It must’ve been summer that day. The sun beamed high in the sky as it always did, beaming its baleful gaze down upon the backs of the humble Iberii fishermen of Costa Verde. The air reeked of salt and ash, with the former hailing from the sea breeze down to the south, barely just warding off the latter as clouds and specks of Ash attempted to worm it’s way past the tiniest crevices of the Great Divide to the east.

The scent of ash, however, was all the more stronger today. Fortunately, there were no Ashstorms to speak of; Merely fires, and the things that burn and fade so easily beneath its covetous fingers.

There was a village here once, just a few ways off the shore. Every morning, its residents would be greeted by the sound of the waves and the endless waters that stretched far on from the horizon. Despite what the laymen and the scholars might say, the sea was a colorful, whimsical beast. In the noon, it would’ve been dyed with deep soulful hues of blues and greens as it beckoned the fishermen over to go beyond the horizon, the waves gently foaming and lapping away at their heels while they loaded themselves and their gear into their rickety old skiffs.

Come dusk, they would find themselves sailing home as the sun sets to the west, dying the emerald seas red with the gleam of burning rubies as the day slowly recedes and gives way to the cold sapphire hues of the night.

In the distance, they would see their homes; Houses lining the shores as open windows glimmered as though they were the stars through which the old, weary fishermen would chart themselves home.

But today was different, yes.

The sky was blue as it could’ve been, peeking through the pillars of thick, black-ish smog as the scent of burnt meat lingered softly in the air, making stomachs gargle, twist, and churn in equal measure as a singular man—unexceptional in every way, swung his harpoon at the air with wild abandon, fending off beast after beast, though he found it quite difficult to actually hurt them.

He had poor form; With each and every one of his swings a bit too wide, almost toppling himself over in no small part due to his poor footing. Perhaps he would’ve been a better fighter out at sea, where the boats and ships rocked uneasily in tandem with the waves, but alas, on still grounds and crumbling sands, he was only slightly better than a flailing child.

But if there was one thing he was proud of, it would’ve been his body. Built and scarred with the days and years he had spent out at sea; Arms stocky with muscle built from casting and heaving nets day after day, hour after hour. The skin of his hands thick and calloused from handling roughly hewed wood and rope. All that time and effort couldn’t have been for nothing, no? How could it fail him now, when he needed it the most?

But the truth was that he didn’t need his strength now, as much as he did just then. How long ago, he was not quite sure. Every second seemed to stretch on to agonizing eternity and he found himself lost: Here, vision blurry from the sweat and tears as his extremities burned from either exertion or actual burns. He did not know. He could not tell, as all that echoed in his head was the sound of his own grunts and yells as he swung and brandished his weapon against anything the beasts that strayed just a bit close.

Wolves. Wolves, and more wolves. All come crawling to this burnt heap of a hamlet in search of easy meals after the fires had done most of the bloody work. Homes, lay battered and in flames as these scoundrels dug and dragged the charred corpses of his neighbors from the debris out into the open, smearing their black-red viscera into the sandy ground as skin and muscle, embrittled and cooked by the fires, broke before the force of the beasts' bite and pull. He saw one corpse have stomach crack open like an egg after a wolf had attempted to pull it out of a collapsed shed, and it barely even took seconds for the rest of the pack to jump into the bloodied trail to bite, gnaw, and tear at the spilled entrails.

The fisherman balks, almost throwing up, but even his instincts seemed to know all-too-well the price of distractions in his current situation. The only reason he had not been swarmed and quartered by these horrid ravenous beasts was the presence of easier meat, and for as long as he could hold his harpoon tightly in his hands and other bodies remained, he would remain safe.

And more importantly, his family would be as well.

He stood alone in front of his rickety old shack, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a measly harpoon in his hands, dulled and rusted from excessive use, recent or otherwise. Much of his home had collapsed, much like the rest of the houses that comprised this ruined little hamlet, and perhaps the only reason the entirety of his home did not go up in flames was in no small part due to the damp salty air that pushed up from the shores of the coast. For that, he was thankful, but given that his house was slightly uphill in comparison to the rest of his village, the stench of fresh blood, cooked meat, and spilt viscera mixing in with the brine of the warm sea breeze almost felt unbearable against the hairs of his nose.

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A wolf slowly approaches from the fisherman's side—Thin, gangly, and sickly. It had apparently gotten tired of squabbling with the rest of its kindred and would rather take its chances with the worn down man. It keeps itself and its ears low to the ground, baring its teeth with a growl in an open display of challenge. One that he answered heartily with another yell and a threatening stab of his weapon, to which it seemed to retreat a step, but did not seem all to pleased with the rather wary but impassioned reception.

