Chapter 2

I wouldn’t consider myself a particularly philosophical person but recent events had brought that into question. When the act of simply thinking could affect reality, I firmly believed that one should probably invest some time to figure out their act. When I was younger, Marcie, my roommate — it had been such a long time ago, it seems — had once confided to me something.

She said that she sometimes would spin in place, closing her eyes and imagining that with every revolution, she would somehow travel to a different world, one that is slightly different, with slightly different people. Things stay the same, people are the same, and yet at the same time not. It somewhat made sense to me back then, the childish thought that such a thing could be possible, so I took it somewhat seriously.

Then, she told me that she once forgot how many times she turned, having lost balance and fell to the ground. When she got back up, she couldn’t tell me that she was the same person I knew, or that she had lost the Elisa she befriended to some imaginary twist and turns in her mind.

That of all things somehow got to me, that maybe that was why she left without a word, justifying it with some childhood magic. I was sure that she had some well-meant reason, that it was for the best but I couldn’t shake off that nagging doubt. From that point on, the idea had stuck with me, and my mind would keep wandering back to that point despite everything I did.

Consequences.

That, of course, brought me to my point: The idea of guilt and redeeming oneself wasn’t a foreign one by any chance — I knew full well what it felt like. I had to give this decision a thorough introspection.

Yet, the more I thought about the subject matter, the less relevant it became. I didn’t want to think of myself as a sociopath. In fact, I would insist it was something a bit more complicated than that.

Ever since my transition from living to dying, from dying to being dead, and from being dead to me now, I have done quite a bit of morally apprehensive things. From popping the first [Blob] to devouring the Iasgaireans, I had come to understand that in the “correct” point of view, there was objectively no difference in taking apart a living being that can think or not. They were composed of the same basic materials with only orders of complexity between them.

It would be easy to ignore the fact that a fly was alive when you were human. You could not see or hear its desires, as simple as they were, just as you couldn’t see or hear the suffering of a rat, a bird, a fish.

Would it be hypocritical if you were to value a dog over a snake because you could understand its suffering better? Would it be hypocritical if you were to value a human over a dog because you could understand its suffering better? Would it be hypocritical if you were to value a Spirit, in all its volatile and vivid emotions, over human lives?

And me, in particular, would it be hypocritical if I were to offer salvation or judgement unto others arbitrarily? If I, Elisa, had taken that route myself, to tear myself apart and discard the bits that I dislike, would I have the right to deny another person the same wish?

Quite.

The question was deceptively simple.

The procedure, however, was complicated. Before any of this had occurred, I took the time to set up a {Barrier} in order to keep things in. In the eyes of the world, absolutely nothing would have happened as if this portion of the forest had briefly disappeared and reappeared.

Precautions.

For all I knew, some errant gods or Spirits could be sneaking a peek here and there. If I could keep my presence on the low down for a while longer, I would gladly do so. So, with that and the familiar walls of tangible fog around us in this little patch of nature, I managed to set up a location for us to talk.

Not the most cinematic series of actions, but still.

“The question is simple: do you wish to be something else?” I asked, directing our attention to the twisted, mutilated body of the wolf, “Your future, I must say, looks quite bleak. With what you did in the last few days, the various… parties on the island will be coming to slay you.”

Vargulf wasn’t sure what to say in return, uncertain, still not quite thinking straight, its mind addled as one would be after a long slumber. Awakened from the time it spent under the influence of that which seeped into the soul, it was no surprise that it felt rather stunned from this turn of events.

For the first time, in quite some while, it felt lucid enough to speak, to think, to understand the fact that it had done something it, by all rights should regret. It was more than enough to realize that I, the bird, was responsible for its brief reprieve.

The process of extracting Vargulf from the sludge-like filth of the Sufferings was a complicated process, yet surprisingly easy. While Spirits are easily changed by the events around them — sometimes permanently, they were also fortunately self-contained identities. Rather than parting mixed beans, it was like sifting oil from water.

But then, one would have to ask — how would one define the idea called “Vargulf?”

Before it came into being, it was a bundle of ideas with limited intelligence, without identity. As a Spirit, would one count the idea itself to be Vargulf, the mind, or both? Well, that didn’t matter much to me, since I simply needed to strip it of its sludged fur by removing the proverbial skin. While others would see a wolf-shaped ‘thing’ recognisable as Vargulf, I alone would know it was merely a puppet.

Vargulf is Vargulf, while the Sufferings were like dirty water. I parted them as well as I could — but I took care to leave behind the [Presence] behind. I was well aware that if I took that away as well, the world will surely feel its influence as they suddenly ceased associating Vargulf with this mess.

“I’ve left that there as a shell, for now,” I explained, “Do not worry about that, so focus on me.”

“I... “ Not-Vargulf said a word.

I waited.

“I had always been... Vargulf,” Not-Vargulf said as it looked at its corpse, “I didn’t know when I changed.”

