The crackling fireplace's warm glow illuminated the cozy cottage interior amongst the trees. Serving as the only light in the dark canopy that spanned for miles, it seemed like a place of respite for those battling their way through the shadows. The many lanterns that hung from the houses' jutting balconies and the surrounding branches alike swung as a maleficent gust tore through the twisted jungle. Its construction was a wonder as it was too dangerous and exposed to the forest floor, likely to be torn by the terrors of the never-ending night. Yet it was just as unforgiving above the canopy, where the extreme weather of the region would rip the quaint cottage into bits, leaving driftwood to float amongst the sea in the sky. Therefore, it was constructed against the trunk of the Night forest tree. This was no common tree.
Standing at an impressive height of over 200 metres, with branches spanning out so wide it twisted and curled amongst its neighbours, it stood as a fierce testament to the power of nature. With interlocking branches and dense, dark green foliage flowing into each other, the thick canopy prevented all sunlight from seeping through, giving the treacherous forest its name. As much as the Night forest tree was colossally tall, it was unfathomably wide, appearing as an incredibly gnarled and knotted wall to the unfortunate traveller who traversed through the forest floor. Yet here it was, a mere dot of light in the middle of the massive ecosystem, constructed against the thick trunk, with wooden support beams holding the cottage in place.
With the enormity of the fauna creating an atmosphere of oppressive evil, the cottage seemed to have been constructed with serenity in mind. For each dark, twisted, and gnarled bark of the Night Forest tree that sprung from the ground thousands of years ago, seemingly naturally ashen and black, a beautiful reddish-brown wooden slab would be used to piece together the unlikely haven. For the suffocatingly thick blackness that shrouded the dangers across and wide, several dozen lanterns swung, like fireflies dancing to the songs of the night. It was the work of unparalleled craftsmanship, with intricate stained glass reflecting waves of multicoloured light into the surroundings.
The man who currently rested comfortably in the snug purple armchair sleepily glanced at the dancing flames, a pipe laying limp against his lips. One hand was placed between the pages of an old book, the other rubbing his tired eyes, ridden with dark circles. With a sense of finality, he shut the tome and lightly tossed it onto the ornate wooden table next to him and stood up, groaning as he stretched his back. Age had caught up to him, combatting the years of travel and adventure he had experienced in his youth. He thoughtfully scratched his knotted, white beard, which he had been growing, quite impressively, for the last 15 years. He inched his way towards a window and stared out into the wilderness, taking in its enormity with appreciation and lingering awe that hadn't left him since he decided to construct his cottage here all those years ago.
As he reminisced on his old friends and the entire whirlwind of his life, he noticed something in the distance. The dim lights of the swinging lanterns barely lit up the ancient forest, but the wizened warrior had sharp perceptive eyes, no doubt a necessity in his youth. At once, he narrowed his vision and pressed up against the mosaic glass, straining to view something (or someone) in the distance. Jumping in and out of his line of sight, he spotted a red blob heaving from behind the barks of the tree. The old man turned back, rushing to the cabinet on the other side of the room, with surprising agility for a man his age. As he swung the heavy oak doors open, an explosion of dust blew into the air, at which the man coughed and swatted with his hands. Brushing his hands past the several tomes, scrolls, and strangely mechanical artifacts that littered the shelves, some of which crashed and cluttered onto the ground, he managed to grab what he needed. A brass spyglass. Adorned beautifully with golden patterns that dazzled the eye, he ran his fingers over them, fondly remembering the tender queen that bestowed such a gift, the incredible golden city that stood as the pinnacle of culture and science, and his friends, now long spread across the world.
He snapped out of it immediately, realizing the urgency of the situation. Chastising himself for getting caught up in his memories once again, evidently something that had been occurring a lot, he stumbled back to the window, extending the spyglass with a quick snap and peering into it, furrowing his eyebrows. As he struggled to locate the red blotch, he finally caught sight of it. Or rather him. A young man, his exact age unable to be determined, was fervently limping towards the cottage, most likely guided by the lanterns that adorned the lower branches. He wore a royal red shirt and comfortable leggings, his shoes curiously missing. His curly blond hair lay matted and muddy, and his face was covered in scrapes and bruises, most likely from running through the thick foliage, being whipped by the lowest branches of the Night Forest tree. As he maneuvered his way towards the bright cottage, he kept looking behind him with a panicked look in his wild eyes. He had his right hand grasping his left shoulder, a futile attempt to stop heavy bleeding from a large wound, the dark blood disguised against the rich fabric. The old man moved his spyglass toward where the boy kept glancing, into the seemingly empty darkness. After a few moments, a creature emerged from the leaves.
