“Cassius Marcellus Coolidge,” Mary shrieked upon entering the living room, “get those dogs off the chairs and away from that table this instant.” Startled by his wife returning home earlier than expected, Cash sheepishly replied, “Yes dear. Sorry dear.” Although today’s portrait session was cut short, this didn’t upset Cash because he had already completed most of the painting. The rest he could finish on his own later.

I once heard someone say that sculptures are like moving pictures. That's not to say that the pieces are alive or sentient. But that the fluidity of their third dimensional forms seem to give the audience a sense of movement. And that is exactly what I felt when I first set eyes on The Glass Lady. Made entirely of clear crystal, the life-sized figurine was the shining star of St Gerald's Art Gallery. People from all across the country came to see it, overcome by the intricacy of her flowing gown and the delicate strands of hair blowing in an invisible wind. But what truly drew the visitors attention was the woman's face. She appeared to be crying, crystalized tears running down her face. It was as though the artist had captured her in time, immortalizing her sorrow for all to see. I was enraptured. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her eyes, like the Mona Lisa's, seemed to follow me as I moved. The small black plaque, where the artist's name was usually written, was blank. I remember asking the man next to me if he knew who had worked on the piece, but he too had no answer. No one seemed to know exactly who the artist was, only that they were a friend of the gallery owner's, and the only correspondence they had had with the director had been by telephone, and that they wished to remain anonymous. I stared in an equal measure of awe and puzzlement at the woman's crying face, and I remember thinking about the kinds of people who can create such beautiful art and not want to claim credit. But as I continued to stare into those shining glass eyes, I began to wonder if the sculpture was a manifestation of the artist themselves. That perhaps they too felt made of glass.

Vincent stood aways from the cafe finishing his second bottle of cheap red wine, the easel stood unsteadily on the cobble stone road and the stars were so strange tonight.

He dipped the brush into coloured paint of his choosing, not what he saw, life was a phantasm anyway thought Vincent.

Tonight he would see her again, the girl, and if she did not love him he would prove his love to her.

Perhaps his brother would buy this one he painted now, for a few pennies.

Such a strange light tonight, such a strange strange light.

Perhaps

“There’s a wolf!” Mr. Marshal yelled. He shone his flashlight in a direction, different to the one Foster pointed.

Schuster gingerly let go of Foster, who swayed for a moment. Drawing his gun, Schuster slowed Foster’s topple into the mud. “Sorry, buddy. Take it easy.”

The wolf hunt for two wolves continued a couple of blocks away; the police and wolf hunters expected to kill or capture at least one soon. Wayne thought the wolf that attacked Foster would die or become incapacitated, leading Schuster to believe somebody would catch up to the wolf Mr. Marshal sighted. He worried about shooting a person.

“Anyone there?” Schuster yelled. “If there are people back there, holler.”

“It went to your left,” Mr. Marshal said.

“Okay,” Schuster said.

“Do you want me to get Officer Foster indoors?”

“No, stay put. Okay, Zach, this is going to be unsafe gun handling.” Schuster took his finger off the trigger and put the safety on and wrapped his arms around Foster’s chest to drag him towards the Marshal’s house. “Well…I’d say yes if a person was attacking us.”

“I can call the ambulance again,” Mr. Marshal said.

“The situation is under control,” Schuster said.

“Why isn’t anybody coming for you?”

“They’re doing their jobs.”

“They have to catch the wolf,” Foster mumbled.

“There’s a wolf! On your right side! It’s going to get you!” Mr. Marshal yelled as the wolf collided with Schuster and bit his upper arm.

Schuster’s head clanged off the Marshal’s swing set, and he caught himself on it. He felt that if the wolf pulled him to the ground, he would never stand up again; Wayne had advised officers to make themselves look bigger. The wolf dodged the kick, and the kick unsteadied Schuster.

Foster told Schuster to hide in the Marshal’s house, but Schuster thought separating was impossible.

The wolf wrenched Schuster’s arm behind him, and he let him. If resisting a K-9 dog’s bite-and-hold technique caused further injury, resisting a wolf would cause greater damage. His clenched Beretta 92 pointed away from the wolf. He fired the tranquilizer gun at the wolf, intending to pry the wolf’s mouth open after it dozed off. Although the wolf bit shallowly, and whimpered like his mouth hurt, he seemed unwilling to release Schuster soon.

Sloppily, Foster stabbed the wolf’s hindquarters.

The wolf released Schuster’s arm to snap at Foster, so Schuster shot the wolf’s torso. Yelping, the wolf jumped and lunged to his left side. He jerked his left arm over his head, tearing his sleeve. Schuster fired again. Then the wolf latched onto his right forearm, and bounded backward, pulling Schuster face-down into the mud.

The wolf drew Schuster’s arm out from his side, a position that prevented transferring the handgun to his other hand. Schuster knelt on his knees and other hand, but the wolf jumped on top of him. Schuster groped for his flashlight. The wolf was scrabbling his arms and leaning its weight on Schuster’s lower back. When a paw slid off, the wolf regained his footing. His nails dug into Schuster’s skin. Hoping to scare the wolf, Schuster fired twice. He worried about harming somebody behind him or inside a house.

Mr. Marshal said during the attack: “I’m calling the police.”

“Okey-dokey, just stay inside,” Schuster called. “The situation will be controllable sometime, so don’t worry.”

When Schuster told John about the attack, he expected officers to swarm the Marshal’s backyard. Schuster refused to explain why he and Foster fought the wolf alone. During the attacks, Schuster heard the police and other wolf responders attempting to capture the other two wolves.

Then Foster did something to the wolf, but neither Schuster nor Mr. Marshal saw what. Again, the wolf attacked Foster.

With Schuster’s left arm, he blocked its attempt to bite his head or neck, and he shot the wolf between its chest and neck.

Whimpering, the wolf darted behind the Parkers’ garbage; Schuster was still shooting. Doubting he would hit the wolf, he fired through the plastic cans.

Schuster worried about low ammunition because he had left his other magazine in the police car’s trunk. One magazine seemed sufficient at the time, but since the attack on Foster and Schuster, the Wolftown Police Department required all patrol officers to carry at least two magazines on their persons. He considered borrowing Mr. Marshal’s shotgun despite the impracticality; Wisconsin law allowed it.

Earlier, Foster had suggested somebody watched them; Schuster thought he noticed ordinary civilians peeking through the windows and the like. Now, as Schuster told John, he “felt like a subject was hiding and watching us. Maybe he wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t just watching like people do at crime scenes. I’m not 100% positive there was somebody there and maybe I was just worried Mr. Lyons would take one more potshot at the wolf.”

He tried to drag Foster one-armed to Mr. Marshal’s house and point his gun simultaneously.

Seeing Schuster struggle to drag Foster one-armed to Mr. Marshal’s house and aim his gun, Mr. Marshal asked, “Are the things you accused the police chief of true?”

“You’re asking now? I mean, yeah, we have a lot of evidence, but why ask now?”

“I can get Officer Foster indoors,” Mr. Marshal said.

“Okay, but if the wolf comes back, drop him and go inside,” Schuster said.

“I’ll keep an eye out for the wolf.”

A savage wolf mauling a civilian whom Foster intended to protect but was instead protected by would disturb him forever.

“Why ask about Chief Laufenberg?” Schuster asked.

“Maybe my wife won’t yell as loudly if I tell her you two need to give evidence or something. Where’s your backup?” Mr. Marshal dragged Foster to the back porch steps.

“The police are doing their jobs,” Schuster said. “They have to catch the wolves.”

“What about the ambulance?”

“EMTs can’t put themselves in danger because if they were bitten, they couldn’t treat us. They’re doing their jobs, too. The situation is controllable, but we appreciate your assistance. Take it easy.”

(John privately suspected half of Schuster’s reassuring sentences lied.)

The wolf ripped Schuster’s ballistic vest and skin, and he collided with a Little Tikes push-and-ride car. Sliding, Schuster ordered Mr. Marshal to drop Foster and run indoors.

Unusually, compared to Schuster’s previous encounters with him, Mr. Marshal did not comply. Foster spluttered along the lines of, “Mr. Marshal, go inside.” Schuster repeated himself until Mr. Marshal said he had shut the back door behind himself.

The wolf had bitten through Foster’s cheek. Mr. Marshal turned gurgling Foster on his side, hoping the blood would pour onto the floor instead of into his mouth.

Meanwhile, Schuster managed to sit up, still under woozy attack by the wolf, who tended to stay behind him, jump, or yank his arms. The wolf still latched onto Schuster’s left arm, but weaklier. Then when he transferred the gun to his right hand, the wolf snapped at his right arm. He fired blindly once, the wolf hid, and Schuster fired again.

Radioing dispatch, Schuster bolted for the door, but, again, the wolf attacked his ballistic vest. Outside, Schuster slammed the back door and drew his pepper spray.

Mr. Marshal said through the kitchen window, “Do you want my shotgun? I can shoot it, but what if the buckshot hits you, too?”

The wolf charged the window, and Schuster followed, yelling, “Shut the window!” Mr. Marshal thought of the same idea.

The wolf’s front claws screeched down the glass. Schuster yanked the wolf’s tail; Mr. Marshal locked the window.

As the wolf drunkenly turned, Schuster tripped it. He pepper-sprayed the wolf; relatively little blew into his face because of the height difference.

The wolf and Schuster toppled off the concrete back step, Schuster losing his grip on the wolf’s tail on the way down. Though the wolf did not bite Schuster, it bowled him over and aimed for his head and neck. He pistol-whipped the wolf’s snout, thinking a broken jaw would deter biting and attacking the eyes might equalize the two species’ night vision. It felt like hammering the teeth deeper into his forearm.

Thinking the wolf had bitten Schuster, Mr. Marshal opened the window just enough to yell, “I’m worried about missing, but do you want me to shoot the wolf?”

Lacking a safe way to reach the shotgun himself, Schuster said, “Okay. Just don’t shoot the glass out.”

The wolf careened between the houses. Mr. Marshal fired his shotgun once, Wayne his .44 Magnum six times, and Officer Lang his Beretta seven times. Schuster had heard Wayne and Lang in the distance but assumed they were discussing the other two wolves.

Wayne followed the wolf and Lang remained in the backyard. Schuster called, “Wayne, don’t go alone!”

“I’m with him,” Lang said. “Where is Zach?”

“I bet it crawled off to die in a hole,” Wayne yelled, sounding full of adrenaline and matter of fact, while Schuster said, “In the Marshal’s kitchen.”

“Check on him. We’re fine here,” Lang said.

Mrs. Marshal was comforting the children in another room.

“Well, maybe the rain just makes it look worse than it is,” Mr. Marshal said. “For you, anyway. Not Officer Foster.”

Schuster opened Foster’s mouth. He worried Foster died from Schuster forgetting to check his airway, breathing, and circulation after the first attack, but Megan said that he died of massive blood loss.

“The dispatcher walked me through first aid. Maybe I’d better use it on you.”

Foster spluttered.

“Take it easy, buddy,” Schuster said.

Lang and Wayne crashed through the door. “The wolf isn’t moving fast or well, but it’s out there,” Wayne said.

“He can’t wait for an ambulance,” Schuster said.

“Neither can you,” Lang said. “Wayne and I will get him to the police car, and I’ll drive.”

“Then I’ll hunt the wolf. It’s weakest now, so all of us probably won’t be attacked getting Foster to the police car,” Wayne said.

“I’ll drive,” Schuster said. He felt like the time between donating blood and eating the orange juice and the cookie.

“Wayne, you need to apply pressure,” Lang said.

“I’ll do it,” Schuster said.

“Who will do it to you?”

Mr. Marshal asked, “Will you get Dennis Laufenberg sentenced for something?”

“What? Yeah, probably,” Schuster said.

“I’ll go with Officer Foster,” Mr. Marshal said.

In retrospect, Schuster believed Lang tourniqueted his arms with Schuster's and his tourniquet. He remembers he, Wayne, and Mr. Marshal providing first aid to Foster, which required all hands constantly, and nobody else had the opportunity.

“I’m good to drive,” Schuster said.

“Fine. Foster doesn’t have time for an argument,” Lang said.

They discussed how to transport Foster to the police car. When the police began chasing wolves, they asked Dr. Groves to wait for casualties in the Wolftown Medical Clinic. Wolftown’s two ambulances took two other officers to the clinic, but Schuster could not tell John why.

Mr. Marshal and Wayne carried Foster and, Lang and Schuster guarded them against the wolf. Schuster borrowed Mr. Marshal’s shotgun and Wayne had reloaded his revolver.

“What are you doing here?” Schuster asked.

“Wayne stopped cooperating. I said I was chasing him to bring him back,” Lang said.

“So, he stopped cooperating, too,” Wayne said.

Nobody saw the wolf, including Lang and Wayne, who continued hunting the wolf.

Schuster had asked Lang to check on the Parkers and Mr. Lyons, and later in the morning, Lang told him they reached a friend’s house safely.

Stephanie and Megan overheard the wolf attack on the radio and waited for Schuster and Foster at the Wolftown Medical Clinic. Schuster told Stephanie that Foster told him to tell her to tell Megan to stay away from him because, regarding other wolf attack victims, Dr. Groves had not ruled out rabies. Apparently, Mr. Marshal promised Foster he would give Schuster a couple of personal messages for Megan. They did.

The medical clinic already typed all policemen’s blood and, with type AB+ blood, Foster could receive any type. Dr. Groves could not collect blood from pregnant Megan and Schuster lost over one pint, and so Stephanie donated.

Because Foster worried about losing his wedding ring and infecting Megan, Schuster asked a nurse for a specimen container.

Dr. Groves called an air ambulance.

Worried that the Wolftown emergency services could not transport Foster to the landing site, and they might request county resources too late, Schuster called Sheriff Jordan’s home. The Sheriff immediately coordinated with the air ambulance, then notified the Wolftown Police Department. Sheriff Jordan thought if the Wilde County Sheriff’s Department appeared, the local police might not disperse them.

The country police escorted the ambulance crew and Foster safely to the air ambulance, but Dr. Groves and Stephanie forced Schuster to remain in the Wolftown Medical Clinic. Nobody saw a wolf. Stephanie and Megan drove to the University of Washington Health University Hospital.

Foster died in surgery before Stephanie and Megan arrived. Transfusions and IVs pumped more blood and fluids than a human body normally held, but Foster bled too rapidly. His heart stopped and he could not be resuscitated.

Schuster convinced Dr. Groves he could continue working, and they hid some injuries from the police. Schuster showed John his bite wounds and the claw marks on his back. The wolf sprained or tore his shoulder’s muscles. Dr. Groves had no idea how the wolf’s teeth caused serious but not severe damage.

Dr. Groves asked Schuster if he or Mr. Marshal should receive the last rabies vaccine. Schuster told him to vaccinate Mr. Marshal. On Monday or Tuesday, Dr. Groves expected the shipment, and he and Schuster relied on the incubation period. Although the first victims’ rabies test results were negative, he would vaccinate Schuster anyway.

Because the Marshals had one bathroom and Mr. Marshal worried about infecting a friend, Schuster let him shower at his house.

He washed the blood out of the police car’s front seats, but some soaked the upholstery. Dr. Groves said the rabies virus died when the blood or other fluids dried, so Schuster borrowed Stephanie’s hairdryer.

Schuster disinfected Foster’s wedding ring and left it to dry on his dresser. He washed off the mud and blood, changed his uniform, and wrote a note for Stephanie, warning her he would disinfect the bathroom later.

Dropping off Mr. Marshal, Schuster noticed Mrs. Marshal scolding him, but it did not seem to be a domestic altercation.

Then Schuster returned to work because the Wolftown Police Department lacked enough officers. He offered to wash out the back of the police car, but Karl Henry volunteered, saying he needed to protect the sutures. They talked while he cleaned.

Deputy Chief Phelps assigned Schuster to routine patrols instead of unpaid administrative leave, but only for the duration of the wolf emergency.

Schuster had asked Lang to check on the Parkers and Mr. Lyons, and later in the morning, Lang told him they reached a friend’s house safely.

Due to the holidays, the next post will be on November 29, and there will be no post in December. Regular, every-three-weeks posting will resume on January 3, 2025.

Azania made sure to not trample any plants as she made her way through the forest undergrowth. Around her the Forest glowed in various shades of green. There was warm dark brown and cool dry brown and birch white nestled among the green. The Forest loam was soft and from it arose herbs, grasses, shrubs, saplings, and trees of all sizes as well as mushrooms and fungi. Soil edged along half-decomposed tree roots that were covered in moss. Between the trees she could see the sky as it stretched bright blue.