“Did you like what you had been, moments ago, then?” I asked, “You’ve done much wrong, and you know it.”

“Wrong?”

Not-Vargulf was once again feeling another emotion, a new one. Vivid, visceral, it burned a dull ache into the depths of its heart, reeling from this unfamiliar feeling that left it cold. The silence did nothing to soothe its nerves.

“You are experiencing guilt,” I helpfully supplied, more equipped to understand than it was, “That sure didn’t feel pleasant, doesn’t it? Knowing what you did was a terrible thing and you have no idea how to even change it, do you?”

Of course, Not-Vargulf was terrified. Of me, of its life, of its future. Every inch of its being was scrambling for a way out but none was in sight. For a Spirit, I supposed that this would probably be the closest experience to true death it could receive.

Most of all besides all that, it wished to run away from itself, from its past and history.

It couldn’t possibly look back at Vargulf and say that it enjoyed being that. Being without an identity was its natural state, and by shedding its coat, it would finally see for itself exactly how far it had fallen.

How pathetic.

But then, who was I to judge? I had been in its position not too long ago.

Naturally, it couldn’t possibly trust me, especially after I metaphysically dipped its face in the dirt and ripped its soul out. Despite that, I did offer it a brief moment of respite from everything wrong in its life, so I suppose that must have counted for something.

“I am not here to punish you — if you were wondering about that,” I shook my head, “I am here to help. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done so without bothering to talk.”

It wasn’t convinced.

“See, between you and I, I have an investment in this place and you caused quite a bit of trouble. Since you are its original tenant, I felt that it would be good manners to not approach this with brute force alone. Regardless, I am here to offer you a deal.”

There was a moment of silence.

“What… do you offer?” It asked hesitantly, not daring to hope.

“I can absolve you of your guilt, of your sins. I can take you away from all this, from the identity of Vargulf and start anew,” I smiled, “None of your past could catch up to you.”

I wasn’t simply doing this out of some sense of altruism, though Not-Vargulf definitely had my sympathy. As a fellow, perhaps Spirit, it was terribly easy to be suddenly influenced by things around us if we weren’t aware — My little rampage at the bottom of the sea saw to that. If it weren’t for the [Safe] I made for myself, I perhaps would be just as easily influenced by all these intruding thoughts and ideas.

Seeing another Spirit fall, one much older than I am in every sense of the word was an eye-opening experience, to say the least. The aggressiveness of the Sufferings was beyond what I had expected but I wasn’t entirely surprised by it. Though, I remained confident in my ability to beat them back with raw power if needs be.

Sympathy aside, I also had a more practical reason for offering my help.

Not-Vargulf, the problem of sanity aside, was a treasure trove of information. I would love to take it all for myself and add it to my [Library] in the case I would need to use it. My temporary tour through the life of Vargulf raised more questions than it really answered.

Who’s the figure that created Vargulf?

What is the realm of the Spirits — or the gods? How is that connected to full moons, or perhaps, [Corridors]?

What are the witches coven after? What happened to the religion here?

Why is magic fading? I certainly didn’t feel it.

So many more questions with hardly any tangible answers. It both irked and excited me, somehow. The mind of the Sgnirmah, the previous queen of the Iasgaireans too didn’t offer too much in terms of answers.

As far as she was concerned, she was a “witch” of the seas, but not one that dealt with Spirits and the like. Her existence was just as subtle as her legend onshore was, and didn’t contribute to my current investigation.

Besides information, Not-Vargulf was also a genuine Spirit that was composed of an abstract concept given identity. Concentrated [Essence] of such a sort couldn’t be found so easily. If anything, it could be said as proof of concept. Every living being contains a shred of bloodlust within them, all the better to survive and thrive but none of that could match the sheer potency that was Vargulf.

If the idea of ‘hunting’ can become a Spirit when given motivation, what else can?

This needs investigation.

Besides, this would also allow me to control the way things will go. If the humans attack Vargulf as it was now, I wouldn’t know if they will prove victorious or be torn to shreds. By puppeteering the body of Vargulf, I could sandbag the fight...

Losing intentionally.

Sophia remained an investment, a trial-run for spreading the name of the Frayed Serpent of which, admittedly, I haven’t been doing much yet. Even so, I couldn’t allow the off chance that she might actually die. With the ways things were going and that Evelyn seemed to have a plan, the chance didn’t seem that high.

Still, it was a matter of principle.

Either way, Vargulf must die. This was just a question of If I should secure Vargulf’s [Essence] for myself before it all happens.

And after that, the consequences of the mass depopulation would have to be addressed somehow. With pretty much every other local settlement having been wiped out, it was obviously a sign that society as they knew it couldn’t possibly go back to normal. Speaking of the dead, I had also frozen them, keeping the thousand-odd [Spirits] intact for the time being.

