His feet were boot-scuffed and rock-bruised. Fingers water-cut and dirt-worn. His cheeks mud-dulled, lips cold-cracked. But still he plowed on, unfaltering, unwavering. Pain was a old sensation, one of those primordial emotions rooted deep within man and creature alike. And its hardiness was lesser than Keter's peculiar liking for it. This sharp, dull, webbed aching, so close to all the other human emotions; the next no less a stranger to Keter than the last.

Iron clouds swam overhead, the gray expanse broken into shards by clawing canopy. And in the distance, the cradling mountains loomed, ever massive, ever present. A permanent reminder to Keter of his limitations. He could only wonder what hid past them. Empty desert planes, a sprawling ocean, booming civilization, deep jungle. But he wanted to know. Ever deeply.

Behind him, the company of hunters followed, their pace slowing with each passing day; faces hollowing, eyes dulling, steps staggering. How long could they continue on? These were people not used to long treks, after all. None had died yet, but Keter reckoned it wouldn't take much longer. After the first sorry bastard kicked it, the next one would follow quickly, then despair would set its jagged teeth into the others, and then...

The Slopnek paused, its great snout dragging along the deep sludge that had emerged from the forest's pitted earth ever since the rains came - seven days back. Now there was not a dry spot on Keter, his company, or anything else in the forest. Still it came down. Sometimes in a miserable pelting of droplets, other times it hammered onto them like hail. At this time it was little more than a misting, making the air thick and humid, clothes sticky and unpleasant. Keter had stripped some days ago, and was now marching in just his leathern poncho and a pair of boots – the rain trailing down the oiled hide in streaks and lines.

“It's picked up the trail again.” Grog breathed through his cluttered beard, the relief evident on his dirt-patched face.

Keter stared at the creature that seemed not to notice much of anything besides the hunt for scent. It had trudged on for the entire span of the journey, not a flinch to its step. Something Keter could respect, if its intelligence had been greater than that of tree-bark. Which it was not. The thing looked much like tree-bark too; appearing more like a plant or fungus rather than an animal.

“Good.” Keter said. He didn't feel good, though. None of this did. He felt blind, following this creature while seeing no trails for himself, all long washed away and drained to the soil. “We must be getting close, then.”

“Yes, Master Maker. We should be near the village of Ohm, where my group of hunters had been sent.”

“And presumably arrived.” Keter finished, pushing down on his hair – feeling the water seep out.

“Yes,” Grog said slowly, squinting those little eyes of his as he thought hard. Long words strained his mind something fierce. You could almost wonder if perhaps the Slopnek and him were somewhow related.

The thing squealed suddenly behind them, high in pitch and long held before stepping back. Fear. Another thing that bound all creatures. The slopnek was no different in that regard. Which was why it was far beneath Keter.

“What was that?” He asked the Elder hunter while stepping closer to where the creature had been sniffing. He looked down between the soaked ferns, the mud-slick rocks. A footprint.

“A child's?” One of Grog's hunters proposed, leaning in. “there shouldn't have been any children with the team of hunters though...” The mark was small, indeed child-sized - about his size. But Keter knew better. He'd seen these too often to mistake them for anything else. He felt his lips pull back into an animal snarl, but regained his composure quick enough. The hunters looked at him.

“Greenskins.” He growled into the wet air.

The Elder Hunter frowned, his eyes flitting from the Master Maker to the worn-down print, almost erased by the steady rain. “We call them Kah.” He said, his voice hard.

“You know of these things?” The Maker asked.

“Yes, most deeply.” In his voice was a bitterness the entire company understood, and shared. “But it shouldn't be possible. Not now.”

“Why not?” Grog turned to the Maker, and suddenly fell under the God's icy gaze. Cold like a steel blade, and just as sharp, just as hard. He'd looked a child, first time he saw him. But there was no longer a shred of doubt to Grog that the Master wasn't anything akin to human. Not a single complaint, never a falter, a moment of weakness during their arduous trek. He'd treated his own, horrible blisters, so large and bloody even Grog himself had winced when the Maker had popped them open and treated with Slickleaf sap. The Maker hadn't even as much as blinked. Grog wondered if the Gods were even made of flesh at all. Seemed more like oaken-wood and bedrock.

“They,” Grog grated, “should only come after the frost, when the mountain peaks that enclose them, have thawed.”

The Maker seemed to think on that for a bit, his dark eyes staring at the muddy print. The rain was worsening again.

