Alright, let’s crack open the Immortal Gazette again. This time, we’re going deep into the misty forests, where the fae whisper secrets, and mortals foolishly think they can bargain with powers beyond their comprehension.
Tonight’s legend? The Wild Hunt.
The Immortal Gazette: Beware the Wild Hunt—When the Fae Ride, Souls Disappear
The grand storytelling chamber of the Immortal Gazette was alive with flickering candlelight and the ever-present scent of mischief. Alice stretched lazily across her chair, flipping through an ancient, leather-bound tome. Loki lounged beside her, feet propped up on the table, absentmindedly twirling a dagger between his fingers.
Rumplestiltskin, as always, was poised like a cat ready to pounce, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the tale about to unfold.
Alice tapped the book’s worn cover. “Tonight’s legend, my dear troublemakers, is one that has haunted mortals for centuries—the Wild Hunt.”
Loki smirked. “Ah, spectral riders, fae lords on horseback, and the poor fools who get caught in their path? Excellent choice.”
Rumplestiltskin grinned. “And let’s not forget the best part—once you hear the Wild Hunt, it’s already too late.”
The Tale of the Wild Hunt
Across Europe, from the stormy cliffs of Scandinavia to the fog-drenched woods of Germany, whispers of the Wild Hunt have echoed through time. It is a terrifying procession of ghostly riders, led by a powerful supernatural figure—sometimes a fae king, sometimes a god, and occasionally, even the Devil himself.
The hunt rides through the night sky, its horses breathing mist, its hounds howling like death incarnate. Those who see it are doomed—some are dragged away, others cursed, and the luckiest? They simply drop dead from fright.
Loki leaned forward. “And what exactly does the Hunt hunt?”
Alice’s grin was sharp. “Ah, now that depends on the tale. Some say they chase the souls of the wicked, sweeping them up to be judged. Others claim they hunt mortals foolish enough to be out alone at night. But the cruelest tales? Those say the fae ride for sport, and any poor soul caught in their path is stolen away—never to be seen again.”
Rumplestiltskin traced a finger along the table. “And the mortals have so many names for it. The Öskoreia in Norway, the Wild Jagd in Germany, and of course, the Herla’s Host in England. But no matter the name, the outcome is always the same—if you hear the Hunt, you run.”
The Mortal Who Didn’t Run
Once, in a time when mortals still knew to fear the fae, there was a hunter—bold, foolish, and far too confident in his own skills. He boasted that no beast in the woods could elude him, not even the fae themselves.
One winter’s night, as the wind howled and the moon hung low, he ventured out alone. The forest was eerily silent—no birds, no rustling leaves, only the sharp crunch of his boots against the snow.
Then, the horn blew.
A chilling, spectral sound that curled around his spine like a death sentence.
The air grew thick with the scent of rain and frost. The trees bent under an invisible force. And then—he saw them.
A host of riders, their horses black as shadows, eyes burning like embers. Hounds with glowing teeth, snapping at the wind. And at their head, a towering figure cloaked in storm clouds, his antlered helm casting an unnatural shadow.
The hunter stood frozen.
Alice smirked. “And this is where he should have run.”
Loki rolled his eyes. “Let me guess—he didn’t.”
Rumplestiltskin laughed darkly. “Of course not. He did what all foolish mortals do—he raised his bow.”
The Huntmaster tilted his head, amused. Then, with a voice like rolling thunder, he spoke:
‘You dare hunt in my woods? Then hunt you shall.’
With a crack of lightning, the hunter’s feet left the ground, his body weightless, spinning into the storm. His screams echoed as he was lifted onto a spectral horse, the reins burning into his hands.
From that night on, the hunter was never seen again—except in storms, where travelers swore they heard his cries, carried on the wind as the Wild Hunt rode once more.
The Lesson? Stay Inside on Stormy Nights
Loki shook his head, grinning. “A classic tale of ‘know your place, mortal.’”
Alice nodded. “Exactly. The Wild Hunt isn’t just a fairy tale—it’s a warning. If you hear hooves pounding in the sky, if the wind howls with something almost alive… shut your doors, lock your windows, and hope they pass you by.”
Rumplestiltskin’s grin was wicked. “Or better yet—step outside and see what happens.”
Alice laughed. “Oh, you would.”
So, my dear mortals, what do you think? Would you be wise enough to hide from the Hunt? Or foolish enough to chase after it? Either way… if the wind howls tonight, maybe don’t answer the call.
🖋️✨📜🖤
