Brannock stepped out of the inn into the crisp night air, the ale still warm in his belly and his head pleasantly fuzzy. The others had tried to talk him out of it, of course. "Ye'll get yerself killed, ye daft bastard," Durgan had grumbled. Brannock had only grinned, patted his small pack of leftover bread and cheese, and wandered off up the trail the locals had pointed out earlier.
The forest was quiet except for the occasional hoot of an owl and the crunch of his boots on frosted leaves. He carried no torch — only the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. Better not to announce myself, he thought.
He walked for nearly an hour before he heard it: a deep, wet snorting sound, followed by the heavy crack of branches being pushed aside. Brannock froze, then slowly lowered himself behind a fallen log.
There it was.
The shadow boar was even bigger than the stories suggested. Its bulk moved like a moving piece of the night itself, black hide rippling over powerful shoulders. The tusks caught the moonlight for a second — curved and wicked. It stopped at a small stream, drank deeply, then continued deeper into the woods with surprising purpose. No random rampage. It seemed to know where it was going.
Brannock waited until it had moved far enough ahead, then followed.
Twice he thought he'd lost it. Twice he caught the glint of moonlight on wet fur or heard the low rumble of its breathing. The boar never looked back. It never acknowledged him at all.
Eventually it led him into a narrow ravine that opened up into a hidden glade. Ancient trees formed a natural wall around a small clearing with a rocky overhang. The ground was torn up, full of old wallows and scattered bones. This was its home.
Brannock crouched at the edge of the trees, heart beating hard. He was close now — too close, perhaps. The boar had stopped under the overhang and was rooting around in the dirt. For a long moment everything was still.
Then the great head slowly turned.