Saul breathed, taking in the scents around him: pine, sharp, on the front; musk, the familiar human scent relaxing him. His journey through the woods today gave him no surprises, and he was thankful for that. He stepped along the game trail, when the wind changed, and new scents reached him: demon, and blood. He halted his steps and strung his bow, eyes glancing around for any movement in the forest. Forest-walker no more, warrior Saul once again. His steps focused, he heard a voice cry out, and his steps sped along the path. He spied an injured demon lying on a hillside, and he brought his bow up, looking for the glowing eyes, the lashing tail, the bared teeth.

The forest was empty, holding its breath. Whatever happened to the child -for it was a child, too; too small to be otherwise- their steps came from the north. From the lack of sound, if there were any other demons following behind, they were lost in the forest, or fell to the same enemy that hurt this one.

Saul relaxed imperceptibly, then looked at the demon seriously. Wearing something resembling sack-cloth, she bore numerous scrapes from fleeing something. Claw marks reached across her side, and she breathed with difficulty. He almost considered ending her suffering, but as her eyes opened, his hands stiffened. The chromatic glow from her eyes told a story of immeasurable hardship, and resignation to her fate. Saul took one look into those hard, fragile eyes, and before he was aware of it, he'd unstrung his bow, taken off his cloak, and moved her on top of it. He carried her back to his home, eyes taking in her wounds clinically, unaware of how her tail slid around his arm, and tightened, like an arm wrapped around his own. She passed out midway through moving her, horns falling onto his cloak, and Saul's footsteps quickened.

He'd taken this trail so many times, it was unconscious: across the creek through stepping stones, around the hill strewn with debris, along the short cliff to a dip in the earth, where his small cabin resided. The familiar scents of his home greeted him, but Saul moved without stopping. He shoved his door open and laid her on the smaller bed, checking her breathing: small, so small, but stable. He stepped out of his cabin to his fire out front, and set a clean pot over the fire, summoning water to it with a thought and a murmured word. Tossing clean bandages into the water, he stoked the fire until the water boiled, grinding up some purple mushrooms for a poultice. Setting the mush to the side, He pulled out the bandages from the boiling water, and coated one side with the purple pulp. Throughout the process, he glanced over at his new charge, and worried. Were there others? How far south had the demons gone, if he found one in his backyard? There were signs of worrying times ahead.

This was not a time to worry, however. This was a time for action - his action. Back into his small cabin, holding his purple-stained bandage, he laid it gently onto her clawed side. Even unconscious, she hissed in pain, her tail denting the wall with her thrashing. Unfazed, he wrapped it around her side, going back to gather the rest of the pulped mushroom from the pestle. A simple spot treatment for her scratches had the girl tense, then relax, as the mushrooms worked their magic.

Finally, his work done, he sat for a bit on the bed, watching her rest. Her chest rose and fell, her face twisting, perhaps from some half-remembered dream. He began preparing a broth, chopping tubers and some leafy greens for the boiling water outside, humming a soft tune.

It seems this day will be better than most, he thought. I could use the distraction.

---

She stirred slightly from her rest. The first thing she felt was fur, pressed to her cheek. She was warm, a fire crackling nearby, and a soft tune played on the wind. She opened her eyes, and saw a wooden room with two beds and a table with a chair. There was an open door, leading to a crackling fire and a hunched figure. As soon as she became aware of the man outside, she stiffened, then whimpered, a flash of pain coming from her bandaged side. She looked at the bandage in confusion, as the man turned around.

"You finally wake." He held out a bowl of stew, and her stomach let out a growl. He chuckled. "It's not good for a growing young woman to be so hungry. Please, eat."

She looked on with suspicion, glancing at the bowl, then at Saul. Saul made an eating motion, then pointed at the bowl. Her eyes noticed pieces of cooked rabbit inside the stew, and her entire demeanor changed: her tail stilled, her eyes focused, her hand reached out like a snake, foregoing the spoon for her hands, snatching and devouring the contents of the bowl in under a minute. Saul watched with no small amount of trepidation, relaxing as soon as over half the bowl was eaten. She could rest, now. After eating, she looked at him, the milk of the poppy already working its magic. She pointed to the bandage, clouded eyes looking into his own.

