The next three days were a blur of activity. They chose a secluded spot near the edge of the forest, offering both cover and a clear view of the surrounding area. Zellrid took charge of the planning, his tactical mind a valuable asset.
As they worked on digging graves for the fallen natives, a heated argument erupted between Zellrid and Aerovind.
"We should burn them," Aerovind insisted, wrinkling his nose at the stench. "It's faster, and frankly, less nauseating."
Zellrid's eye flashed with anger. "These people deserve better than to be reduced to ash. It's the least we can do after... after what we did."
"Oh, spare me the moral high ground," Aerovind snapped. "They're dead. They don't care what happens to their corpses."
Before the argument could escalate further, Ordeon stepped between them. "Enough," he rumbled. "We'll compromise. Burn the men, bury the women and children. Agreed?"
After a tense moment, both Zellrid and Aerovind nodded reluctantly.
As the pyres burned and the graves were filled, a somber mood settled over the group. Even Aerovind's usual quips were noticeably absent.
With the graves behind them, they focused on building their base. Ordeon, with his immense strength and surprising skill, took charge of constructing crude but sturdy cottages. Aerovind, much to everyone's surprise, proved to be an adept hunter, bringing back game and useful herbs from the forest.
"Don't look so shocked," he said, tossing a brace of rabbits at Zellrid's feet. "A man of my talents is nothing if not versatile."
Zellrid merely grunted, "Not bad."
As night fell on the third day, they gathered around a small fire, admiring their handiwork. Three simple cottages stood in a semicircle, with a central area for cooking and planning. Ordeon had even managed to craft some basic weapons , a sword for Zellrid, a massive battle axe for himself.
Aerovind lounged against a log, puffing contentedly on a makeshift cigarette fashioned from dried herbs. "Not too shabby," he mused. "Though I must say, I miss my weed cigarettes."
Zellrid snorted. "You'll live."
Ordeon leaned forward, his expression serious. "Now that we have shelter, what's our next move?"
Zellrid's eye gleamed in the firelight. "We track the first fragment first. There is only one Nightstalker on this island, weakest one i think for not seeing him on the top 20. We find him, we eliminate him, and we take that fragment."
Aerovind raised an eyebrow. "My, my, Zellrid. I do believe I'm starting to rub off on you. Should I be flattered or terrified?"
Zellrid fixed him with a steely gaze. "Neither. This isn't about pleasure or glory. It's about getting home fast."
Ordeon nodded. "Agreed. But we must be cautious. Even a cornered rat can be dangerous."
"Save the wisdom for someone who needs it," Aerovind drawled. "We're the biggest, baddest rats in this maze. Time to show these lesser vermin why."
Zellrid stood, his silhouette backlit by the flames. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we begin the hunt."
As they retired to their cottages, Aerovind's voice drifted through the night. "Sweet dreams, my fellow monsters. May your nightmares be filled with glory and bloodshed."
Ordeon's heavy sigh and Zellrid's grunt were the last sounds before silence fell over their makeshift home.
The sun rose like a blooming rose, and with its light came the bustling and awakening of the camp. The air was thick with the tantalizing aroma of meat cooking over an open fire.
Zellrid emerged from his cottage, his silver-streaked hair tousled from a restless night. He found Ordeon already tending to the fire, turning skewers of rabbit meat over the flames.
"Sleep well?" The big man's voice was as rough as the beard that covered his face.
Zellrid grunted, accepting a skewer with a nod. The meat was tough and gamey, but it was food. "As well as one can, when the dead whisper in your ears," he replied, his voice bitter.
Aerovind emerged from his shelter, lithe and graceful as a cat. His eyes, the color of summer grass, sparkled with joy. "Ah, nothing like the aroma of charred rodents to resurrect the appetite," he said, plucking a skewer from Ordeon's hands.
They broke their fast in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. Zellrid's eye scanned the horizon, plotting their next destination.
"We head north," he declared at last, his tone leaving no room for argument. "To the snowy parts."
Areovind's groan was heavy. "The frozen parts? And here I thought we might take a pleasant walk through the forest, perhaps stop at bushes to collect some sweet berries, no?"
Zellrid's scarred face twitched in what might have been a smile. "Use that clever mind of yours, Aerovind. Our prey is weak, maybe even injured. Where better to seek refuge than in the most unforgiving of lands? The cold will slow us, aye, but it's the best place to start with."
Ordeon nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Aye, sound reasoning. The snows will make for easier tracking, should we lose the scent."
They gathered what meager supplies remained to them and set out. The journey was rough, the terrain growing more treacherous with each league. As they climbed, the air grew thin and bitter. Aerovind, true to form, filled the silence with complaints.
"Aphrodite breasts, I despise the cold," he grumbled, hugging himself. "Bloody hell. Give me the Red desert any day."
Ordeon laughed, a booming sound that echoed off the mountainsides. "Speak for yourself, little man. This weather puts hair on your chest on the test! I've never felt more alive."
Zellrid, leading the way, smirks. "Perhaps you two could share furs," he called back. "Though I fear Aerovind might disappear entirely in that beard of yours, Ordeon."
Aerovind gasped in mock offense. "Are you implying I'm short, Zellrid? How dare ya you short maggot. In all ways I am taller than you."
Their laughter echoed off the snow-covered slopes, a rare moment of levity.
When the half day waned, Zellrid's keen eye caught something amiss in the endless white. He raised a hand, calling for silence. Crouching down, he examined the faint impression in the powder.
"Tracks," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Fresh. And not made by any man."
They followed the trail with the caution of seasoned hunters.
It led them to the maw of a cave, a wound of darkness in the pristine white of the mountainside.
"Well," Aerovind drawled, "this isn't foreboding at all. Shall we draw lots to see who goes in first?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a shriek split the air, a sound to curdle the blood and stop the heart. From the depths of the cave poured a horde of nightmares made flesh of snow goblins, their skin as pale as the moon, eyes gleaming with a hunger no mortal food could sate.
"Fuck," Zellrid spat, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. The Natives steel seemed to drink in what little light remained, eager for blood.
The battle was as swift as it was brutal. Aerovind's hands erupted in flames, his gift turned the air acrid with the stench of burning flesh. Goblins shrieked and writhed as they burned, their cries filled the pit.
Zellrid moved like a water dancer, his blade a whisper of death. Each strike was precise, opening throats and severing limbs with an efficiency born of long practice. Blood steamed in the frigid air, turning the snow crimson.
Ordeon roared challenge, his massive form a whirlwind of destruction. His battle axe cracking multiple skulls at one hit tearing through goblin flesh and bone with terrifying ease. "Come, you pale bastards!" he bellowed. "Come and meet your gods!"