10 Best Green Light For Night Hunting

Best Green Light For Night Hunting in 2023

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Midnight Hunt

In the Ashingland Woods, a lone monk travels in the dead of night like a panther in search of an artifact important to his order. Part one of a series of short stories.

All around him were the noises of the night animals- well the prey. The nocturnal hunters were as silent as the night is black. Drones of crickets and roaring forest frogs created a cacophony of noises that would scare the less informed. But, as already stated, the true fear was in the silence for that is where death lurked, crouching just beyond the fringes of sight but well within the mind's imagination. But for now the nocturnal band performed and kept the true evils at bay for just a little longer.

These were the thoughts of Jakaby Shinton, a lone traveler in the darkened coniferous forest of Ashingland. Jakaby, or Brother Shinton as he is sometimes called, was a devout man in his order on a pilgrimage given prime importance. The monastery that he calls home sent him alone out of trust to complete his solemn mission. Trust, however, did not mean there was love or companionship, for there were none. Monastery is used only to not frighten the common populous of the cultic temple's true nature. Devout does not imply holy.

As a priest of Twalang, Mistress of the Moon, Lunar Lady, and Niece of the Night, Jakaby was not holy. In fact, holiness is despised by his order, like how the pixies despise flames and the humans despise the unknown. Twalang, and thus her order, embraces the vices of the night and the carnal desires. A black jungle cat is her familiar, and Frahar, Son of the Sun, her enemy.

Thus, you can imagine that Jakaby was not frightened by the monsters hiding in night's darkness. Actually, he hated the crickets and forest frogs. They are obnoxious and boast to all predators that they are still alive. He let them continue their pitiful music for their lives are short and their existence only to expand the lives of more noble creatures. Jakaby smiled to himself at the thought of cutting down a forest frog from its perch with a quick swipe of his ceremonial dagger he kept tucked away in the folds of his robes.

But he did not waste the energy. Instead he maintained his focus on the dirt path under him. His eyes were well adjusted to the night, but the Ashingland Woods are thick and block Twalang's precious light. Finally the air brightened as her curved body shone on the clearing. Jakaby looked up to see, towering in the center of the large clearing, the spires and walls of the monastery that was his goal. Again, monastery is just a soft way to describe the temple holding its acolytes in the cult.

The monastery's greatest features are its two spires and the intricate web of silk spun between them. Better than any flag or banner, the man-made web is a sign to all the world that this stronghold belongs to Whispardia, the Diva of Destiny and Master of Manipulation. While Twalang has her panther, Whispardia has her giant spider. The same spider decorates the garments of the acolytes. The lanky limbs of the arachnid are sought after by followers who sometimes starve themselves to achieve this perfection. Jakaby spat upon the ground. Such practices were barbaric. Twalang asked for no such sacrifices from her followers, only from the unfaithful.

The monk of the moon inhaled and exhaled slowly, letting his disagreement seep out of him with his spit, breathe, and sweat. He spat once more into the bushes before walking the distance to the monastery gates. He was greeted by an older man who opened one of the wooden doors wide for Jakaby. As expected, black robes with a silver spider pattern laid on the frail form of the elderly monk. Wrinkles on the man's long face only stretched it to a near-comical size. The balding on his coned head was covered by a spire of a mitre with spindly legs shooting from it like a spider's body.

"You must be Brother Shinton," the elder one said with a slight bow and tilt of the head.

"I am. Are you Father Hasper, the arch-monk?"

"Indeed. Welcome to our Temple of Whispardia. I hope you enjoy your stay. How long do you plan on being with us again?"

"Until I find what I am looking for."

"Oh," the elder said with a slight pause. "We have scoured the grounds many times but were unable to find Twalang's artifact that you are sure rests here."

"Well, our arch-monk scoured our library and has strong evidence that the ring is here."

A silence fell between the two monks. Hospitality and compromise were not traits either order cared much about. Eventually Father Hasper bowed his head and replied, "Of course you are still welcomed to search."

