The Oskorei
Well, here it is, proof that I am still capable of putting pen to paper, as it were, despite all evidence to the contrary. uncharacteristically, I was struck by inspiration one night and, unusually for me, I actually acted upon it. This little story is the result. I don't claim it as a masterpiece, but I think it's kind of fun, and I hope you feel the same. In any case, it's short, so it won't take up too much of your time in reading. As always, I'd love to hear what you think. Your comments are my sustenance.
One caveat: I usually go through a more extensive editing process, but I finished this tonight and was very anxious to get it out to potential readers, so I basically skimmed it a few times to iron out the worst bumps before pasting it in the box. Please forgive any clumsiness or errors, but don't be afraid to point them out - it will save me the trouble of looking for them when I get around to doing a real edit on it.
And now, without further ado, I present The Oskorei...
Dedicated to Obsidian Arcticglow. For some reason I couldn't get a certain pantheress out of my mind while writing this story.
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He ran.
Though the night was moonless, and brambles tore at his cloak and fur, still he ran. Even with the sound like thunder, yet unlike thunder in its constancy growing louder in his ears, telling him they had his track and that it was already hopeless, he ran.
Even knowing what he knew, he couldn't help a glance over his shoulder to confirm. Yes, there it was in the sky, a flashing that could be mistaken for lightning if the stars didn't show a clear night overhead. He fancied he saw a glint of reddish orange, too, although it might have been his fevered imagination. If he had seen it, he was already lost. They would be too close, and once they had a scent they wouldn't give up until they either had him or he reached the safety of the village, with its glowing, welcoming, safe hearths.
The Wild Hunt were on his trail.
Legend was, each month, on the night of the new moon the cursed riders came to the mortal realm to hunt any traveler foolhardy enough to be out after dark on such an ill-omened night.
He could hear faint thunder now. Thunder that had nothing to do with any storm. Whipping his head back around to watch the trail again, he struggled to put on an extra burst of speed, despite the taste of blood from his tortured, panting, wheezing lungs and the heart pounding, bursting in his chest.
He ran.
If only he could reach the gorge, it might provide the cover he needed as it wound its way to the outskirts of the village, and then he'd be safely home. That sound like thunder was getting louder in his ears, however, and he fancied he could now see flashes of that not-lightning reflecting off the waxy leaves of bushes lining the herders' track he ran along. It could be a trick played on his eyes by the rush of his pulse he could feel in his eyeballs and the jolting of his footsteps as he stumbled in the near-pitch darkness along the uneven path, but he knew in his soul it was a vain hope.
His foolish glance back to confirm what he already knew proved to be his undoing, however. He had strayed from the center of the path, and his foot caught on a treacherous, protruding root or a rock and he went down, his breath whooshing from his lungs as he landed awkwardly on his chest, his lip splitting in the gravel as his muzzle struck the earth. He couldn't afford to be dazed, though, despite the stars blurring his vision from the pain. Desperately he looked ahead. Yes, there it was, the sharp depression in the earth marking the beginning of the gorge which would be his salvation. He scrambled to get to his paws and knees...
...Only to have his breath stolen again as the weight of the world came down on the middle of his back, pinning him to the path, leaving him helplessly clawing at the dirt.
He struggled fruitlessly for an eternal moment, unable to even draw breath into his ravaged lungs, until finally the weight lifted just enough for him to flop onto his back, looking up into the face of a demonic black horse, snorting jets of flame from its nostrils, its eyes aglow with an unholy orange light like smoldering brimstone. He was given no respite, however. The huge foot - spewing sparks from its eerily-glowing, unnatural cloven hoof - which had originally pinned him came thudding down upon his ribcage, stealing away his breath once more. A tendril of smoke curled up from his shirt where it pressed into his now-tender chest. He desperately wrapped his hands around the fetlock and heaved, but he'd have had better luck shifting a mountain. Finally he sprawled, panting as best he could to try to draw a hint of breath to keep himself from passing out completely.
Finally he was able to take in the scene. Eight demonic black horses including the one pinning him - seven of them still hovering impossibly a few feet in the air - surrounded the badger, breathing flame and striking sparks from their hooves, each surmounted by a rider in battered and blackened plate-mail, wearing a fanciful yet fearsome-looking helmet decorated with exotic-looking horns or antlers, completely obscuring their faces except for the amber, otherworldly glow of their eyes through the vision slits.
The leader, whose horse had him pinned, slowly dismounted and stood over him for what seemed like an eternity. He hoped the horse would release him, but apparently it was well trained, for the pressure never altered by so much as an ounce. The intimidating figure gazed down at him, finger bones tied with leather thongs to the tines of the antlers on its helm softly clattering against one another in the light breeze, one gauntleted hand resting easily on the hilt of a sheathed broad sword. it removed its helm, revealing the sleek face of a black pantheress, eyes still glowing with that unearthly golden light. Her features were attractive in a stern and slightly forbidding way. Finally, she turned to its companions and spoke. Her voice was a pleasant yet sharp contralto, and she and adopted a strangely formal tone as she said, "The hunt is complete. As is our right, we now claim our trophy."
