“Tarafel. Everyone I’ve ever spoken to about that infamous forest has their own tall tales about it. My travels have taken me far and wide in these lands, and everywhere I go I find the same superstitions.
“It was at Riverside that I found a senile old fisherman who wished nothing more than to share his wisdom with me. I made the mistake of mentioning the forest as a joke to a couple townspeople. I had thought that the fisherman’s attention was busy patching up his small wooden boat. Between the swings of his hammer he scolded me for my ignorance.
“’I take it you’ve never seen Tarafel with your own eyes, hmm? Don’t speak about what you don’t know, lad. Those woods are cursed. All manner of beasts in them woods will tear you apart quicker than you know what got you. And if it ain’t the creepies that do it, it’ll be Sid’ris Faris and his brood. Tarafel’s HIS woods, and death itself ain’t gonna stop him from keeping it.’”
“Apparently, the man’s words carried with them the superstitions of the whole town. Those that were chatting and laughing with me seconds ago grew quiet. They averted their gaze and said nothing further on the subject. They concluded their business with me and sent me on my way later that day.
“Just once, I’d like to talk to the locals of one of those highland towns and not be asked to leave immediately afterwards.”
-GTT

      He could smell it. Something that didn’t belong. The stench crept towards where he slept like a snake until it coiled around his throat and choked him. It smelled of brimstone; something acrid and toxic.  

     Smell of death.

      It unnerved him and made him twitch and scuffle in his bed. He was restless and kept eyeing the door. It was open as it always was. Master never closes door. Always open to Ishmael.

      The master sleeping on the other side of the room didn’t stir when a gust of wind rattled through the doors and windows and brought the stench in stronger. Ishmael wasn’t as fortunate; his senses wouldn’t allow the same ignorance. Ishmael’s canine nose detected infinite more complexities than his master’s ever could, but he still couldn’t determine what he smelled. However, he knew how to find the source. The trail shined like a beacon for him to follow through the forest. Follow the smell, find the dead.

      Ishmael straightened his back and legs to stretch out the sleeping stiffness. Padded feet crept towards the open door. He was ever so careful to not let nails clank on the wooden floor. The man stirred in his sleep and mumbled quietly. Ishmael turned his long head back and cocked it to the side.

      Master wants to know the dead smell. Master approves of Ishmael. The man grunted something about “food”, “elves”, and “tastes like shit”, then rolled over.

      The black wolf took the foreign scent in deep. It made his stomach roll. This was a new smell and it filled him with anxiety, fear, and anger all at once.

          Master approves of Ishmael. With that thought to comfort him, he bounded alone into the forest of Tarafel.

#

      His sharp nails bit deep into the dirt when he ran. Tarafel was in summer now, and the humid heat hung to Ishmael’s coat like a wet blanket. It made him pant and breathe hard, which only made the warm weather insects all the more intolerable. They buzzed like clouds of shifting blackness when the wolf bounded through them. They stung his eyes and tongue and the ones that managed to latch on were now nipping at his skin. He tried closing his mouth as he ran but was soon overcome with heat and exhaustion. He longed for a stream.

      Of course, he knew where to find one. This forest was his home and he knew it well. He came upon the stream hesitantly. This was one of the most dangerous necessities in Tarafel. Predators lurk here, waiting for those that would always come close to the water. Such a trap wasn’t out of even his methods. But he was far from the biggest beast in this forest. The bears rarely posed any threat to him, always troubling themselves with easier prey. The geists would be sleeping then. Nightfall was their time, and the entire forest would become their territory.

      Still, Ishmael kept his distance whenever he could. A full-grown hungry bear could easily overpower the wolf if given the proper motivation. As could a great serpent, or a basilisk; most hunters that generally left him alone. Yet, hunger was the breaker of balance in the forest. Ishmael knew when to tread carefully. He crept just away from the steam, and watched, listened, and smelled. Try as he might though, he couldn’t pick up any animals nearby. He was growing closer to the dead smell and he couldn’t discern anything through the cover it blanketed on his senses.

