A Shadow Stretches

Spirits, as Evelyn explained, were the congealed thoughts of everything in the world and frankly, it was a complicated affair.

The [Gray Blobs] that I had previously gathered with care had as much worth as an actual rock — good enough for building materials but rather lacklustre. They dreamt of nothing but the slumbering idea of their existence, imprinted on by other passing minds such as wild animals and humans. As a result, all that they were capable of was floating around, crawling together to do what they had done in life: Nothing, or the next best thing possible: pretend to still be what they were. While they could theoretically gain sentience, it would be the same as teaching a rock to appreciate art, improbable due to their fundamental incapability.

The ones that I would lump into these Lesser Spirits would be the [Blobs], [Green Worms] and whatnot. The [Deers]... were something else, more akin to Ghosts than Spirits that were scrapped together, something that was the remnant of an actual soul, even though they had this almost-crystalline [Soul Stone] within them. That was the crucial difference, I believe. Ghosts once existed, and Spirits were beings that had never truly existed.

Then, there were Greater Spirits. Vargulf was one, of course, even before it was forced into the body of a wolf to better control itself. From whatever history I could scrounge up from its mind and watching through Sophia, it existed as a Spirit of the “Hunt”, with gathered [Essence] that suited its domain. The act of stalking, finding, chasing and killing were things that it was made of, and thus the only thing it knew how to do.

It never did have a [Soul Stone]. I presumed that it had been existing as some massive [Blob], smearing itself across anything it touched such that they, too, ended up inheriting part of its infectious idea. That would certainly match the Weaver’s practice of storing Spirits within vessel bodies to prevent them from ‘leaking’.

Considering the fact that the humans that encountered “Vargulf” the Spirit all exhibited monstrous metamorphosis and behaviour, this was probably why it could be problematic.

While it was intriguing, the thing that interested me out of all of this was that mysterious figure that seemed to have formed “Vargulf”. I hadn’t had the time to fully look into the matter before but now that I had the chance, I realized something important. Vargulf was created.

Quite literally, as it had remembered, it was pulled together from loose bits of [Essence]. Someone or something had taken the effort to sift through, as I could imagine, an outrageous amount of [Essence] before finding or storing enough to create a Spirit formed wholly from such a strange concept. That led to the questions, however.

How? Why? Who?

Even by scrounging the [Spirit] of Vargulf, I couldn’t find the markings left behind by its creator, not even a single strand that spoke of “made by this…” to be found, which couldn’t be true. After whatever it did, it then left the Spirit to its own devices until it somehow accidentally crossed what appeared to be a [Doorway] and appeared ‘here’.

That was concerning and exciting, especially when Sophia went on to finish her third tome from Finny’s collection — there was knowledge of the idea of “Faeries”, “Fairies”, “Fair folks” or whichever translation that meant some form of mystical people from beyond this reality.

The concepts she had of them were slightly different from what I knew from human literature such as King Arthur or some dime-a-dozen European folktales, the whole “Eat of this fruit and you shall never leave” nonsense and that iron was somehow harmful to them. Of course, I knew those were probably fictitious and I had been sceptical about such a connection, but then I remembered that magic, against all odds, does exist. It couldn’t be a coincidence that my own history had something so similar, could it?

Did magic once exist on Earth, the Earth I came from?

That was an entire new chain of thought with its many, many implications.

Regardless, the consensus was that — those mysterious beings were probably some kind of Fae, from someplace that Evelyn’s books called, “The Otherside,” which was somehow… different from the realm of Gods, apparently? The tomes weren’t particularly religious in nature, being more akin to a rambling rant on experiments done over decades than a cohesive work.

The “realm” that I am — Sophia was in, the supposed solid centre of reality was known as Jaldni, or better translated as “ground”. The people of Bvurdrjord didn’t quite have the concept of a round planet down yet, but they were more than ready to assign it a name based on their relation to the world around them. The realm of the faes was adjacent to Jaldni, and further beyond that was where the gods reside, progressively more ‘fantastic’.

Not in a ‘good’ way, but in the way that things are inherently more magical. That was an important distinction.

