[ IP ] Witch Hunt

It had been arduous, taxing, and disheartening. A useless endeavour, plagued by weather, companionship, and magicks. The entire time they searched, the blizzard had not let up, the white claimed them one by one. 
 
 Doubtless they could have slaughtered them the moment they stepped foot outside of the village, in a haze of spell and godless butchery. Ripped their throats out with their talons, feasted on them with their rotten teeth. 
 
 But, no, these bitches wanted to play their games, to toy with the hearts of men as a cat bandies with its broken prey. 
 
 They came upon Rube first, placed purposefully in their path, his insides strewn out into the snow around him, nestled in a crimson slush. His face was stretched into a horrid mating of fear and pain, his eyes nothing more than red pits, his tongue pulled through his throat. 
 
 Tybo they found no better, they had broken him near in twain with their obscene fucking, blood and seed mixing liberally. His ribs opened up like some gory flower, offering his guts to the silent sky. 
 
 And so it was. 10 men sent, 9 caught up in the horrid darkness that awaited them, meeting their deaths in every way imaginable, and more. At night, their screams taunted the survivors with their coming fate, their pleas for help went unanswered, as it would be for every man after. 
 
 They were never hunters, Ivin, Urment and the rest. They were all the hunted the moment they walked into the wood. 
 
 Ernault waited for death when night fell, but, it did not come, and for the first time since they had left, it was blissfully quiet. Day appeared with no preamble, and with it, the vigil Ernault had stood was over. His extremities were numbed, his feet soaked, his breath laboured, misting weakly before his face with every pathetic draw of his lungs. 
 
 He walked aimlessly, the snow crunched beneath him, the purity about him unmarred save for his slow steps. He heard it, before he saw it. The ominous creak, a different sound usually heard in the winter wood, a heavier sound. 
 
 He looked up from his feet, and blinked, his lashes frosted and weighted. They hung grotesquely, like over ripe fruit, naked and ready for the picking. Ernault expected his heart to drop, but it did n't, it thumped stubbornly against his frozen chest. His comrades swayed in the cold wind, iced and pale, and Ernault noticed that the blizzard had stopped. The snowfall abated, and then his heart dropped, falling into the icy pool that was his stomach. 
 
 They peered at him from the haze, unmoving, as still as the trees around him. 
 
 Silence reigned briefly, then was broken by the sharp rasp and ring of a sword drawn. Ernault took a step. The witch in front took her own step, and together, they walked slowly towards each other, their feet crunching purposefully in the snow. 
 
 She drew closer, clad in the body of a young woman, and Ernault felt that if he were n't so cold, his member might have reacted. She was wreathed in blood, and naked. When he drew closer, Ernault noted that her skin did n't even pimple in the cold, and that despite the stories, she looked more human than monster. The tip of his sword faltered for a moment, but the sway of his comrade's bodies brought Ernault back. He raised his blade, and pointed it, `` Foul witch!'' He proclaimed, loudly, his voice echoing into the wood. 
 
 She paused, and cocked her head, a wide grin spread over her near angelic features. Behind her, her sisters stood still, having not moved, but, they too grinned. 
 
 `` I've come to slay you, demoness.'' Ernault stated, keeping his sword stoically pointed. 
 
 `` *Look at the Man, sisters. *'' A voice sounded in his head, harsh and pealing, `` *See how the mouse plays as a lion! *'' 
 
 Ernault clutched his head with one hand and gasped. The voice resonated throughout him, filling him with an unholy warmth. His sword dipped. 
 
 `` *See how boldly he comes, challenging and shouting... *'' Another voice whispered, and one of the witches twitched. 
 
 Ernault fell to his knees, the point of his sword buried in the snow. Their voices tempted him, prompted him, promising warmth and release. 
 
 The foremost witch tossed back her raven black hair, revealing full breasts, then posed suggestively, `` *Has the Man-Lion come to claim what he believes is his? *'' She took several light steps forward, stopping mere feet away, `` *Does the Man-Lion* **hunger**?'' 
 
 The word pushed Ernault bodily, onto his back, and in a flash, she was looking over him. She licked bloody lips, and bent forward, but the shock of the snow at his back brought Ernault to his senses. `` No!'' He shouted, hoarse, and brought his sword around. 
 
 It bit deep into her side, drawing black blood and she screamed. The sound pummeled Ernault inside and out, and she danced backwards, freeing his sword. She clutched her side, blackness oozing from between her fingers and shot him with a fiery gaze, `` *Kill him! *'' 
 
 The other two moved swiftly towards him as Ernault fought to his feet, `` Devils!'' He cried, `` I'll send you down myself!'' 
 
 He brought his sword up to block an incoming strike with a quickness he did n't know he possessed. The blade rang off of the witch's forearm and she was replaced by another striking low. 
 
 They danced in the snow, trading blows, and soon the pure white was painted black and red, then turned to mush as they circled and strove. Above them, the bodies swayed and creaked, turning as if they watched the battle below, the ropes that held them groaning as if cheering their last comrade. 
 
 The last witch hunter began to feel the strains of the journey, the aches of the nights spent in the cold and the wild, and with a blinding blow, he found himself once again on his back. 
 
 A witch had been downed, she rolled listlessly, her skin opened, black and bleeding, another held the stump of what was once her arm, her detached arm lay severed, grabbing blindly, weakly. The final witch stood near unharmed, the same who had stepped forward before. She kicked the sword away from Ernault's failing grasp and bent over him, `` *The mouse can bite. *'' She hissed behind yellowed teeth, `` *But, in the end, a mouse is still a mouse. *'' She raised a hand to strike the killing blow, and Ernault closed his eyes. 
 
 A sharp crack sounded. The slain had watched enough. As if their spirits had cut the cords, they fell as one. To Ernault's fortune, Mives was hung above him. Mives was always a heavy fellow, they teased him often about it, but, this time, Ernault could not have been more thankful of his weight. He fell heavily atop the witch, snapping and crashing, sandwiching her firmly to the ground. 
 
 Ernault struggled to his feet and made a wild grab for his sword, he turned with it in hand in time to see her try to struggle out from under his friend. 
 
 Ernault uttered no words, only stepped forward and struck her head from her shoulders. 
 
 At the sight of her sister's death, the armless witch turned and fled, the white swallowing her up. The other lay limp and still, haloed in black, and to be sure, Ernault took her head too. 
 
 He grew still, surrounded by enemy and friend, their forms arrayed as they had dropped. 
 
 Ernault sank to his knees, and the sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He remained as such for what seemed like hours, unbothered by cold and snow. 
 
 When evening fell, he slowly got to his feet, shook the snow and ice from his legs and scabbard, sheathed his sword and began slowly walking after the retreating tracks of the last witch. 
 
 

