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A cloaked, dark brown figure approached more and more where she rested. Sprinting at first, the human’s pace waned into a slog as soon as his oak-like eyes reproduced on the surface of the she-chimera’s mirror-like orbs, a sprinkling of unamusement and weariness projecting from afar.

Instants after the human silhouette became discernible, the scrunch of the snow produced by his footsteps came next to her senses, and so did the muffled pants of his breathing, betraying his fatigue. At last, and only because he advanced against the gentle wind, his fragrance, a mixture of manliness and foul blood, flew toward her nasal cavities.

So he did speed up after all, thought the owl-wolfess, who patiently waited for the warrior while seated over the remains of a stone wall, a dash of delight mixed with boredom present on her mask.

Although Marek had refused to take part in Sigrid’s childish race, he ultimately had forced himself to increase his pace, not to catch up with Sigrid but to keep a watchful eye over her. In the end, he practically halved the time needed to cover the distance and arrived at the village.

But judging by his panting, the reluctant haste did not come without consequences.

When Marek came into speech range, close enough for Sigrid not to strain her voice, she spoke: “What was that, Marc~? You might outrun orcs and trolls with your sprint, but any other animal would have made you eat snowflakes~.”

Marek gave no immediate response and instead moved a couple of feet more before completely stopping four yards away from Sigrid. “What… was that? Do… Do you have a… death wish?” He wheezed.

“That was me, tired of marching under the scorching sun. I offered to take you here, but you doombly and stubbornly refused,” she motioned her arms in front and crossed them. “If any, you’re the one with a death wish. You’re panting and sweating, and I can smell your wounds opening. Didn’t you say your body flooded with vitality~?”

“That was… pretty reckless on your part,” he said, that instance with a steadier breath.

“Hm~. Reckless, reckless,” Sigrid shifted her gaze to the sky and unfolded her arms, after which she raised one hand to tap her furry cheek, a direct gesture of fake thoughtfulness. “I do wonder where I learned such a thing…” Her eyes went back to Marek, smugness plastered on her face.

But the jaded fighter did not share her sense of humor and refrained from giving any retort beyond a sharp stare and an eye twitch. Once she understood that teasing the man a little too much might drag out her romantic goal, Sigrid discarded most of her smug expression with a whistle.

“You’re so boring, Marc… Last night was pretty stressful. We, especially you, could use some fun. Don’t you think?”

Marek frowned a bit. “Fun? In this part of Gebaten?”

Sigrid nodded. “Yes. We won and our enemy was expelled from our lives. We got to see each other’s faces for another day, and for once we could worry about something else besides surviving.”

Marek’s sour expression dwindled just a little. “Not like I don’t enjoy your enthusiasm, Sig, but as long as we wander the ever-frozen lands, we’re far from safe.” However, his subtle display of empathy was short-lived, his face going stiff, signaling the prelude of an earful. “Did you forget the struggles of our lives? We cannot leave our guard to drop, not when our wounds are fresh and our flesh aches.”

“Didn’t you say you were fine just moments ago?”

“That’s beside the point,” he stated, and Sigrid fought the impulse to roll her eyes backward. “Predators hide in every corner of this wasteland, alert to the smell of blood. So don’t go trotting and hopping alone; had a predator been lurking nearby, it would find me worn out… somehow dazzled and… short of… air…” His voice began to trail off, his admonishing tone beginning to evaporate.

Sigrid raised a nonexistent eyebrow and tilted her head as she regarded Marek with curiosity — or that was the illusion she was trying to give off. Her feelings, however, were predominantly seized by anticipation: she was, in fact, waiting for a similar reaction to come out of him.

“What… are you doing?” He asked, unaware his stare lingered a bit too much on Sigrid.

“Hmm? What do you mean? I’m just here, sitting, taking a boring lecture from you.”

“I mean… what are you sitting like that? ”

Usually, Sigrid rested in place by adopting animalesque postures like squatting, sitting doglike, or lying on her stomach, which in turn had made her look quite quirky — no humanoid entity, not to mention a female one, looked mannered when assuming such positions.

Marek had grown accustomed to seeing Sigrid posing like a beast, but, precisely because of that, puzzlement caught him unaware when his eyes latched upon the monstress and, instead of seeing her with a beastly stance, he observed a chimera sitting on the pile of rocks in a very maidenly way, long legs crossed and with thighs pressed together.

Sigrid leaned back and stared down at her body. “What? This is how hoomans sit, right?”

“That’s how… a few women sit, yes.”

Thanks for the clarification. “Well, yes. Now that I have practically mastered the hooman standing pose, I feel compelled to control the sitting pose.” She raised her sight to Marek once again but remained inclined backward, giving him an eyeful of the lower side of her breasts, usually hidden by her wolfish tuft when upright. “Am I… doing it right?”

“Well, it’s… not wrong, but it is kind of… hold on, we weren’t talking about—” Marek tried to revert the talking point but miserably failed as Sigrid interrupted him.

“‘Not wrong’? So… not that good either? Alright, alright. Give me a moment to fix it.”

“I didn’t mean that. It just—” Again, his words found no exit from the mouth as a new outer element — a visual one — cut the human off. Right before Marek silenced himself, Sigrid shuffled on her butt before removing her right leg from the other; next, she lifted her left leg with a not-subtle-at-all movement that exposed the underside of her niveous thigh and calf, as well as the pale pink from her pawpads, before laying it on top of the other.

Sigrid’s natural, snow-white coat obfuscated her ladyparts, but that did not prevent Marek’s retinas from dilating as if day and night swiftly passed before his eyes for the instant the she-chimera flashed her underthigh.

The motions continued for a couple of seconds more as Sigrid adjusted her seating stance, shifting on her rear and causing her muscles to wave with the pressure she exerted by squeezing her legs together, therefore giving the illusion that her thickness on her hips increased.

In short, she stopped and glanced at Marek once again. “What about now?”

There was no answer — not a verbal one, at least. Marek just stared at Sigrid, expressionless and soundless, the features of his face as unreadable as arcane writings; the previous desire to admonish her vanishing completely from his mien. After a time only measurable by heartbeats, Marek's mouth parted slightly, hinting that his awkward silence was about to shatter.

Although deep inside, Sigrid felt abashed in performing such daring moves, pride flared inside at the knowledge that her allure had the capability to reshape Marek’s demeanor in such an effective way. Despite her flush, she almost smirked out of glee.

“Where did you learn that?” The coal-haired man finally broke the silence.

