10:25 PM, 2nd of December

<6 days, 21 hours, and 35 minutes until departure>

Tonight, like on any other night, Wolf hunted alone.

The mountain’s harshening winter had driven many a predator into hibernation and prey into hiding. Not only that, but much of the local fauna had also adopted a repertoire of evasive manoeuvres, understandably so after nigh on three decades of sharing the woods with the force of nature that was a retired Assassin and her assiduous appetite. It all forced Wolf to range far and wide—often miles away from her hut—in search of any signs of a straggling hare or an over-confident deer.

And even when she did find those signs, she first had to kneel in the snow, keep herself stock-still, and wait. Just as she did now, as a young fallow buck fidgeted in the periphery of her [WILD SENSE]. The thing must’ve thought itself so clever, having snuck out in the dead of night for an acorn snack and a peek at his own reflection upon a frozen pond. Wolf couldn’t rightly blame him, neither for his youthful carelessness, nor for his narcissism. Even she could admit that his were one of the more impressive sets of antlers she’d ever seen.

No, she wouldn’t begrudge a young buck his moment of self-admiration, but she did wish he’d hurry it along. These long hunts—and the long waits in between—were getting to be a little hard on a sexagenarian’s creaky joints… even if said sexagenarian had once been Franzmark’s deadliest Assassin. Regardless, Wolf knelt in the snow and did her best to ignore the burning in her knees, as she waited for her prey to let its guard down and wander into her domain of death.

A shift in the periphery of Wolf’s senses. The outward simmer of a young beast’s zest for life.

This was the moment she’d been waiting for. Wolf slowly opened her eyes, tuning down [WILD SENSE] and letting her sight take the reins. She directed her gaze toward a clearing amidst the silver fir thicket, a patch of translucent snow untouched by hooves and bathed in moonlight. First, a set of antlers—one of the more impressive Wolf had ever seen—poked into the clearing, soon followed by the buck himself, all but bouncing as he lost himself to the night. Wolf’s long period spent in [STILLNESS], as unkind as it’d been on her knees, had nevertheless erased her presence from the buck’s conscious awareness. Now, it was simply a matter of following his unsuspecting progress across the clearing, until he rejoined—

[SHADOWBREAK].

At the exact moment when a young deer sauntered into the darkness of a silver fir thicket, the kneeling figure of a sexagenarian retired Assassin vanished into the same continuous shadow that was shared between them. Wolf ‘reappeared’ a fraction of a second later, first as a gauntleted left arm that wrapped around and secured the buck’s neck, followed by a right hand that held a knife against its throat. Then this knife plunged into flesh, catching windpipe, gullet, vein, and artery onto its blade, before it cut across the base of the jaw with a savage jerk, spilling hot blood, along with the life that faded in an instant.

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Through it all, the buck put up no fight. How could he have, when all he’d seen, smelled, and felt were shadows? His lifeless head now sagged toward the ground, lowering his antlers for one last imagined duel. There’d been no pain and no fear. Wolf had made sure of that. For a quick painless death was the best a retired Assassin could offer in return for a nourishing meal.

The hardest part—the waiting—was over. As such, Wolf raced through the rest of her night with practiced efficiency. Field dressing, repacking her load, then the long trek back to her hut on the other side of Marmot Creek. This portion of the trip, about fifteen stone heavier than when she’d departed (the antlers hadn’t been the only impressive thing about her latest kill), also proved plenty irksome for her arthritic knees. But Wolf, unlike many she’d formerly shared a profession with, much preferred moving over keeping still.

However, as she crossed the creek on a rickety log bridge and neared her residence of nigh on thirty years, she was forced to slow her steps and check her anticipation of a hearty dinner. For even though Wolf hunted and lived alone, as she’d done on all the nights before this for thirty years, she presently saw that her hut was lit from the inside.

Wolf had company. An unexpected one.

Whoever it was, they clearly didn’t fear discovery. Either that, or they were counting on the fact that the hut’s occupant had every intention of returning to it. In any case, they’d left clear footprints on the snow, enough of them for Wolf to ascertain that the uninvited visitor was alone. A woman—judging from the size and shape.

Slowly and quietly, Wolf lowered her pack onto the ground beside her, then slid her knife out of its scabbard. Unencumbered, she moved toward the wooden entrance, step by creeping step. And try as she might, she failed to settle her own heart in [STILLNESS].

Thirty years. Thirty years of solitude. Of escape. Of hiding. Of waiting.

For Wolf knew now, as surely as she’d known it all along, that she’d long expected this visitor to arrive, tonight of all nights. Perhaps had even willingly extended an invitation, simply by virtue of having chosen the uncharted forests of Shved Mountain as her hiding place.

Yet, despite her growing realization, Wolf nevertheless readied her knife as she pushed open her door. For just because her invitation had been answered, it said nothing of the disposition in which she might find her guest.

The door swung open. The visitor stood and turned from the hearth. The woman had already helped herself to tea, and she took a small sip from the mug, even as she looked Wolf up and down with a pair of eyes that shimmered with reflections of flame and sharpness of wit. Eyes framed by strange wrinkles and a familiar visage: so arresting, so alluring—even after thirty long years.

The woman then lowered her mug to reveal a playful smile, one framed by strange wrinkles and familiar angles. Seeing this, Wolf in turn lowered her knife, along with a defeated sag of her shoulders.

And just like she had on many other nights entirely unlike tonight, she waited for the woman to speak first.

“Hello, Wolfhilde,” the woman said in a silky voice that hadn’t changed in thirty years.

“Hello, Eddie,” Wolf replied in a gravelly whisper that was unfamiliar even to herself.