He was pacing again.

Every time Buck caught himself doing it he went and made another batch of herbal brew to soothe his nerves. This was the seventh one tonight, and his stomach and bladder couldn't take it anymore. He could swear his piss came out lavender-scented now. And it did nothing to calm him down. He'd have to ask Sivale for something stronger; this plant mix just wasn't helping anymore. He paused to stare at his hand. It wasn't shaking yet, thank Baar, but his unrest was growing by the hour. The temptation to go look for a bottle of his father's brandy was dangerously persuasive tonight, and only the memories of his previous drunken mishap kept him away.

Mishap. Hah! What a cute word for it.

He was already on the thinnest of ice, and one tiny blunder was all it would take to get him kicked out of Runrick permanently. If he was lucky. He'd get skewered by someone's rusty pitchfork if he wasn't. But he couldn't fault them for hating him. He deserved it, and then some. If it weren't for his mother, he probably would've thrown himself at the townfolk’s mercy, and let them punish him however they saw fit. Heavens knew there were enough mothers and fathers that wanted nothing more than to take out their anger on him. Anger he had caused. And grief. So, so much grief. It might even help him a bit with his own feelings of guilt, but he didn't think he deserved any absolution.

Common sense would dictate that he leave Runrick, preferably in the dead of night, when it was least likely that someone would be waiting for him around a quiet corner with a pocket knife. There was no future for him here. He had no friends anymore. Only a heart-broken mother and a disappointed father. And it killed him to see how the town's reproach was extended to his parents as well.

 They had been nothing but supportive neighbors and productive members of this community, kind and welcoming to everyone, yet no one was willing to cut them some slack because they had the misfortune to be saddled with a useless, piece-of-shit son like him. The fact that there was a town gathering taking place right at this moment and they hadn't summoned his father was a loud testament to how ostracized their family had become. It was another blow to his father's weakened heart. He didn't know how many more he could take.

Yes, it would be in everyone’s best interest if he just left. Only…he had nowhere else to go.

Buck stared out of his window. He could see the tower of the prayhouse from here. Was the gathering still going on? It was already dark outside, and that meant the way home was more dangerous now. The thing came mostly at night, after all. Or maybe they thought it was safe now since the beast had just claimed someone and should be satiated (poor Bramby) That was a hunter logic, though. This thing wasn't an animal. A predator, yes, but from Shulffa's accursed lot. It had no distinct pattern of attack, nothing about its behavior was akin to any animal they knew; sometimes it was sighted twice in one day, sometimes it disappeared for weeks on end, then reemerged thirsty for blood at completely random intervals. And not just to eat. It often left entire carcasses behind, which meant it would also kill just for the fun of it.

It had first gone after their livestock, then started killing people, went back to cattle, and then back to humans. Even now, another assumption about the thing got turned on its head. Up until today, everyone thought it only attacked at night, but Bramber's remains were found early this afternoon. He had been seen alive this morning, which meant the creature had paid him a visit in the middle of the freaking day. And that wasn't even the worst of it. He had been ripped to pieces in his own home. So not only was it willing to hunt during daytime now, it also came after you in your own house. Bramber’s home was well away from the outskirts of town.

Maybe that's why the gathering was taking so long. Maybe people simply thought that the holy prayhouse was the only place left in Runrick that could protect them, and they were now stalling so that they could stay in it for as long as possible. If Baar's house of worship was indeed the only thing that kept the creature at bay, then he felt even worse for getting his parents shunned from it.

Deep down, though, he knew it would eventually come after them there, too. As long as the thing was alive, it would keep killing. Hiding wouldn't save them. It needed to be stopped. He believed this wholeheartedly. Even now, after his disaster of an attempt to personally rid Runrick of the monster. He also still believed that bringing together Runrick's strongest men, and going after the creature armed and prepared had been the right course of action; he just had been the wrong person to lead the party. Oh, he had looked the part, alright, and had actual military experience to boot. Sure, Buck came back a bit odd after his time on the front, had a bit of a drinking problem too, but hey, he was still good, ol' reliable Buckcrown. The rowdy but promising youngster turned Runrick's pride and joy when he had been accepted into His Majesty's army. The only man in town ever with that accomplishment.

That had to count for something.

Well, turns out, it didn't.

Buck cursed every story he heard as a child about brave and noble knights, cursed that one book he read over and over as a boy that made him dream of just wars and honorable soldiers, but mostly, he cursed his own stupid and naive younger self. Every one of his childhood friends had been content with becoming hunters and woodcutters and steelworkers. And they had all wanted to stay in Runrick. That hadn't been good enough for Buck. He had wanted more; strongly believed he was meant for more. Everybody told him so, too. So he enrolled in the army the second he found out about the war at Alcsania's border against the barbaric Borsecia nation. He wanted adventures, hoped for riches, but most of all, he desired glory. The prestige that came with a clean uniform and a shiny medal.

He came back with none of that. Instead, what he got was nightmares, an unsound mind, and a number of nervous habits that had mothers warn their children to stay away from him. The incessant pacing was only one of them.

Now that he reminded himself of it, the need to start pacing again returned. He kept still, but now his right leg started twitching. He let it. He kept staring at the tower.

There was probably nobody they wanted to see less than him right now. His campaign had been a tragedy. He had led their sons and brothers and husbands right into the creature's waiting maw. Those who hadn't perished right then and there, had come back either mauled or marked. Only him and Bramber had escaped without a scratch; Bramber, because he ran at the first sight of it, and him because he froze up. The creature ignored him in favor of screaming, squirming prey. Apparently, even monsters thought he was too pathetic to be worth their time.

Why in the world did he think he could pull off the brave leader bit?!

No, he knew why. Buck had wanted to relive the time when he had everyone's admiration and trust. A time when he stood in front of his friends boisterously, proclaimed bold dreams, and was cheered for it. He so, so desperately wanted to prove to them, to his parents, and to himself, that he was more than the sad, quiet man that drank himself under the table and then picked fights with garden fences. That the war hadn't broken him completely.

Reality had punished him for his selfish, childish aspirations once already. And he hadn't learned.

Now, the sound of firing canons in his nightmares were accompanied by the screams of his friends and the slash of overgrown claws ripping through flesh.

His breathing and heart rate was picking up. At this rate he'd lose another night of sleep. He needed to do something. He still kept staring at the tower.

They probably wouldn't even allow me in, much less listen to me.

For a while now, a semblance of a plan had been stewing in the back of his head. He had tried to snuff out the initial sparks of the idea, simply because he had failed so spectacularly with his first one. He had no right to go and form another one. Still, he had needed something productive to occupy his long, sleepless nights and so he let his mind wander. Or wander wasn't really the right word. His thoughts kept circling the same thing over and over. Fire. They had tried shooting it, stabbing it, poisoning it. Nothing worked. But they hadn't tried burning it yet. Witches and the bastards of Shulffa were tied and burned at the stake, after all. Fire had to be the answer. But how to capture the thing and keep it still long enough to light it ablaze? Well, this is where his idea turned grim. Someone needed to lure the monster inside a small structure - a shed maybe - somewhere it couldn't get out off easily, and that someone would then set the whole thing on fire with it, and himself, still in it.

That someone, of course, was supposed to be him.

As sad as it was, it made the most sense. For everyone. They'd get rid of not only the monster, but the town's useless drunkard as well.  The self-sacrifice might help clear his name, his parents might be forgiven, and the aggrieved families would get their vengeance. Win-win for all.

If he presented it like that, they might listen to him.

…........ 

Alright, he'd give it try. What's the worst they could do to him for suggesting it ?