The Beehive
The din of the battle around him was growing frantic, confusing, deafening. With every step he took there was another to face him, another who stood in his way, and another who would gladly usurp his existence. But the Hero was not afraid. He was, instead, encouraged by the chaos. The chaos was what made him whole. Without all that was going around him, he was just another man sitting in a field, pondering his destiny. That life, however, was not for him.
The Hero engaged another one of the creatures. It was ethereal, passing through the ground, the rock walls of the mountain, but its transparency belied the damage it was capable of dealing. These minions were agents of the Darkness, and the Hero was surprised to say the least. It was as though the Darkness had tired of facing him one on one and was instead sending others to do his bidding. Red eyes glared at the Hero with hate, white fangs protruding from a blackness. They appeared by the tens, although the Hero could have sworn he saw hundreds at times.
These rascals seemed to never tire. They came at him relentlessly, flying without wings, taunting without words. Their snickers were mere shadows of the demonic laugh of the Darkness himself, but the memory of such cackling chilled the Hero to the bone.
Although they never seemed to grow weary, the Hero had discovered an important feature of these entities; they could certainly die. As he hacked his way through their bodies they let out a long, bloodcurdling shriek that credited the sound of nails on a chalkboard as a musical masterpiece. To the Hero, however, probably unlike any other being in existence at the moment, it was music. Each of the minions he cut down represented a small victory against the Darkness in his own mind, although he was wise enough to know better. The Darkness was undoubtedly watching every move, and with every small victory he was able to dispatch ten more to impede his journey.
The elimination of one of these fiends gave the Hero enough time to grab hold of a rock face and haul himself upward. Though the ominous crag taunted him with each step, he knew he was making progress, no matter how small in interval. Just as he reached another ledge, more of the dark beings came towards him, bearing their fangs and chuckling like evil children torturing an ant. No matter. The Hero brandished his Sword, his fly swatter, and engaged them. Their strength was undoubtedly in their numbers, for their were poor fighters individually. Where did they come from? That the Darkness was acquiring recruits, no matter their weakness, was a disturbing realization for the Hero, though he had very little time to ponder upon it. Another hoard was on its way, aiming above him, trying to cut him off from the top.
The Hero roared, beginning to run up the face of the steep mountain, calling within himself a strength of which he knew very little. It seemed at moments like these, when the situation seemed dire, when all hope was lost, that he could ignite the spark in himself to charge. Was it foolhardy? Possibly. Was it brave? Well, that depended on the nature of its foolhardiness. As he charged forward, red streaks of light gleamed from his eyes, behind the helmet. These pawns were becoming less and less of a challenge as he cut them down, the air drenched in their cries of anguish as they vanished into a plane of existence of which the Hero desired no knowledge.
The fury was upon him! Black form after black form vaporized into nothingness, the screams of the vanquished drenching the air with a symphony of victory. The Hero began to emit small grunts, timing with each stroke, as if to place a long accent on each of the death cries of these despicable beings. The grunts turned into a coughing, sputtering fray of half words, nonsensical syllables of battle cries. Left, right, left right. The swinging of the Sword became a rhythmic beating of the wind, and thus the Hero tore himself from the seats of the audience and became the opus’ conductor. He raged, his righteous baton evoking more and more screams from his enemies, as he continued to miraculously sprint up the sound of the mountain. The rock faces seemed to taunt him less and less with each step, and as he climbed higher to the top he could feel the attitude of the mountain change underneath his feet. From challenge, to discouragement, to acid words of hatred, now to discontented muttering, to awe, to reverence, to fear.
The half words uttered by the Hero slowly became intelligible, and as he flew up the mountain, cutting down these fools, he began to chant.
"I…" slash, another black entity vanished into nothingness, "am…" two more met their fate, "not…hunted!"
"I AM THE HUNTER!"
The formerly formidable army of spirits was slowly dwindling in numbers, and some of them were retreating out of fear. Though mindless in their attacks, they seemed to have a sense of self-preservation, and the Hero preyed upon it like a lion did his gazelle. All of them would fall before him, and those that didn’t would return to their m aster with unpleasant tidings of the sheer power of an invigorated, renewed Hero that had one goal in mind: to face, and defeat, the Darkness.