'Mayday, mayday, does /Unknown: Heavy static/. I repeat, anyone on this frequency, respond.'

'Identify yourself.'

'Jesus, thank fucking God; we need help, right fucking now!'

'This is Lieutenant Liam Hamel of the Calgary Highlanders, 3rd Canadian Division. What is your location?'

'Um, Ember hiking lodge; the north face of Blackwood mountain. It's a small hamlet, fuck, just get someone out here right now!'

'Who is this?'

'Why the hell does that matter?'

'Can you clarify your situation; do you need a medical evacuation?'

'What? No, no, I need everything! I think we drove them off for now, but Larry's bleeding out, and Comps and Stu are dead, you hear me?'

'Understood, we'll send a pair of choppers out as soon as we-'

/Unknown: audio disruption. Possible animal, though unclassified; no matches in audio bank./

'Oh fuck, they're coming again. Manning, get away from the door! Casey, take-'

/End of transmission/

Distress call intercepted by Canadian reserve units assigned to the Blackwood region. Helicopters currently unavailable for rescue operations; priority in international aid and requisition allocated to Operation Swift Fury. Infantry reserve team mobilised for to investigate. ETA: 0900 hours.

Sam's first thought upon reaching the lodge once more was one of untold relief. Certainly, it was where they had been hunted by a psychotic Josh, who'd nearly petrified her with his sadistic games, and an absurdly oversized syringe, but she could not help but breathe a sigh of relief upon finding it's burnt out shell amidst the trees. A glimmer of civilization, out in the wilderness.

For a moment, she wondered why she even thought of it as such. Why people would believe an odd collection of logs, stacked up in a regular order, and polished upon completion, would ever deter the scions of Mother Nature, much less the creatures even she rejected, and shunned in shadow.

But she pushed the unworthy thought aside, before she could start deteriorating into the madness of hopelessness, as she could only presume her friend had done, three months past. It would offer shelter, she told herself. It would give one a wall behind which to plant one's back when the wolves came knocking.

She stopped thinking. She had no idea how pinning one's self against a corner was supposed to help, yet it was the only thought she'd labeled logical since their arrival at the transit station.

However, her fears of trapping herself within a wooden cage for the Wendigo to ensnare were quickly dispelled, when the two Black Cloaks, who had assisted their battered brother in arms to the door, abruptly plunged into the dark, bellowing at the very top of their voices.

Admittedly, Sam truly doubted if anything could have heard the pair from beyond the small clearing that surrounded the charred ruin, but after spending the better part of her journey scanning her back, ever fearful of the pallid gaze of the condemned amongst the pines, any sound seemed akin to the sudden clash of cymbals in an empty, unpadded room.

But what was most important was that they were not alone. Voices; some gruff, others concerned, and even more simply robotic, were heard beyond the doorway, and resigning herself to the fact that sights were probably lining up upon her forehead to unleash an ounce of lead at lethal velocity if she were to even remotely take an interest in the track at her back, she trudged on, passing under the crumbling doorway.

The sight that met her, however, was not one she had anticipated. Visiting her lone case of arson once more, Sam had expected, for the most part, a dilapidated ruin that had all but caved in upon itself under the constant mountain winds. Or even worse, one of those pale creatures, hanging from that strange ball of metal, which Josh's father had considered art, it's eyes tracking her quivering movements, before it would explode into that unyielding frenzy for blood, and flesh.

She had not expected a war camp.

The furniture was gone, though she was uncertain if that was a result of the fire, or if it had simply been hauled into the woods to decay as nature had intended. But no space seemed to have proven devoid of purpose. Large steel crates had been piled up along the walls that flanked the central room; a web of wires crept along the floor, snaking between her legs as she progressed deeper into the moonlit interior. A ways off to the side, she caught a strange fluorescence, and through the small space permitted by a parted door, Sam managed to make out another of those soldiers, hunched over what appeared to be a highly armored laptop, as he signalled someone else, concealed by the doorframe angles, to his console, waving and gesticulating indiscriminately at the screen.

