The cruel monster of Everfree

The night before was nothing short of a failure.
My one job was to protect them, and I failed. One of the rabbits under my care died because of me—because I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t vigilant enough. What kind of first impression does that make as their so-called 'guardian'? Mediocrity at its finest.

Frustration boiled over as I avoided their little faces, their tiny, trusting eyes. I kept my interactions to a minimum, muttering under my breath while erecting stakes topped with the decapitated heads of those wood wolves. It wasn’t for intimidation—it was just the raw, primal anger spilling out of me. Then I retreated to the cave, hiding inside the tents, trying to calm myself.

I must’ve been more exhausted than I realized because I fell asleep almost immediately. But rest wasn’t kind. That recurring dream came back—the one where a black mass swallows me whole, dragging me into some formless abyss. I jolted awake with the sensation of falling, gasping for air like I’d been yanked out of the sky. At least this time, I wasn’t screaming. The sun had already crept over the horizon, and for once, I liked to think that the moon’s silent stalker hadn’t been watching me.

I crawled out of the tents, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. And there they were—three rabbits waiting for me. My chest tightened at the sight. They’d replaced the one we lost, like nothing had happened. It was as if the hole left behind by last night’s failure didn’t exist, as if life just moved on without mourning.

The moment they saw me, their little ears perked up, and they hopped over with an enthusiasm that was almost too much for me to handle. One of them tugged gently at the hem of my worn-out pants, insisting I follow. I hadn’t even eaten yet, but they were so persistent that I figured they needed something urgent. Maybe this was my chance to make up for last night—to redeem myself in their tiny, trusting eyes.

I followed them down the hill, past the barely-there village we’d started to build together. They didn’t stop at the perimeter, though. They led me beyond it, into the unknown. My unease grew with every step. Why were they taking me outside? Was this some kind of test? I palmed a smooth rock from the ground just in case—I didn’t trust anything out here, not even these rabbits.

Then we arrived.

An enormous tree towered above us, its branches sprawling like an umbrella of green and gold. The clearing around it was bathed in soft, dappled sunlight, and it felt... otherworldly, like something out of a storybook. But what truly stunned me was the sound.

It started as faint, almost imperceptible. Then it grew—a chorus of soft, melodic chirps and hums coming from the rabbits. At first, I thought it was my imagination. Rabbits didn’t sing. They couldn’t. But here they were, swaying gently, their little paws linked together, their eyes closed as they surrounded a small mound of stones near the base of the tree.

I didn’t understand the melody. If there were words, they were lost to me. But the harmony was undeniable—mournful yet warm, a bittersweet farewell wrapped in sound. It pulled at something deep inside me, something I couldn’t name but felt all the same.

The stones in the center of their circle were adorned with tiny flowers, carefully arranged like a bed for the dead. The rabbits closest to the mound looked different—more solemn, their movements slower, as if the weight of grief sat heavy on their small frames.

Then one of them, a gray-furred elder, noticed me. He hopped over with measured steps, carrying a few delicate flowers. He paused in front of me, gazing up with eyes that seemed to hold lifetimes of wisdom. Without a word—or a chirp—he offered the flowers.

I knelt, taking them carefully into my calloused hand, and followed his lead toward the stone mound. The other rabbits stepped aside, leaving a path for me to walk. My chest tightened with every step.

I placed the flowers gently among the others, my hands trembling slightly. What was I even doing here? This wasn’t my funeral, my loss. I didn’t feel sadness for the rabbit who’d died—I barely saw it. What I felt was frustration. Frustration at myself for not being enough. Frustration that I couldn’t even handle something as simple as keeping them safe.

As I knelt there, the weight of everything pressed down on me—the fear of being left alone, the constant uncertainty of where the next meal would come from, the dread of losing even more. I wasn’t a guardian. I was a fraud, an outsider pretending to belong in a world I didn’t understand.

The gray rabbit stood beside me, silent, as if waiting. I finally rose, stepping back to join the others. The ceremony continued, the song swelling and softening in waves. For a moment, I let myself be carried by it. The air felt heavy with shared sorrow, but it was a sorrow that didn’t crush—it comforted. The warmth of the melody seeped into my bones, easing the ache in my heart, if only a little.

