"Get into the Vault, it is our only hope!"
""I won't leave you!" Buren heard himself yell in a voice that was not his own.
He stood at the foot of the First Tree, shadowy figures darting past him, the earth beneath quaking violently.
"Follow them! I'll be right behind you!"
Dimly, he understood that what he saw and felt were only the experiences of someone else, echoes of the past. Still, a chilling grip tightened around Buren's heart. Drawn to a mountain entrance that emanated a sense of refuge, he tried to sprint. But his legs felt unusually short. A tremor knocked him off balance, and he glimpsed the hands of a child—soft, unscarred—as he tried to steady himself.
"Rise! It's our only chance!" his host's father cried out.
But the father was left behind, pinned beneath a fallen tree that had broken his back. Buren, or the child he inhabited, pressed on. Shadowy figures brushed past him, some shoving him aside, but he persisted. Guided by torchlights, he navigated past a marshland and stone markers. Time felt distorted, stretching endlessly in one moment and snapping forward in the next. Exhaustion weighed on him, his feet ached, and a sharp pain jabbed his side. Yet, he pressed on until a glimmering red mountain loomed ahead. An entrance beckoned, swarming with figures desperate to find sanctuary within the Vault.
The ground's tremors intensified, toppling even the sturdiest adults. As Buren neared the entrance, a deafening roar filled the air. An overwhelming force lifted him, and then everything went dark.
Awakening in unfamiliar surroundings, Buren felt a tug on his right arm. He jerked away, ready to defend himself, but found only the night's stillness, punctuated by the flutter of moths and the hum of insects. Dressed in light trousers, he felt vulnerable to the forest's nocturnal bloodsuckers, his bare feet defenseless against the brambles. Guided by a dim light, he made his way back to the central Glade, realizing he hadn't strayed far.
"Sleepwalking?" he pondered. "That's a first." He eyed his metal arm suspiciously. "It wasn't someone leading me; it was the arm itself. But where to?"
The stars hinted he had been heading north of the First Tree, mirroring his dream. The vividness of this dream, unlike the usual hazy nightmares, had left a lingering sense of hope that had permeated his dream body in its final moments. Swiftly, he donned his attire, secured his sword, and ventured into the forest.
Buren delicately reached into his bag, extracting a blue flower he had meticulously wrapped in a soft cloth to shield it during his travels. However, if Azure's words held truth, his careful measures were unnecessary. She had imbued the flower with an enchantment, making it resilient to minor disturbances. It would outlast him, provided it was bathed in light and occasionally dipped in water. She had gifted it to him, saying it was a symbol of her promise: a home within the forest, by her side. He could offer her nothing in return, not even a pledge, so he had accepted the beautiful gift silently. With a sigh, he gently tucked the flower back into his bag.
The air smelled like wet grass and the forest was filled with the sounds of cicadas, night birds and distant wolves howling forlornly. Reflective eyes watched him from the shadows, but Buren pressed on, driven by the memory of his dream. In his dream he had followed a path, but as there was none to be found now, he simply headed in the direction he estimated as the right one. Just as he was about to turn back, thinking how idiotic it would be to be caught breaking the Dryad Mothers' command because of a dream he had, his foot squelched into the wet ground of a swamp.
The dream's boardwalk was absent, replaced by a treacherous marshland with stunted, knotted trees, mushrooms in diverse combinations of warning colors and patterns, twigs carrying berries and fragrant fields of rhododendron. He grabbed a long, sturdy stick and, fathoming the seemingly shallow puddles of dirty water on top of the layer of moss covering the swamp he pressed on across. Croaking frogs, centipedes the side of his arm and some kind of slimy eels got out of his way, but the same could not be said of the mosquitoes that formed a whining cloud around him, despite him waving the torch around. He pulled his cloak on tighter.
"Nice night for a walk out," a voice echoed behind him.
