THE HUNTER’S LOG – EPISODE 004 -“The Funeral”

 

THE HUNTER’S LOG – EPISODE 004 -“The Funeral”

Hunter’s Log, Entry 004.

There are deaths that end a battle… and deaths that begin one.
I have stood beside men who fell screaming, and others who met the end in silence. Both leave scars.
Tonight, a fire is lit not to destroy a monster, but to honor a guardian—and the wolves who remain must decide what the howl now means.
Some funerals close a chapter. Others mark the moment the hunt becomes personal.

— Abraham Van Helsing

The Funeral of Garnett Hood

The sky is iron-grey, low and unmoving, as if the world itself has chosen not to look away.

They gather in a clearing far from roads, far from names. Pines ring the space like silent sentinels, their branches heavy with frost. No banners fly. No words are spoken. Only the wind moves—slow, patient, indifferent.

At the center stands the pyre.

It is built with care. Old wood. Honest wood. Laid in ritual symmetry, each log placed by hands that understood what it meant to finish a hunt. Upon it rests the body of Garnett Hood—the White Wolf. His form is wrapped in dark cloth, scarred hands folded at his chest. Over him lies the emblem of his bloodline: a white wolf’s head on a red field, stark and unyielding even now. It does not flutter. It does not waver.

The Hood family stands closest.

Jaspar is rigid, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. He does not cry. Not yet. Grief coils in him like a caged thing, dangerous and silent.
Crimson stands at his side, her posture controlled, her eyes hollowed by sleepless nights. She looks composed—but only because she refuses to break where others can see.
Behind them, Scarlett and Ruby stand shoulder to shoulder, hands intertwined so tightly their fingers have gone white. Scarlett’s chin is lifted in defiance of the tears burning her eyes. Ruby does not try to hide hers.

Around them, the Hunter’s Enclave forms a wide circle.

They do not crowd. They do not intrude.
They stand as warriors do when one of their own has fallen—not in mourning alone, but in respect.

Van Helsing removes his hat and holds it to his chest, head bowed. For once, the weight he carries is not command or consequence, but memory.
Mulan stands with her hands folded behind her back, spine straight, eyes fixed on the pyre as if committing this moment to history.
Beowulf lowers his massive head in silence, a titan acknowledging a fellow guardian.
Hansel and Gretel stand together, grim and still, weapons absent for once.
Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer remove their caps and hold them tight, eyes reflecting the firewood yet unlit.

There are others. Faces blurred by distance. Hunters whose names will never be spoken aloud in this moment—but who came all the same.

Because Garnett Hood mattered.

After a long, aching stillness, Jaspar steps forward.

Crimson moves with him.

Each takes a torch from the ground where they wait—already lit, already burning, as if the fire itself has been impatient. The flames crackle softly, hungry but restrained.

They do not look at one another.

They look only at the pyre.

Jaspar’s hand shakes as he lowers his torch to the wood. The flame hesitates—then catches. Crimson follows, her torch touching the opposite side. Fire spreads slowly, reverently, like something aware of what it consumes.

Neither speaks.

They turn away together and return to their sisters.

Scarlett steps into them first, arms wrapping around both. Ruby follows, pressing her forehead against Crimson’s shoulder. The four of them hold tight—siblings bound by blood, loss, and something older than grief.

The fire grows.

Logs collapse inward. Cloth blackens, curls, and vanishes. Smoke rises in a single column, climbing toward the unmoving sky.

Then—without signal, without rehearsal—the four lift their heads.

And they howl.

It is not wild.
It is not savage.

It is ancestral.

A sound of mourning passed down through generations. A call meant not for the living—but for those who walk the long roads beyond sight. The forest seems to lean in as it echoes. Even the wind stills, as if listening.

The Enclave does not interrupt.

They stand and watch as the pyre burns brighter, as the White Wolf is returned to ash and story and legend. No one rushes this moment. No one turns away.

Eventually, the fire begins to settle. The work is done.

People start to drift—quietly, respectfully—leaving space behind them instead of footprints.

Crimson Vane lingers.

She stands apart now, staring at the dying embers, her face unreadable. When she finally turns to leave, a figure steps from the edge of the clearing.

Carmilla Nocturne.

She does not speak. Neither does Crimson.

Carmilla opens her arms.

Crimson steps into them.

The embrace is brief—but it is real. A promise without words. When they part, Carmilla places a hand at the small of Crimson’s back, and together they walk away from the fire, disappearing into the trees.

Behind them, the last embers fade.

The clearing grows cold.

And somewhere, far beyond sight or sound, a wolf answers—
not in sorrow,
but in remembrance.