Greywhisker

Your breath steams. You have run for hours. You don't feel tired. You haven't really felt tired since the Change.

Snow swirls, bitterly cold lake effect snow that stings your eyes. The sky and ground are white, the trees across the empty meadow black where frost doesn't hang from their branches. Only one thing moves, leaving a winding trail through the trees: your prey. You're downwind of it—though not for long, as unpredictable gusts send snow-devils racing across the open terrain—and you can smell the acrid reek of steel and plastic.

Your prey is close, and you know you have to prove yourself this time.

Your last chance.

You shake the thought away. You uncovered this threat, after all. You found what eluded the others, and they permitted you to lead the hunt. Like your spiritual ancestors ages ago, whose battles against the demons of the earth became the legends of Beowulf, Herakles, Saint Martha, you turned all your knowledge and skill to tracking down this monster, this unclean spirit…this Bane.