Phil
After a few hours of rest and “relaxation”, Phil finally got his troop of men back into fighting order. At this point the moon had finished rising and made considerable progress in its nightly race across the sky. Phil estimated they had at least 4 hours left until sunrise, after which it would be a lot harder from him to sneak away from the ensuing battle between the Ostlind guard and whomever came to rescue the townspeople of Annahmia. A more honorable man would stay and fight with his men, but these weren’t really Phil’s men and he was a smuggler, not a soldier. Sneaking past the trouble was what he did for a living.
“You ten go collect more firewood, we are going to stay for another thirty minutes or so. Everyone else prepare to head out, I want water skins filled and nerves calmed.” Phil called out to the degenerates who had been giving him grief. Nobody wanted to follow orders from somebody who wasn’t even a part of the Ostlind guard, but at the same time none of them wanted to take responsibility and starting commanding in Phil’s place. A couple of the men grumbled under their breath but proceeded to go collect firewood anyways.
The men saunter off into woods while complaining amongst themselves, their torchlight casting wicked shadows across the clearing and revealing distorted faces on the trees that seem to be screaming out in pain or anger. All around Phil the men are mostly relaxed but also slightly alert, as they should be. The middle aged smuggler stood up to lead the effort of refilling water skins.
As he walked beneath the willow trees he felt a ticklish feeling on the top of his head, like somebody was playing with his thinning hair. He looked up and a thick slimy-feeling branch wrapped around under his chin several times before accosting him from his feet. Phil trashed around, only to find out that the branches had a steadfast hold on him. His hand flew down to his belt, only to find that he’d left his sword where he was seated next to the fire.
Four or five of his men were dangling with him, and he could vaguely hear shouting all around him. None of those that he could see around him were faring any better than Phil himself, all of them having left their weapons behind with the exception of one, who dropped his sword as soon as he drew it.
Is this really how it ends? Phil thought to himself as he was gasping for breath. It was getting hard to breathe, near impossible really, and his vision was rapidly darkening as he futilely struggled to fit his finger beneath the rock-hard branches and wiggle some space to breath. He couldn’t believe that was going to go out like this. As a smuggler, his primary occupation was sneaking around in the dead of the night. He never thought that his mistress, the night, would betray him.
His daughter flashed before his eyes. She was coming of age soon, but had nobody to look out for her now that Phil was gone. Not that she ever needed anyone, she'd been an independent go getter as long as he could remember. Subconsciously he went to stroke the dagger she'd gifted him on his last birthday, if only to feel a little closer to her in his dying moments as a poor replacement of stroking her hair.
Phil’s eyes snapped open as he realized that his sword wasn’t the only weapon he carried. Although he was not practiced with the knife, his daughter had given him one along with an ankle sheath, to carry in case he ever got in a pinch. In a feat of flexibility that Phil would not be able to recreate in a thousand years, he managed to somehow get his left hand down to his inner right ankle and free the knife that was stowed away there, borrowing the momentum of his falling leg to swing his arm him and slice through the branch that held him. Somehow, although the branch was thicker than two of his fingers and impossible to pry free with his hands, he managed to slice through it in one go and fell down to ground.
His legs gave out and he fell to the ground, the branch around his neck loosening to the point that he could finally pry it off. For a few seconds he was overtaken with a chest racking cough as he struggled to provide his oxygen deprived lungs with the resources necessary to keep his lifeblood flowing. The smuggler struggled to his feet and stumbled a few feet forward to swiping up the dropped sword and swinging it over the head of the closest man.
After freeing himself, the branches no longer tried to snatch him back up, as if they’d already accomplished what they wanted with him and couldn’t be bothered anymore. He managed to free the four other men next to him in time, before back peddling back to the fire before the wicked willows changed their mind. Had any of the men patted their beltline or checked their collars, they’d have found all of their coin pouches and necklaces were missing.
Most of the branches rescinded into the bough of the tree, leaving only the dangling corpses beneath the other various willows. None of the danglers were struggling any longer, their souls either departed or resigned to death. Phil returned the sword to its rightful owner, only to discover that all of the weapons that had been left unattended next to the fire had vanished. Small holes in the forest floor were visible where the weapons had been resting, as if the earth had opened its maw and swallowed them all whole.
“Regroup! To me!” Phil shouted as he saw the survivors fighting off a small horde of bats and boars. The boars were strange looking, slightly smaller than those he’d seen before and appearing like colorful bushes. There were only four of them, but every time one was slayed a powder would be cast into the air and the men closest would stiffen up before falling over, not even twitching any longer. As the men started regrouping and effectively vanquishing the forest mob, the creatures started retreating.
Phil cast his eyes around and counted around 60 men still remaining in various states of equipment, some unarmed, others missing pieces of their armor. Screams were still shouting out from the side of the forest he’d sent men to collect firewood. The men over there had been against Phil since the start anyways, so he saw no reason to risk his life to try and aid them. He led his group across the clearing to the opposite side from where they’d entered before charging back into the forest.