“Why haven't I been told of these things yet? Not by Virrah, not by Silva, not by Hawk... Not by you?” And then those hollow eyes set themselves onto Grog – nailing him into place. By the Gods, the Maker gave him the chills like no other. Even if he looked like a child. Perhaps because he looked like a child. But Grog wondered for how long. Even in the short time the Maker had stayed in the Hollow's Maw, the Elder Hunter had already noticed him to have grown. Now he almost reached Grog's chest. And he was not a small man himself.

“It is said,” The Elder started, “in the stories told 'round Hawk's fire, that the Kah, like all monsters, are drawn to their name. With each mentioning, they linger closer, until they inevitably enter the Village's ground.” He bit on his lip. “Doing what they do best. Doing all they know to do.”

The Master simply stared. “And what's that, Elder Hunter?”

“Destroy, Master Maker. All they do is destroy."

--Northern Cradle, Hollow's Maw--

“But I can make a dozen axes with this amount of ore!” Crag, the Village's only smith sputtered. “And a dozen knives more!

The Hospit creaked as the low wind pressed against the wooden frame something fierce, the dull patter of rain a constant companion. Silence had become a thing of the past.

“Knives like the Master Maker's?” Virrah's voice was sharp and tired. Exhausted from all this endless arguing. “Iron like The Maker's steel? Sharp like his edge? Hard as his blade?”

The smith looked away, disgruntled. Virrah saw frustration swim behind the glare in his eyes. He was not the only one she had angered in the past days; ever since the Maker had embarked on his journey. Not a night went past without another complaint angled at Virrah.

“So then what?” and the smith's scornful eyes were set on Virrah again. Staring hard from across the pelt they were all sat on. “Wait until he returns? Who knows how long that will take? Another week? By next moon?” He shook his head. “No. We need the Axes now. Else we wont get enough wood to burn by winter, never mind the homes that need mending and building to keep the folks protected against the cold, the snow, the frost. I say we make the axes now.”

“You say?” It was Jeb, The Shaman's acolyte, that spoke then. “And who are you to make decisions like that? Did you don the Village Elders garb since last we met? I am hard-pressed to imagine Silva to have given op on that position.”

Crag scowled, his sooth caked face darkening even more. “And who is she?” He demanded, blackened finger pointing at Virrah. “No one! She should've died in that cave! She -Argh!?”

Suddenly he pulled back his finger, pressing it against his chest; pain stinging at his eyes. The room had grown darker. Three candles died with a hiss.

“Careful of your words, smith.” Jeb made his voice as deep and threatening as he could, backed with a low growl. “She's been appointed by The Master Maker himself to make these decisions in his stead during his leave. Any disrespect to her, is disrespect to the Master.” His eyes shone with a dangerous gleam. “Any disrespect to the Master, is disrespect to the Shaman, too. And I will tolerate none.”

Another candle flickered and some smoke curled from the fur hide, between Crag's legs. “Are we clear?”

The room was cold, and still Virrah saw sweat beading the smiths forehead, trailing down his cheeks in black streaks as he watched the smog sway.

“Yes.” He croaked, rubbing at his blistering finger. “I understand.”

Virrah sighed in silence. She had so many other things that still needed doing. And now the smith's hand was injured to boot. Should she give him a salve to quicken his burn's healing?

“I'll let you make five axes, and no more. Knives can wait, too. I expect these to be the best axes you've ever crafted as well. Any less will be unforgivable.” She stared hard at the man, and he nodded.

“Yes, Mistress Virrah.”

She gave him another look, then dug for a little vial within one of the many pockets of her apron. All filled with potions and cures, herbs and plants. Some for healing, others for hurting, and some even for ending.

“Here,” she said, handing him a wooden vial containing the burn aid. “This is to treat your blister. Apply twice daily until it's gone. If you run out, head to the Hospit and ask for either me or Halfbloom.” A little carrot and stick. Something she had quickly picked up from the Maker.

“Thank you, Mistress.” He carefully accepted the vial. “i'll start forging immediately.

“Yes.” She said with an air of authority while waving him away. “You may leave.”

He stood, bowed, and then left the Hospit through the door. In the brief moment where it swayed open, Jeb saw the rains lash the earth. The Hospit girls working outside looked miserable enough. He could only wonder how the Master's company was doing.

“Never imagined you'd stand up for me like that.” Virrah noted, leaning over to grab a cup of her own brew.

