Chapter Text
The town is small and quaint, nestled in a green valley, inhabited by hardworking farmers and shepherds in the surrounding mountains. There is no crime, no beggars on the streets for once or orphan children running around the street stealing from the vendors and the traders who have traveled long distances to sell their wares in this remote side of Lifesteal. It’s reminiscent of a village in how the houses are spaced apart enough for a carriage to fit through, most side roads close to the plaza claustrophobic, seeming to limit the breathing room for anyone who steps in them.
Banners and clothes hang off of ropes that connect one house to the other, cleverly wound around the railings of balconies to create a sort of pulley mechanism; simple and functional and easy to move about. Some fabrics hang so low that they could brush your head if you didn’t duck and the road is paved, outlined with cobblestone and wild grass. Flowers are rare on the main street, where the horses trample too frequently to allow anything other than sullied greenery to grow in rough patches of dirt.
Clown likes the serenity of this place. Not many foreigners are roaming but the locals throw no weird looks. Everyone appears to know everyone and the only thing sent his way is some bread and a smile from an old woman he helped on the street. It is so different to the other cities and kingdoms he's been to where crime runs rampant, even with guards posted at every corner and the townspeople gloomy. His coin pouch hangs on his belt, half full under his red, flowy cape and for once, he doesn’t need to worry about grabby hands.
It took him a month to travel from the capital to this withdrawn place, first on foot and then on horse when he found a herd roaming in the plains he had to cross. Riding bareback has never been his favorite, mostly because the inner side of his thighs was stained brown with fur by the time he was walking on his own legs again. It took him a whole two hours to get all of the brown out of the black and red of his puffy leggings.
(He still finds fur sticking out of his clothes)
When he picked up that bounty on the board at the capital, he saw the opportunity to make bank and took it, deeming himself skillful enough to take down some monster in the woods. The horns of the dragon he slayed just two months ago decorate his carefully crafted mask now, resting heavy but displayed proudly on his head, curling elegantly by his temples. They show the amount of strength and bravery that he holds in the hard-earned muscles in his body and the cunning in his head. Not many have taken on a dragon and come back alive.
It's almost laughable how high the reward is, yet only few have taken up the job.
On the other side of this town is a forest rumored to be haunted by a monster the likes of which no one has witnessed and lived to tell the tale. There are millions of stories that share that plot. A haunted mansion, a haunted swamp, one that had a vampire inhabiting it and the other housed swarms of crocodiles. A haunted something could just be a deadly, normal animal. He can just see the peaks of some pines from the top of the church's bell tower; it looks like a normal forest.
If he's lucky, he'll find a drake stomping through the woods or even a pack of wolverines raiding an abandoned cart. Anything other than having to deal with a manticore's sting again. That experience was bloody infuriating. Or having to buy new clothes because dragonfire burns through fabric surprisingly quicker than normal fire.
Belly full of warm bread, he continues to search for the man who put up the bounty. An hour later, the small town's headman greets him with a relieved expression and tired eyes. The old man invites him into his house without much fuss and his wife urges them to sit at the kitchen table to discuss the mystery behind the forest, obviously curious about it as well.
Tea is brought out. Then biscuits and a few other sweets. Whenever she can, the lady will encourage him to eat, thinking he's not comfortable enough to eat in front of them– he isn't … mostly because of that . Perhaps she's only curious about the mask, then.
What a kind and hospitable lady! Clown barely escaped the food she wanted to shove down his throat. So, kind but maybe a bit too hospitable.
"There have been shipments going missing in that forest", the old man told him, "Some foragers have found bones and shoes at the outer edges and the shepherd dogs have been going missing"
Apparently, no one gets through the treeline without being kidnapped, which makes Clown's job all the more complicated. The fact that bones are found so far away from a den or good cover means that they were eaten on the spot. Then, the shoes with no owner and the dogs could be a different case altogether.
"I think we're looking at more than one monster", he told the man, who visibly withered because of his words. Regardless, Clown continues. "If that is the case, how much–"
He didn't even get to finish his sentence before he was interrupted.
"I'll pay you in full if there is one, and half for each if there are two. Please, just, kill it– them!"
With a shrug, they shook on it and Clown ran before the woman could chase him with the plate of biscuits. As tasty as they looked, he's got a mystery to solve and no time to waste, unless he wants someone else to retrieve the head of whatever lives in that forest.
He checks in at the tavern for a room in the evening. Paying upfront for a stay of two nights, Clown lingers at the staircase with a bowl of hot rabbit stew and listens to the bard strum the strings of his lyre. It's a fun song but as much as he wants to listen to it for a bit longer. Out of the corner of his eyes something shines.
