Prompt 29: Hunt. Once upon a hunters moon

Art by Midjourny

Night cool and soft as velvet caressed the tangled thickets, austere old growth forests and feral rolling hills that sheltered the hamlets where people gathered behind closed doors and barred windows hoping their meagre homes would stand as bastions against the primal darkness and the nightmares that thrived in that alien world of umbral and visceral nature. The moon hung silver and shining, pearlescent light cascading over the countryside of the kingdom of Molkovo and reflecting on massive lake Molkov whose dark waters were the lifeblood of thousands of farmers, fishermen and traders. So clear and crisp was the hunter's moon this autumn night that the spires and towers of the distant capital city of Salakov could be seen against the silky curtain of the night. The quiet beauty of this autumnal night and its hunter's moon shining bright were lost on the woman who fled through a maze of tangled thorns as if all of hell was on her heels. She was noble or at least wealthy enough to pass for one of noble birth with her finely embroidered dress and golden jewelry. Her long tresses of dark brown almost black hair contrasted sharply with her pale skin. Her features aquiline and beautiful were contorted with confusion and the fight or flight terror of a rabbit with a wolf on its heels. Aristova Luiza of the noble house Niktovna was her full name, one she always enjoyed dragging out in social affairs, it was a proud name from a family with a long tradition of power and wealth and right now it did her little good. What would her pedigree do to slow the slavering jaws of the proverbial hound that she knew had her scent dead to rites. She weaved and glided through the heavy undergrowth and the thorns that threatened to grasp her like tiny dagger clawed fingers. She avoided these hazards with the speed and precision that bespoke her own prowess. She had cast aside her shoes some time ago during the hunt; those high heels were fine for ballrooms not a hurried flight and her dress would certainly need to be mended but that was a small price to pay when weighed against her survival. Survival, her survival was something she had never had to overly consider before. As a girl she had never had to fear the killing frost of a northern winter nor the pangs of an empty belly. Hunting had been a game for her, one she had grown to adore. Indulged by her father and later her husband she had taken with glee to chasing and outwitting game with bow, boar spear and short sword she had stalked and slain all manner of beast and delighted in every second of it. Even now with her wealth and power at a height undreamed of she adored the hunt and all its primal thrill. Yet never had she been made the prey, never had the tables been so quickly turned upon her and she was forced to expend all her cunning and tricks to stay ahead of a pursuer. There was a certain dark thrill in this, the rush of fear that came with knowing that any misstep or miscalculation on her part would cost her precious time and give the hungry hunter the hair's breadth of an advantage to close the razor thin gap of distance between them. There was a certain irony in this that was not lost on her, she had always thought herself a masterful hunter both in the field and among the social gatherings of her peers. She had strode through noble galas and dark wood alike with lethal grace and purpose of a hungry she-wolf. Now however she was in a hurried flight, clothes ripped, feet muddied, the defensive bruises and cuts of her encounter with her hunter stinging her arms. She ducked under a fallen tree of no small size, careful not to lose the sabre that hung on her belt. That thin sharp piece of enchanted steel was her last resort against the monster that stalked her. Monster was the only world she could give it, it had found her separated from places where she was secure and safe and forced her on the defensive. Forced her to desperately expend resources that she kept in reserve for dire circumstances. Dawn was not far and she knew the hunt would never last when the sun rose over the hills. This hunt was measured between the moon's rise and fall and there would be no more if it dragged on until dawn. This was the nature of her and the hunter as old as time, as old as the nocturnal dance of the stars and moon themselves. Aristova paused as her senses honed as sharp as a cat detected the sharp twang of a bolt released from a crossbow. Knowing her heart was its sole target she threw herself with an unerring speed and grace into the nearest open space accepting stinging thorns and grasping branches over death. There was hot pain in her arm and a red line where the bolt grazed her and continued its path into a lonely oak tree embedding itself in its heart with a resonating shudder as the shaft vibrated in fury for missing its intended target. She glanced back along the bolts path for a brief moment and found her gaze met what