Due north, across the chocolate mountains, which were only chocolate in color— which I now knew. But then again, chaos made crazier things than a mountain of cocoa.
Once I passed the chocolate mountain, I entered a basin several hundred feet below sea level, only to traverse an even grander mountain, one aged and cut by ancient rivers that once thrived long ago. Longer than God's, these currents cut through the stone for thousands of years only to one day stop for a few thousand, allowing beings to live in its now dry spaces, only to reemerge in another few thousand. Even in these chaotic-run lands, nature played its ordinary course. Bringing a strange realization to my mind...even without the system, life would go on.
Walking its walls, I found footing and posts that told of people beforehand. Old, worn posts that aged with time and wind and once held words, but now the letters had chipped away and only left specks of what was once paint and meaning. Handhelds molded in rocks for when the wind picked up left me gripping for dear life when the winds swelled up and released their onslaught.
That's probably what the signs warned of: Beware STRONG WINDS! YOU WILL DIE!!!
Animals cried from cliffs in calls of youth and adventure. Far past here, I would stumble upon a coast. Stumbling, clinging, I made my way across and over the chocolate peaks.
A part of me died when the trek was completed. That small part that thought nothing in the realm had snuffed me out. Wouldn't it be funny if it was just a damn wind that knocked me off the cliff and into a self-imposed grave? Never to be found, gone.
But I hadn't fallen. And now I rested at the peak of these shattered lands.
Up above, I watched the land move subtly under my gaze. Breezes brought a dance across the land as the evening sun moved Westward to its finale.
Bright and beaming, the sun struck the land of chaos with a shine that displayed just another land—nothing vile, no hidden evil, just a land meant for man as any other.
Muttering I began to sing the songs of the hidden tribe from what felt like eternity ago.
Reaching my face, I felt a stumble, and tearing away, I saw strands of gray.
How old was I? The question stung, hung, and burned as I didn't know the answer.
How can someone not know how fucking old they were?
What was I, some prisoner of war??!
The last part hurt me deep inside. I didn't want to make the realization, but I was somewhat like a prisoner to the realm. Those who embark on a quest are subject to the apathetic system that dominates our realm. The hero's journey is never a happy one.
And I had just told some floating God-thing eye that I would be said hero.
No complaining now...
Opening the system, I checked my bio log.
{33 year old Adventurer}
Huh.
My twenties, which I felt had only begun, had died in a blink.
With age came wisdom, or so they said, and I searched but found only gray hair and worries growing on top of doubt.
From atop the peaks, I watched over at the corner of the world. A ding overhead and a floating box of text read: Valley peaked, entering The Distant Shore.
This is it. I muttered as the winds picked up around me, jostling my path and view toward the valley that layers across the bluffs. Wide and open, it stretched, green and vibrant, but most noticeably, it was buffeted by a raging sea.
Sharp teeth of rock and ocean bed jutted out in zig-zag that mimicked the mouth of a terrifying Neptunian beast. Around the top, mosses hemmed, draped, and fell back into the water. An eerie silence filled my heart as I continued to feel like a spectator from afar.
From a distance, I could make out the tiny silhouettes of birds and seagulls that rested up top, enjoying the calm of a forever storm. Then, straining my vision, amplifying it with a burst of energy, my eyes burning bright blue as they gazed at the figure that looked like a man more feral than domestic, I saw a figure dive head first from what should have been his final plunge.
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I figured that would be them. I let my eyes rest, returning them to their normal human state of near blindness.
You would be greeted by a cast of misfits, of lost souls, of forgotten and treacherous. These would be your companions on the journey of return.
Her words had come to me in a hazy dream that I only remembered snippets of. Those lines are the most intact, the rest fading and dissolving as soon as they are remembered, like trying to hold sand for too long.
Making my descent, I began to move into the outer reaches of the coast. Floral of all colors sprouted and shot towards the sea, like green fish that wished to uproot themselves and join the ocean, their true mother. Beneath me, feet and tracks read a group of people. Twigs and leaves snapped and cracked. I could have disguised myself, made my feet like the wind, and glazed over the land like some apparition, taking them by surprise.
But, if these were to be companions, I would want to meet them on a steady foot, not by scaring them helplessly.
Movements soon barged into my sphere of senses. Around me, I passively read their movements, outlining their auras for me in a temperature of red hues.
I spoke plainly and loudly, raising my hands in a sign of what I hoped they would infer as surrender.
Please don't attack me. I come without harm or bad intentions. I was pointed in this direction and told of a band looking to risk the waves and the seas. And make our way back.
