Late Winter, 5E988
[The Present]
Predator and prey: the sudden blast of snow interrupted the race for life, the race for death, the boreal owl taking to the swirling branches of a barrens pine, the arctic hare scuttering under the protecting overhang of a rock jut. And driven before the wind, a wall of white moaned across the ’scape, while both hunter and hunted sheltered, waiting for the storm to end, for the race to begin again, for flight and pursuit, for life or death.
But now the race was suspended as snow and ice hurtled across the land, hammering upon anything standing in its way, the wind sobbing and groaning and filling the air with the sound of its agony. And the hare crouched beneath the rock and closed its eyes against the snow pelting inward, while high in a distant tree, a furlong or so away, the owl blinked and turned its head northerly, and deadly talons gripped tightly, disputing the lash of the branch.
And they waited.
Yet these two were not alone there in the Untended Lands, there along the north face of the Grimwall Mountains, for something deadly raced across the icy waste.
Perhaps the owl sensed it first, or mayhap the hare—who can say?
Out from the north it came, there where the owl stared:
Dark shapes bobbing in the distance, obscured by the storm. Nearing.
And an eighth of a mile north of the owl’s tree, under the rock the hare felt the vibrations, not the occasional shaking of this unstable land, but a ragged drumming upon the ground:
Feet pounding, furred, clawed, racing southward, down from the north. Killers.
In the thrashing branches the owl peered at the oncoming running shapes, ready to take flight should the need arise.
More than one. Through the storm. Coming swiftly. Still obscured.
The hare opened its eyes but made no other movements, relying upon snow and white fur and utter stillness for protection.
Thudding paws. Many. A pack. Racing, running.
Onward they came, the owl watching.
Three of them. In a line. One after another. Long, flowing shapes. Each with something large racing after.
And mingled in with the sound of the wind came strange cries and a sharp cracking, and the ears of the hare twitched.
More than a pack. Several packs. Killers all. One after another. Hammering. And something calling out.
Now the first was close enough for the owl to see.
Wolves, or the like. Running in a line. And behind, another pack. Or so it seemed. And another pack after.
Past the hare’s shelter they raced, mere yards away.
Flashing legs. Wolf legs. Killer legs. All running. Grey fur. Black. And silver. Bound together. Running before something large. Something gliding upon the snow.
One after another they passed the hiding place of the motionless hare. First, nineteen racing animals, then another nineteen, and another. And something crack! snapped in the air, and something called out Yah! Yah! as they thundered past, killers running through the wind and snow and hauling the gliding things after.
And though they had hammered past and away and were gone, the storm swallowing them up, still the hare remained motionless.
And a furlong beyond in the wind-tossed tree, the white owl watched as the three teams emerged from the whirl and hauled the sleds across the frozen white, the drivers behind standing on the runners and cracking their whips and urging the part-wolves, part-dogs onward, the passengers on the sleds bundled against the chill.
The owl’s head rotated ’round as they came on and past and away, racing through the blowing snow and toward the south, through the blowing snow and toward the looming Grimwall Mountains standing ominously in the distance, barring the way.
Swiftly the sights and sounds of the intruders faded away, lost in the storm.
And only the yawl of the wind and pelting of the snow remained.
And time eked by.
Still the owl gripped the branch.
Still the hare crouched below the stone….
The storm blew itself out sometime after nightfall. And the Moon rose and cast its argent light across the snowy ’scape. In the silvery luminance the white hare warily sniffed the air, its long ears twitching, listening for danger.
Nothing.
Cautiously, the hare emerged from under the rock jut. After a hop or two, again it stopped and listened, ears turning this way and that, eyes wide and gazing.
At last it set off for its burrow, some distance away.
And from the high branches of a remote tree, a white owl quietly launched itself into a long, silent glide.