The bright morning sun beamed down on a cloudless sky, the remnants of the previous night's winter storm nowhere to be seen. The sunlight danced on the fresh snow, making it glimmer like a sea of diamonds. The pristine stillness of the winter wonderland was broken by footprints, trailing one behind the other.
A father and his young son trudged through the knee-high snow, the crunch of their boots echoing in the still air. Slung across their shoulders were their arcanic repeaters. The guns shimmered faintly from a small crystal, housed within a cracked glass sphere, embedded in the scuffed wooden stock of the rifle, pulsing a faint blue arcane glow. The runes inscribed from butt to muzzle beat along in rhythm with the crystal.
The boy, a cloudborn like his father, tucked his shivering blue hands into his elbows as he turned the hood of his cloak tighter against the breeze. The stinging cold pricked his nose, but he tried not to let it show. He kept his chin up, daring the wind to bow its frosty whisper, then quickly retreating into the warmth of his hood when it obliged.
The father seemed unfazed by the biting chill, preferring to keep his head unhooded to better hear his surroundings. His white hair and ashen-blue skin blended with the muted tones of the cloak, making him look like a figure carved from the frost-covered landscape. He glanced back at his son, his sharp gaze catching the boy's hunched posture and the pale tint of his blue skin. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he pursed them, releasing a soft stream of air in his son's direction.
The gentle puff of wind swelled into a howling, playful gust, whipping the hood off the boy's head and making him stumble backwards. Arms flailing, the boy barely managed to stay upright and kept from falling backward into the snow. The hunter turned his back, hiding a grin as he feigned obliviousness to his prank.
With a soft "humph", the boy tugged his hood back over his head, his breath forming a cloud in the icy air. He drew in a deep lungful, pursed his lips, and exhaled with all his might, trying to summon a gust of air towards his father. The effort was futile. The feeble puff fizzled out the instant it left his lips, failing even to stir a loose thread on the hem of his father's cloak. From up ahead, the low rumble of his father's chuckle reached him, warm and amused, carrying easily through the stillness.
"You alright back there, Gola? Can't have you gettin' blown around by the wind," the father asked, no longer masking his amusement, "if we need to rest, you just give me the word, we can fill your pockets with stones to keep you from flyin' off."
Gola scowled, hunching his shoulders against the cold, not noticing his father had slowed his pace to walk alongside the boy, providing a shield from the biting wind. The boy clenched his pale hands beneath his cloak, trembling despite his best effort to hide it, "I'm fine, dad," he mumbled through chattering teeth, "I don't need you to keep asking if I'm okay every five minutes."
The father chuckled again, his breath curling in the air like a lazy ghost, "as you wish, bud. Not much longer now anyway. We'll check the trap on the ridge, then the one past it, and we'll stop for the day. Maybe we'll get lucky and find somethin' worth shootin'."
From beneath the hood, Gola let out an audible sigh, his feet coming to a stop, "can't we just skip them? They're probably empty like all the others."
The father, not slowing his march, shook his head, his tone firm but not unkind, "we can't take that chance. If there's something caught, that's a meal and money we can't afford to lose."
Their conversation drifted into silence as they pressed on, the rhythmic crunch of their boots and the tap of their arcanic repeaters against their backs filling the quiet. The faint glow of the rifle's runes was barely noticeable now, dimmed by the daylight but still steady, like the pulse of the snow-covered world around them.
The pair reached the foot of a hill, its long incline stretching upward, crowned with trees that stood like sentinels at its peak. The father paused, kneeling beside his son in the snow. He reached out, gently pulling back the hood of Gola's cloak to get a better look at his face, his sharp gaze softening as he studied him. The high cheekbones and pointed ears that hinted at his mother's elvan heritage, paired with the white hair, and striking blue eyes that mirrored his own.
"I know it's tough, son," the father said, his voice warm as he placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "How 'bout this? I'll check the trap on the ridge, and you take the one by the boulders. After that, we head straight home. Hot chocolate and a warm fire. Deal?"
Gola blinked, his eyes widening, "you want me to check the Hollow's trap alone," he asked as he glanced up at the hill before them, the forest seemed taller and darker than it had moments before now, "what if. . .what if there's something caught in the trap? And alive?"
"Ah," the father said with a chuckle as he reached behind Gola and tapped the rifle on his shoulder, "I've shown you where to aim for every animal that can get caught in those traps."
"But... what if it's a bear?" Gola stammered. "You never showed me how to shoot one of those. I heard not even a grim cluster bullet can kill them."
