Crack!

All eyes turn toward the forest. Torgrim, Sonja, and Arfin back away from it, but never turn their backs, watching as a distant tree tumbles to the ground.

Crack!

As another tree gives way, the magic of the wards shimmers, a thin film of glowing light forming a dome. It is visible only for a split second before it peels away, like parchment on fire, great holes expanding across its surface until it gives way completely with a pitiful fizzle. They are exposed now, and that reality spurs Sylfir's heart to pound like the hooves of stampeding rothe.

Crack!

She remembers the carrion-stink of the beast's breath as if it was yesterday, so real and so present that she almost believes she is back in the forest with it looming over her. The scars stretching across her lower abdomen ache, and she brushes her fingers over them as visions of the beast infiltrate her mind—its vicious claws swiping as it snarls and growls, its hideous, mutilated lupine face twisting with spite.

She's paralysed with fear at first, but then she feels a wave of desperation so great that it washes away all else like an immense flood.

She grits her teeth. "Torgrim was supposed to be watching. How did he not sense it?" Her desperation is giving way to anger now, and she turns to the farmhouse to see that Wolff is still in the doorway, his eyes wide with fear. His youngest sons still watch from the window above him with similar expressions.

"Get inside!" she bellows.

It's enough to shock the three of them into retreating, though Ivan's father has to wrestle with Dana to get her to safety as she begins barking madly. Sylfir turns to Ivan next, standing there with his bow in a white-knuckled grip, his eyes fixed on the forest. His skin is pale, the blood having drained from his face.

"Ivan!"

He doesn't respond.

"Ivan!"

He breaks out of his stupor, and as he turns his head toward her, she sees the abject fear within his eyes. She points to his home. "Get inside!"

He moves toward it, or at least he seems to until he passes it completely, and she realises he is walking toward her. She frowns, scowls, even, but he is not deterred. He shakes his head, grimacing as though he's in pain. "You can't..."

"It's what I'm here for, Ivan!"

"She will not be alone," Khaliss says, drawing her steel. She's regained her composure, her eyes as cool and unyielding as the metal of her sword. Still, it's not enough to drive away Ivan's fear; he still looks unsure.

He reaches for Sylfir, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder, and she feels her frustration bleed away as she softens.

"Don't do anything stupid," he says.

"I won't. Now get inside. Please."

He hesitates for a split second, but he soon withdraws, heading back to the farmhouse. Only as she watches him leave does Sylfir catch sight of a single, acid-green eye beyond the trees.

It makes her blood run cold. Torgrim, Sonja, and Arfin are far from the edge of the forest now, but they are still much closer than Sylfir and Khaliss, forming the first line of defence. Torgrim is the first to brandish his weapon, holding his great maul in both hands. Sonja frees her longbow, her legs slightly bent at the knees, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble, eager to create distance between her and her foe. Arfin seems ready to close the distance with his greataxe held in two formidable fists.

The beast is unfazed. It steps forward into the dim twilight, finally free of the cover of broken trees. Its great owlbear paws press into the bone ash of the animal carcasses that once formed the vessel through which Torgrim communed with its spirits. It blinks slowly, its one-eyed gaze flicking between the three Uthgardt with an icy countenance.

But as its eye locks onto Khaliss, it halts—an abrupt motion, almost like it is surprised—and its slit pupil widens. Its lips peel back to reveal knife-like canines as it growls, and it lowers like an ambush predator ready to pounce. Then comes the huff of hot air from nostrils.

But not from the beast.

Bob rears his head back, standing on his hind legs as the wind catches his mane. His front hooves strike the ground with the resonance of a thousand war drums heralding the oncoming battle, and he screams; it is a sound that tears through his throat, fit to split the eardrums of all who hear it.

The beast roars in response, spittle flying from its gaping maw, nearly torn from the hinges with how wide it's open. Its white-tipped feathers bristle as the evening breeze caresses them, and its long, feline tail swishes from side to side as its paws dig into the ground.

