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Guess I'll try this! I'm in.
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Aug 20, 2016 04:43
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 15:03 |
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The Hunters 1383 words “What’s the rush? Can’t we please stop to eat?” Ishtar idly twirled its tails together as it tiptoed alongside a shallow creek, digitigrade feet stepping over sticks and too-sharp stones. “How fast could a human possibly move through a forest?” it snickered to itself. Arla didn’t break her marching rhythm or scowl. She clenched the dagger that dangled from her belt. “We don’t know this place, Ishtar. We’ve already made that mistake once.” Mistakes were rare for Arla. The two had settled down for a nap around noon in a sleepy clearing off the forest’s main path, and Arla, uncharacteristically, dropped her bag about three arms out of reach. Ishtar curled its body around hers, part affection and part protection, but Arla awoke with a start to the sound of running boots making off with her belongings. The two leapt to pursue, but the thief clearly knew the forest well, and quickly vanished from sight. She bit down on her tongue and winced at the thought of her carelessness. Ishtar perked at the smell of her blood. How curious must Ishtar have found Arla’s haste? Ishtar was old, that much Arla knew, much older than any human could possibly live, and its sense of time passing was accordingly distorted. It moved with lackadaisical grace and spoke with a meandering drawl in an implacable accent – though it was quite well spoken for a beast nonetheless. That it had taken such a liking to Arla was something she found curious herself. Arla, soft-spoken and stoic, moved through the world with purpose in her step, and out of character or necessity never stood still for long. Perhaps Ishtar appreciated the contrast. She appreciated the company regardless. Few in life could keep pace with Arla, and of those who could if they tried, she chose to leave most behind. Short memory was an asset, and Arla, fleet-footed and stoic, took some bit of pride in her business-like ways. Which of course made the loss of her bag all the more distressing. It held some number of useful things (rations, water, first-aid), but nothing she couldn’t get by without, and she preferred to travel light anyway. Yet it was most all she owned as a wanderer, including all her most prized worldly possessions. It held mementos of her travels, like a locket from a sweet-hearted, starry-eyed physician who had once patched her wounds with tender hands and begged her to stay in town. She would hold it and look to the moon and night and sigh, reminiscing on what could have been but never was. It also held the key to the small cabin she was raised in, which she never much cared for but promised herself she would return to someday, and perhaps once again sleep in her childhood room. Beyond that, the bag held her journal. She’d kept it for decades, and it was dark and deeply personal, the very first entry reading: Sometime Midsummer – I confess I have killed a man on this night. She shuddered at the thought of prying eyes violating the depths of her heart and mind, not to mention that knowledge of her crimes would put a sizeable bounty on her head. She sketched the portraits of past loved ones and looked back on them for comfort during trying times, tracing her fingers along the curves of their faces. How foolish it would seem from the outside, this hardened criminal waxing so sentimental. Compartmentalizing her emotions was practical and necessary, so she purged and bled them out as ink onto paper. It was the piece of her soul that might make her hesitate to take a life. Her most frequented pages were often stained with tears. But as she’d trained herself to do, she put those feelings aside. This was her bag, and she needed it back. She might be a killer, but she was no thief – thieving for profit was lower than dirt. She clenched her dagger tighter and the thought that she might enjoy the thief’s death flashed through her head. Again Ishtar perked, sensing killer intent. “I’ll tell you what: if you start a fire, I’ll fetch some meat. Whaddaya say? Hmmmm…?” It pantomimed snapping some small creature’s neck, eyes pleading and grin expectant. How it must have longed to rip into flesh! “The sun is going to set soon. We can’t let the trail go cold.” Ishtar hmmphed and pouted, then pondered for a moment, until its face flashed self-satisfied inspiration. “Okay, how ‘bout this: I’ll fetch the meat and start the fire. Can we stop to eat then?” This time Arla laughed at the thought of Ishtar’s hunched over on hind legs, awful claws fumbling with flint and tinder. “We’ll have a fire and food once we find my bag, promise. Okay?” Ishtar knew Arla to be true to her word, and it picked up its pace. -- As the sun slipped closer to the horizon and the trees began casting shadows longer than themselves, Arla’s grimace faded from her face, outrage and indignation replaced by a steeled forward stare. Even Ishtar took on a quieter and decidedly more serious demeanor. Its sleek muscles tensed under a coat of fur that reflexively shifted colors to camouflage against the underbrush. Judging from softer footprints and fewer snapped branches, the thief had slowed down around here, Arla and Ishtar both reasoned independently. They slowed to a creep and crouched low. They were close. Ishtar sniffed at the air. Its eyes went wide and its pupils contracted. Arla instinctively dropped down and stilled her breath, watching Ishtar as it froze in place. It flexed its massive paws and slowly raked its claws across the ground, and again, this time sinking deeper into the dirt. It blinked and snapped away from its trance. “Smoke. Northwest.” It looked back to Arla, saliva oozing from the corners of its mouth. “Very close.” The two pushed, but Ishtar kept sinking its claws into the dirt, over and over, eye twitching and grin subtle yet maniacal. And Arla felt it too. She drew her dagger and savored the sensation of it slicing so effortlessly from out of its sheath and into the air. She had long ago numbed herself to the violence her life entailed – how could she not? – but killing for her had always been a strictly professional affair. But something felt different this time. Arla had been wronged before, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d ever sought revenge, but her mind kept snapping to the thought of sinking blade into flesh, over and over, and ever so slightly, her hand trembled, anxiety and anticipation. She recalled that first page of her journal, I have killed a man, the letters scrawled hastily and the straight lines vibrating side to side. Her stomach turned imagining the thief’s eyes, unwanted eyes, staring into the barest, most transparent part of herself. Thank goodness Ishtar never bothered to learn how to read, she thought. Maybe that's why they're friends. She had killed before. She would kill again. Never before had she lusted for it like this. Ishtar’s grin widened, black teeth bared on full display. Soon enough they spied the glint of a campfire through the trees. Their eyes were wild for the hunt. And soon they could spy the thief’s body laid down by the fire in a clearing not so different from where they’d met before. They slowly, assuredly, hungrily snuck past the tree line, and soon it became obvious that the thief was already dead, abdomen eviscerated and intestines splayed loosely across the ground. The blood drained from Arla’s face. Her grip loosened and she dropped her dagger, hands still trembling. She felt nauseous. She stood still for a moment until she could recompose herself, picking up her bag and sitting down by the fire. The thief’s eyes betrayed a horrible end. “Arla…” Arla remained silent. She took her journal from her bag and felt its heft and knowing leather in her hands. “…Is it time to eat now?” Arla chuckled softly, and turned to Ishtar with a warm smile and wounded eyes. “No sense in being wasteful, I suppose… but I don’t have much taste for human.” Ishtar threw its head back and roared with laughter, firelight sparkling against its fangs.
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Aug 22, 2016 05:05
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I didn't finish editing and remembered I had to submit at like 9:03 PST 
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Aug 22, 2016 05:26
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