FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Flapping wings cut through the crisp, gasiferous sea floating aloft, leaving a quite noticeable line of white in their wake. Usually inaudible, the beating of her wings fluttered with an almost buzzing sound, overwhelming the quiet alpine melody characteristic of the far North.

In other circumstances, it would have been a careless act, but now she could not help it — her remiges merely rippled with the rhythm of her aflutter heart.

Whether she generated sound was not an issue that dwelt in her mind. This was not the time for stealth, nor a time for hunting.

This was the time for a confession. For a face-off.

Slowing down to moderate the sound of her wings was not a choice, and neither was to wonder about the denseness of the fog, which grew stranger every twinkling.

The least of hesitations, of any kind, risked blowing out her will to confront Marek.

The possibility of delay was something that Sigrid was not eager to accept.

Granite turned visible once Sigrid flew one yard from the ground, an indication for her to shift from flying to trotting, which she took almost instinctively, speed not decreasing at all when talons and paws touched the rock.

Shacks seemed like a blur at her sidelines as she raced past them, the thick curtain of mist failing to hide Marek’s shelter — their shelter — from her piercing eyes, which were quick to lock onto the doorless entrance. The entrance to her destiny that would define the course of the days to follow— no, for the years to follow.

Promptly, not even ten minutes after leaving the creeks, Sigrid proclaimed her rowdy arrival with a bowl that shook the snow and rock confined in the abode.

“Marc! Where have you been?! You kept me waiting for nothing, you roode ras—” Wait. No. I was not supposed to confront him in that way! “I meant— Sorry. Well, not quite ! I just— Grr! Listen. We need to talk about… hooh?” Amid her whirling emotional state, Sigrid’s senses, a combination of the Arctic’s best senses, missed an essential detail upon her arrival.

Marek’s absence.

“What? Marc?” Steely orbs dashed from one point of the shack to another, trying to spot proof of the man’s presence.

His scent lingered in the air. Boot prints were present on the snow. One chair lay overturned on the snow, whereas the other held the monster-tailored cloak. As for the table, a textile lay semi-stretched on the stone table, with a pair of rocks holding it in place by its ends. Moreover, the goat remained where she had left it last time, leaning against the pile of wood.

“Where… could he have gone?” Sigrid inched closer to the table, eyes still scanning around, calmer this time. After searching around the shelter, Sigrid regarded what lay underneath the garments, which were nothing more than Marek’s extended wrappings. She narrowly raised the textiles and cast a peek at what lay below.

Unsurprisingly, it was Marek’s device, or ‘rifle,’ as he called it. Whether Marek actually fixed anything was a detail Sigrid could not tell; the apparatus did not seem repaired to her, or at least that different since the last time.

“Lazy Marc. He didn’t even finish patching this thing…” She lowered the hem of the fabric, trying to leave everything as it looked. Knowing that the elements of the abode would not tell her about Marek’s whereabouts, or even the reasons behind his absence, Sigrid turned back out of the house, the intensity of her footsteps giving away her irritation.

“Why did he choose to disappear now of all times? Where could he possibly have gone? And without his furs at that.” Where indeed. Everything they needed was already stored in the house. Food, wood, water— “Water?” Sigrid blinked. “ Oxpoop . I forgot Marek’s canteen…” she slouched but quickly straightened. “But I don’t think he went outside looking for water. I didn’t see, hear, or smell him on my way back.”

But then, where did he go? Did Marek intend to join her down in the creek only to get lost? No, absurd. He prepared himself to march for days across the Frostscape. For him to get lost on his way to find a river amid a deserted mountain was off the wall.

Once outside, Sigrid put all her senses to work. Ears waved in all directions but caught nothing but the windborne jingle. Eyes only detected rock blurred by the sinuous and weightless substance, denseness intense enough to meddle with her eyesight. Only her sense of smell seemed effective to a certain degree, but the fog had a gassy effect on her beakholes, tickling the insides of her nostrils; she barely withstood the urge to sneeze.

“So hazy. I’ve never seen the fog seizing the land this quickly and in such quantity. It’s so weird…” Without anything else to rely on, Sigrid proceeded to sniff around, trying to pick up Marek’s scent. She entered a couple of shacks, circling others from the outside, but only abandonment greeted her.

The minutes ticked by, and amid her search, Sigrid’s determination morphed into frustration. “Gr! Doomb. Doomb. Doomb! It looks more like he’s avoiding me now. What other reason could there be to leave without telling me first?” Sigrid jumped and landed on top of a shack. “Stop being reckless, Sig. No more games, Sig. Avoid chasing critters, Sig,” she mimicked Marek, grumpy undertone and all. “Kah! Says the doommy who disappears into the mountain for no reason. When I find him, I’m going to toss it into the freezing water— wait, no. That would make confessing to him more awkward. Well… I’ll throw one big snowball over his hard-as-pine head. Two snowballs, even. From pine height. Yes. That’ll do. That will teach him not to cause distress to his potential mate and… hold on. I picked up something.”

Her olfactive search finally found a tangible hint. Marek’s scent, intense thanks to ghoul blood, left behind a thin trace in the air that led to the peak range. Not only that, Sigrid’s wolf-like smell also nosed a dash of another aroma, one she detected hours before, albeit imperceptibly more intense.

“Warg again…” She murmured. “What if Marc left the shack because he felt threatened by a warg?” Talons scratched the surface of the rustic roof. “No… The warg had not approached the hooman houses, not in at least one dawn. Neither have I heard growls nor barks, so no battle has taken place… Ugh, I don’t remember the last time I thinked— thought this much. My head aches.” A talon moved upward and scratched the top of her head, which at that time was twirled into an ell, so she ended up scratching her cheek.

“I can only reason that Marek somehow spotted the warg and went to battle it. But alone? And without his cloak? A warg is no threat to him, but still… Grr. Doomb Marc, being impulsive again,” she barked, exasperation evident across her strigine features. Nonetheless, her constant grouches were akin to a superficial mask — the she-chimera could not avoid feeling worried about her missing partner.