“I take my given tasks seriously,” Jeb said as he stared her down. “And it was the Master Maker that told me to aid you in your newly appointed position.

Virrah looked back at him, and he suddenly found it hard to maintain eye contact. She'd always looked fierce, Virrah did, but ever since the Master had left, her skin had grown twice as thick, her gaze trice as hard, her wit knowing no equal. Jeb looked away.

“But to go to the extend to use your power... It is more than I'd expected.”

True, he'd used his magic to help. But he also wanted her to know he wasn't defenseless, even if it drained his source of power in the form of a polished bone fragment, hung from his neck and hidden underneath his garb. The Elder Shaman had told him it was fine, but still... If he were to use it too recklessly now, he might find his strength coming short when he most needed it.

“You did burn my pelt, though.” Virrah said, frowning slightly. Which, for someone who had barely any facial expressions at the best of times, didn't look too bad on her. Jeb blinked at that, then shook his head.

“I'm sorry for that.” The Master Maker hadn't told Virrah, or the owl about the Shaman powers. Not their strengths, nor their weaknesses. Which meant he hadn't chosen a side; not yet at least. Jeb could still, perhaps, pull him to the Shamans – away from the grasp of that witch Silva.

Jeb took a sip from his own hot brew. It did good to ward against the setting chill that came wafting through the creaks and crevices of the Hospit. He again realized how old the structure was. Abundant evidence was scattered everywhere in the form of old varnish and fresh repairs. Virrah cocked her head and peeked over his shoulder.

“Pech? What are you doing there?” Jeb turned to see the frail girl exit the kitchen. She looked a lot better since the first time he saw her, a couple weeks back. She'd looked miserable. Now, well, she still looked much the same; her eyes a dull reflection of the world around her. But there was at least some color to her cheeks and some flesh on her bones.

“I...” She stuttered. “was hungry, Mistress.”

Virrah looked the girl over with a slow, studying gaze before abruptly dismissing her with a wave of her thin hand. “If you are hungry, then eat more when the food is served. I can't have people run around the Hospit unsupervised. You hear?”

“Yes, Mistress.” She nodded meekly.

Pech bowed, her frayed skirt swaying, then quickly fled through the side exit. Virrah stood up and opened the door to a crack, peering outside, following the girl with a careful eye. This was not the first time she had caught Pech in the Hospit. Always suspiciously close to Virrah's working room; where she stored all her potions.

'And poisons.' She thought warily.

“Is something the matter?” Jeb, that meddlesome boy of the Tabernacle asked. Always asking. Always prying. Was it really to aid her? Was he just filled with innocent curiosity? Or was he looking do kick the legs from under her and Silva? Whichever one it was; Virrah was not taking any chances.

“No,” Virrah answered as she lost Pech in the garden growth, “nothing's wrong.”

She turned with a snap, and was pleased to see Jeb, for all his magical might, flinch at the sudden movement.

“Now that's been dealt with, I can start brewing some medicine. A thing which I have unfortunately been neglecting for a lack of time.” She started walking in the direction of the front door to lead Jeb out. “So your presence is, for the time being, no longer required...”

There was a commotion outside. Some yelling. Probably the Hospit girls, but... Virrah turned to listen closer. There was a deeper voice, also. A more than one. Men.

And she recognized Lowroot's voice, now they were drawing closer. Virrah clenched her teeth. Were they here to make trouble? She knew none of them, Lowroot especially, were happy to be under her command. Even if it had gotten them a pile of ores and other resources. Perhaps because of that.

Virrah gripped inside one of the many hidden pouches sewed within her apron. Felt the firespit-salts's warm glow against her gloved fingertips. She glanced behind her, at Jeb, but his confused expression showed he didn't know this was going to happen.

“There might be trouble.” She whispered, fingers prying at the door's latch.

Jeb rose from the hide, eyes looking uncertain. Virrah didn't expect too much help from him, being honest. She bit her lip. But that was fine. She was used to fighting the world one her own, anyway.

She flung the door open, every muscle along her body pulled taught and prepared to cause deep hurt. The first one she saw was Highbriar, with Lowroot behind his shoulder. Her eyes flickered to their hands. No weapons. She looked at their faces. Worry and panic, rather than rage and anger. She felt her skin prickle. For some reason this was more off-putting than the alternative.

“Another hunter has disappeared!” Highbriar breathed, red-faced. He reeked of sour sweat and looked as if he ran the entire way at full speed.

“What?” Virrah asked.