Luckily a few of the women had scooped up torches before fleeing, so the Ostlinders were not traveling in the complete dark. They progressed down the path, not seeing any large enemies but hearing branches cracking all around them. The hair on the back of Phil’s neck remained standing up for the duration of the trip. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, being hunted. Crossbows sounded out from behind men, followed by meaty smacks and thumps against trees, letting him know those damned flying squirrels were being nailed out of the way.
“Keep it up men, we just need to charge forward until we reach the end of the area. According to our intelligence, the forest will release us afterwards.” Only a few minutes, however, one of the men in the front let out a scream as he vanished from eye sight. Phil walked slowly to the area as everyone behind him slowed down. The poor vanguard had fallen into a trap hole that seemed to be at least 8 feet deep. The walls of the hole seemed smooth to a fault, covered only in thick clumps of what appeared to be a spider web. The man himself had gotten entangled in a web and was struggling to free himself but only making his situation worse.
The webs didnt break but seemed to hold faster against him. Even his blade had been captured by the webs, sucked in like a fish to a crocodile. Phil cast his eyes around only to discover that the trees had changed slightly. The base trunks were the same gnarled, blackened metallic trees from before. The big change was that the trees now had a plethora of white covering the branches and blocking off paths between the trees, giving the illusion that they were trapped in some sort of massive web.
Upon inspection, the spider thread was much thicker than any web Phil had seen before, so thick it made the forest appear as if it were in the midst of a wintery snowstorm. Fire from the torches glinting off several transparent webs, letting him know not all the webs were visible. As the group stood around gazing in awe at the scale of the web covered forest, a cat sized spider leapt from a tree trunk it was camouflaged against, taking a man down by tackling him into another hole that had been hidden on the other side of the forest trail.
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Another spider bit the ankle of a torch bearer, only to find out that the women wore very thick leather boots that the spider could not penetrate. She shouted in pain and pressed the torch against the spiders carapace, directly lighting it on fire and causing it to release its grip on her ankle. It was then kicked off into the forest, landing into a blanket of web and setting it on fire instantly. In the course of a couple seconds, the night was lit up in blazing inferno as all the collected threats were burned. Spiders lept from trees, launching frenzied attacks on the now alerted group. Only a couple more men fell to the large spiders, the rest having been batted away with torches, clubs, and swords.
Although the fire was extremely uncomfortable, it made traversing the area much easier. Phil ignored the screams of burning men in the pits as well as those that been tacked into the hellish fires by the other spiders and charged forward. Every time they hit a patch of unburnt web, one of the torch bearers would step forward and set it alight while another man covered them from ambush. Unfortunately, all of the mages had been mercs and had left with the traitorous group. Phil wished from the depths of his heart that they were suffering far worse than his men were, but couldn’t give too much thought to the issue. He needed to stay vigilant.
Finally, the group of Ostlind guards and hired hands exited the night-time area. The trees transitioned once more to a variation of dark grey trunks that weren’t too different than the black biome, bright yellow oaks that were blended with a deep earthy color, and dark rusted-red trees as well. Several of the trees still gleamed in the torch light albeit much more dimly. The foliage thickened around the group, filled with vibrant colors along with several peppers and flowers that Phil didn’t recognize. Considering they were in an enchanted forest, any of those plants could have been miracle medicines worth tons of money but there was no time to consider harvesting any. The group pushed away colorfully ivy from where it was dangling in the path while continuing forward.
Phil didn't want to jinx it, but it seems like they had finally made it out of the woods, figuratively speaking that was. He slowly made his way to the back of the group in anticipation of the trees opening back up to the burnt remains of Annahmia. He wouldn’t have a whole lot of wiggle room when it came to the unavoidable confrontation with the would-be rescuers of the ill-fated town. His plan, if you could apply that word to the loosely formed train of thoughts he had pieced together, was to make a break to the river instantly while both groups started posturing. He would dive to the floor of the river, following it as far downstream as he could before resurfacing and running west. He was a strong swimmer and could hold his breath for much longer than most men, a necessary trait for port smugglers.
Suddenly Phil felt like there were countless eyes boring holes in the back of his head, ready to slice him to bits and cook him over a fire. The killing intent of whatever creature was spying on them was overbearing, making the air so thick it was difficult to breathe again. The groups steps began to slow, their legs start locking up, and their weapons rapidly increasing in weight. Even Phil’s dagger suddenly felt like a broadsword in his hand, gaining weight and increasing in heat until it felt like he’d just pulled it out of a forge. A loud screech in his ear alerted him to the fact that a ghost had appeared next to him. He lashed out with his dagger and felt it catch against the spirits apparitional throat before tearing free.
