She sprinted frantically through the swampy bog of her creation. The once savannah plains of Africa warped by her power. It was her haven, her sanctuary and an environment she should be peerless, yet she runs like a cowering hound. For this first time in decades the fear of death's cold touch ran rampant over her ancient, shrivelling, decaying body.
Why was this happening? Why had he come for her? Why had the Reaper sent its emissary, its executioner, to deliver her back to the Abyss?
It was supposed to simply be a pack of hunters. A threat to her once, no longer. Like always they came in with their variations of black and dark cloth, their enchanted blades and explosive firearms. They prepare themselves, expecting to try their wits and strength against an obeah, a cult of ancient voodoo witches of Africa. However, always to their demise, they were never prepared for her. Never ready for her newly acquired power, the power that set her apart from her sisters, crowning her the ruler of these lands.
These hunters were no different. Fighting diligent and disciplined until she turns the entire swamp against them and they realise they're suddenly outmatched, slowly becoming overwhelmed by their environment. There was one competent hunter in this group that caught her eye, the leader of their pack. But not even with his presence did they stand a chance. They were destined to die the same as every other of their species sent her way.
Well that was how it should've been. That was how it was … until the descended into her sanctuary. No. Not a he, that title was too humane. That being was more of a monster than she could ever hope to be. A being closer to the Abyss than she would be if she lived a millennia. It was a it. And it had come for. The Reaper's scythe. A legend in the Hunter's history even while it was still alive. The Black Wraith.
It stalked through the water completely silent. It's figure shrouded in shadows like the Abyss itself was its ally instead of hers. Terror sprang up her withering spine.
No, she stopped her fleeing. She would not die without a fight. She was one of the Chosen, gifted the power to destroy all who stood before her. The Reaper's executioner or not the Wraith was a man nonetheless and would die as one. By her hand.
She channelled her power, and the swamp stirred to her will, vast, writhing vines and roots, thicker than tree trunks launched from the flooded grounds into the darkness. There was a flash of enchanted steel, and her attacks burst into blue flames unable to touch the sword's metal.
Freezing, artic eyes appeared from the darkness. Her fear evolved. She would not retreat. She was a Chosen. She would … not … die.
The Wraith burst forward, faster than any human, no faster than any hunter should ever be able to move. The obeah ran, begged the swamp to save her. But it was no use.
An enchanted steel blade tore through her back and sprung from her chest. Instantly her life force was swept away, her body quickly falling apart like an ancient decaying plant.
She'd failed Her. The obeah spun as she fell, landing on her back and left looking up at the horrifying gaze of the Black Wraith. He didn't pay her a single thought, already looking back to his allies. She cursed him as her fear faded with death, leaving only hate. She prayed for his demise and that She would bring it. If anyone could bring down the Black Wraith it was Her. With a final pray into the Abyss, she died, never to be missed or remembered. Just a bounty to be collected.
The Wraith cleaned the decaying matter off his sword with a swift swipe through the air. His fellow hunters approached, some still a little shaken from being outwitted. He didn't blame them, the voodoo witch was far stronger than predicted, in fact she was stronger than he thought possible for her species. An anomaly then. His friend, the man who helped make the hunt happen arrived at his side..
"Thanks," Clint said.
"Don't mention it." The Wraith sheathed his blade on his back.
"So do you have any more jobs you want me for?" Clint asked.
"You want more work?" The Wraith asked, slightly baffled. Most who'd just met death's gaze, even hunters, enjoyed a little break. He gave Clint a confused glance. "Money troubles?"
"No," Clint shook his head. He grinned, his face was aging these days and his hair thinning and shining grey. "But I'm never going to say no to the pay checks you bring in. If I ever do I've been possessed and I give you permission to shoot me."
The Wraith couldn't hide his smile. "I'll keep it in mind. But no I've got nothing coming up."
"You're going on vacation then?" Clint inquired, clearly bewildered. The Wraith didn't blame his confusion, in the four years he'd known him, he'd never not been working, pretty much always moving from one bounty to the next. But now it was time for change.
"Not quite," The Wraith replied. He turned and met Clint's stare. To Clint's surprise, a grin shone across his face. "I'm going home."