The road leading deeper into the country proper was pleasant, when it wasn’t detouring into marshlands, and Jack and Rarity took the walk in stride, neither saying much, neither seeing much. As dreadful as the marshes and lowlands looked—and smelled; the scent of putrid, stagnant water and the near overpowering scent of mildew—the lay of the land gave them excellent view every direction they looked, the road rising above the terrain by a few feet—and so when Jack paused to look at a set of prints in the dirt, neither gave much concern over being ambushed.

“Think those are…?” Rarity offered, giving a look over the marks in the ground.

They were peculiar things, bizarre to not only Jack’s experience with hunting animals from her youth, but even now, when she hunted creatures far more ominous. Normal tracks, even for creatures that were considered monsters, had some meaning, some sort of goal. Cloven hoof to grip, clawed end to tear into flesh, what few aquatic monstrosities she had encountered had flippers to swim easier. The point was, there was some purpose to the digits.

What she saw had no purpose.

The things were mere nubs, no bigger than two of Jack’s fingers, and had the slow approach to a new area a dog might, with the footprints embedded deeper into the dirt every once in awhile, as if he were smelling his prey and on a prowl, even veering off track a few places and into the lowlands below.

“Looks like stilts,” Rarity said.

“Sorta,” Jack agreed. She touched one and thought for a beat, noting several others nearby.

He frequented here.

“Pretty deep. Thing’s heavy. They were right ‘bout it bein’ big.”

The soul-folk gestured around them. “If he’s so large, I have my doubts he’s present.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “Maybe out huntin’, maybe he’s more active ‘round dusk. I dunno. Guessin.’” She thought for a moment, scooping up dirt and rubbing it between her fingers. “Maybe we’ve got too much of a crowd. All-a its meals have jus’ been people on their lonesome when travelin’ the road.”

“Aside from Sunderland’s crew,” Rarity replied.

“Aside from ‘em,” Jack agreed.

“Then we need to reduce our party further.” She gestured ahead, where, perhaps a half-mile away, a hill sloped past the road and down into the marshy pit. “If you wait there, I can serve as bait.”

“Bait?” Jack repeated, incredulous. “Are ya nuts?” She raised her hands. “This ain’t no game, Rare. If yer out here with me, it’s with me.”

“Jack. I do not ask for much when it comes to our arrangement, correct?” Rarity asked, looking to the woman. “We discovered compromises, had our… spats, for lack of a better word, but one thing never changed. I trusted you. I trusted you to do your best to care for both of us.” She sighed. “But it’s changed somewhat. I want to be as dependable as the most dependable woman I know, darling. And some of that involves me in some degree of danger. To which I say, ‘so be it.’” Punctuating the statement with a rise and fall of her hand, she met Jack’s eyes once again. “I’m not afraid anymore. Not as I once was.”

It came slow, but Jack pursed her lips and nodded. “I know. Yer jus’ gonna have ta remind me time ta time. It’s hard thinkin’ of ya like this.”

Rarity smirked, giving a small rattle of her saber. “I find myself rather dashing in this, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jack’s smile was warmer, genuine; she let a single dry chuckle out. “Ya know how ta wear it, that’s fer sure.”

“And if I know how to wear it, then I know how to use it.” She brushed her hair back, looking to Jack like a rose; beautiful, but holding thorns. “You can count on me.”

Jack turned, looking to the hill, then back to the soul-folk. “If—if,” she emphasized, raising a finger up, pointing sternly at the tailor. “Ya see anythin’ outta the ordinary. Ya get ta me, ok? Don’t engage it, don’t run towards town, come ta me.”

Rarity saw the nerves behind Jack’s harder words. The worry. So, instead of lashing out at Jack and her insistence on treating her like a child, Rarity reached forward, resting a gloved hand to the guard at Jack’s neck.

“I’ll be careful. I promise,” she agreed.

The other accepted the answer and, with a hesitant step back, headed towards her ambush point.

Rarity watched her go. Despite, or perhaps because of the farmer’s worry about her, Rarity felt the beginnings of a smile flutter to her lips. It was one of those things with Jack that Rarity loved and hated at the same time. The earth-folk cared deeply about her, it was as obvious as the sun resting at her back, but the care, while endearing, lead to her being overprotective, concerned when there was no need to be.

Perhaps, Rarity pondered as she moved over to a half-dead tree in one of the few spots she could see that was halfway dry, it was because of how they came to be together.

There had been men and a smaller handful of women that she had been courted by. They had quite a bit more in common with her than Jack did, came from noble houses all across the world, even back in Rarity’s former family estate in France, and had a far greater interest within her own profession and passions.

Granted, those suitors didn’t save your life, Rarity thought.

