In a thick, sprawling forest with immense trees reaching towards the sky, there was a peculiar activity underway. A delicate knife, crafted from a shard of dark bone, was being used to carefully carve designs into the rugged tree barks. These carvings were subtle, almost invisible, but each bore a meaning deeper than met the eye.
Richard, relying on his memories, was engrossed in this marking ceremony. In his hands, he wielded the bone-made knife, inscribing intricate runes onto the trees. These symbols were not mere decorations; they represented a profound, arcane power. After each carving, Richard would smear his own blood onto the symbol, infusing it with life. As he continued his task, he noticed Dumont, a fellow participant, also engrossed in a similar ritual some distance away.
Drawing nearer to exchange words with Dumont, Richard overheard him saying, “Although each of these symbols holds only minimal power on its own, together, once we’ve etched enough of them, they might sway the energies of Atlantis in our favor.”
Lost in his own thoughts, Richard whispered more to himself than Dumont in his reply, “It’s still not sufficient… we’re far from our goal…” All the while, he fiddled with the knife, turning it this way and that.
Grinning confidently, Dumont responded, “True, just these marks may not be enough. But as the ritual gathers pace and if Atlantis is reminded of that fateful day, our rewards shall be plentiful. We can’t always trust the ‘Enders,’ but this time, the intel they’ve given us is solid gold.”
Richard didn’t utter a word. Instead, his eyes were fixed on a tree, specifically on the mark that Dumont had just made. His concentration was so intense that it piqued Dumont’s interest, causing him to look up as well, wondering what had caught Richard’s attention so fiercely.
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "64ce79d606107d003c23ea27", id: "pf-5140-1"})Dumont started to ask, “What’s caught your eye? Is there someth—”
Suddenly, with an eerie agility, Richard twisted his arm and lunged towards Dumont, aiming for his heart with the bone knife. But, being ceremonial in nature, the knife could only scratch the surface of Dumont’s chest.
The unexpected assault and the sting of the blade shocked Dumont. But he reacted swiftly, pushing Richard’s assaulting arm aside. He clutched his bleeding chest and immediately created distance between them. From the ether, black chains surged, and a menacing, shadowy hound formed right behind Dumont. However, before the dark hound could attack, a skeletal crow swooped down from Richard’s shoulder. Its bony wings morphed and enveloped the phantom hound. The surrounding air was filled with the eerie sounds of clashing bone and ethereal growls, with neither creature having a clear advantage.
Staring at Richard in disbelief, Dumont shouted, “What’s gotten into you?! Have you gone mad? Were you trying to end my life?!”
“I have no desire to hurt you,” Richard declared, firmly shaking his head. His gaze shifted towards the menacing dark hound, which at that moment, was held back by the equally formidable death crow. For a fleeting second, Richard’s face contorted with a mix of revulsion and confusion, an emotion that was difficult to pinpoint. However, his sincere concern for Dumont shone through as he said with urgency, “All I want to do is to assist you.”
“To assist me?” Dumont’s face was a canvas of shock and disbelief. He gaped at Richard, as if he was trying to make sense of a lunatic’s ramblings. Yet, deep within him, a storm of perplexity brewed. The ceremonial knife wasn’t designed to be lethal. The unexpected attack from Richard had resulted in nothing more than a superficial scratch. And in that split second, Dumont was left grappling with how to process the situation. One thing stood starkly evident: Richard wasn’t behaving normally.
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "64cc9e79c7059f003e4ad4b0", id: "pf-5109-1"})Richard, however, looked earnestly into Dumont’s eyes and affirmed, “Exactly, to assist. There’s a void in you, a sort of hollowness. I intend to fill it with cotton. It’s for your well-being.”
“Cotton?” Dumont repeated, his voice thick with incredulity. “Are you delirious?”
However, his internal questioning halted abruptly. A nagging itch sprouted from the exact spot where he had been injured. What began as a subtle tingling sensation quickly escalated, and it felt as though something alien was squirming underneath his skin. Almost involuntarily, Dumont’s fingers scratched at the irritation. His caution regarding Richard momentarily abandoned him as he inspected his wound.
There was no more bleeding. Amidst the crimson stains on his attire, white, fluffy tufts resembling cotton materialized. It was as though they were magically morphing from his very blood. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, Dumont peered closer to find the minor injury sealing itself with strands of cotton seemingly digging their way into his flesh.
Meanwhile, the intense skirmish between the death crow and the dark hound had simmered down. These brutish demons were devoid of complex emotions like hatred or resentment. Their actions were solely governed by the sentiments and thoughts of those they served. And as the skeletal wings folded, both creatures retreated, coming to stand by their respective masters.
Raising his gaze to meet Richard’s, Dumont’s face conveyed a medley of emotions. Their camaraderie had been on shaky grounds lately. Their differences had often led to minor confrontations, but they had never harbored deep-seated animosity. This was precisely why, when they decided to part ways, Dumont had chosen to stick with Richard – to keep a close watch on him, guarding against any underhanded tactics.
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "663633fa8ebf7442f0652b33", id: "pf-8817-1"})Yet, Richard’s recent actions had taken him completely by surprise.
Finally, breaking the weighty silence, Dumont remarked, in a somewhat hesitant tone, “You truly are an unexpectedly good soul, aren’t you?”
