On the old road was standing a tall man in a black mask. In his right hand, he was holding a bloody axe. In left a thin rope with sharp hook also shattered by blood.
Behind him was a destroyed stagecoach and dead butchered body of mad driver. The coachman had tried to kill them by crash into the wide oak, but they both had survived. The bounty hunter had got off the ruin of the stagecoach and seen the insane driver. Fight had been very quick. Hook to the throat and axe to the head. The warrior didn’t know why the driver had tried to murder him. Why he had become insane. And to be honest he really didn’t care about him. Bounty hunters don’t kill because of some incredible pleasure from murder.
But he wasn’t in this corrupted countryside because of some manhunt. He had answered the letter. My letter. I’d called my only son home. I need his help.
I had been living extravagant life in my opulent estate. I’d had everything. Every day I could afford beautiful harlots, exotic food and salt bath. But the luxury and pomposity had started to bore me. I’d wanted more.
Singular unsettling tales had suggested the mansion itself had been a gateway to some fabulous unnameable power. I’d spent a lot of our family fortune on swarthy workmen and sturdy shovels. At last, in the salt soaked crags under the lowest foundations, we’d unearthed that damnable portal of terrible evil. I released those demons on our manor and now I require a help from my son. He is my only hope. Right here. Standing on the old road with his bloody axe and sharp hooks. I need a great warrior to fight with this evil and for deliver our family from the ravenous clutching shadows.
odpovědět s citací