There was that, if she were to admit. But there was more to it. She was not some prize Jack earned, some trophy. No, Rarity had saw something within Jack that the others didn’t have, something she still was trying to figure out and might never fully understand.

But, that was fine with her. She was not like Twila, needing to delve and solve every mystery. She was content with what Jack had to offer, content to let the days go by amid talks of people, history, music, food.

Jack, however, still seemed to hold some tension within her. Perhaps not tension that she wasn’t good enough for Rarity—the woman had her pride in her land and family, she had the pride only people who worked their hands to the bone could appreciate—rather, Rarity thought Jack at times was afraid of losing her, of losing the life they had made. Of losing her interest, of being too detached to her profession, of death itself. Jack, to the soul-folk’s eyes, held this fear. And, coming from Jack’s position, it was a reasonable one—not that Rarity would ever leave, that was ridiculous; she had made a commitment and she was sticking with it, good day or bad—but, rather, the fear was sort of a juvenile one, and Jack was a juvenile lover, never really holding an interest in romance until Rarity had come along, and Jack’s own fears were mirrored by how Rarity had felt years ago with the first man she had ever laid with.

She had feared losing him at the time, she saw him as her prince, as a dashing man riding atop a pure-white stallion. Eventually she had come to the realization that he was a fraud, a scheming man after her family’s estate and position in the aristocracy. In a way, Jack not giving “two shits”—her words—about political positioning and that the farmer absolutely detested asking for money or aid from Rarity’s father were small, simple things that solidified Jack as a partner she could hold pride in having, the occasional spat or disagreement be damned.

Turning her thoughts away from the earth-folk, she sat down on the ground, grateful at her traveling clothing. If she was wearing something more elegant like the dress she had in her second bag, she would either be bawling her eyes out on how it was coated in mud, or furious at Jack for taking her out to a place like this.

The thought of clothing lead to another thought of clothing. Not that that was irrational for her; she had a profession that was centered around it, after all, and she once again consulted a mental checklist, running through names of clients and their desire.

Mr. Potager: a tweed overcoat—though why a man of his stature uses tweed of all things is beyond me. Professor Jubilee, one scarf for her son in cashmere—boy gets dreadfully cold come wintertime according to her. A—
Rarity paused, her ears twitching. Something seemed off. Like something was missing.

The insects, she realized. The insects had silenced, leaving the area not just quiet, but borderline mute. The wind blew from the west, rattling the tree limbs above her.

There was a sense of wrongness here, one that either just happened, starting as her mind had began to wonder, or one that she simply had either subconsciously denied during their walk and it just now was alarming her. Either way, now that she was aware, the world seemed sat, an enraptured audience watching a play.

She hadn’t realized it, but she had stood in her nervous state and her hand reached down to the sheath of her blade. Her breath quickened and she paused, sickening realization coming to her when she noticed that there came vapors from her mouth; the temperature had dropped around her, well over twenty degrees, maybe more; her body trembled at the shock of the change and it trembled in—

He’s watching.

The thought came to her with the sharpness of a knife; she recoiled, no longer just breathing quickly, but close to hyperventilating.

Around her the world seemed to darken and dim, as if the sun was being encased within an eclipse. Her hand found purchase at the handle of her sword and she withdrew it, the metal of the scabbard ringing out and buying her the faintest of reassurances.

He’s watching, she thought once again, the words… she wasn’t sure if they were her own or not. Her eyes widened and she looked once more at the road.

In the distance was a large, hunched-over figure. Hairy, with three large claws at its hand, and sinewy legs, the skin on them peeled off towards the base of its feet, as if it had been stripped of its fur and skin with a butcher knife. From even as far away as it was, Rarity’s stomach churned at its sight. It easily was taller than her, taller than Jack, taller than even Macintosh and, even in the distance it stood at, Rarity knew one thing.

It was watching her.

It moved forward—jerkily didn’t even begin to describe it, it moved with the speed of a light, no real motion in its legs, it was there and it came forward towards her in the same fashion taking multiple photos with a camera results in a strange still animation of the subject, frames hidden from the wait between shots making the images glimpses into nightmares.

It continued this jerky, half-frozen snap forward until it was twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Ten feet in front of her. She trembled and, instead of shouting, she could only whisper out a weak “Jack,” to herself.

It stared down at her, Rarity could smell the disgusting, pungent breath of the beast, stare at its doglike maw, look at where its eyes should be and only spotting a wall of flesh. She sucked in another panicked breath and it shook its head, its scraggly black matted fur shaking and spreading God knows how many bugs and diseases across the air.

Blind? Is it blind?! Rarity questioned, this time the thought completely hers and a semblance of sanity came to her, at least for the moment. She tried to move, but was frozen in place, panic setting her like a statue in front of it. Hearing her shuffle about, he looked—looked—in her direction and Rarity met his face.

