Tales of Elijah Black

The sky turned dark, blue and orange of somber afternoon seeping with the black that signalled nights slow embrace. The waters of the boggy swamp stirred gently, ebbing and flowing beside uneven patches, that were slow and littered with the remnants of a settlement long ago moved on. A corpse of a church stood lonesome on one such patch, whose faded white and moss-covered walls had been dying for some time. 

Cast from above, the shadow born of a swaying branch swept, falling over all in the church with a thin black line that slowly moved across scowling eyes and a vicious stubbled smile. The face of Elijah black stood still under the shadow, unblinking and calm, but with a focused fury roaring behind the man's cold gray eyes.

He swiftly crept towards a decaying wall that stood before the large room ahead, carefully attempting not to draw attention to himself. 

The Texan was calm, even though a savage, a foul monster forged in ancient times, was certainly patrolling the second floor and searching for a trespasser such as himself; He also knew the beast was armed with more than just claws, once catching the shadowy outline of a rifle in its hands, when he crept towards the wall.

The unfocused part of his mind fixed on the rifle like a latching hook, images of the man-made weapon in fur-coated arms seeped deep into his thoughts. He saw the massive hands and wolfish claws stained crimson from a past kill, both clutching tight around the smooth varnished rifle. 

"Ironic," he whispered. 

He breathed deeply.

Without warning, a deafening howl and gunshot pierced the air, then the wall exploded, a shower of small white plaster spraying through the air and landing onto the black suede cowboy hat on Elijah's head. He moved quickly, fallen wood crumpling like loud snow beneath the man's boots.

"So much for surprise," he said, grinning viciously.

Bullets rained upon the wall, lighting the room brightly in short sharp flashes that thundered like the crack of snapping whips. Perched crows soared, scattering into the sky at the sound of the firing weapon that roared on, shot after shot echoing through the building's empty halls and rooms. Then suddenly, like the quiet beyond the storm, the cracks of the rifle stopped and silence reigned again.

 "Looks like your all spent ."

Now was the opportunity, he leaned back against the wall that was now riddled with holes. He breathed deeply, then slowly, he peered around its corner, scanning the room he had previously only seen from afar. 

It was large and ornate, dust-covered tapestries hung above dark decaying walls which gave the empty room a gothic appearance. Above the room at the ceiling's center were a series of gaping wounds, four large circular holes lined edges of broken wood, bored upwards to the church's roof, appearing as if a giant's hand had formed a fist, and violently powered its way through all four levels. Above the moon was set and its light gleamed in through the opening.

"There you are," Black whispered.

A tremor among the shadows where the moonlight fell revealed the savage's location above. Its mighty shoulders twitched and its slow clumsy fingers failed to force bullets into the weapons chamber.

Elijah reached down and pulled back the sleeve of his coat duster coat, revealing the bare skin of his wrist beneath, which had strange black etched markings trailing along its surface. The lines twisted and curved, making chaotic and unusual geometry that somehow retained a sense of order. His other hand swung to his waist, the Texan pulled out his silver revolver from its leather holster and its surface gleamed under the moonlight glow. 

"That should do it," he whispered, his gray eyes widening behind his tangled black hair.

His lips parted and hushed words began to escape them, sounding like the whispered incantations before some fetish shrine. The collective words held a strange rhythm that differed greatly from any known tongue of man, rising and falling like grim ramblings of some demonic cult from much more ancient and darker times.

Such times were recorded in great detail within his orders library, when the sword protected men from evils beyond imagining and from man himself whose humanity was abandoned within the cults that roamed the earth, worshipping twisted deities through the sacrifice of their brother man to gain demonic otherworldly boons. 

The marking on his arms and the words he spoke were undoubtable and material proof of both.

He had uttered his last word and squeezed the revolver tightly, hearing the diminishing sound of bullets clanging against the rifle. 

He sprang and rose from behind the shattered wall, leveling his weapon upwards, then with one firm squeeze of the trigger, he fired. A blinding flame spewed forth from the revolver's barrel towards the beast and an ear-piercing howl of pain cried back. The smell of burning flesh invaded the room and the sound of creaking timbers rose until finally they gave and the flaming mass fell and crashed to the ground.

"Shit," he cursed, gripping his wrist tight. The Texan clenched his teeth as a sound sizzled and a crimson glowed from the markings of his arm. When it finally subsided, he released his grip, watching the red glow fade back into black markings that still smelled distastefully of burnt flesh.

Elijah walked slowly to the werewolf's body and knelt beside it, inspecting the dead monster for signs of life. The beast's hairy muscles were large, overshadowing the arms of any man he had ever met. Its hair was a scorched gray, like most of its kind, but this was quickly turning black with the singing flames. Beneath its thick fur coat stretched its leathery onyx skin that was etched with marks of violence. At its brutishly large head holding deep setting brows, sat lifeless crimson eyes, and splayed on the floor, Its ape-like arms were yielded hands like vices with claws.

From a glance, he knew it was a common variant and that following its nature must be part of a larger pack. Even now he felt their foul presence and wondered where they could be lurking.

"There you are."

Elijah with the wariness of a fox, spun quickly and levelled his revolver.

"Hey it's just me!" the man who faced him was surprised, yet his eyes were calm and a faint smile touched his brown bearded lips. He was a tall man, tall as Elijah, though much younger and not as lean. 

"How's the hunt mate?" asked the stranger, whose accent sounded of low English descent.

Black holstered his gun.

"If I felt any better, I'd think this was a setup," replied Black grimly, "You know, one day your luck's gonna run out."

The bearded man laughed, "As if you'll ever pull the trigger. Now if I was covered in fur or hideously mutated in even the smallest way that would be a different story."

"I wouldn't hesitate," a faint smile fell across the grim man's face.