#bwoop

been playing omega strikers recently 

Tourists

West Gloucestershire had only one rule. Do not disturb her at night. Everyone knew it.

But Harvey was a tourist.

He'd rented a cottage for the week, in a patch of forest outside the suburbs of London. Like most social recluses, Harvey enjoyed biking in the woods.

He’d gotten up early in the day rented a guide, and had been biking west ever since, only stopping for breaks. They were supposed to meet at 5 am at the beginning of the trail. The guide never showed.

He wasn't surprised. He was slightly skeptical of her ability to take him on a fifteen mile uphill hike, when she'd lost her left leg last year. So he proceeded on his own.

But it was late in the day and the latex of his biking pants chafed and his windbreaker did little to deter the cold rattling his bones, but it was too dark to stop. He was in the middle of the woods.

It seemed more sensible to wait until he could reach an inn or even someone's shed.

The leaves crunched under the dirt path and he wiped away the clammy sweat that stuck to his forehead. Fog began settling in and clouded his already terrible vision. He'd lost his glasses over a cliff some ways back. The starless sky did little to help him, and only a crescent moon occasionally peeked out from between thick opaque clouds.

Wind burrowed between his limbs, raking up goosebumps on his flesh. Suddenly, he seized, all muscles constricting at once, his feet tangling in the pedals. The bike fell over on top of him ensnaring one leg within now-broken spokes.

“This will be inconvenient,” he stated huffily, picking muggy leaves and moss from his equally muggy hair. While trying to pull his leg out of thespoke, without further scratching it the scent of blood filled the air.

He knew the scent of his blood. He knew the scent of his brother's blood and his wife’s blood.

The blood he smelled was not like that blood, old and iron scented, and cold. That blood did not smell like his hands like theirs did.

He turned around, watching with wide cold eyes.

A giant woman stood near him, huge and ominous cloaked in dark red splotched pelts, hands bright red as she gripped a large femur. Picking tendons away from the bone she began, voice barely audible over the thrashing wind, “I heard you speak.”

Harvey nodded continuing to remove his leg from his bike.

“Why did you disturb me?” She requested, voice anxious as she frayed the tendons she'd picked.

“I-” He began her actions activating shivers along his spine.

“Quiet!” She screamed her voice echoing over the wind. Advancing, the cloaked woman, swung the limb at him, wailing mournfully. He would soon be quiet.

With a thump he caught the ball joint, stopping her blow, and in the same movement slammed his bike-entangled leg into her face. She crashed to the ground spilling her femur bone and a couple pelts. Face gnashed by the bike pedal. Holding her there with his leg, Harvey stepped onto her to stand. She whimpered at the pedal shoving into her stomach. He leaned over and picked up the bone. It looked recently sawed off, unnaturally, right above where a kneecap should've been.

“So that's where my guide went…” he muttered, tapping it against his palm with sticky muffled thumps. The crescent moon’s swift appearance illuminating the intrigue in his eyes.

“Shame you attacked me,” he huffed, as she struggled to get up from under the bike. He raised the bone over his head and graced her with a smile.

“Now your blood will smell like my hands,” he stated softly.

She never heard his final decree; the wind was too loud.