Blood Princess: REBOOT!?

The park was white. Frost had crept over the slide, under the monkey bars and along the swings, leaving nothing but a layer of clear stalactites in its wake. Snow continued drifting lazily from the heavens, burying the landscape deeper and deeper within winter’s embrace.

Bran Lietmann came to a halt before the playground and looked at the sky. Behind him was a trail of his own footprints leading back to the main road. Streetlamps glowed like small stars in the distance, desperately fighting off the impending darkness. Sight was his most useless tool here; every other sense provided him with more information.

He inhaled deeply and released, his breath escaping in a puff of vapour. The air stung with the rustic smell of blood. He’d come across the smell enough times to know it with a single whiff. Wind rustled through the empty branches, too weak to free them from the layers of suffocating snow. It bit cold and hard against his face, forcing him to pull his scarf up a notch.

He’d always thought snow looked beautiful. It had snowed the first day he moved here, the day he’d left the Weavers to live by himself. Even though he’d seen pictures and clips on television, nothing could have prepared him for the fragments of heaven that had come falling from the sky.
It looked more beautiful when it was red.

Blood trickled across the ground, oozing out from under the slide. It was a blossoming flower among a barren landscape devoid of both life and colour. Ironic, when it was death that gave birth to it in the first place.

Bran trudged towards the crimson pool, his boots kicking up soft snow behind him. He stopped next to the slide and bent down, brushing strands of his tawny brown hair out of his face.

The corpse was that of an elderly man, dressed in patched up rags that reeked of body odour. His eyes were wide open and unblinking, windows that would never again see light. A grizzled beard that hadn’t met a razor for weeks was soaked in a stream of blood trickling from the corner of his lips.
Bran moved his eyes downwards. The rags covering the man’s body had been shredded, revealing deep gashes along his chest and belly that still leaked. There five parallel gashes across his arm, and two giant bite-sized wounds had stripped the meat from his thighs entirely. He’d fought to the very last breath, even in the face of inevitable death.

Bran dipped a finger in the pool of blood. It was still warm; the killer couldn’t be far gone. He wiped his hand against the snow and cleansed it, flinching from the cold. He didn’t want to stay out here for any longer than was necessary. School started in a little under ten hours.
The wind picked up, and Bran followed the tracks around the man. They were several inches deep, as big as an ordinary man’s but with only three toes. Clearly the tracks of a bigger, stronger humanoid. Snow was already beginning to fill them in. If he wanted to hunt down the predator by tonight, he would have to hurry.

Bran took a moment to acknowledge the deceased man before setting off after the tracks. He doubted the man would be missed; he’d had the look of a homeless drifter, one with nothing left in this world. If he was lucky, he’d be named on the news. If not, the man’s tale would disappear with the thawing of the morning snow.

The tracks continued past the edge of the woods, transitioning into broken branches and trampled scrubs. The woods outside of Eden’s Fall didn’t extend that far, but they were still of respectable size and definitely large enough for a beast to make its lair. Spruce trees stretched up into the sky, their needles remaining evergreen in the face of winter. Snow crumbled from the branches as Bran pushed past, following the trail. It wasn’t long before the last light of civilisation behind him was snuffed out, swallowed by the endless forest.

Bran paused for a moment and withdrew a silver hunting knife, carving a solid †˜X’ into the tree behind him. Then, keeping the knife in his hand, he took off his glasses and placed them in his pocket. His eyes flared to life, free to see all, no longer blocked by the lenses. Pitch black transformed into shades of blue and violet. The small rodents and insects that came out to roam the night lit up, like small red candles in the darkness.

He focused on slowing his heartbeat and closed his eyes. With the temporary loss of his vision, his other senses sharpened. He could smell the cold, fresh scent of spruce, taste it on his lips. He could hear critters rustling about the darkness, rodents burrowing beneath the snow, a breeze rustling the branches.

And in the distance, breathing.

He opened his eyes and broke into a run. If he could hear his prey, then it could hear him. Now, all that remained was closing the distance.
Twigs snapped beneath his boots. Snow flew up as he dashed through the woods, no longer looking at the trail. Branches were shoved aside as he jumped over fallen trees, skipped over twisted roots, ducked under low-hanging branches.

And then, the trees broke into a clearing.

A huge boulder rose out of the ground before him, the beginnings of where the terrain became mountainous. Roots twisted along the crevices. The smell of damp and rotting wood reached his nostrils. The trees were less dense here, but taller. The snow wasn’t as thick.

Under the stone, in a small alcove was a pile of bones. Bran didn’t need to look twice to know that they were human.

This was the lair of the beast, the demon that had been terrorizing the town in secret for two weeks. Tonight’s victim had been its fourth, and would be its last.

Knife still in his hand, he crossed the clearing and reached the alcove. There were hairs on the ground, long and curled. He could see through the darkness, but not in colour. To him, what gave away the true nature of the hairs was their stiffness. Despite being as thin as a human’s, they were rough and bristly like a beast’s.

He could still feel the its body heat resonating from the ground. It wasn’t far off. In fact, it was probably still around, weighing up its chances of survival against this strange, weak creature that had dared venture into its den.

It was young. It hadn’t met the cruel touch of silver bullets yet, or blades piercing its hide.

Bran extended a palm into the darkness. It had stopped snowing. The moon hovered on its cloudy throne, pouring its light down onto earth. His vision shifted from violet and blue to shades of black and grey. The red auras, signifying the presence of insects and animals nearby had disappeared.

