- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- late night PST
- Writing Levels
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Nonbinary
The first sign of the crocotta pack was a dead steer on the side of the road. Altan had only just left the village of Hornsay and already there were signs of attack. The pack must have grown brave enough to venture closer and closer to town until it could call away unsuspecting men and women to their deaths. The animal’s innards were pulled out, bones crushed and chewed on. A frown creased across Altan’s face, his thick eyebrows furrowing. No wonder the villagers were willing to pay as much as they were for this job. Not far off lay the rotting flesh of a man, clothes and body torn to pieces and an expression of decomposing horror at his face. Flies and maggots squirmed through dead muscle. Swatting away a few flies that buzzed too close to his face, Altan watched as his dog ventured closer to the death. Her grey muzzle was low, sniffing at the area around the bodies, mud clinging to her wiry fur where she’d wandered through puddles all too happily in the village. The dog lapped curiously at the carrion, earning a grimace from Altan.
Altan clicked his tongue to get her attention. To stop her from putting strange things in her mouth, he lowly said, “Come on Girl,” and tugged softly at the reigns in his hands, urging his horse forward again. Girl scattered back over to the road and continued on ahead of the horse, keeping her usual place in their wandering trio. She picked up the pace whenever the sound of hoof beats came up too closely behind her, tongue dropping out of her mouth as she hurried along.
They kept by the road, only turning off it when the smell veered off the dirt into a field. Girl led them through it and towards a sparsely wooded area alongside a small field of crops. The wheat grew tall, golden and almost ready for harvest, shifting with the breeze in quiet whispers. Paranoia made Altan hear his name. He was bracing himself for it, had been since he’d heard the job out here in Hornsay had to do with crocotta. A pack of the hooved hyena-dogs had taken over a bear den not far from the main village. Not an outright difficult job, and while he was bound to get hurt his thick leather caribocks armor and the extra padding of coarse fabric underneath was hopefully going to keep him from bleeding. Bruising was another matter entirely.
Crocatta were more difficult to kill than a plain wolf. They were prone to lunging in groups and neither steel nor stone would fall one. Altan had spent his off hours on his way to the village fixing arrows dipped very carefully in cockatrice poison. He really didn’t like working with the stuff, especially when he was caught in the moment as it had a tendency to turn good gloves into stone. Not to mention the expense. But it was effective against crocatta and Altan chose to see the expense as an investment. With this job, he would make back the cost of gathering and buying poison plus some. And while Altan was not very silver tongued or interested in regaling others with stories of victory, often enough a village would be grateful enough to get him a few rounds and a room free the night of a completed job.
Altan tried to focus on that profit and foreseeable gifts of gratitude as the bear den came into view, framed by trees with bare branches and fallen leaves. He was expecting to hear eerie calls of his name, luring him inwards with an injured impersonation of human voices. Instead he heard yips, laughing barks, and the clattering of hooves against stone and earth. Altan dismounted his horse, pulling his bow from its quiver on the side of the saddle, the one allotted for his arrows already strapped at his back. He sent the horse off with a relatively gentle smack to keep her from immediate danger. Old Man, as he had so aptly named the mare, would come round when he whistled anyways. Arming the bow, he approached the mouth of the den, squinting into the shadows. He released his arrow into a crocatta that emerged, it had already been bleeding from its leg. The beast was paralyzed immediately, falling to the ground as it’s flesh turned to stone slowly from where the arrow had penetrated its flank.
“Girl! Here!” he snapped at the dog harshly who had gone running forward towards the den. Who or whatever had injured that crocatta was bound to mistake his dog for one and he didn’t want her dying stupidly. Girl came running back to her human, heeling and moving with him as he approached the den and came across his rival hunter.
Rearming his bow, Altan retraced the movement of a spear launching at a dashing crocatta to the man throwing it. The unarmored man throwing it. He couldn’t care less about what sort of a death wish some local villager or wet-behind-the-ears hunter might have. What he did care about was the fact that if this man truly was trying to take a job from him, he ought to be doing it better or preferably not at all. Altan shot the targeted monster down when the spear missed, smoothly drawing another arrow from his quiver as Girl lunged at another one of the pack who came to attack him.
