The wind cut sharp as a blade as Grimm descended the icy ridges high above the perilous rockfaces of Zhuul. The blizzard ahead blinded his path, but the horse beneath, was guided not by its natural eyes, but a force beyond the comprehension of man.
Soon, a break in the torrent of snow. Grimm and the pale steed now stood high on a conclave, veiling the valley below — what remained of the once mighty ruins of Bluud.
Once a proud city of stone and silver spires, now it lay broken, its walls collapsed inward like ribs around a corpse. The sky above churned with low, iron-colored clouds, and the smoke of the city's ruin smeared them black.
"Forward." the words as icy as the snow around them, compelled the creature downward to the valley.
Upon arrival, the pale horse exhaled mist, hooves crunching through the frost-laden ash. Grimm's coat, thick and battle-scarred, fluttered behind him as he gazed down upon the devastation.
The wind carried the stench of scorched timber, oil, and flesh. Below, amid the skeletal ruins, the clock tower of Bluud stood as a monument of ruin—its charred carcass leaning like a crippled sentinel. Its once-brilliant face, where the hour hands had marked the rhythm of life, was now melted into a blackened disc.
Grimm urged the horse forward, the beast's hooves ringing hollow upon the cobblestone road as they entered the city gates—what remained of them. Corpses lay frozen in grotesque tableaux: soldiers with jaws locked open in silent screams, mothers shielding burnt bundles that were once children, crows plucking the eyes of the still-warm dead.
He passed them without pause.
The sound of dripping water echoed through the hollow streets, each droplet like the tick of a clock counting toward an unseen reckoning. Grimm's hand brushed the grip of his Wraith-breaker, a long-nosed revolver chambered for .50 caliber incendiary rounds, its cold steel blackened by forces beyond the void. From his belt hung a twelve-inch knife, its edge etched with sigils that glimmered faintly beneath the falling snow.
His eyes, pale as morning frost, swept over the ruins, seeing what the living could not.
Movement.
Ahead, among the ruins of a chapel, something stirred.
Grimm dismounted and strode toward it. Beneath the shattered altar, a figure crawled from the rubble—an emaciated old man, skin pale as wax, one arm charred beyond saving. His eyes were pale, wide, darting like a cornered rat's.
"Mercy…" the man rasped, frostbitten lips trembling, teeth clattering from cold and terror. "Mercy, rider… I beg of you…"
Grimm knelt, studying him as one might study a wounded animal. His voice, when it came, was quiet yet heavy.
"Who did this?"
The man whimpered, clutching his ribs. "The North—their leader bore the stag!" he coughed, his mouth spewing blood. "They came at night, the flying creatures—burned everything—killed—"
Grimm's hand seized the man by the collar, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. Snowflakes drifted between them. The man's feet dangled above the stones.
"Out with it. NOW."
"I—I don't—"
Grimm's eyes hardened. He pulled the man closer slowly, until their faces nearly touched, Grimm's eye flaring.
"TALK."
The word thundered through the air like the strike of a bell.
The old man convulsed, choking out a cry—but before he could form another syllable, a black shadow descended.
A screech deafened Grimm's ears, the infernal sound like steaks bored through his skull. It struck from the heavens; serrated talons slashed through the air and—shik—the man's head tore clean from his shoulders. Blood sprayed in a scarlet arc, steaming in the cold.
The creature perched atop the clock tower, wings folded, its eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
Grimm dropped the corpse and looked up.
It lurched atop the jagged clock tower like a monument to nightmare, a monstrous fusion of flesh and talon. Its wings stretch wide, leathery and veined, casting a shadow that seems to drain the light around it. Two horns curved jaggedly from its crown, framing a face that is part avian predator, part something older, crueler—eyes glinting with a hunger that has no end.
Muscles ripple beneath pale, ash-gray skin, taut as though carved from sinew and shadow. Its hands and feet end in cruel, hooked claws, each one capable of rending bone as effortlessly as parchment. A second, serpentine head juts from its shoulder, beaked and sneering, whispering madness in a language that no sane tongue could grasp. Its tail lashes like a whip, coiling with lethal anticipation.
Every movement is predatory, every breath smells of decay and storm, as if the creature exists to herald ruin. In its presence, even the wind seems to bend, and hope itself falters.
"Harpy..." he murmured.
The creature shrieked in answer, feathers bristling, its beak slick with gore.
Grimm stepped back, pulling the Wraith-breaker free. The weapon hummed with an ancient resonance; its barrel shrouded in faint black mist.
Snow stirred around him as the harpy leapt.
It came like a javelin of shadow—Grimm pivoted, squeezing the cold trigger. His bullet met flesh. One of its wings erupted in flame, spinning away into the snow. The creature hit the ground shrieking, clawing the stones, its voice more demon than animal. Grimm moved in, firing again. The bullet bored a flaming crater in the harpy's chest. Blood hissed as it cratered in frozen earth.
