Hunts - The Cults of Duskwood
They cherry of the cigar burned brightly in the dark of the nightwoods. It had to be close sometime to Dawn, low moon, and sure to have the sun rise at any point and time. The air was filled with the smell that could burn the inside of ones nose. A blubbering cultist on his knees, before a click of the shotgun cracked like thunder.
The body falling limp, after vein attempts of bargaining. The conversation held in the off-hand, not gripped around the trigger of a sawed off shotgun, coming to a short end. “See you soon.” Dawsons would say simply, dropping the communication stone after it seemed to had shorted out, to quickly be crushed under boot.
Dawsons looked up, two scorched and burned bodies hanging by their neck, one of them with a leg held to their body by the very last bit of sinew of their kneecaps, falling off at an awkward angle as if it was shot off by a short rang blast. With the cigar nearly burned to the nub, Dawsons flicked the cigar to where the unnatural scent came from. It was fuel, fuel that burned a trail into the hovel of the crypt as heat blasted from the crypt with hot air and flame licking the night air, the bodies swinging around with the force that came from the crypt and the leg that had just barely held on flying off into the distance to thump to the ground.
Dawsons would dust himself off, as he would walk away from the crypt letting his arm drop and swing as it held the sawed off shotgun in hand. His neck moving with a crack as he growled, going home for the night.