      Finally satisfied, Ishmael went in for his drink. He was irritated at the bugs swirling around his head and biting his skin. The water tasted pungent, and Ishmael repelled. Tastes like the death. The scent was poisoning his mind. Ishmael knew the water was fine and unspoiled. His mind was still victim to the smell that roused him from his bed. He went back to his drink and took his share of the foul-tasting water. He had no time for illusions. Master needs to know dead smell. Dead smell very wrong.

      Ishmael resumed his run at a fevered pace. He must find the source soon, he knew. Tarafel was his home and it was sick. He came to a road, more than one in fact. A splitting of the roads, as was marked by a great archway above where one road turned to three.

      This was the work of the elves. A curved archway of grey stone that was once a shimmering white. Master looks upon it often, his gaze on the markings that litter it. Why he looked upon them with such attention is something Ishmael never did understand. Roads were another thing he did his best to avoid. Those that walked them could hurt Ishmael. They carried weapons that even he couldn’t outrun. They were fast and could kill beasts like the bears quicker than he could bring down a young rabbit. None of them liked Ishmael either. The big ones that walk on four legs always swat at him with sticks, and they never look where they step. Horse men that smelled of dust and sweat. “Centaurs” is what he heard master call them. Fortunate today that the roads were quiet, and Ishmael doubted whether the dead smell could overpower the centaur stink. He smelled nothing, and the dirt on the roads was still and undisturbed. Centaurs not out today. Back at home with the elves.

      Ishmael kept running, and soon the road was far behind him. Deeper into Tarafel he ran, and with each step the smell grew stronger. The sun was high now. He had been running for a long time and was very far from home. Master wouldn’t worry though;Ishmael was often not at home. He often hunted alone. Door is always open for Ishmael. Master approves of him. A long time is needed before any worry over him would happen.

      The wolf’s mind was on his master and his bed, and he nearly ran past what he had sought all morning. Ishmael’s sprint stopped. The face of the cave was nearly undistinguishable from the dense foliage that draped over it like a curtain. His yellow canine eyes looked past the vines to the darkness beyond. The stones that built the entrance were jet black, the stones from deep underground. Brought up from the depths by the elves during the Mortal War centuries ago. Behind the shades of green of the forest, the black rocks were nearly undetectable. Even a native inhabitant such as Ishmael nearly overlooked it. The plant life was also encouraged, by the elves, to disguise the entrance. Such manipulations were commonplace among their kind. The result was quite convincing. A pretty façade from a time long since passed.

      Ahead of Ishmael laid the bowels of Tarafel itself. The vines swept back and forth on the precipice of darkness. Like tangle weeds floating on the surface of a still black sea, keeping hidden what dwelled underneath. Master never goes in dark places. Master stays away from dark things underneath. Ishmael knew though, what dwelled inside. He didn’t detect their presence in the scent before, but now that he was close, it was unmistakable. Lurkers were inside.

      The many legged fiends that crept the walls of the underground. Ishmael had been careless to walk so close without investigating. He had seen a lurker only once before. He was chasing a rabbit through the brush some time ago. This one had been quick, put up quite a chase before finding the cave. Ishmael was close, so close he almost ignored the acrid smell assaulting his senses when he closed in. But then, master was there. He had been following, and when he saw Ishmael near the cave, he shouted his name. His voice was urgent. The wolf stopped, of course. His blood was surging through his limbs from the thrill of the hunt and he knew as soon as his prey found the dark of that cave it would be gone.

