White Wolf

Blood still dripped from the wound, regardless of how much pressure she applied. Twice now it had soaked through the dressing, forcing her to stop to reapply it. Precious minutes wasted amidst the worst winter storm in Ostea’s history. The bitter wind singed her exposed skin, the incision point blistering from cold. It was difficult to discern frostbite on already blue skin, but she had lost sensation to most of her extremities an hour before. Her legs only worked still because she needed them to, knowing that the moment she found safe harbor, she would collapse.

And yet she still bled. The crimson trail she left in her wake was the biggest mistake a hunter could. Even now, encroaching on the village of Rangarre — the stronghold of the Wild Hunt, the fiercest huntress the world knew — she could sense the hungry, desperate beasts encircling her.

They moved gingerly, uncommon for such a bloodthirsty pack, but the huntress had proven herself deadly even when distracted by her injuries. She’d secured a crossbow to her arm before leaving, and it had already drawn blood before she’d taken a single, hobbling step.

She hissed again once she could pull her furs down, the bandaging reapplied yet again. There was none left on the spool she’d stolen before making her escape, but Rangarre was not much further now. Another hour and she would be safe. They would be safe.

The first step nearly broke her, the weary ache screaming once more, yet she had no choice but to keep going. The flames of the torches still burning despite the snow and storm beckoned her toward civilization, a thing she had been taught to eschew and run away from. Now it was the only hope she had. She was willing to return to this place in her desperation, and nothing could stop the huntress when she had made up her resolve, even her own ailing body.

A howl echoed before she’d made another mile, sounding closer now than before, but she knew that could simply be the wind. When the replies came, the rest of the pack answering the call, she realized there was no trick. Not only were the here, they were ready. She had walked right into their bloodstained maws, another easy meal for the taking.

The huntress stopped, gauging her surroundings with a wary eye, loading another bolt into the crossbow affixed to her wrist. The wolves were expert at remaining hidden until they wanted to be seen, but she was exceptionally gifted herself. Her bolts never missed their mark.

At the first lurch, her body pivoted — the bandages loosening, her abdomen ripping further open — and her wrist flicked in the direction of the movement. The bolt loosed with a slick kssshick! as it found its target, tumbling back to the ground before it could pounce on her. As she turned back, she held tightly to the wound at her side while her arm and eyes scanned the rest of the battlefield around. Two, four… twelve glowing eyes awaited her in the dark, hesitating for a moment, but they would soon be upon her awaiting a feast. Even at her best, she would not be confident in those odds. Now, she knew there was little she could do but go down fighting.

She only realized then that she was not cold anymore. Goddess be damned, she would not go quietly.

They began their approach, choosing to overwhelm rather than be strategic in the assault. This winter had been difficult for everyone, hunters and hunted alike, and likely they had regressed to ensure their survival: fewer mouths to feed meant fuller bellies. The wolves each believed themselves capable of avoiding her fire and could not be held responsible for the errors of their kin. The huntress was careful in her shots, slower than she may have liked, but accuracy was prized in situations like these.

Claws struck her in the back and she attempted to spin to face her foe, but impulse stopped her before she could expose her stomach to the predator. She felt a slice upon her shoulders and cried out in pain, but she did not fear this inevitable end. She stood still, poised until the end, as a true huntress would.

Just as the killing blow was to be laid, the whistling of an arrow neared, catching the wolf in the throat before it could strike. Blood splattered upon her face, upon the snow, as it was taken down. Between the dark, the wind, and the blizzard, she could not make out her savior at first, but she could see the dancing firelight she had been using as a beacon coming closer. Footsteps heavy against the snow. The sound of growling wolves realizing their dinner had been spoiled — the smarter among them knowing to flee, the more desperate earning their fate.

Her vision began to blur, and the warmth continued to envelop her as the burning torch approached her, waving in her face, but she could not feel the fire. “Stay with me—” a stranger’s voice called, ringing hollow and reverberating in her ears. He gripped her shoulders, but she did not notice his touch. “Bronwyn’s tits, Alfir. Get over here! We need to get her to the healer.” She closed her eyes, succumbing, just as he called his companion closer. “She’s pregnant.”