“I’ve seen hooman females do that trick, mostly in the capital.”

“... The way you moved… it’s not something most human females pull up casually,” he said after a fleeting pause.

“Casually?” She cocked her head to the side. “So… It went fine, right? Doing it casually means it came out naturally,” she leaned forward with shy enthusiasm. “Should I take that as you like it?”

Marek’s mouth opened once more as if he were to speak his thoughts, brown eyes focusing on the alluring avian sitting in front. “You… you did fine,” he averted his gaze.

“Hm? Just ‘fine’?” Sigrid rotated her head into an ell, her look quizzical. “Not even an observation?”

“Well… your leg movement was… seconds too slow and… showy.”

“Is that something bad? I thought hoomans wanted them to be showy.”

“Y-yes, but that’s when the women are looking for…” Marek groaned and brought his hand to his face to rub it. “Look, you cannot simply mimic what other humans do. Some of their gestures might look trivial at first glance, but sometimes the meaning behind them might be… unbecoming. ”

“Hoo~? And how unbecoming could adjusting the way I sit be~?” She hooted and leaned forward, mischief and sultriness glowing in her eyes.

Sigrid’s sly behavior put Marek off in more than one way; she could see that when his lips pressed tight and his face warped into a pout. But no matter how annoyed Marek could make himself appear, hiding the faint bob of his throat and the pale, pink hue of his cheeks was beyond his immediate capabilities.

“You’re just making fun of me again, don’t you?” He said before clicking his tongue and breaking eye contact yet again. “Cheat death a couple of times, and suddenly everything’s a game to you…” Game? Who’s playing? My courting was genuine!

Genuine for Sigrid but not for Marek, who could only interpret her tease as some form of jest. The man sighed and then moved off to round the wall that held Sigrid. “Enough with the games. We just came in and haven’t yet taken the appropriate measures to secure the region. So we better move out and scout the surroundings.”

Sigrid watched as the man moved around, her neck gyrating in his direction as he left until her head was facing a third of a circle behind. Too bad Marek turned away from Sigrid: he could have witnessed a convincing imitation of a toad inflating its cheeks from a bird.

Pinehead. But I guess it serves me right for annoying him… In a huff, Sigrid jumped off the wall of stones and trotted toward Marek, joining him on his walking scrutiny around the hamlet. At least he is no longer angry.

With their small talk left behind, the twosome could finally shift their focus to the village around them. The neglected settlement was filled with rudimentary abodes and other simple buildings made up of stone, scattered at different altitudes, from the peaks looming at the back of the village to the diagonal path leading to the glacier floor.

The party of two walked through the rustic path that inconsistently connected one shack to another, and minutes after starting their exploration, Marek spoke. “Do you know this place by any chance?”

“No, I haven’t visited this part of the Frostscape since my first winters of living here,” Sigrid answered, a leftover of disappointment evident in her voice.

“This place doesn’t look as wasted as the last hamlets we stepped in. Perhaps its former inhabitants just left after seasons of poor harvest or directly decided to integrate into civilization, far to the South.”

“I’m not so sure,” one wing stretched out from her back and pointed toward an odd silhouette behind a series of shacks, “something bad happened over there.”

Marek followed her wing and detected the translucent structure, which he had failed to detect at first, but now that he got a glimpse at its form, he could tell it was no mere ice formation.

A glow bathed Sigrid’s face, and when she adjusted her sight on the source of light, she spotted a silvery metal in Marek’s hands.

“Be cautious,” he warned before moving round the abode, proceeding gingerly in pursuit of a better sight of the iced structure.

Instead of following his trail, Sigrid decided to jump off the floor toward the roof of the closest shack. One jump. Two jumps. Sigrid's athletic legs and vigorous wings let her leap from hut to hut with the same ease a reindeer hopped over a felled birch, the claws of both her feet and hands producing the least of sounds upon landing.

After finding the proper spot for her to survey the surroundings, Sigrid saw a series of ice spikes, all shining like an artwork of diamonds, dozens of feet tall and stretching hundreds of yards down the slope. Witnessing the work of the wyrm in an abandoned settlement no longer surprised or terrified her as much as it did in the past. Nonetheless, she could not help but think about the fate of the humans that inhabited that place, and, going by how likely it must have ended for them, she could not help but lower her ears in melancholy.

“Another tragedy orchestrated by the dragon,” Sigrid heard Marek say from below, his tone somehow dark; he was leaning against the wall, his armed hand now hanging to his side. “However, there’s something off about all this…” His gaze detached from the row of quills to survey the rest of the place.

The ground resounded with a faint thud, and once again Sigrid stood two feet beside him. Her quiet comeback, however, perturbed his focus in the least.

“Why is everything standing? The village is abandoned but not wrecked, not by the actions of a gargantuan monster, at least. I don’t even see corpses; not outside,” his gaze went back to observe the spiked wall of icicles, “or inside the ice.”

“Maybe… maybe the hoomans foresaw the dragon would come to destroy them and they escaped in time,” Sigrid suggested.

She saw how Marek slightly nodded from her sidelines. “It’s a possibility. But we cannot drop our guard. Human settlements, even forsaken ones, are a luxury for orcs and other creatures.”

“Greys often avoid these parts of the Frostscape, but other monsters might use these regions as temporary lairs. I, however, have picked up no unusual scent,” Sigrid rotated her head toward the sloped path that led to the glacial floor. “I can explore down the descent and make sure there’s no danger. You can check the other shacks in the meantime.”

Sigrid heard humming coming from Marek and saw how his left hand rubbed his chin. “Very well, you take a look that way,” he removed the hand from his chin and spun at Sigrid, “but no more games. Stay away from the ground as you explore. And please, try not to chase small animals.”

A wing uncaringly waved in Marek’s direction. “Easy, easy. No more games or critter chasing, Mister Joybane. It’s not like there are a lot of critters out there to catch my eye. And talking about critters, I believe we are out of meat, right?” Marek nodded. “Fine, I’ll see if I can find something to eat.”

Once establishing the tasks to take, Sigrid took some steps away from Marek and crouched low, ready to depart from ground level with her powerful wings. But before soaring up, she cast a sideglance at the man. “Meanwhile, you find a way to cook our food.”

“There are no trees around, but with a bit of luck, a woodpile is stored somewhere nearby. No one retires this far into the North without fuel to light fire.”

