Black Shuck

"Let it be known that I tried.
I tried to escape the village. I tried to put as much distance between myself and those I love and know.
Let the mark of death end with me, in a space of isolation far from any innocents. Let the beast roam this area without hapless prey to sustain it.
If you find my corpse, flee! If you can run for two days and nights, do so.
That was how far I fled. That was how far I got, before the black shuck got me."

Frost read the note with a thoughtful expression. It wasn't everyday that one finds a scene so strange with a foreboding warning attached. He scarcely knew what it could mean, but it had to be genuine given the state of the dead man he found it on.

The body had been rotting for days. Frost could smell the fungus reclaiming the flesh just below the skin. A human male, near aged to mid-life. He had neither the body for a warrior, nor anything overtly physical, which was part of Frost's surprise when he stumbled upon it. Softer humans never came into the thick of the wilds unless it was on one of their roads. His supplies were minimal. No weapons or rations to last him any sort of extended rest. It truly seemed like the man came into the forest to keep walking until he died. 

Truly a great mystery for Frost. Despite the note's warnings that he should run from this place, Frost wanted to know more about the corpse. This was the most interesting thing he had seen since crossing into the lands of the North. 

He stripped the corpse. Dead was dead, and even if he were alive Frost would not care to see the man nude. There was something beyond just rot permeating the man's body, something that reeked of entropy and curses. His upper half was strewn with black bruises that covered vast sections of skin. Frost ran his thumb along the largest bruise and was chilled by it. When he touched anything —once living, forever dead, it didn't matter— he could always feel the faint radiance of Spirits. As a Wechuge he was particularly attuned to the ghosts of the First Life, but these bruises felt like nothing. Even rocks and bones emanated something, but this blackened flesh felt like cloth or any crafted material. Its connection to the Spirits had been severed. Frost's initial intrigue faded to concern when his hand brushed along a series of divot-like marks at the center of the bruise. It felt like the kind of imprint teeth might make.

Frost straightened himself, unable to take his eyes off the dead man. How had he met this fate?

There were no prints nearby save for the ones the man himself must have made. That was strange, not just because it meant whatever killed him left no trace, but also that Frost himself was the first to inspect this corpse. Not even scavenging predators had bothered with such an intact meal?

This mystery couldn't be abandoned. Frost had been without stimulation for so long, left only with his thoughts and the rhythm of his steps, that even the cursed nature of this scene couldn't deter him. 

How best to follow up on it? The man had walked for two days and nights, but from which direction? Frost had been walking west and seen no signs of the Civilized for days, so the community the man belonged to must be further along. Frost would have to keep more attent than he had been in his travels if he were to trace this fellow's origins.

He was prepared to set out. The corpse offered him nothing more. 

Then he paused.

He didn't know what humans did with their dead.

After becoming so intimate with the corpse it did feel wrong to just leave it as is. If the note was to be believed, this man had done the noble thing of sacrificing himself to protect others. He deserved something.