Fresh air! There truly was nothing like it. Or so he thought. Captain Braggart hadn’t actively had to breathe in over a century, but the memory of it was enough to cheer him as he made his path through the forest, slinging his ax to and fro to cut at vines hanging from trees that dared to have the nerve to impede him. Never mind that if he so desired, he could easily pass through objects and living creatures on a whim. What was an adventure without a little challenge?

“Swords did fly, maidens cried, the sky poured forth its tears!” He bellowed out the fifty-seventh stanza of his favorite battle tune. Nearby birds took flight from their nests, startled by the ghostly sound. To anyone who might see him at that moment, he resembled a pale reflection hovering on a clean window. Transparent, not quite there and not quite absent either.

His voice, however, sounded perfectly fine (if a bit off key). The combined effect of his music and appearance would have very likely driven any normal creature who didn’t know him mad with fear.

Nearby, a pair of birds took flight. He almost swore one of them had given him a dirty look in its departure. No matter. In life, from what he could recall, he hadn’t cared much for how others viewed him — animal or otherwise. In death, over time, his already minuscule scrap of shame eroded entirely. So he sang louder, chopped at the vines more enthusiastically, and stomped his ghostly boots with more gusto.

Then, another song pierced the air, mixing with his own. A beautiful, clean voice, illuminating his path forward as brightly as polished metal. The voice drew him, beckoned Captain Braggart like a long lost lover.

He didn’t intentionally quit his own singing. It just sort of petered out, the more the other voice drew him forward. A little voice at the back of his mind strongly encouraged him to keep going. Bravery was at his very core, whereas caution and calm reasoning were something he’d always relied on his subordinates to have. In a way, that was the very reason he and the others had ended up in this forest in the first place, so many years ago.

No longer interested in cutting at the vines and vegetation around him, the captain simply phased through, allowing his ghostly nature to do the work for him. Unimpeded any longer, he drifted for several minutes, the song neither seeming to get louder or closer, but all the same he kept going.

Then the trees stopped abruptly, and a large clearing formed, revealing a massive blue lake surrounded by polished white pebbles at its shore.

Sitting on the very edge of the bank, a woman perched on a much larger rock, dragging what looked like a large curved fish spine through her hair. The black tresses hung in front of her as she leaned down towards the lake, pouring as shiny and slick as water. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear her music.

Then, when he took a step further into the clearing, tucking his ax away, her singing stopped, and the woman sat up with her hair still draped over her face.

“A hero?” She asked, tilting her head slightly, one hand still gripping the fishy comb.

“A noble one!” Captain Braggart agreed heartily. Then, quite abruptly realized he couldn’t see any clothing on the woman’s back, which was the only part of her he could see aside from her arms. He jerked his head to the side, respectfully. “Forgive me, my lady, I should leave.”

She lifted her hand that did not hold the comb, and held up a finger, “no. Stop. I would like the company.” Her voice, though it had stopped singing, played over his ears like music nonetheless.

“My lady,” the ghost protested, “you are unclothed. I am a gentleman.”

“Oh don’t worry,” she assured him, dropping the comb and leaning forward to slide from the bank into the water. Pebbles clicked and rattled in an odd melody with her movement. She descended into the depths, rising only once her head had become completely submerged. Her hair continued to fold about her, providing at least the illusion of modesty. He hadn’t yet turned to look at her.

“I shall bid you–” He began, halting when she released a long, sweet tune. His feet froze in place, and despite his well-honed manners, he turned to face her. She was, to put it lightly, the most ravishing, enchanting, delightful, gorgeous, womanly, and pleasant woman he had ever seen. A two-hundred stanza ballad could not do her justice. Her lips were pink with a slightly blue-ish tint, her face and skin glistened like an abalone shell, her eyes were as gray as a dead fish. Not for a moment did he pause to wonder why he found those features attractive at all. On her, somehow, they seemed to work.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“I can not see you,” the woman informed him, leaning forward to place her arms upon the pebbles at the shore, but remaining in place otherwise. “I can feel you, though. The earth has become very cold. You were a hero once, were you not?” She tilted her head ever so slightly to the left with her question.

