John opened his eyes, greeted by a world half ruled by dream but projected on reality. He hoped beyond anything that the visions he now vaguely remembered were just figments of that illusory king. He steeled his mind on that hope. He played with an idea that came to him in one such memory of needing to apologize to preacher. Though he didn’t know what he needed to apologize for or why he considered it in the first place. Most of what he was remembering, and he used the term lightly, was foggy at best. The parts he did remember clearly were the wisps and his mother, her ghostly green eyes piercing into his soul as they always had. The eyes that knew when his father had lied and when John had been told not to tell her. The eyes of a mother in the depths of pain and anger, eyes John had long wished to never see again. He could feel the tears swell and turned his mind to more important tasks other than his self-pity.

John pushed himself up from the tree, a task that took more effort than expected and worried him considerably. He assumed it wasn’t morning, but the dense green and brown canopy of the forest made it difficult to say with any certainty. It really wouldn’t have mattered as he noted that he couldn’t remember the sun’s position before his last “memory” anyways. He set off to make his way out of the woods when his stomach churned and was rewarded with bile and searing pain. The small pool of sickness at his feet told John that he was in bad shape while the blood on his hands and stomach told him that he was in serious trouble. As much as he wished it to not be the case, the demon who attacked him was in fact somewhat based in reality. A fact he was more focused on than the pool or the blood. He took another step forward filled with intense pain, thankfully less than the last. He continued walking as the pain in his stomach slowly numbed away but kept his speed at no more than a light crawl.

His mind was still fogged when the forest began to darken around him, the green of the forest casting a dark shadow across the dead floor. Unlike the woods of Granjun this forest was silent, the birds in hiding and various rodents burrowed away for their own survival daring not to make a single squeal. The silence was maddening, it was growing dark before he finally heard the rustling of leaves in the canopy and the faint rushing of water. The former had his heart racing while the latter only made his stomach violently erupt. Another pool of bile ensured both returned to a normal level.

He started to regret ever lea1ving out on this hunt. The faithful knew the dangers for those who were not strong in faith. If they didn’t come back from their pilgrimage they were quickly forgotten by the village. Though John mused it must have been different for the preacher's daughter who the town revered as the truest of faith. The way the faithful treated her infuriated him. His only friend, Fisher’s oldest son, never returned from his pilgrimage three summers ago. Yet when John went to Fisher after a season to see if his oldest was back, he simply pointed at his second son and feigned confusion. The only reason anyone came into these woods was to prove you were faithful enough to be allowed back into the village. Then go so far as to refuse they ever existed when they don’t come back. Where was Noah’s search party? He could see why his father had forced them to leave after John's fifth winter.

He stumbled his way past a tree line revealing the source of the rushing water. A river John had foggy memories of, drained out into a basin that fell from a ten-foot-high cliff. The surface of the water was foamy from the falls. In most cases it would have been a beautiful sight, had it not been for two very important facts.

The first, was the unmistakable deep growl that came from behind him, a growl that he knew was real. The second was the shore he found himself standing on. The basin stretched far into the horizon with no sign of an opposite shore. He heard the growl again, followed by the dead dry crunch of leaves, and lastly the soft padding of heavy paws on sand. He had survived his nightmares and was left with this stunning image of a lake as his last moments. There were worse ways to die, he considered. The pain would be immense sure, but the view was just to die for. He wanted to laugh but all that came out was a whimper.

He grabbed the last shards of his pride and looked down into rippling water, a sandy cloud lazily drifting toward the shore. His thoughts drifted to Fisher’s eldest son and his many teachings of the watery worlds; never swim near falls, still water has a current, and his most important lesson. John dove forward into the water at an angle, the cold water sending a shock through his worn, tired frame. A large body darted over him and pulled back a massive thrashing creature. Ripples and water clouds do not occur naturally by the shore.

The gulper had caught the large tusket from the shoreline, its slick body was the color of sand at its base with shimmering blue scales covering its head. The fish had snatched the tusket at an angle, one of the cat’s gore covered tusks poked through the dull eye of the fish. They both thrashed wildly, crimson water splashed in the air around John who quickly decided the shore was a much safer place to be. He backpedaled into the sand and watched the titans fight in the shallow water, the tusket’s hind legs raked into the gulper’s bottom jaw tearing away scales and sending large squirts of blood flying. The fight was decided quickly as the gulper clamped down on its meal. The beast's body went limp, and blood dripped down its waterlogged back. The gulper opened its mouth, the back half of the cat sliding out onto the shore while the front half stubbornly gripped into its bloody torn throat. It dropped its head hard against the bank and John watched the faint light in the fish’s good eye drain away, never breaking eye contact with its deceiver.

The briar grabbed at her legs giving the cat more time to find its prey. The forest had wanted the boy dead, she realized, the curse of the forest had marked him as its next victim and would let no mortal stop the course of fate. She shouldn’t have left him like that, she should have known better. Her uncle hadn’t saved her all those years ago for her to betray the one thing she swore to the only man she revered more than her father. She had failed and her ego was to blame. Her legs broke through the demonic thorns and paid their blood toll to save his life again. Her heart raced and her vision grew blurred with sweat. Her body was sore and battered, her mind was a tangled mess of emotions. She couldn’t let her uncle down; She would never be able to look him in the eyes again.

