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Message Dakota Witcomb’s Works If you couldn’t tell, my name is Dakota Whitcomb. I took this Fiction Writing class as an elective to hopefully improve my writing for my personal projects. Though I do know one thing, the class hasn’t helped improve my title writing process. I have collected six of, what I consider, some of my better works from the class. Looking back, I find it interesting that I prefer stories with happy endings as a reader. However, when writing, I tend to end them on an ambiguous note at best, or a dark ending at worst. ҉ Out of all of my stories I wrote for this class, I think I can point to two that were my favorite to write. Those two would have to be The Devil’s Due, and the simply put Final Story. You see, whenever I read a book, really I’m there for the characters and dialogue between them. Page-turners to me are not vast grandiose battlefields, but it is the drama between two characters wanting to have one conversation but veiling it behind another less important conversation. As such I tend to skim over the descriptions of lands, buildings, and environments in books. So, usually I am not confident in my ability to world build simply through descriptions. It’s quite interesting, to me at the very least, that one of these stories is mostly descriptions while the other one is very dialogue-heavy. Yet both share the number 1 spot. The Devil’s Due solidified an interesting facet of my writing that was brought to my attention before, but this was the second time it was confirmed. It seems that occasionally I can impart themes into my writing that were not intended. In The Devil’s Due there is a theme of temperature. The protagonist starts the story in his cold home without any hope, the story ends with the protagonist feeling his old confident self reassert itself before being burned with fire. On one hand, this tendency makes my writing better than what I had intended, it also provides a kind of subjectivity that many great stories include since the audience can help enhance the story for themselves. On the other hand, I wish I could have done it intentionally! This tendency has happened in two of the six stories I have included(but who knows, that number could have increased without me noticing). I still have not reconciled with myself whether this tendency makes me a worse or better writer.

҉ Farmer Shortstory

I leave the barn, the dusty smell of cow cubes still clinging to my front as I fold up the empty feed bag. On my way back to toss the empty bag, I see Dad back from the field. Pulling in the tractor for the night, I wait and tell him the sour news. “We’re out of feed for the cows.” He shakes his head, “What about their hay?” “I didn’t check, but it can’t sustain them much longer. We’re going to have to dip into the harvest again.” This was met with a slow nod “We might have to sell all of them at this rate. Seed prices have gone up again, and we were cutting it close last time.” Another shake of his head, this one more firm. “We’ll figure something out. Now go wash up, we’ll talk more about it after dinner.” This time I sighed, there was never any discussion after dinner. It was Dad’s way of saying the conversation had ended. But I do what I’m told, and go to the shop. I flip on a light switch and unbuckle my belt of tools. I hang it up next to the empty spot where Dad would put his, right next to my brother’s. I stop and stare at the two belts. The leather of mine is dark and worn, my brother’s is bright and stiff. My tools are seeing the beginning of rust, and the handles are stripped in places. The tools of Klaus look brand new and unused. I know Dad doesn’t like the shop being out of place, but tomorrow I’m using his kit. No use waiting for him to come back. Unburdened, I finally head to the house. The large farm lights finally kicked on, illuminating the dirt path. Without thinking much, I throw my head to the dark dirt road out front. I can feel myself stand straighter, as I see sometime during the day we got mail. Maybe he’s finally reconsidered our deal. A slight detour eventually leads me into the kitchen, flipping through bills and magazines. We got two envelopes, one from an address I don’t recognize and the other from our neighbor. I quickly head up the stairs, and take the first door on the right. Finally some good news today. I feel myself sink into my desk chair, one of our neighbors ordered too much seed last season. We’ve been going back and forth for weeks, trying to make a fair deal for both. Tonight, an agreement and handoff were arranged. I was so excited I didn’t hear Dad come up the stairs, what I did hear was the slow thudding of his

boots on the creaking boards of the hallway. I turn off my light and see it’s begun to rain, but it won’t put a damper on my spirit. I look down at the end of the hall, towards his room. I only make it a couple of steps though before I notice my brother’s next-door room, is open. It’s never been opened since he left. I poke my head in, and am slightly amazed. It looks exactly the same as it did in my memories, though there wasn’t dust on everything back then. It swirls in the air, in the dark light as I see Dad sit on his bed holding a letter. I think I prefer the smell of cow feed, this dust stinks of nostalgia and good memories long since dead. I open the door fully now, and he looks up at me like I startled him. Like I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. It was only then I noticed the tears. I opened my mouth, but he answered the question before I found my voice. “Your brother…he’s coming back.” My mouth stayed open for a bit. It was a silent acknowledgment that after years of no word, Klaus was considered dead. Klaus always did think he was good with numbers, Dad and I weren’t so we always thought so too. Then, 7 years ago, he got an idea in his head that he could invest for the farm. Somehow he convinced Dad to lend him money, too much money, money we’ve never stopped needing. It was…easier for both of us to assume he died rather than him stealing and abandoning us. “He said he’s coming back next week, and we’re going to throw a party for him.” I have to stop myself from taking a step back. “He’s been gone for ten years, you’d think he would give more of a heads up. What day?” Dad scowled at me, “Something must have delayed the letter. It should have been sent before. He said a friend is going to bring him back Thursday.” Subconsciously I grip my own letter tighter, Dad notices and asks what it is. He didn’t know about our neighbor, so I told him. Even the part about the handoff being also on Thursday. “Well…is there no way to reschedule it?” “Dad I’ve been fighting with our neighbors for weeks to get this considered, and tonight he sends a date! No, it can’t be reconsidered, we’re lucky he accepted at all.”

