral when you need him? His tasteless jokes and guidance are enough to fish everyone out of this godforsaken slump. It's infuriating."
"You know the answer to that, teacher," Richard answered, softening his eyes. "So, what happens now?"
He took a breath. "Look over there,"
The man pointed to the Provisions Manager, Analytics Director, and Chief Engineer standing by the Tradeyard's entrance with a small group of volunteers. The dark-skinned woman directed traffic, pointing to wooden pillars or poles with flags on them. All flags in the Tradeyard were planned to switch to black for one week for mourning. It was the least they could do to keep Lyre's memory alive until cremation plans fell through. Richard watched people walk to different corners of the Tradeyard, silently hanging the black flag. Winds gently picked up, giving life to the fallen.
"That's depressing," he commented. "What do you plan on doing now?"
"The Commander and the Admiral need to hear this. I'm not looking forward to writing up an official report, either. Nonetheless, we must launch an investigation as soon as possible to ensure everyone's safety and justice promptly delivered."
"Makes sense."
Frederick craned his neck toward his student. He could barely see Richard's face with the sun shining onto the man's back, casting a dark shadow over his face. "You're oddly quiet."
"I just don't know what to say," The brunette responded truthfully. "Death is never an easy concept to deal with, teacher. You, of all people, should know that. In our line of work, facing death is a certain inevitability."
"From monsters, yes, from humans, no." Frederick shuffled in his seat. "I've accepted death as an inevitable episode, as you mentioned. Whenever I'm out in the field hunting monsters, I know I could die anytime. I've accepted that possibility. Heck, most of us here are willing to die in the field because it's what we love to do, isn't it? But to die at the hands of another human sickens me to my stomach."
"How are you so sure a person did this?" Richard looked him in the eyes. A tiny sliver of sunlight slipped through the slits, reflecting a pair of copper-colored eyes back at him. "Is there any evidence on the body or the surrounding environment that suggested it?"
"I don't know." Oh, how much the Huntsman despised this sentence and its empty connotations. "But, deep in my heart, I believe it's human-committed. Once I get a hold of Drake and his assistant, I'll let them investigate. After all, that's what he's good at, poking his nose in places where it doesn't belong."
"Okay then. Just let me know if you find anything. I'll help out, too."
"Excellent. I hope we catch the bastard soon. I'm not looking forward to Marten penning his condolences to her family. It weighs on him."
The Field Team Leader patted his mentor on the shoulder and left the Council Table with eyes patrolling the rest of the Tradeyard. As far as he was concerned, the Fifth Fleet marched onward, despite death among friends. He stayed focused, feet transporting him to different parts of the Tradeyard, asking for updates. Everyone updated him on their tasks and new findings as they usually did without a hiccup. Good. Approaching the Chief Ecologist, Richard's brown eyes sank to the small Wyverian with his nose submerged in the book. The edges of the yellow pages frayed, even the book's leather hardcover chipping from the passage of time. The Wyverian stopped reading and looked up from his book.
"Yes?"
Richard didn't expect the old berk to sniff him. Steeling his heart, the man arched an eyebrow, curious by the man's actions.
"Um," Richard voiced again, eyes traveling down to the rest of his body. What the hell was the man sniffing at? "Is something wrong with me or…?"
"No, nothing," he responded and returned to reading. "I thought I smelled blood on you when you walked over. Turns out, it was Pukei-Pukei blood. You should pay attention to your hygiene, Richard. As Astera's Field Team Leader, you have a reputation to uphold, including appearances."
Richard forced a laugh. "Of course I do, you old fool. I'll make sure to take you up on that. Do you have any updates for me today?"
He shook his head and grunted. "I'd love to update you about new ecological miracles, but business is slow; I'm sure you're aware of that. Still, we've gained insights about new flowers or insects every three or four days. The Ancient Forest always has secrets to tell."
"I see. Well, keep up the good work, Alf."
The petite man huffed and pretended to not hear his spoken name. Richard chuffed and left; he deserved it. Returning to his room, the Field Team Leader placed his weapon by the door and strode to the window. The gears in his mind turned.
I ought to be more careful.
