Dead Groves of Razorleaf Trees

[Rakvald]

16th Cylus 719


Desnind was a dark and horrific Hellscape of trees, poison plants, and creatures the stuff of nightmares. Covered in sullen vegetation with barbs and razorleaves. Their every fiber devoted toward the capture and slaughter and foul conversion of mortal vessels. None were safe from the Creep that was rumored to originate from that forested hellscape. For Rakvald’s part, he’d not visited Desnind, not in this life, nor any other. He of course was skeptical as anyone of such claims, having one foot in the outside world at all times, though he had been dedicated to the improvement of Quacia. Given his sudden trials of misfortune, he’d had to leave Quacia behind, however temporarily, in order to improve his condition and his ability to fight against the evils and corruption that ran rampant in that city. Perhaps he’d never return… No, he had to. At least if only once, to retrieve his son when he was born. He couldn’t leave him in the clutches of that despicable witch, Ildred, though she be his mother.

At the moment, Rakvald found himself on a path into Desnind. He was fully lucid at that moment, and wary of the landscapes surrounding him, the powerful beings that lay beyond the veil just waiting for him to slip up. The gray branches of tortured trees and vegetation reached out to graze his skin, leaving scratch marks there. Razor leaves grew farther up on the plants, fully capable of rending flesh by all rumors. He evaded their touch like they were plague-ridden.

As he went further along the path, farther from the dock and the shore, he thought he saw something in the distance. A beacon formed of static energies and ill-defined shapes. He approached this figure, and questioned it, ”What… Who are you? Why are you all scrambled?” He was careful not to get too close to the figure, and stood about ten yards apart from it. He looked around at the scene. They were in the middle of a grove, that was growing poison orchids and tree boughs like dead driftwood. It was eerie, to say the least.

[Sybil Malach]

"..."

For a long moment, the figure lay against the tree, wrapped in what seems to be vines, snaring it. It didn't seem to be wearing clothes, and is covered in dried blood from the legs down from a mixture of the leaves, and the vines. A vast majority of the body itself was obfuscated by the hellish dreamscape, but the entity itself seemed to not notice. The utter vast majority of the being is covered in flora, filling its veins with ichor, and keeping the entity in bondage, with no hopes of escape due to its now frail form. It is uncertain if the lands took this being like an opportunistic spider, or like a decomposing maggot, simply taking the weak for its own purposes. Taking only the necessary breaths, it's clear that this being was in pain, and only doing the bare minimum for life. Its chest, utterly covered with flora, rises, and falls, as it tries to breathe properly. The miasma working to choke its lungs, as it weakly coughs. Any noise coming from the entity seems to be distorted. Breathy, but multiplied. As though someone were screaming through a crystalline cave, but tuned down to a mere whisper.

Slowly, it shifts its head. Only its head. The body so covered in binding flora, Rakvald could see how the plants themselves work to compress, cut, and empoison the skin exposed flesh. The being seems to be going through fever, sweat beading at its forehead, as it's trapped within this dream.

"I am the Flesh. As are you." It says, as its eyes seem to make sense of the figure in front of it. Its static-filled eyes glancing over the man, as it shudders from a spiking temperature, "But we are not the same Flesh." It says, as its eyes widen. Its body tries to struggle against the vines, in a newfound panic, breaths becoming more labored, as the corruption from the environment takes hold. For a moment, it almost seems to putter out, and lose shape. But the flora itself keeps it alive, like some sick game of attrition. Its eyes, slowly returning to Rakvald.

It grimaces, and almost loses shape, as a vine tightens itself across its torso. The dreamworld actively far more strong than this entity. Its eyes, for a moment, distracted by a poisonous looking frog, landing on its shoulder. Its eyes widen, as it freezes. Before it jumps off, and into the underbelly of the poisonous tropical floor. Slowly, once more, it returns, "And it is that difference that, I fear that you are this land's hunter."

Its eyes seem to focus a bit, as it perceives the man. Taking more shape, but still faltering, between the pains of the cancerous sickness, and the primal fears of entrapment.

[Rakvald]

"It true, I seeker Desnind. This it?" His common wasn't the best. The fact that this creature or person could, however, suggested that he too was a dreamer, though not a lucid one. When he saw the razor vines entwining the person, he reached out with Sanctuary, shielding himself as well as the dreamer with protection from the nightmarish fiends that might intrude on their dreaming.

