The stars look wrong tonight.

There are too many. They keep moving. They’re not supposed to... Stars aren’t supposed to move.

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking. Hours? Days? Weeks?

It’s impossible to tell. The sun doesn’t rise in this place. No light warms the tundra around you.

Every flake of snow feels like another ton of weight, forcing you closer and closer to the permafrost.

When the last flake finally breaks you, the ground is the most comforting thing you’ve touched in… hours?

Days?

…

Weeks, probably.

You barely manage to turn onto your back, catching one last glimpse of those stars through the pitiless clouds.

The world is dark. And the world is cold.


—


You can’t open your eyes, but you know you’re not dead. If you were dead, you wouldn’t be able to feel the pain. It’s in your ears and your nose and your fingers… Even the stubby tail at the base of your spine is pulsing with a dull ache paired with the sensation of a million pins and needles.

Your hands are… wet? Definitely wet. And it’s a warm wet, like blood. But it isn’t blood. At least, you hope it isn’t bl–

Your thoughts are cut short by the sound of ragged breathing. Wherever you are, you aren’t alone. You feel hands on your face, but you can’t reach up to stop them. They carefully peel your eyelids open. Your heart pounds in your chest as your tired eyes slowly make out the thing before you…

It has the shape of a humanoid, but it’s not identifiable as anything you’ve ever seen. Its face is wrapped in a thick layer of gauze, leaving onto two royal blue eyes to give it any semblance of an identity. Its head is topped with two gnarled horns, though one has been hacked off at its half-way point. The thing has a thick head of hair and two long, slender ears… Curious of all, it has two wings on its back, bearing both feathers and bat-flesh. They’re as ragged and twisted as the rest of the monster, and you notice a similarly disfigured tail twisting out from its back.

As your eyes twitch around, the creature skitters back, crouching down on all fours and spreading its wings. Long, thin spikes along its spine raise up, like the hairs on the back of a spooked cat. You really don’t want to take your eyes off of it, but you let yourself glance around the room. You appear to be in some sort of cavernous library. Mismatched bookshelves line the rough stone walls, each one overflowing with novels, notes, scrolls, and slabs. You’re sitting in a well-made armchair, situated across from the pile of blankets and pillows which must make up the thing’s nest. Your hands and feet rest in basins of warm water propped up on stacks of books. You look back toward the literature-hoarding beast, who is eying you with an unreadable expression.

“Wuddaryoo…” you manage to mumble over a too-thick tongue. The thing tilts its head, coming closer to you again. Maybe you weren’t clear enough. “What. Are. Yooouuu.”

This time, the thing reaches out one thin-fingered hand to touch your lips. You find the energy to slap it away. The animal-person makes an indistinct mumbling sound. You try to understand it, but it doesn’t sound like any language you know. It isn’t common, and it certainly isn’t any elf language. It almost sounds orcish, but this beast doesn’t look like an orc. The thing crawls over to one of the shelves, fetching a slate tablet and a white stone.

It gently sets the items on your lap.

Alright, maybe it can read your language. You pull your hands from the basins of warm water and wipe them dry on the arms of the chair. You write your question, using every language you know. ‘What are you?’ ‘Ch’toh tayos?’ ‘Neh weh?’

You exchange the slate. When it reads your writing, it lets out a trill-like noise, somewhere between the sound of a pigeon and a cricket. It smudges your writing from the slate, then begins writing with its own claw:

‘Esō.’

As you stare down at the three letters, the thing scampers over to its nest to fetch something else: a letter, stamped with a seal that you know you should recognize. Esō holds the letter in its trembling hands, glances up at you, and scurries off to an unseen corner of its archive. Upon returning, it presents a pile of literature: the letter, a poorly preserved news flyer, and what appears to be a scholar's journal.

You take the stack into your still-numb fingers, heaving a sigh. Your captor quickly retreats into the shadows of its hoard. Whatever (or whoever) Esō is, it’s keeping you alive. The least you could do is try to understand whatever it wants to tell you...