Around 3 feet tall, with skinny limbs, a humanoid creature crawled towards the boy, whose exhaustion and injuries had now caught up to him, his limp slowing down to a near halt. It was grey in complexion, with leathery skin that seemed to stretch across its body. Its face was a thing of abject horror, with tiny, beady eyes that were embedded into its skin, with a set of razor-sharp teeth that were rotten and bloody, set into a permanent sneer. Though its stature was weak, some would even claim sickly, its fingers had developed into blades of their own, scraping against the ground as it inquisitively hunted for its prey. Due to the unyielding darkness of the forest, its eyes were underdeveloped, compensated for by its sense of smell. It had no 'regular' nose to speak of, but zoologists of the time believed that its skin WAS its nose, being able to perceive prey from its entire body. The old man had encountered these creatures before - Greylings. And the one thing he knew most about them - they hunt in packs.
Dropping his spyglass, he gripped a leather pouch that hung on his belt and rushed back to his cabinet, where a sword lay against it, sheathed. He picked up the sword, unsheathing it, and rushed to his front door, slamming it open. The night air was heavy and humid. Immediate droplets started to form on his forehead as he glanced out into the darkness. Without his spyglass he couldn't see the boy well enough, or the multiple Greylings that had started emerging from the thicket. On top of that, he was still a hundred feet above the forest floor, with little time to take the wooden walkway that led down. He pulled open the pouch and dipped his hand into it, pulling out a handful of iridescent powder that shimmered against his hands. With a resolute sigh, the old man shut his eyes and muttered a few lines of an ancient language before extending his palm and flinging it into the open sky. His eyes flew open and thundered "GINI!" as the silky powder morphed into incredible balls of blue flame that hung in the sky. Crackling with energy and absolute heat, the fire hung still, almost as if awaiting command. The old man, with resolution in his eyes, pointed the flames at the Greylings that had now nearly caught up to the boy and boomed "RELEASE!" The flames sprang into action, whizzing through the branches blisteringly fast, scorching the leaves that stood in the way. The old man nearly flew back into the open door as the surge of power released by the fire slammed against him. To him, all he saw was a streak of blue.
Suddenly, a fiery explosion. The boy was flung a few feet into the air from the pure force of the flames colliding into the ground. He fell behind a jutting root that speared out from underneath the ground, which had now inadvertently saved him from the severe burns he could've gotten from the explosion. Groaning in pain, he stumbled and sat up, peering over the root to understand what had just happened. The earth was scorched, as giant blue flames that stood up to 8 feet high danced and pounced at their surroundings. It was a wholly unnatural phenomenon, as the flames jumped around with artificial ferocity, seemingly agitated and crackling. Four Greylings had been inching their way to the boy, and all four now lay on the earth, enveloped in incredible blue flames, as if they were doused in oil. Two were killed immediately by the explosion, their limbs ripped and scattered against the ashen earth. One was thrown against a Night forest tree with such force that it had impaled itself on a low branch, and hung there, the jutting branch ripping through its stomach. The last was unaffected by the explosion, yet caught by the flames. Rolling on the ground, it screeched in desperation, an awful piercing scream that cut through the air. It was only a few moments, however, as the creature finally succumbed to the pain.
Back at the cottage, the old man smirked in satisfaction, satisfied that his elemental skills had not completely disappeared. His smile disappeared, however, as he knew the threat was not over. He peered into the flames, counting four bodies, just as he had suspected. The flames, while illuminating the clearing, were now crackling out of control, contorting and growing. It was snapping at anything in its vicinity, and if left unchecked it could ascend into something the man could not control. His palm was still extended ahead of him. He attempted to shut it but was met with invisible resistance. Straining his muscles and grinding his jaw, he used all his might to shut his palm, a cold fear gripping his heart. His strained groans ascending into a shout, he finally muted his palm. The flames vanished in an instant as if whisked away by a gust of wind. There was no wind, however, as the air remained humid and warm, with the smell of singed flesh lingering in the air.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The old man hesitantly dipped his hand into his pouch once more, this time pulling out a sprinkling of dust. He had nearly made a mistake that could have cost him the boy's life, as well as his own, but he knew that he needed more. As he stared out into the forest, he noticed more grey figures appearing from the darkness. No longer were there four, this time the number was closer to twenty.
