A bad smell surrounded the small dwelling, making Barghast’s stomach work and the hackles along his spine rise. His twin o’rre walked fearlessly towards it, oblivious of the sin he was about to commit. Did he not know the curses that came with stepping into a place where death had thinned the veil between one world and the next?

       Barghast had to act before the wraith put himself in danger. Put them both into danger. Before his twin spirit could pass the fence, Barghast did the only thing he could think of to do. He hauled the wraith into the air, marveling at how light he felt, before setting him down on his feet. The wraith started to protest, but Barghast leaned in until their noses almost touched and said in a firm voice, “No.”

      Judging from the stunned, slack jawed look on the wraith's face that he did not like being told no. Perhaps he wasn't used to it. I know you do not understand, the Okanavian would tell him if he had the words. I do not mean to scold you. I certainly do not enjoy it. Even though Gaia has blessed me with a twin-spirit who is a strong and fearless warrior, it is my duty to protect you as it is your duty to guide me. That means walking on tainted ground so you don't have to. He could only hope the wraith would understand in time.

       For a moment the world around them stood  still. He stood close enough to the wraith that he could smell him, an all too human smell of sweat and earth and maybe the beginnings of a fever. If they were going to stay here then Barghast would search the place until he knew it was safe. He would have to do so quickly. He sensed his twin o’rre’s body was not as adept as staving off illness as his own was. Underneath the drumming of the rain he could hear the gallop of the wraith's heart. Is he frightened of me? Do I make his heart quicken in fear? The thought made him want to tuck his tail between his legs. His heart melted a little. His twin o’rre stood shivering in the rain. Though he had been fierce and seemed larger in the woods because of it, he was compact. He was no longer just a dream Barghast hoped to be real, he was real. Like Barghast's vulnerability to silver, he had limitations. The lycan knew the wraith did not have hot blood like he did. There is something about his blood though. When I drank from him his blood healed me. And how sweet the taste of his blood had been, like honeyed wine. 

      Barghast pushed the thought away for fear that it would awaken within him a great hunger. Each second he wasted was another second his twin o’rre was exposed to the cold. “I will go inside and make sure there are no evil spirits. You stay here.”

      He started towards the cabin.

       The wraith started after him.

       Barghast snarled before he could stop himself, turning on the wraith. He hated showing his teeth to his twin o’rre, but  it was the only way to get him to understand the danger that lay ahead. The wraith was not so easily dissuaded; Barghast's twin o’rre was a stubborn twin o’rre.  He attempted to lunge past the Okanavian, unsheathing his staff. Before he could pass through the gate, Barghast grabbed him by the back of the robes and plopped him firmly on the ground. The little bird glared at him resentfully but did not persist when Barghast started towards the cabin. 

       Fear gripped him with a black fist, making his skin prickle. His ears swiveled towards the cabin, listening for movement. He could feel eyes watching him from the cabin. “Remember, Gaia is always with you,” the seer’s voice rang in his head. “No wolf walks alone as long as she watches from the sky.”  

Standing directly in front of the door, the stench of death was so strong it made the Okanavian's eyes sting with tears and his nose twitch. The door opened with a creak that set his teeth on edge. He crouched to the side, his back pressed up against the wall. If a spirit waited for him in the murk it did not present itself nor could he sense its presence. He waved a paw at the wraith. He would not leave his guide out here by himself. Better to keep him within arm’s reach where he could keep him safe from harm. Not that he needed it, Barghast reminded himself as the wraith staggered past the gate. Gaia had fashioned for him a twin o’rre who was courageous, who was a warrior in his own right. The wraith stopped at the edge of the threshold, scrunching his nose up in disgust

      “Alright, perhaps you were right. There's something dead inside.” Barghast cocked his head, trying to place the wraith's tone. It sounded tense with displeasure. He looked up; the thin line of his eyebrows were knitted together in a look of fierce concentration. “Let’s go inside and see what horrors awaits us, shall we?”

                                       …

Crowe wrinkled his nose at the smell. The stench and the lycan’s territorial behavior should have been warning enough, but a morbid curiosity pulled him deeper into the cabin. It was impossible to see anything beyond the door.

      With a push of his will, a sphere of white light appeared at the end of his staff. Beside him the lycan made a sound that could have been, “Oh…” He looked down at the staff, scarred face fixed in an expression of open muzzled wonder. His nose twitched wetly with curiosity.

       Crowe braved a step over the threshold. Light seeped over the dusty floorboards. The agitated buzzing of flies sounded above the clap of thunder. The Okanavian flinched at the sound, muttering something under his breath with a whine. Crowe barely noticed. He only had eyes for the man sitting in the chair with a double barrel shotgun held in his lap. At some point the man had stuck the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth. The evidence of his final act was splattered all over the desk. At the center of the bloody, pulpy mess was a single piece of parchment filled with cramped handwriting

     Crowe felt his gorge rise and his stomach clench. Bile rose up his esophagus, burning his throat. He whirled about, running for the door, almost running face first into the lycan. Considering what he’d seen, the cold rain was a welcome respite. He vomited until his belly was empty, until he worried that he would defecate himself. 

