Wulf #2
Why is this wicked wood withholding its many horrors? Where are the mists of blood, or the ravening trolls, or covens of witchfolk dismembering the dead for their bones? Given how far we have ventured into these cursed trees, I should already be dripping with the gore of hostile monsters.
Eris must find this as unsettling as I do, for I hear his perturbed hum.
Meanwhile, Verena grins up at me. "I'm sorry, did you just sniff the air?"
I realize my hand is still holding her close. Her floral scent and sparkling eyes fill my chest with a warmth I long to bask in.
But this is not the place for it.
Reluctantly, I release her and step onto the bridge first, testing it before continuing on.
"A huntsman knows his tricks."
"If you say so, Fido," the otherworldly woman shrugs as we journey down the path, which is now nearly impossible to make out. "Merrick made this place sound like a living nightmare, but so far it hasn't been that—"
She cuts off abruptly with a gag, covering her nose and mouth.
I know why. I can scent the blood, too, but it is not human. It is the rotten stench of monster blood.
A moment later, when we turn around a bend in the wood, the source is clear.
Ida's cottage is nestled between the trees, just as small and comfortable as I remember despite its new Loomdark surroundings.
The cottage is made after the manner of homes in Isenmere, with colorful exposed timbers and a mirror affixed to the front door—only that mirror is now cracked, the door left ajar.
On the steps leading up to it, a leibwraith's head lies, dripping with freshly spilled blood. Its body is several paces away, hacked to pieces.
Eris must know of these blights. The moment he glimpses the decapitated monster, he swears and vanishes from my axe. He must be searching the reflections within Ida's home to determine what I already know to be true.
That old woman would never carelessly leave her door open.
Ida was consumed by the leibwraith.
Verena covers her face to hide from the gore she loathes.
"That is the ugliest fucking wolf I have ever seen. Look at the size of that thing's ears, and those bulging eyes? Ew."
"It is not a wolf," I say, stepping in front of her when I scent more monsters nearby. Already, my hands are itching to spill blood. "It is a leibwraith."
"A what now?
"A soul-consumer. It takes the form of sharp-toothed beasts, but leaves its prey conscious and whole—physically alive, but soulless. Leibwraiths always travel in packs," I add, drawing my axe.
Eris reappears in the axe I hold, his voice alarmed.
"The old woman lies soulless in her bed, but she is not alone. A red-hooded child stands in there with her. She must have killed that leibwraith, but now her soul is also gone."
"Holy shit," Verena gasps, uncovering her face.
My gaze locks onto the eyes of another leibwraith, prowling silently through the dark forest toward us. Another creeps in behind it.
Twigs crack elsewhere. I roll my shoulders back, preparing to fight.
We're surrounded, meaning I will soon spill a great deal of blood.
As much as I shall enjoy the inevitable slaughter, it almost certainly means my curse shall seize control.
"Verena," I whisper. I set down everything I have been carrying, but I keep the axe ready.
"Holy shit," she repeats. "This is Little Red Riding Hood. You're the huntsman who saves—"
"Get inside the house. Now."
Whether it is the harshness of my voice or whether she spies the monsters stalking closer, Verena moves at once. She darts forward, avoiding the dead monster on the steps.
She hesitates for a second in the doorway, casting a worried look back at me.
"Wulf—"
"Close the door," I warn.
"He'll be fine, Fairest," Eris insists from a reflection I do not look for. "Leave the fabled warrior to his fun and quickly grab what you can of the dead old woman's desirable fabrics."
I hear her arguing with him even as the door slams shut—but then the leibwraiths descend upon me.
With a swing of my axe, the first monster's head slides off. Blood sprays as I swing at the next one.
Another leibwraith tries to snap at me.
These beasts seldom use their teeth, usually swallowing the souls of their prey whole instead. But whatever magic was used to curse my soul, it is more powerful than any creature I have met with—and when these beasts realize they cannot take my soul from my body, they try to slay me instead.
Embedding my axe in the forehead of the snapping leibwraith, I turn to grapple with another monster. With the aid of the runes upon my arms, I put it to sleep before snapping its neck.
The howls of leibwraiths fill the air as I slay them, yet they are wising up. Now that they have learned I am no easy target, they try to flee.
But if they are not slain now, they may return to try consuming Verena's soul.
I will end such a danger before it has another chance to threaten her.
Retrieving my axe, I slice cleanly through the flank of another monster just as it begins to run. One more swing ends it.
It is the last of the blood I must spill for my cursed form to take hold.
All at once, the world blurs. I cry out as pain rips through my body.
Bones break and reshape, bending and warping beneath my skin. My cry turns into a roar as my face becomes a sharp-toothed snout. Fur blooms everywhere my flesh tears away, my body multiplying in size.
It is an agony I have felt many times, but it never becomes less painful.
Yet finally, I charge through the woods after the attackers. I am faster at short distances than they are, so the slaughter begins anew. Clamping my teeth onto the hind leg of a leibwraith, I rip it away. At the same time, my claws dig into the belly of another.
Since leibwraiths primarily consume souls, the contents spilling from this one's stomach include two strange, vaguely glowing orbs.
For a time, I am lost to the grisly thrill of the hunt. I bellow and tear through the fiends who would have harmed Verena, littering the forest with their pieces. Savoring the taste of their blood.
This zeal for carnage has always lurked within me.
When I was a boy, it frightened the elders of my clan. When they realized I must be cursed, they did not wish to banish me from my people—so instead, they taught me great discipline.
They took a beastly child and turned him into a warrior. Now, as they drink mead around their campfires at night, they boast of the renowned hero of Nordhjem with great pride.
But deep down, I am still this bloodthirsty beast.
At last, when the remains of the leibwraith are strewn about the ground, and their blood drips from the trees, I slowly lumber back toward Ida's cottage.
It is difficult for me to think clearly in the lingering exhilaration of a good hunt—
Until I see Verena peering out of a window. She flinches back, eyes widening.
Like cold water to a flame, I realize that, once again, I have frightened the woman I am sworn to protect.