Indeed, he should. The brunette stared at his reflection, eyes tracing his tattered vest, and ah, there, in the southwest region, was a splotch of dried blood. He sounded his displeasure. Richard assumed he was thorough when washing his clothing last night, but apparently not. Still, it was a mistake he couldn't afford to make again. What would happen if the crumbling fool discovered blood on his garb? What excuse could Richard possibly make? His chapped lips curled into a snarl at the possibility of being interrogated. No, that simply wouldn't do. Filling his lungs with air, the man pressed his back on the polished, cold window cradling his face in his rough hands. Thoughts swam through his mind, plotting his next steps. The sounds of his heartbeat echoed in his ears; he panicked slightly.
He had forgotten how long he stayed in that position until the sound of chirps snapped him out of his trance-like state. Pushing off the window, the man stormed to his sanctuary. Plopping down onto the spring mattress, the Field Team Leader kicked off his heavy, muddy boots, followed by his vest. He sighed. Folding his toned arms behind his head, his hazel eyes traced the wooden slats in the ceiling, watching the fan slowly spin in place. He wondered; was that his life now? Was this the life destiny rudely put him on, knowing there was no escape from this nightmarish torment? Richard blinked. Is it considered torment after experiencing the pleasures of heightened senses and reflexes and unrivaled strength? Maybe.
And just like bad timing, his stomach grumbled.
"For fuck sake." he snarled. "Not now. I'm not hungry."
As if his stomach listened to him. Turning onto his side, it grumbled again, demanding nourishment to fuel his fast-paced metabolism. Yesterday's midnight meal was barely enough to contain his voracious appetite. Whatever. It'll just have to be dealt with, and quite frankly, Richard wasn't in the mood to go out hunting, either. Closing his eyes, he hoped he'd fall asleep before his stomach decided to eat itself from the inside out. Now, that would be shitty, wouldn't it?
A couple of days later.
The Commander frowned. His aged eyes read and reread the Huntsman's report, eyes hopscotched across neatly written sentences. Marten couldn't wrap his head around the word 'murder.' Murder? Here? In the New World? A Hunter's life cut short by a human? Never in his years has the Commander witnessed a tragedy of this magnitude shaking the foundations of camaraderie to its core. The parchment within his hands slightly crunched. The Admiral eyed his best friend. Marten's usual smile and upbeat personality were gone, and reading a depressing report did the man no favors. Marten's wheezes interrupted the silence. Look at him, hooked to tubes and wires of sorts, and his skin sagged more than usual, draping over his bones. Without saying the obvious, Marten resembled a living, breathing skeleton, and that terrified Drake.
The Commander looked to his closest confidants. Frederick removed his helmet.
"What's the plan?"
The tin man grabbed a stool and seated himself beside his bedside. "I'm sending Drake into the field to find clues since he's got a nose for adventure."
"I'm not a mongrel, you know," The blond retorted but was clearly ignored.
"I'll talk with the other Council members and conduct an interview based on people of interest, those who've interacted with Lyre leading up to her demise."
Marten coughed. "And… what about me?"
"Pen your best letter to her family. That's all you need to do."
Maybe it was expected that Marten's eyebrows knitted in displeasure. "That wouldn't do." He protested, followed by a coughing fit. Drake shot off the wooden wall and immediately served him a glass of water. Once his throat was quenched, Marten eyed the ginger. "I want to do more."
"Marten, please," Drake interjected, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Save your breath and energy for a day you need it most. We'll handle things in Astera while you get better, you hear?"
The Commander wanted to protest more, but in his current state, he grudgingly accepted defeat. If only he wasn't sick, he could do more to expedite the investigation and bring closure to this terrible tragedy.
"Besides," Drake's voice echoed again. "Richard will help with the investigation, and before you know it, its case closed."
Frederick looked at his friend with thinned eyes. Admittedly, the Admiral's optimism grounded his nerves at times, and this happened to be one of those moments. He implied searching for the murderer was achievable in a short period. "You sound so sure of that."
"Why wouldn't I be?" Drake retorted, challenging Frederick. "Our Hunters and Council members are more than happy to cooperate with the investigation, no? We need to piece the puzzle together to see the full picture. I don't see why anyone would withhold information from us."
"Only the murderer would." Frederick snapped. "We don't know who he or she is, Drake. We simply don't know who we're dealing with and the level of danger they pose. I can't believe you think this is a walk in the park."