Arfin roars, too, stomping a little foot into the ground. Despite his size, he gives as good as he gets, and his full-bodied war cry grates upon Sylfir's ear just as much as Bob's scream or the beast's guttural roar. 

"Let the blood flow!" he cries.

It seems the beast is of a mind to comply. It charges forward with alarming agility, and the Uthgardt scatter. Torgrim rushes toward Arfin, who loses his wits in his eagerness to face the beast, charging toward it. The shaman takes the halfling by the rags he wears with the ease of a child dragging his favoured toy and flees eastward, barely getting out of the beast's path. Sonja scatters in the other direction, strong, lithe legs carrying her to safety as she takes an arrow from the quiver on her back.

Sylfir doesn't have enough time to watch her nock the arrow, though. The beast is barrelling straight toward her. Bob flees, but she is caught between fight and flight, rooted in place like the oak trees in the forest from which the beast comes. Her vision narrows to nothing but the foul creature, and there is no sound but the thunder of its paws striking the ground and the panting breath that escapes its jaws.

But then there is a crushing pressure that clamps around her arm, and in the blink of an eye, there is no more beast. She blinks again in confusion before she's yanked around to face Khaliss. She realises the crushing pressure came from the cleric, and it dawns on her she is no longer standing where she once was, now a considerable distance west from the farmhouse, with the beast having crossed deep into the meadow.

She has been teleported.

"Concentrate!" Khaliss says, "You must bring your all to bear against the creature! I will draw it away, but you must support me. Am I understood?"

The gravity of the situation is only just hitting Sylfir, though. The last time she was this close to the beast, it almost killed her.

"Sylfir!"

"I hear you." Sylfir's words are slow to come to her, though, and her voice is barely a whisper, stolen from her by her fear.

Khaliss shakes her. "Listen to me. If the beast could not kill you the first time, it will not kill you now. You will rally your courage, and you will slay the beast. It is what the people of Summerfall are owed, or are you not the bounty hunter who answered their call for aid?"

The words jolt Sylfir out of her fearful trance, making space for growing annoyance. She has never suffered another to imply that she does not keep her word, so why should she now? When she looks back at the rampaging beast, it looks at her, and her eyes grow steely as she meets its single-eyed gaze.

"I am, and I'll be damned if I don't fulfil my promise."

The beast growls, then charges, and Khaliss grips her longsword in both hands, holding firm in her battle stance. This time, Sylfir is rooted like an oak tree because she wants to be, and she looks up to the starry twilight sky, now darkened as the day submits to the dominance of night. She closes her eyes and wills herself to become its reflection.

Her ruby ring glows as she lets the bliss of transformation take her. As a pale golden aura envelopes her, the warm green of summer grass bleeds away from her skin to reveal the near-luminous deep blue of night, speckled with freckles of golden-white starlight. Her form is laid bare, shorn of worldly materials to become a vessel for a universe like the one displayed above her, a soft celestial silhouette at the edge of tangibility.

She embodies one of its many constellations, its stars mapped onto her joints—knees and ankles, hips and shoulders, elbows and wrists—glowing with startling brilliance. Her hair, like the rest of her, changes too, its copper-red exchanged for scintillating golden-white, just as luminescent as the stars that pepper her body. It is lightweight enough that it billows behind her like silk in the wind.

When she opens her eyes, they are like unto second suns, bright with white-gold light—sclera, iris and pupil. She is the manifestation of the celestial, bestowed with an iota of its power—a power she intends to use to its fullest extent.

She reaches for thin air, fingers strumming the fibres of primal reality, plucking forth a longbow of starlight. It manifests with the curling of her fingers around its barely tangible grip. Her other hand plucks an arrow from those same fibres, and as her weapon coalesces, she watches the beast barrel toward her in slow motion. She feels nothing but calm.

