The Spirit of the Hunt

Three nights ago, ten hunters were warned about Graybark Forest. Villagers claimed they were cursed and that hunting was not permitted in them. The hunters just laughed.

Two nights prior, the hunters ventured into the Ugolan woods.

One night prior, they found buck footprints. They tracked it. The spotted it. They killed it.

The beast was the mightiest stag they had ever seen. White, and perfect.

The hunters got their prize kill. They gutted it, hacked it up, and distributed the parts amongst the hunters.

A day later, as the full moon rose, they awakened to a distant dreadful howling. It sounded hollow, as if it came from an empty cave—but echoed down from the obscured sky above the trees.

Then, there it was: a floating stag skull, spine and innards hanging below it, and skin and fur flapping about it like a cape.

It opened its jaw and howled once more. Six men fell to the ground, dead of fright. The others were paralyzed, but they’d certainly be next, for hunting was not permitted in Graybark Forest.

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