Zephyr: The White Slag of Koppaburg
In the shadowed northwest of Dane County, the earth heaves upward into the jagged spine of the Koppaburg Mountains. To the locals, these peaks are not merely rock and ice; they are a forbidden altar to the wind gods—ancient, unseen deities capable of leveling a manor or plucking a man from the earth like a stray leaf. To the scholars at Pickford University, however, these were nothing more than the charming superstitions of a primitive folk.
It was this academic arrogance that led my friend, Professor William B. Taft, to organize an expedition. Along with a hand-picked team of students, he sought to map the unmappable. They arrived in the village of Hythe on a skeletal October night, their lanterns flickering against the heavy silence of the villagers. The locals watched from behind thatched eaves, their eyes casting an ominous judgment upon the strangers. Unbeknownst to Taft, he was not walking into a geographic mystery, but a slaughterhouse of the skies.
The team’s final night of luxury was spent at a drafty inn, huddled over maps before venturing onto the frozen, black slag of the range. Guided by a local traveler, they disappeared into the high altitude.
Weeks bled into months. Silence reigned. Eventually, the authorities at Pickford and the county courts declared them dead—victims of an avalanche, or perhaps murdered by their guide. The case was closed with a cold finality. But I knew Taft. He was too careful for avalanches and too kind for enemies.
A year later, I arrived in Hythe. The town was a picturesque trap of colorful gazebos and ancient cobblestones, but the air was thick with a "silent treatment" that felt like a physical weight. Whenever I spoke Taft’s name, the eager chatter of the village died in their throats.
Then came the post from Koji Úlfur Wetzel.
I met him at nine PM at the edge of town, beneath the twisted limbs of two ancient Arwin trees. Koji sat among a circle of elders, his unique red hat casting a long shadow over a communal bowl filled with a pungent, brown substance. As we passed the bowl under the cold starlight, Koji spoke of things that would make a sane man weep. He spoke of the desert sands of Gurth, the cats of Ulthar, and the arachnid horrors of Tek-Kath.
"I led them to the Peak of Everlasting Eternity," Koji whispered, his eyes reflecting the dying embers of the fire. "Beyond the white fog, we found the Great Caves. I stayed outside. I have seen the world's hidden teeth, and I knew better than to enter. I heard the screams, traveler. They were not the screams of men being murdered—they were the screams of men being harvested."
He warned me to turn back. He called the gods Zephyr—the vengeful breath of the mountain.
Driven by a grim loyalty to Taft, I ignored him. I spent a week preparing and then began my ascent into the black, volcanic slag. For three months, I climbed. The world below vanished. The air grew thin and tasted of iron. Finally, I reached the mouth of the Great Cave.
The stones were slick with a luminous green moss. But it was the center of the cavern that stopped my heart. There sat a massive, heaving pile of white, glue-like substance. It gave off a stench so foul it felt like a physical blow to the senses. I donned my gloves and prepared a sample case, thinking I had found some strange volcanic discharge.
Then, I saw it. A glint of wire protruding from the white muck.
I reached out, wiping away the foul goo, and pulled. It was not a wire. It was the gold-rimmed bridge of Professor Taft’s spectacles. One lens was cracked; the other was smeared with a digestive film.
The horror hit me like a physical wave. The "white goo" was not stone or slime—it was a bolus. An owl pellet. The Zephyr were not wind gods, and they were not ghosts. They were massive, prehistoric avian predators that lived in the thin air of the peaks. They didn't just kill; they dissolved.
A sound like a leather sail snapping in the wind echoed from the back of the cave. I looked up. Two red, bioluminescent eyes ignited in the darkness. Then another pair. And another. The massive birds, heavy with the scent of carrion, began to hop toward the light of the entrance.
I didn't collect my gear. I didn't look back. I fled down the black slag of Koppaburg, the scream of the Zephyr chasing me all the way to the valley floor. I returned to Pickford and filed my report, but I see the doubt in their eyes. They think I am mad. But every time the wind howls against my window at night, I don't hear the weather. I hear the snapping of wings, and I remember the white pile of glue that was once my friend.
It was this academic arrogance that led my friend, Professor William B. Taft, to organize an expedition. Along with a hand-picked team of students, he sought to map the unmappable. They arrived in the village of Hythe on a skeletal October night, their lanterns flickering against the heavy silence of the villagers. The locals watched from behind thatched eaves, their eyes casting an ominous judgment upon the strangers. Unbeknownst to Taft, he was not walking into a geographic mystery, but a slaughterhouse of the skies.
The team’s final night of luxury was spent at a drafty inn, huddled over maps before venturing onto the frozen, black slag of the range. Guided by a local traveler, they disappeared into the high altitude.
Weeks bled into months. Silence reigned. Eventually, the authorities at Pickford and the county courts declared them dead—victims of an avalanche, or perhaps murdered by their guide. The case was closed with a cold finality. But I knew Taft. He was too careful for avalanches and too kind for enemies.
A year later, I arrived in Hythe. The town was a picturesque trap of colorful gazebos and ancient cobblestones, but the air was thick with a "silent treatment" that felt like a physical weight. Whenever I spoke Taft’s name, the eager chatter of the village died in their throats.
Then came the post from Koji Úlfur Wetzel.
I met him at nine PM at the edge of town, beneath the twisted limbs of two ancient Arwin trees. Koji sat among a circle of elders, his unique red hat casting a long shadow over a communal bowl filled with a pungent, brown substance. As we passed the bowl under the cold starlight, Koji spoke of things that would make a sane man weep. He spoke of the desert sands of Gurth, the cats of Ulthar, and the arachnid horrors of Tek-Kath.
"I led them to the Peak of Everlasting Eternity," Koji whispered, his eyes reflecting the dying embers of the fire. "Beyond the white fog, we found the Great Caves. I stayed outside. I have seen the world's hidden teeth, and I knew better than to enter. I heard the screams, traveler. They were not the screams of men being murdered—they were the screams of men being harvested."
He warned me to turn back. He called the gods Zephyr—the vengeful breath of the mountain.
Driven by a grim loyalty to Taft, I ignored him. I spent a week preparing and then began my ascent into the black, volcanic slag. For three months, I climbed. The world below vanished. The air grew thin and tasted of iron. Finally, I reached the mouth of the Great Cave.
The stones were slick with a luminous green moss. But it was the center of the cavern that stopped my heart. There sat a massive, heaving pile of white, glue-like substance. It gave off a stench so foul it felt like a physical blow to the senses. I donned my gloves and prepared a sample case, thinking I had found some strange volcanic discharge.
Then, I saw it. A glint of wire protruding from the white muck.
I reached out, wiping away the foul goo, and pulled. It was not a wire. It was the gold-rimmed bridge of Professor Taft’s spectacles. One lens was cracked; the other was smeared with a digestive film.
The horror hit me like a physical wave. The "white goo" was not stone or slime—it was a bolus. An owl pellet. The Zephyr were not wind gods, and they were not ghosts. They were massive, prehistoric avian predators that lived in the thin air of the peaks. They didn't just kill; they dissolved.
A sound like a leather sail snapping in the wind echoed from the back of the cave. I looked up. Two red, bioluminescent eyes ignited in the darkness. Then another pair. And another. The massive birds, heavy with the scent of carrion, began to hop toward the light of the entrance.
I didn't collect my gear. I didn't look back. I fled down the black slag of Koppaburg, the scream of the Zephyr chasing me all the way to the valley floor. I returned to Pickford and filed my report, but I see the doubt in their eyes. They think I am mad. But every time the wind howls against my window at night, I don't hear the weather. I hear the snapping of wings, and I remember the white pile of glue that was once my friend.