FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

“Follow my chirps, Marc! Don’t get lost!”

The cloaked man could hardly hear his associate’s high-pitched cries as the moving barrier of deafening winds and stinging ice swallowed any sound and sight.

“Right behind you!” Or so I hope. My eyes can’t confirm anything.

Clutching his cloak around his person like a hanging bat would, Marek battled to drag his feet across every single yard of snow-clogged ground. It looked that the weather conditions in the Frostscape were as sullen as women — earlier at noon, nature bathed the inhabitants of the Everfrozen Land with beams of light, but as soon as the dusk shifted, it swung back to bury the land in layers and layers of chilly substance, strident gales included.

At least Marek was grateful that he got to face the hurricane while clothed.

“Found a cave! Just keep forward and you’ll find shelter!”

But where is forward exactly?

“Crap,” Marek cursed under his breath, failing to pinpoint the direction in which Sigrid went. There was a mute swash, a boot slipping when it stepped into a dent, and Marek clumsily dropped to one knee. “Ack!” Despite keeping his hands busy, his battle-forged firmness frustrated his entire body from collapsing.

Between ragged pants and gritted teeth, the man wrapped in hides seized the opportunity to turn his fumble into a moment to catch a breath. As Marek rested, faint steps reached his ears, and, from out of nowhere, a feathery creature crouched to his side.

“Are you good, Marc?!” With barely two feet away from the listener, Sigrid’s wail rasped the man’s eardrums.

“Yes, but if you keep yelling at me, you may break my eardrums.” Sigrid did not react to Marek’s nonchalant answer. “I just misstepped.”

A wing extended over the kneeling fighter. “Let me help you. Shelter is too close for you to fail now.” Sigrid stood up and grabbed Marek by the bicep, helping him regain his footing. “I can see through the blizzard and night, so I’m going to guide you to the cave. Are you alright with that?”

“And how would I not be alright with that?” Marek snorted, and the monstress understood these words were the consent she needed to proceed with the human under her direct guidance.

The cave loomed not far from where Marek stumbled, twenty or so yards away, making the experienced warrior feel amateurish. The cavity had an entrance of around twelve feet in diameter and was vast enough to accommodate two polar bears comfortably.

Upon taking refuge inside the cavern, the harassing noise of broken snow lessened to give room to the dry thuds of leather boots falling onto stone, a breather for the warrior’s ears. Marek released his hold on his hide and unhung the device from his back, throwing it into the rustic wall. Once free of the rifle’s weight, Marek groaned and flexed his back, the movements causing a crack to echo inside the grotto.

“I may need a masseuse after all this ends,” more groans resounded, and Marek used his hands to press his lower back inward.

Meanwhile, Sigrid just finished shaking off the frost particles from her fur and plumage; she then turned to Marek. “Masseuse?”

“A woman who gives massages.”

The owl-wolfess returned a curious look. “Why a female? Can’t males give massages? Or perhaps they are not good enough for the task?”

“Males who give massages exist; I just fancy— you know what? Who cares? I’ll take a masseur if given the opportunity. I’ll be most likely wasted at that point to give a cr— hoot.”

Sigrid blinked and then giggled. “You don’t hoot. Hoomans do not do that. That’s a bird’s thing.”

“Idioms, Sig.” Marek deepened into the cave, eyes scanning every single corner and rock inside. “No one lives here, right?”

Reverting to her bipedal posture, Sigrid spoke: “The scent of wolves hovers around, but it’s dim. They might have used this place as a passing nest but abandoned it to continue their migration.”

“Any other monster I should be worried about?”

“Cave is too small to shelter warg and manticore packs, and raptors prefer prairies. Trolls like these types of lairs, but I think this may be a little small for their frame. They lean toward taking sizable caverns.”

“Very well… but what about,” human lips pursed, “ foxes? ”

“Foxes?” Sigrid asked back, head slightly slanted in puzzlement. “Ehh, well, they may use this place to shelter from the blizzard, but with me inside, I don’t see that happening… Are foxes a real problem?”

“As real as any vermin can be,” Marek said with a displeased undertone. “See, during your absence, these pests caused me trouble.”

“You were attacked by foxes?”

“In some form,” Marek spat but refused to elaborate.

But Sigrid, ever the curious, was not satisfied with that half-hearted explanation. “Oh~ don’t leave it like that~. Tell me what happened.”

Marek twisted his mouth, beginning to regret bringing up the fox’s issue. “They robbed me.”

