A lonely samurai stopped at the roadside shrine. The day was peaceful. It looked like any other day in the summer, hot and humid. The shrine was in a state of disrepair. Judging by its state, the samurai concluded, it was abandoned a long time ago. He waited for a while, looked the stone-carved idol of Kuraim, the god of life and death. Travelers, that were traveling long distanced, always prayed to him for a safe trip. He had many aspects and many names. In the northern parts he’s known as the Storm God, in the eastern parts as the Forest God. Some theologians count him among the twelve-first gods of Gehido, while others say that he is even older than them.

The samurai knelt and started praying. He had the feeling that Kuraim was watching him. It made him feel uneasy. Something, about that statue, terrified him. It made him feel uneasy, but he continued. The wind gushed through the murky crowns of the alpine woods, carrying with it a scent of eerie tranquility. The samurai stood in silence, feeling, looking in the distance of the dense wood. A light shade fell over the statue.

"Chimon..."

Something or someone whispered his name.

He turned and saw nothing. A strange feeling hovered above him, almost like a warning of some sort, but he didn’t know what it was. Every inch of his skin and tissue, to be more precise his whole body, told him to be alarmed. Almost like something is going to happen at this very moment or second. His eyebrows, like wires, were gathered over his nose, his nose twitched. Small drops of sweat gathered over his forehead, went down his nose and continue to drop down. He moved his hand on the guard of his sword.

Nothing happened. Everything was silent. The whole forest was silent.

He moved again.

Silence again. Nothing moved.

He loosened the sword. Silence.

His eyes twitched. Silence was everywhere. Silence was everything.

His arm relaxed.

A lonely leaf danced on the wind, turned to its side and fell on the trampled ground. His entire body relaxed. He was sure that nothing was there. The wind changed direction. He turned. It was cold as a grave; the feeling was more than real. Small shivers went through his entire body like small needles, all at the same time, tearing through his skin bit by bit. The feeling was getting stronger with each passing moment that looked like an eternity to him. He needs to concentrate. His mind is clear, his hand is steady. The coldness disappeared. Everything returned to normal or so it appeared. There was still something strange.  Something moved, large and dark. It was fast, too fast. Claws, long as daggers, slash with unnatural speed. Blood gushed in the air. It was over. Simon turned, still on his wobbly feet. The pain went through his face. He somehow lifted his arm to his cheek. Three deep claw marks adorned his face. The flesh was cut to the bone. Blood in streams oozed down his hot face. He was alive, somehow, but still he was alive.

Another souvenir, he thought, I needed one more. What’s a one new scar?

The creature stumbled and fell. It was dead. He continued down the road. A group of riders scouted the road. They prepared.