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Chapter Text

Outside the swinging doors to Easy E’s, Grian gathered himself, his tail flicking nervously. New town, new future. Make a good impression, don’t get shot. From inside he could hear laughter and chatter, the clink of glasses and a piano and fiddle engaged in a spirited duet. A dusty evening began to settle upon the town, even the day intent on urging him onward.

He forced tentatively down and pushed open the doors, striding in as though he belonged there. The evening being late, it was full and alive, and he couldn’t be sure whether he was more or less glad for this fact. He looked around only by flicking his eyes, intent not to look like an outsider. The place was neat enough, deliciously cool after the blazing late heat that still lingered outside. Groups of people stood at the bar and tables, playing cards, talking, drinking. The air was a heady cocktail of cigar smoke, alcohol, and dust. On one side of the room, surrounded by people, an upright piano was being played with enthusiasm by a slim man with a shock of sun-gold hair, some ragtime tune with the same high-energy and synchronicity of its player. Standing next to him was a broader man who played a fiddle in accompaniment, his dark canine tail wagging in tempo. Grian didn’t think he’d ever seen a more cheerful-looking man, and he almost relaxed.

The bar across from the door was a gleaming affair of dark, well-polished wood, the shelves behind it lined with the expected array of bottles. A ram skull glared down from above the shelves, flanked by the skulls of a beaver and a coyote, evidently both courtesy of the local trapper. The man who dried a glass behind the bar was a phenomenon in himself. His tousled, spiked hair was silver-white, but not in the candyfloss, wispy way of old age. He wore a black mask up to his nose and a deep navy shirt rolled to his elbows. His eyes were arguably the most striking feature - they were heterochromatic: one a deep ebony black, the other an unnaturally vibrant red, without a pupil. He was evidently young, his skin smooth but for a long vertical scar that cut over his scarlet eye. Not paying much attention to his task, he talked animatedly to a man who sat at the bar, whose broad back was to Grian.

Determined not to look lost, Grian claimed the only stool left at the bar, which happened to be next to the barman’s companion.

When he called the barman’s attention, his neighbour also turned his attention towards him, and Grian felt his folded wings tense in horror. Perhaps ‘man’ was not the right word. The creature next to him was tall and broad, the shirt rolled to his elbows displaying heavily muscled forearms - one was the warm green of fir, the other sculpted from copper. But his face was the most paralysing aspect - Grian could only imagine that he’d once been a human-creeper hybrid (however that came about, he had no idea) but had evidently suffered an accident that left one side of his face in need of replacement - unfortunately, the human side. One half of his face was shaped in copper, burnished plates moulded in the rough shape of a face, the jaw hinged, and in place of the eye resided a deep-set red light of indistinguishable nature. His other eye, of course, was the characteristic hollow black of a creeper, studded only by a pinprick of starlight that suggested an eye. Iron horns twisted from his head, spiralling to lethal points. Grian had attempted to keep himself from reacting, but the man must’ve seen anyway, because he laughed, a deep, rough sound that displayed an ink-black mouth and very sharp teeth.

“I know,” he growled, still chuckling, “I look like an insult to science and nature, right?”

His voice was deep and gruff, and to Grian’s surprise, heavily accented - German.

He blinked, and summoned what he hoped was a friendly grin, “I’ll be honest, You gave me a slight turn.”

The man shrugged and sipped his drink. “You didn’t try to scare me off with a pitchfork, so I consider it a win. I haven’t seen you before. You new in town?”

“Only arrived today,“ Grian confirmed with slight embarrassment, "Was I that obvious? I’d ask if it was the accent, but you seem to be from different parts too.”

“Oh, yeah,” the man agreed, “There are people here from all parts. He-“ (he gestured to the barman) “is from up north; Canada. Ren over there is from South Africa.” He waved a hand at the man playing the fiddle, who had concluded his song and was clinking glasses with the pianist, and Grian noticed that it too was wrought of copper, beautifully engineered with dexterous, jointed fingers, claws at the tips emulating the ones on his natural arm.

The barman, who’d been watching the encounter, prompted Grian: “You wanted a drink?”

“Uh- yes please-“ he studied the bottles hastily before asking for straight whiskey - to calm his nerves if nothing else. The man nodded and retrieved the honey-coloured bottle.

The man next to him informed, “That’s Etho, by the way. And my name’s Doctor M77, but Doc works well enough,” he held out a copper wrought hand, and Grian shook it, happy to have made an acquaintance (especially one who looked so terrifying). “Grian.” He replied, smiling, and nodded in thanks when Etho set a glass before him.

A door behind the bar opened suddenly, and a man in a peculiar mossy-green capelet emerged, carrying several bottles.

“The raccoons are back!” he announced furiously to the world at large, depositing the bottles on the bar shelf.

Etho raised an eyebrow and sighed, “I don’t know why you antagonise them…”

“Antagonise them?!” Exploded the other indignantly, “They’re bandits! They keep stealing scraps!”

“Yeah, but stealing back the scraps is the worst thing you could do. One of these days you’ll come to me frothing at the mouth because you got rabies from a raccoon while trying to save a potato peel.”

In a tone of mock puzzlement, Doc interjected, “I thought Bdubs already had rabies? Isn’t he a charity case, Etho?”

“CHARITY CASE YOURSELF-“ began the explosive retort from the newcomer, who seemed completely fearless of Doc despite being over a head shorter than him.

"No, he’s from a shelter,” replied Etho casually.

Grian found the interaction hypnotic, and his eyes flicked between the participants of this odd, familiar play with fascination.

“That’s Bdubs,” Doc told him casually, as the pair behind the counter continued their argument.

“I see,” Grian said, slightly overwhelmed.

“What brings you here, anyway?” Asked Doc, sipping his drink as though there’d been no interruption.