“Excellent. Also, try looking for a house big enough to shelter us.” Marek nodded, and Sigrid turned her head in front and murmured one last time. “And comfortable enough for us to cuddle at night . ”

The head bob stopped, and Marek’s face went blank. “Wait, wha—” A blast of air generated by Sigrid’s wingbeat blew away the man’s question before it was even uttered, likewise removing the hood from the man’s head and lifting his cloak above his shoulders.

By the time Marek recovered from the slap of wind, Sigrid was flying several yards away from him, her white form almost blending with the increasingly hazy environment. The coal-haired man not only failed to voice his most recent doubt but also failed to see that shy smirk on Sigrid’s face.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Crisp wind caressed Sigrid’s many quills that embellished her eighteen-foot wingspan and brushed the mane that scarfed about her neck and collarbone, too much like insubstantial fingers. It was a sweet sensation, almost like bathing in a streaming and calm river, and she could not help but daydream about taking her so-yearned bath.

To remove the dried blood from her coat, to extinguish that disgusting aroma of rotten fluids from her, to run her beaks across her feathers, tending them with due care, and catching that piny scent she was so proud of.

When was the last time she took a bath? How many days had transpired since the last time she surrendered to the liquid embrace? Sigrid rummaged through her memories until the date in question popped into her mind: her last bath took place two days ago. Was it such a short time ago? That nasty fragrance permeating her body tricked her into believing the last time she bathed happened weeks ago.

Nonetheless, that one last preening session felt incomplete. Marek, vexed because she had thrown his clothes into the chilly waters and stood completely naked, forbade her from immersing in the tarn. Despite not being forced to obey him, she respected his desire for privacy and abstained from joining him, limiting herself to simply showering under the waterfall.

It had been a wasted opportunity to meticulously preen her fur and feathers, but not to bond with the foreign warrior. At an emotional level, she had the chance to know him better as he told her about his past as a mercenary and his family, both consanguineous and adoptive. Such a friendly moment had filled her with warmth.

“...”

But on the other hand, on a more superficial, primal level… She took a glance at Marek’s naked silhouette.

The sunkissed skin. The different scarred patterns that snaked across his body. The definition of his muscles. Sigrid gave them no mind at that time, but that’s because she did not see nudity in the same way humans did. After all, the she-chimera herself wore no clothes at all.

But given her self-proposed goal to forge a mateship with Marek, Sigrid could not help but linger on that image of the naked man sculpted in her psyche. And truth be told, the ex-mercenary’s frame was stunning.

Ripped muscles but not bulky — males thought having a broad body was ideal to deal with most dangers, but being a bearer of great muscular mass makes them clunky and sluggish most of the time. That, however, was not an issue with Marek, whose shape was relatively slim and honed, maximizing strength and speed. His physical prowess lived up to his graceful swiftness and adroitness. His frame showcased the perfect balance of human fitness.

Then there was his furless hide, which glowed like mineral ore in the presence of the blazing sphere when wet, bearer of several dents, a testament to his many victories. Sigrid’s healing factor prevented her from showing any scar, making her appear like she never participated in any violent encounter — which she believed might incentivize hostile monsters to attack her on sight — but Marek? His marks of combat might as well be natural warning signs that scare off predators. That could chase them off in order to protect her.

“What a male…”

As she dwelt in the memory of the nude man, her thoughts spiraled into more steamy heights. Sigrid wished to had been more insistent back then, to join him and wash together. She desired to feel more than his face and see more than his upper body. An unrelenting curiosity. A lewd fascination.

“Oh, Sigrid, you’re so daring~. What would Imbi say? Would she consider these thoughts to be lady-like?” She shook her head. “No, this is not about Imbi. It’s about us. Before worrying about what Imbi would think, I need to focus on what Marek thinks. I just need to gather more courage and— Wha?”

Sigrid had to cut off her own woolgathering upon noticing that the sloped rock and snow beneath her substantially shrank in her sight. Too lost was in her thoughts that the monstress failed to notice she flew past and beyond the mountain path, and now she found herself floating above a ravine.

“Oh, crap,” she cursed. “Stoopid Sigrid, cannot think too much while soaring up.” She turned around mid-air, hopeful that she did not leave the slope far behind. Fortunately, her worries fled as soon as she spotted the leaning path and the peak range that towered over it, not far from where she hovered.

A relieving whistle echoed in the air. “Goodness, I’m still close. Marek might have been right… I’ve been too careless today,” she puffed her mane and folded her arms. “But he’s also to blame… kind of… Anyway, I recall hearing some bleats during my flight, so it shouldn’t take long before— wait, what’s that?”

Her lupine ears twitched, reacting to a rhythmical and babbling sound not far from where she floated. “Could it be…” Avian eyes sharpened as they focused on the mountain path, where a faint crystalline shine was eventually caught by her hawk-like sight.

It was a creek — dozens of them, surprisingly unfrozen, streaming down the slope to the valley below, drawing thin but numerous branches across the mountain pass.

“Yes, finally. A place where I can wash off this nasty scent from my feathers.” Enthusiastically, Sigrid flapped her wings with vigor and moved back to the slope, where a relaxing preening session awaited her.

The snow barely shuddered when a manticore of no less than one hundred forty pounds set down a few yards next to one of the creeks. “Wait…” However, she stopped on her feet, her excitement substantially lessened. “I cannot bathe now; I need to hunt down food and report to Marek.”

Sigrid wasted too much time daydreaming, and although she was dimly aware of her surroundings and smelled nothing particularly threatening to the two of them, she still had a job to do before taking her time to relax and get rid of the ghoulish fragrance.

“Grr! So bothersome…” She grouched. “I want to bathe now, but Marek is waiting for me, and most likely worried and… wait a peep…” Out of nowhere, her upset expression changed in a blink as an idea sparked in her head. “Bathe… Marek… Yes. Yes! That’s it! That’s what I— we need: a bath!— gawh, it stings, it stings.” In her vivid realization, Sigrid forgot about the injury on her neck and how sensitive it was to her own high-pitched cries.

Nevertheless, the pain failed to prevent her from hopping ahead, too much like a happy hare, and leaning over the body of water until she saw her beaming reflection. “If I replicate what occurred in the tarn, Marek might become more susceptible to opening himself up.” The fluffy tail picked up speed, and the air behind her flapped. “He and I… relaxing in the water… naked skin touching fur, ” her tuft ruffled, and she hugged her biceps with each arm. “That’s the push we both need to break the ice. It would be perfect. It will be perfect. Ooh~, thinking about things we could do, like scrubbing each other and billing, makes my fur puff up… so embarrassing. ”

Embarrassing and sort of obscene, she forgot to add. The possibility of Marek cleaning her in any form almost made her drool over her tuft.

