I tied a long piece of twine to a stick, fastening a small sharp stick at the end. I tore up some of the bird meat to use as bait. With my crude fishing rod and a pouch full of bait, I set out onto the lake.
As I walked toward the center, I wondered what fish did in cold weather. Did they hibernate like bears? Bury themselves in the mud like frogs? Or did they die off, leaving eggs behind to hatch in spring? No—that couldn't be right. Fish must live longer than a year.
When I reached the center, I broke through the ice with my stone axe and cleared away the loose chunks. Afterward, I went to grab a piece of tree trunk I could use as a seat. On the way back, I saw a cloud that looked like a face. I stared at it until a gust of wind twisted it apart. The face dissolved into the sky, fragmenting into sixteen smaller clouds.
As I fished, my mind drifted. I thought about how I got here—my memory only goes back to the car crash, then the hospital room. But I remember my first night here perfectly. Anyone would. The mangled corpse of a man with a fake smile... I'd have better memories if it weren't for this damn snow, the sun-choking clouds, and that fucking Wendigo. I can't go twenty minutes without looking over my shoulder, without feeling like it's watching me.
Before I could spiral deeper, I felt a tug on the line. I pulled with all my strength, and a fish shot out of the water, still clamped to the bait. It smacked against the ice, flopping violently. I rushed over and stabbed it in the head with my pocketknife.
"I did it! I caught a fish!" I kept repeating it, not out of joy, but disbelief. I didn't think it would work. I thought fish slept through the winter like bears. Maybe these ones are just different. Either way, I had proof—I did it.
I placed the fish beside me and kept going. Over the next three hours, I broke ice at different spots and caught eleven more fish—each about the size of my forearm. It was enough food to keep me alive for a while.
As I started walking back to the hut, I realized how dark it had gotten. I'd wandered farther than I thought. The cold air stung my lungs—and then I saw it: my magic circle.
Name: IvanMagic: NoneTitles: Lost One, Trap Smith
Proficiencies:
Medical Equipment (7/100)
Crude Lumber Tools (28/100)
Polearms (7/100)
Archery Weapons (3/100)
Crude Traps (10/100)
Basic Craftsmanship (21/100)
Crude Leatherworking (2/100)
Crude Mapping (3/100)
Crude Fishing Utilities (5/100)
Weapon Masteries:
Crude Spear (22/1000)
Crude Bow (19/1000)
Status Effects:
Cold
Paranoid +2
Brain Damage
Wendigo's Curse +2
Hunted
What does it mean?
I dropped the fish and drew my spear, scanning the treeline. My eyes darted back and forth. I turned slowly, watching every direction.
If it's that damn Wendigo… I'm ready. It won't get me this time.
The wind swirled around me—mocking me, helping the thing that hunts me.
Whoosh—
Fissst—
Fwoosh—
Crack…
Crack.
No. It couldn't have—
The ice shattered beneath me. Three feet thick, and it broke through like paper. It grabbed me and yanked me under.
The cold hit like a wall. I thrashed and kicked, trying to swim up, but slammed into solid ice. I opened my eyes—the freezing water burned—but I couldn't see clearly. I couldn't find the Wendigo.
Until it found me.
Its claws tore through my stomach and chest.
I stabbed in the dark. My spear connected—barely—but it didn't matter. It didn't slow down.
Its claws raked across the side of my head, ripping open my cheek.
Then it slammed its claws into my chest and hurled me through the ice, up into the air. I crashed hard against the frozen ground, vision blurring, warmth flooding out of me.
Then the pain hit. Paralyzing.
"Khh—hhkk...""Khh—hhkk..."
Each breath was a stab. I coughed, and blood sprayed from my lips. Every inhale squirted crimson from the gashes in my chest. It bubbled in my throat. I couldn't tell if I was breathing or drowning in myself.
But I moved.
Somehow, I moved.
I forced myself to my feet. My hands pressed over my wounds. Slippery. Soaked. I was losing blood by the second—but I ran. I ran toward the traps I'd set, toward my last chance.
I sprinted across the frozen lake, my boots skidding on the slick surface. I could barely hold the axe in my hand. I wanted my spear. I should've pulled it from the water. I was stupid.
But the axe would have to do.
Suddenly, my right leg buckled.
I collapsed, face-first into the snow. Agony flared up my thigh, through my hip. I turned my head—
—and there it was.The Wendigo.Walking. Calm. Patient.
Like a man stepping out of his home to check the mail.
Its dead-black eyes never left mine.
I was prey.
I tried to stand. My leg screamed. I couldn't make it bend. So I crawled. Hands digging into the snow. My chest left a trail of blood behind me, crimson soaking into white. The Wendigo didn't run. It didn't need to. It growled, low and satisfied.
I reached the trees and pulled myself up using a pine trunk. Bark crumbled under my gloves. I was panting. Freezing. Bleeding.
But I ran.
The woods blurred around me. Branches whipped my face. Snow crunched beneath my boots. Somewhere behind me, trees shattered as it gave chase.
Closer.
Faster.
I stumbled toward the nearest trap—a crude log trap I'd hoisted into the canopy. I could see the rope. The trip wire. I could see salvation.
And the Wendigo.
It was already there.
It stared at me as it raised one claw and slashed through the rope.
The log snapped forward like a hammer, slamming into my ribs and launching me backward. I flew—hit the snow-covered hill—and rolled. My back screamed in protest. My side felt like it had caved in.
I wasn't prepared.
I should've known it was watching. Always watching.
I staggered to my feet, coughing blood. A red spray against the snow. I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop.
I ran.
Branches snapped behind me like gunshots. The thing was chasing me again, faster this time. I could hear its claws slashing bark just inches from where my head had been.
It was toying with me.
It wanted to see me squirm.
But then—I saw it.
The hut. My shelter. My only cover.
No trees now. No cover. Just open ground between me and safety.
It would catch me.
I stopped. Turned. Raised the axe.
As it lunged, I swung with all the force left in me.
Crack.
The blade struck its skull. Its deer-like mask split down the center, jagged and ugly. Black ichor spilled from the fracture like tar.
It screamed—not loud, not angry. Just... wrong. Like a dying wind, twisted and full of hunger.
I jumped back, narrowly dodging its retaliatory swing. It went for my neck. Missed by inches.
I hit the snow, scrambled up, and ran.
But I wasn't fast enough.
Its claws slashed diagonally—from my lower right hip, across my back, to my left shoulder. Flesh tore open. Blood sprayed. I screamed.
The blow launched me.
I soared through the air, limbs flailing—crashed through the hut's roof with a splintering explosion of wood and snow—and slammed onto the floor.
Then—nothing.
Just blood. Cold. Breathless silence.
And the distant sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunching through the snow.
Coming closer.