Geron’s eyes traced the trail of blood that wound its way through the snow before him. He had shot the stag an hour ago, yet the creature’s stubborn will to live had greatly extended the length of his hunt. Never in all his years had his prey eluded him for so long. He glanced at the setting sun through the leafless canopy of the forest and quickened his pace. He needed to find the beast before night fell.

At last he heard a pained whimper from the forest before him. He drew his hunting knife and crept toward the sound. He found the stag lying at the foot of a large oak tree, its breath coming in ragged gasps as its life ebbed away. Geron knelt next to it, carefully placing his knife over the creature’s heart. The stag whimpered one last time as he thrust the knife in. Geron withdrew the blade and wiped it clean on the stag’s fur. He was about to heft the creature onto his back when he heard a twig snap nearby. Geron turned towards the noise, his eyes scanning the trees. As the echo of the snap faded away, the forest fell into an eerie silence. His grip on his knife tightened as he stood, still searching for the noise’s origin. His eyes drifted to the setting sun, now nearly concealed beneath the horizon.

He caught a glimpse of a shadow moving between the trees. Then another. And another. Geron retreated to the trunk of the oak tree, pressing his back up against it as the shadows advanced. The shadows were joined by others, as the dark depths of the forest seemed to come alive. Geron closed his eyes and muttered a short prayer to any god that was listening. None answered, and the shadows drew closer still. He could hear them now, shuffling through the snow. He dared not open his eyes now. The noise of their approach stopped, and a wave of anticipatory dread consuming him. He felt a set of long fingers grasp his chin and lift his head up. He opened his eyes slowly to see one of the shadows before him, its purple eyes glowing with rage. As he met its gaze, he felt himself begin to fade away. His body went limp and the knife fell from his grasp. His breathing slowed and a tortured imitation of a smile began to form on the shadow’s face.

Just as he felt the last of his life force ebb away, the shadow suddenly cast him aside and let out a hellish shriek. Geron collapsed into the snow, his eyes weakly following the dark shapes as they moved away. His eyes closed for a moment, opening again as one of the shadows howled in pain, the tip of a sword protruding from its back. The sword disappeared, only to emerge again as it cut the shadow in two. Geron’s vision had begun to blur, but he could still make out the figure of a man poised where the shadow once stood. Geron let out a faint sigh as the world faded around him.

-----

Geron could feel himself being lifted over someone’s shoulders. The metal of their armor dug into his torso, the pain giving him enough of a jolt to open his eyes. In the dim light of dusk he could see a pair of legs working their way through the snow beneath. His head shifted downward as his savior adjusted his load. Through blurred vision, he could just barely make out the flaming phoenix insignia emblazoned on their armor. The forest lit up with an orange glow, and Geron turned his head weakly towards the light. A dozen black bodies lay strewn across the snow, two warriors with torches in hand standing over them. One by one, the torches were touched to the bodies. The flame spread quickly, the fire eager to burn away the shadows. Geron managed a weak smile before fading back into unconsciousness.

Part Two

The tavern in Voltau was usually crowded, but on this particular night it seemed fit to burst if another thirsty soul managed to squeeze its way through its creaky wooden door. The icy grip of winter had loosened of late, the cold rains of early spring supplanting the usual snowy flurries. The mood was almost celebratory amongst the patrons of the tavern; they all knew full well the rain would keep the endermen at bay for a night. Relieved of their normal patrol duty, it seemed as if every warrior from the Slayer’s Guild had decided to come to the tavern and spend their night in drunken revelry. Surely the barkeep did not mind, with coin flowing as freely as beer.

Geron was at table against one of the walls, sipping more tentatively than most from his mug. His wife, Yeva, was sat next to him, engaged in a fervent drinking contest with a Slayer named Arcel. She was a fierce one; growing up with five brothers had seen to that. He had never known her to back down from a challenge. Geron could tell by the flushing of Yeva’s cheeks that she was fast approaching her limit, though Arcel’s glazed eyes and fumbling indicated that he was not far behind. Yeva polished of another mug and Geron chuckled as Arcel shook his head in disbelief.

“Never in all my days have I seen a lady drink like that. It is with no shame that I surrender.” Arcel said between burps, setting aside his mug and leaning back in his chair.

“It was a pleasure to do battle with you, good sir.” Yeva responded, beaming with delight at her victory.

“She is quite the woman.” Arcel said, turning to Geron, “You are a lucky man.”

“Indeed.” Geron nodded in agreement, “Never a day goes by when she does not remind me.”

“And I am quite lucky to have him. We owe the Guild a great debt for saving his life.” Yeva said, wrapping her arm around her husband and kissing him on the cheek.

“Aye, though it was not us that saved him. It was those soulless Altheri bastards who brought him in.” Arcel said drunkenly. Geron shot him a disapproving glare, and Arcel recoiled slightly, “No offense meant to your saviors, of course. Though it is true that they are a bit… odd.”

“I thought they were part of the Guild?” Yeva asked.

“Aye, they use our resources and our hall, but they are not part of the Guild. In truth, we know very little about them. They are quite secretive; I can scarcely name a man that’s held a conversation with one of them. I would bet Geron here knows more about them than I do.”

