[IC] Black Lily

The bodies hanging from the tree’s branches were almost comforting.

They provided a catharsis so close to peace the air was thick with it. They served as a reminder to travelers of all kinds that’s death’s embrace was never too far away. Never too far in the distance. It was a good reminder. The bodies also served as a grim warning. Within the thickened branches hung the rotting corpses of both kings and peasants alike. The old days of hierarchy, monarchy, leadership, and fealty were gone. The only thing people had in common now was their humanity. Humankind had finally been united thanks to the Catastrophe a hundred years ago. A phenomenon that brought the wrath of the supernatural into the realm of mere mortals. No one knew what caused the event, but no one cared anymore either. Their lives had become shells of what they once were thanks to the relentless attacks and constant danger. If it wasn’t a gryphon swooping down to tear your head off, it was a group of bandits filling your body with steel to loot whatever scraps you had on you that day. The days had become unpredictable messes of reality. Convoluted consciousness choking those who ventured beyond their city or village gates for any reason. But the bodies weren’t unpredictable. They always hung where they were, softly dangling in the wispy breezes. 

Crows pecked at congealed eyes, their beaks stabbing into thickened, hardened yellow mucus. The smells of the dead had long since intertwined with the atmosphere of the tree and it’s many protuberant branches. The braided ropes that had been used to tie off hands and feet and suffocate necks still held fast and strong. The bodies clung to their branches like rotted fruit waiting to be pruned. But there was no caretaker for Hangman’s Tree. It had become a symbol of Colessence, a mighty live oak that had grown larger than its brethren and produced more branches than average as well. It was the most famous and iconic site of death in all the land and its geography supported that fact as well. Very near to the dead center of the continent, Hangman’s tree denoted the central regions of Colessence and one could gain their bearings by using the tree as a landmark. Sefu Akor rested his back against the trunk of Hangman’s tree as his mind raced between thoughts, one of which was that he had reached the landmark in a decent amount of time. 

It had taken two weeks from Aventus in the east to make it to Hangman’s Tree and that was just about what Sefu had planned before he took on the journey. Visuain, his Destrier steed, rested on his knees against the trunk of the tree as well. Sefu peeked over and a corner of his mouth pulled upwards in response, a natural, involuntary reaction to seeing his partner regain his own strength. Even a Destrier got tired and Sefu had clocked two weeks as the absolute limit before he’d need to take a break. He could have circumvented Hangman’s Tree entirely, but he needed the bodies. The peace they provided. The comfort they offered. The reality they stood for. He wasn’t one to escape reality. He needed to remember. He needed to have the thoughts crush his mind and as he turned back and let his head droop towards his chest once more, that’s exactly what happened. A wave of erratic thoughts crashed his mind’s forefront and he basked in the pain of it all. 

The voices were at play again. He still wasn’t strong enough. He still wasn’t sharp enough. He was still too naive to understand what had happened properly. Maybe he should have been grateful that he was taken along with the other boys. Maybe he should have been happy that he was plucked from the scene of debauchery all around him. He had been handpicked after all, right? Along with the other boys who’d been selected, he’d gotten to live in the capital of Wiclind and serve. A boisterous neigh roused Sefu from his memories. He was suddenly aware of himself again and his surroundings. He stared down at the ebony and blood red studded armor adorning his physicality. The fur mantle keeping him warm against the cold of a fall day. His shield leaning against the trunk near him. A vambraced hand rubbed ebon coils of hair on his head before massaging his goatee. He had been a fool to assume sleep would come to him. Sleep had dared not go near him in several years now. Why should today have been any different? 

Sefu sighed and looked up at the branches above him. Through the canopy and crown of corpses hanging. Lunar rays slipped through clouds high above everything in an evening sky. Stars were buried beneath the clouds and stifled of their shine. The roaring flames and their heat caressed Sefu once more as he turned to face the fire he had built. It was still burning strong. The pot hung over it only had remnants of wild game left within. Sefu blew through his lips and looked back over towards Visuain. His equine was awake, but still resting on its knees. It knew its master well. Sefu chuckled. 

