The Pale Hunter of Morokh

By author SIngemeister

The eyes of the gargantuan boar went wide with a fearful rage as it finally caught the predator's scent. With flaring nostrils and a thunderous squeal that sent the harridan crows croaking into the purple-tinged sky, it turned with a speed belying its massive size, and charged at full speed towards the pale-haired hunter.

The beast roared in answer, rushing forward to meet the behemoth's charge. At the last moment, it feinted left, then fell into roll to the right, letting one of its antlers score a bloody, twisting line along the monstrosity's flank. The mighty boar squeal-roared in incandescent fury, and kicked out blindly with its razor-sharp hooves. The predator pushed itself up to meet one foot, catching it as the ragged edges tore the insides of its arms, and with a growl of effort, snapped the boar's ankle.

The pain drove the beast even further into its berserker rage. Flailing madly on its three good legs, it managed to send the hunter stumbling back. Sensing an opportunity, the mighty boar twisted and reared up on its hind legs, fury blinding it to the agony in its ankle, intending to crush its antagonist underhoof once and for all.

The pale-haired predator surged forwards and up, meeting it as its mighty bulk fell, catching it around the waist. With a roar of effort, it lifted the monstrosity clear off the ground, the boar too shocked to try and fight free. With a resounding crash, the hunter leaned back, smashing the boar snout-first into the ground, before pushing it into its back.

As it squealed and struggled, he snapped half a tusk from its colossal head, and drove the sharpened tooth straight through its jaw, and into its brain. Over the next hour, the life faded from its eyes, and its struggles slowly ceased, as the hunter ripped chunks of meat from its body, devouring them raw and bloody.

With its hunger sated, the predator cut and tore a sail's worth of hairy, leathery hide from the corpse to wear around its shoulders as a crude cape. Wrapping the hide tightly around its otherwise unclothed body, it set off to where it had been going before the distraction of the hunt.

It passed through the forest leaving little trace, far more quickly and silently than it had right to. Most of the animals did not even notice it; those that did kept a wide berth, sensing the primal power that resided within. A five-eyed cat hissed and swiped at it as it came by, but darted away as it came too close, its distorted yowls echoing through the woods.

The trees became thicker as it got closer to its goal. Some had nauseating fleshy growths upon their bark, or remnants of skin that had not yet been grown over with scaly bark. Faces, gnarled and twisted, moaned silently as branches grasped like constrictor snakes at passers by. The hunter broke the clutching limbs like twigs, not letting them slow its passage.

The wildlife became more hostile and more warped as the antlered being pressed on, as if to match the growing abhorrence of the woods. Misshapen aberrations mewled out of the sylvan twilight, only to be laid low by blows from a broken branch or rock-sized fist, and foul, winged monstrosities flitted from branch to branch, uttering guttural, mocking croaks at the hunter below.

At long last, after what seemed like aeons in the twisted twilight beneath the trees, the forest opened up to the hunter's destination. Like so many of the other places like it upon this world, it had no true name, known only as places where the brave and foolhardy went, never to return. It was a fell place, almost detached from the material world, closer to the great void-whorl that could be seen in the night sky than the planet itself.

Translucent, sickly grass grew in patches upon a thick layer of dust that danced and swirled without reason, and the few trees that dotted the landscape gulped stupidly at the thick, cloying air with cavernous maws.

Time was difficult to track in this desolate, ethereal waste. The sun and the moon had faded now, replaced only with that ever-present whorl in the sky, which seemed to watch the being as it made its journey across the tractless expanse. Though the pale hunter moved with great, loping strides, distance did not act in accord with its gait, leaving haphazard footprints across the landscape as the dimensions shifted around its path.

Without a sound, an expanse of land gave way underfoot—horizon to horizon disappearing into shimmering freefall. The being let out a startled grunt as solid ground turned to nothingness, amber eyes widening in shock as it began to plummet down, down, down.

And then there was hard earth underfoot, though it soon turned to mud, lapping and grasping at the pale hunter's sides as it pulled itself from the position it had landed in.

It did not know how, but it knew that it was deep into the zone now, that place of real-unreal, where material existence was barely more than a suggestion that might or might not be followed. A part of the mighty creature almost felt at home here.

With a snort, it rubbed the scratching, gnawing dust from its eyes and took in its surroundings. A featureless plain, that shifted between dust and slurry without reason. In the distance, a mighty city that was pearlescent and brilliant, ruined and corrupted at once.

Above the pale hunter danced an eagle, weaving teetering patterns in the sky, never the same.
To its right, a monstrous hound tore through an unending carcass, covering itself in gore and viscera.

Far below, worms and maggots gorged themselves on a rotting, fungus-ridden carcass, the stench seeping effortlessly through the earth.

To its left, a boil of serpents twisted and intertwined with each other, one being and many at once.

It is lost,
said the heavy taste of blood and viscera on the tongue.

Or perhaps it is found,
said the lazy, intricate movements of the eagle in the sky.

Not by its maker,
said the soft sound of scales running over each other.

That may yet find it, in time,
said the sickly scent of rotting flesh and putrid miasma.

It wonders what we are.

It does not know?

It cannot.

What harm could it bring?

The others forgot. They all forget.

Not all, not all.

Knowledge threatens the course of events.

Not all knowledge.

Just that which is unnecessary for it to know. The right information hastens the plan.

The Anathema will not tell.

Is that certain?

Such is not its nature.

Then this is a chance.

An opportunity.

A risk.

All the same.

It is listening.

It desires understanding.

What is there to understand?

Our nature, perhaps.

That is simple. We are gods.

There is no such thing. If there were, it would be a poor descriptor.

We are all.

We are nothing.

There are powers beyond us by far.

We are beyond all.

All are true.

All are false.

True, once more.

There is much that can be offered.

Though all things bear a price.

Exchange in kind.

No rewards come from idleness. All must fight for them.

Such attentions come only to the worthy.

The wise and ambitious.

Those who can withstand great burdens.

Those such as you, lost one.

All you need to do is simply ASK.

The pale hunter scrambled to its feet, and fled through the nothingness, focusing only on escape. More through that thought than its own fleetness did it eventually come, panting, scarred and worn, to the edge of the desolation, back to the material world. Already the memories faded, the words slipping from its mind, sand between fingers.

But still, it knew. It had to prepare. The pale hunter trudged into the darkness of the endless forests, with a new purpose in mind.

"Get inside, Cheorn! The storm's getting fierce, and I saw lightning in the distance! Inside, now!"

"Hush, Lengadh! I saw something, up on the gates!"

"Raiders? Morokh have mercy, we can't deal with them and the storm both! Inside, get inside!"

"No, no! I see—it is him! The haunter of the woods! Pale-skinned, White-antlered! Brantorrh Nghuirleth!"

A braying voice rang out over the night of the storm.

"Heorbhaild! Harken to me!"