The Tale of Venator

Venator quickly noticed that there were no children or adolescents anywhere to be found, and that the few adults seemed both saddened and depressed.

After thanking and saying his goodbyes to the shopkeeper and the people who had taken him to this land Venator stopped in the only shop in town and asked a balding, middle-aged man in the process of purchasing a box of crackers why everyone was so depressed.

"For two months he came after the moon set," the man murmured under the white stubble surrounding his lips, as he turned to face Venator, "he demanded that he give us a child every night, and we of course said no, and he attacked and killed so many...and then he took the children all at once and we heard them screaming over the dunes and we were powerless...the next morning we looked for them and found only a trail of footprints heading south, along the river, always along the river..."

He trailed off, his teared eyes retracted with memory, his lips quivering with intense despair. Venator didn't bother to inquire further. He waited for the shaken man to make his purchase and then bought a good deal of canned foods to put in the satchel he had taken from his home. The day continued, the eye of the sun glared down upon the disheartened inhabitants of Decarideres, the shadows stretched and the arid heavens blazed to orange before the first stars began to peek out from behind the thinning veil of sky. Venator had napped until then, and he awoke with a start and left the dreary town without saying anything to anyone. With a shiver he pulled his cloak out of his satchel as he strolled quietly along the frothing banks of the Silvestris, the sand still very warm even with the nipping cold of the night. He turned back to see the glowing moon hovering just above the horizon, its journey almost complete.

II

Hours passed, only the gurgling of the river broke the silence. In the twilight gloom the reeds that dotted the Silvestris could be seen, and very far ahead, where the waterway sliced through the duned horizon a vast column of troopers marched, their pikes pointed to the stars, their rifles angled upon their shoulders. In the murk their armored helmets and bodypieces reflected, their boots plodded through the sand and they were all silent with weariness. To Venator it appeared as if they had been marching since at least the night before. He crept closer to the column, which was traveling the same direction down the river as he was, and hid behind a wet hill of fluttering reeds that had sprouted from the warm sand. The pendant around his neck remained quiet. His eyes peered through soft susurrus.

They ceased walking and bivouacked, their outer pikes pointed away from a center circle, each knight resting upon the bed of desert, one that beckoned sleep. Venator heard them speaking in an odd tongue, its sound akin to raking claws or nightmarish dreams. He listened for a good deal of time and concluded that these men were not Trachan: they were savage Barbins. He pulled his gaze back from the whispers of the boughs and glanced at his left breast long enough to see the skin thrumming above his heart, before his curiosity forced him to return to the resting soldiers ahead. As long as they remained he could not continue on his journey; there was no doubt in his mind that they had posted sentries for miles around, that even the slightest movement would trigger immediate response.