“ Gyeehe! ” Not a second passed after Marek’s words touched the air, and Sigrid hooted, mockery carrying her tweets. “Marek Blakesley, the terror of wargs, killer of raptors, enemy of greys, and destroyer of ghools, was spoiled by a fuzzy fox! Gyhee-hee-he.”

Marek’s eyes squinted, his eyes wandering off in both shame and annoyance. “They were two, actually—”

The titters continued and peaked in intensity, and Marek growled audibly. “A couple of foxes! How could Marek Blakesley dream of overcoming such a danger? Geehe!”

“It’s good to know you gained the confidence to laugh at my face,” said Marek while miffed, arms folded.

Sigrid lifted her talons to her beak to lessen the intensity of her hilarity-filled peeps, but her body kept trembling for a little while. “That explains why your belly barked when I found you,” the she-chimera composed, and her eyes opened to reveal they were somewhat watery. “Oh, poor Marc, it really should have been a difficult night for you.”

“I don’t need your pity, Sig.” Yes, my pride is already pretty hurt as it is.

“So grouchy, grouchy~.” She sang. “Well, worry not, Marc. I won’t allow any thief to creep onto you as you sleep. Your food, clothes, and weapons will stay untouched.”

Marek huffed, but knowing Sigrid, and considering that her last sentence carried no disrespect, he decided to let her teasing slip by — she won the right to do so, however much he disliked it.

A last scrutiny at the temporary abode came from Marek before going back to speak with Sigrid. “Very well… today’s march has met its end. What if we get to finish those cooked leftovers and stop this ‘laugh at Marek’s bad luck’ game?”

“No cooking this time, I guess.”

“With nature blowing outside and no wood? Fat chance. This time we got cave-temperature food.”

“Ooh~.” Sigrid’s spirits suddenly sank. “No cooked food tonight…”

“Once you cook food, it remains cooked, Sig,” Marek explained, since it was apparent that Sigrid did not know that detail.

“R-really? That’s fantastic~.” And as soon as Sigrid’s mood dropped, she blew up, hooting in excitement.

“Only you get happy knowing you’ll eat this badly heated meat; besides, it is still ambient temperature, it’s not hot or anything similar.”

“‘Badly heated meat’ tastes better than raw meat, even if it’s no longer warm. Also, you made it, so it is special.”

Marek’s face went blank for a second, then he shook his head and blew a fleeting laugh. “What silly things you say, Sig.”

“You don’t get to decide what is silly, Sir I got tricked by fuzzy tails, ” was Sigrid’s comeback, smugness spread across her avian mask.

“You wanna eat meat or not?”

After their childish chatter, both Sigrid and Marek passed the time inside the cave in calm. No portion remained uneaten; Marek knew the reindeer was unlikely to preserve its edible condition by the next morning.

Out of habit before their transitory breakup, Sigrid took the watch, lying on her belly near the gaping hole that led to the blurry storm, two hands supporting her head as she intently stared at the disaster on the outside. Her ear twitched backward as she heard someone sitting against the stone.

“Don’t hesitate to wake me up if the situation warrants it, Sig,” Marek said as he came back from tossing his rifle in the bottom of the cave, and the chimera whistled affirmatively. “Very well, good night.” It was difficult for Marek to acknowledge it, but he was near exhaustion, a sequel of his last unsettled dusk — and going by the weather and lack of campfire, this night was only one level of conformity above the nightmare that the previous night had been.

But Sigrid was with him, and she had not failed him once during her duty task, and he took solace in that. So, with no further ado, he curled up in his cold and hard seat and wrapped the cloak around his body. Now, it was up to his brain to plunge into the dreams as fast as—

“Are you really comfortable there?” His race to catch sleep did not last long; one dulcet voice dragged him out of his struggles to fall asleep. Marek turned his head to Sigrid, who had her owl head twisted in his direction, eyes shining with a blue hue.

“Relatively? It is better than half a shack. Can’t be nitpicky in the middle of the Arctic.”

“You look no different from when I found you alone last night… I heard people die more quickly without rest than without food.”

“Tell me about it… But what can be done? Bringing a bed with me was unfeasible, and this hole did not come with a set up chimney.”

Sigrid said nothing, her mask showcasing no emotion as she held the stare. Her head twirled to the outside one last time, erect ears likewise pointing at what could lurk in the blizzard. Ultimately, she stood up and moved toward the man sitting against the wall.

“What are you doing?” Said Marek, eyebrows knitted together.

“If you get no sleep, I’ll be dealing with a grumpy man the whole next day… so I’ll try to help you get some rest.”

