Pling Pling Pling.

  The ringing and clanging of the keepsakes, hanging from the Great Oak, played a sinister tune as they gently struck one another in the breeze. Their sonorous chimes were interrupted every so often by the sound of footsteps ploughing into the wet soil. Layered atop the soft bass of the fading rainfall and the consistent hum of Autumn winds, it harmonised into an uncanny symphony across the scene.

  Visually, the air had begun to clear. Drifting clouds of mist began to fade as they crept into the thick of the surrounding forestation, and the golden rays of dawn streaked through slivers in the parting clouds.

  Unfortunately, one would be remiss to call the grand reveal anything but unsightly. Lifeless trees, mangled corpses, blood-soaked mud and rotting excrement littered the moist, grey soil below. A hideous display of horror and gore, stretching half a mile towards the treeline, it would churn the bowels of any unlucky enough to gaze upon it.

  Fjalla, however, passed along unfazed. Her eyes cast wide open, as she peered mindlessly at her feet, sinking into the mud as she walked behind her unconventional saviour. She paid no mind to the present, to the future, nor even the distant past. Her brain had been imprisoned, stuck in this cruel loop, replaying the events of the past nights.

  She remembered as the beasts wrapped their claws around her arms and pulled her out of the carriage. She remembered as she searched the scene for her friend, hopeless and desperate as her tears blurred her vision. She remembered screaming, kicking in revolt as the daemons dragged her across the mud for miles.

  She remembered as they giggled and yelped, crowding around as they bound her in their cave.

  She remembered trying to struggle, to question, to bargain, to pray.

  She remembered failing.

  She remembered giving up.

  The rain had long settled by the time they reached a mud path, where Viktor halted momentarily to summon his stead. Breathing in deep, he fills his chest with warm air, tucks two fingers between his lips, and lets out a piercing whistle, bringing an end to the eerie silence. Momentarily brought back to her senses, Fjalla gazed upon the far ends of the path as the distant beats of Kashmirs hooves grew louder. Soon, emerging from the west, the silky sable mane of the gracious mare ruffled behind as she galloped effortlessly towards the pair, halting just ahead of her rider.

  Allowing himself a moment of peace, Viktor brushes the hair atop his horse’s crest, comforting the mare before he mounts it.

  “Good girl,” he says, patting Kashmir. The remark tugged bittersweetly on Fjalla’s heartstrings, for it reminded her of her father and Rosie.

  Atop the mare, she was lulled back into her state of traumatic hypnosis, dull to her senses. They trotted quite some distance down the path before the hunter decided to break the ice.

  “You’re lucky you know,” Viktor remarked, “Chorts usually aren’t so merciful. Most children your age would’ve been turned to soup by now.”

  She looked up at the man, choosing not to respond to his distasteful jests. Lucky wouldn’t be how she’d describe the past events, interestingly odd, maybe, definitely not lucky.

  Plus, the little monsters didn’t seem to show interest in actually harming the girl. Aside from her binding, she received quite the peculiar show of hospitality. They offered her food, kowtowed to her, and performed ritual dances before her residence. They even weaved her a makeshift crown of dry branches and local flowers that still sat atop her head.

  At some point, a member of their tribe had offered a stew of unidentifiable meats before her. Revolted by its odour and still rebellious to her capture, she’d declined it by kicking the stone-carved bowl and spilling its contents across the cave's floor. The poor beast seemed to express distress and sorrow as he gazed upon the mess, lamenting his fate as their leader ordered his execution.

  Watching the beast face demise as a consequence of her actions filled her with sickening terror, screaming and pleading as the chort was shot before her eyes. The trauma had a lasting effect on the girl, making her refuse any further offerings, going further.

  “Silent type, I see,” nodded a defeated Viktor, “I prefer it that way too.”

  The party travelled along the path till the sun had shifted completely across the sky, sinking on the western horizon to mark an end to the day. Stopping by a clearing by the roadside, Viktor set up a tent and two sheets he’d picked up from Kashmir’s saddle. He’d been clearing a pit to set up a campfire when he noticed the girl had silently crawled onto one of the sheets, immediately surrendering to a deep slumber. He scoffed and shook his head, a faint grin taking his visage as he secretly found the situation quite adorable.

  Fjalla was drained and tired, parched and malnourished; she had not slept for at least two days. In her sleep, she was once again met by one of Hypnos’ visions.

  This time it was quite different; there was no house, no clearing. She was deep in the forest, watching a trail between the trees. On the trail was a wolf, limping along with its tail between its legs and its head bowed in shame. Its mouth and paws were drenched in blood, leaving crimson tracks along the path. There was no change, no end, nothing; the wolf just kept marching ahead until she came to.