Most of them, unfortunately, were in terrible conditions. The various [Spirits] had been broken down or rendered unrecognizable from their previous forms, spectral limbs and minds torn to shreds. Needless to say, they were beyond repair and I couldn’t be bothered to help.

I could recycle them.

“That sounds too good to be true. No amount of forgiveness can free me of my burden, even for a great Spirit like you,” Not-Vargulf said.

“That would sound too good, wouldn’t it?” I answered honestly, “I wouldn’t know the first thing about sin and guilt and all that. Telling you that I could somehow have the right or wisdom to offer something like forgiveness would be a lie. What I could do was to… lessen your burden. Take your place in what you had set in motion, wiping your slate clean.”

While proverbs do not quite translate across, meaning certainly did.

“Then, what are you asking in exchange?”

Not-Vargulf did not believe in acting for free. Even with Svanhild, she had always asked for something, no matter how small it was. I was no exception to that kind of mindset.

But, of course, it was hooked onto the tantalizing idea. No matter its fear of losing its sense of self, I was asking for something it had already given up on. Not-Vargulf no longer wanted anything to do with what it was.

In some far-off sense, this struck me as a rather religious act, if somewhat twisted in nature. From baptism in Abrahamic religions to deals with devils asking for your soul, I was doing something incredibly stereotypical. I hadn’t been particularly devout when I was alive, so I really couldn’t say much about the potential meaning of all this.

Yet.

Though, I wouldn’t have expected my first customer to be a Spirit of all things. Shouldn’t a devilish manipulator that hungers for soul slowly work up from lowly mortal human scums before going after a bigger game? I seemed to have skipped a few parts here and there.

“I just want your everything. Your being, your identity, your past and future — I want it. Give it all away to me and for that price, I can remake you into something better,” I said simply, “I’ll take on your sins and hate and love, I will live the remainder of your life. Call it foolish sympathy if you want to, but you are… intriguing.”

It went quiet again.

As old as Vargulf must be, it had no way to fully understand the implication of what I ask. Could one imagine the idea of discarding one’s entire existence and starting over? I could — I’ve long made peace with the idea of death and the unexpected transition into the thing I am without regrets. I had given up on everything and was unexpectedly brought along into this…

New reality?

As I’ve stated, I wouldn’t consider myself to be particularly philosophical.

To someone else, however, life must seem precious, full of attachments and strings that they simply couldn’t let go of. For someone like Vargulf, well, it had nothing left but guilt and the desire to be punished. For all of its rage-induced bluster, it was simply a damaged individual.

And I could fix that.

“What will you do with me, then? If I say ‘yes’?” it asked.

“Whatever that I need you to be. Rest assured that while you might remember thinking the thoughts you once did, the person Vargulf once was would cease to exist,” I said, pausing for a moment, and continued, “I have yet to decide.”

“... And if I refuse?”

“You will not remember this conversation,” I told it, “And you will continue on in your miserable existence, wishing you were dead.”

A previous Elisa may have baulked at the way I said the words. Regardless, it was the truth and I wouldn’t sugar coat my intention any further.

“I… May I ask for something else?”

I blinked with my owl’s eyes, “Go ahead.”

“I’ve… done wrong to those I should have cared about. The Creighton — the child of Jarundil and her wards, Vargulf has hurt them in its rage.”

Indeed, it wasn’t what Svanhild would have wanted. Even if I hadn’t lived Vargulf’s life for myself, I would have grasped the nature of its request.

“What is your wish, then?” I asked pointlessly.

“Will you… apologize on my behalf? I never… It was not my intention.”

Its words trailed off.

“From ‘Vargulf’?” I thought about it for a second, “That is within my power.”

“Vargulf,” it said its name with a voice bitter with contempt, “Wolf, what a jest. It suits me not, not anymore. While it was given to me, I — Even she couldn’t have possibly seen our future.”

It was in a contemplative mood.

“No, she couldn’t. Strangest things in life have a habit of showing up every now and then,” I answered quietly, “What is your choice, then? Are you ready to move on?”

For the first time, with utmost clarity, Vargulf looked at me, “Very well. Do what you wish with me.”

“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? Where are my manners?” I remembered with a smile, “I am the Frayed Serpent, the unmaker. You and I — we will go far.”

Thus, a bargain was formed. It was surprisingly easy, straight forward, astoundingly easy as whatever resistance Vargulf’s own force of identity projected faded away, allowing the [Soul] to flow towards me — pushing it, even.

In a split second, a moment between time, the being formerly known as Vargulf was mine — even more than seconds ago where I inhabited its mind. With but the slightest tug, it embraced the bond now struck between us and became mine in every sense of the word.

A genuine wish carries power, and so does sacrifice.

A [Soul], freely given, was of much higher worth than those taken, more malleable, more pliant to change. I could feel it, through the passages of [Mark] and {Sending} between all of my selves, the new addition to my collection. I settled the [Soul] — now once again nameless amongst the many in my [Library], and took a look at our surroundings again.

