Private Burn It

Standing inside the footprint left behind by a giant, Larka did her best to keep her cool. Krakonoš were known to be forest shapeshifters, deciding between being as small as gnome, the same size as man, or as tall as a giant. This one apparently liked to turn into a large bear. The footprint she stood in was massive but at least looked like a human foot. A trickster wizard that could be kind if given a turnip. Larka pulled her rucksack over her shoulder, opening the woven flap to check on the turnips she had bought for this. She had four very nice turnips, their green frilly leaves still not yet wilted.

Traveling through the Blue Woods had become dangerous because of the angered Krakonos. Any caravan that tried to go through the usual path was met with fists and fury, a screaming man who leapt though the trees before transforming in whatever form he deemed fit. It was causing delays to the town on the other side of the forest, and the charcoal sellers had forgone even trying to reach Chiaran who were the real victims of the forest spirit's rampage. The delays in much needed supplies was enough to worry each and every villager.

When they had seen Larka in her gear there had been doubts, after all, a monster hunter as small as her? Surely it wasn't possible. It was enough to stoke the coals of Larka's pride, now she had something to prove for the village who was without charcoal from the town of Verghesse. Luckily, it was much easier to gain a small village's trust by holding up the head of a ghoul that she had slain while climbing down the Mheara Mountains. Surely, had she only won because she had managed to get the ghoul to fall off a cliff, yes, but didn't that prove how clever she was?

Not that she felt clever now beneath the canopy of gold and orange, trees boasting autumn's crown and bearing all it's wonderful hues. If she kept following after the obvious tracks would she fall into a trap of some sort? Was it possible that she encroaching on the forest spirit and it hadn't noticed, giving her the chance for surprise? Swallowing back her anticipation, Larka continued on the path towards the Krakonos, hoping to find it as a gnome instead of a bear or giant.

She sneezed, the fallen leaves irritating her nose. They crunched nicely beneath her brown boots.

Tired eyes swept across the road, making note of disturbances—fallen branches, displaced rocks, anything that might give sign of a struggle—or worse. He sat astride his horse, matching the rhythm of its strides, reins in one hand, the other free, resting on the horn of the saddle. Morrigan snorted, gnawing the bit, and steam wafted from her breath. The early morning had brought a bitter, lingering cold, and patches of frost dotted the forest floor. The sun was only just starting to peek through the dense canopy of trees. Little noise aside from the heavy footsteps of the jet-black destrier could be heard, and he wondered if that was because he and his mount were present, or if there was something else in the area. Predators were known for causing the ecosystem to go still.

Up ahead, footprints began appearing more frequently in the dirt, frantic scramblings where people had fallen and rushed to get back up. Then, ahead, the first body. Its head was crushed into the ground. Likely it was a man, from what he could see. Duncan drew back on the reins, halting Morrigan, and threw his leg over the saddle before climbing down. His boots sank into the sodden earth, and he carefully stepped along the trail and knelt beside the corpse.

It was him.


The day prior, Duncan had stood before a grieving mother clutching a young babe, listening to her recall the horrors they’d experienced a few days before. The attack had come at this exact spot, and sounded gruesome. Four people had been killed, their own cart lost on the path. Her husband was but one of the victims. And despite the anguish he knew she was feeling, Duncan felt the faint tickle of worry begin to work its way up his spine and latch onto the back of his neck. While certainly the loss she felt was real, he couldn't help but wonder if this had been an attack of cruelty or a sworn vendetta.

Crouching next to the slain man, witnessing the brutality of the blows, the body crushed and sunken into the ground, his mind erred towards caution. These people had done something to offend the very forest itself.

A bird flapped past, catching his attention, and he stood quickly. Something had spooked it. Emerald hues scanned the landscape, and he wondered if the beast was still close. Up ahead, he could see the remains of a cart and dead oxen thrashed on the ground, but that likely was not all. Someone, not merely a spirit, was close by. Duncan did not yet draw his sword, but he began to continue down the road, Morrigan following not far behind him.

