Unused chapter one - Songbirds, The Fox and the Crow
Corva
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ with me,” Corva cursed under his breath. His blade was still wet with blood, along with his torn white blouse. Circling him was a hulking gray beast of leathery wings and fangs itching to sink into his now bleeding thigh once again. Corva remained still, knowing any sudden move would trigger another attack from the beast, which he couldn’t afford right now. Not until he could think clearly. Though his leg was wounded, the creature was only working with one eye and tattered wings. It bared its fangs and with a stomp, shook the ground in an attempt to further intimidate Corva. The man only growled back.
“Just a few wolves gettin’ too close to my cattle,” that damned farmer told him. It should have been a red flag to Corva that a dwarven woman was too afraid to fight off a few wolves, especially if it meant protecting her means of living. He should have pestered harder when she refused to let him see the wounds left on the cows or tell him how many wolves she thought it was. He should’ve spat in her face when she only offered him four pieces of gold. He had no idea what the hell that thing was but four gold was not cutting it. The agitated roar of the beast broke Corva from his thoughts. He focused back on the beast only to see its teeth locking onto his arm. He dropped the blade and spun around, catching it in his other hand. He pushed the rusted bastard sword upwards, into the beast’s jugular. It spat blood onto Corva as it backed away, flapping its wings desperately. Corva fell onto his back as he ripped a piece of his shirt to wrap his bleeding arm. With his mouth and his good arm he made a tight tourniquet and tried to scramble back to his feet.
Much to his surprise, the beast made it off the ground. He didn’t lower his guard entirely, knowing it wouldn’t make it far, and that it wasn’t done with him. Corva pushed his black and ginger locs from his face, and reached into his boot for another blade. He started walking towards the woods when the scream rang out from behind him. The beast jumped down onto Corva from the trees. He rolled away in the nick of time, and the beast fell onto its back with a crunch. It struggled back to its feet, flapping its wings in hopes of rolling off its back. It was as good as dead, Corva thought. And he saw no reason to let the thing continue living in agony. He wobbled back to his feet and began walking towards it. “You fought well, my friend. Dayo’s warm embrace awaits you next,” he whispered to it gently. The beast’s red eyes were wide with fear as it fought for its life. If he had known better he would believe the beast was about to cry. Corva had gotten about a foot away from it, when it made one last leap at Corva, who drew his blade to its chest and sliced it open as it passed over him.
It let out a blood-curdling scream as its guts fell from its body. The warmth of the creature’s bowels falling onto Corva was almost welcomed during the brisk autumn night, but the smell made him wish he never accepted the job. He gagged, limping away from the stench as fast as he could. After taking a few breaths of fresh air, he made his way back to the monster.
His sword was still lodged in its throat, much to his delight. He removed the sword, beginning to hack away at the beast’s neck until its head was all but hanging by a thread. He pulled upon its large ears until the head was fully detached and placed it into a bag. Once the head was removed, the body began to convulse again. It shrunk and reformed into the body of an elven woman. Her skin was pale and freckled. Upon her left breast was a faintly glowing symbol he didn’t quite recognize. Shrugging, he ripped off the remainder of his blouse and placed it upon the woman’s body. He wrapped her up best he could and carefully picked her up. Perhaps the farmer has an answer for this as well.
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The farmer was up before the sun, cooking her little heart out. She wasn’t much in the way of money but she was nothing to mess with when it came to making the meanest breakfast in all the countryside. Beans, eggs, ham, thick slices of bacon, all being cooked at once and slathered onto a giant plate for her, her son, and the rat catcher -- if they made it through the night. She finished off their plates with large stacks of potato pancakes and wiped her brow of sweat. She called for her son, and received no response. She called again, and again, her heart beginning to race. She waddled outside as fast as she could, panic creeping into her voice as she called. “Harold! Harold!” She cried. Still nothing. She ran down the path towards the cattle, and saw Corva limping up the path with a body in his hands. The farmer went limp, falling to her knees. Tears began running down her now red face as the man approached. “No, no not my boy!” she sobbed. “I told him to stay in the house, I told him to fight it!”
“Do… M-my apologies ma’am but did you know her?” Corva asked and gently placed the body of the woman in front of her. The farmer’s ear twitched at the word ‘her’. “P-Pardon?” She wiped her eyes and looked at the body in front of her. It was a tall elven woman. She began wiping her eyes. “Is… Is this the werewolf you killed?” she asked. Corva raised an eyebrow. “So you knew I wasn’t just fighting a wolf?” he asked with a kinked eyebrow. The farmer bit her lip, not making eye contact. “W-well… I knew you weren’t facing anything dangerous.... O-or I thought,” she said before gagging. Corva smelled of death, and looked like it too. Blood and grass were matted in his locs, his dark, umber skin was still glistening with the red blood of the beast he just slain. The farmer nearly vomited as she stumbled away from him. “W-were you rolling in it?”