He looks down at the floor, the silent tears are gone now. But not without marking a shiny riverbed down his dirty face. Then he nods. “It can’t be helped then, you can take my truck. Talk to me before the party and I’ll help with the trailer.” There’s a flash of white, as I just stand and stare at my Father. Before a crack of thunder shudders the window. I mutter something about making sure everything is hatched down, before turning on my heels. Dropping the crumpled letter on Klaus’s floor. Klaus. His name is a curse on my lips as I walk out into the cold rain. Bitterness warms me, however. We can barely afford to keep the farm, and Otto wants to throw a party for him? For Klaus? The one who stole from us claiming he was going out to, “invest”. Ten years later Dad just forgets that part? How many parties have I received for staying at Dad’s side through everything? None. How many tears did Dad shed for me when the tractor flipped with me in it? None. Both of them are in for a rude awakening if they’re just going to pretend the last 10 years meant nothing. I’m so caught up with the whirling rain, my thoughts, and the cold wind that I almost didn’t notice the headlights in our driveway. I run up to them and find it’s the mail carrier. She apologizes and yells something about thinking she could beat the storm. Before handing me another letter. I take shelter in the shop, letting myself warm up before opening the letter. But I feel my blood freeze when I see Klaus’s name on the paper. As calmly as I can, I open it. The friend Klaus mentioned is about as reliable as he is, and can’t bring him back. He asks if Dad or I could come get him. Now my blood boils. We can’t afford to be away from the farm long enough to drive him into the country, or god forbid he suggests we fly him here. He steals from us, doesn’t give us the basic courtesy of knowing if he still lived, expects our world to just stop the moment he wants to be a part of it again, and then asks for even more money. Yet the worst part is, if Dad read this he wouldn’t think about it for a heartbeat. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, he barely talks, barely looks at me, yet he hears back from his firstborn once and starts blubbering like a child. Unlike Klaus, I was loyal, and I’ll do what Dad taught me to do. To make the hard decisions, without emotion. I took a pen and paper from the shop and wrote back to my brother. I told him the truth. That we couldn’t afford him. Asked him where he was when the tractor fell, when the herd got sick, when Dad got sick, when the harvest was blighted three years in a row. I told him that he isn’t welcome home,

that he should have stayed dead. I can feel myself tear up as I write the last line, but push myself to do what’s necessary. I’ll send this letter to Klaus, burn the one he sent tonight. Thursday will come, and it will pass. Maybe then, maybe after the “party” Dad will listen to me. Maybe he’ll snap out of whatever has gripped him. Maybe then he’ll realize, remember, he already has a son. ֍ Elephant in the Room I opened the heavy metal door to the bare room, and there he was. Looking around at the concrete and one-way glass, as if there was anything to see. He heard me enter, heard me slap down the pictures, but all I heard from him was the clinking of his restraints as he scratched his chin. For a while, we just stared at each other, the only sound between us being the fluorescent lights above. He looked…at ease. Even as the harsh light barred down on him, even as the cold metal bit into his wrists. He was either very confident or he just didn’t care; the only way to know which was to wait for him to speak.

Absentmindedly, I start to flit through the file with all the pictures. I see the faces, the stadium, but what I’m looking at is him. He cranes his neck to get a better look before he finally speaks up. “You watch sports, Madame? Or only when they’re in the news?” He leans back as far as he can in the metal chair, the ball in my court now. “Not my sport. What about you? Go to the stadium often? Or just for this game?” “No, Madame, not often. Let’s say I was…compelled to see this match in person.” My eyebrows raised by themselves at this revelation. “Compelled? What is it? That drives you?” He smiled at me, as if my questions amused him. I grip my pant legs tightly as bile rises to my throat. Without realizing my disgust, or in spite of it, he continued. “Well Madame to answer your question, it was I. I drove myself to the stadium, the parking was atrocious, might I add.” The silence hung between us, as I attempted to burn a hole through his head. To his credit, he did not balk under my stare. “This is not a joke.” I hear quiet sounds of clinking, like soft laughter, as he raises his hands in surrender. “Forgive me, Madame. I have been described as facetious in the past. To put it simply, I was bored. I was hoping watching the game from the stands would make my heart race once more, alas, I was disappointed. What else was there for me to do but add some excitement? To mark the game as unforgettable! To those that survived, of course.” ◌ Movie Scene

I rouse to blinding lights in the darkness, to the sharp scent of antiseptic and blood, and to the feeling of leather restraints biting my wrists. My arms are heavy as lead, I fail to lift my head or utter a word as one of the figures in the room with me says something. I feel the gag between my teeth, strangely grounding me as my sight swims unfocused around the room. I feel an iron grip to my right, wrenching control from my arm. The figure’s nails claw into me. A new sharp pain now, inside my elbow. I am exhausted, yet feel an instinctive strength resist. There is the sound of shattering of glass, and I am met with another sting of pain across my cheek as I feel the backhand of the stranger. The two figures are arguing now, all I can do is breathe. To try and gain control, if not of my situation then of myself. The one that slapped me left, the other soft spoken one approaches. He speaks, but his words reach my ears as if they were spoken underwater. My vision slowly comes back to me, and I stare into his eyes. I know these eyes. I know this man. His eyes carry a warmth, but they are calculating. Hidden just beneath the water’s surface, I can see an unending fury. A fury I also know, I see it whenever I look into the mirror. At least I have, since this stranger bit me. He is why I am here, he is the cause of this war. He is the one that strapped me down, that cause my blood to feel aflame in rage. Yet I cannot summon the anger, although the grogginess has dissipated somewhat. I feel him grab my arm gently, yet holds me in place steadfast. I watch the needle pierce my skin, gliding under it’s surface trying to find blood. I try to resist again, to call upon the power. Yet my sight swims once more, and I lose myself to the sanguine vision of my captors memories.