  She opened her eyes to darkness. It must’ve been the dead of the night, the air was frigid, and the waning moon flew proudly in the heavens. Taking a moment of respite, she gazed upon the clear and starry night sky; it had been long since she’d seen it in its true naked form. It reminded her of her home back in the South Rock, of Papa.

  “Wait,” she thought to herself, suddenly realising something was missing. Frantically searching the top of her head, she was met with the prickly crown of branches. She took it, had a single look at it before tossing it aside in frustration.

  “MY HAT! MY BAG!” her mind yelled intrinsically. She looked to her surroundings, noticing that her new companion had been asleep on his respective sheet. This was as good an opportunity gets for her to escape and look for her belongings.

  Fjalla took off immediately, running as fast as she possibly could. She’d made sure the camp was far enough before stopping to catch her breath. Peaking around, she came to a troubling predicament; she had no clue where the carriage was or which direction to go. In fact, she didn’t even know back to camp if she wanted to.

  She was lost. She was alone.

  It was cold. It was dark. It was quiet. Not even crickets had been hissing in this end of the woods. There was only eerie silence.

  As she began to panic, she began searching for any sign of escape, but was met only by the stygian walls of infinite darkness. Her breaths got heavier, her skin broke in a cold sweat, and her limbs began to tremble. The intense state of her being contrasted with the stagnant air, bringing undesired attention to her bearing.

  Soon, the flawless black of her surroundings would be infected with the distant glints of onlooking eyes. Drawing closer ever so slowly, they cackled, clicked and cooed simultaneously, creating a nerve-wracking predatory ambience. She was no longer alone, and it was no longer quiet.

  The assailants were almost in full view, bearing their fangs at the paralysed girls. Suddenly, their grunts turned to pathetic yelps, before they drew back within the shadows. This brought the girl no peace, however, for she too felt the overwhelming presence that had sent the creatures cowering. Shaking in horror, she turned to gaze upon the apex predator.

  AHHHHH!

  She screams as she gazes upon the chilling visage of Viktor, the golden glow of his serpentine eyes revealing his grimacing expression.

  He firmly grasps her arm, dragging her in before sputtering,” What in Hellheim do you think you are doing?”

  The girl was too frightened by his inhuman stare; she’d lost her ability to respond. Before she could process anything, the hunter had already begun making his way to camp, clenching the girl's feeble limb in his fist.

  Once again, she was being unwillingly dragged along the path, kicking, squealing and crying as she tried to escape her captor. Powerless as she struggled, her soul welled with despair and hatred as the man brought her back to camp,

  Despite being relatively short, the journey back to camp felt like a millennium of suffering. It ended with her violently tossed against the soil, her aggressor begrudgingly glaring down at her humiliated figure with a horrifying frown. Glaring back at his mutant orbs, she felt a burning sensation as her perspective of the hunter shifted. As he towered above her, dark and imposing, he seemed not much different to her earlier captors.

  “I HAVE TO FIND MY THINGS!” she yelled through her tears, recoiling in fear after she’d finished her sentence.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Frustrated, Viktor rubs his eyes before he scowls back, “ Your things... And where exactly are your things?”

  “At the caravan?” he continues before the girl can respond, “That decrepit pit of corpses is probably festering with harpies and wolves by now. They wouldn’t waste the chance of having you for dessert right now.”

  Corpses?

  “Walshie…” she thought. The thought of her friends' unknown fate sent a tingling sensation across her face. As she staggered onto her feet, she screamed valiantly back at the hunter, “YOU HAVE TO LET ME FIND MY FRIEND!”

  She attempted to dash past Viktor, who effortlessly halted her with a single swoop of his hand, sending her hurling back onto the soil in front of him. Glaring at her furiously, he points his index finger violently right at her.

  “You will be going fucking nowhere,“ he commanded, scowling through his teeth, “your friend’s probably dead. You try anything funny, and you’ll be fucking dead too.”

  The girl snivelled, holding back her tears as she shifted her hateful stare towards the hunter. She knew well that Walshland had most likely passed, but she’d held onto a glint of hope, a dying flame that her new captor extinguished.

  “You are a monster,” she barked at Viktor, her voice broken with fear and pain.

  Viktor chuckles ironically, steadily squatting back onto a nearby log where Kashmir was hitched, “Funny you say that…”I used to hunt monsters back in my day. Real ones, not swamp monkeys. Gryphons, drakes, basilisks, you name it, I’ve had its head.”

  He looks up from his hands and stares ahead before sighing, “It’s always the big ones, you know. They’ll have people screaming and fussing. They’ll get contracts and hunting quests. They get called monsters.”

