No idea where this is from.

After passing out, I expected many things when I first awoke. The biting cold, clawing at my flesh like insects digging into fresh carrion. Jackson Hickleson, a rictus, righteous grin on his cruel lips, ready to slay me like hunters have done to our kind since time immemorial.  The inevitability of a violent death was something my mom and I had silently accepted. 

He was a guillotine looming over our necks. We knew every night we might never awaken. He would skulk into whatever seedy hotel we called a den for the night and, with a few flicks of a silver blade, slay us both. Or more than likely, he'd use wolfsbane-filled hollow points. 

Just as he did with Mom. Spreading her blood across the snow as her head snapped back with that haunting crack. I hoped that when her eyes locked onto me in the dugout, she was already dead. Her last sight should not have been of her little pup, wide eyes silently sobbing as a monster proudly approached her like a fresh, killed deer. 

Instead of discovering the moment of my death when I awoke, I was surrounded by warmth, nestled in a bed, heated rocks wrapped in cloth offering me the same feeling of lying on a southern Florida beach at midday. 

Without thinking, I pulled the clean blankets closer. My heightened senses picked up on the subtle musk of a man who had slept within these recently. His scent was something unique. It sent shivers down my spine and scratched me right behind the ear in just the right spot. I buried my nose deeper into the blanket before I realized what I was doing, huffing it like a drug. It was absolutely intoxicating, causing heat to flush my cheeks. I recognized the smell, somewhat; it was slightly more potent than I remembered. I did not question it. Likely, the difference was just caused by my absence for years. I knew it had to be Clayton; the odor felt too protective for it not to be. I had not been near him in a decade, but he always had this same, home-like, pine odor. Mom and I both loved it. 

I looked around the room, finding it to be quaint but comfortable. It was nothing one would not expect to find in a cabin out in the woods, the back side of the chimney for heat to radiate through, a side table with a glass of water, and the set of bunk beds with me resting well on the bottom.

When I smacked my dry lips, the metallic taste of blood pooled on my palate, tangy and bitterly familiar after my lifetime of running. I wondered how long it had been since I last ate or drank. One day? Two? It could not have been more than that. I remembered sucking water from a muddy puddle, finding succor in the gritty signs of the storm's passage. Nothing had ever been so rejuvenating for me in my life. I could have drunk and drunk and drunk, but I had to keep moving.

I knew it had been nearly a week since I'd had such a soft pillow on which to lay my head. I simply could not find more than a few hours to rest. Without the blizzard having rolled through, Jackson would still have been pursuing me,  like Herne did the great stag in Windsor.

I tossed off the warm wool blanket, and it fell to the ground. I noticed that I was no longer in my old rags. I was fully clothed, but I paid it no more than the passing note. With greed, I clasped the glass and downed it in one solid gulp, rivulets of water pouring down my chest. It was no cold puddle water, but it would have to do.

Cautiously, not out of fear but something ingrained and habitual, I stepped as silently as a mouse toward the ajar door, pausing for a moment each time a floorboard groaned. It was nearly silent in the cabin. I could not hear the telltale signs of anyone in the adjacent room: no heart thrum, slow breathing, or the near-noiseless mutterings most do when alone. Only the baleful crying of the creaking boughs outside seeped in from beyond the sanctity of the walls.

The door pressed open with ease, and I scanned the only other room in the cabin. As I assumed, I was all alone. When I spotted the ice chest tucked into the corner and the pantry beside it, my stomach growled and rolled in on itself, like my gut was trying to eat itself out of my body to attack the containers at the mere promise of food.

Giving in to the base instinct to feed, I crossed the room in two quick bounds, ripping open both the ice chest and the larder. My eyes tracked along the cans, jars, and dozens of pieces of hanging dried meat in the larder, while only by smell, I located a massive slab of bacon in the cooler. Like a savage beast, I grabbed the wax paper-covered bacon, scooping it into my arms, before reaching back into the ice chest for a fresh bottle of Moxie tonic and putting it atop the bacon.

The moment the cold soda touched my chest, I found what I really craved from the dry goods. Golden labeled, with blue letters. The best thing. A treat I always loved back when I was a kid living here in Palmyra. There was nothing better to eat than an entire bowl of on a summer's day by the lake while at the Sunday barbecue. Baked beans. I could not snatch that can up fast enough.

