The Hunter
#8 of Little Nothings
Writing exercise!
The hunter sits at the bar, sipping from his mug of ale, dressed in dark, worn leathers, hair wet and hanging loosely. All around him the townsfolk laugh and chatter in the warm light as they nurse their own drinks and meals. The hunter's eyes glint and point towards a distant corner of the room where a man shares the company of scantily-clad women.
***
The knife juts from the table, dark stains upon the blade that glints in the pale moonlight pouring in from the window by the bed. Upon the white, clandestine sheets lies a still form in peaceful repose, similar dark stains upon the breast of his tunic. Beside the table, the hunter sits, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap, as he looks contemplatively at the person on the bed.
***
The hunter rides upon his dark brown horse, through the wind and the rain, heels to the beasts sides as he urges it faster. A lightning strike illuminates the green countryside, a distant forest, and the road that has turned to mud. Behind the hunter ride a dozen men, likewise urging their horses on, faces drawn in silent howls lost in the fury of the storm.
***
A limp hand lies in a muddy puddle, the thick water tinged a dark, reddish-brown. The wrist is clad in dark, worn leathers. Around the hand is wrapped a delicate golden chain, attached to a locket pressed into the palm, opened to reveal a lock of hair, made wet by the rain, the color of ripe wheat.