everything is too normal, and yet altair is content. more than that, actually- he’s enjoying himself. he’s near some city in ireland (which, he doesn’t quite know the name of- too many places exist in his mind; the underworld and the surface of the earth have begun to blend together seamlessly), trekking through the edge of the woodlands, staying just out of sight. he doesn’t want to be spotted too quickly, after all, even though his intentions are to curse the first person in sight.
it takes only a brief moment to switch forms. in altair’s place there is now a sleek, black and white dog, reminiscent of a half-bred mutt. he’s not pure-bred, will never be, and yet this information no longer bothers him. the dog’s tongue darts across it’s muzzle, a mockery of hunger. of course, he’ll have no issues tearing the cursed human apart, but it’s always entertaining when they scream.
a sharp, biting pain in his back right leg has him yelping; tugging incessantly at the point where metal meets bone, cutting in deep. the hellhound yelps, pulls furiously, leans forward to bite at the trap, heart thudding at impossible paces in his chest. it’s not unknown for humans to hunt his kind, but it usually ends in a bloody death or being sold on the black market- neither option sounds appealing.
altair fights, snaps and pulls. yet whichever craftsman had made this trap should be proud of themselves, because it wasn’t coming undone. after a half hour or so, he’s bleeding badly, fur matted with the crimson smears, and his energy is quickly draining. with a final, soft whine, the hellhound lays, and waits for what he’s sure will be the hunter’s footsteps, and then a painful death.
@mercenaryfromhell