Chapter 1: Where it all began

  In the northernmost reaches of the Kingdom of Typhon, there was a mountain range that many deemed unlivable. It was known as the Icelock Summits due to it constantly being covered in ice and snow. There was a section of the mountains that was considered the point of no return; no other cities or settlements were found beyond them. The small village nestled in that area was Whitemane, with the safe zone around it being Whitemane Bastion.

  With an elevation over 19,000’, and being home to monsters of all shapes and sizes, it was frequently called the World's End. However, to the 500 people brave enough to live there, it was simply ‘home’. It was hard, but they made do with what they had. Being a few days' travel from a Hell-pit made hunting monsters the easiest way to get meat. The village was built next to a river that had a thick layer of ice over it constantly. However, there was also running water beneath that ice, clean and crystal clear. Creatively placed pipes and runestones made an efficient aqueduct system that almost never froze up. A large greenhouse was built underground to keep it insulated, and they used runestones to generate steam to regulate the environment for the vegetables. Trees were more than abundant when they were needed, but clever use of runestones and magic allowed for there to be plenty of fire and warmth in the homes. Hunters and adventurers would stop in to rest and recuperate before journeying back down the summits, bringing in trade goods from all over Typhon. While imperfect, it wasn't such a bad way to live life.

  Nestled inside Whitemane village was a small cottage, built out of stone and timber with a thatched roof for insulation. Small runestones were scattered across the roof to help keep the thatch dry and prevent the snow from leaking in. This home belonged to Ana and Murak Lavos. Ana was a young Elf (young by elf standards, 223 years old) with dirty blonde hair, almost the color of fully ripened wheat fields. She stood around 5’7” inches tall, and had a slender frame. Murak was a young Dwarf (again, young by Dwarf standards, 183 years old) with raven black hair and a full beard. He stood just a few inches shorter than his wife. He was broad-shouldered, thick-chested, and had muscles filling his frame. On the right side of his head, a large section of his hair was light brown instead of its normal raven color.

  They had been together for over 10 years, married for a little over 4 years, and had moved to Murak’s hometown to have their first child. The whole village was abuzz; it was not often new life was brought into Whitemane, and to them it was cause for celebration. The night the baby was born was a cold and snowy deep winter night, and the entire village was cheering and praying for the baby's well-being. A few days later, a swaddled baby was held in the village square as the proud father announced the name of their baby boy.

  “This is my son! His name is Sevagoth. Sevagoth Lavos! The newest members of our family!” Murak yelled proudly, little Sev hefted up over his head.

  The village shouted and cheered, whistling and applauding as they saw the little child for the first time. Sevagoth simply stared out at the people in front of him, eager eyes darting from new face to new face, and absorbing the beautiful landscape that surrounded them. A soft giggle and smile started as he was lowered back down into the arms of his mother and father, who stared back with love and adoration.

  As the days and weeks passed and Ana recovered, Murak returned to his duties in the hunting party. As one of the captains, he was responsible for the training and safety of 15 fellow hunters. There were 3 such teams in the village, and each team would rotate hunts to give the other members time to rest and recover. Each hunt took about a week, 3 days to travel to the Hell-pit, 1 day to hunt, and a little under 3 days to return to the village, depending on weather conditions. After a team returned, the next team would wait a day, then venture out on their own. This system put the hunts on 8-day cycles and seemed to be the most efficient method to keep the village supplied with red meat. This schedule helped keep issues such as blizzards from fully interrupting the supply to the village. The teams would take 5 large sleds with them, each one being pulled by 3 of the hunters. The sleds were used to transport the meat and materials back to the village more efficiently.

  On his first hunt back after the birth of Sevagoth, a strange weight sat on the shoulders of Murak. He now had 2 people waiting for him at home, and 2 mouths to feed. While the addition of 1 baby did not change the amount of meat they would hunt, it seemed to change everything for Murak. He seemed distracted, distant.

  “You alright, boss?” A gruff-looking man asked as he tied gear and supplies to the large wooden sleds.

  “I’m fine. Struggling more than I thought to leave them behind, but I’m fine.” Murak insisted as he tried to shake the anxiety.

