Silence is Deadly

Silence is deadly.

Asmund puffed his smoking pipe as he marched through the snowbound forest, his eyes darting to and fro as they scanned the pristine taiga around him. Several men had gone missing in these parts several days ago - a normal facet of life here in the monster-infested Northern Province, but because they were members of the Ecclesiarchy he was ‘volunteered’ to find the clergymen.

Or what was left of them at least, as his friends at the tavern had jested.

The chirping symphony of birds danced across the frigid winter air as Asmund trekked onwards, mulling over what manner of beast might have done the priests in. Perhaps a particularly large Snowsnapper, tunneling beneath the snow with its serpentine body and striking from below with a powerful pair of extending jaws? Or maybe an imposing Northpaw did them in? Those urcine wolverines were preparing for hibernation around this time of year, and a group of lost priests from out-of-town would have been quite the preparatory feast.

Asmund stopped for a minute to stuff more dried smokeleaf into his pipe, taking note of the slowly lowering sun barely peeking out from between the trees. He’d have to set up camp soon, get a fire going. Smoke repelled all manner of awful night terrors, but even then he wouldn’t sleep easy. Not here.

Small beasts don’t make carriages go missing, after all.

After a solid half-hour of making sure the local area was devoid of tree-dwelling Pine Vipers, Asmund decided on a small clearing that offered him a solid twenty feet of open space in most directions. It was the best he had found so far, and he wasn’t going to find a better location before the creatures of the night began prowling about. The chirping of insects buzzed just beyond the treeline, a comforting ambience alongside the crackling of firewood. Asmund sat next to the fire, pouring a little water and scooping some snow into a small metal pot and hanging it over the flames. Fishing around amongst the many pockets adorning his winter coat, the hunter retrieved a rune-marked thermal stone and set it down beside him. Reaching down into his collar, Asmund pulled out a shimmering blue crystal connected to a chain necklace via metal wiring. Tapping the thermal stone with the glowing crystal, Asmund watched as magic flowed into the etched runes and filled the rock with purpose.

Returning the crystal to its place around his neck, Asmund picked up the now-humming thermal stone and felt a wave of heat wash across his hands. Although his was rather rudimentary, the otherworldly energy of a glimmerkey was important for those who couldn’t manipulate mana by themselves.

Like himself.

Asmund watched the embers drift upwards, wafting above the looming pine trees and disappearing into the pristine night sky. This place had a haunting beauty to it, marvelous at a distance but teeming with death up close. A log split open, sending a host of embers flying out and renewing the crackles of the flame. Asmund jumped, caught off guard by the sudden noise. Shaking his head, the hunter grumbled to himself. It had been practically deafening in the silence of the night that had settled in. His hand hovered over the thermal stone he had dropped when the realization hit him.

It was quiet.

No insects chirping, no birds hooting. Nothing.

Pure, unadulterated silence.

And silence is deadly.

Asmund gulped, his eyes shifting around the treeline to see what had caused the forest to fall so silent. His hands shifted as well, reaching to the rifle laying at his side with an expedient yet gentle grasp. It was a rugged implement, the furniture crafted from the same stern wood that surrounded him. But whereas a mage had a wand and a priest had a staff, he had this. It lacked the theatrical finesse of those more natural magical implements, breech-loading and then firing pre-packaged spells wrapped in enchanted paper as opposed to simply channeling raw mana, but it got the job done and packed quite a punch. Aethercasters like the one he was loading were notoriously expensive - Asmund only had his as a souvenir from his time in the military - but their effectiveness was what allowed him to hunt the otherworldly beasts like the one skulking around the edges of his camp.

Asmund’s heart began to pick up its pace, and the hunter sprung up to a kneel as he looked about with an increasing unease. Flicking the lever around the rifle’s trigger forward, Asmund reached a hand into the hardleather pouch on his waist containing the spellfire charges and slid one of the paper packages into the open breech as a small cloud left his lips. The lever slid back and the breech closed, a satisfying metal click telling him it was ready to cast. Each thumping heartbeat, each bated breath, each snow-crunching step - all were deafening in the silence of the forest. Asmund turned around once more, and his figure froze as he finally saw what it was that had drawn so near to him.

A great white stag was standing at the edge of the clearing, a pair of large and ornately-curling antlers hanging above its head. Asmund tightened his grip on the caster, an icy dread seizing the back of his neck. The animal stood several heads above him, larger than any other stag he’d seen. Its thick white fur was matted in places and stained in others, and a set of strong pillar-like legs supported its massive frame.

But what made Asmund the most uneasy were its eyes.

They were human.

And they were staring back at him.

The two stood there, flame-licked shadows dancing around them as they looked at one another. Asmund’s finger inched towards the trigger, his breaths slow and anxious. The beast watched, unblinking and unmoving save for the occassional snorting from its nostrils. If he pulled the trigger, in an instant the glimmercrystal in the rifle would slide forward and tap the spellfire cartridge, bringing it to life and sending a burst of arcane hatred flashing out of the barrel.

