Bayard had long since lost the trail he was tracking in the snow, which was now falling with far greater strength than when he had begun. The thought had not occurred to him that perhaps he too was being tracked. Never had man seen a monster like the one that writhed before him, for it was surely not birthed by nature.
The warrior knew at first glance he was outmatched in size and strength, and that in the swelling blizzard escape was out of the question. His weapon, a weathered sword, was more heirloom than tool, and hardly of a quality for the task howling at him through the icy winds.
Truly he had assumed the beast he sought was more myth than flesh. An assumption he found himself now regretting.
But surrender was not in his nature. Bayard's stubbornness, even to the point of folly, had deservingly earned him the title of "The Mule" in the court.
'Bayard the Mule' unsheathed his sword.
"Come on then--" he growled through the fog.
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