He led Jakaby into the center of the cobblestone courtyard. Tall walls tarnished black rose several stories around all sides, with only the wooden gates near the corner behind as a break in the strong stone. The spires stood on opposite ends of the grounds so that the web hung above the pair and glistened in the crescent moon's glow. The last corner had a small door on top of steps under the shadow of another, much smaller spire. There in the center, Hasper gave the visiting monk a quick tour of the grounds which involved more pointing than actual showing. The two iconic spires were offices and private quarters. The top floor of the walls had a single tapestry that circled around the entire compound and decorated a walkway used for prayer. The other building set in the wall was a library.

Hasper led Jakaby into the last building. The ironwork of the rotunda inside was painted black. Halls lit by wall torches and their reflections in the polished floor tiles stretched to the left and right while a large archway beckoned prey into the shadowy library like a great predator of the scholars. The elder monk motioned to a door in the corner. Up a tight winding stairs was another hallway where Jakaby's quarters were. Hasper bid his guest good night and finally crawled his way to bed.

Once alone, Jakaby left his small satchel on the bed before briskly going back to the library. While Whispardia and her beloved worshipped and lived in the day, Twalang and her faithful were nocturnal. This was the time of night where Jakaby was going to be the most productive. This was the time of night where the hunters begin their great game.

Stealing a torch from the hallway, Jakaby entered the library. The vaulted ceiling towered several stories up, and the walls were mostly covered in bookshelves. On the ground, more shelves made radii from the center were a herd of tables had been gathered. On the far side, tall and thin windows let in the faint light of the crescent Twalang. Jakaby was surprised at the size of the collection. Not even the library at his own temple contained this many scrolls and books. After lighting some candles on the backs of the tables, the monk went to work. Tomes and scrolls were removed from their comfortable perches and piled on the tables. Then with a fury of someone unaccustomed to intense reading, Jakaby tore through each passage desperately trying to find some record of the Council of the Spirit Moon.

The Council was a meeting of the various cults. The goal was to create a more solid pantheon for which all the cultic deities may be a part of- a pantheon separate from the noble gods of the common world: the titans of the dwarves, the gods of the elves, and the angels of the humans. So on the first new moon of winter, the arch-monks met at this secluded temple and agreed that, so long as the cultic spirits stand in this pantheon, each brotherhood would recognize the other as allies. That was what the world had come to. Their kind were persecuted for their beliefs as if one's gods meant that none others could exist. Actually, nothing had changed.

As important as the Council was, the event had to be recorded. Somewhere, Jakaby thought, among all these dusty tomes and ancient arachnid webs were the scratched characters talking about the night of the Council: the night when Twalang lost her Eclipse Ring thanks to the fool of the arch-monk. The information is there, and like a jungle cat chasing its dinner, Jakaby did not let up in his search.

On what seemed to be the hundredth piece, although less than two dozen scrolls were read, the nocturnal monk found a piece of a journal from Twalang's representative present at the Council. It recounts how the writer followed the arch-monk of Whispardia into the catacombs and, while scrambling among the stones of a caved-in tunnel, the ring must have slipped out.

Catacombs. If Jakaby had a tail, it would be flicking with quiet interest. He did not know that this temple had catacombs. It makes sense. The building predates Whispardia's order and the holy monks that used to pray in its halls would need to be buried somewhere. Swiftly, Jakaby returned to the shelves and found an old scroll that laid out the plans for the temple. On it were two trap doors at the base of the main spires. With a feline smile, Jakaby charged after his goal, abandoning the collection of writing he had gathered. And to think the arch-monk did not expect him to be back for at least a week. This hunt would be over within the night.

Stalking down the hallway to the solemn door on the far end that marked one of the spires, Jakaby paid no heed to his surroundings: the engraved doors and intricate statues that lined the unusually clean floor. Behind the door, the first level of the spire contained a small darkened office. Shadows fled behind their physical companions at the arrival of the monk and his star-like torch. Spiral stairs led to the upper rooms, but Jakaby again blocked it out as useless information for his search. A wooden door on the floor behind the desk was quickly discovered and opened. Cold air foamed from the tiles' mouth, chilling the bone and goosebumping the skin. Like a jungle cat standing on a limb above its prey, Jakaby plunged himself into the darkness, letting the iron rails of a ladder and gravity guide him and his torch into the darkness.

