be.
Such a pity.
The place looked right, it even smelled right, but there was something missing, something he couldn’t quite describe. The best analogy he could think of was watered down. Yes, that was the sensation. Like so much of this new world that had grown atop the old world he knew, this place had been diluted into something less than pure. It sickened the Slaugh to see that his once proud heritage had become less than it was. He would have to correct that oversight.
The place reeked of old booze, sweat, and urine. This was the type of place that the original Wild Hunt would have called their own back in the old country. He found it poetic that the Wild Hunt’s rebirth should take root in a place such as this. The original Wild Hunt had been birthed in a roughshod place. They crawled out of the muck and blazed a trail across the old country, setting it aflame beneath their hooves. For a time, they were kings, feared by rabble unfit to lick their boots.
Like all good things, however, the hunt ended.
The end came on a battlefield stained red with the blood of friends and enemies alike. It was on this last battlefield that The Wild Hunt fell.
The Slaugh still remembered his death. The pain was as intense as it was quick and then he was gone, but only for a moment. The Slaugh was reborn in a form that was and was not his own. It had taken timeto learn how to maneuver within his new form, but eventually, the Slaugh regrouped with his brothers and resumed the hunt. They blazed a trail across the land, ripping sinners from their homes with impunity. They performed a service. They were, as one enemy referred to them, a necessary evil.
Then, The Wild Hunt chanced upon a coven whose sinners were strong.
He had seen their kind before, gypsy caravans filled with those who worshipped the Earth Mother or some such nonsense. He disliked their kind, but the Slaugh had never had need to fear any witch before. However, what he and his band of brothers had not realized was that their new forms were susceptible to the witches’ power. The coven dispatched his brothers to a hellish purgatory realm, but because of his actions against the coven, they had a special punishment for him. They bound him to the stones of a castle near their settlement where he was trapped for days without ceasing. Centuries passed and his imprisonment was hell itself until one fateful day when workers began to disassemble the castle and moved the stones piece by piece to a boat that took them across the seas and far out of reach of the witches who had imprisoned him.
The Slaugh was still trapped by the stones, but he found himself suddenly able to move around within the castle walls. It wasn’t freedom, but it was a step closer than he had been. The farther he moved from the coven’s power base, the weaker their magic became. A plan was hatched. The Slaugh vowed that he would gain freedom.
He almost made it too.
If not for a chance encounter with a man named Hans Holzer when everything changed.
Once again, he died.
Only, he didn’t really die this time.
His new prison was worse than the one before. He was held immobile beneath the musty dirt of this new world. How long he was held there, he could not say, but the Slaugh was certain it was not as long as he had been trapped within the walls of Castle Bartlett.
Now, he was free once more, with a new body, newfound wealth, and an ages-old unquenched lust for vengeance upon his enemies and their offspring. The first step toward quenching his desire for revenge was to return his brothers from the hell they had been cast into by the coven.
The Slaugh had a plan and it all started here.
“This will do nicely,” he whispered as the pub door closed behind him. In spite of his best efforts, the body he now inhabited could not handle the lyrical lilt of his Irish brogue the way his original form had. That, he decided, was the cruelest injustice of all. No longer did he even sound like a son of
Such a pity.
The place looked right, it even smelled right, but there was something missing, something he couldn’t quite describe. The best analogy he could think of was watered down. Yes, that was the sensation. Like so much of this new world that had grown atop the old world he knew, this place had been diluted into something less than pure. It sickened the Slaugh to see that his once proud heritage had become less than it was. He would have to correct that oversight.
The place reeked of old booze, sweat, and urine. This was the type of place that the original Wild Hunt would have called their own back in the old country. He found it poetic that the Wild Hunt’s rebirth should take root in a place such as this. The original Wild Hunt had been birthed in a roughshod place. They crawled out of the muck and blazed a trail across the old country, setting it aflame beneath their hooves. For a time, they were kings, feared by rabble unfit to lick their boots.
Like all good things, however, the hunt ended.
The end came on a battlefield stained red with the blood of friends and enemies alike. It was on this last battlefield that The Wild Hunt fell.
The Slaugh still remembered his death. The pain was as intense as it was quick and then he was gone, but only for a moment. The Slaugh was reborn in a form that was and was not his own. It had taken timeto learn how to maneuver within his new form, but eventually, the Slaugh regrouped with his brothers and resumed the hunt. They blazed a trail across the land, ripping sinners from their homes with impunity. They performed a service. They were, as one enemy referred to them, a necessary evil.
Then, The Wild Hunt chanced upon a coven whose sinners were strong.
He had seen their kind before, gypsy caravans filled with those who worshipped the Earth Mother or some such nonsense. He disliked their kind, but the Slaugh had never had need to fear any witch before. However, what he and his band of brothers had not realized was that their new forms were susceptible to the witches’ power. The coven dispatched his brothers to a hellish purgatory realm, but because of his actions against the coven, they had a special punishment for him. They bound him to the stones of a castle near their settlement where he was trapped for days without ceasing. Centuries passed and his imprisonment was hell itself until one fateful day when workers began to disassemble the castle and moved the stones piece by piece to a boat that took them across the seas and far out of reach of the witches who had imprisoned him.
The Slaugh was still trapped by the stones, but he found himself suddenly able to move around within the castle walls. It wasn’t freedom, but it was a step closer than he had been. The farther he moved from the coven’s power base, the weaker their magic became. A plan was hatched. The Slaugh vowed that he would gain freedom.
He almost made it too.
If not for a chance encounter with a man named Hans Holzer when everything changed.
Once again, he died.
Only, he didn’t really die this time.
His new prison was worse than the one before. He was held immobile beneath the musty dirt of this new world. How long he was held there, he could not say, but the Slaugh was certain it was not as long as he had been trapped within the walls of Castle Bartlett.
Now, he was free once more, with a new body, newfound wealth, and an ages-old unquenched lust for vengeance upon his enemies and their offspring. The first step toward quenching his desire for revenge was to return his brothers from the hell they had been cast into by the coven.
The Slaugh had a plan and it all started here.
“This will do nicely,” he whispered as the pub door closed behind him. In spite of his best efforts, the body he now inhabited could not handle the lyrical lilt of his Irish brogue the way his original form had. That, he decided, was the cruelest injustice of all. No longer did he even sound like a son of
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