Far Cry 5 One-Shot Collection

The Hand That Feeds

Pairing(s): Joseph Seed & A Monster (???)

Warning(s): Blood, Dead Bodies, Suspence, Horror(?), Supernatural Elements.

Word Count: 5,961

A/N(s): This was originally supposed to be a Halloween fic, but I didn't get it out in time and got caught up doing other stuff; so... I'm posting it now instead 😅

- - - 

There is a crisp chill in the air, a teasing nip that plays between the trees in the early hours of the morning. The mountains shrouded by an ominous stillness, an aching anticipation that casts a withering glance over the flora, and pressurises the fauna into a tight silence. The autumn moon is unusually bright, a golden glow of cold warmth that beckons monsters from the shadows of towering trees. With painted grins and wisps of midnight, dancing to haunted tunes in the wind's quiet breath, they writhe from below in a giddily, twisted greeting.

Skittish deer tread with a hurried caution, eager and wary of the new danger that has sidled into the already tense County with salivating maws. Rabbits and foxes scurry urgently into their respective burrows, praying with flicking ears and twitching noses that they will be spared this night's patrol. Grizzled bears of mighty stature and shortened tempers do not so much as huff into the chilling air, vanishing into the back of rocky dens with a respectful fear.

Even the Judges, rabid wolves fused and mangled by twisted drugs, nature's noble guard turned traitorous war-machine, whimper and cower behind the bars of their cages. Their distant eyes are blown wide, torn ears pulled as flat as they can go against their heads in a pleading submission; looking like abused puppies waiting for the next beating.

Members of the resident cult which created the canid abominations look on with a perturbed curiosity, glancing to their peers in muted question. Even the prisoners housed in their own separate cells, getting what little rest they can while apprehensively awaiting their fateful turn at the infamous trails, grip the cool bars with sweaty palms and flickering gazes. One cult member clangs a metal pipe against one of the cages, snarling at the once fearsome canines to shut up.

They merely ignore them.

With a sudden bellow the wind wails, pained and ailed with a sound unlike any other chasing its current. The Judges tuck together tightly, bundling into corners with a flurry of frenzied whines and whimpers. Each huddling over the other in a vain attempt to distance themselves from the harrowed sound – distant and near, everywhere and nowhere – that swallows the County in a foreboding fever.

The wide and open plains of the valley, stretching for miles upon miles in a wide and grand gesture, shrinks in on itself; claustrophobic and vulnerable. The rivers and winding terrain of the Henbane bares no better. The water that weaves by with a joyful wave now slowing to a jolted crawl, hesitant to risk even the slightest brush against the darkened shore's edges. Even the areas and creatures blessed by corruption, poisoned by a blissful chemical that ravages all it touches, pause in their homely madness to listen in on the warning cry with a fleeting lucidity.

Those still awake, soldiers and leaders on both fronts of the County's civil war, also stop to listen in on the howl. Turning to the distance and their respective peers with tight expressions. Old superstitions, creeping like folkloric monsters, taking centre stage at the forefront of their whirring minds.

Yet, not all are concerned by such worries; their beliefs an impractical shield against the unknown, and the unholy that stalk its shade.

Although the local cult's oldest founder may stand tall, rifle posed at his side as he scouts his given territory with a critical and cautious eye, and the youngest may tuck himself safely away within the walls of his rustic home with taboo comforts, the middle and ruling founder does neither. Fearless amongst the whispers that kiss across the trees, cold warnings foolishly unheeded, as he travels through the thick woodland with a cool resolve. A wheelbarrow covered by a stained and dirty tarp, filled with a caring offering, pushed steadily along in front of him; creaking over flimsy sticks and dying leaves.