The Shadow Hunt

An unearthly baying echoed out in the umbral darkness of the night, curdling blood and setting teeth on edge. Cold sweat beaded on every brow as the Red Badges placed themselves in a circle with their backs to the last of the fire's fading embers. In the near total darkness under a slim silver crescent, the ragged voice of Kjelest was the first harsh whisper to break the silence.
"What....the FUCK...was THAT? And why does it make me want to crawl into the darkest hole I can find?"
At first no one said anything. What could they say? There was no doubt in any of them that the baying was not of this world. Even the echoes of that sound inspired an atavistic urge to run, run, run....as far and as fast as they could. The party held fast but they could feel something ancient and evil in the maliciously gleeful baying of the Hound. A second baying split the night, farther away than the first. Was the Hound moving away or calling a second Hound?
In the grave-silent aftermath of the second baying, the voice of Solstice Black began to chant an old nursery rhyme in a haunting, emotionless monotone.

They hunt; and we fly before,
Wan-faced, foot-weary and weeping.
Night-through in the still hours
When stars in the sky assemble,
We hear the baying echoing,
And startled, staring, we tremble.

Gods help and pity us all
Who fly forever, hard-driven!
Time comes when the feet fail, unwilling
Or drag on the ways, no rest nor peace
Then fast, froth-flakes on red jaws,
As nightmares speed keen-fanged to feast.

Crimson-eyed are the Black Hounds,
And ever, as they come after,
There is no more sweetness in wine,
Nor is there joyance in laughter.
There is no shaking off, no stopping nor staying,
When Hounds have scent, in the darkness, baying.