“Stupid, stupid witch." Timothy groaned under his breath. Something loud was going down in the Deepshadow, different from the racing and crashing of Curgars, different from the revels of the fairies. The sound was foreign. Most things in the Deepshadow that weren’t giant, axe-horned bugs or annoying magical whatsits preferred to hunt in near-silence, Timothy included. But here it was, not far from the witch’s position, deep in one of the free-for-all hunting grounds of the Deepshadow. As if that weren’t bad enough, somebody was screaming, and he couldn't tell if it was a monster, a wild spirit, or worse, another person. Timothy swallowed hard. "Y’should know better than t’say that frass."
The wolf kindre had been fishing at the corner of his own territory, trying to scrape up some more supplies for the coming winter. What with the drought, to say it’d gone bad was an insult to badness. The Deepshadow was an old, thick forest, mostly of black-barked shatham trees, whose grey leaves (and magic) kept the sun away entirely. It was always pitch black under the canopy. The undergrowth was tangly and thick with roots, long vines, and a good number of magical, toxic, or otherwise dangerous plants. Normally, it was the kinda place that was almost too alive, a vast, trackless kingdom of life that all wanted you dead. But the drought’s heat and lack of rain baked the plants dry and thin this year, seeping through the canopy even if the harsh light didn’t. The berries had grown small and hard, his favorite mushrooms were thin and scraggly, and the fish monsters weren’t stopping to bite. The Loren still flowed, but many of its finger-creeks were low and dry.
His own small crops had come up brittle, and they weren't enough to last an entire winter. A winter which, he remembered glumly, would be even colder than this extended summer’d been hot. It always was, since the sun stayed out of these woods. If he wasn't stocked up by then… Well, he was already skinny as his walking staff. It wasn't any good complainin', he knew, but frass, did he want to. So he did, and he’d been dumb enough to say “The fishin’ today couldn’t get any worse.”
And then the screaming and yowling and bursts of rushing fire had started, replacing worries of surviving later with worries of surviving now! Outside of marked territory, it was anyone's guess what was going on. The witch was used to sneaking around, so darting from tree cover to tree cover was almost second nature. Of course, that only gave him time to think about the situation, and time to get more and more nervous. On the one hand, a new monster could be an ally… or better yet, he licked his fangs, food. On the other… The wolf gulped. The last thing he needed was another impossible jerk like the Nightmares, or the fairies, or— shudder— the Fae Eater. Actually, no, the last thing he needed was for some poor, dumb unfortunate sap to have lost themselves deep in a magic forest. Either way, Timothy had to know, and that meant he had to get in close, and worry all the while.
The witch’s stomach rumbled painfully. Aw, can it. Here in the Deepshadow's eternal night, staying quiet meant staying alive, especially when weird frass like this was happening. And anyway, the last thing he needed to remember was that he was running on thin rations of bark tea and whatever roots he could dig up. For a wolf kindre, this wasn't the kind of diet you could stay on for long. He’d been on it for a fortnight, and boy, was he starting to feel it. I better not hafta waste energy on magic to get outta this…
Suck it up, witch. He thought to himself, sternly. Plenty of lichen on the way. He was getting close now. He took a shallow, silent breath as he made one last run to cover, then a deep, steadying breath as he took his first good peek at the situation.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
And promptly lost that breath like he'd been punched in the gut. Frass! Timothy wasn't sure what to panic about first! He'd come to a small clearing. Well, clearing was relative, really, considering the Deepshadow made even this just a lighter shade of black. And now that he was up close, the sounds of the fighting hurt his ears. Timothy groaned inwardly at that-- they were gonna wake up acres of monsters at this rate, and he knew from experience that even the most sociable monsters got testy when they were woken up early.
At the foot of a tall shatham tree was the source of the snarling that scraped his ears out. An Humoganth-- a kind of smoke spirit that rose from the ashes of those who die in uncontrolled fire. It looked lean, hungry, and frayed around its edges so it occasionally just smoked away. It was a bad season for everyone, after all. Actually, he recognized it-- it was Crisp, one of the summer's new arrivals, from the fae eater’s last tantrum. They’d crossed paths— and claws— a few times, and having fought smoke cats before, he knew better than to tangle with one carefree. Of course, they knew that about him, too. The smoke cat hadn’t been hunting long enough to know just what it had made the mistake of hunting. Because its glowing red eyes were fixed on a young dragon, driven up a tree like a common woodmunk.
A dragon! There'd always been a part of Timothy that wanted to see a real one, and really examine them to see if they matched all the nasty stories the storytellers and old wolves told back west. It would be fascinating if they actually had “claws sharp and long as swords,” or “the strength to rip three men in half at a blow,” or “scales tougher than inch-thick steel plate!" Thing is, though, Timothy frowned, the little dragon didn't look like that at all! She was a common dragon, naturally, but too young for him to tell the breed. Really, she was a dainty little slip of a girl, no more than a puppy (er, did dragons call their young puppies?) and clearly terrified. Her scales were a salmony pink color, and while he couldn't tell how tough they were without borrowing one and takin' a rock to it, he figured she wouldn't need to run if her scales were true armor. Which meant the Humoganth would prolly chomp her and drain her life like juice from a berry if it got its claws on her. Not only that, but she was dressed as if she was going out to play, in bright yellow and blue! He tugged his braids. Why the heck are you wearing that! He mentally freaked, It’s like you WANT to be a monster’s lunch!
So, yeah, between that and the fact that the kid was covered in mud, dirt, and scratched up, and that he could smell her oddly spicy blood from here, the storytellers were clearly full of it, just as much as they’d been about him. Considering that they were kind of related, he’d always kinda figured as much. The wolf felt a sudden surge of sympathy for the dragoness; she probably didn’t deserve to be here, either. And she had to be pretty far from home. She's so tiny…
…Oh, frass! Timothy stifled a gasp. If he could smell her blood, so could the humoganth, any of its friends, and shadows knew what else around this forest! It stood out against the forest's earthier scents. Between that and the fact that she was spitting gouts of golden fire at the 'ganth, she had to be on the radar of every monster around by now. He respected the fight she was trying to put up despite smelling of terror, but her aim was dire. She was landing maybe within an axe’s length of her target each time, and it was barely bothering to dodge. Not that magic was a good way to fight these guys. At least her dragonfire wasn’t strong enough to set fire to the underbrush in a forest this powerful, drought or no drought.
Timothy pulled back behind the tree, suddenly less intrigued and way, way more nervous. What'm I gonna do? 'Ganths love playing with their food, but the minute Crisp gets bored, she's finished! She was scared, and alone, and clearly way, way in over her head. More than his fear of the situation, a kinda franticness overrode his mind.
She was just a kid!