      How right he had been. The rabbit never saw it attack. Ishmael almost missed it himself, but he wasn’t the one preoccupied with fleeing for his life. The lurker was lying in wait inside the wall, coiled and ready. Dozens of legs locked into the stone, keeping it just above ground and thus at a more advantageous position. It snapped like a serpent, taking the rabbit in two great pincers near its jaws. The rabbit squealed in surprise and pain, then disappeared. Ishmael heard the skittering of legs on rock descend deeper underground. He felt the sweat grow cold against his body. Then master put his hand on his head. His eyes met Ishmael’s and the wolf heard what was not said; ‘don’t go into the darkness.’

      Ishmael had since given the caves a wide berth, but not that day. That day he was distracted again, driven by the dead smell that didn’t belong instead of the rabbit. He had wandered too close to a lurker’s cave. Yet, all was still. No noiseless bugs striking from the darkness. Though, he smelled them. He was closer now than he was before. He sensed them more clearly. There were lurkers within, many of them.

      A nest, perhaps? Where they took their food, like the rabbit. It smelled of corpses. He could taste the flesh but something lied within it that nauseated his stomach. A fire that ran deep inside the blood. Venom. The lurker’s toxin that they pump inside their prey before they feed. Something else was inside too. The smell that roused him from his bed. The other dead smell, the one that didn’t belong.

      Follow the smell, find the dead. The hairs on the wolf’s crest were on end when he walked through the hanging plants. Master approves of Ishmael. Darkness greeted him immediately, but his yellow eyes soon made sense of it. He scanned the walls and ceiling, but neither saw nor heard any movement at all. The stone floor was damp and Ishmael took an immediate disliking to the touch. He was fast in the open forest, his paws gripping the soft ground, but here felt off-balance and cumbersome. He pushed onward and put his nose to the stone. The cave system broke off too many paths and he had no desire to pick the wrong one. He heard nothing but the occasional dripping from the walls down each one. He managed to get a grasp on the scent, and descended down one of the tunnels. Fast! Find it and flee!

      Fortune favored the wolf and he didn’t need to venture far. He banked a sharp turn and was overpowered with the stench and came face to face with a strange sight. A body to be sure, and most certainly dead. It was unlike anything Ishmael had ever seen. It looked vaguely like the horse-men that always treated him with such disdain. The ones that swatted at him and shooed him away whenever he accompanied master to the gathering place. It was large like them as well, tall stature and fur covered legs too. Except, this one’s skin was red. It also appeared to have walked on two legs and not four. What struck the wolf the most, besides its stench, were the sharp horns atop its head. They protruded outwards and then back behind it. They were black, jagged, and rough; not at all smooth like a bull. It reminded Ishmael of a different animal; one he couldn’t recall.

      Its face looked to be in agony. Its last moments must’ve been unbearable. Then, Ishmael knew why. It was torn open at the stomach, and the surrounding flesh was spotted black and green. Lurker bites. Flesh dies before you do. Ishmael smelled the bug’s stench all over this thing. He remembered then how much he didn’t want to be there.

      Master needs to know of the dead thing. Ishmael knew he couldn’t drag this body to his master’s home, nor could he ask master to follow him back to this ghastly cave. How to tell master of the dead thing? His eyes scanned the body for something… anything to take with him. He had little desire to put his mouth anywhere near the putrid flesh. The smell of it alone made him squirm. Ishmael decided on the next best thing; the horns. He had never seen ones like it before, but maybe master had.

      As soon as he clamped down on one of the horns, he tasted the foulness of it. It burned his tongue and made his muzzle tingle where it touched. Ishmael pulled and fought desperately to tear it free. The rotting around the thing’s stomach gave the whole body a false sense of decay. In truth, the body had only been dead a short while, a couple days max. Ripping a horn from its head was proving more difficult than Ishmael had anticipated. He tugged harder, and harder. So, caught up in the act that he didn’t hear the quiet sound of skittering legs above him. At least, not at first. He picked up the sound mere seconds before the lurker struck.