The boy stared in astonishment as he watched the flames that had been maliciously inching their way toward him suddenly dissipate. He had no energy left within him, as the deep gash on his shoulder had been flowing with blood. He knew that it was either the blood loss that would get him or those godforsaken creatures that had been stalking him for what seemed like an eternity. A new threat, one which he had thought would be his salvation was fast approaching him, and then it just...vanished? The boy tried getting up, using all of his strength to do so, but his legs gave away before him and he crashed back down on the ground. He propped himself up against the bark of the Night forest tree, and took a deep breath. Rustling from the edge of the clearing alerted him once more as he hurriedly lowered himself and peeked over the root. His horror began to grow as multitudes of the grey creatures started emerging from the foliage, each of them opening up their body, smelling their surrounding carnage. He counted fifteen, no...over twenty of them spreading out around the clearing. It was only a matter of time before they found him.
A gust of cold air flew over him, and the boys' eyes darted as a streak of purple and green flew over his head. With a slam, the figure landed on the center of the clearing. As the dust and ash settled, he managed to get a good look at the figure. It was a man. An old man. He stood at an average height, dressed in a simple green t-shirt and brown leggings, both of which had seen better days. His stance was wide, confident, and ready. He donned a dark purple cloak, adorned with curious spiral patterns that emerged from the bottom, as if like smoke. The old man was stout, but not fat. His age may have caught up to him, but he lived a life of physicality. Adventure. This was visible on his face, weather-worn, each line a different tale and mostly shrouded by a great, white, bushy beard. A friend or foe? The boy thought to himself, his consciousness slipping by the second.
The old man stood in the center of the circle, as the Greylings shifted their attention towards him. He held out his sword in front of him, clutched by both his hands. His eyes scanned the entire clearing, as he strategically counted the threat. His world had widened, and his peripheral vision extended to a tremendous degree. All of his senses were on overdrive, as he heard every snap of a twig, every animal in the overgrowth, and importantly, every Greyling that had now sensed him and was poised for attack. The smell of burning flesh and singed wood overwhelmed the ex-adventurer, but it was a small price to pay for the advantage he had just bought himself. The first Greyling pounced from behind him, hoping to catch the man off-guard. The tiniest crunch of a burnt leaf crackling prompted the man to swing around, maneuvering his sword downwards at the leaping Greyling. It was cut cleanly down the middle with ease, as it if it were a hot knife through butter. The two halves thumped onto the ground, blood and organs spilling out of the creature's body. The onslaught had begun.
Waves of Greylings now stood in concentric circles around the old man, the creatures in the front line positioned to pounce. As multitudes of them leaped at the man, he dug his hand into the pouch and flung the shimmering powder at the Greylings in his direct line of sight. *"Plasis,"* the man exclaimed, and the powder crystallized into tiny icicles that exploded into the enemy's bodies. Icy shrapnel pierced their skin and flung them back into the line of Greylings that were fast approaching the man, toppling them all over. As he finished his command, the adventurer had already sensed the Greylings from behind him and ducked as one flew over his head. Two more rushed at him, bladed fingers extended, and he thrust forward, piercing one through the head. The man could not get the other in time, however, and it sliced at him with its claws, ripping through his linen shirt and leaving a gnarly gash. It then gripped onto his arm and bit savagely, blood spurting out of the man's bicep. In a panic, the old man finally pulled the sword out of the dead Greyling and started wildly beating the head of the creature clinging on to him with the hilt of his sword. Roaring in pain and rage, they brought down the studded hilt onto it's head until it caved in, and the Greyling's jaw slacked, dropping onto the ground. With no time to recover, the man shut his eyes, concentrating for a moment, before leaping up into the air, as if whisked up by a benevolent puppeteer playing with his strings. Hanging in the air for a moment, the man flew backward, still upright strangely, and landed behind the furthest back lines of Greylings. As the group of monsters opened up their bodies to sense where their prey had disappeared to, it gave our warrior a few precious moments to pull out another sprinkling of the powder. He was now digging at the bottom of his pouch, scraping for the last vestiges of magic. Doubt started to cloud his mind. If he didn't end this fight soon, it would quite possibly be an early death for him and the boy.
