The Thrill of the Hunt

Chapter 2

The streets were finally clear enough to walk in either direction, and the shops were suddenly filled with people. The crowd was back to their friendly selves, giving fake smiles and even faker attention. So many words were said at once it was impossible for one to focus on what another was saying. It was a better idea to talk as well, talk about anything and everything. Say things for the purpose of saying something. He had tried not to fall victim to such folly, but he had found himself talking to a man sitting near a wall. He hadn’t even noticed he was there speaking with him until someone had slightly nudged his shoulder while walking past.

“Yeah, the town’s getting crazier by the second. Jobs are getting harder to do and the economy’s going to leave us, honest workers, behind.” The old man pointed to the shops while he spoke. Sometimes he even made a fist and clenched it while cursing out specific higher-ups.

“Don’t you think the people out here are disgusting? Do you think each of those mindless followers is only kept at bay because all their violence is spent on prisoners? Are these the type of people who yearn for flame, to see the world ignite into ash?” The man had lost himself in his own anger. He hadn’t thought about what he was saying, he only wanted to complain to the elder. And the elder did so back to him, an endless exchange of banter and whining.

“The lot of ‘em taking our precious jobs and people to satisfy their needs. Sometimes I think they’re no better than that there burned up the beast. At least that one had provided us with something we really wanted.” After a constant cycle of shouting, the man had finally snapped out of the trance. The tattered elder forgot to whom he was talking to, allowing the nameless man to easily slip away. It was much too easy to get lost in one’s emotions here. Control was so easily given up to your innermost thoughts and they came out without any consequences. When everyone says what they want, almost no one is offended, there isn’t any time to listen.

After more aimless walking, he had come to another shop. But this one was peculiar. It had almost no one in it. It didn’t smell of wood or food or even people. It smelled like nothing, a seemingly empty space. However, to say it was empty would be a lie. Though you could neither see nor smell anyone, you could feel them. You could feel the presence of someone. He stood there in wonder as the shop slowly drew him closer. He had to see what was inside. He had to see who was inside. Upon entering he was met with no greeting, no welcome, just the cold silence of the store. The loud gawking voices outside came to a halt, and the warm air dropped to a chilly breeze.

“I see you’ve found your way around the town.” A calming and soothing voice beckoned to him. It came from behind a doorway, tugging at him to come closer. He obliged. “It had been a long while since the last one had come in, he had only been through it 2 times. Can you imagine, no experience, no blood on his hands, and his mind still set on a single goal. Oh, how times have changed!” He ran his finger across the countertop as he walked past. It was dusty and rugged, not pleasant at all. The wood looked moldy, the carpets looked dirty, and the walls seemed to have faces of their own.

“Ah yes, how far you have come. How far in are you? If you don’t mind me asking. How skilled are you, how much blood have you seen?” The voice was starting to become less friendly, more maniacal. Though it was somewhat startling, it was a nice change of pace from the overly welcoming voices that previously polluted the air. “How deep into insanity have you fallen into? Do I talk to man or beast?” Laughter filled the room. His speech became brusque, choppy and sporadic. “Well, that matters not. All that matters is that you have found me. Found me, yes.” Laughter again. “Why, what are you waiting for? Come, we are in great need of you. They have already come in, the others.”

He stepped closer towards the voice. It beckoned to him, pulled him in like a fish on a rod. Once caught though, he chose not to fight, but to just accept it. The only thing standing in his way to the speaker was a door, a plain wooden door. But the little details of wood seemed to stand out more than ever. The eyes of the door watched him, the faces telling him to turn back. You could almost make out a body from the pattern, one without definite features. One you would see in a dark corner, without anything but an outline. A figure you couldn’t quite make out, one you couldn’t quite see. It seemed always in your peripheral vision, only living within your vivid imagination.

“I’m sure your hands are covered with blood. No need to stop there, I’m not afraid of you. Could it be, you're afraid of me?” The laughter came again. It started poking at him, the chuckling, the giggling, the condescending heckles. It was not unlike a fly or mosquito, flying closeby and despite constant attempts to swat it, it persists nonetheless. He grabbed the doorknob and turned with a sort of content. Almost the same feeling he had felt after the murder of the arena fighters. “I smell a killer, I smell a monster, yes, I smell a servant.”

He quickly jolted the door open. The pungent smell of death and rot filled the air. The door to the room was more akin to the door of a casket, once opened revealed the death bed of a poor soul. Peering in, there appeared to be no voice, no man. Hanging from the ceiling was a lifeless figure resembling the outline of the door creature, except this one had features that were easy to perceive. The features of a rotten and decaying body long after life had been taken from it. There was a rope connecting what used to be his neck to the ceiling, and it was clear what the method of his demise was. The only question that edged its way into the mind of the observer was why. He stared at the body for a while, trying to infer what had led him to this point. The silence of the room sent chills down his spine, almost missing the uninviting laughter. The body hung next to a table, and on the table was a note. He hesitantly picked up the note, afraid to even open it.