Beyond that, there was a change in mindset that made us so compatible, something that rang close to what I represent. Just as it wished to change itself, to move on from its past life, its ideal became so much closer to me, allowing our [Essence] to flow through the floodgates of identity.

In a way, the closer a being’s mindset is to another, the easier it became to access them. Perhaps that’s where miracles arrive, some saints that truly became an extension of their gods in the realm of mortals, so that their powers may manifest.

This calls to more testing.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The mountainous body of Vargulf laid there, slumbering mindlessly. The various other wolves, each containing a small fragment of Vargulf’s power too sat there, eyes blank.

“If this is what you really wanted, old wolf,” I said to no one in particular amidst a field of corpses, “How could I say no to that?”

The sound of laborious breathing sounded out from within the room, wheezing alongside the whispering wind from just beyond the closed windows. A bucket of luke-warm water laid beside the bed, red-stained strips of cloths bundled inside. It smelt of sickness, trapped within the stone walls.

Sophia had time to reflect on many things as she stood before the bed, her mind clouded with thoughts about her life, what she knew, what she didn’t know. She had been discontent, then, those days ago when she knew nothing about the Spiritual world around her, raging against ignorance with all her might.

How — facing Uther’s feverish body lying on the bed — she couldn’t help but think that if she didn’t know, Finny would simply tell her that Uther had been attacked by a wolf and came down with a fever. Not that it would be any better, but Sophia could be sure which one she’d prefer.

Would she rather know about the reason behind why Uther’s fingers and feet disappeared into dust? Would she rather not know of the countless, hungry-eyed shadows that dot the land like crows, ready to feast on carcasses as they did with all those other villages that she never got to visit?

And Uther — Did he feel the same? Alone beyond the gates with nothing but a spear, facing against the dark? Did he think that he would come back? Now that he laid on the bed, crippled, she couldn’t even be sure he would ever awake again.

Her limbs felt heavy, leaden.

“You didn’t have to do this on your own, you should have known,” she found herself saying, “If you didn’t keep me away from all of this, I could have helped you. Maybe.”

It was a stupid thought and she knew it yet she said it anyway. Putting the blame on him was pointless, he had only acted out of love, to give her a chance at a life that didn’t take the path it did now. There was merit to Finny’s warning, that the act of knowing would change a person but it was far too late to rectify that.

“I will… I don’t know how to fix this, but I can try,” she said.

She breathed out, wrapping the familiar apron around her, shrugging on her coat. The heady, herb-scented air felt cold to the touch, an unpleasant wringing palpable in her stomach. She wanted to yell, to hit something, to vent her fear and despair.

But she didn’t.

She controlled herself, and when she felt ready, she headed downstairs.

There hadn’t been any clients as of late, not that she expected any. In the past few days, it felt as if the entire Corner Inn had simply vanished from the minds of everyone in Ansvil. Quietly, the doors closed and didn’t open again, the streets unsettlingly silent.

Snow continued to pile on in the streets.

“Cozy,” Katla the hunter commented as she entered the building. Her baggy coat, bags and satchels failed to hide the chinking chainmail underneath as she took off her cap, revealing a head full braided red hair.

The fireplace was lit, a welcoming warmth to shelter from the biting cold outside. Most tables and stools were pushed to the side in order to make room for whatever they must do, leaving tracks of dust upon the floorboards.

“Ansvil Weaver,” Tjorvi greeted formally with a bow of his head, his tone respectful, “Thank you for allowing us into your abode.”

“And thank you for coming, hunter Tjorvi and Katla. Whilst the matron is away, I shall assume the role of the Weaver,” Evelyn returned the greeting, a cup of herbal tea in her hands. In the time it took for the visitors to arrive, her complexion had mostly recovered from the ghastly appearance she had earlier, apparently drawing strength from whatever concoction she was drinking. She was also dressed in an unusual robe, covered in flowing drapes and bone strips covered in strange runes. She said, “Please, leave your coat by the hanger. I have tea prepared.”

Sofia watched from afar, staring at the two, pouring tea from a kettle.

It smelt of iron.

This was her first time seeing the actual hunters of Bvurdrjord — as opposed to the ‘Hunters’ of Zweitaland, that is. Compared to the rickety armour and weapons the watchmen had, these two seemed to have walked straight out of legends. Heavy bows, long serrated spears that glimmered unnaturally, fur-collared coats that looked as if it had weathered hundreds of battles.

Even their presence was more weighty, somehow.

Tjorvi nodded his thanks, shrugging off his heavy outerwear and helmet. He was a heavyset man, lean muscles seemingly barely constrained under his padded tunic. His beard and hair were braided into a mane leading down his back, giving him a regal countenance.

“The situation is grim,” the man said, “Skjra is a complete loss.”

The statement was final but carried no more inflexion than one would use to describe the weather. It was so matter-of-fact that Sofia momentarily forgot about the fact that in the span of a few words, it carried the death of a village. In the way it was said, it would not be out of place between the inane conversations of fishwives.