When it was over, the rabbits began to disperse, the circle breaking apart like petals blown by the wind. I stayed back, watching as a few lingered near the mound—family, perhaps. Or friends. I didn’t know. I’d never know.

I turned and walked away, following the others back toward the village. The warmth of the song still clung to me, like the last rays of sunlight before dusk.

For once, I didn’t feel like a complete failure. Not entirely.

The walk back to the rabbit village was oddly quiet. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but one filled with lingering thoughts. My mind kept replaying the morning’s funeral—a strange, beautiful, and surreal experience I’d never expected to witness. I felt calmer now, though a heavy weight still pressed on my chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the atmosphere, or maybe just the soft presence of the three rabbits leading the way up the hill. Either way, I wasn’t as wound up as I’d been last night.

As we climbed back toward the cave, I saw the elder rabbit waiting at the entrance, leaning heavily on his twig-like staff. His tired eyes shifted toward me, and I could feel the unspoken authority in his posture. Even without words, I knew he was the one in charge. Beside him, a few rabbits had set up several bowls: a mix of leafy greens for me and... a plate of bones. Yeah, bones. Clearly, I needed to find a way to explain to them that I don’t eat bones. Communication was going to be a challenge.

I sat cross-legged in front of the spread, trying to ignore the uncomfortable implications of the bone plate. The salad, however, looked fresh and surprisingly appealing. Hunger overtook my hesitation, and I started eating, letting the crisp crunch of the leaves fill the silence. As I chewed, one of the elder rabbit’s attendants hopped over with a stack of parchment. Right. More drawings.

The first sheet was almost comical: a crude drawing of me surrounded by cheering rabbits, little arms extended in celebration. Below, caricatures of wooden wolves with exaggerated bumps on their heads wept dramatically. I couldn’t help but smirk. Guess I’m a hero now? The sarcasm came easy, but underneath, I felt a pang of guilt.

The second sheet was more serious. The moon hung prominently at the top, and out of its sides crawled timberwolves. Around them were dozens of rabbits—thirty, to be precise—twelve of which lay on their sides with little X’s for eyes. Below that scene, the moon was smaller, and the wolves cowered in the forest. This time, the thirty rabbits stood upright, alive I guess, save for one. In the center was a crude drawing of me, standing tall, surrounded by little houses. The message was clear: they saw me as their protector, their line of defense against the nightmares in the woods.

I put the pages down, sighing softly. They weren’t angry or disappointed in me. If anything, they were grateful. But instead of feeling relief, I just felt... inadequate. They deserve better. I need to be better.

Determined, I grabbed one of the spare sheets and sketched a hammer next to a rabbit. Around it, I drew smaller rabbits linked to the first, hoping to convey the idea of leadership and teamwork. My artistic skills were... questionable at best, but I hoped the elder would understand.

The old rabbit squinted at the page before letting out a sharp chirp. Another rabbit scurried over, received a few quick gestures, and darted off like a courier with an urgent message. Well, that’s one way to delegate.

I returned to my meal, only to feel a light tug on my worn shirt. Looking down, I saw a rabbit with a bandana wrapped around its head, a small hammer strapped across its back like some kind of adorable warrior. If I wasn’t trying to keep a straight face, I might’ve laughed. Bandana Rabbit tilted its head, waiting expectantly.

Grabbing another sheet, I drew a series of tall poles with platforms, each holding various objects—apples, carrots, even rocks. Between the poles, I sketched a small figure of myself dodging projectiles. It was rudimentary, but it got the point across: I needed to train. I mimed throwing and dodging, trying to show the rabbit what I meant.

At first, Bandana Rabbit just stared, ears twitching. After what felt like an eternity of awkward gesturing, the realization dawned on them. With a chirp, they nodded and began signaling to me, pointing to various parts of the cave as if asking where I wanted the setup.

I led them to a spot near the cave wall, where the natural light barely reached but could be supplemented by a fire. Training here would let me develop reflexes and get used to low-light conditions—a two-for-one deal. Bandana Rabbit seemed to understand, and with a few more gestures, they sprinted off.

