The Tale of Venator

They hadn't unloaded their tents or their supplies for that reason alone: according to rumor, they were always attacked at night. Venator's eyes pawed over their armor and the strange language upon it, how their skulls had lower brows and deep shadows over their eyes, the skin had been pulled tightly over exaggerated features-

The crack of a branch ceased his train of thought.

Venator's racing heart sped faster, his ears now vibrated in sync with his breast.

Ever so slowly he craned his head to the origination of the sound, his body taut, but fingers sliding over the hilt of his axe. He may have been discovered by a sentry, or a wayworn guard out to relieve a tightened bladder. Something had moved. The reeds washed about with each other in the crepuscular twilight, the wind was blowing harder now. He could never fight off a division this large, if he ran into the open their rifles would cut him to shreds and if he remained on the river the same fate surely awaited him. With lidless eyes the stars glared.

His eyes were now focused upon a smaller hill several dozen feet away, but there appeared to be nothing besides the rustling reeds about its circumference. He was sure that the sound had originated from that one spot, and knew that it was impossible for it to have been created by anything but a living creature. Not a gust of wind, not a drop of rain, no: this was an animal. He continued to focus and remained absolutely still, his muscles both burning and trembling with the challenge. Eventually, however, Venator found that in this riverbed he was not accompanied by a soldier, or a small lizard, or a sentry.

Rather, the object of all of his fears, desires, and hates had manifested itself within striking range. In Venator's eyes a pair of pupils tightened.

Its muscles rippled under dark flesh, it wore no clothing and was the size of a tall and strong man. Its hair was scraggly and long, kobold marks on the thing's skin made it look even more gruesome. He could hear it breathing; hear the snorting of its breath between mucus-clogged nostrils. It was kneeling behind the reeds and appeared to be scouting out the bivouac. A tongue behind yellow and triangular teeth slathered saliva about, Venator could see it move back and forth under the creature's cheek like the crest of a wave on a smooth ocean surface. With each exhalation from its mouth a whispered jargon of words thrashed about currents of grunting and growling. It clutched no weapon between its tightened fingers, but stains of blackened blood had cracked and dried all around his hands, it was clear that this thing needed no weapon but what nature gave it.

Venator prepared to fight the thing. He began to lift himself to his full height, his head rising above the swirling reeds. The quiet background chorus of tenebrous, hardly human language continued.

And as Venator lifted his axe, as he widened his legs for running, the creature screamed a sound he would never forget and loped high into the dark air, its jump taking it well over the outward pikes of the bivouac and into the inner throng of unsuspecting Barbins. He watched with horror as the thing clawed its way through the crowd of troopers, their swords and shields hacking in its direction but yielding no effect. It tossed men about with its rank claws; they flew about high in the air before the desert smothered their screams.