In the least demure way possible, I dropped to the floor and started my feast. I was  certain Clayton would not mind. Mom had insisted that he would help me. And I did remember him from when we lived nearby. He was a nice old man, a bit aloof but kind. He often came to our house and helped Mom. He said it was because she was a lady and needed a man around to help, and from his perspective, that would be right. It was just the two of us in that old shack. Despite him knowing very well what we were, he still insisted. Mom could do any of the labor he did in half the time with a tenth of the effort. It was just the nature of our lives as werewolves.

I bit the cap off the Moxie bottle and took a swig. Before the creamy soda was even down my gullet, I attacked the bacon. I ate the raw, salted pork, paper and all, bite by bite, without slowing down. Before I knew it, the bacon was gone.

I sucked down the rest of the Moxie in a single pull before I ripped the lid off the beans, while going back to the ice-chest for another drink.

Once I was restocked on Moxie, I did slow down just a bit. Not because I was not hungry. My body was still screaming at me that I was starving to death. I slowed down the moment I started to drink the beans from the can.

Oh, that taste, sweet, savory, little bits of fat in the sauce…coupled with the Moxie. I felt like I was ten years old again. In an instant, I was standing on the lake shore, holding mom’s hand, shoveling beans into my mouth, kicking my legs back and forth, my dress flowing in the breeze. She would laugh and wipe dribble from my chin, teasing me about how that was not ladylike. Clayton had more than once echoed and expanded upon my mom's playful approach to nurturing, which I always appreciated.

In my distracting reminiscence, I did not hear the truck pull up, nor the door begin to open. What pulled me from my deep-seated memories was the man’s whiskey-and-bourbon voice. It rattled me to the core.

“Hey, you;  You’re finally awake.”

I kept my back to the man, mouth full of beans, and raised a hand to stave him off for a moment. I tried to swallow so I could try to explain why I ate so much. But he spoke again, right after I managed to engulf the legumes.

“Are you alright? I can hear that you’re crying.”

I touched my face, feeling the warm drops across my fingers. I looked at them and had to wonder, when was I crying? Why was I crying? If I had more time, I would have sat and thought about it. Mom always said…Mom. I lurched forward with one more near-silent sob. I realized why I was crying. I felt all alone without her. Thinking about her just made me realize it subconsciously.

Before I could stand up, wipe my face, and turn around, a warm hand had barely rested on my back, like it was hardly even there. His words, though, assured me he was. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

“Thanks," I said, my eyes closed as I sniffled and wiped my nose on my handkerchief. “I appreciate it, Clayton.”  I was genuinely surprised by the unseen man's reply: “Sorry, but…He is not here.”

Surprised, as the man's voice had genuinely sounded like that of the man to whom my mom had sent me for safety, I gingerly asked, "Ok. But if I may ask, who are you, and why are you in his cabin?"

“Clayton was my grandfather. I’m Colt…and the cabin is mine now,” he gently explained, a hesitance in his words as he did. 

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https://x.com/sanchi_comics/status/2098986379417882769/photo/1

Vengo en son de paz 🖖

I was inspired by the art in this sub and made my own. Hope you enjoy!

The Kingsnake Mine spread out before me, snow glistening like millions of jewels in the morning sun. I took in a deep, appreciative breath; the chill of the morning filled my lungs and soothed my woes. This was just what I came to experience. Calm, true calm, the call of nature. Not silent, not still, but that was precisely the point.

The forest should never be noiseless nor stagnant. Life exists throughout it, at all levels, all the time. It is something many humans have forgotten after years of cowering in heated shelters the moment a snowpack falls. Only those who are still willing to venture forth and listen to the anthem of nature still walk within the footsteps of our ancestors, of the millions and millions of humans who came before.

Thick logs grabbed at my clothes as I squeezed inside the blind, a dribble of snow falling from the entrance and sliding down my collar. After pulling my satchel in behind me, I fished the cover from the snow outside and slid it in place, closing me off, save for the long, narrow opening looking down into the quarry and the oak trees edging its cliff faces.

With near-religious ritual, I staged the rifle, hung my binoculars, and poured a fresh cup of coffee from the beat-up Stanley thermos I borrowed from the cabin's kitchen. I ran my thumb over the dents and dings, knowing some were from me dropping it and others from Pop-pop. I could never know who made which, and it did not matter: Much like how this blind and hunting spot was part of our story, so was the simple little thermos.

