wolpertingers don’t like heavy rain. they’re easier to find during thunderstorms. in this forest off the coast of most maps, the tracker’s wooden clogs mash the earth. they bend their knees to hone in on all what surrounds them. nature drips, reflects, and shakes. the sound of thunder is muffled by trees. spotting a pattern of flooded pockets in the dirt, the tracker follows. mud gurgles. they spot a number of collapsed branches. a tree lacerated downwards with peculiar lines. getting on their knees, the inner padding of the tracker’s pants cools with rain. they sniff. searching for notable odors. their eyes dart, scanning for colors, movements, droppings. usually, there is nothing. however, with persistence, a first sign always appears. they continue investigating. at the foot of a shrub, protected from the elements, are what appear to be webbed prints. the more the tracker studies them, the more they second guess their shape. clean prints are rarely preserved. a hunch is usually all one has to start. the tracker plugs the spot with a treen stake.
tracking cryptids is the sport of aristocrats. they have the unique luxury to pursue what everyone else perceives as legend. when the masses hunt, it is for the easiest prey. the cryptid community looks down on those who track regular game. had they ever climbed to the edge of the universe to collect the honey blood of a dying tartarica lamb? or witnessed the birth of cericopithicus twins? mundane experiences for a cryptid tracker, but beautiful moments should be celebrated nonetheless. after a decade of honing their skill, the tracker decided there’s little difference between the game of common folk and this more extraordinary ilk. when it comes to protecting their peace, all beasts — including people — react similarly. they hide; screech; bolt; or, as a last resort, bear tooth and claw. only once a myth comes to life does one realize there is fear in their faces too. the wolpertinger, while not highly valued by the creative taxidermist, has remained elusive to the tracker.
rain is unpleasant in polite society. through thick cloaks and padded carriages, it seeps, dampening a cultivated look. when the slightest moisture is on the rims of their fabrics, the tracker has trouble channeling the lavish. their peers think them strange. they fastened all their gear into a waterproof seal with ropes and belts before embarking into this mighty storm. the pour still creeps in. while searching, they trip over a rock, stumbling a few steps, but regaining their footing without fall. no matter how good one gets, there will always be tricky circumstances and improper footwork. fortunately, with time, it gets easier to avoid injury. in this wilderness, trees spread their roots as far as they can. creatures kill to live then die in the jaws of other beasts. all kingdoms crumble back to this. the wings of wolpertingers are weighed down during heavy rain. forcing them to be reliant on their squirrel bodies and duck feet for travel and the antlers on their rabbit heads for defense. something rustles the shrubs. the tracker lurches, landing their feet outside the ball, while rolling their soles forward to make minimal noise. a rodent scurries, overwhelmed by the forceful wind. there are streaks of exposed bark at the base of a few trees. similar to the rubs bucks leave to mark their territory, though much lower to the ground. the tracker plugs another stake.
to preserve their craft, cryptid trackers show restraint. killing a cryptid preemptively leads to ridicule and expulsion. these are rare creatures; often, the last of their kind. however, it is only natural to question a tracker’s skill if all they return with are short journals or stories shared among confidants. most trackers can’t resist taking a little memento as proof of their talent. horns. talons. tufts of fur. with every subsequent hunt, the prior tracker’s merit is authenticated and larger parts of the cryptid are pilfered. a tail can be fashioned into an extravagant scarf, perfect for strutting around a stuffy parlor. and if one lacks the disgust, bodily liquids may be mixed into hallucinatory tonics. battle tested, these cryptids grow tough, but over time succumb to repeated wounds. the tracker seeking them last collects the carcass, dropping it off at the creative taxidermist, whose skill at turning fiction to reality is renowned in circles who care about artistic expression. the creative taxidermist knows many names, dangles a lot of keys. repeat donations and light mutilation make for an amicable relationship.
as the tracker delves deeper, weeds spread. vines bind. the tracker’s woolen cape is wet, heavy. birds do not chirp. the rain is nowhere near over. an animal the supposed size of a wolpertinger would break branches beneath its feet. with every step, the tracker tramples the world. all the insects and defenseless buds they unknowingly crush. a breath tends to come at the cost of another. all they hear is pitter pattering. in every expedition one decides: are they getting somewhere or simply becoming lost to the trees? these pillars of bark have rubs too. the tracker often ventures out for very long, fixated on symbols that aren’t there, only to retreat and have to try again. it takes several urges to return to finally decide to follow their markers back to civilization. uncertain of when another storm will break, they kick a pebble and move onwards. sunk almost fully into the soil by their feet is a dark feather. they do not notice.
