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Sun Cycle 3, First Quarter Moon - Oakhaven Outskirts
Right, let's get this down while the light's still good. Ink flow feels decent today, which is a plus. If anyone ever stumbles across this growing pile of scribbles – maybe using it for kindling, who knows – hello from Kael. Formerly Kaelan of Oakhaven, currently Kaelan of... well, about fifty paces beyond the 'Welcome to Oakhaven - Please Wipe Your Feet' sign. Which, frankly, feels like escaping Alcatraz at this point.
Why leave the thrilling metropolis of Oakhaven? That's the million-copper question, isn't it? Maybe it was the soul-stirring excitement of the Annual Turnip Festival. (Spoiler alert: the turnips were turnip-shaped again. Riveting stuff.) Maybe it was Elara Willowisp, bless her cotton socks, informing me with the subtlety of a thrown brick that my most adventurous quality was the sheer nerve it took to wear mismatched socks in public. Again. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the dusty, rolled-up map I unearthed from Gran's attic, hidden beneath a pile of moth-eaten doilies. A map showing places that definitely don't appear on the meticulously drawn 'Oakhaven & Surrounding Sheep Pastures' chart hanging in the village hall. We're talking names like "The Shifting City of Veridian," "Gorge of Whispering Bones," and my personal favourite, "The Probably-Not-Friendly Mountains." Sounds like a real hootenanny, eh?
So, bag packed (mostly dried apples that taste vaguely of Gran's attic, spare socks – matching, Elara, take note! – and enough parchment to document the rise and fall of several small empires), map tucked safely away, and here I am. The sun's actually quite pleasant when it's not just highlighting how desperately the tavern roof needs re-thatching. The air smells different already. Less... sheepy. More like damp earth, pine needles, and... possibility? Or maybe that's just wild garlic. Probably the garlic.
First objective: Follow this conveniently ignored "Old Trade Path" the map vaguely gestures towards. Honestly, it looks less like a path trampled by generations of commerce and more like where deer go to contemplate their life choices. The trees out here are already bigger, gnarlier than the pruned, sensible ones back home. They loom a bit, leaning in like gossipy old aunties. Is it creepy? A smidge. Is it better than Barnaby Fletcher explaining the finer points of crop rotation for the seventeenth time? Oh, absolutely. Put that on my tombstone.
Spent the first hour feeling like a walking buffet for buzzflies the size of my thumb. Seriously, these things have heft. Note to self: acquire or invent insect repellent that doesn't require smelling like pickled bog water. Passed an old woman gathering herbs by the edge of the woods proper just now. Stringy grey hair, a face like a crumpled parchment map itself, and eyes like chipped flint. She clocked my pack and the hopeful look on my face instantly.
36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbOMc2arpAN
"Goin' deep, are we boy?" she rasped, her voice like dry leaves skittering on stone. She gestured a knobbly finger towards the dense forest ahead – the Whisperwood, according to the map.
"Something like that," I managed, aiming for 'seasoned traveller' and probably landing somewhere near 'lost puppy'. "Just seeing the sights."
She let out a cackle that sounded worryingly like rocks tumbling down a deep well. "Sights aplenty in the Whisperwood. Heard the trees been walkin' again past the shallow root line. Best hope you packed more'n dried fruit if you aim t'see the dawn on the other side."
"Walking trees? Got it. Thanks for the... uh... heads-up," I said, doing a slow, non-threatening shuffle backwards. Probably just local legend, you know? Like Old Man Hemlock insisting pixies replace his good shears with rusty ones every third Tuesday. Standard village weirdness.
Still... she wasn't wrong about the woods feeling different once you're properly in them. The path, such as it was, has basically thrown its hands up and surrendered to moss and roots. This is less 'following a path' and more 'aggressive bush-hugging'. The light's filtering down in weird, dusty shafts, and the air is thick, cool, and smells like everything's been damp forever. Everything drips. Drip, drip, drip. It's the background music to my impending doom, probably.
And I swear... I just saw something. Out of the corner of my eye. Up ahead, maybe thirty paces? Not an animal. Taller. Spindly. The colour of moss and wet bark and shadow. It seemed to... unfold?... from behind a massive, moss-draped oak, then melt back into the gloom. Gone. Probably just tired. Nerves. First day away from home, cut me some slack, imaginary journal reader. Utterly pathetic.
Right. Need to find a spot to camp before it gets properly dark and the real weird stuff punches its time card. Found a little clearing, vaguely defensible. Got a small fire going – took ages, everything's damp. The crackle and pop is surprisingly comforting. Almost drowns out the other noises. Like... snapping twigs? Definitely snapping twigs. Coming from just outside the circle of firelight. Not the sound of small critters either. Heavier. Calculated. And there's a low sound, too. A sort of guttural... grunt? Like a very large, very unhappy badger that's been lifting weights. Or something else entirely. Suddenly, the old woman's comment about walking trees doesn't feel quite so much like a charming local yarn. More like foreshadowing. Great.
The snapping sounds stop. Abruptly. The woods fall utterly, unnervingly silent, except for my crackling fire and the sudden, frantic thumping of my own heart. Then, directly across the clearing, maybe twenty feet away in the thickest shadows where the firelight barely reaches, two points of pale, sickly green light blink open. Like eyes. They're too high off the ground for a wolf or a badger. Way too high. And they're staring right at me.
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