The echo of my Colts rolled across Gods’ Hollow’s open field and reverberated off the tree-line.
I had spent most of the day in pursuit of a creature whose origins were unknown to me. I had tracked it from the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University, where it, and several of the students, had feasted on the body of a young man from Athol. The students were easy enough to kill, the creature, whose shape shifted as it ran, proved to be more challenging.
Finally, exhausted and ready for the day to be finished, I walked up to the still writhing beast and gazed down upon it. Bluish-black blood melted the snow and sent tendrils of a noxious vapor into the air. From its tongue came an undulation that was an undeniable plea for mercy, and it was a plea which I ignored. I put a pair of rounds into its head and was pleased to see it die.
As I extracted the empty shells and reloaded the chambers, I heard a curious sound from off to my right, and as I turned and looked, I confess myself surprised.
Of all the strange and wondrous sights I have been witness to, never before have I seen Father Christmas on a sled being pulled by a pair of turkeys.
The birds moved at a decent clip, and as I holstered my pistols, Father Christmas waved his hand to me and bid me a good day in fine and proper German. I returned his greeting and watched as he and his team disappeared into the tree-line.
Christmas in Cross was always an event.
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