I am a Hellhound, a Hellion beast. I’m a monster with a heart made of fire and cursed with eyes burning like rubies set in an obsidian death mask. My claws rip through plate armor and my howl calls up the voices of damned souls. I’m dozens of times stronger, faster, and tougher than any man, I can hear past lies and smell guilt. I’m old for a Hellhound, not because my kind is short lived or anything, but because my sister hounds are all mindless idiots.

I’m nothing like the others, I don’t have a death wish, I don’t gleefully rush out into danger for shits and giggles. When I hunt, I’m careful, I’m quiet. I’m an old bitch because I can think, because I can adapt. More than anything, if my old age has taught me anything, it’s taught me that I can choose not to kill. I can resist that damningly enticing slaughter-song of the call to carnage that so many of my kind are enslaved to.

I guess it’s because of all that, that I’ve become a ‘Silvered One,’ A Hellhound that’s been alive long enough to get a silver tail. This is supposedly a damned rare, if not outright legendary, event. To me, it doesn’t matter. A bit of silver fur trailing from above my ass to the tip of my tail doesn’t change anything for me, I still have to hunt, I still have to find clean water, and above all I still shit and sleep like any other living thing.
I’m a long way from what I called home for a spell. The mountains to the east aren’t where I was born. They were just where I decided to settle down. Of my birthplace, I can’t remember much, but sometimes I find myself dreaming of red cracked earth and pillars of fire. Aside from that, I have no solid memory of my very first hunting grounds. That was so many damn years ago… I can’t even remember just how many, a few hundred I think? I shouldn’t mull over it too much I still have a ways to go before I can rest. Thankfully, the hard part is just behind me. I can’t be honest and say that my wandering has any real purpose. I can’t make any great statement about my journey so far, only that I’m in exile. I don’t want to go over it any more than I have to, and hopefully, just like the memories of my birthplace, these memories will fade as well.

But, it has all lead to me being here- upon a cliff, overlooking a lush grove populated with fruit trees that surround a pleasant village of Humans- I could smell them from a ways off. The hamlet is mostly home to mall two-story lodges built next to a wide dirt road that travels north and south in either direction. There are smaller paths branching off the main road, leading to smaller cottages and a few farms with granaries. It must be a fishing village, if the expansive docks are anything to go by, and along the coast I can see fishing boats cresting subtle waves with nets dragging through the water as their sails bellow at full. It hits me then, that this is the first time I’ve ever seen the ocean. A vast all encompassing expanse of blue and green, stretching over the horizon, and, as much as I claim to be different from my sister Hellhounds, I’m all too alike in how I respond. I cock my head, and give it only a few seconds of observation. No epiphany, no awed staring, just casual dismissal. It’s not the ocean that holds my attention anyways; it’s the humans, their activities and what I can see from atop the cliff. Even from a distance I can make out a ship pulling into dock.

The men are hauling nets filled with fish off of the boats as women and children come to collect the bounty of the ocean in handcarts. Already I can smell fires being lit and see drying racks being assembled. The town must be pretty damn prosperous because of its fishing trade, even me, a hellhound, can see that. What I can also see, or, more accurately, what I can’t see, are walls. They have no fortifications, no defensive structures, no guardhouses, these are all things I’m familiar with- owing to my nature. They don’t have anything more than a few picket fences to corral goats and sheep.

It’s early in the morning. The sun is just beginning its climb. I flex my claws, letting them scrap against each other one by one. It sounds like a butcher honing the edge of his cleaver. I could break them in just under an hour, and have time left to tear every structure they’ve ever built to the ground. I’ve done it plenty enough times before. It’s in my nature, after all. I tsk, shake my head, and deftly jump from outcropping to outcropping, scaling down the cliff face with ease before finally vanishing into the underbrush of the groves. There is a collection of small crystal-clear streams that trickle and twist down from the snow tipped mountains that I once called home. Under the twilight spell of the gold kissed autumn leaves, the streams seem to be made of running gold, my ears swivel and turn, and I can hear the songs of the birds and the hum of bees venturing from flower to flower- alighting off of apple blossoms and huckleberries. I can smell dew hanging from the gossamer thin webs of spiders; they shine like diamond stars that could only be seen in daylight. Off in the distance among the trunks of venerable blossoming apple trees, I can sense a heard of razorhorn deer.

This is a paradise garden, likely the old home of fairies and other fay creatures, but now abandoned when Man came to rule it. Even so, it’s still majestic; I can feel earthly magic humming through the roots of the grasses and the branches of the trees. I don’t belong here, with my ragged black hair, russet and coal fur, and charcoal skin. I’m an agent of revenge, a jet-black hound of vengeance. My sole purpose in life is to hunt those that have gone unpunished; the only reason ever why a hellhound should ever be in the land of the fruitful- where all the women are fair maidens and all the men proud lords- is to reap a grisly harvest measured in mountains of gore.