But he only had one shot.

And at this distance, it’d be his only shot.

The stag’s gaze shifted ever so slightly, as if sizing up the hunter standing in the clearing. Asmund shouldered the rifle and leaned forward, preparing to raise the caster to bear if the beast decided to step out beyond the treeline. No words were exchanged between them, a tensely quiet conversation not breaking the tense silence of the night. A hoof raised somewhat, ploughing the snow-covered dirt beneath it. The campfire continued its crackling, unperturbed by the standoff occuring only several feet away. The snow was steaming now, slowly sinking into a rising tide of freshwater bubbling with excitement.

With a loud and final huff, the stag turned its head and vanished back into the darkness of the trees. Asmund let out a huff as well, lowering his rifle and taking several deep breaths as the adrenaline stopped pumping through his veins. Looking around, Asmund kept the caster in one hand he wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead. Slowly, the sounds of life trickled back into the air as the night progressed, heralding the departure of his midnight visitor.

Whatever it was.

Asmund sat by the fire, gnawing on a jerky stick as he ruminesced about the encounter. He hadn’t seen such a creature before - was it responsible for the missing clergymen? Asmund shook his head. The carriage was a much larger target with several more people than just him on his lonesome - if the stag had killed them it could have easily killed him.

But it didn’t.

And those eyes…

Asmund felt a shiver run up his spine. Whatever that thing was, he hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again. He’d have to ask the guys about it back at the tavern - with such a uniquely dreadful description, he’d either get answers or volunteers for a hunting party.

Maybe both.

Nonetheless, though, he couldn’t return with nothing but chatter about strange beasts in a forest full of strange beasts. He had a reputation to uphold, and nothing less than concrete answers would do. When the morning came, he’d set out all the same and search for the missing clergymen until he had something to bring back. Reaching into his winter coat once more, Asmund procured a small pouch containing a handful of coffee beans and popped several into his mouth. He wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight.

Not that he had been feeling particularly tired, anyways.

Asmund had been dozing off when the sing-song symphony of morning birds roused him from his half-slumber. The fire had gone out some time ago, but Asmund spent little time worrying about how long he had been exposed as he covered the ashes and pocketed the thermal stone. Taking several gulps from the steaming water, Asmund spent several minutes packing up before resuming his journey. There was a large lake not too far away from where he was that had several rivers and streams feeding into it, with the lake itself flowing into a waterfall that continued downhill.

That was where he was going.

The crunching sound of boots on snow filled the air as Asmund strolled through the forest, one hand resting on the strap suspending his aethercaster from his shoulder. Puffing his smoke pipe, Asmund watched a pair of four-winged snowdoves twirl about overhead before flapping off deeper into the forest. Those birds were quite tasty when cooked, the hunter thought to himself. Especially when they were mixed in with some garlic, rosemary, thyme, a sprinkle of sage…

His stomach rumbled loudly in protest, reminding Asmund of how long it’d been since he had had a proper home-cooked meal. He’d been out here for the better part of a week; and although the rations he’d brought with him weren’t bad, they weren’t good either. Most of the big game was gone too, so he hadn’t been able to bag any big helpings of meat like venison. The only large animal he’d encountered, Asmund thought to himself, had been the large stag last night. Other than that, the forest was oddly deserted wherever he went - not even a cursory glance at some unsuspecting wildlife.

The rumbling quacks of rusty bluebills signaled that he was almost to the lake, and Asmund welcomed the idea of seeing a flock of the little feathered dragonfowl swimming about. Following the sounds, they grew louder and eventually became accompanied by the sounds of splashing water and flapping wings. But before he broke the treeline and made his way to the bank, a loud crash rung out as something big broke the surface of the water, causing an uproar of quacks and flaps that eventually fell silent.

Silence is deadly.

Whipping the caster off of his shoulder, Asmund held the rifle at the ready as he stepped out into the open bank bordering the lake. It was a gradual, snowy slope ending in a conglomerate of weeds and reeds and other coastal plants that broke up the waves before they hit the soil. It was a beautiful sight, really - a lake several miles in circumference framed by picturesque evergreens and standing at the foot of distant snow-capped mountain ranges.

But the only thing he heard was the gentle lapping of the waves and the gentle roar of the waterfall halfway across the water.

Asmund scanned the treeline, wondering if some beast had jumped in after the bluebills, but saw nothing. He puffed his pipe, uneasy at the fact that it was so quiet. Lowering the caster, Asmund took a minute to pop some more coffee beans in his mouth before his gaze meandered back up towards the lakefront where a small modicum of commotion seized his attention. A bluebill was sitting among the reeds, bobbing up and down with the water, pecking intently at something. The creature’s uncaring disregard for what had caused the noise relaxed Asmund somewhat, and he walked over to the dragonfowl to see what it was pecking at.

