Butch the Wereboar

The mist around the porch thickens, swallowing the moonlight. Beyond the dead lantern, the rooftop shadows knot together into a jagged watcher.

Butch sees the shape clearly now. It is not random. It waits just beyond the porch light, like it was guided here.

The Armorer's warning comes back wrong in Butch's mind, not caution, but timing. The advice was a lure, and the path here was set.

The stalker leans forward in the dark, its edges splitting and reforming like wet ink. The porch planks creak as the house itself seems to hold its breath.

Then the truth lands clean, the ancient thing beneath the moor is not only hunting, it is using people to place its prey.

Butch snatches up the axe and drives off the porch in one hard bound, boots kicking mist from the planks.

He slams into the watcher on the roof edge, and the shadow splits under his weight as tiles crack and slide.

The Rooftop Stalker twists with a wet, ink-like jerk, but the tackle pins it flat against the slick roof.

Below them, Sable steps forward with her shield raised while the son freezes at the doorway, staring up at the broken shape above the eaves.

A thin black sheen crawls from the stalker's outline toward the shingles, and the moonlight catches the familiar sigil-glint in the mist.

His shout cuts through the roofline and the yard like a thrown spear. Sable turns at once, shield angling toward the door.

The Son jolts from his frozen stare and backs through the threshold, one hand on the frame, eyes still locked on the black shape above.

The Rooftop Stalker strains beneath Butch’s weight, and the sigil-glint creeps farther along the shingles like spilled ink finding a crack.

Below, the lantern at the porch edge dims to a sullen ember, and Sable plants herself between the doorway and the yard, ready for whatever follows.

Butch shifts his weight and drives the stalker harder into the broken roofline, turning its clawing arm aside from the eaves. The doorway below stays clear.

The Rooftop Stalker hisses as splinters and slate grind under its back. A strip of black light flashes across its chest, and the sigil on the shingles answers with a cold pulse.

Sable stays planted at the threshold, shield up, while the Son slips fully inside. The lantern gutter fades to a thin amber line.

Butch keeps the stalker pinned, and the thing's shoulder cracks against the timber ridge. The cost lands sharp, a sliver of tile tears open Butch's forearm, and dark dust smears his sleeve.

From the torn edge of the stalker's form, a thin thread of shadow slips toward the gutter and vanishes under the shingles. Sable sees it and stiffens, still blocking the door as the house takes the mark.

Butch twists the axe free and brings it down in one brutal arc. The stalker jerks once, then goes still as black light spills off the roofline and gutters into the shingles.

Sable lowers her shield a fraction and backs through the doorway, guiding the Son deeper into the house. The lantern’s weak ember trembles over the threshold.

The Rooftop Stalker unravels into smoke and ash-dark thread, and the sigil on the roof flares once before collapsing into a dead stain.

The Son disappears inside and the door swings shut behind him. From the eaves, the shadow-thread twitches in the gutter, then goes slack as the house settles around the blow.

For a breath, the moor is quiet. The dim lantern glow leaks across the porch, and the dead mark on the roof waits in the dark.