The evening was hot.
A watery crescent moon watched from above, its distorted beams casting eerie reflections through the forest canopy, illuminating the dense underbrush far below like a silvery, crystal faceted glass filter. The colorless flora and fauna were still in the muggy air. Waiting. Sounds and activity, little though they were at this hour, fell silent as a cloaked figure slowly drifted deeper into the foliage in pursuit of the second, larger thing in the wood.
That second thing was on the run. Its body was of a large, hulking frame, with menacingly curved horns protruding from its hairy head. Claws the size of dinner knives and just as sharp tore dirt out of the forest floor, leaving a trail of blood-soaked mud. Fear drove the creature forward, heaved its muscled body across creeks and over logs, desperate to escape its fate -- the cloaked character following quietly along behind.
At last the trees opened, and the beast burst into a grassy knoll, clutching the wound in his abdomen. He didn't bother running further, for he knew it was futile. All the same, the primitive instinct to survive that had been instilled in his very bones screamed to fight, fight until the last breath wheezes out of your lungs. And so the beast rose on dirty paws and bared his teeth at the person across the clearing.
They'd stopped, watching the beast's slow death. The sticky air was rich with the smell of the monster's heavy, troubled breaths, and laced with the sharp tang of putrid flesh. His fur-covered skin was rapidly turning a shade none other than caterpillar green. Infection coursed through his veins, slowing his reactions, his nervous system.
Stopping his heart.
After a few moments, the beast's ugly expression wavered, and he fell to his knees not entirely of his own volition. A whimper of agony, then he was paralyzed -- his bones dissolving in seconds. Moving forward, the figure held their breath and reached into the cloak folds. In one last attempt to defend himself, the beast lurched over. The movement snapped his spine as easily as a doe stepped on a twig, and in a scream of pain, the beast collapsed.
The figure was there now, timing the kill. They shoved the beast on his back and knelt beside him.
"Who are you," the beast questioned with faint breath.
The last look on his face was one of surprise as the hood lowered and a female's sombre face emerged.
"I'm the Beast Hunter," she answered, and plunged a dagger into the beast's heart.
The blade shoved in, in, in until all that was left was the embossed leather hilt, on the end a delicately carved ruby-red rose. All remaining light faded from the monster's midnight eyes, and before long he was dead. The woman, whose name was Rosabella, extracted her blade and stood, shedding the stifling wool cloak before getting to work. There were predators in these woods, no matter how silent it seemed or how alone one felt.
Covering her nose against the stench, Rose began hacking through rotten innards. Removing a heart was harder than it sounded -- slicing through rubbery tissue and vein systems, not to mention the fur. The weakened, crumbling ribcage posed no challenge, though the smell certainly did. Poison was no clean weapon.
At last there was a clear path to the dormant organ, and with one clean cut, Rose cleaved it free. More acrid air wafted out and she stifled a gag. Without preamble, she lifted the lukewarm heart and plopped it onto the cloak. It was the only reason she had worn the awful thing. That and for cover. She'd made the mistake with the second beast; that is, revealing she was, in fact, a woman. Six foot tall monsters tended to ridicule females claiming that they'd come to kill them. All in all, it was a risky business, and each hunt proposed another easier way to make the mission go smoother.
Like wearing a lighter cloak.
That reminded her. Feeling around the garment, she came upon the pocket and withdrew a slightly crumpled rose, laying it carefully on the beast's empty chest cavity.
Only the heartless steal hearts, and she lost hers long ago.
Rose sighed through her mouth and hoisted the wrapped heart over her shoulder, looking up at the ever-present moon.
Three down, four to go.