The gorgeous autumn colors of the Winterwood put Cassian's mind ill at ease. When rumors of fae activity in the remote forest had started to filter back to the tavern tables below his rented room in Elupar, he wanted no part of it, and made plans to quit the city as soon as he could. A decade of mercenary work across the land had taught him when it was time to skip town before things got ugly. But by the time a sell-sword like him caught wind of trouble on the horizon, the price of safe passage across Lake Deepwash to Elupar's sister city of Surkh was already more than Cassian could afford. Mercenary work had been lacking ever since his arrival in Elupar, leaving his coin purse emaciated—until the city watch needed capable men to venture across the Cloven Mountains and into the opposite side's foothills so that unsavory rumors about supernatural disturbances might be put to bed.
Thus, Cassian marched. He was one of a party some twelve strong, their boots crunching leaves and black earth underfoot as they undertook the third mile of a trail which was their first into the Winterwood proper. The already unseasonably cold air had adopted a distinct bite thanks to how little sunlight made it through the heavy canopy of towering hardwoods stretched above them; sentinels undisturbed by hands mortal or otherwise for centuries. Even still, it was a welcome bout of serenity for all involved. Crossing the Cloven Mountains had been a grinding affair: brutal footpaths, punishing night-time temperature plunges, and the constant threat of goblin ambushes which tested everyone's mettle more than once. Though Cassian was a man of twenty-seven with all the grime and scars to show for his prosperous life of gold-fueled combat, the expedition had taken its toll on him, too.
What of the late-day sun made it to their place on the forest floor helped to highlight the gaunt features of all the party's men. Rations were growing thin, and nobody had the gumption to cook goblin meat while they were hacking their way across the mountains. Still, the cold and damp air carried a strange promise of life and fertility to it. Twenty-four eyes searched the lush and busy scenery on either side of the small dirt trail, eager for a hint of game worth tracking down and turning into dinner. Spotting dinner went both ways, however, and everyone on the trail was also keeping their eyes peeled for signs of the Winterwood's signature resident: displacer beasts. Autumn was their mating season, and absent any fae-related disturbances which might take precedent, the party's secondary mission was to try and cull the omlarcat population in hopes of preventing a springtime surge in activity.
Branches broke somewhere off to the right. Cassian's head swiveled in an instant. The hike came to a halt, all twelve men crouching low to the ground, hands on their pommels. Ears strained to make out details beneath the hum of the insects and scattered bird-calls. Then it came on the breeze: distant oinking.
"We got ourselves some pigs," Dalibor murmured. A lesser captain of Elupar's city watch, Dalibor's wizened face and white-flecked hair seemed at home in the Winterwood. His yellowed teeth were bared in a hopeful smile. "Who wants to go pin down some bacon for us?"
"I do," Cassian said, raising his hand. "So long as I get a porkchop out of it, too."
The man next to him, Wilkin, spoke up right after. "Aye, I'll take a deal like that!" he chuckled. Wilkin's hair was dirty blond and clipped as close to the skull as he could get it; a stark contrast to Cassian's ear-length mess of black locks. Paired with his youthful smile and irritating brand of cheerfulness, Wilkin had been Cassian's polar opposite from the start of the journey—which seemed to be why Dalibor had kept them as neighbors in the marching order.
Dalibor looked at the pair of them and gave an approving nod, smile still in place. "Right, it's you and the greenhorn, Cassian. Our hungry hopes rest on your shoulders."
Cassian sighed and stood up from his crouching position in time with the others. "Right. I'll try and make sure the pigs are all that gets cut up."
"I've fended off just as many goblins as the rest of you lot, the 'greenhorn' stuff has to stop eventually!" the young sell-sword huffed, cracking his knuckles and puffing his chest out.
"Maybe after you kill some pigs for us. Come along."
Dalibor spoke up one last time before they made off. "We'll hike another mile or so along this trail before setting up camp. It stays moving due West, so you should find us without any trouble."
Instructions issued, the two mercenaries detached from their ten compatriots, venturing off into the undergrowth's ferns and brambles towards the source of the original disturbance. The walk was silent save for the cracking of leaves and branches underfoot, until they came upon a series of hoof-prints in the dirt.