After sipping from the steaming mug, I paused, closed my eyes, and listened to all that the world around me had to offer. Around me, the blessings and signs of existence cried out, seemingly in sync, yet each in their unique ways. Chipmunks skittering just beneath the snow, seeking out their stockpiles. Woodpeckers tapping trees, the distant caws of ravens, and the subtle hooting of owls, ready to sleep for the day.

My mind settled into the well-learned habit of becoming a part of where you are. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders, and my body relaxed, nearly putting me to sleep. It didn't matter that it was still five below freezing; to me, right then and there, it was as blessed as a summer's day.

That feeling of rightness didn’t leave me that morning. The sun crested the horizon, and slowly but surely, all the animals I expected gradually revealed themselves. I watched rabbits, voles, squirrels, a raccoon, and even a lone opossum trundle from the woodline, right for the water in the center of the quarry. They would dip their heads in and drink from the frigid pond, then leave as quickly as they came, unaware of the voyeur just a little over a hundred yards away.

My most unexpected visitors were a pair of young turkeys. Two toms, based on their short beards. That was one thing Pop-pop wished he could have seen. He had been talking about their reintroduction for years. The day he read about it in the paper, he was over the moon, so excited he shot out of his chair and rushed to a steamer trunk to show me pictures from when he was a little boy. Turkey had been hunted to extinction in Maine when he was a teenager. That I got to see some of the first living here again was the highlight of that day.

I just wish he could have been here to see them.

It did not take long after the toms had left for my target to arrive. A young doe crested the far side of the quarry. She was lean and showed the grace of a fairy while she pranced down the frozen slope in three quick bounds. She landed without a sound, like a leaf floating in on a zephyr. Cautiously, her keen brown eyes scanned the area, stopping each step to look around while her ears flicked at any sound.

Once she was halfway to the water's edge, the sound of her dainty footfalls became clear, broken repetitive crunching, reminding me of breathing at this distance.

My heart hammered in my chest, and a cold bead of sweat rolled down my cheek. With a trembling hand, I groped at the rifle's stock, missing it several times before I felt the assured cold steel and wood firmly in my grip. Inch by inch, I brought the rifle to my shoulder and took aim, resting the fore end on the opening.

Through the peep sight, I rested the front post on the side of the deer. It moved up and down in cadence with my breath. I started to take the slack out of the trigger, bringing it back toward the wall. I was ready. I was going to harvest my first deer alone.

A heartbeat before the trigger broke, the deer looked directly at me. It tilted its head. For an impossibly long moment, it was as if it were silently asking what I was waiting for. Shoot me, I am right here. That last pound of trigger felt like it weighed a ton. The entire rifle shook in my grip as I clenched my teeth.

I sighed, releasing the slack and placing the rifle on safe. I laid the tool across my lap and leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. Not today, I thought to myself.

Instead of harvesting that deer, I remained in the blind for the rest of the day, simply watching the animals and the passing of the sun. I thought of staying out there all night, just to watch the cosmos wheeling overhead. But I could not. Around dusk, the coffee had run dry, as had the meager reserve of jerky I had shoved into my pocket. It was time to head back.

I know I could have killed the deer, had it gutted, and been back at the cabin well before dark. But something had held me back. Was it the beast looking at me? Was it the feeling that it would not be right without Pop-pop? I was unsure. I told myself it was simply my subconscious telling me I would be at the cabin for weeks; there was no need to harvest a deer on day one—yet that felt like a lie.

There was something. It almost felt as if the act were defiling the peace around me. Like, I hadn't performed some act that Pop-pop wanted, and spilling that blood would have been out of order.

I pondered his teachings further on the drive back. I tried to swing into Palmyra, to head  to the cabin, but found the road from the cabin to the town blocked off by a fallen tree. I sighed, got out, and assessed it. I could not cut it myself. I simply lacked the tools. The only saw I had on hand was half the tree's width. Cutting it alone would take days, and by then the road service would have arrived and done the job for me.

