บท 132: Little One
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Otto Henderson
I awake from a quick rest on one of the odd pillars of black wood as I lean up and look around, but what I look at is not where I fell asleep. Not at all. I only lay down for a short rest from the pure exhaustion of carrying Johnny, but what I wake up to sends shivers down my spine.
Thick fog so oppressing that I can't even see my feet covers my whole body, but deep in that fog, shifting figures remain. Figures that invoke a primal fear.
One of the unknown, of the dark, of what lies beyond the threshold of consciousness. Momentarily I am able to regain my mind as I look over and see the rope I tied between Johnny and me.
It held firm despite whatever change occurred while I was resting. That's good, at least. I spend a few minutes looking over the unconscious man and ignoring the figures and fog. I need to see if he'll wake up soon. Could really use his help right now.
My mismatched Sigils of Rogue, Trapper, Soldier, Prowler, and Comanche, the last of which I got from Marion's body after his death, make up Adapter. My Sigil is excellent for overcoming various challenges, but it doesn't have Johnny's firepower. Nor am I truly as adaptable as Marion. Despite the name of my Sigil, I only have around half as many skills as that man, and I am half as proficient in most of them.
What Marion could do in just a few seconds from a large variety of skills he's acquired over his life and the plethora of challenges he had to overcome, I am forced to accomplish over minutes or hours. My most recent skill, Adaptation, allows me to become more resistant, perceptive, or really anything as long as I am in a situation where it is needed for my survival.
The damned Cabin was a bit vague in its description, but so far, it's worked quite well. Exhibit A is this bullet wound. I've been using Adaptation on it every chance I get, and it not only makes it heal fast but also causes it to hurt less and seemingly makes the part of my shoulder stronger. Because even with it wounded, my arm is almost as strong as it used to be.
I use this increased strength to roll Johnny over as I inspect his wounds. It seems as though those bandages Wyatt got from Heath are pretty effective, as all of the necrosis is gone, and Johnny is healing quite well. He should wake up soon. I check Downpour and make sure the revolver is fit snugly into his holster for when he does. Don't want it falling out while we move. That'd fucking suck.
But as I inspect him and recollect my own shitty situation, in the corner of my eyes, I see the figures grow more distinct, less blurry, and fading. Fear for the unknown gets my heart beating rapidly as I grab Johnny, wrap a rope around my back, and tie him to it. Really starting to run out of rope as, at this point, I'm using the cord of my rope darts to help move the older man. Might have to make do with dissembled thread from my bags at some point. I enjoy and fight the most success with explosions because of how adeptly I can control ropes, string, and whips, allowing the detonations to get people where they least expect. Flex and Tense are the two most vital skills for this and probably my two most used singular skills.
Once I have him secure, I activate a quartet of skills in a quickly-made Quilt before jumping off the tree. They are in order, Adrenaline Rush, Tough, Prowl, and Quiet. One of them is a general skill, close to the most basic, while the other three are Sigil skills. Altogether, they create one of my go-to's and something passed down from Marion. Grimprowl. It's pretty hard to activate, requiring a delicate balance of Ether output, strand density, and even emotional balance.
But when they are put together successfully, the result is impressive. I am swift, I am silent, I am tough, and I am strong. The Quilted skills complement each other, and the result is more significant than their sums. I wouldn't say it could compete with an Absolution skill or a Power, those are in a league of their own, but I reckon it can compete with most of the mighty skills from Sigils or even some of those Estate-made skills that are passed down.
So when I land in the water, I do so almost silently as the Ether that barely extends past my skin softens the landing and inserts me into the water without much conflict by sliding me into it without a splash. From there, I move as fast as I can through the water and activate an additional skill.
The only one I know for water, Swim. Sounds rudimentary, and that's because it is. All it does is create a coat around you that pushes water past, allowing you to move with less resistance through the water. I wish I was able to upgrade it to Waterwalk, but the technical skill required for that is beyond me, even with Marion's tutelage. As was most of his skills… If only… If only Alexos hadn't paralyzed him, he would have a dozen ways to defend himself.
But it does not matter. He is dead, yet I will bring him back. I will use the information from Alexos, the lantern from Alexos, and the rage he has given me to bring back my best friend.
The hole that has been left in my life will be filled. And… if for whatever reason it cannot… I will go out in a fiery blaze. I might be uninteresting and weak, but at least once, I want to shine like everyone else. I don't want to die like Marion without a chance to show what lies beneath the geode.