Russles and chatter came from the jungle growth. Vines moved, and out came three figures. They each looked tattered but not broken—warriors by their build, survivors by their eyes.
A man and two women with builds of fighters, eyes that darted up and past, noting my clean demeanor. Immediately, they asked without words, who in the hell was this clean-shaven-washed man?
Who told you of us? And how did they know we planned on leaving?
The woman beside the man asked. She had red hair that danced along her muscular shoulders. Her clothes were plain garments that told of heavy use. The clothes themselves fit taut around her curved and sculptured muscular body. She was no dancer, and pain surged through my body with the thought. It was a faint reminder of something lost, no…locked away.
Shaking my head, readjusting my mind.
I looked up at them—the lost and broken, those who traveled the edge to face the brutal seas with eyes open and lost.
I need to make it back. I have a life that I left paused and wish to resume again.
Their eyes darted to one another, ping-ponging from one then, with a shake, an unease, to the other. It was as if they played a complex game of handball that neither knew the rules of. They could have won or lost, but they didn't even know what to win or lose, so they continued their passing glances for what seemed like forever.
No, not forever, I thought as I remained calm and placid, focusing on the seas and the wind that ruffled and moved my clothes in motion with their current. Fleeting, I thought; life is fleeting.
Setting my vision on the torrents to the east, I saw what was the black pit that rested between us and the goal. Between nomads and society at large. The small space that held nothing but would lead us to everything.
Losing myself in the moment, something I had only recently become proficient at, I had forgotten how much was at stake.
How can you help us if we decide to risk an unknown?
Pragmatic, I thought, but at least that told me they meant business.
I didn’t want to play all of my cards, but seeing the nature of their builds, how their bodies moved, and their taut muscles showed a strain that only came with understanding the land and how to survive. They didn’t need another scavenger, another survivor, another man. They needed something greater, someone who could cut the wind and bend the storm if need be—someone with access to their soul, but most importantly, the system.
“I have access to the system.”
Three eyes bulged but then instantly fought back. No, their faces yelled. This can’t be.
“What a daring lie. You must be desperate.”
The women on the side responded. She was leaner with the face and eyes of a northerner and the sharp tongue that split at one end. Her body, littered with scars, told a story. A horror of being caught by the savages of the land. They said it was akin to 11 deaths to be found and killed by them. From the looks of it, she had survived. But the eyes that stayed firm, darting towards me, their crystal blue, now cracked at the iris, revealing streaks of golden rivers courting their insides.
Cold…I muttered lost in its icy gaze.
Do you have any words? A response when caught. Or are you a mouse who stumbled into the woods and was caught in a bear's trap?
She continued her barrage, words, arrows, and a bow in her mouth that spat them in quick succession, not allowing the enemy to fight back. She only knew how to fight and defend, not how to hold a conversation.
Guys, let us hear the man out…
His meek words portrayed himself perfectly. He was a man in his forties, strong by the look of his forearms and their veins—the same ones that stood out from his neck like he had swallowed a large worm, and it made its way around his body, slithering in a display of primal fortitude. For such a strong frame, he was, without a doubt, a tank, a warrior, a frontline on the mainland; yet, he carried no weight or power in this trio's dynamic here.
The woods stilled around them as their feral eyes darted back to the man who dared speak when the woman held the floor.
How dare you step out of line, their eyes screamed.
Desperation is hidden underneath. Something was wrong. They needed something.
Enough, I said as I tapped into my soul, engaging the system, focusing sufficiently to show raw power but not enough to harm; I sent a burst of wind from around my body.
Pushed back, they stumbled to gain footing.
A little too much power, I suppose...
The one with the scars and the sharp tongue smiled.
The other one, the first one, didn't resemble delight.
The man, built for the front but delegated to the end, laughed a gregarious and hearty bellow.
“Now, this is just what we needed. Right, girls?”
Now, it was his turn to stare; he stared at the two vixens as they smiled and nodded half-heartedly.
He took over the conversation floor and said,
Most of our guild isn’t here.
Guild? I responded
Sorry, that term seems ingrained in us. But yes, our people.
Exactly how long have you guys been out here?
Let's talk at the camp.
Opening a path between them, I joined in and followed openly to the camp of men who would help me on my voyage back. On my return to the realm who cast me away. To a guild that I hoped was still alive and waiting for my return. To a...to a something important that I can't seem to touch. Something locked away, burning my insides every time my mind draws near.
Whatever it was, be ready for me because nothing would stop me now.