par Bill Tiepelman
Seasons of the Hunter
The Amber Eye of Thal They said the forest was split by an ancient curse — one that stitched time along a crooked seam. On the left side of the path, the world still bled with the warmth of fall; brittle leaves crunched underfoot, burnt-orange maples clawed at the dying light, and the air was spiced with rot and memory. To the right, winter had already carved its claim. Icy breath lingered like ghosts between silver pines, the snow as clean and silent as the grave. Between them, it walked. The tiger. But not just a tiger — Thal, the Ember-Eyed, the Relic, the Whispering Death. His paws made no sound, though the earth shivered in his wake. Every step was deliberate, ancient. He wasn’t just walking through seasons; he was walking through them — the gods, the hunters, the fools who once tried to bind him in chains made of prophecy and ego. Spoiler: it didn’t go well for them. Thal’s gaze glinted gold, not from the sun (which had the sense to keep its distance), but from something deeper. A memory, perhaps, or a thousand of them stacked like bones beneath his ribs. To look into his eyes was to feel time laugh at your mortality. From the frost-cloaked evergreens, a shape stirred. A man, wrapped in wolf pelts, stepped from the shadows with the arrogance of someone who hadn’t yet been educated by regret. He bore a spear longer than himself, etched with sigils that sizzled faintly against the cold air. A hunter, no doubt. Thal did not slow. “You walk toward death,” the man called, raising the spear. “Return to your side of the forest, beast. You do not belong here.” Thal paused. The leaves rustled. The snow sighed. And the tiger—yes, the one with paws like thunder and a heart older than most mountains—smirked. At least, that’s what the wind whispered. They always say that. With a motion so smooth it might’ve been a thought, Thal lunged—not at the man, but at the air between them, cleaving space itself. And in that breath, everything shifted. Trees tilted. The spear turned to ash. The hunter screamed. Not in pain—yet—but in the realization that he’d just become part of the story. And worse, not the hero. Thal padded forward as if nothing had happened, leaving behind a smear of melted snow and a man on his knees, sobbing into the scent of burning bark. The tiger’s eyes flicked to the horizon. Something bigger stirred. He could feel it waking. Not a hunter. Not prey. Something else. And it had his scent in its throat already. So much for a quiet stroll between seasons. The Cold God’s Hunger Deep beneath the roots of the winter side, where frost had gnawed away the bones of civilizations, something shifted. Not the innocent stirrings of woodland life, but a pull, as if gravity itself was reconsidering its allegiance. The Cold God was waking. And Thal could feel its hunger like static between his fangs. He’d met it once. Just once. Back when gods still bled the same color as their believers and thrones were built from the skulls of saints. Back then, it had worn the face of a child — a little boy made of rime and sorrow, who whispered promises to dying kings. Thal hadn’t liked the child. He’d left claw marks on its palace walls and teeth in its priests. And still, the thing had smiled. But that was another forest. Another age. Another Thal, before the centuries had taught him the delight of patience. Before sarcasm became his only shield against the divine absurdity of this world. Now, as he stalked the treacherous line between autumn’s decline and winter’s dominion, the forest around him began to convulse with quiet betrayal. Crows stopped mid-caw. The wind folded its wings. Time dared not breathe too loudly. The path ahead curved unnaturally, bending like a ribcage trying to cage him in. Oh, how they tried. “Still alive, Thal?” croaked a voice like a dying fire under wet wood. It came from above—a broken pine twisted in the shape of a woman, her bark bleeding sap that steamed as it touched snow. Thal glanced up. “Sylfa. Still rooted in bad decisions, I see.” The dryad cackled, a sound like snapped kindling. “The Cold God wants your pelt, old friend.” “He can want all he likes. So can the moon.” “He dreams of you. Of fire. Of endings.” “Then he dreams wrong.” The tree-woman’s laughter shivered into the branches above, triggering an avalanche somewhere unseen. Thal didn’t stop. He never stopped. That was the first rule of survival for a creature like him. Movement wasn’t just instinct; it was ritual. Keep walking, keep breathing, keep mocking the gods until they were too tired or too confused to smite you properly. Still, he could feel the Cold God now. It was no longer a whisper beneath the ground, but a presence bulging at the seams of reality. It was not frost. It was not wind. It was something much worse: the absence of all that had ever meant warmth. It devoured memory, ambition, even pain — leaving behind numb obedience. Its faithful called it mercy. Thal called it cowardice wrapped in holy frostbite. And it had just stepped onto the path behind him. Not walked. Not emerged. Just… was. A figure ten feet tall, draped in robes of shifting snow, face hidden beneath a jagged mask of antlers and glass. Wherever it stepped, autumn died. Even Thal’s breath came slower, his body tensing as his primal bones remembered the cost of overconfidence. The trees bent toward it. Time hiccuped again. “Tiger,” it said in a voice that didn’t echo because sound refused to linger around it. “Oh good,” Thal replied. “It talks. That’ll make this one-sided conversation slightly less boring.” “You have crossed the line.” “I invented the line,” Thal growled, circling. “You’re just squatting on it like some frostbitten beggar in need of relevance.” The Cold God lifted one hand. The spear that had turned to ash earlier reformed