The Trail of Blood
The night had draped itself over Havensport like a suffocating shroud, the city's heart beating with the restless pulse of secrets too dark to bear the light of day. Beneath the flickering neon of the Repentant Sinner, where shadows lingered long after the patrons had gone, the hunters gathered. Their faces, etched with the weariness of souls that had seen too much, bore the silent resolve of those who tread paths where angels fear to walk. This night would be their baptism by fire, a true test of their mettle as they ventured into the abyss together.
Tohmas Cooke, the grizzled survivalist with eyes like cold steel, had pointed them toward Brightside—a district where the line between the living and the dead was as thin as a razor's edge. A body had been found, butchered and discarded like a broken doll, and the whispers in the dark had named it their prey. The hunters knew better than to ignore such whispers; they were the echoes of a city steeped in blood and mystery.
Their first stop was the imposing edifice of St. Angus' Hospital, a fortress of science amid the creeping decay of the city. But even within its sterile halls, the scent of death was thick, clinging to the walls like the memories of the souls who had passed through. Dr. Ryan Olhouser, the coroner, was a man as cold and precise as the scalpels he wielded. He met them with a thin veneer of civility, but his eyes betrayed a disdain for those who dabbled in the unknown.
In the morgue's cold embrace, Laurence Sanders lay splayed upon the table, his body a canvas of savagery. Deep gashes and gnawed flesh told a tale of violence, but it was the formaldehyde lingering in the wounds that raised Kimmy's suspicions. The air was heavy with a dread that clung to Drago, already tormented by the cursed wine that had seeped into his soul like poison. His breath hitched, his vision swam, and for a moment, the walls seemed to close in, the shadows whispering of horrors unseen.
Miko, always the vigilant sentinel, and Kimmy, with her sharp, unyielding gaze, took over the examination. The corpse was riddled with wounds that defied the natural order—deep claw marks and bites that spoke of something neither man nor beast. When they had gleaned what they could, the hunters left the morgue, their minds weighed down by the knowledge that whatever had done this was still out there, lurking in the dark corners of Havensport.
Back in the car, with the city's lights a blur of neon and shadow, Miko and Kimmy scoured Sanders’ life for clues. Their search unearthed fragments of a man on the edge—an investigator who had dug too deep into the wrong darkness. They decided to split up: Dwight, ever the diplomat, would use his connections at the local precinct, while the rest would retreat to The Repentant Sinner to plan their next move.
At the precinct, Dwight’s reputation earned him access to the police database, where he found the last traces of Sanders’ investigation—a notebook filled with cryptic notes that hinted at something far more sinister than a simple murder. His conversation with Officer Enola Stringer, though brief, only deepened the sense that the rot in Havensport ran deep, its roots tangled with the supernatural.
When the hunters reconvened, they turned their attention to Clay’s Mechanic Shop, where Sanders had drawn his last breath. The shop, normally a cacophony of grinding metal and the acrid stench of oil, was unnervingly silent under the veil of night. Blood stained the floor, dark and congealed, while tufts of fur clung to the edges, a silent testament to the violence that had occurred. Drago, his focus sharpened and his resolve firm, found some bog material to take impressions of the tracks. They revealed large, clawed footprints—an ominous sign of something feral, something that had come from above, as Miko discovered from his vantage point on the rooftop.
Midnight came, and with it, a new destination—Moonshadow Veterinary, a place known for its enigmatic proprietor, Dr. Ephraim Kuusisto. The clinic was a relic of another time, its walls steeped in the scent of antiseptic and something older, something primal. The doctor himself was an unsettling figure, his demeanor a mask that barely concealed the depths beneath. As he examined the fur and prints, Barney, usually quiet and observant, felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something about Kuusisto was wrong, deeply wrong.
Barney’s eyes wandered over the doctor’s attire, and there unmistakable, were runes—dark, twisted symbols stitched into the very fabric of his coat. They were ancient, powerful, and reeked of forgotten magics. Barney recognized them from the dusty tomes he had pored over in sleepless nights—these were no simple decorations. They were wards, or perhaps even seals, bound to Kuusisto himself. The revelation hit Barney like a blow to the gut; this man was no ordinary veterinarian. He was something else entirely, something that could command the kind of power that carved those symbols into flesh.
With this new knowledge gnawing at their minds, the hunters pressed on, following Kuusisto's casual mention of a dumpster near an old warehouse where similar fur and gnawed bones had been found. The warehouse was a decrepit husk, a relic of a time when the city was more than just a haven for the damned. They found the dumpster, overflowing with the remains of animals, their bodies twisted and broken as if by some malevolent force. The night air was thick with tension, and as they sifted through the grisly contents, the distant howls began—a mournful, eerie sound that echoed through the narrow alleys of Brightside.
The hunt was on, and as the darkness closed in around them, the hunters knew that the night had only just begun. In Havensport, where the line between the living and the dead was but a whisper, they would have to face whatever horrors lay in wait, or be consumed by them.
