Anguished cries fill the air of the once peaceful glade. Many of the young trees were on fire, or laying strewn on the ground, torn up and shredded in a fit of rage. The few intact saplings were oddly shaped, clearly growing but shaped, curves as if from a woodworker forming a cradle within the trunk. With a splintering crack, another sapling was obliterated. The perpetrator of all this violence stood tall among the wreckage of the grove. Tall, nearing ten feet in height, with a overwhelming presence but slim figure, even looking directly at it the figure seemed nothing but an outline, composed of fire and ash. Glaring about, as if looking for something else to destroy, but finding nothing left, the being of fire and ash, or as it was known to those knowledgeable in the ways of such things, a Fire Giant from the lands of Muspelheim, shook its head free from its rage and stalked over to the only other still living individual in the grove. Seeming short next to his companion, yet still standing near seven feet in height, and wearing a dark, oily looking cloak covering most of his body and features, the only things distinguishable about this being were its glowing red eyes with vertical slit pupils, gleaming white teeth, and a badge holding the cloak closed, a red fist clenched around a black dagger dripping blood, signifying his service in the 51st Legion of (Bhenovet), Lord of the Third Circle of the Abyss.
The figure was currently stooping over the latest in a small series of rapidly cooling corpses piled around its feet, shaking its head in anger and licking a droplet of blood off a black clawed finger before once again covering itself fully in its cloak.
"Nothing" In a low, raspy tone. "The little weed was supposed to be here, none are aware of it being taken."
Snorting in disgust the fire giant spat a wad of flaming spittle onto one of the corpses. "Are you sure they weren't lying to you? We are running short on time, the Grove may rely on stealth and secrecy to hide their nurseries, but they'll know we are here before long. Maybe your intel was wrong and they are just trying to play for time."
Pulling itself up to its full height, the Abyssal glared at its companion from beneath the hood of its cloak. "Do not insult a master torturer of (Bhenovet)'s legion, even if they were Sylvan trained there is no way they could have resisted me. And our source was telling the truth. Someone must have removed the little weed before we got here. Now they couldn't have traveled that far, we just need to find them. Have your men watch the fairy rings, and my spies will hunt down every half trained charlatan that can cast a teleportation ritual and we will find it and kill it."
Stumbling out of the forest, the young woman barely stopped herself from running out onto the country highway, collapsing to her knees in the process. She was holding a bundle of thick, soft leaves wrapped around a tiny child. The child was otherwise unremarkable, besides having a thick shock of orange hair, despite seeming to still be only a few months old. The woman herself was wearing a modest white dress, torn in places and stained with dirt and sap from falling and brushing up against trees during her flight through the forest. It was night, and the woman stayed kneeling on the side of the highway, swaying slightly and seeming near unconscious, for nearly half an hour before a car started to near coming down the road. Its headlights swept across the woman, startling her into motion, and giving her enough energy to heave herself onto her feet. The car swerved for a moment, then quickly pulled into the side of the road next to the woman with the headlights illuminating the scene, spraying gravel behind it as the driver braked hard.
A man got out of the car, hand shaking as he pushes the horn-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "Are you alright ma'am?"
The harsh glare of the headlights and the glimmer of hope brought tears to the young woman's eyes. "The child, I must save….the…..child…." In the middle of answering, the woman started to slump onto her side, exhaustion evident. The man hurried to her side, and helped her into the passenger side of the old Chevy Cadillac. He muttered under his breath to himself frantically as he started the car, and pealed out heading back the way he came. Soon the stretch of highway was once again silent and dark.
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Patrick was feeling a dangerous emotion, and the source of the many supposed sins his mother liked to harangue him about: boredom. While other may get into trouble over things inspired by greed, anger, gluttony, or what have you, Patrick always ended up getting into trouble whenever he ended up bored, which was unfortunately often. Which was why Patrick was currently wearing a tattered pair of orange overalls with the words Sheriffs Department barely still readable in faded print across the back and enjoying time "serving his community".
Patrick wasn't a cruel person, he never hurt anyone or caused serious harm to anything. But when he got bored, he liked to become a bit of a prankster, for as he saw it, if he didn't want to be bored, other people probably didn't either. He was doing a public service, really. If only other people saw it that way. But one too many cows on the school roof, or times putting super glue on the principal's car seat and you never shake the reputation. Its not his fault he eventually raised the stakes, and enacted the plan that landed him here in community service. Maybe if the mayor wasn't such a corrupt and incompetent ass he wouldn't have needed to have a pigsty worth of mud, shit, and living pork transported into his office overnight. Honestly, even though he was caught, Patrick was pretty damn proud of that one.
