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The Huntress and The Werewolf part 1
A hooded figure enters a tavern. The drunks stare at the silhouette for only a moment, and then return to drowning their sorrows. As the mysterious person sits at the bar, the hood falls back. The rough-looking bartender gasps and almost drops the glass he was cleaning with a towel.
The unexpected visitor is a sixteen-year-old girl. Her golden, feathered hair flowing until it touches her bare, smooth shoulders. Her pale skin suggests that she hadn’t been in the sun for awhile. Big blue eyes set above high cheekbones, a little mouth above a tiny chin, and a cute, button nose, a face of an angel. The puffy-sleeve shirt, twilight purple pants, and black boots with silver spurs marks her as an ally of the Gypsies, and possibly, a huntress, for those who are friends with them, are mostly monster hunters.
While the intoxicated patrons are busy gawking at her, there is a bang at the door. The thick, wooden door creaks, but doesn’t budge, behind it, a loud snort and then a ground-shaking roar, more pounding at the door, this time, breaking the door with each boom. The girl stands up, throwing her long, black cape back, revealing the silver knives in her black leather belt, strapped with a metal crossbow, and a bronze broadsword.
At the last blow to the door, a large claw breaks through. The long, mud-caked, jagged nails clutching at air, and then pulls back, jerking the door off its hinges. Standing at the doorway, is a troll. The monster is the height of an average man, but yet squat in nature, the thick arms longer than the dense legs. Antelope horns are prodding from its forehead, a rhino’s horn atop its pig-like snout, and boar tusks from a drooling mouth of sharp teeth. Spots of brown dirt stain its white fur. Green, demonic eyes scan the crowd until they’re focused on the young, beautiful huntress. Another roar, the creature lunges for her.
The huntress sidesteps as the monster crashes into the bar, after shooting a bolt from the crossbow. She draws her sword and prepares to chop the head clean off. The troll catches the blade with his bare paw. Avoiding a fist as she draws a knife, and slides it into one of the nostrils, it shrieks with rage as it hits her side, making her fly across the room. The troll, now with a bloody nose, charges at the huntress.
Then the monster is slammed into a wall. Holding it by the neck is a werewolf. It is in half-form; its muscular torso has a six-pack. It is a foot taller than the troll, if you minus the horns. It is wearing a ragged twilight purple pants and a gold earring in one of its ears. A Gypsy werewolf; the good kind, they are often friends with hunters and huntresses.
The huntress smiles as she stands up and grasps her sword. She strolls over to the two monsters and pierces the troll through the heart. The troll screams as his red blood jets from his wound, his struggles and thrashing slowly ceasing. The huntress removes her sword, letting the troll’s massive body sink to the floor. She and the Gypsy werewolf leave the tavern, she mounts a midnight black stallion and the werewolf follows her by foot.
“Sorry to ruin your hunt,” the werewolf says in a human voice, with a slight growl, “but I thought you needed my help, Elizabet`.”
Elizabet` doesn’t answer, she just stares ahead. The werewolf’s ears flatten close to his head, his bright, honey hazel eyes glance up at her. Then Elizabet` answers, “I would have been fine, Tefan,” her voice the sound of bells, “you just let your emotions get in the way.”
Tefan chuckles as he turns into a human. His hair is the color of his eyes. The height grows a few inches shorter. The wolf head turns into a human head. The fur vanished, but there is stubble on his high cheekbones and strong, slightly cleft chin. There is a waning crescent moon in the starry skies. Gypsy werewolves can change at any time, but have to on the night of the full moon, and they can also control their blood thirst. All of them prefer animals.
“We’d better get moving, love. Even the gentlest creature can create a massacre when it’s frightened,” Tefan says.
As if on cue, Elizabet` hears the thunder of running, pounding hooves. She looks around until she sees a patch of white against the blackish-gray horizon. Stampeding unicorns are coming their way.
“Yaw, Nuwkco,” Elizabet` nudges her spurs into the horse’s side, “Ride like the wind!”
As Nuwkco gallops, Tefan manages to keep up. The sharp rocks don’t seem to bother his bare feet. Then a howl escapes from his lips, a noise of joy. Elizabet` notices that the unicorn herd turns slightly away from them. Although unicorns get along with Gypsy werewolves, they both require a respectable distance from each other. Then as Elizabet` looks ahead, she sees an orange glow, yet she knows it is not the sun; it is far too early for that. It is a Gypsy fire, burning bright for all who is welcomed by them.
Tefan and Elizabet` slow Nuwkco’s pace, seeing that the Gypsy camp is destroyed. The only thing that is moving is the fiery bonfire. Elizabet` jumps down from the saddle. Tefan runs to tent to tattered tent, his nose close to the ground. Elizabet` examines the campsite, no torn or mauled bodies…yet…
Ellizar, the Leader of the Gypsies, and a few of his good, lifeless men are found, bloody and bruised, on the ground. Ellizar talks weakly, a dry croak in his throat; he is a hefty man with a bushy chest, recently scarred by an unknown assailant, and has a full beard. “Tefan … My son…Where is he?” he asks when he sees Elizabet`, “Where is my son?”
“I’m here, father,” Tefan answers; kneeling next to his father’s broken body, gathering him in his arms.
“You must find… the others,” Ellizar says weakly, “Tell them… tell them…” a choking cough rises from his throat; he grasps Tefan’s shoulder, “That I’ve tried…and that you’re…their leader…now.”
With that, Ellizar exhales his final, dying breath, closes his eyes and his arm slips to his side. A blood-stained hand-print is left on Tefan’s shoulder. Ellizar is at peace, heading toward the Spirit World. Tefan howls to show his agony. It is grief-stricken; Elizabet` can hear others like it in the distance, echoes of heartache. A pang of pain pricks at her heart, remembering the night that she almost had died, of how Tefan had stayed with her, and that simple, yet passionate kiss he had given her after explaining that he could not live without her.
Then Elizabet` stare at Tefan hunching over his father’s rapidly cooling body. His sobs, only loud enough for her to hear, his tears mixing with his father’s blood, Elizabet` gently squeezes his shoulder, “We must find the others…and when we do…we’ll build a memorial for him.”
“If we find the fiend that did this,” Tefan growls, “I want its body hanged and to rot to serve as a forever reminder of whoever kills a Gypsy, will be killed in return.”
“Let it be so,” Elizabet` replies, “So said the Leader of the Gypsies.”
Tefan grimaces as he carries his father and the men to the blazing bonfire….