Then, there were the ‘above’ and ‘below’, in comparison, divided in some rough approximation to their idea of karma. These are the places where more traditional “monsters” come from, technically existing in the same world but at the same time subjected to different rules. If enough of these Spirits congregate in a particular location, they could start influencing the world back… It was confusing. If there truly was a difference between the above and below, I hadn’t noticed it.

But then, I also knew my own knowledge, or lack of it, served as a limiter on what I could perceive. Perhaps, knowing this, more would be revealed?

Apparently, these two planes — the above and below were infinitely closer to Jaldni than wherever these Faes came from, and the rivers of Spirits present were divided. Sufferings occupy the lower realms and the virtuous above.

Even more confounding than that, the local religion tied the idea that mortals, man and beast alike, came from the ocean as mud, and must seek to rise to the sky — and not to the realm of the gods? There seems to be some kind of contradiction here, so I decided to take this information with a proverbial grain of salt.

Could be true, could be bullshit. Ah well, it only meant I needed to experiment more with this.

Then, there was also the question as to why the gods and the Fae weren’t present at all in Jaldni and had to reside elsewhere. Was there some sort of limitations, a reason that I wasn’t aware of? I felt like I was missing out on something wholly intrinsic, some sort of common knowledge that I should know but couldn’t for the life of me put a finger on.

In a few days, it would be a full moon. I fully intend to take advantage of the fact to send in a tendril to wherever the Faes were, to ‘backtrack’ or so to speak. Resources, physical ones, at least, wasn’t something that I lack now. My [Library] had grown with scraped-together skills and materials taken from all sorts of places, from mud to flesh.

What I needed at this point was information — and perspective. Before that, however, I would have to deal with the present situation.

“Explain, in detail,” Reinark commanded. The captain of the Arrow seemed to be in a bad mood, face twisted in a scrunch. The cold wind buffeted his coat as his crew and soldiers began the process of disembarking, the snow screaming its way through the layered cloth and furs. Several lanterns were lit, casting dark flickering shadows across the docks as midnight drags on.

The Reeve was a small man, in size and in ego. Flanked by his personal guards, he appeared even smaller in comparison. Dressed in an oversized cloak decorated in hues of red and blue, he shuffled there on the snow-covered wooden boards of the docks.

The man looked most uncomfortable.

Reinark’s most recent excursion at the sea had been far from the most productive. While the strange beings in the water had attacked them when they were on their way towards Bvurdrjord — of which they repelled handily, this time it seemed the creatures had studiously ignored the ship altogether. After loitering at sea, feigning weakness to lure the monsters, it was an immense disappointment to have nothing to show for. As his food stores began to deplete, Reinark was forced to command his crew to return to shore just to avoid getting stranded at sea as the ice continued to build up.

Now, he was told riots were brewing and villages were disappearing the moment he stepped ashore. For a moment or two, he stood there, frozen, disbelieving of his own hearing and snapping out of it seconds later. The snivelling Reeve certainly didn’t make the situation any better as the man nervously looked around and stammered out, “Ah, yes, Of course. We should talk about this. Perhaps inside my office?”

The guards stood behind the man, crossing their arms to look more intimidating as they shifted from left to right. All of them were locals, of course. While it would be difficult for a man such as the Reeve to find any rapport within the community, especially ones he trusted enough to safeguard his life, it would be even rarer to find Zweits willing to venture out into the frostbitten hellhole known as Bvurdjord. If it weren’t for his own duties, Reinark wouldn’t even dream of heading here.

Reinark didn’t envy the man’s position. The Crown appoints Reeves based on merit, and the Reeve’s ability in economic management must have been deemed acceptable amongst locals for him to be selected. However, being “selected” over the local lords, even after a century of subjugation, didn’t make him any friends. From power to social status, the Reeve had lost it all — even his name.

The captain glanced at the shore, at the gathering clansman that without a doubt despised the two. The few faces he had taken to memorize stood out, such as the scowling Castor and his sons, each itching for an excuse.

Reinark wasn’t a historian but he was far from a fool. Amongst all the vassals beneath Zweutaland, Bvurdrjord had always been the stubborn one. The scars and bruises from the major conflict nearly a century ago had yet to fade completely despite the Crown’s attempt to curb resistances at the root. Evidently, the years had done nothing but to remind the locals of what they lost.