”You too, huh boy?” Sefu said. 

A neigh in response. 

”True. A frigid night is upon us.

Another neigh and a blow through the nostrils. 

Sefu nodded and pushed himself to standing. Visuain instinctively pulled himself up onto his hooves in tandem. Sefu walked over and patted Visuain before rummaging through one of the saddle bags. A steel sword, nearly the length of the horse’s body, sat tied into place horizontally under the saddle bag. Sefu finally produced a brush and gently began stroking the equine’s barrel. He brushed carefully around the saddle bags before dipping under the blade bringing him eye level with the weapon. He could feel the beginning of the tremors in his right hand. He pulled the brush back so it wouldn’t disturb Visuain or worry the unusually perceptive animal. He watched the quakes overtake his hand and closed his eyes. Inhaled slowly and exhaled deliberately. 

Flashes of time juxtaposed with memory assaulted Sefu. He could feel it as if reality itself rested tangibly in his palm. The weight of the steel blade in his hand. The sturdiness of the hilt and grip. The heft of the blade itself. Then he swung. He begged his past self not to do it, but he was ignored. Translucent outlines created silhouettes of himself and the people unfortunate enough to meet the bite of his sword. They were slashed and stabbed in all manner of directions and from all manner of positions. Sefu hated it. Hated the way he kept himself moving while in battle. It was something his teacher, his mentor, had been impressed by followed up with a comment about how survival in battle is greater when one is on the move. Or something like that. He couldn’t remember it clearly now. He could only see the ruin he’d brought himself. The blood spilled by his own hands. 

”Fuck,” Sefu cursed. He inhaled more sharply this time and exhaled more deeply. He repeated this for a full two minutes before the images dissipated in a cloudy wisp and his mind returned to the blackened darkness. He opened his eyes and met the sword once more, safely tucked away in its sheath and tied to the saddle bags on Visuain’s body. Safely away from Sefu’s hand. And he preferred it that way. He sighed deeply and continued to brush his equine’s barrel before eventually moving to his thigh and all around. Sefu had been taught to take care of the things that were important to him and there arguably none more important than his horse. They had been together through the thickest of times and the thinnest of memories. Their bond had been solidified like a hammer to molten metal. And it was because of this bond that Sefu instantly knew something was off when Visuain neighed once more and kicked up his legs. 

”What is wrong, boy?”

Another neigh followed by a kicking of hind legs. Then a stumble backwards. 

Sefu cocked his head and raised a brow. Visuain wasn’t spooked very easily, but clearly something had shaken the poor creature. It was by the grace of Sefu’s prior training that he instinctively dove away from Visuain and rolled to the other side of the fire a moment after he’d heard the twigs snap in the underbrush. If not for those twigs, he’d have been mauled in that instant. The roar was familiar to his ears. 

”Yah!” Sefu shouted towards Visuain. Obediently, the equine turned and sprinted off down the hill that led to Hangman’s tree. Sefu immediately turned to face his would-be murderer and furrowed his brow at the sight of the beast. The long snout beneath glowing yellow eyes that were slit to see in complete darkness. The furry ears on top of an equally furry head that were primed for hearing even the most ambient of noises. The musculature on the body that denoted the superhuman strength of the creature and its ability to maul with little effort. Sefu blew through his lips and stood straight even as the creature hunched and bent its knees, snarling at the man it had missed in its initial attack. It was a werewolf and even hunched it stood heads taller than Sefu. He eyed his shield still leaning on the trunk of Hangman’s tree, but his attacker stood between it and him. Sefu bent his knees. 

The werewolf growled before beginning to take small, deliberate steps to the side and around the fire. Sefu did the same but to the opposite side of the fire. They each moved slowly in a clockwise circle, Sefu approaching the eight and the werewolf approaching the three. Their eyes remained locked onto one another, each watching for even the slightest movement out of the ordinary. The tension was palpable, but Sefu knew he had to be careful. Werewolves were usually enemies that required a few more people to take on because normally they roamed in packs, but he was silently thankful that this one seemed to be separated from its group. A group would have been a definitive death sentence. Even still, a single uninjured werewolf was a challenge in and of itself. 

