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Võhsla was nothing like Grætøh.

The Capital of the North was carved out of limestone, its rise flattening the unevenness of humps and hollows centuries ago, now replaced by paths of cobblestone as elaborated as termites’ and elephants of timber and rock, whose shadows engulfed the many passers-by.

Võhsla, conversely, respected the landscape as much as its denizens, its roads akin to snakes that avoided larches and crags, bare enough to point people where to walk and roll. Even the creaks remained untouched, its tickle nigh-omnipresent as thin veins of crystalline liquid ran across the settlement.

Like boats floating in the sea, groups of abodes stood erected along the rough terrain, built to fit the landscape, either on top of mounts or buried in dimples. There was no structure with two stores in the town, and most huts even went without proper doors, furry curtains being the only luxury that separated privacy from the outside.

For Marek, who grew accustomed to advanced cities, Võhsla looked like a fragment of past ages. It, too, gave an air of tranquility, as if he could sleep naked without fear of a burglar breaking into his home. Perhaps, when all this trek was over, Marek could leave behind his adventurer role and join a community like this, albeit without the so-abundant snow — such a thick substance was beginning to get on his nerves, and this was his second day!

After taking a walk through the village, Marek confirmed what the unharmed wall had spelled: the wyrm paid no visit to this place. The winds of fate flew over the settlement, but as if it had stood inside the eye of a hurricane, Võhsla was now forced to witness the tragedy that the storm had sown.

Affected people gathered in waves around aid posts with town volunteers providing them with medical attention, food, and even their archaic faith. The echo of sobs broke what otherwise would be a tranquil day to fish or tend to the farms, and dispiritedness latched onto the healthy ones, making them realize that their stroke of luck was a mere delay of the inevitable.

Not even the bar where Marek sat exuded that tipsy happiness such establishments are known for. Or maybe the bar was plain unpopular, unsurprising considering the taste of whatever brew he gushed down his throat.

The tavern was an open-door establishment, a large portion of the roof allowing the evening light to bathe the tables and stools. After glancing at the affected, the foreign warrior turned back to tend his candied drink. ‘Sima,’ was it? It felt more like syrup than a beverage.

With his wrapped device to his side and slanted against the stand, Marek held a mug filled with liquid in one hand while the other grasped that long feather whose tip was spotted with blood. He lingered on the chimera incident more than he would have liked, trying to convince himself that the entire misadventure was an irrelevant matter taken for granted, unnecessary for his quest. Yet…

Roode!

“A beast calling me ‘roode’…” he murmured, then taking a pause to sip his mead. “Such satire.”

The outsider had refrained from inquiring about the odd creature, half wolf, half owl. If the guard, someone who struck him as no newbie, had no knowledge about the entity, then few people could hold information regarding the weird, wild beast.

But was it really wild?

Marek at least wanted to corroborate whether the owl-thing threatened his life, if their ‘dispute’ — if whatever they had could be considered a dispute — would sow a grudge within the entity and push it to harass him in the future.

“Nice quill,” a whistle eased Marek’s storm of thoughts. “It’s not common to see a feather of that length. Spoil of your hunt?”

Marek’s eyeballs drifted from the feather to the speaker at the other side of the stand. It was the bartender, a square-faced man with trimmed bread, ten or so years older than he was.

“No. Just found it,” the fighter responded.

“Found its carcass, then?”

“Neither.”

The waiter huffed. “Thought it would be the case given the sample is soaked with blood.”

Marek eyed the quill once again. “I take it that no creature with such long feathers inhabits this region.”

The bartender turned for a moment to grab one jar, then proceeded to use a rag to clean the item. “No creature whose name I’ve heard, at least.” Figures. “But people whisper many rumors, and the wind is a good gossiper. Not even in a land filled by monsters like this is free from new legends.”

“Anything about a legend wearing feathers?”

“Picked up your curiosity, eh?” The man snorted. “It happened about a year ago, during some skirmish with a raiding party of greys. A creature white as snow, shiny eyes like precious metal, and feathery wings.” Marek listened profoundly; that description was on point with Howling Talon’s appearance. “But none who participated in that battle remember more details. When they all returned to Võhsla, they were shaking with fright. Few had sighted the apparition since then, not in all its glory at least, but during the night, those accustomed to animal cries would point out a call so unlike the others. It screeches, howls, and sometimes, even sings! ”

Marek paused for a bit, rolling the calamus of the quill between his two fingers. “You said that witnessing a feather of this size was uncommon. Have you seen more samples of this quill?”

