The young hunter with hair the color of golden wheat and eyes that held the promise of a bright future according to all those that met him, felt it first as a murmur. A gentle tug at the edges of his thoughts, like a half-remembered whisper that danced just beyond his grasp. He dismissed it, attributing it to fatigue or the lingering echoes of a bard's tale he'd heard in the village square.
It grew into a melody, a haunting tune that snaked its way into the man’s mind as he stalked a wild wyvern through the dense forest. At first, it was a mere whisper, a curious hum that he dismissed as the wind playing tricks on him. He focused on the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he drew back his bowstring, the satisfying thud as the arrow found its mark.
Yet, the melody persisted. It followed him back to the village, a persistent echo that grew louder with each passing day. He tried to drown it out with the clang of his hammer as he sharpened his blades, with the boisterous laughter shared over mugs of ale with his fellow villagers. He even sought solace in the demanding physicality of his training, pushing himself harder, seeking exhaustion as a means of escape. But the song remained, weaving its way into his thoughts, a constant, unwelcome companion.
One night, as he sat alone in the dimly lit corner of his home, the melody took form. A formless spirit, a swirling vortex of shadows, materialized in the darkest recess of his dwelling.
The hunter, startled but undeterred, reached for his blade, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the tremor of unease that coursed through him.
"I am Everything,” the spirit replied with a serene-sounding voice.
“Everything?” The hero blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“I am Everything,” the spirit repeated. “I’m a spirit that can show you anything you want to see.”
“Oh, really?” The young man arched a golden eyebrow. “Show me the blacksmith’s workshop!”
The ghostly silver cloud of stardust wavered, stretched like a galactic constellation, affixing itself into the view of the blacksmith’s workshop.
“Hrm,” the hunter pursed his lips. “Curious. Show me the most beautiful princess!”
The ghost’s wispy form changed into that of the princess. The hunter stared at the princess admiring her. She was indeed perfect.
Days turned into weeks, and the hunter, initially skeptical of the everything-showing ghost, grew increasingly reliant on ghost-offered visions. He would spend hours lost in fantasies of grandeur, witnessing himself vanquishing foes with effortless grace, adored by crowds, and loved by the princess.
His training, once rigorous and disciplined, became sporadic and half-hearted as he drowned his days in fantasy visions, demanding more and more lascivious scenes for Everything to manifest.
The man’s once lean and muscular physique softened, replaced by a layer of indulgent comfort. His eyes, once bright with determination, grew dull and glazed, reflecting the endless parade of empty fantasies that now consumed his mind.
The village, once hopeful for a hero, began to whisper. Their strongest hunter, their supposed great champion, had become a recluse, rarely venturing beyond his doorstep. The threat of the coming Starfall loomed larger with each passing day, yet their hero seemed content to live in a world of his own making.
Everything became the man’s only companion, a silent enabler of his growing complacency.
As the years slipped by, the man’s fantasies grew more elaborate, more decadent. He envisioned himself ruling vast kingdoms, commanding armies of mythical creatures, and possessing magical powers that defied comprehension.
The night of Starfall arrived with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant howl of wolves and the rustle of leaves in the wind. The villagers, sensing an impending doom, huddled in their homes, praying for a miracle that would never come.
The ex-hunter, oblivious to the unfolding tragedy, sat in his darkened chamber, eyes fixed on the latest spectacle conjured by Everything – a harem of exotic beauties dancing for his pleasure. As the first screams pierced the night, the hero remained unmoved, focused only on the vision and music coming from the ghost.
"Do you hear that, hero?" The ghost suddenly asked, seven faces turning to him as the array of dancers moving all as one.
“What?” The man blinked.
"The cries of your people, the pleas for a savior who has long since abandoned them,” Everything smiled with seven mouths, fourteen eyes alight with glee.
The man, startled by the sudden change in her demeanour, looked up with confusion clouding his gaze. "What… what are you talking about?" he stammered, a flicker of fear momentarily breaking through the haze of fantasy.