Whirling around, Buren's hand instinctively went to his sword. Standing in his footprints indented to the slough was a nude Dryad, water dripping from her long wet purple curls that fell from her head like heavy curtains providing cover for her breasts so, due to her thin stature she called to mind one of the ambiguous mushrooms that flourished in the swamp. Her skin was of lighter purple, her eyes appearing black at least in the night. She stood confidently with one arm at her hip.
"First time I've seen you about," she continued. "You're not from around here, as judged by the sweaty air, and the chest hair. And the arm."
"I am a guest," he replied tersely.
"Maybe in the Glade, but not in my domain, when an invitation has not been made," she retorted with a smirk.
"I was under the impression that the Elder Mothers held sway here."
She laughed, a sound that echoed eerily in the swamp. "In the Glade, they're revered. But here? They are out of their depth."
Deciding he'd had enough, Buren turned to leave, but the treacherous ground betrayed him. He found himself sinking, muck reaching his waist, immobilizing him.
"Seems you're stuck with me for a bit," she teased.
He could not find proper purchase in the squashy ground to pull himself up, and his hand sought the hilt of a concealed throwing dagger, ready to defend himself if she intended to sink him deeper.
"Calm down, sweetie," she said, her voice softer. "I'm well aware of the Gauntlet of the Ancients and the consequences of breaking the Treaty. I won't risk the wrath of men just after gaining our freedom. Even if I am the outcast of the Dryads, I wouldn't endanger our new dominion."
His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.
She sighed, "I see, from your face sour, that I'm going to have to carry the conversation. So, what brings you to my swamp at this hour? Share your aspiration, and perhaps I can offer collaboration."
After a moment's hesitation, he spoke, "I seek a path marked by waystones, leading to a unique mountain north of the First Tree."
Her eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed slyly. "Ah, I see. Sneaking around because the Elders would never grant you free entry. But those waystones? They've been displaced by ancient upheavals and concealed by layers of mud, undergrowth and moss. You won't find them without help, and if the Elders catch wind of this, you'll fly out of the forest with a single toss."
"But you can help me?".
She smirked, "Everything has its price."
When he was a child, dozens of fairytales and bedtime stories had taught him to say no to such an offer.
"What do you want?" he grunted.
She tapped her finger against her lips, feigning deep thought, though he sensed a game at play. "Let's discuss my terms."
"Given our circumstances," she began, "there's only so much you can offer. Here's my proposition: a group of satyrs has been pestering me. They even stole my cherished comb, the audacity!. They've been using it to taunt me, trying to lure me into their territory. Their lair is not far from here. Eliminate them and return my comb, and save my hair."
"Lead the way." Almost instantly, he felt a force lift him from the muck, setting him free. She guided him to the swamp's edge.
"Be wary," she warned. "Those creatures are crafty."
He acknowledged her with a nod and continued on, enjoying the solid ground. Soon, he encountered animal skulls mounted on stakes, signaling the satyrs' domain. He traced a well-worn path, evident from the trampled grass and torn foliage.
A clearing revealed a pale, rocky outcrop riddled with dark caverns, just as she had described. At its center, on a crude stone altar surrounded by bloody animal bones and organs, remnants of grisly rituals, lay the coveted comb. As he neared the altar, he paused, sensing a trap. Using the stick he still carried, he prodded the ground ahead, revealing a concealed pit. He spread his arms and spun in a slow circle, taunting the satyrs that he knew must have been watching from their hiding places.
For a moment, only the moonlight and the soft rustling of leaves filled the silence. Then, the satyrs emerged, swarming from their hideouts, encircling him. Half men and half goats, the horned heads of the satyrs reached only up to his waist. They were covered in coarse fur, their legs bending backwards at the knee and ending in hooves. Their torsos were their most human part as their heads were those of a goat, except with more pointed teeth in their mouth to tear into their prey with. They screeched angrily, eyeing him with their rectangular pupils and waved their crude weapons; daggers, spears and clubs.
