Four women venture through the heart of the Weldwyr.
Marisa reluctantly leads the way. The hood of her makeshift cloak squishes her short raven curls into plump ringlets that cushion her soft, rounded face. Her eyes match the cloak -- silver-blue. The slim leather collar is a recent (and quite unwelcome) addition to her wardrobe. It labels her as a slave.
That's one thing the four of them have in common, at least. Beyond that? They all happened to be running in the same direction when the slaver's camp erupted in chaos. Marisa has no idea what's become of the other dozen or so women that ran into the night; she can only pray that they have found their way to freedom and safety.
As for us...
The young girl frowns and scans the woods ahead.
A pale silver fog weaves through the forest and flows into the enormous husk of a half-sunken oak. It slowly spills from the trunk's hollow, rolling across the blanket of ivy that suffocated the decaying giant centuries ago. Violet tulips flourish among the rotting roots -- like a floral wreath left on a grave.
It is easy to be overwhelmed by the verdant splendor of the Weldwyr. But Marisa can see the fog deepening in the distance, peppered with tiny orange flashes -- glow-bugs awakening from their daytime slumber. The sun is setting. And this forest is no place to spend the night.
"We should make camp." Aaliyah is hard and tightly packed, like wrought iron -- a slip of russet sinew with a mop of flame-red hair. The curve of her linen-wrapped breasts barely interrupts the muscular slope of her chest. She's by far the most physically capable among them, with the lean physique of a swimmer. The iron band around her throat means the slavers considered her a threat.
"How close are we to the other side?" Nevra lifts her slender ears -- two long and delicately pointed blades of indigo that rise from her ivory-white locks. Her body is a landscape of soft and pliable curves with dark skin that carries shades of deep purple. She possesses an effortless regal bearing that hides a disciplined mind -- like a beautiful, ornate sheathe that contains a carefully folded straight-razor. The slavers swaddled her in shimmering pink silks to highlight her status as an 'exotic moon elfling'. Her brass collar marks her as a valuable commodity.
Marisa bites her lip. "Not close enough."
Aaliyah is insistent. "I don't want to travel here during the night."
"We can't rest out in the open," Marisa replies.
"We can take watches. Work in shifts--"
"What is your concern?" Nevra fixes her mauve eyes upon Marisa. The young girl shivers; it feels as if she's being examined by an elegant yet deadly shadow. She is suddenly acutely aware of the forest's chill.
"I told you all when we ran into this place. There's a reason the slavers won't pursue."
"I've read stories about it," Saya confesses from the back. The pale redhead is the tallest among them. She has the flustered energy of an academic confronted with the subject of her studies for the very first time. "The Weldwyr, I mean..."
The slavers tried to dress the awkward Avalician scholar up as something foreign and sensual: an ivory gown that exposes the center of her heavy freckled bust via a plunging neckline. It dips just below her navel, then vanishes into a belt of flattened coins before re-emerging below as a slim skirt. She's tied her red hair up, but locks keep popping free. They dangle over her bright emerald eyes. Like Nevra, her collar is bronze -- designating her as high-value.
"What? Monsters?" Aaliyah's fists tighten. She scans the trees with her light gold eyes.
Saya shakes her head. "I mean, some, but..."
"Long ago, a woman was pursued by a cruel and possessive king." The story flows easily from Marisa's lips. She's told it almost as many times as it was told to her. "First, she begged the gods for help. When they refused, she begged the people. When
they
refused..." Marisa purses her lips. "...she begged the trees. And the trees listened."
The others are drawn to her tale. Marisa continues as they walk: "The trees gathered around her, to hide her -- formed a forest in which she could live and be safe, be cared for. When the king followed... the animals, the plants, even the trees -- they repelled him."
"So... it's a spooky forest that repels assholes," Aaliyah says. "What's the problem?"
Nevra scowls. "Let her finish."
"The Weldwyr became a sanctuary, of sorts. But over time, the desire to protect became... twisted." Marisa's pale blue eyes drift through the distant trees, watching their shadows lengthen. "It went mad. Claiming travelers to keep in its 'garden', so that it might better look after them. When people resisted, it... 'persuaded' them. Transforming some; absorbing others. Drowning them in an eternity of bliss and love, their beauty preserved forever. All so no one would ever leave it; so it could keep them safe from the outside world. Some say the woods are only dangerous to those who secretly
yearn
to become part of its garden, but..." Marisa shrugs.
"Damn." Aaliyah's stance shifts; she's a little more on-guard. "So the reason you don't want to just make camp is because you're worried about--"
SMMMMMK!
A thick, long rope of glistening pink whips down and slaps across Aaliyah's chest.
"What thhh--" The impact is enough to force every molecule of oxygen out of her lungs. The elastic appendage flattens between her breasts, where it firmly sticks. Aaliyah lurches back and tilts her head up.
A bulbous egg-shaped beast squats on a branch high above them. It's humanoid, in the sense that it has legs, arms, and a head -- but that's where the similarities end. The toad-like boggin's ash-gray skin shimmers with a sticky mucous that leaves its webbed appendages just as well-suited for climbing as they are for swimming. The adhesive also applies to its tongue -- which tethers Aaliyah's breasts to its massive open mouth.
The tongue snaps taut and reels Aaliyah up toward that yawning, drooling chasm.
A perfectly balanced throwing dagger zips past Aaliyah's cheek and straight into the boggin's open jaws. The blade's upward angle permits it to plunge into the soft tissue at the back of the boggin's palate, where it slips past sinew and neatly cleaves the brain-stem in twain.
The boggin gurgles. It wobbles from side to side, confused by the lack of commands from its brain. Finally, its tongue goes slack as it topples to the ground -- hitting with a very wet (and fatal)
splat
.
