The call of the hunt rang out.

Through blood and battle, the warriors of Eleusis clashed against the kin of the Packmother, each life given and taken paving the path toward the final reckoning. From the Granite Hills, the great beast emerged, ancient, vast, and wreathed in the scent of old wars. Eyes burned with the wisdom of cycles unbroken as she met the Demigod's challenge.

A glittering patina of hoarfrost raked fur and fang upon the great lycanthrope, entwined with vine and viridian light rising from the earth to swell her frame yet further into true, monstrous immensity as she basked in the blessing of a second Elder God.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Haskor tilted his head back. And looked up, to meet the Pack Mother's gaze... "Ah."

The battle was brutal. The earth bore witness to the weight of their blows, the sky alight with the fury of a hunt written into the bones of the world. And in the frays climax, the Packmother's claws seized Haskor, crushing flesh and bone in an unrelenting vice. But the Beast of Mamon'la was not so easily broken. Summoning the fullness of his power, he wrenched his spear free and drove it home.

A final, resounding impact.

She did not fall. She did not break. Instead, the Packmother bowed, not in submission but in recognition. Haskor met her gaze as she spoke, a voice like rolling thunder:

"The Cycle has no end, Demigod. Merely an ending. I will wake again."

His answer came without hesitation.

"When you do, I will be pleased to hunt you as Divine."

Then, a whisper-words spoken only for him, an unknowable truth passed from one predator to another. And at last, she stilled, not as the defeated, but as one who slumbers, waiting for the hunt to begin anew.

As the land fell quiet, Haskor stood over her, not in exultation, but in solemn triumph. He turned to the heavens and called to the Earthmother, his voice ringing out:

"A fine hunt and an even finer battle. I expected nothing less. But now I have overcome Your task. Sprung Your trap. Done all that You asked. Your faithful spilled blood and forged anew a weapon fit for purpose. It is done."

Hoarfrost fell free from the mist-laden air, and a torrent of evermelt whipped itself into a storm about him, Nature's regard made manifest. Gasping for breath, bloodied from the hunt, the Self-Made mounted his chariot once more and took flight, circling the heavens like a predator bereft of prey.

Over Caer Witrin, gryphon and rider halted. And as Haskor's silhouette faded into the invisible fabric of reality, his voice rang out in uproarious demand one final time:

"I have come to claim the mantle of Godhood, Skar. I demand an audience anon."

And with the task complete, the hunt ended. The spear was reforged. The debt was paid. But as the last echoes of battle faded, only one truth remained:

The Hunt never truly ends.

Penned by My hand on the 24th of Valnuary, in the year 971 AF.