“Have you ever seen a skin brand or tattoo like this before?” Corva asked and pointed to the woman’s breast. The farmer held her nose and looked at it. It was perfectly symmetrical, a mess of curling lines that resembled a snarling vampire bat. Despite the body being decapitated and split open, the mark was still glowing red. The longer she stared, the brighter the mark became. The farmer shook her head and backed away. “Haven’t seen this symbol in years,” she said. “It looks like a mark of the Bloodwives, but it couldn’t be. There’s no way you’d survive fighting a werebat,” she said. Corva opened the sack he had on his back and pulled out the oversized bat head, mouth still agape and fur matted with blood. “What’s this then?” he asked. The farmer gasped. “Put that ghastly thing away!” she shrieked. Corva nodded and put it back in the sack. He offered her his hand to help her up. With a slight nod, she thanked him. “Say, Rat-catcher. You didn’t happen to see a boy out there, have you? Not too much younger than yourself? Black hair and br… gold eyes?”
“Only people for miles were me and her, ma’am,” he sighed and went to wrap the corpse back up. The farmer bit her lip again. “A-ah, arlight. A-and nothing else fought with you last night?” Corva hoisted the woman back in his arms again and shot the farmer a dirty look. “You hired me for a hit, didn’t you?”
“No! No, it’s nothing like that!” the farmer blurted. “I-I told you no lethal force unless it got violent! ‘Cause the wolf. T-the wolf I wanted you to deter. H-he’s important to me, he’s my little Harry…” She started tearing up again when she heard something rustling in the bushes nearby. Corva drew his dagger and stood in front of the farmer. A young man of long, black hair walked from the woods, his shirt and pants were busted at the seams. They were dirty and looked like they were dragged through the mud. His eyes were light brown and his mouth was covered in a dark, dry substance that he knew for a fact was blood -- and thankfully not human blood. The farmer screamed and tackled the boy. “My son!” she sobbed. The man slowly wrapped his arms around his mother, then glared at Corva and began growling. She nearly got that boy killed, Corva thought to himself as he watched the gangly man’s hair puff up like an angry cat. The Farmer slapped Harold upside the head. “This man saved you from becoming bat food, you show him respect!” she scolded. Harold rubbed the back of his head and stopped growling, but stood behind his mother still. “Thanks,” he muttered. Corva sighed. “No need to thank me, your mother paid a hefty amount of coin for your safety” he announced. “But you could go on ‘n give me a hand with that body--” Corva’s voice trailed off as he realized the woman’s body was gone. He looked at the farmer, who looked back at him. “It’s not like she could have ran off! She’s a bloody corpse!”
“Then, explain where the hell she went!” Corva snapped. Corva limped over to where the body was and looked for any sign of the body being dragged away by an animal. There was nothing but human footprints. Dainty, human footprints. Corva’s eyes went wide. She’s alive. How is she alive, she has no head? Things can’t be alive without a head, that’s impossible. Corva turned back around to the farmer and her son. “C-can you tell me anything else you know about these-- what did you call them? Blood bitches?” Corva asked and started limping back towards them. The farmer shook her head. “Never mind that. We’ll burn that bridge when we get there, love. You need t’’ bathe and get those wounds checked out.” Corva did not want to hear that. He wanted to finish off that abomination but now that he’s being told to relax he can’t think of anything else but to do that. “I… I suppose it can wait now that you mention it,” he said, damning himself for not turning her down. The Farmer smiled. “Harry, help Corva to the house now, will you?” she asked. The man nodded and walked over to Corva who offered him his hand. Harry hoisted Corva into the air and over his shoulder, causing the older man to let out a high pitched ‘yip!’ of shock. “I-I can’t walk, really--”
“Quiet,” Harold barked and readjusted the man on his shoulder. With his free hand he held onto his mother and became her crutch as they made it up the hill to the house. Corva groaned and watched the trail grow farther and farther away as the boy carried him away. He felt Harold nudge the farmer, who in turn slapped his hand. “You gotta learn, Harry!” she scolded. Harold sighed and cleared his throat. “Cor. Corva. Corva i-is your name, right?” he asked. The farmer clapped. “Good job!” Corva rolled his eyes. “You’re a new werewolf ain’t ya?” Corva asked. Harold slowly nodded. Corva snickered. “It gets easier after two years worth of moons. Don’t rush it. We can talk when you’re back to yourself.” Harold looked to his mother who only threw her hands up in response. Harold rested his head on Corva’s back. The man took it as a strange gesture of gratitude, and patted Harold’s back in acceptance. “And yes, my name is Corva.”