"They call me Lilith Lamashtu, a primordial demon," Everything suddenly proclaimed, her form expanding and contorting, limbs fusing into limbs. "I am the Song of Wormwood, the architect of your downfall, the weaver of your gilded cage."
The pale, frail man rushed to the door, his silver hair flying in the wind. He opened it to reveal a vision of a village being flooded by men that weren’t quite men, their faces grotesque and bloated, flesh melting away to reveal something… other.
The screams sounded from every direction. Above the now burning village, the radiance of the Wormwood comet bathed the world in an eerie silver-blue glow of tentacle-like contrails that stretched across almost the entire sky.
He choked as the smoke blew toward him and slammed the door shut, the echoes of the screams momentarily silenced by the thick wood. His heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic drum against the encroaching terror.
"Why?!" he cried, turning to Lilith, his voice raw with betrayal and dawning horror.
Lillith's form, no longer the comforting illusion of his perfect harem, contorted into a mockery of humanity. A chilling cascade of inhuman sounds filled the room, sounding like mad, twisted laughter.
"Every few millennia," she grinned with a mouth filled with hundreds of teeth, her voice a grotesque fusion of merged men and women, "the Wormwood Star graces your pathetic world with its presence. As it nears, we, the Songs of Wormwood, the children of the Stygian Void find the strongest, the most promising future heroes... and offer them everything their hearts desire, drown them in whatever they wish to see, drop by drop… by drop.”
Her form shifted again, becoming a vague, swirling vortex of silver stardust that he’s not seen in decades. "And while heroes like you indulge in your fantasies," she continued, her voice dripping with amusement, "we feast. We devour your kind, grown fat for us like sheep for the slaughter."
The truth struck him like a physical blow. The once bravest, strongest hunter, now a broken shell of his former self, crumbled to his knees. Regret, shame, and despair washed over him in suffocating waves. His people, his village, the world was being devoured by the undead, and he, their supposed savior, had been lost in a world of his own making.
"Please," he rasped, desperation clawing at his throat, "show me one last vision. Show me... show me how I can win!"
“You cannot win, darling,” a smile twisted Lillith's warped visage. "But I will sing for you one last time, my hero," she purred, her form enveloping the broken man, ready to grant him one final soothing melody.
----------------------------------------
The crimson tide pool released me with a cough, the taste of salt and fear heavy on my tongue. My chest heaved, each breath a searing reminder of the panic that had frozen me beneath the surface. I lay sprawled on the rough-hewn planks of the dock, the shaman's dark, concerned eyes peering down at me. His weathered face, framed by a mane of silver hair and a skullcap adorned with feathers and bone, held a depth of wisdom that both comforted and intimidated me.
"Do you remember, young one?" His voice, a low rumble like distant thunder, echoed in my ears. "Can you recall any of the lives you have lived, knowledge of great heroes woven into your soul by your ancestors, strength of those that came before you?"
What was I supposed to remember?
For a moment, all I could recall was the chilling embrace of the water, the desperate fight for air, the crushing weight of failure. I remember as the crimson tide pool embraced me, cold and unforgiving. My lungs burned, screaming for air as I sank deeper into its depths. This was the final test, the culmination of years of training to become a hunter of our tribe. I had to retrieve the sacred stone from the bottom of the pool, a rite of passage for every young warrior. But fear, a serpent coiling around my heart, had rooted me to the spot, made me fail as I drowned, gave up, stopped.
Yet, like a phantom limb, a foreign memory twitched at the edge of my consciousness.
A sterile blue room, blindingly bright, with the rhythmic beeping of a machine and the sharp tang of… something chemical. It was an alien landscape, a disjointed puzzle piece that didn't belong in the mosaic of my life.
That impossible memory pushed me forward, made me grab the sacred stone from the bottom of the pond, made me rush upwards out of the deep, suffocating water as if it gave me another breath of air I had never earned.
"No," I croaked, my voice rough and raw, as I extended a trembling hand, offering the sacred stone I had managed to retrieve despite my fear. "I don't remember anything. Do I... do I have to do it again?"