Her mind was filled, polluted as she stared up at the monster. Her, nude, bathing in a sea of maggots, their bodies writhing in time with her. Just as sudden as the beast itself, another thought came to mind, snapping her vision to a set of heavy carpenter nails. She leaned forward and, without hesitation, slammed her palm down on the things, drawing blood as pain flared to life from her hand all the way down to her shoulder. Pain from the mere vision felt so real, so bewitching, that she looked to her hand to check its damage. But, there came worse fates. The beast reaching down to her blind eye and popping it like a grape, its watery holdings trailing down a cheek like a slimey tear. Her feet, cut from her body by its claws, all while it laughed—it laughed. Her, straddling Jack, not just wanting her, but taking her despite Jack’s shrieking, pleading protests, Rarity’s hand, Rarity’s fist so deep within Jack that it was fully concealed inside her folds, her other hand at the earth-folk’s Jack’s neck, squeezing so hard that the neck let out an audible pop as Jack’s windpipe collapsed.

A spell. Illusion, that, that has to be it, she frantically thought, the revulsion of what she was seeing, of Jack’s pleading eyes slowly fading away as she lay broken and dying, driving her nearly mad.

I have to break from it. I have to.

She could feel her grasp on sanity cracking, the visions she suffered through too much for her, too much to bear with, and if she faded here she wasn’t sure if she’d come back.

Rarity needed something, something to dispel the illusion. Twila might have been able to use a counterspell, reflect the magic, even if it did originate from a beast, and arise, ready to go to war.

Rarity was no Twila. She was a soul-folk, true, but no master of the elements. If anything she was closer to Jack. And, knowing Jack and knowing the aftermath of the earth-folk’s encounters with magic, be it from beast or man, there was one escape, one last-ditch way to flee and rid yourself of an illusionary spell.

Pain.

It took everything she held to fight through the visions, visions that only grew more debased with every scene shown. What was once Jack in her vision was now Rarity’s own sister and she felt the urge to vomit overwhelm her as her hand reached down to Stephanie's inner thigh and began an insulting creep upwards. Holding no time left, she shook her head violently to return her gaze toward the wendigo and brought her dominate hand over to her weaker hand. Without any hesitation she sucked in a breath and grasped her pinkie and twisted upwards.

The crack from her digit hit her almost as hard as the flare of pain that erupted from her hand—she screamed not only from her self-inflicted injury, but from a culmination of what the beast had done to her, and, as she briefly looked down, she screamed at the unnatural angle of her digit. Despite the revulsion she felt at what she did to herself, it worked. Whatever thing the beast had tried to do to her mind, the tuggings and twistings and sickness he had tried to implant there had fallen back; not only that, but though the chill remained, the world around her had returned to its brightness and, past the creature, Rarity could see the hill where Jack surely waited.

Though she had broken free of the creature’s mental attack, Rarity still had to deal with it physically. It stood, quieter than a creature of that size had any right to be. Only a few slow breaths dispelled the appearance that it was nothing more than a garish statue. She took a step to her left and it shot forward so fast Rarity let out a yelp, hopping to the side and tripping just as it lashed a claw where she had been seconds ago. When she landed onto the ground from her fall it cocked an ear towards the noise and lunged again; Rarity rolled to a knee and rose, sprinting with everything she had towards the hill with the beast in hot pursuit.

She was quick, the time learning how to fight had paid off for her, she didn’t stumble anymore as she made her way through the field, her feet sure and true even as she hit potholes and vaulted over small dips, even clearing a tree stump without breaking stride.

The wendigo was, however, quicker.

He came from behind, Rarity could hear every thud of its steps as it galloped after her, first as fast as a horse, then, when she had still barely managed to keep her distance, picking up speed even quicker; she wasn’t sure if it was even going as fast as it could, or if it was just toying with her.

Up ahead, Jack had rose to the top of the hill, her sword drawn as she looked over to the two. If the silver cross she wore at her neck twitching and pulsating didn’t give her an idea as to what was happening, the sight of Rarity told her everything that needed to be said. Rarity nearly cried in relief on seeing Jack and just as she tried to call for help, it happened.

The wendigo let out a triumphant bellow that seemed to rumble the countryside and raised a claw, bringing it down with the speed of a lightning bolt.

Rarity stumbled forward as pain roared to life in her back. Acting on instinct, she tucked and rolled to the side just as it pounced. She landed on the ground with a pained hiss just as Jack stepped forward.

“Piece-a shit!” Jack screamed, charging at it. On hearing the noise, it turned to face the earth-folk, briefly forgetting Rarity.

