There is a rustling of leaves when the wind is calm. There is a glimpse of colour -- of bright orange-red, among the dulled brown-grey-green of winter. Supplies 'fall off of' the carts that journey through the woods to trade with Rubilykskoye. A goat goes missing, and its remains are found two days later, picked clean. Nothing but offal and cracked bones.
There is something in the woods, the news goes out. And there are no villagers or void-touched unaccounted for.
--
In the woods a savvy explorer, familiar with the lay of the land, may realise that a small hollow within a couple miles of the gate is -- gone. Covered over with branches and moss and stones, looking as though it had never been. If courage or cleverness lead to investigation, the hole is (of course) merely covered over.
But discovery is not one-sided. There is a scream, an awful feral sound, and something very person-shaped flings its way out of the hiding-place, and throws itself at the interloper. Long, curved claws aimed for the face.
"Fuck on outta here! Hssst!"
--
Those who tend to stay in Rubilykskoye may still hear of this minor mystery. And then, one night, it comes to them. There is a shadow passing along a rooftop. The creak of rusty hinges as a doors swings open. The gleam of tapetum lucidum, one shining eye in the dark.
A creature... a man? Prowling the streets. Stealing from yards and unsecured shops. Pale. Red-haired. Clad in stolen rags and in goat-hide. A strip of cloth over one of its eyes.
When it is spotted, it runs. Or it tries to. It does not know the village well, and it can be cornered easily. When it finds itself trapped, it bares its teeth in an animal parody of a smile, a single catlike eye darting around as it searches for an escape.
"C'mon, love. A ferr's gotta eat, don' he?"
--
The mystery is inevitably solved. The creature is apprehended, and it turns out to be a person. A feline humanoid that gives its name -- his name -- as 'Halloween Jack,' once he's convinced that nobody means him harm.
He has bright orange-red hair, and a patch over one eye; the other eye is bright green, slit-pupiled. Sharp teeth, sharp claws. Sharp wit. And right now, he is perched on a bench in a holding cell, clutching a mug of water with both clawed hands.
(He has been told that his crimes will be addressed in the morning. He has no intention of sticking around that long. His escape plan? A, uh, work in progress.)
"So there really ain't no ration?" he asks for at least the third time.
Halloween Jack | Diamond Dogs (album) | Wilk
There is something in the woods, the news goes out. And there are no villagers or void-touched unaccounted for.
--
In the woods a savvy explorer, familiar with the lay of the land, may realise that a small hollow within a couple miles of the gate is -- gone. Covered over with branches and moss and stones, looking as though it had never been. If courage or cleverness lead to investigation, the hole is (of course) merely covered over.
But discovery is not one-sided. There is a scream, an awful feral sound, and something very person-shaped flings its way out of the hiding-place, and throws itself at the interloper. Long, curved claws aimed for the face.
"Fuck on outta here! Hssst!"
--
Those who tend to stay in Rubilykskoye may still hear of this minor mystery. And then, one night, it comes to them. There is a shadow passing along a rooftop. The creak of rusty hinges as a doors swings open. The gleam of tapetum lucidum, one shining eye in the dark.
A creature... a man? Prowling the streets. Stealing from yards and unsecured shops. Pale. Red-haired. Clad in stolen rags and in goat-hide. A strip of cloth over one of its eyes.
When it is spotted, it runs. Or it tries to. It does not know the village well, and it can be cornered easily. When it finds itself trapped, it bares its teeth in an animal parody of a smile, a single catlike eye darting around as it searches for an escape.
"C'mon, love. A ferr's gotta eat, don' he?"
--
The mystery is inevitably solved. The creature is apprehended, and it turns out to be a person. A feline humanoid that gives its name -- his name -- as 'Halloween Jack,' once he's convinced that nobody means him harm.
He has bright orange-red hair, and a patch over one eye; the other eye is bright green, slit-pupiled. Sharp teeth, sharp claws. Sharp wit. And right now, he is perched on a bench in a holding cell, clutching a mug of water with both clawed hands.
(He has been told that his crimes will be addressed in the morning. He has no intention of sticking around that long. His escape plan? A, uh, work in progress.)
"So there really ain't no ration?" he asks for at least the third time.
((Wildcard? Hit me up at