Where lay dormant the moist and mucky heart of festering swamps, nary a wind dares sing its tune, for fear of rousing the fiends of fairy tales from the weightless sleep in which they were forcefully immersed. In lands where waters idle, boiling cool and turbid, where the air is damp and grows ever staler by the decay of wood and the spread of bracken, what souls driven by the call of mystery will often stumble upon treacherous dwellings wherein such forsaken beings can be found. The legends always tell of what riches these hellacious creatures amass in their cursed lives, and word of easy wealth and swift renown have summoned many a plucky adventurer at their doors, with only a sword and a pinch of bravado in hand. It is only then that the rotting gates will creak, an ominous sound without an echo, to welcome them into the den of an ogre. The macabre sound of feasting and supping would then reverberate to the neighbouring villages, the stories say, enough to let the children recognize the screams of their brothers and the cries of their fathers as they were devoured alive. Hearing these blood-curdling tales, some have even wondered whether the legends were written for the greed of men, or the gluttony of monsters.
Among them was Lillian, ever doubtful of the veracity in these patrimonial myths. She was a girl who could thoroughly enjoy reading of icky things that lurk deep within the lakes or of giants who grow taller than mountains beyond the North, but suspension of disbelief could only go so far. She had seen many things in her travels, more than any sixteen-year-old girl, at least; but she could not bring herself to believe that any man could be fool enough to face head on such monstrosities of existence for the sake of possible fortune. Did they not realize just how these monsters had managed to hord such grand treasures while never leaving the confort of their lairs? Thanks to mindless twits who try to be heroes. If these stories were true, then there’s probably an Ogre out there with more money than a small country.
From far into the distance came a chilling howl. The wind, she told herself, ruffling her dress nervously as she trod over the peaty soil. However, there was a seedling of doubt in her mind, and though she was not proud to admit it, her heart could now feel the constricting clutch of fear. There hasn’t been a single breeze in hours. It couldn’t… Padding onward, she carefully avoided the broken boughs and thorny bushes that littered the swampland, reluctantly hanging on to every gnarled and eerie tree when the tracts grew steeper and slicker. In truth, all her musings over the tales of old, all her rebuttals and contrived proofs as to their falsity were in a vain attempt to discard her worries. What animal stalked these bogs, she could deal with now, but anything bigger, or worse, sentient, was making her slim legs jitter under the dampened cloth of her dress. Next time you want to get to Suthainn, pay for the overgrown bird to carry you, Lily.
Because everything in Fiorair was the same diorama of marsh and moss interspersed with twisted trees, she could no longer feel the passing of time. She must have ambled for hours, yet by looking overhead, not only did the night not rescind, but it seemed to grow dimmer under the naked copses of black wood. The girl began faltering, doubting even the mental map of the forest she had once envisioned so clearly in her head. Distance travelled, drifting, twists and turns, every little detail she had committed to memory was now a senseless jumble brought by the haze of weariness, both physical and mental. She had been too cocky, too dependant on her memory, which she had once thought to be infallible.
Maybe… Maybe if I sleep a bit, I’ll recover enough strength to remember the rest of the way… she thought wanly, feeling her knees buckle under her weight. And so, she found shelter under a mossy nook nearby that protruded from a monticule of earth, where she unfurled her bedroll and sank squeamishly under thick layers of cloth she had brought in her knapsack, praying Suravani to protect her in her slumber. Alas, she could not find the solacing glow of the moon as she perused the skies, one last time.
Even her dreams were plagued with the monotonous landscape of marshlands, though her vision was blurred by a strange fog that hugged the ground like low-hanging clouds. Lillian waded through the mist, not responding to her own volition, but to that strange force that beckons the living in their deepest reveries. There was a soft wind, strangely warm, that carried with it the melodious notes of a lullaby, and it swirled around her for a long moment before dispersing into wafts forever lost, making her yearn for their soothing caress. As she walked, her boots stopped sucking mud, and instead of the slick squelch, there was the sound of water churning. Soon, the staleness of the air was wholly replaced by a sweet redolence, reminiscent of fructuous goods and saccharine pastries, their aroma mingling with the scent of flowering woodlands, an oddity she found not intriguing, but entrancing.
And, with every few seconds, another wind would pick, stronger and warmer than the first she had felt, still bearing the magical tune that became increasingly more compelling. It was a music that laced her mind, that made her drunk with desire, rousing the baser needs she had for so long dismissed. As she kept strolling without an aim, the lapping noise of dragging water still clear in her ears, a powerful heat slithered from her ankles to her knees, swirling faster to tickle her belly, to brush her bosom and finally kiss her lips with intoxicating passion. The enthralling song was drawing her nearer and nearer to its source, erasing any fear and worry off her mind, leaving only exhilaration beyond any she had ever felt. Mmm… she murmured, shutting her eyes to enjoy her boon.
When they yawned open, pearling with ecstatic tears, her eyes fell upon the strangest of pictures. She had seen immense masterpieces of architecture before, exuding perfection from each and every detail that composed them, but the tree that stood before her held a singular quality that redeemed its utter lack of finesses. Amidst the mould and lichen that snaked upon its darkening bark, the dappled tones of its uneven surface spanning an impossible girth and even loftier height, with drooping green festoons that slunk down from the protruding limbs that shot out the bole like petrified lightning, there was a perfect circle, a dark ingress that was covered in grime and moss, through which the wind blew in and out as if into a panpipe.
A pang of worry had taken her chest for but an instant, before her soul was numbed again, drinking in the beauty of this sylvan wonder. In that moment of lucidity, she had wondered where she had seen the marvel before. Perhaps in a book; but she had read so many, and her mind did not wish to be disturbed by needless thoughts. Lillian was so submerged by the dream-like vista that she did not recognize the howl that escaped from the rotting gate.
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