The Lightless Anomaly

In a barren, unoccupied stretch of the Henklomeon Steppe, where the harsh winter wastes of the frozen north connected to the Beastkin grasslands, there was a smell in the air. It wasn't the smell of dust, or exotic flowers poking up from the dry soil, but a metallic smell that lingered unpleasantly in the nose. It was a smell that sent the Steppe's predators into uncontrollable frenzies and attracted swarms of flies to nest within the source. Yes--unmistakably, it was the stench of blood.

The whole of that tarnished plain was glutted with stockades of congealed flesh--the corpses gargantuan creatures whose shadows danced impeccably in the low moonlight strewn like ragdolls; torn, disembowelled, cavities in their chests forced open as if by some sort of gigantic winch. Any Beastkin tribe who came across that scene would most assuredly have thought to themselves that they had stumbled upon a picture of Hell itself, such was the carnage and destruction presented before them. Of course, there laid a man there--the man who had emerged triumphant from his clash with legions of godless fiends. Catatonic, or perhaps even serene in his contemplation, fresh blood from the rivers that flowed down the hillside gullies lapped greedily at his skin. He was not injured in any particular way, but within his skyward gaze slept a tiredness only felt by the likes of kings and emperors.

Weeks had passed--he thought, at least. Predictably, the horse he had taken with him on his journey did not survive his first encounter with the beasts of legend, and so for the remainder of those days, he had been walking steadily on. As always, his destiny was ever forward, towards the next challenge, but whimsically, he had allowed himself a break of sorts. A morbid, blood-drenched break. For hours, he had remained there, focusing upon the stars which danced in the clear night sky and the moon which hung like an omen above his head. Only, his eyes followed something different--strange, even. Nightwatching had never been a pastime of his, nor the pastime of anyone he had ever known, and yet, at the sighting of some unexplainable phenomenon, he struggled to avoid the temptation of gazing upon it.

A black spot, circular and undisturbed, like a hole out of reality, which looked down at him from an impossible height. When he stared for too long, it moved fast enough to reveal itself as covering the stars behind it. Therefore, it was a kind of thing, rather than an emptiness--a lightless being, or concept, which hung so gently above the earth as to associate itself with the sun, or the moon. Yes, it was very much like a moon--a pitch-black moon, featureless and emitting no light whatsoever. Just what was it, he wondered, and how many others had noticed it? The mystery eluded him, one who had lived for so long to think of himself as having seen most of everything, and yet, unknowable as they were, the cosmos presented conundrums everlasting to even his aged eyes.

The light which went out of the stars. A black moon.

Black Luna.

What was that term? Luna? It was not a name or title he had heard before, and yet it arrived in his mind so abruptly that he became certain of the lightless circle's true identity immediately. Yes, that moon's name was Black Luna, and how he came to know of the fact was impossible to say. Just what secrets did it hold--that Black Luna? Blinking, his trance was broken all of a sudden, and sitting up, laps of dark-crimson fluid dripped from his clothing and from his chin. Even so, irresistibly, his eyes were drawn back to the sky.

"Black Luna…" He whispered.

Hours later, day dawned upon the Steppe, and within the thickening eastern forests, a rickety wagon rode, led by a single horse. The Wolfkin who had taken it for themselves just a day before didn't ride to their destination in a quick manner. Rather, their discussions and arguments had done a wonderful job of slowing the journey to a crawl. Within the wagon itself, a single, bound Rabbitkin was watched over by one of her stocky captors. Though three of her limbs were but artificial, there had been no success in attempting to incapacitate her by removing them--indeed, they seemed fused to her very being.

"...Where are we going?"

"For the last time, I'm not telling you." The Wolfkin by her side repeated for the umpteenth time, "Would you tell me where your tribe was if I asked politely?"

"My tribe is gone." She replied, "-As are many others. Demons prowl these lands now."

"Demons, she says…" He muttered, "I find that a little hard to believe."

"Where are we going?"

"Where do you think we're going?"

"Back to your filthy camp, I suppose." She guessed, "You aren't planning to kill me. You would have done so already if you were. Exactly how do you benefit from taking me prisoner?"

"Perhaps your memory's a little foggy." The Wolfkin tapped the side of his head, "You killed one of our own, so you're going to be judged."