It is dark, the only light are hateful scalding fires placed around the stone room. I feel the familiar bite of restraints, yet these are metal chains. I look up, and do not know why I feel fear. Fear for the woman tied in front of me. I am accosted by the sounds of screaming, we are not alone. Outside of this room, behind iron grates and bars, are spectators. Their voices are filled with disgust, sadistic excitement, and calls for both of our deaths. I am forced to look into the eyes of the woman, of my love I realize, as she cries out for them to stop. The only response was the sound and white hot pain of a whip shredding my back. I hear myself scream from the pain, it sounds distant as if it were someone else’s voice. I do not know how long this goes on for, all I know is eventually I am able to fall to the ground. To feel the cold stone against my back of burning embers. Then our captors slowly open a skylight, and the warm embrace of the sun filters through. This should feel liberating, but all I feel is dread as the beams wash over the woman. She cries out as the first rays of morning touch her skin, I struggle against my chains weakly as I watch the skin bubble and burn. My screams are intermingled with hers now, as it is my turn to beg them to stop. Yet it is all for naught. I am forced to sit, and watch the love of my life scream as she is burnt to a char. I scream out her name with all of my might, and I am returned to the operating room. Mouth full of the taste of ash and innumerable questions. ʘ Description Assignment

Pavlos pulled open and closed shut the barn door with his whole body, leaving behind him bloody handprints. He staggered over the hay and wooden planks, knocking the wind out of himself by shoulder-checking a post. His breathing, erratic and uneven. His eyes sweep over every empty stall before he cranes his entire torso to look up into the loft. By his movement alone anyone would be forgiven in assuming only shock was keeping him alive, that is until they would look into his face. His eyes are wide and carry a wild glint to them, holding within them the same dangerous quality his wide smile possessed. His body begins to shake, as strangled laughter escapes his wracked body. The only response is the quiet and low creaking of old wood within the barn, a slight whisper of wind snaking through the boards. Pavlos takes a blind step, and trips over a discarded and forgotten shovel. He disrupts the ancient silence once more by yelling and falling hard into a pile of straw. Pavlos flips on his back and stares up in wonder. The last sunrays of the day filter themselves through the dark and stained bones of the barn. For a moment time stops as the bloody man watches the plume of dust reach its zenith in the still air. The particles almost glitter in the golden beams, like a wave of thousands of stars. Before the straw dust seems to remember they are not the stars and begin to flitter and float. Free as fairies, unbound from all responsibilities and chains. Pavlov’s breath was taken from him, for now, he was kindred spirits with the dust fairies. He had made certain of it. He clenched his fists and didn’t even mind the scratching of straw sticking to the foreign blood. He pushed himself up off the ground and felt his hands collect even more dirt. He looked down at them in confusion, as if he could not understand how his tools of liberation had become so dirty so quickly. His ruminations were cut short, when he heard a scream echo the sacred silence. He immediately crouched into a running position, his heartbeat as loud in his ears as the shriek. He heard another yell, but this time he relaxed his body for he recognized it. Not a yell, but a squeal. It is dinnertime after all, the pigs must be starving. Yet for the first time since he could remember, he could ignore their cries. He was bound by only one thing now, the heavy and dripping trash bags in his truck. It was then, Pavlov wore his twisted grin once more. Before pushing open the back doors of the barn, to the sound of an eager and hungry choir. For the first time,

he looked down at the swine not with hate, but gratitude. He would feed them one last time, and truly be free. The Devil’s Due “Of course, I understand. Thank you for your consideration.” Ferran Varela said, grim faced. He hung up the phone, a flash of lightning illuminated his dark studio apartment. The second he heard the receiver click, Varela pulled the phone from the wall and threw it across his home. The disgruntled man fell into his one good chair, and simply stared into the flame of the single candle on his dining table. Before he might have cursed, spat, and raged at his script being denied. This being the sixth time however, the only thing he feels is cold in his apartment. Ferran Varela wraps himself in his bedsheets as he watches the flickering flame dance before him. It had been some time since he had felt the warmth of another person, a time before he moved to Los Angeles to make it big. Varela grimaced at the memories of companionship, it was hard to extract any comfort from them when he knew how it ended. Furniture being thrown as easily as insults. He left his home, abandoned everything that knew him to be a stranger in this city. He had set out to prove them wrong, that he didn’t need anyone but himself and a pen. Now here he is, living the dream. Shivering in a cold, dark room debating between paying rent or eating. Just when Ferran was about to break, to descend into that dark pit in his mind that he would never escape from. He heard a knock at the door. He was startled, and brought back from his self-wallowing. It was dark out, the storm now fully raged outside. The man dressed in a wrinkled suit slowly stood up from his chair, not believing he would have a visitor at this hour.

