(This short story is an entry into the Free Kingdom Lore Contest. The contest is sponsored by Jon Warren. The judges will be three monarch candidates from the Free Kingdom competition: NiHZ, Seele, and Jon Warren. An official list of the lore contest entries will be frequently updated on the Lore Contest thread: Link
Under a hanged man's tree on horseback, the young hunter stares off at the small village in the distance. Above him, old hanged bodies wave back and forth. Some men, some women; all accused of something or another, covered in pests; decaying to time only to be forgotten. Cold yellow eyes look off to the east, in search of motivation to push on. In these dark times, one needs a reason to exist, yet they die without a note on history.
In the distance, the usual sounds of these dark lands can be heard. It's the sound of nothing but wind and rain. But at least it's better than the sounds of war, the sounds of a sword gutting a man, followed by the inhumane deeds causing his wife to scream and beg, the sounds of wild dogs ripping anyone who's lost to shreds. All in a normal day for a wartorn land.
Now that the war is over, there is not much left to do except mop up Highwaymen, and kill off any wild beasts that were made rabid by the blood of men, and the wails of children. The man on his horse starts again, signaling his horse to move. The strong white Mare nods her head and begins to move forward onto the muddy road, a road still stained with blood and pieces of armor, or body parts left behind. The scent still sickly fresh in this area.
After a while, the man makes it into town. Something, however, is not right. The royalist guardsmen are not where they said they'd be. In fact, not a single soul in sight can be seen. The man slides off of his horse and slowly makes his way towards the Tavern. As he goes inside he notices them, the guardsmen. Only all clutching their swords and shields, paralyzed; cold to the touch. Dead.
No one else around. No external wounds on the bodies. It had to be some kind of magic. But, magic is very rare. Only one in a few hundred will ever be born with the ability to wield it. Much fewer people being taught how to use it. These men, their eyes are black as night. As if their souls were taken out from their very bodies. The hunter unseats his long silver sword from the right side, and begins to make his way back outside.
Upon exiting the tavern, he notices that the air has grown colder than what it had been earlier as he came into town. The dusk sky is clouded and rain still falls, it will be dark soon enough. He must decide to either stay and figure out what has happened to this village, or leave and let someone else gain the risks. Of course, he stays, for no man of science would turn down the opportunity to learn; and no Hunter of Monsters would ever turn down the coin and honor of bringing in proof of his deed.
The man takes off his cloak and drops it to the ground. His lightweight armor dawns royal engravings in golden twine that holds black dyed leather altogether. His white hair flicks in the wind and he kneels down, unslinging his backpack, and setting it down. The main waits patiently, feeling something staring into his soul. It's not the first time he's dealt with a rogue mage, or even a supernatural being. He stands back up and readies his blade in wait.
Moments pass as finally, the shrieking comes. The awful wailing of a woman torn from her love, her spirit unable to rest. The Wraith shines a translucent blue before taking on a more corporeal form. A decaying mess, torn gown, tongue extending out where the lower jaw should be. The creature screams in pain as the air almost feels like ice. The hunter brings up his sword in wait, as he watches the wraith. A first time for this... A good price...
End