“Almost daily.” Marek’s brows winced. How was something viewed daily considered uncommon? “Spokeswoman Imbi carries one of these feathers with her. She was there when the greys appeared and took the branch as a trinket. In fact,” the barman leaned over the counter and whispered: “Few even say that she kept seeing the monster, which turned out to be a spirit of some kind, and that our Spokeswoman communes with it.”

A new customer entered the establishment, and the square-faced man moved to serve him.

Marek scratched his cheek. He hated to cling to a fleeting idea. He blamed his time working as a sellsword — when one had fought his own kind for so long, individuals liked to escape to the world of myths and legends. The world of monsters.

No, he was lying to himself. He did not want to inquire whether the chimera would tear his throat — for the first time in several years, Marek felt genuine intrigue in the monstrous realm. Even the oversized wolves awakened some hint of fascination inside of him.

It was a childish emotion that his old mentor suppressed for years. A childish and dangerous emotion.

Some habits simply die hard.

The bartender came back, done attending to the other customer; he was about to say something when his attention was drawn to the outside. “Oh, and speaking of which: the Spokeswoman herself.”

Turning on his stool and looking outside, Marek saw a woman speaking to the group of refugees. The gray of a couple of decades past her prime bleached her long, strawberry-blond hair, spelling that the woman was about to hit her sixties. She wore animal hides as a short cape along with a more ‘civilized’ dress underneath, making her look rather shamanic, a picture amplified by the use of a ceremonial staff.

The spokeswoman talked to the affected, soothing their worries with welcoming prayers and appeasing their fears with her unfaltering smile.

“Imbi is regarded kindly by most citizens of Võshla.” The barman commented, and the fighter never took his eyes off her. “Can’t believe there are people there seeking to taint her name.”

It was during the spokeswoman’s chatter that an unusual adornment on her staff flashed to the sat outsider: a remix shining with pure white and a dash of seashell brown under the sunset light, longer than any owl or raptor’s. Marek had no doubt left: that quill belonged to the chimera.

The spokeswoman then turned to the tavern and saw the cloaked man sitting inside, a peculiar four-foot item mantled in brown hides leaning to his side. She nodded, saluting the bartender, Marek guessed; afterward, she regarded the coal-haired visitor.

Curiosity piqued in her, and the woman arched an eyebrow at the man who was not only an outsider but also wore clothing sewn by wonders unknown to her people. Nonetheless, the interest was short-lived, and Imbi turned to continue attending the refugees — or was about to when her plans got interrupted by a red-tainted remige pressed by cloven fingers.

The senior woman’s smile wavered.

“Oh, I think your presence was not discreet at all. You must have drawn her interest.”

I or my discovery? Marek thought.

The speaker of Võshla neared the bar, her kind expression returning to her face. “Greetings, Berthram.” She saluted.

“Yo, Spokeswoman Imbi. How are our visitors faring so far?” The bartender, Berthram, asked.

“The survivors are shaken,” she said, her expression pained despite the smile, “several have lost their families to both dragon and beasts; others got lost amid the wild, waiting for a rescue that very well may never come.”

“What a tragedy. Sorry to hear that, Imbi. Dealing with this disaster must be difficult for you.”

“It is worse for the affected. The wyrm had stripped them of everything and scarred their lives.” She closed her eyes, inhaling, then released a sigh. “But we have to be thankful that the Spirits sheltered our town. Because Võhsla stands, the victims can find roof and food. May the Spellfire guide them all.”

“Always the optimistic spokeswoman,” Berthram remarked.

“My faith is strong. I will pray that all those damaged by the monster recover their lives.” The spokeswoman then took a seat next to the cloaked man, who had not uttered a single word since the authority showed up.

“Thirsty, ma’am? Some water, perhaps? It’s on the house,” the man behind the stand offered.

“Thank you, sweetheart. The Spirits will repay you.” The barman then turned in search of a jar and some fresh water, leaving the spokeswoman and the outsider alone.

“You must come from Grætøh, am I right?” She asked, finally addressing the black-haired warrior.

“Close enough,” Marek said, the feather now upon the table and below his gloved hand.

“I have not seen your face during all these unfortunate days. I assume you just came in.”

“Bingo.”

“On your own? With all these feral animals out there roaming in chaos?”

“I was prepared.” The man took another gulp from his drink.

The aged woman eyed the young man from head to toe, then giggled. “I can see it. That is a monster hide, very resistant to fangs and claws. Very useful in these lands.”

Marek only nodded. It was not like he was uninterested in the woman’s chit-chat; instead, he was thinking of a way to approach her about the chimera’s matter.

“Not the talkative kind, I presume. May I at least know your name?”

“Marek Blakesley. And not that there’s a lot to discuss about.” He tapped at the stand with the same hand he used to cover the feather. “Although, I have some... inquiries. I was hoping a local could answer them, if it’s not a bother.”

