Lars, known to many in his occupation as Three Shot, told Joben the stream wasn’t safe. Said time and again not to go out in the open on a hunt. However, his young apprentice hadn’t conserved the water in his canteen, another failed lesson, and thirst got the better of him. Now his insides painted the snow red. That stupid, surprised expression stuck on his face. Stayed that way even after his head left his body.

This would be his third apprentice in as many years. Shouldn’t have given him the lead on this particular hunt, but that was retrospect for you. Think a man’s ready to go it on his own, give him the benefit of the doubt and, time and again, he was proved wrong. It was a wonder the Academy even bothered sending him fresh ones each year. The other Hunters must be losing apprentices at a higher rate than he was.

Perhaps he should be flattered?

It was a rough occupation after all. Second highest death rate only to working in the sulfur mines. A poor lot they were. Took a fool or a madman to willingly go beneath the earth to dig for the toxic stuff. 

The beast's deep, rumbling growl drew his wanderings back to the now.

Right, Lars thought, I’ve still a problem on my hands.

The fully formed Vulfkin towered over him, each lumbering step bringing crimson stained jaws closer. Taloned hands twitched in anticipation of another kill. It’s golden eyes focused on Lars with single-minded intent. Damn thing smelled like the Half-Dead in summer, he thought, fighting the urge to pull the perfumed kerchief from his pocket instead of the Wolfsbane. 

It was near thing.

He poured a liberal amount in the barrel of his flintlock pistol as he backed away. If his initial shot didn’t kill it, the additional Bane in the air might buy him some time to reload. Or go for his saber, not that he relished the idea. Sabers were such a dirty bit of business. Better a clean kill from a distance.

Looking past the massive killer, he spotted a pair of Black Wolves across the stream. Lars suddenly felt a slight tingling of alarm. 

Now those were a concern, at least once he’d taken care of the problem at hand. Black Wolves were notorious for making one’s life a certain kind of hell. Too smart for a civil form of combat, unlike their bloodthirsty friend stalking toward him. They’d either join in while he was distracted, which was highly unlikely or wait until nightfall and seek to devour his psyche.

He’d seen what a devoured mind looked like and didn’t relish the prospect. Made a man mad. Rotted his brain, making him see things he shouldn’t. A hunter’s worst nightmare.

The Vulfkin snarled as it got closer, smelling the Wolfsbane in the air.

“I haven’t forgotten you ‘ol chap,” Lars said, settling himself into a pistolier stance. “I’m afraid you shouldn’t have killed those farmers.”

Was it farmers? No, that was his last hunt. What had this one killed?

Bah, it didn’t matter. Vulfkin killed just about anything they got their hands on. Best to put them down on site.

“Moreover, you made a mess of my new apprentice. Poor sod’ll never dance again.”

The beast’s shoulders hunched ever so slightly, a clear indication of a lunge. Predictable, as most animals were. Just as it began to move, Lars steadied himself, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

If not for the boom of his flintlock and the settling smoke, an onlooker might have assumed the beast tripped, falling face first as it did into the snow. His shot had taken it square between the eyes. A leg twitched, kicking snow, shoulders spasmed, one hand clenched and unclenched nothing. Much like a concert bereft its conductor. Each instrument playing its own song until the audience simply got up and left.

Swift, clean, and mostly painless.

A proper way to go.

Lars glanced up from the body, not seeing any sign of the Black Wolves that had been watching earlier.

He reloaded his flintlock in a professional manner, swift and unhurried, not a hint of trembling fingers. Nerves had been a terrible thing to overcome, he mused as he withdrew the ramrod, eyes never watching what his hands did. Instead, he scanned the tree line around the stream. He still struggled at times with the trembling, especially while reloading.

The sudden contradiction of thought made him stop.

Calm as he prided himself in being, Lars knew the aftermath of conflict. He’d always had a damnable time reloading, hence why he kept two more pistols in reserve. He wasn’t called Lars Three Shot for nothing. Yet he’d just reloaded the weapon in his hand with pristine efficiency.

Lars focused on his surroundings. He was at a stream, in a forest, hunting a Vulfkin. What forest was he in? In which province?

Lars was never one to go into a hunt without pouring over maps of the area. He prided himself in knowing the country he traveled before he ever stepped foot in the area. In fact, he always knew the crime for which his prey was wanted. That he hadn’t been able to place the deed…

A deep, rumbling growl sounded just over his shoulder. Like quicksilver, he whirled, pistol raised only to find no target before him. Still, the growl continued.

