The Graveyard
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“I mean-“ As the surprisingly heavy camera was heaved into your arms, you stumbled. “The, uh- the graveyard doesn’t sound too bad.” Yeah, famous last words…
While readying to ‘release the hounds’ as one might say was no easy task, Greggor the Great had experience herding this gang of miscreants. “Alright-“ Gesturing to the woman in the corner, your new friend’s voice rose above the crowd. “Ida! You take care’a the casket crew. I’ve got the woods!“
As everybody gave their final rallying cheers and filtered out the front doors, one of the hunters complained, “Come on! Why can’t I lead for once?
“Quincy- twice last week, you tried to kill Dr. Griffin.“
“Okay,” He groaned, “You're tellin’ me that you see a guy, at night- walkin’ around in bandages- and your first thought isn’t ’oh crap, the mummy’s escaped’? Shit happens!”
"Yes, and that!s precisely why I’m leading and you're not!"
Yep. This was the crowd you were working with.
However Ida, the silver-haired woman with soot smeared around her eyes, seemed to have a decent head on her shoulders. Hushing the hyperactive hunters as you timidly trailed along, she tuned in on your discomfort, whether it be from simply treading through a place so emblematic of death or the creeping realization that those whole ‘monster hunting’ thing was getting far too real for your liking.
Her cold demeanor not shifting an inch, she walked by your side and gifted you a few comforting words, thick with some European accent. “Not to worry, traveler. Safer with Hounds than anywhere else in Darkmoor.” Shakily, you nodded, fiddling with the camera to distract yourself.
While the storm had cleared, a dense mat of cloud cover still blanketed the cemetery as you crept along with the hunting party. Overgrown grasses crunching underfoot, the scent of stale mourning flowers filled the air that pressed on you like it were trying to suck the very soul from your marrow.
Up ahead on the path loomed the stone statue of a cloaked, sword wielding reaper. Each hunter made sure to tap the sinister figure on the shoulder with a solemn murmur as they passed as a way of acknowledging the spirits they may be disturbing. Jittery and looking for some sort of guidance, you decided to follow suit; pay your respects with a timid tap on a cold, uncomforting monument to the inevitability of your collective fate.
From there, the procession split off onto one of two paths.
Which Path do You Take?
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