After grabbing the approximate amount of powder he would need, he hurriedly sprinkled it onto the ground. By this point, a mere few seconds after the puzzling escape, the Greylings had already honed into the man's location. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his sword into the air as waves of Greylings sprinted towards him, their disproportionately long arms scraping the ground behind them. *"TECTONIA!"*, he bellowed, slamming his sword into the ground. The earth started to rumble, the old man struggling to keep his balance. Cracks in the ground started to form, rapidly spreading through the clearing With a resounding *CRUNCH*, parts of the earth burst upwards, while others sank. A few Greylings were caught between the cracks, their bodies turned into pulp against the wall of rising earth. Others were flung into the air and back into the foliage, their fall back onto stable ground ending with satisfying crunches, their fragility on display. It wasn't the end, as the earth kept contorting, the rising pieces dropping back down, with the sunken ones jutting out, creating further chaos for the bewildered enemy. As more fell between the cracks, and others lost their sense of balance, it was clear that the tides of battle had turned. It was difficult to estimate how many Greylings he had dispatched, due to the waves of earth blocking his line of sight. It was enough, however. Letting go of his sword, the old man realized that he had one more challenge ahead of him. Ending the spell.
The invisible force on his palm was throbbing and writhing, exerting an incredible amount of pressure on the man's hand. He gritted his teeth in agony, as it felt as if his palm was being crushed by an incomprehensible weight. The movement of the earth continued to grow more untamed as pieces of the terrain burst out so high it began crashing against the barks of the Night Forest tree. More cracks began to spread, indicating that the instability would spread, the turf now as powerful as a stormy sea. The old man, with his eyes clasped shut and his other hand gripping his wrist, began to shut his palm with incredible determination. The invisible force on his palm was starting to take form, little bolts of red electricity zapping out of his hand. Dropping to his knees, the man dug his fist into the earth, an act of desperation, and howled into the sky. Finally, his shoulders slacked and his face dropped. As soon as it had begun, it ended, with no warning. This time, however, the jutting pieces of earth, as well as the sunken holes remained in their position. It was a permanent aftereffect of such terrible power. The Greylings were gone. The few who remained scurried back into the darkness, unwilling to take risks against a powerful opponent. A large portion of them were dead or injured, either crushed by the shifting terrain or decimated by their fall into the gaping holes that littered the terrain.
The old man nearly collapsed onto the ground, just barely holding himself up with his arms. His palm appeared unharmed, yet when he used it to prop himself up, he winced in pain. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he stood up, dusting himself off as the ashen earth had settled on his cloak after being disturbed by the powerful spell. Placing his hands on his hips, he stretched his back, with a satisfied groan as his spine cracked. He looked at the carnage around him and smiled. It had been a while since he experienced action to this extent. He was aware that he no longer had the control or reflexes he once had, but remained content that he was still a force to be reckoned with. Pulling the sword out of the ground, he held it in one hand, just in case a stray Greyling decided to go in for one last shot. He began walking towards the edge of the clearing, to the base of the tree the boy was hiding behind. Doubt clouded his mind once more. That fight had taken a lot more out of him than he thought. A gang of Greylings would never have been this much of a problem for him even a decade ago. As he peered over the root, he took a good look at the boy.
The boy was unconscious, with his palm held limp on his wounded shoulder. His skin was pale, unnaturally so. With shallow breaths and ruptured coughs accompanying the deepening flow of blood, the old man realized that the boy was succumbing to his injuries. Realizing that the boy may have not much time if the blood flow was not contained, the old man sprung into action. He wasn't the only one with much time, the man thought to himself. When the powder in his system ran out, all the pain, exhaustion, and mental fatigue would hit him too, and then they would both be stranded on the forest floor, a mere 400 metres from the cottage. Grabbing the lad by the scruff of his neck, pulling his red silk undershirt, the old man shut his eyes and leaped up once more, propelling into the sky. Halting mid-air, the man opened his eyes and stared at the cottage, willing himself forward. At once, his body sprang forward upright, at breakneck speeds, towards the humble abode.
The boy might be saved from the terrors of the Night forest, but he wasn't out of the woods yet.