They were Brutal Hunters if ever such existed. Tall, heavy-set men (some more heavy than set), covered in leather and what scraps of armor’d plating they could attach to their clothing. Some wore thick helmets that did not appear to leave much in the way of sight. Those whose faces were visible had a hungry, agitated way about them, their cracked, yellow teeth gnashing and bloodshot eyes twitching. By the look of their torn costumes and broken weaponry, they had recently battled.
The apparition of a file of Hunters ringing down their heavy boots on our door-step caused the breakfast-party to rise from table in confusion, and caused Mrs. Joe re-entering the kitchen empty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of "Gracious goodness gracious me, what's gone - with the - pie!"
The apparent leader of the band and I were in the kitchen when Mrs. Joe stood staring; at which crisis I partially recovered the use of my senses. It was the leader who had spoken to me, and he was now looking round at the company, with his spiked handcuffs invitingly extended towards them in his right hand, and his left on my shoulder.
"S’cuse me," said the lead Hunter, "but as I told this one" (his hand on my shoulder grew heavier), "we’s in middle of a hunt, and we want the weap’ner."
"And pray what might you want with him?" retorted my sister, quick to resent Joe being wanted at all - probably more so than the intrusion.
"Lass," returned the gruff leader, "speaking for m’self, I should say, the pleasure of his fine wife's warm acquaintance for an ev’ning; speaking for the Hunt, I answer, a little job done."
The guests recoiled at his manner, but all knew better than to speak their displeasure to this Brutal Hunter, who commanded respect well beyond his comportment.
"You see, smithee," said the leader, who had by this time picked out Joe with his eye, "we’ve been ‘avin a bit of trouble on the night’s Hunt. Seems our weapons got spent before the job’s done. The other half of our party’s subduing some Howlers now, an’ we need some replacements."
"Still!?" exclaimed Uncle Pumblechoock. Then, looking to the Dutch-clock: "But, at this hour - "
"Ling’ring effects of last night’s moon, I ‘spect," replied the lead Hunter, not sounding particularly sure of himself. “I’ve never seen it ‘appen before, but there’s rumours. The two we got now’s a lively pair, but we ‘ope to wait ‘em out ‘til they turn back. Then, back the ‘ulks with ‘em,” his lips cracked into a slimy grin, "if they’s still breathing."
As the Mrs. Joe and the guests pondered this information, Joe threw his eye over their gear, and pronounced that he could refit their spike-swords, bone drills, spear drivers, and other ghastly contraptions I had never seen, but the job would necessitate the lighting of his forge fire. "Then will you set about it at once, smithee, the others can’t keep ‘em down forever." said the lead Hunter. "As it's on our noble service, mind if my men make themselves comf’table in the meanwhile?"
With that, he called to his men, who came trooping into the kitchen one after another, and piled their arms in a corner. Mud was everywhere, and they descended upon our table and pantry like a swarm of locusts, stopping their chewing only to spit stiffly onto the floor.