      The wolf leapt backward just as a rather large lurker snapped down at what would’ve been Ishmael’s neck. Despite its stealth and lethality, the lurker was still just an insect and possessed an insect’s brain. It committed too much and had leapt from the ceiling to make its attack. Upon the wolf’s hasty retreat, the lurker’s hard carapace slammed into the cave floor. The fall didn’t hurt the insect however, just made it struggle to find its footing long enough for Ishmael to make his move.

      Ishmael didn’t hesitate when he saw his opening and pounced on the lurker’s back. The wolf’s jaws clamped down just below its head. His weight dwarfed the slender insects and Ishmael used that to pin it to the rock. The lurker fought to swing its head free. Its foot-long pincers snapped endlessly, wanting any part of the wolf to bite. When that didn’t work, the lurker tried coiling its lower body in a ball to get some leverage. But the weight of Ishmael’s full body pinning it to the ground was too much for it to bear. The wolf’s teeth broke through the hard carapace and flooded his senses with the horrid taste of its sticky green ichor. But Ishmael refused to relent. The lurker chittered so violently and loudly than it could’ve been mistaken for a scream. Then the wolf’s jaws clamped shut and the insect’s head split from its twitching body.

      Ishmael leapt back and growled at the body that still twisted and writhed. Its hundred legs kicked sporadically at rock and air. The wolf fought to ignore the acrid burning taste in his mouth and focused his gaze on the insect’s last few moments. The waiting seemed like an eternity to Ishmael.

      Eventually the kicking stopped, and when Ishmael was satisfied it wouldn’t spring back up to life, he cautiously stepped forward. The green ooze that exploded from its severed body was all over the rocks. Ishmael loathed every second his paws had to touch it. It was still warm and it clung to his fur like sap. The wolf hesitantly approached the red corpse again and bit down on the same horn. He pulled a half dozen more times before it finally loosened in the skull. With a final tug the horn tore free and left Ishmael stumbling back with his new prize. Now with the horn fully secure in his mouth, he couldn’t determine if the lurker’s ichor wasn’t the lesser of two evils to taste. Master needs to know dead thing. Master approves of Ishmael.

      The second Ishmael walked back out into the sunlight he heard the skittering of more lurkers in the tunnels. No doubt attracted to the commotion of the fight that just took place. The dying screech of the insect certainly could’ve been the cry for help to his hive. Regardless, Ishmael was elated to be out above ground. He burst forth towards his home with pride. Master approves of Ishmael.

      Unfortunately, the wolf’s high soon dissipated and left behind a nagging uneasiness in his stomach. The trees above soon swayed and danced in his vision and he found himself stumbling over roots he had roamed over all his life. He never fell while running in those woods, not since he was a pup. His stomach was nauseas, his eyes watered, and he felt hotter than ever. The horn in his jaws felt heavier than stone, it was a struggle to keep it from slipping.

      The run turned into a jog by the time he passed over the elven road. He didn’t look up at the archway this time. His only focus was on the path home. The jog dissipated to a walk after he stopped for a drink in the same creek he had when the day began. Ishmael didn’t investigate the water first, or the bushes, or the trees. He didn’t even care that everywhere the water touched in his mouth sent swirling waves of fire down his throat. Still, he picked the horn back up and carried on.

      It was by some miracle that Ishmael made it back to the house at all. He staggered in through the open door, barely able to move his legs. Master looked up from his desk. His face was stricken with the shock of seeing his friend so weak. Had Ishmael the capability, he would’ve laughed at seeing such a bewildered face on his master. Instead all he could muster was relaxing his jaws just enough for the horn to slip free and slam thunderously to the floor. It splattered onto the wood and rolled back and forth. Some traces of the lurker’s ichor still inside a few of its cracks.

      Ishmael saw his bed in the corner. He was in such a good sleep when the smell had rudely awoken him. It looked warm and soft now.

      “Ishmael!” Master yelled. But the wolf didn’t hear it. His last thought was of his bed, and its warmth. Then, Ishmael the wolf collapsed.