Pilgrim felt a rush of excitement as the blood of the evening’s final victim splattered across his flat, featureless face. Just a few steps away, more corpses laid in a pile. He counted quickly - two dozens. A job well done.

It was good to be back, he thought, while dislodging his claws from the imperial lieutenant's throat. A quick glance around the campsite told him the whole story of the squadron he dealt with. The soldiers’ fur lined capes indicated that they were part of the troops warring with the Dragons in the northern reaches of the continent. A small company like this was surely sent down south to extort the human villages for sustenance to support the armies actually engaged in battle. It was no secret that the Eternal Empire didn’t produce enough food to sustain all of its citizens. Almost all of the country’s land was a barren wasteland - magical desert that grew larger and larger with each year. Their only big farming settlements were Aen-Vistul and Aen-Elith, respectively on the far northern border and eastern shoreline - but even those were drying out.

His Radiance, Emperor Solenn Anorien didn’t care, because he didn’t have to. Even though his people felt all of the suffering that hunger brought, they couldn’t really die from it. And their ruler knew exactly how to play the masses he governed. After each grand victory, the streets would be flooded with supplies stolen from foreign lands for a short time. And of course, the soldiers were one of the only social groups that were always kept well-fed. It kept the public sentiment ever in favor of his bloody conquests.

A soft whimper coming from one of the torn-up tents pulled Pilgrim away from his thoughts. Has he gotten clumsy? - He wondered, while following the sound. It wasn’t like him to leave someone alive. He found the last soldier curled up on the ground in his shelter, sobbing and with his pants soiled. He looked like a very young man, a boy even, but all of the Eternals did. They aged slightly slower than regular humans, reaching the peak of their physical development at around 30. And then, they stopped aging at all. The only way to tell when they were actually born was by counting the tattoos on their left wrist. Each of them a singular symbol, meaning one word in the runic alphabet of Elderspeech. Each of them marking a quarter of a millennium of their life, and each displayed proudly and never covered by clothes, no matter the weather conditions. Pilgrim took a quick glance. The man’s hand was untouched by ink. So he was indeed a youngling…

“Bright Father save me…” - The boy mumbled in-between sobs.

“He won’t.” - Said Pilgrim with a scoff, his low, guttural voice reverberating around despite the fact that there was no mouth to let it out. - “Trust me, I’m conducting extensive research in this matter. I must’ve killed a few thousand imperials by now. About three-quarters of you cry out his name in your final moments. Not a single divine intervention so far.”

“Y-you will burn in Hells for this…”

“Take a good look around you. The Hells are here. And I’m not even their harbinger. Your people are.”

“N-no! We save the world from heretic monsters like you!”

Pilgrim laughed out loud.

“Oh, I just love to hear that. You see…” - His spindly fingers glimmered and his claws materialized again. Golden and radiant. Light made substance. - “...I’m not sure if I can be called a heretic. My magic doesn’t exactly breach your precious doctrine.”

The soldier’s sobs turned into an ear-piercing, high-pitched wail and Pilgrim decided that enough is enough. In a flash it was over, the boy’s guts now spilled on the ground. He proceeded to inspect his belongings. Nothing impressive there, sadly. Just the usual - mediocre short sword, even more unremarkable dagger, the useless gilded armor… With a shake of his head, Pilgrim moved back to the corpse of the lieutenant, still laying sprawled on the ground outside the tent. And there was the jackpot. The hilt of his sword held three large opals, while his chest piece carried an array of citrines and amber. The latter excited Pilgrim the most. Here, so far away from the sea, amber always sold well.

He whistled loudly, and his mount emerged from between the trees. Mo’ru was a Swiftwolf - a beast measuring a little over 6 feet in height, with lush, black mane, equally dark, lanky legs, and lean, fiery orange body. He was Pilgrim’s only friend.

“You’ll eat well today. I scored a lieutenant, you know?”

The canine let out a dissatisfied whimper in response.

“I know, I know. You don’t like this. But you like me, don’t you? Who’s my good boy?”

The animal glanced away, but its tail wagged ever so slightly.

“Oh, don’t be like that. Once I sell the gems in Sardar and you get your dinner, I know you won’t be so grumpy anymore.”

Pilgrim got to work, packing the treasure. Both him and Mo'ru wanted to eat, and he needed valuable information. He planned the road while expertly removing the stones from their sockets, leaving just the bare metal of the armor and weapons that the imperial soldiers carried around. Soon, the stones were neatly pocketed in his pouch and he was checking his sacks one last time, making sure that they were properly secured. He recalled that one time when one of his sacks came undone and fell off of the saddle, leaving him short of supplies for a week. Finally, Pilgrim mounted his steed and went forth, traversing the forest until he emerged on the main road to Sardar, the Black Jewel of the north, last great Human city before the Dragon Lands. Pilgrim knew people there, the right kind of people. Ones that didn’t have a problem with trading with a monster.

They got close to the city gates shortly before nightfall, stopping for a moment in the shrubbery outside for Pilgrim to cast his spells. He couldn’t exactly get inside given his monstrous form, but when one had mastery over the Light itself, appearances weren’t a big problem. Focusing his intent, he ordered the photons around him to ignore the bodies of him and his steed - passing through as if they weren't there. A simple invisibility charm that Pilgrim learned when he was still young and sweet, and one of the most useful tricks in the wide array of his powers. With that, they were ready to venture further, in between the black buildings of the mighty city-state of Sardar.