Jack’s blade swung, arcing across the sky, the thick slab of metal letting a low-pitched whistle as it cleaved the air asunder. Right when the blow would have clashed against the beast’s side, a sheet of ice arose from within its body, growing over the impact point like a second skin and absorbed the impact, thudding against it like her blow met solid concrete. The impact of her blade against the barrier sent up shockwaves through her arms and she hopped back from the beast, swearing under her breath as the ice retreated into its fur.

“It sees through sound!” Rarity called out, rising to her feet. Adrenaline dulled the pain of her pinkie and the wound to her back—the fact that she was able to rise reassured her that her injury wasn’t severe.

She hoped.

“On it!” Jack shouted back, reaching to the shortword at her chest. Pulling it out she threw it at the wendigo; it reacted as she expected, easily hearing it and batting it away.

“Come on!” Jack called out, slapping a hand against her chest, feeling the first faint pricks of anger bubbling to surface. Not enough to overwhelm her, yet, but enough that her nerves were retreating from her thoughts, and her hand gripped her sword with more than a hint of anticipation now.

She had always had a temper, but it was kept in check by her fear of scaring off the people closest to her and her general good nature. But when the spark came, it could erupt into an inferno. Will had saw that in her, saw a way to harness it into a force to be reckoned with.

Jack rose her greatsword into a striking pose, bringing it to her shoulder and charging forward across the marshy ground, her feet splashing stagnant water upward with every step. The wendigo returned the favor, sprinting after Jack.

Snow had began to fall amid Rarity’s attempt to breath and remove her emotions. Now wasn’t the time to put on the mask of a princess, of a prima donna. Now was the time to empty her mind and quell the fear she held, to ignore the chattering of her teeth as a cold, frigid wind blew over her body. If she didn’t calm herself, the magic within her wouldn’t come out, or worse, wouldn’t come out properly. Finally, a small orb of fire graced her palm, which she brought to the guard of her weapon. It swallowed the weapon in its orange hue, then took on a different property, seeming to be almost liquid, coating the base of the weapon like it was a crimson and orange oil. She adjusted her hand to where only two fingers covered the blade proper, and swiped it across the length of the sword, coating the entire cutting edge in the spell. Her magic cast, she crept forward, watching the wendigo’s back intently.

Jack’s weapon clashed with the creature’s side, its face, biceps, legs, nowhere seemed vulnerable to her blows, every strike was to no avail thanks to the wall of ice that guarded its body with every swing. Even with the oil covering her weapon, it wouldn’t mean shit if she couldn’t land a solid hit. Scowling, she swung once more, nearly overextending into the wendigo’s swing. She backpedaled away, blocking its mouth with the flat of her sword as it attempted to bite her, before disengaging enough that she could take a second to observe it. It stood before her, showing no signs of weakness, no sign of fatigue even after her strikes.

If you can’t outsmart them, Apple—and you and I both know you can’t—outfight them! Will barked in her head, commanding her like he had so many other times during their time training together. She nodded despite herself as she rolled her wrist to adjust the grip on her sword and prepared to engage it once more.

Before Jack could approach, Rarity struck from behind, her quiet movement rewarded as her sword pierced its back, the tip of the weapon protruding from the front, the flames spitting from the weapon keeping the ice at bay.

The bellow the creature made was one of pain and anger, but not one of weakness. Rarity’s blow had been true in many ways, but had missed his heart and so, now enraged, he turned and swung his clawed hand towards Rarity; the soul-folk ducked and moved to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow, but having to abandon her weapon to do so.

The snow turned into a flurry, seeming to leave the three in an endless field. The road a mere twenty or so feet from their position was lost to them, in another world amid the sea of grey, bulbous clouds that formed in a whirling circle around them.

A harsh wind blew, nearly toppling over Jack as she held a hand at her brow to make out the monster and her wife amid the worse-growing conditions. As she did, the creature seemed to melt, fade from existence, the wind and snow taking bits of the wendigo with the breeze until it had vanished, Rarity’s sword clattering to the frozen ground. Jack swore, listening intently over the howl of the wind. Though most of the creature’s abilities came as a surprise to her, she knew one thing for certain: a predator like that, once it did decide to engage, wouldn’t retreat. It was here, somewhere, she had to find it, find it before it got her or, God forbid, Rarity, and with that in mind, Jack pulled out her cross, intending to use it as a way to track the wendigo.

Rarity, meanwhile, realized that, as the creature vanished within the snow, it explained how the hell the damn monster had been able to get to her and cast its illusion spell. If it was able to travel with the elements, then it was no wonder it had managed its feat while she was thinking of other matters, and why Jack had not spotted it herself.

But if it was through magical means, then Rarity should at least have decent odds of sensing it.

Swallowing, the soul-folk shut her eyes and again concentrated, letting the tingle of magic ebb throughout her body, the power she held flowing to her senses, her eyes, her ears, at her forehead.