He eyed his shield again. He was getting closer to it. They still circled each other slowly, sizing one another up and packing the silence with tension. Sefu felt the opportunity arise. So he pounced on it. Suddenly, he broke the circling and sprinted toward his shield. He didn’t need to turn his head to know the werewolf had broken the circling a second after he did and was already hot on his trail. As soon as Sefu reached the tree trunk, he yanked his shield up with two hands and spun around, raising it upwards just in time to block a furious swipe from the claw of the beast. The clang echoed throughout the atmosphere and Sefu took the half second to push his arm through hand holds and arm himself properly. The beast didn’t let up. It swiped and swung over and over again trying its best to rip its prey to shreds but Sefu blocked each and every swipe. The strength of the beast couldn’t be denied though. His shoulders and arms already started to sting due to the pain of the reverberation of force transferred from the beast’s offensive. 

”Fuck,” Sefu cursed. He pivoted around to the beast’s back in an adept flow of movement, a practiced skill he’d honed during his apprenticeship days in Wiclind. Using the centrifugal force generated from the inside pivot, he spun again and swiped the edge of his shield at the beast’s furry back. He felt the bladed edge bite into the skin and drag across, ripping open a wound and spurting blood on his cheek and breastplate. Sefu immediately followed up by prancing away and creating some distance back on the other side of the fire. The werewolf roared in anger and pain, but twisted around mostly unaffected. Their enhanced durability couldn’t be denied. Sefu panted as he bent his knees and kept his shield up in front of his lowered body. He was already fatigued from diving around in full armor and blocking a creature who was far stronger than he was physically. And fatigue often meant mistakes which usually meant death. 

The blade flashed in his mind once. His steel sword strapped to Visuain called out to him in his mental sanctum. He could hear it clearly. The sword begged to be unsheathed. Begged to devour the flesh of Sefu’s enemies. He ignored the call. Visuain was safely out of harm’s way and even if he was around that sword would remain locked away. Sefu could feel the tremors in his hands start up again at just the thought of using his sword. He briefly closed his eyes to quell them, but the beast took advantage of the moment. The werewolf jumped over the flames and lunged at Sefu intending to sink its fangs right into his neck. Sefu half-stepped to the side, but couldn’t avoid the beast’s left-handed swipe, claws digging into his breastplate and dragging across ferociously. Sefu pushed himself into a backwards roll and came up on his feet shield raised in front of him again. He winced. Four gashes laid part of his chest bare as blood rolled down his exposed skin. His armor was quality, but a direct werewolf’s strike was simply too much for it. He panted some more as the creature bared its teeth and growled at him again. 

At this rate, things weren’t going to end well. But somewhere, in the deep recesses of Sefu’s mind, a voice called out to him. Said maybe things would be better this way. Maybe this was his true atonement. He didn’t know if he could trust the voice, but he knew one thing. The pain in his chest combined with his growing fatigue was going to spell some kind of doom for him one way or the other. And somewhere, in some part of his psyche, Sefu was inclined to accept his apparent fate.

A full moon was an ill omen. 

Shadows clung to the Carrion Wood like a blanket of death, suffocating life from its eaves like a noose. Bare branches rattled like bones in the wind, shaking loose its last crumpled leaves that fell heavily to the ground. Tree roots burrowed deep and stretched across the forest floor, a web of disease and decay knotting and twisting beneath the earth. Rot emanated from the soil, rancid and sour, as if hell itself rejected the dead, its halls too full to collect one more soul.

The Carrion was pestilence, a blight that scorched the earth, and a dark supplicant that preceded its god: Hangman’s Tree.

When night settled across the land, the woods became a grave. Folk didn’t enter the Carrion after dark. Smarter folk never set foot beyond the treeline. And the smartest folk never left the safety of their homes once the light left the sky. The night didn’t belong to them. It belonged to bandits, murderers, and rapers. It belonged to the monsters, to the creatures who cried out from the darkness, and to the beasts that prowled in the shadows… It belonged to the Black Lilies, to those who hunted predators and slayed nightmares. 