I’m not here to reap a harvest; I’m not here to even hunt any humans unless they get in my way. I’m here because I have nowhere else to go, and it was the easiest direction to head after almost dying from a grievous mauling. I wade through tall grass that comes up to my hip. The ground beneath my paws is fertile and moist, perfect for the orchards that grow in such abundance here. Ducking under low hanging branches I perk my ears and listen closely, only stopping when I can clearly hear the raucous of the village. This is as far as I am willing to go. My sisters wouldn’t have stopped, they would’ve fallen to all fours and charged right into the center of the village, all fire and brimstone. They would have destroyed the town, but if the legends of the Silvered Ones, I apparently would have made an even more gruesome spectacle. Yet, for a Silvered One, I’m remarkably oblique in my ‘Legendary-ness’ in that I don’t really want to be a legend. I stop short of the village, and from the shade of the groves I approach until I am comfortable in distance. It’s just as idyllic as I thought it to be up close as I imagined it from a distance, children are racing up and down the street, they’re wearing moccasins made from deer leather and wearing cloth tunics and leggings. They’re happy, these kids. I don’t think I’ve seen a happy kid before- they’re playing a game with a ball made of barrel tar, throwing it as high as it can go and running to catch it before it can hit the ground. I stay hidden and watch them play. It’s relaxing. One of the boys kicks the ball as it comes back down, it goes sailing- towards me, I grunt as it lands a few yards away in short-grass. I stay still as one of the kids runs over and grabs the ball; I shrink back beneath a spread of ferns.

The boy hesitates, looking in my general direction with clear curiosity on his face. Human children are like that; they’re always able to tell when something is wrong is nearby. I most definitely count as something Wrong. There aren’t many things out there that could get any worse than me. The other kids call to him. He stares into the orchards, and I can’t help but wonder what it is he’s thinking. Does he know I’m in here? Or is it just a feeling? I can’t tell, and likely never will know. His friends call again, and he backs away until he turns and runs back to the group carrying the ball. They start up their game again, but this time they direct their throws away from the orchard until they disappear up the street behind several cabins. I yawn; the ferns are starting to feel itchy against my back. I retreat further back into the depths of the orchards where the branches of the trees begin to intertwine with one another, making a living roof of leaves and hanging fruits. In this deep, there is plenty of underbrush and the tall grasses mask me well enough. Turning around in circles, I trample the ground at the shaded base of a tree and gather a couple ferns to make myself a nest. When I lay down to sleep away my wounds something is immediately off, the moment I shut my eyes they snap open again. I turn over and curl up, my silvery tail resting over my eyes- that doesn’t work either, so I toss again and face away from the tree I’m curled up underneath. That doesn’t work either. I roll onto my back and kick out my legs and that doesn’t work either. I quickly become restless, I sniff, letting the scent of the orchards fill my mind. Something is missing. I shut my eyes and sigh angrily. I thought I had kicked the habit.

Apparently not.

I get up and tramp away from my nest until I’m a good ways away, find a tree stump, raise my tail, squat and mark my claim. I do this several more times before I’m satisfied and when I stalk back to the nest, feeling far more relaxed now, I can’t help but also feeling like a damn puppy waddling out of the den and into the wilderness for the very first time. There aren’t any predators this far to the west, at least nothing that could ever pose a threat to me. Low-beasts like bears and wolves would never tangle with a hellhound even if they just randomly stumbled across me; I’ve no reason to scent mark an area like back in the mountains. But, I guess it’s just something to help me feel more at ease, a clear and distinct message to anything that this area is mine now. Nothing that could smell my claims would willingly cross.
…
It happens at daybreak the very next morning. My eyes snap open, something’s poking me, painfully jabbing me in the side. I’m awake in seconds, lurching upright, with a low growl boiling up in my chest. I inhale, sucking in the flavors of my surroundings and instantly I recognize the familiar scent of Manfolk. I turn my head, and my fiery eyes show me a boy dressed in a weather-stained brown tunic that is fraying at the seams and has clearly been re-sewn many times over. He’s, barefoot and filthy, likely an orphan judging by how callused and worn his hands are- to say nothing of his sunburnt tan skin. He’s holding a stick, its tip I am very much familiar with. He has a cherubic boyish face- full of youthful vigor and curious ignorance, accepting everything put before him as the truth and nothing more. None of that matters though, because he should be afraid of me. He should be piss-scared with a dark stain running down his leggings and trickling to the ground in a puddle of honest shame. None of this is happening. Not so much as a sniffle as I sit up and stare over at him.

He pokes me again.

