He sifted through each memory he could summon, from the moment Aumir had handed him the first trace of his quarry, to the moment it had been struck dead by the witchfire of his familiars. Then he went further still, to how he’d field-dressed and cleaned it small body, how he’d disposed of its guts and its other less-than-useful parts, to how it had cooked its flesh and macerated its bones—all the way to this very moment, standing before its little skull, infusing it with Mneme and Essence.
Throughout those moments and memories, he found nothing like the cold fury he had felt as he loomed over a defeated Yuma, holding the man’s fate in his hands; nothing like the savage triumph that had surged through him when he’d felled the otherworldly horror that was It That Whispers. If anything, all he felt toward the small, unfortunate creature was a quiet melancholy—and, strangely enough, a sense of kinship.
What were they, both he and it, if not hapless victims caught in the path of forces far greater than themselves?
No, Hunter frowned. That was not a thought he wanted to infuse his hunting talisman with. He forced it aside, trying to focus on something else instead.
The connection he felt to his quarry was a true one; there was indeed something there for him to explore, some concept worth crystallizing into the heirloom-to-be. But it could not be one of powerlessness and victimhood.
The rabbit had been one of the oldest, largest, and hardiest around. To grow to that age and size, it had lived its whole life out-running, out-waiting, and out-witting predators far larger and fiercer than itself. And in all likelihood, it had done more unseemly things as well: fighting off other males for territory, lunging, biting, and kicking to defend what little it could call its own.
That will to live, to survive—that will to power, really… That, Hunter could get behind.
What had he been himself, if not one of the rabbits of his world and society? Universally regarded as small and inconsequential, good only for breeding and falling prey to the greed and predatory urges of larger others?
And yet he’d done all he could—was still doing all he could—to beat those impossible odds. He knew that will to power well; it was what had helped him hold his head above water even in the hardest of times during the past decade, if only barely.
Both he and the rabbit were prisoners of the accident of their respective birth. The rabbit’s fate had most likely been sealed the moment Aumir’s eyes fell on the pellet of scat it had left behind—one of life’s small, random cruelties, if Hunter had ever seen one. Likewise, Hunter’s his own fate had taken a wild twist the moment he’d drawn Grimm’s attention.
And yet, as the rabbit had refused to just lie down and let itself become lunch for the foxes and wolves of its world, so was Hunter hell-bent in beating the odds when it came to his own survival and prosperity.
The story of his first proper hunt was as much a story of the quarry’s triumph as much as it was of the hunter’s. Because, what were the two of them, when it was all said and done, if not sides of the same coin? The hunt required both a hunter and a quarry; without either, it would be null, impossible.
What this first proper hunt of his had taught him, the memory he wanted etched forever into his heirloom-to-be, was this will to power, both his own and his quarry’s. That, and the strange sense of respect and kinship he felt for it.
Straining to gather those thoughts and emotions and put them in some kind of order, he pushed all of it into the small rabbit skull, and with it all the Essence he could muster. With a final heave, the ritual was done.
He picked up and helf the skull—his hunting talisman—in one hand, and the owl pendant Hallara had given him to use as a Mystic Lens in the other. Then, reaching deeper into his half-depleted reserves of Essence, he activated Mystic Eye.
This rabbit skull pendant is a trophy from Hunter’s first Hunt. It’s steeped in his thoughts, emotions, and memories of that Hunt.
Painstakingly crafted and enchanted through mystical rites, it is the perfect vessel to infuse with Mneme from a thousand Hunts to come, and more.
In time, it will hold the crystallized concept of what its creator aspires to stand for.
“Do you want a name for this world? A solution for all of its riddles? A light for you, too, you best-concealed, strongest, most intrepid, most midnightly men? This world is the will to power—and nothing besides! And you yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing besides!”
There was no mention of it being an heirloom, of course—not yet. That would take time. But even if it didn’t provide Hunter with any actual bonuses, holding it still made him feel better about himself. Prouder, in a way, more confident.
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Aumir reached out and, with surprising gentleness, took the rabbit’s skull from Hunter’s hands. He threaded a length of yarn through the hollow sockets, knotted the ends together, and slipped the talisman over Hunter’s head, letting it rest against his chest.
“There. You’re one of us now, young osprey. One of the Hunt.”
***
Hunter spent the rest of the evening in quiet introspection, sitting by the fire with Fyodor at his side, sorting through his notebooks and drafting a letter to Fawkes. Their correspondence had grown sparse over the past couple of weeks, which was only to be expected. After all, unlike him, Fawkes wasn’t used to a world where emails and instant messaging had made infrequent communication a social faux pas.
