Eternal Drift

The Master's Hound

The dust had mostly settled by the time he reached the town, though a faint haze still lingered in the air, catching the fading light of dusk. The sky above was ablaze, washed in hues of burnt orange and blood-red, casting a strange, spectral glow over the empty streets.

As he walked down the main road, the townspeople watched him with wary eyes, suspicion lurking beneath the brims of their hats and the curtains of their windows. It wasn't unusual. Strangers-drifters, especially-rarely carried good intentions. Trouble followed rootless men, it always had. It always would.

He hooked his thumbs into his pockets and made his way to the saloon, feeling their eyes on him the whole way. The heavy wooden door creaked as he stepped inside, and heads turned.

"You get lost in the dust storm, stranger?" a voice called from across the room. It was a man, hunched over a bottle, his words slurred by drink but edged with that familiar wariness.

The Wanderer just nodded, his gaze steady but distant. This was his first time stepping outside the shadow realm since he'd entered into that cursed contract. The first time he'd felt anything other than the cold, empty hunger of his servitude. Now, his task was clear: find Umbrax. But he couldn't very well go around asking if anyone had seen a hell hound, could he? Mortals were fragile things, easily rattled, and he had the feeling that stirring their fears would lead him nowhere.

The barkeep's gaze flicked over him, sharp and appraising, as he wiped down the counter with a rag as worn as the saloon itself. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, voice gruff.

"I could use a drink," The Wanderer replied, patting his pockets out of habit. "Though I don't have any coin on me."

"On the house," the barkeep said after a moment, pouring a glass of whiskey and sliding it across the bar with a slight nod. In places like this, hospitality was as much survival as courtesy-strangers often brought trouble, but they also brought stories, and it never hurt to be on good terms with a man who had nothing left to lose.

"Appreciated," The Wanderer murmured, lifting the glass to his lips. He savored the burn as it slid down his throat, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. It was the first real sensation he'd felt in what felt like lifetimes-a spark of something almost alive, almost human. That other world, the place he called his master's realm, was a place of deprivation. Even the smallest indulgence felt like a memory of life itself.

The barkeep's eyes lingered, cautious, reading the hard lines of his face, the worn edges of his coat, like a man measuring the weight of a stone before he cast it.

"Got a name, stranger?" the barkeep asked finally, leaning against the counter.

He let the question hang in the air a moment too long, the whiskey lingering on his tongue. It felt almost like a taunt. The truth was, he didn't know his name-or, rather, he couldn't remember it. That small piece of himself had been taken long ago, left behind in a realm of shadows and whispers.

"Names ain't important," he replied, setting the glass down. "Just call me Drifter. That's all I am."

The barkeep gave a curt nod. "Well, Drifter, name's John. You lookin' for work, or just passin' through?"

"Maybe," he said, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Depends on the work." Truth was, he wasn't here for any honest job. The Wanderer knew that much about himself-he was no stranger to deception, and he had little appetite for labor beyond what he was already bound to. "What year is it, anyhow?"

The barkeep's expression shifted, a glimmer of suspicion creeping into his eyes. "It's 1875. Where've you been that you don't know that?"

"Lost." The single word hung in the air, a simple answer that carried more weight than he intended.

Before the barkeep could press further, a scream tore through the night, shattering the stillness. Chairs scraped against the floor as patrons stood, their faces pale and tense, and The Wanderer watched as they all filed outside, muttering anxiously. He finished his drink, set the glass down with a hollow clink, and followed them out.

Outside, they stood in the street, eyes fixed on the darkening horizon where the last vestiges of light were beginning to fade.

"Someone's in trouble," a young man said, his voice a shaky whisper. He moved toward his horse, hands fumbling with the reins. "Don't just stand there, y'all."

"I dunno, Will," another man said, eyes darting nervously. "Maybe we oughta let the sheriff handle it..."

"Then go fetch him, you damn coward" Will snapped. "I ain't gonna wait around-might be too late by then."

The Wanderer watched the exchange, a quiet observer in the gathering tension. A few of the younger men mounted up, and he turned to the nervous one who had stayed behind.

"Let me borrow your horse," he said, voice low and calm. "I'll go."

The man looked at him, eyes wide and uncertain. "You wanna be a hero, be my guest. Just make sure you bring him back. He's the black one over there." He pointed quickly before rushing down the street to find the sheriff.

The Wanderer mounted the black horse with a fluid ease that surprised him; the feel of the reins, the weight of the saddle, stirred something in him-something almost familiar. Without another word, he rode off with the others, heading toward the source of the scream. Another cry split the night, distant and sharp, like the howl of some wounded beast. They spurred their horses into a gallop, reaching a small house just beyond the edge of town.

Silence met them, a suffocating quiet that pressed down on the world like a hand over a candle flame.

"Should we knock?" one of the men whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

"I reckon we bust it down," another replied. "Take whoever's inside by surprise."

The Wanderer swung around to the back of the house, his gaze sharpening as he took in the sight before him. The back door hung open, twisted and splintered, with deep claw marks gouging through the wood. A trail of blood led away from the threshold, fresh and glistening in the moonlight.

"Y'all wanna take a look at this?" he called softly. "No need to bust down any door."

The others approached, eyes wide as they took in the scene. "Jesus," one of them muttered. "What did that? A bear? Out here?"

"Could be..." The Wanderer drawled, though he knew better. This was no bear. He'd seen claw marks like this before. This was Umbrax, his master's hound-its savage power written in blood and splinters.

Will dismounted, holding a lantern as he peered into the open doorway. His face paled as he took a step back. "It's a damn bloodbath in there. But... no bodies."

One of the younger men shivered, clutching his shotgun tighter. "What if it's a werewolf or somethin'?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Will shot back. "Ain't no such thing."

The Wanderer remained silent, his gaze fixed on the blood trail leading into the shadows beyond the house. He knew better than to try to explain the truth to them. Mortals weren't ready for the reality he knew, the horrors that lay beyond their understanding. But as he stared into the darkness, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched-like the gaze of something old and hungry, lurking just beyond the edge of sight.

He felt a familiar chill, a whisper of his master's presence, faint but unmistakable. It was a reminder of his duty, of the chains that bound him to this hunt. Umbrax was here, somewhere in the shadows, waiting for him.

And as he tightened his grip on the reins, a single thought echoed in his mind, cold and relentless:

This was only the beginning.