Bones found between dormant bluebells green stalks and leaves had Larka inspecting them for damage. If there are been any flesh on them then scavengers had already taken what scraps they could get. The bone must have been a part of the arm, even if it was broken and it was hard to say for sure. It was more yellow and brown than white, having spent more time in the shade than beneath the sun.

With a tentative look to either side of her and precautionary glance over her shoulder to make sure she was really alone, Larka finally lifted the lumpy knob on one side towards her face, giving it a good sniff. Another glance to the her left and right, once more over her shoulder, long white braid still tied tight behind her. All there was were trees and the bluebells that were the forest's namesake. The small woman began to gnaw at it as if tasting it would give her some clue.

It did not, and for all she knew, this bone could have really belonged to anything. The growl that came from her stomach was too loud for her liking, the bone having done little satiate her. She dropped it, watching fall upon verdant grasses, brown leaves cracking like brittle match sticks.

A wind moved through the eerily quiet woods, even if the sun was still up and fell easily through the dark maple branches or the white, thin trunks of birch. Shadows were shorter than they were long but squirrels were not scampering back and forth, birds did not sing. Larka had never felt such a heavy, ominous presence like this during the day, it was always at night when her mind began to play along side the silence of night.

She tried to be quieter within the grasses, moving between tress, the width of beech trees hiding her form well, but her boots, her damned boots kept stomping along even when she tried being on her tip toes. The quietest path through the woods was the dirt road that had once been well trodden. Larka paused, saw bear prints unmarred from wagon wheels and human boots that normally marked the trail. The deeper she went, closer to the center of the woods, she knew she'd be a target and this time, for once, she really didn't want to blindly walk into any surprises.

Another gust of wind rattled the leaves above her, leaf musk getting caught in her nose. A sneeze was all she needed to convince her to get back onto the main road, rubbing at the itch in her nose and ignoring the tickle in her throat. If Larka had listened closely, she might have heard the faintest hint of a man's jolly laugh.

The forest was still, eerily so, and it put Duncan on edge. He had stopped in his tracks, ears straining to listen for any noise, but it didn’t return. For a moment, he thought he’d heard… a voice? No. Perhaps not. Whatever he’d caught on the edges of his perception had caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end and sharpened his awareness into a razor. Something had caused those birds to fly a few moments earlier, and it hadn’t been him, but where it had gone he couldn’t say.

Morrigan scratched the ground with her hoof, snorting in boredom, and Duncan released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The Hunter moved over to the steed and took her reins, then moved her forward along the path. He walked alongside her for a few steps, his boots near-silent against the earth, until finally he let go of the reins and gave her a soft tap on the haunches. She went off on her own, trotting down the road, and he pulled his cloak tight and stepped off the road. He took cover behind a tree and watched.

Duncan wasn’t cruel, but he didn’t fear for Morrigan. She was one of the meanest Altalusian warhorses, but he knew that if what he was chasing was a forest spirit, it likely wouldn’t hurt her, even if it could. Duncan had a strange inclination that Morrigan was a fae spirit in horse form, and would rise up to destroy whatever threatened her.

As she got farther away, Duncan moved up, staying covered behind the trees. But just ahead, as Morrigan stepped lightly around some fallen debris, something new happened. A figure clad in leather armor stepped out onto the road, white hair tied in a braid, just in time to see the massive black destrier cross her path.

The mare’s ears flattened as the stranger approached. She raised her head, nostrils widening as she watched her. One hoof scraped slowly across the dirt. It was not an overt sign of aggression, but a trained hunter would be able to recognize the signs, and perhaps get her to settle down.