“Alright, that’s enough fantasy for today.” With a quick head shake, she discarded her improper demeanor. “The sunlight will not last for long. I need to find food and make sure no predators lurk around. I need to hurry.”

Body down and wings up, and with another downward thrust of her feathery wings, Sigrid found herself riding the arctic winds, floating closer to ground level that time, utterly focused on the task of hunting, scouting, and, of course, courting.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

It did not take much time for Sigrid to catch Marek’s scent — or the scent of the blood he sprayed, to be more exact — inside a humble shack at the beginning of the mountainous slope, not far from where they saw each other last time.

Everything went according to plan: she found and killed a beast suitable for nourishment in record time, which now hung limply in her talons. Furthermore, the olfactory surveillance was carried out without incidents. Her acute senses detected a peculiar mixture of scents, telling her that this place was, to some degree, transited. Nonetheless, she considered that the smell was not something to be concerned about, at least not at the moment.

The only missing step to her plan was the one that made her more nervous — convincing Marek to take a dip with her.

She landed next to the shack entrance, her arrival silent, no noisier than a brunting landing on a pine branch, despite her load. With her hunting trophy on her shoulder, Sigrid squeezed her way through the doorless entrance, her approach greeted by Marek’s back, that instance clad in a more traditional, gondola-colored longcoat instead of the exotic cloak with fur collar and scaly patterns.

Marek missed the arrival of an over-seven-foot-tall avian entity, his attention too absorbed by a piece of dark gray metal lying on a stone table, his frame leaning over the rock, with both hands pressed on the hard surface. But instead of immediately announcing her presence, Sigrid limited herself to regarding the overly concentrated man before shifting her gaze toward the rest of the abode the warrior chose as shelter.

The snow of many winters piled up in every corner, coating the floor in white as the fluid spread inwardly. The low ceiling stripped Sigrid of freedom of movement, mere inches separating her from scraping the upper surface with her horns; likewise, it was not possible to expand the pair of wings without bumping into the walls or rustic furniture — at least there was nothing to break, as most observable vessels lay broken.

Finally, her eyes hit a flat, long rectangular stonework, covered by one layer of frost and another of ox fur, attached to the farthest wall from the entrance, with a window suspended three feet above. A bed, and a primitive one at that. Not one particularly large, adult-sized, but that was it. Her winged frame barely fit in it, let alone Marek’s and hers.

Too much asking for a cuddly nest. But if Marek chose this house as a shelter, then other places were in poorer conditions.

Sigrid hid her disillusionment well, then set her eyes upon Marek once again. Weary of the silence, she unhung the beast from her shoulders and dropped it with the intention of generating an audible thud. It worked, and with a trifling gasp, Marek spun to the entrance, taken aback at first, but he untensed as soon as he recognized Sigrid.

“Try knocking up next time. You almost put me on my toes,” he commented.

“Don’t you need a door for that?” She answered, a playful grin drawn at the edges of her mouth.

“You know what I mean…” He said, unamused, but without hints of being annoyed. Sigrid tittered, and Marek scoffed in response, unable to push himself to scold her. His eyes shifted from Sigrid to a mass of white-grayish fur at the monstress’ feet; it was a beast with a pair of ringed horns, short but sturdy, and also hoofed.

“Is that a goat?” He asked, his brows knitted together.

“I call them bleaters. But yes, a gote. ”

“I didn’t know such farm animals inhabited this place. I must have missed that during my studies.”

“You did not miss a lot. Bleaters are my least favorite critters. They aren’t fun to chase, their chewing is nasty, and they are kind of stinky.” She chirped in derision.

“Why not hunt something else then?”

“Not a lot of critters around the plateau; I didn’t want to get picky or fly too far either. Besides,” she cocked her head in a childish manner, “you can always cook and make its taste bearable.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot I was your personal chef,” he chuckled, and Sigrid smiled in response. Nonetheless, her features had a speck of cluelessness, which forced Marek to clear himself up. “... a chef is a cook.”

“Oh~. So it was that~.” Two times she swung her head from one side to another, similar to a metronome, the bounce of her ears causing Marek’s mouth to curl up slightly.

“I take your jovial aptitude as a sign that there was nothing unusual out there.”

“Mm? Hooh~. Right…” She stopped her head swaying, toning down her childish behavior. “As I told you before, there are no predators around.” Marek nodded silently at her report, one of his hands still resting over the table and his posture half-leaning backward. “However, I did catch an unusual smell… two in fact.”

Marek’s brows twitched, and the movement of his head halted; he also straightened. “Could you be more specific?”

“Warg and troll’s smell,” she plainly stated.

Upon stating her report, a snort echoed inside the hut. “See? Dangerous. That’s why you don’t rush into a deserted town in the middle of nowhere. These creatures could very well be watching us right now. ”

“So paranoid~,” Sigrid rolled her eyes upward before tossing Marek an annoyed look. “The scent is too thin to indicate they’re still sticking around. A stray warg might have passed by but shouldn’t have stayed; for a warg pack to settle here is silly; there’s next to no food.”

“What about the troll?” He pressed on. “Don’t they inhabit mountains too?”

“Trolls seeking caverns up in the mountains is not something unheard of, but they do it to hibernate in loneliness or escape from another region.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They’re sleepy and don’t want to be bothered.”

“The escape part, I meant.”

“Oho~, right. Because they took a stronger troll as an enemy,” Sigrid lifted both claws in front of her and began to grasp each one with the other in a wild manner as if to imitate a quarrel between two animals. “Sometimes, winning is not enough, and whoever came out victorious wants to get rid of the other. So the weaker one flees the territory, at least for a time.”

“Vicious, but I’m not surprised,” Marek cast a glance at the outside before speaking up. “But you look sure about yourself. Can we rest without the fear of being ambushed by brutes or mutts? I wouldn’t like to revive that one morning in the cave.”

“Sure,” she assured with a nod. “Besides, we were sleeping in a cave back then. A troll will not seek a human house unless it is pretty hungry… or in an ill mood.”

“That last bit gives me little reassurance… But if you say so, I trust you,” Marek affirmed and turned to the rock in front. “There’s a pile of wood in the corner; you may place the goat there while I handle another issue,” his hand waved in the direction of the corner where the firewood was stacked.

