Reaching it took a few days of walking.

I wasn’t in a hurry, so I let myself enjoy the trails I walked. I didn’t exactly go looking for animals, but occasionally, I’d bump into one or another, and with mild curiosity, usually taking care not to let it see me, I’d watch it. Rabbits, wolves, furred frogs, dog-sized trapdoor spiders, even one or two bears… I observed them with a fascination that I can’t entirely explain. There was something enrapturing about only watching, and not acting. Seeing them in their natural habitat, doing their natural thing.

It was especially interesting when they interacted. Some animals would stand their ground and try to show themselves off, proving that this was their territory, and any invaders would soon regret their advance. Others didn’t even pay the other mind. And then, of course, not as often as I had expected, but still commonly enough, one would die. Maybe because of a fight over a common mate, or simply for food, but it did happen. Deep inside, I wanted to act. I wanted to change things. There was an urge in me to step between them, to tear the fighters apart and tell them to live in peace. A hypocritical urge to be sure, but even more than that, an immature one.

Nature is nature. It’s not my place to step in and try to naively help things. This is simply how it must go.

So, I stood to the side, and let things have their course. Then, when the dust had settled, I moved on.

And, eventually, I found my goal.

At the edge of a meadow, beneath an unusually large tree, stood a wood cabin, made with crossed logs, like the classic lumberjack style. The roof was sloped, and covered partially in moss. If only to break the wooden monotony, the chimney was made from cobblestones, and so was the base of the cabin. A very simple structure.

Since I’ve been observing this place from a distance for a few days now, I know that they’re only really home during midday, early morning, and probably at night. At least, that’s assuming they use the chimney while at home. It’s still summer, so the smoke is most likely a result of cooking food, not some open fireplace.

I stop a pace or two away, in the shade of a tree. All of a sudden, now that I’m actually here… I feel a bit nervous. I mean, even if the people who live here are friendly, how am I supposed to communicate with them? They might not even know what a human is. Worst-case scenario, they attack me, and I’ll be forced to fight back, and… Well, no, I can probably just run away. No need to attack them back. But I’d rather not have to try to find another place like this. I haven’t been able to see any other nearby trails of smoke, so this is my one and only chance. If I mess this up, I’ll have to keep walking blindly for weeks, months…

…As much as I enjoy hanging out in the forest, I do actually have things I’d rather be doing, people I’d rather be with… So, yeah.

I have to make contact with these people. Somehow.

..I guess, all things considered, my best initial bet is to simply observe them. If I know who they are, and what they typically do, I can better interact with them. Then, I can approach on their terms, and everything will work out great. Yep.

I can only hope my stealth skills are good enough to stay out of their notice for long enough.

To ensure that, my first move will unfortunately have to be getting out of my clothes. I’ll get dressed again when it’s time to meet them, but, for now, I need stealth more than I do approachableness. Looks like leopard-print is back in style, baby!

Giggling manically, I climb up into a nearby tree, finding a nice spot that lets me observe them while still staying out of their field of vision. Yep, this place should be good. And now, I wait. And wait. And wait. And…

Oh, there’s movement in there! Are they already home? I guess that depends on whether a single person or several ones live in there. But, for now… There’s a child at home. I think it’s a girl, but it’s difficult to tell with children since they lack manes. Still, going by the way it’s dressed, I think it’s a girl. She’s standing by the stove, boiling… something. Maybe stew? Sniff sniff sniff. Nope, not stew. Smells like… Gruel, I guess?

If I move a bit, I’m able to see more of the house’s inside. It’s a very small cabin, so it only really has one big room, with the beds off to the side in a little cubby of sorts. A combined living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, study, and withdrawing room, huh? Good choice. Very classic. I approve fully. Anyhow, the centerpiece of the room is a fairly large table, at which an older man is sitting, spoon in hand. There are a few pieces of dried meat next to him, one of which he’s chewing on. And chewing. And chewing. And… Yeah, that stuff looks tough. I wonder if the meat is from those drakes hanging next to the stove? It’s possible.

Anyways, after a few minutes, the girl brings the gruel, puts it in a wooden bowl, and sets it down on the table. They both eat from the one bowl using hand carved spoons, their main drink appearing to be some kind of ale. Perfect for a growing girl. When they’re done, they hang the spoons on a little rack to the side. Weirdly enough, there’s a third spoon there, though there are only two beds. Maybe a reserve? Who knows. After that, he stands up, puts a few pieces of dried meat in his pockets, grabs a hunting bow and accompanying gear, and heads out. Once he exits the house, I notice that he apparently has a hunting drake—a dog-sized, wingless little thing with a dopey expression. The girl sees him off with a hug, and once he’s headed off into the woods, she grabs the bowl and pot, licks them both off, and puts them in a cupboard. That’s… Uh… Have these people never heard about hygiene? Shouldn’t they be washing those things off in a stream or something?

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Sure, it isn’t like it’s my business or anything. I’m just… Well, whatever.

Now, I have a choice, though. Either I follow the guy as he most likely goes off to hunt, or I observe the little girl. Hmm. Tough choice. He’ll probably return eventually, so I can do both in due time.

Since I’m starting to enjoy sitting perched here, I remain at my post, deciding to watch the girl as she does her day’s work. Apparently, the guy had brought home a prey earlier, as her first chore of the day is to prepare a rabbit. Being hygienic for once, she brings it outside, to a little shack at the back of the cabin. I move to a different tree to continue watching her. There, in the shack, she begins by disembowelling the rabbit, putting the intestines in their own spot while she works with the rest. After that, she skins the rabbit, and tans the hide, stringing it up on a rack. As for the rest of the rabbit, she rubs it with some weirdly sooty salt, ties it up, and leaves it together with a dozen or so other pieces of meat and skin to dry in the shack. With that done, she heads back into the main house, grabs a few pieces of laundry, and heads down to a nearby stream to wash them. I watch her the whole way.

