Approximately three months later, Rosaria’s group had arrived in Tȟáŋka Makȟóčhe, arriving in the port city of Blackshell. From there they spend a month and a half of sleuthing and oddjob hunts, until they finally find a lead on what might be the Lich’s path.

A lead that they feel less than thrilled in finding.

Trudging through one of the deciduous forests southwest of the port, Fafnir gives voice to their annoyance: “…He’s just fucking with us now, isn’t he?”

“What, this constant trickle of devils ‘foreign’ to these lands causing trouble in a relatively straight line to the desert? Of course he is. I don’t know why exactly beyond just fucking with us, but he always does this whenever we end up crossing the seas to get me back on the chase. Now it’s a question of if it’s meant to send us in the wrong direction, lead us into a trap or just waste our time before changing tactics.”

“Experiencing talking, I take it. Have you ever caught up to him before?”

“…a few times. The first was a year after I became a full devil hunter and started hunting him in earnest. It was only time I fought and was the closest I ever came to dying, as the scars on my neck and the stab wound under my tit attest to that. Every encounter afterwards was either interrupted by his minions or some other fuckery that let him slip away.”

The group falls quiet as they refocus on their current hunt: a Wɔahuruhuruw, an obese lumbering ogre that normally haunts the savannahs and wetlands of the Asase Ya. A rather troublesome devil on account of them being nocturnal hunters built like an upright hippopotamus, just as violent as well as aggravatingly resilient and regenerative so long as the worm-like organs inside are still functioning. This particular target caught their attention when they stumbled upon the remains of an unfortunate bear. Nyaméama had the unfortunate knowledge to identify the way said animal was mauled and eaten away at. It took a week of asking nearby settlements and following the trail of carnage described for the group to track the devil down to the forest they were now trudging through, the waxing half-moon shining through the woods.

Suddenly a gunshot echoes out, followed by several more in rapid succession, accompanied by a gurgling roar and the crash of a falling tree off in the distance, which Nyaméama curses at recognizing. “Damnit, that’s the sound of a wɔahuruhuruw. It must have found someone.”

“Shit. Where’d the noise come from?”

“There, past that small group of hills! Move it!”

The hunters begin sprinting towards the commotion, the gunfire a steady six-round staccato underlined by frustrated wailing and toppling forestry. Cresting upon the farthest hill, they find a young harpy man facing off against the bloated ogre, a small clearing of splintered wood around them. Fafnir brandishes his axe at the sight. “Found it. ‘Ama, start sending spears as artillery. Ro’, circle with me to flank-“

“Belay that.”

The half-dragon and human glare in befuddlement at Micaug’s interruption, “What? Why?”

“Look closer, the harpy is toying with the thing.”

While difficult to do in the night’s lacking light, Fafnir and Nyaméama are eventually able to see what the two pact-partners discovered: the harpy was indeed kicking the wɔahuruhuruw’s ass. It’s riddled with bullet holes and slashing wounds, a putrid orange bleeding freely as it flails and stumbles after the hybrid, who seemingly dances around the lumbering beast while peppering it with a revolver and hand axe.

“Wait… is he actually dancing?”

“Yep. He’s likely a Wakinyan then, as he’s gathering power with it. He’s going to pull something big soon.”

“You can cast magic that way?”

As if to answer Nyaméama’s question, the harpy finishes with a flourish and slams his axe into the ground. Immediately afterwards a blinding bolt of lightning comes down from nowhere right on top of the wɔahuruhuruw’s head with a deafening clap, the worm organs bursting out from its head and side as it flash-fries from the electrocution. For good measure, the stranger then leaps and dropkicks it into a sturdy oak tree, cracking the back of its head open and digging his talons into its skull and gut.

As the corpse slumps down to the ground, the sound of a whistle and clapping grabs the harpy’s attention. Whirling around, he sees the party of devil hunters approaching. “Well, that was impressive. Not many people can come out unscathed with a wɔahuruhuruw. How’d you end up tangling with this thing?”

Rosaria’s question gets an unexpected answer, as the Wakinyan responds in an awed voice, “You… you’re the Ghost Elf.”

“I’m sorry?”

Ignoring the sudden confusion, the harpy sheathes his weapons and jumps off the dead demon with a cheerful whoop, squeezing past the other hunters and grabbing Rosaria’s shoulders. “Oh lucky day! I’ve spent years trying to find you! Please, come with me back to Grandmother’s lodge, we must thank you!”

“Uhhh, okay…?”