Cold wind snapped the rope of a caravaner's tent blowing up the canvas, leaving the man to flail for the flying cloth before the gust blew anything else away. He watched as men, bundled from the snow, rushed to help pin the canvas down. It was quite a struggle to witness, and just as amusing. In the same turn, however, a snapped rope could possibly mean the difference between life and death in this land of bitter cold. They were far from Hyoite, as he'd come to learn the village to be called, and on their way to another settlement deep in the frozen landscape, buried possibly under wind and snow he'd imagined. He'd never seen so much white in all his life, it was almost as if this was the edge of the earth surely. He turned his eyes back as the caravaners successfully drove the stake into the ground that held the loosened rope. Another family would survive the brutal wind tonight.
Theon vaguely recalled how he'd come to venture this far, or why he had. It rarely mattered anymore, the direction his dreams had taken him, since after all this time of searching he'd come across nothing that would give him some kind of sign, some kind of direction as to why he came here, the key to his memories. But there was nothing, he was left with nothing. Just a sword the glimmered like soft moonlight in the darkening sky and a crow that had burrowed himself in the warmth of his borrowed tent, to help him on a futile search for something that seemed as intangible as the wind.
Strange was this land, open and broad, but he was oddly eager to venture into this unknown landscape, no longer caring as much to find what the future held for him, for it was a terrifying thing that he wanted nothing to do with. And yet...he did not have a choice anyway. For before his mind flashed the shifting visions of unshakeable omens, or petulant hopes, broken dreams, of things he didn't understand and people he'd never met...perhaps only to meet them at their moment of doom.
But he'd been lucky. It had been many months since his last vision and he'd finally come to learn what it was to sleep, truly and deeply. He'd met these caravaners passing through the valley and he'd paid his fare to travel with them, more for the company than because he was headed in their direction. He didn't know this land as well as they did. He spoke sparingly and only when necessary for they asked the expected pressing questions that he could only answer with nods and vague explanations that explained nothing at all.
Theon crawled in the small canvas provided to him. His managed to evade the wind much better than the others since it was lower to the ground. He heard it rustle lightly against the material as he knotted the entrance shut and laid across on a mat, closing his eyes. It did not take him long to drift away into the bliss of nothingness that his sleep had become.
Nothingness. Then white. White snow. The valley. An open, broad, expanse of near emptiness. No sign of life in sight, not a creature, not a cry nor a howl. The air was light, blowing soft gusts of snow, swirling in small tornadoes. But something was wrong...there was suddenly red on white and screams in the air; the sounds of wholesale massacre. The sounds got louder, the cries of men as they tried to run for safey, for their lives, and it sent chills down his spine as Theon tossed in his sleep, unable to wake. Men ran, only to be cut down by something unseen, large gashes splayed across backs and faces and chests, painting the snow with their life's blood.
His stomach turned with what came before his eyes. Theon waited, holding his breath when the air abruptly became silent. He listened, waiting to hear something, a moan of pain, someone calling for aid. Just nothing. Not even the crunch of snow signaling departure. Even the air became still.
Theon awoke from the dream, his skin suddenly warm despite the cold. The crow jumped and ruffled his feathers at the sudden start and looked at him with alarmed glossy eyes. Theon leaned up on his elbows, and wrapped the cloak he'd been using for a blanket around his shoulders. His heart was pounding hard in his chest as he prayed hope against hope for it to be a dream. Nothing more than a dream. But the cold stone in his stomach told him he knew otherwise. He never dreamed. Theon twisted around in that tight space, clutching the hilt of Lohengrin at his side, shaking hand reaching to part the opening of the tent. He held his breath for a moment too long before rushing out into the snow. An arm reached out to shield his eyes from the blasting snow around him, blowing hard to blind his sight, cloak ripping high against the wind. Though it was difficult to see, he could see the dream was not a dream. The vision was real.
The caravaners were dead. All of them. Their bodies lain in the snow. He rushed into the blazing white, peering all around him. His body was numb to the cold as his heart beat faster in his horror. What had done this? Who!? He found no tracks in the snow, neither that of an animal nor a man. But suddenly as he turned, he saw the shape of something in the distance, drifting away, leaving no trace of passage but the slaughter in its wake. He pursued it, screaming, "Stop!" at the top of his lungs, but it vanished into the darkness.
Theon turned back to the circle of broken tents, of the hideous display before him, stepping back toward the scene. He knelt down beside one of the victims, carefully rolling the middle-aged man over. The claw marks on his body were large and wide spread, and uneven in many places. He didn't suffer for long. Theon searched the nearby area for animal tracks, but found nothing of the sort. The only disturbed snow was where they came in to make camp and where he ran in pursuit.
It was obvious that whatever had done this was clearly neither man nor an animal. Theon fell to his knees amidst the snow, trying to control his turning stomach, trying understand what just happened...and why he'd been spared.