The sounds of patting feet became clearer as Sigrid’s form stood above the coiled man. “And— arr, how are you going to do that?”

As soon as Marek finished speaking, Sigrid let herself fall into the same sitting position as Marek, knees pressed against her chest. “By giving you warmth,” wings unfurled above both individuals’ heads, “with my wings and fur!” She chirped at last.

Marek’s eyes were observing the raised limbs, his features reflecting uncertainty and, to a minor degree, shyness. “But, ehm, how would you keep guard if you stay at my side?”

“Easy, easy. I can see plenty from here; the cave’s darkness does little to hinder my senses.” One wing descended a bit and stretched over Marek’s head. “Any problem with that?”

“B-but what if my presence slows you down the instant—” As usual, Marek attempted to come up with a valid excuse for Sigrid not to leave her previous position. He was also trying to mask a shadow of nervousness.

“Shush. Shush~,” she cooed, “you keep whimpering. I’ve slept suspended on creaking branches and sloppy boulders. One man to my side is no obstacle for me.” Marek parted his lips, another pretext taking form inside his mouth. “Another excuse and you get your cheek fanned,” his mouth quickly fell shut, “decide: do you want to sleep at my side or not?”

A beat passed, and Marek considered Sigrid’s offer. Was he really pondering over her kind invitation to burrow himself into her silky coat? Was his pride pressuring him to stay alone? Or perhaps he felt embarrassed to snuggle with a female— no, not just a female, but to snuggle with Sigrid? Marek mentally cringed when thinking about the third possibility — What was he? A teenager?

At last, he sighed and chose the obvious: he needed — and desired — to rest as comfortably as possible.

“I’ll accept your wing. I really want to doss down.”

Sigrid smiled to herself — Marek Blakesley was once again tamed by her volucrine words. “I am glad you listened. Now, push your body forward.” Marek heeded her words and bent ahead, and the flight limb lowered between the human and the rock. The appendage retracted, pulling Marek against Sigrid’s shoulder. Marek remained silent the whole time; he did not see his own face, but he would have bet it looked rather strained.

“That it is~. Feeling better?” She hooted while looking down on him — Marek’s head rested at her shoulder, shining, azure eyes hovering one foot over the coal-colored hair.

“I-I guess.”

“Quite cozy, don’t you think?~”

“It exudes warmth and is… soft. Being honest, I thought you were cold.”

“And why is that?” Sigrid angled her head sidelong.

“You are… snow-white… yes, it sounds moronic, but you are nonhuman, so in my ignorant mentality, that was a viable possibility.”

Marek’s head vibrated as the monstress giggled. “Well, I just buried your theory under the snow. Sigrid is hot~.”

“That isn’t… the most appropriate term,” Marek whispered, finger scratching his lower jaw. But was it really inappropriate? “Oh, be quiet.”

“Hm, what did you say?”

“Ehh, be night. Yes… Good night, Sig. Thank you for bringing your bodily blanket. It does— you truly feel well.” With no more words lest he embarrass himself, Marek let the hood of his cloak fall over his face, awaiting sleepiness to catch up with him.

Sleep took its time to catch Marek, his mind lingering about the many sensations that manifested during his snuggle with Sigrid. Her silk-like fur tickled his cheek, the smell of piny aroma invaded his nostrils, the soft hug of her wing — the only thing missing was a lullaby.

There was no fight over sleeplessness this time; in mere minutes, Marek was already yawning, and his eyelids felt too heavy to remain lifted. Being this fast to pass out went against Marek’s very instincts, and he almost put up a fight to revert to alertness. But he was safe; Sigrid was there, her wing shielding him like a chicken shields her chick.

For the first time in a long time, Marek willingly backed down from a fight and gladly surrendered. For the hours to come, he would not have to worry about lupins, dinosaurs, and other abominations.

Tonight, he could forget about the undead.

And so, Marek’s mind and world faded into darkness — an intimate darkness that promised him he would see another day, and that day might turn out better than the last.

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

“Seeing anything?!”

“Only shit I’m seeing is the damnable vas— Arrsh! Snowball in my eye! Winter’s spit went into my fucking eye!”

In another place, while Marek dawdled across the land of the dreamers under a roof of rock, fur, and feathers, two men battled against nature.

The man with a foul tongue and no longer groomed mustache, Syarhey, brushed his stinging eye. “Can’t I let a slit open to peek at the outside without having my globes harden into fucking eye’s cat?!”

“At least you do have an eye!” Screamed the other man, Vadim, from the rear. He had facial hair running across the edge of his jawline and one piece of cloth wrapped around his left eye.