It would be a lie to say she was at peace here. She still held onto the grief she felt of missing her friends, who were more like family. She felt so bad about leaving them, her heart was overcome with worry. But she knew they understood. This had been her chance to get free and Azania had taken it.

She loved her friends. More than life she loved them. But she couldn't stand the rest of it all. She couldn't stand the demands of her masters, the way they looked at her, the way they talked to her, the way they yelled at her. She couldn't stand knowing that they were the people who took her away from her family. She couldn't stand it when they bragged about her to their friends as if she was a shiny thing that they bought. She couldn't stand the crippling loneliness of that big house that swallowed her whole. She couldn't stand the quietness that enveloped the nights or the constant, crippling pressure of work, work, work and more work that enveloped the days. She couldn't fucking stand it. She just couldn't.

The adults in her life saw her as no-one, as nothing, as a shadow to be ordered around and used. And she hated it. It tore her up inside and left her screaming silently, drowning invisibly, bleeding in her mind and in her soul. But she was clever. She was good at lying. She was good at thinking outside of the box. She had a plan, a plan that took three long arduous years to accomplish.

She pretended to be a perfect, meek, submissive, broken girl. She pretended to be emotionless and loyal and completely brainwashed. Until they trusted her. Until they trusted her completely. And then she took the money for buying groceries. And it was a lot of money. And smiled meekly and softly as she stepped outside the locked door - locked by a key she didn't have - to go to the store. And she bought a wooden snorkel with it, tied herself to a rock of carefully-measured weight, and threw herself in the River. She almost died. But she wouldn't have cared if she had died. This was the way to freedom. Eventually she felt the temperature of the water cool. That indicated that she was finally in the Forest.

She kicked and swam until she found herself on shore. And it was the most beautiful place she had ever been in. Not beautiful like how a painting or a dress was beautiful. Beautiful like how the reflection of firelight in the mischief behind her friends' smiles were beautiful. Beautiful like how a gentle hand brushing over your own was beautiful. Beautiful like how a greeting embrace near the shared stairwell between different flats was beautiful. Beautiful like the songs she only half remembered and the stories she knew she must've once heard but now forgot.

She cried. She cried like a lost child finally returning to the arms of their mother. She cried like a soldier coming back from a war. She cried like a farmer seeing rain clouds after a drought. She cried like a prisoner setting their first foot into freedom. She cried until the sky got dark and then she saw stars for the first time and she cried more. When the morning came she was cold, she was hungry, but she was free. She walked until she found a bush of berries. She hoped to the gods that they were edible. They were tasty and just a little bit sweet on her tongue so she assumed that they were. She gorged herself until her stomach hurt. She drank from a clear stream. She felt so light, so free, so calm. More than she ever had before. Yes her grief was still unimaginable, unbearable. But her joy was as well.

She couldn't describe the way she ran with life and joy and beauty. It was the type of beauty that wasn't truely seen no. It was felt in her heart. The Forest held her like a mother. Like the mother she had had but barely remembered. The Forest held her like a lover. It hugged her like a child. It held her hand like a best friend. It flowed and moved and reached out all around her. She never knew it was possible to love a place before. She only thought you could love people. But she realized what it meant to love a place, to be loved by a place. Because in honesty you could only love what was alive. People were alive. And the Forest around her was alive. So very alive. It sang and hummed and shone and shadowed and moved and stood and flowed and danced with so much life. All in perfect harmony. As she couldn't help but be inspired, so inspired.

She was still full of misery. Still full of grief. She was still beside herself with worry, with mind-numbing, crippling anxiety for her loved ones. But she was held more than she had ever been before. She was freer than she had ever been before. The Forest nurtured her, nourished her, soothed her, loved her, protected her, and wanted her like a mother and she couldn't even begin to process the emotions she was feeling right now.

She though that maybe she should be scared. There might be predators here after all. She had no clothes, no weapons, no rope, no knowledge of survival. According to all logic she should die out here. But she didn't. She stumbled upon a berry patch every time she got hungry. She found clean, dry wood to make a fire as well as rocks to ring it and even spark rocks to start it. The stream was easy to follow. The day was neither too hot nor too cold. If she didn't know better she would say the the Forest was going out if it's way to protect her. She had always believed in magic. And now she did more than ever before.

She found a warm patch of sunlight on soft dirt and curled up and went to sleep there like a cat. She woke up, stretched out, and moved to find the stream so that she could fill her cupped hands with the cool, clear water.

Walking by the edge of the stream, she did however find a sight that brought fear into her. Pressed into the soft ground were the unmistakable tracks of a wolf. Well she thought they were at least, because they looked like a dog's tracks but much larger. They didn't scare her in and of themselves, no. They seemed like just another part of the Forest. But she knew what wolves were and she knew what they were capable of. And that scared her. Still she knew it would leave her well enough alone if she avoided it. She made her way the opposite direction as the tracks. The day was cooling down now, just marginally. She didn't feel like walking. She was overwhelmed. So once she put a bit of distance between herself and the wolf she lay down on a patch of dirt without any plants on it and she stared up at the sky. It was so bright, reaching up and up and up above her to who knows here. But not really. She couldn't describe what it was. Not at all. Even in her old life she could never describe the sky, never comprehend it.

And she still couldn't.

Maker, Azania spoke in her head, wherever you are, please keep my friends as safe as you can. Thank you for this. For all of this. I can see you in every piece of it. Thank you for holding me, Great Mother. Thank you for holding all of us who are suffering. I know you cannot take care of us in the way that you want to. I know that your reach only extends out so far. But I know you love us all and you always have and you always will and I thank you for it. I will keep your Land safe. I understand how it is a piece of you. Teach me how to care for your Land and how to respect it, protect it, and look after it. And I will. And please. How can I give back to you? You have protected me - no all of us - with your life and your blood and your tears and your joy and your rage and your pain and everything you have. And we must all take care of each other. I know. We are all a part of you. So how can I take care of your people? What should I do? I hurt so much. I long to go back and free my people. And I will. I know that the people are your people. All of us who live under the heel of suffering. I know that I swear to you that I will. But I do not yet know how. Give me strength. I have my freedom and with it I will give other people theirs. I swear it.

Azania felt invigorated, now that she had a goal. She stood up and kept walking.

Soon she heard a shrill cry, not unlike a newborn baby. Overcome with worry, she ran towards the source of the sound. She gasped at the sight. She hadn't been wrong. It was a newborn baby. Wrapped in the arms of a woman lying under a tree there was a newborn child, swaddled in a thin cotton cloth, crying. The woman's dress was soaked in blood. She was not moving. Holy fuck. Was she dead? Azania's heart thudded in her chest. So hard. Despite being surrounded by death in her old life, she had never seen death with her own eyes like this. When she cried they were not tears of joy, or mixed emotions, like they had been earlier that day. They were tears of pure, unshakable grief and sorrow. She knelt beside the child and mother, heart lead-heavy with sorrow. She touched a hand to her forehead, then her lips, then her chest, and then reached out to hover it over the mother, offering a silent prayer for her departed soul, so that she may finally be at peace and free now. Then she moved to quickly yet carefully pick up the baby, holding them softly in her arms. She cradled the baby girl - well they were probably a girl and she would just assume they were unless they said otherwise - in her arms and tried to get her to stop crying. But the baby continued crying. She quickly realized the baby was probably hungry.

How would she feed the child? She had no idea. The child couldn't eat berries or roots or anything. The child needed milk. The child would die.

She wouldn't be able to save her. The baby would die just as the mother had and she wouldn't be able to save her. No matter no no no fuck what would she do? She kneeled there, a newborn infant in her arms, panic racing like lightening through her heart. And she heard a haunting, piercing howl move through the air.

The child stopped crying. The teenager whipped her head around to see what it was. There, standing only a yard away, was a wolf with silvery fur and pointed ears. The wolf looked at them, steadily, evenly. It was so much larger than she thought it would be. She could see how strong it was. How easily it could devour her if it wanted. And the child. She was very glad the baby had stopped crying. She held the child close to her and she didn't dare move.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the wolf stalked closer to them. Azania didn't dare move. The baby looked at the wolf with big, round, ember-dark eyes. She didn't seem aware at all of the danger they were in but was rather mesmerized.

The wolf was coming closer. It was coming closer. It was coming closer. Azania was frozen. She could not move. Soon enough the wolf was right beside them, its head just above their own. The wolf made no move to hurt them. Just silently nuzzled its nose into Azania's shoulder, then softly nuzzled the baby. So softly. The baby made a sweet gurgling noise at that.

Azania was still afraid. Slowly the wolf stalked away, but only a couple of meters away, to a bush full of fat black berries. Azania watched it closely, with wary eyes. The wolf took a bundle of stalks in its mouth and pulled them off the bush. There were stems, leaves, and a dozen or so berries that came with. The wolf then walked over, with the berries in its mouth, to Azania and the child. Slowly it inched the berries nearer to Azania's face, until the leaves brushed her lips. And it waited there. She slowly, tentatively twisted her mouth around a berry and bit it off its stalk. It was ripe and full of juice. The wolf stayed until she ate all the berries.

Azania cradled the baby close as the wolf slowly crouched down to nuzzle the child. The baby looked at the wolf and she cooed. She was so cute. She needed food. The The wolf nuzzled the baby again before lifting its eyes to meet Azania's for a moment. It lay down on its side and stayed there. Azania recognized this gesture from the way dogs at home would feed their pups.

Was ... was the wolf offering to feed the baby? Azania did not fully understand what was happening but she was no longer afraid of the wolf. She didn't understand, but when she looked at the wolf she saw a strange, beautiful sort of power. Like lightening or a River rushing. She saw the sort of power and energy that permeated through the whole Forest, electrified and pulled into the form of the wolf before her. There was something deeply, fiercely protective about it. Something fiercely kind and nurturing, life-giving and loving. Nature was strange. The Maker was strange.

Everything was. Azania was no longer scared anymore. She didn't understand. But she did feel in her heart that this was where she was meant to be. This was what she was meant to trust. She laid the baby next to the wolf and held her as she drank. This was so strange. But it was what was happening. Once the baby was full, and burped, she held her close and moved to stand up. The wolf stood up with her, and trotted a few step ahead of her.

She followed it through the undergrowth, through the maze of green. And she thought to herself that this must be some strange gift from the Maker. Well, who was she to turn down a gift? Especially when - when the baby needed it. Hmm? What should she call the baby? She did not know. She knew names should mean something. That they should be significant. She knew the child was her salvation. Her pathway to her destiny, whatever it was supposed to be. The baby was beautiful. She had huge, piercing eyes and warm skin the colour of wood right on the verge of catching fire. She had a small button nose and soft little lips and fingers that were so so so tiny. She had her destiny spread out before her. All the rest of her life. She was free. And Azania would make sure she stayed that way. Azania would free everyone she could.

Around her the Forest glowed like a haven as she walked carefully, making sure to keep the baby properly supported. The wolf walked slowly, keeping pace with her. The ground was uneven, but it was glorious.

Soon enough they got to a place near the crest of a small hill, where where were about other adult wolves, and four pups. They were sharing meat and they all turned to look at Azania before they all came and nuzzled her. She moved to sit down and they nuzzled the baby as well.

———

She named the child Shayla. Shayla was a good child. She had eyes full of wonder and curiosity, empathy and kindness. She grew up strong, nourished in the love her birth mother gave her, the love Azania showered her with, the love her pack buried her in, and the love the forest blanketed her with. She was free. She was wild. She was happy. She was loud. She was inquisitive.

She was caring. She was free to come into herself.

Azania was so grateful for her pack. They had adopted her, adopted both of them, as if they were family. They cared for her and provided for her and her child. The first year with Shayla had been very busy. She had always been feeding her, with the help of their pack, or changing her, or washing her clothes, or rocking her to sleep or soothing her. That was when she wasn't making new clothes to match her constant growth. And through all that she had to find food for herself, too. The pack provided furs for her, from their kills. She just had to process them and put them together. The pack even gathered berries for her to eat. They all slept curled up together in each others' warmth.

The next two years were much easier. The pack made sure Shayla stayed out of trouble, they took care of her just as they took care of their other pups. Azania had gotten much better at putting together clothes. She also helped the pack hunt, and looked after the pups. Her skills at running, stalking, tracking prey, and throwing spears had improved greatly.

Shayla learned to talk. But also she learned to howl and bark and yip and chirp. She was full of questions, once she started talking. She loved the stars. She was full of new ideas. Most of them were adorable and hilarious. She was afraid of rain. She loved snuggling up with her pack. Especially with Auntie Silver, the wolf who found them that fateful day and saved her life.

Shayla was like the spring, like a raging wildfire, and Azania thought she never saw a child so free before. Shayla was concerned. With the Forest and protecting it. With the wolves and protecting them. With the world outside the Forest and what it held, with everything.

The whole while she was thinking of ways to help her people who were still stuck in slavery back in the place she came from, the place that was absolutely her homeland just as much as this place was her homeland. It wasn't easy escaping the masters. They had their guards that would watch over you. They had their police that would go chase you down. And they'd find you. She didn't know how she could go about saving people. She could tell people her idea, of using the River as a getaway car. But the problem with most of the slaves was that they had loved ones to think about and take care of.

The thing about house slaves like her - like what she'd been before she got away - was that they were forced to live in isolation. The interaction they had with other slaves were always secret, hidden. Stolen moments on stairwells when sweeping and washing the stairs or the railings or the walls. Stolen moments when passing by each other on the stairs while delivering something or another. Stolen moments while waiting in line for the communal bathroom. Stolen moments while slipping away unnoticed at night. But no matter what, they made sure to keep their interactions a secret. They made sure to keep their connections a secret. Because what the masters knew they could exploit. And they would exploit. And they would use to destroy the slaves. And that included personal connections. It especially meant personal connections. The masters thought less of house slaves than they did of anyone else. Thought them incapable of love. So Azania knew her friends were safe. She knew of house slaves that had escaped before, and the slaves of neighbouring houses were never hurt on their account.

But that was not true with the other slaves. The farm slaves, the factory slaves, the mine slaves, the transportation slaves, the construction slaves. All of them were allowed to form close networks of family and found family and friendship and the masters knew they had people they loved. This was a curse as much as it was a blessing. Because while the slaves were often technically allowed to go to the market or other places without supervision, they were never, ever able to escape. Because unless you could escape with all your loved ones, which was incredibly difficult if not impossible, the masters would kill your loved ones when they figured out that you left.

Everyone would have to escape together or not at all.

And she did not know how to do that.

One day Shayla was four. The pack was out hunting. Shayla was with Azie picking dark purple berries. These were the same berries that had played such a pivotal role in their rescue. They had been talking and joking around as Azie kept an eye on Shayla who was wandering around more than she was picking berries. Well, she was four.

"Mama! Mama!"

"Yes Shayla?"

"Auntie ... Auntie White find big tree!" Her eyes were full of excitement.

"Oh did she? That's great."

"There birds in tree. And ... squirrel! But not us."

"You're right. We aren't in trees. Humans can climb trees I think. But I've never really needed to and you're too small. And wolves can't climb trees at all."

"But why?" She emphasized the why a lot.

"Because, baby girl, different animals do different things. Some animals climb trees. And some don't. Some animals fly. Some don't. Some go very fast. Some go slow. Some live in the water. Some live on land. Some live in the water sometimes and sometimes they're on land. Every animal is different. But they all are in the world and they all have a part to play."

"Mama?" Her voice was so cute. It always was.

"What?"

"I got berries."

"Great job! Put them in the bag." She gestured to the shoddily tied-together rabbit fur she put berries in.

"No mama look." Azie turned around. These berries were bright orange. She had seen them before but refrained from eating them. The berries she did eat, she had previously encountered outside of the Forest. Occasionally a bush would grow in an alleyway and the slaves would eat from it in secret. Those berries were safe. These berries never grew outside the Forest and she had never encountered anyone eating them before. She didn't know if they were poisonous or not.

"Shayla, no. Those berries are not good."

"Try once? Please?!" She was really dead set on trying these new berries, wasn't she?

"No Shayla. They could be dangerous."

"But they could be good."

"But maybe they're not. We already have so many yummy berries to eat."

"Mum. Mum. Please." Aziania knelt down to look into her eyes. She was young. But that didn't at all change the fact that she was a bolt of lightening sent from the Maker. And right now her eyes seemed to glow with longing. Azania didn't know why but this was really important to Shayla. And she knew what she was talking about.

"Alright. But not right now. After we reunite with the others, yeah?"

"Sure."

"Okay.”

They continued picking berries until their bags were full. Azania struggled to hold them all but when Shayla asked for a piggyback ride she let her get on.