“Woow~. You surely are fast gathering up wood,” she chirped as she dragged the ungulate by its hind legs toward the log stack.

Marek stifled a chuckle and responded: “My ability with the ax doesn’t extend to chopping trees at blinding speed, I’m afraid. Luckily, the logs were already stored when I stepped in.”

The goat was dropped onto the piles of firewood, producing a clatter with its fall. “Out of curiosity, what are you doing with the fire-spitting thingy?”

“You see, during our get-together with our sucky-toothy friend, a handful of rocks plunged into the weapon and other items.” He stretched his arm forward and set his hand over one piece. “Initially, I thought the damage was merely cosmetic, but now that I give a more in-depth glance… Well, let’s say some rectifications are in order.”

“That sounds serious… Could you explain more to me?”

Marek breathed in and out before proceeding. “Very well. First, a crag landed right at the trigger guard, utterly smashing the loop and jamming the trigger.” Marek slid his hand across the piece to the barrel of the weapon. “Second, because I used the rifle to block Dalavut’s edge, several dents were carved throughout the—”

As Marek detailed the damages that his rifle suffered, Sigrid listened attentively — although that did not mean she understood everything that came out of Marek’s mouth. Were not barrels the cylinders where humans stored their drinks? And the chambers where individuals rested in beds? Since when did metal lengths possess muzzles and sights?

She was at loss, her state of mind no different from when Imbi taught her the advanced terms. Nevertheless, she was fascinated by Marek’s exposition. He looked so confident in his speech and sounded wise. He was so sharp, so unlike her, who barely knew the world beyond snow-packed lands.

Confusion mutated into dissociation, and as the man delivered his speech, Sigrid’s gaze drifted from his face to his moving lips, which clenched, drew down and up, and relaxed in almost an inviting manner as he vocalized every word. The remorse of not pecking those damp muscles returned, and Sigrid began to scratch the rock beneath with her toeclaws in an anxious yet subtle manner, her tail idly swinging from one side to another.

Ugh, I cannot resist any longer~. I can barely keep my mind straight around him. But this is about to change. If everything goes according to plan, perhaps I could savor the pair of wet, squishy, red—

“Eh, Sig… Are you following me?” A voice caused her pondering to shatter, and Sigrid barely suppressed a twit that would have given away her inattentiveness.

“Ahm… kind of… no? ” Awkward words were forced out of her beak, which caused her to shrink a tad as shame swelled inside.

Marek blinked and then issued a sigh. “I guess I went too fast… fire weapons are pretty foreign on their own.”

Sigrid’s gaze fell to the floor, and she rubbed one of her biceps. Fantastic… Now he thinks I’m stoopid.

“I’m sorry…”

“None of that,” he shook his head. “Rifles such as mine are a novelty. I don’t think any northerner would grasp what I said, not in its totality.” His reassuring words calmed her a bit. “To sum it up, the rifle is in no optimal condition and, therefore, cannot be used until it gets patched up. And also…” Marek turned to the table and retrieved a series of shiny, metallic, and crystal-like shards before facing Sigrid again. “These are the remains of two of my flasks intended to store dragon blood.”

“Oh no…” Worry bashed over Sigrid, and she raised one clawed hand to grasp her chest. “You needed those to bring back the blood to hoomans to cure you… and your weapon, if you use it in its current conditions…”

“I will not only have terrible aim but also the inner mechanism might jab and might as well explode into smithereens,” Marek completed her sentence.

“Terrible a-aim? Jab? Might as well e-explode?! Smithy- what?! ” Sigrid’s voice intensified with every utterance; likewise, her ears pricked up, and trembles turned evident on her mane.

“Hold on, Sig. I didn—”

“Oh no!” The unexpected screech that followed forced Marek’s hand to raise in defense of his eardrums, cutting off whatever explanation he was about to offer. “That’s terrible! H-how will you shoot Hissing Wing down?! How will you collect the essential ingredient for your illness?! What if you explode into small pie—” Sigrid rasped at that last sentence and cawed as her intense reaction caused the wound in her throat to burn.

“Hey, hey, hey. Calm down, Sig, your cries will hurt you,” Marek skipped ahead and clasped Sigrid’s shoulders. “This is not as terrible as it sounds. I can find a way to fix it.”

Sigrid hung at the edge of a panic attack with her wings halfway unfurled, untidy remiges at their ends, and the color contained within her widened orbs shuddering. But as soon as Marek dropped that sentence, her state of dismay stopped getting worse.

“Y-you m-meant it?”

“I will lie to you no more. I can mend the trigger, remove the incrusted metal bits, and patch up the dents up to a certain degree. It’ll take time, but it can be done.”

“W-what about th-the flasks? How-w will you—”

“I got another two flasks. I don’t need that much blood; the number of flasks was to prevent this kind of accident and to pay the manufacturing costs of the antidote. One flask is enough, and I can always find alternative payment methods.”

Sigrid stood frozen for a twinkling, as if she were a hare who saw a fox prowling low at her side without the former noticing it. Ultimately, her stress drained with a whistle, and Sigrid’s posture relaxed.

“Y-you… should’ve said at the beginning… in fact, you shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

“B-but you asked for—”

“No excuses!” She folded her arms and broke eye contact, forcing Marek to remove his hand from her shoulders. “I bet you did it on purpose to stir my feathers up as a way to take revenge for that time I made you eat snow… You’re so roode… Rooe and a sore loser...” she uttered, somehow shaken.

“M-my apologies… I did not intend to scare you. Normally, people would’ve brushed off the last bit like some kind of joke.”

“Hm! Unfunny joke…” Sigrid huffed.

“I’ll make up for my screwup. Our last skirmish dropped its own loot.” Marek moved his hand down to his belt and scooped something with a metallic shine, lifting it in front of Sigrid. “One of the ghouls let this out.”

Sigrid tried to keep her huffy-puffy demeanor for a little longer but ultimately surrendered to curiosity and tilted her head in Marek’s direction, even letting her arms fall and hang to her sides. “A knife?”

“A shortsword. But not a common one.” Marek waved his wrist and mouthed a sentence in a language Sigrid did not understand. For the next few seconds, nothing happened, but before Sigrid could ask what he was trying to showcase, the length began to turn red, and a surge of heat struck and expanded across her fur.

Even though the world of magical arts remained a mystery for Sigrid’s rustic wisdom, the last week of traveling along with an enchanted item user had caused the she-chimera to grow accustomed to the aura of arcane-infused objects, as well as their tricks.