  The girl was pouting, confused at what the man was trying to say.

  “Nobody stumbles on a fledgling and calls a hunter; they may shoo them away at worst. But kill them? Persecute them? No. They definitely won’t call them monsters,” he continued yammering on, “even though, essentially, they are the same. Their nature never changes; their ability to show it just develops. In a sense, people ain’t so different, we too grow up to be harmful and malicious. We, too, are destined to become monsters.”

  He shook his head; the girl was even more confused. Taking one look at her, he decides to sum it up as he stood from his rest.

  “Maybe I am a monster,” he posits, approaching his stead, “but someday, you too, will grow up to be one.”

  “I will never - “ the girl begins before being rudely interrupted by an object being tossed into her lap. Instantly, she recognises it as her satchel, which soothes her anxiety quite a bit. Perhaps there was still a way for her to reunite with her father.

  “Then maybe Skadi will hunt us both down,” he remarks. His frustration with the girl had calmed for a minute, and he currently desired resolution more than anything.

  Pleasantly shocked by his statement, the girl stares at him, innocent and dull.

  “Used to love that book,” he points out.

  Staring into the night sky, Viktor could notice the clouds gathering, foretelling the coming of a greater storm.

  “It’s going to rain soon,” he claims, gesturing for the girl to rise, “we should get moving.”

  As she rises, Viktor’s attention is drawn to the protruding pointed ends of the girl’s elvish ears, a feature he’d noticed instantly upon first seeing her. Although he himself had no qualms with elven folk, he was aware of their current perception in the eyes of the public and the recent legal mandates regarding elf madness.

  Desiring no future complications, he makes an effort to point towards her ears, “We should probably do something about those.”

  The girl blushes before impulsively covering her ears with her hands, casting a look of helplessness towards the pondering hunter. She was secretly worried he would resort to some form of extreme measure, such as cutting her ears off.

  Hesitantly, he takes off his rugged old hat, “This should do.”

  Placing the leather piece upon the girl’s head, the hunter did the best he could to hold back a laugh, sputtering in a fit of hysteria as it sank all the way to cover her eyebrows.

  “That is about the silliest thing I’ve seen for years,” he remarked as he chuckled loudly.

  Fjalla felt calmer in a sense. In two senses, actually. The hunter could laugh. The hunter didn’t mind her being an elf. A question she never had Walshland answer. His thought brought a bitter end to the sweet moment, and she was once more back in her state of sorrow as she mounted Kashmir, preceded by the hunter who manned the reins.

  They rode silently through the night, speeding across the sunless marshes in an effort to spare themselves the tempest’s wrath. Arriving at the border town of Bludansk, Viktor, once again, would revisit the Mundi Island Inn. Unfortunately, however, he could spare just about enough to book a regular room this time.

  Famished, the pair made their way to the dining hall, where they sat quietly across from one another, gorging on proportionate servings of Bikosh.

  “Only damn edible thing this side of the river,” muttered Viktor snarkily.

  Fjalla overheard him, giggling in agreement, which made Viktor slightly smirk.

  Aside from the one interaction, it had been quite awkward. With the little girl still mostly afraid of her contemporary. She had no clue who he was or what he intended to do with her. Every so often, she would stop eating and just stare at him, meaning to ask a question but never quite mustering the courage required to speak up.

  Her first impression of Viktor was quite terrifying in its own right. Covered in blood and fluids, he’d only just introduced himself into the cave before executing its helpless pleading owner. Monster or not, the scene was quite hard to watch. And if that had not been enough. His rough behaviour and harsh words were no kind compliment to his ruthlessness.

  Eventually, Viktor would notice the girl staring at him, eat, stopping his spoon halfway in its track to his mouth before breaking the silence with a sigh.

  “Name’s Viktor by the way,” he stated.

  The girl kept staring quietly.

  “Listen,” he went on to explain,” I know we got off on the wrong foot. But the people who sent me to get you, they specifically asked that you be ALIVE. I couldn’t let you die there missy, even if you wanted to. I am sorry.”

  He posed with his hands and shrugged.

  Fjalla believed Viktor made a fair point, the swamps were no place for someone like him; infact the swamps were no place for anyone not like him. She would have been monster feed had he not come and forced her into reality. Though she didn’t admire his methods, she was grateful for his results. Thanks to him, she may even see her father again.

  “My name is Fjalla,” she responded hesitantly, quickly realising the blunder she’d made.

  “Cute name,” he nodded.

  Fjalla could not believe she just told this stranger her name. What if he were one of those people after her?

  “Well, he literally is,” she thought to herself. A plethora of questions started streaming through her consciousness, questions she had just enough courage to ask now.