“I remember blessedly little from that night.” Geron said solemnly, “I remember torches and a fire, but little else. I prefer not to think about it.”

“One of my brothers said he knew one of them before they changed.” Yeva said, looking to sate Arcel’s curiosity, “He was a soldier with the Guild, one of the best fighters he’d seen before or since. Vitredes his name was. My brother said he was a braggart and a talker and a drinker, but that was before the Altheri came for him. Then the Altheri and his recruits disappeared for a long while. When they came back, they were different somehow. My brother said it was like the man he was had been washed away. No more talking or drinking, just a peerless adherence to duty and training. At least that is what my brother said. He has been known to tell stories before.”

“Aye, that is what I have heard too.” Arcel added, “Not to say that I mind them. They certainly kill more of the shadows than we do. I have heard scouts say they have found fields of their charred bodies out in the wilderness. It certainly was not our work.”

“Whoever or whatever they are, a toast to our saviors!” Yeva exclaimed, raising a fresh mug of ale. Arcel joined with similar enthusiasm, the ale from his mug sloshing over the side. Geron joined less fervently, his minded beginning to drift back to that night. He closed his eyes as he sipped. In the darkness, he could still see their eyes staring back at him. He shuddered and began to drink more swiftly. Perhaps one of these nights he would be able to forget those eyes.

_________________
Guardian of Casadia
Master of the Slayers Guild
Minister of Hermertian History

The Slayers Guild stepping up?

_________________
Petra Ravnikaar of The Veil

Part Two (also added to the original post)

The tavern in Voltau was usually crowded, but on this particular night it seemed fit to burst if another thirsty soul managed to squeeze its way through its creaky wooden door. The icy grip of winter had loosened of late, the cold rains of early spring supplanting the usual snowy flurries. The mood was almost celebratory amongst the patrons of the tavern; they all knew full well the rain would keep the endermen at bay for a night. Relieved of their normal patrol duty, it seemed as if every warrior from the Slayer’s Guild had decided to come to the tavern and spend their night in drunken revelry. Surely the barkeep did not mind, with coin flowing as freely as beer.

Geron was at table against one of the walls, sipping more tentatively than most from his mug. His wife, Yeva, was sat next to him, engaged in a fervent drinking contest with a Slayer named Arcel. She was a fierce one; growing up with five brothers had seen to that. He had never known her to back down from a challenge. Geron could tell by the flushing of Yeva’s cheeks that she was fast approaching her limit, though Arcel’s glazed eyes and fumbling indicated that he was not far behind. Yeva polished of another mug and Geron chuckled as Arcel shook his head in disbelief.

“Never in all my days have I seen a lady drink like that. It is with no shame that I surrender.” Arcel said between burps, setting aside his mug and leaning back in his chair.

“It was a pleasure to do battle with you, good sir.” Yeva responded, beaming with delight at her victory.

“She is quite the woman.” Arcel said, turning to Geron, “You are a lucky man.”

“Indeed.” Geron nodded in agreement, “Never a day goes by when she does not remind me.”

“And I am quite lucky to have him. We owe the Guild a great debt for saving his life.” Yeva said, wrapping her arm around her husband and kissing him on the cheek.

“Aye, though it was not us that saved him. It was those soulless Altheri bastards who brought him in.” Arcel said drunkenly. Geron shot him a disapproving glare, and Arcel recoiled slightly, “No offense meant to your saviors, of course. Though it is true that they are a bit… odd.”

“I thought they were part of the Guild?” Yeva asked.

“Aye, they use our resources and our hall, but they are not part of the Guild. In truth, we know very little about them. They are quite secretive; I can scarcely name a man that’s held a conversation with one of them. I would bet Geron here knows more about them than I do.”

“I remember blessedly little from that night.” Geron said solemnly, “I remember torches and a fire, but little else. I prefer not to think about it.”

“One of my brothers said he knew one of them before they changed.” Yeva said, looking to sate Arcel’s curiosity, “He was a soldier with the Guild, one of the best fighters he’d seen before or since. Vitredes his name was. My brother said he was a braggart and a talker and a drinker, but that was before the Altheri came for him. Then the Altheri and his recruits disappeared for a long while. When they came back, they were different somehow. My brother said it was like the man he was had been washed away. No more talking or drinking, just a peerless adherence to duty and training. At least that is what my brother said. He has been known to tell stories before.”

“Aye, that is what I have heard too.” Arcel added, “Not to say that I mind them. They certainly kill more of the shadows than we do. I have heard scouts say they have found fields of their charred bodies out in the wilderness. It certainly was not our work.”

“Whoever or whatever they are, a toast to our saviors!” Yeva exclaimed, raising a fresh mug of ale. Arcel joined with similar enthusiasm, the ale from his mug sloshing over the side. Geron joined less fervently, his minded beginning to drift back to that night. He closed his eyes as he sipped. In the darkness, he could still see their eyes staring back at him. He shuddered and began to drink more swiftly. Perhaps one of these nights he would be able to forget those eyes.

_________________
Guardian of Casadia
Master of the Slayers Guild
Minister of Hermertian History