“I have no choice, do I?” Without more ado, Sigrid jumped off the shack and galloped in the direction of the peak range. “There better be a warg there. Because if not, Marek will take all the punishment. ”

And there she went, running on all fours. Sigrid refrained from flying; the intensity of the aroma turned thinner the more she detached from the ground. Pads thudded with the rock and faintly crackled with the snow. Talons and toeclaws nailed the hard stone, generating a feeble grating sound.

In short order, the terrain became steeper, and Sigrid found herself striding uphill, skipping across an old road previously used by the human inhabitants. The pathway could hardly be called a road with how uneven it was, but that caused no hindrance to the owl-wolfess’ unrestricted movement.

Marek’s smell deepened, and so did the scent of warg. The rustic path forked off, roads branching into barely walkable ground that led to more shacks, up, down, and around the peak. Sigrid stopped, not because she felt forced to choose between paths, but to sniffle at the air.

The number of routes was not really important — the course was determined by her beaky snout, not her sharp eyesight.

There! She thought before restarting her stride and swerving off the rugged trail, the odorous route leading her into a gorge, the tallest summit standing as one of its walls.

Sigrid went deep into the narrow passage, fast at first, but as she advanced more and more, her trot dwindled; her deceleration, however, was not taken in a conscious way. At the rocky gap’s entrance, three small shacks showed up in her vision; then, stone columns manifested, rows of them, simplistic in their design but, nonetheless, giving a ceremonial air, one which the chimera was vaguely familiar with.

Deeper into the gorge, Sigrid’s instincts tingled, compelling her to halt out of cautiousness. The last rays of daylight were mostly blocked by the summits’ ramparts and a roof of dense fog, the latter so intense that not even her eyes could perceive the end of the path, or its beginning, for that matter. At last, Sigrid opted to heed her instincts and stopped cold.

Silence. Not an eerie one, but neither did it give an air of tranquility. It felt like a vague sign of a weather shift, either foretelling a pleasant series of breezes or a devastating snowstorm, mixed with a supernatural atmosphere, similar to what Sigrid sensed when the two wandered into that one nasty forest, although this time, malice could not be felt.

“So strange…” She commented, beak half-open, nostrils expelling fog. “Never felt anything like this…” She stood on her hind legs and surveyed her surroundings. The columns were still present, but now they were adorned by exotic carvings: ice spikes, more natural-looking than those breathed by the wyrm, but somehow more deliberate, as if sculpted by hammer and chisel, albeit way more precise.

I don’t like any of this. “Marc?” She asked in the air, expecting a response from Marek. Unsurprisingly, there was no reply; she tried to keep her tone low not to aggravate her neck injury, but given her unusual circumstances, she had no other choice but to raise her voice.

“Marc!” The echo of her bellow resounded several times before the stillness swallowed it completely. Her beak pressed tight, and one hand moved upward to grasp her neck. It stung her, but she was far from over. “Marc! What do you think you are doing!? Where are you?! Are you so stoopid to come here alone!? And am I supposed to be the careless one?!” That and other words were bawled at the wind, a few less friendly than others. It made her feel a little guilty, but she had to make herself heard.

Plus, she was a bit angry and wanted to vent.

The gorge’s air shook because of her screams, but no other sound reached her ears. Or at least, that was her first impression.

A muted swash dashed by her right and above. Then, pebbles bounced off and rolled down the walls toward her feet. Sigrid scanned the rocky wall but saw nothing more than blackened granite and white mist. However, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a new color that contrasted with the compacted landscape. At her back and in the middle of the pathway, there was gray, one mixed with a tone of pale blue, similar to one of the hues generated by the northern lights.

As soon as she detected the odd color, Sigrid’s head turned completely to look behind her. Her posture tensed; her ears jerked erect, plate-like eyes unblinking. There, not farther than fifteen yards from where she stood, a relatively slim warg observed her with its three emerald sockets. The warg, too, cast an unblinking stare upon the chimera.

Sneaky one.

A growl escaped her beak, and, with a smooth movement, Sigrid twirled the rest of her body to match her head. The warg narrowed its three eyes and lowered its stance a tad but refrained from issuing a growl or any other threatening sound.

“Where is he? Where is Marc?” Sigrid grilled the warg, animalistic ire dripping through her voice.

“... You call the human by his name. Most interesting. So I was indeed in the right,” answered the warg, to Sigrid’s surprise. Not only a warg, a species who despised her, decided to talk back without further pressure, but also her undertone betrayed not heightened animosity.

“Answer me!” Barked the chimera, banishing any speck of wonder she might have. Sigrid was squatting, one arm away from adopting a quadrupedal stance, and her mane began to stand on its end.

“The human. Marc. Lies with my master.”

Her master? There’s another warg nearby? A pack, perhaps?

“Let him go,” Sigrid growled back, setting her right arm on the ground, completing her bestial stance. “Tell whatever alpha you serve to release him!”

The set of wings rose, taking a threatening pose. Then she stepped closer to the wargess. “If I discover that any of your kind sank a tooth in Marc, I swear the mountain will shake with the intensity of all your wails.”

I hadn’t smelled his blood. Marc is most likely fine. But neither have I heard the pained yelp of wargs. Maybe he is just fighting defensively until a chance to counterattack—

“I’m afraid that carrying out your demands is beyond my capabilities,” the warg flatly stated, cutting off Sigrid’s pondering.

Steely eyes widened upon listening to the wolven’s refusal, but they contracted as soon as anger resumed with a disdainful hiss.

“I’ve killed members of your kind for far less, warg,” came Sigrid’s intimidating response, causing a hint of briskness to seize the wargess. Nevertheless, the lupine creature dared not take a step back.

“Last tenday has been stressful to me and my ma— partner,” Sigrid went on, “so I’ll give you one last chance. Tell your master to stop harassing Marc, or I swear this rock will turn redder.”

The wargess cringed a tad low, but whether in fear or to prepare a defense, Sigrid could not know. What she did know, however, was that if the wolven kept refusing to satisfy her ultimatum within the next heartbeats, violence would get loose swiftly.

Nonetheless, right before the warg’s silence ate up the chimera’s dwindling patience, Sigrid noticed how the triad of eyes wandered off from her. She was staring beyond her shoulder now. In short, the lupine monster relaxed, even if only by a dash.

