Sometimes, you don’t just walk along yourRoad to Purgatory.

Sometimes, you are the hunter on the road, sometimes you are the prey.

Bare, grey rocks reach into the clear, blue sky, some of them capped with snow, others completely bare. There are a few clouds of ash, hovering in the distance, speaking of the tremendous magic inherent to these mountains and yet, despite the danger, there are large avians slowly gliding through the air. Mounted on those feathered steeds are warriors, dressed in simple, yet sturdy, leather armour, large recurve bows slung to their saddles, alongside quivers, one side containing a few short spears, balanced for either throwing or thrusting, the other side holding bundles of arrows, enough to rain death on their foes for a long time.

Darkness reigns near the ground where small shrubs, vines and various fungi vie for the little sun and few nutrients that escape the giants of the forest, the massive trees that make up the majority and form the thick, almost impenetrable canopy above.

In that damp and gloomy darkness, a few branches shake, almost imperceivable, until a few seconds later, a pair of figures move into the open, each carrying a short blade, more a machete than a sword, a short bow slung to the quiver on their back. Their armour is camouflaged with countless vines and leaves, carefully made in such a way that it blurs their silhouette. making them look more like the small shrubs they have just moved out of.

On a wide, open clearing, a singular, large tree stands, the wide canopy stretching across the peaceful meadow below. From an opening within the trunk, a small waterfall is pouring into a placid lake, sunlight glinting off the water's surface. Through the opening in the tree, a wide, airy hall is visible, ramps leading further up, following the flow of water. There are no marks that hint at carving, nothing that disturbed the bark of the great tree as if the hall has grown directly into the tree.

Following the water to its source, there is a small pond, far too small to contain even a smidgen of the water that is constantly pouring out of it and yet, the flow never changes. next to that pond, standing in the sunlight that somehow shines into the room from somewhere above, a single woman stands, with bright, green leaves as hair and nut-brown, smooth skin, dressed in a simple, yet beautiful, dark-green robe. Her hands spark with a soft, magical glow, the light mirroring the colour of her hair, as she slowly but with great confidence, draws patterns into the still air.

On an open path, with some sunlight filtering through the trees above, a group of large, orange felines is slowly making their way through the forest. The felines all carry a rider, dressed in leather armour, each equipped with a bow and spear. The riders’ eyes are constantly scanning the forest around them and from time to time, the rider in the lead takes out a small pendant. Each time she does, the pendant briefly lights up from within, shedding soft, green light onto the rider’s armour, before fading. And each time it fades, the rider lets out a soft sigh.

A wide river, almost too wide to see across, is slowly meandering through the dense forest, with no bridges in sight and only a few, small fishing boats plying their trade. In the distance, a settlement, built directly into the trees, is faintly visible, the home of those fishers.

In the shallows, near the banks of the river, a trio of females is sitting, their hair dark, algae-green, while their skin is a damp brown, like fresh, moist earth. Each of them shares some features, a tall, slender build, long legs that end in almost fin-like feet and comparatively short arms that end in claw-like hands. Their faces are narrow, almost gaunt, and their eyes carry the same, placid light as they slowly move around.

With a shrill shriek, the flight of eagles suddenly banks, their slow, gradual pace instantly accelerating as they go into a perfectly coordinated dive. The riders on their backs have to carefully hold on, all eyes, mount and rider alike, focused on the ground, hunters searching for their prey between the craggy rocks, scanning the narrow crevices and the rough terrain, unwilling to let even the smallest shadow escape them.

The leader even has his bow ready, an arrow sitting on his finger and the moment his mount spreads its wings, breaking the dive and, for a single, fleeting moment, hovering in the air, he instantly knocks the arrow, smoothly drawing the bow back and sending it flying, racing through the still air as it trails a shower of emerald light, vanishing into a shadowy crag.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The two, slow-moving figures in their camouflage armour stop, their stances tense as their eyes scan around, looking for any sort of threat. Atter making sure that there are no threats around, they exchange a nod, one of them pulling out a pendant from beneath his cloak, focusing on it for a moment, until it starts to glow.