A soft creak overhead snapped her gaze upwards, before she quickly averted them down to ground level once, having found at least three sets of scarlet lenses staring back at her from the upper floor, each tracking, assessing them for a threat.

The trio of cloaked figures who had escorted them to the lodge were engaged in a swift conversation with another band of their brethren. Several limbs were waved about in punctuation of whatever thought might have held the meeting's course; more than a few words were delivered at a volume hardly compliant with the silence that seemed to have trapped the lodge in an odd state of timeless stasis since the blast, but in the end, an agreement seemed to have been reached, as Viriditus was promptly deposited into a pair of waiting arms, and taken away from their sight.

Or at least, her sight, considering the fact it was suddenly occupied entirely by another of those black masks, having materialised inexplicably meters away.

'Leave your weapons here.' He grunted. 'The Fieldmaster wants to see you.'

There was a moment where protest might have been held, but after swiftly considering their situation, the friends decided against such an intrepid exploration of inevitable mayhem. Subsequently, they soon found themselves headed down the cold stairs to the basement; the same ones upon which Sam had nearly forgotten her disapproval for violence when she'd been tempted to guarantee some rather vindictive fates for Chris, after he had terrified her with that absurd monk outfit. Indeed, she spared more than one glance over her shoulder, to ensure he was still in the line, and she could rest easy in regard to his antics. It took her mind off the worser horrors that dwelt beyond the stone walls.

The office they were taken to resided directly was a familiar place; namely the boiler room beneath the lodge, although any semblance to that of a boiler room had died with the explosion three months past. The walls were darkened by soot where the fire had raged, and the large metallic construct that had been shoveled beside the wine caskets had seemingly torn itself apart in the heat, reducing the room to cinders in the process.

Now, in the corner of the small, which Ashley and Chris both seemed hesitant to approach, perhaps out of fear that a mannequin or a doll might suddenly come to life with bloodshot eyes peering into their sins; a steel table had been drawn up; one that continued to emit that dull blue light from it's surface, flickering ever so slightly with each passing moment. It surrounded by at least half a dozen of the grim faced sentinels, as they conversed in quiet tones, before one of them turned about, recognising their arrival.

Immediately, the light disappeared, and five of the figures, including the one who had registered their coming, dispersed within moments, though they did not in fact leave the room; simply shuffling away to a respectable distance. Their escort also peeled away at this maneuver, leaving the six friends alone, for the most part, with what could only be described as a disappointment.

'Ultimus, Praetorius. Seventh Company of the Fifty Ninth Regiment.'

His name confirmed, Praetorius somehow left a great deal to be desired by the onlooker. He still wore the same blackened plate as his brothers above the burnt out cellar, but he was, lanky. Taller than any of those stern faced soldiers but somehow it only detracted from his figure, for he was too much so. His limbs were nearly the same girth as Mike's, even with the steel plate that encapsulated him, and compared to Viriditus, who had stood up to a bear and somehow survived to tell the tale, there was a near frailty to the Fieldmaster when one sought the comparison. His shoulder pauldrons seemed too small for his figure, as if he had failed to fit the standard regulation worn by his fellow Guardsmen, and had to cope with a size designed for something of another species entirely. And the plate was newer than Viriditus'; unscarred, nearly. The only item upon his being that was indeed marked by any hardship was the cloak itself; Sam had never seen a more battered piece of clothing. Not even amongst her eccentric grandmother's collections was there a piece of linen that had been so wronged. It was torn in at least a dozen places; stained by substances that could have been mistaken for mud, had they not born a crimson hue, and she even spotted several blades of grass, still nestled within the creased folds and cuts that marked the distinctive fabric.

'Um,' she heard Mike stammer, 'Michael Munroe.'

'Sam-' Her own announcement was cut off by a sharp wave.

'Save your breath,' he said, in a tone that did not invite any further introductions, 'before I want know you, you need to convince me to.'

'To what?'

'Convince me of your use.'

'Well,' Mike began unthinkingly, 'they're called Wendigos.'

