The light calls…

It always does…

Whether it is from a flame, a torch or a lamp. With light comes heat and all it represents – warmth, comfort, energy. Like a flickering flame, this light glows and beckons two different strangers to its source. And at the source, a third stranger lays, writing his tale so that he can look back with pride.

His ‘friend’ lies in the neighbouring room, the lack of light helping this one sleep, although this one sleeps restlessly, with nightmares of white places and kind eyes.
The light of the third is one of the only ones left this night, a defiant voice in the rabble of darkness, and it calls to the three strangers, the three who share a common immediate future under the glow of the writer’s lamp.

The writer puts down his pen on the bedside table, a pad still gripped tightly in one hand as he picks up the lamp with the other. The light flickers across his pimpled face and his eyes glow brown as he looks out the window of his hired room. He sighs, looking out at the tree that’s wrapped itself around the tavern. It is dead, but it reminds him of home, and the large mass of greenery that used to live outside his window.

Outside, in the cold, the feline hunter holds her breath, trying to stay invisible as she stares into those shining orbs. She longs to be able to stand in the light, to talk with this man that writes in the wee hours of the night, but the shadows are safer. So she stalks him this night.

The author and his stalker make their way down to the kitchen area of the tavern, he, slowly pacing his way down the stairs, his averagely chubby body wobbling as he descends, his black jeans blending all but his bare upper body into the shadows. The stalker watches him until he’s out of sight and then slips quietly through the branches, lithe and deadly, until she reaches the window of the kitchen. She watches as he places down the lamp taking a clean glass from a shelf before filing it with water. He looks out the window and smiles, almost as if he can see her.

But he can’t.

This is when the third stranger comes into play.
The hunter that is playing the messenger strides through the starless night, across the black sand.

Silent.

Even with her purposeful drive, this messenger manages to slip into the city unseen and unheard, making her way towards the author’s location. She slips into the tavern, almost sliding through the door, and across into the kitchen. It’s only then that she lets her presence be known, tapping her foot against the metallic floorboards.

He turns, his eyes skimming her form and moving the images to his mind, where descriptive words are already forming.

Striking.

Her velvety dress catches his eye, and the rich violet fabric entrances him for a few seconds before he checks her for weapons. One can never be too careful. The author knows this from his writing of the sleeping agent. He spots only one, but is sure that there is more. The one ornamental dagger at her hip is not enough in his opinion.
His gaze travels her appearance again and he notices that she’s barefoot, and that her feet are well calloused to compensate this. What it means in his mind is that she’s built for agility over power. Shoes are better to kick with.

Alternatively, the hunter is noticing that the messenger is not human – not even close. The hunter has never seen a human with such grey skin or lidless eyes. The lack of hair or nose increases this hunter’s anxiety and protectiveness of the unarmed writer. The messenger smiles and the leathery skin around her mouth gives an audible crinkle. With this rows and rows of small sharp teeth appear giving the image of, if she had known what one was, a shark.

Then they both stop their assessments when the messenger speaks.

“Hello Steven. I have been sent here on behalf of the benefactors that bought you here. You and the agent asleep upstairs are required to fulfil your end of the bargain though.” The voice comes out in a monotone voice, grating on the senses of both listeners, so the author decides to interrupt – regularly.

“Bargain? You mean the fact that we fight each other right?”

She hisses, swearing as she does so. “You didn’t read the fine print? Why does nobody ever read the fine print? Since you are a fool, I’ll explain the first part of what you’re expected to do. You are required to go to Gnarish Arena, where you will be trained –”

“Why will we be trained?” he continues to pick, at the same time noticing a movement out of the corner of his eye.

Seconds later the feline hunter lands between the messenger and the author, bristling with malice at the other non-human.
“I don’t trust her. She smells evil.” She growls, her body a mass of black fur and sinewy muscle, ribs clearly visible but lethal looking nonetheless. Her body is flat, ready to strike and a snarl is inches from leaving her lips.
Steven looks at this new one with awe, the strong calves, the way she moves, the vicious claws. He loves the fact that his favourite kind of animal is standing before him – and talking.

And then the words hit him.

“Hey. I don’t know you. The sentiment is appreciated but I don’t know either of you. So I’ll go with my gut at the moment.” His eyes glint, what for him, is fire and he looks at the pair before him, wondering which one to trust.

“What does your gut tell you – human? You still smell like prey, only hunters live by their gut.” The cat responds, not taking her eyes off her original prey in the messenger.

He sighs, realising that the question is not an easy one. His gut says neither, a mess of swirling impulses, most of them saying to flee. He knows he’s prey, but until this moment, he’s always believed he was invisible prey.

Now with so many eyes on him he’s nauseous.

The messenger laughs in another hissing rasp. “It doesn’t matter if you know or trust me. I am merely the messenger at the moment. Those I work for own you anyway. It was in the contract you didn’t read but agreed to anyway. Stupid move.” She pauses for dramatic effect and then smiles evilly.
“If you run, they will hunt you. If you fail to do what they ask – they will kill you. If you betray them they will kill you. They control your every move now. So be there in eight days and all will be well.” Then the creature pivots fluidly around and walks out.

Steven sighs, his attention returning to the hunter. His eyes are raised at the death threats of the messenger.

“Now that’s over, what is your name feisty lady?” he chuckles, watching as she stretches her body relaxing inch by inch.

“I don’t have a name.”

“Then what do people call you?”
The light flickers across her black pelt and she turns to face him, her eyes bright blue – an odd shade for a feline. They stare at each other assessing each other and yet finding a connection of sorts.

“They don’t call me anything. I make sure I’m not seen.” She eventually replies, sitting down and curling her body so that she can watch him and yet not be on her guard all the time.
“Well you stuffed that up tonight.” He chuckles, leaning back against the sink, attempting to appear relaxed like her.

In truth, he’s on edge.

“I know.” Se replies distracted, “I couldn’t help it - she’s evil.”
“I don’t doubt that. Unfortunately I’ve thrown my lot in with her and her group – I’ll just have to make sure I’m not prey like you said I was.”

“You couldn’t be a predator if you tried. You’re not made for the hunt.” She growls, swatting a paw against his stomach, watching it wobble slightly. “Predators don’t have puppy fat. They are lean, mean hunting machines.”

He laughs, rubbing a hand down her pelt. “You look like you haven’t had a meal in ages.” The light flickers over her pelt once more as he runs a hand over her ribs. His eyes look concerned. “Do you want something to eat? Better yet, what do you eat?”

She turns a snarl on her face. “Human, mouse, a few frahiles… I don’t really have a choice to be fussy. Neither do I need your scraps. I’ll show you. You want me to eat – I eat what I kill. We’ll go to my hunting grounds and you’re going to show me how go a hunter you are. Then I’ll eat.”

He smiles, the challenge too tempting. He’s about to tell her to lead the way when he notices a silver glint at the doorway. It’s a silver bound notebook. It must have been dropped by the messenger as she left. He picks it up and pockets it before turning to her.

“You’re on.”

And then she leads him into the dark.