The Castor family, as Reinark had remembered, were the old lords that had ruled over this quaint little island before they were crushed and forcefully unified. The island’s villages had paid tribute to this family’s “kingship” for generations before and it was little wonder that they didn’t take their loss in status all too favourably. Two Cycles ago, the Prince-General had allowed the Castors some modicum of power instead of completely eradicating their lineage, a lordship over a pitiful castle in name only while the appointed Reeve governs.

There were some diplomatic reasons, of course, but now the consequences were beginning to appear unbiddenly. For all the lack of their barbaric religion — ones that the theologians had agreed to be chiefly responsible for their abhorrent raiding practices and warlike philosophy on conflict, the clansman refused to ever put down their blades for a change.

Now, tension was in the air, almost tangible. It wasn’t some fanciful poetics either, as Reinark didn’t survive his station on foolhardy ignorance alone. Something foul truly haunted the air, dirt and waters here and whatever it was, it has eyes in the shadows. Something tingled at the back of his mind, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched at.

Reinark shifted his gaze back to the Reeve and nodded.

“Captain, the supplies have finished loading. The troops are ready to relocate to the barracks,” said his second in command, who was a large hulking man that favoured taking the role as a vanguard. Valder had always been the stubborn one in his group, which translated to an astonishingly meticulous yet reliable adjutant.

“Good,” Reinark answered, “Have Suemaz assemble the men there. You and I will have some business to attend to before joining them. Make sure they do not rest until I give the word.”

Valder’s eyes flickered towards the small crowd watching from afar before giving a nod in return, “Understood.” The man quickly went off to do as told before returning.

The walk towards the Reeve’s office, which was located in his estate, was tense. The crowd did part around the entourage as they left the docks, and for a few seconds, Reinark was worried that a confrontation would be inevitable. While he had faith in his swordsmanship to ward off any number of untrained fighters, slaying any able-bodied men of Bvurdrjord would hardly help the situation.

Especially if what he suspected was true.

The strings of blue hanging from rooftop to rooftop signified the protections of the witch still remained, but for how long?

The Reeve’s estate stood almost near the outskirts of the town, with a good chunk of land between it and everything else. If Reinark didn’t know better, he would have thought that the surrounding buildings had somehow scooted out of the way and fled from the offending structure. It wasn’t anything particularly impressive, especially when compared to the splendour of the empire but in Bvurdjord? The wide stone wings of the three-storied building practically loomed over the rest of the town on its small hill. Made of heavy weather-worn stone and mortar, torn down from the bygone towers of the Spire Coast, the estate was harsh, unfriendly and entirely unsuited to the Reeve.

Of course, the estate wasn’t one meant to be lived in at any rate. It was designed as a base of power for any Zweitsian business and its appearance reflected that reality. Besides housing the Reeve, it also served for the various other officials that had the bad luck to be assigned to such a remote location.

The Reeve in question led the group past the fences and up to the gate of the building, its oppressive weight staring down imperiously as if to demand their absolute obedience. A small knock saw to that they had access to the blessedly warmer interiors of the building, where a sparsely decorated entrance hall greeted them. The guards were left at the door, just as the following clansmen were left at the gate.

Three figures stood beyond the door, each finely dressed in Zweitsian garments though showing wear and tear from prolonged use. A badge pinned to their chests clearly indicated that they were not servants of the house but rather representatives of the three ministries of Zweutaland.

Ministry of Gold, Ministry of Fire, Ministry of Spears.

“Welcome back, sir. Greetings, Hunters,” said the Official of Spears, a severe-looking man.

“Hunter,” greeted the Official of Fire and Coin, a younger man and an older woman, “There are important matters we must discuss,” “Apologies for the lack of etiquette. There is little time left.”

“Greetings, officials,” Reinark replied evenly as his second gave a nod, “I was made aware that a situation had developed here.”

“Quite so, yes,” the Reeve waved tiredly, “The crowd seemed ready to swarm us at any second and I’ve received word that a village nearby had been... completely destroyed. Something monstrous had indeed appeared. Now, let us make haste to my office.”

A short detour up to the second floor led to the doubled doors where behind sat a heavy wooden desk and some chairs. The curtains had been drawn across the windows, shielding the room from whatever happened outside. Valder went ahead and stood in the corner, eyes scanning for threats. For a while, the six shall have the privacy they so wished for.