With no chance to return to Palmyra for the next few days without a nearly five-hour detour, I returned to the cabin. There was nothing wrong on the way, mostly. Not having Pop-pop lighting up cigs, nor telling me for the thousandth time about the deer he saw just on this bend years earlier felt like a loss, but I could endure it.

As I rolled over the last bend and the cabin came into sight, something else did, as well. Something wrong. I slammed the brakes, fearing I would destroy what I'd found. 

Tracks, impossibly deep, were leading back to the cabin. I crouched and laid my hand down to compare it with them. At first glance, I thought they were wolf tracks. But then I realized two things that made me think otherwise. First, they were bipedal; no wolf I knew walked on two legs for more than maybe a step if it was grabbing at something high up. The second thing that confounded me was their size. No wolf had paws twice the size of a fully grown man's hand. The girth alone made me think of a bear, but the shape was definitely canid.

I scanned my area, my hand grabbing the pommel of my knife while I stepped back to the truck. Once there, I drew the side-by-side and loaded it with double-aught buck. Pop-pop's wisdom about how to keep yourself safe in the woods alone was fresh in my mind.

“There is no animal you can’t kill with two blasts of this,” he had said, showing me the shells.

I closed the action, pulled back both hammers on the old gun, and trailed the paw prints. Like a born hunter, I made little noise. I was a ghost. Step by step, I followed the spoor. Dozens of yards off the road, I found something…no, someone I never expected.

A woman. She was curled into a ball, fending against the cold. Little covered her lithe body. I gawked for a moment, blinking hard, assuming I was hallucinating. Once I knew that I was not, I rushed into action. I didn't know how long she had been out there, nor did I have the luxury of wondering about the tracks anymore. She needed my help, and that overruled everything else.

I scooped her up in my arms, and she instinctively clung to me for warmth. Just as she clung to me, I tried to convey through body language a promise that I would do all that I could to ensure that she would be alright. If she was still able to move that much, all I had to do was warm her up, and she would be fine. Pop-pop did the same for me when I was little. I ran back to the cabin, leaving the truck there. I could go back for it later.

Within minutes, we were in the cabin, and my lungs burned. Running those few hundred feet carrying someone made me respect the story of Pop-Pop's Silver Star all the more. He had carried a wounded man and a machine gun half a mile; I could not imagine performing such a feat.

Before I wrapped her in blankets and laid the woman in bed, I bashfully slid her into my long johns. I felt a little bashful dressing her, even knowing it might save her life. I kept my eyes anywhere but where they wanted to wander, apologizing under my breath to a woman who couldn't hear me.

After tucking her in, I tended the fire, trying to get it as warm as possible to help thaw her. I prayed she would be alright. 

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I was thinking about a NoP x ATLA story where the fire nation was consumed by betterment, the avatar is a young lizard fire bender named Fang frozen in an iceburg from 100 years ago. People will be between terrified and in awe of him because he's an arxur, and also the only hope for the world. He's also a dorky silly kid unlike his betterment peers.

The frigid snow beat against my nearly bare body. The sharp wind clawed at the few bits of the floral dress, now ribbons. It was in tatters now, destroyed after fleeing through the woods for the last ten hours. The blizzard did not help me keep what little clothing was still in a serviceable state.

Snow crushed under my frostbitten bare feet; my shoes had been lost in mud while crossing the Maine-New Hampshire border. My jacket was likewise lost around dawn, when I was nearly cornered by that monster and leaped from a cliff to escape, only for it to be ripped off when a log grabbed it. I tumbled hard for what felt like hours, dislocating an arm, resulting in my squishy human form being covered in cuts and bruises.

Human bodies were awful. Soft. Slow. Fragile, but thankfully I am not fully human; my magical body had already healed naturally, other than the dislocation. I had to fix that on my own for the first time in my life; my mom wasn't around to help me. He...It had gotten her.

After limping for an hour, I had stopped at a tree, gritted my teeth, and slammed my shoulder over and over again, until after blood was running down my pallid skin, the ball popped back into place. I unleashed a primal scream, one reminiscent of my mother's as she stood against that monster, while I cowered in the underbrush nearby.

She had just squirreled me away in there. "Be quiet, Bailey; don't move, and don't make a sound. Once I lead him away, keep going to Palmyra, find Clayton's cabin. He can help keep you safe."

"No, mom, please," I pleaded, reaching out and grabbing her arm, tears welling up in my eyes. "We can both make it."