"Listen, I want to stay optimistic for the future of this Fleet," Drake beamed reassurance. "I truly believe we'll find the culprit in no time. We'll have our answers in due time, and the person responsible will have to answer for their crime against poor Lyre. Have faith in our Hunters, Frederick."
"Friends, please." Marten interrupted. Once again, the Commander played the role of the peacemaker. Goodness, these men bicker like children. "That's enough. I'd like to rest now if you two don't mind. Your bickering doesn't get us any closer to the truth."
Drake backed off and shrugged. Stretching, he said, "I'll head off to prepare for the field investigation. See you around in a couple of weeks."
The door shut behind him, and Frederick shook his head, clearly annoyed by the Admiral's less-than-stellar take on the situation. "Drake needs a good clobbering every once in a while. I sincerely believe it might help straighten out his laidback attitude in times of crisis like this,"
Marten glanced over at his friend. "Well, you've been trying for the last forty years, and I'm afraid to say he'll stay like this until he takes his last breath."
Frederick grunted, returning his sturdy helmet back to his head. He felt weird without it. Off was the appropriate word. Pushing off the stool, the tin man exited Marten's room leaving the man to wallow. With a heavy heart and mind plagued by the recent atrocity, the Huntsman headed to his living chambers littered with Old World trinkets and weaponry. Stuffing necessary curatives into his age-old pouch and his resharpened dagger, Frederick planned on going on a little investigative journey to the Ancient Forest. Dropping his eyes on a slinger as if it gained legs to move, the man wasn't a fan of new tech, but a nagging feeling within him nagged to bring the slinger along, just in case things went south. Picking up the accessory, the man equipped it, just this once. Oh, and damn everyone else to hell if they remarked on it.
Small birds shot into the sky near the Southwest Camp. The Huntsman landed less than gracefully with a loud thud, his armor chiming on impact. Scanning his copper eyes across the camp, he was alone today. Good. Hastily, Frederick made his way to the open field with a hand firmly curled around his long sword. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary other than several yellow flags tied to plants and trees surrounding the crime scene. Making his way to the destination, he scanned the terrain for unusual markings such as trace evidence of a skirmish or footprints. Kneeling down, he hoped to discover footprints, but instead, he found multiple animal footprints from beasts small and large. As expected.
Casting his eyes to the right, he noticed bloodied drag marks heading toward the bushes. Frederick cautiously approached the area and knelt down. His back popped.
"Bloody hell," he mumbled.
Turning his head to the left, a glimmer in the bushes caught his eye. Inching closer to it, he reached out to the object.
"An arrowhead." The Huntsman commented, turning it sideways for additional findings. Tucking the object into a pouch, he continued surveying.
A squawk startled him. Whipping around, his eyes locked into a juvenile revoltures diving into a nearby bush. The way its body leaned forward, followed by hopping in place, informed him there was more evidence to uncover. Pushing off the ground, Frederick stormed over. The discovery was a severed pinky; it must be from Lyre! His stomach tanked. Examining the finger, there was evidence of tiny bite marks and small pecks made by revoltures, identified by the angling cuts etched into the skin. Frederick swiftly dropped the finger into a pouch.
"Pray be to the Sapphire Star," he said.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. Craning his neck skyward, a blanket of menacing dark clouds blanketed the sky with flashes of bright white light weaving through it. So much for a productive outing, the Huntsman thought bitterly. Soft raindrops transformed into a violent thunderstorm in under two minutes. Raindrops slammed onto the land in violent waves, sending creatures fleeing Mother Nature's relentless tears. Great, rain. Just the thing he needed to impede his investigation and add rust to his trusty armor. Spinning around, his eyes caught a glimpse of red piercing from the bushes. What was it? Leaves rustled loudly, trees swayed, and bent. Frederick tightened his hold on the blade's hilt, inching toward the bushes. He was ready to face death eye to eye. Peering in, emptiness welcomed him. What? Did he see things?
Closing his eyes, he calmed his beating heart and silenced the rain echoing around him. A low rumbling growl. In a flash, the Huntsman whipped the blade across the cluster of trees. Severed in half, the thick trees slid and fell, leaving its lower half standing. The Huntsman knew he was being watched. Steeling his nerves, he stayed calm yet alert to the faintest hint of sound. A crunch. Frederick dashed forward with terrifying speed through the curtain of heavy rain, eyes pressed forward. Knocking over an object or what he thought was an object, a curse rang through the area.