Yet there it was again. Three solid knocks on his doorframe, followed by three peals of thunder. Varela could feel his shoes moving towards the door before he gave any command to his feet. The closer he got to doorhandle, the warmer he became. When he opened the door, a wave of heat washed over him. His eyes burned from the air, he heard a masculine voice speak before he could take a good look at the stranger. “So you are Ferran Varela? Yes…I think I can work with this.” Wiping the tears from his eyes, Varela could hear the smile in the man’s voice before he ever saw it. The tyro screenwriter didn’t know what it was about the man that set him on edge, the predatory grin? The picture perfect version of the suit he himself wore? Or the sudden, inexplainable rise in temperature. “Oh yeah? Well who the hell are you? What do you want?” The stranger chuckled, and this made Varela’s grip tighten on the door. “Apt phrasing. My friend, you may call me Hasan. I have heard about you…and your work.” Varela’s hand slid from the door, and Hasan pushed it open. Now he was walking backwards, as the stranger waltz into his home. “My, my work? You? Which publishing company are you from?” Hasan answered as he surveyed the small surroundings, almost absentmindedly running his hand over the open flame as if it were nothing. “You could call me an independent contractor. People do talk about your work my friend, but they say what you would expect them to. They mock you behind your back, slander your

hard work to any who will listen. What if I told you that the person you just off the phone with, didn’t even read your script? They judged it, they judged you, by the rumors they had heard.” Ferran Varela tried to protest, to defend his work, to inquire how he knew of his call. But when Hasan next spoke, his words dried on his tongue into dust, and Ferran was enthralled to listen. “Trust me friend, when I say I take no stock in such rumors. I have personally read your work. It is…rough. Yet I see the potential that others arrogantly pass over. Here is what I propose. With my guidance, I promise you, the next storyboard you construct will be deconstructed for generations to come. Others hopelessly searching for the root and cause of genius that will rewrite history!” Ferran was enthralled by the charismatic man’s words, but was brought back to his senses when another crash of thunder punctuated the end of his speech. “That is…a tall order you’re offering there. But I didn’t come here to write somebody else’s story, ya get me? Look around, I ain’t exactly got the finances to rewrite history.” Hasan scoffed. “You people desire money not for the cash itself, but for what it can give you. Your money would be useless to me, I squeezed every benefit the dollar could grant me many years ago. No my friend, I desire something less physical. You do not desire guidance, but inspiration. This I can grant, everything you have wanted. All you must do, is sign me your soul. In quite a literal sense.” Now it was Varela’s turn to laugh, but it died in his throat when he saw that Hasan was as serious as the grave. “You know, heh, when I first started telling people that I was moving here. They warned me that executives were gonna try to take my soul, but you’re the first person to say it outright.”

Silence. So quiet that Varela could almost swear he could hear the candle wick burning. “I do not make light of my bargains my friend, I suggest neither do you. When you first left home, what did you say to yourself you would give to achieve your dream?” “…Everything, anything.” “Yet here it is, your fast pass to take your seat amongst the greats. You laugh, and you joke.” “The hell are you? Satan?” “He’s been mistaken for me over the years. Do we have a deal or not Mr. Varela? There are others in this city waiting for the deal of a lifetime.” “You can’t just hardball me for my soul! God, now I wish I hadn’t stopped going to mass. How do I know you won’t trick me?” The devilish stranger grinned at Ferran Varela, practically salivating at his consideration. “I have made many satisfied customers over the years. I take only that which is freely offered, and give only what is greatly desired.” “Oh yeah? Like Job?” Hasan threw up his hands in mock surrender, “We all have our weaknesses my friend. Mine are bargains and bets.” “Regardless, if what you’re saying is true. You can give me my heart’s desire or whatever you call it, it’s still just your word. I need to see you in action, you get me? I need to see how you go about these deals, and the aftermath of them.”

Hasan stopped pacing the small circuit he made around Ferran’s dining table, before slowing nodding his head. “This…can be done. You have been rejected six times, therefore you will accompany me on six more of my deals, and six times you will be asked for an answer for your own bargain. However on the final night, you must have an answer. Indecisiveness…will not be rewarded my friend.” The way Hasan said that last sentence, made Ferran believe he wasn’t above eating his friends. The silence stretched as Varela stopped to think, even the storm seemed to hold it’s breath. If Hasan is lying, what’s the harm in indulging a madman? But what if he’s telling the truth? Ferran Varela had long since forgotten what the soul is used for, but seeing Hasan’s eyes burn with desire for his made him reevaluate. The disgruntled man before Hasan felt his old self reemerge. He stood taller, wiped down the wrinkles in his jacket. He didn’t feel in control again, but he no longer felt powerless to the whims of others. He even allowed himself a little self-satisfied smirk, before he heard a tiny voice from far away. It told him this kind of person is what drove away all the people who cared about Varela. It reminded him that acting this way made him a stranger in the place he was born, and pushed him to travel to this strange, cold place. Yet Hasan allowed the voice to burn away in his ears as his blood began to rush. It had been so long since he wasn’t filled with anxiety but…excitement! Shrewdly, he thought of all the details Hasan let slip. He is not all-powerful. He cannot take without asking, or give what his victims don’t want. The arrogant prick also gave away his