“Bullshit! I saw your wound and only your eyelid got trashed!”

“You worry about what lies ahead, and stop giving a crap about somebody else’s wound, you whining blockhead!”

Syarhey and Vadim were citizens of Verrgrár Path, two individuals specialized in tiptoeing their way to a wretch’s house or pocket. Detecting, disarming, and setting traps was their art, as well as being vigilant in what hid and crept in gloomy corners — put in another way, half of their functions was to be watchful of each other. Individuals bearers of such abilities were most commonly known as rogues or prowlers.

“I’ll tell you what lies ahead, you asshole: an outlet from this cursed place! I can’t see dogshit either way!” Despite the lack of visibility, Syarhey was not eager to stop for a breath.

To summarize the last events that had befell the duo and brought them to that unpromising present, both rascals were members of Mørk’s party, a group of nine adventures — a number that had dropped to eight when the blazing sphere rose a second time after their trip began — who offered their services to the Capital as a spearhead to eradicate the catastrophic entity that tormented the Frostscape.

“I know I would be talking to a half-brained ox, but you should slow your steps if you can only see white! You may plummet into a hole or something worse!”

“A hole. A lake. A raptors’ den. Reindeer’s shit. Everything but a pack of growling two-mouthed freaks!”

The trip had gone all according to plan. Since their encounter with the warg, nothing unordinary had crossed the party’s paths; a sighting of one or two trolls, packs of beasts that were scared off by the sheer number that composed their crew, and the ever-present coldness had been the greatest dangers they have faced.

Or they had been until they deepened into the wild North and the manticores made their appearance. The presence of the chimeric monsters was no secret for anyone — the surprise was that they showed up way too early; the first clues of manticores should have materialized after another two days of marching out from Võshla. First appearances were deemed as mere strays, but as the harassment intensified and more and more creatures showed up, such a theory was discarded.

The previous day had been the breaking point, and that one skirmish had resulted in the two citizens of the Dale splitting up. Hence, Syarhey and Vadim were on their own and cast out from the central quest.

“Fuck! Weren’t there hamlets somewhere nearby?!” Continued Syarhey’s bawling, his pace progressively increasing as fast as his bad mood.

“Those are either buried and hidden in some hole or were turned into ice in a stick by some cursed lizard! Or did the storm blow away your memories and bleach your already diminutive head?!”

The man on the lead snapped back and bared his teeth at the bothersome, beaten partner. “My fist will blow and bleach your bold-as-brass mug if you don’t—Waah!” Syarhey’s cheap comeback did not meet with the outside world as the sentence was interrupted by his own squeal; as Vadim warned, his partner’s hasty stomps met an insubstantial floor, and the raw prowler rolled down across a slope. “Godda—” Snow flooded toward every cavity on Syarhey’s face, preventing any other blasphemy from slipping from his mouth.

“Sya?!” The pained scream alerted Vadim that his teammate had an incident, so he accelerated his walk to cast a look — not without taking the necessary precautions; he was not eager to follow the steps of the man who had refused to listen.

“Fu—! Sh— !— Dam—” For the next seconds, Syarhey’s unhampered body snowballed through the slope, crashing against branches, puny bushes, and piles of slush, the man pathetically failing to take hold from a poking root. Fortunately for the rogue, no rock greeted any part of his speeding form.

After rolling for forty-something feet, Syarhey finally connected with the even ground and landed in what he believed was a mound of snow, and his disastrous trip came to an end. “Fucking dammit…” He grunted, vision blurry and unsteady because of the many spins he involuntarily performed.

“Hey! Sya! You good down there!” An outcry successfully pierced the roaring veil, but only just.

Syarhey leaned forward, gloved hand clutching his smacked and throbbing head. “Oh, yes! I feel fan-fucking-tastic! I surely enjoyed testing this revolutionary form of transport. You stoned jackass!”

There was a pause, and Syarhey imagined Vadim was leaning his ear toward the precipice in an attempt to understand his yelling. “I take it that you are fine!”

“Jackass…” Syarhey murmured, one arm looking for support so he could get his footing. His hand ended up resting over the knoll that stopped him from keeping his human-wheel form, and with one steady movement, he stood up, his entire frame covered in ice particles, mouth’s interior included. He started to shake off the frost from his hair, cough the slush from his insides, and even empty his nostrils by blowing his nose.

