FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The vast plain glowed like a blade of palladium honed off wooden and rocky structures, natural and man-made alike. Only groups of knolls, streamlets of trickling liquid, and clusters of bushes disturbed what would otherwise be miles and miles of flawless terrain coated with layers of snow.

The meadow played neutral on a daily basis for wildlife, offering no concealment of any kind; both predators and preys had no allies but themselves.

Out on the thick field, speed and senses were the only factors that decided who lived and who died.

That spelled bad news for the long-eared hare, oblivious to the axman.

With a thirty-six-yard gap between hunter and hunted, it was difficult to fathom how a human could detect a small mammal whose natural coat veiled seamlessly with the environment. But years of sleeping among cutthroats had sharpened Marek’s senses to the point he was almost a hawk among humankind. The radiance reflected on the snow would do little to hinder his aim.

This animal would be his second ravin in this barren land and serve as the nourishment for the rest of the day. Not that he would miss another opportunity to catch another lagomorph or any other edible arctic beast, but one of these rabbits was enough to sate him until the next dawn.

The fighter bent low, his right hand calmly unsheathing the magical ax from his belt underneath the cloaks, lips pressed tight, eyesight narrowed sharply. His armed hand rose, the daylight making the blade blaze with radiance. With dexterous hands and an enchanted weapon, Marek would make the spinning missile hit the unaware mammal in no time.

You are mine.

But then, a feeble crackle vibrated closeby, and his aim went off as his senses detected a third party.

The land boomed, and a blurry, colorless mass charged toward the defenseless hare in a burst of motion as if the very soil tried to engulf the critter. A high-pitched cry came from the animal, the sound piercing the man’s ears, making his lifted shoulder twitch.

—!

The entire movement lasted no more than a second, and as soon as the squeak vanished, the expanse around returned to its rustling chant. Marek’s eyes stayed glued to the same spot the arctic rabbit used to stand, both hand and ax motionless over his head.

He was bemused — bemused and frustrated.

“...”

A gnawing rode the breeze, pushing Marek out of his flabbergasted state, his arm slacking into inactivity. He then swiveled toward the source of the jarring sound, which was coming from behind a hump covered with bushes. There, a milky figure shuffled behind.

The man approached, his face deprived of any positive emotion. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The champing stopped, and the entity gyrated her head over one hundred degrees toward the human. Red soaked the edges of her beak, but a crimson muscle took care to brush clean the dripping liquid, the appendage trailing swiftly across the rigid snout.

“Um… I eat a hare,” muttered Sigrid, her voice devoid of guilt.

“I did notice,” the man responded, his tone almost chiding. “What I meant is why you snatched my hare.”

“Snatch… Your hare…” The chimera whispered, blue eyes blinking. “Snatch like take away?” The man’s lips curled a bit, a shadow of a snarl starting to manifest. “But you had no hare when you exited Võshla… how could this hare be yours—”

“You know what I meant,” the scowl startled Sigrid, her ears leaning back. “That pest was going to be my food. Furthermore, if you delayed your ambush, even by one tick, I could’ve hacked you crimson.”

Sigrid did not take those words kindly, some guilt beginning to show on her avian face, one of her claws flexing in the air. However, she perked her ears, and that sheepish mien vanished, eyes lit with cleverness as she grasped at the slain rabbit.

Taking the gory remains of the lagomorph with both taloned hands, Sigrid proceeded to tear the carcass apart, both tissues and organs screeching and squelching with the action. It took no more than one push from the hare to splosh in two halves, the burst of flesh shooting some droplets at Marek, tainting his clothes a bit; two dots landed on his cheek, eliciting an eyelid twitching as he suppressed his displeasure.

“Wo-would you prefer the head… or the tail?” The owl-wolfess offered the catch, one piece of the rabbit’s meat in each claw, both arms extended toward Marek.

The fighter limited himself to remaining quiet, his narrowed eyes never abandoning Sigrid to look at the meaty gift, admonishing with the stare alone but with unfruitful results. Some seconds passed without either of them saying a thing, so Sigrid started to jiggle her arms rhythmically, as a form of pressure on Marek to take the present.

The man, however, brushed the blood from his cheek and sighed, moving empty-handed onto the main course. “Keep it.”

“B-but Marc,” she yelled.

“Marek.”

“You wanted a hare to eat, did not you? You need snacks to survive in the outside Frostscape.”