The sight of a severed forearm was not what he was expecting. The flesh was in some degree of decay, largely fought off by the sheer cold of the climate. Asmund puffed his pipe, the sense of calm retreating to the back of his mind. There was a torn and tattered sleeve around the forearm, whose elaborate trim and symbolic eye embroidery identified it as belonging to the robes of a clergyman.

Or belonged to, actually.

Asmund came to a stop at the edge of the water, watching the bluebill peck and tear at the arm. The limb’s hand, clad in black leather gloves, was holding a chained and ancient-looking medallion in a tight death-grip. He was tempted to reach for it, but he knew better than to get between a bluebill and its food. Fortunately, he had something in his packs that bluebills loved: blue-banana nut bread. The iconically-colored loaf was a provincial staple, made using the hardy and nutrient-dense Musa-Cenizo banana.

Unwrapping what was left of the loaf he had brought, Asmund ripped off a chunk and tossed it several feet to the bluebill’s left. The dragonfowl took a moment to turn its blood-stained beak towards the disturbance before splashing over to the floating chunks with a surprising speed. Asmund took the moment to use the butt of his rifle and nudge the frostbitten limb within arm’s reach. Setting the loaf down beside him, Asmund pried open the frozen hand and hung the odd medallion around his neck.

He had his evidence.

Time to head back home.

Asmund slung his caster over his shoulder and picked up the arm, wondering where he was going to store the limb as his eyes analyzed the damage. Near the end of the arm, where it would have connected to the elbow, the sleeve was pinned to the limb by a large white tooth. Pulling it out as the bluebill hopped up onto the bank and zipped towards the unguarded loaf, Asmund realized why it had gone so quiet.

This was the tooth of an ursinus orca.

A Black Pilgrim.

Twenty-foot long, several-thousand-pound amphibious sea bears that lived in groups called congregations and made annual pilgrimages across the continent to terrorize new feeding grounds. Possessing a striking black and white coloration, four powerful, clawed limbs, a jutting spike of a dorsal fin, and a large tail, Black Pilgrims were a nigh-unstoppable natural disaster to everything they came across.

Like the carriage.

Asmund looked out towards the lake as the bluebill waddled up to him expectantly, a cold sweat running down the hunter’s back. A loud huff startled Asmund, causing him to drop the arm in surprise and frantically shoulder his rifle. The stag from last night stood at the treeline, staring at him with its unnerving gaze. Asmund pocketed the tooth, staring back at the stag. It blinked, huffing out another cloud of vapor and gesturing its head towards the lake before quickly turning around and galloping off.

Asmund turned his head towards the lake.

A tall, black fin was rising out of the water.

And then another.

And another.

Heading straight for him.

A shocked “Oh,” was all Asmund could muster before the bluebill’s expectant quacking snapped him out of his daze. Taking several hurried steps backwards as the fins gained speed, Asmund practically threw himself up the bank and broke into a desperate sprint through the forest. Behind him, the trumpet-call of blowholes sounded off accompanied by the noise of large beasts charging up from the depths. Their footfalls were fast and heavy, their jaws open and their breaths hungry.

Asmund didn’t look back.

A tree cried out as it was forced aside, and the shrill hunting calls of the Pilgrims haunted his ears as he ran, the monstrous creatures shouting to one another as they pursued their quarry. His head start was small at best, and the Pilgrims were much faster than he could ever hope to be. Asmund ran nonetheless, hoping to come up with some last-minute plan with the few extra seconds he had.

And then he came into a clearing.

Unslinging his rifle, Asmund got it to his shoulder just as the first Pilgrim ran into view, leaping out from the treeline like an instrument of divine judgement. Asmund pulled the trigger on his caster, sending the glimmercrystal in the rifle’s mechanism flying forth into the rune-laden paper wrapping of the spellfire cartridge. In an instant, bouts of arcane energy came crackling out of the barrel as an imposing fireball burst into existence. The flaming orb surged forth, colliding with the Pilgrim and causing it to come to a halt with a shrill shriek of pain. Hurriedly sliding in another cartridge, Asmund brought his rifle back up as a pair of Pilgrims came into view on either side of the burned one. The three beasts looked at Asmund with a hesitant hunger, primal gears turning in their head. The burned one stared at him, seared flesh marring the right half of its face.

Several minutes passed before the Pilgrims called to one another, slowly taking several steps back. Asmund exhaled, taking a step back himself as a set of thundering footsteps to his left announced the presence of a fourth Pilgrim bounding up on his flank. Asmund barely had time to aim his rifle at the gaping maw of the predator before it was slammed to the side by the great white stag. Their attack routed, the Pilgrims retreated back into the forest with the rest of its congregation, leaving just the hunter and the stag alone in the clearing. Its eyes glanced down towards the medallion before looking back at him.

The guys at the tavern weren’t going to believe this.