A flicker of disappointment, quickly masked by a stoic calm, crossed the shaman's face. He helped me to my feet, his grip surprisingly strong for his wizened frame. His touch sent a jolt through me, a strange tingling sensation that left me feeling both grounded and strangely unsettled.
"No, Dadalus. You are now a hunter and your journey begins here," he intoned.
He dipped a hand into a bowl of red fluid and drew a hexagram of rebirth on my chest.
I stood there, swaying slightly, the vision of the blue room refusing to be banished. It was a whisper in the wind, a ghost of a life I hadn't lived, memories that weren't mine. I was a hunter, raised in the ways of the tribe, my life intertwined with the rhythms of the forest and the spirits of our ancestors. Yet, the tide pool had shown me a glimpse of something more, something beyond the boundaries of my prior understanding.
As I stumbled towards the village, the flickering orange glow of firelight guiding my way, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration coursed through me.
The familiar scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat wrapped around me like a comforting blanket as I entered the village. The flickering flames of torches cast long, dancing shadows, painting the faces of my fellow tribesmen in an orange glow. Children, their laughter echoing through the night, chased each other between the huts, their bare feet padding softly on the packed earth. The rhythmic pounding of a drum, a heartbeat that pulsed at the center of our community, drew me towards the communal fire.
Despite the warmth and familiarity that surrounded me, I felt like a stranger in my own skin. The strange memories, fragments of otherness, continued to haunt me. They were like whispers in a language I didn't understand, tugging at the edges of my consciousness, leaving me with a sense of unease and a longing for something I couldn't quite grasp.
As I approached the fire, I saw my father, his face etched with concern. His eyes, the same shade of deep blue as my own, held a question I wasn't ready to answer.
"Dadalus," he greeted, his voice gruff but filled with an underlying warmth, "the tide pool has tested you. You have emerged a hunter."
I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. The weight of the sacred stone, still clutched in my hand, felt heavier than it should. It was a symbol of my transition, a testament to my courage and strength. But all I could feel was the echo of fear, the memory of my paralysis beneath the water's surface and that foreign smell, the sight of blue walls with drawings of a mouse wearing a hat on it.
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"Feel better," the words read.
The impossible memories skewered me, made me feel like I didn't entirely belong, like I was carrying an infection, a shard of bone that was lodged right through my heart. A shard that nobody except for me could see.
The villagers gathered around me, their faces a mixture of pride and curiosity. The women offered me warm smiles and pats on the back, while the men clapped me on the shoulder, their hands calloused and strong. They saw a hunter, a newborn warrior ready to protect their tribe. I saw the blue room, covered in words that unfurled themselves in my head like petals of opening flowers.
The warmth of the fire did little to thaw the chill that had settled in my bones. The familiar sights and sounds of the village, usually a source of comfort, now seemed alien, distorted through the lens of the strange memories that plagued me. The laughter of the children, the rhythmic pounding of the drums, even the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat - all seemed muted, as if I were viewing them through a thick pane of glass.
I forced a smile, nodding at the congratulations and well wishes of my fellow villagers. The blue room, the impossible memories, kept intruding, pulling me away from the reality of my existence. Everything from the rough-hewn wooden houses to the flickering oil lamps screamed "Medieval" to me, even if I didn't entirely know what that meant. The villagers, with their homespun clothes and calloused hands, looked like they'd stepped out of an illustration from a fantasy book.
I kept replaying the vision of the blue room in my mind, comparing it to the world around me. It was like holding up a torch to the darkness, revealing just how different and how wrong things could be.
"Dadalus," my father's voice cut through my thoughts, "you seem troubled. Does the tide pool still hold you in its grip?"
I looked up at him. He was a man of this world, a hunter and a leader, his wisdom rooted in the traditions of our tribe. How could I explain the impossible visions that haunted me? How could I even begin to describe the wrongness that had infected me.
"I'm fine, father," I lied, forcing a smile. "Just tired from the trial, that's all."
