[Wanderers Journey]
The camp is frozen in horror with its muffled murmurs, the clinking of metal tools, and the crackle of distant fires; a persistent breeze rustles through the thin fabric of the tents, carrying with it a sense of frailty. Sorin senses the shock and panic pulsing through the camp. He moves quickly, swiftly making his way toward the commotion. His steps signal he’s ready, moving toward Bo and Serine. The camp sits in silent awe after the horror. Members gather, and they piece together the gravity of the situation. Now, no one leaves these walls, or risk the diseased child. Infected by the Darkness. Serine watches Sorin approach, the tension between them still hasn’t been addressed as he tends to Bo, “Are you alright?” he says with concern. “What happened here?” He scans the scene, piecing together what he’s missed. Serine searches for the others, “Hey, where are your friends?” She asks, snapping for his attention. “Thomas has just left,” he informs, his sharp eyes darting between Bo and their surroundings. “He went with Idris. Why? What happened?” His voice is steady, but his eyes search Bo’s as if trying to gauge the depth of what he missed. "It wasn't just a simple escape, was it?" his gaze flicking to Serine, still not fully trusting her.
Bo stands, her eyes distant, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tries not to break down after the nightmare she’s just witnessed. Serine takes in the moment, walking over to Bo and placing a hand on her shoulder. A touch of sympathy. She turns to Sorin, her voice calm but decisive. “Get ready. You’re coming with me,” she instructs, her tone leaving no room for argument. The urgency in her voice is clear, pressing. She starts walking toward the camp’s entrance, her gaze fixed on routes the creature could’ve taken. “This monster can not roam free.”
Sorin’s gaze hardens as he watches Serine. His stillness is angry. Ready for a fight.
“Sorin,” Bo's trembling voice, a whisper, calls to him. “Bo, what happened?” he whispers back, praying a softer tone reaches her. He doesn’t need to ask twice. Bo’s face, usually so warm, now runs cold with fear. She doesn’t say a word, but it’s enough for Sorin to understand that this is not Serine’s doing. His chest knots. The duty to act grips him, he can’t stand still. “Alright, I’m in,” Sorin says, his voice tight with determination. He doesn’t need any more convincing—his instincts scream for action. His focused aggression is clear. He turns to follow Serine, “Wait,” Bo grabs his wrist. “Let me give you something.” She says as she paces toward her trade table. He knows what this means and follows without hesitation.
Bo gets to her table. She reaches under, her trembling hands fumbling a small wooden box—a box where her ready mixtures are kept. She pulls out a tiny vial, barely filled with a dark blue liquid that glimmers in the morning light. “This,” Bo says quietly, her voice laced with the gravity of the moment. She gives it to him, “It doesn’t last long, so take it only when you need it.” Sorin holds the vile, looking down at it in his open palm. Such a tiny amount, he feels its weight, dense, the heaviness of it, the raw potential. His hand warps around it, tucking it carefully into his pouch. He gives Bo a nod of understanding and thanks, then turns to follow Serine, moving toward the entrance with relentless focus.
Serine hasn’t slowed. Her eyes flick across the treeline, mapping routes and possibilities. She’s calculating. Sorin sees her, and he’s worked it out. They’re hunting now. Emily’s daughter is out there. They’re going to find her—they must find her, what's left of her. The encampment can’t afford to let this horror run free.
It’s a warrior's duty.
Sorin falls in beside her, syncing up with her urgency. Their breathing, controlled and focused. Their hearts hammer with impending conflict. They reach the camp’s entrance and exchange a single look. There’s no room for hesitation now. They rush toward the tree line, their boots kicking up dirt and leaves as they break from the camp into the shadowed forest. A sharp, metallic scent lingers near the woods—like old blood and rusted iron. It mixes with the more familiar smell of pine and damp leaves, giving the whole forest an uneasy, unnatural scent that prickles at Serine's instincts. Her senses are heightened, her soldier exposed. Her eyes scan the dark spaces between the trees, searching for any sign of movement. She finds none. The weight of the unknown presses against them, and Serine knows they’re running out of time. The creature’s trail could vanish if they don’t catch it soon.
Sorin runs beside her, keeping pace but filled with questions, trying to assault his mind. His breath comes in controlled bursts as he moves with a predator's grace. He still thinks Emily’s daughter can still be saved, ignorant of the evil that has already eaten her. Turning to Serine, his voice quiet but tense, “What happened to her? How did she get out?” Serine’s eyes never leave the forest ahead, her ears filtering every sound of the forest as it sheds its leaves. It’s silent. Her jaw clenches as she processes Sorin’s questions. “She ripped through the tent,” she says, voice curt, the words rough and unfiltered. “Broke from her bindings.” She pauses, glancing at him for a second. “He’s not ready for this,” she thinks. The hard reality of what they’re up against presses down on her. She tries to prepare him. “She’s not how you remember her. What you’ll see—it’s something else,” She says, turning from his gaze back to the endless trees.
