Fanfic Repost: The Sound of His Horn
Title: The Sound of His Horn
Style: Prose
Genre: Drama, Supernatural
Rating: PG - 13
Length: Ficlet
Pairings: Beckett/OCs
Warnings: AU, Slash, Het, graphic horror, etc…
Authoress: cassiopaya
Characters: Beckett, Mercer, OCs
Word Count: 585
Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett hunts a werewolf.
Notes: Inspired by spamala97, An American Werewolf in London, and TrashFiction.co.uk. Dedicated to erastes and ecchipiro. Part 2.
I've gone back to this chapter because I'm working on chapter 3 - which was supposed to be a Halloween post but that didn't happen. Oops. I fixed many typos and also clarified some details. Enjoy. Chapter 3 will be coming soon. :)
***
“You look magnificent, my dear.”
Léonore batted her lashes coquettishly at Cutler’s compliment. Everything was coming together splendidly; both the courtesan and the moon were at the peak of their monthly cycles. Lord Beckett called to mind the eighteenth card of the Major Arcana, the source of his inspiration for this evening’s hunt.
Cutler Beckett had come across a rare deck once and certain cards were completely unconventional. Under the weeping moon a woman in blue and white cradled the howling wolf in her arms by the shore. It was highly unusual, and yet evocative of some lost knowledge.
Tonight Léonore was dressed in silver and it would glow blue and white under the moonbeams on the moors. While her hair was already expertly coiffed, it was Lord Beckett who arrayed the silver hair pins and sticks.
“There, my dear. You look like an ancient priestess.”
The courtesan turned his head this way and that, admiring the sparkling of the silver and the swish of bangles on certain sticks. He waited for her to stand and then, placing Léonore’s hand in the crook of his arm, he escorted her down the stairs.
“I trust you removed the sponge?”
“Yes, of course. Here.”
“Thank you. Remember, my dear, do not run, do not faint, and do not lose one bit of silver - it is your only defense.”
“Yes, yes, we have been over this before.”
“I will not tolerate mistakes.”
“Of course not.”
The sun was setting and the dying light was a brilliant orange. Already the moon hung low and swollen over the landscape. The air was pregnant with anticipation as the dog snuffled about, the horses chomped their bits, and the huntsmen grinned.
Cutler helped settle Léonore atop his own tawny gelding and proffered the bloodied sponge wrapped in a handkerchief to the hounds. The wolfhounds knew their prey by instinct and needed no prompting. The scent of blood would help them keep track of Léonore.
Swinging up into the saddle before the courtesan, Beckett had his mount trot out of town and up a bit into the moors. He had Léonore link her arms around his waist to keep her steady. At the starting point, he helped her slide off the horse. “You know the path to take. Remember your instructions.”
She smiled at him; in his mind Cutler knew that she did not believe in the reality of this venture and that Léonore was only humoring him for the payment she would receive. He could only hope that she would not deviate from the plan and set him back a month.
Léonore began walking towards the river. Beckett galloped back to his party in the descending twilight. The palms of his hands itched. The huntsman approached him.
“Shall we begin now, milord?”
“No, not yet. We must wait. When the time is right our quarry shall alert us.
A breeze had picked up and Beckett spared a glance to the sky. It was his good fortune that there were no clouds. The last thing Cutler needed was to be bumbling around in the dark moorland during a werewolf hunt.
A horse suddenly reared up with a whinny and sent a quiver of tension throughout the hunting party; the wolfhounds abruptly attentive.
“Steady.”
And then echoing from a great distance came the howl of the wolf. An eerie sound, immediately recognizable, but still troubling as the last wolf in England had been killed centuries ago.
“Huntsman, sound the horn and unleash the hounds.”
Style: Prose
Genre: Drama, Supernatural
Rating: PG - 13
Length: Ficlet
Pairings: Beckett/OCs
Warnings: AU, Slash, Het, graphic horror, etc…
Authoress: cassiopaya
Characters: Beckett, Mercer, OCs
Word Count: 585
Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett hunts a werewolf.
Notes: Inspired by spamala97, An American Werewolf in London, and TrashFiction.co.uk. Dedicated to erastes and ecchipiro. Part 2.
I've gone back to this chapter because I'm working on chapter 3 - which was supposed to be a Halloween post but that didn't happen. Oops. I fixed many typos and also clarified some details. Enjoy. Chapter 3 will be coming soon. :)
***
“You look magnificent, my dear.”
Léonore batted her lashes coquettishly at Cutler’s compliment. Everything was coming together splendidly; both the courtesan and the moon were at the peak of their monthly cycles. Lord Beckett called to mind the eighteenth card of the Major Arcana, the source of his inspiration for this evening’s hunt.
Cutler Beckett had come across a rare deck once and certain cards were completely unconventional. Under the weeping moon a woman in blue and white cradled the howling wolf in her arms by the shore. It was highly unusual, and yet evocative of some lost knowledge.
Tonight Léonore was dressed in silver and it would glow blue and white under the moonbeams on the moors. While her hair was already expertly coiffed, it was Lord Beckett who arrayed the silver hair pins and sticks.
“There, my dear. You look like an ancient priestess.”
The courtesan turned his head this way and that, admiring the sparkling of the silver and the swish of bangles on certain sticks. He waited for her to stand and then, placing Léonore’s hand in the crook of his arm, he escorted her down the stairs.
“I trust you removed the sponge?”
“Yes, of course. Here.”
“Thank you. Remember, my dear, do not run, do not faint, and do not lose one bit of silver - it is your only defense.”
“Yes, yes, we have been over this before.”
“I will not tolerate mistakes.”
“Of course not.”
The sun was setting and the dying light was a brilliant orange. Already the moon hung low and swollen over the landscape. The air was pregnant with anticipation as the dog snuffled about, the horses chomped their bits, and the huntsmen grinned.
Cutler helped settle Léonore atop his own tawny gelding and proffered the bloodied sponge wrapped in a handkerchief to the hounds. The wolfhounds knew their prey by instinct and needed no prompting. The scent of blood would help them keep track of Léonore.
Swinging up into the saddle before the courtesan, Beckett had his mount trot out of town and up a bit into the moors. He had Léonore link her arms around his waist to keep her steady. At the starting point, he helped her slide off the horse. “You know the path to take. Remember your instructions.”
She smiled at him; in his mind Cutler knew that she did not believe in the reality of this venture and that Léonore was only humoring him for the payment she would receive. He could only hope that she would not deviate from the plan and set him back a month.
Léonore began walking towards the river. Beckett galloped back to his party in the descending twilight. The palms of his hands itched. The huntsman approached him.
“Shall we begin now, milord?”
“No, not yet. We must wait. When the time is right our quarry shall alert us.
A breeze had picked up and Beckett spared a glance to the sky. It was his good fortune that there were no clouds. The last thing Cutler needed was to be bumbling around in the dark moorland during a werewolf hunt.
A horse suddenly reared up with a whinny and sent a quiver of tension throughout the hunting party; the wolfhounds abruptly attentive.
“Steady.”
And then echoing from a great distance came the howl of the wolf. An eerie sound, immediately recognizable, but still troubling as the last wolf in England had been killed centuries ago.
“Huntsman, sound the horn and unleash the hounds.”