Young Writers Society

They watched the shadowy figure as he slowly trotted his horse away form the town gates. They were hungry and overly eager to feast upon man flesh. The two grotesque hunters crouched there behind a fallen tree, clad in there roughly cut animal hides, gripping there crude spiked clubs tightly. He looked vulnerable, mounted atop his horse near the bottom of the hill. It was a dark and cloudy night, portions of the land were flooding and the occasional thunder pierced the sky. No one would notice the struggle.

As Ricirvik rounded a smooth corner along the muddy trail he caught their scent, he was not adept in the wild but he needn’t be to smell the revolting stench of his predators. A minor shift in the wind had given them away. He wheeled his horse around quickly, dismounting it in the process. In the blink of an eye he had his two elegant black pistols drawn, centered on the first burly orc to jump down off the hill. He thundered away a shot, blasting away a fair chunk of the creature’s thigh. It faltered in its stride and toppled down to the ground, howling in agony as the acid-filled bullet ate away at its flesh. Ricirvik, foolishly glancing at the first orc didn’t respond in time to the second. It came crashing down on top of him, beating him down to the ground. Ricirvik lost grip of his pistols in the struggle. It reared back his tusked head as it squeezed the Slinger’s neck, its arms bulging. Then it was thrown from its enemy as Ricivik’s mount violently kicked it away. The horse jumped over its master and began trampling the prone orc mercilessly. In a horse voice Ricirvik muttered, “That’s a good horsie.”

Standing up, the Leadslinger walked over to the wounded and bleeding orc as its steed continued to stomp out the other one. It lay there, clutching its burning leg. If unattended he would bleed to death by the end of the night. If he was found, and aided, thanks to the acid, he would probably never walk again.

Ricirivik galloped away from the two battered and dying orcs, the heavy rain washing away their lifeblood.

Four days later.

Ricirvik was sitting cross legged on his bed inside the Howling Harpy, an inn and tavern roughly thirty miles from where he last saw Grefalcon. He was wearing a pair of loose grayish colored pants and I worn white short and cleaning his two slender pistols. Occasionally he would look outside his window, into the sunny street and make sure his horse was safe inside the nearby stables. Then, three rhythmic knocks sounded at his door and a young female voice said, “Letter for you sir.” Being rightly paranoid, he quickly loaded and readied a pistol before answering the door. A teenage girl was standing there alone in the wooden hallway, clutching a yellow parcel. She looked nervous and somewhat disappointed that someone had answered the door. Ricirvik smiled wildly before taking the letter and closing the door. He went and sat down in an old chair by the window. He opened the envelope and, by sunlight, read

Town Square, Two o’clock.