The White Raven

When Peter awoke, he found himself airborne, flying over Zemliharos with his newfound ivory wings and circular vision guiding him forward. A brewing storm hovered over the moon, obscuring its silver glow from the night sky. Then it clicked, Peter was flying, actually flying, but he didn’t know how. A gust of wind nearly brought him spiraling to the ground as he adjusted to his newfound feathers. He much preferred the form of a squirrel to this, at least his legs were still planted firmly on the ground. At first the movements to stay airborne felt forced, as if he were flapping his own arms while trying to maintain flight, while his stomach felt as if it were going to be vomited from his throat. He knew he didn’t have much time to adjust, or he’d be a splattering mess outside the city walls before long.

Peter closed his eyes and collected his thoughts, ignoring his declining altitude, trusting that his body would soon acclimate as it had last time he found himself in this situation. Sure enough, he felt his wings stabilize and the sinking sensation in his gut calm as his body acclimated to a hover. He opened his eyes and found his wings acting as if they had a mind of their own. As he learned the ebb and flow with his gliding descent, he soon hovered down the make out the street of Zemliharos, at least what wasn’t obscured in complete darkness. Not a single torchlight or candle glimmered around the city walls, hinting at any sign of life. It was only near the castle walls that the dull radiance of a campfire silhouetted the surrounding chambers.

Peter first gripped his talons and perched over the town square, where he had last seen Luka and his men thoroughly decimated by the Striga. He figured the striga’s illusion must’ve been in full force once again, as not a drop of blood remained on the cobblestones. He shifted his head, trying to make out any other details of the event, but even with a raven’s enhanced eyesight, he couldn’t find anything that gave away what happened to the former corpses

. With an ascent back into the air, he flew onto the castle balcony, where the shutters remained fully exposed, with hints of firelight still fading through them, beckoning any surviving soul for their companionship within this deserted urban landscape. Peter flew through the opening, careful to remain above the rafters, safely obscured for whatever wretched souls now prowled the caste chambers. The strength of the firelight grew, until it fully broadcasted the horrors that were on display below, served up on the table of the castle’s mess hall. Peter made out the head of a man, its body opened and served amongst the spices and Hors d'oeuvres, his anguished expression only hinting at the horrors that must’ve awaited him in his final moments. There, several of the striga sat in their uncanny state, using their snouted mouth to tear off the flesh in front of them. The flayed body’s skin remained peeled, as if it were contorted into wings, yet his frame appeared shrunken, as if all of the liquids within were thoroughly drained. Their wine cups reeked of the metallic and acidic taste of blood, with the stench of burning fat permeating any nose that had the misfortune of whiffing it.

The whole sight left Peter dizzy as he dug his talons deep into his perching spot amongst the wood beams. While he’d seen such depictions in shows and video games, the grimdark reality in front of Peter nearly caused him to collapse onto the table in disgust, becoming all the more likely to end up a side dish for the ravaging horrors below him. He attempted to keep his sights forward, as best he could, and hopped from one beam to another, careful not to expose his position to the monstrosities that would be salivating over having him for dinner below if he took a misstep.

That same, all consuming drive that had previously beckoned him to move forward guided him, towards where fate demanded next. He swooped throughout the messhall, gliding in a frenzy as to not to expose his ivory wings for too long as he retook position. Where he felt himself drawn to were the passageways down below, deep under the castle ground itself. It didn’t take Peter long to surmise where in this medieval horrorshow he would find himself next. He swooped into the descending passageways, deeper into the dungeons below.

Despite being in near complete darkness, he could make out the array of outlined heads stuffed into the cell blocks and contraptions below as he finished his descent into the chambers. Father, mother and child were all bound to whatever could be chained down in the same cells. Dried blood coated the floors, and two X-shaped crosses were placed out in front of the cellmates, with flayed bodies that slowly dripped down into the wine barrels in front of them, clearly displaying the message of what the punishment would be for defiance to everyone within its vicinity.

Peter attempted to keep his ivory, avian body from swooping down for long enough to blow his cover. Most of the faces of the striga's victims were too far buried within their own minds, their eyes either focusing in towards themselves, or they simply floated away, refusing to acknowledge the state they found themselves in. Whatever was happening, it was clear the people of Zemliharos were now living lives closer to livestock than humans.

“Look, an angel.” Peter felt every feather on him ruffle as the half dead heads gazed upon the white raven in front of them. Not that it mattered for long. Only moments later, Peter felt the all consuming agony as a piercing blade caught the bits of flesh around his left wing. He flapped about in a panic, throwing up feathers, dust and blood in every direction. He turns his head, only to see the uncanny smile of a striga, ready to lunge forward, its rows of teeth looking to consume Peter whole.

Peter fought off every urge in his body to panic as his last moments appeared all too likely. He closed his eyes and held his breath, not wanting his last moments bearing witness to the fangs that would chew him to bits. He waited to smell the sulfuric odor emitting from the monstrosity’s mouth, but nothing came. In fact, he couldn’t hear the prisoners. The droplets of blood. Nothing. He opened his eyes once more…