Summer was becoming a distant dream of days with warmth and safety. The long days where people might lounge in safety beneath the sun and spend their nights sleeping soundly were gone. The cold snap had taken the lingering warmth away and leeched the brilliant emeralds of the leaves. The trees were covered in a rich covered in gold, red and yellow and blanketed the forest floor in a mosaic of autumn colors. The fields were freshly harvested and carts had long since hauled their wares to nearby towns to sell at market. The rest was tucked safely away in barns to ensure that the little villages would survive the cruel and harsh winter.

The harvest moon was round and heavy above the swaying trees and cast the forest into shadows. The patches of light only tricked the eye into glancing nervously at the shuddering movements of the leaves as they were blown about. No carts or carriages stirred on the roads, no people walked through the towns. Doors were securely locked and candles were in each and every window to try and chase back the night. Muskets and flintlocks were filled and ready as men tucked their children and wives into cellars to ensure that they would see the dawn. Doors were bolted and windows closed, but it wouldn’t stop the night. It wouldn’t stop the primal darkness that stirred deep in the shadows where an old dying oak tree caught the silver moonlight.

The shadows spun around a tilted celtic cross that had been driven deep into the earth. Cold iron had been hammered onto the base and stakes of ash and yew prevented it from being knocked over. St. Patrick, a holy man who had once walked the forest, had placed it there to hold back the old pagan magic. He cast out the creatures of legend and fairy tales and pushed them out of their own land with the harsh kiss of iron and faith in a god they had never known. The gentle fae, the brownies and hobgoblins, the sprites and will o’ the wisps, faded and died as they were pushed out of their homes and families. The older creatures left with a snarl for the holy man who cast them out. But not all of them gave their surrender. Not all of them bowed their heads to this strange Christ. Some stayed.

The cold iron locked the creature away so that the earth stifled him. The damp cold sank into his bones as the moon sought to chase away the shadows that ran around the cross. Eleven months out of the year he was cast away from the earth and all that he loved. Eleven months of the year he was starved for want of warm rich flesh and his due. He could not fight past the magic the saint had placed above him, but he was old. Older than the tree, older than the village below, older than the Christ who had been used to drive him back. Once a year he pushed his way free of the bonds that kept him in the ground and fought his way free. He left off his dreams of other days and remembered who and what he was. He remembered the sweet taste of flesh on his tongue and the exotic scents of fear as his hooves pounded across the land. He was no tame will o’ the wisp to be cowed by the touch of steel and a cross.

The ground roiled and bucked as the beast beneath the earth threw himself against the chains that held him imprisoned. His nostrils flared and jaws parted to spit out foul dirt. His hooves churned as the ground above him began to ripple and roll at his efforts. The spill of grass receded as he shoved his hooves back against the ground and threw his head up to breech the surface. A sickly glow began to spread over the area that was his prison, his grave, while he pulled himself free. The flashes of light grew and spread, beating against the darkness. It called to him, coaxed him, sang sweetly to him. Dim spirits of the fae wanted him to arise again. They wanted his vengeance. His dark hide smoked and burned from the touch of iron, but tonight he could ignore it. Tonight the prayers that had been spoken to keep him away from the vulnerable followers of the faith fell away from him.

A great black stallion pulled himself to the surface with an equine scream of rage. His soft velveted lips pulled back to show hooked fangs and the silver bit that pressed against his tongue. The dirt fell away leaving him a bit of shadow against the darkness of the tree and the stallion lifted his head to taste the breeze. He could smell the harvest and the village that came closer every year. He could smell the foul metal that had kept him imprisoned. He could smell the warmth of small living creatures that scurried away from the heavy unshod hooves that danced against the ground. Frost crackled and crusted around his fetlocks as the beast dropped his head and let out a baritone rumble. This was his night, this was his hunt. To remind the people that had cast him aside for their Christ that he lived still. To remind them to fear the darkness and all that it brought.

The phouka reared up onto his haunches with a creak of the worn leather saddle on his back. His pupils flared crimson as the muscles along his back rippled to take his weight. He remembered, he remembered all that he was and what he was meant to be. With a wild scream that pierced the night he launched himself into the woods for his hunt. His hooves kicked off the ground and the sound of small animals fleeing caught his ears. Let them flee, let them run, let them fear. He didn’t care for their flesh. It was the sinner that his hunger called for and his white teeth flashed as he curled his lips back. It had been so long since he had hunted. It had been so long since he had made them pay for what they had done to him and all his kind.

Done by the awesome http://www.furaffinity.net/user/i-psilone/