“You can tell her by yourself.”

Silvery eyes narrowed, latent suspicion telling her that the wargess might be trying to throw her off, looking for a way to force a gap in her defense to attack. However, seconds before Sigrid called her out for a bold lie, a whisper found its way to her ears.

One lupine ear half spun to her back, but Sigrid refused to take her eyes from the wargess. Nonetheless, as the sound increased its intensity, transforming from a whisper into a whiff, Sigrid understood she could no longer ignore what was approaching from behind.

Owlhead reversed to gaze at its back, keeping the lupine monster in the farthest of Sigrid’s peripheral vision. On the path ahead, only mist filled her view, but beyond the curtain in the middle of the gorge, a disturbance manifested. The veil parted, and, in the middle, something whirled — swirling onto itself into a formless gas, but as the fog set itself apart, it began to take form. A humanoid form.

“Let’s quieten,” it spoke, its voice not only feminine but also icy and silken. It echoed like a crystalline cup after someone ran his fingertips around its rim. “Too much hassle will disturb my attendee.”

That womanly voice was everything that was needed to draw every single bit of Sigrid’s attention, the partial glimpse abandoning the warg to finally focus on what sounded to be a newcomer.

“Who’s t-there? Reveal yourself!” Sigrid demanded toward the diffuse form, every trace of that wild chimera, seconds ago ready to tear the wargess apart, halved as uncertainty was germinating inside.

“Such brusqueness,” the moving mist chimed, her tone loaded with an air of superiority.

“I warned you she would find us quickly,” Sigrid’s ears twirled back, reacting to the wolven’s words. “I’m sure you didn’t even have the chance to attend your human guest.”

“I did say quieten, Nija,” chided back the misty entity, her voice dense with authority, almost causing Sigrid to flinch. “Let the diplomacy task be given to me. Until then, be silent.”

The ghostly being now lay ten yards in front of Sigrid, its form featureless and colorless despite its undeniably maidenlike shape.

“Diplomacy?” Sigrid echoed. “No. I’m not here for chatter. I want Marc back—.”

“I do really loathe repeating myself, snowflake. Please, *quieten. * ” Her admonishment felt like a glacial gale, compelling Sigrid to take one step back. What is she? Why do I feel… meek?

“Good,” the entity of the fog kept going. “I promise to allay your doubts in time. Nonetheless, I think it would be impolite of me to greet you without showing my face, wouldn’t you agree?” The entity gestured with her arms to her, hand passing inches away from her head, waving down her body with smooth elegance.

Sigrid witnessed how the gaseous substance that made up the entity’s body began to transform, gaining details as strands of fog glided around her figure. Mist parted into long locks that draped all the way down to her hips, and her hand split to give space to thin fingers.

The outline of her clothes manifested next, emerging from her body like a second layer of skin. It was a short dress, three inches above her knees, with a tight sash wrapped around the lean waist, leaving two lengths of fabric hanging loosely to her sides. The haze from her arms stretched down and became what Sigrid identified as sleeves, wide and long. The attire left the collarbone and shoulders exposed, not to mention little to the imagination, allowing an eyeful of her cleavage, which turned more and more detailed as the seconds passed.

At last, the attributes of her face came to light. Her nose was small, slender, and somewhat flat. The shape of her eyes was seed-shaped instead of the typical oval. And her head was rounder than the northern women Sigrid was so familiar with. All exotic features, and had Sigrid not been in a contentious situation, the foreignness of the women in front would have induced fascination in her.

Her beauty was stunning. A woman in the peak of her youth — in fact, she was barely a woman. More gorgeous than any human female Sigrid had ever witnessed. But the entirety of her allure was not only attributed to her curves and exposed, mist-like flesh — there was also a factor that Sigrid could not quite tell.

It reminded her of a field of brambles the first day after a harsh winter, vast white stretching as far as the eye could see, shining like steel, yet leaving the green vines and red raspberries to peek at the outside and spark with the sun. But also, it unlocked another old memory, one that took place winters ago, when she witnessed the imposing rampart that was the Icing Boundary for the first time and how its shadow made her feel she was about to be devoured by a colossal monster.

She elicited both beauty and awe in the same way the very Frostscape did.

“Oh my. You look like your eyes had beheld a wonder of nature, my snowflake,” a lovely voice pushed Sigrid out of her thoughts, immediately seeing the misty entity, face glowing with the brightest of smiles.

“I… I…” Sigrid fought to come up with words. For some reason that escaped Sigrid, her frustration and worry over Marek’s absence were pushed into the back of her mind. And it was precisely that that got her all perplexed. “What— Who are you?” That question was everything she could concoct.

The lips of the entity parted to reveal a peek of her teeth. “Me? I’m the breeze of the summits, my snowflake.” With closed eyes, the entity raised her arms with gentle gracefulness and placed her hands on her chest, with saggy sleeves, sash, and long hair blowing delicately because of a nonexistent wind. “The layer of ice that protects the water creatures from the predators of the surface and that enables the humans to travel and settle down beyond the borders of their civilization. I, who provides shelter to the defenseless ones behind a veil of white and who allows the harvest to grow in the most icy places.”

The entity opened her eyes and gazed directly at Sigrid’s silvery irises. “I’m the Frostscape, and the Frostscape is me, manticorespawn. I’m the conductor who ensemble the frozen North in its totality. The one who makes it sing and dance. You might call me… *Mistress Kiya. * ”

“Mistress… Kiya… ” Sigrid murmured, frozen in place, flabbergasted, in part because the initial impact of the entity’s appearance still had an effect on her, but also because she was trying to decipher what the supernatural individual tried to claim. Riddles were not her forte.

It was when Sigrid remembered the sight of the columns at the sides of the gorge. Crude in their design, but that was the idea. The point of the monoliths was not to stand out as a man-made creation. It was to blend and merge with nature.

She recognized them — those piles of rocks were present in every human settlement across the Frostscape. Those pillars of granite had no architectural purpose; the pillars were of a religious nature, diminutive shrines erected to worship the group of entities to whom humans attributed every favorable event. Every wonder. Every miracle.