With a heartwarming chuckle, Richard dispelled the tension that had been building between the two men. That singular act of mirth acted as a balm, smoothing over any residual friction. The bond they shared, not just as allies but as brethren on the battlefield, underwent a process of rejuvenation, emerging stronger than before.
“We can’t just focus on ourselves,” Richard expressed earnestly, his eyes mirroring the depth of his worry. “There’s a pervasive void that everyone’s battling with. We need to provide them all with the solace of the ‘cotton’.”
Dumont absorbed Richard’s words, the realization of his own transformation still fresh in his mind. He responded, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty, “Yes, this ‘cotton’… everyone should have it.” He hesitated for a brief moment before continuing, “Shalir’s group might be a good place to begin. Shalir has always been genuine and diligent.”
Richard, contemplating Dumont’s words, nodded in agreement. “You’re right. But we should tread with caution. Those unfamiliar with the ‘cotton’s’ magic might act unpredictably, possibly out of fear or confusion. We need to ease them into the concept, being mindful of their potential reactions…”
Dumont, recalling another ally’s counsel, chimed in, “Rabbi has also emphasized the need for planning.”
“We can brainstorm our approach as we journey forward,” Richard proposed, looking into the misty distance.
“Then our path is clear,” Dumont concurred, a smile dancing on his lips. Almost instinctively, both men declared in harmonious unity, “Let’s set off.”
Their attention was riveted by the ethereal sight before them: a forest path bathed in a thick, silvery mist that beckoned them forward. Animated by a newfound mission and filled with resolve, they treaded forward, losing themselves in the mysterious embrace of the fog-enshrouded forest.
……
It felt as though the ground was unstable beneath them, almost as if it threatened to pull them under at any wrong move. Scattered all around were the shattered remnants of trees, their forms unrecognizable from the intense blaze that had consumed them. These charred remains formed a daunting obstacle course, more challenging than navigating a dense forest with intertwined vines and obstructive shrubbery.
As Nina and Morris traversed this bleak and seemingly endless wasteland, their journey seemed limited to the peripheral areas of the destruction, never really getting to its heart.
Navigating through the ash feels more treacherous than the densest part of the forest,” Nina remarked with a hint of frustration in her voice. “In the woods, at least you have narrow trails carved out by wildlife. Here, every footstep is a gamble, with the constant fear of sinking into a bed of char.”
She paused to inspect her ash-caked shoe, visibly irritated. Balancing herself on a nearby burnt tree limb, she removed her shoe, vigorously shaking out the bits of debris and burnt remnants.
“It’s as if we’re trapped in a loop, forever skirting the edges of this devastated landscape,” she lamented. “Do you think there’s even a path leading to the epicenter of all this ruin?”
Morris, his gaze following the sprawling blackened branches ahead, responded, “The massive branches from the World Tree’s upper levels have come crashing down, barring our way to Atlantis’s core. It’s daunting.”
But these weren’t just any branches. Their sheer magnitude defied understanding. Even fragments that seemed like smaller offshoots covered vast stretches, with widths rivaling that of large towers. These charred remnants, scattered haphazardly across the land, formed a massive barrier. From afar, rather than resembling burned branches, they evoked the image of a once-magnificent city’s ruins plummeting from the heavens.
Simply blowing through was unfeasible given the magnitude of these obstructions. Their choices were limited: either meticulously navigate around the debris or bravely venture through the narrower gaps, hoping the ash hadn’t yet clogged all possible routes.
“I bet if Vanna were here, she’d just power her way right through these barriers,” Nina remarked, a hint of admiration in her voice, “Her sheer might would make short work of these hindrances.”
Having known Vanna for quite some time, Morris corrected, “Vanna isn’t all about raw power. But, confronting such daunting barriers, even she might find it…”
But then he trailed off, lost in thought.
After a brief pause, he conceded with a chuckle, “Alright, maybe she’d manage.”
Not to be outdone, Nina added softly, “Given the chance, I could do it too.”
Morris’s gaze shifted to the young woman beside him, a thought forming, almost prompting him to voice it. However, as the words were about to escape his lips, a sudden, sharp gust of wind roared across the desolate, ash-blanketed landscape. The force of the wind churned the settled ash, creating a swirling cloud of grey. But within that transient haze, both Morris and Nina perceived the indistinct silhouette of a figure not far off.
Was that the silhouette of an elf? Was it possible that amidst this wasteland, an elf stood, disoriented and isolated, buffeted by the winds?
Nina, taken aback by the sighting, swiftly turned her gaze towards Morris, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of astonishment and intrigue. “Mr. Morris,” she inquired, her voice slightly quivering, “Did you also witness that shadowy figure just now?”
Morris’s face became noticeably graver, “Yes,” he responded tersely, “It bore the semblance of an elf.”
Pondering the brief vision, Nina added, almost to herself, “It wasn’t Shireen, that’s for sure…” She furrowed her brows, attempting to reconstruct the fleeting image in her mind. “But something about the attire struck a chord… It seemed reminiscent of…”
She hesitated as if fearing her own conclusion might be unfounded or too hopeful. Morris, however, slowly nodded in understanding, completing her thought, “The garb looked much like those worn by the denizens of Wind Harbor.”
