‘Extorris,’ the wind seems to whisper, the dying breath of an unmarked grave. ‘Save us.’

To his credit, he does try—tired eyes flicking across the prairie, the faintest glimmer of hope that perhaps a new living creature has stumbled into his territory before the howling winds and damning cold could claim its life as it had all life forms before it. He supposes he can only blame gullibility on why he keeps falling for the cruel trick.

Because there is nothing left here to save. No one except a lone courser, the catalyst of his own fate. Undeserving of rescue; undeserving of any life but his own.

But still the hope persists, dragging his eyes in circles across the barren landscape for the hundredth time, never faltering each time he turns up empty-handed. He isn't sure why that pesky hope continues to linger around in the face of so much death and despair. 

There—yes! Movement; life!

Extorris begins to rear up, a whinny in his throat to greet the first living courser he's seen in years, but then the creature moves, and his excitement dies with it. 

Another spirit. This one, the Pale Horse of Death. How fitting, he thinks bitterly.

The shimmering translucence of the beast’s skin gives it away as a ghost, visible even from afar as it moves. Its head is gaunt and ugly, void of any fat or muscle. The rest of its body is similar, and Extorris cannot recall ever having seen a more fitting example of skin and bones. Open, infected wounds litter the spirit’s body, oozing and bubbling even in the afterlife. The beast’s entire lower jaw is hanging limply, attached only by nerves and skin, near-perpendicular with the beast’s lowered and outstretched head. Its eyes, sunken deep into the sockets of the skull, are red and glowing fiercely. 

It stalks forward, reminiscent of a starving canine, its sights set on Extorris as its target. Its prey. 

Extorris supposes this creature is why some coursers choose to refer to the Harvest Moon as the Hunter’s Moon. Because this courser—this thing—is most certainly hunting him.

The spirit falters as a strong gust of wind rattles its visage. Extorris wonders what it must feel like to traverse with a permeable body, to feel the world simply pass right through him. He cannot imagine it would feel much different than his current life.

“Hunger…” the spirit growls from deep in its throat, its broken maw unmoving with the word. “Cold…”

The world seems to still, all at once. The wind stops, lying with bated breath. 

“Yeah,” Extorris feels his mouth say breathlessly, although the sound never reaches his ears. “Yeah.”

The spirit falters again, the light in its eyes dimming ever-so-slightly. It stares at him, expression more blank than malicious now. It’s waiting for something.

“Welcome to the prairie,” Extorris mumbles sardonically, but the echoes mocking him from all directions are the only proof he has that he actually said anything aloud. “You get over the hunger and cold after the first few days. But the tiredness—that never goes away.”

He’s met with a wordless growl.

“The Harvester sent you, yeah? Tell that fucker his ghosts aren’t welcomed here.”

Another growl, this one far more vicious, is the only warning he receives before the beast shrieks and lunges at him with bared teeth. But Extorris is ready—is always ready, is never allowed to be anything but ready—and he sidesteps with ease. The wind picks up again, as if in encouragement, howling its support into his ears.

“Death… Death…” the pale horse rumbles, skin twitching in anticipation, splitting already-opened wounds even further. 

But Extorris isn’t afraid of Death. Has looked it in the eyes so many times before—has survived it, watching everything he knew and loved be claimed by a fate he could never be holy enough to afford. To pass on to the afterlife would be the kindest gift life has ever given him, but he could never be so lucky.

“Death has come and gone, unholy one. You cannot do what no other creature has done before.”

“Watch… Watch…” 

Extorris tenses his shoulders and haunches in preparation for another attack. One never comes.

Instead, the spirit lets out a deflating wheeze, legs buckling as its body disappears into a sulfur-stenched puff of dark smoke. And Extorris is alone once more.

His body shivers at the sudden chill that settles over the prairie.