Zecora had called the place the ‘third eye’, a place where her people said that magic was most prevalent, the core of the user. Rarity was far from sure on it being her ‘core,’ but she did know that it was the ideal location to focus to when tracing magic was necessary.

And right now that trace of magic let her not pinpoint the wendigo’s location, but gain an approximation of it.

Where it was made her snap her eyes open.

“Jack!” Rarity called out towards the distance, the blizzard nearly obscuring the other and nearly muting her cry.

Jack had turned on instinct before Rarity could so much as breath a second word to her warning, bringing up her sword just as the creature grew from the ground, forming and arising as if standing up from a deep pool of water, and struck at her.

The blow against her weapon caught at the blade’s guard, and the beast yanked upward, throwing Jack’s sword through the air. It flipped back behind her, landing embedded into the ground some feet away.

Rarity sprinted forward now that the beast had made itself apparent, alongside the way she dropped down, taking her blade once more in-hand, and stared in alarm when she saw the earth-folk’s weapon embedded a few feet in front of her.

The beast snapped a claw in a horizontal arc; Jack took a long step backwards to avoid it. It continued its assault, trying to cut into her with every wild, feral strike of its hands.

It drew blood across Jack’s bicep, across her stomach, her thigh, but, instead of weakening, Jack seemed to go faster, stronger, anticipated its attacks. Her head felt like it had a painful cold, a red hot heat was starting to take over, one she was familiar with. One Will had changed from a timid spark within her to a roaring inferno and as she danced with the beast, she couldn’t help the toothy smile that stretched across her face, the garish scar at her mouth turning her expression into something that bordered on nightmarish.

On its next strike, an overhead slash aimed at her head, Jack acted. The cross she held she snapped forward, thrusting it at the beast.

Though Will, not being a man of faith, had always did his best to remind his girls that silver was what hurt and frightened otherworldly creatures, due to the purity of its chemical composition acting as a strong opposite to the necrotic magic that surrounded creatures such as the wendigo, Jack felt like the cross she carried was stronger than any mere rod made of silver, and she felt a certain satisfaction when the wendigo howled, covering where its eyes should be in an attempt to shield itself from the silver.

Right on cue, the material reacted, first taking on a small glow as it vibrated so hard Jack had to brace the hand holding it with her other palm, then that glow grew stronger, illuminating the cross in a white even purer than the snow at her feet. The illumination grew bolder still, covering Jack’s hand in a light so bright she took to squinting and the cross vibrated in her palm—she had to force it to face the creature, it reacted as a magnet pressing against its same polarity would, and it did everything possible to escape her. Finally, she braced her entire body in a half squat and the cross let out a high-pitched squeal as the reaction finally happened full-force. A light that seemed to have weight to it came from the silver in a mist that swam towards the beast and the monster howled when it came into contact, the silver burning and making it seem frightened for the first time throughout their encounter—Jack scowled when she realized just how short the battles could be. They felt like centuries during the engagement, but when the reality dawned on her that they had only been fighting for minutes, well, it put things in perspective.

It prostrated itself in a pathetic attempt to escape the light and her judgement, but she held no pity, as soon as the light fell away from it, she knew it’d be after her again, only this time, it’d be enraged at the audacity Jack had, using such a weapon on it.

And the light would fall soon. Even Will, with the strength of the norfolk race within him, could hold a silver piece reacting against a creature for a scant thirty seconds. Even if he could hold it longer, the light and reaction it held against the undead when exposed in the open air away from the dark of a pocket or under clothing could damage the user. In fact, even in the seconds Jack had held onto the silver, if she hadn’t been wearing thick gloves, it would have burned her and would have burned her badly across her entire hand from the mist it expelled.

Swallowing, she acted while she still had the advantage her trump card allowed; she let the cross go, it flew off from the creature as if it were thrown away, rather than discarded, and then, before the beast could rise from the knee it dropped down to, Jack grasped a forearm of the creature in her palms, then twisted her torso and her muscles came to life. Though it clearly was larger and stronger, Jack dropped herself to a knee to gain a bit of leverage and its body cleared her own, briefly going airborne as she used what leverage she could from the position they were in and her own God-given strength to shoulder-throw the wendigo. It let out a surprised bark as it slammed into the ground, shaking the whole world around it with the impact. Jack rose up only to nearly sink down to a knee again as pain roared throughout her body at her feat of strength and she clutched her side, grimacing.

The beast was up on its feet fast, faster than seemed possible after such a throw down, and with Jack clearly out of commission for a few precious seconds, Rarity took control. All it took was a thought, a channel to her free hand and her magic roared to life as five long, silk-like ethereal ropes erupted from within her palm, rocketing to the beast and ensnaring its biceps and waist.