“Here’s your water, Imbi.” The bartender returned, bringing a jar filled with water. “You’ll have to excuse me. My helper decided to aid the survivors, and now I’m understaffed. Some recipients need to be cleaned.”

“Worry not, sweetie. I will be here for a while.” Imbi smiled, and Berthram nodded in return. Then, he took his leave to another room.

The senior woman turned to Marek once again and spoke: “Well, Spirits feel generous with you today. I am the Spokeswoman Imbi, one of the members of Võshla’s Council. If it does not escape my wits, I could help you with doubts.”

“Much obliged,” he then released the grip from the mug, leaving the hand resting on his thigh. “First, about a certain party of ‘volunteers.’”

Imbi rubbed her chin for an instant, then nodded. “Eight individuals, yes.”

“They used to be nine.”

“So I heard from one of them. I understand one of them returned to the capital.”

“Did not get to. He died on the road.” These words, mentioned like nothing by Marek, startled the spokeswoman.

“Sorry to hear that.” Her face became heavy with empathy, and her head dropped momentarily. “Was he a friend or yours?”

“Not really, but like me, he was a disciplined warrior.”

“I see… Wolves and raptors are that vicious.”

“And the wargs even more.” Imbi sucked in air at the word ‘warg’.

“Did you find the wargs? And fought them on your own?”

“Couple of them,” Marek took one sip from the mug and continued. “The existence of wargs around here didn’t come as a surprise to you. Did you know?”

It was the turn for Imbi to take a water sip. “I— we had suspected some wargs ventured east of their territory. When the party of travelers came, they confirmed our guesses.” She licked her lips, feeling dry despite just sipping some water. “Out of curiosity—”

“Six.” The man responded before the question was uttered. “Six hideous wargs.”

Imbi slightly bit her lower lip, her eyes momentarily glimpsed the bloodied feather on the table. “An entire pack… Did you kill all of them?”

“Almost all of them,” Marek raised his hand and took the feather, “ something took some kills from me.”

Imbi’s eyes winced wide, but before saying a word, the black-haired man rotated in his stool, his entire body pointing now at the woman. “Which leads to the next question: do you know to what creature this quill belongs to?” Imbi opened her mouth, but Marek interrupted. “Excuse me, let me rephrase the question: how much do you know about the owl-faced chimera? I take it that the feather hanging on your staff came from the same cluster.”

The spokeswoman’s eyebrows drew together, her throat issuing a faint gulp. Marek could tell she was anyhow worried. But why?

The woman’s gaze meandered around, trying to confirm no one was prying in their conversation. After confirming Berthram or everyone else was away, she asked: “How did it look like?”

Marek pursed his lips but did not hold any detail for himself. “White as snow. Owl head. Wolfish ankles. Two pairs of bird-like forearms, talons keen as dirks. Its tail was—” While the coal-haired man shared the details of the monster, pretty accurate details, the eyes of the spokeswoman widened more and more, her inner lip giving away sporadic quivers. “—Pale pink tones. And… ehm… I believe it had one couple of small horns.”

Imbi failed to hold a gasp, a breath that startled even Marek. Past the initial shock, she asked: “Did the wargs harm her?… Did— did you harm her?”

Marek arched a brow. “No, I did not harm… her. The wargs did, but it survived. However, the creature harassed me for an entire day before entering this town.”

“She lives…” Imbi whispered. After blinking for a brief moment, she exhaled a lungful sigh. “Thank the Spirits. I thought the wargs got her.”

“They got the chimera, but I gave them something else to worry about… and to chew.” Marek showed his left arm along his tattered glove.

“I need to see her again.” She said, ignoring the damages the wargs inflicted on the man. “Where she go?”

“Hell if I know. Lost itself in the canopy, at the East.”

“You were before her presence, were not you? You were not scared of her form? Feel compelled to run away? Did she speak to you?” Imbi proceeded to blast the adventurer with a series of questions.

“Calm down there, woman. I’m a fighter, not a scholar. If any, making questions is supposed to be m—”

“Can not speak about this here,” she interrupted. “Look for me in the old sawmill Northeast, the one attached to the walls, when the torches of the council hall are extinguished and the birds hush on the trees.”

Swiftly, the woman stood from her seat and turned around. “Excuse me? Is that an order? Why should I—”

“—Follow me?” Marek was interrupted for the second time, the man struggling to prevent an annoyed groan from escaping his mouth or a grimace from crawling into his features. “You are not forced to do so. But given you were teasing me with that bloodstained sample, I have the suspicion you are eager to know about your encounter with the chimera.”

