The monster stood on all fours, ankle-deep in a pile of discarded flesh and blood that pooled around it. Beyond the oozing pile of skin, the skinwalker tore up everything it could reach, leaving great gouges and furrows in hard-packed dirt. It ignored the pesky giantkin encroaching on it, electing to crawl toward the goblin throwing spears. Despite its injured hip, hand, and shoulder, the thing moved deceptively fast, limping forward with an awkward, but ground-eating gait now that it had freed itself.

The creature was longer, thinner, and more deer-like after shedding the Chieftain’s skin. Deer-like was the best Azarus could describe the hungry spirit. It looked like some cruel god had merged the skeletons of a deer and a giant, then stretched skin and fur over the bones, leaving the deer skull bare for all to see. Its mass was much the same as before, but its lengthened limbs gave it the impression of a spider that had shed its too-small exoskeleton.

Another spear flew out of the darkness, forcing the creature to duck out of the way with surprising agility, considering its vast size. Free of the snare, the skinwalker’s cruel confidence was quick to return.

“The long night grows. I, Death, hunt here.”

It pushed off with its good leg, sending itself hurtling down the alley with its antlers lowered. The severed rope attached to its ankle flew behind it like a banner in the wind. Moka held her ground, the butt of her spear planted and the tip angled at the gargantuan monster flying toward her. She inhaled and exhaled with deliberation, her face stone cold and her hands shaking. Her knees bent, ready to dodge at the last second, she faced this self-proclaimed Death, and did not flinch.

With a roar, the ogre-elder sprung from the ruins of a dwelling, his hands blurring as he chanted. Ethereal spirits flurried around him, whipping his hair and clothes into a frenzy. Energy gathered around him in droves as he completed his working. He leveled his green-tinged finger at the skinwalker and shouted a single word.

“DIE!”

The spirits fled from the ogre-elder like he had lit their tails on fire. They plunged into the ground, wriggling away as fast as they could. A fraction of a second later, spears ruptured the earth like a legion of buried soldiers had hurled a javelin volley. The wind took a fraction. The rest peppered the skinwalker in small explosions of purple and white light.

An ear-shattering roar split the night as the skinwalker covered the alley in steam once more. The monster, dark and massive as it moved through the steam, broke off its charge and slipped away. Moka took this opportunity to run. She snatched her bundle of spears and sprinted for the nearest dwelling. With the shaking, adrenaline induced vigor that follows a near-death experience, she climbed up the roof and readied her atlatl. She waited with bated breath for the monster to reappear. It would not take long. The strong winds were already peeling away the topmost layer of steam with frightening speed.

The monster reemerged, lunging from the steam and shadows. By the time Moka turned to throw, its jaws were closing around the ogre-elder’s head. With a crunch, it ripped the elder’s head off, spraying its skeletal head with a bright, almost pleasant red. Three, maybe four, large bites later, the elder was gone, not even leaving a scream behind.

Moka adjusted her aim and let her spear loose. The skinwalker’s wounds re-knit with visible speed. It moved its joints in small circles, checking for any hitches. Moka’s spear took it in the side. The wind drowned the sound of sizzling flesh out.

The skinwalker flinched, then roared, the sound carrying more irritation than pain. It remained injured, but no longer hobbled. It yanked Moka’s splinter sized spear out of its fur with a palpable air of disdain. Healed or not, Moka’s spear distracted it long enough for it to make the mistake of ignoring the rampaging stone giantkin striding from the steam at its flank. The marble-skinned giantess had a shortened, jagged branch clutched in each hand. Azarus recognized the branches as the remains of the trap she set off.

Orestilla laid into the skinwalker with relish, unleashing a flurry of strikes that rocked it to the side with small bursts of light. Her expression was motionless, except for the brief sparkle of moisture in her eyes that caught the moonlight. She stabbed the creature with the jagged end of one branch, then began beating it with the other.

