The stories of The Lion’s Mane Forest are as varied as they are fantastical. All manner of creatures - divine, demonic, and everything in between - are said to roam the sea of eternally blossoming amber and golden flora. Past where the green leaves turn gilded, where fiery waves of amber-shaded grasses dance like roaring flames, there rests a monument older than time itself; the only undisputed fact swimming in the ocean of rumors and wives’ tales.
Deep in the heart of the forest there rests the object of fascination and debate between historians from antiquity to this day; the Impossible Tower. A monument older than time itself, the structure has seemingly existed since before human record. Its massive, solid stone structure seems both naturally occurring and man-made, as if nature bowed to a divine architect, constructing a massive spire of a single stone. The tower’s impossible nature comes from not only its odd construction, but impossible geometry.
The Tower reaches past the clouds, past the skies, some say past the very heavens. The outside shows a structure less than 10 meters in diameter, but passed the stone archway inscribed with runes lost to time, the first floor interior is a sort of indoor-courtyard garden, lush with golden greenery, that seems to span over 100 meters. Each floor that has been documented seems to defy physics and reason, the euclidean geometry leaving scholars baffled. It is as curious as it is dangerous, as all manner of beasts, traps, and countless horrors fill the spire. History holds no record of any man passing the 10th floor and returning to tell the tale.
The young man stood in the archway. The cool breeze of the night flickered the torch he held above his head, sending small embers into the chamber in a slow dance. In the opposite hand he held a shabby, worn, leatherbound book, dull yellow pages with worn ink drawings loosely resembling the chamber, though finer details have been lost to the evident aging. He struggled with the pages between his fingers before successfully turning to an earlier page.
“Some believe the ancestors of modern humans built the tower using methods lost to time. Others believe it was a gift from the Elder Ones, who have long since been quiet in the era of the New Pantheon. While the origins are disputed, every culture that has writings of it agrees on one point: At the top rests a being who can change history.”
He reread the last sentence for what must've been the millionth time. At the top rests a being who can change history.
“While the Early Southern Tribes (who would become the Ashki Peoples) believed the Sun God ‘Istka’ was the being who controlled time, and therefore was the being at the top of the tower, the earlier peoples of modern Ashki territory known as the ‘Iyatabi’ (who originally resided to the West) claim the Tower itself is the being and the floors are it's trials. They believed the world was constructed around the Tower, and that the True God of the Tower blesses those who can reach its insurmountable heights.”
He closed the book, sliding it in the satchel hanging off his hip, worn cloth strap slung on the opposite shoulder. He breathed out a shuttered sigh before mustering enough courage to fight his body’s fatigue (and the gut feeling screaming for him to turn back) and stepped inside. Just as the book said, his torch’s light was reflected off gilded plantlife. Shiny gold leaves and stems, amber and bronze flowers, all glimmering in the torchlight. The sight was as beautiful as it was unnerving.
He knelt down to inspect the large, star shaped leaf of a plant further in the chambers. He recalled the book referring to these as “God Stars”, highly sought after plants that seldom grow outside the Lion’s Mane Forest. The leaf in his fingers was an odd sensation, its metallic sheen contrasting the fibrous flesh of the plant. He plucked the leaf from its stem and watched it quickly dissolve into a golden dust, shimmering in the breeze as the draft carried it in a swirl of opulence. There was a time where the young man would've feverishly clambered over the plants to preserve the golden dust, hoarding every iota of the fine gilded powder. While that temptation rested in the back of his mind, he quickly shakes it off.
What good would it do? He thought to himself, There's no purpose, can't take it where I'm going.
He stood upright and began surveying the area once more, torch held above head as he stepped along the cobbled path. The stones below his feet formed a long grid, bisecting plots of the radiant yellow garden. His soft footsteps echoed off the distant stone walls. His good eye darted between the plots, trying to spot supplies for the journey ahead. He had underestimated how long the travel to the tower would be and food supplies were already scarce.
The cave responded to every footstep with a soft echo. Everything behind him was consumed by the darkness, his forward steps spawning more cobbled paths from the lightless abyss. The garden felt like a void where only empty space lay beyond the light, despite the torch doing its best to peel back the illusion as he trotted ahead.
Every patch of garden within the grid was a uniform square, roughly eight feet in length and width. Shrubs, flowers, and the occasional small tree, all glittering gold, lavish in the light of the small, flickering flame. The young man pondered how the plants received light to survive, but perhaps their gilded nature subsides the need for external warmth and radiance. Occasionally the echo of footsteps would be interrupted by the cracking of a thin metallic twig under his boot, orle the rustles of golden overgrowth creeping into the path. Despite the occasional stray vine or branch, the garden seems relatively well kept. Or perhaps it was another mystical property of the Tower.
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Moments pass agonizingly slowly as he walks a seemingly impossible distance, the entrance now a mere glimmer of moonlight obfuscated by small shrubs and trees. The path ahead seemed to stretch infinitely into darkness. His eye caught the glimmer of something dangling from a tree. He slowly approached to find a gilded apple hanging from a low branch. As his light crept under the shade of the tree’s leaves, he could see more of the golden orbs dangling from metallic stems.
“About time…” he muttered to no one in particular, reaching up to grab the apple. As his fingers gripped the fruit, he heard quick rustling in the leaves. Before he could withdraw his hand, a white hot pain pierced his wrist. He felt the surface of his skin break as the invading entity ripped into his flesh. He violently pulled his arm back, and with it came the source of his pain. Attached to his wrist, fangs buried into him, a large serpent - no shorter than 5 feet long - with metallic golden scales that glinted in the light of his flame.