she had expected. In Spite of her cunning escape and the magic she had expended she was still being hunted. Her pursuer was a stubborn unreasoning creature driven by madness. Currently the huntress rode a great pale grey horse whose ancestors had long been bred for power and endurance. She wore leathers and mail that was a darker grey-blue than her steed, dyed and enameled as to melt into the night. Upon her armor were born symbols of death, graven images of watchful ravens, razor edged scythes and grinning skulls greeting any onlooker who spared her a long enough glance. A high and thick metal gorget protected her throat and face but left her hollow pale eyes all too easy to notice. Eyes that were cold, hard and tirelessly dedicated. The huntress had silver hair that might have been considered beautiful under other circumstances that was currently tied back in tight pragmatic braids. With a practiced and murderous ease the huntress slide her crossbow into a holster on her saddle and dismounted. Her feet seemed to hit the ground carrying more weight and power then the huntresses' even armored frame might indicate. As Astrova rose from where she had thrown herself her razor keen mind calculated how much time until the sun rose and how much longer she could flee if she was to gain a lead on the huntress. The odds were not in either she nor the silver haired huntresses' favor. She had no choice now but to fight, Astrova steeled herself and the gleaming sabre at her hip was in her hand faster than the blink of an eye. The huntress with the silver mane drew her own sword and both hunter and prey's weapons shone in the moon’s waxing illuminations. The blades were near opposite things. Astrova’s sabre was a weapon for dueling, a curved razor edged masterpiece that could slice a foe to red ribbons with its lightning fast strokes. The pale huntress had drawn an executioner's sword, a great silvered-blade with a grinning skull cast in cold black iron upon its pommel and gripped that sword that was made to cleave armour, bone and flesh with equal ease firmly with both hands. The huntress spoke in a voice as cold and hard as her eyes “How many?” Astrova taking the moment to collect herself and play out the fight that would end this hunt decided to humor the huntress and draw out precious seconds of calculation by conversing with her in return. “How many of what?” She responded to her pursuer. “How many lives have you stolen to cheat the reaper? How many homes have you entered abused for hospitality only to hunt the families down who lived there and slake your thirst for blood on the young and old alike?” Spoke the huntress as she stepped forward, wary of the deadly prowess of her prey. Astrova smiled wickedly, her fangs bared and her eyes awash with blood red gleam in darkness. Baroness Aristova Luiza of the noble house Niktovna, vampiress who had cheated death for three centuries and reigned over her domain without question tightened her grip on her sabre, blood stained claws retracting from her left hand she mused to the huntress. “A wolf rarely counts the rabbits she eats, nor a should she waste her memories on their insignificant lives” The eyes of the huntress narrowed ever so slightly and that subtle gesture revealed to Astrova that her hunter was driven not by something sensible like money or power but by that most skewed and lamentable desire fools called justice. “Scarcon have mercy upon your soul for the hells shall show you none” said the huntress invoking the name of her patron god, Scarcon the reaper, lord of the underworld who despised the undead as lowly cheats, petty thieves and vermin in the same light as one might treat rats in ones pantry. The two hunter and prey, prey and hunter rushed towards each other, their blades drawn and poised for battle. Astrovia had noted in the seconds they spoke the huntress had dismounted for the fight, a disadvantage born from pride or perhaps some idiot's sense of fairness. This was in Astrova’s mind a clear sign her foe was a novice. With a speed and agility unmatched the Vampiress lunged forward attempting to get close enough to make the great swords reach and power become a disadvantage to her mortal foe. Her Sabre with its blade honed by magic slashed at vital points where the armor was weak with an inhuman speed and ferocity. The blade rebounded off heavy mail sparks igniting where enchanted blade met ensorcelled armor and the huntress who had known all to well the vampire would be faster, stronger and its first blows could not be avoided had trusted in her magically fortified mail and gave silent thanks the mage who had crafted it for her, and that it had been worth every coin she paid down to the last copper penny. Astrova hissed in annoyance as her sword found little blood to draw and wasted no energy on using her fangs on the heavy gorget that shielded the neck of the huntress. Her claws however sharply raked at the huntresses eyes following her bladed onslaught. The