"If it's a bear, you yell for me and fire as many hex wards as you can into that bear. I'll handle the rest," the father said with a reassuring smile. "You're stronger than you think, son"
Gola took a long calming breath as his father patted him on the shoulder, lingering long enough to make sure the boy felt it. The boy's fingers brushed the worn grip of his repeater, its weight suddenly heavier on his shoulders, hesitating for just a moment before he nodded. His father returned the nod, his calm demeanor as steady as the mountain around them. With a final pat on Gola's shoulder, he turned and trudged up the incline, his footsteps creating a new diverging path in the snow.
Gola watched him go, the distance between them stretching with every step. The boy adjusted the position of his bandolier as he swung the rifle off his shoulder. Turning toward the slope, he forced his legs to move. Each step through the unbroken snow felt slow, deliberate, and jarringly loud against the stillness of the forest. The trail of his father disappeared into the trees, leaving Gola alone with the whispers of the wind. As he climbed, he kept glancing back, his father's reassuring figure shrinking in the distance until he was gone. The forest now felt larger. Quieter. The thought of unseen eyes watching him began to creep into his mind, but he shook it away and pressed onward up the hill.
The climb grew steeper as he neared the top. Twice, he slipped on patches of hidden ice, catching himself with one hand and murmuring some words he wouldn't let his father hear. The trees thinned as he neared the crest, their black silhouettes stark against the glimmering snow. Reaching the top, Gola stopped, his breath puffing in short, visible bursts. He rested his hand on his knee, scanning the terrain below. The trap wasn't far now. Just down the hill.
From the peak of the hill, Gola gazed down into the snow-covered valley beneath him like a painting. At its heart lay the rock formation known as Giant's Hearth, a site that he was familiar from the stories from his village. Massive, weathered boulders stood in a perfect circle, each one towering twice his height and as wide as the trunk of a mature oak tree. Surrounding them were taller, narrower stones with jagged tips pointing skyward, like ancient sentinels looming over a long-forgotten secret.
The aetherborn believed the Hearth was once a campsite of the long-extinct hill giants, with the stones serving as their seats around a fire that had burned bright in an age of myth. It was a story that the adults would tell the children around bonfires, filling them with fear and awe of tales of courage and survival in the shadow of looming, grotesque giants. Investigators from the Arcane Syndicate had visited long ago, scouring the site for traces of arcane resonance or physical evidence. Their verdict had been abrupt: no giants, no magic of note. Just rocks. The villagers still held firm to their beliefs, however.
Gola wasn't sure what to believe. He had grown up hearing the tales, but standing here now, in the eerie stillness pressing down on him, he felt the weight of something unspoken. He imagined shadows of giants lingering at the edge of his vision, just out of sight. He paused, his breath curling in front of him as he scanned the scene below.
The forest around him seemed unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence that could either comfort or unnerve. No rustle of leaves, no bird calls, not even the faint whisper of a breeze. Just stillness. Gola strained his ears, holding his breath. He caught the faintest sound of snow shifting somewhere to his left. His heart leapt, and his hand darted to his bandolier. But before he could draw a bullet, a familiar voice cut through the stillness, echoing towards him.
"Gods-damn this ice!", his father barked, the frustration carrying clearly through the air.
Gola exhaled, a soft smile breaking across his face. A flicker of courage sparked in his chest, warming him like a tiny flame. If he could hear his father this clearly, from this distance, then his father would surely hear him if anything went wrong. He wasn't truly alone.
With renewed resolve, Gola grasped the repeater firmly, racking the finger guard down and out with a sharp deliberate motion. The faint hum of the weapon deepened, resonating with latent power. From his bandolier, he retrieved three hex ward bullets. Their black, obsidian-like tips gleamed sharply in the sunlight, while the spiral etches along their casings shimmered a faint sickly green, alive with stored arcane energy. One by one, he slid the bullets into the loading port, their snug fit accompanied by a metallic click.
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Positioning the rifle against his knee for added leverage, he pulled the finger guard back into place with a satisfying snap, the resistance of the mechanism forcing his muscles to strain briefly. The weapon responded instantly; its runes glowed brighter, their pulsing rhythm quickening like a heartbeat, as though the rifle itself was eager, waiting for the moment it would unleash its power.
With a steady breath, Gola approached the edge of the peak, the chill of the air sharp against his face. He slid one boot forward, cautiously assessing the snow-packed ground before shifting his weight. The slope was unforgivingly steep, with patches of ice lurking beneath the thin crust of the snow. Each step was deliberate, his boots pressing firmly into the powder as he ensured his footing was secure before moving again.
He would not falter like his father. Not here, not now. Determination hardened his resolve with every careful stride. Yet, despite his growing confidence, his grip on the repeater remained firm, his fingers brushing the glowing runes etched into its stock. The weapon was both a comfort and a warning, its familiar weight in his hands a reminder to stay vigilant. As he descended, his eyes darted toward Giant's Hearth below, searching for any flicker of movement among the ancient stones.