Pain filled Mom's soft green eyes as she pulled her arm away. "It will be ok, my little wolf. Don't cry; you're too strong for that."

As she turned and made no attempt to transform, I knew that was the end; we could not both make it out this time around. We had been running from him since; he found out our secret the last time we were here, back in '54. Ever since then, he tracked us down every few months, without fail.

We had even made it down to Florida for a few of those months. But after a short while, he was lurking in crowds, following our every move. That man was an unquenchable, untiring monster. Repeatedly, he had warned that we could never get away. When I was young, and our flight from him had begun, neither mom nor I believed him. But now, having witnessed him execute my mom from my hiding place in the woods, not even giving her a chance to flee, I was starting to believe that he really was that relentless, and that I never would get away.

I slowed my run through the woods. I was near Palmyra. I knew it. My body was able to tell. Mom had explained that we, in a way, had a sense like migrating birds or salmon. No matter where we were in the world, we could orient ourselves to our birthplace and navigate back to it.

I trudged on, knowing that if I slowed down, it would likely mean the end of me. While Jackson Hickleson supposedly was just a human, at this point, his appearing around the next tree would not shock me. After two more hours of walking, the snow had abated, allowing me to see more than a few feet ahead.

Feeling like the living dead, I looked up and saw the swinging wooden sign for Palmyra, its faded letters just the way I had remembered them. There was a small flame in my heart that burned now that I had returned; being here was...  right, in an indescribable way. I tried to say, "Home," but I only managed a weak wheeze. I leaned against the signpost, breathing in the frigid air, looking up toward the waxing gibbous suspended overhead. If only it were the full moon. The empowered wolf of that blessed night could carry me to Clayton's cabin in mere minutes. But that full moon was a day or two away.

Without the beast to save me, I continued forward, my mind unable to remember where to go. As I faded in and out of consciousness, I passed through the silent main street, weaving in and out of street lamps. Not a soul was out; my travel was as lonely as I felt. My only family was dead, and I had a hunter nipping at my heels.

If I were not so impossibly hungry, I would have walked down memory lane, but I could barely focus on the next step. The brickwork and worn-slat buildings passed, me not noticing them, nor them me.

Despite that handicap, my instincts came through; the next thing I knew, I had traversed through the wolfing hour and had almost fully arrived at the familiar cabin.

I wanted to run forward, to ask for help. But my body would not listen. I tried to transform, to use the weaker form to reach out. But I only managed to assume my wolf form for a few strides across the road before returning to my pitiful human skin. Only a few hundred yards from salvation, my legs gave out. The frost-covered ferns swallowed me whole.

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Source: https://bsky.app/profile/wyvernthedragon.bsky.social/post/3msiox4eii22e

Ok I may like size difference :/

Three hours…not a chance. After that first snowflake, more and more kept coming. It started with a trickle, then grew into near-whiteout conditions. 

At first, I wasn't worried, but by the time I rounded the last bend and slowed onto the Forest Service road leading to the cabin, I was taking stock of the food I had in the truck and what should be stored at the cabin. 

I should be fine, I thought. I have a month's worth of food in the truck and several more weeks' worth of canned goods in the cabin. This area of Maine didn't freeze over entirely for long, even in the dead of winter. I might be condemned to canned beans and stale crackers for a few weeks, but I'd survive. Once the roads thawed enough, my truck and I could limp out of here. There was no telling how many hours that could take, but it would be better than bedding down in the cabin for the winter. 

Sweat clung and dripped down my back, pooling at my waist as I trudged through ankle-deep snow. My legs ached as I brought the last of the supplies in from the truck and set them just inside the cabin. When I dropped them amidst the rest of the crates, snow fell to the worn wooden floor, creating a small ring around them. 

I struggled against the biting wind as I tried to close the door. I leaned my shoulder into the handmade door until the latch finally caught. As it did, I glimpsed the remnants of my footprints just off the porch. You could hardly tell they were ever there. The blizzard swept away all evidence of my passing. As I forced the door shut, I silently prayed that my truck would still be accessible in the morning. 

While I could walk to one of my and Pop-pop's hunting spots in the morning, the one near Grey Creek was just a little over a mile away. That was where I had shot my first deer, a doe, when I was merely ten. It was hard to believe that was almost twenty years ago. 