“Same as most people,” Grian said vaguely, “Came for opportunity, like the rest. I’m a builder by trade, and I thought there’d be steady custom here, not to mention the potential for fortune in mining.”

Doc seemed to scrutinise him for a moment, considering what he meant to say. “Let me give you some advice,” he said seriously, “If you came here looking to make your fortune in gold, leave that dream behind. The real money is in selling to the suckers - the guys who sell picks will bleed you dry before you realise it, and you aren’t likely to find enough gold to break even.” He drained his glass.

Grian found himself rather taken aback by this sudden spout of information, and only asked “How- how do you know that?”

Doc grinned wickedly. “Who do you think sells the picks?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Grian asked warily.

Doc signalled to Etho for refills. “I guess you just strike me as potential. Maybe there’s also some sentiment involved, one foreigner to another,” he said thoughtfully. “As Europeans, we might have it better, but still, if the suspects for a crime are a German or an American, who do you think will get hanged?”

“Cheerful outlook,” Grian commented dryly, though he was shaken.

“Only being realistic,” replied his friend, shrugging, “Don’t get me wrong, like I said there are people from all over, and a lot are decent to anyone. But there’s still a divide with some. If you want proof, remember who of their party the Donners murdered and ate first.”

Grian realised he was expected to know this but had to inquire further, “Uh … Who?”

Doc laughed rather bitterly. “There you go, that’s part of it. It was the two Indians - Luis and Salvador, they were called - who were butchered first when food ran out, you see? Only the papers don’t talk about them. And the Belgian, Hardkoop - he was left to die because he was too old to keep up and didn’t have a family to speak up for him.“

Grian was silent in processing this, and Doc went on:

“Sorry, that’s not a first meeting conversation, huh? Didn’t mean to ramble; I only mentioned it to say that I know a job you might suit if you’re looking for one.”

Relieved at this change of topic, Grian asked, “What kind of job?”

“My business partner runs a mining camp just outside town - that’s where you’d have ended up either way. But he’s looking for someone with a talent for building, and you might be the guy. If you swing by tomorrow and tell him I sent you, you can talk about it more with him.”

Grian considered this carefully. On one hand, this man had just told him he made his money exploiting the fortune seekers, a group which partially included himself. On the other hand, he’d told him that, which meant he could possibly be trusted. There’s nowhere else to go, is there? He thought at last. To turn down the opportunity would be foolish.

“Why not then?” He said, a flutter of excitement in his chest, and Doc looked pleased.

“To new opportunities!” Doc declared, raising his glass.

“Cheers!” Grian agreed, meeting Doc’s grin with one of his own and clinking their glasses.

-

Grian couldn’t complain that his introduction to the town of Hermit’s Hold had been dull. After his sojourn at the saloon, he’d spent the night at a rather grubby miner’s hostel, awaking to rays of light that trickled through the thin curtains of the window. It must’ve been near noon, courtesy of the last night’s whiskey, and he sat up quickly from his cot and stretched. It wouldn’t do well to set off too late in the day.

Doc had told him to ride out to Hermit’s Landing and ask for Scar, chuckling as he told Grian not to let the intimidating name spook him. Doc, Etho, Ren, Bdubs, Scar, he thought, pleased at his growing collection of names.

Leaving the hostel with all his belongings in a pack, he went to the stables to untie Elderberry, his horse and one of his most proud possessions, acquired shortly after arriving in America. She was a deep black-brown that bordered on purple, hence the name, and the two had grown close. It didn’t take him long to secure the saddlebags, and soon enough they were off, trotting through the packed dirt streets of Hermit’s Hold, deserted but for a few weary mules and their owners. The sky was blue-grey and cloudless, and purple mountains looked down on the town, pines painting their sides. There was the same aura as so many of these towns had - as though the wild was always trying to reclaim its territory, and the towns only just managing to push it back.

When he passed the final building of the town, Grian couldn’t help but be excited at the prospects of life here. It had been a peculiar start, but he felt he’d made a valuable ally so far, and hoped to find another in the mysterious Scar. He urged Elderberry into a canter and they started in earnest in the direction of Hermit’s Landing, dust spitting behind them into the still air. Darkness would fall in only a few hours, and he didn’t fancy being caught in the dusk in an unfamiliar land.

-

It was just getting dark when Grian arrived on the outskirts of Hermit’s Landing, an unseen mourning dove heralding the evening and coyotes singing in the distance as the warm sky slowly darkened to deep plum. He’d followed the river for several miles as directed, emerging through the thick pines to see the camp - a small cluster of cabins and tents haphazardly constructed in a clearing. The cabins were small and made mostly of intersecting pine logs, stacked stone chimneys adorning the tops. Some were adorned with skulls or deer antlers, else painted signs declaring their residents. As they walked through the camp, Grian saw mules and horses tied to fence posts. Some cabins had picks and shovels leaning outside their doors, muddy boots and water kettles. It appeared most of the miners were inside their respective cabins, judging by the smoke issuing from the chimneys, but he saw one elderly man sitting on a pine-bough chair outside his house and smoking a pipe peacefully, a dog dozing on the ground beside him. He wore a hat and coat of grubby, soft leather and had a splendid grey-silver beard.

“Excuse me,” Grian called to him, hesitant to interrupt the man’s reverie, “Where might I find Scar?”

“Cabin over yonder,” the man replied gruffly, gesturing with his pipe, "Calls the place Lynxholding.” Then he squinted. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“That I am,” Grian confirmed, “My name’s Grian; you?”

“Chef,” replied the old man, touching the brim of his hat and smiling, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, but you oughta get inside somewhere before nightfall - It gets pretty cold.”

“I will, thanks!” Grian called in response, leading Elderberry in the direction Chef had indicated even as the man whistled for his dog and went inside.