"Hardly fair, considering your ambush. Were you expecting me to surrender?"

"Frankly, yes." He answered, "If you want the whole truth, we thought you were a human at first. Not many Beastkin travelling around in wagons, you know? But since you're one of our kind, you get a fair trial."

"-And if I'm found guilty?"

"If you're lucky--death. Maybe even a quick one." He paused, "If not… well, you're just another woman without that bow, so maybe you'll get to spend a few months as a communal toilet for the hunters to relieve stress with."

"How flattering." She replied tersely.

"Hoh. This is usually the part where most women start breaking down and crying." He scoffed, "Fearless, aren't you?"

"I dearly look forward to watching you beg for your life." She threatened, "Perhaps if you're apologetic enough, I'll settle for turning you into a eunuch instead of killing you."

Their conversation ended there, with nothing else to say that would contribute towards any sort of rational conclusion. Truthfully, Pale wasn't worried about her situation in the slightest. In fact, being taken straight to a Wolfkin tribe instead of having to track one over the course of several days meant that the situation was actually evolving in her favour. Not only were her bindings loose and easy to break, Fusala had remained invisible as part of her shadow the entire time.

As the hours carried on, the sounds of activity could eventually be heard from outside the wagon. Hearing the lead hunter speaking from the driver's seat, Pale assumed that they had arrived.

"Not easy, moving around in these wagons." Her watcher remarked, leaning towards her.

Just then, there was a snapping sound, and the Wolfkin recoiled as Pale launched herself towards him, pushing the hunter to the wagon floor in the moment of confusion that followed. Wrapping her twin-coloured hands around his throat, he could manage nothing but guttural gasps as Pale applied pressure to his larynx.

"If you want to live, you won't try to fight me." She warned, "I could crush your windpipe with a single hand if I wanted to."

Loosening her grip and reaching down towards the hunter's waist, she retrieved a bone skinning knife from his belt, pressing its sharpened edge against his throat.

"Stay quiet and play the part of my bargaining tool if you don't want to die." Pale instructed, "Am I getting my point across?"

Nodding with what little movements he was allowed in the vice grip of her silvered prosthetic, Pale quickly stood up with the Beastkin hunter, moving to the wagon's back entrance before hauling the two of them out onto the open dirt.

"Raga, did you get the-" Another hunter who had leapt from the wagon widened his eyes as he saw his comrade within her grasp, "...O-Oi! The girl's gotten loose!"

Quickly causing a commotion, Pale created some space between her and the remaining hunters, looking onwards past the wagon to see not a nomad camp, but an entire village surrounded by wooden palisades stretching out before her. As the crude watchtowers of the rudimentary village were quickly staffed by Wolfkin warriors drawing their bows, Pale tightened her grip on her prisoner, using him as a shield.

"Don't even think about firing!" Pressing the blade's edge closer to her captive's throat, she stared fearlessly towards the small troop that had appeared to oppose her, "Your tribesman is as good as dead if you don't do exactly as I say!"

"Oi, don't let this bitch intimidate us! Get ready to fire!" One of the hunters yelled.

"W-Wait! Wait!" The captive Wolfkin, whose eyes had become frenzied, screamed out in protest, "This girl--she'll really do it! She'll kill me!"

"It's your own fault for being caught, Raga! Stick your head to the side so we can get a clear shot!"

"How's that any way to treat a friend, Brum!?" The captive yelled back, "I would've never followed you if I knew you would stab me in the back!"

"Pale." From within her head, Fusala's voice echoed, "It appears the situation is quickly deteriorating. It may be in our best interest to form an escape plan."

"Tch… are they really about to kill one of their own?" The Rabbitkin girl clicked her tongue.

Just as it seemed like her plan was about to fall to pieces, a single, elderly voice broke the tensioned silence, originating from the village's crude wooden gate.

"Let us not be hasty." Lacking any sort of commanding tone, it was difficult to see who was speaking from Pale's perspective, "There is no need for anyone to die on this day."

As the hunters' heads craned to see the source of the voice, the lead Wolfkin, Brum, was quick to exclaim in surprise.

"E-Elder Gelda!" He shouted with a hint of out-of-place worry in his voice, "You shouldn't be up and about!"