"How many, you reckon?" Cassian asked.
Wilkin drew his eyes into a squint, observing the marked earth in silence. It was a blatant test—and another sign that Cassian didn't trust him. "Five," he announced after a moment. "One's a juvenile."
"A fine guess." He nodded, left hand scratching his shallow facial hair. "I thought the same. What direction are we heading?"
"Northwest," Wilkin said, pointing in a direction where the Winterwood only grew dense and darker. "The trampled ferns are a start."
"Lovely. Let's hope the family hasn't made it too far, eh?" Cassian started forwards, Wilkin keeping pace beside him.
The situation lent itself well to Cassian's general dislike of the plucky youngster at his side. Conversation was off the table to avoid spooking anything if they got close, and weaving through the undergrowth without making a racket or snagging his cloak was engaging enough to forget about a second presence. They walked on for a half an hour, picking their way across the rough, rolling terrain in a careful advance. Cassian's hopes for a dinner rich in protein and sizzling fat climbed higher and higher—until the tracks abruptly ended. The forest floor became a mess of rocks and lichens at a stream bed, making the direction of pig's advance unclear.
"Dammit. Which way...?" Cassian muttered.
"Time to pull your weight, Cassian," Wilkin hissed in a quiet, mocking voice. "Better figure it out, or we all get to have dried beef and canned beets again. You'll be a real celebrity at camp."
He grit his teeth and focused on the creek's opposite side, trying to tune out the prodding. The shortest path across the water was a few paces upstream, revealing a clear patch of freshly-disturbed vines on the way up the bank. Cassian pointed Wilkin's attention towards it wordlessly, then began to traverse the creek, taking care to plant each footfall on stable stone and avoid slipping into the ankle-high flow. The older mercenary made it across dry and unharmed, Wilkin close behind. Examining the vines further revealed the pigs had veered West again. Cassian breathed a sigh of relief, motioning Wilkin to follow.
It wasn't until after another five minutes of tracking and a return to soft earth that the two hunters looked down to witness only one set of prints set into the ground. Something had scattered the pigs. Cassian's gut sank, and Wilkin voiced the reality they were both thinking.
"…Displacer beasts." He gulped.
"Could've been a bear," Cassian rebutted. "Seems like something spooked them, but maybe it was the other way around." He hated how hollow the words sounded coming out of his mouth. Bears hunting pigs? Cassian was grasping at straws to preserve Wilkin's nerve—as well as his own.
"Some tale you're spinning!" he scoffed, drawing his bastard sword in a shaky hand. "If a bear thundered on through here, there'd be signs of it."
"Or he just went after another pig. Do you want to eat something fresh tonight or not?" Cassian snarled, unsheathing his longsword. He spat off to the side to punctuate his doubtful remarks, hoping Wilkin would drop the issue. "We follow the tracks, 'til there a real case to quit the trail."
Wilkin stayed silent, nodding. Together they continued West in single-file formation. Cassian maintained a careful watch over the immediate surroundings, ears straining to pick up on the slightest noises which might betray pig or beast alike. As before, the forest's many ambient sounds were working as a nerve-wracking mask over what could be critical details: the nonstop rustling of the overhead trees in the wind, bird calls that seemed to cover every possible pitch, and now the droning of insects thanks to the setting sun. The sell-sword felt sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air. Combined with the aches in his feet and lower back, Cassian was starting to wish he'd never offered to hunt down these elusive swine.
Wilkin's sharp gasp snapped him out of the sensory reverie. "Over there, a clearing!" he whispered, pointing the way with a free finger. Cassian followed Wilkin's aim, and indeed saw a break in the hardwood canopy. Dappled red and orange light poured into the Winterwood's depths. Even better, the pig prints were angled directly towards the scene.
"Right. New rules: watch my back the whole way, keep your steps slow and deliberate. No talking, no sudden movements unless I say otherwise. Any suggestion of an omlarcat out here, and we're gone," Cassian growled. Wilkin gave a timid nod, steeling himself to match Cassian's poise. Together they proceeded forward, the excitement of fresh dinner close at hand dulling both mercenaries' sense of caution. It was only a bit further to the clearing's edge, and true to Cassian's instructions, Wilkin stayed at his back. Two, four, six steps. Then it was just a flourish of the longsword to push aside a few brambles, and Cassian set foot into the clearing.
