He was doom, for this creature.
Feydrik grit his teeth and held the spear tightly, the Nighthunter pacing around in a circle. A cryptic creature, it seemed unable to use its usual tactics on him.
The terrain was slightly uneven. His eyes cast downward for a moment, a plan forming. He needed to move forward against the beast.
The warrior, somewhat timidly and unsure, stepped forward, spear in hand. He stepped again, the creature remaining eerily still. He was shifting the fight, shifting the balance in their duel.
And he thrust the spear forward, the Nighthunter quickly moving around it, and up and over it, claws outstretched.
But Feydrik picked his feint well. A fighter by trade, he knew the value of subterfuge, a feint, misdirection. The beast didn’t even have time to register him drawing his knife. He thrust it into its neck, letting the gnashing teeth come crashing down against his breastplate. He dragged the knife out, holding the beasts thrashing head as it went through its death throes.
There was no malice in its eyes, nor his, when they looked at each other for the last time. It was not evil. It was not cruel. It was simply a way of life. The reality was that it could have been him.
He let the beast down slowly, its life finally fading in his arms. He took his knife out, and stood tall over it. It looked peaceful, as any creature like that could be.
And he picked up his spear, victorious, bleeding, but with a newfound appreciation for the violence in their way of life. He turned his head to the sky, and screamed.
He had conquered one beast, why not another?