  “Well, well, looks like the ol runt has gone soft.” Another hunter called out, causing many of them to laugh. “Head up, boss. It’s only a few days. You’ll be home to your kiddo before you know it.”

  “I know, I know. Still, never thought I’d be this sentimental about people.” Murak mused as he hefted the sled to one side, setting the frame onto the skis and making sure the wax was applied evenly. “What was it like for you, Gerrit?”

  “Ah, it was an adjustment. When the old lady managed to win me over, I wasn’t really sure what to do. But just as hard as it is to leave em, it’s even better to come home to welcoming arms and a warm home.” The first man chuckled, looking back over to Murak. “It’ll be alright, Rak. They ain’t going anywhere.”

  “Thanks, everyone. I’ll take your words to heart.” Murak said with a soft nod, focusing on the prep work for their hunt. Why can’t I shake this nagging? It’s eating away at my very soul. Am I that dependent on An now? Hah. She’ll never let me live this down. I can hear her already.

  As he travelled those 3 days to the Hell-pit, all he could think about was returning home to his family. The other hunters continued to tease him slightly, saying that the baby had turned him into an old man in a matter of a few weeks. Murak forced a smile, trying to brush the paranoia aside and focus on the hunt, but something felt off. Why can’t I calm my nerves? I feel like the mountains and trees themselves are anxious. Is there a particularly nasty beast waiting for us at the Glade? There was so much tension in the air that even the other hunters caught on.

  “Do we pull back? It feels… off?” Gerrit asked as he went forward several paces. “What’s the call, boss?”

  “Agh. Fuck me. The call is to push forward. We are only a few hours out of the Glade; the village will suffer if we don’t get any food this run.” Murak answered after a few moments of thought. “We move forward slowly, no room for mistakes. We get in, get some boar, and get out. Now let’s stop wasting time and get this over with.” I hope this isn’t a mistake. It was a mistake. One that would haunt Murak for the rest of his days.

  This particular Hell-pit had been ironically named ‘Spring Glade’. Spring Glade was a paradox in and of itself, as all Hell-pits were. A volcanic wasteland hidden inside the heights of an arctic hoarfrost. Frozen water sharing a riverbed with molten lava, magma seeping through the cracked ground and pouring over the snow and stone. Nothing like this should be possible, and yet it was and had been for centuries. Mostly Hellboar and Ice Wolves populated Spring Glade, but occasionally trolls or other such monsters would wander into the area in search of food and warmth. However, today seemed to be a special occasion, if one could call it that. Instead of the usual 5-8 Hellboars that typically spawned in the Hell-pit, there was a field of corpses. 10, 20, maybe 30 in total, ranging from Hellboars, Trolls, Ice wolves, and even an Ogre. The smell of rotting flesh and burnt fur filled the air, while dried blood pooled and coated the snow and earth beneath their feet.

  “What the fuck…” One of the younger hunters muttered as they laid eyes on the massacre.

  “STAY CLOSE! We don’t know what did this, but it could still be nearby.” Murak ordered, stepping ahead of the others, making his way towards the corpses. “Gerrit, Pat, help me check these out.”

  “They couldn’t have been there for more than a week; the other hunting party would have reported it…” Pat responded as he inspected one of the dead boars. “But it’s strange… With the rot and decay, it’s like the corpses have been here for months. Especially with the cold preserving them, they couldn’t possibly be fresh, right?”

  “He’s right, Rak. You can see down into the bones. These things have been here a while.” Gerrit confirmed as he inspected a troll corpse. “The fuck preys on Hellboar and Trolls though? For fuck sake, it has to be some nasty fucker.”

  “While I agree, there is no use sticking around. We need to let Bailior and the others know.” Murak said distractedly, picking over a corpse before standing up. “They might be able to help figure out what the fuck is happening. Grab the sleds and let’s…” The hunting crew's investigation was cut short when they heard a shrill, bloodcurdling screech in the evening air. And then, it appeared.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Few things could paralyze a veteran hunting party such as Murak’s. Most of the humans had been hunters for over 15 years, and the dwarves had been hunters for 40-70 years. Murak was 183 years old and had been hunting since he was 40. In all that time, he had faced thousands and thousands of monsters. And yet even he could not help but be frozen in terror. There was something different about this thing, something inherently evil. As he was leading the group, his friends and comrades were behind him. All he could hear were the screams of pain. The ripping of flesh and the crunching of bones. The cries and sobs of those still living, and yet powerless to act. And the laughter?