The tunnels underground formed a labyrinth. The rock walls were made of skull-like stones to hold the actual skulls of past monks. A few coffins were present leaning on the walls, but there were more rotten heads in the indented alcoves. In three directions, the stonework beckoned the unwary deeper below the monastery. A man's true character is revealed when faced with such complete blackness. Does he double back for a map or guide? Does he leave himself a path of crumbs? Does he abandon his search and return empty handed? Jakaby, despite all of his wisdom in the ways of Twalang and her night, chose none of these but simply sprinted down a path. When it forked again, he chose another route at random. There was no planning or reasoning behind each choice, only the thrill of the hunt and instincts of a predator.

Finally, he found the tunnel half destroyed. He rejoiced in the prospect of climbing over the stones, like a lioness that has found a herd stopping for a drink. Jakaby searched the one side of the stone, then climbed over to the other and did the same. He found nothing except a tunnel not made for the catacombs. The walls were rugged as if carved and lacked the rotting skulls of brainless monks. Keeping the torch and his gaze low to the ground, Jakaby continued his search.

After only about a hundred yards, Jakaby felt his short hair hit something. He turned his attention up to find a net of thin cobwebs crossing the tunnel at head's height. With a few flurries of his hand, he destroyed the spider's trap. Then he brushed the strands from his hair before continuing his search. Soon after, however, he found himself in the same situation. Only then did the monk expand his vision to see that the webs continued past the torch's glow, and the nets only became thicker.

Jakaby narrowed his eyes but plunged straight through the mess with his head down. After a few more yards, the tunnel opened into a cool cavern. He stopped at the sudden temperature change. The monk watched his breathe in the chilled air rise to the domed ceiling. At the top were more webs. All around him were more webs. The traps of the earlier arachnids were small in comparison to these great threads. They appeared more like the man-made banner stretching between the two spires so many feet up.

The monk of the moon took a few cautious steps into the cave. He was careful that neither his body nor the torch touched the silk. While small webs dispersed with a casual wave, he did not want to test the strength of these stands. Nor did he want the fire to catch and spread, burying his burning body with the other monks.

Now he was too busy looking up that he did not watch his step. Like a snapping twig, Jakaby heard a crunch underfoot. He looked down to see a full skeleton sprawled on the ground. Its dry bones offered little resistance to the monk's boots. Only once he was looking down did the monk notice that other skeletons were laying about the floor. Only after seeing these other bodies did the man realize none of them had skulls.

Before he could even question this little fact, Jakaby saw a red gleam from a nearby skeleton. Not only did this one have its skull, but it wore a leather cuirass too. A sheath but no sword lay by its owner. All of these peculiarities were nothing compared to the red ring nesting in the boney palm.

"Twalang's Eclipse Ring!" the man could not help but mutter. As he reached for it he saw another flash of light glint off another metal object. Looking up, he saw a rusting sword lying against a large rock. He guessed its owner was the armored man he was about to grave rob. Ignoring the questions as to why the weapon was so far away, the man knelt to grab the ring.

Like a panther onto its prey, a large beast jumped on to Jakaby. The man was knocked to the ground suddenly, his body colliding with the armored skeleton which was not as dry as the first since it held under his weight. For a moment, the man was torn between reaching for his ceremonial dagger and grabbing the prize of his search. Before his mind could even form a decision, giant pincers dug into his neck and replaced his blood with liquid dreams. The whole cavern began to fade, but he felt the sensation of spinning. The last thing the man saw was the multi-eyed head of a giant spider before it wrapped its dinner in fine silk.

At the first of the sun's frail light, Father Hasper rose to check on his guest. He was not outside praying, nor sleeping in his room, nor studying in the library. The trap door to the catacombs was open and a torch was missing.

Hasper knew he had to write a letter to the order of Twalang. It would be about how unfortunate one of their monks had been killed. It would be after realizing that this temple was not the final resting place of the ring, and it would have been at the hands of an assassin. The question was who should the assassin work for? A feud can come from this incident if not a full-scale war. With some properly spun lies, whole nations will become puppets to the order. This was the work of Wispardia's faithful. Let the followers of Twalang hunt at night for their lives are short and their existence only to expand the goals of Whispardia.