The Huntsman’s Feast: Arc I – Dinner Bells of the Black Forest
Ren, sixteen, sets camp in Vornwald, a village left with hollow buildings and dying trees. He isn’t running from war or famine, but from a curse biting at his skin. Shadows nest in his veins, claws scraping whenever the sun lingers too long. He hopes, hopelessly, the forest has answers.
Sora follows him, always two steps behind, never showing her face in the light. She’s the only friend left after they both watched their home burn. She whispers, ‘Ren, shouldn’t you at least eat? The bread from that old inn, it’s not moldy. Not yet.’ Ren shakes his head, touches the black scab on his palm, and listens to the hollow click of approaching hooves.
‘We live because we hide.’ Elders in town say as much. So why challenge the rules by asking where folks go when dusk swallows them? Ren searches anyway. Don’t you wonder what you’d do if your body started to rot from the soul out? Would you fight or wait?
Night cracks. Hunters in red leather sing in a dead tongue beyond Ren’s window. Their laughter never blends. He stares at the sigils burned onto trees. This is where boys vanished last winter. Moonlight spills, silver-bluish, and each shadow twitches awkwardly alongside it. Ren tries not to breathe too loud—but Sora nudges him, “They’re calling you, aren’t they?” ‘Calling us.’ He answers. Something presses against the edge of his mind, pressing, promising—food, a cure, family.
The feasting bell rings once.
Four children sneak out—Ren, Sora, Tomasz, and pale-eyed Iria. Tomasz leads, clinging to reckless hope. Iria isn’t so sure. Sora lingers at Ren’s side, fluttering hands at every branch they pass. They reach the Hag’s Path bordered in silver stones, see old scraps of crimson robe, and hear…wings? Was it wings? Each step tastes like someone else’s fear.
The children stumble upon a carcass ringed in lanterns, meat torn away neatly. Meatphones and splints left in a tidy pile—hunters with taste. Ren gags. Sora wipes her mouth, not speaking. Iria mutters through shaking lips, “There’s something inside the forest now. It eats the rotten and leaves the pure.” Tomasz scoffs, ‘Right, and I’m the missing Lord’s heir.’ Iria glares. “Don’t tempt words. Words have weight here.”
True hunters surface: masked figures, carrying blades with rows of thin teeth. Their skin glows with threading veins, mouths held stiff as if afraid of what moves inside. The hunters call for their next meal, the forest sighs once. Tomasz, who calls everyone a coward, cries out, ‘Don’t touch me!’
Ren steps in front of Tomasz. Sora drags Iria back. A hunter pins Ren’s arm—cold, not like flesh. “You stink sweet, little one.” The mask twitches. “A feast after all.” He doesn’t answer. Hands tremble; he hears his father’s voice: ‘You can’t fight what you cannot see.’ But Ren meets the hooded stare head-on.
‘Let me trade,’ Ren says, words falling flat. ‘Give me a day.’ The tallest hunter’s mask flicks. ‘We feed by the bell. Day ends at drum.’ There’s bargaining—they end with Ren marked, tar drawn across his brow while the bell tolls again, thick and dark.
Do you remember the first time someone told you there was no way out? Sora stares at Ren’s eyes, searching for hope. She says quietly, ‘Don’t tell me you plan to go back there…’
Ren studies the bones set before him. The curse inside ticks louder. Somewhere deep, he wonders if he’ll trade away everyone else for one clean bite of peace. Sora leans close. ‘We’ll find the way,’ she promises. ‘If it eats you, I’ll walk into it too.’
He looks up, the bell rings once more. Long, hollow.
The ground shakes—an old, antlered god rises from spoil-filled soil, wreaths of faded cloth around splintered horns. Hunters bow. The god locks cold, silver eyes on Ren. Time slips. The offer is clear: step forward, or someone else takes your sentence tonight.
Please tell me—will you wait for morning, or open that door? Think quick, because Midwinter winds don’t pause for children shivering in the woods.
Scene cuts as Ren’s hand cocks back, about to toss a flask into the sacred fire—unknown if salt or poison steams inside. The next bell waits for no one.
Cliffhanger: The bell toll deafens them all. Black vines snake under Ren’s skin, growing fast for each toll. The old god growls, ‘We will not yield to the living or the dead. Decide, or be decided.’
Sora lunges, breaking ancient law with a scream. Snow stirs, gloaming closes, and credits roll.
