“The astrologers say that the Caelstar Comet passed by yesterday. That it was a portent of ill tidings ahead. Rumours are that the north is overrun by monsters, the frosts more biting and deadly than last year. The south is engulfed by war. The west suffers from a potential catastrophe centuries in the making. The east is rife with reports of undead and blighted monsters wandering out of the Kesmourn Blightlands. I’d say that the astrologers were right, and also that I probably didn’t need them to tell me that.”


    - Ser Donovan Haight, Captain of the Dawn Strider, “Idle Conversation With Merchant Karzan”


    <hr><hr>


    Elin Grimsby wiggled her nose, sniffling as the biting cold of the Frostwind Ranges made her shiver. The fireplace did little to keep her warm besides offering the occasional crumb of comfort as it flickered a little brighter for a few seconds and waning soon after. It also didn’t help that the age of the structure meant that there were enough gaps that the cold could seep in just as easily, though she was glad that there was shelter in the first place.


    She was grateful at least, of the warm cup in her hands, the heat able to radiate through her gloves and into her nearly frozen palms. She lifted the cup and took a sip. It was nourishing and warm, a salty broth sprinkled in with what was hopefully a meat of sorts to help provide the nutrients it needed. At the moment, the fact that it was warm was more than good enough for her.


    Being a pathfinder meant at least having an interest in exploring forgotten roads and pathways. To delve into ruins and decayed structures to find whatever secrets might be waiting within. And while she enjoyed the lifestyle, she didn’t necessarily appreciate the whole ‘struggle to the destination’ aspect of her work. But she had been paid half of an already inordinate sum to do some basic grunt work on behalf of the church, and the hefty payday stifled much of her more vocal complaints.


    The commission had been simple if veering deep into the tedium side of things. To help chart out paths long untaken up and down the Frostwinds according to old maps that the church had. Hers had turned out to be a bust and led to nothing but snow drifts and unsurprisingly, more snow. So much so that it turned out that there wasn’t even a path that was along the marked trail anymore. Only remnants of a time long ago when places like the cabin she was in were likely maintained by some poor dedicated soul out in the middle of nowhere.


    In fact, it was beyond remarkable that this building still stood as sturdily as it did. The maps the church had pulled when instructing her had to have been at least half a century old if not more. She glanced down at her little notebook, something that had accompanied her throughout all her travels. In it, she had laid out the most likely threats within this area. She suspected that errant hunters, smugglers, or tribals might have stopped by at some point. Tidied up the place or kept it functional at minimum, not that it mattered at this point. And bless them for at least not trashing the place during their stay.


    Normally, she would’ve worried about unwelcome visitors or bandits. But with reports of demons and other monsters lurking around the Frostwinds, scarce few travellers were willing to brave the mountain passes. Even fewer who might continue to reside here. Though she supposed that demons would very much count in the unwanted category.


    Still, demons were at least predictable. They would see her and attack, hoping for a feast. No second guessing, no friendly facades. That much she knew from her experience climbing up the Frostwinds and meeting a few patrols.


    She signed and began downing the rest of her soup. At least the church gave me decent enough rations. Would hate to be eating frozen bread and hardtack with mush for dinner.


    Not that she wasn’t used to basic food. She had been caught off guard more than once ruin delving and stuck with only the bare necessities. She just liked having flavour.


    A soft snap of a twig outside sent her senses onto high alert. Demons? No, no, no. Downing the hot soup in a painful gulp, she placed the mug down and spun around towards the creaky wooden bed in the room. At the end of the bed, she picked up her weapons. Sword in one hand, and an aging dwarven clockwork pistol engraved with runes. A relic of her time she crashed through the bottom floor of an old Myndiri ruin.


    With her pistol aimed at the doorway and her sword ready to swing, she held her breath. One second passed, then two, then three. She heard her own heartbeat slowly, though lingering pain of forcefully ingesting hot liquids nearly made her cough as it ran down her throat. Her vision narrowed as she focused in. In such an environment, she’d get one shot.


    A knock made her pause as her fingers caressed the trigger. What the hells?


    She wanted to answer. But at the same time, logic dictates that no one would be seeking her out at this hour of the day. Nor seeking her out in the Frostwinds. There was a minute chance that it could’ve a fellow pathfinder who got lost, or a fellow traveller that had done the same. But the chances were slim, and she still had the element of surprise, or she hoped that she did.


    A second series of harder, more forceful but deliberate knocks on the door. This time, nearly rhythmically, making the wood creak a little under the blows. Morea''s tits, not like this. Stars above, Goddess keep me safe.


    Worried, she took a step back and kept the pistol pointed while she put on her coat and the rest of her gear, her eyes never leaving the doorway. Slipping the straps of her bag over her sword arm, she was about to try and maneuver her pistol arm under its own strap when another knock made her freeze.


    “Morea’s tits Grimy, you gonna let me freeze out here?” A voice called out from outside.


