The Hunt

Vragi, Rhod, and Sporhunda had been trailing the small one for the past 7 hours, ever since Vragi had gotten back to his den. The Great One would have been displeased if he'd done otherwise. Besides, the blood of Utskjar, known as Camdon to the mortals, would be avenged. 

The large one, the demigod, was dangerous. Utskjar had been Vragi's second in command, a patient hunter and powerful warrior. That a lone demigod, practically unarmed, had killed him was incredible. Hunting him required caution and not a little cunning. 

The small one, the friend of the demigod, was strange. He had accepted a token from the witch, but it was twisted. Normally such a thing would have hidden the manlings scent from Vragi and his pack, but upside it brought the manling's scent into vivid focus. He smelled of growth, of the green vitality and and strange ozone charcoal that marked the witch's amulet, and he also carried the dangerous, blood-drenched scent of the demigod. Underneath was the human smell, the markers that told Vragi the manling had eaten nothing for lunch and a roll for dinner, a metallic woody edge that spoke of a guitar. Vragi could smell a the night on him and knew he spent hours in under the stars. He smelled the faint touch of alcohol on his skin, probably from someone he lived with, the spatter of Utskjar's blood that bespoke one who knew more of the morning's events than would be expected in a mortal. Under it all, a single strand of scent warned Vragi away. There was something, some scent he couldn't quite place. He could smell more the absence of the smell than its presence, like a memory of something remembered. Vragi hesitated. 

No. This one would do nicely. The large one would come to rescue his friend, and in the meantime, perhaps some information could be gleaned from the small one.

The small one seemed preoccupied. Vragi doubted the manling would have noticed if they'd walked right behind him in wolf form, but he and his pack kept to the shadows anyways, trailing far behind, keeping track of him more by scent than by sight. 

Vragi could smell the path the boy always walked home, down into the ranker parts of the city, down where trees disappeared from the boulevards to be replaced by beer cans. The roads here were darker, the city lights flickering vainly against the darkness. 

Vragi smiled. They were close enough to hear the manling's heartbeat now, close enough to smell the warmth of his blood surging beneath his pale, thin flesh. At his silent signal, Rod and Sporhunda circled around, cutting the boy off. 

He was lost in his own world, headphones in, more blind in his own thoughts than in the shadows that obscured the night. 

Vragi felt a moment of regret that this hunt wouldn't end in a kill, but he consoled himself by imagining the frantic worry the demigod would feel when he discovered his friend missing, a bloody shirt left on his door, and the note that would be his doom.