'So we'll be playing with all our cards on the table?

Mike promptly ceased his open thought.

'I admire that you'll be so willing to sell the secrets of this hulk of stone,' the grizzled voice droned on, 'but the simple fact is, you must understand, in my experience, there is no charity on this planet. There is always an incentive; a motive; anything but, Great Father forbid, for the greater good of the species. So, human, I begin again. Convince me you're here to help us kill these bastards. Convince me that I don't need one eye looking out for betrayal.'

'And if we can't?' Mike regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. It was a fair attempt to stall for time, but truth be told, it only seemed to crystalise what they were already dreading.

'Then I'll find someone who can, once I bury you under this festering pile of sawdust. Now, before I get frustrated, tell me why you're here.'

'We came for Josh,' Sam took up the banner from a much relieved Mike, 'your man told us he was still up here.'

'A fabrication, perhaps?'

Sam gave him a hard look, weighed the risk, and swallowed her principles. It was their only hope.

'Bullshit. He's up here, and you know it. And he's our friend. Did you think we'd just leave him to rot up here?'

'You did with the last one, did you not? Or should I say two?'

Sam was silent.

'Regretful, are we? Perhaps it is a skewed sense of redemption at the end of your road, girl? The knowledge of your past failures weighing upon the hands that shall, in your mind, somehow repair the rift between you and the Almighty when Judgement comes.'

'Stop it.'

'The chance to save one, where you condemned another.'

'Stop it!'

They were silent. No one moved; not Praetorius, who sat coolly under Sam's vehement gaze, nor her friends, who were unwilling to move themselves into the line of persecution, even though his every word inflamed the consciousness at their hearts. Hannah and Beth were still there, even after fifteen months; the same, twisted but somehow undeniable course of logic that if they had simply restrained the pleasure of sadism for another occasion, two lives might have lived to see the dawn. The same logic that had warped Josh's mind to a path of his own self destruction.

And it was anathema to Sam's ears. Hannah had haunted her long before her return to the mountain three months past. The knowledge that she had walked sober, while her best friend had stepped lightly, both in step and in mind, to her doom, was easily one of the most destructive forces she had ever encountered in life thus far. More so than Josh's antics; more so than the Wendigo. It was that dreadful minute, where she had paced about her room in contemplation, cursing herself for failing to talk them out of the horrid plan when she could have spent it warning her friend. It remained to be seen if that might have proven the best course of action. Somehow, informing a friend that their idol was planning to humiliate them in front of an entire crowd went against human logic, for it did not seem to accomplish much more than simple neutrality. In all likelihood, Hannah would have brushed it off as another of Sam's 'cruel' attempts to break her obsession with Mike before he could truly hurt her. She would have either ignored her friend, and perished as fate had seemingly dictated, or she would have walked away, disgusted by the constructions of an ally, and still engaged in an unreciprocated fascination.

At least it might have finally allowed her to see Mike's true colours.

But Sam had never allowed herself to defend her actions for too long. Soon, the guilt of every other present had abated her mind, and it was occupied entirely by the what-ifs that tormented her day by day. What if she had barged in only moments earlier? Or simply put her foot down to the group amid their drunken idiocy?

And now that the shadow before her was crystallizing her own demons, she wondered if she had finally snapped, and if the cloaked Praetorius was only a figment of the degrading mind, as he spread his hands in the least sincere fashion.

'I can work with that.'

'What do you make of him?'

'Cheary,' Chris answered, dropping the scorched blind slat he'd been holding slightly higher than gravity would have permitted, as he edged away from the window to join the rest of the small squadron, 'for someone who spends his spare time killing people.'

'Way to get depressed on the first day out here,' Matt sighed, eying the small lantern in their midst with no small degree of resignation to the task at hand.

They had told Praetorius the essentials he needed to know for the immediate moment; the Wendigos' nocturnal habits, the means of their replication, and the necessity to keep them alive. Chris had proven most instrumental, as he stressed time and time again the necessity to remain entirely still when one did not have immediate access to a working flamethrower, and several tanks of gasoline.