“It’s magick,” Marek nodded at her statement. “This thingy produces fire… fascinating.” Sigrid’s eyes shone with the heated metal, and she almost stretched a talon to touch the sword.

“I can see it in your eyes,” he smiled. “But different from Iousterard and Dalavut, it’s not an artifact of old. Magic markets manufacture these just as bakeries bake pies. Their power is simple,” he chanted in the same foreign tongue as before, which caused the vermilion from the edge to gradually drain away. Next, he moved the weapon closer to his face. “And so is their endurance. A shame that Striigori cleaved almost halfway through the metal. Now, it’s not reliable to use in real battle.” Marek turned around and laid the blade on the table. “But as an igniter, the weapon may come in handy. Expect the quality of my food to improve.”

“Promising~. I’ll accept tasty food as an acceptable apology~,” Sigrid teased, arms entwined at her back. “And now that we confirmed everything is fine, what are you going to do for the rest of the day?” Her playful gaze quickly toured the room before latching onto Marek’s back. The question was not to gather ideas for her to do — she knew what she wanted to do. She only desired to infer what Marek’s plans were.

“Huh? Oh, alright. Surprisingly, I’m not hungry right now, so I planned to put my hands to mending the rifle. But if your stomach is up to eating a goat, perhaps I can pause the repairs for a time.”

Sigrid shook her head. “I’m fine. During the hunt, I spotted several creeks with flowing water down the mountain path, so I was on my way to preen this ghool-ish scent out of me.”

“Oh, perfect, if it isn’t a bother,” he turned around and took the canteen from the table. “Could you fill this container? My mouth feels like cotton.”

Sigrid nodded and grasped the canteen from Marek’s hands. “Ehm, Marc?” Alright, this might be an opportune moment to ask him out.

“Hm?”

“Since we both stink,” Marek half grimaced, his barely expressive response sparking Sigrid’s nervousness. Bad choice of words! Bad choice of words! “I meant… ghool blood p-poured over us, so…”

“Oh? It was that…” He scratched his cheek. “We don’t want to lure back whatever creature passed around here, so I guess I need to wash myself too.”

“Yes, and about that, I was wondering if… if you want to… makemecompany,” she jabbered at the last words and almost broke eye contact.

“I, eh… say what?” But Sigrid’s attempts to quickly finish up her mortified proposition backfired as Marek failed to understand her words.

Come on! It was your idea. I can’t be sheepish all the time. Just chirp it! With the tuft of her mane almost puffed and her fingers anxiously tipping the canteen, Sigrid gulped and whistled to compose enough not to stumble in her words. “What I tried to say is… if you want to accompany me to the creek…” There it is.

Marek frowned, confused at first. “You… want you to take you there?” Had Sigrid not been invaded by shyness, she would have palmed her mask. What? Wasn’t my question clear enough?

“No… I meant to bathe along with me…” Her pair of hands hardened their grip on the leather bottle in her hand, which generated a faint creaking sound as the leather twisted. Hopefully, I don’t have to explain myself any further…

The frown upon Marek’s features vanished, signaling his understanding of Sigrid’s proposition. “Bathe along with you…” he echoed, his mien impassive, although with his mouth drooping slightly. “You want me to…” But something failed — his firm features were melting away, a shudder begging to seize his lips, and a weak pink emerging in both cheeks and ears. “Wash at your side?”

Sigrid shrank and averted her gaze. Her desire for an intimate moment with Marek did not make her invitation any less abashing. “T-the weather is calm, and the sun blazes with in-intensity. After the skirmish of last night, the water will feel refreshing for us.” Too abashed to give a straight-up confirmation to his question, she opted to appeal to human logic to bathe with her.

“Well… but… you see… if the sun is that intense, then my skin might—”

“I’ll use my wing!” She chirped, cutting off Marek from stammering out an obvious excuse and restoring eye contact. “With me at y-your side, the sun’s lighty-lights will not harm your skin. I also promise to not… toss your clothes in the water.”

Marek did not seem to register the last words, too engrossed with his whirling thoughts, the cue of doubt more than evident for Sigrid’s senses. The crimson of his cheeks stood like a flower amidst the snow, and the ball at his throat bobbed from time to time. He, just like Sigrid moments before, battled for his eyes not to go astray.

“I… I don’t think it’s… you might—” Marek struggled to come up with words, a task that proved to be harder than slicing flesh and bones. Sigrid was aware of Marek’s trouble to express any friendly feeling of his, and it would be naive to think persuading him to wash along with her would be a walk through the hills, but nonetheless, his reluctance was beginning to irk her.

“I… I need to sort out a few things first,” Marek ultimately decided, turning to the table where the weapon rested. “I’ll… I’ll think about what I should do first with this apparatus.”

Sigrid could only blink at his response. That— That’s it?! Certainly, Marek was dense, and resistance to her offer was expected. Still, going by his movement, he looked like he was shutting down her invitation without leaving a gap for negotiation.

“But… wouldn’t you rather rest a little? I’m sure you could take care of the weapon later…” She argued.

“Sorry, but this is important, and I need to make the best of the daylight to find out about specific issues that affect the rifle.”

“B-but… what with the scent of blood?” She opted to keep appealing to reason, a more than emotional excuse for him to join her, even if somehow that conflicted with her confident statement about no monster lurking nearby.

“I’m aware of that. But I only need to clean up my coat, cloaks, and vest. Perhaps my pants as well, not all my body and clothes. Once I finish here, I go down to wash my garments.”

Sigrid lowered her gaze, her ears following as they, too, dropped low. She ran out of logical excuses to push him into taking a bath. Sheer bullheadedness defeated her. Pinehead… so stubborn…

A sigh resounded, and Sigrid’s stare rose to see Marek turning to her. “Look… it might be nothing. Fixing the rifle might only take a couple of hours, and so does identifying its problems. Perhaps…” He moved one hand to his nape and rubbed it. “I can join you once I’m done.”

The lupine pair perked up. “Really?”

“I… do not promise anything. What I promise, however, is to try to sort this mess up as fast as possible.” There was insecurity mixed with his words, but nevertheless, his pledge provided some consolation to Sigrid.

At the very least, she confirmed he was up for the idea of bathing with her, even if he himself did not directly say it.

“Alright…” Sigrid vocalized, then she turned her back to Marek and advanced to the entrance. Upon stepping out, she twirled her head back and spoke: “The creeks are located downhill, close to the ravine.” Marek soberly nodded. “I’ll… wait for your company, quite… eagerly. ” Her tuft increased its volume as her neck shrank on her shoulders.

