The Kelpie

Vines shoot from the cold, stony earth, wrapping themselves tightly around the once great oak trees, suffocating them in their bid to steal the sun’s light which is feebly little this time of year. The moon rarely leaves the sky, even when the sun is at its peak it can be seen, a faint silver globe in the pale ocean of sky, that is if the people are lucky enough for a clear sky. In Byol it is a rarity even in the peak of summer, for the sky to be completely clear of dull grey clouds. It rains often in autumn and each morning the soil is stained with the chilling frost from both the weather and fear, for Byol is a dangerous place.

To the west of the little village are the Deadlands, a vast moorland that spans miles and where nothing lives. To the north are the mountain peaks where the Great Eagles and Drakes dwell, they claim two or three a year but even they are not the most feared. Covering the entire east and south are the Byol Marshes, the native home of gloom and evil. Will O’ Wisps fill the night with their alluring lights for fearful children, Dire Wolves mimic the human voice to lure their prey into the mist, while trolls are prone to attack any human that strays from the village. All of these claim several lives each year and most lives that are claimed are those of the hunters. Due to the terrible climate of Byol, crops often fail and the people must rely on the brave few men and women who are daring enough to enter the marshes to hunt.

Hunters never live long; even if they are not taken by the creatures of the marshes, they turn to insanity at the horrors that they find and see played out before them, on their friends, their family and their lovers. There isn’t a day in Byol that one does not fear for the lives of the hunters, especially now in autumn, when food is more scarce than ever and the hunters, more endangered than they have ever been.

He entered the forest in early morning, the best time in his experience to go hunting. Many of the Byol beasts were nocturnal and so now they would be tired, at their most vulnerable. It was his fourth hunting trip alone, a great feat for any man or woman. Most hunted in parties though he found this a hindrance more than anything else. He was the type of man who kept his own company, taking long walks to the lake at the foot of the mountains to skip stones across the water and ponder about what lay outside the dreary gloom of his homeland.

He dreamed of places without the constant mist, where the water was clean and the people didn’t smell and weren’t so hostile. Where he could work on a farm and grow vegetation rather than dealing in bloody murder against the creatures of the marshes. Half the time he didn’t know why he did what he did, why he killed those creatures for the sake of greedy cowards, too scared to hunt but happy enough to gulp down the bounty. So there he was, stalking between the damp trunks of vine smothered trees, listening for the sounds of any unwary creature that would make a good meal for the nobles most likely, (the poor were given meager scraps).

An entire morning without a sound. The Hunter had gone further into the marshes than he usually did, so he expected at least to find something lurking. Yet there was nothing, not even a sparrow or crow gorging on the body of another hunter or villager.

With the passing hours more mist began to grow, causing the Hunter to lose his way more easily, yet there was nothing about his demeanor to show that he cared about this. Perhaps he didn’t, but that would not stop the craving of thirst from overcoming him in the humid air. Fortunately for him, there was much water to be found in the marshes, particularly in the place upon which he had stumbled. A river, broad but not very deep it seemed, for the water was thick with mud and slimy. Not that the consistency of the water bothered the Hunter in the slightest. The people of Byol were used to slimy beverages and he was on his knees in the mud, sucking the water out of the dirt and spitting out the sludge. It tasted foul and made his breath stink so terrible that even he could smell it. He wiped the mud from his mouth and washed his dirty teeth with spit, before chewing on an ivy leaf from a nearby tree to freshen his breath. The leave tasted bitterly strong and he spat it into the river when he was done, shuddering with the tang it left in his mouth.