The woman walked away, her staff tapping at the soil. “See you later, young Blakesley. Or should I say Wargbane? ”

Marek just blinked at the moving spokeswoman. He then frowned and turned back to the bar’s stand, seeing a Berthram coming into view, his hands busy rubbing a mug clean.

“So, did you find the spokeswoman endearing? Were your doubts about the legend cleared?”

“Not really.” Marek feebly answered.

“Well… as I said, those were rumors. Imbi is wise but far from omniscient. Not even the scholars from Verrgrár Path know about every creature that inhabits the Frostscape, so why shall she?”

‘Why shall she?’

Marek cast a last scrutinizing look at the remige. He wanted to throw the matter aside. By this point, it was plain that the chimera would not chase him to hunt him down. Besides, his quest was more important.

“…”

On the other hand, he was spent after a night of being watchful of an eared bird, and the daylight just started to disappear behind the horizon; there was plenty of time to rest. And most of all, his curiosity tickled the insides of his head.

“... Berthram, right?”

“Hm? What’s the matter, young one? Want another Simi?”

“Where is the old sawmill located?”

Some habits simply died hard.

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

“There is no way he will show up, Imbi,” a man with a long, angular face commented. He had black, combed hair and wore a doublet with a short cape hanging by his right shoulder, both garments showcasing slate hues.

“Give him more time. The night is young.”

The room where both individuals spoke creaked with the push of the wind, the entire structure groaning with every footstep. Toothed tools rested on the long tables, and carts filled with lugs lay scattered inside and outside the establishment. All corners were occupied by piles of sawdust, spreading inwardly into patterns drawn by the breeze.

“Why even talk to this foreigner?” the combed man protested. “Going by your description, this guy sounds like a douchebag. ”

“Is not the most friendly man, that I concede,” the spokeswoman said, “but he had killed the wargs that by several days had us ringed. Most surprisingly, he witnessed Sigrid! And the young man did not flee in fear or try to kill the girl… or so he admits.”

“An adventurer drawing the longbow… paint me surprised,” the thin man groaned. “We have no way to confirm his story. Guy did not care about bringing the valuable remains of a warg. What kind of adventurer does that?”

“An adventurer in a hurry,” Imbi spoke. “Besides, we know of someone who can confirm his story: Sigrid. She can tell me what happened.”

“... She very well might be dead, you know?”

Imbi hardened her grip on her staff. “If what the young Blakesley said is true, then she is alive. Even if he lied, I’m going out there to meet her, with or without wargs.”

“Pff, you are overly paternal. Did you know that?” The man huffed.

Minutes ticked by, and clues of the foreigner coming seemed more and more unlikely. The spokeswoman could not help but feel disappointed — she wanted to hear the story coming from this Marek, to know what his thoughts were regarding the chimera. If she lived, something Imbi unequivocally hoped for, she could ask the owl-wolfess about the events. Nonetheless, there were more desires beyond reassuring the conditions of the magnificent creature, even if they were less important.

Right before assuming that the adventurer declined the invitation, the wood jarred, and a figure entered through the shabby doors. It was the cloaked man, Marek Blakesley.

“So he accepted your call,” the angular man murmured to the spokeswoman.

“Try not to be blunt, Ankarl. I know you are not fond of outsiders, but he may as well be a hero to Võshla.” The woman whispered back.

When the foreigner was close enough, Imbi cleared her throat and spoke: “I’m glad you accepted my invitation, young Marek Blakesley. First, excuse me for leading you to this unkempt building, but matters regarding monsters require… discretion.” She then extended her arm to the not-so-delighted man at her left. “And this gentleman is the Spokesman Ankarl.” The man stiffly nodded.

Marek saluted by humming, not bothering to conceal the little interest he had for the other man. Ankarl was not amused by his half-hearted acknowledgment.

The elderly speaker smiled despite the lack of politeness. “And second and more important, both of us are hugely grateful for your heroic actions. Getting rid of a pack of wargs is nothing short of outstanding. In the name of Võshla, we bid our greatest thanks to you.” The spokeswoman bowed, Ankarl grimacing when he noticed her motion, then he briefly rolled his eyes and offered a short bow with his head.

“Eh, thanks,” Marek uttered awkwardly, unacquainted with these formal gestures. “But you didn’t call me here to give me a grateful ceremony.”

Imbi straightened. “Indeed. We came here to speak about your last feats.”

“The feats yet to be proven truthful.” The spokesman ranted.

“… And satisfy your curiosity regarding that pursuer of yours.” She eyed the tall man from the sidelines, her expression annoyed.

Marek eyed the thin spokesman, his face betraying no hint of being offended. “I take it you also know about the monster.”