Sorin’s stomach twists, but he pushes the feeling aside, forcing himself to focus. “I knew her. She was sweet—poor child, what happened?” Serine slows just slightly, her muscles visibly tense. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She trails off, the words failing her for a second as her memories race. “This thing—whatever she’s become—Be careful.”
Sorin meets her gaze, his face set with determination. He takes her warning seriously, but part of him still clings to the image of Emily’s daughter—the innocent girl he remembers. He has to be ready for the unexpected. Serine continues, “If we let her roam free,” her voice lowering, “there’s nothing out here for miles. If she stays here, we’re all exposed—the camp, Emily, you… you know how this ends.” The weight of her words settles between them. Sorin’s jaw tightens, a cold understanding that these events unfold now on their terms or later on the creature's. “Fine,” he says, his voice steady. He turns his attention back to the trees. “Let’s find her.”
Serine nods while she scans the area, eyes narrowing as she spots something—a barely visible path cutting through the dense forest. She points toward it. “Take that line,” she says as she guides Sorin’s gaze down the hidden trail. “It’s the best path if she’s still on the move.” Sorin follows her direction, his body moving swiftly as he starts down the path, focused and alert. Serine’s gaze shifts to the canopy as her mind cuts a path through the treetops. “Birds will get a better view,” she thinks. Without another word, she leaps into action, her movements fluid as she scales the nearest tree, her hands gripping branches with the ease of someone who’s done this countless times. Sorin watches her for a moment, impressed by her strength and agility. He refocuses on the task at hand. He moves through the dense trees with fluid grace, his footsteps barely audible on the soft forest floor. Each step is calculated, his posture loose but ready, like a coiled spring. His hand instinctively tightens the wraps around his wrists, a ritual that calms him before a fight. He’s been in countless fights and faced down enemies far stronger than him. Sorin doesn’t lose—not often, at least. But this… this is a new foe. The tree line ahead is dense, the gnarled roots like fingers digging deep into the earth. Above, the branches sway, their rustle almost a warning, while somewhere deeper, the sound of something snapping underfoot echoes in the stillness. Then, he hears it—the Siren Songbird. Its scream tears through the air. His hairs immediately stand on end. The call lodges in his chest, drawing his senses to the razor edge of dread. It’s nearby—just ahead.
He moves forward. The air starts growing colder and biting through his skin despite the warmth of his exertion. Deep in his gut, he begins to feel the same unease that has been gnawing at him for days now. Something unnatural is nearby. His instincts scream it, but outwardly, Sorin remains calm, his exterior unmoving and focused. He’s always relied on control—keeping his body still and his mind sharp while chaos erupts around him. His heart races as he inches forward, his breathing steady. He knows Emily’s daughter is close.
He crouches low, muscles taut, inching forward through the dense undergrowth. Then, he hears it—the low, terrifying croak. A guttural sound that forces a shiver up his spine, primal and wrong, like something dragged from the depths of a nightmare. His breath catches in his throat, but he steadies himself, listening. The sound reverberates through the trees ahead.
He reaches into his pouch, pulling out the small vial Bo gave him. His fingers curl around the glass, feeling the weight of the liquid inside. He gazes at the deep blue mixture, savouring it, and takes a deep breath. He knows this feeling, the feeling of the kick. He secretly loves it. Without hesitation, he snaps the top off with a sharp twist and drinks it.
He swallows, and for a second, nothing happens.
Then it hits.
It’s like his entire body breathes in—deep and electrifying. The potion moves through him, cold, like ice spreading through his veins. Then comes the rush, a tingling sensation flooding his limbs, creeping up his back, switching him on like a powerful drug. It’s sharp, instant, his senses igniting with a familiar buzz.
His muscles tighten, his vision sharpens, and his mind clears, a sudden rush of clarity cutting through the haze of fear and doubt. The feeling is intoxicating—a guilty pleasure he’s known before, though only rarely. He almost regrets how much he enjoys it. Every sound, every shift in the air feels heightened, sharper—his heart pounds in his chest, not from panic but sheer focus. Sorin exhales slowly, his mind now a blade honed to precision. Faster, lighter—he feels alive, almost too alive, like the world is in slow motion around him. There’s no room for mistakes. Not out here.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
He moves forward with a quiet, deliberate grace. His breath is steady, but there’s a flutter of nervousness in his chest that grows with each step. The dense trees around him block his view of what lies ahead. Again, he hears it—another eerie, deep exhaling croak. It echoes through the woods, reverberating through the silence. The sound is unnatural, otherworldly. He freezes, eyes narrowing as he listens, his focus and senses, sharp. The croak comes again, closer this time, just around the corner.