“Another opportunity will show up.” He blankly stated, not stopping or gazing back. “Besides, there’s no telling what would happen if I ingested flesh tarred with your saliva.”

“Tarred saliva? Like… to get dirty?” Her head gyrated to both sides, deciphering the meaning of these words. Once she conceived the meaning, her mask distorted with light indignation. “Hey! Not true! Si— I am not dirty. My spit does not spoil meat. I do not drool over my food, and I brush my beak clean pretty often.”

“There is no way for me to assure that statement.”

Sigrid barked, her tail bashing into the snow, unhappy with the man’s bitter remark. Grumpily, she took both chunks of flesh from the rabbit’s body, devouring the two pieces of the animal in no time. After finishing, she scooted behind Marek, catching up without delay.

“How to know if you’ve already eyed a prey?” She huffed, somewhat disgruntled.

“If I saw it, then it’s mine. You can, however, hunt and kill squirrels, foxes, wolves, raptors, and pretty much anything not suited for human consumption or that could potentially kill me.”

“‘Potentially’?” She cocked her head.

“I’m being generous by using that word,” he glimpsed at the companion to his side. “Of course, if I tell you not to kill something, then you don’t kill something. That is true regardless of the species of the animal or monster.”

The sound of a tail whipped in the air. “No fair. Your rules prevent me from chasing critters.”

“You wanted to accompany me, no? To help me? Well, those are the rules… so far. ”

She broke eye contact, staring at the floor. “Yeah… but… I like to chase and eat hares…”

Marek rolled his eyes and swagged his jaw; then he blew a puff and spoke: “Very well, what about this: within the four hours after I have hunted, you can chase any animal. Fine with that?”

Sigrid stared at the man once again, ears twitching straight. “R-really?”

Marek nodded, and Sigrid responded with an approving hum.

“Marc,” the man grunted at the poor pronunciation of his name. “How much are four hours?”

A tired groan resonated but was quickly drowned out by the breeze’s sigh and the echo of footsteps.

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

“No,” Marek spurned for the second time.

“Come on, lad. It will not bring you trouble. Just let my girl give you company during your journey,” the Spokeswoman Imbi petitioned again, sitting in a carved piece of wood, arms extended across the armrests.

“I’m not going to take a pet with me. I already have enough trouble.”

“Alright. First, Sigrid is no one’s pet,” she rebuked, “and second, you are not required to do a thing. She thrives in the Frostscape, remember? She can fend for herself. If any, this is more beneficial to you.”

After his meeting in the mountain behind the walled village, Marek trotted past Berthram’s establishment, and, true to her word, Imbi had been waiting there beside Ankarl. Despite Marek’s rush to leave Võshla, Imbi convinced him to follow her to her humble shack, offering to get him a sewer to patch his boot and glove. Both garments bore high quality, but with a few scratches and holes on them, their defense against the biting cold became less effective.

And so, Marek had accepted yet another invitation. However, to his surprise, the spokeswoman suggested yet another deal; one bolder than the previous one — allow the chimera, Sigrid, to accompany him on his trip.

“Excuse me for having my reservations. I’m still annoyed by that dirty trick you pulled back in the mountain.” Naturally, the adventurer was not attached to that idea.

“Do not tell me that offering an apology was a shameful feat for you?” she joshed, Marek issuing a growl, irked by her manner of speech. Imbi read the man’s air and threw aside her teasing tone. “It was something I needed to do. I could not risk Sigrid holding any grudge against other humans. Few already can stand her presence, and for a person to stand her presence and yet antagonize her for no reason… well, I disliked the possibility of my cotton flower building distrust toward us,” she leaned forward, moving her arms from the wooden supports to the table, one hand on top of the other. “Also, I was eager to see how she reacted in your presence.”

“What an asinine reason,” Marek humorlessly scoffed. “Why not simply throw this guy here to the beast? Is his reaction not as amusing as mine?” He said, his thumb pointing accusatorily behind at the dining room’s corner where the Spokesman Ankarl stood.

“Don’t dare to nag me, outsider,” Ankarl reproved, a scowl on his face. “Befriending the beast is not my business or priority. My duty is limited to aiding Spokeswoman Imbi in—”

“Did I ask about your job? Be a good cloth rack and stay silent. ” Whenever Marek’s patience grew short, his remarks became more akin to daggers.