Duncan, however, let a lot of the tension he’d felt pass when he spotted her. He wondered if this was the monster that had slain numerous people, but seeing her stature and her weapons, he doubted it. He’d seen massive bear prints, not the soles of a hunter’s boots, yet he was still cautious. Letting Morrigan be a distraction, he ducked behind the trees, his dark green cloak a phantom amongst the forest, and shifted to appear from the forest just behind the white-haired hunter.

“Be careful with her,” his voice was a low rumble that broke the silence of the forest. “She gets a bit irritable when she starts getting hungry.”

Duncan stepped lightly up to the horse and took her reins, keeping a close eye on the girl.

“What are you doing out here, little Sparrow? These wilds aren’t safe as of late,” he continued. “A shadow plagues this road, though…” he paused, looking her up and down, “I think you knew that.”

The moment she had set foot onto the road, a wraith charged towards her until Larka's silver eyes realized that it was only a horse. Raising her brows as white as snow, she took a step back, not stupid enough to run away but not smart enough to know how to gain the horse's trust. She looked down the road from where it had came, seeing nothing but a lone leaf coasting along a breeze before it scrapped pitifully against the ground to join the rest.

Confusion briefly laced over her soft features, had another attack happened? She hadn't heard any screaming, which she thought she would hear screaming of some sort. Did she have something in her ears?

Her voice got stuck in her throat, bones and muscles lurching in her own skin. Larka was quick with her side step, jumping out to the side and going to draw her sword. Her faded eyes were wide and wild, breathing in only when she saw the man. A shiver traveled down her spine, she hadn't heard him, had he purposefully distracted her?

Eyes followed after him, his steady walk, filled with experience and confidence. She couldn't claim she had a stride such as his, the sort that granted anyone strong to be friendly. Larka hated that she hadn't heard him approach behind, hated that she fell for the stupid trick. Looking over his gear, the small woman clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth with disdain and disapproval.

Larka glared at the man the moment he called her 'little.' Sparrow was already insulting, but little sparrow was twice as bad. Sparrows that were more prey than predator, already small enough and common throughout. She could have been little hawk, little falcon, something cool, but no, she was reduced to a perching bird with a pretty voice. It didn't help that when he looked her over she could feel his assessment burning her skin, her ears red with embarrassment.

She felt the need to assure him that she could handle herself, that she could handle it. Larka considered bragging what few accomplishments she had, maybe throw in a name or two that was obviously far more notorious than hers as if all she needed was a bit of clout when really she needed an extra six inches to make her be taken seriously.

"Yeah, well," it was hard to find words to make her sound tough when all she could think about how her voice was closer to birdsong than a predator's rumbling growl. "I'm about to make this place safe again." Larka crossed her arms over her chest, brows low over her eyes, casting a slight shadow. "And if you're thinking of stealing my glory then you'll regret it. I am here to hunt and you're only going to get in my way!"

Duncan’s eyes sparkled as he watched the young hunter get riled up, and he wasn’t afraid to wear his emotions openly. He had a soft expression, a half-smile with a knowing look in his eyes, clearly unaffected by her show of confidence. In fact, he welcomed the thought of having help in this situation, or rather, of giving assistance to the next generation. He wouldn’t want to steal her thunder.

Taking a deep breath, Duncan looked around from where they sat on the path, assessing the area. It was much the same as the place he’d come from: debris, signs of a struggle, and strange footprints in the mud.

“I’m not here to take away your renown and glory,” he said, his tone more akin to that of a partner than a teacher. “But I expect it’s going to be more difficult than you think. Do you have a guess as to what’s out here? What you’re looking for? Do you know why it’s attacking travelers?”

They were all good questions, meant to stimulate her mind. Hunting wasn’t just about tracking prey and killing it. There came a point where general knowledge of tracking and killing stopped being enough. Did you know the creature’s weak spot? What materials could hurt it? Did it have acidic blood that would burn you if it got on your skin? Could it cast spells?

A good hunter had to learn as much about their prey as possible rather than rush in headlong, which was what he suspected she was doing. But perhaps she had more forethought than that. He’d seen too many good hunters fall victim to poor planning.