The creature, in pain and annoyed, lashed out with an arm longer than Orestilla was tall. With a vicious backhand, it sent her flying. She crashed against the embankment along the road, her upper torso lodging into the dirt. Greed sparkling in its sunken eyes, the skinwalker circled toward where she landed. It licked a bit of blood from its skull with its grotesque tongue, more resembling a spiked tube than a body part.

With a shrewd look, it smelt the air, then glanced toward Granon, its purpose not forgotten. Standing still, poised to pounce, it sang out in the Chieftain’s voice, warmth and kindness filling every word.

“Come, little one, enjoy the fun.”

Through the mirror, still bound by chains, Azarus could hear Granon’s strangled breaths. His chant was like the bubbling of a brook, soft and continuous. The words repeated until they all but lost meaning. He was shaking, his face buried in his hands as the others fought the creature.

“... die fighting, or die hiding…”

Five words repeated over and over until they were just sounds, only breaking when Granon was forced to seize another lungful of oxygen. The skinwalker looked in his direction for a long moment, all but preening. When Granon did not emerge, the skinwalker snorted and turned back to where Orestilla was leveraging herself out of the crater she’d made. She had used the branches to soften the blow. They had crumbled to smithereens in her hands, leaving her barehanded and defenseless. Smug and hungry, the skinwalker caught her attention, sharp teeth and long tongue gnashing. It held out an open claw, palm up, to the giantess. A sinuous shape lurked in the shadows behind it.

“I need fed. Shouldn’t you volunteer?”

Orestilla knelt down, keeping her eyes firmly affixed to the monster, and grabbed a handful of sawdust and splinters from the wreckage of her clubs. She drew up to her full height, looking up at the monster crawling on four legs, and spat.

“Come. Take a bite. I’ll teach you the meaning of indigestion.”

A sound like metal on metal rose from the skinwalker. Soft at first, then growing in volume and frequency. It shook its antlers and scraped its feet on the ground, doing a crude imitation of a charging bull even as it laughed at the giantess. With a sudden burst of motion, it flung itself forward, only to draw up short as Orestilla braced herself. The grating laughter grew louder as it taunted her. Again and again it feinted at her, mirth growing with each reaction it garnered. The game wore away at Orestilla’s already fraying nerves.

It charged again, pretended to feint, then lowered its head to gore her through the gut. Orestilla braced herself to take on the rush, one hand held out to grab the antlers, the other cocked back to deliver a splinter-filled punch. A single stride from contact, the skinwalker pulled up short, its chest slamming against the ground. Behind the monster, Zmei, the snake-elder, clung to the severed end of the rope tied to the creature’s ankle. His body, full of corded muscle, strained as he tried to haul the skinwalker back a step, toward where the final snare poked from the ground, its noose severed. He let loose with his lungs, roaring his unwillingness to allow the skinwalker to have its way to the heavens.

Before the skinwalker could whirl and pounce, Orestilla slammed her fist into its forehead, right between the horns, staggering it. Zmei dragged the creature another step, inching closer to the cut noose. The skinwalker braced itself and lashed out with its horns, scoring a multitude of cuts along Orestilla’s torso. Not waiting to finish the job, it pushed off the ground, grabbing and pulling the earth with its hands even as its back legs beat against the dirt like a drum as it raced toward Zmei.

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Faced with the sudden slack, Zmei sprinted toward the remaining snare, his sinuous form held low to the ground. His hands were a blur as he tried to tie the vines to the rope before he became the fuel that fully healed the skinwalker of its dwindling injuries.

Moka, perched on her rooftop, held her tense body in the throw position. Her lead arm pointed at Zmei, the giant who threatened to eat her, instead of the skinwalker. Chest rising and falling at a measured pace, she watched the giantkin struggle to make her last snare work. The skinwalker outpaced him by an order of magnitude, its long body stretching out as it launched off the ground with its legs and flung itself forward with its hands. Moka threw her spear, aimed straight for Zmei’s face.