. . .
The days bled into weeks, then months, each sunrise a stark reminder of the impossible memories that clung to me like shadows. I continued my training, pushing myself harder than ever before. I honed my skills with the spear and bow, becoming a proficient hunter, my aim true, my movements swift and silent. I learned the ways of the forest, the language of the wind and the rustling leaves, the secrets hidden in the tracks of animals and the patterns of the stars.
Yet, even as I excelled in the ways of my tribe, the shard of alien memories gnawed at me.
Reading. Reading wasn’t a thing the people of Migradia village were interested in, a thing that only I was painfully aware of.
The creatures I hunted were even more perplexing. Massive, lumbering beasts with thick hides and multiple limbs, their eyes like those of goats.
I tried to make sense of it all, to reconcile the world I knew with the impossible memories that haunted me. I catalogued the flora and fauna, sketching them in the dirt with a stick, trying to identify patterns, to categorize them into some kind of scientific framework that I vaguely remembered. I studied the violet stars, their constellations unfamiliar, yet somehow evocative of a star chart I'd once seen in a dream.
Stabbing things with sharp swords or spears was a thing though. Painfully short lives were a thing.
The world around me became a living textbook, its pages filled with creatures and plants that defied logic and ignited a thirst for understanding within me. The shard of alien memories, that impossible glimpse into another existence, served as my magnifying glass, a tool to dissect and analyze the wonders and horrors of everything.
I started with the trees. Their bodies, some with bark that shimmered with an iridescent sheen, others with leaves that pulsed with a faint bioluminescence, were my first subjects. I observed their growth patterns, noting the spiral arrangements of leaves and the fractal branching of their limbs. The memories whispered of Fibonacci sequences and phyllotaxis, of mathematical principles underlying the seemingly chaotic beauty of nature.
The beasts of Migradia were a constant source of fascination and terror. They ranged from the lumbering, multi-legged herbivores with hides like armored plates, to the lithe, predatory creatures with rows of razor-sharp teeth and eyes that glowed in the darkness. I meticulously documented their anatomy, noting the biomechanical advantages of their limbs and the evolutionary adaptations that allowed them to thrive in this harsh environment. I was hoping that this knowledge, coupled with the rigorous training of a hunter, would eventually allow me to anticipate their movements, exploit their weaknesses, and emerge victorious from encounters that would have spelled doom for others.
The local… everything was a constant source of bewilderment. The beasts of the forest defied logic, their physiology a bizarre amalgamation of traits. Some were hulking behemoths with thick hides and multiple limbs, their eyes like multifaceted jewels that reflected a predatory intelligence I couldn't comprehend. Others were lithe and agile, darting through the undergrowth with impossible speed.
Each encounter, each hunt, became a lesson in the absurd. I would meticulously document their features, sketching their forms in the dirt, trying to categorize them into some kind of taxonomic order, a system that felt both intuitive and frustratingly out of reach. I would dissect their carcasses, studying their musculature and skeletal structures, searching for parallels, for a glimpse of the biological blueprints that my fragmented memories hinted at.
My father, ever the patient mentor, watched my struggles with a mixture of concern and amusement. He would regale me with tales of our ancestors, of their battles against mythical beasts and their communion with the spirits of the forest. His stories, woven with the threads of myth and legend, were a stark contrast to the scientific framework I was trying to impose on the world.
"The forest is not a puzzle to be solved, Dadalus," he told me. "It is a living entity, a tapestry of interconnected spirits. To understand it, you must feel its rhythm, listen to its whispers, and respect its power."
Spirits. Spirits weren’t real... right?
As I joined my father’s hunting group, survival became a dance on the edge of a knife. I tried to anticipate the movements of predators, to read the subtle signs of the changing weather, to find sustenance in the most unlikely of places. Yet, there were often times when my intelligence failed me, when the alien landscape threw me curveballs I couldn't anticipate.