Sadly, Praetorius seemed to have entirely exhausted his supplies of both necessities, though the circumstances which surrounded their disappearance remained a clouded affair, that would not be touched upon any further by the anointed Fieldmaster. But a soldier seemed to have it's perks, for they had escorted away only a moment before he had already begun to rattle off a string of new instruments to be attached to the next requisition order, though their contents would forever remain a mystery to unattuned ears, for the Fieldmaster had switched to his native dialect fairly early into his new instruction.

As for the need to keep the Wendigos alive, however, Praetorius had reacted with only passing surprise. Unlike the expected disbelief one might have encountered if they were to tell a soldier that the finest course of action was to avoid exterminating a natural killing machine that would by no means resort to the same restraint when it came to consuming their corpses, Praetorius had merely grunted, before descending into a low mumble of self consultation before inquiring upon the weaknesses of the creatures, though it was clear to say he nonetheless despised that little detail.

That said, no one was particularly enthused when they had been deposited into the grudging arms of one Erebus Ambulemus, escorted to a room on the burnt out first floor that ran the flank of the structure, and thrown a couple of blankets to supplement their 'quarters', although the rough conditions were the least of their issues. Somehow, the collective suffering of old friends would dampen the cold, at least in the mind.

The window, on the other hand, was proving less than desirable.

'You want to take over, someone?' Chris asked, as he settled down beside the low fire they had for warmth.

Of course, when Sam had destroyed the lodge, the heating and cooling elements of the Washington Estate had all but vanished in the flash of light. That, and Praetorius' apparent paranoia in regards to 'light discipline', had restricted them to the solitary lantern for comfort. Other comforts were also limited; food was supplied from an unearthly store of strange substances, though their taste was palpable, until Sam discovered, with moments to spare, that the strange concoction of nutrients did in fact contain meat. Namely, some exotic, deer-like creature from the wild wastes of a planet only identified as Lementus, who had the misfortune to have the very word 'prey' woven into their names. But Sam's ethics had not wavered in regards to the Praedus, and for a while, she had volunteered to simply go without, until Ambulemus had thrown the door open, with a sizable pack of foraged seeds and roots clasped beneath one hand. It was only after her meal that Sam had discovered the Guardsman had in fact been conducting his own experiment in the flora of Earth, in locating sustainable means of keeping his brothers alive. Unfortunately, that firstly involved testing the toxicity of the plants in question.

It was only by miracle's hand alone that he had passed over the unwelcoming inhabitants of the undergrowth, and after Sam had kept aside a few samples to remind herself of which substances could be consumed without tremendous impact upon her livelihood, they had simply clustered about the soft light, conversing in lowered volumes. Or at least, five of them did. The last was posted beside the shrouded window, although their purpose was unclear. Whether they existed to warn the small company garrisoned within the broken ruin of movement along the perimeter, or simply to silence their friends when danger drew near, or worse, to provide the first line of defense, no one knew. The last outcome was doubtful at best, if not entirely absurd, since Praetorius had not seen too lightly to a band of jumpy teenagers, of an opposing species noless, trumpeting about his abode with weapons that, in all probability, posed a greater threat to themselves, and by extension, their hosts, or kidnappers, compared to the gaunt spirits that called the mountain their home.

But then again, memory of Viriditus' horrific attempt to wrestle with a bear had not faded, and it had been wondered more than once if it would be expected of them to throw themselves; fist, nail, head and brain to boot, at the malignant demons when they came knocking.

'Seems like psychos are aplenty up here,' Mike observed carelessly, 'seriously; I wasn't just seeing things right? The guy charged a bear?'

'You saw what I saw,' Matt conceded as he rose to take his turn at the solitary observation port, 'but I say these guys are bad news.'

'Yeah,' Jessica affirmed, 'if you want to count the bit about kidnapping us for another night on this stupid mountain.'

'Well, we're still alive, aren't we?'

'So?'

'So,' Ashley continued in a hopeful tone, 'they need us.'

