Hyena

Did you hear that?

It is the sound of a glass breaking, but don't worry, we won't tell. You invited us here, we respect the invitation, and we will never bite unless you ask.

We will cover the sound of the glass breaking with the sound of laughter , because in the wee hours of the morning, the slightest clink can be heard in this graveyard of dreams and old gods, where, during daytime, ivory hunters and other scavengers roam fighting over the last remaining tusks and bones.


Did you hear that?

It is the sound of someone crying, but don't worry, better tears shed than blood, and we will pretend not to hear.

It is alright to cry, there is enough cigarette smoke to serve as an excuse. If that is not enough, we still have mirrors, although chances are, you will not see our reflections in the glass. And if that is still not enough, we will go out, find something and bring it back.

Did you hear that?

It is the skritch-skritch of a razor, as the were shaves, hair falling, revealing the face that smiles, and pretends to be human. His ears are not as sharp as ours, but he can smell the blood of wounded prey from far, far away.

We do not like them. Unlike our kind, they do not need invitations, or maybe just do not respect them.

They hunt only the weak , the walking wounded, the kind ready to shatter in a million pieces at a touch and toy with them, the weaker, the better,

They run sharp claws over the wounds lightly, just to hear your whimper of pain; and then once more again, this time harder, until the pain envelops you so completely, that you are unable to think clearly, and the only thing you hear is the sound of your voice begging for death, because that is the one thing you can muster up enough courage and strength for.

And so you ask, because you think he will be doing you a service, and are grateful, when the truth of the matter is that it is what he had been waiting for.

It is easier to kill someone who is on the verge of dying, and even easier to kill someone who holds up their neck to your teeth, heart in hand, waiting gratefully to be put out of their misery.

There is no honor in it, but while honor is everything to us, he has never cared much for that.

Our kind hunts in the bright of the new and full moon, but he hunts when the moon is at its darkest, when the goddess that protects your kind sleeps, with her face turned away. Or during the day, as scavengers do, while the rest of us sleep, especially our queen.

Did you hear that?

Most likely not. There is nothing to hear, no one is moving.

Yet.

But when the time comes, you will still not hear the flutter of wings, the sound of teeth against flesh, nor the gurgling of blood dripping on the floor.

You will perhaps hear us howling at the moon, but we will let you think it is just some joke about staff houses and such.

The moon is still dark, but a silver sliver is beginning to appear at its outermost edge, so we wait. We are good at waiting. We are hunters, after all.

Pour us a glass as we wait, little girl.

Red, this time.

Not white.

Red.

It will give me a headache that will be like the screaming of a million damned souls ringing in my ears, but that is alright, I am used to that by now. It is petty penance for what I do.

Pour us a glass as we wait.

Red.

Not white.