The Reeve planted his buttocks in his chair with a sigh, shaking hands reaching for a bottle and a cup — not glass. He poured himself a generous amount from a local brew, gesturing to offer Reinark some as well. The Hunter considered it for a second but refused, no, it is not the time to resort to alcohol yet.

After taking a firm sip, the Reeve spoke, “A few days ago, we’ve completely lost contact with the neighbouring villages. Then, one of our guardsmen was attacked at the gate by wolves the size of horses. We were fortunate enough to save his life, but I doubt the lad could ever take up a spear again.”

“The size of horses, you say?”

“Yes, and aggressive. Have never seen the like in all my years here,” the Reeve shook his head, “It’s not dire wolves either — these things got some sort of… of curse on their bites. Something foul is at play here.”

“Have you spoken with the witch yet?” Reinark asked, hands folded.

“We’ve got news from her, actually. Some of the local Hunters found the villages destroyed and gave us a forewarning. She said that they were planning some sort of attack in two days time when the moon is high.”

“Moon…” Reinark grimaced to himself, “Spirits, then? That’s going to be problematic.”

The Reeve shrugged helplessly.

The Official of Spears said, “Beyond the matter of dealing with this monstrous… thing, we also need to worry about the locals. The Castor boy seemed serious in taking advantage of this disaster to lead some kind of misguided revolt. With what we know of him, we doubt his sincerity in fighting against the monster. Regardless of the fight ahead, we must also plan for the suppression of the locals.”

“The Hunters are not a peacekeeping force,” stated Reinark with narrowed eyes, “My men did not sign up to kill their fellow men and you know it well.”

“Yet, the alternative may be death for us and the Empire’s hold in this region. If there are any other alternatives, we would not be asking for the Hunters to pick up the slack.”

“My men have full rights to refuse such an order, and they would not be pleased.”

“We are not asking you to be our dedicated military here,” the Official said, “We are simply notifying you of the possibility of violence, that’s all, so that your man can protect their own interests.”

The Official of Fire added, “Of course, we hope that such an event wouldn’t come into pass. If the Hunters prove to be able to suppress the monsters it would serve to prove the Empire have their vassal’s best interest at heart. After all, they are asking for complete strangers to bleed and die on their behalf, which is perfect for our purposes.”

Paper pushers, the lot of them.

With a feeling of despair, Reinark realized that no one in the room had any clue as to how to handle such an issue. The last time the Empire had to deal with something like this in some far off village in the middle of nowhere had to be years ago, and these men and women could only see the problem of having to explain the situation in their reports instead of the deaths.

In their eyes, he could clearly see that none of them cared if the Hunter here lives or dies, as long as he got the job done. Statistics and reports, they were all so assured of their survival that they could think about winning the citizen’s trust when most of the island’s wiped out already.

None of them wanted to be posted here and they all knew it's the same for each other.

For a moment, Reinark took the time to curse liberally in his head.

Is this why I’m sent here, then? Was this an elaborate attempt to get rid of us, or was I meant to win back the Empire’s faith?

The Crown’s plans had always been inscrutable and their commands absolute, and it was undeniable that under their rule, the Empire flourished. Yet, now that Reinark found himself on the other end of it, he could only hope that he still had a place in whatever purpose he was meant to fulfil here.

With a slow and deliberate blink, Reinark eventually gathered himself again and asked, “Do we have a plan, then?”

The Official of Spear said, “We recommend reconvening with the witch as soon as possible. While the majority of your men shall remain to defend the town, a smaller troop should accompany them as a dedicated strike force. The details will be left to your expertise on the matter, but the safety of the people here is the most pressing matter.”

The fact that the Hunters could also serve as a deterrent for revolts went unsaid, of course.

“Is that all, then?”

The Reeve, who had wisely shut his mouth when the discussion truly began, looked around, and said, “Uh… Yes. That’s all.”

Reinark stood up, took a deep breath, snatched the bottle from the table and took a gulp. After thoroughly washing his throat with wine, he slammed the bottle back onto the table and growled, “In that case, seeing that we have pressing matters, I’m heading back for the barracks. I will see this issue dealt with. Valder, we are leaving.”

