There's A Fallen Angel On My Roof...But Why Does He Have Fangs?

part 20

Owen

The tip of his index finger grazed the sharp point of the arrow head, he could smell the bamboo it was carved from, the liquid iron it was soaked in. He inhaled. And in one swift move braced the arrow on the bow angling it 45 degrees to his left. He released the string sending the arrow hurtling toward his target. It flew through twining twigs and two tree trunks so close together you couldn't fit a finger through. With a silent thunkit hit the middle of the target swinging slightly from the impact. he braced another arrow against the bow, this time he listened. Under the pale moonlight his skin appeared whiter, his hair more silver than blond, his lips appeared deep red and eyes looked even more out of place against this stark angelic whiteness. Eyes that had once seen so much. Too much. And yet had seen nothing at all. He aimed, but before he could shoot, he heard something. Footsteps, featherlight footsteps. Before he could think he swung the bow and arrow to his right and released the string, a chocked gargled noise came from what he hit. A Cursor, the arrow Owen had fired pinned it to a tree, the end of the arrow sticking out of its mouth, blackish silver blood oozed from the corners of it's mouth. 

He reached for another arrow but he had run out, he'd used them all up during target practice. Owen dropped the bow on the damp soil and reached for his samurai sword, he took a slow step forward. From his eyes, you could see darkness. Being blind had it's limitations but his other senses were heightened, he was trained to hear the heartbeat of a hummingbird above the rustling trees and crying creatures of the Amazonian rain forest. To distinguish the smell of fear and anger in a room of a thousand people. To taste the air and know who is near by. Yes, being blind had it's limitation but anything is possible. Moments has passed since he heard the footsteps. He breathed in through his mouth, tastes of the earth flooding his mouth, he exhaled, he breathed out slowly, his warm breath colliding with the bitter winter air creating a smokey presence. He lifted the thin sword flipped it and pushed it backwards into the unbeating dead heart of the Cursor standing directly behind him. Another gargled scream. He dragged his sword down and slid it out, turned  his body and swiped it through the creatures neck, his head falling to the ground, shortly followed by the rest of him. Owen Lysdane, reliving his glory days as a slayer of Cursores, turned away from the carcass and lifted his hood, walking back to his home bloodied sword in hand.