The pale light of dawn crept across the Starview Plains, painting the long grasses in silvery hues. Patches of frost still clung stubbornly to the shaded ground, remnants of the biting winter night. A faint, rolling mist dappled the area, weaving tendrils between the sturdy oaks scattered across the landscape. I stood just of the dirt road leading toward Gildenshade, a quaint farming village known as much for its fine ale as its unassuming nature. The morning air smelt earthy and wet, with a slight tang of smoke from distant chimneys. Voices from further down the road grew louder as farmers began their day, loading carts with the last of their winter stores to bring to market.
A magpie cawed, flitting past me to perch on the signpost up ahead. Scratched into the weathered wood, it read, "Gildenshade - 2 miles." Beyond it, I could just make out the village rising amidst golden fields and bare winter trees, a cluster of low timber and stone buildings topped with gently curving thatched roofs.
But just as I took another step towards the village, the woodlands to my left seemed to stir. A low growl - or was it the groaning of a tree branch? - sent hairs bristling along my neck. Nearby, the mist thickened unnaturally, wrapping more tightly around the darkened trees like a living thing guarding some ominous secret. A prickling feeling along my spine urged caution as shadows shifted between the looming tree trunks.
A snap of a twig echoed - sharp and deliberate, cutting through the still morning air.
This road saw mild travel but had rarely been thought dangerous. Perhaps it was just a deer venturing close I thought to myself. But I couldn't shake the feeling that it was something more.
I carefully unsheathed my blackened chained scythe the feeling familiar and reassuring in my grip. The metal was unnaturally cold, matching my own touch. I moved forward with deliberate, quiet steps, my eyes scanning the mist-shrouded treeline to my left, my ears tuned to every rustle and crack.
The growl did not come again, but the feeling of being watched intensified. The fog seemed to cling to one particular thicket of gnarled, winter-bare hawthorn trees about thirty feet off the road. The shadows there were deep and pooled, refusing to yield to the growing dawn light.
As I focused, something else caught my attention from the road ahead. A broken cart wheel lay discarded in the ditch, and beside it, a trampled patch of grass held a dark, sticky stain that looked disturbingly fresh. A few feet away, a small, leather satchel lay open, its contents - a few copper coins and a wrapped piece of hardtack - scattered in the mud.
The village of Gildenshade was still a fair walk away. The woods were silent now, but the evidence on the road told a different, more recent story.
My senses, usually so keen, were thwarted by the clinging fog and the odd, deceptive quiet. The thicket ahead remained a wall of grey mist and tangled shadow - I couldn't make out any distinct shapes or movement within it. The growl wasn't repeated, but a low, uneasy feeling settled in my gut. The woods felt wrong.
The evidence on the road, however, was clear and troubling. The broken wheel looked recently splintered. The dark stain on the grass was unmistakably blood, not yet fully soaked into the frosty earth. The abandoned satchel and its meagre contents spoke of a swift, violent departure.
From the village direction, the sound of a distant rooster crowed, starkly normal against the tension.
A sudden, sharp crack came from the thicket - this time unmistakably the sound of a heavy branch being stepped on. Something was there, and it was moving.
I carefully made my way over to the stain and the satchel to investigate it further. I knelt by the stain, my scythe held across my body. The blood was fresh, perhaps only an hour old. It was smeared, as if something - or someone - was dragged from the road toward the woods. The satchel was of cheap, common make, the kind a traveling labourer or a poor farmer might have carried. The hardtack was stale, the coppers few. Nothing else of obvious value remained.
I did notice one curious detail: caught on a thorny weed near the blood was a small scrap of rough-spun cloth, torn as if from a sleeve or pant leg. It was dull brown, but stitched into it was a tiny, crude emblem- a black circle with a single, jagged line through it. I didn't recognize the symbol.
From the thicket, the sounds of movement grew more deliberate. No more subtle cracks - now it was the steady, heavy crunch of underbrush being pushed aside. Something large was coming out of the mist. I caught a flash of matted, grey-brown fur and a low, hulking silhouette before it stepped fully onto the road, blocking my path to Gildenshade.
It stood on two powerful, bestial legs, its body covered in thick, filthy hide. Its head was a nightmare fusion of boar and bear, with tiny, intelligent red eyes glowing with malice. Tusks jutted from its snarling muzzle, and in one clawed hand, it dragged a crude, bloodied wooden club. It sniffed the air, then its gaze locked onto me.
The beast let out a guttural roar that shook the frost from nearby grass. It charged with shocking speed, covering the ground between the thicket and my position in a heartbeat. The bloodied club whistled through the air in a wide, powerful arc.
A split second later the club smashed into my side with brutal force. A sharp pain bloomed across my ribs as the impact jarred me. A cold, unnatural chill surged through me as the club's impact should have shattered my bones and ended me. My vision swam with ghostly afterimages - a fleeting glimpse of a vast, starless void - before snapping back to the present. The pain was still there, a fiery agony in my side, but I was standing. I was still alive. If barely.
My movements were a blur of desperate precision. As the beast bellowed in triumph, I ducked under its looming form and drove my dagger deep into the thick muscle of its thigh. The blade sunk to the hilt with a sickening thunk. I released the handle leaving it embedded.
The creature's roar of victory twisted into a shriek of pain and rage. Blackish blood welled around the wound. It stumbled back a step, its leg now clearly favouring its weight.
Enraged and hobbled, the beast swung its club in a wild, overhead smash aimed at crushing my skull. Enraged and hobbled, the beast swung its club in a wild, overhead smash aimed at crushing my skull. The club whistled past my ear, slamming into the dirt where I stood a split-second before, throwing up a spray of frozen mud and torn grass.
The creature stood before me, panting heavily, its red eyes burning with fury and pain. The dagger jutted from its leg, a clear impediment. Its movements were noticeably slower, more laboured.
I slid back, my movements fluid and defensive, keeping the snarling beast at bay with a threatening arc of my scythe. I put a good thirty feet of muddy road between me and the creature, now standing near the discarded cart wheel. The beast didn't lunge after me - it seemed to pick up on my retreat being too careful, too controlled.
Instead it glared at me, its breath coming in ragged, steaming huffs. With a grotesque, wet grunt of effort, it reached down, wrapped its clawed hand around the hilt of my dagger, and yanked. The blade came free with a spurt of dark blood. It tossed the dagger aside into the frosty grass, where it landed with a soft thud. The immediate limp in its gait lessened, though the wound still looked nasty and deep.
It now held its club in both hands, its red eyes fixed on me with undiminished hatred. The distance between us was clear, but I knew it could quickly if it chose to charge.
The beast's eyes followed my every move. As I backpedalled, drawing my second dagger, it let out a thunderous, frustrated roar that echoed across the plains. It didn't bother with caution. Digging its clawed feet into the dirt, it exploded into a full-tilt charge, its powerful legs pumping despite the weeping wound in its thigh. Clods of frozen earth flew in its wake as it closed the sixty-foot gap between us with terrifying speed.
In a heartbeat, it was upon me again. The stench of wet fur, blood, and raw aggression washed over me. It loomed large, its club held high, its hot, ragged breath frosting in the air between us. It used its entire focus to reach me, and now it stood ready to strike, a wall of fury and muscle.
My lunge at its unharmed leg was well-aimed, but the creature anticipated my move. It sidestepped my thrust with surprising agility, and my dagger glanced harmlessly of its thick hide, leaving only a shallow scratch. The force of my missed attack threw me slightly off balance.
The beast grinned, a flash of tusks and malice, and brought its club crashing down towards my head.