Stepping from the fringes of the forest into its outer layer, Osric moved with a predator's caution, making sure not to disturb any unseen dangers lurking beneath the mossy shadows. The acrid tang of blood lingering in the air teased his senses, but he did not allow curiosity to lead him astray. He did not have a buffer of protection anymore, if he encountered an enemy he could not defeat or outrun, he would die. His departure from the group, shrouded in the mists of the swamp, likely went unnoticed. And even if detected, the people in the group took priority, so he did not need to worry about being followed.

As he wove his way through the serpentine undergrowth, he would repeatedly find trees scarred with a myriad of carvings. Carvings etched into their skin, some groves lighter, some heavier, some fresh, and others faded, some more detailed and clear, while some only stroke lines. Yet, almost all of them repeated the motif of a small, exquisite bird held captive in a hand of unimaginable strength - the main iconography of prayers that the hunters whispered to Sylvanus, the forest's guardian and god of the hunt.

These carvings were scriptures, the hunters marking their last will before their journey into the leafy depths of the wilderness. The bird, meticulously drawn with the passionate fervor of departure, awaited its completion – the powerful hand would only be sketched upon a triumphant return, an emblem of survival against the forest's cruel roulette.

Variations in the drawings told a story of survival. An unnervingly detailed bird, its companion hand absent or hastily sketched for many weeks on end, often became a mournful epitaph to the hunter's tragic demise within the emerald abyss of the forest. Their soul forever cradled in Sylvanus's kingdom.

The three villages around the mountains held a profound belief: every entity, from a pebble to a mighty mountain, housed a soul. And so, a hunter would only etch their intimate confessions and hopeful prayers upon a single confidant, imbuing it with their tales of triumph and travail. Should the hunter fail to return, they trusted their wooden companion to breathe their unfinished story to the wind, offering a silent prayer to Sylvanus on their behalf.

Farmers tended to seek solace in the warm embrace of the Hearthguard, while hunters, more often than not, pledged allegiance to Sylvanus. This division of faith was reflected in the forest, where countless trees stood etched with countless prayers and promises, each carving a symbol of life potentially on the brink of sacrifice—the last left memento of some before their death.

This particular expansive forest, nestled against the shoulders of the Darkhold mountain range, bore the title of the Sormatilian Forest. A moniker bestowed by the trio of neighboring villages whose inhabitants revered its lore, whispered from generation to generation, outlasting even the age-old tales of the nagamen.

Central to this folktale was Mustrik, a man whose strength was rumored to rival that of the mountain titans, a behemoth of power in the Ancient Antiquity Era. As strong as he was, alas, his temper was just as imposing. Fear was his shadow, trailing him amongst the people and echoing in the terrified rustling of the beasts that scurried out of his way.

One day as he was traveling through the Darkhold mountains, he saw a pure white bunny – more dazzling than winter's first snow – capturing his attention, intriguing him—something he had to have. However, no matter how fervently he sought, the creature eluded him, evoking an enraged impatience within him. In his fury, he wreaked havoc upon the forest, reducing verdant tracts to barren scars.

In response to the seismic tremors of senseless destruction, the forest life cried, their voices echoing their terror and despair. It is said that the desperate plea stirred the Sormatilian himself, Sylvanus's second in seat, from his celestial throne. In the ensuing confrontation, the once mighty Mustrik succumbed, swallowed by the very wilderness he had maimed with abandon. The forest, henceforth, carried the name of its savior, a tribute to the entity that had exacted rightful vengeance. Sormatilian Forest, named after the folktale, was hence viewed with a mix of respect and caution by those who ventured into its shadowy depths.

Distinguishing fact from fable in the tale of Mustrik and the Sormatilian was far beyond Osric's grasp. After all, he was a mere mortal, and the realm of divine retribution was far out of his reach. He had more pressing, earthly concerns to attend to.

Venturing deeper into the forest, Osric traced his fingers over the myriad of carvings on the trees, each groove revealing a piece of a hunter's tale. Generally, the hunters would travel inwards to the outer layer of the forest from places with the highest level of detailed hand carvings. His aim was different: to find a path less traversed yet not entirely forsaken.

"Judging by the density of carvings and the tension I can feel hanging in the air, I must be close to an entrance," he muttered to himself.

He surveyed a particularly long tree, looking for any deformities that would signal danger, becoming climbing. From the top, the forest spread out before him, an unending sea of dark jade, ebony, and umbral hues. In the far distance, the Darkhold mountains loomed, their majestic profiles dominating the forest wildlife.

Osric followed the walked path made by many hunters before him, trying not to stray so much in the beginning. Guided by the spectral footprints of past hunters, Osric moved cautiously, following the winding path that seemed to meander aimlessly. But he did not question the wisdom of those who had survived the forest. Their blood had consecrated this path, and he wasn't about to ignore their silent guidance. Echoes of distant roars stirred the silence now and then, but the path remained largely unthreatened,

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Occasionally there would be some curious critters that would approach him. A fluttering mass caught his attention, a swarm of insects buzzing toward him with furious intensity.

"Dunklitle Stringlers," he identified, eyeing the approaching insect swarm. The insects, reminiscent of mosquitoes but laced with a chilling aura of menace, had three needle-like proboscises and sharp feet dripping with venom. They approached him, some hovered carefully while some landed on his dried, muddy exterior for a momentary rest, their tiny bodies a humming veil around him. Even a few stings were potent enough to paralyze a creature, rendering it helpless, a doomed feast for the ravenous swarm.

Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Osric crushed a small powder ball in his palm. The reaction was instantaneous; the airborne particles acted as a powerful narcotic, disorienting the swarming stringlers. Their once vigorous flight patterns descended into chaotic spirals, their tiny bodies tumbling to the forest floor, paralyzed and helpless. Swiftly, he collected the fallen insects into a jar. Their muffled furious buzzing gained strength as they gradually shook off their stupor in the jar.

“I got lucky,” he murmured, his breath unsteady as beads of sweat met the dried mud on his skin. Eyeing the jar, he conceded, "This should suffice." From the depth of his bag, he pulled out a stout incense stick, snapping it in two with a crisp sound. The broken ends unleashed a potent scent, rich and heady, which he amplified by rubbing one-half vigorously between his palms, sending aromatic tendrils spiraling into the air.

In response to the potent scent of the incense stick, the curious insect swarms purposefully deviated from their flight paths, veering clear of his path. Heartened by this successful deterrent, he journeyed deeper into the forest until the well-worn path of hunters gave way to be replaced by a carpet of lush, untrammeled grass. He had arrived at the forest's outer layer. Drawing a deep breath of anticipation, Osric pocketed the incense stick and cautiously stepped into the new territory.

Keeping to the trails most frequented by animals, he avoided decomposed yet intact leaves – a sign that no creature had passed that way and a potential warning of hidden danger.

Aside from following the scent of the blood to its source, which was vastly spread, he used the odor of animal droppings to guide his path. Animals chose safer territories for their bodily functions, thus indirectly hinting at areas relatively free from predators. Therefore, it meant that there aren't any excessive dangers.

Since deeper into the forest, Osric came across multiple untouched treasures – rare alchemy ingredients and valuable herbs. Untouched, bothered. However, harvesting them was another challenge. Nearby he saw a tulsatita flower, a key ingredient in making dhumer pills which were used to fight corruption sickness. It was dancing in the wind, its sweet scent acting as an enticing lure, nothing dangerous. At first glance, the rock next to it appeared mundane. However, upon closer inspection, its surface held a disconcerting illusion of motion.

From the forest canopy, a dewbee rat launched itself, its transparent wings – not built for flight but adept for graceful gliding – stretching from its agile body. Its whiskers vibrated as it scanned the vicinity, and with wings poised for action, it swooped toward the tulsatita flower. But as it landed and paused to appreciate the intoxicating aroma, the deceptive rock sprang to life. A rock-colored serpent, its mouth agape, struck with lightning velocity from its concealment, its mouth wide open. In a split second, the rat realized its peril and attempted to react, but it was too late. The swift strike of the snake ended in a single gulp, now nothing more than a lump in its engorged throat.

The willdrew snake, now sated, uncoiled atop the rock, revealing its intricate camouflage of patterned scales that blended seamlessly with the rocky terrain. Its four pairs of red, icy eyes surveyed the surroundings, gleaming with the satisfaction of a successful hunt and the anticipation of the next unsuspecting prey.

The forest was dangerous. However, the peril only reared its teeth to those who ventured blind into its depths. The wilderness, while dangerous, had its own order, its own rules. To the uninitiated, the forest seemed an agent of chaos, but for those familiar with the habits and predilections of its beasts, it was far more lenient. Like journeying through the Milling Logs during daylight rather than night, understanding the ebb and flow of this forest ecosystem meant knowing the territorial lines of its inhabitants, evading disease-ridden areas, and recognizing the fluctuating danger zones. To those who respected these rules, the forest was more forgiving.

Osric journeyed deeper still, moving past towering trees and dense bushes. Various noises made their presence known, but he continued forwards unbothered. A trail no longer dictated his path; the intimacy of the wildlife came closer.

"Hmm?" A single rupenlilly, cradled in the shadow of a monolithic tree, snagged his attention. Not one to act impulsively, he sprinkled medicinal powder around the plant. A horde of venomous insects emerged, disturbed by the intrusion. With a measured swing of his hand, he cast out another type of powder, causing the bugs to scurry away. Once the muddy spot calmed, he delicately uprooted the rupenlilly, ensuring minimal damage, before securing it in his bag.

He looked at the sky, clouds were forming over, covering the sunlight. Osric felt a lull of exhaustion taking root in his body. A sea of trees spread before him, their branches dancing a slow waltz in the anticipatory wind, their leaves whispering secrets of the impending storm. His dark eyes meticulously scanned the timbered expanse until he found the one he sought—an Ashbourne Oak, standing in solitary grandeur. Its bark was mottled with ash, and the air around it held a sulfurous tinge, a natural repellent to most woodland creatures.

Scaling the monumental tree, he found a comfortable roost amongst its countless sturdy branches. The tree swayed gently under his weight, rustling quietly. The texture of the bark, the faint hissing of leaves overhead, the taste of the wind on his tongue, and the soft, earthy scent permeating the air all wove together with familiarity. He strung a few tripwires as an early warning system before unfurling a sleeping bag woven from shredded kokala leaves. The bag's design offered both camouflage and scent concealment.

Eyes heavy, Osric sank into a shallow slumber. Although he could push himself more, it was necessary to optimize his body so that he may live a longer day.