I grunt, grab the stick, and break it. No more of that. I growl and snort, rubbing my eyes open as if that would somehow banish this specter of a human kid. Stretching as I stand, I easily dwarf the kid; he doesn’t even reach past my waist. I take a guess at his age, maybe no older than eight, ten, if I’m being generous. If I can recall correctly humans reach maturity at fourteen years? Or was it more? I drop that line of thinking when the kid looks up at me with doe eyed ignorance, and that’s it, he just stares, curious and mute, cocking his head and leaning side to side as if to get a better look at me, I raise a brow and say nothing, folding my arms under my chest I look back down at him. My tail flicks behind me, whipping exclusively to the right before resetting and repeating; it always does this whenever I’m confused or uncertain. This isn’t normal in multiple ways, the first and most obvious being the fact that I’m not pinning this kid to the ground and doing whatever I want to him, either eating him alive or brutally raping him and then eating him alive, when it comes to hellhounds it’s always a case of either-or. Second, and more importantly is the simple fact that this kid clearly isn’t afraid of me. I don’t know how to process that. Once again, human children seem to have a natural understanding of things that are Wrong, some more than others. I’m a Hellion creature and Hellions are not natural, we we’re born out of the Abyss- the interstice between worlds, our souls by their very nature are aberrations that defy nature at the base level. Even beings of Chaos don’t feel as Wrong as Hellion creatures do to those who are sensitive, and the greater the Hellion, the more unpleasant the feeling. But despite all that, here is a kid standing right in front of me, and not so much as flinching. It isn’t the kid who feels something wrong- it’s Me. I’m the one who is most assuredly noticing that there is something very much wrong with this whole situation.

I glance up and squint, trying to spy the village off in the distance, it’s a ways off, I made sure to make my little sleeping spot away from the humans so as to avoid a situation like this from occurring in the first place. I look back down at the boy. The question of why he was here at all comes to mind. Did he wander into the orchards and get lost or something? The grass can get pretty tall and he looks short enough that he might have gotten turned around in it, but then if he’s lost, what should I do? Do I point him in back towards the town- what if he tells everyone about me? They might not believe him, but what if they do? I wouldn’t be in any danger but I’m not in the mood to get into a fight- I rarely am in the mood for something like that. I guess I could just kill him, but- And then any further thoughts I might’ve had are immediately put on hold when the kid looks around, and without ceremony grabs at the tuft of black and rouge fur just above my groin. The birds stop chirping, the bugs stop humming, even the wind stops blowing for a moment, like the entire world is holding its breath and waiting for my reaction. Oblivious to all of this, the boy just keeps squeezing and tugging my fur through his fingers, my fur is coarse and rough, and maybe it’s comforting for a rural boy like him? I don’t do anything- I can’t even gawk, the sheer audacity required for him to do this is… Well, it just doesn’t exist.

I have to do something for fear of him maybe letting his hand travel lower, awkwardly; I purse my lips and take his hand away. Right now, I’m all too aware of my strength, my claws lightly- gently- closing over his hand in a soft but firm grip. If I wanted to, I could easily break every bone in his hand- hell, I can break every bone in his body- with just a fraction of my strength, but I don’t do that, instead, I can only find myself frowning in clear indecision as I take a step back from this weird, weird, little boy. I look around- as if that would somehow help, like the answer was just waiting out of sight. So, not knowing what else to do, I decide to try and speak. “Uh, hey, kid…” I begin, my voice sounds like stone being dragged over rough-hewn gravel. Low, and casually menacing with the threat of immanent violence should anything spark my anger. But, for some reason right now it’s laced with doubt and softer than usual. “Uh, are you lost?” I ask. “You know, you shouldn’t, um, you shouldn’t be out here alone, y’know?” I say, leaning over this prepubescent youth, my shadow casts an ominous gloom over him. He doesn’t notice at all. “Because, uh, if you don’t leave, I’m going to eat your up. See? Rawr…” I raise my hands and spread my claws and bare my fangs, my iron hard implements seem to absorb morning light like raw iron. The boy has these big, wide, innocent eyes that seem to bore straight into me like I wasn’t a dangerous Hellion creature. I’ve eaten plenty of children before, more than I can actually remember, most of them were even offered up to me as tribute and sacrifice. I’ve ripped the heads of kids before and didn’t so much as blink. So why now? Why is this damn kid different? Why haven’t I gut him? Why am I not using his ribs as toothpicks? I growl, shake my head and push the boy away with a sigh, “C’mon kid, leave, I’ll let you off the hook this one time, so scram, go on, get lost.” I try to push him away again, and behind me my tails flicks, He catches sight of my silvery appendage, and a grin breaks across his face like a new dawn. He reaches past me and I freeze up as he clamps a hand around my tail, “Hey- wait no, don’t you-!” I try to turn as the kid pulls himself close and buries his face deep into the fur of my stupid silvery tail. “H-hey! Get off!” I snap. “Settle down, will y-!” I pull at his head as I whip around, uncharacteristically worried about my claws nicking his scalp, I stumble back as he latches on further with both hands- he’s giggling, like this is some sort of game to him, and I trip over. I hit the ground, landing on my rear with a heavy thump that sends leaves swirling up around the kid and me. I growl, low and haunting, and yet the boy still clings to my tail, even going so far as to crawl up onto my lap. He looks up at me, grinning toothily, apparently pleased with this minor victory. I hesitate, and warily, I smile back, reluctant indignation pulling at my lips.
I want him to leave.
He doesn’t leave of course. For the rest of the day, he’s right next to me until dusk begins and church bells can be heard from the village.
I thought that was the end of it, I thought he would tell everyone about the hellhound in the orchards and I was listening with ears perked for the sound of men trying to stalk through the orchards with pitchforks and hammers.
Nothing of the sort came.
…