“Are you… Are you a Spirit? ”

The owl-wolfess’ question, so innocent in her motive, extracted a smile from the mist-like maiden. “Quite surprising. I’ve never heard a creature acknowledging me with such a title. So far, only humans have done so.”

Another step back. It was true! She was a Spirit! The incorporeal guardian of all the people of the Frostscape. The object of worship of her carer, Imbi. An entity who, as far as her monstrous mind could fathom, stood at the same level as Marek’s God, Seolvor.

Someone accustomed to lethal-level temperatures, capable of killing an unprotected man in a matter of minutes, just felt a chill crawling down her mane to the end of her tail.

“W-why are you doing in a place like this?” Sigrid asked sheepishly, seconds before realizing the answer might have been self-evident.

“In what other place would I be, my snowflake? This place is bound to me, and so I am,” nonetheless, the Kiya answered politely. “There’s no other place in this earthly plane I desire to be.”

“B-but I thought beings like— I meant, I know traditional Spirit worshippers moved into the North to approach the likes of you. But… to openly show themselves this directly… I never considered any of you to have a hooman form…”

The entity hummed in delight, raising her hand and pressing her finger against her cheek. “I see you’re quite knowledgeable in the way of my kind, snowflake. You were taught well. But your wisdom has limits. We do indeed adopt a human form. That way, we can connect better with those who worship us.”

“It is just… I never saw a Spirit myself. Neither have I heard of a hooman witnessing one…”

Giggles flew toward Sigrid’s ears. “Oh dear. I guess it’s true that it’s not often one of my kind walks among the settlers. Could you imagine the commotion?”

“But you live next to a hooman village…”

The Spirit removed her hand from her cheek, and her smile lessened. The gesture was trivial, but Sigrid could not avoid thinking that many questions would induce annoyance upon the entity and that a bad choice of words might bring about her anger. But why do I care that much? She’s Imbi’s matron, not mine… right?

“Yes… this village, Vettija by name…” Kiya’s eyes trailed away from Sigrid and pointed at the obfuscated sky. “Good people. Diligent in their faith…” A tad of melancholy was evident in her voice. “But they’re gone now. Not even their faith could save them from one of the spawns of the World’s Will.”

Sigrid lowered her ears, the entity’s last words touching her heart and making her memories of Saku rise to the surface. “I’m sorry…”

A sigh resounded, and a quite dramatic one. “That’s the course of nature, my snowflake. But I must tend to the present now. The Frostscape needs a scion, with or without human faith.”

Tend to the present. Sigrid thought. The entire manifestation of the Spirit made her temporarily forget about the most important matter.

“Are you… the warg’s master?” After formulating that question, the Spirit dropped her sorrowful mien and stared back at the she-chimera.

“Yes, I’m her master. Her name is Nija. Worry not about her; she follows my very command and won’t attack unless I say so.”

“If that’s true, then you must know Marc, right?”

The maiden nodded after a short-lived pause. “Yes. The man of sunkissed skin. Clad in deep oak fabric. Rather blunt, if you ask me. He came to me, after which I offered him refuge in my shrine.”

“Is he fine? Did the warg hurt him?” Sigrid leaned forward as she urged the Spirit for an answer.

“He is in good shape. Out of danger’s clutches. And right now, he is waiting for my return.”

“Thank the Spir— erh, thank you,” Sigrid whistled as she relaxed. “And thanks for keeping Marc safe, Miss-tress Kiya.”

Kiya beamed at her. “Not a problem, my snowflake. Now, if you listen to—”

“Take me with him,” Sigrid’s sudden request made the Spirit wince and drop her smile. “I need to tell him something. Something important.”

“Ouh. Well, you see,” the misty maiden joined both palms and adopted an apologetic expression. “My shrine is not like the monuments you’re so accustomed to,” Sigrid tilted her head in confusion. “It’s a holy place. A bridge between the mortal plane and the spiritual plane. Monsters are disallowed from entering.”

Steely eyes dilated in disbelief. “What! Why?”

“I ask for your forgiveness, snowflake,” the Spirit lowered her chin and dropped her arms below her waist, one hand over the other. “Since their essence are… deviated from their natural course, Spirits don’t regard them as worthy of our blessings. Or have you seen a warg or a manticore erecting a tribute in our name?”

“That couldn’t be true!” Sigrid shouted back. “Imbi never said anything about Spirits not liking us. About not liking me! ”

“My snowflake,” the maiden went on, her tone both motherly and firm. “Not even the mortals know everything about us. Plenty of the true ways of us, the Spirits, vanished with the ages. A knowledge eroded out of the mind of the man.”

“What about her?” Sigrid rotated her head at her back and pointed one wing at Nija, who offered no reaction. “She considers you your master. Are you telling me she isn’t allowed to join you in your shrine?”

Another nod. “Nija, too, is prohibited from setting paw in my sanctuary. Only the spawns of the man might enter my— our holy domain.”

A faint growl slipped out from Sigrid’s beak. Needless to say, she no longer felt as enthralled by the smoky dame as she did minutes ago.

“So tell him to come!” Yelled the owl-wolfess. Had Sigrid observed the Spirit’s face carefully, she would have noticed a fugitive eyelid twitch.

“Can’t do. Marc had embarked on a faithful journey.”

A beat. “... Say what? ” Sigrid’s face cocked so exaggeratedly that the top of her head was a few degrees away from pointing to the ground.

“I could lecture you on it, but considering what you are, it might be… complicated. ” The Spirit averted her eyes and, at least immediately, refused to elaborate further.

Deafening silence befell the gorge. The unexpected and vague response from Kiya did nothing but draw a blank in Sigrid’s mask, a contrast with her restless thoughts. Amid the pause, only the gentle whiff of the Spirit’s whirling body resounded, mixing with the soft breathing of one beaky being. Whether the wargess at her back was breathing, Sigrid’s ear could not confirm it.

There was something mixed up with Kiya’s last words that made Sigrid’s wings tense and beak tighten. It reminded her of Imbi when she tried to excuse herself for her latest treachery.

“Can you make it not complicated? ” Sigrid’s inquiry was closer to a demand than to a request.