'For now,' Jessica sighed in resignation, before she realised who she was speaking to. 'I mean, yeah, sure, they could have offered us a lot of times earlier.'

Her recovery was flawed, certainly, but no one was willing to bring it under scrutiny once again. It was a vague hope everyone held onto.

Everyone save Mike, that was.

'You know what,' he began abruptly, 'no. It doesn't have to be like this-'

'Mike.'

'-no, hear me out; they need us. We all agreed on that. And that's the only reason they have to keep us alive.'

'So what's your point?'

'We can be the only source of information on the Wendigo,' he explained, his eyes narrowing as his thoughts began to amass themselves into a single being, 'otherwise, we're just a liability-'

'Mike?' Mike registered Sam's warning gaze, and quickly nodded his understanding, suitably chastised in the process, much to the relief of all those present. Somehow, the very verbal exclamation of a thought, even if it was shared by every mind in the immediate vicinity, seemed to be inherently tethered to the ill wishes of fate's ledger.

'Oh. Right. Sorry, Ash.'

'Aw, hell, would everyone just stop tiptoeing around me? How many times do I need to say it? I'm fine.'

There was a mumbled agreement lacking all substance, but it seemed to appease Ashley for the time being, at least.

'Look,' Mike continued, this time with far greater caution given to his words, 'our best chance of surviving this is actually being of use. If we can't give them anything, I don't want to be around to figure out what'll happen next.'

'I don't think they'll congratulate you,' Chris admitted with a wry grin that failed to attain a response. 'So basically, try not to get them to break out the cattle prod when they're asking us about what's going to maul us in our sleep.'

'There's more,' Mike went on. 'The journal.'

Chris was suddenly very quiet. They all were, for that fact. It had only been by blind luck that he had collected the last belonging of the strange man who had saved him upon the windswept mountainside three months past, when the Wendigos had finally torn down the doorway connecting the Sanitorium to the Lodge, and since the madness, it had only breathed the air once, amid Chris' attempts to decipher the hermit's past, in the hopes there might be another that could have told him more of the watchful pariah. But dread. memory and an empty search had returned it to an unused corner of his house, until he had agreed to accompany his friends upon the half-baked expedition to the heart of their sins, and found little argument to oppose the company of the tattered journal.

And it alone held more knowledge upon the threat than they would ever know.

'They can't find. They find it, and our use here is done.'

'You're saying we-' Sam could not bring herself to finish the suggestion. It seemed to oppose every tenet of human decency ingrained within respect for the departed. And yet, it was only the only choice.

'Burn it. We learn everything we can, and tomorrow, we burn it.'

'I'm going to give you ten seconds.'

She tried to run but her efforts were confined. She tore at the restraints above her head to no avail. Beside her, Josh howled at the darkness, hurling the polluted contents of his mind for the detriment of all those who would visit the broken soul.

'Nine.'

Something, somewhere in the shroud beyond them, began its mechanical wail, battling past rusted joints and hinges.

'Eight. Make your choice, Sam.'

She broke her ideals and unleashed a torrent of obscenities at the psychopath.

'Seven.'

He was there; looming in the gloom; his face obscured by that insidious ghoulish mask. In his hand, he held a loose collection of mattered orbs, though she did not dare to identify the faces that stared back at her from below his palm; their cold eyes empty and devoid of all sensation.

In the other, he held the switch.

'Fine! Me!' she screamed as her voice cracked, 'Do it, you sick fuck!'

The spectre cocked it's head to the side.

'Of course. It shall always be me.'

She screeched as Josh's blood drenched her side in an explosive combustion of flesh and sinew. Her eyes clenched shut, and she begged for the nightmare to end. For some reason, Josh never quite appeared without the madman. And as always, he would fall beneath the demon's blade.

'Does the bird know her sins?'

She could only whimper.

'Does she know the cost of repentance?'

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Her vision was filled only by an unending line of teeth. Not that of a human's, nor even of a creature; only the perversion of the Devil himself, as those glistening eyes stared back into her own.

