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Every time she fades back into consciousness, The Huntsman finds herself recounting the last thing she remembers before being imprisoned in this place. She recalls their face, cowering at the tip of their rifle as she is just about to pull the trigger. Of course, their mind would go here; that Monster is the only person they could think about. After all, that night was supposed to be the night she killed her.

Despite their very Human-typical appearance, The Huntsman was herself a Monster too, a fabrication of fiction, a canvas to be moulded by the perception of the collective consciousness. The Huntsmen are a recurring source of symbolism in stories and fairy tale. If there are beasts that roam our land, there must be those who pacify them. Perhaps The Huntsman ponders herself; her disdain for Monstrous forms of life is pre-ordained itself. But she never lingers on those thoughts for long, lest she lose her mind in the contradictory loop. Even worse, it would mean her thoughts and desires were not her own, but a sword conducted and designed by Humanity to wipe out their nemesis. No no, she does not ponder on it for long.

But this desire, this need to wipe out the inconsistency, the very chaos Monsters embody, lies at the core of her being. But another contradiction, she finds their most intimate company to be irresistible. Yes, the Monster quivering at the end of their barrel that night, was one they enjoyed that kind of time. For three years in fact they were the centre of each other's world, both on the dole, cycling between staying at each other's or anyone's couch they could find really! Both were trying to find a footing in a Human world and failing to grab any kind of social or economical standing. Two little toerags without a penny to their name!

And that's the bloody problem you see! It was good, TOO good. Neither of them had achieved their goal of thriving in this world of Humanity and they were resting on each other. Their partner never appreciated that or the help she tried to give them. Anytime they would berate them for stagnating, the little digs at their claws, ears, tail, it was all just to remind them! These are temporary and they could defeat this together, they could look as Human as they did without those disgusting teeth and nails! They SAID it's what they wanted, but this niceness it made them complacent, they started to accept their position! That maybe being a little Monstrous was a good thing! This wasn't who they signed up to be with, they had forgotten who they really were. Those nights spent meticulously plucking every Monster-y looking hair from their body and the late nights spent styling their paws and tail to blend in as much as possible, that was the real them! Who the fuck is this slob who let their fur do whatever it wanted?

After a while they left and good fucking riddance, they were a crutch to Huntsman's goal of eradicating every ounce of Monstrousness from their body. But then those nights of freedom started to run long, get quieter, grow colder. No this wasn't right, they loved them and something didn't feel right with their absence. But of course, it was selfish of The Huntsman to abandon this poor wayward lamb - well, Squirrel - to the clutches of the Monsters. It wasn't a priority for them of course, but if they ever did satellite around their orbit again, they wouldn't let them go this time. She'll make them remember who they were.

And one fateful night of spotting their name on a blog The Huntsman stumbled upon, she sent them a message, one thing led to another and they met up and spent the weekend together at their student flat. Being near them again, it was a reminder of everything they loved about them and every reason why they needed to be destroyed. The Huntsman's worst fears had come to pass, they were worse then ever, they had completely embraced their Monsterhood. But even then it was so convincing, they seemed happy, a cloud that had loomed over their soul seemed to have cleared. They seemed so genuinely excited to show The Huntsman the new them, them at their best, when they knew she had seen them at their worst. For a little bit The Huntsman wanted to believe them, get wrapped up in their version of the world, maybe whatever they found in their time away could rub off on The Huntsman.

They went on cute little dates, she showed them around her current home, they even had sex in the evening, a literal perfect day. And it wasn't enough. That voice that screamed at them from inside didn't stop, they still wanted to tear off their skin and body and dismantle it bit by bit to find what it is inside that still clings to this disgusting idea of Monsterhood. They could not find peace with the voices either; oh yes, The Huntsman was plural, a fact that had tormented them their entire life. They did everything to suppress their multiplicity, they even thought they were successful for a while, the first headmates she managed to silence, but upon reflection she realised they didn't disappear, they GOT OUT, a mortifying concept that the pieces of themselves they didn't want to see were out there, autonomous, walking with a full body, interacting with the world and just anyone could meet them.

What's worse, the Monster that now laid naked in their bed was plural too, but they were so much worse. Not them, the person they WERE, this Monster was just one member of a system, one part of someone else and now eight of them are just running about the place. On top of that this Monster who was a headmate, had headmates themselves, they were just a seedbed of chaos, they were just building them and themes to spread all over the country, they probably didn't even know they were doing it!

Even worse, that night they realised The Huntsman herself was such a creation, a distortion of a lover that this Monster in their bed may or may not of even known themselves. Like what is real in that case? Anything? Was the building they were in real? Were any memories real? Are things so esoteric, so non-canon that anything just goes? Was The Huntsmans entire life of suffering just one interpretation of a magnitude of possibilities? There has to be one truth, one thing that's right and the rest is just noise that has to be removed so that anything makes fucking sense! Fuck that, this THING needed to die here tonight and they were SO close, they had them, at the barrel of their rifle.

