The Bloodspawn

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The thin light of the waning moon filtered through the rolling fog. Snow swept down the front of the Rocky Mountains, the tiny crystals dancing atop the crisp, frigid breeze. Frost glittered on the tips of the pine needles that surrounded him along the winding, snow-dusted path, shedding more light than the early November night sky itself in the thick of the dense woods. Pines, spruces, and barren aspen were packed tightly together, their trunks nearly touching, branches bouncing gently, the flakes slowly piling atop one another on the ever-whitening foliage. It was a winter night in Colorado like most others this time of year: every inhalation bringing with it a stab of bitterly cold air that threatened to seize the chest; a plume of steam that dampened the face with every exhalation.

    And then there was the silence…

    It was the sound of absolute solitude; so quiet it almost stung the eardrums from the lack of audible noise. The wind, which gusted every so often, spoke with mute voice, his own footsteps muffled within the accumulating snow. Were it not for the sound of his own breathing within his head, he was sure he could have heard the snowflakes landing one atop the next, deafening amidst the stillness of the night. Every so often, he could feel the tip of Edgar’s tail swat at his left leg while the dog jogged dutifully in time beside him, never straying more than a few feet from the path, following his nose into the thick underbrush, hoping upon hope, that he might flush something from the thicket worth chasing. At least something that would allow him to give chase.

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