Feeling the crater-inducing stride of death over his shoulder, Zmei gave up on the rope and lunged to the side, as quick as a snake. The skinwalker was quicker. Its teeth snapped closed on the space Zmei had occupied. However, dodging its jaws was not enough. Blood spilled as it caught Zmei, mid-air, with its grotesque, hand-like horns. He struggled to free himself, wriggling with all his might. The horns seemed to pull him deeper, causing him to wither at a visible rate.

Before the skinwalker could consume its meal, a spear took it in the eye. Moka allowed herself a small smile as she prepared her next throw. Purple and white light blossomed from the spear. The monster reared back in pain, standing on its hind legs as it cradled the burnt-out socket where its eye had been. Zmei cried in pain as the antlers wormed their way deeper into his flesh, the wind at that height tugging at his impaled form.

Orestilla, covered in blood and limping, grabbed the trailing rope tied to the skinwalker’s cloven hoof. With a mighty pull, she yanked its foot from beneath it. It fell with a thunderous crash, most of Zmei’s limp body dislodging from its antlers and tumbling to a stop against the sunken alley’s walls. One arm, torn from its socket, stayed, scale covered fingers clenching and unclenching as if the arm thought it was still part of a whole.

The skinwalker pushed off the ground with one hand and swung behind it with the other, its claws smashing into Orestilla’s hip and severing the rope in her hands. She crumpled like a doll. Her form collapsed as if boneless. Moka’s spear, a pinprick of shadow backlit by the low-hanging moon, caught the wind just right, twisting mid flight to slam into the monster’s empty socket. Her next spear, following close behind, was not so lucky. It smashed against the creature’s antlers, splintering in a burst of blue and white light.

The skinwalker growled, a wild and guttural sound. It shook its great antlers as if clearing its head, the bloodstains on its skull shimmering and wet in the moonlight. It half turned, protecting its eyes from the direction the spears came from. Nostrils flaring, it did a quick check of its enemies. Seeing that the two remaining giantkin that had attacked it were down and out, and its original prey still cowering, it gave a pleased but weary sigh. It reared back on to its hind legs again, its hunched form towering even taller without Granon’s father’s skin to contain it. With one claw covering its eyes, fingers parted just enough to allow it to see, it moved toward the spear-flinging goblin with calm, assured movements. After two steps, it reached its long arm down, barely even stooping as it used its free hand to support its still injured hip.

It spoke to Moka, its rasping voice a harsh contrast to its conversational tone.

“For all your courage, you can’t run.”

To her credit, Moka tried. She dipped to the side of one dwelling, then another, throwing spears at the approaching monster. It batted away any that got too close and ducked the rest. Basking in the afterglow of a successful hunt, the skinwalker chased Moka this way and that with lazy, almost careless movements. Its vast size advantage made overtaking the breathless goblin practically effortless.

When the spears became more infrequent, the skinwalker began to close in, taking slow swipes at Moka just to make her scurry away. It cut her off when she made a break for the mountain, then again when she tried to slip into the farmland and the forest beyond. Slowly but surely, it herded her back to Granon and its waiting larder.

Before long, the cat-and-mouse game made its way to the torn up site of the initial ambush. The skinwalker seemed to have a certain fixation on Granon. It wanted something from him. Azarus would bet his boots fear empowered the spirit. That thought made the god sigh, forming a breeze in the great hall that caused him to sway and the chains holding him to rattle. He was not enjoying being held aloft, forced to watch the scenes play out. The entity behind the screens had made a point after his near-successful attempt to break the Mirror of Eons.

The sigh was not out of defeat, or anything so drab. Instead, it was born from a sort of detached sadness. Azarus did not have anyone to bet with. It was a small emotion, considering the wrath broiling beneath the surface that threatened to consume him if he lost his grip on it. Still, it was the one that struck him as he watched the skinwalker corner Moka next to Granon. He wondered if Moka was feeling anything besides anger and helplessness. If she too was taken with a small thought in front of much greater challenges.

