Haldamir's Hunter

The wind carried a harsh message of ice-bitten weather fast approaching. A pale face grimaced against the chilly gust, and quietly the man slinked away from the hutch he had come to visit. It was little more than shabby structure built clumsily along the cold and unforgiving mountainside, little more than a child’s play fort beside a looming giant. The walls of the hut were lined with animal furs to keep out excess chill and empty snow-gourd shells that rattled ominously in the icy winds. Their purpose the man long forgotten.

“You didn’t find your answers,” a thick, gravelly voice purred from behind him. Sharp green eyes darted over a broad shoulder, and the warrior waved his hand abruptly.

“You don’t have them,” he replied hastily. “I’m running out of time.”

“You never had time to begin with.” The old hunched figure chuckled. The warrior’s eyes narrowed and he removed the piece of cloth covering his mouth and nose from the stinging winds. The strong face, with hidden remnants of memories from battles and bloodshed etched into the serious countenance, reminded the wiseman to choose his words with more care. This was not a safe man. “The answer you seek lies with the Wolf.”

“A wolf? Are you serious?!” The warrior retorted angrily. He cared little for wolves. Or riddles. He crossed his arms over his chest impatiently. “What wolf?”

“The Wolf! Haldamir’s Styrren fool.”

The warrior spun on his heel and strode out. Surprised, the wiseman seized his walking stick and tried to catch up with the younger man. They left the hut and stepped out into the snowy mountainside, leaving crunchy impressions in the white blanket covering the earth.

“Why do you leave?!” He exclaimed. He caught the young man with his walking stick. “I gave you the answers!”

“I know what you will say.” The warrior replied coolly. His eyes turned hard. “I won’t put my hope in the blasted “Chosen Hunter” legends. If Haldamir and his damn beast care so much for the welfare of Men why do the same evils keep recurring?!”

“We are Children of the Earth. That makes us susceptible to darkness.” The wiseman responded cryptically. “The Hunter will rise again. If you work hard and search, you will find him. The One Who Hunts Evil. A child of Haldamir. And then he will lead the people against the ancient shadows towering over your young civilization.”

“I fight Wolves remember?” The younger man replied lowly. “I am a Red Hood.”

“Once you fought side by side. Once a child of Haldamir led the Red Hoods and we enjoyed over three centuries of peace. Now you foolish babes attempt to governor-you who have forgotten the Old Ways in favor of new traditions. The one who Styrren’s Head choses is the one who can put the shadows of the land to rest. This has always been so. They who wield Rahiren. Only a child of Haldamir can assist you if what you tell me is true.” The old man returned to his hut and reluctantly the younger followed.

“Why?” The man demanded curtly. He gathered the fabric hanging over a chair into his hands. “Why a child of Haldamir?”

The wiseman could sense that the question was rhetorical in nature and did not reply. The man gripped the dark edges of the fabric firmly in his hands and then whipped it about his shoulders in a flurry of scarlet red. The blood colored cloak settled upon his shoulders like a warm friend, and gleamed against the bright white of the snow outside. The hood of the cloak was lifted and placed over the man’s head, masking his face from the world, leaving it a dark, blind hole.

“Raven,” the old man croaked. A withered claw-like hand reached out to the warrior. “You remember our deal?”

“You hardly supplied any information oh great onlooker of the world.”