"We've lost it. We should return home," Calvin said as the sun began to set, casting a darkening shadow over the forest. They were tired after trudging through the woods for hours without spotting the deer they were hunting.
"Hey, did you hear me?" he asked again as Silas continued moving forward.
"Yeah, I heard you. We only lost it because of your bald head. Come on, follow me. It's not that far off, and we'll reach it before the sun fully sets."
Calvin didn't wish to stay after sunset. "Even if we find it, we still need to kill and bleed it," he stated, hoping to dissuade Silas. But Silas didn't stop and had already gained some distance.
"Afraid of the dark, Calvin?" Silas mocked, turning back to look at Calvin.
"Come on, we're not children—"
"It's not that!" Calvin cut him off, annoyed.
He wasn't afraid in the ordinary sense, it was the legends surrounding these woods that haunted him—tales of a beast, pure white, a legend of ancient origins tied to this particular forest.
There was a story of a hunter by trade, hired by a noble family to hunt a stag for their upcoming feast. The hunter was gifted, and the stag he slew was so large it could feed the entire castle for a year if it didn't spoil.
The hunter was richly rewarded and invited to the realm. He brought his family and grew close to the Lord, continuing to work for him until, years later, when the Lord's only son wished to join the hunt. That was when tragedy struck.
The Lord's son startled the deer and chased it off, but the hunter tracked it to where it had fled. However, when they finally found it, the deer had been dead for hours. The corpse was half-eaten when they discovered it.
A pure white beast had been behind them, tracking them, like a ghost. The hunter was being hunted, unbeknownst to him.
It was there that the Lord's son died, and in his grief, the Lord slew the hunter.
"Then what else? You're a man, are you not?" Silas continued to make light of Calvin, much to his annoyance. Calvin closed the distance between himself and Silas.
"You've heard the stories, haven't you?" Calvin asked as he followed Silas forward, despite his trepidation.
"There are hundreds of stories."
"The pure white beast."
"That's a children's story. It's what mothers tell their kids so they don't wander into the forest, and what bards share to entertain foreigners. Nothing about it is truthful," Silas said, as he continued to follow the path where the deer had gone.
"But the stories are so old."
"Old age does not prove a tale true. If anything, it's the opposite. Storytellers embellish and add their own beliefs and fantasies to the original," Silas interrupted Calvin, his cynicism on full display.
"It's not the only story about the pure white beast, though," Calvin replied to Silas's spiel.
"It isn't? Then what? A tale of a tale of a tale. That still doesn't prove the existence of the beast."
"But if it isn't true, then why do people speak of it and claim to see it?" Calvin questioned.
"Because men love to tell tales, and women love to tell them to their children. Everyone loves a good story, and even more so a haunting and dangerous one. What better to interest the folk than a tale of survival, a lover's tale of perseverance, or one that induces a child's obedience?" Silas continued after a pause. "Stories aren't told just because they're true, rarely so. We tell stories to imbue thoughts and values, but above all, to entertain."
"But all stories must be based on reality. All things must be, even if the ultimate objective is to entertain, you cant create something from nothing, it has to start somewhere," Calvin replied to Silas's claims.
"However, the human mind is not bound by the story's content and its telling. The truth of that story can be altered according to the teller's reality and what they wish the story to be."
Calvin wasn't sure how to feel about this exchange, but he had a question. "So, you don't believe in the pure white beast?"
"I don't believe in the stories of the pure white beast, but I do believe that at some point there was an animal in this forest, maybe a wolf, that was pure white," Silas said with confidence as he walked through the forest floor.
"But what if it is true?"
"Then we'll still be fine. What are the chances it finds us? Better yet, it's an old tale. Nothing lives for hundreds of years."
Calvin was still uneasy.
Silas's attempt to reassure him didn't help. The wind was blowing strong, making the trees rustle and the leaves flutter and cascade. It made his nerves shiver, as if they were mocking him. Calvin didn't reply to Silas, nor did Silas seem inclined to speak, so they just continued the way the deer had fled as the sun set closer to the horizon.