  “Mr Viktor,” she began to ask.

  “Mhm,” he hummed back with stew in his mouth.

  “You don’t mind the fact that I am a - um?” she gestured the shape of fake ears around the brim of her hat. Looking around to make sure no one saw her (the dining hall was empty).

  Viktor stared at her, slowly comprehending the statement as he swallowed his food.

  “I do not,” he says bluntly,” the client never said anything about no race. I am to bring you to them alive, that’s all I care about.”

  The girl puckered. His answer was far colder and more direct than she’d anticipated, leaving her with a lot of work to do coming up with a follow-up. Denying her the chance, Viktor posits his own question.

  “How come a little girl like you is travelling across Mokosh without her mommy or daddy?” he asks, waving a spoon with his mouth half full. He’d come to this conclusion as he didn’t seem to see any cadavers fitting to be parental figures by the caravan.

  “Well, I got no mommy really,” she started, “ I never knew her at least.”

  Viktor nodded and looked down in respect.

  “And Papa is busy with important matters back home,” she continued,” so he sent me to stay over with Mr Eskel in Dansfurt.”

  Her already bright glacial eyes gleamed even brighter as she beamed in her seat. Excited, she asked, “You wouldn’t happen to be sent by Mr Eskel?”

  “Could be,” responded Viktor, mostly lying. He highly doubted his client had anything to do with her father, seeing his interaction with them was far too ominous and morbid. But it was a strange world, and Viktor wouldn’t put anything past anyone after all he’d seen throughout his life.

  “Your daddy an uhhh- pointy fella like you?” he asks her back.

  “You mean,” she responds in a slightly confused tone, “oh, no! He was normal. He was a normal guy, but he was very kind, warm, smart and strong. He gave me everything, he taught me everything, he was …”

  She paused.

  “He was my everything”

  She felt a sharp pain in her chest as a deep sense of sadness and nostalgia loomed over her.

  “Must be nice,” responded an oblivious Viktor, ” my daddy was a piece of shit.”

  The ridiculous statement caught Fjalla offguard and knocked her out of her state of despair.

  “He left me on the street to care for my own when I was a wee little boy,” he added, “Must’ve been half your age. Just left me at the courtyard to play some day, ran off and never showed up ever again.”

  Shocked and appalled, the girl stuttered softly, “I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be. It was the best thing to ever happen to me.” he looked at his reflection in his spoon,” ran with a little street posse for a couple of years before I bumped into my second daddy. Two daddies, I know. Don’t hear that often.”

  “Eric Von Eirick, decorated member of the Hunting Party,” he smiled at his image as he reminisced, “ he’s the one who taught me how to hunt.”

  He looks to Fjalla before finally adding, “Funny enough, he was a…”

  Almost revealing an important detail, he noticed the waitress return to clean their table. The momentary pause made him re-evaluate his choice of words.

  “He was a what?” pushed Fjalla.

  Irritated, Viktor responded, “he was a damn good hunter… Damn good man too. And to think I tried to rob him.”

  He laughed emptily, his eyes dull and sad as he remembered his predecessor.

  “I think you are a good hunter, Mr Viktor,” replied Fjalla.

  Viktor appreciated the compliment, though he noticed she’d withheld calling him a “good man”. Nodding in slight disappointment, he decides to conclude the conversation.

  “I think we should sleep,” he suggests, “we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  The pair retire upstairs to their shared chamber, with the young girl once again immediately curling into her cot. This time, however, she issues a soft farewell.

  “Goodnight, Mr Viktor”

  Taken aback by the kind gesture, the conflicted hunter responds with a heartfelt “Goodnight, Miss.”

  He watched from the edge of his cot as the elven girl slipped into slumber, his mind drowning in thought as he questioned his next move.

  Viktor was not used to this type of contract. He was more comfortable taking down beasts, chasing criminals and guarding carriages from bandits. But delivering little girls to a cult of shady masked men? What kind of man would that make him?

  “A rich one,” whispered the voice of Lennigrast in his head.

  He was right, ten thousand bezels was no small amount. Not to mention, bailing would put professional integrity at jeopardy; he may never get another client again. There was so much to lose.

  “Look at her, Viktor,” begged the spectre of Roselle within his consciousness.

  Peering back at the innocent, feeble frame of the girl, he couldn’t help but feel his heart break as he admired her soft breathing. She was still so young, about as young as he was when the Von Eirick picked him up from the alleyways.

  He rubs his face violently, before banishing his imagined friends from his brainstorming session:” Both of you, shut up! Fuck!”

  He lay back in his cot, his eyes wide open. As he stared out his window at the storm brewing above, he asked a question he had long not crossed.

  “What would Old Eric do?”