Chapter Text

‘LYNXHOLDING’, the sign declared in beautifully painted copperplate, a cat’s silhouette in patched grey and white illustrating the fact. It was a pretty, neat cabin, made of stripped pine logs with a slightly steeped roof of planks and slate, an unlit lantern above the door. A slate and adobe chimney at one end billowed smoke, and a jar of wilting golden poppies decorated the sill of the single window, although the curtain inside was drawn. Grian found himself taking needless care as he tied Elderberry’s lead to the fence post outside, and when at last he moved away from the horse and towards the door, he found his heart beating furiously. He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the door, forcing down anxiousness.

“Come in!” Called a voice from inside.

Grian did as he was bid, entering the cabin and closing the door behind him. Inside it was as small as any of the others - only one room divided neatly and efficiently. The walls were hung with tools, sacks of provisions, and a variety of kitchenware. Unusually, the floor was made of slate and quite clean. On one end of the cabin was the wood stove, which provided heat and supported a bubbling pot of something, and the other a bed - a simple affair of piled fir branches covered by blankets and furs, and lounged upon by a cat whose countenance matched that of the sign outside. A table dominated most of the room, haphazardly strewn with quills, papers, and books, as well as several uncleared tin mugs and plates. The remaining furniture was hewn simply from pine boughs. Two oil lamps hung from ceiling beams and lit the room in dim, comfortable gold, while a candle on the table provided light enough for paperwork.

A man sat at the table and scratched at a paper with his quill, not looking up as Grian entered and stood hesitantly at the door.

Deciding it was most polite to let Scar start, he was silent as the man scribbled for another minute or two, each second dragging painfully for him (though the other seemed unaware). He looked away and met the pale citrine gaze of the cat, who seemed to be scrutinising him even before her owner did.

“Well, hello there!” The man greeted him as though no time had passed, depositing his quill in an inkpot decisively as he finally looked up. Grian was struck immediately at how young he looked, although his skin was marked with the jagged discolouration of scars. He wore a deep red shirt, rolled to his elbows and half unbuttoned in the lateness of the evening, lazily displaying a V of a well-muscled chest. Grian, to his surprise, found himself blushing very slightly and was glad for the dim room.

“Evening,” he greeted in return, “I’m Grian - Doc sent me so see you.”

Scar’s brow furrowed slightly in puzzlement.

“He said you’re looking for a builder?” Grian pressed further.

“Oh! Why, yes I am!” The man exclaimed with an apologetic, lopsided grin. He gestured for Grian to sit down on the chair across from him, then leant forward and rested his chin on his hands.

“I didn’t expect Doc to send someone here to see me, so I’m afraid I’m rather unprepared. Uh… Let’s just talk for now. Tell me about yourself! Sounds like you aren’t from here.”

Grian explained himself as he had to Doc, his reasons for coming and hopes for the future. He recounted his conversation with Doc, too. Scar took in his words, that pleasant smile never faltering. Grian found it almost unnerving - the expression reminded him of how a cat might purr up until it bites you.

“Hm,” Scar mused, when Grian had finished, “He must’ve considered you worth confiding in … I wonder why.” His tone was light, not accusatory, and he had an air of serene curiosity. Grian, imagining it was not his place to answer that ponderance, stayed silent.

“Well?” Scar asked after a moment, “Reckon you’d like to be my builder?”

Taken aback at the suddenness of this offer, Grian stammered an affirmative.

“Wonderful!” Scar exclaimed happily, clapping his hands together decisively and standing.

“Right- uh, should we discuss the details?” Grian inquired tentatively, but Scar was already removing a pot from the little stove, deaf to all but his current whim.

“Celebration coffee!” he announced, handing Grian a tin mug of what looked like liquidated coal, “Normally I’d offer you a proper drink, but we tend to go into town for that. Also, I was making it before you came.”

“Thank you, but I should really find somewhere to stay,” Grian ventured, already feeling the tiredness of the day on the road creeping into his head.

“Oh, you can stay here for tonight at least,” Scar offered cheerfully, “I wouldn’t send you wandering into the dark and looking for a charitable neighbour; that’d just be impolite.”

Although he resented the idea of being considered about as self-sufficient as a particularly dim stray dog, Grian accepted gratefully, not fancying another excursion into the cold night. He sipped at the coffee, savouring the sharp flavour and the near-scalding heat. Scar returned to the table to sit once more, his own mug steaming.

“So, what is it you want built?” Grian asked, beginning to relax in his chair.

“A store,” Scar answered simply, “Doc runs a shop in town selling mining gear and other goods, see? I reckon we oughta have a front out here, too. At least a proper building for me to work from. I’m out here to manage land claims, but I think we’d benefit from having a store of supplies for replacement.”

Grian nodded in understanding, already working out ideas in his head.

“You’ve a good operation going, huh? Playing both sides for the ultimate profit.”

“That’s just the way, isn’t it?” Scar replied matter-of-factly, “I consider it more as strategic business operation than … swindling. We’re not exactly taking advantage of people, just providing them what they need for their own ventures - whether or not those ventures are a good idea isn’t my concern. We’ve got a hydraulic mining operation a couple miles to the east, which is where the iron comes from for making tools. For the land claims here, they can pay in money or a percentage of the gold they find. If they can’t pay, we … figure something else out. It works for everyone, but me and Doc most of all - and most importantly.”

“I suppose I should keep in your good favour then?” Grian asked, only half-joking.

Scar laughed good-naturedly. “I think that would be best for all of us, don’t you? Besides,” he sipped from his coffee, “I’m not the one you really have to worry about. Doc has a mean streak. If he considers you a problem he can make things hard - and I won’t stop him.”

Grian felt his wings tense slightly. Scar’s words may be honeyed, but he could see that beneath the friendly exterior was a dangerous streak of ruthless practicality. He was puzzled though - Scar seemed to be warning him against betrayal, but as far as he understood, their work wasn’t illegal, even if arguably immoral.

