A scream ripped Roy from his work. Pleas for help filled the air as a woman dragged a body across the bridge. The man was covered head to toe in crimson, his tunic in tatters. His head teetered limply as the woman stopped to cradle him in her arms. Roy turned at the sound of a hammer dropping, but by the time his eyes met Arthur, he was already sprinting out towards the commotion. Viola gasped, looking past the terrified couple into the trees.

“What’s happening?” Roy asked, but Viola, too, was gone.

“Viola, healer, now.” Arthur barked as he tore his shirt into strips, reaching for the man’s battered limb. Blood and meat poured from the man’s forearm like a melted candle, his fingernails began to turn black. Roy stood in stunned silence as Viola ran past as fast as her legs could carry her. Arthur tied the cloth into a knot, the man whimpering and gurgling as he pulled tightly. The blood gushing from his wounds began to slow, but Arthur feared it was too late. He looked out into the snowy tree line, scanning for any sign of the creature that did this. He couldn’t see the culprit, but he knew full well it was watching them.

A villager approached, holding out a rag, but Arthur held a hand out to her, yelling.

“Stay back!” He demanded, “Todesspucker!”

The villager stopped. The air was silent. The man lay dying, his blood soaking the snow with a vibrant crimson. His hand was swollen, covered in bulbous blisters and black rot. A dozen large holes formed the imprint of a serpentine maw on his bicep.

“You’re safe now.” Arthur said, leaning into the man’s ear, “She’s safe.” He repeated as the man’s wife tripped over herself, falling to her knees. The husband’s tear-filled eyes gazed skyward at the clouds. His breaths quickened. In response to the news of his wife’s survival. Arthur quickly jammed his finger into the snow, using the mud beneath to draw a border along the red splotches on the man’s skin.

The woman tried shaking her husband, but Arthur took her hand, pulling it away gingerly. Roy could see his mouth moving, but he couldn’t make out the words. The woman’s face grew pale, then red, then as tears filled her eyes she looked down at the man, bawling, gripping at his chest as he lay in a pool of his own blood. Arthur stood up, hammer in hand, scanning the trees.

They could be anywhere. The treetops, the branches, the bushes…

“They’re asleep!” The wife screamed, “It’s winter! They’re supposed to be asleep!”

Arthur let out a breathy sigh. He helped the woman onto her feet, checking her arms for wounds. Her dress looked relatively unscathed. Her husband’s blood congealed in her hair in small specks. An aged herbalist followed Viola as Arthur stared at the body. The herbalist walked as quickly as his aged legs could carry him. Viola led quickly, but as soon as she saw the man’s body her eyes dimmed like the collapsing of a cave. She dived into the smithy, averting her gaze.

Roy quietly slinked back into the smithy, putting his tools away as Viola crossed the threshold. A bell rang out in the center of town, and villagers all around closed their wooden shutters and began pulling their doors tightly shut. Mossglen became a ghost town within seconds.

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“Todesspucker?” Roy looked out the window into the trees. Viola quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him further into the smithy.

“Spitters. Head of a snake, body of a drake.” Viola said. The woman’s sobbing was barely muffled behind the thin wooden door.

“What about your father?”

“He’ll be fine.” Viola reassured. She seated herself on the chest at the foot of her father’s bed, sighing. Her face had grown pale.

“Are you okay?” Roy asked.

“The spitters, they-“ She closed her eyes, “They scare me.”

Sitting by the side of the door was a simple wood hatchet. Roy picked it up, ignoring the pain in his wrist. The glassy fear in Viola’s eyes compelled him to stand by the door. He looked out through the slit-sized windows of the smithy, out into the forest where the man’s body still lay motionless. Roy’s grip was so intense that Viola thought his bones would shoot out of his knuckles.

Time was at a standstill. Roy refused to pull his sight away from the man’s body. Arthur, hoisted the man over his shoulder, assisted by the wife as the herbalist quickly whisked them away. Roy stared, even when the snow’s luster began to warp and twist his eyes. When he closed them, he could see the silhouettes of trees stained into his eyelids. Viola sat quietly, scratching at her arms like they were covered in ants. The gashes in the man’s arms were new to her, but the tips of his fingers were familiar.

An hour had passed. The smithy steps creaked as a shadow crossed the threshold towards the forge. A soaked hand opened the door, followed by the sloshing of wet clothing. The faint stains of blood coated Arthur’s tunic. The smith slid through the door, walking past Roy. He was unphased at the boy wielding an axe at the door.

“They’re at the temple now.” Arthur answered a question unasked, pulling Roy away from the window, “Nothing we can do.”

Arthur slid the tunic off his arms. Ancient scars adorned his forearms. There was a large divot in his left arm where muscle once sat, and his right was covered in deep cuts. A large serpentine brand sat above his hip, slithering up to his lower ribs. Roy’s mouth loosened; his eyes fixated on the wounds. Arthur walked to his wardrobe. His head lowered, swaying left and right before he threw his right fist into the side. There was a sudden high-pitched huff as though Arthur were fighting his own throat.

Viola jumped up from the chest, tears falling down her cheeks as Arthur fell onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. His face was red as an apple orchard, his nose curled with unfettered rage. Viola, understanding yet a touch embarrassed, stepped into the alcove near the stew cauldron. Her lips parted; she wanted to explain, but she didn’t want to trouble Roy. Her lips sealed as she took a hot poker, stoking the hearth flames.

“Viola,” Arthur called, “I- I’m sorry. I need to write.”

“Right now?” Viola asked, “Why?”

“I’m sending word to the Dragonguard.” Arthur said, “I’ll send it out tomorrow. They’ll stop the todesspucker for good.”