weakness for bets. So after his hands stopped shaking, it was Ferran Varela that shoved it towards Hasan to seal the deal. Hasan slowly raised an eyebrow, before showing a sharp and toothy smile. Clasping their hands together, Ferran felt his grip be pulled over the now small candle in the center. The flame burned the bottom of his hand, but the pain dissipated into horror. The fire leaped to Hasan’s arm, and danced across his body and head. The real fire was what shined behind Hasan’s eyes, as the flames merely kissed his clothing. He was unburned, while any doubts Ferran had were immolated. ☼ Final Story Soare Istrati awoke in his northern village of Olt Tusnad, as he would any other day, unaware that most of the people within the walls of his home would soon die. He was greeted by the sounds of sea birds and the eternal icy wind of his homeland, Baaar. It used to be he would wake to the sound of children playing, of gossip between neighbors, and the groanings of those who awoke with him but with a liquid headache. However, Soare did not notice the music of life disappearing. Fear and paranoia had slowly, yet steadily, grown to the bone like a sickness. The new man had only recently grown enough to warrant his own home and was still adjusting to living alone. This was the only reason he woke up with the sun, for if his father was in the same house he would have been dragged out of his bed-hides hours before. Though even if he was home with his parents, he might still have gotten some rest. His Father told him that he was going South to the region of Dunlain to sell some of his most recent catch. Soare Istrati languidly dressed himself for the day, still lost in dreams of donning armor instead of furs. He went about his daily ritual, running his bone comb through his long, dark hair and reapplying ointment to his many blisters. He hesitated as his hand hovered over a jar of fresh-smelling oils he had purchased from the local alchemist, before caving to a non-existent pressure One of the many benefits of a local alchemist. She was not a mage in the proper sense. She paid her respect to the gods of the land but did not beseech them to share their power with her. Nor was she a devotee of the troublemaking “New Gods”. There were those within Olt Tusnad who mistrusted magic of any kind, Soare was not one of these people. He had witnessed magic twice in his life, and in both cases he could barely find his breath before the majesty of it. With his maintenance complete, Soare Istrati plucked his fishing spear from behind the door and left his threshold. Olt Tusnad was built around the mouth of a secluded cove; as such

the buildings were built in a crescent formation. Soare’s home was located at the easternmost tip of this crescent shape, he didn’t mind even if it meant being far from the center of the village. It allowed him to make a single trip down the coast to check his traps, and he liked the quiet. Istrati walked down the solemn coast, spear in hand, eyes out to sea. To any onlooker, he was a common enough sight, a fisherman checking his traps. But to Soare he was not on a beach, but a distant battlefield. The wicker baskets he lifted? Helmets of fallen warriors, ally and enemy alike. He did not know what he was looking for. Last week he looked for family members among the dead, yesterday he looked for the decaying faces of rivals, perhaps today he searches for exotic piercings and trinkets to take with him into further daydreams. He got halfway down the beach when he pulled himself from his stories, and was reminded to visit the smith. Soare had missed his mark the day before against a worthy foe, a deep-sea fish with a long tailfin that had found itself in the shallow cove of Olt Tusnad. Really Soare was just as surprised to see the fish as it was to dodge a deadly projectile from the heavens, and the fisherman threw with too much force. The iron blade had chipped against a stone and cracked the shaft near the bindings. So he quickly jogged down the rest of the beach, throwing perfunctory glances at the last traps before slowing down as he entered the village proper. Soare Istrati walked down the lanes of his village between snowdrifts, only half aware of people watching him. With his long dark hair coiling around him in the wind, with his sharp eyes and defined features. His family, and even a couple of potential suitors, would describe him as downright handsome. Though his countenance would grow serious and cloud over when he was deep in thought, which tended to be very often, and dissuaded those who did not know him from approaching. He was by far the standard of Baaar beauty, though fit he was tall and thin by nature, and there were many cold nights he cursed his inability to grow anything on his lips or chin. The smith, Simion Hurgoi, on the other hand could fit the description of a Baaar warrior from many sagas. Soare could hear him a couple of houses down from his shop; the rhythmic sound of hammer against anvil echoed seemingly across the entire village. The daydreamer always liked the smithy, it was always easy to slip into a daze in those walls. From the walls hung familiar tools and general necessities of the village, fishhooks, bobber weights, tridents, nails, hinges, and axes. Yet Simion was a dreamer like Soare, if not as dedicated. If you knew where to look you could find a sword on display, or a nasal helm with fine filigree. Soare liked Simion, he was friends with his son before he joined their ancestors one bad winter. As such Soare thought nothing of walking behind the counter, leaving his spear behind, and walking into the heat of the forge. In here, Simion practically glowed in the embers and sparks. He was just as tall as Soare but almost three times his size, his wide gut would hold a tight cluster of constellation-like scars and burns from flying sparks. Simion Hurgoi did not wear an apron, not even gloves or eyewear. The smith once told Soare he had debated in his youth entering a pact with a fire elemental just so he could grab metal from his forge without tongs, but could never wrap his head around the incantations necessary for summoning. Soare leaned against the doorframe, waiting patiently for Simion to finish up what looked to be a butcher’s cleaver. After a while, the mountain of a smith paused and squinted at the now open door. When his eyes adjusted, his beard broke into a smile and he went to hug Soare. He was careful not to break the man-twig, even Soare was certain he was doing his damndest as he

