Connie: "What a stupid job..."

John: "You could at least try to act neutral..."

Interjecting the loud silence of the forest was a small bit of bickering. This forest, unlike the one I had collapsed in earlier, was beginning to warm up and slowly melt the surrounding snow. The layer between my boots and solid ground was thinner, the snow far less packed, and I found myself needing to rub my arms for warmth a total of zero times.

It was...nice. It looked cold, but compared to the torture I had endured prior to this, it was nothing. Even Connie, whose kimono had been torn beneath the knee, didn't seem to shiver in the slightest. You could say that this forest looked only as if winter was just starting.

The flow of rushing water guided our little journey through the forest, leading us from a view of nothing but green and white, to a view of a narrow river and wet stones planted in the middle. It was a very small river—something that could be waded through with nothing more than wet knees—but it was enough for the fleeing fish to take as their route home.

John: "How many do you think we'll need?"

Connie: "We'll take as many as we can carry. Jessie plans on relocating us soon, so we need to stock up quite a bit of food."

John: "Stock up...fish?"

Connie: "Yeah. Dry it out and store it—something like that."

John: "You can dry food?!"

Connie: "What are you—oh, right."

It was as if she had forgotten that I was still just a kid. Just a kid. Honestly, it probably wasn't that she forgot. With my height, it would have been impossible to mix up an almost-thirteen-year-old with someone her age.

But, if it wasn't a mix-up of ages, then what was it?

Shaking off questions that need no answers, I stepped across the water and planted myself between some elevated rocks, gaining a balanced stance for watching the fish. A dagger of blackened glass was unsheathed, still stained with the blood of beasts, and was then promptly pushed under the water.

Connie: "You still have yet to tell us what happened."

John: "Just some wolves, nothing more."

Connie: "Wolves? Was yours some kind of...pack betrayer?"

John: "I guess so? That kind of happened after the rest were murdered, though."

Her eyes widened with a short breath before quickly returning to her usual cautious expression. Something about what I had said confused her, and she would have no problem questioning it.

Connie: "You say 'murdered', but your weapon is—"

John: "Yeah—it was me."

Connie: "I...see."

Waving away the hazy air of tension, Connie's expression softened. As if a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, with the assurance of my age and mindset coming to a match, Connie stepped into the water and waited for me to finish cleaning my blade.

Connie: "Do you know how to fish?"

John: "We didn't really have fish where I lived."

Connie: "What about on your way here? Surely you've at least...tried?"

John: "I was only ever taught how to use a bow. Well, to be exact, even that wasn't something my parents taught me."

Connie: "Alright then. Well, take a proper stance."

John: "Hm? Oh—like this?"

Connie: "That's right. You need to be low enough to poke through to the ground, not just the water's surface."

John: "Right. How's this?"

My low height gave me one advantage in this situation: a whole lot less crouching to be able to stab the bottom of the river. With a wide-stance posture, I held the dagger underhand—nope, that's wrong too. She instructed me to hold it overhand instead, even though I was far more used to fighting underhanded.

Connie: "You may be stabbing down, true, but from the way you're standing, it'd be easier to hit the fish with an overhand grip."

John: "That doesn't really make any sense."

Connie: "Your grip depends far less on which you're more comfortable with—it's supposed to be about the way that you strike. When you hunt fish like this, you're intending to strike from above, yes, but the way you must bend over to reach the fish makes an underhand grip less viable."

John: "Ah...My wrist twists too much that way."

Connie: "That's right. When fishing, the strikes you make are more similar to that of a straightforward shot to an enemy's heart, rather than an overhead strike to the skull."

To make the act of hunting fish with a knife seem so vulgar—so violent—it was either a testament to her knowledge, or her brutality. In actuality, it was likely both of those qualities that led her to this conclusion, as well as years of experience with fishing. Connie, on the outside, had always seemed like an unapproachable, irritated, threatening presence of a person.

At least, that's how she always seemed with her first impressions. By this time, we had been around each other for an hour in total—maybe two, but that's pushing it. In such a short time, especially with most of it being in silence, her demeanor had already shifted away from isolation, and now towards the act of treating me like someone worthy of her attention. 

No—that's wrong too. I find it hard to truly articulate how these people think and act. Though I know I've spent a great deal of time with them, so much of my life is a jumbled mess of blurry images and memories. This record, although helpful, isn't enough to fully restore my thoughts on these people.