“Baugh! This snow, I swear. The wizards should use their magic to burn down this… eh?” The curses would have to wait; the rogue just uncovered something curious at his feet. Syarhey drew a blade from beneath his furs, a short sword with runes engraved at each side of the edge. “ Flares to thy blade .” By speaking a language that not even the man was familiar with, the sword adopted a red hue, and heat began to irradiate from the metal, the weapon hissing when the spiraling snowflakes landed on its surface.

With its magic sparked on, the blade generated a flare that dimly illuminated two or three feet around, a generally ineffective effect to fight the shades, and a hole on a money bag that the enchantment was not active when Syarhey fell off the slope, otherwise, he might have added scorched runes to his collection of scars, which were not that numerous. The man waved down the heated blade, noticing that the curious element was a limb — a hooved leg — clogged by snow that was now melting because of the magical fire.

The rogue turned around and discovered that what stopped his descent was an ox’s corpse. “Holy shit. Hey, Vadim! I found a dead ox! A fucking ox cushioned by fall!”

“A what?” A response from above came out.

“An ox!”

“An ox! What with it! Is it attacking you?!”

“No! It’s killed!”

“You killed an ox?!”

“It was not me! Was already dead when I crashed!”

“You crashed and killed an ox?! Who would have guessed?! Your iron-hard head killed a poor beast!”

“Motherfucker,” Syarhey grumbled. “What are you waiting for?! Bring your ass down here! Won’t climb the slope even if I wanted to!”

Again, there was silence for fleeting seconds, and Vadim shouted down the gradient. “You cannot climb even if you want to! So hear me out! I’m going down!”

“That was what I—!” The petulant man choked with his ire and spat garble. “Just get your ass into a mule!”

There was no other response from Vadim, although Syarhey would have sworn that he picked up the noise of laughter mixed with the buzzing wind. As he awaited, he spun to see the ox. There were no traces of violent struggle, at least none he could notice — the only thing he noticed was a spot of blood close to the neck. Syarhey simply assumed the unfortunate beast gashed an artery and died of bleeding, whereupon he stopped giving mind to the deceased beast.

Meanwhile, Vadim cautiously walked along the obscured edge of the precipice, boots practically shuffling underneath the dirt as the man tested the presence of stable soil. Skipping from pine to pine for auxiliary support, Vadim realized the gradient might stretch for several yards. “Hey! Sya! Still there!” An incomprehensible wail got to his ears, confirming Syarhey had not moved from where he had harshly uncurled.

“Crap. How extensive is this scarp?” It seemed there was no shortcut to get to the yelling man at the feet of the slope, bar the sliding rail Syarhey had launched minutes ago. Frankly, that was not a concerning matter as long as he decided not to outmatch the rogue’s disastrous wheeling.

Vadim stepped back from the edge and backtracked toward the point where Syarhey slipped off, this time moving behind the pines for further precaution. “Hey! Sya! There are no stairways nearby! I would need to—” Inadvertently, Vadim’s boot got jammed, and the man rushed head-first directly to the ground.

“What the hell?!” Snarling, Vadim turned back to detect the responsible of his undignified fall and saw a protruding dried root wrapped around his calf. “Dratted nature and its disheveled locks.” Vadim tried to pull his leg off the ground vines, but, to his surprise, the roots did give his limb back. “Feeling clingy today?”

“What the fuck are you doing up there?! Shake your leg and climb the damn slope down?!” Syarhey yelled from below.

“That’s why I’m trying to— Garh.” A pressure seized Vadim’s boot, and the man grunted in discomfort; the roots were crushing his lower leg. “What kind of cursed— Argh! ” The stress intensified, and the bone inside the leather-made footwear cracked. With the first signs of agony traveling from his feet, uneasiness washed over Vadim, so he frantically kicked the stubborn growth. “Get off me, you stupid weed!”

The human’s insistent kicks failed to release his other foot; regardless, they produced another unforeseen effect. The earth shattered, and something thin and long arose beneath the snow. Did the man’s strength unroot another hidden vine? But no; after a deeper scrutiny, Vadim noticed that what emerged from underground was no form of vegetation.

It was an arm, one skeletal and clawy.

The emancipated limb bent downward and settled its palm on the surface, and, before Vadim could process what he glanced at, another body manifested — an upper body, undoubtedly human, albeit ill-nourished to the point he could easily observe the outline of every single rib.

Vadim forgot about the pain down his leg, Syarhey, where he lay, and even breathing. The half-buried entity arrested Vadim’s attention with his eyes that burned like gold forges, the human engrossed with mouth agape and eyes widened as bucklers.

