Whispers From The Forest (3)

Preston's shout echoed through the dusk. "We're finally here," A cheer of joy escaped him as he leapt upwards, the mask of exhaustion he'd been wearing melting away in an instant.

With a collective sigh, Glucia and the others let their heavy backpacks slide from their tired shoulders, each one landing with a thud on the solid ground. They had made it to the outskirts of Mellowpines Quarry just as the veil of night began to descend.

Cain cautioned everyone, "Even though this is a safe zone, it's still the beginning of the night. We all know the forest can be dangerous when the sun goes down. The threat isn't as great here, but we should still be cautious."

Glucia's gaze wandered back to the looming shadow of the forest, her eyes shimmering with worry "Osric...I hope he's managed to find his way home without harm."

Hilda placed a comforting hand on Glucia's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "The outskirts of the forest can be treacherous, but if he sticks to the safe path we traced, he should be out of harm's way. Don't worry so much! He's resilient. When we get back to the village, you'll see him safe and sound, then you can chastise him for getting lost and making us all anxious!"

Hilda's heartening words had their intended effect, and Glucia nodded, her fists curling as if preparing for a playful scuffle. "Oh, I'll give him a proper tongue-lashing, that's for sure."

Preston joined in the banter, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "If you need some extra muscle for that, just say the word!"

Adding his voice to the chorus of reassurances, Cain spoke again. "He'll be alright. He won't die that easily."

***

In the relative safety of his hidden creek, Osric labored over an eclectic assortment of ingredients. His process, more akin to crude rudimentary mashing than precise mixing, yielded a rough concoction rather than a refined potion. Though his body was responsive and no longer rebelling against his will, a persistent pulse of pain gnawed at his liver—a less-than-desirable outcome of his haphazard alchemy.

Even though he included elements to counteract the side effects of the inkrid venom, the paste was makeshift at best. It didn't completely neutralize the venom, but it did spare him the worst of its effects.

His body still suffered from sporadic spasms, but they were manageable and would eventually pass. He considered himself fortunate. The Ocularynth, as he remembered from his readings in the village library, was known for its playful yet fearsome nature. Licking signified "playing," so when it licked a person, and if the person did not reciprocate, it would get upset. Despite the terror coursing through his body, Osric was able to override his body's natural instincts and engage in the creature's strange form of interaction, thus escaping its potential wrath.

Although his mind felt no fear, he had dealt with beasts much more monstrous and much more cryptic; his physical shell was another story. His control over his body was tenuous, and it exhibited visceral reactions to fear and shock independent of his rational mind, sending him spiraling into bouts of trauma. Mind was not in control of the matter. He needed to elevate his combat skills further to gain better control over his physical responses. The sheer difference in their level of existence made him shiver as a lower-life being, oppressed merely by their presence. If he saw a hostile phenomenon that wanted him dead, they would not even have to move, their mere malicious intent would kill him.

Despite these thoughts, Osric's focus never strayed from the grinding task at hand. His relentless grinding eventually shaped the crude mixture into a serviceable paste. He delved into his bag again, this time to retrieve a pouch of sleep-inducing powder. Interspersing it with pieces of dried meat from a drowsyback turtle, he further enriched his remedy.

Despite the looming hazards of nocturnal travel, Osric intended to exploit the cover of darkness. The areas that were dangerous during the day were now comparatively safer under the cloak of darkness, providing him an opportunity to expedite his journey. His previous predicament wasn't born of recklessness but from a lapse in vigilance. His vitality had provoked curiosity from the monstrous inhabitants of the wilderness, their intrigue raising. While the wendigos had detected his scent, they deemed him inconsequential, their interest drifting to more tantalizing prey. To avoid attracting unwanted attention, Osric had to further diminish his appeal.

He scrutinized the amorphous glob of his medicinal creation—a deep, earthy green. Gathering the potion in his hand, he downed it in one determined gulp, allowing the faint sweetness to wash down his throat.

As he packed his bag, the medication took effect. His heartbeat decelerated to a sluggish rhythm, his limbs growing resistant and numb, his skin adopting an icy chill. His consciousness waned, leaving his mind a blank canvas, and his breaths grew sparse and measured. After much research, he decided this was the best strategy he could employ, given his circumstances. He couldn't rely on typical stealth methods, he lacked the means. Rather than becoming invisible, he decided to become uninteresting, blending with the forest's inorganic elements.

Embracing the potion's numbing effects, Osric stepped into the silvery moonlight. The rustling of the eerie scrill leaves whispered secrets while distant agonized cries echoed like chilling hymns.

As he moved through the undergrowth, Osric consciously slowed his steps, his senses dulled, and his cognition deliberately dampened. His senses were muted, and his mental processes intentionally dulled. His once fluid motion was replaced by calculated steps, each taken with the same rhythm as a ticking clock. His intention was to appear unassuming, blending in with the inorganic elements of the forest like a mere rock.

Osric's body grew colder and more rigid, mimicking the stoic presence of stone. His mind echoed this lifeless serenity, no longer mulling over decisions, merely acting on instinct. Thinking was an unnecessary luxury. He moved without contemplating movement, stopped without deciding to halt. In stripping away thought, he fashioned himself into an automated golem, as inanimate and uninteresting as the stones beneath his feet.

A parade of umbraseekers crossed Osric's path, their ethereal light rupturing the shroud of night. A symphony of clicks and clacks echoed from within their luminous forms, their high-pitched sounds weaving an indecipherable language. Their chatter was almost soothing. Osric remained an unmoving monument amidst their glowing dance. His consciousness emptied to an echoing void, his physical form reduced to an icy fortress. The umbraseekers skimmed the landscape, a few straying dangerously close to Osric's rigid stance, but they spun away, their curiosity waning as quickly as it had flared.