"Who is?" He asked, wondering what this person was doing, if they were truly in Desnind or some other far flung end of the world. "Is there creep in Desnind? Has it fallen to the Creep?"

He stepped forward, and touched a hand to one of the razor vines, stepping over the poisonous frog that hopped through the soggy forest floor. A blood moon shone overhead, shrouding the lands with reddish tint.

To his chagrin, the leaf cut slightly into the dreamer, Rakvald shouted in astonishment, then leapt backward, afraid to do anymore damage. "Who you be? I Rakvald."

"What you know of Desnind?" He asked again, getting anxious the closer his boat got to the land of greenery. He'd not seen a tree in well over a century himself, so this all was a bit of a shock to him.

Was this really what Desnind looked like? He furrowed his brow, trying to envisage a tree that wasn't a mess of dead wood and bark and ash. He had trouble remembering that far back, to when he wandered the fields of his homeland. When he'd protected herds of goats rather than pigs.

[Sybil Malach]

The leaves react to the touch of Sanctuary. However, it does so on its own terms, like a wolf giving up a smaller prey. Flesh, as it so eloquently introduced itself as, spasms in place, as the toxins pulse within its blood. The sweat on its brow amplifying as its eyes widen. The aspect of the nightmare purging itself from the entity, slowly. It almost begins to froth at the mouth, as its eyes water, the leaves sloughing from its flesh, the dulling blades of the foliage finally coming to a natural end at the hands of entropy. The environment does not fight against Rakvald's will. By the time that a razorleaf slips along the indent of one of Flesh's ribcage, eliciting a pained yelp from the entity. Its mannerisms seem utterly... Primal. As though it were a barely thinking, feral creature. Yet... It spoke Common with such confidence. Shuddering in a nonsense reaction, it shakes its head. A lurch of the head to the side. It coughs up a blackish ichor, that joins with the leaves in the slough gathering at its feet. Its eyes half-lid, as it's dropped onto it's feet.

But something is wrong with its gait. Its left leg is unable to balance any weight on it, and it's twisted out of socket. The second Flesh is required to put more than a few second's worth of pressure upon it, it crumples onto the ground. Reaching a hand up to its face, it tries to wipe the ichor from its mouth, and underside of its eyes, "Heard stories of a Mire. Thought this was it. No others were here." It finally speaks, ending its sentence in a slam shutting of the eyelids, letting out a hiss of pain, followed by a yelp. It has to scramble, causing more pain, in order to even get into a position that didn't elicit something absolutely painful from its stultifying attempts to move. Most of its reactions are nonsense. Its form shifts, crackles, and fragments. The more extreme the sensation, the more solid it becomes at the location. It attempts to drag itself over to Rakvald, and closer to the promise of safety. It seems to have completely forgotten, or choosing to forget, the question of if he was a hunter. Driven by impulse, it drags itself to the path of least pain.

Slowly, it just gives up. At this vantage point, it's obvious that Flesh is still wearing clothes. Ragged, and ripped and decayed, it's clear that they've been through quite the ordeal until now. Caked in a mixture of dirt, with spatterings of blood near the legs, it seems to be going through quite the amount of pain from its injuries. Letting a breath out against the grass, it shudders, as the last bit of toxin flows from its body, "I am the Flesh." It answers once more, between phlegmy coughs, "You speak of a land I do not know. But this is not there. I don't know where here is." It answers, in a dim, but instinctual understanding of the land around it. Its eyes dart from side to side for a moment, as though scanning the treeline for predators, "Do you bring succor, Hunter? Or am I do die for my pelt?"

[Rakvald]

The Flesh fell from the vine like an overripe bundle of cave grapes. His first instinct was to rush in to catch the entity, but caution stayed his hands. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was part of the Nightmare, a true emean entity, or just another dreamer sleeping off some bad pork.

He looked at the Flesh, considering its composition. His Graft spark wanted nothing more than to knead and tamper with that flesh, to see what it could do, how far it could stretch, and to what extent it could harbor sensory organs. He held his magical inclinations in check, however, knowing well enough the dangers of using magic in Emea. Just the fact that his Graft spark reacted to this scene, was enough cause for alarm. He wasn’t entirely on the up and up on emean cosmology, but his mentor had once warned him against attracting the notice of Emean beings, as a beacon of magical energy, however dim he was.

