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all_inclusive2014-04-20 11:35 pm
follow_the_wolf) wrote in all_inclusive2014-04-20 11:35 pm
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The Huntsman and His Wolves
Stories of the Huntsman and his Wolves were traded over the fires in the camps at the edges of Roman territory. Those whispers twisted with each telling, changed in the inflections and origin of its speaker. The Roman Empire spanned continents and pulled its soldiers from every territory, but no matter the language of those who shared the story, every tribe had a word for 'wolf.'
Some said they were outlaws who had been brought under the heel of the Emperor and had agreed to follow his orders in exchange for the sparing of their lives. Some said they were soldiers who had moved too smoothly through battle and been hand chosen by their commander to join his elite unit. Still others claimed they were shapeshifters who changed shape with the moon and so only struck enemy forces on those three nights of every month that the moon was at its fullest. There were whispers that each Wolf stood towering tall and lean under daylight, and became monstrous creatures under the fall of night. Most shocking of all, there were even whispers that there were women among their number who fought alongside the men as equals.
All agreed that the Wolves wore heavy mantles of thick fur across their shoulders, the long cloaks that fell behind them the color of the forest at night. They moved like ghosts through the forests they struck from, attacked only at night and fought with sword and bow and what could only be imagined as strange knives by the wounds left on the dead they left in their wake.
The Huntsman stepped at the forefront of his Wolves then, as dusk fell heavy among the trees, and looked over his shoulder to inspect those who ranged behind him, readying themselves for the strike ahead. He lifted his chin and spoke to the nearest of his Wolves, "You prepared?"
Some said they were outlaws who had been brought under the heel of the Emperor and had agreed to follow his orders in exchange for the sparing of their lives. Some said they were soldiers who had moved too smoothly through battle and been hand chosen by their commander to join his elite unit. Still others claimed they were shapeshifters who changed shape with the moon and so only struck enemy forces on those three nights of every month that the moon was at its fullest. There were whispers that each Wolf stood towering tall and lean under daylight, and became monstrous creatures under the fall of night. Most shocking of all, there were even whispers that there were women among their number who fought alongside the men as equals.
All agreed that the Wolves wore heavy mantles of thick fur across their shoulders, the long cloaks that fell behind them the color of the forest at night. They moved like ghosts through the forests they struck from, attacked only at night and fought with sword and bow and what could only be imagined as strange knives by the wounds left on the dead they left in their wake.
The Huntsman stepped at the forefront of his Wolves then, as dusk fell heavy among the trees, and looked over his shoulder to inspect those who ranged behind him, readying themselves for the strike ahead. He lifted his chin and spoke to the nearest of his Wolves, "You prepared?"
[AU and open to any who might like some leather and fur clad warriors in the Northern reaches of the Empire. Obviously any who are already shapeshifters could remain so, but others (such as the Huntsman himself) are purely human warriors]
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He is not to do this. He has sworn to give control to the sane parts of his mind and not the monster. It still gnaws at him, but he fears it will always do so, because to tell the truth, it is a part of him that cannot be shaken. Hal slowly and methodically wipes the blood from off his sword until there isn't a trace of it left, taking care not to breathe in through his nose until he was finished.
"Do you think the fear of the gods is in them?" he asks, for if not, they have not done their task well enough.
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At the edge of the camp now littered with the bodies of their slain foes, looking around himself earns Hal's question only one answer. "I think the gods are all that matter to them now," he said, his brows drawn together. Resignation, not victory, triumphed in his voice, drawing his words flat from him and emptying them of all inflection.
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And though Hal has suppressed the hunger, it is still a hungry and vile smile that crosses his lips as he stares at the destruction around them, caused by their own hands. It is everything and it is wonderful and he had a part in it. Some thirsty part of his soul (if ever he still had one) calls out for more of it, but he tempers it with the knowledge that he must keep allies if he wishes to keep his life comfortable.
His gaze skirts over his companion. "And how many lives did you take?"
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"Six, this night." How many had been taken by his hand, at the edge of his sword, or at the tip of an arrow from his bow, he had long ago lost count. Their faces had long ago blurred into a mosaic of fury and of pain and of desperation, buried under the weight of necessity and set as distant from himself as he was able. He took care not to kill the innocent, to keep harm from women and children, to spare animals wherever he was able. The life he bought in blood spilled was often a thin thing, but it was his all the same. It was all that was his.
It was a subject he did not wish to discuss and indeed pulled himself physically back from, choosing instead to tell the other man. "We will finish here, then move on."
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