"Mama are we the only humans?" Shayla asked quietly, close to her ear. Her voice was solemn. Almost sad.

"No honey."

"But we are. I never seen other humans."

"Do you want other humans? Are you lonely."

"I like you. And I like the pack. They're family. I'm a happy pup. But ... I want to know."

"Shayla there are many other humans. Maybe, maybe even five hundred other humans."

"Wow. That's so much. Where are they? I never seen them in the Forest once."

"They're not in the Forest."

"But the Forest is home."

"Shayla ..." she hadn't planned on telling her daughter the truth so soon but she couldn't lie, "the other humans are trapped in a place far away from the Forest. And they're very sad. They have to work very very very very hard, too hard, with not enough rest. And, you and me and the pack, we work so that everyone has what they need to be healthy and strong, right? They have to work for no reason. Just so that the big mean bad guys can have stuff they don't need."

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"We have to save them. We have to bring them to the Forest. The Forest is nice. They can be happy. Safe from the bads." Azania's heart stopped. She wanted to. Oh how she wanted to. But she didn't know how.

They walked through the symphony of life until they found where Uncle Blue-Silver was taking care of the pups. Shayla let out a jubilant yip and immediately went to play. Azania crouched down and cuddled and snuggled the pups. After a while she left to go do some solo hunting.

The sky was electric blue with twilight when Azania got back to the pack with a deer slung over her shoulder. She let the pack feast on the meat while she feasted on berries and then gathered the discarded furs for washing.

Finally she got Auntie Silver's attention. She held out the orange berries in her hand, to see what the wolf would do. To her surprise Auntie Silver did nothing. She brought the berries closer to her own mouth, slowly, and then swallowed them under the light of the moon. They tasted a tiny bit sour, a little bit spicy. Not her favourite taste by far but they would make good seasoning. She didn't feel any different though. And she didn't feel any different when she fell asleep on the ground surrounded by warm bodies, with her baby in her arms.

She woke up feeling strangely groggy.

"Mama!" She heard Shayla yell as the small child flung herself into her. A couple of wolves also trotted up to her.

"What?"

"You were sleep for four sun cycles!"

Well damn.

Azania had an idea. She knew now, how she'd free her people.

———

Azania walked through the undergrowth, making her way to the edge of the Forest. She had a bag full of dried berry powder. She held it carefully, making sure not to spill any. She knew she needed the cover of darkness, the cover of night to cloak her during her journey. A young woman wrapped in shoddily tied together animal pelts was sure to raise more than a few eyebrows and end in her arrest if she was discovered. She might still be discovered anyways. But her old clothes were ripped and worn and lost and her mission was more important than anything she had ever done. It didn't matter how dangerous it was. It didn't matter how terrified she was. She had to free her people. This was her chance.

She had sought out Auntie Silver last week. As the suns was dipping below the horizon and the sky was painted with fire. They nuzzled and cuddled a bit. Azania kneeled in front of her. She asked,

"Auntie Silver. I'm going to go back to free my people. I'm going to bring them into the Forest. Do I have your blessing?"

Auntie Silver had looked deep into Azania's eyes with her own bright gold ones. She nuzzled Azania's cheek, fondly. Then she lifted her head and

howled into the burning sky, rich and bright and strong and triumphant. Azania smiled.

"Thank you, Auntie. Again."

She had made preparations immediately, embraced her pack in the unbridled way that wolves embrace, and blinked down her tears as she told Shayla she would always love her. And then she had walked into the twilight, knowing how much Shayla would miss her.

Her plan was as well thought-out as a plan could be. She had to find a slave hovel that was near a shadowy alley. Most of them were. This would be no problem. She had to stay in the shadows where no armed guard would find her. This was easier said than done. But still, she had learned stealth from hunting and could move through the night silently. This was not something the wolves had taught her but rather something she had learned for herself.

But the town, it was unfamiliar. Though she had grown up in it, it was far more unfamiliar than the Forest. Then she had to reach through the tight metal bars of the hovel windows. And she had to wake up a person. And explain to them the great things she had discovered. And how they could use it to set everyone free. She had to bury the bag so that they could secret it away. And then she had to revisit the town every few weeks or so, see how the plan was going. She had compete faith in the ability of the slaves to form a coordinated plan. If they had anything, they had unity. And resourcefulness. And the collective sort of ingenuity that came from not being beholden to convention.

She felt hope. The Forest and her new family flowed through her soul and pumped bright in her veins. And her love for her old family - family that she never really left, not in her heart or in her soul - burned through her entire being. She was a shadow under the moon but she was also a torch lit with fire and she was ready to die for her cause.

She would miss Shayla. And the rest of her family. Like the earth misses the rain during a drought she would miss them. But she knew Shayla would be cared for. And she knew she couldn't leave everyone else to suffer.

She silently prayed as she walked through the familiar Forest. In a few short years, how on Earth had it become so familiar to her? How on Earth had she grown to trust and depend on it so much? How on Earth had she grown to love it more than life itself? No she hadn't grown to love it. She had loved it the moment she had set foot within its arms. She had loved it for longer than she'd been alive. And she had a duty to fulfill. The slaves were children of the Forest. Just as she and Shayla were. They meant to become free. Just as she and Shayla did. The Forest weeped for its lost children and Azania was the one tasked with returning them.

She prayed as she found herself getting closer to the edge. The stretch that separated the Forest from the town was within sight now. Fear clenched her heart hard. She was loathe to leave. There were so any terrible memories tied to that place. So much pain, and suffering. And there would be more if she wasn't careful enough. She didn't want to go back to slavery. She didn't want to risk everything. She didn't want to leave. But she did want to. And she must. She gave herself a few minutes to cling to the comfort around her before taking the step that properly separated the world she was entering from the world she was leaving.

———

The town was bathed in the darkness of the new moon. There were large sprawling estates where the free people lived. There were the factories that ringed the south side of the town and pumped thick smog into the sky. There were the slave hovels that ringed the factories in neat, tightly-packed misery.

The streets facing the doors were guarded by armed guards. But between the back of the huts, where the windows were, there was space narrow enough to crawl through. Just barely enough. But there was space. She stalked to the first block of huts she could find. She made no sound. Moved from shadow to shadow from the few trees to the walls of clay brick. She turned her body to the side and squeezed herself through the narrow space where there was a gap between two brick walls. The cold clay walls pressed on either side of her. But she managed to press through. She got out the vine she had inside her coat. It was the length of her arm. And it would easily reach a sleeping occupant inside one of the huts.

She slipped it through a window, before reaching her arm down as far as she could and flicking her wrist. She felt so bad for waking a slave up. They needed all the rest they could get. She knew firsthand. But she was sure they'd understand.

"Aah!" A voice, softer than she'd expected, called out into the night.

"Hush!" Aziania stated with a bit of authority in her voice.

"What the fuck?"

"I'm sorry for waking you. My name's Azania. I used to be a slave but I escaped. I can help you escape too. I can help all of us."

"What? Is this a dream?" He sounded tired and entranced and disbelieving all at once.

"No. No it's not. I swear."

"I need to see you for myself."

His face appeared behind the iron bars of the huts. He had dark skin that melted into the shadows and broad cheekbones and a small, pointed nose.

"You're real," he said, with wonder in his voice.

"I'm real." Azania smiled a little. "And I'm an escaped slave. I've been living in the Forest for four years. See?" She held up her fur-covered arm, "And I can get you all free."

"How?"

"The masters don't know what's in the Forest. They don't know all the gifts it can and wants to give us. There are berries. And I've made them into a powder. Eating even a spoonful of the powder will make anyone go to sleep for three or four days. We can use this."

"Yes! If we dose all the masters with the powder. But we'll have to do it all at the same time. Maybe during some great festival. Then with no guards or anything around it will be so much easier to slip away."

"Yes. But what about the door locks? If we poison them during a festival, that means that the doors will be locked. And also there will still be guards around."

"I'm sure we will will figure something out. Thank you for this."

"Please get the word out. I'll be back in a month. Check progress and stuff."

"Yeah. You do that. Thanks."

"Thank you."

They both looked at each other. Neither person thought that the words they exchanged were big enough for the event that had just happened, for the pure, concentrated transcendence that they had shared. The moment was far too big to be put into words. Far too big to have words, or anything at all in the entire universe, even come close to doing it justice. They looked at each other and in each others' eyes they saw more than they could ever say. And under the light of the moon the tender bud of hope blossomed into a delicate flower.

"Well," Azania started, her voice sounding like the evening wind, "I'll leave a sample of the powder buried under the window."

"Okay."

"I ... didn't get your name."

"My name's Marro."

"It's an honour Marro." Her voice was solemn and serious. The moon's glow reflected in her eyes.

"Same." His voice was soft an airy yet dark and full of wonder. Like the wisps of a cloud passing by the harvest moon.

———

The boy told the slaves who lived near him, his voice all quiet whispers. He told the slaves who worked with him. He told the slaves at the market. They told everyone they could. In a few months almost all the slaves knew. They got to work planning and strategizing. They decided when to strike. How to strike. Who would do what. What tools they would need. How to procure those tools. And how to keep all of this a secret.

In the meantime Azania came back once every month, at great personal risk, to drop off more and more of the powder. She heard their plans. Helped plan as well. And her heart soared. She gave them some tips for how to move through the Forest when it was finally time for them to pass into it.

When. Not if. Her people would be free at last.

In the meantime Shayla grew up into an adorable, curious, fierce little girl. She was happy. She was confident. She moved with the Forest like she was a part of the wind, like she was a stream of running water. She knew the plan. She knew that soon there would be more humans in the Forest. She was happy. The Forest was freedom. It was home. It was love. It was life. And she was excited to share her home and her love and her life with people who were fleeing for freedom and love and life. She wondered what other humans would be like. She resolved to teach them how to live in the Forest and respect the Forest and keep it healthy and safe like she did.

In the meantime the pack hunted and roamed and played and cuddled. New pups were born. Old pups grew up. Wolves left the pack and new wolves joined. Life continued. The pack took care of their human members and raised Shayla as if she was one of their own. They ran and howled and tumbled with each other in the soft soil.

In the meantime the slaves found a hope they could only long for before. They learned that it was much easier to feign submissiveness when you know that soon, soon enough the trap is going to spring. It was easier to hide mischievous smiles than it was to hide tears. The slaves always knew that. But they learned still that it was easier to hide pure and righteous malice.

They stored the powder covered in newspaper underground. They managed to hide away bits of metal for picking locks. The factories would be opened first. And from them every single electric saw taken. And then it would only be a matter of hours before every single door was open. And a matter of two days before every single slave had passed into the freedom of the Forest.

At the end of two years, it was time.

———

Shayla was up late, staring at the stars. Uncle Blue-Gray was with her. Around them the rest of the pack slept.

Azania waited near the edge of the Forest to watch for anybody.

Marro walked ghost-like and silent amongst the revelling party-goers in bright, shimmering clothes and thick, gem-studded jewellery. He wore a simple copper robe. They shouted at him and ordered him about as he silently exhausted himself getting drink after drink after drink. People talked and laughed and sang and danced. Marro worked and obeyed and kept quiet.

The night went on an on and people got increasingly tired. It was time to strike. He rushed into the kitchen. Got a tray full of drinks. Spiced wine. The type of drink where the flavour of the berries would not be noticed at all. He flitted about as people ordered him to them. And he kept his face carefully blank as one by one the partygoers fell asleep.

He knew that the few guards that were patrolling also partook of the food. That there would be slaves bringing them their own spiced wine or seasoned snacks.

He waited until all was quiet.

And then the other waiters smiled jubilantly, unrestrained. And he joined them.

They hit the factories first, as they said they would. Picked at the locks and kept picking until they finally gave away.

Soon enough electric saws were whirring and screaming at the doors to hovel after hovel after hovel while the lock picks worked on what locks they could. Every opened door saw new people picking up their own tools from the looted factories and helping open other doors.

And soon enough throngs of people, all who couldn't quite believe what was happening, were all walking towards the boarder. They walked as if they were somehow suddenly miraculously walking into the sky itself.

———

Azania knew a lot about how to live in the Forest. She taught the others. Shayla knew even more, somehow. Despite her young age, she had grown up in the midst of the Forest for her whole life. The Forest had raised her. And she knew how to ensure that the people and the Forest would be safe and healthy for all the new generations that the Forest would raise.

The other humans didn't live with the wolves. They lived in their own type of pack, wandering through the land. Azania and Shayla split their time between the human pack and the wolf pack. Both were their family. Neither was less important than the other.

There was enough food. For the people there was enough good, healthy food. There was enough fresh, clean water. There was time to rest, time to play, time to dream. The children did not work. They played and they learned and they came to understand life and the land. Everyone had enough. No-one had too much. Everything was shared. People decided together how to do things, how society would be formed.

Not that this even was a society at this point. It wasn't. People had been slaves for too long, have been held down under corrupt power structures for too long. They knew that they would never let the structures and hierarchies of a society overcome the freedom of the pack they had learned to create for themselves.

Shayla grew into a healer and a wise woman. And she lived a long happy life amongst wolves and humans and trees and rivers and the bright blue of the sky before she gave herself over to the land to continue on the circle of life.

And the masters never found them.

Synopsis: Madga is travelling near Northern Suuroo when she comes upon a tribe that has drastically changed since the death of the sun. The air is thick and smells so bad that she has to cover her face, yet she can still feel the grime on her skin. What have they done?

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Madga jumped at the sound of a loud snort. Her eyes darted to the two men sitting at one of the other tables.

“I have no idea,” the man who snorted answered. “They called them ‘coins’.”

Out of the corner of her eye she watch as the second man picked up one of the beaten, circular metal pieces. The flat sides flickered dim, golden light as he turned it over in his fingers.

The man’s lips twisted in doubt. “It’s pretty. I suppose you could melt it down for something.” He tossed it on the wooden table where is landed with a couple of dull thunks. “Throw it in the nearest spring and hope for the best.”

The first man snorted again. “That’s what I said when I first saw it. Told ’em I can’t eat metal. But they insisted. Figured it’d at least be good for an offering when we need a little extra help against the Tasoragh.”

The second man grunted in agreement.

Madga glanced around. Out of habit she raised her hands to ensure that her black hair was hidden firmly under her wool hat and hood. Then she held the warm, wooden cup on the table between her hands. With unseeing eyes, she watched the water faintly tremble as she listened to the sounds around her.

Every time someone stood from a table. Each time someone rolled over in their sleep on one of the beds. Whenever someone loudly slurped from their soup. And especially when people entered the rectangular house.

The home wasn’t as big as in other tribes. As their chief lived in Southern Suuroo there wasn’t a need to have such a large place. But guests and warriors with homes in the south needed a place to stay while up north, and someone to lead them while holding it all together.

A woman stepped in undoing one ribbon that kept her long hair in place. Her blond locks fell around her shoulders, covering simple line stains of a woman with a spear and cloak. Her neck had imagery of the sun and, though her blond hair now covered it, the sight caused Madga’s heart to slowly creep into her throat.

Her cup rattled on the surface of the table until she managed to remove her hands. She breathed high in her chest, which tightened with every step the woman took.

Madga stared into her cup, hands in her lap as the woman passed behind her.

Somewhere far to her left the woman laughed and Madga tensed. The woman spoke with a few others and Madga’s chest loosened a little. Without turning her head, she saw that the woman had stopped at one of the tables surrounded by other warriors. She laughed and chatted with them, her sun stain completely hidden from view. No one else seemed to have sun imagery, but Madga knew some people still resented the Gwae for the loss of the sun. And a few thin, dangling threads still worshiped it.

Madga swallowed and stood. She quickly shuffled to the cot she had borrowed and packed her things before pulling on her mitts. She barely managed to remember to grab her snowshoes before running out the door.

Outside Suuroo warriors trained against each other. A few had families that stayed with them all the time, but northern Suuroo was a tribe on the front line against the Tasoragh. It was small and didn’t serve any other purpose. Keeping her head down, Madga quickly escaped beyond the few snow-covered houses.

Her knuckles were white inside her mitts.

“Stupid,” she whispered to herself. She took in a ragged breath. “Stupid, stupid mistake….”

She kept whispering to herself as she trudged through the snow, away from Suuroo and any well-packed paths of travellers.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

After some lonely passes of the moon, Madga stumbled and a gust of air burst from her lungs as she hit the snow. She turned over with a grunt and the metal pot in her bag clanked up against her back.

She pushed into a sitting position. Her mitts sunk into the snow a little but she could still see the round arch of her snowshoe. The cords fastening the shoe to her boot had loosened and her boot had shifted off centre.