‘Oh, I saw Einsk chatting up Liuid the other day.’

‘My, that’s terrible of him!

‘Skjra is a complete loss.’

‘Ha.’

Her mind snapped back to the lying body of Uther, breathing haggardly in his bed. She reimagined the bloodshed, the panic, the abject loss of control. She reexamined the nature of death, and how quick and factual it could be.

If a single, possible death of a loved one felt that way, it couldn’t even begin to imagine how it felt to witness hundreds of them. It felt distant, with as much remorse as one would hold for the death of their great, great grandfather. It was no doubt it was a tragedy, but it was difficult to even feel a fraction of that.

Meaningless numbers, meaningful emotions.

Yet, despite it all, the people she surrounds herself with had no issue saying it as if it was something that happens every other day.

Is this what a Hunter is like? Is this what they should feel like?

There was a pregnant silence, filled with the thought of, did Uther think like this, as well? Did he think of us, when he too nearly died? She wanted to yell out loud, to scream about how insane this all seemed to her, but she held her tongue.

“You’ll find the situation here no better,” Finny shook her head, “The people are all riled up and ready to fight. The Wall is too weak to keep them out for any longer.”

“Riled…?” Katla prodded, shuffling over to sit down, eyes wandering across the room, “I thought that I heard yelling when we entered the town. The common folks seemed to be even angrier than normal.”

“Castor. Old family, he’s inciting the folks to go ‘hunt’ for the rogue Spirit and taunting the Zweits. The lineage of warrior spirits in the blood demanded action in the worst possible time,” Finny grimaced, “If the local garrison kept their promise, I would not doubt that the fool would take advantage to… overthrow the Reeve or something equally unwise.”

There was a pause. Then, Tjorvi continued gravely, “And if the Reeve doesn’t…?”

“Well,” Finny gestured, “As predicted, there will be bloodshed and Wall will undoubtedly fall. I believe that I wouldn’t have to explain how unrest can have an effect on the Spirits.”

“Damn,” said Katla with a note of acceptance, “That’s not good.”

“It would make it much more difficult,” Tjorvi admitted, “If the Wall falls, the wolves would have a much easier time entering the town. I would rather not involve the common folk or the Zweits in this.”

“Tea?” Sophia mustered her courage and interrupted, “Its herbal. Should help ward off the cold.”

The two hunters blinked. Their gazes were sharp, dangerous.

“Oh, thank you, child. I’ll take that,” said Tjorvi, his gloved hands dwarfing the relatively small cup, handing one to Katla who made a face at it. He stated, “I wasn’t aware Mrs Creighton had a ward.”

They don’t know about Uther?

Finny shrugged at that, “She’s learning from me.”

“Hoh,” Katla raised an eyebrow, “I bet she would be thrilled at how you’re handing out the family secrets.”

“I am soft-hearted,” Finny said, “And it would be even more dangerous if she doesn’t know, with how things are.”

“That is true,” Tjorvi grimaced as he took a sip, “It’s even more important now than ever.”

“You have no idea what you are in for but I supposed that can’t be helped,” Katla said to Sophia, raising the teacup to her lips, “On that note, what’s in this thing? It smells… uh, not quite herbal?.”

“Family secrets, as you say. But if you are really interested, blood,” Finny answered.

“... You call this tea?”

“Katla!” Tjorvi admonished, “Just drink the damned tea.”

The woman in question made another face and slowly took a sip.

“Regardless, she’ll be helping us for the time being,” said Finny, “Even though she’s very new to all of this.”

Tjorvi looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it, shaking his head, “Then, shall we get back to it? We have little time to waste.”

Finny gestured, “By all means. I suspect we have quite the list of problems to work through.”

“Well, first of all, in our messages, you said you know about the being that’s causing all of this. I hope you can cast some light as to what exactly is killing everything on the island,” said the man, “It would be most helpful.”

“And do tell, what made you believe it was a Spirit?” Katla pressed, eyes narrowed, “It could have been some monstrosity rather than Spirit, for all we know. We’ve seen the star fall, too.”

There was a pause as Finny lowered her own cup, her brows slightly furrowed in deep thought.

Eventually, she spoke, “As far as I know, there’s only one remaining Greater Spirit remaining on the island. I’ve only heard my mother speaking of it before — a remnant of her childhood, as she called it. I myself have never met such a Spirit, having been raised in Ansvil mostly so I know relatively little about this being.”

“A Spirit of a wolf, then?” Tjorvi frowned, “That would explain the… well, wolves. But the cold and the snow…”

“It is not a Spirit of a wolf, that would have been much easier to deal with,” Finny shook her head, “A mere wolf would not be able to cause such damage so quickly.

“Then what is it?”

