The Hanged-Man

Since the sun had not yet risen, the two decided to rest before continuing their plans. They set up camp at a clearing just within the forest where Ymir used to hunt — Vél had apparently dragged him there from the village.

“We can't let the royal army know you survived,” they explained. “They wouldn't understand.”

As suspicious as that was, Ymir found comfort in being somewhere familiar. The scent of the trees and dirt felt like home. A welcome departure from the stench of blood.

“Here, eat this,” Vél handed him a squishy, palm-sized lump. It was an odd color of white, but smelled light and sweet like jasmine. “It's Moondrop Cake. You'll feel better eating it.”

Intrigued, Ymir took a bite and nearly cried.

It felt divine.

Indescribably delicious and refreshing — every muscle in his body relaxed. While his stress melted away with the last morsels, Ymir fell fast asleep.

In his slumber, he experienced a strange dream. Walking through an unfamiliar forest in the dawn light, he was surrounded by uncanny plants. Ymir was certain he'd never seen any of them before, yet each time he looked at one he knew exactly what it was.

Dew Fruit. Luscious. Nice for later.

Feathervine. Pretty. Poisonous. Do not lick.

Howling Nettle. Yeowch! Stay away!

Ymir whimpered in a foreign voice, keeping his distance from the spikey plant. His body moved bizarrely in the process. Was he on all fours…? It felt like every finger and toe was awkwardly digging into the ground. It was almost as irritating as the hard, sharp slivers of… something… stabbing between his teeth.

So many teeth…

At last, Ymir happened upon a hollow of gnarled trees. It was a perfect place to rest before moving on to the next hunt. After all, the hunger was already growing. Always growing…

Ignore the pain. Now is time for rest.

Still uneasy, Ymir curled up in the hollow, wrapping his tail around himself.

…Tail?

Wait—

“Bless, you humans certainly sleep a lot.”

Ymir's eyes fluttered open to find Vél sitting nearby again. The dappled sunlight on his face told him it was mid morning, and the delight in Vél's eyes told him they'd been waiting a while.

“Ugh, my head hurts…” Ymir tried sitting up. “I had a weird dream—”

“Behold!”

Vél trampled his words with their own enthusiasm.

“I've enhanced your weapon!”

The elf shoved Ymir’s own bow and a single arrow into his face. Except, they were remodeled. The bow was now made of a gnarled branch and snaked with a vine, and the delicate arrow was tipped with a fluorite head.

“Enhanced?” Ymir questioned. “They look more like art than a weapon. That arrowhead will shatter! I couldn't kill a rabbit with this, let alone Svartrvargr.”

“Try it,” Vél insisted. “See that big tree over there? Shoot it~”

Ymir's doubt shrank slightly in the shadow of Vél's confidence, but he remained unconvinced. Skeptically, he drew the bow and aimed for the heart of the tree, several feet away.

Pwunk!

Bullseye.

To Ymir's surprise, the bow was springy, with a strong waxed string, and the seemingly fragile arrow flew with remarkable efficiency. It buried itself into the tree with ease, proving to hold its integrity.

Impressive, albeit anticlimactic.

“So you improved it,” Ymir admitted, “But won't I need more than one arrow to—”

Crrrrk…

Craaaaacckkkk…

CRRRRRASHHH—!

Ymir couldn't believe his eyes. The tree he shot had completely bisected, its inner fibers exploding outward like a bloom of torturous splinters.

“You should see your face,” Vél giggled.

“Hey! Stop laughing, you fiend!”

“Yes, alright… Perhaps I should be asking about your dream instead.”

“Oh. That…” The topic made Ymir quickly forget his annoyance. “Yes, I dreamt that… I… Well, I believe I was Svartrvargr.”

He relayed to Vél every detail of the dream, his memory surprisingly clear. By the end of his story, Vèl's expression was without the confusion Ymir had expected. Instead, they looked thrilled.

“This is marvelous, Ymir!” They cried. “You were able to see where Svartrvargr was last. And I happen to know exactly where that is!”

“You do?” Ymir questioned skeptically.

“Yes, of course! We'd best hurry, too. The sooner we catch up to the beast, the sooner we can lay it to rest.”

Once again, Vél retrieved their wand from their tunic. Skipping over to a sort of archway between two trees. They then traced the archway in the air with their wand, and the space within the archway shimmered before revealing an eerily familiar scene to Ymir.

“Come now, Ymir. We're traversing the Twisted Woods!”

“What?!”

• • •

The Twisted Woods was a very esoteric place. According to legend, all of the fae and mystical creatures in Gevalt — and even the concept of magic — originally came from it. Knowing this, Ymir remained wary, cautiously nocking his arrow.

“Wait, Vél…” Ymir stopped abruptly, looking down at the weapon curiously. “I don't remember retrieving the arrow before… How'd it get in my hand?”

Vél turned to face him, a playful smirk forming on their fair lips.

“Never seen magic, dear?” They teased. “You really should pay more attention to what you hold. Come now, keep up!”

They turned on a heel to continue their stride, leaving Ymir flustered. By the time he regained composure, the elf was already several paces ahead.

Fortunately, the enigmatic scenery became more alluring than intimidating over time. Plants and animals that Ymir had only read about were surrounding him, some glowing in broad daylight while others defied all logic.