trails are everywhere. not all of them lead to cryptids of course; regardless, many are worth following. with enough experience, a tracker becomes familiarized with the intricacies of their sport. they know that pairs of prints left perfectly parallel belong to animals that walk while immersed in their environment. one becomes comfortable sticking their nose in the dirt. droppings have unique aromas. based on diet and how recent they are. clues can also be discovered in how prey was torn open. varying teeth leave unique incisions. information on cryptids is plentiful, yet mostly wrong. the wolpertinger travels predominately through short bursts of flight. it has an equal opportunity diet and due to its bulky body needs regular rest. its duck feet, while great for swimming, are unable to keep their horns afloat. wolpertingers are a fragile amalgamation, inspired limb by limb by the world around them. the tracker finds an overflowing lake shrouded by the percussion of the storm.
they are already soaked. their shoes can get a little wetter. there are tiny tides where water meets land. they avoid their reflection. amid mossy stones is a worm pile getting drenched from all directions. somewhat shielding them from the rain, the tracker crouches over. every worm slithers to the center of this moving dune, pushing the others towards the worst of the weather. these unfinished ideas. mostly formless, without sight, thoroughly abundant, they could never rise to the status of cryptid. to the creative taxidermist, perennially worthless. as those little bodies twirl around the tracker’s fingers, there is a warm sense of life. never sought after except for as bait, they humbly sustain everything bigger than them. the tracker fills their water skin with a flow of the lake, before plugging another checkpoint. as they go further into the forest’s core, they see soggy leaf litter turned over into clumpy piles. some topped off with undigested chunks of worm.
dining etiquette is as important to the tracker as any codex on cryptids. they enjoy predictability and frequently remind their peers not to leave their forks and knives crossed over their plates. a signal to the chef: what a terrible meal. leave them aimed to the right instead, which conveys to the servants their service was excellent – even if it wasn’t. most cryptid enthusiasts think they’re too enlightened for formalities. many are convinced they could be actual royalty if only the old guard deteriorated. manners are meant to be universal. the tracker, prone to daydreams about power too, has grown to enjoy their obscurity. they have seen younger, more inexperienced peers be confident sleuthing prey, though drop their blades once confronted with a threat to their own dominion. the tracker themselves has cowered before a cryptid. a wound left by a cynocephali never fully heals. they’d returned countless times with no mementos, needed long breaks. the creative taxidermist repeatedly brought up the topic of squandered potential around them. mistakes can be turned painless through experience, but they still matter. one slip up, the target dashes. with its large rodent claws, a wolpertinger can quickly scale trees, using the backs of its dark brown wings to blend in.
warm sweat and cold rain fuse into a glue, clinging the tracker’s inner layers to their skin. they want to scratch a deep itch, though can’t get it through their cloak. wisping through an overgrowth, sharp branches stab at them. the tracker crouches, weaves, steadfast on the disturbed trail. a ripped feather tip is caught on a twig. they see more impressions in the mud. breakage around them. hearing a snap within earshot, the tracker folds to a prowl. as they maneuver forward, something under them splinters. they hear a bump, like bone against bark. whether badger or wolpertinger, it is important not to meet an animal in the eye. the tracker reaches for the front pocket of their stake pouch, careful for the gold buckle not to make noise. slowly, they pull out a metal spit dart – handcrafted by the creative taxidermist. more murmuring. closer. closer. peering through a bush, the tracker watches a small creature try backing its way into the cavity of a dead wood. the antlers on its rabbit head and wingspan keep it from fully hiding. there are downed trees in every direction. it doesn’t have an easy escape path. the tracker draws the instrument to their lips.
the wolpertinger senses being focused on. burrowing won’t work. it pulls out from the hole, trying to take flight instead. after barely floating off the ground, it plops on its face, frantically clawing at the slush to get back up. those webbed feet should help it walk on wet ground, however, its movements are slow, hissy. the tracker inches forward, conscious of their predatory urge to pounce. at the peak of spotting a cryptid, it gets tempting to throw caution to the wind. rush forward, paralyze it. finish a tedious track. take the blade out. prove one’s worth. a wing of the wolpertinger is already wilted downward. the tracker has seen similar injuries in fallen birds. it tries to scale the brittle oak. any pressure to its writhing side slows the cryptid down. a dart coated with the secretion of a sea monk pricks the wolpertinger’s thigh. within seconds, it again topples over, frozen in the motion of its desperate climb.
any memento taken from the wolpertinger turns to a boring appendage. a knife becomes useless. the wolpertinger only exists as its unique, undesecrated whole. only sought by those who enjoy being out in a storm. drenched. alert. analyzing insignias left by the wild. not for pride, admiration, or dissociation. but to gain a deeper appreciation of natural beauty. despite its two fangs and bark breaking antlers, the wolpertinger has a face of pure innocence. that which all animals share and only they can achieve. being gentle, the tracker takes the torpefied cryptid, using one of the ropes on their person to sling it over their shoulder. they will take it back to a special place. an airy hideout. one of peace and introspection. the proper tools to heal. there they can nurse its broken wing. so the wolpertinger can fly again.
— plasticbagger is in his POLAND era. his cormac mccarthy tribute album can be found here.