[Suzerain of Sheol]

The moon was high in the outland hills. The sound of wolves and prey echoed in the night. Alone, a cloaked figure made their way over the jutting limestone, half walking, half crouching, knee-deep in heather and moss. Calloused, carefull hands felt their way over way-markers on abandoned paths.

Lifting his head, the figure basked in the moonlight. The sky was clear, the moon so vivid, the stars twinkling brightly. Hearing something behind him,his hand strayed to his waist. He cursed himself for the absence of his sword, going for his small hunting knife, instead. Drawing it, he held his hand under his cloak and looked over his shoulder.

A deer. A damp, weather-roughed youngling that probably thought of him as another piece of limestone on the hill. With a shuddering sigh, he slid the blade back home, drawing his cloak around him. Creeping forward again, carefully, carefully, he never noticed the quiet figure, soft and pale as the moonlight under a grey cloak.

The figure smiled, and although it wasn't necessarily a hard smile, it was a killer's smile, nonetheless, made passionless by years of spilling blood without remorse. This hunt had been long, but would soon be over. He looked at his quarry, wondering if he was finally going to go without a fight. His reaction to the deer proved otherwise, though one could still hope.

With cautious movements, he slid aside his mantle and reached for the crossbow hanging from the unusual holster on his back. Steadying himself, he could only blink one eye before the cloaked man fell face first onto a limestone rock, a blue feathered knife burried just below the nape of his neck.

Shit.

Whirling, he dropped, falling flat with a wince. They never hunted alone, and every one of those knives was dripping with enough poison to fell an ox, or two. He cringed when he heard the tenor laughter coming from nearby.

"You can relax, Gedard. It's just me."

Gedard grunted, and laughed sharply at himself, and at the absurdity of this hunt. Stooping, he collected up his crossbow, and with sure swift movements had it leveled at the speaker.

Standing at the other side of the clearing was a tall, deeply inked woman with long black hair and deep ocean blue eyes, she raised her empty hands as though to convince him she was harmless. He wasn't having any of it. "All of you, come out!" he shouted.

Slowly, a group of five men and women came out of the dark night. Scowling, he knocked an arrow into the crossbow "I said all nine of you, come out! Don't think I don't know your hunting rituals. All of you get out here and drop your weapons, or she dies."

"Do you honestly think you could get that shot off before you were killed yourself?" said the same tenor voice from before, except this time, it wasn't laughing.

Now, or never, he thought bitterly. Do it.

"Yes," he said, a split second after pulling the trigger.

He was already moving. He didn't wait to check his shot. All things considered, his odds were good. At least eight of them wouldn't be a problem. The ninth...

Good job so far, everyone. :)