Letting out a low exhale, Rarity felt the twinge of her powers once more surge and the translucent bindings seemed to vibrate. At her palm flames sputtered, then quickly grew in intensity, climbing up the ropes with a hunger that mirrored the wendigo’s, before clashing against the beast’s back.

It shrieked, howled in agony as it thrashed against its bindings and Rarity held against its movements as best she could, struggling in vain as a pull from its powerful shoulder made her stumble forward, the panic that swept her briefly making the magic she was channeling flicker. Swallowing, nearly crying in exasperation, she took in another breath, willing her magic to stay and for her heart to stop slamming against her ribs.

“Jack!” she cried out once more.

The woman in question was already charging forward, sprinting like a creature possessed, towards her greatsword. The wendigo, seeing the farmer making a run toward the weapon, seemed once more to fade, the silken rope Rarity had created going slack as the monster’s body was swept away once more by the snow. Seeing no more purpose to the spell she was channeling, Rarity pulled her hand back and the ropes retracted into her palm.

This time, the soul-folk didn’t need to make an approximation on where the wendigo would reappear. She could tell, could sense it simply by observing the battlefield, how Jack was running, how her arm was outstretched, unobservant for the scantest of moments as she lunged for their key to victory. She knew the monster would attack Jack and, this time, as she dug her feet into the ground and took off at a dead sprint towards the farmer, Rarity knew that she was Jack’s best hope on remaining unscathed. This time there would be more than a simple call-out to the earth-folk.

The instant Jack had managed to grasp the weapon, the wendigo appeared from the ground. A swing of its paw to Jack’s face caught her by surprise and she stumbled from the blow, landing flat on her ass, her face bloodied from its claws, but only a few scratches. Before she could move, could even consider a counterstrike, the beast slammed his wicked claws downward towards her.

Only to come up empty, fruitlessly burying its paws into the snow.

Rarity had swooped in just as the wendigo raised its claws for a killing blow and, with every ounce of focus and energy she had left, she had dove on top of Jack and channeled a spell.

Twila had all but mastered the art of teleportation and was capable of doing it across lengths that most would call exaggeration. Rarity, on the other hand, floundered with the ability, only capable of scant feet on average, no more than the distance of a couch at her best. But today, whether it had been seeing Jack vulnerable against the monster, or, perhaps, her own powers were finally starting to become more refined, when she held Jack, there came a brief enthrallment within her, a feeling that she had no real weight, and, when she felt an intense pulling sensation from her bones, the beginning feeling of a teleportation spell being channeled, she knew she had done well.

Jack let out a gasp as her eyes adjusted to a new sight. She was some ten feet away from where she had lay seconds, instants ago. As she tried to process how it had happened, she saw Rarity, breathing hard and clutching at her chest, sweat caking her body and knew, even if she hadn’t seen anything aside from the briefest glow of magic from Rarity’s palms and the faintest spark of something within the soul-folk’s eyes, Jack knew, she knew Rarity had saved her.

Gripping her sword so tight her hands trembled, Jack left Rarity’s side and approached the wendigo, intending it to be the last time she would see the abomination.

“Not enough tricks in the world ta save ya, ya piece of shit,” the earth-folk growled out, welcoming the pit of anger that seemed to want to overtake her whole body. Hearing noise, the wendigo snapped its head forward, lunging it at Jack. This time, Jack offered no adjustment to her position, instead she slung her weapon to a shoulder and braced her body, then, with the same motion one might have striking the flint of a lighter, she ran her thumb along a small gear within the handle of the sword. Instantly, the side of the weapon took on a snaking line of blue across the flat of the blade and Jack grit her teeth as the sword increased in weight, bending her knees and making her arm clench and tighten at the influx.

Durandal let out a groan as weight flooded its core and Jack spat to the side, glaring daggers at the beast.

It wasn’t often she used the sword’s ability. It was normally exclusively used for things the sword couldn’t pierce. Damn thing hurt her swinging it. With the magic sealed within it activated, it was more a heavy slab from the railing of a train line than a sword proper; inelegant, brutal, vicious. It was her solution to many of the things she couldn’t cut and, right now, that seemed to be the wendigo.

The beast’s mouth snapped shut, only a jerk back stopped it from taking Jack’s nose off. Jack hopped backwards, once more on the defensive as its claws worked furious strikes against her. Unlike earlier, though, Jack could see that it was tiring with every swing that came her way. Jack, meanwhile, was already starting to feel her second wind kick in and she bared her teeth at the beast just as it faded into the snow, the blizzard increasing with an even more potent fury, stopping Jack from seeing mere inches in front of her.

Jack went into a swinging stance and scowled, knowing exactly what it was going to do.