She moved to better sit up, fighting against her bag like she was a turtle on its back. With a huff she slipped her arms out of the straps and sat up. She removed her mitts and checked the cords and circular wooden frame of the snowshoe, breathing a sigh of relief to see that nothing was damaged.

She got to her feet and untied the cords, placed her boot in the centre, and then retied the cords as tight as she could. She lifted her foot up, down, and moved it around, testing it until she was satisfied.

She straightened and turned to pick up her pack, but paused. She breathed in and out, then breathed in deep and suddenly coughed. She grabbed the edge of her cloak to cover her nose and mouth.

An awful smell lingered in the air. Her brows furrowed as she looked around, but the half-moon revealed little in the dark under the evergreens.

She lowered the edge of the cloak and tentatively sniffed again. This time the air was clear. She paused for a moment, searching the area again, but when she found nothing she leaned down for her pack and mitts.

The snow compressed underneath her snowshoes with dull crunches. Each step left behind a trail of small, rounded teardrops.

As the moon took another step across the sky a gentle breeze tugged milk-thin clouds across it. They thickened, and the breeze descended into the trees.

The smell returned with a vengeance. The stench assaulted Madga’s nose, wriggled and dug into her lungs and smelled worse than rotting food or waste. It was like someone had shoved a dirty piece of cloth into her mouth. She hacked in an effort to get rid of it and covered her mouth and nose. She looked around but found nothing.

A light caught her eye and she looked up. Her eyes widened. The clouds had covered the moon and glowed a dull red.

She tried to think. Had she gone the wrong way and wandered too close to the Tasoragh? Was it a fight between them and the Suuroo? Had someone’s torch or campfire caught on the trees?

Her fingers opened and closed. She whimpered and looked back, looked forward. She shifted from foot to foot and watched as the glowing brightened for a few seconds.

She whimpered again: curiosity won.

Her steps turned careful and her eyes flickered upward every time the wind brushed against the tops of the trees. Her brows slowly rose in confusion at the lack of an animal presence. Tracks were missing, signs of feeding were gone. Bird calls were silent.

Her steps slowed and her lips worried together.

A low hum met her ears. She searched the dark, her head turning to find the source of the strange noise.

It rose to a roar and filled the very air around her. Her eyes widened and her breathing came in short gasps. Between the prickly branches the ominous glowing of the clouds brightened again.

Then as quickly as it came it stopped, leaving only the low hum.

She panted and little clouds of fog left her mouth. She stood for a long time, listening, with her arms and legs spread and ready to run.

Eventually her heart slowed and the sweat on her back cooled beneath the layers of clothing. Another whimper escaped her throat.

A faint bang echoed over the hum and her muscles tensed all over again. Another followed, and then relative silence.

She inhaled and released a shaky breath. Reluctant, but still curious, her feet began to move again. She came up a small hill and the sounds grew. Hammers and strange noises drifted into the forest.

She coughed when the smell grew stronger. Her nose and mouth twisted in disgust. As she walked the smell seemed to stick to her skin, like the grime and fat on metal plates. It seemed to cover the exposed parts of her face where she wasn’t trying to block the smell with her cloak.

She froze at the top of the hill. Below was a wide, circular clearing with a tribe sitting in the middle. The houses were rectangular, but unlike the Suuroo’s they were made of cut stone and stood completely above the ground. Each seemed to perfectly match up with the other, creating harsh angled walkways instead of gentle flowing ones. No central fire took precedence, but every house had a torch, and every window glowed bright with fire from inside.

Outside people hammered away next to metal shaping fires placed anywhere and everywhere. Occasionally shouting rose above the noise, but beyond them was another hill where the humming seemed to come from. It glowed, and then shifted once. Thick smoke rose from it.

“It’s not Tasoragh, if that’s what you think!”

Madga jumped with a cry. She turned to find a woman walking toward her across the hilltop.

She walked with a long stick, carved with abstract imagery of people in various poses. A similar image of a person had been stained on her face. She wore a dress over leggings and boots, and a bone broach fastened a fur and wool cloak around her. A hat covered her ears and a long blond braid trailed from underneath it and over her chest.

She smiled with a brief glanced over Madga. She came to a stop beside her. “I’m Cressamae, daughter of Neeoa. It’s not Tasoragh,” she repeated, pointing to the tribe. “I believe that’s what has become of Ktrint.”

Madga turned, glancing over the houses and people.

Madga frowned in confusion. “What? That’s not Ktrint-” She stopped herself and looked up at Cressamae with wide eyes.

Cressamae looked at her questioningly, but when she didn’t speak she repeated, “I believe that’s Ktrint. I’m sorry, I should have asked, have you ever been here before?”

Madga glanced away, quickly shaking her head.

Cressamae paused, waiting again. Her brow briefly pinched, but then she looked to the tribe and straightened, although her foot didn’t seem to respond as it should.

“I had heard that Ktrint didn’t fair well after the death of the sun.”

Madga flinched.

Cressamae didn’t notice, her gaze remained on Ktrint. As she spoke her voice briefly turned hard. “I’m not surprised. Quite honestly I’m more surprised that we have managed to make it this many generations without Suurie to warm our fields. It’s not shocking that any tribe would’ve changed so drastically.” She hummed. “Still, something about Ktrint smells bad.”

A surprised giggle bubbled up. “Oh, I didn’t mean to make that joke. That was a terrible.” She waved her hand.

“What is the smell?” Madga asked.

Cressamae winked. “That’s what I’m going find out. Care to join me?”

Madga hesitate. She looked at Ktrint. The noise was a lot to handle, and the smell was horrible and everywhere.

She slowly nodded.

“Great!” Cressamae said, and began down the hill.

Madga took a deep breath and instantly coughed and gagged. Cressamae looked back with concern but she waved it away. She leg go of her cloak and pulled her wrap up to cover the lower half of her face like she would to protect against cold winds. Then she released the broach of her cloak and shifted it, tightening the cloth until it too was snug over her mouth. Once it was secure she followed Cressamae.

Many feet had packed the snow closer to Ktrint. Madga bent to untie the cords around her boots. She paused, frowning at the snow where tiny flecks of black, like strange snowflakes or odd ash, had fallen. One piece was wider than the nail of her pinky finger yet just as thin.

She glanced up as Cressamae joined her.

Cressamae grunted as she crouched, shifting to accommodate what must be an old injury in her left foot. Then she inspected the flakes with a deep frown. She removed a mitt and touched one, but it didn’t melt. She delicately picked it up and held it between her fingers. When she pressed them together the black turned to dust that sparkled in the dim light.

Cressamae bought her finger to her nose and sniffed. She shook her head. “I can’t smell anything over this stench.” She sighed and brushed her fingers on a clean bit of snow.

Madga rose with her. Cressamae waited for her to secure her snowshoes to her pack, and a moment later they stepped into Ktrint.

The air worsened to the point where Madga could still smell it through her wrap and cloak. The grime thickened on her skin and her lips thinned. But around her people seemed unbothered. The young ran from place to place, carrying tools or raw metals to be shaped. Someone stepped outside and dipped a sword into a cauldron of liquid, which angrily hissed and steamed. Hammering and clanging resounded between the stone buildings. Madga covered her ears.

Those around Cressamae’s age and a little older were slower. They helped out with the metalshaping, but most appeared to be hobbling from one place to the next. Their hands were covered in black, and they coughed with every other wheezing breath. Madga couldn’t spot any elders.

No one spoke. Occasionally people shouted at each other over the noises, but otherwise mouths remained shut. Instead hands moved. They pointed, rubbed, and made interesting shapes with their fingers. Rather than watching their eyes or mouths, people paid attention to their hands and bodies. Madga slowed to a stop without realizing it as she watched a particularly rapid set of hands in awe.

The sky shattered with a bang. It thudded in her ears and shook her ribcage. She jumped and crouched, eyes wide. Small whimpers escaped her lips. Cressamae shouted wordlessly and her wooden staff with both hands in a defensive position.

They searched for the source of the noise but nothing became immediately apparent.

The nearby people stared at them, as though they hadn’t heard the sound and Madga and Cressamae were the ones acting strangely. Some continued what they were doing, unworried about the sudden bang. Others scowled at them.

Madga glanced at Cressamae. Cressamae frowned deeply and they exchanged looks of disbelief.

“-lo? Hello?” Someone touched Madga’s shoulder and she rose, twisting away in blind panic.

A woman had stepped toward them. She wore a too-big tunic with a dirty leather chest piece and too-tight leggings under a skirt. Leather boots crunched in the snow and a dirty hat covered her head.

The woman blinked at her sudden movement.

Madga remembered to breathe and straightened.

The woman collected herself as she looked over the both of them. Her eyes were surrounded by tired lines. Her voice rasped from disuse and the strain to be heard over the noises.

“You two are travellers, yes?”

Madga nodded.

Cressamae smiled and raised her voice to match. “Yes. I’m Cressamae, daughter of Neeoa. I’m a druid-teacher and I’ve come to learn about your tribe. I’ve-”

The woman quickly cupped both hands toward them, and then scooped the air toward her. She turned and left.

Cressamae briefly frowned. She smiled when Madga glanced at her.

“I suppose we should follow?” she said.

After a pause of hesitation, Madga shrugged. Cressamae’s smile grew and it smoothed over the tension in Madga’s shoulders a little.

They were led farther into the tribe, passed several more houses which echoed with clanging and banging. The clouds lit up again but this time the hum didn’t grow into a roar. A moment later something flickered around each torch they passed, reflecting the light of the flames but not melting like snow would. Madga felt more grime on her skin and as she walked a black fleck landed on the brown wool of the cloak where it covered her upper arm. She made to brush it off but it crumbled and left a smear of black dust on the wool. She frowned and brushed and batted at it until it seemed gone.

She looked up just in time to walk into someone. She gasped and stepped back, quickly apologizing. The woman glanced at her but didn’t stop.

Madga took a breath, coughed from the smell, and looked around. Cressamae waved from in front of a house and she quickly weaved around people to join her. A torch hung from the side of the stone building. Like the others it burned bright with a strange, dirty flame like that of a fire fuelled by fat.

The mysterious woman shut the door behind them and the outside sounds became more bearable. The calming woodsmoke of a fire masked the foul smell from outside. Dried herbs hanging from the ceiling helped to cover what the fire could not.

The woman removed small pieces of wool cloth from her ears. Then she removed her hat, revealing auburn hair that had been cut short.

Cressamae gasped with a hand over her heart. She took a step back.

Madga glanced at her. Brows raised with concern, she looked at the colour of the woman’s hair and how short it was. She frowned and bit her lip in thought.

“Are you Coo’noam?” she asked.

Cressamae glanced at her, mouth open in an ‘oh’ shape.

The woman stared in confusion. “I’m from here. Godeco.”

Madga stuttered. “Oh-oh… it’s just you have short hair and… never mind.”

Cressamae cleared her throat and stepped forward. She re-introduced herself, and then said, “I’m hear to learn about ‘Godeco’.”

The woman opened her mouth but stopped when someone groaned and babbled without meaning. She turned at the sound with a sigh.

Over her shoulder she said, “You can wait through there while I take care of her. Help yourself to some water.”

She left them to quickly walk over to a raised cot that held a woman a little older than Cressamae. Her hands made a few motions and the woman tried turning them, but a cough wracked her lungs. She rubbed her back and then wiped the blood away once it was done.

Madga’s gaze travelled around the house. Rows of cots held other patients in similar worrying states. Some as young as her, or rather what she had been before she had stopped aging. Some were injured from tools, but most had a cough. Their chests rose and fell with wheezing breaths.

Suddenly the woman bent, placing a hand on one of the cots to steady herself. Once it passed she pulled her hand away from her mouth. She breathed out in relief and straightened.

Her gaze fell on them and surprise flash across her face. She gestured again to where she had told them to go before. “Over here,” she rasped.

The house thinned. The edges of the walls were sharp, matching the outside of the rectangular house, but instead these bent inward. Madga glanced over the perfect, smoothed walls and a shiver ran down her back.

The walls soon backed away again as they entered another part of the house. It was smaller than the previous area and filled to the brim. An empty cot sat in one corner while a cook fire, in a stone and metal thing, stood against the wall on the opposite side. Next to it were shelves filled with pots, pans, spoons, knives, and cups. Another shelf had stored food.

A tall table stood in the middle of the space, with smaller, circular tables around it.

Madga and Cressamae stared as the woman walked around the tables to grab a few cups. Cressamae removed her mitts and ran a hand along the smoothed stone of the tallest table.

The woman turned. She paused at their confusion, but then her brows rose.

She said in awe, “I’d heard other people don’t use tables like ours, but I never believed it. Please, sit down.”

She padded the top of one of the smaller tables before turning again to grab a container of water.

Cressamae removed her pack and placed it on the stone floor, and she leaned her staff against the table. She put her mitts on top of the table and watched as the woman sat down on the other side of it. Cressamae mimicked her, and in a moment she was sitting without her butt touching the floor.

Madga hesitatingly removed her pack and mitts but kept her hat on. She tugged the smaller, heavy stone and wood table out from under the taller one and carefully straddled it. It felt strange to sit with her legs dangling above the ground, as though she were sitting on a log.

The woman poured them each a cup of water.

“Thank-” Madga stopped as she stared into the water. Tiny black dots swirled around inside the cup.

The woman’s face fell. She moved her hand, then stopped herself and said, “I’m sorry.” She reached out across the table toward Cressamae. “But that’s why I’m glad you’re here. That anyone is here. We can’t keep going on like this-” As if to prove her point, her breath caught in her throat and she coughed to clear it.

Cressamae frowned. She ran a finger over her forehead and rubbed the invisible grime between her finger and thumb.

“What is all this.… What should we call you?”

“Cioborah. This….” She mimicked Cressamae and wiped her forehead. She looked down at her hand as though she had never thought about the grime before. “I can’t explain what it is.”

Her gaze rose, filled with furious determination. “But I know where it’s coming from and that it’s making everyone sick. It has been for generations, which is why no one can see that it’s happening.”

Madga hooked a finger and pulled down the wrap and cloak around her face. “Since when? When did it start?”

Cioborah’s frown turned to her and she shrank back.

Cressamae smiled. “We believe you, Cioborah.”

Madga nodded quickly.

Cioborah sighed and rubbed her temple. She gestured again. “I’m sorry. People here think I’m crazy. They don’t want to hear about how the spirit is killing us, yet they still want us healers to work without stopping. We are barely holding on. If they would just listen....”

Cressamae straightened and raised her hand before Cioborah could continue. “Spirit?”

Cioborah nodded. She took a sip of the water and Madga winced.

Cioborah opened her mouth just as another roar shook the house. The water rippled and the flames in the torches flickered. Madga cried out and Cressamae gripped the table.

Again it was over as quickly as it started.

Madga covered her face. She peeked between her fingers to see Cioborah staring at them.

Then a weak, hysterical laugh escaped her. She rubbed her forehead.

“We really are in trouble if outsiders are scared by that,” she muttered.

Cressamae brushed her hand over her hair and down her braid. She glanced down at her braid, rubbing her thumb and fingers again, then looked up.

“I’m not a druid-priest, but maybe I can help. Will you show me this spirit?”

Cioborah immediately got to her feet with her hands on the table. “I can show you now.”

“Oh! Yes, alright.” Cressamae rose and stepped away from the smaller table. She picked up her things and pulled on her mitts and hat again.

Cioborah abandoned her cup. She walked around the table and down the narrowed space. Cressamae began following her, staff in hand.

Madga hesitated.

Cressamae looked back. “Will you come?” Her eyebrows turned upward, almost pleading.

Madga swallowed. She nodded and slid off the small table. She replaced her mitts and slung on her pack. Then adjusted her wrap and cloak over her mouth and nose.

Outside the noises assaulted her ears. Cioborah reached into a pocket in her skirt and pulled out more of the pieces of wool cloth. She handed a pair to Madga and then to Cressamae before blocking her own ears.

“Keep your nose and mouth covered,” Cioborah reminded them.

Madga asked, “What about you?”

A corner of Cioborah’s mouth twitched. “It’s too late for me. But I won’t have outsiders getting sick.”

“Thank you,” Cressamae said. Her words were muffled under a mitt.

The sound of clanging hammers lessened as Cioborah led them through the narrow paths between buildings. The low hum and rumble grew in its place. Although it was still cold out, Madga realized she felt warmer than in the forest. Usually tribes were always a little warmer, but this was enough that some people forwent a piece of clothing. Usually a hat, which allowed her to see that almost no one had anything to protect their ears against the noise.