    All at once, Elin felt all her muscles relax and let out a distressed sigh as she tried to calm back down. By the hells...


    “It’s me, Harrow.” The voice called out again, “Grimy?”


    “By the hells, Tim, I was this close to blasting you. Start with your name next time.” Elin complained indignantly as she walked over to the door.


    “Ahh, but scared you good, didn’t I? Anyways, saw the smoke from your chimney. Just barely, but figured I’d come check.”


    “Very funny. Give me a moment. Stars above, thought you were pushing past the peaks. How’d you end up back here?”


    “Boys at the guild’ll be mighty jealous I reckon. I’m back here because I reached the high pass and then some. The things I’ve seen, hells, I’ve almost run out of soggin paper to map the damned place. Had to head back or I’d be out completely.”


    Timothy Harrow was one of her few colleagues on this mission. Though they received separate assignments, they formed a squadron of five pathfinders assigned to charting this section of the Mistveil. Harrow had always been a bit of a glory hog if still mostly pragmatic. He would often go the extra mile and even push further than was expected of him in order to secure his name in the guild’s hall of fame. By all accounts, he was several ranks her superior, but still acted like a comrade in arms, that much she could appreciate, at least.


    “It’s been only a week, some monster you are.” Elin joked.


    He had been assigned an area even further up the mountain than she had been owing to his skill as a former mountaineer. Yet he had still chosen to go even farther afield than she had been, and had clearly returned without much trouble. Some people are just born for their job, huh.


    “Monster... right.” Came the surprisingly tense reply.


    “Hey, only in the good way. You’re one of the best we’ve got. It’s true.”


    “Best, heh.”


    “Sound a little husky, you alright? Cold get ''ya down?” Elin asked as she finally organized the room a little. Stars above, at least I won’t look like a complete slob now.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    “Oh, standing in the freezing cold don’t do that to you? Want to trade places? I’ll take forever to open the door too.”


    “Very funny. Or did you forget you scared me half to death?”


    “To death.” He repeated from outside.


    “Now give me a… a second to open the door.” Elin answered.


    She had faltered for a moment. Because despite the loud creaking of the floorboards underneath her feet. The howling of the wind outside as it rattled the sides of the cabin. The crackling of the fire and the thumping of her own heartbeat. She also heard a very distinctive sound, something being removed from a scabbard. Knife or sword she didn’t know, but a weapon. And it came from behind the door. What the fuck?


    With a million thoughts running through her head, she couldn’t stop her hand as it reached over to unlock the few rusty latches that kept the outside world from the cabin. What should I do? What was that sound? Is Tim okay? Why is he drawing a blade? Was it him? Her hand then pulled open the last bolt that locked it in place and reached for the handle. Is someone with him? Is there a threat? Am I losing my mind up here? Why is he here? Her hand touched the icy cold handle and pulled.


    “Tim-”


    As flakes of snow rushed against her face alongside the frigid winds. So too did a figure shaped like her colleague. Running on pure instinct, she already had her foot ready as she kicked the door frame to propel herself backwards and away from a potential attack. Unaware that she had landed next to a half pot of soup, little mechanisms clicked together to ignite a different fire. A deafening roar thundered out of her pistol, sulfur and bitter arcane scents flooding her senses. Enhanced by the runic inscriptions, what had once been Senior Pathfinder Timothy Harrow turned into a mostly headless corpse, the man’s blood splattering all over her and the room as he body still dashed forward from the momentum.


    A blade embedded itself into the floorboard next to her as her eyes widened. Harrow’s muscles had not yet noticed his death and pushed themselves to the limit as his body landed practically on top of her.


    Letting out a panicked yelp, she accidentally knocked the pot of soup over and screeched as some of the liquid landed on the gap between her glove and the jacket. Fuck!  Her fortune came from having put the jacket back on in the first place, shielding her arm from any burns or injuries.


    She scurried out from under his body and backed up to the wall of the cabin. Her eyes quickly darted between the body, the doorway, and her pistol as training began to slowly take hold after the initial bout of panic. Dagger, tried to kill. Shot, dead. Hand, fucking hurts. Door, still empty.


    Wasting no time, she fumbled around until she found her bullet pouch and hastily reloaded the clockwork pistol. She was immensely thankful that dwarven technology had been built to last and it still functioned fine. Only when she had properly reloaded did she slowly start to recover her senses.


    Harrow lay dead on the floor, the majority of his brain and skull having been blown away by a near point blank shot. The doorway remained empty as the winds outside now raced inwards, lowering the temperature to the point her hairs stood on end. The little rustic fireplace was now governed in blood, bits of bone, and the spilled soup. Her small slice of calm atop this mountain disturbed by an attempted murder.


    She finally let out a shuddered breath, unaware that she held one. Her hands too trembled on their own. One from enduring the burning pain. The other from having just shot her colleague.