A twig snapped behind him.

He felt the change in pressure as air was forced apart, giving way to the beast that had leapt down from above. He barely had time to move before it crashed into him, sending him flying across the clearing, kicking up a snowstorm.

“Damn it…”

He felt strong, sharp claws dig into his arms, a heavy weight crushing his chest. A surge of adrenaline pumped through him, and he managed to wriggle free from its grasp.

Its ambush failed, the creature opted to remain where it was, studying Bran with curious eyes. It was tall and hairy, towering a good head and shoulders above the tallest man. He couldn’t tell what colour it was without his glasses, but he guessed it to be a pale white similar to the snow around it. Muscles rippled across its body, all the way from its bulging forearms to the hind legs that supported its frame. Two proud antlers branched from its head like the limbs of a spruce tree. Its nails were long and thick, razor sharp claws that could tear apart bark as easily as it could flesh.

It blended in perfectly among the trees of its hunting grounds. In the summer, it would hibernate. In the winter, it would come out to feast on what unfortunate being crossed its path. The cycle would have continued for who knows how long, if it hadn’t discovered civilisation.

A demon of the snow, all but extinct in this day and age. Once, long ago they might have been humans. Once. Years of cannibalism and inbreeding, with perhaps a few demons thrown into the bloodline had turned them into what they were now. They went by many names in stories and folklore, but Bran knew them simply as wendigoes.

An ordinary hunter might give up hope right here and now. What hope could they have of standing against such a strong, towering beast? One fell swoop of its claws would cleave through the strongest of men. Anything those jaws clamped on would be crushed. Anything those arms struck would be shattered.

An ordinary hunter saw a monstrosity, an aberration of nature, an invincible monster that could not be killed without significant firepower.

Bran saw something different. He saw a collection of weaknesses, ones which would lead to the beast’s death if struck.

A red glow atop its left breast, where the heart lay. Once pierced, the fuel that it ran on would cease to flow.

A red glow in its skull. Its control centre. Once demolished, the body would cease to function.

Smaller, fainter glows along its neck, wrists, the back of the knees, the elbows. Once cut, life would slowly but surely escape.

A haze surrounding its nostrils and lips. If blocked off, the brain would wilt and die.

If Bran focused, he would no doubt be able to see countless more of these areas. Every living thing had flaws and weaknesses. The closer to a human it was, the more it had. He could still remember the migraine he’d received from accidentally taking off his glasses inside a hospital. He’d been bedridden for the remainder of the day.

This was the gift, and curse that his eyes possessed. The ability to perceive the flow of life. The ability that allowed him to fight demons that otherwise might be impossible to kill.

The creature must have sensed its impending doom, because it immediately lunged forward. Sentient beings always fought the hardest in the face of death, and this creature was no exception. Fuelled by instinct, it raked its huge claws through the air in an attempt to slay its hunter.

Bran ducked and weaved through the gaps in his enemy’s offense with agility equally as impressive. With each swing, the pressure in the air changed. With each change in the air pressure, Bran moved.

It was a battle between two monsters.

There was a loud crack as one of the wendigo’s claws wedged itself in a tree. Tumbling between its legs, Bran slashed the edge of his blade against the back of its knees. Fresh blood spurted from the wound, painting the ground white.

The beast let out a roar of pain, rattling Bran’s ears. It wrenched its claws from the tree and lunged once more, still fuelled by its desire to survive. The ground trembled as the tree fell, throwing a cloud of snow into the air. An unfortunate end to one that had lived for so long.

Rock shattered as the beast charged into it, narrowly missing the boy. Bran ducked into the white mist, running the knife along the back of the beast’s other knee. More blood painted the snow. One of its horns had broken off upon impact.

He panted as he waited for the wendigo to bleed out. It wouldn’t be long; one more blow and its death would be sealed. His pulse ran through his ears, his breath escaped in quick puffs from his scarf.

The wendigo cried once more, hurling a boulder towards his enemy. Bran avoided it easily, landing lightly at the edge of the clearing. It bared its fangs, long, dirty things coated with filthy saliva - but such weapons were meaningless if they couldn’t be used. The cuts to its arteries had already rendered its movement sluggish, so much so that even an ordinary human could have avoided it. Deciding to put it out of its misery, Bran rushed forwards and sprinted up the rock behind it, leaping onto its back. It tried to follow his movement, twisting around, but he was faster. He wrapped his left arm neatly along its neck and brandished his silver blade with his right.

The moon shimmered along its length as it slid smoothly across the creature’s neck. A mist of blood was released, followed by a blood-curdling howl. Bran released his grip and rolled across the ground, clutching at his arm. The creature had managed to wound him, right before its fate had been sealed.
There was a low whoosh as it collapsed into a bleeding heap. Its breathing slowed down and it stopped moving. The red auras around its points of weakness were extinguished one by one, winking out of existence.

The stronger monster had won. The weaker had lost. That was nature’s law.

Bran took out his glasses and put them back on. The moon was ablaze now; there was no need for his special vision. Still clutching his bleeding arm, he began making his way back to town.

If a beast falls in a forest but no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

If a man falls in a park but no one is there to remember him, does he still exist?

Bran made sure to carve his memories of the night into his mind. In another world, another universe, demons might have risen to become the dominant species of the planet. If that were the case, Bran would not want to die without being remembered. He was sure the wendigo thought the same.