Tall brooding trees highlighted the horizon, creating a jagged silhouette that emphasized the corrupting, suffocating atmosphere that permeated through the air. An incomprehensibly large ball of crimson dominated the sky, washing the landscape in a shade of red so eerie that the all-encompassing forest appeared alien. The sun, however, provided minimal light and warmth, such that the surface, even though awash in saturated colour, barely illuminated the path ahead. It was a discomforting sight, that a symbol of life and colour in other worlds was a hollow shell of hopelessness in this land.
This Land has had many names, all now lost to time and destruction. Ages past kingdoms had risen and fallen, as history and wisdom passed down from era to era. They say that trees held the stories of a thousand years, but the wizen, crooked trunks that jut out into the dark sky seemed to be contorting in pain with the knowledge of the past. That's not to say that a semblance of joy did not exist at all, as through the red thick mists you could still sometimes hear the gurgle of a baby and the mirthless chuckle of a villager so used to their fate.
Nought is known to the fate of the land. Some academics maintain that it was a combination of unfathomable greed that led to the pillaging of kingdoms that caused a societal collapse, as well as the fading power of the sun, that soon grew too weak to sustain most crops that created the foundations of society. The believing types, however, claimed that it was the gods who looked down upon the land, in disgust of what their creations had become. Such wickedness could not be left to fester, and as such, plague descended into the community, exterminating most life in the world.
Of course, life continued, a depressing drip of existence when compared to the torrential river of life in the past. Small kingdoms live on, surviving with the last remaining usable resources left on earth, all while the halt of progress has given rise to several cults scattered across the land, each with their own divine existence promised to them by an unseen god. What it could have be-
*rustle*
The Explorer looked up from the weak, crackling fire he had been staring at and peered into the forest, a gaping void between the knotted trunks and shrubbery that created a natural wall around the forest. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he silently crouched towards the sound, ever wary of the constant danger posed in the Land. Backing away from the fire he slipped into the darkness, unsheathing his weapon, ready for twisted, hellish creatures that roamed the forest to pounce from the shadows. Thanks in part to the untamed wilderness untouched by human hands, nature had thrived, giving rise to many an animal that previously teetered on the edge of extinction. Unfortunately for the Explorer, the reclamation of nature was not a victory to him, but yet another obstacle towards his quest. During the times of thriving, most fauna and flora had been pushed to the recesses of the land, so far back that some creatures had become discussions of myth and story. All that remained were the few resilient predators that preyed on livestock and the occasional traveller, relying on ambush and physical prowess to overpower their victims. Now that the dominant species had lost control, the competition between predators had reached a boiling point, and the evolutionary skills that had promoted survival grew ever more powerful.
Moments passed without a sound out of place. The crackling of the fire combined with the muddied noises of night creatures deep within the forest provided a strangely comfortable frequency to the Explorer, who had by now eased the grip on his sword and had cautiously inched his way back towards the fire, sighing in relief. He glanced at the foreboding wall of trees that protected the denizens of the thick woods and shuddered at the thought of traversing through it. He wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and shivered as an icy breeze propelled through the air. He glanced behind him at the twin finger tops that dominated his view, the sheer size of the structures making him feel more insignificant than he already was. The twin peaks that he had to battle his way through to reach the forest had nearly taken his life, as the frosty temperatures had been especially cruel due to the weakened power of the sun. He glanced at his left hand, fingertips still blackened from the frostbite, and wondered if he had the willpower to make it back through the mountain peaks once his goal was complete.
As the fire weakened, the Explorer grabbed a few, dry twigs and tossed them into the flames reminiscing fondly on his life before his journey. Though the world's survival hung by a string, the determination of humanity could still be observed in the face of an apocalypse. The prime example was the tiny hovel that he originated from, one of the last bastions of human survival. A semblance of order could still be recognized there, with farmers tirelessly working through the day to harvest moonglow, one of the few remaining crops that had survived the dropping temperatures. With a population in the dozens, it was rare to see children running about, bringing life to the oppressive atmosphere that the other villagers succumbed to. However, his child was still back there, ever so curious and joyous against all odds. With the diminishing populations, trade between villagers had ceased to be, with all food and products purely created for self-sufficiency and survival. It was a difficult life, but a quiet one, as the village that he hailed from was located in a largely open plain with minimal tree cover that the emerging predators utilized.
