closed starter | @thekingswench
A few days into the hunt, and after following the trail of at least half a dozen roe deer that did not suit what he was looking for, Razkiel finally came upon his quarry near the banks of a stream. A white hart. And now that he had a proper look, he could revise his assessment. The story he got from the Polk lauded of its swift feet, and it must be swift indeed, for them to have missed so crucial a detail—its branching antlers were in bloom.
This was no mere hart. This was their forest spirit, the one that kept their springs replenished, the one that coaxed their everblossoms to fruit. Those fool villagers had led a predator to the source of their livelihoods.
No matter. That was not his concern.
The stag’s head darted up before he could attempt to dismount. It was already spooked, though he had made not a sound. He spurred his mare into motion just as it bolted into the trees, quicksilver fast.
But the chase was over as soon as it began. Up ahead, there was the sound of the hart screaming, of his kill being stolen. He pulled at the reins and Avonmore reared back, startled to a halt, but as any fine charger she recovered quickly and clopped in place. Razkiel’s hard gaze was fixed on the sight before him, non-too-pleased to have his hunt truncated by a whelp.
“Well,” he intoned, the one syllable dripping with venom. “What fine teeth he has. Surely a hunter of great renown, to shamelessly make free with another’s mark.”