He gestured to the exposed trap, addressing the horde, "Your tricks won't work on me. Hand over the comb, leave this place, and I'll spare you."
Their response was a cacophony of enraged shrieks. A satyr, wielding a slingshot, hurled a jagged stone at him. His metallic arm, with astonishing speed, intercepted the missile.
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"Guess not," he growled and threw—more like shot—the rock back at the satyr, hitting it in the chest where the rock smashed through the ribcage and implanted at where the creature's heart used to be. The thing flew backwards, hit the stone cliff and fell to the ground, its twitching soon coming to a stop.
The satyrs hesitated momentarily, but their initial shock soon transformed into a frenzied fury. As they lunged, Buren drew his blade, ready to defend himself.
The first satyr to reach him had a wooden spear for weapon which Buren easily grabbed as it thrust, the wooden point hardened in a campfire not even causing a scratch on the metal of his arm. He tore it from the creature's hands and ran it through with his sword, lifting it in the air before dumping it roughly off his sword to the ground. He threw the spear at the incoming enemies, and it passed through one before impaling another, killing both.
His surroundings became a blur of motion and violence. He deflected rocks, crushed skulls, and dispatched foes with a deadly precision that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. A satyr armed with a dagger jumped from the nearby cliff, trying to fall on top of him but he switched his sword to his right arm and, making use of its full force, swung the blade in a vertical arc that bisected the beast from the top of the head to the groin, the two parts landing on his both sides and showering the immediate surroundings with blood and blinding the fiends caught in the torrent. They stopped to swipe their eyes and he dashed at them, dropping to one knee and swinging the sword now in a low horizontal arc with enough violence that the momentum spun him a full rotation. Six satyrs had been caught in the edge's path were cut down like rye in harvest season. Something struck his left foot and he fell and his side, catching a glimpse of the satyr hiding in the bushes he hadn't spotted earlier, already loading another rock into its sling. The rest of the herd saw their chance and rushed him, screaming with gleeful malice. He rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the spearpoints that stabbed the ground where he had just lain and kicked away the beasts trying to pile on top of him.
In a display of sheer strength and agility, he dug his claws to the ground and used his metal arm to lift his entire body, positioning his body perpendicular to the ground. This unexpected maneuver caught the satyrs off guard. As one lunged, Buren spun, like he was a wheel with the Gauntlet serving as axle, his boot connecting with the creature's face, sending it sprawling.
The relentless assault continued, and Buren found himself struggling to maintain his unique stance. The beasts pressed on, and he did not have time or space to find proper footing, and holding his body horizontally was quickly sapping his abdominal and back muscles. So, lacking better options, he lifted his body up so he was now standing upside down supported by one arm, slicing and thrusting with his sword at the enemies that dared to get too close. The creatures hesitated, their heads tilting in confusion, trying to make sense of the bizarre sight before them. Their feral eyes seemed to question his sanity.
Amidst the chaos, Buren couldn't help but think, "They probably believe I've lost my mind. There might even be some truth to that." But in this moment, his unconventional tactics were his greatest asset.
When the horde refused to yield, Buren flexed his right arm, allowing the back of his head to graze the ground. With a powerful thrust, he catapulted himself over the swarm. Mid-air, he executed a swift spin, landing squarely on a satyr at the rear. The impact shattered its bones, causing them to puncture its skin. As it lay gasping and spewing blood, Buren seized the moment of surprise.
He unleashed a barrage of slashes, the satyrs tripping over each other, too closely packed to dodge or effectively wield their weapons. With several mighty blows, he decimated a significant portion of the horde. The remaining few, their morale crushed, dropped their weapons and scampered into the woods on all fours.
Buren paused, catching his breath, his sword at the ready. He scanned the surroundings for any potential ambush. But all was silent, save for the agonized whimpers of the injured. He mercifully ended their suffering, then wiped his blade clean on a nearby fur. The once animated clearing now lay eerily silent. The ground was drenched in blood, some of which had splashed onto the surrounding white stone walls. He shook off the lingering droplets from his Gauntlet, but the dried blood on his claws and palm would require more thorough cleaning.