“You motherfu— Another offense toward Spokeswoman Imbi or me, and you’ll leave this town at spearpoint—”

Before the angular man got to finish his threat, Imbi extended her hand to ease him. To her credit, the gesture succeeded in cutting off the incoming outrage. “I am afraid the Spokesman is unacquainted with Sigrid’s presence. Furthermore, he would rather not get personally involved with our hybrid friend. I do not blame him; he is risking too much already.”

“Oh, but young Blakesley can meddle with monsters, and consequences be damned. ”

“Do not speak as if this has any relevance to you. Also, you would be far away, and no one would see you along Sigrid. And even if they did, why would Marek Wargbane care about the thoughts of a mere passer-by?”

Marek clenched his jaws, sight shrinking into slits filled with contempt. The woman was right: he could not care about the gossip of locals, and it was not like he lived in the Frostscape. Despite everything, he continued to reject the idea.

Marek composed, too hasty to get angry over spilled milk. “I thank you for clearing my doubts and satisfying my curiosity. I also appreciate the deed of fixing my boot and glove. But I don’t want to deal with an additional shadow. So, without further ado, have a good day and goodbye.” He turned toward the entrance door, not caring about what Imbi or Ankarl had to say.

Imbi started to rise from her chair, eager to persuade the outsider further. However, her voice drove to Marek’s ears as if they traveled through water, becoming more difficult to comprehend with every heartbeat that pounded, which paradoxically grew in volume.

It was the fit — it came back stronger, cramping his lungs into strained levels. Marek staggered, struggling to stay on two feet, but miserably failed from clinging to the table and crumbled to one knee, both hands preventing this weight from plunging onto the timbered floor.

He heard voices, a concerned one which he believed was emitted by Imbi, but amid the sudden seizure, the emissions were dull and obscure, as if a blazing spell had exploded next to his ear.

Pressure threatened to blow up his lungs, and dazzling lights invaded his vision, the darkness behind his eyelids protecting him little against the dreamlike sparks. His chest rocked violently as if his ribs would shatter into shrapnel and tear his body apart — as if his very soul wanted to escape from his body, either through his mouth or through a rupture in any other part.

The agony continued for an indeterminate amount of time: for Marek, it felt like several torturous minutes, but for the two speakers, not even one minute passed. Marek breathed heavily, panting loudly, shivering as he renewed his strength. When the pants had their intensity reduced, the fighter glanced up and around: to his side stood a perplexed thin man, his face no longer red with ire, and knelt to his side lay an aged woman, her hand on his back, her face showing concern.

After such a display of weakness, Marek could not prevent a shadow of pitifulness from spreading inside. He felt pathetic. “Crap,” he clicked his tongue.

“You are sick…” Imbi said sadly.

“Quite the observant…” Marek whispered, hiding his impotence with sarcasm.

Imbi rubbed his back, trying to soothe his pain. “Out of curiosity, what is your affliction?” She had a feeling of what it was, but wanted to hear it from his words.

Not feeling like masking his illness, he muttered: “ Arcane Infection. ”

Imbi’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open to release a silent gasp. Ankarl likewise failed to conceal his shock, jerking his head back.

“R-right… that explains it…” Her eyes squinted, face strained with sad empathy. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“... Now you understand why I’m in a hurry…” He said with more volume this time.

Imbi rose to her feet. “You went deep into the Frostscape alone while terribly sick. You decided to face a pack of wargs, including fighting a prodigious specimen. You refuse our help. I can even see the blackness below your eyes. Young Marek Blakesley… it is almost like you are seeking death.”

“I’m doing this journey because death is what I wish to avoid! ” He bellowed, his stare glued to the floor.

“So let us help you. Let Sigrid help you.” Marek exhaled, too wasted to argue now. “She is an apex predator. At your side, no dangerous animal will get close to you, even if they come by the dozens. Monsters would need to think thrice before daring to attack you. Furthermore, she knows the region very well; with Sigrid ahead, you will not get lost. You will get to close both eyes during nighttime.”

Marek closed his eyes and grunted. Those benefits sounded too good to be true. And he would only need to deal with an entity who, despite being eccentric in more than one sense, held no animosity against him. In fact, everything pointed otherwise: she seemed quite a fan.

“What’s the catch?” He asked, more energetic than before.

Imbi smiled. “Not much; you already did a lot for us. However, I want to proclaim some rules.”

