To the north of Felsia ran a river many would have confused with the ocean. From either shore you stood on, you couldn’t see the other, not on the clearest summer day. Its waters had the color of chocolate milk, with none of the flavor. If you extracted a bucket of it and let the sediment settle, however, you’d have been gifted with crystalline freshwater.

The river ran down to the west, and there it fed the Forgewood forest. Once the trees stood proud, uncharted and virginal, but Felsians, out of thirst for the miraculous material that was wood for the cold and metal for the heat, had ravaged the end of it that sprawled closer to the city walls.

Thus the soldiers walked among a few living trees of normal wood that nobody had considered worth to cut, and a multitude of deformed stumps. The summer sun had no mercy with the dead forgewood, not in the houses, not in the stumps. Some of the stumps even had soleprints on them, product of either a soldier or lumberjack desperate enough to get either to, or away from, something… or fooling around.

The scouting squad walked in a circular formation. The Felsians wielding spears occupied the periphery of the circle, and the ones with clubs marched in the inner circle, surrounding the team’s captain: Gleur, who pulled behind him a wagon full of cages. In addition to the club, Ald had taken one of his own swords with him. Meanwhile Gleur didn’t want the misshapen to be killed, Ald was not going to gamble with his life if they found anything with more fangs or claws than expected.

A blue bird saw the company pass by, and thought it unusual, yet curious. They had shiny things with them, the Felsians. Good stuff for attracting females.

A little mammal, not a monkey nor a squirrel, but arboreal, climbed up to the highest point of the tree he was hanging onto, and feared for his life as the soldiers, mostly unaware of him except for the woman that had brought her own dagger and helmet, kept on marching.

Wind brought the distant cries and calls of the animals, which increased in intensity as they left the city further and further behind. A weak croak there, a bird mating song here, the characteristic buzz of wasp wings somewhere to their left.

And every single little noise fed the paranoia of the soldiers, because the Ratchet of Horror followed no blueprint, obeyed no guidelines. Deformity was all the more dangerous because of its unpredictability.

As it would be expected, some of the siblings were able to function just fine under pressure, Ald among them. Save for Gleur, he was the older of the bunch, and he suspected some of the younger ones had not yet finished their military service. The spears trembled in their hands, the smallest twig they stepped on made them whimper.

Ald touched Gleur’s shoulder to get his attention for a brief moment. “Gleur, the spearmen, are they all novices?”

“A learning opportunity. They are getting almost enough credits to graduate if the mission is successful. They will return to their civilian lives half a year early,” he hastily explained, his gaze searching for prey among the trees.

“Wait. So, if something attacks, these missfallen idiots will run and leave us to die?” the girl with the dagger asked.

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“No. They may be nervous, but are no cowards. Our cowardly siblings wouldn’t accept the deal,” Gleur reassured, his grimace reason enough for the woman to shut up.

“You did tell our siblings the truth, right?” Ald questioned.

“If I lied to them, I lied to you, little brother. Make of this what you will.”

They kept on marching deeper into the forest, in a state close to silence. Silence, but for the heavy breathing of the novices. Silence, but for the whimpers of the girl who regretted accepting the deal and trembled like a calf learning to walk. Silence, but for the steps of the soldiers over the little puddles formed by the thawing of the last of winters frosts. Silence, as deformed and bastardized as those they were after.

The vegetation grew thicker; the trees began to lump together to compete for the last precious drop of sunlight. Forgewood trees were allowed to reach ripe old ages this far from the walls, and they grew proud and high, never slouching, never melting. Living forgewood was hard, rigid; it didn’t suffer the heat as much as its dead counterpart.

“I have never been this far from home,” complained one of the clubmen.

“I love how whiny are the fledglings. You never get this from the seasoned brothers,” joked Gleur, seconds before giving them all the signal to stop. “Turn slowly to your left, amongst the berry bushes. Don’t stare directly,” he ordered in a whisper.

The misshapen, knowing it had at least raised the alarms, remained quiet. Gone was the white skin of the Felsians, replaced by chromophores that aided in hiding this aberration. Gone was the intellect of the Felsians, replaced by a mishmash of contorted instincts and thoughts. The fingers of her nose scratched her cheek slowly as she planned her next movement. Planned… big word for what she did. It would be more accurate to say that she thought in two lines. The arc in Gleur's hands could be a tree so enslaved, a thing to fear.

Yet, one eye could be misjudging, working wrong, the thing could be a gonad, a mating ritual, soon to leave behind nutritious placenta.

Poor thing had been lucky. Lucky, as in being of the few who kept the right blend of self-preservation and curiosity barely warped. Lucky, as something told her to remain hidden, to not mess with the Felsians outright. To observe before acting.

Walking slowly on her three arms and three tails, she came out of hiding, her chromophores trying their hardest to keep her concealed against the forest floor.

“What a sorry sight,” said the woman with the dagger. If you wonder about her name, it was Ehavi.

“Do you understand me? Nod with your head if you do,” Gleur said while calmly nocking a blunt arrow in his bow. It was an arrow meant to stun, to take out of balance, to break bones sometimes. He didn’t want to risk using tranquilizers, as the misshapen ones could be either immune to it or lethally allergic.

Most soldiers watched the creature. Not Ald. There were enough eyes settled over that misshapen, and someone had to keep watch in the case anything else came.

The misshapen girl didn’t nod. And, after five seconds of silence and steadiness, Gleur sighed and released the shot. The shot struck on the creature’s middle shoulder, the one that stuck highest, which made her jerk off balance and fall on her side, screeching from pleasure. What the Ratchet had allowed her to retain in caution, it gave in masochism.

She sang, she sang as she crawled, craving for more of that newfound source of pain.

Gleur grimaced and gave the scout party the order to collapse on her. “Capture it. Make sure she doesn’t die, brothers and sisters,” were his exact words.

Oh, the excitement as the blunt end of spears and the body of the clubs hit every soft part of her being! She wanted to give part of that pain back, but when she extended the only one of her arms that had claws to scratch a spearwoman, Gleur extended a heavy hand and broke her wrist, rending her unconscious from both pain and pleasure.

“Come, help me stash her on a cage. Only Twenty-five to go now, eh?” Gleur said smiling.

Ald unsheathed his sword. Something moved along the canopies. He felt that, soon enough, it would be twenty-four to go.