“Indeed, and want not to sound brusque, but I do find scarcely believable that you, a sole man, traveled day and night across the valley with both turbulent, vicious animals and a pack of wolf monsters on the loose with no proof at all. I expect you can realize that, am I right?”

“Ankarl.” Imbi silently chastised.

“The roars disappeared, and I described the creature’s appearance to the letter. I believe I fulfilled the criteria to be invited to this meeting,” Marek said, conveying no emotion.

“Wargs come and go as they please; they hardly settle for long. As for your portrayal, the rumors are many; you could have picked the appropriate descriptions and then persuaded the Spokeswoman. She is in distress, and it was reckless on her part to invite you without further inquiry.”

The fighter narrowed his eyes. “Are you accusing me of being a liar and a scammer?” By that point, the spokeswoman was pinching the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed as if they were holding her discontent.

“The rewards of killing a warg are numerous.” Ankarl expressed.

“Let me remind you that it was you who sought me. I never bragged about my doings, let alone asking for gold.” Irritated, Marek spun around, the whip of his cloak akin to an indecent gesture. “I have a long journey ahead, and I’d rather spend the night in a comfortable bed. My interest in this hybrid of yours is not great enough to tolerate this joke of a reunion.”

“Two Speakers of Võshla took the time to attend to your inquiries, and now you will leave us hanging? You arseh—”

“It is enough, Ankarl!” Imbi bellowed, but as soon as the echo of her yell died off, her face softened. “Please… I need to know what happened. To know about her.”

Her plea lacked authoritative firmness, and her voice tinged with motherly concern, a tone that struck Marek with a dash of pity. Why does it have to be an old woman? A grunt resounded, and the warrior turned back. “Very well, I’ll tell you, but this better be quick.”

The spokeswoman smiled back. “Alright. I waste your time no more, young Blakesley.” She swiveled toward one corner, the spokesman following in the act, but not without casting one last ill glance at the black-haired fighter.

Marek stayed on the spot, unable to tell where the two authorities were heading. Once both speakers neighbored a wooden structure, Ankarl pulled one hiding mechanism, and a hatch raised open with a squeak, showing an underground path.

“I ordered some friends to create this pathway to the mountain behind the city. Hope you can keep this little secret, young Blakesley.” She commented.

Marek folded his arms and grumbled. “You said nothing about going into the wild.”

“Mister Wargbane is afraid of the outside, I assume?” The spokesman taunted.

This guy is one comment away from having his jaw kicked off, I swear to Seolvor.

“Worry not, young Blakesley. No monsters or raptors lurk in the mountain ahead, nor do the wolves. Over and above, two skilled combatants will be there.”

“Did not consider the bony mouthsman here to be a fighter.” It was Marek’s round to diss Ankarl. The combed man’s face warped into a grimace but stifled a riposte.

“I’m afraid Spokesman Ankarl is not going to accompany us. Someone needs to watch over the entrance.” What a relief. I was afraid I would end up punching his sticky face. “I was referring to our feathery friend.”

The fighter raised his chin. “Is the chimera out there?”

“If what you said is true, she will be.” She started to move down the entrance. “Are you going to leave this old dame roam the mountain alone, young Blakesley? For the record, I am going out to meet my girl whether you accompany me or not.”

Marek stood for a blink before sighing, trailing behind the spokeswoman. There goes nothing.

When Marek walked past Ankarl’s right, the thin man turned and spoke to Imbi. “Don’t stay out there for much time, Imbi. People are starting to take you for some witch.”

Imbi waved her hand without looking back, dismissing the caution. “You worry too much, lad. While I bring no ‘monster’ into Võshla, I will be fine. You and me.”

“I’m not the one who makes a getaway once every full moon,” mumbled the angular man.

In no time, the fighter and female speaker left the sawmill, leaving the council member in the creaking darkness alone. “‘Bony mouthsman’. That bastard.” A grouch overwhelmed the groaning noise for an instant before the room fell back to its normal rhythm.

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

A few minutes after leaving the walls of Võshla behind, the hillock hummed with the voice of two humans exchanging words, their footsteps like the clatter of mallets in an otherwise silent night. Just as it had transpired back in the bar, Imbi resumed her volley of questions about how the events on the highlands unfolded.

Lacking any ulterior reason to conceal information, Marek told what he experienced: the murder of Evert Hort, the appearance of the wargs, including the humongous dark-as-night alpha, and the manifestation of the bird chimera. Within half an hour, Imbi was aware of almost everything regarding the adventurer’s journey.

“The Spirits protect us from such vicious monsters.” She said with awe. “And you thought it a good idea to face such monstrosity on your own?”