The Spirit returned the gaze to the chimera, eyes narrowed, her features practically devoid of that preternatural charm present when she showed up. Moreover, the silence was blown away as the air began to flow throughout the gorge.

“Oh dear,” she sighed, eyes closing with quite the carelessness, which only worsened Sigrid’s emergent impatience and suspicion. “You see, my snowflake, we Spirits aren’t as almighty as the humans make us appear.” Kiya began to strut forward, gracefully and slowly, right arm stretching as if trying to touch the rock columns. Her feet generated no sound in their advance, not even perturbing the snow or the pebbles in her path.

Sigrid dared not to take her eyes off her.

“As a dweller of the Frostscape, you must understand the kind of woe that invades your home. Wargs leaking into human settlements. Manticores breaching out of their domains and spreading massacres. A dragon sawing death in its flight.”

Sigrid stared at the floor for one instant, considering the Spirit’s words. It was undeniable for her to deny those facts. The last six winters had been detrimental for humans who inhabited the Frostscape.

“Those disasters aren’t mere coincidences, my snowflake. They are consequences of an even greater adversity: faith. Listen not to those who believe us omnipotent. We Spirits, and every entity that grazes godhood, aren’t without our limits. We require something powerful to perform miracles. To make nature keep its course. That something is faith, my snowflake. Veneration. Love. It’s so tragic that the World’s Will made entities like me, otherworldly in both power and beauty, so dependent on the ever-changing sentiment the humans offer us.”

The lean figure of Kiya circled Sigrid, completely unfazed by her chimeric presence, which seemed more on edge as the seconds transpired. In contrast, Sigrid was not eager to give the entity her side, opting to twirl her body as she followed the silhouette of the misty entity.

“Without faith. Without human adoration, our influence over the Frostscape ecosystem dwindles. Take this village as a testament to a place whose devotion had been left behind to freeze. To be forgotten, buried under the seasons.” The entity raised her arms as a way of emphasizing.

“Hissing Wing…” Sigrid murmured, and Kiya cast a sideglance in her way. “The hooman left before Hissing Wing stormed in. They—”

“ Forsaken me, ” the breeze intensified as soon as the Spirit hissed. “They were scared. Fear clouded their minds. Therefore, their faith faltered, and I lost control.” The Spirit stopped, and in short, Sigrid found herself facing both the hazy maiden and her hound. “Since then, no one. Not a single soul has even bothered to pay tribute to us. To pay tribute to me. ”

“No,” Sigrid slightly shook her head. “That’s wrong. The people of Võshla pray to the Spirits. Their love is inconditiona—”

The entity chuckled, cutting off any rebuke Sigrid might have given. “Weightless words? A stone piled upon another? I’m a demigod who oversees the balance of nature. One who keeps the mortals safe during the harsher times. And you think such petty rewards from those who live far can make up for the deeds I bestow upon this land?” The pathway was filled with chortles, a mocking chorus that was getting underneath Sigrid’s skin.

“... That’s the reason why you take Marc? To venerate you?”

The entity took a moment to calm herself, stopping her laughs, inhaling and exhaling, running her fingers through her ethereal hair in order to pull her locks out of the front of her face. Afterward, the Spirit lifted her eyelids, locking her gaze onto Sigrid. “His presence is necessary for the balance of this landscape.”

“... And how long will it take?”

“What his own devotion deems necessary, of course.” Sigrid’s mouth corners writhed, the shift too fast to be noticed by human eyes. “I’m sure you have heard of our devotees’ thoughts on days-long spiritual communing, right?” Sigrid nodded with considerable slowness. In truth, she had not heard about that concept, but she would not ask the entity to elaborate on that.

Too many pointless words had already been exchanged.

“Then you must know that his prayers must not be interrupted.” Kiya joined both palms in front of her chest. “I’m truly sorry for keeping you away from… Marc, my dear snowflake. But consider this: don’t you have other mortal friends? This Imbi you told me about dwells in the Frostscape, and the chaos that invades the region might, sooner or later, catch up with her. Marc might be only one, but if his veneration—”

She could almost smell it. Not in a physical way, but a hunch that made her guts churn, as if she took a direct nasal gulp at hare feces. Every single utterance coming out of those thin and shaped lips reeked of it.

Oxpoop.

Nothing of what she said had the faintest of sense. Marek — her Marek — abandoned everything he had been fighting for, only to bend one knee and clasp his hands to honor the will of a foreign entity? What about Seolvor, the god he greatly admired? And what about the Arcane Infection? How could he spend days praying when his health was on the line?

The man who battled wildlife, slashing his way through one of the harsher places on the continent, suddenly decided to dump his goal for survival — to junk his promise to Sigrid — and everything needed was a religious chatter that did not even last a day?

This Spirit. This Kiya. It’s a treacherous vixen.

And not to be believed. Every sense of awe that Sigrid had over the maiden of the mist vanished, reduced to dust, leaving her in an ill mood. To think Imbi would have such a high esteem in these beings, although perhaps this one was an exception to the rule, a deviant. Whether the case, Sigrid did not know or care.

What she knew was that the Spirit had turned into a nuisance that separated her from his ward and beloved.

What she cared for was that the nuisance herself was no longer blocking the path.

“—Until everything is finished, you have the freedom to stay around these mountains as you wait for Marc,” the Spirit continued with her explanation, ignoring the fact that Sigrid no longer had ears for her. “Berries grow around these highlands, and if necessary,” the maiden turned her gaze toward the warg at her side, “Nija could collect more substantial nourishment. Alas, my snowflake, I invite you to understa—”

The Spirit took her eyes off the wolven and stared ahead, but no moon-like eyes greeted her, nor did an avian mask. She only observed a feathery back, turning farther and farther with every second. The chimera was not galloping, but neither distanced herself patiently.

Every single curve of the entity’s face froze, blanked upon witnessing such a display of discourtesy. Eyes unblinking, Kiya’s only facial movement turned out to be a parting of lips, which released a baffled sound after no more than five seconds of observing. “ Huh? ”

“It does seem she no longer has any interest in digesting your words, master,” Nija commented, her inflection loaded with the faintest amount of satire.