Luria could wield a bow before she could walk. She was raised with it in hand the way most would wield a pacifier, an extension of herself — albeit one meant for practicality, rather than comfort. At five, she was sharpshooting from the treetops of Rangarre, hitting marks laid out for her by her tutors. By seven, she had not only competed in the Viridian Tournament’s archery event, but handily won against competitors with fifty years experience on her.

Alfir had once told her that her mother’s final wish was to name the unborn child Luria as it had been her name, too. According to the books she’d read on the subject, back when they were still insisting the young girl learn to read, the oro’kyr believed strongly in the cyclical tradition of life, honouring the fallen through names and deeds alike.

She was Luria Frostfang — at least the second of her name, though perhaps she had a legacy that stretched back further than that. She was a huntress, as her mother had been. She was quiet and aloof, as her mother had been. She was ruthless and soft-spoken, both intimidating and vulnerable, as her mother had been. She was little older than sixteen, as her mother had been when she came seeking refuge with the Wild Hunt.

And she was just as alone, though she was surrounded by community.

The Wild Hunt had taken the dying woman in without question, and their healers had done their damnedest to keep both safe. Rilleu, the camp’s physician, spoke often of the pain he felt upon realizing the injuries were too severe to repair, and how their triage quickly shifted from preservation to simply hoping to lessen her suffering.

Luria the Elder had lived longer than she had any right to, given her condition. Stubborn until the end. She shared what she could with her saviors, ending with the request of naming the child in her honour. She had fought to her last to ensure her child’s safety, and it was the very least they could do. Luria was raised by the entire encampment, given free reign to explore and learn with stern oversight and punishment when needed. She had been a quick study, though. Once she learned misbehaving meant pain, she learned to conceal her misbehaviour.

They told her stories her mother had shared, and done their best to fill in the gaps in their knowledge with supposition and lies. In sixteen years, she had never laid eyes upon another Oro’kyr. Andeve was across the Arcane Sea, an impossible distance, and while Luria held little comfort in her heart for wonder, she could not help but consider what she had lost being born so far from her people, and how her mother had gotten here in the first place.

Such thoughts were distractions from her true purpose, though. Every day, she would honour her mother with a silent prayer before breakfast, then spend her time practicing until sundown. Then she would join the Hunt around the fire and listen to them tell their stories, watch as they drank and laughed and sang. Some nights she would join in, but most she would retreat early to her tent and dream of battle.

Tonight, however, she could not leave — as it was an evening of celebration in her name. They had prepared a special feast for their young apprentice, with spices brought in from Rosegarden as well as the purple-tinted carrots that Luria believed better than the standard orange variety. Pheasant had been roasted, and they celebrated not only the day of her birth, but also another year without a winter as harsh as the year she was born.

The Hunt decided she was old enough to drink with them if she wished, and she had downed a skin of wine only to decide she did not like the burn in her throat. Still, she watched with a thin smile as they reminisced about the trouble she’d caused them over the years, watching as the camp grew ever-rowdier as the night progressed.

“I remember when ye were just knee-high,” Alfir said. He had always been Luria’s favourite: gentle, despite his stature. Dwarven beards had scared her when she was a child, but his was always smiling and putting her at ease. “‘Course, you was nearly my size by then, but t’some, knee high…!” The story need not continue from there, as the laughter drowned out any purpose behind the point.

As it died out, Rilleu spoke. He was aged now, likely nearing seventy, with his eyesight going but hands as steady as ever. “I remember your mother was a small woman,” he said, almost wistful in his tone. It was clear that Luria had affected the physician in some way, had shifted his worldview in a way she could never fully understand without having been there. “And you, Luria, were a tiny little thing. We didn’t belief Doland when he told us she was pregnant.” There was a pause as the group remembered Doland, felled in a fight a decade past, but Rilleu rallied himself to continue the story. “I kept asking her to stay lucid, but she would only talk about what she wished for you. She told us she saw your life, saw you surrounded by light and warmth, that she wished for you what she could never herself have.”