He rounds the tree, and the creature finally comes into view.
Emily’s daughter—or whatever is left of her—floats subtly off the ground, her arms spread wide, back arching in a grotesque display. Her head tilts back unnaturally, her eyes vacant, staring into the sky above. Clouds of brew overhead, clouds of sorrow, clouds of anger. Her skin is a sickly grey, veins bulging black beneath the surface. There is no sound except for the faint crackling of the leaves and the deep croak that seems to come from deep within her throat.
Sorin’s mind staggers, caught between disbelief and dread. Bo’s concoction begins to fight his instincts, struggling to keep him calm. He can’t believe his eyes. The girl he once knew—who used to keep him company on those lonely nights at the gate, chatting excitedly about the horses she dreamed of riding, filling the empty hours with her bright smile—is now twisted into this monstrous form. He feels a fear he has never felt before—something primitive, cold, and crippling, as if swen into his DNA. The transformation feels too real, too impossible, as if the warmth and innocence she once carried had been hollowed out, leaving nothing but this dark void. His heart pounds in his chest, his hands suddenly clammy despite his years of training. But his duty… his duty drives him forward. A man of honour. This is why he’s here, to protect the camp and the people he’s grown fond of over the years. For a moment, the memories of her innocent laughter seem to wrap around his throat, making it hard to breathe. There’s a part of him that hopes she can be saved—though, as he stares at her now, the other part, the more rational part, doesn’t want to find out.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, a last attempt to push back the rising hopelessness. “This must be a trick,” he says, a distraction. It has to be…
Step by step, he moves closer. His eyes dart, trying to figure out how she is suspending herself. “Could this be… magic?” Whispering to himself. He gets within arm’s reach of her. The air around him feels thick, suffocating, like a storm about to break. He knows this isn’t right—nothing about this is right. Just as his hand inches toward his weapon, the creature snaps violently to life.
With a spine-chilling squeal, it cracks its head down, its dead eyes locking onto him. In one terrifying motion, it lunges forward, moving faster than Sorin can react. She latches on him, her claws digging deep into his back, legs wrapped around his waist. Her fingers tearing through flesh and muscle like paper. She tries to bite, tries to eat. But his arms lock her just out of reach. He stumbles back but manages to stay on his feet. The pain is instant, excruciating, blinding him for a moment as he lets out a panicked shout—a sound more from the fear than the pain. His mind reels, terror seizing him.
This isn’t a fight. It’s a fucking nightmare!
Sorin tries to push back the fear rising in his throat, but it overwhelms him. His hands scramble against her grip, panic setting in. “Get off!” he shouts, more to cover his terror than to command her. With a burst of desperate strength, he shoves her off of him, her claws tearing his flesh with the release.
For a brief second, his habits and discipline take over. He raises his leg and delivers a powerful kick to her thigh.
The impact is brutal!
Her leg snaps with a sickening crack, the bone piercing the skin with a pop immediately. Bo’s potion proceeds her. But even as her limb goes limp, sending the creature to the floor, it’s unfazed. Her face remains fixed in that grotesque grin, her eyes burning with void. Black blood starts oozing from the broken limb, but she doesn’t scream, doesn’t even squirm. Sorin's fear consumes him. He stumbles back, the urge to flee overriding all sense. He turns and runs through the forest, branches snapping against his face as he pushes through the underbrush. The pain in his back burns, but the fear of the moment wins. His heart hammers in his chest. He can hear her behind him, chasing him, moving faster than should be possible.
The creature crawls after him with terrifying speed, her broken leg dragging uselessly behind her. Leaves and dirt are kicked up in her wake, creating horror as she gives chase. She lets out a blood-curdling shout, the sound of which makes Sorin’s blood run cold. He glances back just in time to see the creature leap to a nearby tree. She clings there, her head tilting unnaturally as she watches him flee. A panicked insect, terrified. The beast laughs, mocking him, squeezing out all his terror. His heart skips a beat, the guttural laughter chilling him to his core. Suddenly, the creature launches herself from the tree, soaring toward him with deadly precision, her claws outstretched, ready to end him.
He’s dead, he knows it.