“You realise your warning is rather disproportionate to your work, no?” Grian asked, puzzled.

Scar looked thoughtful. “I suppose so,” he concurred. “Guess what I meant is … play nice?” He donned his crooked grin again - that reassuring, friendly smile that might as well have been made up of pearlescent fangs.

Grian couldn’t help but return it. Damn this man and his spellbinding charisma.

The two talked late. Scar, in his infinite hospitality, insisted that Grian take the bed, while he fell asleep in a chair by the woodstove. Grian found sleep difficult, however, and stayed awake for a long time, turning everything over in his head. The air smelt of coffee and wood, dust and warmth. He watched Scar’s silhouette haloed by the soft glow of the fire, and he wondered what kind of man he’d elected to work for. He fell asleep to the far off shriek of coyotes.

-

Grian spent the next week working hard at the beginnings of the store building. In the end, upon hearing Grian had no plans of building himself a cabin and rather living in a small tent, Scar had graciously offered him permanent residence at his cabin, insisting it was no trouble. The two had quickly become tentative friends, and Grian had also risen considerably in Jellie’s esteem - Jellie being Scar’s treasured feline companion. They fell into the comfort of routine. After Grian’s days spent felling pines and stripping the logs, he’d return to a fair meal usually consisting of dark bread accompanied by beans, some sort of meat, or whatever else Scar had procured.

Hermit’s Landing was certainly beautiful, and the bustle and activity of the day were almost always pleasant. He got to know other residents of the camp and became quickly used to seeing them in the mornings as he sat outside the cabin with Scar, drinking that charcoal coffee. The river ran endlessly, and miners gathered upon the streams like mosquitos at veins, their pans and paraphernalia scattered about them. Alongside the various horses and mules of the camp, there were several dogs who assisted in hunting, whose yelps could often be heard winding through the woods. The mountainsides were splintered with wooden beams indicating various mines, each thick beam turned to matchsticks against the towering rock face. It was a place that always made sure to remind its inhabitants of their transience and smallness.

So it was that one of those lilac evenings Scar proposed the idea of going into town for a drink to celebrate Grian’s first week. He had eagerly assented - he’d already begun constructing the skeleton of the building and was proud of his work, and he had to admit he’d like to drink something that wasn’t coffee or water. The two saddled their horses as dusk lurked overhead, galloping through the pines on the muddy path that led towards Hermit’s Hold. It was wonderful to ride through the woods with someone who knew them well, and Grian felt far happier than the first time he’d navigated through the dark trees.

Chapter Text

The miles passed quickly in company, and the atmosphere was tranquil as dusk melted down on the scenery. Presently, the two dismounted outside Easy E’s and hitched the horses by a water trough. Grian hadn’t seen the place since his first meeting with Doc, and he marvelled at how quickly his own demeanour had changed in the short time since he’d arrived. He was far more at ease, approaching as an ally, a friend.

Once again the place was full and lively, familiar to the initial image Grian remembered so vividly. Smoke and alcohol mingled in the air with the familiar duet of fiddle and piano, and Ren grinned and nodded a greeting, deft hands never missing a note on his instrument. Scar immediately called to the broad form of Doc, who sat at his usual place at the bar. He turned and grinned widely in welcome. They joined him at the bar, Scar clapping Doc on the back happily.

Grian rose a hand in greeting, far happier to see the man (he still used that word tentatively in regards to Doc) than he had on their initial encounter.

Scar claimed the stool next to Doc, relaxing on the bar with the easy familiarity of routine, but Grian remained standing and leant on the bar, unwilling to relinquish the rarity of height. Doc motioned to Etho and drinks were ordered.

“So,” Doc began, grinning, “Are you here to return our avian friend or can I take his presence as a sign that he’s been accepted?”

“The latter,” Scar declared with a laugh, and Grian rolled his eyes. “He’s staying at the camp, in my cabin-“ Doc raised a teasing eyebrow, and Scar continued, “-for logistical reasons. He was planning to use a tent and I decided there was no sense in that. Anyway, it’s been great! Makes for good company and he’s very good at his trade.”

“I’ve made good progress so far,” Grian added, still anxious to prove himself (and slightly annoyed at being discussed over his head as though he were an unruly child) “I’ve built most of the skeleton, anyway. Most of the work is in the material gathering, and I doubt it’ll take more than a few weeks.”

“Excellent! I knew this would work,” Doc exclaimed in unmistakably smug delight.

“I can still change my mind just to make a point,” Scar retorted petulantly, though he grinned back and raised his glass.

“To new friends, good fortune, and the journey ever-onward!” he declared, and the three met their glasses with a polyrhythmic clink.

Grian delighted in the burn of alcohol as the three downed their whiskey, a revitalising dose of fire that coaxed a suppressed cough from him. (Nonetheless, Scar noticed and shot him a smirk of mock-superciliousness.)

“Oh, Scar,” Doc said casually, “You won’t have heard, but there’s been another body found up near Donner pass. Third one in the past few months; people are worried.”

“Wh- a body?” Exclaimed Grian in horror.

“Fancy that,” murmured Scar, with the air of one discussing the weather.

“Mm, nasty business,” Doc continued, “Stripped right to bone, and even those gnawed pretty well. Hard to tell if it was before or after the death. Most think it’s a bear, or maybe wolves. I think only a bear would be strong enough to haul a body halfway up the pass though - could be a panther I guess, but they usually don’t go for people.”

“The Donner wendigo,” supplied a matter-of-fact voice. Etho seemed to have materialised out of nowhere, holding a bottle of whiskey and evidently intending to refill their tumblers.