“Idiot! I’ve got this! Leave while you can!" He called over after shooting his third arrow, frown deepening when it missed and struck the far wall instead of its target. It clattered into a pile of bones. Altan kept moving as he drew his arrows and fired them, making sure to keep distance between himself and the moving members of the pack.
Altan clicked his tongue to get her attention. To stop her from putting strange things in her mouth, he lowly said, “Come on Girl,” and tugged softly at the reigns in his hands, urging his horse forward again. Girl scattered back over to the road and continued on ahead of the horse, keeping her usual place in their wandering trio. She picked up the pace whenever the sound of hoof beats came up too closely behind her, tongue dropping out of her mouth as she hurried along.
They kept by the road, only turning off it when the smell veered off the dirt into a field. Girl led them through it and towards a sparsely wooded area alongside a small field of crops. The wheat grew tall, golden and almost ready for harvest, shifting with the breeze in quiet whispers. Paranoia made Altan hear his name. He was bracing himself for it, had been since he’d heard the job out here in Hornsay had to do with crocotta. A pack of the hooved hyena-dogs had taken over a bear den not far from the main village. Not an outright difficult job, and while he was bound to get hurt his thick leather caribocks armor and the extra padding of coarse fabric underneath was hopefully going to keep him from bleeding. Bruising was another matter entirely.
Crocatta were more difficult to kill than a plain wolf. They were prone to lunging in groups and neither steel nor stone would fall one. Altan had spent his off hours on his way to the village fixing arrows dipped very carefully in cockatrice poison. He really didn’t like working with the stuff, especially when he was caught in the moment as it had a tendency to turn good gloves into stone. Not to mention the expense. But it was effective against crocatta and Altan chose to see the expense as an investment. With this job, he would make back the cost of gathering and buying poison plus some. And while Altan was not very silver tongued or interested in regaling others with stories of victory, often enough a village would be grateful enough to get him a few rounds and a room free the night of a completed job.
Altan tried to focus on that profit and foreseeable gifts of gratitude as the bear den came into view, framed by trees with bare branches and fallen leaves. He was expecting to hear eerie calls of his name, luring him inwards with an injured impersonation of human voices. Instead he heard yips, laughing barks, and the clattering of hooves against stone and earth. Altan dismounted his horse, pulling his bow from its quiver on the side of the saddle, the one allotted for his arrows already strapped at his back. He sent the horse off with a relatively gentle smack to keep her from immediate danger. Old Man, as he had so aptly named the mare, would come round when he whistled anyways. Arming the bow, he approached the mouth of the den, squinting into the shadows. He released his arrow into a crocatta that emerged, it had already been bleeding from its leg. The beast was paralyzed immediately, falling to the ground as it’s flesh turned to stone slowly from where the arrow had penetrated its flank.
“Girl! Here!” he snapped at the dog harshly who had gone running forward towards the den. Who or whatever had injured that crocatta was bound to mistake his dog for one and he didn’t want her dying stupidly. Girl came running back to her human, heeling and moving with him as he approached the den and came across his rival hunter.
Rearming his bow, Altan retraced the movement of a spear launching at a dashing crocatta to the man throwing it. The unarmored man throwing it. He couldn’t care less about what sort of a death wish some local villager or wet-behind-the-ears hunter might have. What he did care about was the fact that if this man truly was trying to take a job from him, he ought to be doing it better or preferably not at all. Altan shot the targeted monster down when the spear missed, smoothly drawing another arrow from his quiver as Girl lunged at another one of the pack who came to attack him.
“Idiot! I’ve got this! Leave while you can!" He called over after shooting his third arrow, frown deepening when it missed and struck the far wall instead of its target. It clattered into a pile of bones. Altan kept moving as he drew his arrows and fired them, making sure to keep distance between himself and the moving members of the pack.
@Tinder
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