“Amazing… How is a monster like Svartrvargr in a place like this?” He asked absentmindedly as they searched for the hollow.

“Careful,” Vél warned. “Even the loveliest roses hold bitter thorns. Do you happen to know the entire legend of Svartrvargr's creation?”

Ymir shook his head sheepishly and Vél sighed.

“Svartrvargr wasn't always a monster. Remember the Direwolves that lived long ago? Surely a country boy like you has heard of them.”

“Of course. They tormented Gevalt centuries ago, before hunters finally wiped them out.”

Vél nodded.

“Correct. Legend goes that when the Direwolves grew too strong, the Goddess of Peace, Yulfrid, agreed to let them be vanquished. Her husband, the God of War, Ulftyr, bestowed upon humans the power needed to do the job, and one by one there were all killed.”

Suddenly, their expression shifted to something somber. Almost…remorseful.

“But their son Skelmir, the God of Trickery, felt that Direwolves didn't deserve to be erased. So, he resurrected one.

“Unfortunately, his magic corrupts everything it touches, so the Direwolf he chose ended up mutating into a terrible monster. This monster, christened Svartrvargr by the people, then terrorized the land for centuries, unstoppable even by the god who created it… As punishment for his sins, Skelmir was struck down by his parents and banished to the world we now call the Twisted Woods.”

“I see… How tragic…” Ymir acknowledged the tale solemnly, daydreaming a glorious battle against the fallen god.

Then he had the horrid thought of simultaneously fighting Svartrvargr. Certainly less glorious. Before he could ponder it further, the hunter's attention was drawn by strikingly familiar surroundings.

“We're close…” Ymir alerted Vél, lowering his voice. ”The Dew Fruit, the Howling Nettle… I saw this all in my dream. That means the hollow is just up ahead!”

Cautiously, the two crept forward, hoping to catch the beast by surprise, but to their disappointment the hollow was completely empty. Ymir supposed he should have expected this — after all, it was dawn in his dream, but by the time they'd reached the hollow it was early afternoon.

As the weight of their folly settled in, Vél suggested they take a break and regroup. Since they needed privacy to do some “divinations”, Ymir was left alone in the hollow. Thus, like any young man left to his own devices, he had entirely too much time to think.

So much had happened in such little time. Just yesterday he was enjoying autumn equinox with his friends and family, and now he stood in the middle of the Twisted Woods, accompanying a strange elf on a suicide wolf hunt.

It was dizzying.

Maddening.

Suspicious.

The more Ymir thought about his current situation, the more it felt entirely too… convenient. His miraculous survival, Vél's opportune intervention and skill set, The cryptic prophecy naming him a chosen hero… Everything was going too smoothly. It felt off, and all of the dubious details started with Vél.

But, why be dishonest? Defeating Svartrvargr seemed to be mutually beneficial.

Lost in thought, Ymir absentmindedly bit the inside of his cheek. Immediately, a smart pain made him recoil, spitting out a small amount of blood.

Since when were his teeth that sharp?!

Looking around urgently, Ymir caught sight of a crystalline pond near the hollow and decided to check his reflection. There, he could clearly see that not only had his teeth grown unusually pointed, but he also gained several white streaks through his sandy hair.

“What the… White? No, no, that's ridiculous! I'm no elder!”

Thinking his eyes must be deceiving him, Ymir reached his hands into the water to wash his face. As soon as his fingers began to submerge, however, the water itself rose and clutched his wrist like a hand.

“You dare touch my water, foul fiend?!”

An ethereal voice from beyond the pond’s surface rebuked, startling Ymir. He cried in shock and pulled back, but the watery hand held him like a vice, soon becoming an entire figure rising from the pond. As their liquid visage dripped away, the figure appeared to be a naked maiden as beautiful as she was wicked. She might have been quite alluring if her face wasn't contorted in vile disgust.

“What the hell?!” Ymir cried. “Get off!”

Alarmed by the terrible woman, he desperately tried to wrench her off with his other hand. Unexpectedly, his nails effortlessly slashed through her wrist, creating deep wounds that poured water like blood. The maiden shrieked in pain and relinquished Ymir, allowing him to scramble away as she sank back into the pond.

As he caught his breath and calmed his mind, the hunter examined his nails to find they'd grown sharp like claws. How? When? Why?

Nothing made sense. Surely he was going mad—

“Ymir!”

Vél rushed toward where the hunter was slumped on the ground, pulling him farther away from the pond before checking for any injuries.

“What are you doing at a Nixie Pool? You should know that everything you eat or drink here has a price. Are you hurt?”

Ymir swatted Vél's doting hands away.

“Why is my hair white?” he questioned angrily. “My teeth are getting sharp. My nails just ripped through a—a Nixie?! You owe me answers, Vél!”

The elf's expression of genuine concern morphed into something fakely sweet, an emotional lacquer. The shift tugged something in Ymir's heartstrings.

“I suppose I do,” they said. “I should have told you there'd be some side effects from the healing, but it was the only way. I'm sorry for keeping it from you… Can we move forward with hunting Svartrvargr?”

Ymir was nothing if not virtuous. His desire to protect others overshadowed all other personal motives, leaving him no choice but to trudge forward past his doubts. Disputes could wait.

• • •