The forest didn’t frighten Tamsin as it did others. While the groan of wood and the rustle of underbrush could leave the most stalwart ill at ease, they grounded her. She could tell the difference between a man, beast, or hare by the sharpness of a snapped twig underfoot, and knew when danger lurked around the bend by the twitch of Bane’s ear or the bristling of his hackles. The forest was treacherous, deadly to those who did not know it. But when its secrets were mastered, it was safer than any city.

Tamsin could have made camp beneath the Hangman’s Tree. She could have shared the warmth of a fire and conversation with the figure she noticed lounging at its trunk. But she knew better. Eventide was nearly upon her. Neither the openness of the hill nor the light of a fire could offer the solace people sought. They were beacons in the darkness, a signal to every monster—man or beast—calling to them in the night, leading them toward prey. While she desired warmth, and would not deny the prospect of more riveting conversation rather than more or less talking to herself under the guise of speaking with her animals, instinct overtook desire. She remained behind the treeline, retreating deeper into the forest until she found a copse of trees not far off the weathered path. 

Darkness came early and settled quick. The bite in the air was a harbinger of winter, its cold breath creeping closer with every setting sun. Tamsin didn’t dare build a fire, no matter how much the chill prickled the hair along the back of her neck and settled quickly into her bones. The light might have kept creatures at bay, but it wasn’t wolves nor bears that gave her pause in the dead of night. Monsters did not frighten so easily. Rather than letting herself go from hunter to hunted, she embraced the cold begrudgingly, having grown accustomed to nights spent on frigid earth with not for warmth beyond the clothes on her back and the closeness of her animal companions. 

The ranger had settled in like she did most nights, finding the most suitable small patch of land among the trees to suffice as her bed until dawn. But she did not sleep… She never slept for fear of the nightmares that claimed her whenever her eyes shut. Tamsin sat in the dirt, unbothered of the way the earth clung to her like a second skin, leaning back against the flank of a resting Fen-Strider affectionately called Shadow. Her hunting leathers did little to retain body heat, but blocked the wind’s bite whenever it whipped through the trees like a fury. Her fur-lined cloak was wrapped tightly around her arms, the ends of it resting lazily along her legs that stretched out before her, crossed at the ankles. 

A worn leather pouch filled with feathers of all shapes and colors gathered from various fowl along her travels sat to Tamsin’s right. To her left was a small bunch of sticks all roughly three feet in length and fairly straight, foraged before the sun had set and cast the Carrion Wood in darkness. Her hands stuck out from beneath the hem of her cloak chilled to the absence of feeling, but she did not need her senses when muscle memory took over. She braced a stick against the earth while her right hand moved up and down in meticulous strokes, shaving wood into thin coils as she whittle a stick into an arrow shaft. The small clearing was filled with the rhythmic shink of her blade, the deep cadence of Shadow’s breathing, and the sharp gnawing of fangs against bone. The only light came from the moon, silver rays poured through the tree tops and reflected off a strategically placed polished silver hand mirror. 

Tamsin heard them coming before she ever saw them. 

Their steps were louder than an ogre’s, clumsy and heavy like a drunkard stumbling blind through the forest. There were five, maybe six of them. Their boots clipped on every tree root, crushing twigs underfoot without a care. Lascivious laughter preceded them like the growl of a hungry beast catching sight of its super. Tamsin’s animals stilled, alert and waiting, but she never moved, never even lifted her eyes from the task at hand. Her blade continued to strike wood in measured strokes, dusting her lap in shavings before the wind carried them away. 

Their leader—or so she assumed—stepped into view first, slithering between two trees like a snake through brush. His grin was wide and snaggled, with teeth nearly the same color as his greasy shit stained hair. He carried a gut churning sort of arrogance that was far too large for his tattered loose breeches. The man seemed to have the type of tunnel vision that narrowed at the sight of tits, disregarding where he stood at the heart of a plague masking as a forest. 

He did not hide the lustful drag of his gaze from Tamsin’s head, down to her feet, then back up again, punctuating it with a sickly moist click of his tongue. "Oy, lads… Lookie what we got ‘ere."

