Index Entry: The Hunter

In the early morning of the fifth day after the harrowing disaster with the Yellow Brigade, Dorothy had been flipping through the many empty pages of her Index; sitting under a tree just outside her home. The Hood had advised doing so, as you never know when a Tale is using some sort of magical item or ability to hide their true selves from the eyes of a Storyteller. She wanted to be absolutely sure that anyone she had met was accounted for before Cuu awoke. No more surprises. No more disasters...

"What?" Dorothy whispered to herself; surprised by the page before her. "When did I..."

The Hunter's entry was filled in; but never had she so much as glanced at anyone with the level of strength to their story, aside from Cuu of course.

"The Hunter functions much like The Hood." Miss Margo spoke in her mind, wafting in the morning breeze. "The Hunter is both the individual, and the Axe they wield. The current soul embodying The Hunter's axe is known to me... I'm sure you can guess who."

"Your brother." Dorothy answered, but confusion still found itself interlaced with her curious, puzzled look. "But... when did I meet The Hunter? I would have seen his Tale's aura, or the axe itself..."

The Hood's corners tapped at the grassy earth as it speaks; as if puzzled. "Prehaps you met before he claimed the axe? The Index would account for that with it's Eye-Scan."

Most of the men Dorothy had met were the flocks of her Sister's suitors; a good number of them came down to Antiquity to ask what sorts of presents or meals would most likely win her twin sisters heart. Only once did any of those men even seem like more than measly merchant's sons; a boy with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a simple deminor. He hadn't asked what jewels or finery would most please Tatty; as most suitors had. The boy had visited, and asked one question; otherwise sharing in Dorothy's love of stories, and not even discussing the matter of her sister. The question itself was rather simple.

"What was her favorite story growing up?"

Dorothy didn't know the answer at the time; Tatiana's preference towards doll-houses and tea parties was far from Dorothy's bookworm nature. She looked over the entry again; her gut telling her that this boy she remembered was important. Keeping this in mind, she made sure to memorize the following.

The Hunter.

Stories: Little Red Riding Hood. The Wolf and the Seven Children. The Little Ash Girl. Little Step-Brother and Little Step-Sister. The Turning of the Page.

Allies: The Hood.

Enemies: The Wolf.

Banes: Romantics. The Weight of the World.

Boons: Always at Hand. Cleave-In-Twain. Unmatched Potential. Wolf's Bane.

Details: The Hunter is the sole savior capable of sealing The Wolf away; a seal which shall last at minimum one thousand years. In order to do so, The Hunter must cleave open the belly of the beast, and fill it's guts with the immense weight of their burden. The Wolf will then sink down below the surface of Page; waiting to make it's grim return.

However, the immense level of belief the people now have in The Hunter has created their two worst afflictions; the belief that they are a hero simply by being The Hunter, and that no act of heroism can ever be truly enough. This often creates a psychological failure cascade, leading to many early graves for potential hosts of The Hunter's mission.

The Hunter's Axe is itself, alive; possessing the spirit of the last Hunter to slay The Wolf. This spirit can communicate with The Hunter, and control the movements of their axe to account for missed swings, openings, or other possibly fatal events. The Hunter can call their axe back to themselves within an instant; seemingly appearing from thin air. The reverse can also be done; causing the Hunter to suddenly appear wherever the axe lay.

The axe is capable of cutting through quite literally anything. Armor, men, mounts, monsters, mountains; it does not matter what is being struck at by the bladed edge of The Hunter's axe. It will be cut, and likely split apart. It is believed that the cause of this is due to the origins of the blade itself; as fragment of The Author's own pen. Even Plotted materials or objects protected by Fate itself cannot withstand a blow from The Hunter's axe.

Unlike many Tales, The Hunter is not born with great strength, durability, or fantastical powers; beyond those that relate to their axe. Instead, the limitations of growth are removed once chosen by the axe. Without proper, intense training, The Hunter would be like any other simple folk. Uniquely, The Hunter is capable of entering Crossovers not related to their Tale, so long as the axe is left behind during this traversal; meaning that this Tale could in-fact become a Mage in addition to it's usual strengths.

Origins: You are unworthy, Storyteller, seek lesser Tales.

