His senses sharpened and in one smooth movement, he rose—the labrys in his hand. The lamp had died during the night. But dull moonlight filtered through the clouds, shading his room grey. He stood still. Held his breath. He had that alertness in him. A gift—a curse—of premonition. He did not have to wait long.
A howl rendered the night. A long drawn out cry coming from—what seemed like—right outside his door. In the living area of the inn.
Alastor kicked the wooden staff off the bars and pushed his door open. The place was dark. Unlit. He heard a movement. Then, silence.
The innkeeper did not answer.
‘Carenos, is that you?’
The boy did not reply too.
Alastor reached into his waist pouch. He took out the flints and some tinder, and struck. Again and again. He squinted as the sparks flew.
‘Don’t!’ It was Lycaon.
Suddenly, the door swung open and something rushed out the inn. Was it a man? A beast? Alastor could not tell. For a fleeting moment, the moonlight silhouetted the thing.
Then, it was gone.
Note: I shall borrow a word, phrase or the theme from your comment—a maximum of five primary comments or until the next post, whichever the sooner—and develop this story via my replies. Thank you for your assistance.
*** Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2018 ***