***
It had been years since an outsider had made their way to the village due to the dangers of the open road. Furthermore, there was very little reason to stray from whatever relative safety you were in, which also erased the age of travellers and adventurers. However, on occasion, you could hear the frenzied screams of a drunk villager who had foolishly stepped out into the night, frustrated with the way that things were, looking to gain some sort of vengeance against the forces of nature. The particular night that had changed the trajectory of the Explorer's life had been an anomalous one. He remembered the weak fire crackling over the rusted metal cauldron that warmed the watery moonglow stew he had harvested that day. Lying on the ripped and knotted rug that lay on the dusty floor of their tiny, straw-thatched house, he rested his sore muscles and blistered hands that had spent the last 12 hours toiling over the field. His child, a boy who couldn't have been over the age of 5 or 6 lay near, playing with two pieces of straw, knotting them together aimlessly as his imagination took him to foreign lands. A young woman knelt over the cauldron, methodically stirring the bubbling, greyish-brown stew that would feed the family for the night. Though life was tough, the Explorer enjoyed the relative comforts of village life, counting himself lucky to not experience the horrors of the outer lands. The yellow moon, a mere blip in the vastness of the starless sky shone a slither of light through the window. The Explorer beckoned to his child to bring him a bowl of the stew that was done cooking. The child complied reluctantly, sighing as he was pulled out of his imaginary world, one with large bustling kingdoms and noble knights perhaps. As the child lazily discarded the knotted straw he had absent-mindedly fidgeted with, he rose towards his mother.
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A chant pierced through the night sky. Every hair on the Explorer's skin stood as a baritone voice travelled through the entire village, seemingly unhalted by distance or matter. The child dropped to his knees and slammed his hands against his ears, silently screaming in agony as the sinister chant slugged and crawled its way into their brains. While the voice was distinctly human, there was something vehemently 'un-human' about the voice, a sonic demon intent on crushing the mind and spirit. The mother grabbed the boy and held him tight as she gritted her teeth and buried her face in the boy's hair, tears streaming down her face. The oppressive chorus seemed to drain hope, or whatever hope there was left in this damned world. The Explorer inched his way up as if an imaginary force was pinning him down. With a roar he pulled himself up and was subsequently met with a crushing blow from the chant, propelling him against the house, crashing into the mud walls. As he stood against the window, grabbing his bruised ribs, he peered out into the night, attempting to seek the source of such evil.
Upon the overgrown path through the village that had been muddied through heavy rainfall, he spotted a man stumble from his hut, clutching his ears and screaming. Staggering through the door, he tripped and collapsed face-first into the mud. Writhing and screaming, he begged for the voices to stop, a weak plead against the hellish might of the chant. At once, the villager, the Explorer had identified as the blacksmith, let out one more soul-shattering cry before his body twitched in the mud, glistening blood pouring from his ears, highlighted against the weak shine of the moon. The Explorer turned back to his wife and screamed.
"RUN!"
His voice was absent. As loud as he cried, no words left his mouth. The immense pressure against his body mounted. The young woman, face twisted in agony, seemed to understand his words but could do nothing to take action. The invisible grip seemed to crush them all, succumbing them to unwilling servitude against unknown forces. Helpless and pleading, the Explorer turned back outside to seek help from someone, anyone...anything. There was nothing in the blackness of the sky, no divine intervention to swoop down and condemn the evil voices back to hell. What he did see, however, was the source of the chant.
Against the dim, dirty yellow moonlight, two figures stepped from the shadows, trampling the mud-clogged path that served as the only entrance and exit to and from the village. The figures donned crimson cloaks that flowed from head to toe. There were no visible patterns or ostentatious decorations to signify the creed these people belonged to, yet it was clear that their mission (if they had one) was one of sinister intent. Large crimson hoods shrouded most of their face in vile shadows that seemed to highlight the only visible part of their face. Their mouths. Agape and trembling, the chant that emanated from them seemed to be the spawn of absolute evil. Shadows seemed to creep from the abysses of their mouths clawing at their lips and teeth, trying to escape to collapse any light in the vicinity. The chanting was all-encompassing and destructive yet lacked any coherence or meaning. It felt like an ancient language that was sealed away eons ago or a weapon from a different world that had been unleashed into this one. They held their bony arms in front of them, donning a skull-shaped lantern that burned an ominous green flame. They marched in an unusual rhythmic fashion, each monk mimicking the other's move, their cloaks so long that it seemed they floated across an overgrown path.