Marek chuckled. “I’m the hero, and somehow, I’m rewarded with more guidelines to follow.” Wood clumped next to him, and for the first time after his fit began, Marek raised his head. His eyes met the stretched hand of a combed man. He was offering support to stand.

Marek blew a quick puff and then accepted the hand, grunting as he returned to his feet. Both men exchanged looks but otherwise refrained from saying anything.

“Well? Spit it. I’m in a hurry,” Marek pushed the spokeswoman, turning back to her.

“First: be nice to her as much as you can. If she returns to me saying you were ‘roode’ to her, I will make sure you get prohibited from entering any city, town, and hamlet across the Frostscape,” Marek chortled but otherwise approved the rule with a nod. “Second: no swearing. I do not want you to tarnish my cotton flower with a foul-mouthed vocabulary.”

“I assure you that my swearing level is mid, woman,” Marek mentioned as he flashed the slightest hint of a smirk.

“I would prefer to be zero level,” she warned, tone both playful and threatening. “Third: keep your damned weaponry away from my girl,” the fighter’s eyes winced for an instant. “Yes, she told me about that red-black sword of yours. Keep that thing hidden if you can; save it for emergencies.” I already use it for emergencies, woman. No need to remind me. “And fourth: do not mention that your goal is to find and kill the wyrm,” Marek squished his eyebrows together, “this may sound surprising, but she is terrified of the dragon.”

Who doesn’t? “If that is the case, why would she want to give me company to begin with?”

“I… I convinced her that what you seek is to catch up with Mørk’s group, that the party is in a hunt for manticores attacking territories in the North.”

The outsider pursed his lips, unconvinced. He was not fond of the idea, but before arguing back, a melancholic sigh escaped from the spokeswoman’s mouth. “I am getting old. My job as a spokeswoman keeps me from visiting her, and the rumors are not helping either… She is so alone out there in the tundra. Sigrid could use some human interaction.”

Marek considered those words, then spoke: “Regardless, I’m not precisely looking for that group of wannabes.”

“They are seeking the same as you, so you will most likely catch up with them sooner rather than later.”

“What if they are too close to the dragon’s lair when I find them? What if they all died? ”

“If the latter is true, then your entire adventure is doomed from the start,” Ankarl jeered.

Perhaps it is, Mouthman.

“If that is the case,” Imbi continued, “then you can break the fourth rule and tell her you are looking to kill the dragon; she most likely will end up leaving your side, and so you will be on your own.”

Marek nodded one last time and hummed as he ruminated over the offer. He did not need to consider the proposal for long. “Deal.”

The spokeswoman flashed her teeth, showing a white row, clean and white, despite her advanced age. “We have a deal, young Blakesley,” she extended her hand. Marek accepted the gesture and bid his own hand, resulting in a handshake.

“When I’m supposed to meet with the crea— meet with Sigrid? I doubt she is waiting for me outside the gates.”

“I will give you a flute.” Her hand broke the handshake and moved to her dress to retrieve a small, wooden instrument, the carved piece no more than four inches long. “Circle the mountain and wander one mile North. Only then can you blow the instrument. She should join you in a short time.”

Marek took the flute, but resistance coming from the other hand prevented him from attaining the cylinder.

“One last thing, young Blakesley. There is another… type of rule involved,” Now what? “It is the Golden Rule that, given the circumstances, you are not bound to follow.”

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

Take care of my cotton flower.

Sunset came like a palette of peach and magenta hues suffusing the skies.

The fighter struggled to advance across the dense snow of the plain, the stubborn mass swallowing the man’s legs one inch above his knees. Irritated, Marek slouched through this muddy frost, grunting as he forcefully dragged his weight out of the frost. Lucky for him, his boot was successfully mended, or else the crystalline sea would be poking his calf.

“Cursed snow. I would rather take six raptors than walk another yard…” He grouched. His whining, however, was interrupted by a quadruped walking twenty feet to his side. The chimera Sigrid padded on four over the snow, wholly unrestricted by the annoying substance, sinking no more than one inch.

“Maybe… maybe Marc could try to trot in four legs,” she cheeped as her silhouette trivially outstripped the adventurer, the female monster turning back to glance at the human who battled nature. “Imbi telled— err, told me that when you are on four, surface spreads, and you are less heavy… or something like that.”

“It works a little differently for us h—” His retort felt short when distant screeches reached his senses, the ears of the owl-wolfess flickering likewise in the direction of faint noise. There was a raptor pack not far from their position.

