"Damn poleaxe." William cursed, minding his surroundings as he crept slowly through the streets of the ruined city. Nobody would sneak up on him, and neither would anything. At least...not until he steps in something squishy and wet as flies zip upwards and the initial smell of rot intensifies. 

Right, the dead horses. What the hell was the deal with this? Nobody ever came to clean these up. The horses guts clung to his boot, even as he lifted it up and struggled to fight free of the decaying matter.

But his attention immediately turned from the dead horse, forgetting it entirely, in fact, when he noticed a shift in the glow of flame light. A mob of huntsmen were walking down the road below him. Hunting "beasts," but these were no allies. The violence and horror of the night had already driven these men mad, or perhaps it was the blood. In fact, one huntsman's face was covered entirely with fur, two sharp teeth jutting out from his lower lip.

He set his poleaxe down and crouched as his heartbeat rapidly intensified. Before this moment, he had imagined himself appearing on the night of the hunt in Hunter's gear, slaughtering madmen and slaying beasts with impressive swiftness and skill. This ambition was absent at this time. He couldn't kill a full mob. This wasn't just some bar brawl, this was a matter of life or death. He took a quick check of his surroundings, to see if anything was sneaking up on him, then looked down the road at what the huntsmen were marching towards. He noticed a man. A Hunter? No. Hunters didn't carry mere rapiers.

[@the red bear]