He did not know, nor did he have the resources to use [Through Mortal Eyes] to find out. All he could do was watch. Granon would die. Moka would fail the run and forget everything. The skinwalker would devour everyone in the village over time, then move on to new hunting grounds. And Azarus would be an impartial watcher, looking on from above. With every fiber of his being, he hated it. He hated watching and being able to do nothing. To see the world and not touch it. But, even if he could, he would not turn away. What else did he have?

So, Azarus watched and did nothing as the skinwalker backed Moka up, until she was bumping against Granon. She tried to fight back, of course. Moka did everything she could. It just wasn’t enough. Moka’s cries roused Granon, causing him to glance up. The blood drained from his face as he came face to face with the skinwalker’s barbed tongue. It hovered in front of him like a snake, waving back and forth as if to say hello.

Surprised, Granon lashed out at it on instinct. The skinwalker withdrew the appendage before his swing could come close. Its expression morphed into a contented smile as it saw Granon gain a bit of life. Granon, broken out of his despondent mental state, spotted Moka, clutching her last spear and judging the distance between her and the skinwalker’s face. His face lit up like he had seen hope.

“Moka! What do we do?”

Moka glanced at Granon, taking in his trembling hands and withdrawn posture. Biting her lip, she looked between him and the monster, who was patiently letting them talk.

“Pick me up and throw me at its bad eye.” She adjusted her grip on the sharpened wooden stick, pinning it between her elbow and body like a lance. “I’ll distract it. You run.”

Granon’s response leapt from his mouth before she even finished speaking, the words falling over each other as they tried to leave his mouth. The skinwalker sat on its haunches and licked its talons, waiting as Granon gathered his thoughts.

“I can’t let you die alone.”

Moka rubbed her temple with one hand. Azarus could see her visibly resist the urge to roll her ruby eyes, keeping them locked on the monster pretending to be a house cat.

“So, what?” Moka spoke through clenched teeth and a hard, tight-lipped smile. “You will die here with me cause you’re too scared to fight or run? You can’t even hurt it without something from your god’s shrine and you refused to bring the hammer.”

Granon rocked back on his heels, surprised by the vitriol. His face was blank for a moment, then he blinked rapidly a few times in succession, like he was waking up.

“I’ll hold it.”

Moka’s eyes darted from the skinwalker, who was doing a fantastic impression of a cat that got the cream, to Granon, who was gathering himself. Her brow furrowed and her jaw hung half open. She looked like she wanted to say something, her upper lip rising in a snarl. Then she swallowed her words and let her expression fall to neutral.

“Sure.” Moka stepped back to be closer to where Ganon was rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. “Why not? Throw me first, though.”

Azarus watched the improbable pair face an impossible challenge. As Granon faced his fear, regardless of how late he left that decision, Azarus’s domain burned like a wildfire inside him. Tongues of tri-color flame leapt from his skin, licking at the chains that bound him. His eyes were spinning rings of clear emerald, molten gold, and flowing tendrils of gray.

His concept was here. This scene, this moment of redemption and courage. It was him. This was his domain. It was on the tip of his tongue. There was a possibility, dangling in the back of his mind, that called to him. If he could find his name, his true self, then maybe he could break these chains and touch the fates held in balance. They should triumph. It resonated within him. He reached for it. His very self vibrated with his words.

“I am Azarus, god of-”

A screen chimed in Azarus’s face, cutting him off and displacing his train of thought. He chased the name he was about to speak, but it eluded him no matter how hard he tried. The screen blinked merrily at him, offering him what he desired in his time of need.

Purchase [Minor Miracle]

Reach through the mirror and touch the mortal realm.

Requirement Met: [Local Shrine]

Cost: 150 Divine Points.

Available Divine Points: 150

Azarus was a traveler and a warrior, but he was also a dealmaker. He knew the best time to get a deal was when offering something to the desperate. Coal cost the most during the depths of winter. That was when you could gain the highest price. If he had someone to bet with, he would bet that spending his Divine Points would hurt him far more than it aided him.

Alas, he was a gambling man, and the screens were his only company. He purchased the miracle.