“I had time to spare,” Marek mentioned.

“No reason to hide your goodwill behind a mask of sternness, young Blakesley. It was kind of you to complete the veteran’s last job. The citizens of the Frostscape can not thank you enough.”

Marek nodded but said no words.

“So, you did say that after the skirmish, the chimera started to follow you?” The spokeswoman giggled. “Is not she adorable?”

“Did you miss the part when I did say it disemboweled two wargs?”

“She is fierce during beast affairs, but she is very human. Cute even,” Imbi then curled her limbs, ready to scold. “Also, save your indefinite pronoun. The chimera is a she , not an it . Do not compare her to a witless beast or a piece of furniture.”

“Don’t tell, did you peek under her skirt?” The man deadpanned.

“You saw her during a moment of violence. If you take the time to appreciate her closely, you can notice she has a rather slender figure, enviably so, even. She just… has poor posture.”

The fighter breathed a short-lived laugh. “Yeah, I bet there are people out there who would like to have an owl as a face.”

Despite the mockery, Imbi could not help but chuckle. “And then you say that her calling you rude came as a surprise.”

Marek huffed in response. He guessed that remark had been fair back then — he could be a jerk sometimes.

They stumbled upon a clearing, and Imbi stopped, the man imitating in short.

“This place will do. It is the moment of truth.” She leaned her staff against a nearby pine and moved into the center.

Before proceeding with whatever the spokeswoman was about to do, a doubt sparked in Marek’s mind. “I heard people allege you are a witch. Why is that a problem? There are a lot of mages in Verrgrár Path.”

“Witch does not mean to be a mage or wizard for those that pray to the Spirits. Witches are conjurers, individuals that commune with monsters and extraplanar entities.”

“Summoners,” Marek observed.

“Exactly.” Imbi nodded. “The denizens believe the witches either slave the Spirits themselves or call upon demonic abominations.” She turned to Marek. “I may ‘commune’ with the chimera but only do so in the mundane way.”

“So you don’t cast spells or exercise any supernatural force?”

“Perish the thought. I use these garments because of what my mother and grandmother, later a real mage, used to wear. On second thought, my way of dressing is not helping my case.”

“I see. Then… how do you ‘invoke’ the creature?”

“In the same manner you did back in the valley, young Blakesley: with the chant of wilderness.” She stopped in the middle of the clearing. “It may sound coarse, but… could you stand behind some pine while I call upon our girl? Your last moments together were not precisely friendly, and she is terribly shy.”

The fighter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, looking distrustful, but his suspicion was needle-thin.

“Pretty please?” Imbi amusingly begged with a smile.

After releasing a groan, Marek turned around and walked behind a pine.

When the man was no longer in sight, the spokeswoman covered her mouth with both hands and started to imitate the cry of an owl, one of her palms waving like dove wings to alter the pitch and the tone. Occasionally, she would shift into a wolf howl.

Her animal mimicry was on point, mugging Marek’s imitation through the slush.

One minute passed, and the hill fell silent anew. Imbi’s hand anxiously rubbed the other, clearly overwhelmed by unsureness, suddenly afraid that the adventurer’s assurances turned out to be lies to torment her aged heart. The waiting drew out for a dense lapse, too much for Imbi to bear. However…

“ Ho— Hoo— Ohoo~ ”

It felt like a boulder rolled off her chest, removing a great weight that held Imbi’s breath; a moan had escaped, and with it, all her worries. It is true! She is alive! She thought full of hopefulness, her eyes glowing, her arms trembling.

Well, look at that. The monster came. Marek thought.

The snow swooshed as a rushing noise approached the clearing, branches and shrubs crackling louder and louder by the second. Then, amidst the dead pines and thin mist, the creature revealed itself — her white plumage and fur as spotless and pure as Imbi remembered.

“Imbi,” the creature whispered, azure eyes shining in the gloom.

“Oh, girl. My cotton flower.” She extended her arm toward the chimera, her smile soft. “You are fine.”

“ Imbi! ” The creature pounced, landing one foot away from the spokeswoman, splashing snow around. The chimera picked herself up and began nuzzling the senior woman’s neck and cheek with her beak, churring in joy. Imbi responded with more emotional gestures, embracing the chimera and fondling her ruff and mane.

“Oh, Sigrid. I thought the wargs got you… I thought— I thought you were killed,” the spokeswoman uttered, sporadically blowing hushed sobs.

“They almost got me.” The monster chirped. “Night and day running, their pointy fangs ripping my feathers.” She displayed her right wing, which exhibited no fresh wound or blood but a recent scar. The aged woman traced the mark with her hand, her expression pained.

