Chapter Text
Dark clouds are galloping low through the night sky like an army heralding of blood and tempest, but when the grey battle formation breaks apart, no fiery orb is revealed to rejuvenate its fallen warriors. No, this full moon quietly enfolds the land in it's silver light of cold and death.
A shiver runs through a shape cowering amidst the ruins on the stormy shores of the Land of Eternal Autumn. With the warmth of the Hearth that used to be as certain as the waxing moon now smothered, no Storm rattles the Castle any longer. There's only stillness of rotting bones shining white in cruel nightly light.
But the flesh of this one is still warm. His firm hooves still carry him through the hills like rolling thunder, his eyes still sharp enough to shoot the bow, his arm strong to wield his bulky sword with ease. If only the necessity would arise. Still, he knows what he was and what he is. A beast of the Hearth, the most ferocious one in all of the Autumnal Land, perhaps the last one roaming after The Storm died down so many cold, white moons ago. Oh, how much he loved the warmth of the Hearth. How much he loved the sight of the full moon when it was still red and strong. Ever since the quiet came and the cold, he grew to detest clear nights and the sky.
Waiting for the sun, waiting for the dreadful moon, he exists even as the fire in the night sky and in his soul was smothered long ago. When hunger forces him to leave his stead, no hunt can reignite his spark. Venison, veal, mutton, man; he sees no point in being picky. The lands have been changing, many people of the Royal Creed and other enemies of the Hearth wander the now well trodden paths, weak and loaded with wares they cart to ever growing villages. None of them expect a rare fierce beast proudly claiming their roads in broad daylight, all of them flee like the pathetic beings that they are. Most of them leave behind crates and bags filled with exotic fruits from foreign places so remote the four-legged beast wonders how it took him reaching the end of his eternity to learn about their taste.
The smell of a peculiar flower and rain somewhere passes by the meadow around the ruins he calls his shelter. Prompted by rustling in the bushes, he perks up. If this ferocious beast is lucky, his next meal delivers itself soon. Patient, unmoving, his ears follow the crip sounds in the dry foliage on the ground. He could get to his front feet and catch a glance of the critter making its very last mistake on this earth, but there's no hurry. No prey has ever made it past his bow and sword and fangs. When a disappointingly tiny rabbit hops into view, he scares it away with a limp stomp of his hoof.
Those pointless beings, he does not understand them. No matter if they are animals, or those of the Creed of the royal family, or the people of the Fishlike, or Birdlike, or Stonelike, or the Red Haired Warriors, or any other bipedal enemy of the Hearth. These beings were not created for a reason, like he was. They simply exist, no, they drop in and out of existence. Struggling so hard to stay alive until they inevitably perish. In the centuries roaming this patch of land, he bested countless champions searching for adventure and finding demise instead. Especially the bodies of the people of the Creed are so fragile they require drapings in order to not die from exposure to the elements, lacking the thick hide of a Stonelike, the quick reflexes of a Fishlike, let alone the ability to soar into the sky as a Birdlike. None of them possesses magic like he does, all of them remain incapable of harnessing the fire.
The western sky, where the reassuring presence of his Hearth used to take hold of the castle and the world, now only offers the golden evening sun, wonderous and awful, in this land of eternal autumn. Eternity was promised also to him, a place in an unchanging world, instead the eternal autumn turns to end, slow and agonizing.
A distant thunder is rolling when the wind carries a scent of ancient flowers and another sound behind a fallen pillar. A lazy eyelid lifts to watch the foolish rabbit reappear, but instead a head of blond hair and bright blue eyes are peeking from behind the ruins, quickly retreat back to hiding. The beast sorts his four feet and comes to rise, the sword for harvesting the fool at the ready, he stands and stares and waits. He is not going anywhere, and neither is his prey. No possible escape route allowing them to remain obscured. The blond head emerges again. One of the Creed, it seems, with its puny stature draped in a blue tunic bare of any armor, weapon still sheathed on its back. Pathetic, he thinks, and lunges forward to cut the blond head clean off its shoulders when the air is kicked out of his lungs and his motions freeze in place. His breath and movement returns quickly, but when his sword is speeding for the lethal blow, the one of the Creed has withdrawn into the grove, a grove that won't be there much longer, a grove that burns down oh so swiftly once the beast exhales his fiery odem, exposing the worm of the Creed as it squirms at the heat of the flames. This time no magic stops the path of his sword, he cuts the worm in half, should cut it in half, cuts into nothing in front of him, it vanished, up up in the air soars the one of the Creed as if the wings of a Birdlike were carrying it high into the sky only to crash down with its glistening blade. The blow misses, but an electric shock takes away the beast's weapon and dignity, forcing him on his knee. The scrawny worm of the Creed towers over him like a warrior of the Red Haired, watching him twitch as he recovers, in mockery waiting for him to reach his sword again. Shred it, shred the worm to pieces-- A dreadful roar announces powerful strikes with his heavy steel, one two three, the worm bare of any shield incapable of blocking them, should not be able to block them, does not block them, but it's like the beast was thrashing thick skin of a Stonelike instead of a puny one of the Creed. Splinters of metal glisten in the pale light when the blade of the beast shatters as it's breaking through whatever invisible barrier there must have been. Finally, sharp claws rip through flesh and shatter bones, finally, the scent of an extinct flower mixes with the smell of congealing life dripping from his paws as if he captured the red moonlight once again. Before he can mourn his weapon and regain his dignity, for one heartbeat he sees the specter of a Fishlike, small and lithe, just like the one of the Creed, the worm who now gets up from the ground like it had been picking flowers, wounds and clothes both mended, sword raised and white moonlight blazing in its eye.
---
It is the scent of rain that wakes him. With his body chilled to the bone, torrential rain flooding the meadow, he jerks up and sees the water around him run clear. Droning rain resounds in his throbbing head. This is not how things should be. He feels beaten, he is beaten, and yet he finds himself alive and unharmed. This is not right. Inferior opponents are supposed to die, why is he still here? He tries to look around, the one of the Creed obviously long gone. Somehow, his head keeps bobbing to the side as if it was off balance. Once he makes it over to his shelter, he wrings out his drenched mane, and-- this is not right. At the top of his proud mane, where two burly horns dominate his forehead, there is one horn, and one stump. Cut off clean.
The roar echoing through the lands of Eternal Autumn puts every thunder to shame. Even the redness of the blood moon could never restore what was taken from him today. Mutilated, humiliated by a mere mortal of the Creed who left and robbed him again when it took his chance for revenge. When the clouds retreat to the sea, the Beast of the Hearth makes a decision. He won't wait for the sun, or for the moon, ever again. He will use the spark left in his breath and leave. Never before did he realize he can leave his assigned post; he will roam the lands as ancient as him, and he will hunt.
Hunt the scent of a peculiar flower.