As one, the other horses alit, snorting jets of flame and pawing at flinty soil. The riders dismounted, removing their helmets, revealing seven tall and beautiful, if intimidating, virtually identical wolfesses, each with the same disturbing, pupil-less glowing yellow eyes, and each gazing with cool menace upon him. All fingered the hilts of their swords as they stood over him.
The leader shook her head slowly as if disappointed before giving the slightest twitch of her paw, which was apparently a signal to her horse to release him. He sucked desperately at the night air, involuntarily curling on his side into a fetal ball, trying to finally catch his breath. She sighed audibly, saying, "I swear, Gunnar, you don't even try to get away anymore." She sounded slightly exasperated.
Despite his predicament he spluttered in outrage. "Are you kidding?!" he wheezed. "If I hadn't tripped I was home-free! The gorge was right in front of me! You never would've caught me once I was in there!"
She scoffed. "Pssssht. I swear, if you don't start giving us a bit more sport we'll have to go back to collecting our trophies in a more... traditional manner."
He shuddered, eyeing the finger bones on the leader's helmet as well as some even more grisly "souvenirs" adorning the armor of the others. "Th-that wouldn't be nearly as much fun, n-now would it...?" He licked his lips nervously.
She gave him a predatory grin, echoed by her companions. "Perhaps not, but standards must be maintained. You may have found us a loophole, but our curse only allows so much wiggle-room. If we're no longer considered a force of terror there will literally be hell to pay. For now, though..." She turned to her companions. "It is time to collect what is rightfully ours."
They all began stripping off their armor, revealing that they wore nothing underneath. Knowing from experience that he had to be sure they were all satisfied with the spoils of their hunt before the first hint of pre-dawn light touched the horizon, he began tearing off his own clothing as fast as he couldm considering he now had what he believed was at least one bruised rib. He knew from experience that if he wasn't quick they would have no hesitation in tearing the clothes right off him, and he still had to go home to his village tonight.
Now nude, the nameless pantheress advanced on Gunnar's prone form, and once again adopting her formal tone, intoned, "As leader of the Wild Hunt, I claim first blood from our prey."
She pounced on him and easily pinned his wrists to the ground, straddling his hips and gazing hungrily into his eyes with her own eerie glowing orbs. "And I see that first blood will be literal as well as figurative this time..." She grinned, leaning in to lick his split lip with her sandpaper tongue, eliciting an involuntary wince.
Another involuntary reaction was occurring below his waist, pinning a sensitive portion of his anatomy painfully between the two of them. Feeling this, she ground her hips against him, making him squirm to find a more comfortable position. Turning her head to her eagerly watching companions she said with a grin, "It seems our favorite little jackrabbit is as anxious as ever, girls. This shouldn't take long, and then you'll each have your turn." Behind her, Gunnar could see the always-silent wolfesses huddled close together, caressing one another's fur while they watched and waited for their leader to finish with the prey.
She turned back to him...
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As he lay bruised and exhausted from his "ordeal", he watched the Hunters strapping their armor back on. The wolfesses were silent as ever; he always felt a bizarre sense of triumph whenever he elicited so much as a gasp or moan from one of them during sex - it would be highly inaccurate to call it "lovemaking".
They mounted their demonic steeds, all helmeted by now, but before riding off again into the still-black skies, the leader turned to him, her voice taking on a slightly mocking tone as it was muffled by her helmet. "Oh, and Gunnar..." Her eyes blazed, practically burning into him. "Some of the girls have been expressing a certain level of... dismay... with having to wait too long to collect their trophies each time we catch you."
A sudden chill went through him that had nothing to do with the chill autumn air and his nudity. He "worked" as quickly as he could, and after their leader took her solo turn with him he took them on two at a time, his tongue and paws working hard to give complete satisfaction to one wolfess as another roughly rode his hips. If there was truly grumbling beginning, he knew they would have no compunction against slaughtering him in some grisly fashion and resuming their more traditional manner of trophy-taking.
"I..."
"Don't be too alarmed, little rabbit," she said. "So far we're still... satisfied" (He could hear the grin in her voice as she said this) "with the spoils of our hunts. We've just been thinking it might be pleasant if you started bringing a friend along."
Gunnar felt indignant despite himself. Despite the inherent dangers of these monthly ordeals, he had a good thing going and he wasn't anxious to share it with one of the idiots from his village.
She must have seen the scowl on his face, and apparently read his mind, for she chuckled throatily, a small jet of flame shooting through the slit in her helmet as she did, saying, "I didn't mention anything about it having to be another male..."
Then, as one, they spurred their horses into the air and thundered off into the darkness, fire spewing from their steeds' nostrils and pale sparks striking off their hooves as they clawed the air, leaving Gunnar to groan in pain as he fumbled for his clothes in the darkness, wincing as he pulled them over his battered body. After a couple false starts, he made it to his feet and began limping towards home, preoccupied with her final words to him, turning them over in his mind.
"Not a male, eh...?" he muttered to himself, thinking of Brunnild, the pretty baker's daughter rabbit from the village. If he could talk her into going with him to the high pastures next month for a picnic, and managed to find a way of... distracting her until nightfall...
Despite his bruises, he began whistling to himself, his step becoming lighter. "If I play my cards right, next month could be even better..."
End