The bow and arrow solidify, and in a single swift and fluid motion, she nocks the arrow. A stark clarity takes hold of her, and she chooses her target: the space between its eye and empty eye socket.

She looses the arrow, and it whistles through the air. The beast bounds to meet it, too slow to change course, but not so slow that it cannot react. It shies away, turning its head, and the luminous arrow embeds itself in the meat of its chest before burning away. The beast roars in agony and its footsteps falter, but its momentum carries it forward.

Sylfir and Khaliss flee in opposite directions to avoid a collision. Where Khaliss' greaves strike the ground, Sylfir's footsteps are light—gliding more than running, but they make the same distance.

The beast recovers quickly, but it's torn between its targets. It appears to contemplate going after Sylfir, but its ever-scrutinising eye points toward Khaliss. The choice is clear.

Khaliss stands ready to face it, but the creature is not deterred. Sylfir plucks another arrow from her primal wellspring of power.

But she finds she doesn't have to. The next arrow that whistles through the air is not one made of light, but one of wood and obsidian.

One of Sonja's.

The Uthgardt rally their ranks. Sonja strikes from a distance while Arfin and Torgrim charge, their war cries tearing through their throats. The beast recoils, roaring in fury as it is barred from its prize.

Arfin is undeterred. His greataxe cuts through the air, then slices into the creature's forearm and it roars again, but the noise is cut short as Torgrim's maul connects with its jaw. He sweeps it in a great, crippling swing, carving a semi-circle as he spins on the balls of his feet in a curiously graceful motion. Where Arfin displays pure savagery and instinct, the shaman wields his weapon with the skill and calculation of a veteran learned in the art of battle.

With the beast distracted, Sylfir sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles. The thunderous rhythm of hoof strikes fills her ears, and she turns to see Bob galloping toward her, a majestic sight. He neighs as he comes to a stop before her, and she mounts him, riding farther west toward Sonja, who still fires her arrows.

Sylfir's longbow warps and shifts until it resembles more of a hunting bow, short and compact, fit to be used on horseback. She joins Sonja's barrage of arrows with her own, striking the thrashing beast from afar as Torgrim and Arfin swing at it.

And the beast swings back. Arfin, in his boundless luck, evades the blow, but barely. Even from this distance, Sylfir can see the broad grin that splits his face—he knows not the horrors he's just avoided: the burning corruption, the weeping flesh, the waning strength and waxing hopelessness, the—

"Keep your distance!" Khaliss bellows, summoning spirits to her side, a shield of radiance to ward against the corruption of the beast. With a wave of her sword and a shrill battle cry, she taunts the beast, and it comes to her eagerly.

"Lo, bear witness to the power of Avuna!" She thrusts her longsword into the air, which now glows with radiant magic. With her grim determination and her hair whipping in the wind, she is a vision of a warrior maiden utterly taken by her burning fury.

Sylfir circles the battleground with Bob, her keen eyes locked onto the creature as Torgrim and Arfin go for its exposed flank. They're unable to keep up with it as it breaks into another furious charge despite its ruined front paw, and its powerful hind legs propel it into a great leap.

But Khaliss moves with an agility and grace that is second to none. She rolls out of the way just in time for the beast to miss her as it lands, and close enough that her spirit guardians punish the creature with a barrage of radiant energy. It roars through its broken jaw and swipes, but its claws connect with nothing.

Khaliss is more fortunate. When she thrusts her sword, it pierces the beast's thick hide with alarming ease, spilling black ichor on the verdant grass of the meadow, hot and steaming, corrupting it in an instant. Khaliss leaps away just as the beast tries to swing at her again.

Sylfir digs her heels into Bob's sides, spurring him forward. The thunder of his gallop distracts the creature, and as it raises its solitary eye, she takes aim and fires.

The radiant arrow misses the acid-green of its iris, but strikes it in the cheek, and it howls in pain as its skin blisters. She has its attention now, and she uses it to draw the creature away from Khaliss and into a chase.