  Is this thing laughing at us? It’s laughing at our fear and our pain. Is it a trap, or happenstance? Is this thing hungry? No, it wouldn’t have left these corpses to rot. This fucker is hunting us for sport. As the panic and thoughts raced through Murak’s mind, he heard a voice that he had repressed for well over a decade. Since he had met Ana. And it was pissed.

  “Let me out, Murak. I’ll show this thing what it feels like to be hunted.” The voice ordered, a deep growling snarl. In the whirl of emotion and stress, Murak lost control. He fell to his knees as he screamed, his shoulders shaking violently from the sobbing. And then his own laughter. Murak started to stand, bones twisting and popping, growing from 5’4 to well over 7’ tall. His full beard melted into his body as fur replaced skin. Where a burly dwarf had previously stood in fear, a massive werewolf now stood laughing. Murak was a lycanthrope. A very, very pissed off lycanthrope. As Murak turned around to face his prey, he saw only 4 of his men left. The other 11 were torn limb from limb, blood spattered across the snow and trees. Bushes so full of blood it looked like they were bearing fruit. And then there was it.

  A relatively small monster was tearing into Logan, one of the newer hunters that Murak was training. The monster was a few heads shorter than Murak’s new form and was somewhat humanoid in shape. A hunched back with long black quills sticking out of the spine, long talons where the fingernails would be, and a mouth more akin to a shark's maw than that of a human. Large, solid black eyes that seemed to swallow the light around them. Pale, almost see-through white skin stretched tightly over the muscle and skeleton of whatever the fuck this thing was. And the blood, this thing was coated in the blood of Murak’s friends, his brothers in arms. Murak lost all sense of reason; the only thought in his mind was to rip and tear that thing apart for laughing at him. With inhuman strength and speed, Murak lunged at the beast while letting out a roar of his own.

  “DIE FUCKER!” Murak howled, closing the gap in an instant. As soon as Murak began to move, the monster's awful visage turned to face him. The monster had a horrific, toothy smile dripping with blood and viscera. Murak wrapped his arms around the monster and rammed it into a nearby tree. Without hesitation, Murak started digging his claws and teeth into the flesh of the monstrosity before him. Ripping and tearing chunks of flesh and muscle with every gouge, blood pooling and drenching the snow beneath them. Murak’s senses were all but turned off; he could hear and see nothing other than the thing he was ripping into. That laughter again. Suddenly, Murak froze in place again, and the world seemed to be eerily quiet.

  As he began to regain his senses, he stood in horror at the scene in front of him. Against the tree where he had been fighting that monster, there was instead the nearly unrecognizable body of one of his hunting party. He reeled back in shock at what he had done. I know for a fact we grabbed that fucking beast. I KNOW IT. He saw it with his own eyes; he was tearing apart that beast! And yet there before him was a young boy, no older than 18 years old. A fresh hunter, Brodin. His parents had come to see him off and thanked Murak for watching over him. The only thing Murak could do was stare.

  “What have I done?!?!?” He screamed into the cold night air. And then it was there again. That damned laughter. “Hey, shit bag. You’ll pay for this. I’ll show you despair, if a husk like you can even feel it. Let’s dance bitch.” He sneered, forgetting about Brodin and locking eyes with the beast.

  Murak would figure out what happened after; for now, he needed to kill that monster before it killed the rest of his men. He saw it again, hunched over a corpse and feasting on its flesh while ripping it apart. Only 2 of his men remained alive, still frozen in fear and sobbing at what they heard around them.

  “FUCK YOU BASTARD!!” Murak screamed as he once again rushed the monster. This time, it didn't bother to taunt him. The monster decided play time was over and rushed forward to fight Murak with that same twisted smile on its face. The wicked cackling and laughter were mixed with the clashing of claws on flesh. Both parties ripped and tore at each other with reckless abandon. The only thing that kept Murak alive was the insane regenerative properties his lycanthrope blood gave him. As the beast tore in and cut his flesh, the wounds would close themselves a few seconds later. The same could be said for the monster, however. Every time Murak sliced its flesh open, the wound would close shortly after.

