Through some wandering, the spirit returned to him, wordlessly leading him through the confusing fog. It was just some strides ahead–a closed cellar attached to a boarded-off cottage.
It was kept locked with enough chains wrapped around the handles that it might as well be a warning to turn back. Either way, he lifted his axe and brought it down–snap.
The metal was cleaved through, no longer preventing his hands as they forced the cellar doors open. A cold air escaped, followed by a stench unlike anything else he'd smelled before.
It was death; not just that, but a sort of "death" that had been lingering for years.
"Alright, lead the way," Noah said, stepping aside so the fragment of the wolverine could go in.
To his surprise, it refused his words, standing there with a timid growl without budging an inch. It should've been unable to experience fear, at least, that's what he believed, but it was clearly afraid of something down in the cellar.