He cursed, shoving the torch on the creature's lower jaw. It squirmed against the flame, the fangs dragging in his skin, pulling the wound open. The jade eyes of the creature briefly met his and the young man swore it was mocking him. He felt his skin severing before the snake unlatched itself from his arm, quickly slithering into the brush.
He cursed again, holding the torch to illuminate his wound. Blood seeped through the patchwork cloth. The makeshift padding didn't cover his wrist well enough. “Cheap shit.” He cursed himself, pulling the sleeve up to inspect the wound. Along with the warm crimson nectar of life that seeped from him, he spotted a silver-flecked fluid. No doubt some toxin from the snake.
“Dammit!” He kicked the ground in frustration. Possibly psychosomatic, he felt his blood burn under his skin. It was a warm sensation that swelled to a seat with every heartbeat. “Hold it together…”
“All for nothing! Nothing! Haha!” A familiar, raspy, piercingly high pitched voice jeered. He swung the torch around as he pivoted on his heel. The source didn't surprise him, but his newly poisoned blood ran cold for a moment as the Crow stared him down.
“You didn't even make it to the second floor! Pathetic! Worm! Maggot! Haha!” The Crow cawed between insults and shrieking laughs. “Kier the Coward! Kier the Clumsy! Kier the-”
“Shuttup!” Kier slurred in response, the young man's heart beating in his ears, putting pressure on his skull as if inflated, ready to pop. “The book…” he murmured, withdrawing it from the pouch. His fingers slipped from the torch, the wood audibly knocking against the stone path, still lit. He fumbled with the pages, flipping through paragraphs and illustrations until landing on the faded image of a plant, a golden flower with a sapphire blue center and reddish-bronze pistils extending from the azure core.
“Just gotta find it…” he said, looking up at the Crow defiantly. His legs felt like wet paper, ready to tear with a breeze or crumble on their own weight. Still, he stepped forward. “Golden flower, blue center, red pistils. Gold flower. Bl-blue center. R-red. Red.” His tongue had become jelly in his mouth, no longer a cohesive muscle but rather a vestigial mass fighting for any sort of stimulus. His mind screamed at it to form words, to keep him focused, but his body’s responses became slower and slower.
He dragged the torch loosely behind him, the flame dancing off the stones. If he had the mental fortitude, he’d praise his foresight in purchasing a magical torch. Instead, every ounce of mental power was focused on left foot, then right foot, then left again. Though his shadow crept ahead of him with every step, dancing as his light source haphazardly jostled the uneven cobble, he could spot a stone mass standing in opposition to its floral surroundings. Though his vision was faltering ever so slightly, he could make out the stone stairwell, ascending through the tall ceiling.
Not questioning the odd placement, rejuvenated slightly by another milestone in sight, Kier trudged forward with audible struggle, his labored breathing now shallow and wavering. Lifting his foot to scale each step was a herculean effort, as if his bones had become golden like the surrounding plants. As he reached the opening in the stone ceiling, his most coherent self cursed that he didn't re-read the second floor’s details.
Something about “staying in the light”, was all he could muster to mind. His arm felt like an anchor being raised, his shoulder screaming at the motion as he shakily raised the torch above his head, into the dark room above. His other arm reached over the top step, pulling him over the last few. He rose to a single knee, torch held waveringly, the light dancing about the room. He hadn't noticed at first, but the floor was wood, his arm almost entirely numb to the neat, dusty timber.
As he gathered his bearings, the searing pain now screaming through every inch of his body, demanding his attention, his eye caught something. Something that numbed the pain, replacing it with an icy cold chill. A chill that turned Kier into a living statue, immobile, unmoving, breath held.
The familiar form of a woman. Naked. Bruised and bleeding. Parts of her face are swollen to near impossible sizes, her cheeks swollen almost over her eye sockets. Her long brown hair fell over her breasts, almost as if to preserve a single shred of dignity in her desperate state.
“You…” Kier tried to say, but it came out as more of a choke whine, a lone strained syllable.
“It's okay, Kier.” The woman's voice spoke through bloody lips and teeth, dripping down her chin and onto her bare form. “I forgive you, Kier. You were not yourself. You didn't mean to.”
The words choked any coherent thoughts out of Kier’s mind. His racing heart made him temporarily aware of the pain again, causing him to grip his chest in agony.
“Kier. You can make this right. Just step into the dark with me.” The figure offered out a hand. Kier looked to the ivory appendage extended to him, impossibly pure and clean. He weakly shook his head. It was a hallucination. From the poison, probably. This woman was dead, Kier was sure.
“I'll give you what you want, Kier.” Every mention of his name stung in his ears like a biting insect, burrowing through his eardrums and gnawing at his mind. “It's what you wanted, right? It's yours. Take it. Take me.” She taunted as she stepped backwards, gesturing to him obscenely.
He couldn't make out her form anymore through the tears of pain welling in his eyes. He slumped forward, supporting himself with one arm, still holding the torch weakly.
Stand. Up. Walk. Move. Scream. Every command he gave his body fell short past his mind, as if there was a solid gate blocking his thoughts from moving beyond his skull.
“Pervert.” The voice spat. The word sent a vibration through his body, shaking every fiber of his being and wrapping around his skull like a snake writhing under his flesh. “Filthy mongrel rapist. Just like your father. You should have slit your wrists.”
“Haha! Told you! She agrees! Haha!” Shrieked the Crow, flapping its foul wings above him. “Pervert! Degenerate! Devil boy! Haha!”
He wanted to scream in defiance. He wasn't a rapist. He didn't do it. But that seemed to matter little right now. The two entities mocked him for his crimes, their words swirling into a symphony of despair and degradation. Kier’s vision darkened. He clutched the torch as his hand slipped from under him. He fell to his side, body entirely unresponsive. The lullaby of berating chased him through his venture to unconsciousness.