The last image sown into her tortured mind before that row of disfigured incisors tore into her neck was the peculiar sigil branded into the creature's arm. A black butterfly at the apex of it's flight, before it disappeared amidst the fountain of red, and the Wendigo began it's dreadful feast.

Sam awoke screaming.

At least, it would have been the intended, reflexive reaction to the terrors of the sub-conscience had she not immediately faced a more imminent peril: a pair of unreflective scarlet lenses barely a foot from her own as she jerked upright, immediately before a raven daubed gauntlet was clamped over her mouth, killing her alarm before he moved a single finger across the armored grate that she could only presume to house his mouth, in the unmistakable instruction for silence.

It took her a moment to register the impromptu order, and it was only when her heartbeat had settled back into a healthy rhythm that she realised the importance of silence upon the mountain. Evidently, the Black Cloak knew it as well as she, for he did not remove the iron seal from her lips for a good moment, until he had retained her gaze a second time, and confirmed that the command had been taken to heart.

Quietly, he made his way over to the window, distaste clearly marked in his tone as he peeled Jessica, who had finally succumb to allur of rest, away from the window, before producing a rifle from beneath the cloak at his back.

Like every other facet of the warrior, there was no proud shine upon its appearance, and if she had not seen the barrel and stock extend from rectangular frame produced, she would have never known it to exist as he brought it to bear upon the howling woods with a single hand.

The other tugged at the fabric collected beside his neck, and as the cloak rose to accommodate his wishes without reducing the length to which it extended groundwards, Sam realised there was in fact a cowl placed atop the unmistakable cloak that defined a Guardsman. The cloth slipped over the black plate with ease, and fell over those scarlet lenses, until all that remained to an onlooker in the woods would have been a darkened muzzle and sight, with a red eye watching unceasingly.

Despite herself, Sam could not contain her need to know, and blurted the inevitable question.

'What is it?' she asked as quietly as she could. In fact, it was at such an indiscernible volume that she was certain the marksman could not have heard her, and she was on the verge of repeating the inquiry when another voice responded, barely a meter from her back.

'Motion spines picked up a contact,' a distorted voice answered.

Sam, having just awoken from another dream of torment by Josh's twisted avatar, nearly jumped out of her skin at the near replica of the madman's voice. In her panic, she did not see Ashley before she had unintentionally pressed a hand into her friend's side, hoping for some support to recover upon when she felt the warm flesh beneath her grasp.

The result was less than satisfactory, as Ashley's eyes sprung open, half expecting a Wendigo to be leering over her in sadistic triumph. The sudden rigidity that seized her form entirely was clearly felt by Chris, who had fallen asleep at her side with an arm draped over her in consultation, before the moment of terror had coursed through her like an electric current, and into his own form.

Fairly soon, either by abrupt physical contact or the ruckus of the general awakening, everyone present had been stirred from slumber, much to the frustration of the titans that surrounded them. That is to say, three titans, and an overgrown wolf.

While one of their number policed the group aside to a convenient corner that would provide an ample buffet for any demonic cannibal should it come knocking, the other two, including the first to have arrived, continued to watch the window; their weapons held loosely but with unending caution as they scanned the darkness beyond the wall. And at their backs, the wolf settled itself into the corner that opposed the band of survivors; leaving the doorway to the rest of the fort unobstructed if the two hunters at the window were suddenly overcome by the incessant need to withdraw, though if that was indeed the situation to pass, Sam had little doubt that their own exfiltration would be less than ideal. Somehow, six teenages scrambling for an exit that they would have to take a ninety degree turn to utilise did not evoke any indication of a smooth retreat.

'Contact closing,' their guard whispered, consulting a panel on his wrist, as he joined his brothers in taking aim upon the entryway, 'one hundred meters.'