This is what pushes me forward as I claw my way through the water deep in the Laughing Reeds. I just need to find the Crossroads, then I will wait. I will wait for Wyatt to arrive. That little fuck can survive just about anything, and I have little doubt he'll escape from those Hunters or whatever else is here.
Most of this place so far has been mental, and the Wendigo is known for his fortitude. If he can resist an artifact attached to his arm for months that is several Sigils higher than him, he can withstand just about anything.
I don't care too much for that Blake girl, but if she makes it out alive, all the better. The more, the merrier if we're going to the Underworld. All the while, I think, my focus never leaves the fog, but seemingly, I don't leave its focus either.
As I stumbled through the thick fog, I felt a creeping sense of unease wash over me. The omnipresent mind-hurting laughter is removed and replaced by something far worse. The swirling mists seemed to coalesce into spectral forms just out of reach and comprehension, whispering secrets that only the dead could know.
They tell me of how my route is a dead end. How my goal is impossible. How no one can be brought back once their soul leaves the world and embarks for the Cardinal. I ignore them as much as I can, but they press closer to me despite never indeed gaining shape or form.
I could feel their icy breath upon my neck, their ghostly fingers brushing against my skin. The spirits moved in a dance of death and chaos, their forms shifting and swirling like smoke in the wind.
I swipe at the smoke and stab at the shifting colors, but nothing is there. They just dance barely beyond my reach. So, I use Reach, and using miniature explosions of Ether in my muscles, my arm extends several inches. Still, when I touch the specter, it disappears entirely as a frigid feeling enters my arm.
The chill makes me stumble and almost fall as it goes throughout my whole body and threatens to freeze me. I rapidly flow Ether from the core in my right ankle and have it collide rapidly as it flows throughout my body. These collisions produce friction and heat that fight against the cool in me. Warmth is a survivalist's need to have when you're alone in the Wilds. But for the next several steps, the cold lingers and affects my speed as I learn my lesson about attacking these specters.
As I stumbled deeper into the mist, the swirling spirits grew bolder, their whispers growing louder and more insistent. I could feel their presence all around me, pressing in from all sides like a swarm of hungry insects.
But as they grow louder, preaching to me that all my efforts are useless and that I'm walking to my destined death, I hear another sound from deep within the fog. But for the first time, since I entered this place, the sound is solely from one direction. Forward.
A low yet melodic hum that continues for a few seconds before being cut off by a thump. Then the drone continues as another thump occurs, a thump that reminds me of a cleaver cutting apart fish on top of a table. I get lower into the water, only having my eyes and red hair peek from the murky water as I continue toward the thumps.
All the while, I tune out the specters. They will not deter me from my goal. No one will. When you find a partner, what do you do when you lose them? You get them back. At any cost. A team only ends when all its members are in the ground. Marion took me out of a dark place when I had nothing to live for besides making others suffer. I'll do the same for him.
****************
Wyatt Graves
My feet carry me deeper into the waterlogged mist as I only continue to grow weaker and wearier. It is getting harder and harder to even tell if it's day or night as the fog is so dense, and the colors that emerge from it overpower any light from the sun. It's like I'm in a world of my own right now.
Maybe that's the purpose of all of this. Who knows.
Doesn't matter. Forward is the only way. I've come too far to just turn around. There has to be something here. There has to be. Whoever made those inscriptions has to be in the center of this fog, no? Either protecting the Crossroads or whatever else is in the center.
Like a zombie, slowly and exhausted, I move through the water. The chilly water bites deeply into me, and it becomes hard to feel my toes from the cold. I'm running out of time. I thought I had longer, but it won't be the starvation that does me in. It will be hypothermia. Not that it's even freezing, either. It's just that the water is cold enough to sap me of my heat and my strength.
That, in addition to the tiredness and lack of sleep, is slowly devouring me. Both of these two things I cannot solve, however. I have no idea how to generate heat to keep myself warm, and my attempts to do so with Ether have failed. I'm no genius with Ether; only good at some aspects of it. I also have no way to sleep currently. I'm not willing to risk whatever was making me so tired when the quiet arrived. The only solution is to find what I'm looking for.
Not that I even really know what I'm looking for.