Both figures softly speak into the pendant, light reflecting into their eyes. After a few moments of communion with the pendant, both nod firmly, the light winking out as they exchange yet another nod and turn away from each other, vanishing into the shrubs one more, each following their own path.

In the massive tree, the dryad’s gestures stop, patterns of light decorating the entire room until they start shining with an azure glow, the glow reflecting from the pond in the middle, the water turning opaque for a moment, before reflecting the light. Images become visible in the light, an endless, green carpet, stretching further than the eye can reach.

As the dryad studies the images, they start to change, rapidly moving across the shining surface and as they do, the dryad starts to sway back and forth, sweat beading on her forehead. Her breathing quickly becomes laboured, her gown sticking to her body from the sweat, until finally, the light winks out, the dryad sinking to the floor, visibly exhausted.

Once again, the leading rider checks her pendant, and for once, the glow doesn’t simply fade away. Instead, it sparks for a moment, before the light detaches from the pendant, forming a small orb of glowing energy, small, ember sparks occasionally scattering away from it. The rider makes a swift gesture and the orb starts moving away from the road, into the forest beside it, the entire patrol following behind, their mounts suddenly no longer leisurely padding along but dashing, occasionally using tree trunks as springboards to cross areas of difficult terrain, all the while following behind the sparkling light.

The three naiads in the river stop their comfortable bath, their focus shifting up the river and the water around them starts roiling, their forms turning opaque as if they are melding into the river water. In the middle of the triangle formed by the three of them, an orb of water materialises, all three reaching out in unison, touching the orb.

From the orb, a school of fish, entirely made out of water, springs forth, the volume of the orb never changing as the fish start darting up the river, their presence immediately vanishing as they delve into the water.

Moments after the glowing arrow vanishes into the crevice, a large, goat-like animal comes tumbling out of it, the arrow lodged into its flesh. Unable to keep its balance, it rapidly falls down the mountain, the wound caused by the arrow quickly becoming the least of its problems. The eagles follow after it, their earlier urgency entirely gone.

The stalker, now on his own, suddenly stops, sniffing the air, his eyes closing as a frown settles on his face. His focus shifts, as does his movement, as he occasionally sniffs the air, following a scent trail.

He quickly reaches a clearing and the frown lines on his face become deeper when he notices the carcass of a large rodent. Moving closer to investigate, he freezes the moment he realises that for some reason, the rodent is frozen.

That brief moment of confusion stretches into eternity, when suddenly, from the gloomy shadows behind him, a dark figure rises, two glinting blades in hand. Before the stalker ever has a chance to realise that he no longer is the hunter, but the hunted, the two blades pierce into his body, faint traces of magical light scattering away from the wounds as the light disappears from his eyes, his dessicated body falling to the ground before the dark figure.

The felines burst through the tree line, suddenly standing in the middle of a clearing, or maybe calling it a site of devastation would be more fitting. There is no grass, no shrubs, nothing that would take advantage of the ample light, only torn earth and scattered dust. There are five gaping holes, as if a gigantic creature ripped out some weeds, leaving nothing behind but devastation. The entire patrol dismounts and starts searching around, their eyes scanning the ground, occasionally exchanging annoyed noises, as they fail to find what they are looking for.

There is nothing left in this place, nothing but the stink of death and the dust of the fallen trees.

The swarm of watery fish surges through the river, until they stop, swarming near the bank. The water in the area is frothing, hints of blood appearing only to be instantly washed away by the endless flow of the river.

The fish form into a greater form, a vaguely humanoid representation of the naiads further down the river and through the watery eyes of that figure, the naiads see the area and watch as a large crocodile continues to tear apart an elven warrior who had failed to detect the lurking predator. Moments later, the water making up the figure returns to the river, the magic fading away.

On yourRoad to Purgatory, will you be hunter - Or will you be hunted?

The image fades to black and the logo is shown, an image of the globe, with ghostly blue flames racing across it until it is completely shrouded in an aura of blue fire.