There's fear in her as she listens to its paws pound the ground. This is the same terror she felt in the ancient sanctum, but there's also excitement. Even though she is the prey, there is a part of her that always relishes the hunt.

She turns from the waist to witness the beast bounding toward her and takes aim again. With Bob's furious gallop, she struggles to find her target, and she only manages a glancing blow, but she savours the way the radiance of her arrow singes the beast's feathers. It growls and its lips curl back to reveal teeth slick with saliva as it continues the chase. Sylfir is close to the main road now, and Bob turns sharply when he reaches it, barreling down toward the village. She appears to lead the beast to more victims, but in truth, she has set a trap.

The beast's momentum is too great to execute the same sharp turn Bob performed so deftly; its hind limbs almost fly out from underneath it as it skids to a near-halt. It puts a good deal of distance between them and provides enough time for Torgrim to evoke nature's power. He conjures a swell of swirling storm clouds, thick and grey and ever-expanding until they are heavy with ice and sleet. A sheet of hail rains down upon the beast and it wails as it begins to slip and slide, its claws scratching on newly formed ice.

Somehow, it maintains its posture, though its rancour has grown tenfold, and its ruined jaws swing open to let rip an eye-watering, teeth-shattering howl.

Sylfir doesn't have time to react beyond a pitiful, desperate groan. She drops her bow and arrow, and their light evaporates. Bob neighs, his head thrashing wildly as the beast's howl tears through the air, and he rises on his hind legs before stamping the ground. Sylfir jolts in the saddle, desperate to hold onto the reins, but her fingers slip past them.

Then Bob bucks, and she falls forward like a rag-doll. The world spins for a second, a blur of night sky and meadow until she slams into the ground. The impact forces the air from her lungs, and she blinks, dazed and weak.

But she must be strong. She tries to crawl, but she's too dizzy to orientate herself. She looks around to see Khaliss on her knees. Arfin clutches his head and grimaces as he lies on the ground, and Torgrim can barely keep himself upright with his maul, now relegated to a mere cane. Sonja is on her hands and knees, her bow left in the dirt as she pants and winces.

And then Bob stumbles. He seems to stumble in perpetuity, and he does it toward Sylfir. Her eyes blow wide, and she tries to get to her feet, but her legs are shaky, but maybe, just maybe—

The beast howls again. This time it seems doubly shrill and just as piercing, and it cuts through Sylfir like a knife, making her fold before she settles on her back. Bob doesn't fare any better, and this time when he stumbles, he falls. Sylfir can only watch as her proud steed's legs give way, his body flopping and crashing onto her, crushing her legs. She cries out and, in the same way that the cries of a fawn are music to a wolf's ears, the beast perks up. It turns its head her way, one paw following the other as it begins its slow stalk.

Sylfir feels the blood drain from her face as she watches it approach. Terror grips her, and she tries to pull free of Bob, but the warhorse only writhes on top of her. She curses that the companion who so often carries her to safety is now the only thing that keeps her from it.

"Bob!" she screams, but the horse is too dazed to do anything but squirm as his eyes roll back.

Her heart pounds as the beast fixes her with its gaze, and she trembles like a newborn foal. Her fear steals the strength from her limbs, and as she tries to push Bob away again, her arms simply fold.

She's back in the ancient sanctum again, overcome with fear, too slow to act, and too powerless. Indeed, she feels her power bleed away as the beast inches ever closer, and as it looms, her skin reverts to its warm green hue, the constellation of stars peels away from her form, and her hair grows dark and heavy again. As the beast raises its paw, the light of her eyes dims and her worldly possessions return to her, though she has not the strength to wield her spear in her defence.

It is too late now. The pounding of her heart steals her breath away, and her head grows too heavy to lift. It falls against the soft grass of the meadow, and her vision soon darkens to black.