Marek’s eyes widened for a fleeting instant before moving out from Sigrid, the crimson hue slowly returning to his face. “Y-yes, I… I would lo— I mean, I hope to see you there.” Sigrid giggled and jiggled at his clunky response.

Marek was a weapon master. A bearer of a skill that would put him at the level of an entire battalion of men or a pack of wargs. But truth be told, his ability to fraternize was comparable to kids — and that’s coming from a chimera who spent most of her life living alone in the Arctic.

It was a part of Marek that she both disliked and loved.

Without further ado, Sigrid offered a smile before turning her head to the outside, the wind flapping as her wing moved to lift her weight aloft, sending a wave of chill that toured the inside of the shack.

Marek could only see how the white of the chimera fused with the paleness of the mountain. After Sigrid’s silhouette escaped his field of vision, Marek turned to the table, pressed his palms on the stone table, and issued an arduous and prolonged sigh, even letting his head drop to stare at the rock.

“Seolvor’s lustrous flails…” He let out a grunt, his voice dripping with disappointment and frustration. “Grow a pair, Blakesley. You sound like a darn teenager.”

After five minutes of ruminating over all the things he could have said — or the foolishness he had said — Marek exhaled deeply again and set his gaze upon the damaged weapon, which asked for Marek’s focus to bring it into a better state.

“... This might take more than I calculated…”

His focus, however, suffered from a situational handicap.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

“Why is he taking so long?…” A disgruntled peep echoed around the brook and blended with the faint babble of the water and the moan of the wind.

The summits at the mountain’s edge, overlapping the image of the blazing sphere, cast a gargantuan shadow over the slope, engulfing most of the creeks that streamed down the mountainous path. In approximately one hour, if not less, darkness and coldness would establish themselves, rendering the waters at the crest unfit for human use.

“Everything is turning cold and hazy.” At the edge of one of the few creeks still exposed to sunlight, Sigrid lay on her stomach, over half of her body immersed in the cold waters. Her head, tilted to one side, rested over her arms, all while her mirror-like eyes absently observed a pebble roll underneath the pressure of her clawtip.

“Doomb Marc… Doomb and roode. Why does he have to be so stoopid?” The flow’s tinkles, sedative even for those who find the Arctic a stressful environment, were drowned out by the she-chimera’s constant gripes. “He isn’t making this courting thing easy…”

The surface water stirred, and two limbs rose from beneath to the air, carrying water and letting it cascade down to wash her head and back. The brooks were shallow, barely covering Sigrid’s half thigh at the deepest spots, so she decided to lie on her belly and let the flow of the water do most of the job instead of scrubbing herself with her hands or beak, occasionally lifting her wings up and down.

But beyond what it might appear, her current posture had another ulterior motive, one beyond facilitating her moisturized preening. Sigrid had not forgotten how Marek’s gaze lingered a bit too much across her silhouette during her previous cleaning session — how he let the white of her avalanche the brown of his eyes. The obstinate man might have denied it at the time, but the monstress knew better: he had been clearly ogling her, with or without preternatural aura.

His eyes felt intrusive at the start, although not in an uncomfortable way; in the end, no one had eyed Sigrid like Marek had. If anything, his surveillance made Sigrid feel desired, not like a daughter, like a friend, and much less like an edible enemy, but as something else entirely new. Thus, the warrior’s sly look grew on her, to the point Sigrid considered using his prying to her advantage and making the act of courtship breezier, a trick she had already pulled out right at the arrival in the village.

Therefore, at the border of the tranquil creek, Sigrid lay relaxed, bare back exposed to the chilly breeze, canine legs dangling languidly in the air, and buttocks popping out of the crystalline liquid and gleaming almost like the peaks surrounding the plateau. The sum up of all those visual elements should undoubtedly be enticing for any bystander coming from above, all monstrous features considered.

Oh, if only there were a male trotting down to witness her snow-white body twinkling with the water.

“Crap,” a solid tap resounded as Sigrid flicked her fingers to strike the piece of rock, flinging it several yards away. “His clunky and awkward attitude was coote at first, but now that he doesn’t want to join me in… pretty much anything, his adorable -ness does nothing but peel my feathers off.”

After venting her bitterness on the pellet, Sigrid’s claws fidgeted on the crisp ground for a couple of seconds before rolling over on her back. Crooked beak let out a tired whistle, vacant eyes set on the increasingly misty air that appeared more and more like a second body of water.

“What if I’m mistaken?…” She murmured, her tone somehow dejected. “What if Marek’s latest behavior was not because of embarrassment but because he simply feels uncomfortable?…” Her wings retracted closer to her shoulders. “What if my nature is pushing him away?”

Sigrid, being considered a type of manticore, a monstrous creature known to predate humans, was a fact that never crossed her mind during her latest advance on the human fighter. Ever since their formal introduction at Võshla’s outskirts, Marek had not given Sigrid the beast’s treatment, but that was because their relationship was limited to simple adventurous partners.

Sharp claws and a keen beak were like swords forged with the finest steel, a gift to be used in battle. Long, animal ears were receptive to hidden dangers, an unfair advantage. Wings to defy the most harsh gusts, a blessing. But how does any of that help in intimate moments? Beaks could not kiss. Caressing with claws might inflict accidental wounds. Wings… Well, so far, she could not envision the feathery pair causing any incident besides occupying more space. But what if Marek did not see it in the same way? What if fluffy manes and voluminous extra limbs were unattractive to human males?

Sigrid lay quiet as she contemplated a myriad of possibilities, her mind coming up with ideas at the rate of a rapid river, so unlike the water flowing through her body. The water, the so-gentle liquid, drew wave patterns across her furs and made her tail sway rhythmically underwater. The fur was snow, whereas the water was both a brush and a shovel, unburying what lay underneath that coat of white: four out of six pale, pink mounds.

Her teats making contact with the air interrupted Sigrid's meditation at the same time it gave her another thing to mull over. Avian hands grasp her sides, her pace fond as if made by a caring mate, then her talons slid underwater, feeling the soaked fur on her belly and the contour of her waistbone.

The set of avian hands glided across her midsection, grazing her nipples, which, despite the near-freezing temperatures, were not that hardened. Nonetheless, the peaks were a bit sensitive, and Sigrid issued a baffled coo as one of her nails pinched the flesh around.

