Private Tales Where The Lost Ones Go

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The metallic taste of blood filled Farren's jaws. The fur of the rabbit keeping her tongue warm from the biting cold of the winter air as she trekked back to her camp with Luther.

Her paws made little sound in the packed snow; the evidence of her passing would soon be covered within the hour with new snowfall. Yet even in the stark white landscape, her dark pelt blended into the shadows and dead underbrush that littered the dense forest they had traveled to.

A week they had been traveling. A week of sleeping in taverns that became fewer and far between until they finally found themselves the last couple nights holing up and making shelter in the wild.

Farren herself didn't mind as she could easily survive indefinitely out in the wild. A place where half her spirit lived regardless of the skin she walked in. But she was sure Luther's frown could get any deeper the longer they were out here. Unfortunately, he would just have to make do with the dilapidated and abandoned barn they found on the outskirts of the village they had been sent to investigate.

For children had started to go missing in the village. First one every blue moon and now every month. As a result, they had been sent to get to the bottom of whether the cause was man or spirit.

Farren crested a small hill, the unassuming barn coming into sight, tucked into the small clearing. The once tilled fields made ready for crops, now long overgrown and taken back by the surrounding woods. How many generations had it been since this place had known the care of a farmer and his family?

The black wolf slipped through a hole in the backside of the barn that had formed from the fallen boards of rotten timber, the only light in the place from a fire Luther had made when they stopped to camp. The warm light causing deep shadows to twist in the broken rafters, the sight inspired a shiver to run down her spine, too close did they resemble the dancing forms of malevolent spirits.

Slinking to Luther's side, she dropped the large hare at his side where he sat. Chuffing at him quietly, a clear indication that not only had she caught them dinner, but she expected him to prepare it as well.

Syr Luther Peredhel

 

[Syr Luther Peredhel]

His first few steps were noisy. The snow crunching beneath his feet conjured a feeling of inadequacy. Especially next to his stealthier companion. He slowed his pace and adjusted to match the footfalls of the wolf before him. A perimeter check earlier told them they were safe for a few miles outside of their clandestine operation. The assumption that that truth held could end the mission early. On their route back he would motion towards the glyphs he laid earlier. A routine check. Farren obliged.

Like two shades they whisped over the landscape back to their hideout. His frown tilted back into its resting form as they came upon the overgrown scene. The snow and ice clung onto the vegetation like a lover to her ailing partner. All was silent, all was still. Gorgeous. Farren slowed her advance. Same thought perhaps?

He followed her through the back entrance into their derelict abode. The crackling sound of a small fire brought him immediate joy. He despised the cold. It conjured memories of harsher days and even harsher lessons. Fire has always been more hospitable. He doffed his hunting armor and tied his hair into a lazy bun before taking a squat next to the campfire. He noticed Farren's perturbed stare at the shadows cast upon the wall. He cleared his throat, "If we were to snuff out the light to blind their gaze, they'd likely roam free and attempt to possess us." He grabbed the rabbit she dropped at his hip. "In some cultures to the Far East, accepting the soul of the dead is seen as an honor. A shaman or another upper-echelon figure carries out the rites. Two souls. One vessel." He reached for his boning knife. "However, keeping the light on is arguably creepier. Hm." He gave her a lazy smirk that could easily have been mistaken for a grimace. He hoped he quelled her worry.

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren sidled up next to Luther and laid down near his feet with a half-hearted huff at his words. Her eyes instead trained on his methodical dismemberment of their dinner.

Normally, Farren would have passed on the meat. But in her present wolf form, she was able to overcome and eat the meat she needed to sustain herself in times when sourcing foods that adhered to her vegetarian diet, was difficult. So now, she waited for Luther to drop her the raw bits she had earned for catching the damn thing. A slow roll of her tongue escaping to lick her chops, the firelight catching sharply on the gleaming ivories.

Syr Luther Peredhel

 

[Syr Luther Peredhel]

He made small incisions between the meat and the skin with the sharp tip of the blade, trying to remain as close to the skin as he could. Vaunting his skill with swift and precise movements the skin peeled off without slack. He pulled the skin taught and laid it on the rack, then chucked the fatty bits into a bowl for his companion.

He mixed the rest of the meat with a smokey and salty mixture. He yearned for the moment he got to apply the seasoning. Many occasions called for it, but few earned it. He began the process of browning the rabbit before sticking it in the stew they had sitting at the side of the fire pit.

The rabbit sizzled and popped as did his nose. He caught himself in a rhythmic dance with the food. It lulled him into a dreamscape of comfort and fulfillment. The soldier in him requested a different venture. He broke his trance and reached for his journal.