But another that loved this Monster as much as they did, perhaps even more, stuck their entire paw, claws and all, through The Huntsman stomach and then it was over, all over.

The Huntsman didn't know how long it had been after that, but she did know it had been a few days since she FIRST woke up in this cabin. She lifts her head up as she scans her environment, there isn't too much to see currently under the heavy blanket of darkness, without only a small candle beside her to relieve her. It's clearly a wooden cabin of some kind, in the middle of a woodland, which The Huntsman gets some brief glimpses of whenever the door opens. She flexes her wrists which are tied up with rusty dilapidated chains, she knows this is by design as her captor derives sick pleasure of the implied idea that she could escape with just the right conditions, though she hasn't been able to achieve it so far. The Huntsman has no idea what their plan for their next attempt is, they smack the post they were tied to with the back of their head as they sigh towards the ceiling.

-Oh? We're not thinking of giving up are we little Huntsman?

As if it wielded the negative space in the room as a cloak, a hulking figure three times the size of the Huntsman peers out from the shadows. The figure wasn't a single thing which could be perceived and understood, it was a vague snapshot of things noticed from the corner of your eye, even whilst looking directly at it. Every now and then The Huntsman would notice something new as they attempt to gaze at the figure, the strands of hair poking out from beneath it's cloak, the way it perfectly balances on two Bowie knifes where it's feet should be, the brief glimpses of handles and muzzles of different firearms darted across it's body, as it leaves behind bullets where ever it walks, like leaves from an oak older then anything else in this Forrest.

It outstretches a tendril, covered in belts but ending with sharp needles from a strand of leather you could squint and interpret as a palm. It's clasping a plate with a freshly prepared slab of meat with a few steamed pieces of steamed vegetables, all cut up into bitesized chunks. It extended its grasp, with the occasional bullet falling down it's arms like dew falling from leaves. The Huntsman opens her mouth to accept the meal, they tried refusing being fed before and that was the day she found out this figure's tendrils can and will reach her stomach without much effort.

After the dinner the Figure tries to commune again.

-You know if you give up now, you'll waste the rest of your life here which for you is going to be a very, VERY long time.

The Huntsman knows everything this thing says is a riddle or some esoteric nonsense, reasoning with it is useless, but she couldn't help but try one thing, one last time.

-Please just tell me what it is you want, so I can give it to you and you can let me go. Pleads The Huntsman. I don't deserve this.

The figure in a blink of an eye, surrounds the Huntsman in it's shroud and it comes face to face with it's prisoner, the stench of hunted game lingering on it's breath.

-Well that's precisely the problem isn't it Huntsman? You truly believe you DON'T deserve this. All the pain and suffering you caused Monsters in your little crusade, praying to god the image in the mirror changes the next day. It wasn't enough that you hated yourself, anyone else who loved their Monstrous selves had to be eliminated. What I want can't be paid with redemption or confession, you must suffer. Suffer every waking moment until I am satisfied, Huntsman.

-I just wanna go home.

-JUST go home? I know your mind, Huntsman, you will not be satisfied until THAT Monster is dead. Then afterwards, you always intended to go after those ones next? The ones that escape your mind where you imprisoned them. You planned to kill them so no one could ever have another interpretation of YOU then the one you make believe for yourself. You're a menace and will only bring blood and death if left to roam. I do Gaia a service by keeping you here.

The Huntsman looked at the corner of her eye to see in it's haste the figure had knocked over the one candle in the room, closer towards her, almost within arms reach. This was the time.

She broke free from her chains and quickly scratched the figure in whatever laid beneath the security of its hood. She then lunges towards the candle and throws it at the shroud of the figure. A flash of flames as the crimson cloak of the thing set alight, it stands up in shock, as bullets and firearms detach from whatever kept them on the figures person. The Huntsman grabs the revolver closest to them as they get ready to aim the gun at the figure, who has put out the fire on it's attire. The figure in response to this sight with an ungodly symphony, of the screams and cries of the animals of the forest, but the pained yells were somehow... Composed to resemble laughter. The figure then uses it's tendrils to gesture towards The Huntsman, inviting her to shoot. She gets ready to oblige as she tries to turn the gun towards the figure and fire in one simple quick action, something she has done many times before in her time as The Huntsman. But she freezes, the moment where muscle memory of a road trodden many times, activates didn't come. She tries consciously to aim and ready the gun, but her hands fumble, she forgets how to handle the hammer of the gun, she underestimates it's weight and the gun just slips out of her grasp as she tries to pull the trigger, landing on the floor with a hopeless thud. The figure howls in delight again.

-I should enlighten you Huntsman, all the parts of you that were proficient with firearms left with me. The figure explains.