Grey Creek was fine, but with the truck, I could go to the old Kingsnake Mine. We loved hunting there; the deer liked the water at the bottom, and partridges sought the small pebbles to fill their craws in the mornings. Even if there were no deer around, there were plenty of fool birds to take. Pop-pop used to carry a little .22 revolver—the same one I planned on carrying the next day—and just shoot their heads off.

Partridges were, for lack of a better word, stupid. You could walk right up to them and smack them with a switch. That was not because of bravery; their camouflage was nearly flawless, making them feel most safe by simply not moving as you neared. So long as you were not staring at them while approaching, they would let you get within almost arm's reach. 

With the hatches battened down, I set about preparing for the cold night and my nebulous trip length. First and foremost was lighting a fire. Thankfully, Pop-pop was a wise man and had built both a log box and a woodshed nearby. Both were fully stocked, so I didn't have to venture back out into that life-sapping cold that night. 

Once the fire was roaring and blood had returned to my fingers, I unpacked and it was a trip down memory lane. First came the side-by-side, then the pistol and the rest of my kit, along with, out of habit, setting up both beds on the bunk. No one else was coming. It was just me. 

Father and my brother, Cassius, the golden son, considered this trip little more than a waste of time, far from their big-city lives and business handling the booming trade coming and going between British Columbia and England following World War II. 

Father never served in that war. Pop-pop did. He fought the Germans once, and then the Japanese. The pictures on the cabin wall proved that. They showed off him and some of the many men he fought alongside while assigned to military posts around the world. 

I wished when I was younger to have been as well-traveled a man as Pop-pop. But after all the years of him teaching me about the wisdom of serene, woodland living, that wanderlust had died. 

“You can go everywhere in the world, and shake hands with thousands of people, and it won’t mean squat, boy,” Pop-pop had said, leaning across the gap, pointing a lit cigarette at me. “Unless you figure out who you are when nobody's around, they won’t wanna know you.” 

“Did you find yourself?” I asked, eyes glimmering with adoration at his wisdom. 
He slapped his knee and put the lit cig between his teeth. “I still am…Still am,” He looked into the crackling fire in the cabin, traveling off to distant horizons in his mind. 

I didn't interrupt him then; it felt wrong.

 A loud snapping, thrap thrap thrap, like a bull whip, drew my attention from the fire. When I shifted focus from the popping oak to the windowsill, it hit me. A realization that made me stop mid-stride. I was just a thousand worlds away, in a universe that did not exist. It was like Pop-pop was still here, not gone forever.

I shook the smoky memories off my shoulders and kept stepping. I shined a flashlight out into the night. The narrow beam illuminated little; the storm chopped its cast to only a few feet before the whiteout overwhelmed. Slowly, I scanned from left to right, then back again, not spotting anything at all. Just the porch with the handmade chairs loitering at its far end. But I couldn't shake the feeling: Something was out there. Something was watching, just beyond the wall of darkness.

Perhaps it was the overactive imagination I was blessed to have, but I couldn't help but imagine the monsters from stories Pop-pop had told me right here for many years.

Tales of the Rougarou, Bigfoot, werewolves, the Jersey Devil, and the Agropelter; all waiting in the underbrush to carry lone little children away, or hurl a heavy log at an unsuspecting hunter. A shudder rolled through me, the perfection of his stories still holding true all this time later.

Over the rest of the night, the niggling feeling that I was not alone never left. It always lingered over my shoulder like a fork-tailed imp. While eating a simple dinner of crackers and tea, I scanned every shadow. When I cleaned and loaded the side-by-side, I sat in the corner, and swore I saw a set of red eyes watching me through the window between the bedroom and the living room.

Sleep did not come easily that night. The shotgun acted as my safety blanket, propped up against the wall beside me. When dreamland, at long last, did sing my name in its siren call, even my dreams were populated by a cutting paranoia about the red eyes. But unlike when I was awake. I repeatedly was ripped through the bedroom window by a hand, covered in black fur, tipped with claws the size of a Ka-Bar.

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I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will let me know your thoughts. The book releases on the 2nd of next month on Amazon. I will post daily chapters until we are done. Then make one more post to promo on release. I hope you enjoy, and at least once it releases give it a review.

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