The good doctor had never been one to tell a charming story. Luria still listened intently as the mood dropped, as she clung to any memory of her mother that she could. Then, perhaps spurred by the wine or finally being old enough to consider the gaps left in these stories, she posed a single question: “Did she ever speak of my father?”

Rilleu winced, the reaction visceral. It spread quickly amongst the rest of the bodies surrounding the warm fire, their expressions almost haunting in the flickering light mixing with the dark of the night. Luria had always been curious, but took the lack of evidence of such a man’s existence as reason enough not to ask. The Hunt was honest with her, at times to a fault. If there had been something to tell, they would have told her. At least she assumed that to be the case — judging by the reaction, she realized that she may have been wrong.

When no answer came, she spoke again, a little louder. “Answer the question,” she bit. “Someone.”

Nervous glances were exchanged, as though passing the blame from person to person. Eventually, it appeared the decision was silently made that Alfir would take the responsibility. He composed himself, clearing his throat and swallowing back a long swig of ale, before speaking. “She dinnae speak o’ him,” he said, warily choosing his words, facial expression tightening as he spoke. “But—”

“Alfir,” Luria snapped, teeth gritting. “Out with it. Please.”

Alfir sighed, running a hand back through his thick, matted black hair. “When the snow settled, Dolan’ an’ I, we went back out to trace her steps. Followed the trail o’ blood back into the woods proper, then to a cabin tucked wee back in the thicket. Found a fellow orc there, y’see, and…” Another hesitation, this one longer. Luria gripped the fabric of her tunic as it bunched around her waist, listening intently. “He’d took a crossbow bolt t’the eye. Was bleedin’ out, he was. Told us his woman had cut an’ run, needed t’get her back. She was with child.”

“Did you—” Luria spoke before he’d even finished, and Alfir held up a patient hand. She was ready to pounce, nails digging into her own palms. “Where is—?”

Another hand raised, and an insistent shush. “Luria, dear…” he huffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “When we found yer dear ol’ mum… she was bleedin’ out. She’d been cut deep. Not by the wolves, neither. A blade.”

Despite herself, Luria remained stilled. Her eyes burned, unblinking, watching Alfir foremost but catching nervous, guilty glances between the rest of the Hunt as they waited for her to give them a reaction. Anything but the long, abated silence she gave.

“We questioned ‘em,” Alfir insisted. “Told us there’d been a scuffle, but didn’t confess to nothin’. She was already gone by then, dinnae tell him that, neither. He kept talkin’ about needin’ ta get ‘er back. Like a man consumed by grief ‘n darkness. Never seen a fella so angry as he was.”

“Alfir—” she began, but stopped short. A hand touched her shoulder, attempting to comfort her, but Luria shifted uneasily out of the touch.

“Cannae explain the feeling what overcame us, but… we knew he’d done somethin’ ta hurt yer mum.” He was looking directly at Luria now, while nobody else could so much as glance in her direction with their discomfort. “We promised ‘er we’d care of ye. Promised we’d keep ye safe.”

“Did you—?”

He nodded before she could ask. “Aye,” he whispered. “And would do it again for ye in a heartbeat.”

The world around Luria froze just long enough for her to breeze through a thousand emotions at once. Rather than show them, rather than act upon them, rather than give them the satisfaction of a reaction, she simply stood up, grabbing the bow and quiver that had been resting against the log underfoot, and slung them across her back. “The cabin,” she spoke, akin to a command, dry as the deserts of the southern isles. “What direction is it in?”

Alfir stood to match, reaching a hand out despite the chasm of the bonfire between them. For a moment it looked like her might not tell her, but he relented. “North-east. Day’s travel.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Alfir.”

He reciprocated the gesture, but remained silent.

Luria began to turn, stopping herself short. Following a brief pause, she glanced back to him. “And thank you,” she repeated. “For telling me where to find him.”

It was not impossible for the southern reaches of Rosegarden to go a winter season without snow, but the sudden snowfall as Luria left the Wild Hunt encampment in Rangarre felt like divine retribution rather than a true change in weather.