But then—another shriek. And another.
Three more harpies descended, their forms streaking from the smoky clouds. They circled the tower, wings beating, eyes glowing with malevolent green light.
Grimm stood in the square, cloak billowing, Wraith-breaker aimed high.
Three. Too few for an ambush.
He lunged as the first swept down. The weapon's crack caught the creature midflight, severing its arm. Grimm pivoted, another harpy downed. He sprinted forward, his movements generating a guttural growl.
His body pinned the abomination; his left knee bored into its chest while the sole of his massive boot held its left shoulder at bay. The harpy's beak pecked repeatedly, every razor-sharp strike a near miss. Grimm grabbed its throat, his right hand squeezing with an unnatural strength, when suddenly, from behind its neck a serpent creature with an eagle's beak struck his left shoulder.
He screamed, "Arrgh! Damnit!", the creature's beak locked into his shoulder, sending his sidearm flying. His right arm mustered hidden strength, gripping the serpent's body, his grip like a vise. Grimm's eyes flared intensely as he pulled the serpent's beak from his body, his dark red blood painting the wendigo's face crimson.
With one final scream, Grimm ripped the serpent's head from the harpy. The creature's beak opened wide, screeching in terror before Grimm jammed the snake's beak down the throat of the harpy, its bones crushing like glass as his hand rammed forward.
The second harpy slammed into him from behind, claws raking across his backplate. Grimm staggered, spun, and drove his dagger into its belly. It shrieked, flailing. He pulled it close, twisted the dagger, and whispered coldly,
"Die."
He cast the corpse aside.
The third harpy dove low, talons grazing his cheek. Grimm dropped to one knee, pulled silver stake from his leg strap, and hurled it. The weapon whistled through the snow and impaled the creature midflight.
The last harpy, seeing its sisters slain, hovered high above. It screamed—half rage, half pained—and turned to flee.
Grimm raised his weapon, his gaze tightened with the demon dead to rights, but paused.
"No...it will lead the way..."
He watched it vanish into the storm, blood dripping from its body.
A silence came, and the snow thickened. The air grew still. Grimm turned toward the clock tower, staring up at its shattered face. The blood of the slain harpies steamed faintly on the snow.
He groaned, holding his shoulder. With one firm push, his bones cracked, resetting his collarbone.
He whistled for his horse, a sharp melodic calling known only to his horse. Hooved clopped across stone as his steed faded in from a nearby alleyway.
Grimm mounted the saddle and began to follow the creature's flight path through the city's northern gate.
The road sloped upward, a trail of blood tracing staggered toward the mountains. As he rode, wind howled between the ruins like voices whispering from beyond time. Shadows danced on the edge of his vision.
How many have I slain? How many faces forgotten?
The whispers grew louder. He closed his eyes. And then—fragments.
Flames.
A village burning.
A woman's scream, soft and distant.
A child's terror swallowed by fire.
A golden mask glinting through the smoke.
Hands binding him.
A hammer striking his skull.
Then—nothing.
He was floating.
The river carried him beneath a blood-red moon, the water cold, thick as oil. He felt his lungs fill and his heart slow.
He embraced death.
But death did not come.
He awoke in a room of impossible whiteness—no walls, no ceiling. In the center stood a black archway, its surface alive with writhing black tendrils.
A voice came—not heard, but felt within his belfry.
"Slain son of war… thy soul undone…"
Then another voice, echoing over itself, low and rhythmic:
"Reap the wicked, cast their blight. Serve our will, restore our might."
He fell to his knees. "Who speaks? Show yourself!"
The tendrils undulated, black ichor dripping from their tips.
"Serve," whispered the voice, "and reclaim what was taken."
His body trembled. "And should I refuse?"
The air split with laughter—a sound like cracking bone.
"Refuse, and rot where none remember."
He looked down at his hands—mangled, burned, broken. Blood poured between his fingers.
Do they offer a path. Or a prison?
"I accept."
The tendrils lunged, coiling around him, drawing him into their writhing dark. He screamed—not from pain, but from the sense of being unmade.
Every nerve burned. Every bone cracked. His flesh melted and reformed, his heart filled with the cold light of an ancient power. The void pulsed around him like a beating drum. Darkness taking hold.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the white room.
He stood upon red soil beneath a stormless sky. A pale horse awaited him.
He climbed upon it, turned, and found the world empty.
The vision faded. The snow returned.
Grimm exhaled, mist coiling from his lips. He tightened his grip on the reins.
The whispers still lingered in his skull.
"Ride, debtor of G'Norr."
He glanced toward the horizon. Far ahead, beyond the veil of snow, rose the shadow of Naboth—the next city, the next judgment.
He pulled his hat low.
The horse neighed softly, its eyes obsidian-black, and together they rode into the storm—leaving Bluud behind, swallowed by the wind and the silence of its dead.