With Cioborah with them they earned more glances, and a few glares. Others nodded at Cioborah, and one stopped her with a hand gestured. Cioborah shifted on her feet but faced the man and began moving her hands. Neither spoke a word, yet their hands moved quickly and expressions flickered across their faces.

Madga inhaled in sudden understanding. Then her nose wrinkled at the smell.

Once Cioborah was finished she began leading them again.

Madga asked, “Do you speak with your hands?”

Cioborah glanced over her shoulder. She smiled at her curious expression. “We do.”

“It’s because of the noise, isn’t it?” Cressamae said in awe, watching as a group of four had a rapid conversation with their hands.

Cioborah nodded. Her smile faded. “Some people don’t know how to talk without it. … Do you have anything like that?”

Madga shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Cressamae agreed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Her eyes sparkled. “I would love to learn it and share with others, if that’s alright with you.”

Cioborah said, “I could teach you, but if nothing can be done I’d rather you stayed away from Godeco.”

Cressamae nodded in understanding. Then she asked, “Were you once known as Ktrint?”

Cioborah’s steps slowed as she thought. They side-stepped a group of people.

“Yes, I think so,” she answered. “But it’s been a long time since we’ve called ourselves that,” she said with regret and longing.

Soon the number of buildings thinned. Rows of torches led them along a well-packed path toward a small incline, and behind it, the moving hill Madga had seen before.

Her steps slowed. She stared, perturbed as the rumble grew very loud for a few seconds, and sections almost like cracks in the hill glowed red. The clouds in the sky had thinned but smoke rising from the hill replaced them and perpetually obscured the stars. The smoke caught the light and reflected the dim glow. When the rumble lessened the glow dimmed further.

Madga glanced at Cressamae. She shared a look of worry and caution.

A few steps ahead, with a dread calm Cioborah said, “We’ve been digging for metals and materials for generations. For as long as we can remember, the spirit has always been here.”

She paused and took a deep breath. “In all honesty, we’re probably the ones hurting ourselves. Not the spirit.”

“Why?” Cressamae asked.

“Because we’re hurting it.” She crested the hill and they followed her, freezing at the top.

In shock, Madga mistakenly inhaled and she covered her mouth with a hand as she coughed.

The same bright, dirty torches surrounded a giant spirit. It’s back—belly?—was the basis of the large ‘hill’ Madga had seen. It skin was blackened, burnt to a crisp and glowed a dim orange-red. A section of skin, thin like membrane, broke and a plume of fire flared up. The sky glowed again and another rumble shook the ground. The flames were like that of the torches, edged with black and anger.

Another loud roar cut through the air. Madga’s hands threw up to cover her ears, crouching with a whimper.

The spirit shifted and moved. Her eyes darted around until she quickly spotted what looked like a gigantic mouth full of human teeth. The teeth were yellowed, and blackened in some spots. A thickened liquid flowed out of the mouth, catching the light and shining like a rainbow, until a man below caught it in a cauldron. He held the cauldron over his head but most splashed down around him, onto dead dirt where snow refused to accumulate or grass grew. He stepped away and a woman took his place until the spirit stopped vomiting.

The roaring stopped.

Madga wrapped her shaking arms around her stomach.

The rest of the spirit was just as disfigured. A huge human arm with burnt flesh lay limp on the ground. A group of people sat on and around it while they rested from their work. Fleshy ropes with blood pumping out of them came from a sucking rim of muscle. With every second breath the ropes twitched and sparkling pieces of silver trickled out. A man knelt and collected them.

Another rumble—a groan of pain—escaped the spirit. A hand of half bone and half exposed muscle weakly clawed at the ground. The Godeco walked around it without worry. Once it stopped moving a woman walked up. With a hammer and chisel she chipped away at the bone. What fell away turned to gold chunks in the bowl she had placed on the ground.

Madga turned and yanked down the cloth covering her face. She emptied her stomach on the ground, narrowly missing the ends of her cloak. She panted, staring at the ground. Already disfigured by the horrors nearby, the ground hardly seemed changed by the vomit.

Someone touched her shoulder. She gasped and shifted away only to see Cioborah’s hand raised in the air. Her brows came together as she watched her in concern and sadness, but her expression was heavily tainted by emotional exhaustion.

Cioborah returned her hand to her shoulder, rubbing up and down in comfort.

“How could you ever do this?” Cressamae breathed in horror. Her wide eyes couldn’t turn away from the pained spirit. “I can’t believe that anyone would ever do something like this.”

Cioborah’s hand slowed and then stopped. She lowered it. Madga missed the small comfort but she didn’t say anything.

Cioborah looked down. “…I don’t know. I don’t understand it either. Maybe, once, it was the only way we saw to survive. I don’t know....”

“Cio!” a deep voice called.

Madga turned. A man walked up the incline toward them. Like Cioborah and the rest of Godeco he wore ill-fitting clothes. A metal piece kept his sweaty bangs from falling into his face. He frowned deeply from under a blackened beard.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. He glanced at Madga and Cressamae. His frown deepened but his gaze returned to Cioborah. Madga rose and joined Cressamae as they spoke.

Cioborah put her hands on her hips. “What’s it to you? So long as I help people it shouldn’t matter where I go.”

“But you can’t help people if you stick around here. What about your patients?”

She scowled. “There’ll be more tomorrow. There always is.”

Madga’s eyes widened.

The man huffed. He made a gesture as he said, “How can you say that?”

“Same way you take part in this,” she gestured to the people harvesting from the spirit. “I just don’t care.”

She glared up at him, tears filling up in her eyes but never falling.

He rolled his eyes and stepped away. “Not this again.”

Cioborah’s teeth clenched at his actions.

Madga stepped back. Her eyes flashed from one to the other. Next to her Cressamae seemed to be waking up from her shock. She lowered her mitt and looked at them, but then quickly covered her mouth again to block the poisoned air.

Their voices rose. The man growled, Cioborah snapped. Cioborah screeched and the man bellowed. While the spirit’s rumbling continued, Madga glanced to see that the people below had stopped and were watching them. On the other side hammers stopped as other Godeco looked up.

Madga took a shaky breath. She looked up when Cressamae put a hand on her shoulder. Cressamae smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. Madga failed to return the attempt at comfort.

Cressamae leaned down to pick up her staff, which she had dropped in her shock. Straightening, she took a deep breath, coughed, and then stepped toward Cioborah and the man.

“Hello, I’m Cressamae. Why don’t we sit down and-”

Someone screamed. The cry carried across the tribe and over the spirit’s rumbling. Their heads snapped toward the sound. More yells and screams rose up.

Madga searched the dark. She couldn’t make out anything yet, but the reflected glow of the spirit’s fire revealed enough for the others.

The man swore. He turned and called down to everyone around the spirit to grab their weapons and be ready.

As he stormed toward the buildings Cioborah shook her head in disbelief. “Not again,” she said with dread.

“What is it?” Cressamae asked.

Cioborah glanced at them. The lines deepened around her eyes. “A spirit attack.”

Madga’s heart stopped. “What?” she breathed.

“It used to happen once in a generation, but lately it’s been happening more often,” Cioborah explained. “This is the third one in my life. I’m sorry, I need to make sure my patients are okay. Please, run.”

She turned and bolted down the hill. Once between the buildings she weaved around the chaos of people. Everyone seemed to have a weapon in hand, be it a sword, a dagger, or a metal spear. The torch light glinted off the sharp, metal weapons.

Madga tensed as a flame roared up from one building far at the other end of the tribe. Her stomach twisted, but with nothing to bring up she could only swallow back bile.

The air and earth rumbled again. A shattering roar made her clench her teeth. She spun and she gasped. The spirit was trying to rise up on its damaged, twisted hands. A woman stabbed at its thumb and it fell down with a groan.

A scream broke out from the others, then again louder as another and another house caught on fire. More screams joined it. Between the buildings people shouted. A few yelled orders and people that seemed to be warriors carried them out.

Another yell tore Madga back to the spirit. The workers were surrounding it, jabbing it with swords and spears to keep it from getting up. But near the mouth of teeth were two more spirits. One a boar with glowing red, artistic swirls and wedges on their fur, another a wolf whose body occasionally turned into similar red swirls.

The grey and black wolf was bigger than normal. It snarled, its teeth dripping with saliva. It glared at the people, slowly circling them, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Madga looked at Cressamae.

Cressamae slowly shook her head. “I… I think they’re trying to help it.”

“What should we do?” Madga asked.

Cressamae shook her head again.

Madga’s breath shortened. The giant spirit groaned loud, and with the wolf and boar occupying the humans it managed to rise to its hands. With a last look at it, she turned and ran along the top of the hill.

Cressamae shouted after her but she didn’t look back.

Tears stung her eyes and fear gave energy to her legs. She panted as she ran farther into the dark, away from the overwhelming chaos and into the safety of the forest.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

She sat against the gnarled trunk of an evergreen, just under its prickly needles. The branches flowed downward, acting like the roof of a roundhouse and shielding her from the outside.

Her entire body trembled. Her arms were pressed between her knees and chest. Her head was tucked in with her hands covering it. Her fingers dug into the rough wool of her hat; the hood of her wrap having fallen in her haste.

She sniffed, then flinched and whimpered as another roar echoed through the forest. She tucked her feet in closer.

The earth violently shook and she inhaled with a gasp, swallowing her heart. She stared straight at nothing as she listened.

The sky went dark and she was unable to see the dim red anymore through the branches.

She waited. She listened.

She took a shaky breath, then another.

After another, long moment of silence she shifted her pack aside and slowly crawled out from under the tree. She tucked back in to grab her pack and looked up.

Still nothing.

She threaded her arms through the straps slung it on before shakily rising to her feet. She stared at the sky and then the direction she had come.

She took a breath and stepped forward. She had sunk into the snow up to her calves but her only care had been to get away. Now they provided a clear path back to Godeco.

Her steps slowed as she walk along the top of the hill and a long puff of fog escape between her lips.

The huge spirit had moved. Where she, Cressamae, and Cioborah had been standing now the hill had been ravaged. Scorch marks further ruined the earth after the snow had melted under the intense heat. The black marks surrounded deep gouges that had been dug into the ground, from one side of the hill, over it, and into Godeco where the spirit had fallen on top of many houses, crushing them in the process.

Numbly, her legs took her down the hill.

Bodies lay on the ground, torn apart or burned beyond recognition. Her stomach churned at the smell of burning flesh.

She carefully avoided the corpses as she wandered farther in. Voices pricked at her ears and she slowly followed the sound.

What once had been Godeco was now completely torn apart. The stone buildings had collapsed, torn into by the huge spirit, and pieces of stone were scattered across the paths between them. Torches had caught on other buildings and those who could helped to put them out with snow or dirt. People who couldn’t sat anywhere they could, bleeding out or curled into themselves, protecting whatever wounds they had gained while waiting for one of the few healers in Godeco.

Madga paused, staring at the giant spirit two houses away. A few warriors stood there. One poked it with a sword. Instead of twitching its skin broke and fire flowed out of it. The woman jumped back with a shout and a man rushed in to douse the flames.

“I should have known.”

Madga turned around. Cressamae sat next to a broken home with a dried trickle of blood along the side of her face. A bruise had formed on her forehead but Cioborah soon wrapped her head with a cloth to help the healing.

“Don’t sleep for a while,” Cioborah tiredly advised. She leaved back and rubbed her shoulder. She winced, dropping her hand.

Cressamae nodded but didn’t look away from Madga.

“Of course a Gwae would run.” Cressamae’s lips thinned. “Coward.”

Madga stepped back as though struck. Her hand rose, discovering that at some point locks of black hair had escaped from under her hat.

She took another step back. Although her eyes were already red, tears rimmed them again. She hiccuped, remembering the smiles and brief kindness Cressamae had shown her. But now the woman only looked at her with contempt.

“I… I’m-”

Someone gasped and another shouted.

She flinched. She shrunk and turned, expecting another angry voice.

Instead they were looking beyond her, toward where the spirit had collapsed. She turned and her eyes widened at the mass of swirls. They shifted, slowing expanding out as though filling a human chest with air, and then swiftly shrunk in to one point where they coalesced into a solid form once again

A naked man stood there. Without the body of the spirit holding them up more pieces of stone fell and another building collapsed. While everyone jumped and shouted in shock the man didn’t so much as blink.

He raised his broad hand, and slowly Godeco returned to quiet.

“Do you remember me?” he asked as he lowered his hand.

Madga’s spine trembled. Instinctively she knew his voice should have been one of safety, but it now lay low to the ground like a predator.

People exchanged glances.

When no one spoke, his long moustache and beard shook as he he bellowed, “I…ASKED: DO YOU REMEMBER ME?”

The warriors raised their weapons. People stared. Some grabbed the person next to them for comfort.

He glared at them. “No, you wouldn’t. If you did it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“Who- who are you?” a man asked near the front. He held up a trembling dagger.

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re the spirit,” Cressamae answered for him, rising to her feet. She wobbled but Cioborah steadied her.

“I am, druid.”

Madga shakily breathed in. Gasps sounded around her. Whispers and mutterings followed. Horror began taking hold.

Cressamae raised her hand to Cioborah, letting her know she was fine.

She took a few steps toward the spirit. She lowered her head and asked, “May I know your name?”

His mouth twisted. “I was known as Twrl. I was once one of them. I slept for a long time, and then awoke to my body being torn apart for protection and safety that I once provided for them without a second thought,” he spat.

At his tone the people shrunk back. Madga felt the disappointment like she had felt the grime in the air.

“This is how you would treat your own?” He spat on the ground.

Gazes diverted and people shuffled on their feet.

Cioborah nodded with her arms crossed. The lines under her eyes seemed deeper. “He’s right.” Twrl looked at her and she continued without turning away from his gaze. “I’m a healer. I’ve seen what what we’ve done to ourselves, how we treat each other. We deserved this.”

The Godeco exchanged looks of shame. Some glanced away in frustration. Others closed their eyes.

Twrl’s shoulders relaxed but his hands remained as fists. He nodded at her.

“Good. Perhaps there is some good left in this tribe.”

His gaze left her. It passed what was left of Godeco without much warmth.

He returned to Cressamae. His amber eyes focused on her for a long moment, considering her. In return she frowned in confusion.

He pointed at her. “How does one ask a spirit for help?”

Cressamae’s frown deepened but she ultimately answered, “Well, I would simply ask, as well as offer something in return. …I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”

Twrl nodded as though confirming something to himself. He lowered his hand and turned away, disappearing into swirls that faded to nothing.

The people were silent for a long pause.

Then a man asked, “What does that mean? Who’s Twrl?”

“An ancestor of yours, if I remember my lessons correctly,” Cressamae answered.

A few people swore. Others muttered to each other.

As they spoke, Madga almost didn’t hear Cressamae murmur, “First the sun, now this. Gwae are bad to have around.”

A breath caught in Madga’s chest. Cressamae’s glare fell on her again and Madga took a step back, then another. Cressamae followed.

Madga’s throat tightened.

“But what are we going to do now?” someone asked a little loudly.

Another nodded. “How are we going to live if we can’t trade our metals for food?”

“Forget that, where are we going to live?”

People nodded and agreed with this.

Cressamae stopped. She stared at Madga a little longer, then walked by before panic could set into the Godeco. Madga quickly stepped out of her way.

Cressamae put her hand on her chest. “I’ll help you.” Once she had their attention, she said, “I can teach you all I know. I’ll also send word out to other druids and tribes to ask for help.” She smiled tiredly. “We’ll get through this together.”

The Godeco seemed to relax. Madga watched as they nodded and comforted each other.

Her stomach get heavy. She slowly backed away. Her focus was largely on Cressamae’s back, but she often glanced down, taking care not to make a sound as she avoided the fallen debris.

There was a gasped and she nearly tripped.

Someone pointed up and she paused to look. The clouds had opened and the sky was no longer dark. The stars shone as brightly as usual, although the moon wasn’t out.

She looked down, confused, but more and more people were staring at the sky in awe. Even Cioborah looked up, her eyes wide as her hands fell to her sides.

Then it hit her with a start. Madga looked up again, realizing that without the horrifying form of Twrl releasing constantly smoke, the winds were finally allowed to blow away the poisonous clouds.

The Godeco were seeing the stars for the first time in generations.

She felt a smile inside but couldn’t wear it. She glanced at Cressamae and continued backing away until she reached the last of what was left of the buildings. She turned and fled into the dark.

John generally left the wolf responders alone; they seemed too tired and bedraggled to answer questions, and a few treated him with suspicion or as an intruder.

But he learned that Mayor Dwyer reluctantly mobilized the Wolf Guard in the early morning of March 11. Most had neither hunted wolves before nor joined the Wolf Guard before March 11, but they tended to own guns and patriotically worry about Wolftown’s safety. They relied on the authorities’ instructions.