One such instance occurred during a hunt for a creature known as the razorwing. It was a fearsome beast, its body covered in iridescent scales that shimmered like a thousand tiny blades, its wings capable of slicing through flesh and bone with ease. We had tracked it for days, following its trail of devastation through the dense undergrowth, my senses attuned to its every movement.
As I finally cornered it in a clearing, I felt a surge of confidence, the thrill of the hunt coursing through my veins. I drew my spear, my muscles tensed, ready to deliver the killing blow. But as I lunged forward, the razorwing unfurled its wings with a speed I hadn't anticipated. The air filled with a metallic whine as the razor-sharp feathers sliced towards me, a whirlwind of death that left me with a searing, deep gash across my chest.
I stumbled back, clutching the wound, my vision blurring. The razorwing leapt across the giant trees, its eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. I knew I was outmatched, my skills and instincts no match for the creature's raw power and speed. As darkness crept at the edges of my vision, I felt a surge of despair, the bitter taste of failure and iron heavy on my tongue.
Just as I resigned myself to my fate, a guttural roar echoed through the clearing. My father charged into the fray, his spear held high. He engaged the razorwing in a deadly dance, his movements a blur of controlled fury. The creature, distracted by this new threat, turned its attention away from me.
I watched, my breath shallow, as my father fought with a ferocity I had never witnessed before. The other hunters cast a net, trapping the beast with the weight of rocks tied to the end of the ropes.
With a final, desperate lunge, my father pierced the razorwing's heart, stilling the beast’s frantic motions. He turned to me, his face etched with concern, and began to bind my wound.
"You are still young, Dadalus," he said, his voice gruff but filled with a paternal warmth. "You have much to learn, but you have the spirit of a true hunter. Never lose sight of that."
As we made our way back to the village, my chest throbbing terribly with every step, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had cheated death.
As I recovered from the deep cut that refused to heal, father brought me meat. According to him, it was the best meat, cleaved from the brains and hearts of the monsters his group hunted down.
“Eat, my son,” my father said, his voice husky with emotion as he placed a steaming bowl before me. The aroma that wafted up was unlike anything I’d ever encountered – a potent mix of musky, metallic, and something… else. It was both repulsive and strangely alluring, like the scent of a predator after a kill.
“What is it?” I asked hesitantly, my gaze fixed on the chunks of dark, glistening meat that filled the bowl.
“The heart and brain of the razorwing,” he replied, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “The choicest cuts, reserved for the most promising hunter.”
I stared at the meat, a knot of apprehension forming in my stomach. The razorwing, with its deadly blades and lightning-fast reflexes, had nearly taken my life. The thought of consuming its flesh, of incorporating its essence into my own being, filled me with a primal sense of unease.
“But… I didn’t kill it,” I protested, my voice barely a whisper. “You did.”
My father’s hand rested on my shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “You faced it, Dadalus. You stood your ground against a creature that would have sent most men fleeing in terror. That is courage enough.”
He lowered his voice, his gaze turning inward, as if sharing a secret passed down through generations. “Our tribe… we need to survive the long dark.”
“The what?” I asked.
“The time when the sun wanes, the winters growing harsher and the beasts begin to hide, to head to their burrows to sleep for decades. According to the seers, long dark is close. We need a new generation of hunters, stronger, faster, fiercer than any that came before. And it starts with you.”
“Why me?” I asked.
“The Wormwood Star arrives at the end of the long dark,” my father uttered. “I will not live long enough to see it, but you will. You must endure the great feast that comes when it bathes the world in its radiance. You must survive, must pass the torch down our line as we always have.”
I looked into my father’s eyes, seeing the hope that flickered there, the desperation masked by a stoic facade. He believed in me, in my potential to become the strongest. I began to eat the offered meal, even though I didn’t believe in his nonsense about it making me stronger.
The days that followed were a blur of pain and feverish dreams. The razorwing's wound refused to heal, festering with an unnatural heat that seemed to burn from the inside out. My father, ever vigilant, tended to me with a care that bordered on mad focus. He brought me more beast brains and hearts, insisting that they held the key to my recovery.
