For months, a hunter has followed the same trail across forests and frozen ground. Every site he reaches bears the same aftermath – torn earth, splintered wood, and bodies left in positions no struggle explains. Only one set of tracks ever leaves.
The trail leads north, to a quiet village that does not appear on most maps, built around something older than its walls.
He came to finish what he started.
The land does not seem inclined to let him.
-
Lapland, 1895
The weather showed no mercy in this region at this time of year. Heavy snow settled over the land, forests stretching across entire regions before giving way to signs of civilization. During winter, the distinction between day and night began to lose its meaning. With only a few hours of daylight, darkness became the dominant state, interrupted at most by a damp, pale brightness.
It was night, yet not entirely dark. Snow reflected what little ambient light remained, turning the world into a washed-out expanse of blue and grey. This lingering twilight was the norm. Time did not progress cleanly here, blurring and stretching as if the land itself had grown indifferent to the passage of hours.Crossing these lands was slow and relentless, only motivated by matters of necessity rather than choice. The cold was far from the only dangers this tree-lined waste held.
He threw another log into the fire before him. The wood was barely dry, yet it served its purpose. The warmth the fire emitted was not one meant to provide, and the smell did nothing to resemble comfort either. He stared at the remains before him as the fire slowly consumed them.
He did not need to count the limbs; it was obvious there were too many. Where the head should have been, something else rested instead, neither animal nor human. He had separated it from the torso earlier, just to be sure.
His gaze lingered, but he did not try, nor want, to elaborate on what was slowly burning away in the flames before him. He was not certain what they were or where they came from. He had simply learned how to kill them over time, through trial and costly error.
He turned a large hunting knife in his hand. With a loose cloth, he wiped every trace from the blade, watching as the remains were reduced to ash. By the time the fire had lessened, indicating there was nothing left to burn, his knife was clean. All of them were.After one last look at the fire, he turned and slung his hunting rifle over his shoulder.
They differ in appearance. They do not differ in nature.
He has only ever called them “Remnants”.