Once that’s done, she brings them back to the cabin, strings them up on a clothes rack outside, heads back inside, and spends the next few hours spinning wool of some sort. She’s… really diligent. I don’t think she’s older than twelve, and still, she’s doing basically all of the work here. What is the guy even doing, aside from hunting? On that note, is he her dad, or her husband, or…?

After some time, he arrives back home, dragging a very dead elk behind him while the little drake proudly carries a winged drake in its jaws. Hm. Is it still cannibalism if they aren’t technically the same species? Unsure. Anyhow, the girl helps him with the elk, and they’re both able to drag it over to the shack. Well there, the guy begins the arduous labor of disembowelment, skinning, and dismantling the deer, doing so with far greater dexterity than the girl did the rabbit. While he does that, the girl disembowels the feathered drake, stuffs it with salt and herbs, and strings it up to dry. They work side-by-side, talking in muted voices, discussing things I can’t understand. It feels weird to hear a language that isn’t Swedish. It’s been so long.

Once the elk is properly processed, he grabs some of the fully tanned hides and dried pieces of meat, alongside some of the spun wool the girl made, places it on a cart, ties his drake to it, and heads out again. This time, I decide to follow him. As I do, and as he leaves, I notice the girl setting up a fire outside, for some reason.

Following a subtle road, he carts the goods for a good two hours before reaching a spot that smells like people. Lots of people. In the time it took us to walk here, I was able to spot that the fire the girl started didn’t billow smoke like normal—rather, it came in singular puffs, some shorter, some longer. A smoke signal, I reckon.

Either way, now that we’re here, there’s nothing to do but wait. Not letting himself waste even a moment to be idle, he pulls out a knife and a piece of half-shaped wood, getting right to whittling away at something. From the looks of it, I think it might be a fish or something. I don’t have time to see exactly what it’s going to be before whoever the guy was waiting for finally shows up—a simple farmer by the looks of it. Unlike the guy, the farmer has brought his things in a proper carriage, all of it pulled by an actual drake. I can’t tell exactly what’s in the bags he brought, but going by the smell, it seems to be various grains, vegetables, and spices. No money.

They greet each other warmly, hugging and laughing before getting into the bartering. I don’t follow it too closely, but by the end, the farmer walks away with a bit of meat, a few hides and some thread, while the guy himself gets grains and spices. A good trade, I guess.

But even after the trade has gone through, they still stick around to talk for a bit. I try to listen in on their conversation, but I really can’t understand any of it. The words are very gravelly, and the sounds are strangely choppy. All and all, it feels kind of like if you somehow mixed Finnish and Mongolian—however that would work.

In the end, they see each other off again, and the guy heads back to the cabin. I follow him.

Well there, we find that the girl has made supper, so he eats, the drake is fed some of the intestines from earlier, and then they spend the rest of the evening in peace and calm by candlelight. He whittles at something, and she sews together a hole in her shirt. It’s quaint, and it cements my theory that it’s a father and daughter. I’m not sure where the mother went, though. Might have died in childbirth, I suppose. Not a very uncommon fate.

By evening, once the sun has gone down fully, they retire for the night and go to sleep.

I watch, and I wait, and when I’m certain that they’re fully asleep, I sneak closer. Since I want to be quiet, I don’t make any sound. Not even when I step on something crunchy do I make any noise. Not even when I step up to the door and pull down the handle do I make any noise. The door is unlocked. I slide it open. There is no locking mechanism on it. How fearless.

I step into their home, taking deep breaths. Two people. Now, I’m close enough to tell that they share the same genetic code. Father and daughter. But, below that… I step up to the spinner the girl was using. It’s old and worn, but well-carved in its places. I let my fingers slide across its oiled frame, and then bring them to my nose. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Yes, there used to be a third. A mother.

I turn towards the beds. They’re atop another, the girl sleeping in the one above, tucked into a little nook of a bed. I step closer. My feet make no sound. The floorboards don’t creak. My claws don’t clack. All is quiet.

The girl is in the upper one, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of her mother. The drake lies next to her, stretched out into a long line with its legs sticking out. Her hand is atop its feathered back. In the bed below, the father snores lightly, having tossed off his covers. I look back up at the daughter.

The drake looks back at me.

I stare back at it.

Its eyes are wide, pupils expanded into big circles to absorb the maximum possible amount of light. Shock still, the feathers on its back have all raised themselves, standing perfectly on edge. But it won’t attack. I know that. It may not be smart, but it’s clever enough to know that. Despite the evolutionary purpose of its puffed-up feathers being to scare off predators, right now, it doesn’t see me as a predator. It sees me as the darkness. It sees me as the unfathomable night. I am, to its mind, death.

Reaching out, I let my hand caress the side of its head. It doesn’t move. It’s paralyzed by fear.

But it did notice me.

I chuckle. I’ve gotten sloppy, haven’t I?

“Mnnh…” the girl mumbles, starting to turn over, her hands clasping around the stone-stiff drake. Its wide eyes tremble, and all of a sudden, it remembers that it has a master to protect. A hiss begins to lurch from its throat, and it draws its lips from its teeth, showing off its impressive fangs.

I smile at it. What a good boy.

Turning around, I head for the door, and leave them.