* WAKE UP!! A deep resonating voice that made luce’s bones tremble.

A metal boot crashed into Luce’s head, and he shot up, feeling a bit woozy he rested his hands on his knees and heaved as if he had run a marathon. Luce wondered if the shoe had permanently injured him, because the place he was in looked nothing like the woods where he had fled from the oppressors. It looked like a throne room, a sumptuous throne horned with white silver, wood and nails, an unusual throne, it looked as handmade as handmade can be, and with a throne comes a king. Luce’s head shot around the room to look for the occupant the throne was empty, no one was sitting on it.

* Down here dummass. I ain’t got all day.

It was the same voice that had woken him up. Luce looked to the mysterious person who was talking to him. His eyes fell on a set of floating armor, well not floating. He knew someone was in the shining black iron armor the helmet had small slits to let eyesight and the mouthpiece was grotesque with a jaw of iron resembling real teeth, with the razor-sharp edges of the rest of the armor and the spikes which could have impaled a hand just at the lightest touch, he just couldn’t see the person talking inside the armor, it was like someone was manifesting their presence into this armor from a distance.

* So, let me get things straight, the voice said. You, Luce Bearr, are running from danger?

The figure let out a deep rumbling laugh that shook the entire room and sounded like a mix of thunder and an earthquake.

* Well yeah, what would y-you want me to do? Go to my death? Luce said in a trembling voice.

* How do you know you’d go to your death? Don’t you remember how you annihilated that knight back there? Beautiful, that was. I bet you liked it. Another laugh.

The voice was mocking him.

* STOP, IT WAS SELF-DEFENSE! the vivid memory of the soldier he had killed and the explosion of his body when his fist had connected with flesh flashed through his mind

* Yes sure, that’s what you tell yourself. What about the kids they killed you can’t run from that? The women they…

* YES, I GET IT. WHO ARE YOU EVEN? W-w-what do you even what from me? And why am I here? I-I wanna go home. He felt tears starting to constitute themselves and his vision started to blur.

* We don’t have all day, so let me get to the point. Go to Dodonma and go to, the silver hog and find Silvestre Marchinbury. Voice commanded.

* Why w-would I do that? Luce asked his eyes still teary.

* Well, you don’t have no choice. We depend on you you are our only hope we can only rely on you. Voice responded.

* Why? You’re the one who kidnapped me and now you think you can make demands? Luce responded half shouting. And what do you even mean by I am your only hope? Are there more of you?

Rage level: 68%

* Because, trust me, that’s what you want to do.

Voice started to transform and the whole throne room the banners, the throne, the red and gold carpet, all of it started to spin and fade.

* TRUST ME THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT TO DO. FIND SILVESTRE WE DEPEND ON YOU.

Luce snapped back to reality and hit his head on a root overhead.

* That hurt.

Questions were swimming through his head, who was the voice, and who was Silvestre marchinbury?

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What was he supposed to do? Trust the voice? He started trembling. He composed himself and stood back up. He was going to Dodonma.

The trip was going to be long but safe. He had to cross the woods of green and verdant life and the hills of silence. He didn’t have much, he took the small package and started walking towards dodonma determination in his gaze.

The forest of green, still shrouded in the aftermath of yesterday's horrors, presented itself as a strange haven for Luce. The twisted branches, once a natural canopy, now seemed like skeletal fingers reaching out to clutch at his skin. The vibrant flowers that bloomed along the path held a disgusting beauty; their colours tainted by the recent bloodshed.

The air, heavy with the scent of moss and decay, saw the trauma that lingered. Every rustle of leaves carried echoes of the cries that had pierced the air just a day ago. The vibrant mosaic of greens now felt like a mockery, a stark contrast to the muted hues of grief that clouded Luce's perception.

Positively, the sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting patches of light on the forest floor. But instead of offering warmth, these rays seemed to accentuate the stark reality of the massacre that had occurred just outside this refuge. The serene ambiance clashed with the noise in Luce's mind, a constant reminder of the lives lost, and the innocence shattered.

As he moved through the woods, the feeling intensified. The flowers, once a symbol of life, now served as graves each flower representing a lost soul who had been brutally murdered. The haunting shadows, amplified by the recent tragedy, distorted the natural beauty into a surreal nightmare. Luce stumbled upon remnants of his village—abandoned belongings, scorched earth, and the lingering scent of smoke.

The forest, though seemingly untouched, mirrored the conflicting emotions within Luce. The beauty of the surroundings clashed with the brutality of recent events, creating a dissonant harmony that mirrored the chaos in his heart. The journey through the forest became a painful pilgrimage, each step a reminder of the yesterday that would forever haunt him.

Why had the king sent his men to kill his family and families like his? Why had they done such gruesome horrors. The pictures of guts and limbs poking out of windows. The king would pay. HE WOULD PAY.

Rage level: 72%

The forest was thick, and the canopy of leaves overhead let less and less sunlight in the mood was slowly switching. The ground was becoming damper and damper, and the verdant life was lessening, replaced by dead moss and groves of grey mushrooms. Luce’s head was somewhere else, his eyes glazed his clothes slick with sweat, and hair all over the place. He was hungry, he was tired his eyes threatening to close at any second, his arms were heavy they felt like boulders making him sink in the mud he was walking through. A crack of a branch made him turn, had he imagined it? No. he had heard something but what was it?

Luce looked around him for the source. Nothing was apparently there. It was just him, and the dead trees. He continued forward this time his mind preoccupied with whatever was following him. Nothing came out.

He zigzagged between trees but still walked, narrowly tripping on dead roots that were submerged by the mud. Whenever he rested for short whiles, he would rest on the trees. But he never stayed long because the grey rotted bark of the trees burrowed splinters in his arms and hands causing small bleeds.

he fought on still seeing black figures move in his peripheral view, but each time he turned nothing was there. He had read stories as he was a child of the woods, of great gods and little monsters.

Out of all the legends there was one in particular he remembered better than the others, other stories he had heard were filled with time gaps and holes where had forgotten what had happened. The story he still remembered was the one of the less gruesome but definitely weird.

It was on the great legend of Rogan Cawl, the follower.