Writings on the White Kilmei

Day 1

The following accounts are the writings of a madman. Well… I don’t know if I’m mad, but I am a hunter, and I swear I saw the most beautiful animal.

The White Kilmei. Just as gorgeous as the tavern tales claim.

She shone like a mirror bathed in sunlight. I had to avert my eyes until the clouds rolled in. She was literally blinding. A twig snapped beneath my foot and she ran off. I’m making camp here for a while to watch for signs of her return.

No one’s going to believe this!

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Day 15

I’m on the trail of one of the most elusive legends whispered only in hunter’s taverns: the White Kilmei. A legend by all standards. Some say it’s a spirit. Others say not to trifle with it. But all agree—it brings great luck... and to harm it is to curse yourself and your bloodline.

I’ve no family to speak of. Just my loyal companion, Scraps. I love that dog.

This afternoon, I found her trail again, after that magical day when I first saw her. She stood on a hill, and I swear by the gods themselves. She stood there to taunt me.

I know probably not a soul will read this, let alone care about the ramblings of an old trapper, but this journal is my proof. I was here. I existed. Maybe I wasn’t anyone important, but I’ll prove I found the Legend.

That first day, she stood in the center of a glade near my usual trail. Breathtaking. Her mane like flowing starlight. The frills, or... Fins? Those fluttery bits moved like a fine white dress on a lady-love in summer. Like something out of a bard’s song.

Truly majestic.

She’s been toying with me ever since.

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Day 22

The White Kilmei keeps her distance, but close enough for me to spot her.

If sighting the creature brings luck, then I’m the luckiest man alive.

I’ve seen her every day since.

It’s strange. She seems smart. Like she sees me before I see her. Or maybe she just pays me no mind, knowing I’m no threat. Every time I get close with my bow, she darts into the underbrush. Gone... until the next day.

She really does look like a living cloud.

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Day 35

Same pattern every day. She appears in the glade early each morning. I’m eating breakfast. Scraps doesn’t bark, just lifts his head from his bowl and stares. Doesn’t matter where I move camp; she always looks toward it. Even when I went to the trouble to camouflage everything.

One morning, I swear by the Mother Tree’s roots.

She was laughing at me.

She’s laughing every morning…

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Day 50

Me and Scraps moved up to the Northside Ridge. Damnedest thing happened on the way...

We saw her three times during the climb. It was like she left the trail for us. Just faint enough to follow. Like she’s done this before. Like she knows hunters, and has danced with many.

She watches from afar, always alone.

Whether she chose that, or was pushed out by her kind, not a question for an old man like me.

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Day 60

I don’t think I have the heart to write this anymore. I’m tired.

I fell. Can’t get up. Leg’s broken.

I can hear Scraps up the ledge. I keep shouting at her to “get,” but she won’t budge. I’m stuck on the cliffside.

Think I’m done for.

I can see her again. Flipping her mane.

Think she’s coming closer.

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Day 61?

I don’t believe it, journal…

I’m alive. Never been so happy to feel Scraps’ wet tongue wake me up.

Somehow, I’m back on the cliff, leg fixed.

You know, I once heard the White Kilmei chooses clerics and healers as companions.

I’m starting to think they watch over their herds from afar.

Still don’t think anyone’ll believe me.

But at least I’ve got Scraps.