Due to the flood, some responders sheltered in houses or businesses, ready to patrol the streets once the water level lowered, but most people rested in Holy Trinity. Some people preferred living in damp houses without electricity or plumbing to venturing outside and encountering the wolf.

Phil, the town plumber, and Gary, Holy Trinity's, acquired potable warm water and improvised ways to relieve people. They asked John not to describe their methods to inspectors.

Most wolf responders were male and unaffiliated with Holy Trinity, but Lutheran women popped up, apparently prepared for anything. They scrounged water-tight containers and laid out the locker rooms’ towels and washcloths in the science lab. Their hot food and coffee wafted from the Fellowship Hall, which John avoided. If he asked, “What brand is it? What’s in it?” somebody would ask why, and speaking with people all day made him too tired to explain veganism.

Eating a granola bar from his pocket, John re-read and organized his notes at the gymnasium’s folding table.

Officer Billy Schuster trudged to him. “Hi, Mr. Dalton.”

“Hi. You don’t need to call me mister,” John said, four years older than Schuster.

Previously, John had been too preoccupied to think about Schuster’s appearance, but now he noticed Schuster’s red eyes. He assumed Schuster had cried; he forgot if his eyes were red earlier.

“I’m on duty, so I call all men mister,” Schuster said. “I’m looking for Wayne.”

“He’s taking a nap, but I don’t know where.”

“Let him sleep. Half the wolf responders are too old for stuff like this. While I’m here, do you have questions for me?”

“I was told to be careful what I asked you because you answer whether or not you have authorization.”

He snorted a laugh and said, “It depends on the topic. I’ve asked Phelps and Mayor Dwyer what I’m authorized to tell you. Has Wayne told you about the attack on Foster and I?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s important to things I have to ask Wayne. I’m assuming you would be listening, so you need context. You can chime in if you want. Do you want me to tell you?”

“Sure, but I can’t help you if you intend to kill the wolf. I don’t know how I could help anyway.”

“Okey-dokey. If you want to listen but decide not to give any advice, that’s fine. It’s up to you and I won’t pressure you. With the kind of ideas we have, we need multiple perspectives. And you seem to be available.”

“I’m a lot less experienced with wolves than Wayne is. And a lot of other people.”

“I also don’t have a good way to preserve my account of what happened. I think you’d write down what you heard and it would be difficult to get the only copy from you.”

“Because of the police corruption?”

“Making multiple copies of things and stuff like that is a reflex at this point. It probably isn’t a big deal.”

“Sure, I’ll listen.”

To avoid somebody inconvenient overhearing, Schuster led John to the principal’s office, which much of Holy Trinity’s activity would bypass. Normally, John would have dubiously gone with him, especially alone, but Schuster seemed ethical.

“Just so you know, I’m not looking for revenge. I don’t care if the wolves get captured or killed or whatever, but they need to stop killing people,” Schuster said.

“I agree that they need to stop,” John said. “And most mayors would have authorized killing them.”

“You won’t like what we did to the wolf.”

“It might be acting normally for a wolf, but I feel sorry for the victims. I don’t want wolves to attack people.”

“We didn’t, either. Officer Foster and I were on unpaid administrative leave for accusing Chief Laufenberg of misconduct. We volunteered for duty because the wolves were attacking people and somebody was going to die sooner or later. We became cops to protect people and sometimes animals are involved. If Wolftown had a bigger force, we probably would’ve been given duty today instead of last night.”

The Wolftown Police Department issued officers with pepper spray, also called OC, 92 Beretta handguns, and, against the wolf, tranquilizer guns with ketamine darts. Pepper spray and grappling subdued the average unruly person in Wolftown, but Wayne was highly theoretical about pepper spray’s effects on wolves. They carried guns because many citizens owned guns and some visitors hunted. The semi-automatic handgun fired 9mm rounds and one magazine held fifteen rounds. Thus far, every attempt to tranquilize a wolf failed, but Schuster and Foster expected somebody to sedate a wolf sooner or later.

“But this morning, you shot seventeen times before reloading,” John said.

“Stephanie made me switch to my Glock,” Schuster said. “I don’t think it changes anything, but it makes her feel better.”

Left-handed, Foster carried the gun and pepper spray on his left side, but Schuster on his right. They could use weapons with the opposite hands, but less accurately.

In his briefing, Wayne essentially said, that the wolves would win a grappling match except against Tarzan.

Corporal Karl Henry advised policemen to bring bandages and tourniquets in their pockets, instead of leaving them in the patrol cars’ first aid kits, and to use the injured policeman’s first aid supplies.

On March 10, the Marshals worried Ms. Parker and her boyfriend or their friends might be unaware of a wolf near the children or unable to protect them during a wolf attack. Mr. Tyrone Marshal offered to board up Ms. Parker’s dog flap. She had already barricaded the dog flap.

On March 11, at approximately the same time as the wolf attack on Schuster and Foster, police officers and animal control nearly caught Barker and Charlie.

At 5:00 AM on March 11, Mr. Marshal woke up, letting his wife sleep in. With children inside and a wolf outside, in order to smoke a cigarette, he ran the stove’s ventilation fan and stuck his head out a kitchen window. His kitchen window faced Ms. Parker’s backyard.

Mr. Marshal looked out the backyard. Seeing a large dog different than Ms. Parker’s mutt, Rowdy, he turned on the back door’s light. He thought the animal seemed less doglike. It pushed halfway through the dog flap, paused, backed out again, and walked between the houses.

Worried about the wolf attacks, Mr. Marshal warned the homeowners. Ms. Parker told Mr. Marshal they preferred animal control over the police and asked him not to call anybody. Because the wolf left, and their quick search showed no wolves, they felt safe. He worried the wolf could have returned or would in a few minutes.

Mr. Marshal called 911, brought his shotgun and buckshot shells to the kitchen, and through the window, watched for the wolf. Also, he warned the dispatcher about his shotgun and promised when police arrived, he would store it in the master bedroom’s closet.

Schuster and Foster responded to the 911 call and saw a wolf further down Ms. Parker’s street.

The policemen woke up Ms. Parker, and Schuster assured her that the Wolftown Police Department focused on the wolves and fatal situations, disregarding everything else. Her family’s and friends’ safety concerned Schuster and Foster. Foster pointing out wolf eyes across the street changed Ms. Parker’s mind.

As if looking for a human, having little idea how else to conduct a house search for an animal, Foster and Schuster cleared the messy, dirty one-story two-bedroom house. They gathered Ms. Parker, her boyfriend Mr. Lyons, her children, and Rowdy into the master bedroom and told them to lock the door.

To block the door, Ms. Parker had piled stuff around a broken chair that Schuster considered junk but Ms. Parker might consider a legitimate piece of furniture. The pile had been scooted and toppled towards the kitchen like something shoved it from the dog flap.

Because of people smoking, Ms. Parker’s gas stove, and a cluttered house scattered with flammable things, plus Schuster and Foster’s unexpressed dubious feeling about the smoke detectors, the policemen offered to board up the dog flap themselves. Ms. Parker thought their barricade worked well; she cared slightly about damage to the door.

Ms. Parker kept Rowdy inside because of the wolf, and she and Mr. Lyons said the front door was shut when Mr. Marshal called. They wondered if he called the police on Rowdy again.

The family intended to go to sleep when the police left. Schuster and Foster thought Ms. Parker might agree to boarding up the dog door if Mr. Marshal’s description did not match Rowdy, but disturbing her sleep again would irritate her.

Meanwhile, Mr. Marshal saw the canine and heard a wolf.

Schuster and Foster picked their way back-to-back around Ms. Parker’s house to the Marshal’s house. The upkeep levels clearly marked the boundary between their properties, and less so the other neighbors.

“Do you feel like somebody is watching us?” Foster asked along the way.

“They could be,” Schuster said. “Do you think we get that feeling from animals?”

“No idea.”

Foster and Schuster asked Mr. Marshal to leave his gun inside the closet until they left and warned him that firing a gun within Wolftown’s city limits was illegal. He said, “I won’t go near it, no way. I don’t want a misunderstanding where somebody gets shot.”

They asked Mr. Marshal about their dog flap idea. He was willing to lend tools to Schuster and Foster, but absolutely never to Ms. Parker’s family or her guests. “And don’t bring the toolbox with you,” he said. For extra wolf resistance, he suggested the drill, and he volunteered to unscrew the board later.

Schuster and Foster apologized to Mrs. Marshal for waking up her and the children. Taking Mr. Marshal’s statement, they heard gunfire near Ms. Parker’s house. They told him to stay inside, lock the doors, and keep everybody away from the windows, and radioed dispatch again.

Cautiously, Schuster and Foster returned to Ms. Parker’s house, both with drawn guns. Schuster saw a wolf’s glowing eyes, but the wolf ran away.

According to Mr. Lyons, a wolf jumped near the window several times. Standing inside the bedroom, Mr. Lyons fired through the window, breaking the glass; police determined he completely missed the wolf. Schuster considered this surprisingly clear thinking compared to Mr. Lyons’ thought processes on previous calls. He and Foster warned Mr. Lyons about various laws and recommended telling officers he had a gun. To his and Foster’s relief, Ms. Parker’s family would go to a friend’s house.

Schuster and Foster intended to escort the family safely to their car, but Foster saw the wolf across the street. It bolted behind a neighbor’s house.

Instead, they decided to search for the wolf and ask Mr. Marshal to warn his neighbors.

So, Ms. Parker’s family locked themselves in the windowless bathroom, waiting for the police to either catch the wolf or chase it away.

The wolf vocalized closer to the Marshals’ house than Ms. Parker’s house.

On the dash to the Marshals’ house, Foster said, “Sometimes I really hate the Second Amendment.”

Mr. Marshal opened the door in time for Schuster and Foster to run straight inside. They still asked for permission, though. He began phoning his neighbors.

Mrs. Marshal said she saw something towards the front of their house.

Schuster slung his tranquilizer gun over his back and drew his handgun, while Foster held the tranquilizer gun in one hand and had his other hand on his handgun. They walked with their backs to the walls, and when going between houses, they moved back to back. Schuster could not tell John what they said during radio transmissions, but they remained in contact with the dispatcher.

Over a couple minutes, the wolf returned to Ms. Parker’s and Marshal’s house. The dispatcher said that Mr. Marshal said the wolf explored the dog door again. By the time Schuster and Foster reached Ms. Parker’s house, the wolf had moved out of sight along the wall with the broken window.

A pair of wolf eyes glowed in front of Schuster for several seconds; he doubted his shot struck the wolf.

As Foster turned the corner, the wolf bit his right leg just above the knee. He screeched and fell.

Schuster turned the corner. He tried to dazzle the wolf without blinding Foster. He repositioned himself. Because Foster and the wolf moved constantly, Schuster could not find a clear line of fire.

Foster fired his handgun three times, once inside the wolf’s mouth, and once striking it.

Retelling the events to John in a church building, Schuster paraphrased much of Foster’s words through the rest of the attack. In an alarming, panicked tone Schuster had never heard from anybody before, Foster yelled, “Shoot it! I can’t fire my gun!”

Just when Schuster saw Foster and the wolf, he tore something off Foster’s body. Schuster initially hoped the floppy thing was his shirt or the softer fabric covering of his body armor, but worried it was Foster’s flopping skin or an intestine.

In the same tone, Foster said, “I lost my gun!”

Likely, Foster gripped any part of the gun with either hand, but rain, blood, and mud made the gun too slippery for a secure grip, and the pain probably discouraged using his hand. If only one finger looped through the trigger, and nothing else touched the gun, Foster could have lost it. Schuster believed Foster touched the gun without holding it for as long as possible; he may have dropped it multiple times. The wolf bit through Foster’s left hand, affecting his dexterity. The bites on his forearm affected his grip strength. The wolf injured Foster’s right hand less severely, but enough to complicate firing a gun with a non-dominant hand.

He continued wrestling with the duty belt and told Schuster to shoot regardless of hitting him. He fired at the wolf’s ribs; around the same time, Foster pepper sprayed the wolf, which flinched and yelped.

Schuster fired three more times at the fleeing wolf, while Foster tranquilized the wolf one-handed. The heavily bleeding wolf held a solid metal object in his mouth. It resembled a gun.

Slumped against the wall and ground, Foster fumbled with his tranquilizer gun.

“I can’t reload,” he said.

“Take it easy,” Schuster said.

Schuster looked for Foster’s injuries under the mud, from head to toe.

“Did it bite you?” Foster asked.

“No. Where are you bitten?” Several times, Schuster would tell Foster, “Take it easy.”

“In my radio.”

“What?”

“You didn’t shoot me.”

“I shot you?”

“No, you didn’t. It whizzed.”

“Mr. Marshal, can you hear us?” Schuster yelled.

Mrs. Marshal said, “He’s getting his shotgun! Tell him not to shoot around policemen!”

“Tom Lyons?” Foster asked.

To Schuster's relief, body armor protected the front of Foster’s chest and torso.

“Okey-dokey, ma’am. Tell him Foster and I told you to make him listen to you. Stay inside.” To Foster, he said, “Mr. Marshal has a shotgun.”

Foster paid little attention to the pain throughout the attack, but he began to notice it. His left hand and arm poured blood, causing most of his blood loss. His left middle finger dangled by a tendon or his skin, and the wolf had bitten or torn off his left index finger, his trigger finger; blood gushed from them.

Foster asked, “Where’s my wedding ring?”

“You have it,” Schuster said. “Where’s your tourniquet?”

“I promised Megan I wouldn’t take it off. Where’s my wedding ring?”

“It’s on your finger.”

Schuster applied Foster’s tourniquet to Foster’s arm. More blood streamed down Foster’s hip and leg, and Schuster hoped it could wait. Applying direct pressure outside felt unsafe.

“It bit my knee and knocked me down,” Foster said.

“I’m inside, keeping an eye out for the wolf,” Mr. Marshal called.

The empty space between Ms. Parker’s house and Mr. Marshal’s house was shorter than the space between Ms. Parker’s house and the police car. Moving Foster would require a few minutes. Schuster administered first aid and asked Mr. Marshal for permission to hide in his house, despite rabies.

Simultaneously, Foster groaned that the wolf tore off his duty belt, his gun was gone, and the pepper spray blew into his eyes, and, scared, that the wolf would return. He fiddled with his pocket, wincing.

“I can’t get it and open it in time,” he said.

“What?”

“Yeah, come in, but stay in the kitchen, so she can bleach everything,” Mr. Marshal called. “She’s got the kids in the bathroom.”

Schuster was sticking Foster’s flashlight in his right pocket and telling him which side.

“My knife. I need a weapon.” Foster dropped his red Swiss Army knife.

“Okey-dokey. We’ll be there in a minute. We appreciate it, sir.”

Schuster unfolded the larger blade, and Foster squeezed the pocketknife in his right hand.

“I’ll watch your back.” Being dragged, Foster said, “Yeah, Mr. Marshal. Thanks for your help,” Foster called. “Come on, I’m scared. Give me your OC.”

“I’ll take the safety strip off, so you can grab it off me.”

“Tell Megan to stay away from me.” Foster methodically reached for the flashlight.

“Take it easy.”

“No, you’ve been exposed. Stay away from Megan.”

Schuster began dragging Foster again. “Okay. Take it easy. I took off the safety strip.”

“Tell Stephanie to tell Megan.” Foster yelled, “Wolf, wolf, wolf!”

Part 10 coming November 1, 2024.

The smell of drying blood and viscera should probably have been a sign that things were not going to go according to plan. But then again, when do I ever plan? Almost never. So hah, take that fate! How do you ruin a plan when there isn’t one?

You know what the best part of my abilities is? Turning every stairwell into an elevator. No, not literally. That would be a terrible power. Unless Apotheosis decides to make the world into a life size game of chutes and ladders again. But what would be the odds of that happening a third time? I’m betting very low.

Anyway, what I meant was, I stepped from dark corner of the stairwell to dark corner of the stairwell one floor above the previous dark corner, over and over until I started seeing “weird shit™”. Besides no sane person takes the elevator anymore. And what am I if not a paragon of sanity. I think that to myself, as I'm pelted in the face by what felt and smelled suspiciously like ocean spray…on the 22nd floor…in the stairwell. Hm.

Well, I’ll be damned if I don’t enjoy a good mystery, so I walked to the door leading to the 22nd floor hallway and yanked that fucker open. I had a good split second before I managed to shadow-step into the hallway itself which left me soaked up to my knees in the lake’s worth of saltwater that spewed out of the doorway like a haphazard gas station burrito breakfast after a few hours.