Naught but five more paces away was the pig they'd been tracking—on its side and rent open so that its innards were spilled out and accessible to the creature feasting on them. Cassian didn't bother taking a close look at it: the thing was huge, hunched over, and was covered in that signature blue-black pelt he'd seen some of the traders in Elupar offering for exorbitant prices.
"Omlarcat," Cassian whispered, eyes already looking for where the non-illusory body might be. "Back up slow. Keep your sword cl—"
The word alone was enough to make Wilkin break out into a terrified holler and set off in the opposite direction. Bewildered, pulse racing, Cassian whirled around to spit a curse the young man's way and try to get after him. Wilkin made it three impressive strides before an impact against his skull sent him flying to the right and into the scrub brush like a ragdoll. The sheer brutality of the sound alone was enough to make Cassian's blood run cold, to say nothing of the fact that Wilkin made no further noise afterward. Both his hands clenched tight around the hilt of his longsword, leveled at a defensive angle in the direction of Wilkin's sudden demise. Cassian sucked in a few ragged breaths, doing his best to steady the weapon for what approached next.
A shimmer of blue magic distorted the forest air in front of him, and without thinking, Cassian swung. Air moved, branches snapped, and the tip of his longsword found its invisible mark. A pained yowl rang out into air, echoing across the forest and drowning out any other sound in Cassian's ears. When the light-bending field surrounding his pursuer dropped at last, Cassain laid eyes on something that defied all his expectations. Crouched a short distance away, there was no doubt it had once been an omlarcat; the silky pelt of blue-black fur, those blazing gold eyes with their triangular pupils, and a signature pair of tentacles anchored at its back and reared into the air to expose the barb-lined pads on their ends.
But it was humanoid—she was humanoid—in what could only have been the work of twisted fae magic upon the once-feral form of an unsuspecting displacer beast. Though her head retained most of its pantherine features, she propped herself up off the ground on digitigrade hindpaws which turned into human-like thighs at the knee. The other four of her six limbs were now muscular arms ending in unmistakably human hands, though her fingertips still sported impressive claws. Her upper right arm bore the marks of Cassian's longsword: a lengthy gash weeping some dark navy ichor in place of typical blood.
Focusing on his own condition and assessing the state of the battle to come was difficult for Cassian. Whatever fae had molded this displacer beast into an anthropomorphic form had clearly done so with temptation in mind—likely as some sort of cruel joke. She stood no less than eight feet tall, which gave her hips broader than his shoulders and breasts that were each larger than his ribcage. Her bust heaved with each rough breath that passed over her teeth; the sluggish shifts in response betraying its sheer weight. There wasn't a shred of clothing to speak of on the omlarwoman's body, leaving every inch of her ebony coat and bizarre form on display.
Her glare sent shivers down his spine, primal fear setting his heart beating faster than he'd felt it beat in years. Omlarcats were the Winterwood's undisputed apex predators, and a prey instinct in Cassian's brain screamed at him to stand down and avoid meeting a drawn-out, messy end. Yet combined with those instincts was a sort of burgeoning curiosity—something Cassian was struggling to ignore thanks to the beastwoman's form. Were it not for the murder in her gold irises and the blood of Wilkin dripping from her claws, he might have wondered how the omlarwoman would react to being touched.
"What… are you?" Cassian wondered aloud, careful to keep his longsword poised and at the ready.
In response, the fae-twisted omlarcat growled and clutched the wound Cassian had dealt tighter. Her barbed tentacles wavered anxiously above her shoulders, each exposing their pad fully to give him another glance of the deadly little spines which covered the inner faces of both. The sell-sword took a tentative step backwards, the primordial logic of flight asserting itself at last.
"A strange position to be asking questions from," the anthropomorphic displacer beast said. Her voice was low and smoky, akin to a throaty purr mixed with some accent he couldn't place. "Rarely do dead men stop to ponder the sights before them."
"You talk." The sense of confusion in his voice only grew more apparent. "There were rumors of fae at work out here, but this… you… why?"
"Why?" she snorted. "Why do the fae do anything, little human? Play their games, dance in the moonlight, toy with lives?"
