My Dear Hunter

Twelve seconds past midnight. Aoife’s hair billows out behind her like a cloud, her eye keen and searching. The nearby village has put a bounty on a juvenile bloodeater, a beast that feasts upon the freshly harvested blood of children. It’s only trying to live, a part of her thinks, but the other part knows that no monster deserves life, least of all a monster with a price. The Church will decorate her finely for retrieving the pelt of the bloodeater — it will warm the hearth of the Good Mother for many winters to come.

She flies high on her mount, the pegasus taking her only as far as the fringe of the shadows before it begins to whinny in displeasure. No matter. Aoife is more than capable of hunting on foot, especially on nights when the moon is hung bright in the sky like a pearl. She throws her sight metres ahead, tracking by the tufts of fur snagged on branches and footprints left in the soft earth.

It’s not long until she comes upon its den. The bones of the village chief’s daughter line the entrance, enchanted with the sick curse of death. Aoife’s arcane magic swiftly unravels the knot of ill will and she steps over the ghost white bones. Sleeping soundly against the wall is the bloodeater, a blind and deaf creature with an exceptional sense of smell. Its faceless head snuffles gently on its bed of hair, chest rising and falling in time with the passing seconds.

Aoife could end it now while it sleeps, but there’s no fun in that. She likes to make them fight. And so she runs the edge of her blade along her arm, blood bubbling from the cut and alerting the bloodeater to the smell of food.

It happens in a second. The bloodeater lashes out, long claws reaching precisely for Aoife’s torso, but she twirls out of the way with the grace of a ballerina. Her blade, screaming as it cuts through the air with deft and dexterous purpose, cuts cleanly down through the paw. The beast is crying now, whimpering and drawing back with the clear intent to run.

It’s easy to corner it. It’s even easier to deal the finishing blow, and then another, and then another. It doesn’t fight back, not even when Aoife’s hacking at the bone and has more than ruined half of the pelt with her wild thrashing. The song of blood is roaring in her ears, her eyes glinting with the taste of hysteria, and her tongue darts out to taste what she knows will come back hot iron. Fur, skin, muscle, viscera. She’s peeling the layers one by one, until.

Hush now, my dear hunter…

Aoife staggers backwards, her ears pricked.

Take only what the gods permit. Take only what you’re owed.

It’s a different type of song, one that she only catches snatches of on clear skied nights like these when her mind is clouded but her sight is clear. She stumbles in the direction of the sound, chasing the sweet refrain.

Come find me, my dear hunter…

The beast is slain, blood wicking off Aoife’s blade like the sweat dripping down her back. Her hunter’s gear, utilitarian as ever, is stained with splatters of iridescent ichor. She’s run ragged. Her breath is drawn out of her like smoke and with it filters out the bloodlust, carried away on the wings of incandescent song.

Come take what you are owed.

But beautiful things are not meant for Aoife, and so the song subsides, leaving only the whisper of a memory in her ear.