Looking back through their chain of letters, it was plain they’d already devolved into little more than variations on, ‘I’m well—I hope you’re well too’, with the occasional mention of Fyodor. The words felt polite and heart-felt, but stripped of the spark that had once carried between them.
He couldn’t tell if the distance came from Fawkes, from himself, or from the weight of time and circumstance pressing down on them both—but the result was the same. Each new letter said less than the last, and the silence between them only seemed to stretch wider.
In any case, he pushed her from his mind. They had already spent too much time wrestling with the peculiarities of their relationship, and that was part of why they had chosen to go their separate ways.
His new companion seemed reliable enough, easygoing even, though his motives still felt a shade too vague for Hunter’s liking.Still, tomorrow would be a new day; with it, it would bring fresh adventure, fresh chances for excitement and growth. Hunter tried to hold on to that thought.
“I’ll be heading off for the night, alright?” he said as he packed away his notebooks and writing supplies. Aumir sat a few feet away in the firelight, squinting with his single good eye as he mended a pair of worn socks. Klothi was wrapped around the scruff of his neck, fast asleep.
“Mmm-hmmm,” he said. “Have a pleasant night, then. Be back by dawn, yes?”
“Will do,” Hunter replied as he gave Fyodor a final scratch behind the ears, and vanished into thin air.
***
Alex’s disconnect between body and mind hadn’t grown any easier to manage; he had only grown more accustomed to it. As with most evenings in recent weeks, he pushed through a late workout, then followed it with an even later dinner.
What he liked the most about this hour was the quiet; that, and the fact that the chances to run in Buggy this late were virtually non-existent. Penny, on the contrary, was far more likely to be out and about, enjoying the night breeze—possibly for the same reason.
That night, he found her in one of her favorite hideaways, behind a rusty shipping container in the back of the Motel.
“Evening, officer,” he called from a dozen feet away, still startling her. “Enjoying the moonlight?”
“Rulin,” she greeted him. “Yeah. Beautiful night. Too beautiful to be spending in a shitty place like this. But still, here we are.”
There was something off about her; Alex could tell right away. It wasn’t just the growing pile of stomped-out cigarette butts by her feet; her one-a-day had steadily been growing to nearly one-pack-a-day for a while now.
“You on duty?” he asked her.
“When am I not?”
That was actually a pretty good question. Penny was as much a constant of the Happy Motel as the inmates and the bad coffee.
“Can I ask a personal question?”
“Go on.”
“How come you’re always around?”
There had to be something off about her, because she didn’t even threaten to tase him in the junk to remind him of his station; she only shrugged.
“I’m picking all the extra shifts I can. I could use the extra money, and it’s not like I have much waiting for me in the outside.”
“Is that even legal?”
“Presently,” she said in a clipped, singsong cadence, as if parroting some kind of bureaucrat, “no OSHA standard exists to regulate extended and unusual shifts in the workplace.”
“Well… if OSHA says so—“ Alex started, but Carpenter cut him off.
“OSHA can go fuck itself,” she scoffed. “Fat lot of good it’s ever done.”
She reached into the inner pocket of her jacket, fished out a small bottle, twisted off the cap, and took a swig. Alex squinted to read the label; it was some kind of cheap peach schnapps, already drained to less than one third.
That wasn’t like her. Even the beer she kept stashed in the back room of the cafeteria was the non-alcoholic kind. Still, it explained her unusual disposition.
“What are we celebrating?” Alex asked.
“The end of another shitty day on this shitty planet. I’d offer to share, but I’m not feeling very… what’s the word? Felicitous.”
“Why schnapps though?”
Carpenter stared at the bottle in her hand, suddenly dead serious.
“Because it’s not proper booze, is it? It’s not like it’s whiskey or vodka or tequila. It’s the sort of thing a nice old European lady might sip as a nightcap, or as a… what’s the word again? A digestif.”
There was more than just a little hint of bitter self-mockery in her words, some weight Alex couldn’t quite name. Maybe she was going through a rough patch, or maybe it was just one of those burdens people carried in silence. Either way, he didn’t know her well enough to press, though for a moment he caught himself wishing she might open up on her own.
“Thanks for dropping by, Rulin,” she said, her expression softening a little. “But this is a party-of-one sort of situation, if you catch my drift, so…”
“Got it. I’ll be on my way.” He gestured at the bottle in her hands. “Will you be alright?”
“What, this?” She snorted. “No need to worry on my behalf. It’s not my first rodeo. Besides, it’s just enough to take the edge off the aforementioned shitty day. I couldn’t get more even if I wanted to. One of the upsides of being stuck in here.”
“Alright, you’re the boss.” He turned to leave; better to let it rest, and give her that small measure of privacy she seemed to need. “Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“There’s no bedbugs in the Happy Motel, silly.” She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her weary eyes. “We run a reputable establishment.”
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