"Rude." Dorothy huffs, disliking the remarks her Index often had at this final section of every entry. "When will I even be 'worthy' of these origins?"

"Usually, a Storyteller would have to pass through several trials to gain access to these Origins." The Hood replies. "I never learned of these trials myself, though."

Dorothy sighs. "Of course that's the one thing you don't know."

...

Blood. So much blood.

Woodrow held his dying comrade in his arms; tears streaming down his face as he looked out across the burning road. He and the guards sent with him had been ambushed by bandits on their way back Roundtable; likely thinking he was some nobles son worth a hefty ransom. He told those fools to keep his travel simple! Why did they insist on an ornate stage-coach, when a simple cart would be just as fine!?

None of the others had survived the initial disorientating surprise attack. Butchers knives dotted the ground, fires raged, and candle wax dripped from the wreckage of the stagecoach. Three tales, and seven others; circling around Woodrow as he tried to hold the gaping wound in his companions gut closed. He felt a shudder, then a gasp; the man passed away in his arms. Shaking, he gentle set the guard aside; not even knowing the poor man's name. The Hunter rose to his feet.

"You don't seem like a noble." Said the Tale that had launched the knives; a rotund man with a nasty scar across his right cheek. "A captain's kid, then?"

"Surrender."

The bandits stopped their approach, then several burst into laughter; the one wax dripping from his fingers nearly doubling over. Woodrow could feel an instinctual draw to call for Sir Carver's help to quickly cull these criminal scum, but the smell of all of the blood sickened him. No; he would do this his way.

The one who conjured the flame pulled out a rope from the pack he was carrying. "Now, lay on the ground with your hands behind your-"

Woodrow kicked off the ground directly towards the fat knife conjuring Tale; his fist rocketing upwards into the bastard's jaw. The light in the man's eyes clocked out in an instant as he flew several feet in the air. Before the taleless ones could react, he had already spun about, grabbing one of them, and flinging him into two more; knocking the air out of all three. The wax-dripping Tale fired a stream of the stuff towards Woodrow; but the boy darted to the side, just beside the other powerless bandits. The foolish Wax-man panicked, splashing all four of the remaining taleless ones; trapping, and restraining them as the wax hardened around their arms and legs.

The fiery Tale launched several spurts of blazing inferno, only for something to come flying from blaze he had sent forth, impacting on the tree behind him; A woodsmans axe, with a silver blade. The tree suddenly split unnaturally-cleanly where the axe had impacted, and the lumber plummeted towards the pyromaniac. He surged his flames to the side, blasting himself out of the way, and right into the elbow jab of The Hunter. The Tale puked up a foul, oily bile as the elbow drove hard into his gut. Seeing his allies fall like chaff, the Wax-man staggers back, turning tail and sprinting into the woods of Nevermore.

Woodrow calls the axe to his hand, takes a deep breath, and throws it into the woods. It spins as it flies, cutting cleanly through branches, brush, and full trees until it finds it's mark. However, the blade never bites into the flesh of the murderous bandit; instead, the handle cracks him across the head, knocking him out cleanly.

Breathing heavily, Woodrow calls the axe back to his hand; leaning down to the fire-spewing killer that now rolled in the dirt, holding his bruised stomach. He snags the fine length of rope the man had pulled out, and beings rounding up the bandits; one by one. Tying the lot of them together, he looks over at the bodies of the guardsmen that had embarked with him. The grip on his axe tightened; he stows the tool onto his back, sighing.

"We kill monsters, Woodrow. Not merely capture them." Sir Carver, the spirit of his axe, reminds him; speaking directly into his mind. "They will be hanged either way, should you arrest them here and now."

"Yes, I know." Woodrow whispers to himself as he tightens the knot around the lot, having finally returned with the Wax-man in the woods. "But it's not my place to kill those I am saving, Sir Carver. Saving the world means saving everyone; sinners and saints alike. Should the court find them worthy of a noose, it is not for me to say otherwise; but it will not be by my hand. Not today. Not when I don't have to."

"You are far too generous with your mercy." The axe rustles on his back in irritation.

"Mercy is not a finite resource, Sir Carver. It is a skill; one more should learn to use."