Peering out from the cave, I watched as the rabbits divided into groups. Some stayed behind, continuing to reinforce the wooden barriers around the village, while others ventured beyond the perimeter, likely gathering materials from the forest. It was mesmerizing to see them work with such purpose and coordination. For creatures so small and vulnerable, they sure had an incredible will to survive.

Leaning against the cool stone wall of the cave, I let out a long breath. “Well,” I muttered to no one in particular, “guess I’m officially part of the rabbit goverment now.” The sarcasm in my tone didn’t hide the truth: I was starting to care about these little guys, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

The ancient rabbit squinted at me with his cloudy, half-lidded eyes, leaning slightly on his twig-like staff as though he were some forest oracle.

With a deep breath, I pulled a blank sheet of paper toward me. If I was stuck in this bizarre world where rabbits treated me like some guardian, then I’d at least leave them with something useful. A system of numbers seemed like a good start—baby steps toward civilization, right?

I started simple, sketching a single rabbit and writing “1” next to it. Then two rabbits with a “2.” I continued this pattern, drawing increasingly crowded groups of rabbits beside numbers, until I hit 20. By then, my hand was cramping, and the paper looked like some feverish doodle from a petting zoo fanatic. I flipped it over and drew 50 dots with the number “50” beside them for good measure.

When I handed the sheet to the elder, his whiskers twitched in confusion. He studied it for a long moment, then handed it to one of his underlings, who let out a comically exaggerated gasp, his mouth forming an “O.” The others scurried over, their eyes darting between the paper and me as though I’d just reinvented fire. Their exaggerated reactions—wide eyes, dropped jaws—were straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon. Honestly, it was hard not get ankward.

Feeling a rare flicker of hope, I grabbed another sheet and wrote, “Can you understand me?” in big, clear letters. I slid the paper across the ground, watching their tiny faces contort into expressions of complete bewilderment. So much for a breakthrough. Either they didn’t recognize letters, or they just couldn’t grasp my human script. Fantastic.

One of the rabbits eventually scrawled a reply: a group of 42 rabbits with 46 written beside it. Suppressing a groan, I circled the 42 and handed it back. To my surprise—and mild amusement—one rabbit lightly bopped another on the head with his paw, as if chastising him for the mistake. Progress? Maybe.

With the afternoon light waning, I decided to make the most of the daylight. My three loyal rabbit companions stayed behind, watching intently as I rummaged through my meager supplies. Today’s project: crafting something from bones. Why? Well, why not? It was morbid, sure, but I needed a creative outlet. Besides, I wasn’t exactly drowning in hobbies out here.

I picked up the skull of a bird from the plate. With a mix of curiosity and hesitation, I started experimenting. My goal was simple: make a small hole to thread a string through, turning it into a charm or decoration. It sounded easy enough.

It wasn’t. The first skull cracked almost immediately. So did the second. By the third, I managed to carve a decent hole without the entire thing crumbling. It wasn’t perfect—tiny fractures spider-webbed across the surface—but it held together. That was good enough for me.

The rabbits, however, were less impressed. Their wide eyes and twitching noses made it clear they found my actions both fascinating and mildly horrifying. One of them tilted his head so far to the side I half-expected it to fall off. I ignored them. If they wanted me to stick around, they’d have to accept my eccentricities. Besides, I was the only one willing to do the dirty work when danger inevitably came knocking.

I mimed tying a knot, gesturing for a string or something similar. After a lot of blank stares and confused squeaks, one of them finally got the message and dashed off. He returned with a rope so thick it could have doubled as a towline. Sighing, I held up the skull and pointed to the tiny hole, hoping they’d understand. The lightbulb moment was almost visible as the rabbit’s ears perked up. He chittered excitedly and disappeared again, this time bringing back a thinner piece of twine.

With some trial and error, I secured the skull to the haft of one of my scavenged spears. The weapon itself was a weird hybrid—a glorified steel stick with a blade too small to be practical for anything larger than a rabbit. Still, it had served me well enough, and now it had a macabre little accessory. Practical? No. Satisfying? Absolutely.

I stood back, admiring my handiwork. Sure, it wasn’t the kind of thing you’d find in a museum, but it felt oddly fulfilling. Plus, I hadn’t spent a single cent on this cosmetic upgrade. Take that, overpriced video game DLC.