“Good God man, I never hear you coming!” Scar said with a jolt of near-comical shock, “Good to see you, E. And what’s this about a wendigo?”

“Oh, that’s a good story!” Interjected another voice, and Grian looked up from the topaz stream to see the man in the moss capelet he’d seen before, grinning over Etho’s shoulder.

“Hazards of sitting at the bar,” Doc muttered to Grian, who had to suppress a laugh.

“Bdubs!” Scar greeted happily, “Now we’ve got a proper party!”

“Story?” Grian pressed, intrigued.

“Etho has a wonderful story about the Donner wendigo,” Bdubs explained cheerfully, “He saw it once, but most people don’t believe in it.”
The animate part of Doc’s brow creased in a thoughtful frown. “I haven’t heard that one.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued! Regale us, won’t you?” Asked Scar, persuasively amiable as ever.

“Well, I’ll tell you then, for background,” Etho said with his usual tone of mild indifference, though it was clear he enjoyed the role of storyteller. With a fluid, well-practiced motion, he retrieved two more tumblers for himself and Bdubs.

“You guys wanna talk in the back room? It’s loud in here - come with me,” Etho directed, taking a bottle of whiskey. To Bdubs he said, “Can you see if Ren is willing to play bartender for a bit? Tell him his drinks are free if he does.”

The five were soon settled around a table in the small room behind the bar. The barrel-lined walls muffled the chatter and music of the front room well. A lantern on the table held its light close around it and threw sharp, monstrous silhouettes on the walls. Grian half suspected Etho had chosen this location for its atmosphere rather than practicality, and he smiled. Theatrical lot, this, he reflected.

Etho poured generous servings of whiskey for himself and Bdubs, who settled back in his chair in practiced readiness for a tale.

“The Donner wendigo,” Etho began, “Got the name from - well, no doubt you can guess - The Donner party, that nasty business a few years ago.”

“Ah- sorry to interrupt, but would you mind telling us what a wendigo is?” Interjected Grian.

“Oh, right,” Etho conceded. “Wendigoag are a creature from Native folklore. It’s a type of evil spirit - they say the surest way to turn into one is when a person commits cannibalism for survival - for any reason. Accounts differ, but some say it can infect the souls of cruel or greedy people, too. They are the embodiment of hunger, in essence. So you can see how that’d be linked to the Donners, right? You’ll know that when those families were trapped up on Donner pass, most of ‘em resorted to cannibalism. Keseberg was the worst of them - ate a man’s son and told him when the man returned with a relief party. Butchered poor Tamsen Donner, too. Anyway, most of them died, but one of them turned wendigo.”

He sipped his drink and allowed the exposition to sink in before continuing.

“I travelled up the pass a year or two ago with a moose hunting party, before Bdubs and I opened this place. It was me, Joe Hills - you may know him, he’s the local trapper - and a couple others called Antonio and Jack. I remember it well - cold as hell, and the trees were like burnt matchsticks. It’s always snowing up there, and it was deep. We set up camp that night in a clearing, got a fire going to get warm. So there we were, locked in a circle the firelight cast, when the singing started.”

“Singing?” Broke in Scar,

“Singing,” Etho confirmed, “Or maybe closer to wailing? That’s the best way I can describe it. Like … metal screeching plus howling wind. I’ll never forget it. So we agreed it was a wolf, else a fox or coyote. When you’re trapped like that, sleep comes easier if you lie to yourself. So we stopped thinking about it. Kept talking, told stories, then we decided to go to sleep. There were two tents for the four of us, and I was with Jack - Indian fella who was guiding us. He’d gotten all quiet and tense when we heard the singing, but he wouldn’t say what was spooking him. But after a day of walking uphill through deep snow, not even unease keeps you up, so the both of us dropped off to sleep. Then, about midnight, I heard - well,” he paused and fidgeted with his glass, “I can’t be quite certain, because I was half asleep. I heard someone call Antonio. ‘Antonio’ was all it said, and it sounded like wind going through leaves. Dry, cold. Like something that’s been frozen and dead for decades trying to talk again, in a language it doesn’t know.”

Grian was already beginning to feel the cold draft of unease creep up his back. He folded his wings closer to his body and sipped his whiskey, grounding himself in the alcoholic burn.

“I thought I was dreaming, and I went back to sleep. So, we woke up early in the morning, must’ve been about 5 o’clock. Black as coal outside, but we had to start packing up camp. First thing I noticed was an odd smell in the air, sweet, heavy. I got a lantern lit and went to talk to Joe. He was real worked up, couldn’t find Antonio. Said he left the tent in the middle of the night, and that he - Joe, I mean - went back to sleep before he came back.”

“He didn’t hear your mystery voice then?” Inquired Doc.

“Didn’t mention it, but I didn’t either. So we scouted around the clearing, looking for signs of where he might’ve gone. Luckily it hadn’t snowed, so we could see the tracks clearly. We called and called, but he was nowhere nearby. Then I told Joe to stay at camp, and-“

“Let me guess, you strolled out into the woods alone to look for him?” Doc sighed in exasperation, pinching his nose bridge.

Etho smiled rather sheepishly. “It definitely wasn’t the right thing to do,” he admitted, “But that’s what I decided on. I took a rifle and my lantern and started to follow his tracks, all the way outside camp. Then there was another pair of footprints that joined his, only they were much larger, only far shallower. Whatever it was had walked atop the snow as though it weren’t more than an inch deep. They would’ve been hard to see if it weren’t for the blood - the snow was stained red where the prints were, you see, and their depth filmed with frozen blood. The footprints went forward together, side by side, and I followed. All the way there was that scent in the air, cloyingly sweet. But gradually, the larger pair began to cover so much distance, each step farther than a deer’s bound - nothing possible for any human. And Antonio’s footprints began to drag and skim over the snow with the other pair, like he was running only without his full weight on the snow. By this point I knew I shouldn’t be there, but I was … in sort of trance. I kept going, following this trail for a few miles. My feet felt frozen, and I didn’t know the land. I relied on my tracks.