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"ʜučár." She murmured, before her heavy eyes slowly closed.

Saul didn't know what to make of it. He murmured words the dozing child probably didn't understand, and covered her with a blanket, before grabbing his bow and heading out. She had tried to warn him of something, he was sure; he would treat her words with the caution they were due. Whatever hurt her was still out there, and he would rather meet the beast on his terms.

His steps were sure, as he skirted the cliff toward where he found her. The quiet forest bore no birdsong to greet him, which was a troubling sign. He double checked the runes on his pointstick -undamaged, as he hoped- and he continued forward, hearing noise upwind near the clearing. He stilled, readying his bow. The smell was potent. Wolves. and not just any wolves; these were direwolves. Their height rose to his shoulder, dappled white coloring sticking out in the forest like a sore thumb. They seemed to be tearing into one of their own, and it wasn't hard to see why; from how their skin stuck to their ribs, he could see that they were run out of their hunting grounds.

Saul stilled at the edge of the clearing, bow at the ready. He had many questions, but now was not the time for asking them. Hungry direwolves meant desperation; he needed to be very careful how he approached them.

He was not worried, however, about being able to hurt them. He laid prone while the wolves gorged themselves on their kin, and pulled out his mage slayer, called "pointstick" by --but it doesn't matter. It was a little more than a meter long, and built from a flexible metal. The runes vibrated with energy when he charged them, mentally pointing to a wolf's eye, and another's head. He channeled mana into his muscles, rising and firing in one motion.

The arrow flew silently, piercing the first wolf through the eye, then turning and flying through the shoulder of another, as it jumped to the side. The wolves turned as one, their teeth bared and hackles raised.

He was struck again by how huge they were, as they began to circle him. He had a normal arrow nocked, eyes following their movements.

The largest one chuffed, and the two others turned to him. He looked at the man who so casually killed two of their kin, and shook his head once. The other direwolves grabbed a corpse each and left, moving towards the north. In a moment, the clearing was empty, save the corpse of a direwolf pup.

All the tension in Saul's muscles loosened. He still worried, though, about where the wolves came from. The mountains to the north were two days travel; those direwolves were displaced. There was only one thing past the mountains that could push them out of their homeland: demons. His mind went back to the child he left at home, and his hand tightened around his bow. Signs of an approaching storm.

That was a problem for tomorrow, though. He moved to the direwolf pup, and said their last rites, cutting a tuft of fur from the corpse for his own uses before burning the body as an offering. He said a silent prayer over the dead pup. Whatever watching over me, you have been kind. Here's the first of my gifts: a child who only knows of winter. Such things held powerful memories that can be used for his own purposes.

Back at home, the demon child was still asleep. He busied himself with preparing things for a child of her size: a pair of old pants and a small shirt were hemmed to a smaller length, and a new cloak was fashioned from some leather he had bought from a nearby settlement. He took some bright red thread he had kept in a waxed container and wove it along the edge, whispering words of encouragement, his mana trickling into the cloak. The stitching seemed to brighten, before changing into a deep gold. satisfied, he double-checked his preparations: pants, shirt, cloak. he even thought of making a small satchel with the leftover leather, before stopping himself.

Why am I doing so much? All this, for an unwanted child of hellspawn. He looked at her, sleeping fitfully on his bed, and saw all that he feared coming to pass. A human who only learned of fear would never know love. How much less could a demon understand, let alone one that lived life on the run?

A second memory stirred from within, and he staggered back, his hands clenched. A memory of soft words, light touches, and curious eyes. No, he wouldn't dare send this child on, not without some way to survive.

He killed the fire, stepping into his cabin, and took the larger bed for himself. With a final glance at his charge, sleeping soundly, he closed his eyes, and surrendered to sleep.

Tomorrow will be a better day.