in its grip — sleek, elegant, and made from a single shard of frozen time. Behind it, the dryad gasped and turned to ice with a sharp, pitiful crack. No cackle this time. Just silence and regret. Thal didn’t flinch. Didn’t run. He crouched. Muscles like coiled storms surged beneath striped fur. There was no preamble, no warning roar, no cinematic leap into destiny. He simply moved. The impact was apocalyptic. The forest howled. Snow exploded. The spear clanged against his flank with a sound that shattered the air into crystals. Thal’s claws found purchase — not in flesh, but in memory — digging into the Cold God’s form and tearing away the illusion of invincibility. For a heartbeat, the mask cracked. Beneath it: eyes like dying stars. They both recoiled. And in that pause, something even worse happened: the forest began to change. The line between seasons widened, split open like a wound. From it, a third force emerged — not cold, not heat, but void. An absence so complete it made winter look warm. Thal landed, eyes darting. He hadn’t expected a third player. He hated plot twists. “What in the Nine Groaning Hells is that?” he muttered, ears flattening. The Cold God didn’t answer. It just backed away, robes folding into the snow as if hiding was an acceptable response now. And maybe it was. Because the thing emerging wasn’t a god. Wasn’t mortal. Wasn’t even real in the way forests or tigers or sarcastic inner monologues were. It looked like Thal. But it wasn’t him. Not anymore. The Echo in the Skin The creature was a parody of Thal—same shape, same stripes, same gold-flecked eyes—but every detail felt… off. Its coat didn’t shimmer, it absorbed light. Its paws left no tracks, not because it was weightless, but because the earth refused to acknowledge its presence. It looked like a tiger, but it moved like a shadow trying to remember what it once was. Thal lowered his head, not in submission but in concentration. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Somewhere in the frozen branches above, birds fell dead from sheer proximity to the thing’s presence. “You’re late,” Thal growled, voice low and bitter. “I was hoping to die before I had to meet myself.” The Echo tilted its head, mirroring the gesture with uncanny timing. Its eyes, his eyes, burned back with nothing but silent amusement… and a hunger that made the Cold God look like a bedtime story. “What is it?” croaked the Cold God, still recoiling, more shadow now than shape. “A mistake,” Thal said flatly. “A leftover from an old spell. From a war they tried to erase. My soul was split once—by force, by fire, by idiots who thought balance required duplicity. They carved out everything I was willing to burn to survive… and stitched it into that.” The Echo moved forward—graceful, mocking, patient. Around it, the seam of seasons collapsed. Autumn withered. Winter turned to slush. The path disappeared under layers of reality folding like wet paper. Thal dug in, claws scraping frost and fallen bark, trying to anchor himself in a world that no longer knew what “real” meant. The Cold God was gone. Coward. Figures. He always was an idea more than a god anyway—powerful, sure, but only in the way regret is powerful. It lingers, but it never wins. Thal lunged. But the Echo didn’t resist. It welcomed him. Their bodies collided not with violence but fusion—a scream of memory unspooling, identities clashing like tectonic plates. Thal roared. Not in pain. In defiance. The forest split wide. Trees bent into rings. The sky cracked open. He was drowning in himself and biting his way out at the same time. Every kill. Every legend. Every lie told around campfires about the Ember-Eyed Tiger. They bled through him like wildfire through dry grass. For a heartbeat, he was both—the myth and the monster. Then the moment tipped. He remembered. Not the battles. Not the hunger. Not even the gods. He remembered why he had survived. Why he had walked across centuries of war and peace and stupidity. Not for vengeance. Not for power. But for choice. He was the one creature left that the world could not predict. That choice—every deliberate footstep between the seasons—was his defiance, his rebellion against becoming another cog in the divine machine. And he would not give it up to some soul-born echo stitched together by cowards with altars and delusions. With a roar that cracked glaciers, Thal sank his teeth into the Echo’s throat—and ripped. Not flesh. Not blood. Possibility. The thing unraveled, screaming in a hundred tongues before silence took it like sleep. And then, stillness. Thal stood alone. The forest lay quiet, like a child pretending not to breathe under a blanket. The seasons had returned to their border—autumn rich and warm, winter cold and watching. He stepped forward. Just one pace. But it was enough. The world exhaled. Behind him, the void hissed and closed. No more echoes. No more gods. No more destiny clawing at his back like ticks. He had walked between the seasons and come out whole. Mostly. “Still got it,” Thal muttered, licking a drop of starlight from his paw. “Someone tell the gods I’m not done being inconvenient.” And with that, he disappeared into the blaze of fallen leaves, leaving pawprints that would never freeze… and a story too strange for the Cold God to ever retell. Bring the myth home with you. If Thal's journey through time and shadow stirred something primal in your soul, honor the legend with one of our exquisite woven wall tapestries, or channel the tiger’s dual-season power in your daily life with a stunning wood print or plush fleece blanket. Want a bit of beastly boldness in your bath routine? Try our ultra-vivid bath towel that roars with wild style. Each piece immortalizes the intensity and mystery of Thal’s legend, making it more than decor—it’s a declaration.