He received no reply. Even the wolf was silent as the predator beyond the walls approached. Unlike the stranger's equivalent of 'company' in a certain decommissioned sanitorium, it did not appear to present any means of alerting it's masters to the peril, and for a moment, an inextinguishable sensation of doubt tore at Mike's gut. The wolf present seemed entirely inept compared to the one that had guided him through the lair of the monsters before it had given it's own life for his own; another weight of guilt upon his conscience for that matter, though why he classified a wolf he had known for barely a few hours perhaps as highly as his friends that had disappeared in the culmination of his sins was beyond him. Perhaps he had done too much; that the mind could only identify the wrongs of his hands

But then he saw the creature settle into the familiar coil of muscle instinct for blood. He saw the killer emerge to surface of the golden irises, and he realised he was faced by no guard dog.

For guard dogs are trained to intimidate alone, and to maim and kill should the intruder in question progress too far. But this creature; this one cared not boundaries. It invited its prey, to the same inevitable outcome.

'Fifty meters. Visual acquisition should be any second.'

'Look,' Sam whispered, 'just stay still; they can only see by sight.'

'And I'm sure they can hear just as well,' the Guardsman returned at an equal volume, 'now shut it!'

Two more minutes passed. Suddenly, the lead marksmen in the room tensed; a minute and action unobservable from beyond the blinds, but with nothing more to look upon save the window that occupied the adjacent space to the spectres, the six friends were already focused intently upon the cloaked figures when they made their minute adjustment.

Something was outside. Something far more than just a deer.

Then, the wood produced that awful creak, as something of significant weight latched onto its frame with careful precision, but not enough so that it's arrival went entirely unnoticed.

And then it happened.

Through the veil of thin strips of scorched wood, the window was filled by teeth. Jagged, unordered and decayed.

It was impossible to remain still. It was so much easier when the threat had already been identified, in retrospect at least, for maintaining the statue's vigil is never an easy task, particularly with a craven hunter directly at one's side. But the sudden leap jolted more than a few, and even through the shuttered window, those empty eyes turned upon them with a vengeance.

It did not even register the two Guardsmen barely centimeters away, as their fingers remained unnaturally steady for such a situation, though perhaps it was due to the fact neither had deigned to remove the said digits from the trigger of their respective firearms. In the far corner, the wolf emitted a low growl, but otherwise retained it's post, unflinching as those eyes, drawn into that eternal stare by the skin drawn taut by skeletal design of damnation, passed over it entirely, the momentary movement to it's right forgotten.

Then it began it's dreadful wail.

That bestial screech that could only be achieved with the final corruption of the human spirit; the banshee's wail that had haunted so many of their nightmares.

And then it was gone.

Without any ceremony or courtesy, it simply disappeared. Beyond the wall, there was a sudden outburst of commotion; the thunder of hooves, followed by a creature's wrenching fear, and then the triumph of a hunter.

It would be another five minutes before the Guardsmen finally signalled the all clear. By then, the Wendigo was gone, leaving nothing but a horrific orgy of blood encrusted snow, maybe ten meters from the cabin's front door, and a thinner trail of the same ichorous substance leading into the darkness.

In the morning, they would learn that Praetorius, although he had yet to speak with the supposed experts on the creatures of the night, had already acquired a number of deer prior to their arrival, that had been housed in the residence's basement, to be used in the event live bait was required to lead a hungry predator from the command post without a shot being fired. But the callous act was lost on most of the teenagers, who had been unable for find any solace for the remainder of the evening.

It would have been impossible after Chris had shakily relayed what his eyes had discerned from the terrifying encounter; what each of their eyes had in fact identified, but either doubted or simply feared to so great an extent no other would acknowledge was the case until it was finally addressed by another. The unspoken familiarity in the damned creature's features; the ever so slightly crooked nose; the slightest tufts of brown fur emerging from the otherwise gaunt scalp, and the tattered remains of a denim jumpsuit draped over the twisted and corrupted frame.

The night wore on, and with it, the lengthening of the shadows, as the moon fell from it's precipice, and plunged the woods into darkness once again, before the final shards of sunlight stabbed into the heart of the night, and brought an end to the hunt of the Wendigo.

Author's note: Thanks for all the support so far guys! Please note; as things go on, I might change the rating to M, depending on how the violence turns out. Next chapter; the hunt begins.