He observed his bloodstained fingers, reflecting on their lethal efficiency. "The most formidable weapon I've ever possessed," he mused, recalling the ease with which he had shattered bones. "Is there anything I couldn't break?"
Shaking off his thoughts, he seized the comb from the altar, finding no other items of interest. Baying sounds led him to a flock of female goats, which the satyrs had been using for reproduction. He cut the ropes at their necks and they hastily scampered to the woods, heralded by the angry shrieks of the satyrs that were spying from hidden vantages. On his return, he attempted to wash off the blood with swamp water, which merely replaced the red stains with a murky brown. As he trudged through the swamp, the Dryad emerged as abruptly as before. He tossed the comb to her, which she caught with grace.
"They won't trouble you again," he assured.
"Their screams echoed all the way here," she remarked.
"Time to keep your end of the bargain."
With a theatrical gesture, she flourished her arm. In the direction she had waved at the plants moved, with bushes and reeds bending to the sides so all of the sudden there was a clear path leading out of the swamp. "Most of the waystones are long gone, and the remaining ones have shifted too much to guide you on your run," she explained, pointing to a constellation. "Follow those stars, and your goal will be won."
He nodded, preparing to leave, but she added, "Once you're done, find another route back to the Glade. You're not worth the wars."
Without a word, he continued on the path she had adorned with vibrant mushrooms and leaves. Reaching firmer ground, he planted his measuring stick upright and ventured deeper into the woods, guided by the stars she had indicated. Soon, he discovered a moss-covered mound, which, upon closer inspection, revealed a toppled waystone. Sensing he was on the right track, he pressed on, noting trees marked with symbols, dried flowers, and wooden masks.
Rounding an engraved chestnut tree, he was met with a haunting sight: a petrified forest of long-dead trees, their stone-like branches adorned with dried flowers. The pale, almost white grass swayed gently, illuminated by fireflies. Ahead, a granite cliff rose, contrasting with the red hue he had envisioned. Though the landscape didn't match his dream, an unexpected twitch from his metal arm caught his attention. He paused, observing the Gauntlet as it jerked again, this time pulling him unmistakably towards the granite formation.
Draping his cloak over his shoulder, Buren confidently ventured into the valley filled with petrified trees, his gaze unwavering from the looming ridge. As he neared, the erratic twitching of his arm grew more pronounced, disrupting his stride and challenging his control. When he was just steps away from the stone, his arm lunged forward, fingers outstretched, making contact with the rock's surface. Suddenly, the tangible world around him shifted. The barren trees and night sky were replaced by the ominous clouds of his dreams. Shadows surged past him, heading towards a chasm beside a crimson cliff that now loomed before him. An overwhelming sense of the chasm's significance consumed him.
As reality began to reassert itself the tons of stone and dirt between him and the entry materialized, separating him from the mysterious entry. Overwhelmed, he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. The red cliff and the hidden Vault remained, buried beneath a mountain's weight. In frustration, he struck the stone with the might of his metallic arm. Unprepared for the recoil, the force sent him tumbling backward, rolling downhill. Regaining his composure, he examined the stone. Despite the minor damage, it was clear that significant effort would be required to carve a passage.
A voice interrupted his thoughts. "What is the meaning of this?" Turning, he found the Elder Mother he'd met before, accompanied by the former Dryad Queen, Azure, and Leva.
"We need a team to excavate this mountain," he blurted, urgency evident in his voice. "There's something crucial beneath it. We must—"
"Enough!" The Elder Mother interjected. "This mountain and its surroundings are sacred." She gestured to the stone trees. "This is the resting place of many a revered ancestor, near the Sacred Rock you so thoughtlessly dishonor."