The late afternoon sun hung low, painting the horizon in shades of orange and pink, a serene backdrop to a day that had been anything but. I sat at the edge of our village. The rabbits, my unlikely allies, bustled around with their usual energy, their caricature-like mannerisms both endearing and infuriating.

Today had been... productive, I guess. Four jars. Four whole jars of my urine, painstakingly filled throughout the day, now sat as our most valuable resource. Never thought I’d be strategizing with rabbit militia over pee jars, but here we are.

The wise rabbit, sat across from me earlier as I tried to explain my latest idea. Through a combination of gestures, crude drawings, and what I can only describe as interpretive dance, I conveyed the concept of patrol groups.

Two teams of four to six rabbits, each carrying a sacred jar of my very human corrosive acid. Their mission? To monitor the perimeter, and if one of those accursed woden wolves wandered too close, to douse it in the potent elixir. Of course, step two was to run like hell and call for me—or hide, depending on my availability. Baby steps.

The old rabbit had nodded sagely, though I could tell he didn’t fully grasp the plan. Still, he told one of his companions and he shouted for him, and soon enough, they were organizing themselves into little squads. Watching them “strategize” was like watching a parody of a military briefing: rabbits saluting, hopping in exaggerated circles, and even one dramatically pointing at the horizon like he’d just spotted an invading army.

Honestly, their over-the-top antics almost made me laugh, but then they’d look at me with those wide, innocent eyes, their fluffy ears twitching expectantly, and the weight of my responsibility hit me like a brick. These creatures were hopelessly fragile. They didn’t understand the world’s cruelty, and yet, they were willing to follow me—a strange, loud, towering monster—because they believed I could protect them.

I wish I believed that.

I leaned against a tree, fiddling with a stick while watching the rabbits practice. Well, practice might be a strong word. One group tried to hurl small stones at a target—a crude drawing of a wooden wolf they scratched onto a log. Most of the stones barely made it halfway. One ambitious rabbit tried to throw his with both paws, lost his balance, and ended up somersaulting into a bush.

I couldn’t help but facepalm. "This is what I have to work with," I muttered, shaking my head.

But they were trying. That counted for something.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, I sat by the campfire, chewing on a few roasted roots the rabbits had gathered. My stomach growled, longing for something more substantial. Protein. Meat. Something to keep me strong. Sure, the rabbits brought me plenty of fruits and vegetables, but I needed more.

Tomorrow, I’d patrol the outskirts, not just to keep an eye out for timberwolves but to hunt. Birds, maybe Fish. Anything that could be eaten—and whose bones I could repurpose.

The thought of bones brought a new idea to mind. What if I could arm the rabbits? Tiny spears, maybe even little bows. The image of a battalion of rabbits in miniature armor, wielding toothpick-sized weapons, was both absurd and oddly satisfying. I almost laughed at the thought. Almost.

Realistically, though, I’d need to start small. Identify the strongest, bravest rabbits—the ones who didn’t scatter at the first sign of trouble. Maybe I could... selectively encourage breeding? Build a stronger generation, one that could hold their ground. Of course, I had no clue how rabbit romance worked. Would they listen if I paired them off like some deranged matchmaker?

Probably not. But it was worth considering.

The fire crackled softly as the first stars appeared, their light casting a faint glow over the clearing. The rabbits gathered close, their tiny forms silhouetted against the flames. I glanced at them, then at the dark woods beyond. Somewhere out there, timberwolves lurked.

I clenched my fists. Those wooden bastards had no place here—not near me, not near these rabbits. I didn’t care if they were some vital part of the ecosystem. If I had to, I’d wipe them out. Every last one.

Was it extreme? Maybe. But this wasn’t their land anymore. It was mine.

With a sigh, I leaned back, staring at the sky. The rabbits had settled into their burrows for the night, leaving only those rabbit patrols and my three companions, so tonight I would spend more company than yesterday, although I preferred to keep my thoughts to myself. I’d never asked for this—this strange world, this strange role. Protector, teacher, guardian.

But if I was going to survive here, I had to adapt. And if that meant turning fluffy, wide-eyed rabbits into warriors... so be it.