It was clear they did not however, as the lifeless body of the village blacksmith lay across the road, interrupting the path of the Red Monks. Seemingly unaware of the obstacle, the monks continued chanting, inching their way towards the Explorer's abode. One of them stepped on the blacksmith's mud-covered and blood-drenched face, still twisted in agony, unconcerned with the consequences of disrespecting the departed. With unbelievable strength, the light stepped onto the face of the man and instantly crushed his skull, releasing shards of his skull along with a splattering of blood and viscera across the pathway and onto the monk's mud-soaked cloaks. Blood sprayed onto the walls of the blacksmiths' hut, with bits of brain and matter slamming against the walls of his hut. The Explorer covered his mouth, eyes wide with shock as a wave of nausea took over him. The chanting continued as the monks continued marching down the path, leaving behind the headless body of a man that the Explorer had known for decades.
A wave of terror gripped the Explorer as unexplainable glances of death and devastation seared into his mind. The wailing of the little boy reached a crescendo as images of unimaginable destruction overwhelmed his senses and sent him careening to the floor, unconscious with a trickle of blood dripping down his nose. The young woman collapsed onto the floor in a foetal position and silently rocked as the memories that did not belong to her settled in her brain. The Explorer could hold it in no longer and began throwing up onto his thatched floor before slumping down onto the ground, as the immense gravitas of chanting had reached their doorstep. As the Explorer began to slip out of consciousness, the door slammed open. He attempted to protest but in vain as invisible forces squeezed his skull so tight, that he thought it would burst. He had given up, and as he invited the sweet release of death, all went black.
He awoke. The red monk's voices rattled around in his head, so loud and pervasive. Thick, sludge-like blood coagulated in the figure's mouth as his blood-stained teeth snapped the words that would disrupt his pointless, yet quiet life. The monk's mouth was agape once more, unnaturally so. The shadows from within his throat were alive, angry, and evil. The stench of iron and rotting meat slamming against the Explorer's nostrils nearly gagged him as he struggled to maintain consciousness. The voice that bellowed into his ears was not from the monk's mouth. It seemed to emerge from every corner of the black room he was in, pummelling his ears till he couldn't take it any longer. He woke up and knelt before one of the monks, the one chanting into his face. Another stood behind him, bony, wrinkled fingers painfully gripping the explorer's long, unkempt hair, holding up his face. The skeletal lantern that burnt the dim, green light now appeared blindingly light, illuminating what appeared to be blackness. He was not in his house, but a domain of pure darkness. No walls, floors, or ceilings could be recognized in this void. As the Explorer adjusted to his surroundings a deep fear enveloped him as the red monk chanting at him lifted his hood, revealing nothing but the bottom half of his face. As if cleanly cut off by a masterfully crafted sword, the monk's face was cleaved surgically, with only his rotten mouth and chin operating independently.
"What are you?" The Explorer cried out unable to look away from the grotesque carven face of the monk who now leered at him.
Paying no heed, the monk leaned in closer, unbearably close. The chanting finally receded; the demonic scripture seemingly sucked back into the monk's throat. The monk began to speak. Unlike the otherworldly chants, his speech was alike to human conversation, with words being formed and emerged from the throat, crafted by the tongue and released. While the chanting boomed and overwhelmed, the monk's voice was raspy and feeble, barely audible to the Explorer's ears. Make no mistake, though, as it was still tinged with the same evil that had dominated the village.
"You are a son of the sun, do its bidding, for if you should fail the darkness will claim" the monk coughed, spraying droplets of blood onto the Explorer's face. "Head to the depths where you must forge...the connection...between...the...void...and...the...light."
The last word spoken, the monk raised his lantern and thrust it onto the Explorer's face. The green fire wailed and screamed as it lapped his face, relishing in every lick of his skin. He screamed in agony as fires hotter than the core itself enveloped him. The monks cackled. Louder and louder. Their gleeful laughs reflected off the eternal void. The Explorer dropped to the floor as the raucous laughter grew. This seemed to be the beginning of the end.