Cassian furrowed his brow, easing back another careful pace. "That isn't much of an answer."
"And you aren't much of a threat. Lower your sword, I've already claimed dinner for myself this evening," the displacer-woman said, righthand tentacle on her back gesturing casually back towards the clearing. "I have no desire to nurse more gashes just to dispose of you, too."
"All the same, I think I'll keep my sword where it is. Last I checked, Wilkin died because of you, and you've still got his blood on your fingers," he said in a cold, firm tone. "No way I'm dropping this blade until you've backed off."
"Wilkin? Was that the whelp who fled screaming from me?" she chuckled. The omlarwoman padded over to the young man's corpse, eyeing him thoughtfully before her lower pair of hands set to work tearing scraps of cloth from his body.
Cassian grit his teeth, watching Wilkin's remains be desecrated with visible displeasure. "You're awfully lucky I wasn't fond of the little shit. Otherwise I'd gut you for doing that."
"Brave words for someone whose intentions were also a swift retreat," the hybrid drawled. With strips of Wilkin's tunic in hand, she sat herself down cross-legged on the forest floor, wrapping the makeshift bandages around the gash Cassian had carved into her top-right bicep. "If things had gone south a bit slower, do you think you'd have used him as your little meat-shield? Tripped him up so you could have scuttled off?" Despite her more relaxed posture, both of her tentacles remained reared in the air, barbed pads ready to strike in case Cassian got too close too quickly.
"I don't need meat-shields," Cassian sneered. "Or distractions."
"Words filled to bursting with pride, yet you're glued to the spot, talking to a magical abomination instead of placing your life in the hands of combat and the gods." The displacer-woman tied off the dressing, flexing all four of her arms experimentally afterward. It was a deliberate tease: emphasizing the toned muscle underneath her coat, and giving the sell-sword a tempting view of the way her titanic bust shifted in the process. Cassian tore his eyes away, cheeks flushed red.
"It's not every day you set eyes on a omlarcat turned into some sort of beast-maiden."
"Beast-maiden, hmm?" the omlarwoman rumbled. She rose onto all sixes this time, padding closer to Cassian's position in a more feral, traditional gait that brought her lower to the ground, tentacles curled back to stay in line with her shoulders. "What an interesting term. Nothing in this forest seems to know what to make of me—not even the displacer beasts themselves. But you seem to be getting ideas rather quickly…"
Cassian swallowed hard, backing up again in turn. He didn't like how this huge omlarwoman made him feel, nor how casual her approach seemed in spite of his longsword. "Ideas? Afraid not. I'm just… fascinated, is all," he stammered. The way her cumbersome chest hung forward and swayed with each feline stride towards him was a potent distraction. "Figured it best to stall and wait for a chance to split. Maybe a search party or something to bail me out."
The strange hybrid prowled closer, broad and dripping tongue playing across the contours of her muzzle. Both her tentacles wavered about like vines in the wind, threatening to lash out at a moment's notice. "Mm, you might be at that for a while. The sun's getting low… the Winterwood's chill grows fiercer… will your friends really come looking for you out here? Or will they try their luck in the morning instead?"
"They'll come after me," Cassian insisted, trying his best to keep the wobble out of his voice. The omlarwoman's front paws—paw-like hands, if it mattered—were within a single meter of his boots now; her eyes locked on his face while she huffed out those heavy breaths. "They will. They're good people. Good men."
"Is that so?" she purred, lowering her head. "You were quite the good man to Wilkin over there. Are all your companions as generous as you?"
The mercenary scowled, face flushing a deeper shade of scarlet. "You shut up about him. He just fucked up is all—didn't deserve to go down that way," Cassian spat. "So, what, are you going to kill me next?"
"Kill you? Oh, goodness, no. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead," she chuckled. The displacer-woman straightened herself back up to standing, causing her breasts to return to their heavy slouch against her ribs. "No, I have something else in mind for you. Something you'll find more to your liking than dismemberment, I think."
Cassian eyed her warily, longsword still leveled at the ready. "Unlikely."