”I no not land either. Desnind is where I will go. To tame animal, raise piggy’s lineage, build roots?”

The Flesh seemed wary of Rakvald, wondering if he was one of the hunters of this land. He shook his head, ”I no hunt. I herdsman. Worse I do is fleece and put animal out of misery. But I no do you. Know not what kind animal you be.”

”Is you hurt?” Rakvald said, kneeling on the ground so he’d be more level with Flesh’s gaze, so they could look him in the eye without breaking their neck.

[Sybil Malach]

The Flesh, as it had introduced itself, was quite interesting in composition indeed. Its body was almost never quite all there. It was running on the sensations of pains left behind in order to even hold its form, in a more corporeal sense. Its body pulsed in its strange, ethereal flickering in tandem with the desperate throes of survival. It was driven soley by that cause, it seems, as once it reaches the area near Rakvald's boat, it seems to make itself at home rather readily. Its hands gripping at the leg. The entity seemed to struggle with even getting a proper grasp on it. The noises leaving its lips sounding more like a frightened animal than anything else.

Though, perhaps the strangest thing of all? Almost entirely the same consistency of the entity itself, something seems to be sticking out from its leg. It looks like... Some sort of bolt. The scratches and marks left behind by the razorleaf looked almost fake next to the sheer detail of the bolt.

"Dying." Comes the response. It's quick, and efficient, in response to Rakvald's question. Leg outstretched, the entity shudders, as it aligns its hip with the edge of the joint... And begins to push down with it. The ball of the bone meeting with the socket, as pressure is applied. The strange entity seemed to not really think about the fact that there was a bolt coming out of the leg itself. It grimaced in sheer pain, as its body solidifies almost fully. And with a single, sickening crack, the leg is adjusted back into place. The howling yelp from the thin wildling is like a pup getting kicked. Shaking, it says, "I am the same animal as you." Comes its answer, as it gasps for air, and crumples onto its side, "... If you did not come to hunt my flesh, then you are a friend. I know not this land. You are in the wrong place. But this place has no end. I cannot leave no matter which direction I run."

Despite the limb finally being reset upon the joint, the entity was struggling with the overwhelming sensation of pain from overtaxed ligaments and tendons. It shudders a breath, "The water has no escape. I've tried. How did you get here?" The poor thing asking the very questions that might unravel its existence... Its frenzied, feral eyes settling on Rakvald.

Not like something so small could be threatening in the slightest, though.

[Rakvald]

Rakvald recoiled from this creature, this scene. He had half a mind to wake himself up and tell the ship’s captain to turn around or else give him a boat to row to shore. He didn’t care if he had to deal with miles of forest covered by Creep, if this hellscape was what awaited him at Desnind.

He wanted to help, but the Flesh seemed in a state, both mentally and physically. Clearly not a lucid dreamer, although that was hardly cause for concern. He didn’t think he’d met any lucid dreamers in his time, not yet since being marked by Jesine.

The sanctuary did have the effect of unraveling those nightmarish vines from it’s torso and limbs. Still his Spark bedeviled him to reach out and experiment, as a child would want to do with a lump of clay. To form and shape and separate. Make new what is used and decrepit. He silenced the call of that parasitic being of etheric origin, however. Knowing full well the dangers of using magic in Emea.

Instead, he knelt by the Flesh, and examined its wound. ”Where did Flesh get wound? Whose quarrel is that? Not part of the nightmare?”

Finally, unable to resist the temptation to test his tactile sensations, he reached a hand out to touch the wound, and pull out the quarrel.

”I’m here to help…” He told the creature, trying to sound reassuring, but not quite managing it. He pulled the quarrel from it’s wound, but it would not budge. Perhaps he couldn’t affect wounds that afflicted dreamers in the waking world? That was entirely probable.

”Was this a hunting accident? Or a quarrel hit you on purpose?”

[Sybil Malach]

"Purpose." It answers. The Flesh recoils, as Rakvald's hand touches its wound. It lets out a noise that's the equivalent to a yelp made from a wounded animal. Its ethereal frame flickering with the strength of a raging furnace, for a moment. Though, perhaps, not as strong as a blast furnace, it's still bright, as it shifts, shuddering in abject pain as it shudders out, "The hunters of the Flesh preyed upon us." It attempts to make sense of the situation, but it shakes its head, the almost feral stance adopted by the entity is almost utterly mirrored in how a wounded dog would lay against the ground, "Flesh of the friend has been killed. I remain snared by the cold."