She was on the bits; it appeared mere seconds later to her right, no more than five feet away, and it reared its head back, sucking in a breath. Jack knew what was coming this time too, she just didn’t care, she didn’t flinch, the rage she swam in did everything to quell her normal reaction and instead she marched forward as a black cone erupted from its mouth, the coldness of it not lost on her even before it impacted against her armor

Instantly the leather she wore froze, and the skin underneath her protective covering grew painfully numb from the cold, she could hear it crack her hands and forearms, could feel what seemed to be knives plunging themselves into her bones.

Magic, even something as alien as a monster’s spell, was a force like any other. In most cases, it was ruled by counterspells and finding the right way to utilize them. A battle of wits and cunning.

Jack was not an intelligent woman by any stretch of the imagination. Though she could hold a certain sort of animalistic cunning during a crisis, it was a far cry from intelligent. No. the way Jack had to learn how to fight magic was the same way Will had to learn how to fight magic.

By not winning the chess match, but by flipping the Goddamn board over.

She let out a bellow and slammed her fist hard against a breast in her rage. The influx of emotions, raw, primal ones, affected the magic that tried to insidiously damage her body. As soon as her rage exploded out, the magic vanished, water off a duck’s back. Her hand, though agonizing in its pain, wasn’t suffering from any real adverse effects now.

The technique of the Norfolk wasn’t an easy one to master, it required, for a scant moment, a complete abandonment of thoughts, of concerns, of the self in a way, but she had picked up on the technique and had shown to be adapt at it, the only one in her group aside from her teacher able to conjure the necessary emotions to negate conjuration and alteration spells—illusion schools were still a distant dream for the technique, but some day—and as she stepped forward, an executioner carrying an axe to a man on the chopping block, she snarled, spittle dribbling down her chin as her eyes glared pinpricks at the beast and it swung one last, almost desperate, time. Jack easily ducked under it and snapped her body to the side, the sword still resting at her shoulder and swinging with the motion of her torso. The pommel snapped around and cracked against its temple. It recoiled from the blow and clutched at the side of its caved-in head. If it was a person, she would have felt a lot of things on seeing its slow bewilderment bloom to dread as it realized it was dying, none of them really good.

Monsters, though…

Grabbing the weapon in both hands she rolled it off her shoulder and, using as much inertia as she could to avoid putting weight on her already strained body, the greatsword came over and onto its face. A barrier came up to block it, Durandal struck against it and in one hard swing, it shattered into small pieces and the weight of the weapon continued, crushing directly into the wendigo’s skull. It caved in and the wendigo dropped like a sack of potatoes, landing onto the ground with a whimper before becoming still, the occasional errant twitch from the damaged nerves of its smashed-in brain the only movement Jack spotted.

The farmer felt her knees give way and she dropped to the ground, breathing heavily. The downside of when she had to use her abilities to deflect magic was that it took a lot out of her when she finally got a clear head again, and right now she was half-tempted to sleep here, a few scant inches from the cooling corpse of the monster.

Common sense came to her soon enough and she instead rolled the creature onto its back and stood, then took her sword and rammed it through its heart. Jack wasn’t sure if it’d regenerate like a troll, but at this point she was expecting everything and hoping for nothing. When the wendigo made no more motion for her, drew no breath, she finally let out an exhale.

By now, Rarity had limped towards Jack and they stood for a moment, observing its corpse.

“Just like that,” Rarity said, quietly amazed. Jack was too tired to laugh, but she did offer a single huff of air.

“Jus’ like that,” she agreed, a bit unbelieving herself at the situation. She had been the victor on more than one occasion with the group, but it never got any stranger. It was like harvest time on the farm: you finish it and you can’t believe just how sudden everything stops. Granted, farming was the far better deal, she never saw tomatoes that tried to kill you before you picked them, same way with the apple trees.

Finally rubbing her shoulder, Jack turned to look at the soul-folk.

“A few more things, then we can go back.”

Rarity sat down on the road, wincing as she did so. Jack rounded behind Rarity, pausing as she looked over the other for the first time since the battle.

At the tailor’s back were three deep lacerations, going from shoulder, down to near the spine and were still bleeding, soaking the cloth they were behind.

“Jesus, Rare,” Jack said under her breath.

“Is… is it bad?” Rarity asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Looks bad. But not fatal.” She seemed to pause for a moment, hating what she was going to need to say. “Gonna need stitches.”

Reaching into her satchel, Rarity produced a spool of thread, a needle tucked deftly within it.

“Mmm,” was all Rarity said as she handed it to Jack.

Taking the thread, Jack went to work, sewing the wound shut and doing her best to ignore Rarity’s pained hisses every time the needle punctured her porcelain skin.

“You have no need to apologize,” Rarity suddenly spoke up as Jack finished stitching up one of the cuts.