After another hour or so in this incomprehensible part of Sinscreak, another sound joins the cacophony of laughter, and as it slowly replaces it, I grow cautious. Spectral forms enter my sight beyond the fog and lick at me with whispers instead of laughter. Whispers that tell me things no one should know. And some other things that simply make no sense. I've gotten pretty good at recognizing disembodied whispers, though, so I can make out several of their meanings despite how hard it is to truly understand.
"He doesn't fear us?"
"How!? How??? How? I need it!"
"He'll freeze! No one will ever have it!"
"Give it to me! Give it! Give it! GIVE IT!"
"Human, is he?"
"Give it!"
"Don't take it! Just observe! She's nearby!"
"Right… right… right…"
"It's not right!"
"No!"
"Yes?"
"Death awaits!"
My eyes constantly shift back and forth, trying to find the source of each of these phrases, but it's impossible. Each of the sentences can be easily attributed to a different specter deep in the mist, as each voice has its own pitch and rhythm of speech, but it seems as though even the replies come from different ones instead of the original ones.
I just ignore the whispers with a shake of my head as I walk forward some more. Their appearance must be a good sign. A sign that I am nearing my destination. I've grown used to having other things speak in my head so much that it honestly feels more normal when other things intrude on my thoughts.
The Bloody Palm has left some severe habits and odd normalities within my mind, but hey, it's kept me alive. I just hope that when the damned thing breaks out of whatever the hell it's doing that it doesn't just kill me. All that I know is some quiet conflict rumbles within the palm, something far beyond my understanding or my senses.
After another hour or so of walking with these specters in my ears, continuing to ask and say inane things that make no sense, I start to hear another sound that joins them. A melodic hum. One that gives me an odd sense of familiarity, but I don't know where it originates from in my memory.
Regardless of its familiarity, I move toward it rapidly, the exhaustion momentarily leaving my bones as I use Indefatigable to reach my destination faster. At this point, I truly feel the fat eaten away by the skill and the cold; it's like a less insidious form of the Bloody Palm's hunger. All that remains on my body is muscle, nerves, and bones, and that's not good. The low level of fat is affecting me dearly.
It makes every heartbeat feel like a wave of nausea and every movement an uncomfortable slam against my bones. My brain feels clouded by weakness, and my eyes are darkened by hunger and the lack of nutrition. I don't know how long I've been in this fog, but I'd say it's been a while. Several days at least. Time moves weirdly when you can't see the sun or moon and haven't slept a wink. Wait, that's not true; I fell asleep for half a second before.
Despite this, I move. Every step through the water rattles my bones and makes it harder to breathe. Slowly, I make it to the sound of this familiar hum, one that instills comfort and phantom warmth the longer I hear it. Step by step, through the resisting water that surrounds me.
Eventually, the fog reveals another island in my vision, one where the hum seems to be coming from. With the destination in sight, I become filled with a burst of energy, the kind that only comes when the end is in view.
I use this burst of energy and strength without hesitation as I have a goal, and if Death leads me to her door before I complete it, then I'll drag myself back. Then, I'll dive right back in to find Ma and Edmund. I want to revive them, but something deep down tells me it's impossible. If it indeed was possible to bring people back to life, then doubtless it would have been done before. If it was possible, then why was the First never brought back to life? These questions are why I hesitate on the goal of bringing them back.
Instead, it is to just see them again. That, and to help keep my friends alive. The two seem to go hand in hand for motivation as I pull myself with bloody fingers over the high rocks of the island the size of an actual small island, at least a quarter mile wide.
And as I roll over the side of the rock, the humming abruptly stops as I hear two loud footsteps, almost as if a giant is turning to look at me. Frantically, not wanting to get murdered the second I get up here, I twist and rapidly stand on my feet.
What meets my eyes makes me stop in confusion at such an absurd sight.
A giant lady with an incredibly ugly face full of wrinkles, warts, and scars sits on an equally massive rocking chair staring at two men crucified on two identical crosses. But with my appearance on the small island in the swamp, her face turns to look at me as her hand quickly moves to the cleaver, large enough to match the giant next to her.
But her hand stops just as it touches the handle of the massive weapon and as I move into a crouch. With her pause, I also pause in my movements. I don't want to escalate and get myself killed, but I keep the Ether moving within me. Everything is firing on all cylinders; even Strugglers Gasp as the mere accusatory gaze of this woman makes my vision water, my legs strain, and my head tremble.
Curious about what she's doing, I watch as I see her face shift from caution to a smile before a colossal laugh bellows throughout the whole of the island.
"The little one! So glad to see you alive and well!"
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