"What the fuck?!" That was made by a human!
"…Richard?" The tinman recomposed himself, feet pressed in the mud. "What in the bloody hell are you doing out here?"
"I can ask you the same." The brunette spat, rubbing the back of his head. "God damn, you hit as hard as a Nergigante."
He extended a hand to the Field Team Leader. "Please answer my question."
"Hunters told me you went to the Ancient Forest, so I came to see if I could lend a hand. Two heads are better than one, right?"
The Huntsman recomposed his posture and thoughts. Calming his nerves, his shoulders deflated. "Perhaps."
"Besides, isn't the Admiral responsible for conducting the investigation?" He said with an arched eyebrow.
"I grew impatient," Frederick crossed his arms as raindrops drummed on his armor. "He takes eons to prepare, and knowing him, all the evidence would have been washed away if I hadn't stepped in first."
Richard nodded. "Yeah, I see. Hey, let's return to camp. I really don't want to catch a cold by standing here and talking."
Frederick couldn't agree more. Once inside the safety of the tent, the Huntsman removed his helmet, letting out a breath. Seated across from his teacher, the brunette observed him remove a tattered pouch from the belt, pulling out two items; a bloodied, dismembered finger and the other, a steel arrowhead. Copper-scented whiffs graced his nose, tingling the beast within. Maintaining a straight face, he kept still while his toes curled inside his leather boots.
"I found these," Frederick voiced. "It's not much, but it's evidence."
Richard swallowed a ball of hard spit that lined his throat. "But still no head?"
He shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. Even if I did find it, I don't think I'll be able to transport it. I can't do it."
The Field Team Leader observed his teacher's expression, etched in uncertainty and exhaustion. Of course, why would he want to be the one to do it? The Huntsman never liked dealing with death despite being the only person in Astera insane enough to match up against an enraged Nergigante. Each time the tinman went out, he'd look death in the face, so why did this event bother him so? It made no bloody sense to the brunette. Was it because the girl's death was orchestrated by a beast in human flesh? Someone sick and twisted enough who drained her blood and bit and chewed her neck before divorcing her head from the body in one, fluid motion? He remembered. The memories afterward were a mosaic of color and sounds and smell. Hell, he could still even taste her.
Richard fixed his eyes on the firepit, heating the dented teapot.
"When I find it, I'll be happy to do it," The brunette offered. "I'm not squeamish."
"Thank you. Since we'll be out here for a while, I'll cook us something warm and tasty. How about soup?"
Just imagining a bowl of warm, aromatic soup disgusted the Field Team Leader. His stomach did somersaults. He wordlessly accepted the offer despite his stomach protesting. The Huntsman paid no attention to his pupil's expression. He began rummaging through the tent for canned goods and, of course, a trusty can opener. Richard listened to the small dings and clinks echoed as the man bumbled across scattered inventory. The Field Team Leader hadn't realized he blankly stared at his mentor's back, encouraged by thoughts of neutralizing him. Blinking several times, Richard shook his head out of the dirt, battling his animalistic instincts stirring from his core. Sinking his canine into his tongue, he commanded his urges to stop, but that was easier said than done, wasn't it?
"Bloody hell."
Thunder growled from above. Strong winds ripped the tent wide open, snuffing out the fire pit. The hunting notebooks bloomed, and winds turned the pages at breakneck speeds, exposing vital information to the sky's tears. Another flash of lightning. A pair of red eyes manifested behind the tinman. A cold breeze slipped through the entrance sending bone-chilling chills down Frederick's arthritic back. Thunder shrieked, sending earth-shattering tremors across the New World. Frederick stopped. He exhaled, fortifying his tingling nerves. Something inside him told him to turn around slowly, very, very slowly.
Wheeling around, the Huntsman faced his pupil. Richard blinked at him, adjusting the teapot.
"Sup?"
Bah, thunderstorms always messed with his head. Every bloody time! Feeling the weight lifted off his shoulders, he nodded at Richard and gave him the can opener. Shaking his head out of the clouds, the tin man focused on making soup for the stormy night ahead; it seemed the storm wouldn't let up any time soon, either. At least he wouldn't be alone in enduring this misery. After all, he's in the company of a man he trusts with his life. At least, it'll help keep his mind off the terror until it was time to step back into the reality of monsters and mankind.