A second man stepped forward, somehow more displeasing to the eye than the first, including the bald spot atop his head that reflected the moonlight better than any piece of silver. "What’s a pretty lil miss, such as yerself, doing out ‘ere all alone in the deep dark woods?"

"Maybe she needs protection?" a third offered, leaning against a tree toward her left with a grin that was colder than the breeze that cut through her cloak. "Safety ‘n numbers ‘n all ‘at." His laugh was sinister and guttural, rumbling deep in his chest like a caged beast wanting to break free. 

The other half of their group stepped forward, filling the gaps between the trees to her right. One of them took an extra step forward, wild stringy hair falling from the leather tie that attempted to tame his mane at the base of his skull. His hand trembled as he pointed at her, not with fear but an excitement so visceral it racked his body more violently than a single pinch of poppy dust. "Ooohhh." The word fell from his mouth with child-like glee, causing the strings of saliva that stretched thin between his lips to quiver from his erratic breaths. "She’s got red ‘air. I always liked the ones with red ‘air."

Tamsin’s blade stopped, her knuckles blanching where her grip on the half shucked stick tightened. The memory came swift and unstoppable, slipping to the forefront of her mind like a honed blade between ribs. Flames silhouetted a face not unlike her own, held down in a puddle of mud, blood, and piss. A strong hand twisted into red hair, scarred and calloused, muscles tensing with more strength than necessary, a show of power, control, and dominance. He laughed loud and triumphant over her sputtering coughs and begs for mercy. His fingers tightened, jerking her head back toward him like a rearing horse. His head lowered, nose disappearing beneath crimson curls, deeply inhaling her scent as his other hand curled possessively around her throat. "I’ve always liked the ones with red hair… They have more fight in them." His voice had a terrifying confidence, strong and unyielding with the laughs of his men goading him into action. 

Her eyes shut tight, the memory shifting and melding into the dark laughter of the bandits surrounding her. When Tamsin opened her eyes, they were all a step closer, exchanging glances that said she missed something shared between them, something that would have set her teeth on edge. Her gaze shifted to her right, where her bow laid just out of reach, resting against her pack a few paces away. She blinked slowly, eyelids lazily rising as she looked over at the leader. There was no fear behind her eyes, only the annoyance of being disturbed when she was at peace and resting. 

"You should leave." One warning. That is all they would get. She looked between the men, holding each of their gazes as they approached. In a single deft movement, she adjusted her hold on the hunting knife, spinning it in her palm into a reverse grip. 

The trees around them rustled as a strong gust of wind swept through the forest. For a single moment moonlight caught on a small bit of metal hanging from a chain around her neck, a pin worn like a pendant. A man to her right froze, eyes widening before he took a cautious step backwards. "She’s a fuckin’ Lily," he practically spat, wagging his finger at her like she was a disease. He took another step back, heel clipping on a tree root, and fell on his backside with a hard thud.

"So?" the presumed leader asked, brows furrowing with an incredulous sort of judgement. "There’s six of us ‘n one of ‘er."

"I don’ know, Rask," one of the men argued, apprehension clear as day across his face. 

"I didn’ sign up to fuck with no Lily," another added.

Rask scoffed, rolling his eyes at his men. "Stop bein’ a bunch of fuckin’ cunts." his attention then snapped back to Tamsin, running his tongue along his rotting teeth as he stared unabashedly at her figure. "Once she gets a taste of my cock she’ll stop fightin’." He smacked his lips, shooting her a vile wink before his hand dropped and grabbed at whatever manhood did or did not exist between his legs. 

Tamsin’s face twisted into a disgusted grimace, furrowed brows, curled lips, and a scoff she was unable to repress. "No thank you," she replied, her revulsion evident in the disdain that laced her words. "I would rather fuck a boar than your shriveled up little cock."