Apathetically stabbing a beer can with his county issued tool, Patrick tried to keep himself entertained by talking with the man walking next to him, Big Mike, another conscripted work sent to pick up garbage in hopes of rehabilitation. Big Mike wasn't his real name, but since a good solid 15 minutes of chatting at him hadn't yielded a single word in response, Patrick decided he could call him whatever he wanted. Big Mike was tall and built like the proverbial brick house. Despite obviously being young enough to be included in the county juvenile community service program, Big Mike was close to 6'5" tall, with a thick unruly mop of dark brown hair, the beginnings of a beard, and a few hairs short of a uni-brow. Big Mike walked at the same pace no matter what, step, stab, throw away, repeat, slow and methodically. If he hadn't seen the man drink some water, and stop for a smoke every ten minutes, Patrick would have thought he was a very cleverly, if oddly, disguised robot built to spy on the delinquents.
"Anyway after they caught me returning the truck to the farmer, pig shit still staining my overalls, I ended up unfairly confined to this so called rehabilitative program…" Patrick gradually trailed off as he realized Big Mike was no longer walking alongside him, but had stopped some fifteen feet back to take another smoke break. Sighing sadness for his genius going unappreciated, Patrick kicked a can laying nearby into the bushes along the side of the highway. Following the can, he continued to kick it deeper into the forest, attempting to bounce it off of trees or rocks as he went. After going about two hundred feet into the forest, Patrick caught sight of something laying in a heap at the base of an enormous oak tree. Dark brown in color, fur could be seen underneath a matting of dirt, leaves, and a dark, sticky liquid. Patrick froze, waiting to see if what appeared to be an animal was dead or just injured. Not seeing any movement, Patrick's caution evaporated, and with a firm follow through he kicked the can straight at the furry lump. It smashed into the mass with a plunking sound, drowned out by the roar that erupted in response.
Patrick jumped at the sudden sound, and backed away from the now flailing fur covered shape. As it righted itself, he could see while it had indeed once been a bear, it had been killed long before he ever came along, and turned into a coat for possibly the dirtiest and shortest man Patrick had ever met. He had dark brown hair, and a scruffy beard, both with a liberal coating of dirt and leaves, framing a mouth attempting a fierce scowl, but only achieving a sort of queasy grimace. "What in the name of Abbadon's bloody tit do you think you…are…." the short man's rant was cut off part way as with a gurgling groan he heaved himself the short distance to the ground and became violently ill.
"Are you okay dude? I'd rather you didn't die on me, with how much the local authority likes me right now I'm sure they'd pin it on my somehow." Patrick offered to the shaking and wheezing diminutive figure.
"…doing kicking bloody cans at people sleeping off a nice blackout…..interrupted a pleasant dream with Iris and a pair of valkyrie….." Grumbling to himself while shooting Patrick dirty looks, the short man started patting about his large bear skin coat looking for something. "Well, whose low hanging sausage does a bastard have to gargle to bum a smoke around here? Well kid?" Patrick started when he realized this comment was finally directed to him instead of just about him.
Shocked out of his befuddled state, Patrick wasn't really thinking when his mouth automatically replied with the quip "I think some soap would be more effective than cigarette smoke at combating the smell of bourbon and what I hope is animal piss." The short, increasingly irate man fixed a scowl on Patrick, the tough demeanor somewhat spoiled by the air of nausea and discomfort, until what Patrick said seemed to get through to him, at which time he started to regard Patrick with a look of surprise.
"I didn't think you'd respond, less even to have such a pair of hairy clackers on ya. Well carrot stick, ya got a smoke to bum or not?" Having failed to find the smokes he was looking for, or to clean the dirt or matted leaves off the majority of his fur coat, the short man stood up with some difficulty and inquired of Patrick.
"Sorry, first response is to make a joke when I find a strange man sleeping in the woods. Since that happens always. Big Mike might let you bum a cig, if you can get him to acknowledge your presence, which is hard even for a gifted linguist as myself." Patrick waved over his shoulder back towards the road, where Big Mike was undoubtedly still chain smoking his way through the remainder of their break.
Continuing to grumble what Patrick could only assume to be colorful obscenities under his breath, the short man began to trudge towards the direction Patrick had just indicated, his overly long fur coat leaving a bit of a trail on the forest floor as it dragged behind him. Bemused, Patrick followed him, interested to see if this odd person could elicit at least some sort of verbal response from Big Mike where he had failed.