Upon finishing checking her abdominal zone, Sigrid shifted her hands up her body until her hands rose from the liquid and cupped both breasts. Wolfish tuft covered the upper part of her chest, curtaining her ladylike mounds. Only a low angle — or deliberate backward lean — enabled any outside observer to peek at her pair, which Sigrid dared to permit earlier that day.

The results of that trick were satisfactory — her humble and perky breasts had drawn the attention of a pair of oak-colored eyes. Not bad for an entity whose real gender remained a mystery during their first encounter.

Sigrid emitted a relieving whistle and removed her hands from her chest, setting them to her sides once again. “Well, I don’t think my body is monstrous enough to shoo Marek away.” That was a truth she was already aware of, but the monstress wanted to remind her she was beautiful. Imbi always adulated her appearance with fancy descriptions, comparing her to flowers and landscapes, but it was not enough for her to be juxtaposed with arctic allure.

Landscapes did not have romantic partners; maidens did. And with a milky and soft bosom, slim body, and long legs, Sigrid could give the most refined maidens a run for their money, chimeric attributes be damned. Her extra teats and navelless belly, as well as her lack of lips, were concerning factors that gave her inhumanity away; still, given that they had not prevented Marek from giving her the eye, she ultimately deemed such elements as not within the ex-mercenary’s preferences.

“If not my species, then what? Is there anything else about male pride I’m not taking into account? Some monsters dislike it when a potential mate turns out to be bigger than they are. Could it be that? But that’s absurd!” She barked. “If any, that’s monsters’ way of life, not hoomans’! Imbi never told me that about hoomans, and neither have I seen them rejecting each other because of such a trivial thing! Grr! Doomb and coote Marc causing my head to be heated and my throat to ache— garr!”

Growling, she took her hands to her head and began to rub her mask as her attempts to puzzle out what lay inside her human’s mind did nothing but inflict a headache. She cringed a bit more at the creek’s edge before stopping short with a huff, one arm raised over her eyes.

For the seconds to come, the chirps of a disgruntled bird abandoned the slope, leaving the winds and water to chant anew, only accompanied by an occasional faint whistle.

“... What if the problem is not what I am?… Perhaps by choosing me, the other hoomans will reject him…” It was a reasonable possibility; her foster mother had commented on how subtlety was required every time they arranged a meeting.

Shaman. Witch. Warlock. Unfriendly titles, all of them. Imbi had acquired them merely by going outside the walls to spend the night in solitude with nature, and that was just what remained known to the public. Who could know what the settlers would do to Imbi and Ankarl, the latter who covered the spokeswoman’s actions, the moment they knew they fraternized with a chimera?

Who could know what would happen to Marek the moment humans realized he had a monster as a mate?

More than a possibility, it was a liability that made Sigrid’s stomach churn and wings clutch her sides. It was the worst outcome — Marek was eluding her, possibly rejecting her advances, because if he accepted her, his people might expel him altogether.

“No… That’s just a wild guess. The warrior I know and love would not be pressed by others, be they monsters or hoomans. He might have a pine cone for a head, but he would not succumb to hoomanthink.” Despite her self-reassurance, doubt did not stop whirling inside her mind.

However, this time, Sigrid would not allow her doubt to escalate further. This time, she had a plan to sort those thoughts out, her motion to remove her arm from her face signaling her growing determination.

“I need to know what he thinks. I need to ask him once and for all. ” Without an arm covering her mask, the monstress’ eyes resolutely shone. “I’m no pup nor chick; I’m a grown lady. I defeated any monster who inhabited these lands, even those who were rotting. No more sheepish hatchling!” She leaned her upper body forward and up. “He doesn’t take the cues? Fine! Marc likes to be direct, so I will be direct! ”

With a splash, Sigrid stood up to her feet. The blood, hers and ghouls’, was absent from her coat. A line devoid of fur across the left side of her neck and shoulder, reddened because of incomplete cicatrization, stood as the only testament of her life-and-death experience.

“Courtship is stoopid! We have already passed through a lot. I’ll fly there and ask him if he wants to be my mate,” she lashed her tail and firmly folded her wings to her back. “I will tell and he will recipriti— recipi— reciple— Gr! Return the feelings! ” After stuttering those last words and bathing herself with courage, Sigrid hopped out of the water and crouched down to shake the moisture out of her body.

Once dried up, Sigrid stretched her wings and set her gaze on the upward path, where the blockhead of her partner hid, handling a piece of scrap.

A speck of shyness lingered inside Sigrid’s psyche, and she would lie to herself if she did not fear the possibility of Marek declining her love. But it had to be made; more violence awaited from that point of the Arctic onward, and she might not have the opportunity to confess her love to him.

Besides, the stubborn man was not giving her another choice.

“Kye. I’m worn out of vacillations,” she peeped one last time before lifting her wings and flapping them down, a motion that carried enough power to blow away the haze around and generate a ripple on the brook. In short order, Sigrid was already soaring in the air, on her way to confront the man who heated her head and warmed her heart.

The resolution within was so intense that she forgot Marek’s canteen on one side of the stream.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Hundreds of yards away, tens of feet above the inclined terrain. Resting upon one of the many rustic roads that snaked around the peaks of dark granite, a triad of orbs observed an avian entity depart from the ground to move through the skies. Three eyes pierced through the fog, battling not to lose their target, lupine ears sharing the same skull sensitive to the flaps the wings elicited.

“ Howling Talon had finally abandoned the streams, no doubt to join the human. ” The creature shifted from lying on her belly — her as the voice was evidently feminine — to standing on four legs.

“ My master’s doings will reveal to her in short; if Howling Talon is as good a hunter as my kind divulges, so will be her whereabouts. ” The creature turned her head and pointed her muzzle to her left and up, toward the tallest peak.

“ To think Howling Talon not only befriended a human, but also accompanied him all the way here, to the foot of the Icing Boundary. What an intriguing creature you are. Intriguing and irresponsible. ” The wargess words were practically devoid of emotions, as if the presence of a unique chimera and an outsider human failed to light her alarms or interest.

After exchanging words with herself, the wargess crouched before leaping up toward another stone trail; then, she started to gallop. Fast. Cautious. Strikingly silent.

My overindulgent master. Your vanity has led you to meddle with Howling Talon’s affairs. You may think that your status allows your reign over the monsters of this land, but Howling Talon is no everyday monster… Oh goodness, a senseless clash is in order.

The wargess continued her sprint across the peaks until her whitish cyan fur lost itself between the many gorges of the rocky range.