During Europe's Age of Gods, the Wild Hunt in each region had its own leader.
There was Odin, the chief god of the north, Nuada, Ireland's silver-armed god of war, and Gwyn, the demigod of Wales.
They were beings known to the world as the "King of the Wild Hunt."
But times had changed.
With the coming of the Age of Man, these figures had either withdrawn to the Inner Sea of the Planet or returned to the earth, becoming a handful of dust.
Their successors, however, lacked the strength to stand alongside them, and this was one of the main reasons the Wild Hunt had now spiraled out of control.
Especially in Britain.
Ireland's Celtic Age of Gods had survived more intact, and the existence of the Otherworld gave souls a proper place to go.
In Britain, however, the Roman Empire's invasion had mixed together elements from various divine traditions: Celtic, Rome (Greece), and even those of Christ.
This made the local Wild Hunt in Britain more dangerous than those of other regions.
Still...
Watching the mass of dark figures rolling in across the sky, Sovell's lips curled into a vicious smile.
His recent argument with Artoria had left him seething. Since these fools had come knocking, he would naturally show them a little "courtesy."
A fairy darted back and forth amid the ranks of the Wild Hunt, constantly cheering:
"That's it, that's it! Hahaha! See that, everyone? There are loads of souls and 'reserves' here~"
It, too, was a member of the Wild Hunt, serving as a frontline scout.
And those so-called "reserves" were merely a discreet way of referring to the living.
Why had it joined the Wild Hunt?
Because...
It was so much fun!!!
*The screams of souls tortured again and again until they dissipated,