The snow had been blown into towering drifts around the trees in the once lush woods. The skeletons of the trees hung tarry black in the yellowish-cloudy sky, dripping the occasional sun-warmed blob of snow to the ground. Someone who wasn't aware of what had gone down the previous night might have described the scene as idyllic or serene, someone who had witnessed it firsthand, especially one with a flair for the dramatics, would describe it as "quiet, too quiet".
The merry band of mercenaries trudged through the woods in silence, their coats picking up gobs of snow as they attempted to step over the occasional patch of ice or high drift. Their weapons were held at the ready, be it a minigun leaving a groove in the snow as the owner dragged it along like a sled to conserve energy, a bow held loosely with an arrow cocked, or a blood-flecked hatchet held gingerly- its new owner remembering the self-inflicted injury; edged weapons were not Scout's forte and his boisterous shows of dexterity simply ended in spilled blood.
Miss Pauling walked behind Heavy, appreciating a certain aptitude for breaking through barriers held by the Russian giant, and directed them through the skeleton forest to the near-identical cabin a little over half a mile away from their own, indistinguishable besides a typical reddish tint to the wood. Of course that was if you only counted the basic construction, they in fact looked very different when you took into account the webbed spears of frost spreading out from the cabin.
The door was rammed open after initial attempts to open it by conventional means failed to break the thick layer of ice ice oozing through every inch of the room. Scattered around the cabin were nine circles of icicles and frost spelling out arcane runes on the floor, the one at the epicenter of the cabin mostly obscured by the spiked and frozen splatter of almost black blood on the ratty rug. The vines of frost spread in a fractal web between the circles, across the floor, up the walls, and converging into spikes on the angled ceiling giving the faint impression of a shark's maw, lined with rows of recursive teeth. The fireplace had become a reservoir of snow, a drift spilling from the icy and slick pit, the ashes encased beneath an inch of smokey ice that climbed the brick interior.
Only Demoman, Miss Pauling, and Medic remained in the cabin once it was established there was no immediate danger, either to keep watch for wendigos on the hunt or to escape from the seeping chill that permeated the cabin and dwarfed the winter winds. Each walked to their own area of interest. Miss Pauling was digging around the room looking for any record of what had happened, gloved hands fighting against the translucent shell that coated the cabin, giving up as she realized that almost all the paper in the cabin had been burned after seeing a singed book spine poke out from the drift in the fireplace, explaining the empty and half-smashed shelves. Medic crouched over the spiked spatter of gore, worrying a piece of dark ruby until it sheared off, noting its refusal to melt in a gloved, then bare hand. Demoman instead stood a couple feet away from a circle and held his sword out apprehensively.
Carefully he touched the blade's tip to the white frost of the bizarre sigils. Immediately the low murmur of nervous annoyance from the blade was transformed into panicked spectral scream as the poltergeist felt its home be invaded by the remains of the powerful magic. Demoman quickly withdrew the blade and resheathed it, hearing the shrieks first become muffled then fade as the sword fell back to a more familiar tone of annoyed confusion and betrayal. Demoman straightened from the stooped posture required to move the sword with care and declared, "I kinnae say I know what these say but I've read about this before. Th' way I see it, we have th' possession" here he gestures with an open palm to the room at large, "and we have th' sacrifice" he finished as he brought his hand to rest pointing to the chilled splatter of blood.
The team had left the cabin shortly afterward, having found only the origin of their counterpart's ghastly visages and no salvageable supplies (though a valiant effort was made to secure a six-pack trapped squarely in an ice flow) they quickly left to escape the seeping chill and worry that the wendigos may return to that place. It was decided after hearty debate that while Engineer worked to repair their vehicles the rest of the mercs would spread out into the woods to attempt to track down the remaining beasts and allow them to get out of dodge, or more accurately, drift.
Engineer had erected a sentry in a cleared spot of snow in the middle of the small clearing their cabin was in, he worked within range of a dispenser that he frequently drew nuts, bolts, strips of metal, and short lengths of rubber tube from as he toiled over the mauled hood of his pickup truck. The sentry slowly scanned left and right, a messily welded panel on its back showing the alteration of targets from red cloth to bluish-white fur, the gentle beeps setting a mark for the passing time as the half-dead welding torch sizzled and the wrench clanged in an asynchronous cacophony.
Miss Pauling sat on the porch, alternately fiddling with her brick of a phone to check the statistics of mercenaries, or make notes and plans in an omnipresent clipboard. She pulled a scarf a bit more firmly around her neck as she sat through the droning tone of the directory system once more.
The trio stalked through the woods ready to unload whatever they could into the first living thing they saw. Sniper growled under his breath as he leaned down to observe the faint furrow in the snow, it was faint but he could just see the direction they were headed. He waved the Frenchman and the Bostonian onward as he changed his path to follow the tracks.
If he was lucky they'd find the monster sleeping. If he was lucky a few steel bolts to the cerebellum would be enough to finish it. If he were lucky the two wankers he got saddled with wouldn't get any of them killed, going out by that thing would be less than ideal. If he were lucky he wouldn't be leaving the job of driving his van back to any of the gits he worked with on a day to day basis. But most importantly, if he was lucky he wouldn't have to shoot the two of them himself to get some peace and quiet.
The Demoman dragged his boots through the snow, holding the sword and scabbard underneath his arm, preventing it from touching snow at the sword's insistence. Behind him the classic duo followed, the medigun quietly crackling as the full ubercharge waited for deployment and the unrevved minigun cut a rut through the high drifts. They pushed their way through the stiff wind only to hear a cry slash through the breeze like a knife. The now familiar screech that invaded their ears and set hair on end. It was close, and above them.
Okay I majorly abused the horizontal rule in this part but it was basically written while I had very little idea what to do next. Sorry this took so long, the next part will hopefully be a lot better.