    What? She started breathing again, practically panting as her brain sought oxygen to help her think, what the fuck happened? What just… I just… shot him. He tried to kill me? Why? I thought we were… hells…


    In a daze, she shakily aimed her pistol at the doorway as she busied herself with tidying the room. She didn’t know what had happened or what she should do. Trying to buy herself time, she cleaned up what she could until only the fireplace and the body was left. Nervous, she prodded his corpse with her blade. Only when it truly didn’t respond did she dare step closer.


    Her stomach churned as her face turned green. Where her pistol had blown off the parts of his brain, little grey worm like appendages had stretched forward, trying to connect themselves. A few still wriggled aimlessly, travelling through the bloodied grey matter like little tadpoles. At the back of his head, a bulbous growth had been blown open, leaking out a putrid green pus that had evidently gnawed its way into his head as well.


    Fighting the urge to gag, the calling of her duties bid her to at least create some sort of record. Never letting go of her pistol, she awkwardly began writing what she observed afflicting his body. Focusing intently on the task in hopes that her mind did not wander to the day’s events.


    As the room continued to chill, she was straddled with the maddening feeling of being watched. That this little cabin had suddenly become more prison than a place to rest. Her skin itched and she scratched at her head, nearly squeezing the trigger by accident.


    “Ah.” She let out a rattled squeak of surprise.


    Breathing heavily and shivering. She scribbled down the last of her notes when she saw the fire flickering. No, no, no, now’s no time for it to run out. She shoved her papers and notes away, scrambling to reignite the flame.


    An eerie howl from high in the mountains stopped her. It was nowhere near, yet she felt eyes watching her every movement. An unearthly chill ran across her body and she aimed the pistol directly at the doorway, her shaky hand at least keeping it around chest-height. I can’t stay here, Goddess I can’t stay here.


    Rummaging through her belongings until she found a lantern and used what was left of the fire to reignite it. Judging by the condition of the wick and oil she estimated at least another hour or two of use before she would really need to worry.


    Another howl echoed from the mountains and her mind was made up. She needed to move, the cabin had already been compromised and whatever the case, she knew that despite it being wiser to barricade herself. She still had no idea if the worms and liquids that spilled from Harrow’s corpse were contagious and a potential sign of a disease or plague.


    She was a pathfinder. She would walk the path back down the mountain. And if it really came down to it, she resolved to at least die on her feet.


    Finally composing herself enough to shut the door, she quickly slammed it shut and bolted the locks, giving herself what little time she could muster before she had to leave. Trying her best to ignore the body, she focused her mind entirely on the task of leaving. Packing away the last of her belongings, she finally had a small moment of relief and immediately was tormented by the thought of having shot her colleague.


    A different howl, a little closer, shattered her moment of despondent contemplation and she readied herself to move. Kicking a few of the burning logs outside of the fireplace, she hoped the ensuing blaze would at least burn the corpse.


    As the fire began spreading. She paused. She glanced over at Harrow, and she reached down to grab his guild identification tags when she saw a warm slither across his eye. Grimacing, she tried to reach for the tags but couldn’t bring herself to do so. The possibility of biological contamination was already too high and worse, she didn’t know what she would do if one of those creatures crawled into her.


    Taking a separate approach, she hurriedly tried to sketch every detail of his identification as the fire drew closer. For the first time in hours she had begun to feel warm, but only because the flames were getting closer and closer to licking her feet. Though some was left behind, with the last of her pen strokes done, she was at least satisfied that something of his would be remembered. But then, how was he afflicted in the first place?


    Risking contaminations, she pried loose a wooden board and turned his corpse around, grimacing as she noticed more of the worms slithering over his head. Using the board as an appendage, she managed to open a sack that was on his body, the papers spilling out. Each marked and scrawled up. Some which were now burning up in the fire.


    In her haste, she discarded the board to give the flames a brief other target to focus upon and reached for the maps. Most were recovered with some damage, a few intact, and one or two lost forever more. Quickly glancing at them, she felt her heart still once more.


    He had marked openings, passages, and hostile encampments. He had pushed past their assigned limit and seemingly discovered the beginnings of a raiding force high above the mountain passes. She had no time to parse the rest of the maps, the flame had picked up once more, now turning almost explosive as it made contact with the putrid bile spilling from his body.


    “Fuck!” She grunted as she backed away towards the door.


    A part of her had immediately begun regretting everything. Despite the inherent dangers of this cabin, it could’ve allowed her some relative comfort in what might be her final hours. Yet she had decided to burn it all down, to instead brave the cold and whatever else might lurk in the night. Her only consolation prize was that she had a vague recollection of the path she needed to take down the mountain to the closest outpost. And the church needs to see these maps.


    Shoving the maps away, she opened the door one last time. She readied her pistol and sword, making sure that despite the nerves still tingling in her hands, she was ready for a scuffle.


    As snow and wind whipped against her face, and the howls in the night crept ever closer, she took one step out the doorway and into the darkness of the Frostwinds.