Audition: The Hunt

Original Character Tournament - Introductory Story, Dorian Clearwater
Word count: 1,959

The Hunt

Dawn brushed hesitant fingertips along the bottom most edge of the sky. Crisp winter wind twined like lazy cats around the huntsman’s legs as he stalked soundlessly down the game trail. The lymer at his side lifted her snout to the chilled wind and drank in greedy gulps, seeking the spore of the hart. Rabbit, squirrel, boar and wolf, each was dismissed.The hound knew her task well, and did not allow the sent of other game to tempt her from her duty. 

The huntsman turned down a fainter trail, discernible to his experienced ice blue gaze from years by experience. Half way down the trail he knelt gracefully and studied the droppings while the lymer pranced around him, but she kept her silence.  Now was not the time for barking. She knew not to alert the prey of their presence. Ignoring the dog’s excited stance, the huntsman stood again and slipped off the faint path. 

Pausing briefly, he studied the small thread of crushed green silk that had been caught on one of the brambles. Sharp eyes narrowed at the sight. He recognized the hue from brunch two days past.  Lord Leubast was fond of the shade.  Dismissing the forgotten strand, the huntsman prowled though the underbrush in search of the quarry the Lords would hunt later that day. 

Later that morning, the huntsman waited with grave politeness for the cultured voices to taper off. Discussions about the weather, terrain, the superiority of par force de chiens hunting as opposed to the less sophisticated bow and stable hunting were drawn to a close, finished with tea and biscuits. 

“Have you news of the quarry Dorian?” Lord Ashdown’s deep baritone cut through the last drabbles of conversation and silence descended, broken only by the nicker of waiting horses, and the soft whining of the hounds. 

“Yes my Lord. A fine hart of ten was spotted due East in a pocket grove of pines, just past Grey Wolf creek.” The voice was like rough wool when compared to the cultured silk of the Lords, a commoner‘s voice that belied the chiseled handsomeness of his features. Stubble darkened his pale cheeks, but didn't hide the fine bone structure. When paired with his piercing eyes, and ebony hair, Dorian cut a striking figure. There was something about his posture, the calm neutrality of his gaze, and his differential words that made the mind dismiss the man as part of the background of the hunt, like the horses or the hounds. Unimportant, save for the duty he performed. 

“We should approach the hart from the south bound trail," a brash voice declared. Pale blue eyes sharpened, and snapped briefly to the foppish blond. The man’s forest green eyes were set off by a tunic that was two shades lighter than his own orbs. His full pouting lips were pulled back in a dazzling smile.  The more experienced hunters all cut an aggravated look at the prideful youth, already vexed that the inexperienced childling Lord would be given the honor of the kill. 

The Lords failed to notice Dorian's predatory gaze locked on Lord Leubast. Instead they were trying to explain, again, why it wasn’t wise to approach a deer while up wind of the creature to the head-strong youth. Ice blue eyes, the left held the slightest speck of orange just below the pupil, watched the lordling in the same way a hawk in a branch studies an incautious mouse. 

When the path was decided; the Lords mounted their horses. Dorian and the other handlers melted into the surrounding woods to play their part in the pending hunt. The pack was swiftly divided into four relays that moved easily through the underbrush to reach their positions in intervals along the designated path. The relays insured the hounds wouldn't tire before the hart was run to exhaustion. 

“Move further down the path, and shift towards the left fork,” Dorian said to his second. 

“But, the Lords said to go to the right.”

Dorian's gaze locked on Stephan. His blood froze in his veins when that inhuman look singled him out. The Lords might not recognize the true hunter among them, but Stephan knew a hawk when he saw one. “To the left, yes sir.” He murmured, leading the four dogs away. 

When he was certain the relays were properly positioned, Dorian took the lead lymer, the same bitch he’d used during the Quest, and sought the hart.  It was his job to flush the prey out onto the run to be harried by the relays. 

It didn't take him long to find the fresh trail. The thrill of the hunt stirred Dorian's blood even though the prey was inferior to his usual fare. The lymer at his side picked up on her master’s excitement. Her ears perked as his bloodlust kindled her own. Together the duel hunters stalked gracefully through the underbrush, careful not to give their position away.  They would only bay when they had the hart just where they wanted him. 

Down another trail, both man and beast froze. There, his majestic head bowed, the massive red deer nibbled daintily on winter frosted bushes. With practiced ease they shifted back to flank the hart so they could drive the beast down the proper path. Once they were in position Dorian gave the signal. With a wild bay, the lymer leapt into the small clearing. 

The hart threw his head back, raking the air with his antlers. His eyes rolled wildly before he bolted up the desired trail.  Dorian ran with fleet footed grace after the pair while he kept out of the way of the coming Lords. 

The bay was picked up by the first group of relay hounds.In a furious mass they joined the chase. The thunder of hooves on the path signaled the Lords had joined the hunt.  Skillfully, Dorian stepped off the path when the horses galloped past. 