He turns to look but whatever shined has already gone. Shaking his head, Clown goes to his room.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Clown sets off in the morning, taking his horse from the stablehand of the tavern and riding towards the forest. Silently, he recites what the headman told him yesterday; about the monster that is causing so much havoc to pay as much as an adult dragon.
If it was able to eat someone on the spot, then it can come and go quickly and maybe even have an unsatisfiable appetite. It could be a harpy; the climate here is good enough for a few to nest in the forest. Harpies generally don’t fear men, so them going as far as to eat the shepherd dogs wouldn’t be very surprising, or leave a shoe behind by accident. They are smart and cunning and if Clown was a sane man, he would’ve turned down the bounty the moment he drew this conclusion.
He isn’t, however, a sane man, so he urges his horse faster as he checks his supplies over one more time.
Everything is in place. Some regeneration potions that will help his body close any wound, his scythe held in his non-dominant hand because it’s too big for it to be strapped onto his back and not stab the horse by accident. His rapier’s scabbard is fastened on his belt, a weapon used only for close quarters where his scythe becomes practically useless. The bag on his back carries his food and water. It’s nothing special: some salted meats and wild berries that will be heavenly over a campfire.
He plans to hunt during the day; find the den and if he gets lucky, the creature will be asleep and he’ll be able to catch it off-guard. An easy kill is preferable but Clown can settle for a chase if needed. Those are more fun anyway.
He slowly tugs the makeshift, rope reins back when he is a good distance away from the forest. An exhale, a look at the imposing, green pines and then at the darkness that it promises; a death trap. Adrenaline is already buzzing through his veins and he licks his lips at the challenge he is imposed. He rests back, shifting for a second and readjusts his grip on the scythe whilst he scans the ground for a clear path that the horse won’t have trouble following.
“Hey!”, a shout coming from behind him grabs his attention. He tugs at the reins and turns his horse in order to not strain his neck trying to look over his shoulder. The horse snorts in annoyance and he pats its neck in sympathy.
A distraction is something he really doesn’t have time for right now.
A man on a wonderful black horse with white spots is cantering towards him, waving a hand, brown tufts of hair being tussled by the wind and the tail of a yellow mantle flowing behind him. He stops a bit away from Clown, who hasn’t said a word, the mantle settling over a navy blue, laced shirt. His gray eyes are as glassy and sharp as a cat’s, gaze piercing and surely perceptive.
“Hey!”, he calls again, quieter now that he is close. Clown graces him with the bare minimum of a response: a slight tilt of the head; just enough for it to be obvious. “Hey, you’re the hunter that came from the capital, right?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”, please, say no . Please, let this be a simple man and not some guy who wants to tag along–
“I want to come with you”, Clown’s shoulders fall immediately. He really doesn’t need a useless partner that will further hinder his mission by being subject to more danger than him– “I know this forest well enough. I am the sole survivor of it; I can be your guide!”
Oh. Not useless then. That’s– definitely good and definitely a relief. Clown looks closer at the man and he catches the metallic glint of something under his mantle. The man is also armed with knives, it appears. Throwing knives, judging by the missing handles. He isn’t as helpless as Clown thought, then –or the weapons are for show; he’ll have to find out the hard way.
“What’s your name?”, he asks and the man is all too happy to answer. Clown squints his eyes at him.
The sole survivor of the haunted forest, the only one who has been in it and come back alive, claiming to know his way around. Eager to help too; to guide a hunter into the gaping maw of the hungry wolf. Or birds. It’s certainly suspicious but Clown can’t turn down help.
The man doesn’t look like a threat; Clown would say he looks like someone who would choose flight instead of fight in a deadly situation. Even though he has his back straight in the saddle, he can’t know if it will be that way when he dismounts.
“Oh, right, my name’s Rek”
Clown knows better than to judge a book by its cover, though. Only time will tell what this man, Rek, is. Friend or foe; guide or harbinger.
“Clown”
The other chuckles behind a hand. Clown rolls his eyes and throws him a pointed look and even through the mask, his demeanor and straightening of his head is enough to cut Rek’s laughter out. He raises his scythe up, slightly spooking the black and white horse but not his own, and he lets the weapon rest in a perfect, horizontal line.
“Lead the way, Rek”
He watches for a second. Rek nods and kicks the sides of his horse, spurring the animal into a brisk trotting pace. Clown does the same, lowering the scythe and adjusting his one-handed grip on the reins before urging his horse forth.
The man may not have wings on his back, he may not have fangs in his mouth but Clown has seen horrors that looked far more innocent before they weren’t. Turning his back to a stranger with
that
background would be foolish and he can’t allow himself to indulge it.