was picked off the ground. Together they filtered into the lobby, where Hurgoi picked up and looked over his spear. “Ah, I see you’ve chosen to chase after your Father! I expected nothing less, and told him as much. He did ask if I would look after you while he was gone, and I would be a poor caretaker indeed if I let you leave without proper arms.” Soare’s eyebrows knitted together, which made Simion go strangely still. “No? Why would I chase after him into the Southernlands? Why would he ask you to do this…” “He…told you he was going to Dunlain?” “Yes,” Soare crossed his arms. He levied his piercing gaze upon the smith, who in turn started looking at all the exits. “He did, but you’re going to tell me what he’s actually up to. Especially if he needs me to go running to him.” “He left with a search party of other warriors to search for Anika, she left the village two nights ago in search of a missing ram. She has not returned, what’s more is that they found the ram. It was torn open, but not eaten. Yet its corpse was as dry as a stone, not a drop of blood.” There was a slam behind Soare that made both men jump almost clear out of their skin, before they realized the winter wind had blown open a window. Yet it wasn’t the cold that made a shiver run up Soare’s spine. He’s not a stranger to hunting, he’s seen some gruesome remains of a giant’s meal once. Yet as he ran through every predator in his mind, not wolf, scaverick, giant, nor dragon did he know that drank blood. More than that, whatever had drained the ram had such a presence that no other predator would risk scavenging the corpse. “But why would he lie to me? Regardless of his reasoning, I’m afraid the intent of this visit has changed. How quickly can you repair my spear? Perhaps fit it to catch, larger prey?” This seemed to breathe life back into the smith like his smithy’s great bellows. “It shouldn’t take very long at all, though I am swamped with orders at the moment. Tell you what, come first thing in the morning and I’ll have it ready for you. In the meantime, you should prepare yourself for a journey beyond the walls. Igni knows how far your Father has wandered.” Soare thanked Simion and left with a camaraderie clasp of the other’s forearm. The new man was running through his head how much food he has to spend outside the walls before he had to hunt, when he noticed something strange. There was a gathering of people near the gates, as he approached he began to wonder why he thought it was so strange. Soare realized now that it had been quite a long time since even the marketplace was filled with this many people, then his eyes began to wander. Living near the coast, he daily routine did not require him to come so far into town. He knew he must have seen the palisades before, a wall of pointed walls and spikes pointed outward towards the wilderness, or the grim faces of the guards with gleaming new axes and armor prepared for a fight, but this morning was the first time he truly looked. Soare pushed through the crowd to the front, silently cursing himself for the blindness he had for his community before he stopped. The gates had been pulled back by a short but wide man, he had dried mud caking his thighs and winter in his hair. It took Soare a while to realize it was Anika’s father. It was hard to

hear him at this distance, but it seemed like he was urging something from the woods to show itself. Then Soare heard it. The light sound of a herd bell clinking. Along with a constant, strange, whistling sound. Then Soare saw it. It looked like a ram, but something about it…unnerved Istrati and the crowd. It staggered forward as if drunk. Its head dragged along the snow and dirt as if the horns atop had grown too heavy to hold. As it drew closer, so too did the whistling sound grow louder. Soare heard the sound of one of the guards gasping, then the sound of her sword sliding from its sheath. “Adrien, come away! It is unnatural.” Anika’s father did not respond, his mutterings becoming more frantic and frustrated. Asking the ram where his daughter went, why it returned but not her? Now, Soare could see the origins of the whistling. It was the sound of the Baaar winds blowing through the holes of the ram. Chunks were missing from its side, its neck, and now Soare could see the bottom of the ram hung open like a ceiling hatch. Anika’s father took a step towards the mutilated creature, but that was a mistake. Suddenly its shambling gate was no more, as it burst with unnatural speed towards the man. It swung its limp head like a flail, knocking the man to the ground as the snow suddenly showered in crimson. “Daddy!” Soare could feel someone push past him, someone smaller than the rest of the crowd. They all watched in horror as Anika’s little sister ran to her father. The cursed beast saw the movement and sprinted towards them all. Some in the crowd screamed, some ran away, other’s were frozen in place. What was left of the ram made it to the threshold of the village in a second, only 5 feet from the child. Suddenly, Soare was standing much closer to the ram, he could no longer see Anika’s sister, and his arm was outstretched to the monster. The beast began to swing it’s head once more, before Soare saw the glint of steel, and the head went flying overhead. The decapitated ram tripped over itself, somersaulting and then tumbling down at Soare’s feet. Someone came up to him, the daydreamer thought it was the guard that called out to Anika’s father for he could see the bloody sword hang at her side. She tried to say something to him, and he felt the weight of her hand on his shoulder, but the sound of her voice was distorted as if he was submerged in the icy sea. Soare could not tear his eyes away from the corpse of the ram, the sound of his heart beating was louder than any war drums he ever imagined. He felt someone push past him, someone small. He saw Anika’s little sister rush to her father bleeding in the snow, accompanied by another guard. He looked behind himself at the shocked crowd, some met his eyes with an expression he never saw before. A strange mix of shame and awe. The guard grabbing him, grounding him, managed to get a couple words through the miasma of his shock addled mind. She reminded him to breathe. He did, and realized why the goat had seemed closer before it was killed. Without thinking, without ordering his body, he had put himself before the child and the monster.

The rest of the day became a blur for Soare Istrati. The guard that saved him suggested he drink something and rest, he nodded without a word. When he turned to return home the crowd parted for him. Perhaps it was the strange, confused, look upon his countenance. Perhaps it was the fact he was the only one among the crowd to act, and put his very body on the line. He did not think to ask. He was supposed to prepare for the journey, to find his Father. Yet once his door was closed behind him, all he did was sit at his table. Trapped behind his eyes, his mind was a hurricane of thoughts and feelings. He tried to escape into his daydreams to evade the painful truths, but he was always pulled back to the sight and smell of the ram’s corpse laying before him. He did not smell the biting scent of iron from the ram, but the putrid smell of decay and rot. He felt anger and resentment towards his fellow villagers, for they stood by and did nothing. Yet Soare was reminded that he himself would have done nothing if his body was not possessed to act. He felt relief and gratitude towards the one that saved him, and resolved to ask her name sometime. He felt a soft joy that without thinking, his body chose to do the right thing. He also felt grief and disappointment towards himself. All his life he had dreamt of adventure and adversity, and rising above it. Yet what did he do when it faced him? He himself did nothing, it was his body that acted. Then he thought of Anika’s father, of just how much blood painted the snow. The monster must have had something in it’s mouth, no goat bite should have made such deep wounds. Then Soare jumped out of his chair, knocking it to the ground. As he thought more of Anika, and of his Father. He doesn’t know what happened to the ram, what caused it to act as it did, or what caused it’s dreadful wounds. Yet somewhere deep inside him, was a primal fear. It seemed unrational to Istrati, but once he thought of it, terror gripped his being. Whatever caused those wounds could still be out there. Whatever happened to the ram, could it happen to Anika? To Dad? Hastily he rushed to the door, he didn’t care anymore about his spear. He would go Simion and buy a sword, or perhaps more accurately borrow it. Yet when he opened it, he was greeted by darkness and torch fire. Confused, Soare wandered into the street. He then realized that he had spent the entire day swallowed by his mind and thoughts. This frightened him, for such a dilation of time had never happened before. He was about to fall into another ravine of emotions and daydreams, when a shrill shriek broke his concentration. Then, for the first time, Soare Istrati heard it. The sounds of murder. He heard the sounds of bone’s napping, the sounds of steel, the groans of the dead, and the screams of the dying. But the sounds that shook him to his core, were the inhuman shrieks that followed the sounds of combat. Soare’s eyes were unadjusted to the darkness, flickering torchlight deeper into the village made shadows lengthen and dance along the beach. He could see movement in the village, some human shaped, others figures were hunched over, others still were only blurs of movement in the night. The anticipation of violence, the tension of unseen bloodshed, cleared Soare’s mind of thoughts. He urged himself to think up a plan, when he heard something large land above him. Slowly, the fisherman turned and stared into the eyes of a demon.

