Blood Lust

Chapter 1

1675, 17th Century England, Langdale.

"Come out to play, my pet." The voice purred, but each time she would turn to the direction of the voice, she was only to be met with humour bereft cackling.

On a typical spring morning, Eleanor Schafer was tended to her family's cattle farm, her calloused hands running over the soft hide of one of the younger foals, who mewled unhappily but allowed her to brush out the woodchips that he had gotten knotted in his hair. The poor guy had his bedding caught on his spotted leathery hide that was matted with dark and clotted blood; one of the guardsmen having shot an arrow into the unsuspecting orphan while chasing a beast through the woods the previous fortnight.
Eleanor had found him whilst searching for berries to make a salve for her dear father's developing leprosy, laying on its side and trying helplessly to lick at the wound on its haunches. She'd immediately dropped the basket she carried, and unfurled her cloak to wrap the shivering horse in before racing back to the farm.

She sighed heavily, remembering how she had to pull the arrow out without any sterilization. The foal had keeled over, the sounds it made were entirely primal, the blood spurting and staining her tunic.

Her father had come running out from the farmhouse at the mewling from the animal, a sour look displacing his usually warm face.
"It would be far kinder, my child, to put it out. It will not survive like this." he had said.

But she had refused, levelling her father with a glare that put the God of War to shame. "I will nurse the foal to health, father. No animal deserves to succumb to such a cruel fate when it has barely had the chance to live."
He'd shook his head, watching day and night from the small window in the farmhouse as she lay out, rain or sun, in the barn with the orphaned animal.

She finished brushing out the foal's hair, shaking herself from her reverie. With the pads of her fingers, she gently caressed the short expanse of the muzzle. He blinked tiredly, curling up on his hay bed to sleep.

Her eyes grew heavy, the soft lull of the livestock beckoning her to sleep. Despite the warm fire undoubtedly roaring in the cozy cottage, the hay was looking increasing softer as the weight of her tired limbs became more and more profound.
Two townspeople pushed a cart filled with produce along the cobbleslestone path beside the farm, their tones rushed and conspiratory. Eleanor, blinking the blurry sleep from her eyes, moved to listen in, poking her head over the stall door. Ever the imposing one (but to be fair, this was the only way she ever heard of news from the main town, and it offered her leverage in knowing what was occurring an hour away). The man that pushed the cart, leaned in to the woman beside him, who shoved him away. He chuckled. "Did you hear of the lady at the top of the hill? Above the cloud bank, and beneath the moon? Oh, you know!" He tutted as Eleanor briefly saw the woman roll her eyes, "Mount Elklock."

The woman raised a brow. "And who is such an allusive woman to be?"

He waggles his fingers at her, "Some say a witch. Others tell tales of her being a woman of the moon. Lusted by the blood we shed."

The woman rolls her eyes and shoves the now cackling man again, "All folklore. And what of her?"

He shrugs, "Allegedly, she can cure any ailment or grant those infinite power. But those who have set out to reach such riches, have never made it back to tell the tale."

"You're a useless gossip, Richard."

The man smirked, placing the handles of the cart down and engulfing the woman in his arms. "It's what you find the most alluring about me. Now come on, the quicker we get into the village and out of the road, the sooner we can find an inn. Finally, you'll be mine to bed..."