She did not collect anything but her waterskin before heading to the gates, pushing through them despite protest from the guards. Wolves are out, they insisted. And they’re hungry tonight. Though she had never participated in a proper Hunt with the rest of the guild, she had plenty of experience protecting herself in the wild. The wolves of the Rangarwood were among the least of her worries, but there hadn’t been a beast sighting in weeks. As the voices of protest behind her died down, and she ventured out into the wild on her own, is when the snow began to fall.

She caught one on her fingertip, brushing it with the pad of her thumb. She had always liked the snow, it reminded her of a life never lived.

Not an hour later, it had begun to settle on the ground and pack down firmly with each step she took. Her pace had not slowed, and the Rangarwood was visible on the horizon now. If she hurried, she could beat the storm and be afforded some protection in the woods.

Luria took a swig from her waterskin, rinsing out the taste of wine from her mouth, sloshing it between her teeth before spitting it onto the ground, melting the thin layer of snow with the heat of her breath.

At this time of year, the lack of canopy cover in the Rangarwood meant the snow fell there, too. It coated the the exposed earth with a thin layer of blistering white rime, the frozen leaves giving a satisfying crunch underfoot. Usually, Luria would have avoided tracing those steps, opting for subterfuge and stealth rather than something as primal as the satisfaction of that sound, but she held no fear of being overwhelmed. These woods were a second home to her, the first being a place she had never seen, never visited.

Each step forward was daring something to cross her path, and the shiver of leaves breaking underfoot was drowning out the desired response.

She had been traveling eight hours before she noticed something amiss. The snow continued to fall, blanketing her tracks behind her, obscuring the view forward as thick, sturdy trees began blending together. The leaves were a long-forgotten memory now, buried beneath two inches of powder. Steps were harder now, requiring more strength and dexterity both to navigate. Still, she pressed on with single-minded determination.

As any trained huntsman will tell you, the Rangarwood has a heartbeat — noticeable even when everything else is silent. It can be sensed in the way the branches sway, how the roots absorb moisture, down to the way a butterfly traverses through its winding and narrow paths. It is a forest long haunted by aberrations that appear as if by magic, disturbing that gentle heartbeat by drowning it out with very presence.

Luria could not sense life within the woods anymore. Perhaps she never did, and had simply pushed that sensation aside in her quest for answers. Even blinking took effort she did not wish to expend, all of her strength and drive moving her toward that cabin.

She may not have sensed life, but life sensed her.

It moved like the wind between the trees, but did not whistle the way the branches would. It clung to the air, holding it still and suffocating it. Once it had caught Luria’s presence, it made sure to move downwind from her, ensuring the putrid stench that seeped from its form did not disrupt her reverie. It watched and waited until she was aware of the danger she was in — only then did it coil and strike.

Luria was fast, but not fast enough to keep the adder’s fangs from digging into her exposed shoulder. Better than her throat, which it had been aiming for, the full assault prevented by a pivot and a block. The snake was unlike any she had seen before, cloaked in shadows that concealed its physical form — if it had a form to begin with. It writhed in purples and black, eyes glistening darker than the pitchest onyx. It stank of rot and putrescence, and its fangs pulsed with ichor as it embedded itself into her shoulder, venom quickly spreading into her system.

With her left hand, she yanked the beast off, finding purchase despite the spectral form. The tug was enough to sever one of its fangs, embedded in her shoulder as she tossed the snake as far as she could. Her right hand hung limp, feeling lost as the toxin spread.

“Shit,” Luria hissed, cursing herself for the lapse of judgment. A bow was near-impossible to wield with one hand, and she hadn’t stopped for her swords before leaving. She took a few staggered steps back, keeping her eyes peeled for signs of the monster. For as small as it was, this would take an entire scouting party of Huntsmen to take down, and now she was here alone, incapacitated, and without a back-up plan.

As she went through her options, the beast poised itself for another strike, curling to launch into a springboard for itself. All she could do was duck and roll out of the way, hoping she was quicker than it was. The first dodge was a success, but with half her body falling asleep from the snakebite venom, she could barely push herself back up to her feet to recover. By then, it was lunging at her again.