Soare could not see anything of the creature in the darkness but it’s eyes. They seemed to shine through the night, they were red and orange in equal measure. Soare could not help but be captivated by the burning coals, even as they slowly climbed down from his roof without ever looking away from him. From the beast he heard soft clicks, that tore him away from his trance. He began to walk backwards, not trusting to look away from the orbs of primordial hunger before him. The wind was knocked out of him, as he backed into street post. As the monster approached, it’s horrifying form was revealed in the light. The first thing illuminated was it’s face, it’s large fangs reflected the torchlight. It’s mouth was dripping with anticipatory saliva, as if it had not eaten in days. Next was the large upturned nose, and leathery fan-like ears that seemed to twitch in the direction of any sudden movements. Along it’s neck that ran down to the arms was a mane of fur that seemed to stitch together it’s pallid, recking, skin. It smelled like the ram, of death fermented with time. As it crawled on all fours towards Soare, it was only he saw it’s arms he realized he was looking an enormous bat. Leather wings pointed to the sky as it stalked towards the fisherman, it’s pale membrane stretching between the last two elongated fingers of the monster down to it’s side. Then, it stood up. Soare would never mistake these demons for bats again. When it crawled towards him, it was the size of a large dog. Now on it’s hind legs, it stared Istrati in the eyes as a man would. The demon raised it’s arms, although the last two fingers were the structure of it’s wings, it’s hands were bestial yet still remarkably human. As the monster was upon him, Soare realized that perhaps the last thing he will ever see is the eyes of this creature squinting in the light. That is, before the swing of steel was seen again and one of the arms of the demon fell to the sand. Soare could only turn his head in time to see a glimpse of the battle-weary guard that has now saved him twice, before he saw the monster react as fast as the guard. It raked one of it’s taloned hands along the forearm of the guard, making her drop the bloodied sword before she could defend herself. The beast wasted no time and pounced on her, driving them both to the ground in a mangle of gnashing teeth and rending limbs. The beast was atop the warrior, but she deflected the majority of the onslaught with her shield. Once again, this woman had saved Soare’s life. Once again Soare had done nothing to defend himself. This time, however, he would act to defend another. He dropped to the ground, hand sifting through the grains he had walked all his life lost in thought. His hands wrapped around the leather hilt of the destined tool of death, and rose once more. He did not act on instinct, he would not make her sacrifices worth nothing. He pulled the blade over his shoulder as he had done innumerable times with a fishing rod, and swung with all of his might at the grey body of the demon. He had imagined this scene before a thousand times, through thousands of enemies. But never before did he imagine just how smoothly the blade carves away flesh from bone. How quickly the blade could sever the monster’s wing from it’s back. It turned towards the sky and released a mournful howl of pain and fury. Soare didn’t even have enough time to spy those hateful orbs in it’s skull, barely enough to notice the blood seeping the wound was black as the sea on a clouded night, before the monster leaped on him.

