The coming of the Blood Moon in Autumn always effected Laesara and her father particularly potently, and Aestival, apparently, was not immune from its terrible call to arms. But he did not have to hide his inner ravening beast – Laesara and Baelen did. And so, it was a relief when the time came for their annual hunt, a tradition they had formed together as father and daughter once he had been comfortable with taking her so deeply and primally into her original home. He'd had to be sure, of course, not only that she could handle it but also that she would not run away and return to it.
Ever since their first tentative, wary hunt, they set out with a hunting party each year and let themselves be lost in the howling violence that lurked in their hearts, freeing themselves, for the time being, from the chains and disguises of civilization and letting themselves go free... and kill.
Of course, not all the trappings of civilization were missing. Indeed, Baelen ensured that he, his daughter, and a few key trusted friends and servants were quite comfortable, well appointed and appropriately fed and cared for. It was far from a wild existence, but it was enough to sate the bloodthirst in their hearts...
~~~
Aestival paced at the edge of their camp, growling at the grey morning shadows. He was impatient – he wished to be off. I understand Laesara thought, as she sipped at her warm, liquid breakfast – the best thing for a cold morning - letting it beat off the chill of autumn, I understand perfectly. Though the moon was low in the sky now, she could still feel it's call, pulling her towards blood and glory. She itched to be away, seeking her prey, but the first rule of a predator was patience. So, though her bonded paced, restless, she stilled herself and waited.
The waiting was interminable.
It ate at her, and her idle thoughts made it all the worse. Indeed, there was something she did not wish to think about, something that she knew would stab at her like blades of ice. This thought plagued her, rising unbidden in her mind like a ooze-encrusted beast. It had been a year ago that she had lost her bodyguard – Malesmesch had been her protector since before memory graced her, and she could not help that thoughts of him intruded, now, on the eve of this hunt. But she didn't want to think about him now – she wanted to let loose her grief and rage and pain with rampant violence. She wanted to hurt. She wanted to hunt. Finally, relief came as she found herself approached by her father.
“Its time to go.” he said flatly. She nodded. Finally! she thought, keeping her face carefully schooled into a neutral expression as the hunting party set out...
~~~
Their seeking beasts found a scent, one they feared and hated, and they were off, baying, into the woods. The hunting party followed. There was a thrill to the chase that Laesara relished, the freedom of the woods nourishing her spirit as she charged forth. Finally, though, their prey managed to elude them... or, rather, their hastar. Not Laesara.
Laesara would hunt them on foot if it meant she could spill their blood, ichor, or whatever flowed in their veins. She tracked them on foot, her boots crushing the leaves beneath her into powder. They split the hunting party – she led one group, and he led another. It was only right, of course: as nobles they would lead their hunts, and polite to allow the other a lead. It was as far as politeness got under the shadow of the blood moon.
Tufts of brown bristly hair on the bark of the trees alerted her to the nature of her quarry – borgnah, fearsome beasts of venom and fang! They made fearsome mounts and interesting trophies, and their bristles could be used in a variety of alchemical solutions. Most of all, though... They put up quite a fight. Laesara felt her nerves jingle with anticipation...
Aestival's own senses shivered against him, and he turned suddenly, howling, as a large shape emerged from the canopy, bearing one of her hunting party to the ground. And smart, too Laesara thought.
She threw her weapon as the hunting horns blew, and it was the last fully rational thought she had as the wrath of the blood moon carried her away, and she let herself be lost to it.
~~~
She felt good. Her weapon shrieked a coarse battle cry only she could hear, not at all discordant with the wet sounds that the borgnah's carapace made on impact, and her sword sang a metallic, deadly accompaniment. She was in tune with her weapon, and her weapon was in tune with her, and together they carved the Borgnah into bristly joints and sticky black ichor, evading its strikes as it thrashed and flailed.
Others are not so lucky. She was aware of that, as her hunting party screamed their injuries and pain into the uncaring golden forest. Laesara could have cared, but she didn't. Not now. All she wanted was for the malevolent light in the borgnah's eyes to blink out, and when that light finally did leave it's limp form, her bound boomerang embedded deep in its head, all she wanted was another to fight...
An unholy shriek from behind her made her grin with rampant, delight as she got her wish.
~~~
It had ripped off one of the servant's arms before they could fend it off, slugging it with their own weapon, a great club of merciless proportions. Her weapon sailed in with a shimmering trail, slamming into the borgnah twice before it returned to her, dripping anew with ichor... Or is it left over from the other one? Lae leapt in. It doesn't matter!
Aestival bit at its legs as Laesara duelled it, face to face. But it was not her that felled it – a shot from a servant's gun brought it down, and Laesara gave them a wild look before reigning herself in – it was their prey, fairly and by rights – and giving them an imperious nod of appreciation. She waited, taut, for another borgnah to come, for the fight to be renewed.
Nothing.
She set to checking the trees for an ambush, striking the branches in hopes of shaking something loose. Nothing. It appeared that they were done, there.
She was disappointed, but she wiped off her weapon and sheathed it and, likewise, sheathed the ferocious wildness that had brought her here and covered her with the inner ooze of a beast. She wiped it away, revealing – beneath the grime – the civilized golden-skinned young noblewoman of fifteen summers and a blossoming lady, powerful and beautiful and statuesque. As she helped her group tend to their wounds and brought them back to the rendevous point to await her father, she seemed every bit the civilized, erudite, calm leader. But, inside, she howled to the blood moon with a hungry joy, ravenous for the hunt, ravenous for more violence and bloodshed.
And, as she met her father's eyes, she knew he felt the same.
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