Dismissing her reverence, he retorted, "Forget the rock. If you don't heed my warning, you'll lose far more than just a mountain. We need workers to dig into it, as soon as possible."
She pointed at him accusingly. "You've defied our rules by leaving the Glade. You've violated our sacred ground and now demand laborers to desecrate it further, could a more gruesome violation be made? You will be the last man to tread here. You are banished, effective immediately, never again to come near."
Azure looked torn, her eyes filled with sorrow, but she remained silent. The others regarded him with undisguised hostility.
Gripping his sword's hilt with his left hand and clenching his right into a fist, he declared, "I cannot accept that. The stakes are too high."
"Your opinion matters nigh," the Mother retorted. She reached out to the other Dryads, the former Queen taking her left hand and Leva the right, while extending her other hand invitingly to Azure. Azure hesitated, tension evident in her posture.
Leva sneered, "We'll address your loyalties later."
The ground around the united Dryads seemed to come alive. Pale grass swirled as if caught in a gust, wrapping around their legs. Nearby trees rustled, their leaves quivering as though shaken from their roots. As the flora responded to the Dryads, the Dryads too became more entwined with nature, sprouting weeds and flowers from their skin and hair.
Suddenly, roots erupted, coiling around Buren's legs, pulling him to his knees. They wound around his waist, immobilizing him. Large, deep purple flowers sprouted nearby, releasing a potent fragrance. Recognizing them as the sleep-inducing lotuses Azure had once shown him, he took a deep breath just before their scent enveloped him. Fighting the drowsiness, he slashed at the roots with his metal claws, freeing himself from their grasp. He sprinted, evading the pursuing tendrils, and aimed for the Dryads, intent on breaking their connection.
Seeing him approach, the Elder Mother signaled, and the trees released a cascade of leaves, forming a dense barrier. The Dryads vanished into this verdant maelstrom. A few blades shot his way like arrowheads, and to his surprise cut into his cloak, one of them leaving a bleeding gash on his left cheek.
"So this is what a group of powerful Dryads can do," he thought, swiping the blood on the back of his hand. "'Blade' of the leaves is more accurate than I thought. But that was only a warning shot."
The leaf storm advanced, forcing him to retreat behind a petrified tree. The onslaught paused, seemingly reluctant to approach the sacred Dryad monument. An idea formed in his mind.
With a defiant shout, he threatened, "Hear me out, or I'll shatter this relic!" The tempest's intensity grew, yet it remained stationary. However, roots once again tried to ensnare him, which he promptly severed.
In frustration, he roared, "So be it!" and raised his fist to destroy the ancient tree.
"No!" Azure's voice pierced the tumult. Emerging from the leaf storm, she threw herself between his descending fist and the tree. The arm disengaged the strike immediately, but could not come to an instant stop. His blow, meant for the monument, connected with her instead, although with diminished power. The force propelled her backward, and she crashed into the tree, collapsing motionless at its base.
"Azure!" he exclaimed, rushing to her side. As he knelt down, reaching with his left hand to check her pulse, a sudden force struck his shoulder, halting him. Roots surged forth, wrenching him away from her.
"Stop! Is she okay?" he shouted in desperation. As the leafy maelstrom settled, the other Dryads emerged.
"We intended to be merciful, to merely sedate you before banishing you," the Elder Mother intoned coldly. Only then did he notice the arrow embedded in his shoulder. A numbing sensation spread, his body betraying him, leaving only his metal arm responsive.
"From now on, expect no leniency," she warned. "If you ever cross our path again, hope for death, since compared with what you deserve, that will be a mercy."
Roots hoisted him off the ground, and the underbrush propelled him towards the forest's edge. Overhanging branches reached down, gripping him painfully. He was passed from tree to tree, each transfer more jarring than the last, leaving him battered and bruised.
"Never return," the forest's voice echoed, as even his vocal muscles paralyzed, killing his objection in his throat.