Oslo, Old Norway

​The scavengers strode warily through the corridors of the ancient building, caution giving weight to each of their steps. Over the day, the numbers of their group had dwindled. They had been hunted by some unknown being, driven here deliberately, like lambs avaiting their slaughter at the hands of the wolf. The leader, pacing steadily forwards, gripped tightly to his gun, a relic of a long-lost age, and though he would never admit it, he was afraid. But he knew the cost of letting his fears gain the upper hand, so he buried them deep inside himself. With each step, he left a print in dust that had been settled for centuries, disturbing the eerie calm that reigned over the ruins. He looked upwards, his gaze settling on a broken skylight, a light drizzle pouring into the building through it. The leader blinked as he felt the rain on his face, and listened to the sound of it drumming against the sheets of broken glass. It was calming, yet disturbing at the same time. There had been a time when all of this had held meaning. There had even been a symbol and a purpose for rain, though the leader could not recall it.

It was the noise of sharpened metal dragging against stone that returned the leader to the reality around him. It was the noise that had haunted them, that had claimed so many lives. Then the panicked shouts of his men filled the air, and the group was running, terror hastening their movement. Glass was crushed beneath their feet, and dust was kicked up into clouds.

A voice resonated through the building. It was as cold as the rain that dripped down on the leader's face, and something that was profoundly evil to its very core echoed within it.

​"Thine pack hath taken the life of one of my most esteemed warriors. As you took his life, I shalt take yours."

​The entire group stopped dead in their tracks, shaking with fright. The leader looked at his crew, and knew that they had failed. Each of them were going to die.

His second-in-command was the first. None of them saw the shadow that pulled him out into the night. A pair of lowlife, criminal scum that had been forced into the crew were next. A single swing from the accursed blade the demon carried, and both of their headless bodies dropped like rocks, their thin limbs still twitching in death throes. Eight others remained, and somehow, the leader knew he would be last. So he ran. He abandoned his crew, helpless in their fear of the death that was approaching. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps the beast will be lured by the bait. Perhaps he could get away. Looking over his shoulder, he could see a crewmember raising his gun in desperation. Not at the shadow, but at him. Before the crewmember could fire, the void had taken them all. An arrow in the night bound them together and tore them apart, consuming them, down to their very souls. The leader stared at the carnage. He waited for the strike that would end him.

It never arrived. A shadow behind the crewless leader gained life, and the leader sensed it. He turned, cowering, and with his last sliver of hope, he fired his rifle, three energized bullets running away. Then the strike came, and the leader found that he no longer could fire his rifle, as he dumbly stared at the blood flowing down his chest and sides. Then a second strike, and he could not stand. Then that hellfire flared into existence in the darkness, that blazing hatred that had claimed his entire crew. He could already feel it eating away at his body as the monster reached down towards him, shrouded by the night.

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