The ghost dropped to the floor dead, releasing its hold on its sword. Phil quickly swapped his dagger to his off hand and caught the sword as it fell. All around him was an army of the undead. Men walking with rotting flesh, worms crawling out of eyeballs, skeletal warriors, and spirits that seem all too insubstantial. Behind them was another army composed of goblins, orcs, and trolls. The groups eyed each other before chaos broke out. Blood started flying through the air as they eviscerated each other, all them fighting as if they could not tolerate the existence of the other under the night sky. As battle began, a few of them broke off and charged towards Phil.
“Have at it then, you fucking ghouls. Ill not be done in by the likes of you!” The smuggler shouted from the top of his throat as he descended into the chaos. In that moment he was not a father, not a leader, and not a smuggler, but a god of slaughter. His sword ducked in and of various monsters, parrying weapons that were swung his way and finding gaps in their formation to slither in and taste blood. Every now and then Phil was nicked by a blade but he always returned the favor tenfold with a vicious slash of his sword. Eventually he lost the blade, however, having to abandon the sword in a skull of a ghost after it became stuck steadfast.
With only his daughter's dagger, he fought off the dwindling hoard of monsters. A zombie staggered towards him, causing him to spin around and grasp the creature by its hair. His dagger flew in and out of the decaying man’s chest 5 times before Phil himself was stabbed, taking a sword through the back. The blade was visible through his gut and he watched as it was pulled back out. In his maddened frenzy, he did not instantly feel the pain and was able to swing out with his dagger and catch the offending skeletons throat.
Finally, it was only Phil left standing as the victor of the brutal melee. Fresh red blood covered the forest floor and was scattered on the surrounding bushes and trees. Even the flowers did not escape this sanguine bath, each colored deeper than a rose blooming in the spring. Phil looked down and saw that his impish leather vest was dyed an even darker red than usual, a new hole visible just to the right of his navel, slowly leaking his life’s blood. Off to the right, Phil recognized an herb that could be used to process recreational drugs. He smuggled it in from the Brakkens pretty frequently. Most importantly it could be processed to make a clotting medicine used in salves. He stumbled over and bent to rip some from the ground only to find that gravity was a lot harsher than he thought it was.
He crashed to the ground, managing to rip some of the herb free from the earth before rubbing it against his open wound. He slowly realized that he had accumulated many more nicks and cuts than he’d felt. The pain started returning to him, much more intense than any pain he’d felt in his life before. Phil found himself unable to stand up again, he truly was going to die this time.
‘Should have listed to my daughter, she always knew best. It’s a shame she has nobody to look out for her anymore.’ He laughed deprecatingly at himself, causing his chest to spasm in pain. ‘She never really needed me to look after her anyways.’ She'd been responsible and independent since she was a child, never needing a mans help but always allowing her father to help anyways, if only to make him feel better. She didn’t even know he was taking the job. This was supposed to be his swan song, his last hoorah to the underworld before he went clean. He wanted to use the reward money and loot to help kick start a legitimate trading business with his sweet little princess. All she’d ever wanted was for him to go straight, for them to settle down and live a righteous life as father and daughter. Even in her adolescence she was always worried that she’d lose him like she’d lost her mother during childbirth.
Tears streamed down Phil’s face, digging trails through the blood that caked his grey and red beard. I can’t give up yet, he said to himself as he dragged himself forward, inch by inch. The pain was agonizing, and he lost himself in the dragging. After what felt like miles of dragging himself through the mud and bramble of the forest, his hand brushed against something soft.
He opened his eyes to see a hedgehog staring down at him, wearing a bandit mask. Its teeth were much sharper than other hedgehogs he’d seen before and the coloration of its quills was all wrong. It stood on two feet, staring down at the dying smuggler. Upon its head, a young child was sitting cross legged, the tiny fairy no bigger than Phil’s palm. As Phil locked eyes with the minute lady, the child cocked its head sideways before floating off the hedgehog and bopping Phil on the nose.
His thoughts cleared up almost instantly. All of his hope drained away instantly as he was filled with the dread that accompanied any dying creature. The pain faded away and, in a bout of reverse clairvoyance, Phil realized there was something wrong with the scene he’d just lived through. After miles and miles of dragging, he hadn’t moved an inch, the uprooted earth from where he tore out of root was still next to his head.
Using the last of his energy, he crawled to a tree that wasn’t too far away and pulled himself into a sitting position to turn around. Behind him was a field of dead men. Not goblins and skeletons, or zombies and ghosts, but men. His men. All in various positions of horrible carnage. Fingers had been chewed off, limbs scattered around, and not a single man was still breathing.
‘Something messed with our minds, we never stood a chance.’ was Phil’s second to last thought, followed shortly by ‘Goodnight, my little princess.’ The red-vested smuggler closed his eyes, never to open them again.