And then, all of a sudden, there it was. The most horrific thing I ever saw - thin as a corpse and on all fours, hunched over something. It was like a person, but with arms so long they’d skim the ground if it stood, and vicious claws. Would’ve been as tall ad a tree if it stood. Looked like a corpse, dead white skin stretched over its bones and eaten away by frostbite at some extremities. Like a thing dragged from deep in the snow, something that should never have felt the air again.”

He paused then, finally seeming affected by his recollection. He kept his eyes trained on his drink as he murmured, “Every sound is magnified in the silence. I remember the sound of blood dripping onto the snow, hot and fresh enough to melt it a little. I still hear that, you know - when it’s too quiet.”

“I crouched behind a tree, tried not to make any sound. I reckon it’d have heard me if it hadn’t been so distracted. That was the oddest part - it didn’t make a sound. The forest was quiet as a grave but for the sound of muscles and skin ripping, and the blood dripping of course. When I peered ‘round the tree, that’s what I saw. Antonio, dead and bloodying the snow. He was practically unrecognisable, and the wendigo was ripping him apart like a thing that’s been starved for months. When it looked in my direction, I went as tense as ice. It’s face wasn’t human - nose and lips torn away by frostbite, and it’s teeth long and jagged and yellow - at least they would’ve been if it’s whole face hadn’t been stained with blood. It’s eyes were sunken into skin as thin as spiderwebs, and glowing like hot coals.

I wish I could say I did something daring and heroic, y’know? But I didn’t. I didn’t try to shoot the thing in revenge or anything. My head was spinning with the overpowering smell of death and blood and rot there. When I saw that thing, all I knew was that I wanted to be as far from it as possible. It was something I should never have seen. Antonio was a heap of gore, and I prefer being alive to a pointless, heroic death. So, I slunk off, creeping away quiet as a cat. Soon as I thought it was safe I ran like a deer until I found the others again, and I must’ve been spooked enough for them to take me seriously because we abandoned the hunting and immediately started back down the pass. We must’ve walked all night, and sometimes we heard that ghostly wailing, echoing around the mountain so it felt as though it were everywhere, and that it was us being hunted. I haven’t gone near the pass since, and neither have the others, to my knowledge.”

He paused to refill his glass again, then said, “You know, I once talked to Jack about this, and he’s the only reason I know about wendigoag - like I say, it’s a thing from Native legend. He told me the wendigo is a clever creature. It has senses better than any beast, it’s stronger than a bear and faster than a deer. But they’re hungry. Their nature is to be always ravenous, always hungry but for the very moment they’re eating. That’s why I reckon I lived - it was too busy gulping down Antonio to listen properly.

I’ve never forgotten it,” Etho concluded, his voice nearly a whisper, “Often I imagine I can hear it calling me, in that horrible imitation of a voice. That it knew I was there, and it follows me now. I hear it and I lie awake all night.”

The five men around the table were silent, all gazing at Etho, who gazed, seemingly forgetting of his audience, into the amber depths of his glass.

Chapter Text

When Grian awoke, it was to a headache and an offensive sunbeam shining on his face. He rolled over groggily, propping himself up on one elbow and observing his surroundings.

He, Etho, Bdubs and Scar had eventually gone to sleep in the small apartment that Bdubs and Etho inhabited above the bar. They'd insisted their guests take the beds, and Bdubs was still snoring on the floor next to the bed, half-blanketed by his mossy cape. Etho was slumped over a small table, flanked by his tumbler and the whiskey bottle, which, he noted, was significantly less full than it'd been when Grian had gone to sleep. Scar and Doc had vanished, leaving only disturbed blankets as evidence of their presence. With a final glance at Bdubs and Etho - he decided to let them sleep - he dressed and hurried downstairs.

He found Scar and Doc in the stables, leant on the divider and talking in severe undertones. They looked up when Grian entered, Doc's face a mask of anger. He hadn't yet seen Doc be anything but pleasant, and he hoped he was never the recipient of the scowl that twisted Doc's already frightening face.

"The horses are gone," Scar declared flatly. He showed no signs of the previous night's drinks and Grian immediately felt aware of his own scruffy hair and rumpled clothes.

"Gone? Elderberry?" Grian exclaimed in panic, "But-"

Doc's gaze lingered on Grian for a moment before he looked away.

"Whoever took them is new in town I think. Or they are very foolish," he growled, a mirthless smile twisting his face.

"We'll find them," Scar comforted Grian, his reassuring smile not hiding the stern anger in his eyes, and Grian wasn't sure whether he meant the horses or the thief. Somehow, he couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the perpetrator.

Scar and Doc disappeared, bidding farewell to Etho & Bdubs before reassuring Grian that they didn't need his assistance. Etho shook his head as he helped Grian saddle a rented mule.

He inquired, but all Etho said was "What a fool."

Scar was gone most of that day and the next. And the next.

Grian continued work on the shop, trying not to worry about their fate. If anyone can handle themselves, it's those two, he reassured himself.

He joined a group of other camp members on the second day for lunch and was welcomed with open arms. The three were detonators, as evidenced by their charred clothing and soot-smudged faces. He recognised one as the pianist at the bar, a slight, blond-haired man with warm red eyes and a perpetual fanged grin. He announced himself as Tango, and introduced his companions - Mumbo, whom he took an immediate liking to, was another English man, tall and slim with an impressive black moustache and bizarrely well-groomed appearance, and Impulse, a stocky, broad-chested man with a friendly face and burn scars riddling his arms.