huntress barely avoided the raking claws, red lines appearing to caress her temple as the razor sharp talons grazed her. An old saying about an eye for an eye danced across the huntress's mind and a free hand dropped from her sword to the bandoliers and belts she wore festooned with various tools of her trade. A gauntleted hand grasped a bottle etched with the Raven and Scythe symbol of her grim patron god and the huntress made the vampiress pay for thinking she had taken the advantage. There was a smashing of glass and hiss like acid as the huntress drove the bottle of blessed water hard enough to break against the vampire's face and eyes. Blind! Astrova was blinded and in agony! The holy water burned her like acid, her unholy healing all but useless to recover. Worse yet the broken glass that embedded itself in her eyes and skin was equally blessed as the cursed water and she reeled her beautiful face a bloody steaming mess and her razor sharp senses dulled by the waves of pain and blindness that now gripped her. Instinct driven by fear and pain clouded the vampiress and she stuck back with wild feral blows even blinded her speed and power were beyond human and the huntress winced as blade, claw and fangs now all drove at her and her efforts were focused on deflecting as much harm as possible from the enraged undead she battled. The huntress turned, parried and accepted lesser blows as she was forced to but in the maddened feral attack the feral blood drinker had left an opening. The great sword the huntress favored was created for a purpose, its silvered blade was a bane to the undead, it was balanced and honed by a master smith and the clergy of her god had blessed it to be a sovereign bane against the undead who cheated him and this magic extended to every part of the sword including the pommel. Unable to bring the full blade to bear she slammed the iron pommel; into Astrova’s breastbone with a bone jarring crack. Where it normal steel Astrova might have shrugged even a mighty blow aside with a laugh, were the huntress some callow novice it would have been mere steel but the blessed blade that hungered for the destruction of the undead made the vampiress feel painfully fragile and mortal before its thunderous blow. Astorva felt herself left off her feet and be thrown back barely preventing herself from being knocked prone by her unliving grace. She had to rely on her ears and scent now that the hunter had blinded her and knocked her away. The smell of her own blood clouded her and the night's sounds were fogged by the loud whiny of the huntress stalwart horse and the commotion of their fight. For the first time in a very long time the Astrova the Vampire Baroness felt like her immortality was meaningless, that the gifts she had happily taken in exchange for her humanity had not been worth the price. She had played the part of the wolf for so long and at the cost of so many lives was indeed the rabbit in this hunt. The Huntress, Taisiya was by no means a novice nor a mere mortal, she had more advantages than Astrova had anticipated. First off she was grave-touched, born cursed by the touch of undeath, like the more common Dhampir but in her case it was a banshee's cry that had killed her father and left her as a baby in her mother's womb marked by undeath. She could sense and hunt the undead beyond what moral prowess permitted and the touch of the grave that bolstered the vampire's bite and claws meant nothing to her. She was also a member of Scarcon's holy order of hunters the School of the Silver Spectre and the student of Gregori Rakanova the Dhampir who had written the literal book about hunting vampires. Arrogant, always arrogant right up until the very end Taisiya coldly noted. Immortality and power made them blind and foolish. She had never hunted a vampire that didn’t assume it was her superior even as she drove them to ground and forced them to expend their magic and supernatural power. Even as she dragged the hunts out pushing them towards the breaking hours of dawn. They never realized she was the huntress in all aspects and every moment was carefully calculated to push them towards the feral reckless demon that ruled every vampire's empty soul. Her sword was justice for every child drained dry, for every innocent left an empty husk, for every life that was stolen to prolong that of a predatory monster. In one powerful sweep the silver blade found its mark and Astrovas body became limp and tumbled headless to the forest floor. As dawn broke the huntress left upon Spook, her horse that some claimed was too big and slow but she knew had the endurance for the long hunt. In that forest glade the sun found Astrova her body staked to the ground by an ashwood spike, her severed head buried in a shallow grave, its mouth stuffed with holy wafers. Dawn as always brought the hunt to its end and Taisiya the White Banshee would rest until the setting sun called her to the next hunt under another moon.