After a while, they reached their destination, led by a trail in the grass to a fallen deer. The two approached cautiously, with Silas readying his bow, but the deer showed no movement. Assuming it was asleep, Silas moved in closer. Despite Calvin's discouragement, Silas, trusting his experience, continued forward.
As he got nearer, the reason for the deer's stillness became clear. Its blood was dried, and large portions of its underbelly were missing, exposing its intestines over the blood-stained grass. Had it been eaten?
Moments later, Calvin joined Silas. "That's… not good," Calvin said, averting his gaze to scan the surroundings.
"This whole day has been a waste," Silas muttered, kneeling by the deer's corpse, examining its wound closely.
Evident hemorrhaging suggested a recent kill, yet the blood had dried, indicating it had been several hours.
There were bite marks on its hindquarters and neck; it had been crippled before its neck was attacked.
"What killed it?" Calvin asked.
"A large wolf, maybe? Something huge, that's for sure."
Silas scrutinized the wounds on the underbelly, trying to glean more about the predator. Then, he noticed something on the ground a few steps away—white fur.
"Silas, we should head back. The deer's already dead," Calvin said. Silas couldn't deny that today had indeed been a complete waste.
"You're right," Silas replied, letting out a deep sigh as he stood up. "Today has been terrible."
A sudden gasp reached his ears before he felt a tugging on his arm.
"What?" Silas's voice froze as he turned. He was struck cold. The world seemed to stop. Before him stood a creature, pure white, untouched by the world's impurities.
It looked as though the snow of winter had transformed into a living beast.
Its long, muscular legs and shoulders showcased its prowess and height, standing three heads taller than both Silas and Calvin. Its eyes glowed with a maleficent intent, and its longer tongue hung from its mouth.
"No," was all that Silas could muster. It seemed impossible. Surely, this had to be a dream.
"No way," he whispered, turning to see Calvin's expression. Calvin's eyes were fixed on the beast, as if compelled by the gods, and he wasn't breathing. Silas was certain Calvin's breath had seized the moment he laid eyes on it.
Only a second passed before the beast advanced, growling menacingly and circling them like prey. Silas and Calvin maintained eye contact with it, not daring to blink, but eventually had to as their eyes dried with discomfort.
When they reopened their eyes, Silas could see only the black and redness of the beast's throat looming before him. The creature's jaws opened so wide they could have swallowed his head, neck, and chest in a single gulp, had it tried. As Silas's fate loomed, he could only shut his eyes tightly.
"Silas!" Calvin shouted, pushing his friend out of harm's way. He staggered as he felt the jaws of the beast crush his arm, then was tugged and swung to the ground, pulled, and ripped apart amid blood-curdling screams as his arm was torn away. Calvin could only scream in pain, wide-eyed in both shock and awe and fear and despair. He felt pain in the arm that existed no more, like a phantom, and in his throat from the screams. He excreted himself, losing control of his body.
"Calvin…" Silas whispered, as if hiding, but Calvin did not respond. His body was being devoured alive, his arm torn away, then his legs, as the beast went from one limb to another, devouring them whole. The redness of the evening sun mirrored the evening of Calvin as he succumbed to the beast.
The beast, now stained with blood along its jaws and head, stood with paws pooled in red. Its purity was defiled by death, and its once angelic color had turned into a demon's red.
The beast turned to face Silas, its eyes a striking golden gold encircled in red. Silas wept in disbelief and despair, burying his face in his hands. His sadness felt almost like laughter, a mix of both, perhaps? The scent of burning ash invaded his nostrils, and a glow of orange shimmered in the distance, surrounding Silas and the beast. The glow quickly erupted into a blaze, and the air turned pungent with smoke.
The beast became enraged, its howls and growls growing more aggressive.
Seizing the moment, Silas ran toward the flames that encircled them. The beast did not follow, distracted by something else.