Chapter Text
The sun blasts down on his face. Neil’s eyes open, blearily, lifting a hand to hide from the blinding light as his body tries its very best not to collapse in on itself.
Neil was not made for this type of heat; Neil was built for the cold moistness of autumn, built to see through mist and blend in among fallen leaves.
The hotness of this summer disorients him, has him shivering in his sweat, to the point where he almost loses his grip on the horses reins.
Again.
Neil’s gloved hand regains it’s grip, the roan colored horse side eyeing him as he sways in the saddle. Neil is panting more than it is, at this point.
He lifts his head, watching the land shift around him. There are trees, further up ahead, a lush green contrast against the pale brown of the plains.
Neil had heard stories, about that forest. An older man, from the last village he’d stopped by, had caught him staring at it’s green dot on a map and told Neil the tales of werewolves and nymphs that lived among the trees.
The man’s voice had shaken as he spoke, a low whisper as to not alert anyone to the conversation topic. Neil had thanked him, fake fearfulness in his voice, and headed that way immediately afterwards.
He wasn’t a huge fan of the vampires part, truthfully. Neil could tolerate wolves, and he was fond of nymphs to an extent, but vampires…vampires made his blood run cold.
Hopefully, there were more nymphs than vampires. At least with the nymphs, they’d leave him be.
Neil’s horse chittered nervously when it reached the very edge of the forest, spiraling trees stretching up towards a bright blue sky, roots covering almost every square inch of the ground.
It is unfamiliar to him; he can vaguely recall his mother’s tree, in the back of his mind, a great big elm that’s leaves were almost permanently golden brown, surrounded by a lake of mist and apple orchards.
It is unfamiliar, and he hates it, but he dismounts the horse all the same. Grabs his pack off the side of the saddle, his cloak in the other hand, and walks into the woods.
The horse will be fine. It had shown, on more than one occasion, that it would leave if he took too long coming back.
Neil on the other hand, wasn’t too sure he’d be fine.
Because Neil can feel eyes watching him, can hear tree branches breaking under feet that are not his. Panic is a deranged monster in his chest, yelling at him to turn back and run into the blaring heat of the plain fields.
He doesn’t though. Neil keeps walking, silent as a ghost, one hand on his knife hilt and the other clutching his cloak.
Neil desperately hopes he will not have to run, for once. His body is still trying to recover from the heat exhaustion, drowsy and slow moving even as he urges it on.
The heat in the forest is only marginally better; at least the tree canopy’s keep the sun out of his eyes. It also, unfortunately, casts shadows around him, and his paranoia grows worse.
Neil swears he sees something dart across his path, freezing in place as his senses pick up on something creeping close to him. The second his hand twitches towards his knife, a growl echoed through the trees, and Neil sprints.
He vaults over fallen logs and withering bushes, quickly scales tall rocks and bounds around thick tree trunks. Neil can hear something chasing after him, big enough that it knocks one of the boulders over, and he runs even faster.
Eventually, of course, it catches him. Neil’s body is still not at full strength, so it’s a disappointing surprise when a heavy weight slams him onto the ground.
Neil’s nose is pressed into the dirt, his ankle twisted awkwardly on a tree root. There are heavy paws pressing him into the forest floor, and when Neil turns his head, he can only see gold eyes and white fur.
Neil doesn’t think it wants to kill him, at least not completely. It could have snapped his neck, or ripped into his back, but it doesn’t. It just stands on him, watching.
Neil doesn’t think it wants to kill him, but that doesn’t ease the fear in his heart. He thrashes a bit, trying his best to dislodge the heavy weight pressing him down, and every attempt does nothing except tire him out.
The wolf makes a noise like it’s laughing at him, a deep growl from the base of its throat, and Neil’s fear gets replaced by fury.
“Get, off of me!”
Something flickers across its eyes, from where Neil is looking back over his shoulder, and it, to his great surprise, gets off of him.
Neil spins around and backs himself up against a tree, just in time for a man to crash through a bush, one hand clutching a sword.
“Damnit Minyard, I said find him! Not fucking tackle him!”
He’s going to have a heart attack if one more thing scares him.
Of course, “Minyard” chooses this moment to turn into a human.
Neil looks away, the transformation gruesome to watch even if, from what he’s heard, it doesn’t actually hurt.
He hears a laugh, manic and grating, and looks back to see a short man standing in place of the wolf.
The man’s eyes are a piercing gold color, his hair the same shade of white as the wolf’s fur. Neil’s eyes dart to his arms, wrapped up in black armbands. Neil can see the imprint of a knife through the fabric.
The other, taller man, with tribal tattoos going up his arms and a now sheathed sword at his hip, edges closer to him, an afflicted expression on his face.
If it weren’t for the gold eyed man’s gaze on him, Neil would turn tail and run again, but he thinks the creature might actually kill him this time.
The swordsman’s hands go up. “Easy, easy. We’re not gonna hurt you. We just need to talk. My names Wymack, this is Andrew.”
There is a silence afterwards. Neil can tell they are both waiting for him to give his own name.
He does not.
Andrew laughs at him; Neil notices how sharp his teeth are even in human form. “I think he’s mad, Coach.” There is an amused look on his face when he says it.
Neil wants to punch it off of him.