“But it is good. All good,” Sigrid stepped back and sat in the snow, dog-like. “Sigrid— erh, I am strong. And got some help from a hooman. ”

Marek’s shoulders wince: the ‘hooman’ was him.

“R-really, a human aided you?” Imbi tittered, stretching one hand at the chimera, beginning to scratch one ear. “Was not that human scared of you? Did he try to harm you?”

I see you took my words with a grain of salt, woman. The man grimaced.

“N-no… he stood still for a moment but did not run away. He was also…” Sigrid’s eyes and words trailed off, her face showing some annoyance, “ Roode. He threatened to attack me with a pointy metal a couple of times.” Regardless, she shook her head and dropped her nettled expression. “But because of him, I am alive.”

You omitted some details, creature.

“I am glad, Sigrid. Did I not tell you there were humans out there that would not fear your presence?”

“I see now. You should have seen him, Imbi. Gruhulla bit, and the hooman hopped out of reach, like a hare, like a snowcat even.” The chimera’s tail swayed at an enthusiastic pace. For Marek, a monster impressed by human feats was something that he never expected to behold.

“‘Gruhulla’?” Imbi asked.

“Nasty warg. Nasty and fat. He wanted me killed to unite more nasty wargs,” the avian creature growled with contempt, but composed quickly, back to her buoyant condition. “But he is dead now! The hooman killed him, and I rekilled the bad warg, just to make sure. But before that—”

The chimera, Sigrid, started to tell her side of the story. Imbi was engrossed, her visage always lit with a beam. Occasionally, the owl-wolfess would crouch to replicate the events that took place during the fight, eliciting chuckles from the elderly woman. She looked so childish, so inoffensive. What had become of that killing machine? Where did the entity feared by hordes go?

Well, what a lovely family. Despite his usual attitude, his thought was not sarcastic, and his usually serious expression was now half-twisted by a smirk. He could not help but feel bad at that instance where he teased Imbi with the feather sample — she was dead worried about the chimera, who behaved no differently than a daughter, and he tormented her with a bloodstained piece of the creature’s quill.

Always a jerk, Blakesley. Perhaps that skinny dork had more reason to kick you than you did.

However, amid the friendly chatter between the two females, Marek felt compelled to cough. It was not as strong as that time in the valley, yet the impulse to shout a sharp breath itched with insistence. He covered his mouth and prevented a grunt from escaping his lungs, but during his struggle, a boot slipped, generating an audible swoosh.

A pair of canine ears winced straight, and the endearing chatter halted. “Imbi, something is close.” She whistled, crouching in the act, ready to spring into action if the situation evolved dangerous. “Behind the woods. Something followed you.”

Oh, crap. Happy hour ended.

The spokeswoman glanced behind her shoulder, not at all concerned with who lay behind the tree. “Yeah… ehm… about that... I need to tell you something.”

Sigrid started to sniff at the air, trying to recognize what crept nearby based on scent. “No wolf, or raptor, or snowcat. It is a human smell… a familiar one.” She cocked her head but otherwise stayed in her stooped stance.

Imbi intercepted her view, drawing the moonlit eyes to her form again. “Easy, my cotton flower, do not be afraid; there is no danger.” Sigrid gyrated her head, puzzled. “Remember the man you just told me about? Well, I have something to show you.”

She then turned to the woods and cried out. “You can come up now. No monsters lurk here, only ladies .”

A loud, deep sigh resonated, and the figure manifested from behind the wooden pilaster. Not much time had passed since the last time he saw the oddity, and despite that, the shock of seeing her again barely diminished. Her presence struck awe in him, but its effect was not only shorter but also easier to break free from. I guess I got used to it. Still bothersome.

“Well, Marek,” Imbi spoke, her hand extended to the creature behind, “this is Sigrid. ” Afterward, the spokeswoman turned to Sigrid and continued. “And Sigrid, this gentleman here is Marek Blakesley.”

Initially, Sigrid said nothing, her steely eyes focusing on the cloaked man. She then lowered her head and broke contact. “Roode hooman…” the chimera whispered.

“Excuse me?” Said a bemused man.

“Now, now, Sigrid. Be nice to the man. He—” Imbi was about to admonish Sigrid, but was cut off by the avian.

“He rejected the pointy metal I brought to him. He threatened to cut me with a nasty blade. He shooshed me away as if I were a thief fox!” Sigrid barked, her hurt gaze on Imbi once again.

Marek subtly stepped back, but to his own surprise, he prevented himself from grasping at one of his weapons’ handles.

“You snarled at me the first time we met, and later, you were dogging me as if trying to kill me. Forgive me for taking safety measures.” Marek retorted, folding his arms.