On the far side of the ridge, the hunter leaned heavily against a tree as he muttered swears in the tongue of the wind as he wrestled with the stubborn straps of his boot. Clumps of snow tumbled from his white hair and melted into icy rivulets against his skin, sending shivers along his spine. With a grunt and a twist, the boot popped free from his foot, tipping the boot to let a cascade of packed snow fall like a frozen waterfall onto the forest floor. The cold bit his numb toes, but he ignored the discomfort as he took the edge of his cloak and reached inside the boot to dry the sole, all the while keeping his sharp eyes on the forest around him.
Though the woods greeted him with stillness, there were small signs of life that appeared. To his left, no more than twenty feet away, a cardinal hopped through the snow, its bright red feathers a vivid spark against the endless white. Ahead, a squirrel darted up a tree trunk, claws scrabbling against the bark before it disappeared into the higher branches. The hunter's gaze wandered towards the direction where he had set the animal trap earlier in the week, nestled between the roots of a sprawling oak.
And there, some thirty or so feet away from the oak, a disturbance in the snow.
For miles, the forest floor had been a pristine canvas, untouched and unbroken, but here the snow was churned into chaotic patterns. From this distance, he could make out deep, overlapping gouges that marred the otherwise untouched expanse with mud and debris.
With a small hum of curiosity, he stuffed his foot back into the damp boot. His hand went to his repeater, pulling it free from his shoulder. With practiced ease, he loaded a hex ward bullet and kept the rifle at the ready as he crept closer. His breathing slowed; his ears attuned to every sound now. He could hear the skittering of the squirrel to his right and the soft pecks into the snow from the cardinal to his left as his own footsteps grew lighter and quieter, drawing closer to the trail.
As he neared the edge of the churned snow, the details began to sharpen. The Hunter began to pick out tracks from animals that he could make out and a story began to unfold before him. The tracks of a herd of deer leapt out first, hooves gouged deep into the ground, their erratic paths hinting at blind panic. The desperate flight caused them to careen into one another and into the trees of the forest, scattering splinters and shards of bark in every direction. Nearby, smaller tracks wove in frantic patterns. Rabbit paw prints crossed and doubled back, the wide gaps between their leaps revealing a desperate flight. Whatever caused this stampede had driven these creatures into a chaotic retreat. Yet no predator's tracks followed. No wolves, no foxes, not even the tires of a Heglig that some people would ride out here.
The hunter's brow furrowed as unease settled in his chest. He paced the perimeter of the disturbed snow, scanning for answers. His eyes flicked toward where the tracks thinned and scattered farther downhill, but the same nagging question remained: what had frightened the animals so badly?
He stepped towards the trail's end, his boots crunching slightly against the crust of snow. Farther down he could find a clue, a shadow, a mark, anything that could explain. . .
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The sharp report of rifle fire shattered the stillness of the forest, its echoes reverberating like thunder down the hill followed by a whistle of the spells breaking free of their capsules, freezing the Hunter in his steps. Then came Gola's voice, high-pitched and panicked, carried down the slope in a trembling cry that cut through the air. The trail of tracks was forgotten in an instant. The hunter's heart seized with fear as he spun on his heel and broke into a full sprint up the hill.
Each stride was faster than the last, his cloudborn heritage allowed him to cut through the air as if it were not there. The adrenaline, coursing through his veins, made his eyes open even more as he felt he could find the best possible places to land his foot to spring up towards the peak of the hill. He tore his cloak free from his shoulders and let it tumble to the ground to unburden his movement as he sprang up the hill.
He reached the crest of the hill in seconds, his momentum propelling him into the air. For a fleeting moment, he soared over the crest of the hill and twenty feet back down the other side. The world tilted as he began to lose balance, but he tucked his knees to his chest and braced for impact.
The snow hit him with an icy jolt, it's frigid embrace the only way he could tell what was up and what was down, but he let himself roll with the momentum. His body tumbled through the powder, the cold stinging his face as the world became a blur of white and motion. Then, with practiced precision, he kicked off the ground mid-roll and launched himself forward once more, regaining his footing in a single fluid motion.
As he leapt into the air again, his eyes darted towards the Hearth below. He could not see Gola, but faint whips of green smoke curled upward behind one of the massive boulders. A surge of dread tightened his chest as he felt the pull of gravity draw him back toward the ground. He hit the slope hard, driving his leading foot forward into a controlled slide. He tucked his other foot underneath him to stabilize his descent as the snow hissed beneath him. With one hand he racked the repeater, emptying the hex ward bullet from the chamber; while with the other he reached into his bandolier and pulled a single blood-red bullet out. The etchings along its tip gleamed faintly as he shoved it into the loading port and racked the lever back to the stock, locking the bullet into the chamber, ready to fire.