“According to the stories that Mrs Creighton told me, it was a Spirit that... survived the invasion from the Zweits, something from the time of grandmother Svanhild. In other words, it wasn’t ancient but old enough to be a problem,” said the girl.

“That’s… nearly a hundred years ago,” Katla blinked, “That can’t be right.”

“We have a way to deal with age,” Finny assured.

“... How old are you, miss Creighton?”

“Stay focused, Katla,” Tjorvi harshly whispered, “Apologies, Ansil Weaver. It is not our business to pry.”

“I am not offended, but yes, the Spirit was before all of this, before even my mother’s own birth,” Finny said with a frown, “Unfortunately, my mother’s records of the past were not as well kept as it could have been. The nature of the Spirit remains unknown, but we are certain that it was sealed in the body of a wolf, for one reason or another.”

“So, not a wolf Spirit, then,” Tjorvi hummed, “Ah, that would have made it so much easier. But then… Its life was spared? Surely, rogue Spirits wouldn’t be let free to frolic so close to villages, even in those days.”

“It is not.”

“That can’t be helped,” Katla asked, “Do we have a name, at least?”

“... Vargulf,” Finny said as if it was some big secret, all ominous like, “It is called Vargulf.”

“Varg...ulf,” Katla leaned back on her chair, arms crossed behind her head as she considered, “That sounds like the old tongue.”

“It is,” said the man, “Definitely before the Zweits then. Correct me if I am wrong — my studies of the old tongue wasn’t particularly complete but that should mean ‘wolf’.”

“Calling a Spirit that is not a wolf ‘wolf’?” Katla raised an eyebrow, “That sounds rather…”

“It’s an old custom when binding Spirits to a more manageable form,” Finny shrugged, “It helps when sealing it to give it an identity. If it’s an actual wolf Spirit, it might have been named something else and sealed in something that is not a wolf. A spear, perhaps, or something more easily controlled.”

“Huh.”

So that’s why she talked about wolf Spirits before, Sophia dimly thought, now realizing the nature of Finny’s previous explanation, all those days ago on the snowy mountain track.

“Do we know if it remains as a wolf? Has it abandoned its form?” Tjorvi asked.

“No, I do not know.”

“... Then,” Katla leaned forward, “What do we know? It’ll be tricky to take on such a thing with all its minions running about, without us knowing what kind of Spirit it was.”

“Wolves the size of horses, covered in Sufferings, can turn into gusts of frozen wind to cover large distances. Nasty behaviours, too, they like ripping bodies apart for some reason. Very far from anything we’ve seen of beasts,” Tjorvi counted with his fingers.

With every description, Sophia’s stomach dropped further.

“Their bites inflict cursed wounds, too,” Sophia jumped in unprompted. Then, when she realized that they were all staring back at her, she felt her lips clamp down and her cheeks heating up.

“Cursed? We are aware that their bites carry foul magic of sorts, but thankfully we never had to see it in action.”

“Frostbite, malicious rotting of the flesh. A watchman was attacked some time ago, but he managed to survive,” Finny explained, “I managed to save his life, but it was costly.”

“...We can do against curses of cold, with proper preparations,” Katla murmured, rummaging through her own bag. From within, she withdrew a few tiny vials of glass, each wrapped in leather twines, revealing the scarce droplets of gleaming red oil from within, “Though it seemed that we will need restocking.”

Finny nodded, “We can work on that. I already have a brew on the stove but it will take some time before it’s ready.”

“That would be most welcome,” Tjorvi breathed out, “But besides injuries, we are dealing with a Spirit. Mortal weapons will be rather ineffective against such a being. While our blades are sanctified against monstrous beasts, it would fare poorly against insubstantial opponents.”

“If it had escaped its binding, that is,” Katla added.

“According to the star charts, the full moon is due in three days,” Finny crossed her fingers, “If we can afford to wait that long when the Spirits are closest to our realm, even they can be pierced with the likes of weapons.”

Huh.

“A moonlit night,” Tjorvi mused, “Though I worry that its power would grow to the presence of the moon as well.”

His fellow hunter shrugged, “But it would allow us to actually hurt it.”

“In that case, how confident are you in your capability to hunt the Spirit down? Moonlit or not.” Finny frowned.

The two hunters exchanged silent glances, unspoken words trades in seconds.

“Well, Just a few of those ‘wolves’,” Katla enunciated with care, “Should be no issue at all. We managed to clear them out of Skjra with silvered fire, but we have yet to see the big one itself.”

“That is to say, if it’s only us against this Vargulf, we would probably be able to slay it with some measure of difficulty,” Tjorvi continued, “The only problem is the prospect of getting swarmed, and that after its slaughter at the other villages, the Spirit would be bloated with souls. We have no way of telling how much the Spirit has grown in power.”

“So, we are not sure,” Katla concluded, “We will have to see.”

Finny unlaced her hands and took a deep breath, visibly schooling her face, “I can, for a limited time, distract the majority of its puppets.”

“And how would one do that?”