Impulse tossed a handful of redstone into the campfire Grian was starting and it immediately blazed red and grew in size. Tango laughed and poked at the eggs in their skillet. Impulse smiled too. "Old redstoner's trick, that," he informed, accepting a plate from Tango. Mumbo passed one to Grian and winced, earning chuckles from the other two as he pulled up his sleeve and rubbed his bandaged arm.

"What happened?" Grian inquired, looking at Mumbo's annoyed expression.

"I uh- misstepped while we were excavating today," the man replied begrudgingly.

"Poor guy didn't time his pulses quite right and got blasted," Tango snickered, as though this explained everything.

"I see," Grian said, not seeing.

"Redstone is tricky," Impulse helped, "That's why only the pros do it, right Mumbo?"

Mumbo scowled.

The three of them amused themselves by telling Grian horror stories of their experiences in detonation and showed off various scars, evidently enjoying his horrified expression. One of their number, it transpired, was absent - a maniacal man called Zedaph who it seemed had been experimenting with using creepers for controlled demolitions (this idea utterly horrified Grian) and was currently recovering after losing a few fingers.

As they finished their meal, he nonchalantly ventured, "Does Scar often disappear for days at a time?"

"Oh, yeah," Impulse said, wiping his mouth on his arm, "Funny guy, him. Great company though, and he looks after his own well enough."

"They're businessmen through and through, those two," Mumbo continued, "No clue what they get up to. Business stuff. What happened that's got you wondering?"

Grian recounted the other day, and the three looked flabbergasted.

"They stole your horses?"

"Well, it can't be too uncommon around here, right?" Grian replied, bemused at their shock.

"Well sure, but not from them. Fool to cross those two, if ya ask me," Impulse said, shaking his head.

"I wouldn't try it," Tango agreed with a dark chuckle.

Grian joined the trio for meals several more times, happy for their warm, comfortable company. They were always laughing and telling stories, sharing their food and even letting him taste their preferred drink - a strong, deep red whiskey that tasted like sharp fire which made him cough and was apparently infused with redstone powder.

When Scar did return, it was late into the night. Half asleep, Grian heard the thud of hooves and jingling of tack before the cabin door creaked open. Jellie leapt lightly off the bed and trotted up to him with a meow of greeting, and Grian watched through cracked eyelids as Scar stripped off a stained shirt and discarded it. The fiery glow of the hearth settled on a hard-muscled chest and the strong features of Scar, handsome despite the patchwork of dirt and scars marring his unshaven face. He looked exhausted but satisfied. He withdrew a flask and picked up Jellie, crooning to her softly as Grian let himself fall asleep again, feathers prickling with the sensation that somehow he were being examined.

When Grian awoke, Scar was already up and brewing coffee. He grinned at Grian with that familiar lopsided smile, surrounded by a white beard of shaving foam. "Morning, buddy! how've ya been?"

Grian yawned and stretched, the last night mostly forgotten.

"You're back! I was getting worried," he replied, returning the smile and accepting a cup of coffee, "That beard suits you by the way."

"Back and better than ever. And I've got your friend back," Scar said breezily, leading him outside, to where Elderberry was tied.

She whinnied a greeting and Grian buried his face in her warm neck.

"Thank you," he breathed, "What happened?"

Scar waved his hand as though the question was absurd, "We played detectives, found the thief and got em back."

"Just like that eh?"

"Well, we had to rough him up a little to make a point," Scar grinned at his reflection as he shaved, and Grian decided not to press the issue.

Normalcy resumed again in the camp, and Grian fell into the comfortable rhythm of work again. The store was gaining shape steadily, and they began frequenting town more often to transport inventory in readiness to stock. As a side project, he began to expand Lynxholding, adding a few feet to the large room to give space for himself and Scar, as he'd wholly committed to his home there. They frequently enjoyed the company of the demolitions crew when they came down the mountain, and Zedaph returned, another English man - to Grian's delight - with windswept blond hair and a badly singed white coat, who proudly showed off a bandaged hand with too few fingers.

A few weeks passed in peace before anything of interest happened. Grian had been preparing to make a midday meal when he spotted a crowd of miners near the river, huddled around a strange man whom it appeared had come down the mountain. He was gaunt and thin, clothes tattered, his blond hair touselled and plastered to his head by sweat, and his small yellow wings were dull, one held close to his body and stiff with dried blood and mud. His brown eyes were haunted and empty, one marred by a nasty bruise.

The miners flooded him with questions but he didn't say a word, only staring blankly at the ground, shrinking as though he hoped to sink into the ground. The crowd parted as Scar arrived, evidently fetched by one of the miners. He handed the man a waterskin and put an arm around his shoulder.

"Come on my friend, let's get you patched up," he soothed. The man followed dutifully as Scar led him away gently, addressing the others as he went, "And you fellas clear off. I'll look after our friend."

Grian returned to his meal, considering the encounter. He reflected on Scar's oddly gentle and comforting nature, stark relative to his intimidating person. The blond man had seemed so shaken and diminutive, utterly lost. What on earth had happened to him? Had he been separated from a hunting party and set on by Indians? Perhaps he'd run into a bear - God knows how he'd gotten away. People didn't often travel up Donner Pass - those mountains were treacherous and cruel, utterly unfazed by human exploration. He suddenly recalled Etho's story and shuddered.

In the evening he returned to their cabin to find Scar watching over the man as he slept fitfully in the bed.

"Evening. How's he doing? Has he even spoken?"

"He's not talking. God knows what's shaken him up so badly," Scar sighed, "I'm gonna try an' take him up to town tomorrow to see a real doctor. Think you can stay with Tango and them for the night? They came down a few hours ago."

"Oh - of course," Grian agreed, "Do - do you know him? You seem really worried."

"No, not at all. We have to look after each other though. It's a rough place. You can't get along without help," He scratched Jellie's chin and chuckled, "Speaking of which, sorry to have to kick you out buddy."

