It occurred to the Sorcerer that he may have made a mistake. Scratch that. He had most certainly made a mistake. And for that he and possibly the rest of the world would pay the price.
The lone tower rose above the cracked and broken landscape, its shadow twisting among what little vegetation remained. From somewhere a sound echoed - a rasping of stone on stone - then silence. Wind blew mournfully through windows long ago devoid of shutter or glass. Time seemed to pause, moments stretching achingly into eternity; it was as if the world held its breath.
It was into this silence that the Hunter crept, his gait purposeful and his gaze trying to look in all directions at once. His low-brimmed hat kept the sun out of his weathered face, boiled leather guarding the remainder of his aging yet hard body. In his right hand he carried a Molior-Caller; his left an Amulet of Capture. He murmured a quick prayer that the Amulet - his last - would be strong enough.
A whisper of stone was his only warning as the Xolossus he’d been tracking rose up before him. He knew instantly that his Amulet was not up to the task.
The creature towering over him stood at nearly nine feet in height, its stone body bulbous and misshapen, its arms like drills aching to burrow through dirt and rock. The Xolossus lifted its face to the sky and bellowed its hunting call. Boulders sliding down a mountain, thought the Hunter. Then, like the avalanche the sight of it brought to mind, the Monster descended.
It had started - as these things usually do - with the simplest of ideas; create a series of creatures whose sole purpose was to act as guardians for the rich and powerful. But even simple ideas turn out to be more complex than originally thought.
His first experiments failed miserably, with half-formed creatures crying piteously before expiring or even melting back into the components from which they were made. While he was able to briefly capture the life essences necessary, he was never able to animate the creations for more than a minute or two.
This time, he mused, it was going to be different. He’d gone over his calculations again and again, finding minor errors which had to have been the reason for his many failures. With held breath he finished the construct and whispered the final incantation.
The tiny creature stirred briefly, wings expanding out impossibly far as if it were stretching after a long sleep. But the creature failed to relax, it’s limbs vibrating violently as its bones began to stress and break. Frustrated, the sorcerer grabbed the creature, intending to dash it against the stone wall.
Something bit into his palm.
He looked down at the tiny thing in his hand; the figure was smeared with the sorcerer’s blood where the clawed wingtip had punctured him. The creature was looking back.
The Hunter was almost not fast enough to dodge the Xolossus as it bore down on him. But he paid it no more mind than he did the hundreds of other times he’d escaped death by mere inches.
He rolled back to his feet facing the massive creature and triggered his Molior-Caller, slightly altering his wrist at the last second to summon a Ven he’d captured and imprinted recently. It was untested, but the Hunter knew his other Molior would not be able to handle the large stone being.
The summoned Ven appeared in front of the Hunter, it’s seven foot frame solidly draconic and topped with two heads filled with dagger-like teeth. Almost simultaneously the two creatures roared their battle cries and came together with a crash that shook the Hunter to his very core.
The sorcerer discovered early that the creatures did not feed off the blood of the living. He’d sacrificed multiple creatures - rabbits, sheep, the occasional goat - but nothing worked like his blood had that first successful day. Yet the Ven named after venator lacarta - hunter lizard - remained alone; no other creatures had survived regardless of how much of his blood he bathed them.
The tolling of the chapel bells in the small village below brought him from his reverie and gave him an idea. What if, he thought, it was not the blood, but the essence?
Excitedly, he called in his apprentice Jonaleth, pricking the boy’s finger over his latest attempt.The effect was both startling and instant, the creature struggled to its feet and cried a plaintive call. Success!
Once he had discovered that the tiny creatures were created not by blood but by the infusion of life essence the experiments were nearly all productive. Tiny creatures flew, crawled and skittered everywhere. Creatures made of rock, creatures with bodies that resembled humans with heads like pigs ran along side of snakelike creatures. But something was wrong.
The Ven and Xolossus clashed together again and again, thoughts of defense swallowed by bloodlust and the need to dominate. The Hunter could tell that the Ven was getting tired but the rock creature was also slowing, large chunks of stone sloughing off. The sound of their falling masked by the noise of the combat.
He knew if he waited too much longer one or the other of the monsters would succumb. He was here for a catch, not a kill. He darted in with the Amulet of Capture, swinging it wildly on its chain until it connected with the Xolossus.
A flash of light, a roar of defiance. Silence. The Ven stood teetering, hurt but not fatally. The Xolossus was frozen in place, fighting against the magic binding it, trying in vain to gather strength to break free. But the battle had taken too much out of it and it finally bowed to the Hunter, the Amulet still dangling - uselessly now - in his hand. The imprinting would not be complete for days, but the stone giant was now his. He released the Ven and began to train his new creature.
The creatures. They were breeding. Stone monstrosities were mating with lizards and their offspring were mating with doglike creatures and their offspring were mating yet again with the humanoid beings.
They were breeding, and the littler creatures were being dominated by the newer, larger offspring. And the newer creatures? They were not bonded; they would bite and hiss when the Sorcerer tried to pick them up.
The bonded creatures were all gone now, replaced with ever bigger and more aggressive monsters. The Sorcerer had long ago locked himself in his chambers, ignoring the sounds of splintering wood and the short but terrified screams of Jonaleth as he attempted to escape. Now the scraping was outside his own door and he feared it wouldn’t hold long.
The Sorcerer had most certainly made a mistake. And for that he and possibly the rest of the world would pay the price.