“My apologies if I offended. I’m here at the behest of the people of Chiaran. I was hired by a few of the victims’ families,” he said, motioning toward the cart a few meters back. “I’m Duncan Ashmoor. Perhaps you’ll allow me to tag along and make sure this is handled properly. I’ll even split the reward with you, should you have me.”

Everything about her softened too quickly the moment Duncan smiled at her, consoling her outburst with the sort of experience that perhaps meant he had once been there before. Making a name for oneself before death found them first was never easy. Her hand left her sword and she nodded once towards Duncan. It wasn't the first time she had been offered help and Larka was neither stupid nor arrogant enough to not take a hand that was held out before her.

"Okay," Larka said slowly, big silver eyes looking between him and his horse. "My name is Larka." She had started to smile, a bad habit of hers. Her lips had to be pressed tight together to keep the smile at bay before she felt confident enough to continue. She strode towards the man, pretending she had the lead, and held out a hand for him to shake. "I also came here with requests from Chiaran. I guess they didn't have much faith in me." Wouldn't be the first or last time something like that happened. Shrugging off her burlap rucksack, she unhooked the notch of deer antler to open the flap, revealing her pristine turnips.

"I know its a Krakonos but as to why it's attacking anyone who goes through these woods is beyond me. I spoke to the people at Chiaran and they said maybe the townsfolk of Verghesse would know more. I think both towns are blaming each other for it." One woman in particular had spat out Verghesse like it were poison. She wondered why the thought of a merchant or a bandit group wasn't to blame, even when she had broached that idea, everyone had practically turned their noses up at it. "So I made a deal with the chicken lady," Larka had forgotten the woman's name, but she would never forget knocking on the wooden door for it to open and reveal a old woman who kept her chickens inside her house.

It had smelled awful in there. It took everything within Larka to not cover her nose with a hand or a tunic. The kids had warned her about the chicken lady, but the little hunter had assumed they were exaggerating it all, little kids were known for their tall tales.

"I got her best turnips and she said as long as I bring her back a tooth from the Krakonos she wouldn't charge me." Larka liked that at least the chicken lady believed in her being strong and smart enough to return back with a tooth. "Back in my village we had a field god instead of a forest god, so every start of the week someone had to bring him a fresh loaf of bread. Every family took turns so we wouldn't anger him and in return he kept pests from picking at our harvest." She frowned briefly. Why couldn't their field god also keep the villagers from disappearing and turning into monsters? Larka pushed the thought aside, looking up at Duncan.

"So I thought if I gave him some turnips he'll go back to being friendly maybe? Or if he doesn't like the turnips I'll be close enough to stab him in the eye."

Duncan reached out and clasped wrists with her, returning her greeting while each checked for a hidden blade. He carried no such weapon himself. Nodding, the Wanderer rested a hand on the horse’s snout. She huffed and pressed into his palm, closing her eyes contentedly at his touch. She might’ve been a grumpy warhorse, but she always took care of him, and he took care of her in return.

“This is Morrigan,” he explained. “You can always rely on her.”

“They probably didn’t realize anyone else had asked for help,” he admitted. Pointing back down the road at the body he’d examined earlier, he continued, “That one’s wife asked me personally to come and investigate.”

Duncan turned, surveying the scene once more, his eyes searching the dirt for anything that might reveal what had happened. He studied the disturbed earth and surrounding ground, looking for tracks or other signs that might offer some insight into the attacks. He looked back as she began explaining what she thought might be causing them, nodding along as he listened. He had no proof she was right, but he’d been leaning in the same direction himself. A Krakonos could be dangerous, and if the people had done something to anger it, that might explain the attacks.

“It’s entirely possible,” he acknowledged. “They’re known for their unpredictability. If the people of either community angered it, offering turnips might not be enough, though I applaud your planning.”