It went for the throat. Without the strength to fight back, Luria stood still and accepted her shortcomings. All it took was one mistake to end your life, and she would be a warning to others in the future. The orcish cycle of remembrance. Even if she did not know any oro’kyr to remember her, the Hunt would wield the memory of her as a sword. Perhaps, one day, a young orc hunter would learn of her exploits — and her folly.

Teeth never found throat, but impact braced inches from her face. A streak of white leapt from her side, colliding into the beast, its own toothy maw wrapping around its girth. Two bodies tumbled into the snow: one a spectral snake from the blackest depths of hell, the other a fluffy pelt of white wolf baring teeth upon its spine, biting down until both warg and hunter heard the vicious snap.

Eventually the writhing stopped, long after it had been felled. Neither surviving party moved until the snake’s had stopped. Luria fell to her knees, no longer able to feel her right leg. The wolf, which she now realized was barely larger than a leg of turkey, flopped onto its back before leaping into the air to straighten out, looking at Luria warily.

Where a cub ventured, its mother was sure to follow. Judging by the streaks of blood at the corners of the warg’s mouth, Luria assumed it was hungry. She had been saved from one meal to be the host of another, a grim reminder of her place within the balance of nature. She held herself aloft with her left arm, tensely pushing a fist into the earth, trying to get back to her feet.

The cub lunged at her, and Luria could not react fast enough to retreat. It landed inches from her body, tail wagging incessantly. Rather than finish off a vulnerable prey, it collided into Luria’s numbing torso and knocked her backward, falling headlong into the snow underneath as the ferocious beast climbed upon her abdomen. She knew it was over when it began licking at her face. She never stood a chance.

It was an hour before Alfir caught up to her, burdened by the secret but bolstered by his love for Luria to not leave her to die alone. The snow had slowed him down considerably, each step of his comparable to two of her longer strides, but he did not stop for fear of losing her trail in the snow.

He, of course, had sensed the dimming of the Rangarwood’s heartbeat and had no doubt Luria noticed it too. After weeks without another beast, one had manifested in the heart of the forest. He could only assume she was taking every precaution, and he steeled himself to do the same.

When he found her laying in the snow, he feared the worst. Yet she was intact, though her breathing was shallow. He saw the fang embedded in her shoulder and rushed to her side to check on her, but was stopped by a ghostly howl and the sudden impact of white fur ramming into his side and biting down on his arm. Alfir yelped in pain and tried to knock the beast’s jaws free, but it hung on for dear life. It was not until Luria spoke, through gritted teeth and closed eyes, that any effect was had: “Stop.”

The wolf listened. As it detached itself, Alfir held his arm close — somehow, it had not broken any skin. “Luria—” he started.

She shifted slightly, and the little wolf pup ran to her side, resting its head upon her chest. “Alfir. I knew you would follow me here.”

“Aye,” he echoed. “Almost didn’t. Thought ye would be smart enough t’not need my help. Never in my life been so happy to be mistaken. C’mere.” With a wary eye given by the strange little pup, he rounded to Luria’s side and tried to tug her up into a sitting position.

“Snake,” she said. “Got me in the shoulder. The venom has me numb, spreading quick.”

He nodded, producing something from his heavy backpack. The wolf growled as he pulled the bottle to her mouth, but did not interfere as he tugged free the stopper and forced her to drink back the light green concoction. “Will do m’best ta hold you up. Can’t stay here, yer gonna catch yer death o’ cold. C’mon now, pup.”

Luria forced herself to accept the help, though she could not feel the presence. She felt she could move, but the sensation of doing so was foreign and unsettling. It had been much easier, much less difficult, to lay in the snow and embrace the inevitable. She had many questions for her mother, more now than she had before leaving.

Together — with Alfir’s support and the wolf nipping at her ankles to keep her steady — they trudged through the snow until they caught glimpse of the cabin in the distance. Nearly twenty years of time had ravaged and destroyed the place. The roof had caved in from a particularly heavy snowfall, and the wooden boards used to build it up had begun to grow damp with rot. Still, it had stood long enough now. It would at least last the night.

