Moonlit Huntress of the Black Veil



Deep within the forest where no prayers linger and no dawn dares rise, she walks.
They call her the Huntress—though no one who has seen her still draws breath to tell the tale. Beneath the cold gaze of the full moon, her silhouette glides between twisted trees, black leather clinging like a second skin. From her head rise long, dark ears—too still to be natural, yet never truly at rest. They twitch at the faintest sound, catching the rhythm of distant footsteps, the stutter of a fearful heart.
A mockery of something gentle.
 A predator wearing the shape of prey.
In one hand, steel thirsts.
In the other, something far worse.
A pulsing crimson sigil hovers above her palm, alive with ancient malice. It does not burn—it watches. Those marked by its gaze do not escape; they are chosen. One by one, the forest claims them, their fear feeding the thing she carries… or perhaps the thing that carries her.
Some who vanished swore, in their final moments, that they saw her tilt her head—curious, almost playful—before the strike. As if the hunt itself amused her.
No one knows where she came from.
Some say she was once human.
 Others whisper she was shaped by the forest—a spirit that took on the form of a hare, then something darker, something sharper.
But all agree on one truth:
If you glimpse those ears outlined against the moonlight…
 you have already been heard.