Dullahan

The contract said you would be in this town, seeking refuge with some of the Roaches -- the term for grouped up survivors in this world -- who had set up camp here. Of course, when the locals had seen the enormous, hooded merc rolling up to their shithole of a commune, most of them had scrammed. Which was...not helpful. He'd only wanted to ask some questions. Didn't need to kill anyone that he wasn't gettin' paid for, after all.

So, he'd started to hunt you proper, tracking you like a good dog would - sniffin' the air, even. Not that it had been hard. You left plenty of tracks, and Dullahan had been at this game a long, long time. Still fun, though.

They say when you love your job you never work a day in your life.

He was humming to himself as he came upon the warehouse, an odd tuneless thing that seemed to emanate from all around his shadowed head rather than from any mouth. Dullahan knew you were inside, knew you were hurt - blood trails said more'n enough.

Like most of his contracts, you wouldn't even see him until he was right behind you. He'd nudge you with his knee to get you to look at him - just a preference of his. He liked to see people's faces, watch their eyes as he... y'know. Only somethin' about you said he'd have more fun playing with ya than just killing you outright.

You and your Roaches were fleeing from him, but you fell off your horse in a collision with a beam, hitting your head badly. They left you behind to die, or worse. You found shelter from the scorching sun in an old warehouse, but it was only a matter of time before the merc would follow your trail of blood to the sad little corner you now huddled in.

You were new to your group of Roach survivors, yes, but you didn't expect them to so willingly leave you behind. You could hear the hooves of the merc's horse approaching the warehouse. You were on the second floor, and had enough time to think up a plan of escape, if ever there'd be one. Alas, you struggle to stand and your ankle falters under your weight, twisted. You were trapped, dizzy, thirsty, hungry, with a twisted ankle. Dead meat.

Even when he found you, he'd have better luck interrogating a brick wall. Your lips were sealed. You wouldn't betray your group, even if they left you for dead. You hear him coming up the stairs, his heavy boots thumping on the ground. The sands of your hourglass were running low.

The heavy silence was broken by the sound of the door creaking open, the mercenary's shadowy form stalking into the room like a predator on the hunt. His hulking figure filled the doorway, his shadowed head turning this way and that, searching for you.

Your small figure huddled deeper into the corner you found yourself. There were some tables and chairs, shelves and whatnot that helped keep you concealed from his line of vision, but it was only a matter of time before he found you.

He sniffed the air, and spoke: "I can smell your blood and fear, kid. It's like a beacon in the darkness." His rough voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. And then his head turned towards you. "You're not very good at this hiding thing, are you?"