He quickly took a turn towards one of the more seedy alleys of the suburbs, to the establishment where he usually traded the spoils of his adventures for gold. The Red Ribbon, a small pawn shop owned by Yohnna, a woman who definitely wasn’t picky about her suppliers, lured inside with intricate jewelry and masterfully tailored pieces of clothing displayed in its window. Luckily, at this hour there weren’t any clients there, so after tying Mo’ru to a post, Pilgrim stepped inside and dropped his illusion.

“Long time, no see.” - He said calmly, but couldn’t really help the fact that his low, raspy voice still sounded uncanny and threatening. Facing away from the entrance and startled, Yohnna squealed loudly, but as soon as she turned around and saw him, her whole frame relaxed.

“Gods, you’re alive! I thought you finally got what you had coming.” - She said, with a chuckle that still held traces of nervousness.

“Wildly overblown rumors…” - He muttered, pulling out the gems from his satchel.

“Hey, hey! This is no way to treat people.” - She put her hands on her hips. - “I haven’t seen you in what, eight years?! If you weren’t dead, then what were you doing?”

“I was on a break.” - He turned his face away. Why did she have to be so nosy?

“On a break?! And pray tell, how do breaks even work for monsters? I thought that you’re some primal spirit of vengeance, compelled to do what you do by forces beyond human comprehension.”

“You know, this is one of the best theories I’ve heard about me. You should definitely share it with Sardar’s Cryptid Research Association.”

“We have one?!”

“Oh, of course. But they are a group of teenagers who gather in one of their father’s wine cellars.”

The shopkeeper shook her head with a sigh.

“And you know because…”

“They hunted for the Mooseman for a while. And all cryptids know each other, so he told me. By the way, Uncle Ice wanted me to tell you that if you keep asking stupid questions, you’re getting coal for the next Winter Solstice. And all the following ones. Just take my gems, Yohnna.” - He called upon his claws and tapped them lightly against the counter. He didn’t like threatening regular people, but she was pushing his boundaries just a little bit too much. She was one of his favorite merchants because she always had interesting gossip in tow, helping him choose his next targets. But he knew this was a double edged-sword - surely she was telling stories about him to her other clients as well. So every once in a while, he had to remind her what he truly was outside of their chats in her shop.

“F-fine, no need to get all tense!” - She glanced at the precious stones. - “Ooh, amber…”

“I knew you’d like it. And I can give it to you cheaper in exchange for information.”

“What do you want to know, then?” - She muttered, already inspecting his loot with a magnifying glass.

“The usual. News about the Empire.”

“For one, they have a brand new prince. Although I think the boy is about 15 now, so maybe you’ve heard that already?”

Pilgrim froze for a moment. New prince? Curious…

“I have not.”

“His name is Axian from what I’ve gathered. But besides that, I don’t know much. Just what the imperial refugees say in taverns. And you know most of them aren’t best informed about the royal family.”

“Why would they be…” - Pilgrim muttered. - “Solenn likes to keep his distance from the masses. What about the war effort? I’ve dismantled a squadron with winter coats, so I assume the Mistrium Wars are still going strong?”

“Unfortunately. I’ve heard more and more trees are falling…”

Pilgrim sighed heavily hearing this. The Eternals and the Dragons fought over one of the most precious natural resources in the world - crystalline wood of the Mistrium Trees. It was the only material capable of both holding and then extracting magic - even a small shard could allow the most mundane of men to become powerful spellcasters, provided that they were filled by a skilled mage beforehand. The imperials saw them as a weapon. The Dragons, on the other hand, as the sacred heritage of their homeland. Of course, His Radiance cared little about what was sacred to the other races living in the world, and thus, for centuries, his soldiers have been dying in the inferno of draconic flames. To hear that they have gained some ground was both surprising and very disconcerting.

“And what about the South?” - He spoke finally.

“Not much. Perin is still an imperial fiefdom and predictably, is still a complete shithole. Though I have heard some interesting rumors from there that don’t have anything to do with the Empire..”

“And that would be?”

“Keep in mind, this is just something that I’ve heard from a merchant from Turnstone. Unfounded, really.”

“Spit it out already!”

“Alright, alright! It seems like they have an undead roaming around. Or at least had. Terrorized some villages about six or five years ago and then disappeared into the thin air. All of them in close proximity to the Red Forest. Sounds like a magical mystery right up your alley, doesn’t it?”

Pilgrim pondered for a second. He hated necromancers and their spawn just as much as the imperials. And even if he found nothing, the journey to Perin wouldn’t be time wasted. Imperial activity was always high near the border, with plenty of small squadrons collecting tithe from the poor village folk. Besides… It was time to visit the Red Forest already. To pay respect to the fallen. He put it off way too long.

“You just might be right.” - He answered in a melancholic tone, his thoughts still wandering around. - ”Thank you, Yohnna. This was most productive. You can take the small pieces of amber for free. Just pay me for the big one, the citrines and the opals.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Pilgrim.”

She paid him and putting his illusion back on, he went out into the night, feeling the excitement build up within him. For too long did he allow himself to be stagnant, to mellow out. No more. Tomorrow, the hunt began anew.