Soare immediately felt a white hot pain in his shoulder that lit every nerve in his arm and neck on fire, as the monster sank it’s maw of daggers into his flesh. He heard the sound of himself landing to the floor, and the sound of flesh being ripped. He feared he heard his death. Yet the monster did not rip out his throat, or tear deeper into his skin. It simply laid atop Soare, before it’s jaw slowly loosened it’s grip and the fisherman realized just how light the beast was. Suddenly the monster was flipped over, and he saw the stars. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, to gaze into the cosmos and forget his life seeping from his shoulder. But a familiar hand pressed down on it, eliciting a yelp from Soare. Now he looked into the face of his savior. “By the Gods you just can’t help yourself can you? Be proud, if we survive this, that’ll make for a great storytelling scar. Now come on, there might be others on the path out of this hell.” With that, he was pulled to his feet. He opened his mouth to ask her name, but instead was responded by having her spare axe pushed into his hands. She turned on her heels, and ran into the choir of screams without waiting for a response. It took all Soare had to just keep her in sight. As they ran through the forest of light and shadow, alleyways and streets. There was no other way to describe it, but hell They turned one corner and saw a man running through the streets, from the shadows they saw one of the monsters spot him. It jumped atop the roof of a hut, and then into the air. Gliding down from the heavens like a bird of prey, before landing atop it’s prey and silencing it’s screams with one quick snap at the neck. Soare and the guard were able to sneak around the preoccupied demon. Many times they spied the creatures fighting themselves for feeding rights, there were several corpses of the monsters with long gashes along their necks and bodies. All the while Soare was helpless to watch, the two of them only just managed to fight off a single creature and were bleeding for the attempt. As he hid in the dark like a frightened child, he spent his time cursing the gods known and unknown for allowing such evil to exist and visit Olt Tusnad Sneaking their way through the ruins of their home, the guard and Soare eventually laid eyes upon the main road. The large wooden doors laid open into the darkness of the wilderness, yet there in the middle of the deserted street was a lone figure. It laid on the ground, trembling. As the two of them got closer, the guard caught her breath and whispered, “Adrien?” Soare was then able to see the details of Anika’s Father, the wisps of white hair atop his head seemed to bend and sway like a forest in a storm as he shook. Soare then could feel his heart shatter, as he identified what the herder was cradling in his arms, along with the sheer volume of blood in the street. Adrien cradled the silent, and still body of his younger daughter as he cried. He did not respond to the guard calling his name, nor when Soare did. Only when they slowly approached the mourning father in the street, did he respond. He stopped shaking, he craned his head towards the two of them, and slowly stood. When he turned to them, Soare could not stop the bile and horror rise to his throat. He vomited in the street, when he saw the front of Adrien. Adrien’s daughter was dead, her throat ripped open as if an animal had caught her in her sleep. While the entire front of Adrien was dripping with blood, all the way to his bloodied mouth. Like a waterfall of sin. Most strikingly however, were the old man’s tears. They ran down

his cheeks, in the same ebony color as the blood of the demons. He then opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he spied the wounds of both the guard and Soare. The fisherman wiped his mouth, as the nearby torchlight reflected off of two long fangs that hung from Adrien’s mouth. The old man’s countenance warped then of sorrow and mourning, to a deep and dark hunger. Forgotten, Adren let his child fall from his hands. Landing on the frozen soil with a sickening crunch. The guard squeezed her axe, and took a step towards the old man. At the same time Soare made the mistake to blink, for when he opened his eyes again the herder was in the air hurtling towards them. Istrati only just managed to step out of the way, but was not fast enough to remain unscathed. Adrien had swung wildly, and raked his hand across Soare’s front. Ripping open his furs, and three new wounds. He back peddled as fast as he could, and notice the tips of Adrien’s fingers had been gnawed away and into sharp bone point. Soare saw the old man stare at him, with the same fury and hunger as the demons, before he was charged down. However at the last second, one of Soare’s feet landed into a deep snowdrift and he slipped. The beast that once was Adrien did not adjust it’s charge, and quickly reeled back. He covered his eyes and wailed and wailed about it burning. Soare was confused, for nothing had touched Anika’s Father. He looked up, and saw that at head height had been a torch. Quickly and intuitively, Soare found his footing and removed the torch from the street post. Before turning, and for the first time, advancing on one of the monsters. When Adrien removed his hands from his eyes, he was greeted by Soare thrusting the flame into face. Being distracted by the brave fisherman, the old man had no time to react to the guard swinging her axe at his neck. The screams and wails about the light caught in Adrien’s throat, as the axe was lodged halfway through it. So silently, he fell to the ground. Soare watched the guard look down at Adrien, first in sorrow, then in anger. Before she brought her foot down upon the axe head, finishing the decapitation. Soare had a thought to be sick, to dwell on the evil and fate of this modest herder. But the guard pulled him from himself, and pushed him towards the front gates. Before he would have balked at running into the forest on a winter’s night with tattered clothing. But he before now he did not know if he would have preferred freezing to death than being eaten alive. Soare knew his choice now, as he crossed the threshold of him childhood home tearing itself apart. Yet as they escaped, they were met with another figure. This one atop a pale horse with no bit or saddle. The figure looked as if they were carved out of marble, their hair looked like the material midnight was knitted out of. Everything else of their body was hidden by a leather cloak. Soare could feel tears streaming down his face as he ran towards the stranger, thankful that someone might be able to take him away from this nightmare. But he was pulled back by the strong hands of the guard, who stood her ground against the stranger. He looked back incredulously at his savior, before following her eyes. In the trees, crawling from bushes, slowly making their way to the floor from the stable roof, was only the glow of more demon eyes. Ever so slowly, they approached and walked beside the stranger. It was only now that Soare looked into their eyes, and fell to his knees in despair. They did not glow in the dark as the bat monsters, but the figure in the leather cloak had blood red eyes.

Suddenly the stranger’s leather cloak began to shift and move, and Soare watched with a tired sense of horror as it was lifted into the sky. For the leather cloak, was not a cloak at all. But the stranger’s long leathery wings wrapped around themselves, each wing the same length as Soare standing tall. Istrati could not help but look into the face of the stranger, and be confused by their expression. There was not hunger in it’s eyes, nor fury, nor sadness, not even disdain. Then Soare realized what it was, it was the look of detachment. The same look he might give to a fish on the end of his spear. This figure, saw them as something lesser. Completely uncaring to their lives, or death. Soare did not know this sight, would be the last thing he saw. For it was the guard, his savior, that saw the slight finger movement the stranger gave to the demon’s at it’s side. A silent command, permission, and the monster’s charged. The guard, the name of Soare would never know, would decide save the brave fisherman one last time. This time, saved from the fate of a slow and painful death. Soare looked into the unfeeling face of the stranger, as the guard’s axe was implanted at the base of his skull. In that moment, Soare no longer had to search for his Father or Anika. In that instant he was reunited with them, longer still before he was reunited with the guard who saved him, and some time would pass before he was reunited with all the victims from Olt Tusnad.