The single room abode reeked of mildew and mold, but Alfir quickly threw together a fire in the hearth that masked it with the sweeter smell of burning wood. Luria had been set up on a cot that might have once been a bed, though the mattress had been picked apart by vermin, leaving little support. The wolf cub did not leave her side until Alfir pulled out cured meats, allowing him to feed his charge while the animal chewed happily on jerky.

She slept the night, plagued by dreams, but awoke in the early morning with a tingling sensation across her body. Slowly but surely, the effects of the toxin wore off, and it gave her the ability to sit up and look around the room without significant strain.

Very little had avoided time’s entropic fate. A table stood in what might have once been a kitchen, but the thick iron of the oven had begun to rust into pockmark holes that exposed it to the elements. A bookshelf next to the bed had been heavily damaged by the collapsing roof, the snow blanketing the books. They likely spent a season frozen, then waterlogged, then desiccated into nearly nothing, and had simply been mush for years.

There was no body, she noticed, but that was the least of her worries. Corpses held neither memory nor meaning, and what she craved was some indication of who she might have been, not the bloated corpse of the man who tried to rip her from the womb as punishment.

When Alfir awoke, they spoke of what little else he remembered of that night. Her father had been green-skinned, while her mothers skin was a steely blue. She had looked just like Luria did now, though her expression was softer — he had no way of knowing if that was how she had always been, or simply a product of the frost that gripped her.

Luria listened, as she always did. She had heard these things before — whether as snippets or asides, or even full-blown stories told to her a dozen times throughout her life. The kind of story the teller never remembers, but the listener never forgets. She could recite them herself if she needed to, but the moment she indicated she remembered, or she knew it all already, she feared they would stop speaking about the subject altogether.

“There was one other thing,” he said, perking up. Alfir reached for his rucksack, pulling it into his lap. “Somethin’ she left for ye. Was gonna give it the minute ye turned eighteen, but… reckon now’s as good a time as any.”

She watched him warily as he pulled a small, sheathed knife from the bag. The holder was made of patchwork leather, the handle a dark mahogany wood. She did not wait before pulling the blade out of the sheath, and it appeared sharp and unblemished. “Her knife,” she stated simply, and he responded with a nod. “Thank you, Alfir.”

The dwarf managed a smile, setting the bag down next to him and reaching to pat the wolf cub which was running between them, watching the exchange intently. “Shoulda given it to ya sooner, I see that now. Kept too much private, we did.”

Without glancing up, she shook her head. The knife transfixed her, turning it over and over to catch every divet in the metal, every imperfection in the craftsmanship. “I should not have come here,” she finally said, lowering the blade to rest against her lap. “I thought I would find answers, but…”

“Only more questions,” Alfir hummed, shrugging his shoulders. “S’how it goes, I fear. In my experience, anyway.”

“It was… foolish,” she admitted, ignoring Alfir’s quiet protests that she was young and allowed to be such. “I would have died were it not for you, and…” She paused, looking over to the wolf, who had settled finally between Alfir’s feet, determined to get in as many scratches as it could. “My little saviour.”

Alfir laughed, more bark than the wolf was capable of. “Strange, aye? Wouldnae leave yer side. Think ye made a new friend.”

Luria smiled, leaning forward to offer a hand to the wolf, who immediate changed sides and bounded toward her, right into the waiting fingers. The little pup’s body relaxed in Luria’s touch, paw bouncing on the ground as the huntress found the exact right spot to get such a reaction.

She thought of the cycle. No oro’kyr was truly dead so long as their memory persisted. Her mother lived on through her, in her name and her words and her deeds. Her father was left a corpse in the woods, feasted on by the same vermin he had been. She hoped that one day she would follow as her mother did.

As her fingers threaded to the soft pelt of the white warg, she lifted the pup up into her lap, where it quickly made itself at home. The warm body and the gentle, rhythmic heartbeat brought a smile to Luria’s face. The first in a while. “Not a friend,” she echoed while the pup put its head down at the crook of her thigh and waist, using her as a pillow. “A sister.”