“ Cattle, ” the monster spoke, his wraith-like voice swarming with hunger and sending shivers across the prone man’s spine.

Vadim sucked air and gasped, face contorted with terror; panick took over, and an imperious outcry found the cold air. “Help m—”

No other words got to drive along the whirling winds as the cadaverous creature popped out of the surface and, in the blink of an eye, crawled toward the terrified rogue. Not two seconds passed, and a pair of knife-like fangs pricked the unprotected skin around Vadim’s neck. “Aaggghhhhrrrr!”

“What the—?” Back at the slope’s base, Syarhey twirled to the source of that last broken scream. “Vad! What happened?!”

“Ssy-ggghhhrr!”

“Vad?! Answer me?! What’s happening?!” Syarhey scrambled toward the gradient; he tried to rush up to his comrade, but the land was steep, and the attempt to climb up resulted in the prowler slipping backward and falling on his back. “ Tssk—! Vad!”

“Ar— ghh…” Syarhey could only hear how the desperate cries from his partner turned into muffled wheezes that were quickly drowned out by the blizzard. In no time, the only predominant noises were the ones caused by the turbulent nature and the siss of his piping hot blade.

“Vad…?! Still there, man?!” No response; the wind carried no form of spoken language. “Look, jackass! I’m leaving, and you better drop in this instant, or you’re on your own!” Hastily, Syarhey picked himself up. “Don’t dare to pull up this jest on me! I heard no cat or dog! You want me to believe you got a run-in just like that?!” No matter how much Syarhey yelled against the wind, only a whirr chimed. “Vaaad?!... Vad…”

Syarhey had forgotten how uncomfortable the silence generated by the wild tundra was. However snarky and cheeky Vadim was, his cheap remarks were immeasurably more welcomed than the eerie stillness of the Frostscape.

“Shit. Shit! Shit! ” The lone man began to pace back and forth, cursing between his teeth. What would he do now? Should he top the crest and confirm the state of Vadim? No animalistic screech was heard, so perhaps he just fell and cracked his head, and now his unconscious body was waiting to be tended. But if it was a predator, the creature might still lurk above, and Vadim might be, by all likelihood, gone.

A swoosh from up the gradient pierced through the blizzard, and Syarhey veered at the source. “Vad?” The whiz heightened, and thirteen feet afore Syarhey, a body landed limp. It was Vadim.

“Hey, hey! Vad!” the rogue dashed forward, “You good? What in R’bialez’s shit hemorrhage happened to you?” When it was obvious that the unreactive man would not answer, Syarhey knelt and turned Vadim up. The rogue sucked his teeth when he noticed that virtually any trace of color and life abandoned his old friend’s visage.

The almost-dead man was rigidly flexing his fingers and mutely mouthing with his lone eyes wide open, their shine dulled. He was barely alive, most likely not for long. Furthermore, there was a clean wound carved on his neck — clean as in the sense of smooth with no clue of tissue violently torn, as blood dripped from the puncture, leaving a trail of blood that sullied his leathers.

There was no battle — Vadim had been killed swiftly and had no chance to defend. One did not need to be a scholar to join the dots — whatever was responsible for the bovine’s demise was also the author of Vadim’s death.

Syarhey tried to detect the murderer, first by looking up the slope, but as he spotted nothing, his eyes anxiously darted around, looking out for the monster that killed his partner. The grip on the short sword hardened, and teeth audibly chirred, but his reaction did not convey a desire for vengeance — rage lingered within, but more than anything, dread invaded his thoughts.

Fuck this shit. I need to get the fuck out of— There was a faint groan, and from the commissure of the eye, Syarhey detected movement — a hand rested upon his boot. Vadim’s hand. “Shit, Vad.” There was no use. His comrade would not walk again, and to take him on his shoulder would be counterproductive and draw them as easy prey. Syarhey had no choice but to leave him behind.

“Sorry, Vad. That’s how it is.” The now solitary prowler kicked the hand off his boot and stood up to cast a last check to the surroundings, taking tentative steps to where he would take his leave — whatever that place might be — his legs tensing in anticipation as he prepared to make the race of his life.

A nearly imperceptible swash alerted him, a sound that would have passed unnoticed by most humans’ ears and that only someone as acute as Syarhey, so used to facing furtive enemies, would have caught its vibration. The sound came from over his head and bolted in the direction of the woods.

“Fuck.” The daler was on edge, pointing his blistering blade toward the umbra and the trees that lay in there. Something manifested — something that at first sight looked like two embers floating and whose glowing was inflaming. “What the—!” A snarl arose right behind Syarhey, and, in haste, the man turned around. “Graag!” Nonetheless, he only half-turned before taking a solid slam on his abdomen.