For both the warg’s disappointment and relief, there was no response coming out of her master, and in a matter of eyeblinks, the Spirit no longer stood next to her, the leftover of a whirlwind of haze being the only proof that the maiden used to be there.

Parallelly, Sigrid advanced unhindered, no longer overwhelmed by the mistress’ presence nor forced to hear her lofty verbiage. Sigrid believed that as long as she made no sharp shift of speed, like galloping at maximum capability, the possibility of any hostile action coming in her direction would be reduced.

Nevertheless, expecting no resistance from the being who spent hundreds of words to convince her to stay away from her sanctuary — and thus from Marek — was naive.

The growing hazy whirlwind in front corroborated her hypothesis.

“Mine, mine.” The gust lessened and turned once again into that exotic lady Sigrid was so worn out about. “It’s not very polite to leave a Spirit talking in solitude, my snowflake.” The Spirit observed, her voice giving away any wrath despite Sigrid’s latest rude behavior. Nonetheless, her features were not as soft as before.

“Sorry, but I really need to see Marc. We’re part of an important journey. And in a hurry,” she narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“No. He did not. And I already explained you—”

“Marc offered himself to adore you, to fill you with veneration, but he missed telling you why he was so far into the Frostscape?”

Sigrid’s interruption caused Kiya’s mouth to writhe, as if stifling a grimace, or a scowl for that matter.

Kiya’s lips flattened, drawing a thin line before they moved once more to utter words. “There was no reason for Marc to tell me what he was trying to attain before meeting with me.” ‘What he was trying’? It sounds like she wants it to last more than mere days. “He knows his duty. Marc is very aware—”

“Did he at least tell you his name?” The maiden of the mist could not avoid keeping her emotions at bay. Her face warped into a not-so-subtle scowl. “You aren’t even calling him by his real name.”

“What do you mean?” There was acid mixed with every syllable. “Marc is how you call him.”

“Marc is how I call him. Marc doesn’t refer to himself as Marc. That’s the tender nickname I gave to him.”

Had there not been a buzzing flow of air throughout the ravine, another tense silence would have taken place. Both extraordinary females exchanged unflinching stares for what felt like dozens of eyeblinks. Blue, mirrory eyes crashing with colorless, blurry ones, the line of sight practically parallel to the ground despite Sigrid’s lowered stance.

“What an unfruitful chatter. I believe our discussion has met its dusk,” said the Spirit, refusing to answer the chimera’s questions, dismay evident across every curve of her face. I agree, vixen. “You are dismissed. Turn tail and disappear.”

The boldness of this vixen. “I’m not going anywhere without Marc. So you better step aside.”

Eyes burst wide, and the wind worsened, the image of a whirl of pure cold becoming evident behind Kiya. “I’ve been patient with you, snowflake. I tolerated you pestering me with your imbecilic questions. I didn’t harshly scowl at you after you gave me your back. But just because my calmness matches the tender breezes doesn’t mean a gale cannot arise. I’m a Spirit, ** manticorespawn. No monster, of whatever nature or origin, has the right to spit orders at me!” The hair swirled and snaked in the air, too much like the tails of frenzied raptors. “Thus, I command you and don’t make me repeat myself: **turn tail. ”

This time, a very deliberate and threatening growl found its way into the air. Sigrid rose to her hind legs, eyes never leaving the Spirit, and leered closer — the entity might have a supernatural aura chasing her, but her form dwarfed before Sigrid. Kiya did not even surpass five feet in height, and thus she had no choice but to raise her face.

“I, too, won’t repeat myself. Step aside. ”

There was a wave of muteness, similar to what happened before that one cylinder struck the rock of that ghost village. And just like that one time, it lasted an instant; when the Spirit flicked her shineless eyes, a tempest was unleashed upon Sigrid.

Sigrid reacted instinctively, using her wings as a way of a shield as a copious amount of freezing air coursed through her body, pushing her back with the force of an entire pack of wolves, occasional shards of ice shattering upon hitting her white frame.

I just made Imbi’s god or whatever angry… I hope she doesn’t hate me because of it. But Sigrid could not lament her actions, not with a snowstorm in front of her. She stood against the storm, toeclaws digging into the rock. Visibility was needed, so she took her wings out of her field of vision, expecting to see the spiritual deceiver in front, right at the reach of her talons.

Her vision turned true, but she could not keep the view for long as the Spirit stretched her arm toward her and invoked some magic Sigrid could perceive in no way but through pain. An invisible force struck her abdominal area, causing her to expel the air out of her lungs with a caw and dash her several feet backward against a heap of stone that crumbled apart with the impact.

“ Do you think I jest, mantiscorespawn? That my words are foam? ” The thundering voice of Kiya echoed through the spiral of air, the wind amplifying her tone to the point it morphed into a howl. For the moment, Sigrid was recovering from her most recent blow, eyes facing the ground. “ You’re meddling with powers your chimeric mind cannot fathom. Turn around. Leave the affair of gods and men untouched. What lies beyond this point is of no concern to your vicious kin— ”

The snow beneath Sigrid burst up, her furry form thrusting forward relentlessly.

“ Gh! Undiscipline half-mutt! I told you to stay away! ” This time, Sigrid took a glimpse at the missile that blasted her the last time. It had no color or proper form, just a perturbation moving ridiculously fast across the turbulent wind.

But Sigrid was faster, even if a tad.

Sigrid hiked one wing in defense, the impact making her stagger, but it failed to stop her in her tracks. In no time, the owl-wolfess stood in the same spot where she was before being thrown away. Close enough to notice the shock plastered on her new enemy’s gaseous face.

“ —! That’s impos— ” Words fizzled out as a clawed arm, slicing all the way from the belly of the woman to her head, found the mouth of the misty entity. There was no wet sound of cut flesh, not the snap of bones. Sigrid felt nothing but cold air as her hand dashed on and through the gaseous form of the spiritual being.

Kiya’s frame lost cohesion, dissipating into an arch that mirrored the trajectory of Sigrid’s attack. The time went on, mere seconds, and the weather lessened. First a whiff, then a moan. Post-violence clarity came to Sigrid, whose eyes widened in puzzlement as the self-proclaimed demigod vanished from her sight, opposing the least of resistances.