Quite an image, I know. What can I say? I’m an artist.

What was infinitely more interesting than that, was the eight foot tall being made of salt water, coral, and an entire school of fish that was fighting someone that I recognized.

“Ionic, good to see you again.” I said to the very powerful electrokinetic.

All he said in reply was a series of grunting noises, though that was probably because of the series of punches to his sternum that the sea creature decided to levy his way, rather than in response to my greeting. Probably.

Ionic had been an interesting member of The Saviors to meet. If you can call unchecked aggression and less than heroic homicidal tendencies “interesting”. He had fair skin, bright electric blue eyes, and platinum blonde hair that was about medium length, in that classic style of “short enough to not be a liability in a fight but long enough to look like Zeus’ younger cousin”.

Does Zeus have cousins? Probably.

According to word on the street, AKA The Savior’s files that I kind of sort of maybe took a look at when I was in their headquarters letting them have the honor of hiring me to do what I was already doing, he used to have a robotic body that was used to contain his immense amount of bioelectricity after he burnt out his original one, but then an Activated by the name of Ambrosia made him a new fully organic body. Which is kind of the full genetic equivalent of finding out that someone isn’t a natural blonde in my opinion. Like yeah, he might have a pretty boy thing going on, but they’re not real, if you know what I mean.

When I saw arcs of bright blue electricity start to form around Ionic, that’s when I decided that I should probably just leave him to his little spat and make my way further in. Which I did.

Ignoring the sounds of one-sided combat coming from behind me, I made my way towards the next closest throwdown that I could hear. There was an even bigger fight going down upstairs too that was deafening, even through the walls. I came upon an interesting sight. A man with pitch black skin and bloodshot yellow eyes all over his body. Like, ALL over his body. Even on the soles of his feet. It was pretty disturbing. You would also think that he would have noticed me, but I guess he was a little preoccupied.

Luckily enough for him his feet didn’t seem to touch the floor. He just levitated about a foot off the ground. Currently throwing miniature black holes at the guy and levitating as well, was Dr. Elias Magnus, better known around here as Darkstar. Elias is a local legend, born and bred in New York post-Activation. He was a scientist trying to find a way to harness different forms of esoteric energy to try and find a permanent replacement for all of the old-world power sources.

One critical mishap later and next thing you know, he’s Activated. He’s one of the only people I know of that wasn’t born with his powers. Then again, maybe he was, but the accident was the first time he ever used them out of reflex. I’ll have to pick his brain about that at some point.

Nice guy, honestly. Unless you piss him off. Then you get to be subjected to having your entire body shoved into a blackhole the size of a human fist. A normal human fist, not like the planet crackers on Atlas.

I sit there for a minute watching old man Elias, who is about a third of my age by the way, before he notices my presence and then gets his block knocked off by an invisible punch while he’s distracted. You would think that he would know better than to let his guard down in a fight, man his age and all. Also, apparently Eye-guy is telekinetic. So, I do Elias the favor of wrapping inky black tendrils around the many-eyed man and giving him a second to breathe. I’m a nice guy like that.

Elias whips around the guy in the air and aims a fist with a black hole wrapped around it right into the back of the many-eyed man’s eyeball laden head. The ensuing impact splatters blood and eyeball juice everywhere and sends Eye-guy careening out of a 22nd floor window and down to the streets below. I guess he knocked him out, or maybe he can’t actually fly and can only levitate, because the poor bastard hits the ground below at full force and splats.

“Void?! What are you doing here? I thought you were rejec-passed over.” The 43-year-old scientist says, doing a terrible job of covering the blatant insult.

“Just doing my civic duty, as always. And I wasn’t rejected. I declined.” I lied through my teeth at the man. He frowned at me, then sighed.

“Look, have you seen Sentinel or Gigaton?”

“Sentinel yes, Gigaton no.”

“Good, then he must still be fighting Redstar.” he said, relief evident in his voice.

I pushed past the initial thought of why so many people needed star in their name and told him where I saw Sentinel. He visibly paled, which was impressive given his already pale complexion. Between that and the grey streaks in his otherwise jet-black hair and beard, he had a goth Dr. Frankenstein thing going on. Actually, I imagine that this is what I would have looked like about 70 years ago, if I could age that is. Then he turned and started nervously pacing, even though his feet still weren’t touching the ground.

“…no.” he said. “Not again. It’s going to be too late by the time he comes back again.” Then he turned back to me.

“I need you to do me a favor. I need you to find Eldritch and Starchild and tell them that Ana…Gigaton, needs backup.”

“Another star name? Why are there so many of you? Not that Void is the most creative name or anything but still-”

“Nicholas! Please hurry!” he said. I frowned at the mention of my first name. I wasn’t aware that he knew it, or that anyone did. Except for me and a whole host of dead relatives and acquaintances.

I just nodded and shadow-stepped away from the room. Next stop, the 23rd floor.

The sight of Eldritch and Starchild wasn’t all that surprising, given that I was told that they were here. The sight of the…thing, that they were fighting was another thing entirely. It was a hulking mass of irradiated tumors and body horror. Fun. And then there was a man dressed like an old-world party magician, who kept opening and closing portals to redirect telekinetically thrown objects and energy bolts back at the two heroes. And man let me tell you, what a fight.

But first, more origin stories. Yay!

Eldritch is a pretty big legend. Mostly because he was actually the first Activated on record, technically. It’s a bit complicated.

In 1922 the man that would come to be known as Eldritch was a creole conman on the streets of New Orleans named Achilles Dupont. Selling fake voodoo and hoodoo to all of the naïve and gullible European tourists and refugees on the streets of the French quarter, he would end up crossing the wrong man. A white man by the name of Alistair Wicked.

Fucking ominous name, right?

Achilles found himself kidnapped along with a lot of other “people who shall not be missed”. Alistair’s words not mine. Turns out that Alistair was an occultist who bought a talisman from Achilles that would supposedly protect whoever wore it from malevolent spirits. Except that Achilles was a conman selling nothing of the sort. Not really anyway.

So, when Alistair’s beloved wife Francine wore the talisman during one of their rituals, and against all odds they actually made contact with something, it did nothing to save her from being ripped away to some nightmare dimension by the entity in question.

Achilles and the other people taken by Alistair and his cult were meant to be used in a sacrificial ritual to bring his wife back. But instead, when all the other “sacrifices” had been cut down during the endless chanting juxtaposed with screams cut suddenly short, and Achilles found himself under the ritual knife apologizing and begging for his life to a man that had lost any morality well before he had lost his wife, something…unexpected happened.

Not that anyone noticed at first. See, the knife came down, right into Achilles’ heart no less. But, unlike the others, he was ripped away, just like Francine Wicked had been. And in his place was a single multi-faceted jewel containing the screaming visage of Francine Wicked.

Alright, I may have made that last part up.

But truthfully nothing happened. Alistair’s wife was not returned to him, the entity did not intervene in anyway except by removing Achilles from the world, and Alistair spent the next few years going insane before being convicted of killing his wife and hanging himself in his prison cell.

I’d feel bad, if he wasn’t a racist, murdering, cult leader son of a bitch.

According to the man formerly known as Achilles Dupont, there was a lot more going on behind the scenes, though. He spent an amount of time between a few minutes and literal eons trying to convince an alien, eldritch entity that looked like a dying galaxy to return him home. An odd specification of time, I know. But I’m not the one writing the stories here, just recounting them to an adoring audience is all.

Achilles claims to have made a deal with the entity. Apparently, it hadn’t been aware of anything outside of its own dimension before the Wickeds tore a temporary hole in the walls between its dimension and ours. But now it found itself infinitely curious about all of the things and concepts that flooded the minds of humans. Love, hate, hope, despair. And that was just the surface. Sunlight, grass, ice cream, the list goes on.

The point is that Achilles offered a part of his very soul to the being just to be taken back home. That way it could experience all of those things through the lens of a mortal being, i.e. him, in the safety of its home. Except that, oddly enough, the entity considered this to be a raw trade for Achilles himself. So, it offered a fragment of it’s own essence in return, to replace the part of himself that he would be giving up.

And look, I know what you’re thinking. But Void, how did any of this happen if the world before Activation was mind-numbingly boring and normal? I mean, still awful a lot of the time but in a non-reality shattering way. Good question. I have no idea. But I have some theories. Worldshaper rewriting history? An alternate universe? Or maybe, the world was never as cut and dry as we believed it to be, and we only started paying attention when it became impossible to ignore. Who knows?

Anyway, Achilles, afraid of the consequences of being part eldritch abomination, attempted to turn down the offer but his attempt fell on deaf…well not ears, but you get the point. It didn’t listen. After having a part of his very soul removed and haphazardly replaced with a dark, writhing shard of iridescence like an ill-fitting puzzle piece, he was sent screaming out of that twisted reality. According to him, he awoke back on Earth but in a very different world then the one that he had left behind. And with his heart once more intact.

Oh, and he could also read people’s minds, fly, and crush a man with his mind like a fucking soda can.

Which oddly enough is what he just did to the monstrosity being fought while I was explaining all of this to you. What a coincidence. Body horror is down for the count. Kinda makes you wonder why Eldritch didn’t just do that to begin with.

I yell out across the room and tell Eldritch what Elias had told me. He acknowledges my words and disappears down an adjacent hallway, presumably towards the explosive fight going down on the other side of the building. I also told him that I like his hair. He didn’t react to that part, but as a man with shadow abilities, I kind of wish that I could pull off the black dreads look.

Starchild seemed a bit preoccupied with the magician, who had begun throwing his own energy barrages at the star skinned hero.

Right so, next up for story time is the Radiant Wonder: Starchild.

He was born on a Native American reservation in Dakota post-Activation, though I can never remember which Dakota. I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, both are basically gone now. Nobody knows his real name, but his past is interesting to say the least. Maybe not Eldritch interesting, but still interesting.

According to Lakota tradition he was assigned a “wanagi”, some sort of star spirit meant to protect him, at birth. Except that unlike pretty much every member of his people ever, his star spirit decided that it was not content to watch and protect from the sky. So, it decided to become one with him and give him the power to protect himself, and his people. And that’s about it, as far as public knowledge goes. Didn’t really have a chance to do more than skim his file.

Starchild has glowing white hair, bright nuclear green eyes, and skin like a nebula. Stardust and cosmic gas flit across his form constantly, as if his body is just a human shaped tear in reality that acts as a kind of window into the cosmic void. And he can fly, create bolts of very painful and dangerous plasma, and, perhaps most obvious of all, can survive unaided in the vacuum of space.

Which about brings us to the close of this little scuffle, as Starchild decides to go full supernova on David Copperfield, leaving nothing left.

“Bit much, don’t you think?” I say.

“He kept making jokes about Indian giving every time he redirected a blast back at me. So, no. Excuse me if my patience wore a little thin.” he said back.

I hadn’t heard anything like that, but then again, I was kind of busy talking to you.

“Darkstar said-” I began.

“I heard.” he said, cutting me off. Then he flew down the hallway just as Eldritch had.

“You try to help a guy out, and does anyone give the slightest bit of gratitude? Of course not.”

“Why is the reject still here?” came a particularly electrifying voice.

I turned around to see Darkstar and Ionic coming up the stairs behind me. Right, I had completely forgotten about everyone’s least favorite sparkplug.

“I wasn’t-”

“Don’t care. Leave.” he said before pushing past me and following after the others.

I looked at Darkstar who was giving me a sympathetic look.

“He’s just jealous that I can teleport, and he still has to run down a hallway like a normie.” I said trying to brush off the blatant hostility.

“Nick…Void, you really shouldn’t be here.” he said. Take a wild guess what he did next. If you guessed “levitated down the hallway leaving my pasty ass alone, yet again”, then you are correct.

Well, that’s why I have you. Right? YOU can’t fly away and leave me grasping at the scraps of my ill-fated existence, unlike everyone else. Huh…where did THAT come from? Looks like something has managed to worm its way free of the prison that is my subconscious. Time to put it back where it belongs. Aaaaand…repressed.

What were we talking about? Oh right, Ionic and his ocean of character defects. Well, I suppose we have time to deep-dive into his backstory as well. I didn’t really bother with the full treatment before, but oddly enough I can’t remember why,

Anyway, Ionic was born as Lucien Leclair, a French-American from San Diego. Lucien is one of the handful of people I’ve met that has been around as long as I have. When the Activation occurred, his abilities manifested themselves and the sheer amount of bioelectricity running through his body burned him alive. As if by instinct, the bio-electric field that was his consciousness shunted itself into the city’s power grid in order to survive.

After a few months he was discovered by another legend. Lexicon, a man given knowledge of many Activated by whatever power he had. Of course, back then, he didn’t quite know how to use that power to get at specific information. He just had to go with whatever his super-powered mind spit out. But this is Ionic’s story, not Lexicon’s.

After he was discovered, the government agency that Lexicon worked for found a way to move Lucien into a new mechanical body designed to contain his power. And Lucien himself. See, the thing about Lucien is that the months of crippling isolation without the sensory input that comes with having a human body had a disastrous effect on his psyche. That and whatever method the government had used to rip him out of the San Diego power grid and put him into his new body.

Lucien suffered severely violent psychotic episodes that seemed completely random and could stop as suddenly as they started. So, they added to his body a kind of shut down function that would detect when he was on the verge of emotional instability and then shunt his consciousness into a kind of faraday cage, where he would essentially be put into a timeout sensory deprivation chamber until he calmed down. Yeah, pretty twisted.

He's still an asshole but, nobody deserves that shit.

The “does not exist” agency that employed Lucien, called A.R.E.S. though I have no idea what the name stood for, used Lucien as a super-powered assassin. Well usually assassin would denote some level of subtlety, but in Ionic’s case they kind of just switched his timeout function off and set him loose on whatever unfortunate organization had become enough of a problem to need to be deleted from existence. Obviously, this was back before the world was completely broken, when the world governments still somehow believed that they could control what was happening.

Thankfully for Ionic, his life took a different path when he met a Greek woman going by the codename Ambrosia. Ambrosia was a biokinetic, which meant that she could manipulate the human body on a molecular level. Or animal body. Any body really, as long as it was organic.

Ambrosia had taken to using her abilities to heal less than savory people as a back-alley doctor for hire. Apparently, she had information on several key targets of A.R.E.S. that had been given patch-ups by her, and Ionic had been sent to retrieve said information and then either forcibly recruit her or remove her from the picture entirely. Except that, in a rare moment of non-violent clarity, Ionic begged her to fix him. And she did. Eventually.

Making an entire body from scratch is a lot more difficult then healing a gunshot wound or even a brain hemorrhage, but she figured it out and even managed to curb most of his violent tendencies.

How? I have no idea, but I won’t pretend I’m not curious.

And the rest is history. Just like this building, IF THOSE EXPLOSIONS KEEP GOING OFF!

What the hell is going on back there, anyway?

There was once a boy. He was an orphan, living with his young sister in a cottage in the woods, nestled by trees. Honestly, it was more of a hut than a cottage, but he learned to appreciate what he had. When he was a child he had one goal: make something of himself. He would sometimes run to the edge of the woods. When he squinted and jumped, he could see a giant castle in the distance; sparkling and grander than he could even imagine. He used to think I'm going there one day. Once my sister is old enough to make the trip, the two of us will go, and make something of ourselves.

The days passed. The two siblings would make up stories of what would happen once their life began. He wanted to become a rich merchant or an inventor or at least be invited into the castle once. She was never really sure. Her dreams varied from baker to the queen herself. The only thing that stayed constant was that she always told him she would have a daughter. Emilia, she said. Emilia was a ridiculous name. Only two puny syllables! Six letters! And so despicably common! He indulged his sister's delusions but figured that when she did have a child she would at least pick a sensible name. He loved her so he kept his mouth shut. They agreed they would buy houses right next to each other right smack dab in the middle of town, bordering the palace.

Days turned into months and months turned into years. Finally, they packed their few belongings and said goodbye to the only home they'd ever known. They walked for weeks, hitching rides with whoever was willing to take them, housed in exchange for labor. Honestly, their journey could be a whole story of itself, but like life, this story marches on. The journey took a toll on both of their bodies, feet red like they'd danced by a fire. But they never wanted to stop, each footstep dragged forward by hopes, ambitions and dreams. They would make it though. He would never forget the look on his sister's face when they finally saw the palace. Sheer disbelief and awe, eyes shining. Was it all a dream? Marble and a thousand murals, guarded by a golden gate, ethereal. It inspired the two, determined to become great, worthy of a town with such a palace. Their heads filled with dreams of grandeur, they set out. He vowed that they would make something of themselves. No, not just something. Something extraordinary.