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The maze of trees grew thick around her as she sprinted deeper into the woods. Her legs thumped rhythmically as she searched, then the beat suddenly stopped, and she was sliding forward crashing hard into a thick tree. The scaled bark tore at her cheek, the blood smearing her hands. But it wasn’t her blood. She looked at the rough oak and saw the sticky liquid which easily could be mistaken for sap. She turned to where she had slipped. A small pool of watery green filled a valley of dirt at the bottom of a nearby tree, crimson marking the path of the wounded man.

She hardened her resolve and ordered her legs forward, her hunter's eyes refusing to lose the trail as she flew through the thickets and thorns. She was a shadow once again, dancing between the specters of the forest. She felt the day wane as the shadows grew in power over her mortal eyes. The crimson trail grew as dark as her imagination, she could see the carnage she had brought to this innocent man. He hadn’t deserved death at the hands of a monster like that, certainly not because of her negligence. She pushed her mind away and allowed nothing but the huntress to speak, just as wolf and boar had taught her. She became one with her totem, wind rushing past her ears giving lift to her wings. She felt the breeze in the trees, knowing where they ebbed without truly seeing them. Her eyes focused ahead of her searching for the source of the gentle melody on the wind.

The forest thinned, orange and yellow light blazed from beyond the edge of the woods. Her hands moved before she had a chance to order them as she pulled the bone handled knife from the dark leather sheath on her hip. It felt of security and comfort and her mind drifted to her father and uncle, to the tribe who had taught her the ways of the forest, and to the armless drifter who had inadvertently taught her of the consequences of her actions. These souls and lessons gave weight to the dagger as she landed on the rocky sand shore of a lake, her arm cocked back aimed at the back of the tusket. She saw the desperate dive of the man as the tusket pounced and knew she was a moment too late.

The appearance of the glasscat locked her entire body in place as it caught the cat in midair. Blood sprayed the shore, scales dotted the shoreline like sapphires in a sea of gore, and in a single moment the bottom half of a tusket dropped out of its mouth and it crashed gently into the waves, a tusk breaking through the dripping eye of the mutated catfish, incredulously starting down the man. Not only was he safe, but he had killed the king of beasts in both the water and land. The man must have heard her breakthrough the trees as he turned and gave a deep sigh and gentle smirk, his deep hazel eyes shining like the summer sun through amber. She smiled back and threw the dagger in the sand an inch away from his hand. With a huff and yell she pushed every emotion in her head away except for the comforting cold embrace of indifference towards the boy and stormed back into the darkening foliage of the night.

John saw the ebony skinned woman burst through the tree line, dagger in her hand ready to throw. She was clothed in fur and leather, but also armor and salvage he noted. Animal heads were sewn into her armor at the shoulders, two deer heads with their horns removed. The dark tans, browns, and blacks, faded not only into the forest around her but also her complexion. Vials were strapped into her belts, one going from hip to shoulder and the other she wore loosely around her waist. She looked at the scene and back to John with curiosity and relief in her olive eyes. He didn’t think she was going to hurt him, it seemed like she had really meant to either save him or was coincidentally here hunting one of the creatures. He sighed and smiled at the woman, relieved he wouldn’t have to wander the forest alone anymore. She smiled back and with the light flick of her wrist the dagger was gone.

He felt the edge of the blade nick the outside of his hand. Her olive eyes turned from relief to aggravation in a mere instant as John watched her whip around with a scream back into the forest. To say he was confused would be a gross understatement. Had he done something wrong? He looked down at his hand and realized the blade his crimson life was dripping down was the dagger he had lost against the demon. He pulled his hand back, a thin red line barely deep enough to draw blood sliced down the side of his pinky. She could have easily killed him if she had wanted, he knew. What he didn’t know is why she left him alive.

The titans laid silent along the shore, the watery brackish clouds of blood and sand thinning as the gentle wave lapped against them. The dull dead eye of the gulper refused to close even in its last moments. Fisher's son had told John that some fish were just as smart as people, and he wondered if that meant they could also hold a grudge. Another yell and the chopping of wood rang from the dark depths of the woods. John returned the knife to its sheath in his jacket and pushed himself up from the sand, taking in the scene one final time. A broken tusk laid half buried in the sand a foot from the corpse of the gulper. It was hefty in his hand, jagged where it had broken from the base of the tusket’s jaw. He placed it in his jacket pocket and trudged into the forest following the sounds of the mystery woman.

It watched the scene unfold with great interest; the children fared far better than it imagined they could. This would turn out to be a great decision on its part. It shook its head, best not to be too hasty. Besides all the players haven’t joined yet, no point in placing bets this early in the game. Though if it had a favorite, the boy seemed to be promising, the girl not too far behind. As if on cue, a blue green light started emanating from the mutated corpses of its toys. The light pulsed slowly at first, but soon matched the rhythmic pattern of a heart. The light grew brighter as the bodies shriveled into nothing, specs taking flight from the burrowed holes in the leather and scales. The specs grew into puffs, then clouds, the pulsating light now matched the static flapping of small wings. Flesh, muscle, and bone crunched as the swarm devoured their host and the delightful snack the boy had left for them. It knew they would be displeased with losing, a fact that drew a smile across its face. The bugs would learn from this loss, and it looked forward to seeing the carnage they brought down because of it. All that remained on the shore were the bloody entrails of its toys, wrapped neatly into a round pouch, to mark the swarm’s displeasure.