      He felt something cold touch his cheek. He whirled around. The Okanavian towered over him, leaning down to sniff him. Crowe felt the blood rise to his cheeks. He looked away, unable to meet the Okanavian’s intent scrutiny. “I’m fine. I just…I just need a minute.” 

The lycan held out the sheet of parchment. Another offering. Crowe tried not to think about the brain-matter caked onto the paper. He nodded his thanks to the Okanavian before taking it. They found a small shed at the back of the property. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling and tiny insects could be seen darting along the floor to escape the light from Crowe's staff. At least we're not in the rain anymore. I just might make it through the evening without dying of pneumonia. Remember to be grateful for small blessings.

The practitioner was all too aware of his companion. It was impossible when not to be with their thighs pressed together. Slowly the feeling returned to his numbed body. The wind buffeted the shed, making it creak and groan. He found an oil lamp and a tin of oil sitting on the shelf.  Once lit the lamp cast a small dome of light.

The Okanavian leaned forward expectantly. His nose twitched.

The practitioner looked up. “What?” As if the lycan could tell him.

The Okanavian gestured to the sheet of paper with one digit while gesturing to his muzzle with the other. His ears tilted towards Crowe.

“You want me to read to you?” The sorcerer couldn't hide the surprise in his voice. When the Okanavian did not respond he gestured at the paper.

The Okanavian poked his tongue out of his mouth, panting in excitement. The practitioner squinted at the parchment once more. Clearing his throat, he began to read. 

“He comes to me in the middle of the night, a cruel little man who sits on my chest and steals my breath away. Last night when he came to me it was just like all the other nights. I woke up from sudden sleep, aware of a heavy weight on my chest. Aware that I am no longer alone. Aware of the wind outside the house, making the windows rattle in their frames. I can never move. I can never get away from him.

“He always smiles at me. I don't think he ever stops smiling. It is not a kind smile;it is a cruel smile filled with insidious intent. I know he’s hungry and I know he's feeding off me because with each visit I feel weak the next day. I look in the mirror and watch myself age bit by bit, by years instead of hours. At first my hair turned gray. Then it started to fall out. All my teeth fell out.”

“I asked the local vicar to cleanse the property but it didn't work. I’ve prayed to Elysia, I’ve even prayed to Monad. Still the man comes at night, sits on my chest and feeds off me…”

Crowe paused, his blood cold with fear. A voice in the back of his mind told him he was reading the words of an irrational mind. You know better, said the cracked, cynical voice of Petras. There are ugly things in this world. Things we are helpless against. Things that know us better than we know ourselves, that use those vulnerabilities against us. An impulse to tear the paper to pieces and dispose of them rose inside Crowe. Paranoia and superstition warred with another voice that fought for rationality. He willed himself to read the rest of the letter in a trembling voice.

“There is no hope for me. I've stayed up for three nights now. The human body can only go so long without sleep. Even now as I scramble to jot down these final words, night is falling. My thoughts are scrambled. I cannot stay awake much longer. I know when I fall asleep again, the man will be there. He will sit on my chest and take another bit of what little life I have left.

“I don’t want to die like this. I don't want to see that grin anymore. Or those eyes. There is only one solution I can think of. Honestly, it's surprised me that I have waited this long. So I have the shotgun with me, leaning against the desk. The thought of death no longer frightens me. I've been dying slowly for the last month. At least I get to take control of how I go rather than letting this malevolent force, this incubus, decide for me. 

“And I am tired. So very tired. At least I will get to sleep now.”

Crowe looked up, his throat parched. You are safe in here, he told himself. You’re in the shed, not the cabin. The Seraphim watch over you. Even now Metropolis hovers in the sky, guiding your every step.

Sometime in the middle of the night the practitioner rose from the murky depths of troubled dreams, aware of a heavy weight pressing down on him. Instinct wanted to take over, wanted to raise his body into a sitting position, but the weight pinning him to the floor of the shed was oppressive. Crushing. His eyes shot open. He opened his mouth to scream. His jaw didn't move, sealed by paralysis. The sound caught in his throat.

In his final testament, the man from the cabin had called his visitor a man. The thing that sat on Crowe’s chest, knobby knees drawn in towards a hollowed torso, was not a man. What similarities it had to a man were superficial. Distorted.

Its  eyes were cataract-white, bulging from bruised sockets. Twin slits widened with every heaving breath, as if each inhale and exhale took great effort. Its burnt, gray lips peeled back from white tombstones that poked from blackened gums, stretching in a grin that went from ear to ear. Its sickly gray flesh was translucent so that Crowe could see a roadmap of black veins.

