For eight days following the death of Gunther Hunt, the attacks continued. Multiple assaults each night. For the most part, my friends and their raven companions were able to beat back the creatures.
Several were injured, and last night, on May 11th, another of my old friends was slain.
I arrived at his home this morning and found his rough defenses shattered. The creatures had managed to find a way in through the roof while others had assailed his home from all-sides. They had even slain Thrond, his raven, when the bird had attempted to go for help.
James Kenyon had been a woodworker his entire life, and in his later years, he had focused on toys. Many a home in Cross and the neighboring towns had one of his creations, so it was no surprise to me that he had made his last stand in his woodshop.
I found a pair of dead creatures, each slain by chisels. James’ right hand, still gripping a large mallet, was near a shattered door. His jaw was across the room.
There were smaller bits and pieces spread around, with blood spray staining the walls and ceiling. The damned beasts had eaten him in his shop.
I walked to the creatures and gazed down at their horrific forms, and for the first time, I noticed that they were older than I remembered. There were signs of age on their strange feet and thick scars along their bodies. When I pried open their mouths, I could see the wear and chipping on their teeth.
They were, it seemed, incapable of reproducing.
Was this the cause for the sudden rash of attacks? Were they dying out and no longer capable of going long periods without food? Or was it that the old and infirm were merely the easiest way for the creatures to feed?
I considered this for a short time, then I stood up, and I gathered up what little remained of my friend.
The ravens, in turn, settled down on the dead creatures, and began to feast.
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