"Yes, the children are missing." He gave a tiresome look at the wolf while thumbing the pages. "I've seen this before. Once before." He broke his concentration on Farren and stared into the flames. Its dance encouraging thought and theory.. He broke free a mere moment later and regarded the journal. "I don't believe they're missing, Farren. I believe they're being delivered, sacrificed even? I don't know. The stories of the parents don't add up, but their mannerisms and continuity do? Its odd. He took a whiff of the cooking rabbit. Pleased with himself he carried on, "Something's not right. This feels like a setup, a trap. That's why the many placed wards and healthy dose of skepticism." He flipped the bits of rabbit, browning the other side. He poured the cold soup into a pot and hung it atop the rack above the fire. "I hope for a plot twist to keep the toes from rusting." He pushed his notes toward the wolf hoping for a reply.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

With a grateful whine, Farren ate the dinner offered to her with gusto. The savory cooking smell of Luther's share was enough to have her licking her bowl clean and settling into a sit across from him, staring eagerly.

It was times like these where she felt more animal than person, having no issue being guided by her instincts. In fact, she was raised in a culture where that was encouraged. To trust in the power and wisdom of nature and where it would lead her. But in this instance, she couldn't seclude to the easier head space of being an animal. As her partner had need of her input. Especially considering the increasingly complex situation they were finding themselves. Giving her best impression of a human-like sigh, Farren's silver flames engulfed her on her exhale. The bright light of her magic flaring in the dark space around them. And where there was once a large inky wolf, now crouched a petite blonde woman. Her long corn-silk braid hanging forward over one shoulder, the soft tinkling of bells at the end of red string that tied the end. With a quiet groan she stretched her neck from one side to the other, rolling up on the balls of her feet to stand at her full height and stepping forward to grab Luther's journal quietly.

Settling in across the fire from him, she began flipping through the weathered pages, easily deciphering his neat cursive, a methodical manner to the way he inked the page. Thoughtfully, she bit at the end of one thumbnail, skimming the text. Finally, she looked up, firelight illuminating the troubled shadows in her grey eyes, "What makes you think they're being sacrificed? And to what?" She hated to admit it, but she was afraid to find the answer.

Syr Luther Peredhel

 

[Syr Luther Peredhel]

As Farren lapped up her fatty bits he poured himself a warmed bowl of soup. He sprinkled some greens and rabbit into the thick and creamy substance. He was pleased with the outcome of the rabbit, but not so keen on the slop that accompanied it. It wasn't the taste of the soup that displeased him, it was the amount he had consumed in the last week. With slight envy, he watched the wolf before him clean the bowl in a few breaths. He couldn't help but contemplate the multitude of palates she must've experienced as he took another bite of the same ol.

Without warning the silence of their meal was cast aside as the obfuscated beast shed its skin in a silvery flare that was nearly blinding, forcing a squint out of Luther. He'd been victim to her display a few times before, but in the dark, it was a luminescent force. Instead of staring at her frail and silky form stepping into the firelight he grabbed a nearby blanket and handed it to her without looking.

Farren thumbed the pages silently as he cleaned up the cookware and tended to the fire. The menial tasks were a welcomed break from the grueling horrors he found himself steeped in. Just as he found himself lulled into a nascent trance of mindlessness and rhythm, Farren pulled him out with her query. He stared silently into her eyes over the fire, collecting his thoughts before speaking.

"Seven families have reported a kid under the age of fifteen missing. One of those families didn't deem it necessary to acquire support from outside sources. Said family helps run the village. I know we have barely scratched the surface and I know we haven't questioned every family. He took a somber breath. Something feels off about their apprehension. They claim the kids to have been abducted in the middle of the night with no signs of struggle. No signs of a perpetrator." He shifted his intense gaze from Farren to flame, then to palm, where the mark of a slave lived eternally. "Sacrificed? Too early to assume. Things that go bump in the night, rare, but isn't unheard of. However, let us not forget that humans, parents even, are equally capable of immeasurable horrors."

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

She squinted at Luther through the yellow snapping tongues of their meal fire. "Between the two of us, I imagine we are still the scariest things that go 'bump in the night' around here." She smirked with mirth she didn't feel and went back to mulling over pieces of her companion's words.

Why did it seem as if outside of the initial missing reports that had been sent, none of the victims' families seemed to be panicking? Why did they all wait until the fourth child was missing to begin reporting the rest? What was the catalyst, what made that time different? Farren herself hadn't spoken to the families like Luther had, as she had spent her time in the woods tracking and scouting what she could and finding what rumors coupled amongst the local fauna.

Suddenly, Farren's brow furrowed when she caught on the tailcoats of a budding theory and hesitantly, she looked back at Luther's notes— trying to snatch at his observations and find the puzzle pieces she needed to complete her hypothesis.

Sighing emphatically, she gave up trying to read the cursive in the shadows and cautiously asked Luther, "When you spoke to these families... did they seem... like they were almost giving... rehearsed answers? As if someone had fed them the lines they needed to say to us to keep us in the dark?" Her fingers tensed on the edges of her blanket, the thought of being right flared anxiety in her gut.

Syr Luther Peredhel