With a swish of his cloak, the men departed from the office without even bothering to be polite with parting words — it would be meaningless anyway. With his second in tow, he left the imposing building behind him, as if he was standing in front of some massive tombstone.

Storming into the streets after him, Valder said, “That’s rash, even for you, sir.”

“I’m pissed and thoroughly cranky. I’m in no mood to keep talking when we got a problem to deal with.”

Valder only regarded him with an unimpressed stare before replying, “Well, let us not waste precious time, then?”

Reinark took a moment to stare at the sky, watching the snow clouds billow.

Tomorrow, he thought to himself, I’ll go find the witch again tomorrow. I need sleep.

An ocean away, in Skavorskur, a man named Kolt got into a fight. We don’t need vagrants ‘round here, they said, it wasn’t some unique insult or dismissal, and he couldn’t quite remember what started the scuffle in the back alley either.

Well, it’s not my fault if he died that easily, he thought to himself, taking time to listen. The one good thing about this part of the city was that no one quite cared what goes on at this hour of the night but one could never be too careful.

A moment or two passed and no one came to investigate. There weren’t any fliers either, no hint of blue.

He sighed, creaking his shoulders and stretching out his hand, watching the way blood seeped under his skin. Something underneath rippled and settled down and he clenched his fist. He regarded the body on the wall for a while, the gears in his head turning before saying to no one in particular, “Well, waste not, right? People like us got to make use of what we got.”

On the wall was something that used to be a man.

A head of grey hair around a pale, lax face, a fur-collared coat over a modest doublet. Just from looking, one could assume the man to probably have belonged to some relatively well-offed family around the city, maybe running a local shop with perhaps a family.

Now, like a squashed bug against a window plane, he was splayed out over the bricks, innards no longer inside. Ah, he looked like someone important, so he’ll have to do.

Kolt walked over and hooked his fingers under the jaw, piercing the flesh easily. With a bit of a huff, he peeled the body off the stones, leaving behind a stain of exploded guts and bones, intestines trailing on the frozen ground. Tendrils from Kolt’s back extended, swiping and licking for each stray drop of blood or giblet of flesh.

“What a mess you’ve left me,” said Kolt, “It was just a drink, old man. We really didn’t have to do this but look at what you’ve done. Now you’ve got your bits everywhere. You’re heavy, too. Can’t lay off the drinks, hmm?”

It’s getting late at night and the snow’s stopped. Morning would arrive in a few hours and it’s best to return soon — who knows what the boys could’ve gotten up to without him around, right? His head hurts and he had been feeling quite hazy these days, though his body had never felt more complete.

Beyond any of that, though, Kolt felt that he had a purpose. He wasn’t sure what it was but he moved nonetheless.

Heaving, he dragged the body behind him and out into the streets. There weren’t any watchmen around this part of the city, there wasn’t anything worthwhile to be found here. After all, all that could be seen here were the poor, the dying and the dead. With winter’s peak arriving closer day by day, no one would bother to even open their shutters to take a look.

A life here wasn't worth the warmth of your home.

The body made sloshing sounds as it bounced over the loose brick roads that were long abandoned to disrepair as if to protest its rough treatment. Kolt wanted to laugh but he refrained, so he instead just said, “It’s a bumpy ride, isn’t it? Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you get all better.”

Ah.

He paused.

There, in an alleyway, beneath half-collapsed stonework and tarps, a small figure could be felt. The eyes weren’t even revealed by whatever light there was but Kolt felt the attention nonetheless. His neck creaked as he turned his head some hundred and thirty degrees, gazing into the dark.

The child stared at him and Kolt stared back with his hand still hooked into the dead man’s jaw. The child trembled, and it wasn’t simply because of the cold.

For a moment, Kolt thought about running over. It wouldn’t take too long, less than a minute, really, and the problem would be solved. He could snap a neck or rip out a heart just as easily.

No, I got to go back. The sun is on its way. His sons had found a good place to hole up at. Why had he wanted to go after the child again? He wasn’t meant to do that. Who would believe some child crying about strange men in the night?

So, Kolt shook his head to clear his thoughts and reminded himself, Change is on the way! Not gonna stay a street rat for long.

So, Kolt continued to whistle as he walked back home, disappearing into the snow, tendrils licking at the blood trail behind him, leaving no trace of his passing.