Grian gathered his things to leave, "No worries mate - I'll see you then. Wake me if anything changes, alright?"

Scar nodded, "Sleep well!"

Grian looked back as he left, and as the door swung closed, he frowned at seeing Scar watch the sleeping man, his face cold and expressionless.

The mysterious man died in the night, evidently succumbing to his injuries. They'd never even learnt his name, and they buried him shortly outside camp. Scar was rather reserved as they headed out to town accompanied by the demolitions crew. Grian assumed he was grieving over being unable to save the stranger, and the ride passed mostly in silence.

Upon entering the familiar, comforting cool of Easy E's however, their number perked up immediately. The wrecking crew split off to see some familiar faces while Scar and Grian found Doc at the bar talking to Ren, whose ears pricked as he greeted them with his cheerful, wolfish grin.

"Hey there my guys!" He slapped Scar on the back and presented a clawed hand to Grian, "I don't think we've met. I'm Ren!"

"Grian. I'm shocked we've not had a chance to meet yet seeing you're a pal of these two,"

"I've been doggedly ignoring you," Ren replied, roaring with laughter at his own joke as Doc shook his head.

"My god, that was terrible," he smiled as Scar laughed.

Doc ordered a round of drinks for their party, and Etho obligingly poured a stream of Canadian whiskey along their row of glasses.

"So, how's our shop coming?" He asked Grian, who enthusiastically reported the progress to a delighted Doc.

"Oh! That reminds me, I've been meaning to see Joe about some materials - we'll need canvas and furs for the shop - and of course, to give you something better to sleep on G," Scar nudged Grian jovially.

"Think he's here," Ren replied, looking around before hollering, "Hey - Joe!"

The man who approached sported a thick moustache and a beautiful beaverskin hat, and cordially shook hands with the three in turn.

"Howdy!" He waved away Doc's offer of a drink, "Nah, Tennessee whiskey is the only kind to drink," He had a surprisingly gentle voice with a slight Southern accent.

Etho leant on the bar to listen in with a nod to Joe.

Scar animatedly talked to Joe about various pelts and pricing as Grian sipped his drink, half listening. They seemed to reach a conclusion, and Grian was suddenly struck by a realisation.

"You were the trapper who went up on Donner Pass with Etho, right?" He blurted.

Joe raised his eyebrows, glancing at Etho before returning his gaze to Grian, "Good god, that affair. Didn't think Etho talked about it much. I certainly don't."

Grian flushed with embarrassment at his faux pas and immediately ventured, "Sorry to spring on you like that - Etho told us weeks back and I just realised he mentioned you."

Etho's mask twitched with what looked like an apologetic smile, "Came up in conversation so I thought I should tell them,"

"Well, nothing wrong with that. Nasty business though ... I do my best not to think of it myself."

"You believe it then? The wendigoo?" Scar interjected with interest, evidently listening.

"Wendigo," Etho corrected, rolling his eyes.

"I didn't see it, but I've been trapping a long time from Canada through to California, and I've never heard a beast make the sounds we heard that night," Joe said somberly, and paused before continuing, "... and I never heard a voice like that from any man. I didn't need to see anything to know every one of us was watched by God to have been able to get down that mountain. Etho's no liar, whatever else he may be."

"You ... you heard it then," Etho said quietly, eyes on the bar.

"Heard that thing call Antonio through the trees? A hunter's instinct is well tuned to sounds in the forest. I'll never forget the things I heard."

The two men seemed in their own world at that moment, and none of their party interrupted.

Joe sipped his drink and continued, "That Indian fella guiding us - you saw how he was. He knew exactly what was going on and knew to scarper. Gotta trust the Natives, they've lived here longer'n any of us and anyone would be a fool to disregard them," He shook his head, "I've never been near the pass since."

They're not joking about this, Grian realised suddenly, brow furrowing.

"Well," Doc chuckled, breaking the tension, "I never needed another excuse not to wander around these mountains.”

The group laughed, and Joe smiled. Tango wandered over just then and greeted everyone enthusiastically, before nonchalantly bringing up the strange man in camp.

"Stranger, eh?" Ren asked curiously, "What, some new prospector?"

"Far from it," Tango informed, "Some guy none of us had ever seen comes stumbling down the mountain into camp. Could've been dead already, the look of him. Didn't say a word to any of us and died that night. Pretty tragic."

Doc raised an eyebrow and glanced at Scar, who shrugged, "I tried my best to help the guy and we were gonna bring him into town the next day for a real doctor. Guess he was just too injured."

Scar swirled his glass, looking more annoyed than anything.

"Shame," Doc said, tapping his glass for a refill.

"What do you reckon happened to him?" Ren asked.

"Who knows," Doc replied, rather unconcernedly, "Could have been anything. Wandered off drunk and got himself mauled by a bear most like. It happens more than you would think."

Tango frowned. "Honestly, looked like he'd been in a bar fight more than anything - those bruises? How'd he end up going anyway?"

"Just snuffed it that night," Scar replied plainly, "Shock? Dunno. He went to sleep and didn't wake up."

Scar didn't seem interested in continuing the conversation. The topic shifted as Tango took the opportunity to launch into a story about Zedaph's latest psychotic experiment, insisting they had to hear it from the man himself and leading them to the table the other detonators sat at.

Scar and Doc eventually retreated to the bar to get another drink, and Scar leant casually against the smooth wood as Doc spoke with Etho.

When Grian excused himself to get his own, he heard the tail of their conversation.

"-shouldn't have happened," Doc told Scar seriously.

Scar shrugged, "I took care of it as best I could," and looked up, "Hey G! Whatcha getting?"

"Gin, I guess. Taste of home yeah?"

"Last one I reckon, we don't want our horses stolen again." Scar laughed, winking.