Its eyes close, as it lets out a breath. A spasm. But it does not remain closed. The eyes flutter open, once more. Scanning at the towering man above the entity, it considers him, with the eyes of a trapped fox. Neither friend nor foe. Assistance given, so the rabid attempt at survival is abated, for now. It shifts in pain, leg twitching, but never stopping. It seemingly lacking the higher function of thought to actually stop moving the leg itself, or tend to itself in the moment. Whatever the dreamer is experiencing in the waking world, obviously, is not good. In the slightest. If this was, indeed, truly a dreamer.

"I do not know if help is possible." It says, eyes darting about, confused, for a moment, as though searching for a hunter, or a bigger predator, "... But I am cold."

Flesh's words, though strange, carry with it a genuine quality of fear. The creature is shaking, lost and confused. Hurt. It slumps onto its side, as though trying to at least stop the nagging pain from taking complete root upon its core. It's beginning to enter the starting stage of pain shock, as it slurs its speech. Yet, its form becomes more and more complete.

[Rakvald]

”Purpose?” He says the word, somewhat unfamiliar with the common tongue, he stumbles a bit before intuiting it’s meaning. ”Reason for doing. Ah Ah…”

He recoiled slightly as the Flesh made to yelp. He watches it squirm and shift in its position on the ground, watching it intently, trying to figure out if this is indeed a dreamer. Hunters of the Flesh. ”Who be hunters? Bad men, wolves?” Rakvald scratched his beard, as he regarded the fallen Flesh.

It closed its eyes, then spasmed. Rakvald looked at it, and considered it right back as it looked at him with the eyes of cornered prey. That look was in part why so many lifetimes he’d abstained from the path of the Hunter, and took up the path of the Breeder, like so many of his forefathers. He wished to help animals thrive and bring them to fruition, and not cut them off in their prime. That was just his inclination. He was less a butcher than a rancher.

”Help always about. Long as life, help yourself?” Rakvald said when the Flesh denied his offer of help. ”Cold? Wear cloak or blanket.” So saying, Rakvald took off his cloak, and laid it on the Flesh, making sure not to cover its face.

He pat the Flesh on the shoulder, and tried to comfort it as well as he could. He had half a mind to put it out of his misery, but didn’t, for fear that it was a dreamer. If he killed such a being in the dreamscape, he understood that it would kill them in actual life.

So he just knelt by the Flesh, and was available to help if it wished. The creature seemed so broken in its psyche, he was honestly at a loss for what would help the Flesh. ”Fear is scourge of man.”

[Sybil Malach]

"Fear is the Flesh." The Flesh says, as it shudders, body remaining utterly unprotected against the elements, until the large Lotharro places the cloak atop it. The entity seems to shift, for a moment, as the bolt keeps parts of the cloak itself tented up, "It tells when to run. When to fight. Every Flesh has fear. Every Flesh wishes to live." It says, in its distorted voice.

Despite its fragmented nature, another element of needs is fulfilled within the creature. Its body solidifies for a moment longer, as focus is given unto it. That look is continued to be given to the man. Shaking irises. Pinpoint pupils. Filled with complete, and utter fear of what is to come. It's as though the creature itself was uncertain by what was hunting it. But almost entirely relying on instinct, its lips part, "Flesh of Man. They wish to kill. To capture. Loot." It says. And, in its own primal state, seems to come to some lucidity. Its eyes more focused upon Rakvald. Its presence more concrete upon the dream itself.

Its eyes close, as the warmth begins to soothe the creature. Despite the pain, it can appreciate the gesture, "Your hand is large. Warm." Its eyes open, pinpoint pupils glancing to the source of the patting, "Something not felt in some time." It does not say much more. An observation. Yet its eyes dilate. Like an animal, it does not make it known that it is relaxing. Because it never truly does. A true embodiment of a wild thing more than a human. Upon the touch between the Lotharro and the Human, the slow calm is palpable. Almost something entirely expected from a quasi-domesticated animal. Yet, as though never truly letting up caution, its eyes remain upon the man. With somewhat more normal pupils, it seems to simply watch him with slightly less scrutiny.

"I do not know why the cold hunts me, like so." It says.

Its breath is visible. Another tether to the waking world. Even covered by a cloak, it still shivers. Unknowing of what is happening in the waking world, not even aware that this is a dream.