Then it dawned on him…

Black Wolves seldom showed themselves if they could help it and hastened to cover and shadow when they were exposed. Yet the two he’d spotted before just stood there, watching. And he’d simply ignored them.

As he focused on the tree line, he saw that nothing lay beyond it, just fog and mist. What he was seeing wasn’t real. Or it was, but drastically altered. He’d been caught in a mental trap, the world around him an illusion of the mind.

Lars wasn’t nearing danger, he was already ankle deep in it. His mind under assault, possibly being devoured as he stood there. 

Dismissing the pistol to the frozen earth, he reached a hand into his Wolfsbane pouch. 

Empty.

It had been full when he shot the Vulfkin. The Black Wolves knew he’d figured it out and were already altering the world around him.

Suddenly a cry sounded from the wrecked form of his apprentice. Lars glanced by the stream to see Joben reaching out to him.

“Help me,” he whimpered, eyes pleading, blue lips trembling.

Lars found himself striding toward his apprentice without a thought. The young man hadn’t been wounded as grievously as he’d originally believed. Amazing considering his head had been…

Lars stopped, realizing the deception of his mind.

Clever beasts.

“Sorry Joben, but your head isn’t on quite right,” he told the dead young man.

The world suddenly shifted and the remains of his apprentice were once more laying beside the stream. Gore and bits of body strewn about as he remembered them. Joben’s head, facing Lars, stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

Lars reached once more into his pouch of Wolfsbane. He knew it was empty, but this was a battle of the mind. It wasn’t real. Therefore it stood to reason that he could make real what wasn’t and possibly break free. Concentrating his will, Lars convinced himself that Wolfsbane would be found. 

His fingers dipped in… and found the ground substance within.

Slowly, keeping his focus on the product, he drew it to his lips.

Another growl sounded behind him, deep and foreboding, which he ignored. His hand trembled as he brought the Bane to his mouth.

Then Joben’s head started screaming. 

The Bane in his hand wavered, flickering in and out of existence as his dead apprentice let loose with a series of unearthly shrieks.

Lars found himself screaming as well as he brought the fading Bane to his mouth, tucking it under his lip and drawing it into himself. He closed his eyes as the world around him trembled.

When Lars opened his eyes once more, he was at the stream again, but now the world seemed to be in focus; no fog or mist in the background, just more trees, and brush. The bitter taste of Wolfsbane filled his mouth as the grains dug into his gums where he’d tucked it. He was standing at the edge of the tree line, facing the creek. He did a quick mental check, relieved to know the creek was called Antlers Branch and he was in the Halvasi Province; on the hunt for a pair of Black Hounds.

He was back in control.

Joben still lay dead, but not in so messy a way as he’d been. Unlike the images portrayed by the mental trap Lars had been in, Joben was nowhere near the stream, but rather at his feet. His face frozen somewhere between surprise and terror. A single hole between his eyes and bits of skull behind a clear indication of the cause of death. 

“Looks like they got the drop on us after all,” he told his dead apprentice.

No time to mourn the lad or question his own inability to keep him safe. He’d been duped and now Black Wolves were about.

Lars reached for the second pistol strapped at the front of his jacket as he scanned the area, looking for anything out of place. After a few stretching moments, he spotted one laying low to the ground, brush covering all but its muzzle. He didn’t draw down on it just yet, but continued his sweep. Shooting to kill one without knowing where the other was might just spell his end.

The other crouched beside a large, moss-covered boulder. This one hadn’t done as sufficient a job finding cover as its counterpart. Yellow eyes locked on him as he continued pretending to look for them. Slowly he pulled his last pistol from his hip. Only a fool would attempt to fire two pistols at once, but he could transfer the fresh pistol to his right once he fired the initial shot. 

He could do this…

Lars eased into the pistolier stance once more, then shifted his weight suddenly and fired at the first of the two wolves. 

It let out a sharp cry, dragging it’s back legs as it tried to get away. A mortal wound for sure.

As he turned he dropped his used pistol and switched his remaining flintlock to his dominant hand. Sighting down at the second by the boulder, he paused as the boulder itself shifted. It was only then that he realized the boulder wasn’t covered in moss at all, but matted hair. It untucked itself and stood.

Lars found himself facing not just a lone Black Wolf, but a massive Vulfkin as well.

Two opponents and only one more shot.

Lars chuckled darkly, “Well played beast.”

The Vulfkin flexed its massive claws, shoulders bunching. The Black Wolf at its side snarled and kept close.

Keeping the pistol aimed, Lars drew the saber at his side. “Time for a bit of the dirty business then.”

The Vulfkin let out a challenging roar and charged.