“They do not serve us. They will revel in the spilling of our blood. You sit atop your throne in fear. We sincerely thank you, our king. They do not serve you. You have shown us the way to godhood. Ascend us my king. Ascend us into divine light. They will never serve their gods.”

The man read the message, then again, then once more. It seemed to be written in a hurry, the handwriting was atrocious and the message seemed so vague. Surely if this were a letter, it would have been more clear. Perhaps not a letter, but a final note. The final note of man losing what makes him human. A rabid dog exhaling its last breath as a hunter pierces its heart. The sickness taking its piece of mind, but at the last doors of death, is saner than it ever was.
Instead of completely dismissing the message, he put it comfortably into his pocket. Looking around the bleak room, the color gray occupied his eyesight. No color appeared to shine through the dim walls. The furniture looked to be just extensions of the building itself, the color staying uniform throughout. There was a constant uneasy silence within the walls. The walls did not speak, rather they felt more like observers. Like ghosts staring past any thoughts, you may have. Not a word or sound was said by them, but they held a message.

Whilst shifting his sight around various areas of the room, he heard the door swing open. The sound was akin to a gunshot because of the absolute silence within the room. The man almost lost his focus and nearly made his presence known by bumping into the table. He held his ground however and was able to quickly unsheathe his sword without a sound. He hid on the wall near the doorway and stayed completely still. The sound of boots colliding with the floor in a rhythmic pattern, 1 and 2 and 1 and 2, filled the building. He stood waiting, carefully listening to the increase in volume. He held the sword outward towards the door, waiting for the moment to strike. The predator stalked his prey. He made sure to slow his breathing, not only to make it less audible but to calm himself. The footsteps were close, close enough to attack. He had to do so before the man walked into the doorway, as they would definitely see him. At the next step, he darted through the door and swung his blade at the neck. The opponent reacted just enough to only have his chest slashed at. The element of surprise was gone. The foe held a hatchet of sorts, and he wore clothes strikingly similar to the ones he himself was wearing. The two combatants stood facing each other. Each second that passed was one used to study and anticipate the other’s next move. The stranger readied his weapon and leaped forward. The enemy’s arms arched above his head. The lunge put him into a position above the swordsman with the hatchet ready to close in on him. In quick retaliation, the nameless man turned his sword sideways and pointed the edges to himself and the leaping attacker. With his other hand, he grasped the blade tightly knowing full well what consequences would follow. The hatchet made contact with the sword, and a loud metal clanking sound quickly passed throughout the building.

Blood slowly poured down his left hand. The pain shot throughout his palm and the creases on his fingers. However, it was successful. The opposition was knocked back and messily landed on the ground. The shock from the block caused him to stumble after landing, and he was forced to fall to his knees. Not wasting the opportunity, like a tiger biting the neck of its prey, he let go of his sword and quickly pointed it toward his foe. The distance between the two was too little for the loser to get up and avoid or block. With a quick and efficient thrust, the sword made its way into the man’s chest. Once the tip pierced the skin, he stepped forward and put his other hand on the shoulder of his victim. The victim barely had time to scream for the initial pain he felt from the cut into his chest, but as the man pulled his shoulder closer to him and plunged the sword deeper into his chest, he wailed in agony. The shock alone made him drop his weapon, and his rational thought had left him. The victor moved his hand off his shoulder, and punt his left foot onto his stomach. He quickly pulled his sword back and pushed with his foot. Blood splattered all over the place. The grey of the hallway turned maroon, and red quickly spread onto both their clothing. The screaming didn’t stop. As the killed lay there on his back after being pushed away, the killer wasted no time in moving forward once more with the intent of finishing the job. The bleeding did not stop. No thoughts passed through their minds, one wanting to escape the pain and the other a crazed animal stuck in a frenzied state. He positioned his sword down toward the fallen man’s head. The complaining of the pain annoyed him greatly, and he felt no remorse as he drove his blade into his head. Then, there was only silence.

Only the silence calmed him down, now that the noise was dead and long gone his thoughts were undisturbed. Rational thought overcame him and he broke down. Why did I do that? He thought to himself. Not only did he feel guilty, but he felt confused and deranged. He thought himself a monster. He only now took the time to look upon the corpse’s attributes. Brown clothing made of animal fur now covered in blood. A face so unrecognizable any identity that was there no longer lingered. A dead, faceless, and nameless corpse. The body of no one. He had taken a life. He sat there, not crying, but drowned in his own thoughts. He ran through reasons as to why he had attacked so suddenly. But none seemed reasonable.

“Ah yes, it seems the blood does sing for you.” The voice came back to him. Now it was back, and it came with the intent of bloodlust. “Ah, it seems you will be efficient. The king send you here personally? Well, I’d be damned if he didn’t. Do you still serve him?” The statement mirrored the paper, and he was quickly alerted. The voice was now no more. The void of soundlessness came upon the room once again. He felt alone, stranded, and isolated. He slowly pulled the sword out as to not disturb the stranger any further, and sheathed it. Although he lacked any goals or purpose, he left with a feeling of progression. He felt as if someone was telling him what to do, but he could not hear it. As if someone was pulling his strings and he didn’t even notice. Do the puppets ever notice?