A pained wheeze climbed up his throat, and Syarhey was knocked prone by an entity he immediately recognized as Vadim, the man who supposedly was in the final twinklings of his life. “The fuck?! Vadim?!” Pinned to the ground, Syarhey began to brawl with what used to be Vadim, who was shouting animalistic growls and lashing out with enlarged nails that now poked out of his gloves, the white of his eyes eaten by his now blackened irises.

“Shit! My sword! Where is—” Syarhey desperately sought for his sword, which slipped off his hand when he had been tackled down; he found the weapon after one second of searching, its position given away by the lines of steam that rose because of the vaporized snow.

But hard lines always bound, and the sword lay beyond his arm’s reach. “Fuck! Damn it!” One arm was keeping Vadim from biting off the mustached face, all whilst the pair of razor-sharp claws pressed onto his side, puncturing his garments and skin. For someone who agonized seconds ago, he was surprisingly tough. “No! No! No! I’ll not lose against the travesty of a jackass!” Syarhey adjusted his body, fighting for every degree and inch of movement, the rogue grunting during the entire process. But the effort would pay off: his fingers were already brushing the metal.

Just a little more . One finger connected with the metallic pommel. Take the sword. Swing at Vadim’s goner head. Run as greased lightning. Then, this place be damned. Two fingers grasped the hilt now, and just then, his ear was nipped by Vadim’s teeth; Syarhey twisted his face as he stifled a cry, innerly cursing not to let his focus shatter. A stressful instant later, all the prowler’s fingers were wrapped around the handle. I’ll finally get to cut that tongue — mouth and head included — off your body.

The handle, enveloped by leather and a gloved hand, rose from the pool of melted snow and went directly to Vadim’s head with a clunky yet rapid thrust.

“—!” The attack stopped without sticking in flesh or bone, a mere inch away from Vadim’s side head, fizzling with the air and scalding the epidermis with a radiance that went down on its way to adopt the environmental coldness.

Syarhey’s last desperate attack woefully failed and stopped overhead as his arm froze, suspended by a force yet to be perceived.

The rogue darted his eyes at his arm and recognized a decrepit hand that might as well pass as a spider seizing him by the chelidon. His accelerated heart prevented the man from carrying on a more detailed scrutiny, but whatever was locking his limb in place stood kneeling by his side, with its fatless and almost bone-like features cloaked by waving black locks, golden and burning stars of eyes piercing through the dark as night mane.

“What-at the f-fuc—”

“Thou hast to forgive my intrusion,” the presence interrupted the man’s shaky curse. “I cannot avow thee harm my servant.” These underworldly words flowed flawlessly directly to the human’s frigid ears, bypassing the curtain of whirr in the same way water pours through a strainer.

“W-ht k-kind of-f damnab-ble—” Utter shock beset Syarhey, who could only stammer incoherencies, the panic leading his senses to focus solely on those will-o’-wisp orbs and that ghostly tune. The prowler did not even notice when his ex-compeer stopped thrashing around, and the weight of his corrupt form over his body turned into the least of his problems.

“Waste not thine breath. Thou will no longer need it.” Blood drained from Syarhay’s features, his mouth went agape to release a mute gasp, and his eyes widened. “Join thine ingle in unlife and mindlessness.”

Although the poetic-like words flew over Syarhey’s wits at first, when the spectral entity expanded its jaw and flashed its white-as-pearls row of teeth and enlarged fangs, the daler understood what would happen — he would suffer the same fate as the arctic ungulate and his companion.

The situation triggered desperation, and Syarhey offered one last struggle. “Fuck! You shitting devil! Get off me!” But any strife he had to offer turned out one-sided — Vadim, although no longer thrashing like a beast, pinned the man against the snow, and his armed hand could only shake in midair as the monster’s clutch surpassed the grip of an iron press.

“Motherffuuccc—” All resistance, which lasted no more than a few blinks, never panned out. The human’s swearing mutated into a gurgle, then a wheeze, to finally transform into complete silence. Preternatural fangs had connected with Syarhey’s neck, and the emancipated creature drained his vital liquid directly from a vein. In no time, Syarhey’s foul mouth shut close to curse creation never again, his once red-hot blade falling from his hand to land beside its murdered owner.

When the man no longer breathed and spasmed, the creature — Madakai Striigori — rose straight, eyes glued on his most recent victim. Vadim, the now undead servant of the vampire lieutenant, followed the movements of his master and likewise rose to his feet.