Captain Braggart nodded sadly, nobly. He placed one hand over his breastplate in memory of himself, “the war was just ending. I led my men after the most vicious mercenaries in our kingdom who had betrayed their own countrymen for a bit of coin. We became lost in these woods in our pursuit–”

“--Then you died?” She interrupted him, empathy absent. It was not a cruel voice, and in fact she seemed very pleased to have someone to speak to.

“Then,” he agreed, “I died. Do not fear me, my lady, I am still a noble ghost. I will not harm you.”

Her dead-fish eyes sparkled with amusement, “I don’t know the meaning of the word, my poor shadow of a dead hero.”

Any other man might be offended by the turn of phrase she’d coined, but Captain Braggart found it uniquely endearing somehow. Shadow of a dead hero. Yes, he rather liked that. It was as if somehow being a ghost cursed to fight his final battle into eternity was more of a legend now. Captain Braggart, the great shadow of a hero. It had a nice ring to it.

“How many of you were there?” She asked, licking her lips, “are there any left?”

“Alive?” He asked, surprised, “oh no. We fought over a century past, now, I think. Time has become rather hard to track. I’m certain at the very least it was that long ago. At the time I’d say there were about forty of us. Perhaps more.”

She looked a little disappointed. She leaned back in the water, drifting further into the lake, “pity. Well, come a little closer, hero’s shadow. I could still use a good story, even if I’d prefer a meal.”

The remark went over his head. For all he knew, she might have expected him to have a few provisions. The poor girl must have gotten lost herself. He would see to it that she made it home safely.

“How did you find yourself here?” He asked, striding slowly forward, the little voice in his head that reminded him to turn away from her fading just a little. Rather, held in check by the melody she’d sung before.

“I hadn’t really ever thought of the why,” she replied, “but I’ve been here a very long time. This lake is where I hatched. Alone.” The last word had no emotion to it. “I’ve met enough travelers to know I must have been lost by someone. Only the lost find themselves in Dreadforest.”

Dreadforest? The name rang a bell. An old, rusty bell, but a bell nonetheless. He’d never really thought about how much he’d forgotten before. It seemed like quite a lot. Perhaps he really was just the shadow of a hero.

Captain Braggart stroked his chin, pondering. Digging. Struggling to shake the ancient webs from his memories. All he could recall, mainly, were his final days and several hundred ancient battle songs.

“I’m not sure I know what that is,” he answered honestly, lowering his hand and coming closer to the water. The woman drifted back, her hands gently gliding over the surface as she idly floated. Her hair drifted around her, black smoke under the surface of pristine blue.

“Really?” She asked, surprised, “I’d thought every lost traveler knew. The place your mother should have warned you about as a child when you strayed too far from the path. The hidden woods beneath the shade of all other woods. When you take a wrong turn, even if just once, Dreadforest is there to welcome you. No one can find it on purpose.”

He nodded, as if he had any idea what she was describing. It jogged nothing in his mind. Just the name was all he really thought he knew.

“What’s your name?” She asked, changing the subject. “I’m Pteri,” she supplied before he could answer, “a fisherman named me once. I liked the sound of it, so I kept it.”

Captain Braggart bowed, his long golden hair spilling forward. Sometimes he regretted losing his helmet before he’d died. It was more dignified. “I am Captain Albrecht Aloysius Braggart of the 77th Squadron. You, my lady, may call me Albrecht if you so desire.” Then, he took a long pause, when something she’d told him finally clicked. “You’d mentioned hatching earlier. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Pteri broke into a wide smile, drifting further back in the water, just as the long and spiny body of a large fish rose in the water. Or rather, a very thick tail, mottled with red and white debra stripes. Several sharp fins lined the side of the tail, and it went on for a good ten feet or so before reaching the very end to fall back under the surface of the water.

“Does that answer your question?” She asked, innocently.

If anything, it only inspired several dozen more.