It lunges—swiftly, though not swift enough that the man was wholly unprepared. He steps back with his right foot, narrowly dodging the attack with just enough time and presence of mind to retaliate by swinging his harpoon downwards where the hook of the makeshift blade burrows and latches itself beneath the wolf’s skin. The fisherman feels resistance, his weapon almost flying out of his hands as the beast’s momentum instantly bled unto the harpoon, but before he could even think, his reflexes kick in.

He holds fast, reeling the harpoon backwards as though it were a rod with a particularly stubborn catch; He tears it free from the wolf’s pelted skin, eliciting a sharp yelp and a splash of crimson, glimmering as it drew an elegant, haphazard arc in the air while the man finds himself almost frozen in time.

He can barely hear the sound of his own heart but even still, he could feel its incessant rush, urging him to move—however, whenever, as long as he did something. Anything else but stand still.

Sluggishly, with the pace of a snail leaving trails of slime behind as it crawled up the surface of a seaside rock, inch by agonizing inch, he watches as the wolf fumbles its landing, too distracted by the pain of the newly earned wound by its side; A splash of pink in the otherwise grays and browns furs of this matted feral beast. It falls, stumbling disgracefully onwards before crashing against the closest wall; The house of his annoying drunkard of a neighbor who always had something to drink, even in spite of the protestations of the drunkard's wife who was always just a few steps away from snapping and getting sick of his antics.

Did they make it?

The fisherman didn’t know. There was so much that he didn’t know. He didn’t have the time to think, however, as the ruckus the wolf had made somehow echoed clearly through the crackling of fires and the ravenous tearing of flesh. Every wolf perks their heads up, and finds their eyes suddenly fixed at him. Those that had their meals secured remained silent, mostly uncaring as they soundlessly resumed chewing on their meals, but there were those have-nots that have either run out of flesh to gorge themselves upon or were simply too slow to catch themselves a few bites before they were subsequently scared away by their larger, better fed kin.

Ah.

Death has come for him. He could hear it now, the galloping of its trusty steed’s heels rapidly encroaching upon him as the wolves did the much the same, only at a slower pace. The beasts’ ears drawn back, teeth laid bare by feral wrathful scowls. But just as the first beast began to make its move, the fisherman catches movement in the corner of his eyes. A shadow swiftly looms over him, arms raised in the air in the impression of a beheading swing aimed at his neck—just in tandem with the lunging of a wolf from another one of his flanks—

Ah.

Ah.

Ah.

Nothing comes to mind. Only silence, and the distant crackling of a hearth, still echoing in his ears. A dull weight presses itself upon his eyelids, breath shallow while his extremities burned with exertion. Exhaustion. There was no other word for it. All his courage, all his determination, suddenly vanished with the wind. Like bubbles foaming at the shore, bursting without a trace as the tide recedes back into the ocean.

It has left him.

His lungs squeeze once again, out of dread and resignation, though there was barely enough time for a sigh to escape the sore confines of his throat. And then—

*Bang!*

*Whine!*

He hears it. The sounds send him recoiling slightly backwards as a burst of air slams against his sides, but strangely, he feels no pain. He could still feel the soles of his slippered feet press his weight against the ground while his skin simmered and boiled with the warmth of his pumping blood—the sensation only mildly tinged by the prickling of frayed nerves and cold sweat.

The fisherman opens his eyes, and he winces once again—the bright flickering of fires overwhelming against the thin film of dried mucus that coated his bloodshot eyes, but even then, he could see it. A blurry silhouette in the faint outline of a steed, somehow not quite as pale and ephemeral as he had been told. Instead an earthy brown, like freshly tilled soil or the shade of newly waxed wood.

And riding this steed was not the gauntly pale figure wrapped in the rotten black fabrics he had heard from the stories, but rather, a silver, shimmering thing cobbled together in the loose shape of a man. THEY held not a scythe in their outstretched arm, but a staff, fashioned into the shape of a thin, elongated cross; Not of rotten wood and rusted iron, but of stone, judging by the ways in which the staff refused to glisten and glimmer before the raging flames of his burning hamlet.

But above all that, what the man found most notable of all, was the image of a wolf, sent sailing through the air as specks of blood, fang, and broken bone scattered all over.

"Nolie timere, rusticus."

"Nam adfui."