That was until his sister died. He barely even remembered it. Every thing seemed like a blur. When someone you loved dies, you want the whole world to stop. You want the skies to be grey. To mourn with you. But life goes on. There's a hole in your heart. It can never be filled, and as much as you try, it will always remain. You must accept it and allow it to be remembered yet not dictate your life. There's another option though. You let it fester. Spike your heart with despair. Become cold, twisted. Angry at the world. Lord why is the sky blue? when all he wanted was rain or thunder. The perfect little town. Full of opportunity. But it shouldn't be. Twin houses, just like they always dreamed, left vacant. And instead of the promising young man he was, as the years ticked by, he grew solem and bitter.

He stayed in town. Became a merchant. A jack of all trades, if you will. He had enough to buy both of those houses the two used to eye. But he never had the heart to do it without her. He liked traveling. It let him escape from the constant thoughts of his sister pounding through his head. But he could never forget. He picked up all kinds of impossible hobbies. Merchants were great teachers. He learned to make armour from fish scales, mirrors from pearls, gold from straws. He met all kinds of people. Mostly drunkards, but drunkards were good company. They would tell their stories, most of them of long voyages. They reminded him of himself. So young, so naive. But he smiled and wished them luck. That was until the miller walked in. The miller came in bragging.

"My daughter is so talented she can spin straw to gold. She can play the mandolin with her eyes closed. She can dance the merengue while juggling three chickens"

My daughter this, my daughter that. Perhaps she was somewhat talented, but her father gave an obscene amount of praise. Perhaps this was what parents were supposed to do. Regardless, he had met the daughter. She had two left feet and the fine motor skills of a goldfish. Annoying, but what was the harm in being proud?

Turns out there was a lot of harm. The miller came sobbing to him. His words were so hysterical they were barely comprehensible.

"Th-th-th-hey t-t-took my daughter. Said s-s-she had to m-m-make gold for th-them"

His daughter was taken by the king to spin straw to gold. She was locked in a tower, and if refused, was to be executed. Everyone knew she couldn't actually do it. Apon being begged for help, he was empathic. He agreed. In the dead of night, he scaled the golden gates. I always dreamed of being in the palace. How ironic. No invitation, but I guess fate works in mysterious ways. His joints squeaking and begging for relief, he lept into an open window filled with straw and a spinning wheel. The millers daughter sat inside, clearly distraught. Her green eyes were stained red, blonde hair laid limply at her shoulders, some of it clearly torn out. She recognized him. Kind of hard to miss. He was a strange little man at this point, grief weighing on his body, physically shrinking him. His red hair no longer seemed youthful, but rather a the curse of a mad man. She explained her predicament in tears.

"What is your name, child?" he asked, voice rusty from disuse

"Arabella"

His heart dropped in his chest. His sister's name. His poor Arabella-Wilhemina. Their parents loved long names. At least that's what he told himself. He hadn't even heard that name in thirty years.

Not even Ariana or Isabella. Arabella. As much as he hated fate for killing his sister, as much as she was the best, shiniest, kindest person he had ever known, he had to admit, this was a sign to help the girl. Perhaps it was a sign from his Arabella. And now that he was looking at her, the girl looked exactly how Arabella would have looked if she had made it to the ripe age of twenty-three.

Sensing an existential crisis afoot, the girl added "But you can call me Ari" Jesus, she was the one about to die, not him. If anyone had the right to break down it was her, not some random man in the tower.

Good. His sister was Arabella, or maybe even Belle, not Ari. Never Ari. However, he was not about to let her die. A glint of determination shone in his eye as he approached the wheel. He did the entire room in about two hours. The quickest he had ever spun gold. The girl, Ari, wept relief and joy. She insisted he take her bracelet as a token of appreciation. He didn't mind that one bit. He could sell it for a pretty penny or perhaps make a new mirror. As he carefully climbed back to the ground he studied the bracelet. Belle would have loved it. He decided to keep it, placing it in his pocket.

The next night he returned. How cruel was the king to force her to stay in this room? Ari told him the king decided it must be a fluke. This time the room was even fuller. He spun all of the straw while Ari told him about her life, her dreams her hopes. God she reminded him so much of Arabella. By the time he finished, he noticed a single tear rolling from his eye. He was sure Ari didn't notice. Ari lived with her single father after her mother's death. The miller was so proud of everything she did. Every piece of art she made was proudly hung on their walls, photos littered around the house. She had no idea what she wanted to do next. Probably marry some random man and wait for her life to begin.

When he finished, he jokingly asked "What are you going to give me this time?"

She replied by handing him her necklace. On the back, he read I will love you always - Mom

He tried refusing it. Clearly too much significance. If he had anything of Belle's he would hold onto it forever, protect it with his life

She insisted

"She's in a better place now, and I already know she loves me. It's too painful to hold onto anyway, and you could probably melt it down and sell it for a lot"

As he climbed down the walls, he knew he could never sell it. And yet again, he returned the next night. She was gushing

"The king is letting me out tomorrow!"

And the two were estatic. He spun in record time. They discussed their plans for the future.

When he left he asked her what she would give him

"I'm sorry. I don't have anymore more things to give you. What else do I have? My firstborn child or something?"

His voice softened

"You know, I think I'm ready to be a father anyway. One like yours. Celebrate a child. Brag about them to everyone who will listen"

"Make sure you don't go overboard. That's how I ended up in this mess" she laughed before becoming serious, "You've got yourself a deal. I would be honored. I've known you so long and I never even caught your name"

"Rumpelstiltskin. My name is Rumpelstiltskin"

She laughed and bid him farewell. She was finally released the next morning and returned to her father. The miller was so overjoyed he cried for a week straight.

He still went to see her even though she technically didn't need him anymore. On Wednesdays, they would meet up, have tea, and she would always leave him with some type of gift, whether it be bread, jewelry, or once a pile of straw.

About a year in, she exclaimed

"I'm getting married! To the prince!"

The wedding was beautiful. He had a front-row seat, cheering louder than anyone else. As much as he loved Ari he found himself thinking We did it, Belle. We're here. As much as he still thought of her every day, her remembered the good of her life, rather than resenting the world.

He still saw Ari every week. She looked to him for guidance, almost like an older brother. He heard of her woes as a princess; galas, embassies and most of all, her father-in-law. The king saw her as an insult, common blood, an ex-glorified-prisoner. The king essentially ran her life.

Especially once she got pregnant. Ari never wanted kids but the king insisted it was her duty to produce an heir. She decided that instead, it would not be her child in anything but blood. She would give the child up. She did not forget their deal. She asked him to become her child's father.

While insane and the king would definitely be royally pissed, his love for Ari and his own desire for a child persuaded him to agree.

Turns out the king was more than royally pissed. He threatened the life of everyone. Ari's husband, the prince stood up against his father. He created a contest. If Ari could guess the name of the man who would end up with her child, she would 'be able' to keep it. If she could not within a week, the child would be his. But Ari already knew his name. The king didn't have to know that though. He wrote his name to be sealed in an envelope as proof.

On the first day, she would have to read an list spanning miles full of common boys' names while he, the king and the prince all watched. Pshh. Like he could be a Braden or Jacob.

The next day, same thing with no results. Ari was elated.

"It's going to work! We did it!"

However, the third day, the list was longer than ever. She read and read names for hours. The king walked over to her and whispered something in his ear. Suddenly her face fell. He knew. The gig was up. He braced himself. Even unborn, he had grown to love his child. Ari couldn't even bring herself to say it.

A slash echoed through the palace. He realized that a dagger was pressed against Ari's back. Still, she remained silent.

"YOU IDIOT!" he screamed "JUST SAY IT"

She stayed silent. She was going to get herself killed. For him.

"Rumpelstiltskin! Please! Just say it! PLEASE!"

Still nothing. Suddenly, as quick as lightning, the king lunged, pressing the dagger against his jugular.

"please" he begged.

She murmured, now sobbing.

"Rumpelstiltskin"

The king smiled, pushing him to the floor. This was the lowest of the low. Which is worse, having nothing or having everything and watching it get ripped away? The king walked away, caressed Ari's face, taking the prince with him.

That's when he realized it. His leg was stuck in the floor. He pulled and pulled but he couldn't get it out. Maybe it was his will to live slipping away. Maybe it was the loss of his child- No, his daughter. He could feel it. It would be a girl. Ari got up, helping to pull out his leg. He felt himself ripping. Yes, leg from leg, but he felt his soul ripping from his body. It was time to go. Perhaps he had finally made something of himself.

Ari looked horrified but tried to soothe him, assure him it would all be okay, even though it most certainly would not. He looked up at her, knowing it would be his last few moments. He saw the sky, a gorgeous light blue. There wasn't nearly enough time to say what they wanted to.

"Promise me. Her name is Emilia. Emilia. Promise. Please."

Understanding what he meant immediately, she agreed

"Of course. I promise"

As they said their goodbyes, Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes.

"I'll see you again, Arabella"

And he grabbed his leg, ripping it clean off, killing himself in the process.

"Tonto, where's Red?"

The Ranger had bolted upright in a cold sweat, woken by a nightmare of black jaws. The cold night poured into the old hunter's shack. The fire had gone out.

His Indian friend stood in the doorway, normally stoic eyes wide with alarm.

"Taken, Kemosabe. She went out into the night. I followed but the monster found the girl first."

The Ranger was on his feet in a flash, buckling on his gun belt.

"No time to waste, Tonto," he said. The brave stood aside to follow as he made for the horses. Silver's eyes were wide; she always knew when there was danger, but stood bravely until it was time to run.

The Ranger and his friend mounted up and bolted off into the forest.

"This way, Kemosabe!" Tonto shouted, leading the way into the trees.

The full moon is a double-edged blade, the Ranger mused. The forest is clear before us, but...

"Here, Kemosabe!"

They stopped in a clearing, clover glistening in the moonlight and lavender bell flowers with their heads down to sleep. Lying in the middle of the glade was a familiar red cloak. The Ranger bent to pick it up. Grasping it firmly in his gloved hand, for a moment he couldn't take his eyes off it.

"It does have her," he whispered. He tucked the hood into his side belt. "Are there tracks?" he said urgently.

Tonto was already leading his horse along the edge of the glade. "Here, Kemosabe. It ran north."

The moment he spoke, a howl echoed through the night, low and distant. The Ranger didn't waste another moment, shouting his horse into a run.

"Hyah!"

The forest blurred by as Silver ran more swift than the wind. In his mind the Ranger saw shadows of red and black, images of fates that he would not let happen. The trees seemed to constrict as he rode deeper, the shadows growing darker.

Suddenly, the forest stopped at a rock pass. The Ranger reined Silver in. Here the trees seemed to claw up the cliff, roots grasping at the mouth of the pass.

He heeled Silver on, riding only as carefully as need be over the roots and into the dark. Tonto appeared from the trees after only a moment, and they went on together, the pass just wide enough for both riders.

After a short stretch, Tonto called quietly. "Wait, Kemosabe."

The Ranger reined in, turning to his friend. "There's no time, Tonto."

"Listen," Tonto said, his eyes upon the air.

The Ranger felt a chill when he realized what his companion meant. It was too quiet... yet from the howl they had to be close.

They continued on, painfully slowly, but every sense told them they too had to keep quiet.

When they rounded a bend, the Ranger pointed. "There," he whispered.

Ahead was another glade in what looked like a circular canyon, moonlight falling on a figure lying in the grass. Red looked unharmed, her white blouse and red skirts untattered, dark brown hair a mess around her. The Ranger felt a spark of hope when he saw she was breathing.

"No, Kemosabe. There." Tanto's voice was grave.

The Ranger followed his raised finger up to a sharp cropping of rock that jutted out from the cliff. There the full moon hovered above a dark figure, the crouched and menacing silhouette of the beast.

The Ranger's brow hardened as, slowly and smoothly, he drew a silver bullet from his belt and loaded it into his revolver. As he did, a low growl came from the shadow, a warning to go no further. The Ranger felt the corner of his mouth raise just slightly.

With a flash of steel and pull of a hammer, the Lone Ranger fired, a deadly shot for the beast above.

Yet as surely as the birds fled the trees, he saw the shadow dash aside, as if black smoke in a sudden breeze. They heard a growling, an awful snarling, descending somewhere out of sight.

"It comes, Kemosabe."

When the dark shape fell into the pass and began bounding toward the riders, the Ranger tried to load another silver bullet, but was too late. He dove off the horse as the creature lept, a giant mass of black fur and gleaming fangs. As he flew aside, a claw slashed and tore away his gun belt, and it fell back into the shadows of the pass. Scrambling on the ground, he looked to where the belt had been. The beast snarled as it turned back in rage, glowering at the Ranger. The pistol had only one silver bullet.

A figure in tanned leathers suddenly appeared between him and the monster; Tanto had flown from his saddle, holding a wicked tomahawk to face down the thing.

In a moment of reprieve, the Ranger turned his eyes back to the clearing. Red had stirred awake, her head rising to look their way. The horses, he saw, had circled around to the far side of the canyon. He turned back to see Tonto circling and dancing around the creature, making war sounds as he kept its attention.

Lying at his feet, the Ranger saw the red hood. He swept it up, getting to his feet as he raised the pistol again.

"Tonto!" he shouted.

The brave came up from a roll and darted toward the Ranger, leaving the monster seething as it prowled, watching them from the edge of the shadows.

"Stay on Red," he said as he began to circle to the left, his pistol trained on the mouth of the pass. He waved the red hood out in front of him, but the creature's growling only faded, it's eyes sinking back into the dark.

"Is there any other way into the canyon?" he said, not taking his eyes away.

"Monster could come down from any side of canyon," Tonto said.

"I'm sorry, John," Red said. "This is my fault."

"Take it easy, Red," the Ranger said. "We're not going to let it hurt you. Tonto, get the horses. Don't go until I say, it could still be in the pass."

Just as he said it, Red let out a scream, trembling hands covering her mouth, and pointed up to the far side of the cliff. There again it crouched beneath the full moon, jaws open in what could have been a wicked smile. They stood for a moment frozen, as it raised up on its hind legs and let out a howl to the sky.

"Go," the Ranger said. "Go now!"

In the corner of his eye he saw Tonto lift Red up onto Silver. As they rode for the pass, he heard Red's voice.

"No... no!"

The creature's eyes followed the escaping riders, but the Ranger waved the red hood high above his head, shouting, and they returned.

"Just you and me now, friend."

The creature growled and lunged down the side of the cliff. The Ranger fired at the black shadow, but the bullet missed and struck the stone behind it with a shower of dust and rock. He dodged away as the thing tore past, barely avoiding its claws. It turned on him far too quickly and he could only raise his arms as the hand swiped at him, cutting into his sleeves and skin and knocking him across the ground. Tumbling, his head hit something hard and everything went black.

*****

He stirred, hoping it had only been a few moments. There was a pain in his head, but his senses were oddly clear despite it, as if on the edge of a dream. The dirt and deteriorating twigs beneath his face were a rich and welcome smell. Yet he knew there was still a shadow nearby.

He pushed himself up, his hand finding the rock that had struck his head, and looked around the glade. The creature was contentedly stalking the edge, watching him. He stood up, his arms feeling limp.

"You want a fight?" he said. "Alright then." He stooped to pick up his empty revolver. Aiming it at the creature, he pulled the trigger and made a firing sound with his mouth. The thing seemed to be smiling again. It knew he was dead.

"Kemosabe!"

A jolt appeared in the Ranger's chest and he whirled around. Tonto stood at the mouth of the pass, holding the gun belt. The brave tossed something up and a small gleaming shape sailed through the night, reflecting the moonlight.

The Ranger caught the silver bullet in his free hand and loaded it as the beast charged. The muzzle flashed as the shot rang out... and the creature fell.

It collapsed and tumbled over the ground, stopping still a few feet away. The Ranger raised the pistol back and let out his breath.

Both he and Tonto came to stand over it. Its wolfen features were clearer now that it was still.

"Third time's charm, Kemosabe," Tonto said.

The Ranger let out a laugh toward the sky, a hearty hand on his friend's shoulder. "Well done, Tonto. Well done."

A light gasp came from the pass and they turned to see Red leading the horses. She dropped the reins and joined them, hands covering her mouth.

"Well... there it is," she said.

"Oh," the Ranger said, picking something up from the grass. He handed Red her hood. "You dropped this."

She smiled as she took it and put it on, shivering lightly.

"We better get back," the Lone Ranger said. "The old hunter will be awake soon."

"I guess we'll have quite a story for him," said Red.

The sky was beginning to brighten when they saw the old hunter's shack.