The Huntsman looks up to meet where an approximation of its gaze would be on this perversion of the anthropomorphic form.

-You see I AM you. The figure continues. The wrath you utilized on your victims, the aggression you learned from idolizing Humanity, I inherited it all! Every second you ever held a firearm or raised a knife, it all came with me. I am your Hunter's instinct! And I have chosen as my game, the one person in this entire world we despise the most Huntsman: Ourselves. I need you to suffer, I need you to feel pain, it is my purpose in life personified. Your constant and perpetual demise! NOW DIE AGAIN AND GIVE ME SATISFACTION HUNSTMAN!!!!

The figure waves it's tendrils inside of it's shroud and pulls out one of the first things this figure has produced that is undeniable in it's interpretation: A Uzi. Oh fuck. The Huntsman books it along the walls of the cabin dodging the incoming fire, as each bullet illuminates the shape of the cabin. The Huntsman used this to trace a path towards the front door, that door that they had spent the last few days staring, fantasizing about, the feel of the wood, the feedback of the hinges as it swung open, the feel of the cold dry air on their skin. But those fantasy are cut short, as with the other tendril the figure aims a rifle square at the door itself. With what little survival instincts remained in The Huntsman she manages to catch the plan and leans their entire body back to dodge the shot, so much so they end up falling to the floor with a slight slide.

She dodged the shot! Or so she thought, despite the bullet being an easy 15cm from the side of her head, she still felt a stinging pain and could feel blood pouring down the edge of her face. How!? Her ears were nowhere near the shot, she instinctively feels around where the heat and pain were coming from and couldn't believe what she felt on her fingertips. A flappy skin thing! Like an ear, somehow this far from the side of her face an ear!? Indeed, this ear had been shot, well more the edge of it had been nicked by the rifle bullet and was now bleeding. She felt all around this new ear as she brought her hands back in front of her, she saw the blood on her fingertips but also couldn't help but really absorb the state of her hands for the first time. She had nails, not like overgrown finger nails, but claws on the end of her fingers, were they nails or a part of her fingers now? When did this happen?

The figure makes the horrific noise again as they elaborate!

-Gaze in horror! Your worst nightmare has come to pass, it seems everything I took with me were the last things binding you to Humanities coil. You're now one of them Huntsman, ha! You are Huntsman no more of course, just another Monster. Hmmmm looks like an Elf to me, fitting for the kind of poisoned mind that occupies your body. So tell me Elf, how does it feel to gaze upon this form? Oh yes, that look of despair, THAT is what I've been waiting for, Elf. Now I think it's time to tie you back on the post and let you comprehend this horror in peace.

The figure slowly looms as it shuffles towards the Elf, trying to balance its bulk on the little knifes it plunges into the wood with each step. The Elf knew this was no time to disassociate, so they're an Elf, okay, can she use this? She tries to recall anything in her life she learned about Elves, but in her life as The Huntsman there was nothing to recall, as Monsters they are elusive and don't particularly find themselves participating in the Human's world. Both as Humans were beneath them, and they did not identify with the typical Monsters that they had known. But in her life, another one, she couldn't remember but can recall. Little fragments of memories of recollections of flashbacks of times when they stared into the sunset and played out memories they had in these times, but could no longer grasp. A vision, school, academy perhaps? Being told to they were a prodigy, pointing at a target and something a spell maybe? Joy, pride, accomplishment, this was their thing, something was, something they perhaps could recall again.

This wasn't even an idea, it's the idea of an idea of a recollection, but it was all she had to prevent going back to the dark end of this room again. She raised her hand towards the figure, extended her index finger and flexed her thumb to the side of her hand. This was it, the one action that was attached to the core memory that defined her! This is where her pride began and led to the person she was today, this has to lead to something!

As she let this recollection take the wheel, the muscle twitches, thoughts and state of being associated therein, a twinge of blue light indeed extended from her fingers and in a flash an icicle extended from the tips of her fingers, right through the head of the figure in front of her. At the first the figure just stopped all movement, kept to a stand still, the entire room falling to silence. But just as suddenly the figure flailed around, heaving bullets and firearms all over the cabin, while letting out the death howls of a thousand sacred things which lay dormant in these woods. The Elf never released her focus from the icicle she shot through the beast, making sure to keep it materialised as the thing started to collapse under it's own weight as it sunk to the floorboards as it's very matter sank back into the darkness. Smoke and steam crept from under the shroud, and somehow the Elf knew that it had passed from this world.

She took one last look at the cabin that she knew that she wouldn't return to ever again, perhaps it would never exist in itself again. She pondered on the Figure, so full of spite and disdain for the Elf, that such a thing could dedicate it's entire existence to that grudge. A chill of familiarity runs up the Elf's spine as she closes the door on the cabin for good.