Whatever sadistic light lived behind Rask’s eyes faded in an instant, his smile sinking into a scowl that was surprisingly far more suitable for his face. His hand fell to his hip where a cracked and worn leather belt held a sheathed dagger. "You fuckin’ bitch," he hissed at her. Discolored spit sputtered from his lips trailing his words, and dripped down his chin. Dirt caked fingers curled around the dagger hilt as he took a step forward. The forest seemed to hold its breath, going still and silent as the grave when he pulled the weapon free, its blade reflecting a dull rusted silver in the moonlight. 

The huntress did not move, did not flinch. A smirk, dark and wild, curled at the corner of her mouth knowing what was to come. A bush that had remained still and lifeless behind her, silhouetted in the darkness of the forest, rose as if coming to life. What had once looked like dead leaves and thin branches now revealed to be fur, thick and coarse and black as night. It stalked forward. Twigs snapped and cleaned bones from an unknown carcass rattled ominously under its paws. A growl rumbled from deep beneath its hide. Sharp fangs and piercing green eyes shined in the shadows before it stepped forward into the moonlight. A direwolf—scarred and weathered from combat so terrifying the bandits before it would have soiled their trousers—stared them down like his next meal. The creature’s lips curled, baring razor sharp fangs caging a snarl that vibrated through the very earth beneath their feet. 

"Bane is hungry… And very protective," Tamsin offered simply, not a threat but fact… a fact that put those men in a precarious position that grew more deadly as the wolf grew closer. 

If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was a gorgon looming over her shoulder at the way the group of bandits froze. Rask’s hands rose in the air, his pathetic excuse for a weapon slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground. "I… I—" He tried to speak but was cut short by a sharp growl and a snap of Bane’s fangs. 

And that was the end of it. 

Frightened gasps and mumbled curses startled their souls back into their bodies. The men did not hesitate or linger, turning tail as if the devil himself was hot on their trail. They pushed and forced their way past each other to get as far away as possible. They didn’t have to be the fastest, only faster than their weakest link, Rask, who tripped and stumbled over his ill-fitting breeches with every other step. The third time he fell, not a dozen feet outside of Tamsin’s camp, there was the weighty thud of a coin purse that he didn’t bother to retrieve, finding his life more valuable that the gold he stole from travelers. 

Tamsin sighed, frustrated at the interruption in her nightly ritual rather than their sad attempt at intimidation. She slipped her hunting knife into his sheath hidden in her boot, then pushed off the ground with a groan, her joints stiff and aching from age, abuse, and the cold. "I’m getting old, boy," she muttered to the wolf, scratching him affectionately behind the ear as she walked by. 

Her steps were silent along the forest floor with a learned dexterity from years in the wilds that came naturally, without thought. The trail the bandits left behind was sloppy and easy to follow. She did not have to wander far before reaching the coin pouch. She slowly crouched, knees popping in protest having not had the proper time to limber. A heavy sigh turned white in the cold air as it slipped from her nose. She reached for the small sack, nearly taking it in her hand before the putrid stench assaulted her nostrils and she noticed the rot that festered along the leather. 

"Gross." She grimaced, face scrunching in disgust as she patiently gathered the coins piece by piece, very pointedly never touching the purse. 

When she finished, Tamsin slowly stood back up, weighing the coin in her palm as her gaze drifted down the overgrown path in the direction the bandits vanished. The idiots in their haste did not run toward the edge of the forest but deeper toward the heart of the pestilence. If they were lucky, they would survive until morning. If they were luckier, their deaths would be swift and painless at the hands of some terrible creature. But she did not imagine they would go quietly. They would scream and wail, covered in their own excrement like cowards. Perhaps it was fate, some divine atonement for their misdeeds. Their deaths would not undo the pain wrought with their own hands, but it was payment enough… and the best one could get in a world like this.

The night had gone quiet once again, no bandits or beasts lurking out of sight waiting for their opportunity to strike. Tamsin had just returned to her rhythm, blade to wood, thin shavings peppering her legs when another sound pierced the veil of silence that had settled around her. As the hurried beats grew closer the noise became clearer and she knew it to be the thundering of hooves hastily approaching. Her tools were quickly discarded before she leapt to her feet, urgency overtaking discomfort as it often did. She rushed out onto the trail just in time to see a saddled steed frightened and approaching quickly. Her arms rose, hands bare in innocent surrender. When the horse drew close, she tried to calm it, whispering quiet woahs, as she side stepped and grabbed hold of the reins. 