The creature leaned slowly forward as if to kiss him. Crowe couldn't move. Couldn't scream. He could barely breathe. Somehow he managed to pull his eyes away from the creature. Barghast still sat on the other side of the shed, head lowered in slumber. The sorcerer could hear his snores faintly beneath the thunder of his own rushing blood. The demon will start feeding off me now. He could still feel the fur of the Okanavian’s leg pressing up against his. He clenched his eyes shut, the only power he seemed to have in him. He waded through the fear, searching for his courage. I am not powerless. The Seraphim did not send me on this mission just for me to die like this, helpless and unable to move. Through Monad I have the power to rain fire and turn mountains upside down. Through him I can do anything.

He opened his mouth again. This time a sound came out. A thin, reedy moan. It was enough.

The lycan raised his head, his ears twitching. His muzzle yawned open in a sleepy . Then he saw the shriveled hunched thing sitting on the practitioner’s chest.  Like a sprout shooting out of the ground he rose into a crouch, shoulders hunched, a snarl frothing at his lips. “Get mglagln hup h', mgvulgtnahor orr'e!” he bellowed.

The weight vanished from Crowe’s chest. With a great gasp he sat up, searching frantically for the demon. It was nowhere to be seen. In the blink of an eye it had vanished into smoke.

Before the practitioner could regain order of his thoughts, a much heavier shadow was upon him. With a strength that was not to be denied, the lycan yanked the practitioner to him. “What are you doing?” Crowe demanded.

Like the imp who’d visited him in the night, the Okanavian’s face loomed large in the field of his vision. 

The pads of his paw held Crowe by the jaw, taking great care not to pierce him with his claws. He tilted the practitioner's head this way and that for inspection. Crowe was too exhausted to fend him off; this morning’s visitation had left him drained of strength. Bennett's voice rose up from the shadow’s of the past, supplying wisdom when it was needed most. He’s examining you to see if you're injured. It could be a part of his culture. What's it to you? If he wanted to kill you right now he could do so very easily if he wanted to.

As he worked his inspection, the lycan chanted in a low voice, the tone of his voice strange but soothing to Crowe's stinging ears. Calloused digits kneaded the tension in his shoulders, palms pressing gently against the bone,  breath warm against the practitioner's neck.

By the time the Okanavian turned the practitioner back around to face him, Crowe felt relaxed. He felt…safe. “Thank you,” the sorcerer whispered, truly grateful. His heart fluttered, thinking of what might have happened had the lycan not intervened.

“Ymg''re welcome.  The mgvulgtnahor orr'e ephainafl nogephaii.  H' ephainafl ymg' ngahnah ephaii,” the Okanavian reassured him with a kindly pat on the shoulders. He finished his ministrations by running his tongue over the practitioner’s face, in the wet sloppy canine equivalent of a kiss. Crowe giggled in spite of himself, still shaking. For now he was happy not to be alone. He was happy to be alive.

Under the light of the rising sun, the practitioner studied his new companion. Pillars of black smoke rose towards the sky; the cabin burned. It was the only way Crowe could think of to ensure that the incubus would not visit anyone in their sleep again. At last the man inside, whoever he had been, would get the rest he so longed for. 

The lycan watched the flames with foggy eyes, as if the fire had cast a spell over him. Everything about him was so different. Not just because he was covered in fur; not just because he had fangs and claws and a tail. In so many ways he was like a child, superstitious and excitable with the scars of a battle-hardened warrior. There was an entire world between them and yet the lycan had followed Crowe deeper into these lands when he had every reason to return the way he’d come. After the way the Okanavian had inspected him for wounds, the practitioner could only assume the lycan had an interest in his well-being. What that interest was still remained a mystery; perhaps it always would. I won't know by keeping a wall between us. I don't even know his name…and he doesn't know mine. It was time to change this.

The Okanavian must have sensed his scrutiny for he looked over. Immediately his eyes lit up and his shoulders lifted as if he could barely contain his excitement. An adventurer hungry for the next adventure. The next challenge. Stay with me long enough, you’ll feel different enough, the practitioner thought.

The sorcerer brought a hand to his chest to indicate himself. “Crowe,” he said.

The Okanavian cocked his head, lips twisted in a puzzled frown.

Crowe repeated the action. “My name is Crowe. He sauntered up to the barbarian until they stood but inches apart. He prodded him in the chest, never mind how ridiculous he felt, cheeks burning with an embarrassment he couldn't hide. “What is your name? What do I call you?” He mined the gestures slowly, repeated the questions.

Despite the rumors circumventing throughout the northern region of the world, the Okanavi were not the brutes the Theocracy portrayed them to be, incapable of logic. At least this one wasn't. The Okanavian’s eyes widened in recognition. He gestured to himself. “Barghast,” he growled.

The practitioner pointed to himself. “Crowe.”

Barghast tried to say his name, the syllables foreign to his mouth. Crowe offered grins of encouragement with each attempt. After several minutes of this, the practitioner and Barghast lapsed back into silence. They watched the cabin burn, each haunted by their own ghosts. With the trading of names Crowe sensed a bond had begun to form between them. Smiling, the first glimmer of hope caught inside him.