“That’s a pretty name, love,” The Farmer said. Corva smiled. “Mother named me, at least I’ve been told,” Corva’s voice trailed off as he started to have flickers of his memory return. He shook his head and looked over at Harold. “We Almost home yet, big guy?” he asked. Harold nodded. He brought Corva to the walkway of the old farmhouse and gently placed him back on the ground. Though he would never say it aloud, he actually appreciated Harold carrying him up the hill. His wounds were all but healed and it was a nice break from walking in his threadbare leather boots. Corva wobbled a bit before getting used to the pain in his legs again. The farmer took off her apron and wiped her face of sweat, then wiped Harold’s mouth of blood. “It’s not much, but it’s home. Breakfast is cold now, but I can whip up some warm coffee!” she chirped. Corva didn’t care if the food was covered in snow, his stomach was growling louder than the sound of breaking glass from coming inside. Then he stopped, grabbing the farmer’s arm. “Anyone else live with you?” he asked. The woman shook her head, then a loud crash alerted her to his concern. She backed away, and Corva grabbed his dagger from his boot again. “You two, stay out here,” he said and slowly crept into the old farmhouse.
It was an old, beautiful house of oak wood. Inside were countless baskets of wool blankets and unfinished knitted projects. On the walls were small hanging shrines to Frigga and pictures of the Farmer, her son, and a grizzly man he only assumed passed recently, as another picture of him was surrounded by flowers and blown out candles. He crept in deeper, avoiding glass shards as he made his way to the dining room. Food was splattered on the floor and all over the table. Corva had to bite his tongue and keep himself from crying as he saw the bacon was covered in porcelain. He heard another crash from the kitchen and made his way towards it.
“He took it from me, he took it!” he heard something sob. He peeked in to see the woman from earlier. The tattoo on her breast was all but gone, and her head was nothing but a bleeding skull. She shoved raw meat into her eye socket, her jaw moving sporadically as if she were chewing. The more meat she shoved into her head, the more veins, and flesh began to form around the skull. Corva nearly vomited from the sight, but whatever he had in his stomach was the only thing giving him energy, and he couldn’t afford to lose that just yet. The woman ran out of raw meat to shove into her head and started sniffing around again. The muscles on her face contorted into what Corva assumed would be a scowl. She turned to him, her empty sockets locked onto him and she began to shriek. “You stole my blessing from me! You took it from me!” she screamed again and charged. Corva, a well-seasoned monster hunter, was prepared for many encounters. None of them ever included a naked woman tackling him to the ground and gnawing at his flesh. He screamed, and grabbed her jaw. She continued to pull at his hair and struggle, Her black tongue darting at him rapidly. Corva closed his eyes, pulled her jaws apart until he heard a crack, and felt the wet slap of her tongue falling onto his face. When he opened his eyes he screamed again, and pushed the woman off of him. Was she actually dead this time? He thought to himself. Harold rushed into the house, axe in hand. “Corva!” he shouted. Corva was still on the ground, screaming in disgust at the body that seemed to prepare itself to get up again. Harold ran at it and began chopping, blood splattering across the kitchen. The sound of bones breaking against the steel of the axe made Corva ill. Though it was a monster, it still looked like a person. She was a person. He couldn’t watch anymore. “Harry, Harry that’s enough!” he shouted. The boy finally dropped the axe and looked down at the mess of bones and flesh on the ground. He looked at Corva, who was shaking in the corner, still staring at the woman’s chopped up body. “W-w-we should burn it,” Corva said. Harold licked the blood from his face and nodded in agreement. Corva grimaced. “Don’t. Don’t do that, boy,” he said and wiped the blood from Harold’s face. He smiled at him, and Corva forced himself to do the same. “Let’s get her to her proper rest, shall we?” Harold nodded vigorously and grabbed as many pieces of the woman as he could.
Corva and Harold walked outside, each holding parts of the woman in their arms. The Farmer fainted at the sight. “Mama!” Harold screamed and dropped the body parts to the ground. He picked his mother off the ground and ran her inside. “I’ll handle this, go take care of her!” Corva called back. Harold nodded and cared for his mother. Corva gathered the rest of the woman, trying to treat the pieces as kindly as he could at this point. He whispered a prayer of Death as he walked her down a path across from the farm.
He found a dark area just outside the forest where greenery refused to grow. Gingerly, he placed the woman down and reached into his hip pack for a vile of black dust. He sprinkled it around her in a circular shape . He placed his hands together and exhaled deeply, a violet mist escaping his mouth. “From the earth you were born and to the earth you shall return. May Ekundayo welcome you with open arms and decide the fate that befalls your heart,” he prayed. At the mention of the Death god’s name, a black flame came over the corpse and ate away the body. The smell of burning flesh was quickly replaced by the comforting earthy smell of chrysanthemums. He opened his eyes, and the fire dissipated, and the corpse was no more. He wiped the blood from his face and wretched again at his entire encounter. “Back to the house, I suppose,” he said quietly.