Marek clicked his tongue and continued with his arduous travel, his legs starting to ache because of the fatigue. Sigrid, who remained ahead of the human despite his efforts, seeing him undergo a battle for every foot of advance, addressed him. “Worry not, Marc.”

“Marek.”

“Raptors will not get close. They fear me!” the chimera blurted.

“Raptors or not, I’d rather not pass the night slumped into this chilly substance.” The soft hail crunched, and the stubborn warrior kept moving.

A talon raised and scratched Sigrid’s tuft, her eyes wandering around as she thought about a solution for Marek’s tight situation. She hummed the entire duration of her meditation.

“Try swimming,” she uttered.

“What the— swimming? Are you trying to pull my leg?” he spat up, grimacing in disbelief.

“Your leg? Well, I guess I can pull your whole body out of the snow. I am strong.” Marek said nothing, eyes blinking as he processed whether Sigrid’s suggestion was a joke or genuine; then he groaned and kept pushing forward, reaching Sigrid’s spot. “And why not swim? Cannot swim?”

“Through the snow? Do I look like an arctic mole?”

“What's a mole? Also, how come your limbs are good at fighting wargs, but not very good at facing snow? This might be a good moment to mend that issue.”

“You aren’t helping.”

“B-but you refused to be pulled by me,” Sigrid squeaked.

“Yeah, well, I’m not ready to be carried by,” he paused briefly and eyed Sigrid, thinking for a word that would offend her the least, ”… a female.”

Sigrid whipped her tail and puffed her cheeks, frustrated by his words anyway. She squatted down, ears waving in all directions to detect possible predators, but eyes glued to the obstinate man, now some ten yards away from her.

But as he stepped, the substance swashed, and Marek toppled, sinking further into the frigid, soft lake until only his chest and above poked up to the surface. Marek choked with a frustrated groan and paused, looking for a way to advance and reach the woods before nightfall.

The she-creature watched the human’s misfortune the whole time, beak issuing churrs and wings twitching. After a minute or so, she started to sprint and leaped ahead, diving into the snow with a dry phoop, several feet diagonal to the black-haired traveler. Marek blinked, unsure if she was hiding, playing, or perhaps chasing after some rodent she detected. However, as he was thinking about her plottings, a hump grew from the lake of slush and started moving.

The mobile pile of snow zigzagged, the creature beneath temporarily lost due to lack of visibility; nevertheless, it caught up quickly with the surroundings and neared Marek, the man preparing to dodge the apparent unaware digger. But the moment the pile reached Marek, it stopped, and instead, it burst into a rain of snow, splashing the man.

“What the— Sigrid!” bawled the man covered in slush.

The chimera appeared two feet in front and shook her body, flinging more ice particles at the human. “Look. I made a path— a path for you to pass.” Marek arched a brow, his anger replaced by confusion. “I brush snow aside; you trail behind. It will be faster this way, and we will be in the woods before the sky grows dark.”

Marek blinked, his startled mien vanishing, and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was an acceptable plan in his book, more than ever with predators in the vicinity. But while he evaluated the idea, he could not help but examine the entity three feet in front.

The spokeswoman was right — without the thrill of combat running through his veins, it was easier to discern Sigrid’s gender. Beneath her wolfish ruff hid two womanly apples, not particularly sizable compared to most females of the fighter’s species but definitely far from flat. Soft, subtle curves snaked across her slim, silky form, often unnoticeable due to her quadrupedal or semi-hunched posture.

“So?” The feminine voice shoved Marek out of his scrutiny.

“Eh-eh, fine… better than being pulled by force,” he stuttered back. Guess Imbi was accurate with her sayings.

Sigrid hummed with satisfaction, cheerful that the human accepted her plan. She turned back and began to ‘swim’ across the gelid mass, swift talons raking the snow while ample wings brushed the mass aside and widened the path.

Marek stood still for a couple of seconds before following the chimera, the slush now only reaching halfway up the calves.

Well, this is coming out helpful.

The digging continued for several minutes until the frozen layer was too shallow to sweep comfortably, albeit, by that point, there was no rush — Marek and Sigrid could see the woods’ shore.

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

Nighttime came soon, and Marek found food before gloom coated the environment. During that time, Sigrid abstained from meddling, relegating herself to watch at his side. She had been squatting to Marek's side during the hunting, erecting her ears and growling in anticipation. The adventurer was initially bothered by her mannerisms, but otherwise, she did not impede the man from catching the arctic rabbit.