“Another hunter, Mistress. Gone during the hunt. The deep green took him, just like Bale!”

Virrah tought on that, realization dawning. She bit her lip in what was becoming a habit. It seemed like the sick would have to wait a little longer on their potions.

…

Keter felt the sodden earth sap all the heat from his body as he laid low beneath the bushes. The wind was a razer, cutting at his exposed flesh as it weaved through the naked shrubs and bare trees. His boots were filled with water. All sensation in his toes had left him, stolen by the cold and its unrivaled patience.

“There's another person. There.” Quiver's voice came to him in a low whisper, pointing his finger at an angle to the West; at an overhanging tree-limb. Keter looked, and indeed saw another with a spear in hand. So there were people living here, still.

They had found more greenskin footprints as they neared the village of Ohm. Enough of them that Keter thought the settlement overrun. Luckily the people living here proved more resilient than that. But still. As Keter observed longer, he saw clear signs of conflict and battle. Wood – blackened by fire. Fences broken and sunken in the mire. Freshly overturned earth; fresh graves, already hammered to mud by the ceaseless rain.

“What should we do, Master Maker?” Quiver asked quietly, shivering hard.

“We'll meet up with the others, and see from there.” Keter wriggled in his prone position, fingers clawing at the dirt. “In silence.” He added, though he knew Quiver understood that well enough.

The boy nodded, once, then started inching back through the undergrowth. On the way they paid mind to their presence, staying down low in what was almost a prowl. The movements came to Keter like old repetition, endlessly practiced in what now seemed a time long ago. A life almost forgotten, but never unlearned.

The group was waiting for them beneath an slab of rock, overhanging above an earthen crevice where the hunters had hoped to find refuge against the rain. Keter emerged from the clawing briars and into the warm glow of a smoldering fire. The first to spot him jumped.

“The Moons,” Hardeye gasped, “Never knew the Gods walked without sound.”

Keter shrugged, stepping closer to the licking flame. Quiver followed quickly after, eagerly extending his blued hands to the fire's warmth, releasing a pleased sigh.

“Already fatigued, boy?” Came Grog's low rumble of a voice.

Quiver flinched, looking up sheepishly. “No, Elder. Just cold is all.”

Grog furrowed his dark brow. “I knew I should've joined the Master on his scouting. You dont have the experience...”

“But you're horrible company.” Keter said flatly, eyes focused on the dancing flame – deep in thought. How should he do this.

If Grog took the remark personal then he didn't show it. “So,” he started, “What did you see.”

Keter glanced up at the man. Though the trek had taken its toll an him, his gaze was hard as stone. A warrior's resolve written on his face inside the white old wounds and older scars.

“There's people alright, but probably less than before. A lot less.” Keter grabbed a spear and started drawing in the drying dirt. “Most of the fighting seemed to have happened on the Western and Southern side of the place.” He started pinpointing the buildings and fences.

“And we've spotted guards along these places, and up on that hill over there was a pair of them. They all had bows and spears at the ready.”

“Did you see any women?” Grog asked abruptly.

Keter frowned at his sudden question. “No, actually.” Now that he mentioned it. “I did not.”

He looked at Quiver, but the boy shook his head. Grog took a deep breath.

“Then they're keeping them hidden. As they should.”

Keter shrugged. The safety of those who couldn't fight were not of his concern. It were the fighting ones that had his attention in full. He briefly imagined marching up there, quickly greeted by an arrow thudding in his chest. Even if the Kah were an explanation for the scout party's disappearance, didn't mean the people of Ohm didn't have a helping hand in that.

“Do they know you?”Keter asked, staring down at the village's sketch he'd scratched in the earth.

“They should.” Grog said firmly. “I'd sold them a number of pelts a couple Winter's back. When we had plenty of 'em and they few.”

Keter nodded slowly, thinking. “Then you and two others will approach them at mid-day. Make your presence clear, so you don't get taken for an enemy.”

“I wouldn't go down easy, Master Maker.” He growled, clenching the grip of his spear hard until his knuckles turned white.

“I know.” Keter shot back. “But I rather have a village of allies than one filled with corpses.”

Keter sighed. Would this even work? Things could easily go awry; faster than you ever saw coming. But that's where laying careful plans made the difference. He started pointing at the crude map.

“This is how we'll do it.” He could only hope his brief retraining had stuck with the group of hunters. He could only hope Ohm would listen. And if they didn't... He could hope, that perhaps, they would give him a reason. An excuse to meet them with fire and lightning.