The next morning, the pale light of dawn barely pierced the thick forest canopy as Varga shook Femi awake. Her green fingers gripped his shoulder with the same firmness she used when skinning game.
"Your scouting training starts now," she said, her voice rough from sleep.
When had she even returned.
Femi groaned, rolling onto his side and blinking against the frost clinging to his lashes. He gathered his meager belongings, his axe, and knife, while the camp stirred around him. The Krags as always moved like a well oiled machine, their breath heavy as they dismantled tents and smothered fires.
It seems Varga and the other hunters needed to establish a forward base before the main group arrived, a task that required speed. So for days, the scouting party pushed ahead relentlessly, their boots crunching over snow-laden underbrush, the cold seeping into their bones. We paused only to refill waterskins from half-frozen streams or choke down flavorless strips of dried venison and rock-hard bread.
We even stumbled upon tracks, Varga having the group halt it's advance,her sharp eyes scanning the disturbed snow. "Identify them rat," she ordered.
Femi grumbled while crouching, his claws hovering over the imprints. The size alone made his stomach twist. Claw marks deeper than his thumb, spaced wide enough to suggest something massive.
"Dire Wolves," he said, his voice tighter than he intended.
Varga nodded. "Old tracks, so there's nothing to fear." She straightened, adjusting the bow slung across her back.
Femi wasn't convinced though. In this damed forest there is always something to fear. He kept glancing over his shoulder as they pressed on, the skeletal trees seeming to lean closer with every step.
By nightfall, exhaustion dragged at him. His feet had long since gone numb, and his paws ached from the cold.
"I might rob some one of their cloak at some point." He mutterd to him self.
They set up camp in the middle of the road if you could call this snow-choked path a road and took turns keeping watch.
It was an uneventful night.There wasn't really a issue on the second day too but, everything changed on the third day.
On the third night, a howl split the silence like a knife.
Femi bolted upright, his pulse hammering in his throat. The sound echoed through the trees, shifting directions in a way that made his fur stand upright. One moment it came from the east; the next, the west, as if the wolves were toying with them.
"Oh boy," he muttered, scrambling to his feet. His breath came in quick, visible puffs. "I better change location."
Varga emerged from her tent, her braids swinging as she turned her head, listening. "Dire Wolves," she confirmed. Her voice was calm, but her hand rested on the hilt of her hunting knife. "They're not close."
Femi wasn't reassured. Those demonic dogs could just appear and he would be forced to eat his next supper in heaven.
She studied him for a moment, then sighed, "Close your eyes and listen to the sound in the distance."
He hesitated but, obeyed, though every instinct screamed at him to keep his eyes open. The howls came again, closer this time or was that just his imagination? His round ears twitched, straining for any hint of movement in the underbrush.
Then, blessedly, the noise faded.
He sighed in relief, "Not tonight, you overgrown dogs," Femi muttered, though his shoulders didn't relax until the forest fell silent again.
The rest of the night passed without incident, though his dreams were filled with street dogs and he seemed to be losed a fight with a small one.
---
The next morning, the camp awoke to a world smothered in glow of the twin stars. Breakfast was the usual, a dubious gray stew of boiled mushrooms and whatever else the Krags deemed edible. Femi choked it down, wincing at the bitter aftertaste.
They turned off the main road onto a narrow forest path, the snow so deep in places that Femi had to lift his knees high to avoid stumbling. He eyed the towering Krags around him, their strides effortless compared to his own clumsy progress.
One in particular, a broad-shouldered hunter named Ova, kept stealing glances at Varga. His gaze was so blatant it was almost comical. Femi studied him, muscular frame, messy dark hair, a sharp jawline, and piercing blue eyes locked onto Varga with unsettling intensity and a jagged scar on his thigh, added to his savage look, the way his fist tightened around his spear whenever Varga spoke.
Krag courtship rituals must involve a lot of staring, Femi mused. And possibly head-butting.
Varga, for her part, ignored Ova entirely. Her focus remained on the path ahead, her braids swaying with each step. There was something familiar about the way she moved, something that tugged at Femi's memory before slipping away like smoke.
He shook himself. Admiring a green-skinned huntress in the middle of nowhere? Maybe the cold was getting to him.
---
That night, after a supper of charred rabbit and yet more soup, the Krags swapped stories by the fire, mostly the older Krags reminiscing while Ova ogled Varga like a fool.
Femi, too exhausted to care, nearly dozed off until Varga nudged him with her boot. "Our turn for watch."
"Fantastic," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
The moonless night pressed in around them, the firelight barely holding back the darkness. Femi fought to stay awake, counting stars until his vision blurred.
Varga sat beside him, her profile sharp in the flickering light, her gaze fixed on the darkness.
Irritated, Femi decided to share his misery . "Got any hunting stories? Femi blurted Might help me stay awake."
She arched a brow. "We're supposed to be watching for danger, not entertaining you."
"Think of it as sleep resistance training," he said, his whiskers twitching as a cold gust cut through his fur making him shiver. I really need to get a cloak.
Varga sighed. But then, to his surprise, she began to speak.
Her voice wove through the night, painting pictures of hunts gone wrong, of beasts with too many eyes, of snow so deep it buried men whole. Femi listened, his earlier irritation forgotten.
When she finished, he shared his own tale, the tortoise and the hare, a story from his childhood, told by someone he can't remember.
"....So the tortoise even though it was slower used it intelligence and cunning to beat the faster hare in a race" he said ending his story.
Varga's lips quirked. "Cleverness over strength, most Krags would call that dishonorable. But the forest has taught me that patience and cunning often wins over brute strength."
Femi agreed, and they lapsed into comfortable silence. At that moment , maybe for the first time since they'd met, femi felt no anger towards her.
Then the watch ended, and the moment passed.
As he curled up on the frozen ground, his breath frosting in the air, Femi decided Varga wasn't so bad.
Though he still planned to bite her if she smacked him again.