As usual, the missing goal for the day was to find a shelter. Sigrid invited Marek to sleep in the cup of the pines as she usually did, to which Marek was quick to point out the moronicness of the idea.

In the end, the coal-haired man found an exceptionally massive pine whose roots, about five feet in height, spread into a ring wide enough to shelter one or two growth men. The best part of his discovery was the fact that he no longer had to shovel a bed.

Marek collected some branches and vegetation, sparked a fire with both magical weapons, and sat in front of the campfire, hare’s meat impaled on a stick close to the source of heat. Notwithstanding, in this instance, Marek would have to deal with a furry companion watching from the other side of the flame.

Sigrid lay on her stomach like a hound would do. But as a matter of course, her position looked awkward, or, as Marek thought, inappropriate for someone camping in the wilderness, with legs dangling in the air, the pink of her paw pads was highlighted by the blaze of the pyre, tail swaying left and right as if following a tune only available inside her head. She looked more like a child eager to play with fire.

“You can’t touch it,” Marek commented, thinking the owl-wolfess could guilelessly extend her talons to the burning light source.

“ Hoomm? ” She hooted, having no clue what the man was talking about.

“The fire. Don’t touch it. You look quite enthralled by it.”

“Sigrid— I mean, I know the fire can eat meat, so I do not touch it,” she puffed her mane. “I am not doomb. I know what fire is; there are torches in Võshla. Besides, fire causes me little harm. Its bite is too feeble to consume my flesh.”

Marek arched his brow. “Are you resistant to fire?”

“Fire, cold, and some pointy weapons even. Coldness is by far the less effective,” she said as she countered with her clawed hand. “Sigrid is strong.”

“Yeah, I did notice. Not a lot of monst—” he cleared his throat, “not many inhuman individuals can take that gigantic warg’s fangs in one arm and keep using that same limb afterward.”

“Gruhulla’s bite hurt. My arm still aches, but should be fine by the morning,” she briefly rubbed her wounded arm.

“Gruhulla, you say?” He asked. “Was that the name of Papa Wolf? Did he tell you his name?”

“Gruhulla talks a lot. Threatens a lot,” her tuft bristled a tad, her nostril blowing air as she remembered that unpleasant wolf-thing.

“Used to.” A remark followed.

“Yes… I believe so. Thank you again, Marc.” Marek was about to correct the spelling of his name, but given that display of gratitude, he refrained from saying it.

The wood crackled, the sound reminding Marek of his cooking meat; he extended his arm and took the stick with the piece of burned meat stuck on. Sigrid’s eye left the sparkling fire and started following the chunk of hare.

“So… this Gruhulla,” he said after taking a bite from the meat, “knew you from long? I recall him calling you Howling Talon.” When hearing that title, Sigrid’s eyelids and wings twitched, and her shoulders skipped. “I see you aren’t a fan of that moniker.”

Sigrid composed, eyes back to Marek and his snack. “No… I don’t like it. But Gruhulla did not give me that name. The manticores did so way before meeting the nasty warg. Neither did I know Gruhulla before our fight, not in person, at least. Stray wargs had said his name.”

“Quite the celebrity,” Marek jeered. “Both of you. Maybe you should have tried to come up with a title for him, a mocking one.”

“Among other species, he was known as Gloom Fang.”

“Monsters have their own titles?” He said, interest itching within.

“And animals, too!” She barked. “There was some huge raptor named Terror Sickle and a troll going by the name Icicle Bash.”

“Who could have known monsters have the creativity to make up their own fancy nicknames,” Marek chuckled, then went to his food.

“I killed the raptor myself. Too dumb to live. As for the troll… I have not heard about him ever since he clashed with manticores. Maybe he died by their jaws.” She said, Marek humming in response, his mouth full of meat. I see she is not so shy when talking about monstrous affairs.

For the minutes to come, silence reigned over the vicinity, the only noise coming from the fire and Marek’s chomping; Sigrid looked closely at how the haremeat disappeared behind the human’s mouth. Were her eyes hot as they were radiance, the meat would have turned black; the morsel had her hypnotized.

Naturally, Marek noticed the hungry gaze and, although he already suspected why she was doing that, he asked. “Is anything the matter?”

“I-I, erh, is just that… is just that the hare smells quite good,” she said, flustered.