But just as her claws are about to tear into him, a blur of motion intercepts her midair. Serine comes crashing down from above, tackling the creature to the ground with a thunderous impact. Sorin stumbles, skidding to a halt as he hears the thud of bodies colliding. His breath is stuck in his throat as he turns to see Serine rising slowly from the ground. Her body is tense, her eyes locked on the creature. The creature thrashes beneath her, but then Sorin notices—Serine’s blade is buried deep in the creature’s throat. The creature settles and slowly reaches for the blade with trembling hands, desperate to pull it out. It grasps at the sharp edge without a sound. The cut is too deep. But its dark eyes still gleam with malice, a twisted smile forming on its lips even as blood runs down its body. It pours from her wounds, spilling onto the forest floor.
Serine lets out a strained grunt, her voice filled with the strength of the final blow. In a swift motion, she jerks the blade to the side, severing the creature’s spine. The creature’s body goes limp, the unnatural tension draining from it. Its head, still attached by only a thin strip of flesh, rips free, tumbling to the ground, rolling to a stop in the leaves.
Sorin slowly stands. He’s frozen, his chest heaving, watching as the creature’s body finally lies still. The forest around them is eerily quiet now, the tension in the air lifting like a dissipating storm.
Serine straightens, cleaning the blade of the creature’s corpse, blood dripping from its edge. She meets Sorin’s gaze, her expression unreadable but steady. “It’s over,” she exhales, her voice calm but edged with exhaustion.
Sorin is still catching his breath, his mind racing to process what had just happened. He takes one last look at the decapitated creature lying in the dirt, and another cold shiver runs down his spine.
He looks at Serine, meeting her gaze again. He slowly bows, low—not only a clear sign of gratitude but one of deep respect. Serine wipes the blood from her blade, the weight of the moment heavy between them. Her eyes soften just slightly, a hint of shared understanding passing between them. She looks at him, the barest flicker of a smile on her lips. "You totally had that under control,” she says, her tone lighter, almost teasing, but grounded in seriousness.
He nods slowly, a subtle bond forming in the aftermath. “Guess the other half’s hitting harder,” he says, his tone lighter despite the weight of the encounter. Serine finishes cleaning her blade, her gaze lingering on the decapitated creature sprawled at her feet. The air is still thick with the aftermath of violence, but something else, something she noticed, pulls at her attention. She glances upward, her eyes scanning the sky as if it holds answers to a question she can't form yet. Sorin, his hand on his chest, still catching his breath, watches her warily. “You alright?” he asks, his voice low, still steadying. Serine doesn’t answer immediately, her thoughts still on the strange way the creature had stared up before he disrupted her. "What was it looking at?" she murmurs, almost to herself. Sorin follows her gaze to the sky, but there’s nothing—just the darkening clouds drifting overhead. Serine can’t shake the feeling, though. There’s something out there, unseen but present, and it unsettles her in a way few things can.
Sorin kneels beside the corpse, reaching for something tangled in the creature’s tattered clothing. He pulls out a small necklace, its once-shiny pendant now dulled and stained. He holds it up, recognising it as the one Emily had given her daughter. A keepsake meant to protect her from evil. The irony isn’t lost on him. Serine notices the act and meets his gaze with a subtle nod of respect. “Good kick, by the way,” she says, her tone softer now, acknowledging his effort. Sorin gives a faint smirk. “It’s all about the placement,” he banters, though the moment's tension still lingers. Serine steps closer, her sharp eyes catching the deep gashes on his back. She presses a hand near the wound, just enough to assess the damage without causing him more pain. “You need to get this checked when we’re back at camp,” she advises. “Don’t wait.”
Sorin nods, knowing better than to brush off her concern, but he notices something else. Serine’s entire posture has changed. Her head snaps, looking deep into the endless trees ahead. Her ears twitch as she slowly tilts her head up, eyes closing. She’s deliberately dulling her other senses just to focus on something, something only she is aware of. Her nose smells something as she sniffs. Suddenly, she crouches low, pulling him down with her. “What is it?” Sorin whispers, his voice barely a breath. Serine doesn’t answer at first. She narrows her eyes, staring deep into the forest. Slowly, she lifts her hand, her finger leading to a point. She strains her vision into the deeper part of the forest, obscured by the dense trees. She inhales quietly…
“Herdsmen are coming,” she whispers.
Her voice is tense but controlled. Sorin's face drains, understanding the gravity of the situation immediately. A new urgency fills the air. Without another word, they move, keeping low and fast, heading back toward the camp with quiet, focused haste. The forest, once silent, now feels alive with hidden dangers, and every step back feels like they’re now being watched.
Hunted.