The Hound

                There was a certain tranquility exuded by the forest at this time of day. Something about the gentle rustling of leaves, the soft evening light filtering through the treetops, and the steady, even plodding of wandering souls gave off an all-encompassing sense of peace.

He hated it. To a creature such as himself, this calm atmosphere was unnatural. The sooner he caught them, and got out of this repulsive forest the better. He spat vehemently at the passing dead, envying their detachment. Not one of them had a care in the world. Right now, he had a lot to worry about. Some intruder, well-versed in the manipulation of the Dead had slipped in and stolen away a soul…

And of course it was his job to retrieve the soul. No one could trace a soul like him. He had a name when he was alive, but it was long forgotten. Now he was known as the Hound.

The objective was simple. He would find the soul and kill the intruder. And he would take special care to make them regret ever making him step foot in this damn forest...

He paused, lowered his head, and took a deep sniff of air. All souls had a smell. It was something no one else knew. It was his gift. The rotten stench of hundreds of eroded, decaying souls assailed his nostrils. And among it... the sharp, distinctive scent of a living soul who dabbled in dark magic. And... the faint smell of a freshly dead soul, newly exposed to the corrosion of this world.

The trail was still there, but it was growing fainter. He smiled wolfishly. They were running. They knew someone was following, and they were running. This might be fun after all. He broke into a full tilt sprint, knocking over any dead in his path. There wasn't a soul in either world that could outrun the Hound.

The End

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