Chapter 5: Night of The Striga

A white bushy tail followed behind Peter as he jumped from tree to tree. He had to be dreaming, this truly felt more like a dream than the last day did. Jumping from each tree branch, he felt as if he were gliding in the air within his new body, yet the sensation of wind blowing across his now furry cheeks, along with the scratching of brittle bark as it scraped against his paws upon completing each landing, kept him further in doubt. If he could awake to find himself now a Lord to a Duchy, he supposed waking up in the body of an albino squirrel wasn’t that far out of line at this point. Each leap he made felt more natural than walking in his own body, and he propelled himself forward as if he were in a trance. He didn’t know where this sensation was leading him, or how he was able to move like he did within this new form, just that his intuition was beckoning him to see something, and there was nothing that would stop him now.

As he crawled down from the trees, the land underneath him grew damp and boggy, unlike the woodlands and coastal line he’d recently become accustomed to within this new world. Sunlight continued to peak out from the horizon as dusk approached, but threatened to be fully engulfed by the foreboding darkness of night at any given moment. He figured himself to be within the swamplands that Sir Branković spoke of, where the striga called home, and his gut told him that he had to keep moving forward to see something. What it was, or what it all meant, he had no idea. All he knew was that something waited for him.

Smoke festered out from the thinning trees and into the skyline above as he approached what urged him forward. Peter crawled onto his belly as he waded through the bog on his paws, his old tactic of branch hopping from tree to tree becoming far less feasible once the density of them declined deeper into the marshlands. Despite it previously being a warm summer night, the water and air became increasingly frigid, and he could see his breath, as he waded closer towards the smoke. A dense fog clouded his sight as he came closer to the epicenter, with only the flicking flames in the distance being his guided light. The smell of burnt flesh became undeniable as he approached. Whether it was the charred flesh of a beast, or of a man, he could not say.

Cackles and piercing laughter erupted as he came into the heart of the bog. A isle of dry land loomed elevated from the muddy marshlands. Several makeshift tents and rickety wagons surrounded what he knew to be this campsite for the Strigas. He climbed up one of the remaining tree trunks and squinted through the fog for a better angle to see the witches in action. Peter found that the branch wobbled on this waning tree, but appeared stable enough to hold his weight. Unlike the trees before it, this one looked to already be deep into Autumn, with browning leaves and shedding bark that crumpled under pressure, its own life seemingly suffocated under the spell of these sorceresses. While he couldn't make out any features below, he saw what appeared to be the form of bare women deeply silhouetted within the fog, otherwise fully exposed under the veil of the summer night.

The cackles grew as they danced together in a circle, chanting a language Peter had no familiarity with, nor did he ever have any wish to. It ruptured through the air in harsh and piercing tones, sounding completely unnatural, metallic even, noises no human or creature could hope to make. Its severity grew in intensity, ringing in Peter’s ear as he fought the urge to howl out under its maddening severity. At its crescendo, the seemingly slim and shapely figures of the women in the fog grew gaunt and lanky. Enlarged wings sprouted from their backs, taking the shape of a bat’s and the outlines of their faces contorted into something far more bestial, with the glowing yellow eyes of an owl, noticeable even through the fog, and a lengthened jaw more reminiscent of a boar’s.

In the center of the circle, by the heart of the fire, stood the aged and sagging silhouette of what looked like a crone, yet she towered over the bestial women around her, appearing over seven feet tall, and had a long pointed horn that extruded from her forehead. She appeared to levitate a woman above the campfire with the motions of her hands, who squealed and writhed in pain as the flames danced across her body while the Strigas around her took flight into the starless sky. The fire then went out in a flash and the crone sprouted wings of her own. They flew into the air and abandoned the young woman as she lay in the embers and ashes. She seized violently as, one by one, they abandoned her. Peter crawled down from the tree to try and further inspect the young woman, but felt his own vision now shaking uncontrollably, as if something violently shook him.

“Your Grace, wake up,” A voice seemed to boom from the heavens, as it rang all around him. He recognized it. It was the same voice as the squire who found him under that dead horse…