He took a deep breath, glancing around the area once more as he considered the possibilities. If they could determine what had provoked the creature, perhaps they could resolve the situation without making matters worse.

“It’s also possible that if we could communicate with the creature, we might learn what angered it.” He turned his attention back to her, his expression thoughtful. “Do you have any silver or a blade imbued with magic? Just in case talking doesn’t get us very far.”

The clasping of wrists was met with a grin. A real hunter, then. His much larger hand easily encased her entire bird-like wrist. Everything about her was small with the sort of stunted growth found within individuals who knew starvation more intimately than a best friend. For her hunger was like a best friend, a loyal dog that always rubbed it's coarse muzzle against her cheek. A reminder to eat, eat, eat.

And Larka, despite her petite frame, was hungry for the world.

She shook her head, instead reaching for a small pouch on her leather belt. After it had been untied she held it up to Duncan. Her face had twisted into the inbetween of disgust and pain.

"Silver shavings," Larka said, "Or rather silver dust. Good for throwing at enemies when in a pinch." She was too poor to secure any sort of weapon with a silver lining, much less entirely made of silver. All she could afford were the shavings and the dust mixed with the dirt beneath a monster hunter blacksmith's anvil. Still worked when she was in a pinch and needed to blind an enemy. Issue was, if she wasn't careful, it also blinded her.

"You think... there's a peaceful option? Because I promised the chicken lady one of his teeth." Larka said with a doubtful expression.

The girl was spirited, he had to give her that, but he couldn’t help worrying about her. That energy would only get her so far in the world. She had to be tough, strong, and fierce. There was a fatherly instinct gripping him, a concern for her safety, and while he took the pouch gingerly to examine it, he immediately knew it wouldn’t do.

Duncan nodded and handed it back, then stepped to the side of his horse. Straps came loose, accompanied by the distinct sound of leather sliding against leather. When Duncan stepped back around to face her, he was holding a sword in a dark leather scabbard. It was a simple thing, approximately two feet long, with a black-wrapped handle and silver adornments. He presented it to her with both hands, as if it were a precious artifact.

“Not all swords have storied histories, fancy names and titles, or songs sung about them. Sometimes a sword is just a sword. Why don’t you hold on to this one for me? We may not need it, but I’d rather you have it than not, little Sparrow.”

Duncan handed over the blade and gave her a little wink before turning away to inspect the road. He knew she didn’t care for that nickname. It was written on her face. Still, there wasn’t a more apt name he could think of. She was a wonderful contradiction, small enough to be overlooked, but bold enough to face down a dangerous creature without being properly armed. He had to give her that. She was brave, but he also suspected that, like a sparrow, she was stubbornly persistent.

He stepped over to the footprints in the mud and glanced back at her. “Let’s deal with the issue at hand, then we’ll worry about teeth and rewards.”

Without much thought, Larka took back her bag of silver shavings, thinking that he only gave it back to her because he carried a bag of his own. Tentatively she took hold of the sword he handed her, feeling it's potency through it's scabbard that had her flinching and gritting her teeth. Her canines were longer and bigger than his despite him being a man and she a small woman. Only then did she realize that he was sympathizing with her, pitying her poorly state of having limited coin and gear.

That wasn't enough for her to let go of his sword that he had proffered her, Larka wasn't stupid, She hooked it up around her brown leather belt, the shorter length not needing to be wrapped from about her torso so she could the blade from her behind her shoulders.

"If you give me a sword I will use it," Larka said, pivoting on her heel to point at the direction she thought the Krakonoš's trail to be leading towards. "Maybe I'll give it back if I don't like it," she added with a impish grin and a devious glimmer her spun silver eyes. If she were actually a thief than she'd have a lot more gear than she had now, having to prioritize malleable armor over weapons as she often went down after one hit.

Larka gestured at the broken series of tree branches as if something had thrown a temper tantrum.

"Follow me?" She asked Duncan with an innocent tilt of her head. "Are you bringing your horse with you?"