Both undead remained quiet, practically frozen in place — not even their chest beat since hearts, lungs, and every other organ were motionless; in the case of Vadim, his darkened eyes were unfocused, and his mouth slightly parted, with no fog venting out from the gap. Every outside onlooker would have confused the creatures with stuffed corpses. In some way, they were precisely that.

Finally, crunching snow told Madakai that Syarhey’s resurrection and transformation into undead approached a conclusion, the human-turned-ghoul growling and hissing as he stirred. Having passed some seconds, the ghoul picked himself up and joined Vadim in his lifeless and vacuous contemplation. Madakai showed no reaction to the rogue’s rise, his glowing eyes failing to reveal any thought arising inside his mind.

Nevertheless, no matter how withered his facial nerves were, the sentiments of disgust and disappointment grew inside.

“Wlatful.” After his long contemplation, the vampire flexed his finger, generating a cracking sound. “No matter how much blood I gushed down my weasand. No matter how much beastiallicke blood I drink,” he curled both hands into a fist. “I could only inrise ghouls; nowite lessers possessing no voice or dossity…”

The lieutenant heaved both arms in front of his head. He witnessed the worn-out limbs, the two trembling because of the growing, seething emotion that flew through his dried veins. The view of his arms — of his entire being — revolted Madakai, and if his innards were functional as in life, he would have thrown up on the spot. Recovering the beauty he used to wear, that semblance that crushed the features of the sons of the man, was no longer within his possibilities.

“Dadless… Dadless. Dadless! *Dadless! * ” An ethereal screech echoed across the Frostscape, and the turbulent veil of frost failed to lessen its effects. The wolves howled, the birds shrieked, and the raptors honked. Every animal that heard the underworldly bellow cowered and shrank as if they had overheard an omen of calamity.

Madakai’s immeasurable disappointment could flood lakes and bury caves. The damage carved in him by Seolvor and the Argentum Army prevailed — The scourge of The Purity of Combat had stripped him of everything.

He did not want to stop displaying his indignation. He desired to curse the current age and the land it spawned after centuries of his kind’s absence. But Madakai was better than that; he was entrusted with a transcendent task, and he could not whine out loud lest he give his position to the false wielder of Dalavut.

Once he took control over his emotions, the vampire glared down at the runed blade, its warm radiance already gone. Without looking down, Madakai sent a command — one that required no audible words to be conveyed — to Syarhey’s now lifeless being. The rogue with facial hair picked up the sword before retaking his blank expression; he might lack the ability to brandish a weapon properly, but a magical weapon still surpassed a ghoul’s natural weaponry.

And both Madakai’s enemies were shielded against natural weapons.

“Sellsword…” The situation was fragile. The adventurer and his chimeric beast were too much for Madakai to handle alone, so he had to recreate his ghoul horde. The problem, however, lay in the number of humanoid citizens spread across the tundra. So far, the vampire lieutenant had only found some lost humans scattered across the wilderness, a few greys, and the two adventurers who perished minutes ago.

Needless to say, his personal army lacked numbers, at least compared to the legion he once had in that ghostly village.

“Nedere denies most monsters; I cannot transform them into ghouls…” Madakai looked beyond Vadim and Syarhey, directly at the carcass of the ox, and his ring-like orbs sparked as he plotted his next move.

“Earthly Gods art spontaneous, and their whims fickle. Perhaps, they have forgotten about us… So wlatful,” his most recent intent disgusted him, but so did feeding upon filthy animals and slumbering with the underground vermin.

Madakai stared at the star-filled sky, his preternatural sight penetrating the gloom and observing the beams of green and blue hues slithering across the otherwise black canvas.

*Break thy gaol. *

The whispers echoing in his mind were not a memory — Dalavut was trying to summon Madakai. It longed for freedom from the human’s unworthy hands.

“Patience. I will hold thine tree. I behighte.” After vocalizing that promise, Madakai lowered his gaze and began to march, resolved to do whatever it took to retrieve Dalavut from the hands of the sellsword. The corpse of Vadim and Syarhey trailed behind, the latter now holding the runed short sword, both monsters blindly and unwittingly heeding the unsaid commands of the vampire lieutenant.

As the undead advanced, the blizzard gradually covered their forms and muted their naturally faint steps. In no time, all the unliving entities disappeared behind a barrier of coldness, blending with the gloom, ready to shred blood.

Only the blazing sphere could stop their schemes… And the night was young.