You call me a monster, you are wrong.
“You people call me a monster, you are wrong. I am hundreds of them.”
The man remembers a few things about himself. He remembers his loves, he remembers his proudest moment of hunting a saber cat and bringing it’s pelt back to his wives. But mostly he remembers the drums, he holds onto that rhythm when the voices that scream in his head are too loud.
He doesn’t remember so much more. He doesn’t remember the wastes that change, warping round you to be ever impassable and more inhospitable. He does not remember the terrible lords of that place and what they did to him, what they put inside. He feels it, growing and hungering, but he does not remember it. He remembers the drums and the hunt.
He remembers so little, but he remembers the Beast That Watches. He remembers hunting it, and the clever trap it laid for him. The one that sent him from his world to wander the endless, horrible places so far away… but no, he does not remember those.
He has wandered ages in the dark places, a monster amongst monsters; ever hungering and slaking that hunger on whatever slavering beast crossed his path. Too long, now everything is surely dust. His wives, dust. His tribe, dust. Even the drums, the heart of Krigala, quiet. But the Beast, no, that still lives. Monsters cannot die, is the man not proof? And it is here, on this quiet world, where the winds do not howl, and the ground does not whisper in your ear when you collapse upon it. The Hunt is not over.
These silly people, they have been killed by monsters. They are not hunters, they are prey. Soft prey for a soft world. But the Beast is here, so the man will hunt. And it, it will Watch. But this time, this time it will not see the hunter coming. bq).