“I growled for you to escape from wargs. And I saved you from Gruhulla…” Sigrid articulated.

“More like I saved you from Gruhulla. If any, the monster is a past story thanks to me.”

“I killed sneaky raptor… I helped you...” pushed the chimera, still avoiding eye contact with the man.

“Seemed more like I was amid your hunting grounds back then.” He briefly clenched his jaw. “And why shadow me when you could have spat some words? Why follow me at all ?”

“I-I was—” Sigrid flattened her ears in shame and let out a frustrated whine; the fighter gave her no break, shutting her vindications off with cold reasoning. Noticing Sigrid’s contrite posture, the spokeswoman decided to interject.

“Do not dwell in the past, my cotton flower. That there are humans out there who don’t hate or fear you does not mean they get to friend you easily,” Sigrid’s face stared at the snow, Imbi’s solace doing little to encourage her. “In fact, the young Blakesley likewise regrets telling you these bitter words.”

“I what? ”

“So, after explaining your situation, he agreed to accompany me and bid his apologies to you.” The spokesman declared, not caring about the man’s thoughts on the matter, who had disbelief printed on his face.

“Y-you— really?” Sigrid uttered, her glowing eyes back to the spokeswoman, then shifting back to Marek.

“Hold o—” The human male was about to protest when he felt something burning into his face. He shifted his gaze, and his eyes met Imbi’s eyes, boring into his visage, burning through the darkness cast by his hood. Most surprisingly, her smile was as gentle as ever; it was as if the upper and lower parts of her features were different planes, one of light and tenderness, the other of fire and animosity.

This hag… she led me here to offer an apology.

It was too late to regret his actions now, not when the consequences of refusing to play along with one of the town’s leaders meant passing the night outside the walls, if not worse.

Marek would concede this time: not like he was oblivious to how much of a schmuck he was back on the road to Võshla.

Fog blew through his nostrils, and then Marek spoke: “I— I want to apologize for declining your kind gesture and… for shooshing you. I was merely not accustomed to your presence… Sorry about that, Sigrid.” The man avoided a cringe from traveling across his body. Apologizing was not his forte.

Marek glanced at Imbi out of the corner of his eye, who, for the fighter’s comfort, no longer had her face split into two dualities and looked friendly again. The spokeswoman then turned to Sigrid and assured her: “See, my dear? Everything is alright. This man does not hate you. He is just grumpy and distant.” One of Marek’s eyebrows twitched.

Sigrid abandoned her rueful pose, her ears straightening after listening to the man’s apology, issuing sedate coos. Regardless, she stood timidly and did not immediately utter a response.

A hand lay on her avian head, between the two small lumps, delivering a petting. “Do not push yourself, my cotton flower. Your actions said enough. You will have another opportunity to talk to him.” Imbi comforted, then addressed the cloaked man. “I verily appreciate you coming here, young Blakesley.” Marek huffed and nodded. “Now, I think it is time to go back to Võshla.”

“That was it? Are we finished?”

“Well… we are done for the remainder of the night. You and me, at least. I still have matters to discuss with the girl here. Go to sleep knowing no monster is chasing you to bring you harm.”

“Can you return on your own? Isn’t the snooty stickman going to bother me for your absence?”

Imbi giggled. “Worry not about Ankarl. He knows I am safe along with my girl here.”

The coal-haired man looked at the chimera once again, the two sharing a few blinks for a couple of seconds. The silent exchange ended, and Marek turned back.

“By the way, I almost forgot. I wish to talk with you again tomorrow, young Blakesley. Could you look for me at Berthram’s bar tomorrow early?”

Without twirling back, Marek spoke. “I venture into the wild Frostscape as soon as the blazing sphere’s lights manifest. I need to get my goal solved as fast as possible.”

“It will not take a lot of your time, young Blakesley. If everything goes well, I promise you something beneficial to your journey.”

Marek hesitated, mulling over her second invitation. “I’ll take your proposal into account. Whatever my choice, if I walk past the establishment and you aren’t there, I’ll continue straight for the gates.” Having said those words, Marek trekked downhill.

“Of course.” The spokeswoman chuckled.

“Ma— Marc.” This time, not the voice of an aged woman but the smooth coo of a ladylike beast reached Marek’s ears, making him halt yet again. “Thank you… You saved Si— me. You saved Imbi. You saved Võshla.”

The cloaked man said nothing. He merely stood silent there, digesting those words of gratitude. Then, as if ignoring her thanks, he resumed his walk. There was a hint of a grin on his lips.

Fascinating. Utterly fascinating.

The man advanced, leaving two ladies chit-chatting in that gloomy and chilly mountain.