Huh? T-that was it? A Spirit. The Patron — or rather, Matron — of the northerners, killed by an everyday swipe. Failing to shred the least amount of blood out of her enemy.

For the next heartbeats, Sigrid’s eyes focused on the hand that scored the kill, raised over her head, strings of fog fuming through the gaps of the fingers. It could not be that easy. A flicker of disappointment grew in the back of her mind at the realization that such an exalted entity died in such a pitiful way. But all things considered, could she have asked for something better?

On edge and with her heart rhythm far from calm, Sigrid twirled her head in a semicircle, looking at the walls of the mountain and behind her back. She spotted the wargess, no more than a foot away from the last time Sigrid spotted her. Why is she even here if she’ll not help her master?

Nija looked somehow perplexed, with a triad of eyes like cups and ears pointing high into the sky. However, she did not look devastated or enraged due to the demise of her master.

Perhaps… She knows her master lives, and that’s why she’s not upset? It’s also possible the warg simply didn’t like the vixen. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were—

Her inner theorizing met a premature end as a whiff surged behind her head. She only witnessed it once, but Sigrid was already familiar with that curmurring sound. The entity was materializing.

“You bitch! ” The voice, full of resentment, came in before its body had the chance to. “Do you have the sapience to understand the gravity of your transgressions?!” Her features returned, and so did her seething face. She now stood a dozen yards away from Sigrid. A race away from a human. A mere stride away from the half-wolf chimera.

Demigods’ learning ability was fairly precarious, it seemed.

“Insulting a being of my divine hierarchy invites immediate punishment. Yet you went beyond the line and dared to hit me? Entire settlements were rendered into a waste because of—”

Any possibility for the entity’s rant to discourage any form of hostility died out when, once again, the she-chimera’s body turned into a blurred spearhead.

“Grr!” The Spirit clenched her weightless teeth, her arm pointing directly at her insistent attacker. “Ungrateful chimera! Halt in this instant! I’m your master! ”

Another flurry of blows dashed in her way. Three strikes for three targets: her left thigh, right shoulder, and in the middle of her collarbone. An insistent barrage, every hit on the mark causing Sigrid to stagger or even back off one step, soreness seizing the zone of impact. Nevertheless, the onslaught carried little lethal strength. Anyone would think that a matron of the Arctic could strike with greater vigor than a reindeer’s tackle.

Thus, even when Kiya had gotten the initiative this time, Sigrid regained the upper ground and quickly reduced the distance separating her from her enemy to zero.

“This this nonsens—” Her voice was blown away for a second time, her ethereal body morphing into a bow of pure haze as an extremity fitted out with quills swept what used to be the slender frame of the Spirit.

The breeze returned to ease.

Would… would that be enough— “Kah!” A jab on her lumbar region told her the battle indeed continued. A couple of feet behind her back, the mistress of the mist stubbornly materialized.

“Do you understand now the fut—” A swift leap and another swing strike, and the irritating babble quelled into a whoosh.

Seconds later, another air blow slapped the side of her head, but more than causing her to growl in discomfort, Sigrid’s eyes rolled back in her skull with overflowing annoyance. The spacing between the two now approached thirty yards, too far to be covered by one stride.

“Futile, snowflake. A waste of mortal effort,” the entity snarled. “What you are facing, what you are trying to tear apart, is nothing but a shadow cast over a paper wall. The molting of a cicada hanging on a tree. The glow of the sun shining on a l—”

A whistle came and went, inches away from the maiden’s face. The Spirit only saw how the chimera swung her arm, but she could deduce it pegged something solid. With widened eyes, the lady of the mountain spun her head at her shoulder.

A good chunk of her neck and shoulder was missing.

Crap, Sigrid cursed. Marc would have hit her head. I’m not very good at throwing things.

Kiya shot her seething leer, her gassy projection of a body emitting a hiss more reminiscent of boiling water than a chilly breeze. The gore around her shoulder disappeared with a sizzle, but the rock that Sigrid threw damaged more than the illusion of her flesh.

“You… *You… Witless bitch! * Why don’t you obey me?!” Her lithe frame leaned forward, one hand pressed against her breast, whereas the other was suspended to her side, curled into a fist. “Wargs obey me! Even the nauseous trolls obey me! All monsters in this desolate piece of ice must bend the knee before me! You, deviant, half-bred bitch, must be the World’s very abhorrence not to feel obliged to even show respect to me!”

Roode vixen. A truly waste of nice lips…

Sigrid crouched to four, releasing a shrill bark that gave away her frustration and mental fatigue. She wanted to smash and shred the Spirit, to erase that cute snarl from her features, mouth and everything. Especially her mouth.

But how? Her ability to come back from death, to keep moving after taking massive damage, surpassed even those that the cold ones possessed. Perhaps that was what truly made her a deity of sorts.

“Master.” Sigrid’s ears twitched, responding to a sound that did not originate from the immediate menace. It came from the wargess, Nija. “This creature. It does seem she escapes your domain. She fails to recognize you as the authority you are. As long as you hold her partner captive, don’t expect that to change.”

“An insightful observation, you slow-witted specimen of a warg! ” The Spirit’s howl was heavy in sarcasm and rage. She could not even keep her eyes open.

But no matter how much the gorge shook with the bawls of an incorporeal entity, Nija elicited no wince, nor did her voice stutter. “Persuasion is out of the question. And you cannot defeat her unless you decide to show yourself.” ‘Show yourself’? Right. This vixen must be a hallucination of sorts. And a very convincing one… Ouch, one of her magickal missiles hit my butt, and it hurts…

“Quieten, tri-eyed mongrel! I’m thinking!” The Spirit raised both hands to cover and rub her face, chin high and head facing the blocked sky, now showcasing hints of darkening through the thin rift. After three or so seconds, Sigrid picked up an exhale coming out of the misty entity. To think an individual made of gaseous droplets could breathe.

Hands slid along the surface of the maiden’s head, revealing the pair of shut eyes, all while her palms ran through the lengthy locks, fixing them to follow the course of gravity. Once her hair was arranged, her eyelids opened with delicacy, and the corner of her mouth curled into a grin.

