Calcera. Day nine on the road since Puntas Abiertas.

Midday.
The Consumed are still behind us. They do not tire, do not stop, and have not once lost our trail. Corporal Pygott has named the nearest one Gerald. Gerald is keeping up admirably, and I’m beginning to resent him for it.
The towns won’t open their gates, and I don’t blame them. We are Jaeger. We are the ones who fight the monsters, and the monsters follow us wherever we go. One innkeeper did at least wave as we went by.
We make for Villa Rossa where what is left of the Vadali Jaegerhaus is gathering. If we are not the last company alive, I’m sure we’re the most stubborn.

Late afternoon.
We have entered the Chorault Forest, or, sorry no. The locals call it “Bosque de Valeria.” I like the Verdan name better.
A man with a cart and an old nag at the road’s edge told me, between very quick glances at the treeline, of a monastery deep in the woods. The Santuario de la Luna, he whispered it dramatically through a gap-toothed smile and waggling fingers.
He says no Evil has ever set foot over its threshold, so I asked how far. He said far enough, and then drove away at a speed I’d call enthusiastic.
Two of my riflemen have wagered on whether it exists. I have taken the unfavourable odds.

Dusk.
The moon is up and full. I had forgotten to check before.
It was never going to be a quiet night in any woods on a full moon, and I’m reminded why folks bolt their doors. Something is moving through the trees, faster than any normal beast.
I can hear that the wolves are out. They answer each other from east and west and are always one step ahead of us. I’ve only seen a flash of yellow eyes but no sign of snapping teeth… I think they’re herding us.

An hour after dark.
No more writing. We run.
If someone finds this, we were making for the Santuario. If it is a lie, it is a very good one.
If it is not a lie, I am owed a drink.
Never go alone.

Image by Peter Schmidt from Pixabay.