The girl returned a blank stare.

“I didn’t realize that being vague is a requirement to use magic,” Katla pushed.

Hilariously, in my own opinion, vagueness is essential to it all.

“Katla,” Tjorvi warned, again, eyes narrowing.

The conversation dragged on. Words blurred into an endless tumble of predictions, of talks of weapons and oils, of maps and sieges.

Despite the sombre nature of the discussion, Sophia grew more and more tired. Perhaps it was due to the repeating nature of the discussion, perhaps it was due to the fact she couldn’t contribute much at all, her mind began to wander.

She had never felt so exhausted in her life, as if her bones were dragged to the ground with the weight of stones. Lethargic, stuffy, the heat of the fire clouded her senses like a suffocating blanket drawn over her head.

The days and weeks of tension had been building up ever since she knew. Even her dreams lately had been clouded with a formless fear of dark shapes and blank, white eyes, sharp teeth gnashing.

However, it all came down to a simple fact.

Sophia was powerless.

It was an undeniable truth. Her strongest attribute so far was the ability to serve tables and make substandard stews. She kept up her readings, of course, but what good would that do against something like Vargulf? The seemingly endless pages of the tomes only ever served to inform her how much she lacked.

She learned how to ground up herbs, how to cut flowers, how to mix oils and ointments but how would that help? She learned how to twist twine and boiled tendons together into strings, but that didn’t serve to protect her and her loved ones. She learned how to see the Spirits that wander the streets, but that’s all she could do.

See. Witness.

Waiting, waiting. She could only hope and pray to the silent gods that her family could prevail, that Vargulf would fall to the blades of the hunters.

But who’s left to answer?

The gods had gone into hiding since the Zweits came along, burning their temples to the ground and staining the earth red with the blood of their followers. Sophia wasn’t alive back then and couldn’t possibly know the truth of the matter, but the shattered identity of being of Bvurdrjord was apparent.

She wouldn’t consider herself to be particularly faithful. Any conversations about the old gods having only been done in hushed tones and furtive glances, the fear of the Zweit and the passing of the years having done their best to remove the history of Bvurdrjord in its entirety. Now, however, when the myths were crawling out of the woods, hungry for blood, she found herself wishing that things weren’t the way it was.

And, of course, she grew desperate.

Her heart felt dead within her chest, her fingers tapped restlessly, her head felt faint. The warm air became hard to choke down, feeling as thick as molasses.

Eventually, she excused herself upstairs. No one begrudged her leaving, no one suspected. They probably thought that all these talks of death and battle and preparations were beyond her — and they wouldn’t be wrong. Each creaking step on the wooden floorboards felt like condemnations, whispers marking each of her steps as the voices below echoed up.

She hated it.

Sophia pushed open the door to her tiny room, slowly closing it behind her. She slumped into her mattress, staring up at the wooden rafters, watching the way dust drift and glimmer in the light shining through the planks. She could almost imagine them as stars in the night sky, swirling in the sea above.

What could she do? She couldn’t wield a blade and whatever magic she could utilize would be worthless in the face of something that could raze entire villages to the ground. No amount of effort can bridge that gap between now and the future.

So, she continued staring at the ceiling.

Then, all of a sudden, she had a thought, No, there is something I could do.

She slowly sat up, brushing her hair out of the way, her eyes flickering over to the rolled-up blanket in the corner. She took a deep breath and reached over, pulling the bundle over.

Gingerly, carefully, she unwrapped the egg she found, its pearly luminances shining arcs of pale, bluish light across the walls like the aurora. Vague shadows of strange plant matter danced in the light, of sea creatures darting in between.

Her breath caught in her throat, hugging the egg close to her chest for it had been some while since it had laid eyes on it. On its gleaming surface, she could faintly see her own reflection, haggard yet transformed in its radiance. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day, underneath the temple of broken hulls and salt crystals, the brief moment that she saw the face of a girl within the shell.

Sophia paused, hesitating. She still didn’t know the identity of her benefactor, of the being that had let her find the world of mystic. Most certainly, she didn’t even know of its name or its intentions towards her. This was dangerous and definitely reckless, violating every rule she had thus learned.

No matter how you go about it, it was definitely a bad idea.

Yet despite it all, she couldn’t help but feel that this being held no ill will, none at all.

“I need your help, please,” she whispered, her hands clasped together around her necklace of dark stones and carved words. They were cold to the touch, her fingers knotted white in tension.

I found this for a reason, she attempted to convince herself, something wanted me to find this. There had to be meaning in this. Whatever being that’s looking upon me, please, can you hear me?

For a second, nothing happened, and that was all it took for me to settle my mind.

The egg seemed to grow warm under her touch and for whatever it was worth, she could feel its approval, its acceptance. Sophia had more than fulfilled her offering of knowledge, in my opinion. I felt hypocritical, somehow, that I was favouring some girl I did not know, that perhaps I was taking advantage of her — and frankly, I was.