“I… do admit. For someone like you to reject me to such a degree was unforeseeable to me, indeed, problematic. Rejoice by knowing you are among the few ones that have seen me fumble, Howling Talon.” The grin vanished. “But nothing has changed. This is my domain, and I won’t yield. Not this land. Not your Marc, who now belongs to me.”

Such challenging words did not but reawaken the animalistic ire that Sigrid held within. Meaty corners warped into a snarl. Her stance lowered, preparing to dart forward. Sigrid could not kill the apparition, but she could escape from the gorge and find Marek in whatever place lay ahead.

“Nija!” The Spirit’s focus abandoned the owl-wolfess, and her eyes latched onto the wargess. “Get rid of this bitch. Dead or alive. I don’t care. My sole desire is to have her out of my domain!”

Three eyes shifted onto the chimera. “Dozens of wargs had fallen to Howling Talon’s vicious claws and beak. I cannot dream of defeating her on my own. Perhaps, will you help?”

“Monster affairs belong to you, my Nija. That’s your field of expertise. Besides, you forgot I have a guest who must be attended.”

Sigrid grew tired of hearing pointless prattle. Snow boomed high as powerful legs sprung free from rest.

“But worry not, you won’t be alone,” the mistress of the mountain, however, seemed not to care about her incoming assailant. “The order was already given to Boris. He will be joining you promptly.”

“In how long?”

The gap between Sigrid and her hazy enemy was practically gone. An inch, two tops, separated them. Her body, if one could call it that, had no mass or push, so it would not slow her. The mere whirlwind generated by Sigrid’s rush already began to deform the curvaceous silhouette.

Only the pair of flawless lips remained, untouched but not unmoving. They undulated to whisper one last time before blending with the atmosphere. “ Promptly. ”

A beak pierced through the maiden, and the rest of the body followed. Her vision darkened by the dense mist, eyes exposed to a fleeting blindness, but as soon as it appeared, it faded away.

Or, so Sigrid thought until a shadow intensified right in front of her.

Was it darkness? Night finally fell over the peaks? No, it concentrated in one spot. Growing darker, shrinking in size. Something was falling, something big. She could not slip past its trajectory; stopping was the only option.

Squeaking in surprise, Sigrid stopped in her tracks, no more than two feet from where the boulder landed. The impact shook the surroundings, and pebbles rolled down the mountainous walls. The indirect crash sent Sigrid reeling backward, rolling on her back, chaotically so, but she managed to find her footing.

By the time Sigrid recovered from the shake, her eyes caught the slab that was a hair away from turning her into red mud. Then, it was stirring. The gray boulder was shuffling on the spot, breathing even, fuming through the cracks of its stone-like hide.

It straightened, rising until it surpassed the ten feet in height. The surface of its skin throbbed and rippled, and one granite-like and broad pillar leisurely drifted against the ravine’s wall, another similar pilaster following in short order on the other side.

Instants ago, Sigrid had the path free, open for her to go to Marek. Now, out of nowhere, a living boulder of a monster blocked the passage. A beast with human-like, dust-colored eyes, armed with two pairs of asymmetrical protrusions — two ox-like horns and two tusks reminiscent of icicles with rows of crooked and sharp teeth at their sides.

The boulder, now evidently a male troll, gnarred, a stream of dense smog coming out of his facial cavities.

“You rejected my reasonable plea. Perhaps you are more eager to negotiate with those whose wits match your own.” Kiya’s crystalline voice echoed across the gorge, but her form was nowhere to be seen. “I bid my farewells, Howling Talon. I cannot say it was a pleasure to meet you.”

A shrill boomed out. “Vixen! You’ll pay for taking Marc! Just wait for me to finish here and—” A soft but swift breeze struck her face. She reacted in time to not have her face squashed by a tree-broad arm, which hit only stone, goring a hole in the middle of the alleyway and flinging dozens of shards aloft.

In her recoil, Sigrid heard a whistle, one whose pitch was carved in her instincts. She cast a look back by swiveling her head, detecting Nija holding a glowing and pulsing sphere between her jaws. The orb did not shine for long as it morphed into a beam of concentrated cold.

Oh, come on. Are you joining the battle now of all times? The gorge was narrow, and Sigrid had no other choice but to block the column of freezing energy. It was not difficult for her to shield herself from the attack using her wings, and the wargs’ characteristic attack could not encapsulate her inside ice. However, the stream of cold pushed her backward, right at the clutches of the hulking brute.

She could hear the knuckles of the monster crackling in the air, above her frame.

“—!” The soil exploded once more, but only rock flew up, and no bones were smashed in the process. Chimeristic reflexes again put Sigrid’s back out of the line of devastating harm.

“It isn’t fantastic! You met no more than one minute ago, and you are already getting along! This must be the real spirit of monsterhood.” Giggles resounded, mixing with the cacophony of savagery that was taking place, a noise prefacing bloodshed. “I’m leaving. I hope the problem is weeded out for good, my dear Nija and Boris. Now, I have a male waiting for me. He has a lot of worship to offer. A lot of devotion to bestow to his demiurge, who is I.” Her tone turned sultrier with the last sentences. “Willing or not, the heat of his love will be mine~.”

“No! Don’t dare hurt—” Sigrid’s desperate screeches were drowned out by the thunderous booms of the troll’s lost punches. It felt like that one time with Marek in the cave: a narrow space with a humongous monster in the way. But in this instance, the troll stood taller, there was a warg threatening her rear, and escaping was not an option.

Sigrid came into the cracks of the peaks looking for Marek — her newfound love. But instead of finding the well of a potential mateship, only the ethereal disdain and unjust scourge of a scornful demigod greeted her, threatening to cast everything she had gained during the last tenday into a bottomless chasm.

Now, she had to shred her way through a winter-breathing wolven and a roughsome quasi-immortal lest her beloved would be taken from her for eternity.

Stomach tensed. Beak pressed tight. Heart up to her throat. And eyes radiating with stubborn determination. Sigrid prepared to fight for the life of Marek and hers, one mere day after they fought a horde of undead.

Survival, danger, and death were the orders of the day within the confines of the Icing Boundary. There were no exceptions to the rule. The Frostscape always delivered.