One Story Winters Night
One Stormy Winters Night
Rain came tumbling down from the night sky, and with it, thunder and lightning from the black clouds. A tinge of evil was in the air and it was growing. The smell of water mixed with dirt filled the air. The atmosphere moistened, the droplets turning into a mist filled with pungent rage. The earth started to trembled, being ripped apart from forces beyond the common plane of existence. A big crack appeared in the centre of the forest and then all went quiet. Out of it rose the most hideous creature of horrific nature. The full white moon bled in its presence, turning crimson, adding colour to the mist, making to whole forest believe it was surrounded by blood.
The old man on the hill, was petrified, clasping to the leg of his dinner table, nestled what he hoped was safely underneath it. As far back as he could remember the earth had never trembled like this before. The man lived on the only grassy knoll protruding from the depths of the forest. He mustered up enough courage to look outside his door only to see no further than his nose and even then he could barely adjust his eyes to the dissident red the atmosphere seemingly held.
Filled with curiosity, the old man grabbed his robe and this stick that he had always had since he could remember. It was gnarled and twisted and made him feel safe in times where we could no longer feel the strength to go on. You see, this old man had lost his memory. To his calculations, approximately 40 years ago, he woke up, alone in this old hut on the grassy knoll, with a stick, a robe, the clothes he had on and nothing else. He survived off the forest, but now he was worried that he would have no way to see where he was going if the mist did not disappear. He could not go out and hunt or find the berries that he had survived on for so long, and he would surely die of starvation.
Venturing out into the terrifying unknown he felt his way around. The forest was a big place but he knew every boulder, every tree off by heart for kilometres in all directions, but not well enough to leave the forest which had safely served as a safe haven for almost a lifetime. Feeling his way to the outer edges of what he knew he became scared of the unknown, and decided it be best to turn around and head back home.
As he began his journey towards home, he heard this fierce howling of what seemed a pack of wolves crying in unison. It was an awesome sound, and rather than hastening his homeward bound venturing, he turned back and started trudging to the direction of the call. Now I don’t have to tell you that wolves are fast, but the old man had lived in this forest for long enough to know every trick in the book from creating diversions to climbing trees in order to escape the dangers of the forest, so a simple pack of wolves seemed no problem to escape from.
As the old man crept closer to the sound, he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, and he was filled with a sense of fear that what he was approaching was worth more than a simple pack of wolves. He turned expediently, needing no further convincing to flee into the night. Then the howling suddenly stopped. Quickening his pace the man led into a dash, but heard the sounds of a great beast galloping in the distance. This distance became shorter by the second and soon the creature was within a furlong of the man and closing. Realising there was no chance of escaping he turned to face the beast with all the foolishness he could gather. What he saw was for no mortal mans eyes.
The beast was ten foot long, standing six foot high on four legs. Its teeth glistened with their own cruel light and its eyes pieced the heart of its victims with and iridescent yellow glow. Blood smeared its shaggy face, extending in patches all over its body where it had revelled in its own brutalising of the forest the animals. Its loins held tremendous power; they looked as if they could rip apart any prey with simple ferocity. The creature stopped a few paces before him as if to torture the man further by boasting his power and allowing the mere mortal to contemplate his death.
The old man trembled before the creature, which now was hunched on its back legs, ready to pounce. He clasped his stick, realising his time was at an end, but none the less, he was not willing to be taken down without a fight. He closed his eyes and squeezed the stick harder. Suddenly he became relaxed. Through his closed eyelids he could see a light, and felt a warmth on his face. He opened his eyes to see the end of the gnarled stick crumbling away to reveal what only could be described as a round sustaining ball of molten rock. With an extreme shudder that should have broken every bone in his body, an incredible pulse ran throughout his being. He could feel his blood boiling and an immense power built inside him. His eyes burnt bright and turned a milky white and the cloak he wore shone with a new life, embroided bright purple with gold runes which symbolised his marvellous supremacy.
The old man stood up straight. Now no longer a forgotten hunched old soul, he remembered who or rather what he truly was. Knowing that he no longer need be scared, he glared at the creature before him, a pathetic animal who now was trembling in fear, crouching down as if to sink away into the earth. With a wave of his hand, the red mist disappeared. Raising his wand into the air, the sorcerer chanted a few quick words and the werewolf burst into flames. Yellow, green, blue and red energy surround the wolf as its hide crackled and sparked, producing a foul smell. Its howls rang throughout the forest as it felt a pain unmatched by anything experienced on earth before.
Turning his back on the smouldering corpse, its soul now blasted back to the netherworld, the sorcerer began his journey back to his home. A place where he was outcast for reasons long ago, longer than time and space could remember. A place where he would wreak his vengeance. Both you and I know, as does he, nothing can stop him.