"Eat, Dadalus," he would urge, his voice rough with worry. "It is the only way. The beast's essence will fight the poison in your blood."
I obeyed, gagging down the chunks of meat, their texture like rubber, their taste like a mix of blood and ash. Each bite was a battle against my own revulsion, a desperate attempt to cling to life.
In my delirium, the lines between reality and fantasy blurred. The blue room returned, its sterile walls and strange symbols morphing into grotesque parodies of the medical equipment I vaguely remembered. The faces of nurses and doctors, once benevolent, twisted into monstrous visages, their smiles revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. I would wake from these nightmares in a cold sweat, my heart pounding against my ribs, the taste of bile heavy in my throat and desire for penicillin or any other antibiotics or even stitches.
My father would be there, his hand cool on my forehead, his voice a soothing balm against the terrors that plagued me. "Rest, my son," he would murmur. "The spirits of our ancestors watch over you. They will guide you through the darkness."
Spirits. Ancestors. I didn't think any of it was real. Yet, in my weakened state, I found myself clinging to these words, to the hope they offered. The alternative, the stark reality of my situation, was too terrifying to contemplate. The days turned into weeks, then months.
The wound on my chest remained open, a gaping maw that refused to close. The flesh around it was inflamed, hot to the touch, and the pain was a constant companion.
My dreams showed me glimpses of great cities that scraped the sky, of cars, of screens that offered knowledge that glowed with an inner light.
One day, as I lay on my bed of furs, the pain finally began to subside. The fever that had ravaged my body for so long broke, leaving me weak but strangely lucid. I reached up to my chest, my fingers tracing the edges of the wound.
I peeled back the bandages that had covered my chest for months, expecting to see rotting flesh and exposed bone. To my surprise, it was closed, the skin tinted with scars that were tinted like a rainbow, resembling the pattern of the razorwing's plumage, the unique yellow-green-violet-pink shade wing that had struck me down so many months ago.
Emerging into the sunlight after months of confinement felt like stepping into a new world. The warmth on my skin, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers, the vibrant tapestry of greens, reds and blues – it was as if I was experiencing it all for the first time.
My father stood beside me, a stoic silhouette against the rising sun, a new bow carved from the bones of a slain beast held in his outstretched hand.
"Take it, Dadalus," he said, his voice a low rumble. "This bow was crafted for you, from the bones of the razorwing you faced. It will serve you well."
I accepted the bow, its weight surprisingly light yet balanced, the smooth bone cool against my skin. It was a thing of beauty, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe and shift in the sunlight, like the scales of the creature it came from.
My father pointed towards the sky, where a wyvern soared gracefully against the backdrop of fluffy white clouds. "Show me what you have learned, my son," he challenged, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
I notched an arrow, its tip honed to a razor's edge, and drew back the string. As I sighted the many-winged beast, I noticed something different. The world seemed sharper, the details more defined.
Inexplicably, I could see the individual feathers of the white creature, the minute movements of its 10 wings, even the glint of sunlight reflecting off its beady, multifaceted eyes. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a level of clarity I had never known before.
The words of my father seemed like they held irrefutable truth.
The beasts' flesh, their brains and hearts, had somehow enhanced my senses, made me stronger, faster, more… aware. It was a revelation that defied my knowledge, yet the proof was undeniable. I released the arrow, its trajectory a perfect arc, and watched as it struck the white dragon mid-flight, sending it tumbling to the ground.
A shiver ran down my spine, a mixture of exhilaration and a strange, unsettling unease.
I had become a predator, my skills honed to a razor's edge, my senses heightened beyond the capabilities of any ordinary human. And as I stood there, basking in the afterglow of my kill, a faint melody suddenly began to whisper in the back of my mind.
It was a haunting tune, like a half-remembered lullaby, its source unknown yet strangely familiar, like a tv show, like the static of an old radio.
I tried to shake it off, to focus on the tasks at hand that my father had piled up on me now that I was healthy, but the melody persisted, weaving its way into my thoughts, a persistent background echo that refused to be silenced.