In the gray-blue twilight, the tangled brambles and twisted trees cast a shroud over Emma. There, huddled low, she peered with emerald eyes at her prey. She held with relaxed grip a knife of alloyed silver. She shifted forward, fractions of an inch, bringing herself forward at a stalker's pace until she edged toward the cover's boundary. Were this any other target, or any other time, she wouldn't need such caution.
Emma of the Francia Order. The others called her by various titles, but none were taken seriously by their owner. And, her prestige only fueled the disdain held against her by the Order's council. The heads of the huntswomen were, each with her own reason, unkind in disposition toward Emma. There were many nights spent in frustrated talks with her mother, jaded and disappointed, as she'd try explaining to Emma that the politics were more than tedium. Emma understood this, obviously, but couldn't take the lesson to heart. Every mission was a waste of her skill, time spent reinforcing dusty fundamentals instead of honing her exceptional gifts.
She was a prodigy, slaying monsters far beyond those her position would assign, and then bringing their trophies as spectacle to the council. She knew she was insufferable to their stature. But, returning home from a contract, she always found a new warrior fallen or missing. Some other woman taken before her time, sent somewhere she wasn't ready. Caution was a false kindness, misjudged and assigned to her while it passed by others more deserving. She was content to live as a pariah, hunting for herself and ignoring the orders of those with clean boots.
But, her mother was important to her. That old hag believed in the order with her whole heart. In her retirement she didn't fight anymore, but still she dedicated what energy she had left toward steering them to a peaceful world. Under her guidance, the nearby towns had become safer. Folk grew gentler, afforded the ability to soften their souls while the Francia Order shielded them. And, despite Emma's cynicism, days were brighter. The monsters dwindled.
But, that meant those remaining were stronger.
Emma's mother sought restitution for her daughter's tarnished name. Her mother would plead with peers for leniency and beg for undesirable jobs to save face. As anathema to Francia, Emma felt it was her responsibility to spare her mother that shame. So, here she trekked, hunting a creature that couldn't be ignored. She had ventured into the Wildwood to slay a werewolf who'd lived despite dozens of contracts against him. The locals called him by his human name Aldbehrt.
Emma knew him by his title. Two councilwomen had returned from a failed contract, limping, warning against trying to bring him in: The Silverstricken. So-named for surviving a wound with a slivered blade, the more-than-man was a legend to the younger girls. Emma, though, had been in his presence once before. She knew he was nothing more than a beast. And, had she been older--or absent, she wouldn't have been in her mother's way on that night. He would've been slain, instead of being fled from.
He stood at the side of his cottage, grabbing with his spread fingertips a log of wood one foot in diameter. His linen pants were tied with simple cordage, ill-fitting and tight against his thighs. He wore no shirt, having been splitting wood for a time, preparing his stock for the imminent nightfall. As he raised an axe overhead, Emma watched his muscles cut thin shadows over his back like a butterfly's wing pattern. His body relaxed as he brought the tool down, cleaving the wood easily under its heavy head. Despite the practiced efficiency, a thin shine to his skin betrayed a tiredness at this end of day.
She struck.
In an instant, she had cleared the distance. She was upon him before his gaze had lifted from the stump. Her knife came down, aimed true at his chest. But, he was capable--worthy of her attention. He brought his arms up in reflex. They collided together. Emma sprung back, deflected, absorbing her fall on her soft-landing feet. She glared up at him, towering over her.
Had she been standing, her head would barely reach his chest. His great hands dropped the axe, tossing it aside, knowing its presence in this fight would only be a liability to his chances against a trained huntress. He brought his fists in front of his wide chest and rolled his broad shoulders down to tuck his body in and forward. He bent his knees, straining the fabric of his pants, then charged. He swung wild, each blast a devastation, but easily slipped by Emma. He was untrained? How had someone repelled multiple hunts with instinct alone?
Emma cut weak slashes at him during his combination of punches, but his thick, resilient skin showed no injury. Emma leapt back. She needed to create an opening for her to land a deep strike, and she couldn't make that time if he kept her defensive. Seeing the distance between them, Aldbehrt relaxed. He stood with a grin and crossed arms, his golden eyes beaming at her. A light beard exaggerated his already strong jaw, almost highlighting his visibly sharp teeth.
"I've smelled you, before," he laughed, a deep, hearty challenge to her constitution.
Emma said nothing, staying low to the ground. She was far smaller than him, young by the standards of the order. Against his bronze skin, her pallor accented her presence in the fresh moonlight. He radiated a golden aura, present in his eyes and hair, and wore soft brown linen. She, in contrast, had her black hair braided and wore a cloak made of night.
"Not much for talking? That's fine," he let his thick forearms fall to his sides and rolled his neck to the side, "You're a quick little one, girl. I'd be happy to learn your name."
It was her arrogance that replied, "Emma of the Francia Order."
"Ah," he scratched a finger over his chin, thumbing at a shallow scar that cleft his facial hair, "Well, I had no doubt you belonged to the Order. They've made my acquaintance. But, I'm confused: I haven't heard of you before. You're no warrior of acclaim."
The bridge of his nose wrinkled into a snarl, "The Order wouldn't exile you to the Wildwood, right? No," he licked his lips with a growing hunger, "they're too gutless."
"I'm here of my own accord," Emma postured, concealing her offhand, "to slay you for my own satisfaction."
Aldbehrt launched forward, raising a mighty hand overhead. Emma darted forward like a bullet, dodging as the earth behind her erupted at Aldbehrt's slamming fist. Under him, she withdrew from her pack a holy seal. With a quick motion, she signed a spell and touched his abdomen with her hand. A blinding white light flashed, and the massive man was toppled.
Aldbehrt fell to the ground, clutching his chest. He groaned, burned by her magic, vulnerable to her follow-up. Emma descended like a fiend, plunging, with her blade leading the charge. Despite his weakened condition, Aldbehrt barely managed to stay her hand. He held her hand in both his own, his huge arms shaking in struggle. His rough skin was hot, steaming her own, cold as ice.
She stared calmly into his straining face, "Your moons end tonight, dog."
Her knife's tip pricked the surface of his heaving chest, and it was already healed during his exhale. His eyes flashed with fury, "You bitch," his voice grew deeper.
She watched as he shifted. His body growing larger, a veritable behemoth dwarfing her further. His pants shredded at his growth, exposing his heavy manhood. Thick brown fur grew from him, wild and tangled. Emma didn't react, even as his growing, gnashing snout came to an inch in front of her face. His strength grew, and he threw her from him.
Emma flipped through the air, carried by the momentum of his throw, and came down lightly in the grass. She watched Aldbehrt rise, a mass of claw and fang. He snapped his teeth, pulling his hands away from the singed flesh of his chest. A cross was burned from his navel to neck, glowing his skin red behind the matted fur by her spell's curse. He howled, unlike the monsters she'd hunted before. His was like an explosion, booming into the sky. Overhead, a full moon oppressed the landscape.