However, the entire thing with Vargulf and the Zweits wasn’t my fault at all. I only came along to survey and found something interesting. Besides, the only thing I’ve done was to perhaps introduce Sophia to magic and to puppet the Spirit of the Hunt — as well as to kidnap the brother of Captain Rutherford and take over the entirety of this Iasgairean colony.

… Hmm.

But then, I had already established my intentions being rather arbitrary.

Sophia took a deep breath, refusing to let go. Her face was pale, and her heart was beating hard once again. It’s here. It’s actually here. Ah, I don’t even have incense or charms or — she thought in a panic, looking about. This wasn’t how one contacts a Spirit or a God at all, not without all the proper procedure to gather their attention or to protect oneself from malicious ones.

Not to mention, this was a being that could talk, communicate, the highest order of Spirit that could be. Hugging the egg was not the correct way to pray.

However, the egg was a [Proxy], and I hardly needed a circle to exercise my will.

“Wh-Who are you?” Sophia asked uncertainly, her voice quivering. If she were to be honest with herself, she hadn’t been expecting this to work at all, not like this.

In response, I gave her an insight, just enough to give her an idea of what I currently represent. “The Frayed Serpent,” I said, which was true. The being known as Frayed Serpent was the one speaking, and technically not me, Elisa.

And with that, on the surface of the eggshell, she could see the vision of something vast, twisting and unravelling like yarn only to reform into something else, something more. Vaguely serpentine in nature, for the briefest moment, she could see the being she had contacted.

A small bead of blood dripped from her nose and she absently wiped it away.

I could tell that she hadn’t planned so far, at all. So I prompted her and asked, “What is it that you seek?”

Her voice was soft but solemn as she replied, “I… I want the strength to protect my family, my people.”

It was a straightforward request and one well within my power to give. However, this wasn’t a charity, and I wouldn’t hand out powers without receiving something in return.

Thus, I asked again, “What are you willing to give up? What do you value?”

Sophia froze.

Many days ago, she had been asked this question by Finny. She could remember standing on the docks, watching the frozen water churn softly against the surf. It had been the moment that she dived into the world of the unknown, to learn, to help.

On that night, Finny asked Sophia if she understood what their faith meant, the meaning of taking and giving, how there must always be a trade when dealing with things of magic. The older girl had been so serious, stating that she was repaying such power with equal responsibility, paying through her duty to the people.

And she asked Sophia what she could give, what she would give. She hadn’t had an answer back then but it was clear in hindsight. The trade was her childhood, the distance that Uther had so painstakingly created from the evils of the world. She didn’t realize it in the earlier days but it had changed her life in such a way that she could hardly recognize her past self at all.

Now, the question was asked once again. What could Sophia possibly give away in trade for power?

Nothing, really. She could give me nearly nothing. Whilst the techniques shown of the Ansil Weavers were interesting, it really fell short of what I could already do. Her possible future, however, held promises. After this entire incident with Vargulf and the Zweits blow over, she would continue on living, existing, perhaps even travelling.

Perhaps, if she were to be my living [Proxy], to spread the name of the Frayed Serpent or something along that line, it might be worthwhile. My other scouts were more monstrous in nature, lacking agency to do much aside for what I instructed their limited intelligence to do.

Sophia, the living human being, could do much to help me on that front.

Then, if I were to help her with her goals, what exactly can I give her? If I really wish to ‘help’, I could totally give her the power to blast holes in reality and let her run free in the wide wide world. However, I felt like that would be rather silly. It would be like Gandalf giving Frodo a massive death laser to remove Mordor via orbital beams. It would solve the issue but it felt…

Restraint, I reminded myself.

So, I told her, “If you shall walk the land and sail the seas in my name. You shall learn and teach in my name. Only then shall I grant you a fragment of my power.”

But then, I knew she wasn’t ready for something like that. She was far from being desperate enough to take such a vague offer. It was simply human nature to fear change, after all. Clenched in her fingers was the necklace of dark stones and protective runes, the one given to her by Evelyn.

It couldn’t do much against me, of course, but it was symbolic. She couldn’t take it off now, not yet, and as such she would reject what the Frayed Serpent represent. In the moment that she witnessed the fragment of its power, she could see the infinite possibilities that she could become, the unending ways that she could lose whoever she was.

Thus, she hesitated. Unlike Vargulf, she couldn’t take the leap of faith, torn between the mundanity of the girl that was the adopted child in a dingy tavern or the disciple of the Ansil Weavers. Stretching thin between the two extremes, she must eventually choose or she would snap, breaking apart.

But, she couldn’t do it, not today.

In the silence, I took my answer and slowly faded from the [Proxy]. She would find me once again when she was truly ready.

The light seeped back into the egg, the shadows returning to normality and the underwater mirage disappeared as if it was never there in the first place.

And in the darkness, alone once again, she let out a sob.

I can wait.