“Not the best heated meat. This is barely edible, but I need the nourishment.”

“Well… is that… smells better than raw hare… and…” Sigrid chuntered, no longer eyeing the snack or Marek.

“Don’t tell me you are hungry. You caught up and devoured several critters during our day trip.”

“I-It is just some… some doomb craving. Matters not…” She then lowered her head to her crossed arms, both limbs working as a pillow.

Marek chewed his food for a moment before sighing. “You can keep it. One hare is often too much for me to eat in one dinner.” Sigrid perked her head just in time to spot a piece of flesh flinging in her way. In a flash, she snapped her beak and seized the flying snack.

“Mmm, chanks, Arc.” She uttered as she champed, swallowing quickly before speaking again. “Hey… what if I hunt for you? I do not drool over my food.” Marek pursed his lips, disagreement building within. “W-will not use beak, only claws, I promise… are you fine with it?”

“Hm… Very well, if that is what you desire, you hunt. But don’t bring me anything weird. Only hares and reindeer.”

“Deal!” She jaunty chirped, tongue cleaning her beak.

Marek breathed a chuckle and then leaned on the tree, brown eyes focusing on the small, stirring flame.

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

When the moment of rest arrived, Sigrid offered to keep watch. Occasional howls and honks vibrated, but she assured Marek that no beast would get close. Marek was interested in how his partner would slumber — Sigrid might be nocturnal, he understood, but he did not see her get rest during the entire day of traversing the tundra. The owl-wolfess would sleep regardless, but her sensitivity to the environmental tumult would alert her awake quickly.

An innate light sleeper, she had assured him.

Marek wanted to argue further, but decided to drop the subject. After all, Sigrid was the one who lived daily in the Frostscape.

With no other immediate concern, Marek reclined on the cold bark, not unsheathing Dalavut according to Imbi’s rules, and sank his eyes closed, waiting for sleep to catch up with him.

“ Ho~ Hoo~ Ho~. ”

Marek’s eyebrow wrinkled closer, eyes resisting the urge to wince open. The harmonic avian cry from two nights ago was back and echoed noisily. Other hoots hummed through the woods, but they were faint compared to Sigrid’s cry, which came from up high in the middle of the cup of branches. It went without saying that the noise was making sleep escape Marek’s clutches.

“Sigrid.”

“ Hoo~ Hoo— Ho~. ”

“Sigrid!” He yelled.

The hooting stopped, a dog-like yelp cutting it short. “W-what is it, Marc?”

“What are you doing?”

“I… I respond to the call. Birds’ call.”

“That I can hear. But why? ”

“W-well, it is… it is funny?” She uttered, starting to feel scolded.

“Not for me. This cry is what kept me sleepless during your prowling. Do you remember?” He said with an annoyed tone.

“Ah… well…” She cooed for a moment. “Alright… I will try not to hoot back… Guess the song does not need my voice tonight.”

“Yeah… Thank you. I am going back to sleep.” Eyes shut once again, Marek adjusted against the bark, trying to retake his most comfortable posture. Sigrid would hoot once in a while, but at least she was making an effort to suppress the intensity of the shout. It was bearable, at least.

Soon, howls would resonate across the woods, and Marek would jiggle in his sleep but otherwise did not wake up — at least that was the case until a new cry boomed, the source coming from over his head.

“ Awooooo~. ”

His eyes burst open, his eardrums stirred by the loud, canine shout.

“Sigrid!”

“Woo— ooh?” Her cry broke off silent.

“Seolvor’s lustered sword. Howls too?!” Bawled the unsleeping fighter.

“Seol— whoo? ” She said, confused.

“Stop. Shouting.” There was silence for one instant, followed by hushed hoots.

“S-sorry, Marc,” and then, she returned to her occasional muted cries.

Despite her apology, Sigrid would shout from time to time, although she shut up upon noticing the sound was too much for the human to bear. It struck Marek that her behavior was just like his first night in the wilderness, and so he realized: those instances when she had cried were not on purpose.

She simply could not prevent herself from joining the ‘song.’ Resisting the urge must feel like resisting the urge to scratch an itch.

Not so much sleep as you made it sound, Imbi.

Regardless, withstanding the she-chimera’s cries was preferable to being wary of vicious beasts all night. As unpleasant as his night could turn, Marek was probably safer than any other human out in the freezing Frostscape, safer than even Mørk and his group.