The quiet dusk of the evening fell swiftly onto Sirantil Valley, as purple and blue hues painted the nighttime sky. Cicadas croaked in the distance, and grasshoppers fiddled their limbs idly, their aria filling the peaceful valley with ease. Besides the chirping of melodious bugs, the valley was mostly quiet, the fauna of the area turning in for the day, to dens, caves and trees, ending what had been a long day of survival.
One man still prowled the forests of this valley, a dagger made of bone held in his mouth as he prowled through the slumbering forest. He ran with his body low to the ground, his limbs propelling him forward to increase his speed, while his burnt orange eyes stared straight ahead of him, focusing on his destination, and at the forest all around him. People who saw this form – his shadowy figure racing through valleys and forests – had given him the name 'Daggerhound' because of it, and one could say that it was a title he wore with pride.
This was the mode he took to hunt – for, in order to slay an animal, one had to be an animal. He had learned that well, through years of living in this forest, of wrestling with bears and taking down wolves in order to have his next meal. His body was lean and toned because of it – the reward nature had given him for being able to survive its intricate depths. His greyed skin seemed to be a mode of adaptation; to survive, he had taken on this greyish shade of skin, to blend in with the shadows, which helped him hunt with ease.
In these woods, however, there was an intruder – one that gave off a unique scent that Dalek had never smelled before. Perhaps it was a lost soul, from another land? Or maybe it was a monster, bent on wreaking havoc on these woods. It was his duty as the Daggerhound to investigate the source, and, if it proved to be a monster, it would be his duty to slay it as well. Such was why his dagger, crafted of bone, was held in his mouth today – he was unsure of what he'd be up against.
He was coming closer now...
The target was just up ahead – he could feel it, or rather, he could smell it – that unique scent, something strange, and something bizarre... His eyesight, however, not being good at his sense of smell, could only make out a figure of who was up ahead. It seemed to be a snake-like being – it was tall, imposing, unusual, and he had never seen anything like it native to these woods. The Daggerhound did not stop to think that perhaps such a creature could be friendly, and perhaps, if he had taken note of her facial features, he would've controlled himself.
But he was more animal than man –
So he charged, prancing off his legs and pouncing at the snake-like creature, but before he could launch himself at the creature, he took note of her size, and realized such a method would definitely be out of the question. He skidded to a stop, and looked up at the intruder the way a dog looks at a stranger in his master's home.
However, at the sight of the creature's face, he realized he had almost made an embarrassing mistake. Strange this person was, yes, but it did not look to be a monster. His face went from feral to a blank, almost apologetic expression. He crouched, tucking the dagger in the side of his pants as he did so, wondering how in the hell he should apologize.
"You're..." he started off, and, as always, struggled with his words. "You're not a monster, are you."
It was not a question – just an affirmation of his own stupidity.