By muffling his vitality and dampening his own presence, he had made himself less intriguing and more mundane. The forest had accepted him as part of its inorganic tapestry, allowing him to slip through its clutches unharmed.

Yet, his approach was a gamble, its double-edged nature as risky as it was beneficial. The forest creatures could disregard him, dismissing his insignificant presence. Conversely, should they choose to interact, his lethargic state left him vulnerable to a quick demise, his dulled thoughts and rigid body ill-equipped to retaliate. However, the power chasm between them was so vast that even at his full strength, any attempt to resist would barely register as a flicker of defiance.

Despite its inherent risks, his calculated gambit bore immediate fruits. His eyes locked onto a flourishing tulsatita flower. With nightfall, the guardians of such coveted alchemical ingredients receded into the shadows, leaving the precious bounty within his reach. Opportunity took root in risk.

Ghostly figures claimed the night sky—enormous, jellyfish-like beings. Their luminescent bodies acted as celestial mirrors, reflecting and amplifying the moonlight, casting a soft glow across the forest floor.

Many of the forest's nocturnal inhabitants paraded around with uninhibited freedom, unafraid to flaunt their presence to the world, their spectacular displays unabashed and untamed.

Osric weaved his path erratically through the nighttime spectacle. Occasionally, he strode ahead; sometimes, he paused, allowing the path to clear; at other times, he carved broad detours around unwelcome interruptions. His path was punctuated with the spontaneous harvest of various herbs. his bag gradually swelling with potent remedies as he cast aside the mundane ones.

Finally, he came to a halt.

"This is it," he murmured, parting the undergrowth, his eyes drinking in the macabre scene. The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, its cloying, metallic tang threatening to solidify into a noxious flavor. It was as if he could almost taste it.

Teetering on the edge of the blood-drenched path, a chilling breeze swirled around him, carrying the whispering hints of decay. The sickly glow of the moon unveiled the grotesque panorama: carcasses strewn haphazardly, some pulverized into a gruesome paste, others partially consumed, their bones were strewn like morbid confetti.

The path of carnage strengthened further beyond what could see, corpses littered all around.

Osric tried to decipher the nature of this slaughter. Was it a hunting ground for some powerful, unseen menace? Unlikely, considering the amount of waste. Could it have been man-made? A possibility, yet there were no telltale signs of human activity. Perhaps the work of nocturnal predators? No, the scene indicated a timeline that stretched across multiple days. His mind was a whirlwind of questions, each one amplifying the mystery of the scene.

He ventured; further, the stench of death grew stronger, threatening to overwhelm his senses. The ground beneath his feet felt soft and slippery, the mixture of decomposed flesh and plant matter squishing with each step.

Broken trees stood like jagged sentinels, their branches twisted and snapped, evidence of a violent force that had torn through the area. Stones rudely uprooted lay strewn in chaotic clusters, scattered, displaced from their original positions by the sheer force of whatever creature or creatures had ravaged the landscape. The ground was scarred with deep gouges, evidence of violent clashes between predator and prey.

He could identify some of the fallen creatures by their distinct characteristics. Among them lay the twisted remains of a Gorgonial Stalker, its serpentine body crushed and mangled, its once venomous fangs now shattered. Nearby, the shattered shell of a Swampfire Scorpion emitted a faint luminescence, its deadly stinger torn off.

Lunar hounds indulged in the carnage, tearing through the corpses with rabid fervor. Other creatures, invisible to the eye, manifested their presence through the gnawed voids in the dead and the evidence of fresh bite marks.

All were too engrossed in their banquet to spare Osric a glance.

His gaze scanned for any residual energy cores within the carcasses, yet they appeared stripped clean by the feasting predators. Moving toward an area unoccupied by the hounds, Osric retrieved a pill from his bag.

The pill's potent properties swept through Osric's system with revitalizing force. His body, previously numbed and slowed, began to regain its natural vigor, the constant throbbing in his liver fading away as strength coursed back into his muscles. In tandem with his physical restoration, mental clarity returned. His thoughts whirred back to life, his mind becoming a hive of alertness, fully engaged with his newly animated surroundings.

But with recovery came the body's backlash.

"BUrrrh," A gut-wrenching retch tore through him, his vision spun, and a torrent of blood gushed forth, staining the forest floor a deeper crimson. Amidst the crimson flow, chunks of an unidentifiable matter sloshed onto the ground. Luckily, the metallic tang of his own blood was effectively masked by the overwhelming scent of the carcasses littered around him. The potion, although it had effectively numbed his body and dampened his vitality, was hastily prepared, consumed in haste, and lacking compatible components to ensure a safer administration. He had gambled with his life force, bartering away months of it for the promise of safe passage through the forest.

Feeling more in control of himself, Osric capitalized on the transient peace to salvage chunks of flesh from the carcasses strewn around. His boot concealed a small knife, its sharp edge slicing cleanly through the meat. Space was at a premium in his already bulging storage, so he opted for the freshest cuts.

"It's a decent harvest. Well worth the risk." The meat would be a valuable asset to him. Content with his collection, Osric decided it was time to return to the village. His bag was bursting with herbs. He'd collected enough meat, pushed his limits sufficiently for survival, and explored as much of the forest as he dared. It was time to head back.

Yet, amidst the gruesome sight, a detail snagged his attention. A blood trail, still crimson rather than the ominous dark of coagulation. Curiosity piqued, he followed the path deeper into the forest, his steps echoing caution.

After walking for some time, Osric's keen eyes caught sight of an opening—a cave nestled within the dense foliage. If one did not look for it, it would slip right past.