undeadrat
New Member
He'd been tracking the varmint for near ten days now. Supplies were running low but from the looks of it, his target was getting the worst of it—after all, only of them had a pack-horse saddled with warm blankets and food. Still, it was a brazen path that he followed. Beasts nowadays avoided settlements; that's how they all got caught, arrested, and hanged—in that order. But these tracks had led him straight into Prairie du Chien... the beast must have grown desperate enough from the elements to risk a venture into town. He frowned and stood up, dusting the snow off his coat as he did so. He was lucky that the weather had been so stable; the footprints made for an easy to follow trail.
"Let's go," he grunted, before swinging himself onto his horse. "It's been starved for a few days now, I reckon, and the poor folk here just might be to its fancy."
His horse whinnied in response and after an insistent dig into its ribs, changed from a trot to a canter. Prairie du Chien was mere minutes away. It was a quiet town made even more so by the cold weather. Here the tracks had muddied and blurred into nothing; they had been trampled over a hundredfold by the townsfolk. Perhaps the beast was hidden away in some villager's house? The trading post? He knew at least the church was safe; no beast would dare cross that threshold. Though he was a lawman, he doubted that the townsfolk would look kindly upon his searching of their homes.
He needed a drink.
After he was done hitching his horse, he stepped into the tavern for a quick break. Here he could rest his eyes and more importantly, ask the innkeep if they'd had any newcomers in town. If he'd been looking for company, it was a sorry sight. There were only two people in the tavern and the hearth flickered weakly. Still, simply being out of the wind had an instant effect on his psyche. He felt immensely drowsy and would have sank down into a chair if not for the stranger sitting at the bar—a stranger only in name. His back was turned to him, but how could he forget that silhouette? When he'd been tracking it down for close to a fortnight? His legs were refueled with adrenaline, each heartbeat sending energy to his battered frame. His rifle was still on his horse so he unsheathed his knife instead—an iron blade for monsters.
"Don't move," he said. "My knife's just been sharpened. Now, I don't want to use this on you—no, this is perfectly legal, sir. My name is Henry Adams; I am a lawman tasked with bringing this... man to justice. If you wish to see my credentials, you will have to wait."
He waved the innkeep away and refocused his attentions to the werewolf.
"Now! I want you to turn around with your hands in the air. I don't need to tell you what happens if you try to run, do I? It's an iron blade I've got, you understand? Move slowly to the wall over there."
"Let's go," he grunted, before swinging himself onto his horse. "It's been starved for a few days now, I reckon, and the poor folk here just might be to its fancy."
His horse whinnied in response and after an insistent dig into its ribs, changed from a trot to a canter. Prairie du Chien was mere minutes away. It was a quiet town made even more so by the cold weather. Here the tracks had muddied and blurred into nothing; they had been trampled over a hundredfold by the townsfolk. Perhaps the beast was hidden away in some villager's house? The trading post? He knew at least the church was safe; no beast would dare cross that threshold. Though he was a lawman, he doubted that the townsfolk would look kindly upon his searching of their homes.
He needed a drink.
After he was done hitching his horse, he stepped into the tavern for a quick break. Here he could rest his eyes and more importantly, ask the innkeep if they'd had any newcomers in town. If he'd been looking for company, it was a sorry sight. There were only two people in the tavern and the hearth flickered weakly. Still, simply being out of the wind had an instant effect on his psyche. He felt immensely drowsy and would have sank down into a chair if not for the stranger sitting at the bar—a stranger only in name. His back was turned to him, but how could he forget that silhouette? When he'd been tracking it down for close to a fortnight? His legs were refueled with adrenaline, each heartbeat sending energy to his battered frame. His rifle was still on his horse so he unsheathed his knife instead—an iron blade for monsters.
"Don't move," he said. "My knife's just been sharpened. Now, I don't want to use this on you—no, this is perfectly legal, sir. My name is Henry Adams; I am a lawman tasked with bringing this... man to justice. If you wish to see my credentials, you will have to wait."
He waved the innkeep away and refocused his attentions to the werewolf.
"Now! I want you to turn around with your hands in the air. I don't need to tell you what happens if you try to run, do I? It's an iron blade I've got, you understand? Move slowly to the wall over there."
