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The Hunt
“Why do you do it?” The Woman had asked.
Nevermore regarded the training dummy as he stepped into it, the posts sticking out at odd angles to indicate lines of attack in a hand to hand fight. The manuals were clear on the process for arm positions, blocking, moves and counter moves – and so he began to move, slowly. If there was one concept he understood intuitively it was that speed came from time – slow became smooth and then smooth became fast.
As his elbows, hands, shoulders, slowly thudded against the wooden training dummy, the words rolled around his mind. He was present in the moment, in the practice, because it could save his life, but there was still the corner of his mind that wrestled with that single question.
What in the name of all the Gods was he doing?
His hands hurt. His arms hurt. His shoulders hurt. His legs hurt.
Everything hurt and protested over and again as they impacted the hardened and treated wood of the dummy. What was he doing? Sure, he had certain advantages because of the curse, but each night he put on that mask and went out into the darkness was a night where he was risking loosing control and giving into the Hunger which gnawed at his mind like a feral beast. For not the first time, he was thankful he’d asked Bastion to design a full face mask so that he was protected as much as restrained from hurting – truly hurting – anyone else.
He could feel the blood beginning to appear on his skin – that strange slow seep that wasn’t quite true bleeding. The wood was tearing his skin and one part of him spun off into pondering what lie he would spin to cover it this time.
Finally, he came to a stop, eyeing the stoic and silent training dummy that had the faint crimson marks on the various extensions. He wasn’t breathless because he didn’t need to breathe. He wasn’t bloodied because he didn’t need to bleed.
Monster or man, he pondered slowly. Hunter or hunted?
Lies within lies within masks – that was what his life was now if he was to pursue the mission he had given himself – if he was to pursue the Hunt.
Somewhere, out in those Novandrian Nights, was the monster he was hunting.
Somewhere, out in those Novandrian Nights, he would find it and it would die under the white and shining lenses of his eyes.
Continue reading...
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The Hunt Begins
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Sir Victor Orsei Playlist
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Sentinel
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The Hunt
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A Dance Macabre
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Promises I can't Keep
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Mother
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Easier to Run towards the Ashes
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Perfectly un/happy
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The Hunger
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Untitled - Brief
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Fire
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Heroes
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Animal
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Untitled
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Unmasked
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Hanging in the balance
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Two lives
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A Fall of Sorts
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...
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...
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...
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Scars Unseen and Unsaid
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Old Company
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Control
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Journal Entry - April 1884
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An Evening in Hell
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