She didn't wait for a better jape from him. "I've been watching you while we talk. Noticing things. Your gaze, the way your posture changed when you noticed my appearance, how your eyes drift over my form. That odd twitch of your nose when you caught my scent on the breeze. Why, it's almost like you were—"
"No!" Cassian sputtered, shaking his head furiously. "Absolutely not!"
"—interested in me. Exactly," the omlarwoman said, her smirk widening. "It's Autumn, little human… and the displacer beasts of this forest want nothing to do with me—nor I them, even in the throes of desperation. Do you have any idea what it's like to go an entire mating season without the company of another? Without knowing the touch of a male?"
The mercenary's eyes widened. The tremor in his hands was affecting his blade now. "Can't say I do. I don't touch males if I can help it."
"Just brimming with cleverness." Her chuckle was a gravelly sound that oozed frustration. "Any women with you on this romp through the Winterwood, human? When's the last time you took a mate?"
Cassian's brow furrowed. He let the point of his sword fall a fraction of a degree. "Recently enough. It's not your business."
"So that's why you smell like lust and nerves," she murmured. "I can practically taste your arousal from here. What's the matter? Haven't laid eyes on a woman who could put you in your place before?"
She was circling him now, forcing him to rotate on shaky feet to keep his longsword angled towards her. Formulating replies was getting difficult. "I'm just fine with the ones I've had," he huffed.
"We're going to be here until the moon rises if you keep this up," she huffed. "Let's work on your trust issues." The displacer-woman's left tentacle lashed out at the grip of his longsword, knocking it clean out of Cassian's hands and sending it spinning off to the side. On complete impulse, Cassian spun on his heels and broke into the hardest run of his life. West. Southwest, maybe. That was where Dalibor would have set up camp by now. All he had to do was—
The omlarwoman crashed into him, bowling him over onto his stomach. His teeth rattled, and the air was forced from his lungs. When he opened his mouth to cry out, he found it filled with the onyx fur on her lower right wrist, pressing itself against his lips to prevent him from calling for help. The mercenary struggled, of course: trying to buck the omlarwoman off his back, twist out of her grip, anything that might loosen her hold on him. None of it worked. Her powerful legs held him to the ground, and her four hands were always right there to keep him contained. Even her barbed tentacles hovered just a few feet away, ready to sting and slash him should he miraculously break free.
"So predictable," she mocked. "You aren't getting away that easily."
"Unph! Rrrrnf!" Cassian's curses were muffled, his longsword nowhere in sight. She was just too heavy for him to shake off—especially with how the full weight of her chest was set upon his shoulder blades.
"We're going to stay like this until you stop struggling," she murmured, leaning in close to Cassian's ear. "You'll get tired eventually."
He kept thrashing, unable to buy into her promises. This creature was dangerous, and he had to get away! Had to!
The omlarwoman sighed, shifting her weight around atop Cassian. One paw-hand kept his vocalizations to a minimum, while the other three busied themselves elsewhere. Cassian felt the warmth of her breath on his neck, then a lick across the side of it. The mercenary went stiff, hands scrambling at the dirt beneath him for something—anything—he might use to escape. There was nothing, of course. Just the ground.
"Poor little human. Your pale, creamy skin is so cold. The Winterwood is so harsh on your body." Her tongue traced a trail from his neck up to the curve of his earlobe. Cassian shivered, his eyes screwing shut. "And here I am, a warm creature with no one to keep me company, desperate to feel a man's embrace. We could help each other, you and I."
The mercenary panted against the ground, giving up on his efforts to buck her off. She was too big, too heavy, and far too close to ignore. Her voice had already lowered his defenses and stirred feelings in him he wasn't ready to acknowledge. He could feel her tail twitching against his ankles, her breaths tickling the side of his face. Cassian was still preoccupied with notions of escape, but the thought of what might happen if he did stay was starting to sound enticing.
"There we are. See? That's better," she cooed, still licking along his cheek. "If I take my hand off your mouth, will you scream, human?"
Cassian shook his head.
"Good." The omlarwoman pulled the massive paw-hand away from his face, moving it to rub at his jawline instead. Cassian sucked in a few deep breaths of cool air, focusing on steadying his frayed nerves. "Now, what shall I call you?"
"…Cassian," he muttered. "My name's Cassian."
"Cassian," she echoed. "That has a nice ring to it. My name is Nezetta."