Her left hand instinctively tugged the leather lead low, tilting the creature's head downwards so her other hand could gently run along its forehead to muzzle. "Shh. Shh. Shh," Tamsin hushed it gently, repeating the soft strokes in a patient, calming rhythm. The horse stamped its hooves, shifting from side to side as it huffed heavy, erratic breaths through its nose. After a few moments of gentle coaxing, the frightened animal stilled under her guidance. "Where is your rider?" she asked, her gaze drifting beyond the mount down the path in the direction it came from. She knew what was beyond without looking, not far was the edge of the forest, and then the lone hill topped with the Hangman’s Tree. She remembered the faint silhouette of a person beneath it, but could not recall seeing a horse alongside them. 

Tamsin knew better than to wander about the Carrion Wood in the dead of night looking for a rider who may—or may not—still be alive. It would have to wait until dawn. With little other choice, she guided the horse toward her camp. Neither Bane nor Shadow stirred as a new animal drew near, accustomed and comfortable in the presence of natural creatures untainted by the Catastrophe. The horse needed more gentle encouragement to move closer to Bane but with a few more minutes of patience and a gentle hand, she was able to tie its reins around a nearby tree. 

After grabbing some food she had stored for Shadow, Tamsin returned to the stray horse with a tender hand stroking its mane. "Are you hungry, sweeting?" she asked, holding out the large root for it to take. 

A howl, sharp and furious, cut through the dead of night like a blade through flesh. A chill unlike the one that hung in the air, colder and bone deep, snagged on her senses like a predator catching wind of its prey. Tamsin knew that sound well. It was a roar of dominance, of pain and intimidation… Werewolf. The beast’s call, the riderless horse, they both came from the Hangman’s Tree. She might not have been a betting woman, but every shred of intuition said that this poor creature’s owner was seconds from evisceration. Time was already against her and she did not dare take either of the horses into the monster’s clutches for the sake of speed. 

Tamsin didn’t waste a second, darting for her bow and a quiver of silver tipped arrows. A sharp whistle sliced through the air, stirring Bane into action. The pair took off through the forest, carving a path directly for the hill, ignoring paths and anything else that could slow them down. The direwolf barreled ahead with the swift elegance of a predator set to course. Trailing behind him, the huntress weaved between trees and hurdled roots without sacrificing momentum. They burst through the treeline with a furious haste. A lone hill ascended before them, topped with a grand oak illuminated in rich amber firelight. Corpses in various stages of decay hung from its branches, swaying in the wind with every strong gust. And beneath them, two shadows danced around the firepit in a deadly game of cat and mouse. 

Atop the hill the werewolf threw its head back, letting out a blood curdling howl, triumphant and ripe for the kill. It stalked around the fire with a predator’s patience, growling and panting as it closed in on its helpless prey. The beast towered over the man, rearing onto its hind legs with its claws extended, ready to strike. An acute whistle sounded from just beyond the firelight, drawing the werewolf’s attention before it could attack. An arrow, with a tip that glinted silver in the moonlight, carved through the air, lodging itself in the monster’s right eye with a sickening squelch. Its head craned back with a pained yowl that ripped through the air. Mid wail, a second wolf—half its size, scarred and furious—leapt into the firelight, lunging at the werewolf. Fangs bared down on the beast’s throat and claws tore at flesh. 

Then with the stealth of a phantom, the huntress now stood before the man. Her crimson braid burned bright in the firelight, chest heaving with labored pants, as she nocked another arrow.  Her breath steadied and she released the bowstring. She turned toward the man, not waiting to see the arrow hit its mark in the werewolf’s calf as she held out a hand toward him in aid and urgency. "If you cannot fight, then run," was all she offered.

AuthorialTheory A Vortex of Theorem

Mjolnir sʟᴇᴇᴘ ᴘᴀʀᴀʟʏsɪs ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