If I had to properly explain how she had opened up in this short amount of time, it would be more like explaining the process of imprinting. Just like a newborn to its mother, Connie's once frustrated and confused attitude had shifted towards one of compassion and care. Of course, not to the degree that a baby would feel for its mother, but the process was all the same. By letting her guard down and opening her heart, she gained the ability to try and care for the lost little kid her friends had wanted to help.

By doing so, she could truly—

???: "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

—Ah, that's right. A high-pitched shriek rang throughout the forest, sending any nearby flocks of crows flying out of the trees, and towards the sounds of death. What could have, with our muddled minds, been made out as anything but danger, soon revealed itself to be far more than mistake of the mind, as it rang out once more.

???: "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

Another shrill scream reset the faces of denial that ran across our faces, locking us into the finality of fight or flight. If there was a decision to make on what to do, it was to be made now. If we chose wrong, it could mean the death of not just one life, but many. Whatever had been attacking the pleading voice in the forest could come back to us later if it wasn't dealt here, or it could run off somewhere else, continuing to terrorize those who couldn't defend themselves. 

However, if we ran in headfirst, without a plan, it would go without saying that death follows the idiotic and headstrong—

Connie: "—Hyah!"

A strong kick-off flew Connie through the trees, towards the source of the screaming. As if gaining the powers of a shock of lighting, Connie's visage disappeared in what felt like an instant, having been behind me in one second, and far in front of me in the next, the leaves of the intercepting bushes and trees still wavering violently far after her body passed them by.

John: "W-wait! You can't just—dammit!"

Although much slower, I attempted to follow in her tracks through the forest, triangulating the source of the scream. Every so often, the shrill voice—what sounded like a little girl even younger than me—would poke out of the woods with the occasional "Help me!" or "AAAHHHHH!", but it always sounded just out of reach.

John: "If things keep going like this, I'm gonna end up losing both of them!"

And right after she started to...ghk!

Out of the many steps I had taken, grazing by brambles, bushes, and bark, the sounds emanating from below began to shift from the powdery snow atop a grassland into something far more sinister. What once sounded as boots stomping into the cold hard ground, now became that of sloshing and squishing, crushing an unidentified organic material and fluid—in a matter of less than a minute, the atmosphere had shifted from relaxation, to unease, to terror, to determination, and then finally to a sense of looming dread and the impending doom of death.

John: "Wait, what is—!"

—At a moment most inconvenient, the sudden change in scenery shifted the way my steps fell into place, and as my foot caught something sticking to the bottom of my boot, my body flung forward and into the shallow liquid that covered the ground. Just barely catching myself with my hands thrown forward, my hunched-over gaze met with the truth of the forest's transformation.

A torn apart face, with its soulless eyes, stared back up to me, half-submerged in a swamp of blood and viscera. Even a quick look around would be enough to guess just how many corpses—how many people had been slaughtered in this forest. In this "Blood Swamp", crushed and torn and decimated cadavers litter the ground for as far as the eye can see, all just barely submerged by the murky blood that piles up and up and up with each kill.

It was a testament to the creature that guarded this territory. It was a landmark for adventurers, screaming at them to "please don't go this way", and yet, without fail, the beast within these swamps would always find its next feast. 

John: "No...It can't be!"

???: "AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"

The shrill screams continued, supposing Connie's inability to help, and a call to action drove me forward once more.

John: "Don't think about it! Just keep running! No matter what happens, just keep running!"

These people, in great a number as they are, couldn't have been slaughtered all at one time. They were likely just bunches of unlucky souls, who weren't prepared to fend off whatever had found them. Even so, to have their lives snatched away in a painful instant...did anything deserve such a fate, other than the Monsters who bestowed it?

John: "C-Connie!"

A pink kimono stuck out through the tree line, guiding my sprint in a focused direction. Before I could properly look around and scan the situation, she silently hushed me and pulled me into position, hiding behind a fallen tree. The elevation of the blood, in this area at least, had dwindled slightly. The area was still stained with the lives of those extinguished, but perhaps this area was just under the murderer's construction. 

As for who that murderer was, it only took a single peek beyond the fallen tree to determine the answer. There, standing tall over a cowering little girl holding a pink plush toy, was a beast of—

John: "What in the...Connie? What is that...?"

The question seemed to fall on deaf ears, her response far decaying past the reasonable time to respond. And yet, with shaky breath and great fear in her voice, she spoke just one word, which had already been determined by just one glance.

Connie: "...Monster..."