The hunter reached the shadowed circle of the Giant's Hearth, the arcanic repeater raised and glowing softly with a steady, ominous red. The runes along its surface pulsed in rhythm with his quickened heartbeat. His boots crunched against the snow as he wove between the massive stones, his eyes darting through the white of the snow and the black of the boulders. His breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale visible in the freezing air.
"Gola? GOLA!" he yelled out in desperation. "Where are you?"
A weak, trembling voice answered, barely audible above the pounding of the hunter's heart, "h-here!"
He rounded one of the boulders into the center of the Hearth. There, slumped at the base of one of the spherical boulders was his son. Gola sat motionless; his wide eyes transfixed on something in the distance. His repeater lay in the snow just to his side, the spent casings of the bullets he fired melting small holes in the frost with steamy sizzles.
The hunter rushed to his side, sliding to his knees just in front of him. His hands moved with frantic precision, checking Gola's jacket and cloak for any sign of injury while pressing the boy with panicked questions, his voice coming fast, sharp, and unrelenting.
"What happened, son? Are you hurt? What did you see? Why did you shoot? Is there something here?" His words tumbled one over another, each question more urgent than the last. "Answer me, Gola!"
Gola didn't answer. He kept staring forward, not even casting a glance at his father. His face was pale, his lips slightly parted, and his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His eyes were fixed on something behind the hunter. Fear mingled with a strange awestruck wonder in his gaze.
Slowly the boy raised his hand and pointed with a shaky finger. his voice was barely a whisper, "behind you."
The hunter slowly raised his repeater to his shoulder, the red glow illuminating the snow around him. Each movement was slow and deliberate as he turned to face whatever might be lurking behind him. He swung around with his rifle, ready to fire straight and true, when his eyes caught something unexpected. The muzzle of the rifle wavered, then lowered slightly as confusion replaced his readiness to shoot.
In the shadow of one of the jagged stones that stood guard over the Hearth, sat a pale figure - not a beast or monster, but a man. No not quite a man. His features hinted at elven blood, the slightly pointed ears peeking out from his raven-black hair. He was slumped awkwardly against the stone, his head tilted forward so that his chin rested against his chest.
The hunter's eyes swept over the man, his piercing eyes piecing together the surreal sight. Despite the frigid temperatures, the man was nude, save for the snow burying his legs and the frost forming along his limbs, his pale skin almost matching the snow he lay in. However, it wasn't this state of undress that drew the hunter's breath to catch his throat.
Crowning his head, where hair and scalp should have met, were antlers. Not a decorative crown or a headdress, but ashen, bone-like antlers, their eight points sharp and elegant, protruding from just above and behind his ears. They looked like those of a woodland stag, not to a man.
The hunter began to creep closer, slowly, and cautiously, the repeater lowered but still at the ready. Behind, Gola was starting to overcome his own shock and slowly rose to his feet to follow, his eyes darting between the man and his father.
No blood stained the pristine snow around him. No wounds. No sign of attack, save for three blackened scorch marks on the stone behind him, just inches from his flesh - Gola's panicked shots. The hunter glanced back at his son, briefly wondering how the figure hadn't been struck.
Closer now, the more he studied the man's stillness. His chest showed no sign of rise or fall, his limbs slack. Now the hunter was just inches from the man, the sunken hollows beneath his closed eyes and the gauntness of his face told of starvation, exposure, and exhaustion.
"Is... .is he dead, dad?" Gola's voice was small, afraid of the answer from his father.
The hunter slowly reached forward and cupped the man's bearded cheek, gently lifting his head with care to see his face fully. Though lifeless-looking, there was a strange beauty to man’s features--sharp and delicate, otherworldly, yet unmistakably worn by hardship.
"Stay back, Gola," the hunter ordered softly, his tone grave.
He pressed his hand against the man's chest, feeling nothing but the chill of his frozen skin, which sapped all warmth from the hunter's hand. Desperate, he leaned closer, placing his ear near the man's mouth, straining for even the faintest whisper of breath.
There! A flutter that would have been drowned out by the gentlest of breezes, but a soft exhalation that brushed against the hunter's ear, nonetheless.
The hunter's heart surged as he whipped around, a fierce and urgent expression upon his face, "Gola give me your cloak! NOW!"
The boy flinched at the sudden shout from his father. He fumbled with the clasp of his cloak as he scrambled to comply.
"W-what's wrong, dad?" Gola asked, confused, and scared as he handed over his cloak.
The hunter shrugged off his own coat and wrapped it tightly around the man's frail body, pulling Gola's cloak free and layering it over as well. His movements were brisk, his focus unyielding.
"What's wrong?" Gola repeated, his voice shaky with fear and confusion.
The hunter looked up at his son, his face hard with resolve but his eyes betraying the weight of the moment. He replied, his tone sharp with urgency.
"This man is still alive."