Jack blinked. “How did ya—”

“Know that you were going to say it?” Rarity guessed, her laugh cut short as she let out another hiss when Jack took the needle to her tender flesh. “Because I know you, Jack. And I know seeing me hurt, even if it’s trivial—”

“This ain’t trivial,” Jack interrupted. “It coulda got ya deeper, coulda cut ha further along, coulda jus’ ate ya. No damn shit I feel bad about all-a this!”

Rarity looked up to the sky, sucking in breath as Jack took to working on the third cut.

“Jack. It could have, but it did not. I’m alive and, at the absolute worst case, I’ll have scars.”

“An’ ya don’t think that’s bad? I know yer appearance—”

“My appearance is an asset, not my profession. Even if the marks heal ugly, there is always makeup, or creating designs that hide my blemish.” She reached her good hand behind her, resting it at Jack’s knee. “It is not your fault I got injured. And do not even consider regretting taking me. If you hadn’t, then you would have died,” she said plainly, not sugar-coating the words in the slightest. “This is simply a lesson in humility.”

“Rare,” Jack weakly breathed out.

“It’s ok, Jack,” she once more reassured, giving a gentle, almost motherly smile as she looked off into the distance. “So don’t cry. I do enough of that for both of us.”

Jack sniffed. Her eyes burned, but after a moment of furiously rubbing at them, they dried up.

“Excellent,” Rarity said, sweat decorating her face from dealing with the pain of being sewn up. Holding her broken pinkie upwards, she added on with a weak chuckle, “now here comes the worst part. If you would do the honors.”

Jack frowned. “From experience, it hurts like a bitch, sug.”

“I hardly expected a massage. Just get it over with.”

Moving to her front, Jack knelt down to Rarity’s face and took her hand. Jack gave a small rub at Rarity’s palm and took the stetson off her head.

“Bite this,” Jack ordered, holding the brim of the hat towards the tailor’s mouth.

“What?” Rarity said, balking at the object. “That thing is filthy.”

“Rare,” Jack said, her tone stern.

“Fine.” Leaning forward, she took the leather and daintily put it between her teeth, keeping her lips as far away from it as possible.

“On three.” Jack exhaled. “One…”

She took Rarity’s pinkie and in one deft twist, set the bone back in position. Rarity howled, her scream muffled within Jack’s hat as tears not only came to her eyes, but quickly took to running down her cheeks. Jack once more felt her own eyes water at Rarity’s pain, but pushed it to the side, knowing there was still some work to do. Reaching to the medical supplies in her satchel, she got gauze and a small splint. Though she wasn’t the best nurse, she did know enough to dress an injury—had actually known a little of it even before she had gone on the warpath, as it were. Mac and Bloom were damn klutzes sometimes, Jack had learned how to patch someone up pretty quick around the farm because of it.

It took a long while, but Rarity eventually stopped her wailing and sat, letting only the occasional choking sob out. When she finally seemed calm, Jack took the hat back.

Teeth marks not just spotted the stetson, but Rarity’s canines had put small pinprick punctures into it. She said nothing, merely reaching forward to give a small, apologetic brush of Rarity’s hair.

“I’m fine,” Rarity muttered out. “I’m fine.”

“Jus’ fine,” Jack agreed. Waiting until Rarity was a bit less dazed, she stood, offering her hand to the tailor. “My cuts ain’t that bad. They’ll close up on their own. What we need ta do now is get ya back ta the inn an’ inta some warm, clean sheets. How’s that?”

Taking Jack’s hand, Rarity exhaled. “I would like nothing more.” She stood and nearly toppled over, Jack caught her and the soul-folk offered an embarrassed chuckle. “I suppose that left me a bit more startled than I like to admit.”

“Ya did good. Better than good. First time with a monster is…” Jack thought for a beat, biting a knuckle out of habit. “Well, fact that yer standin’ is great. Know my first time out with Will, I pretty much fell down and stayed down fer at least a few hours afterwards. Thing left me shakin’ so bad I couldn’t even unscrew my canteen fer a drink.”

“It was terrible.” Rarity leaned into Jack. “Are they always that…?”

“No,” she simply answered. “Most times ya don’t even have ta fight that hard. Sometimes ya do. But usually ya scare somethin’ the group runs inta off. Lot of monsters are more like corpse eaters, not predators. Ya show ‘em ya mean business an’ they’ll run.”

“Then, hopefully, next time we’ll manage a bit better. Together.”

Jack shook her head. There swelled a feeling of pride as she looked down to the woman. Regret at the woman’s injuries, of course, but knowing that she was willing to do it when necessary, that she stuck by her word of wanting to be by Jack’s side, that she wanted to be reliant on herself just as much as she was reliant on Jack, well, it made her heart swell with respect when it came to her wife and Jack offered a small laugh, her battered body already feeling better than it had before.

“Next time fer sure.”