  It seemed they were evenly matched in strength and speed, but the monster had an advantage. It couldn’t bleed out. With each slash Murak made, not a single drop of blood came out. While Murak’s regeneration could heal the wound itself, it couldn't replace the blood he was losing by the second. This thing can out-heal me, it’s just as fast and strong as I am, and it can’t fucking bleed. I need to end this, and fast. Otherwise, I’m fucked. If Master were here, what would he…

  As if by divine intervention, the lava stream nearby bubbled and popped. The idea all but screamed into Murak’s mind. I just have to force this fucker into the lava. It should burn up all at once; there's no way for it to regenerate. It’s a shitty idea for longevity, but I don’t see another option. He quickly grappled the beast and shoved with all his might. He screamed in exertion as the monster pushed back and dug its claws into his flesh.

  “MASTER! Give me the strength to fell this beast! GIVE ME STRENGTH!” With all the power he had left, he pushed and shoved, digging his feet into the packed snow and earth as hard as he could with each step. The monster’s feet gave out from under it with the height difference, as Murak lifted it off the ground and threw with all his force into the lava stream. It let out a horrific screech as its flesh began to boil and burn in the lava, the monster flailing to try and get out. Murak buried the beast in the lava and held his arms under its surface to ensure it couldn't climb its way out. “GAAAAAAAAAAGGGHGH!” Murak’s screams were now a mix of rage and excruciating pain as his flesh melted in the flow of the lava.

  After a few more seconds, he felt the monster stop flailing. He pulled his arms out of the lava and laid on the ground in exhaustion. His regeneration was potent, but the flesh was dead and melted. He could see the bones in his arms in some places, and he didn’t have most of his fingers. Some of the damage would be mitigated when he returned to his normal form, but there was permanent damage done. His hunting days were over. But at least he was alive.

  He forced himself off the ground and walked back over to the 2 remaining hunters. Their tears and snot had frozen to their faces in the cold winter night air. Wait, it’s night already? How long have we been here? Hours? Impossible. We only just arrived… As he worked to help the hunters regain their senses, he mulled these questions over and over. His men had started to calm down, but they were unable to move. He helped them onto one of the sleds and began to drag them back towards the village. He wasn't sure how long he would remain conscious, but he had to put as much distance between this cursed place and the rest of the team.

  The return trip was typically faster due to it being downhill; the hunters would get on the sides of the sleds and coast down the mountain when they were able. This saved them about a day of travel time, more with the sled empty. Finally, the sled entered the village square, with the other two hunters having recovered enough to pull the sled, letting Murak rest. The hunters had some frostbite due to how long the ice had been on their faces, but they were alive. The village was quiet. It was early in the morning when the team returned, and they were ahead of schedule, so of course, the village wasn’t expecting them back. But as they looked, there were more houses than when they had left. Perhaps they were just exhausted and confused, but there were other things that felt off.

  “Has the town square always had 2 post boards? Was there always a street here?” Their thoughts and ruminations were cut short by sudden shouting from one of the houses.

  “Oh my gods, it’s Murak! Murak’s team has returned! They’ve finally returned!”

  Finally? What do they mean, finally, we are ahead of schedule? How could they be waiting on us? The hunters thought, slowly coming to a halt. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. As Murak stirred from the shouting and sat up to see the commotion, his stomach sank. He saw Ana crying and running towards him, and running behind her was a young boy. It can’t be. We were only gone for a few days. Right?

  “I thought I had lost you! It’s been years!” Ana cried as she embraced Murak with tears clouding her eyes. Years? No, it was days! We were only gone for about 5 days!

  “Mom, who is that? Why are you crying?” The young boy asked as he stood beside them. Mom? No, no could it be?

  “Sevagoth, this is your father. He has finally made it home! He’s finally home after 5 long years!!” Ana said tearfully as she pulled Sev into the group hug. 5 years? What the fuck is going on here? What the fuck happened at the Glade?

  As Murak was trying to figure out what was happening, he saw something he had hoped was merely a dream. A few hundred yards away. 10, no, 20 of them. That monster that he had struggled to kill one of. How are there more? How are they here? Why? And then he heard it. That laughter.