The Following Night
It took Sirus two full hours to drag the massive carcass to the river, leaving behind a thick trail of crimson. Blood soaked into the earth, luring curious critters and unwanted attention from the shadows.
Still drenched from head to toe in gore, Sirus dropped the carcass with a sickening thud. His body trembled—not from exhaustion alone, but from the visceral trauma. Intestines clung to tree branches like grotesque decorations. He stumbled toward the riverbank, staggering as if the weight of the night had warped gravity itself. He fell once. Then again. But still, he pressed on.
Kneeling at last, Sirus braced his bloodied hands against the dirt and leaned forward. The moonlight traced across the water, revealing his reflection—barely recognizable. Where elegant white hair once flowed, a thick mat of red clung to his scalp. An intestine dangled from his horn, grotesquely caught on the still-growing bone.
His eyes widened in horror.
"What… the hell—"
A strangled scream tore from his throat as he clawed at the offending organ, splashing water over his body in a frantic attempt to scrub it away. The soft-blue river turned a murky red, clouded by blood.
He ripped the intestine free with a vicious swing of his arm and hurled it aside. Tears followed—thick, black tears, streaking down a face half-drenched in gore and panic.
"I need to calm down… just… breathe."
He forced his eyes shut, breathing deeply, rhythmically, until the tremors began to fade.
When he opened them again, small creatures were dragging away the intestine, vanishing into the woods. He watched them, strangely detached.
Standing, Sirus stretched and let out a slow exhale.
"Good. I calmed down."
He began gathering dry twigs, sticks, and branches—his mind cycling through forgotten survival skills.
Build the base. Dry grass in the center. Stack sticks like a teepee. Stones around the edge to support.
Satisfied with the structure, he frowned.
"Flint… no clue where to find that."
Plan B. He gathered dry bark, placed fire starters in the middle, and began twisting a stick back and forth between his palms. Slow at first. Then faster.
Smoke.
He smiled, almost tenderly.
"There we go…"
With delicate care, he fed the fire breath after breath, coaxing it to life until it flickered strong and steady.
"Finally. Fire."
Next came the butchering. He approached the carcass and went to work, tearing it open and discarding the unnecessary parts. He didn't bother with the hide—just cut away slabs of meat with unceremonious efficiency. Hours passed before the meat was even half-cooked, but it was enough. He devoured it with closed eyes, juices running down his chin.
Only one piece remained. Raw.
Sirus hesitated, then bit.
It wasn't bad.
"…Cooked is definitely better. But… Why does raw taste good too?"
His thoughts were too foggy to answer. He tossed more branches on the fire and curled into a ball beside it. The warmth soothed his bones. His mind sank beneath the embers.
…
The Following Morning
[Chirp.]
[Rustle.]
[Chirp-chirp.]
The forest stirred with gentle life. Sirus blinked awake to birdsong and the sun peeking through the canopy. The river had returned to its calm, soft-blue state. He looked down—his arms, chest, and claws were still sticky with dried blood.
Stretching with a groan, he stripped off his ruined clothes and dipped them in the river to wash. After wringing them out and hanging them on a branch, he waded into the cold water himself.
The chill crept up his spine, but he endured it, scrubbing away blood, grime, and the stubborn bits of flesh lodged beneath his claws.
"This is my life now," he muttered. "Better get used to it."
Half an hour later, he emerged clean, silver hair restored—though dulled and tangled.
"Doesn't look as good as before… I need a brush. Can't make one."
He shook his head dry like a wild beast and checked his clothes. Still damp. With a sigh, he leapt onto a branch and perched there, arms wrapped around his knees.
As the minutes passed, he studied his arms with a puzzled frown.
"…Am I going crazy, or are my muscles bigger?"
He glanced toward the stripped carcass—just bones now.
"Whatever came last night cleaned it down to the bone."
The idea struck like a spark.
"Maybe I can craft a weapon out of this…"
Even as he said it, discomfort crept into his voice.
"But I'm used to fighting with fists and feet. A sword or bat would just slow me down…"
Still, preparation couldn't hurt.
He dropped from the branch and approached the skeleton. Carefully, he snapped off a femur and a piece of rib. Then came the search for a sharp rock—something to carve with. After a few minutes, he found one.
He laid the bones and stone at the base of the tree, checked his clothes—finally dry—and dressed. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, Sirus began carving a crude blade from bone and stone.
As he walked toward the village, the tools of survival in hand, he murmured to himself. "This is just the beginning."