Intense eyes locked on the gaudy white gilding that bore the pompous fool. The noble, high-strung beast was second in the lead. His rider rode with a finicky sort of grace that told of formal training coupled with jittery nerves. Once the horses were past, Dorian regained the trail. His feet moved in swift pursuit of the hunters. Keeping up with the large beasts wasn’t difficult due to the uncertain terrain. The Lords couldn’t let the horses run. Not without the risk of a broken leg, or of being scraped off the horses back by a low hanging branch. 

The second pack of dogs was loosed while the first was brought to heel by the waiting hands.  Dorian kept pace with the horses, ignoring the handlers and dogs now. They were no longer his concern. 

The chase came to an end in the clearing Dorian had chosen. The far side was blocked by a near vertical mountain, and it was here the hart turned at bay. Moving with practiced skill, Dorian joined the other handlers. Together, they pulling the dogs back from the desperate beast. That left the way open for Lord Leubast to make the kill. 

All eyes were on the pompous young Lord who slid down from his snowy mount with exaggerated flare. He unsheathed a sword that was too gaudy for the task at hand before advancing on the hart. Dorian could feel the snide looks the older Lords were giving the boy, but he paid them no mind. They didn’t matter now. 

A palm length blow dart was slipped from Dorian’s pocket and cupped in his hand. He watched the Lordling’s every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Lord Leubast approached the deer, whose ten point horns were now lowered threateningly. Cloven hooves tore at the ground, and Dorian could hear the bellowing snorts of distress. The timing had to be just right.  He waited with the endless patience of a fox stalking a sleeping dove. 

Not yet. The hart tossed his head, velvet brown eyes rolled at the sword bearing man's advance. Not yet…now! With swift, deadly accuracy, Dorian brought his hand up to his lips and blew. No one noticed the small silver dart. A tiny glint of metal in the wane morning light that found its mark unerringly. They only had eyes for the drama unfolding before them. The morning seemed to take a breath while the gathered watchers waited for the killing blow with baited breath. 

The boy stumbled, just as the hart lunged forward. His rack  was down in a desperate effort to escape when he made his break.  Silence hung heavy over the watchers. Everyone saw what was about to happen, but could do nothing to stop it. With a wet ripping sound, the rack plunged into Lord Leubast’s tender midsection. The hart jerked his heavily muscled neck to the side, and tore through the delicate flesh with sickening ease. 

Lord Ashdown gave a savage curse and leapt down from his bay stallion with the nimbleness of a man half his age when the youth fell. He didn't spare the broken Lordling more than a disgusted glance, even though Lord Leubast had fallen to his knees. With blood soaked hands, he tried in vain to keep his innards from spilling to the dirt as he slumped to the ground. 

A hunt wasn’t canceled because one damned fool was gored.The handlers would deal with the pup. Dorian and three others rushed to the boy’s side. They didn't watch Lord Ashdown's skillful thrust, instead they tried to staunch the bleeding.

With kind hands, Dorian laid the boy down. He directed the others to apply pressure to the wound and removed his own tunic to staunch the blood. The others had eyes only for the terrible wound. They didn’t notice when Dorian plucked the small dart out of the boy’s neck, or when he slipped the signet ring off one limp finger and pocketed it. 

Even if the wound hadn’t been fatal, the poison on the dart was. 

The the Lords left the boy to the handlers as they performed the ritualistic dissection of the deer. 

A faint smile of grim satisfaction curved the normally stern edges of Dorain’s lips. He watched the life drain out of those beautiful eyes and felt calm steal through him at the sight. The metallic tang of blood, both human and animal, hung heavy in the air as familiar as a lover’s perfume. 

The Lords paused briefly to pay their respect to the dead Lord before they finished the ritual of the hunt. Mourning for the boy would come later, after they'd returned.  Dorian drifted away from the now cooling corpse, calling his dog back to him. With a secret smile he held his hands out to her, letting the lymer lap the human blood from his hands. 

Her velvet soft tongue curled around his loosely offered fingers with calm, rhythmic strokes. Dorian contemplated the conversation he’d overheard just before the Nobles noticed his arrival after the Quest. Queen Tairess lost the Chalice of Novorti, the Chalice…it is the key to our revenge. The Chalice would be the final blow dealt to both kingdoms.  Poisoning the Royal children had almost gone perfectly, except for the eldest surviving. The assassination of the younger two was the opening slash that orchestrated the symphony of war. It was some of his better work, Dorian thought. 

When his hands were clean, the dog joined the rest of the pack around the now neatly butchered carcass to beg scraps. 

The hunt was finished. When Lord Ashdown turned to praise Dorian for finding them such a fine specimen, the huntsman had vanished as silent and unnoticed as the mountain wind. With a shrug, the Lord turned his attention back to the kill.