The Book of Dûra
A Collection of the Most Dangerous Individuals in the Galaxy
As told through the eyes of the Aen Dûra mythos
Passage 7
The stars had dimmed across the galactic canvas, as if the void itself held its breath.
And so too did Varn the Hound.
Shadow draped, teeth bared in contentment after a successful pursuit, he rested with the quiet glee of blood well-spent.
The sheep’s mask he wore glowed low with a sullen crimson, like an ember still smoldering after the fire has taken its due.
At his side stood Lirae his other half, his mirror in mercy. Her wool, pale as the moons of Mygeeto, shimmered like frost beneath the dying stars.
A hound’s mask adorned her face, carved of quiet fury and watchfulness,
while her Uneti bow once formed in righteous light began to fade, its shape dissolving into the mist of the void.
The hound murmured, voice low and guttural, nearly a whisper in the dark
“Tell me, Lamb… Who is Nijh?
The one who kills with grace.”
Her voice answered with a calm that bordered on reverence.
Stern.
Clear.
Not cruel never cruel.
But final.
“He is a man… or was.
Now he is obsession made flesh.
A hunter who sees art where others see agony.
To him, every shot is a note.
Every corpse a canvas.”
Varn snarled in delight, nostrils flaring, understanding sinking into his bones like old instincts reborn.
“He dances when they fall,”
he said with a rasping grin,
“He smiles when they break.”
“Seven shots,” Lirae continued, her tone steady like the beat of a war drum.
“Always seven.
Not for need… but for beauty.
He crafts death like a symphony
each murder rehearsed,
each finale… perfect.”
The hound growled low, tail twitching.
“I like the scream before the final note,”
he whispered, as if tasting the memory.
Lirae's eyes glinted behind the hound's mask.
“And when his final curtain falls…”
she said, her voice like a cold wind over glass,
“We will be waiting in the dark.”
A pause.
The air still.
Then her voice again, colder now ritualistic, ancient.
“Now tell me, Hound… whose mask shall we peel next?”
Varn chuckled a guttural, fond sound, almost soft in its savagery.
“As you wish, Mutton.
I love your stories.”
Let this be a record written in breath and blood.
The Aen Dûra do not judge.
They do not save.
They only end.
One name at a time.
One mask at a time.
Until all masks are gone.
A Collection of the Most Dangerous Individuals in the Galaxy
As told through the eyes of the Aen Dûra mythos
The stars had dimmed across the galactic canvas, as if the void itself held its breath.
And so too did Varn the Hound.
Shadow draped, teeth bared in contentment after a successful pursuit, he rested with the quiet glee of blood well-spent.
The sheep’s mask he wore glowed low with a sullen crimson, like an ember still smoldering after the fire has taken its due.
At his side stood Lirae his other half, his mirror in mercy. Her wool, pale as the moons of Mygeeto, shimmered like frost beneath the dying stars.
A hound’s mask adorned her face, carved of quiet fury and watchfulness,
while her Uneti bow once formed in righteous light began to fade, its shape dissolving into the mist of the void.
The hound murmured, voice low and guttural, nearly a whisper in the dark
“Tell me, Lamb… Who is Nijh?
The one who kills with grace.”
Her voice answered with a calm that bordered on reverence.
Stern.
Clear.
Not cruel never cruel.
But final.
“He is a man… or was.
Now he is obsession made flesh.
A hunter who sees art where others see agony.
To him, every shot is a note.
Every corpse a canvas.”
Varn snarled in delight, nostrils flaring, understanding sinking into his bones like old instincts reborn.
“He dances when they fall,”
he said with a rasping grin,
“He smiles when they break.”
“Seven shots,” Lirae continued, her tone steady like the beat of a war drum.
“Always seven.
Not for need… but for beauty.
He crafts death like a symphony
each murder rehearsed,
each finale… perfect.”
The hound growled low, tail twitching.
“I like the scream before the final note,”
he whispered, as if tasting the memory.
Lirae's eyes glinted behind the hound's mask.
“And when his final curtain falls…”
she said, her voice like a cold wind over glass,
“We will be waiting in the dark.”
A pause.
The air still.
Then her voice again, colder now ritualistic, ancient.
“Now tell me, Hound… whose mask shall we peel next?”
Varn chuckled a guttural, fond sound, almost soft in its savagery.
“As you wish, Mutton.
I love your stories.”
The Aen Dûra do not judge.
They do not save.
They only end.
One name at a time.
One mask at a time.
Until all masks are gone.
