The Taker of Souls - Episode 2 - "The Mad Hermit"

Overnight, the clouds cleared and gave way to a dewy autumn morning. Pale sunlight spilled in through the mouth of the cave, fractal and splayed by the guardian pines outside, falling upon Sid as he remains cross-legged in perfect stillness; a sentry to guard the safety of his party while they slept. A soft and moist breeze swirls around the cave as Sid stands, turning to face his slumbering comrades. He speaks loudly enough so that the cave echoes his statement.

"Time to wake, my friends. Dawn is here."

Keltree jolts awake from his sprawled position, jerking upward in surprise.

"Err-hmm, I'm up!" He rubs the corners of his eyes and mouth, wiping away the grit of sleep, and begins to pack up his sleeping materials to get ready for departure.

Laeroth, seemingly in the exact same position he fell asleep in, wakes with ease and swings his legs under him, resting his arms on the edges of his knees. He coughs once to clear his throat and reaches for his waterskin to take a few swigs. Letting out a loud, exasperated sound of thirst-quenching content, he tosses his waterskin to the side and stands to stretch, reaching his arms high towards the cavern ceiling.

"Rrrrrrrrg - mornin', all."

Rowan stirs in place, letting out a soft moan of irritation. "Please, just five more minutes..."

Sid shifts in discomfort. "The days are growing shorter, Rowan - they have never waited for us to be ready", he insists.

"Nnnnnnnmmmm - alright!" She pushes off the ground with both hands and stands quickly, dusting herself off. I bet it's really nice not having to rest at all, Sid, she thinks. Perks of being an artificial being, I guess. "I'll go hunt for our breakfast, then, while you...stand there."

"Thank you, Rowan", Sid replies, his eyes shifting to a dull blue. "You all must maintain your strength for the road ahead."

Zarafein - having been awoken by Sid's booming voice - groans and sits up, rubbing her eyes into focus. Her weary gaze falls upon the smoldering embers of a neglected campfire. "Mmmmm - well, if you're going hunting, I suppose I'll gather some firewood. Meet back here in an hour, Rowan?"

"I don't need an hour", Rowan mutters, still bitter.

"Just come back when you're done. It's not a race."

"If it were, you'd lose."

Zarafein barely holds back a snarky reply as Rowan gathers her hunting equipment and stuffs most of it in her pack, slinging it over her shoulder. Swiping her bow off the ground, she heads for the mouth of the cave, stepping into the morning sun. Moments later, her head dips out of sight.

Zarafein turns to the others with a sly smile on her face. "I'm soooo going to wake her up tomorrow. Painfully early."

"Maybe not the best idea, Zarafein. She seems a bit...volatile, in my professional opinion", Laeroth replies.

"You have a profession?", she jokes.

"Yes, I do - we went over this when Cyrde gave us the assignment for Strohm...it's why I was one of the first chosen. As a Necroficer, I have extensive knowledge of the Undead."

"Sorry, I don't recall that part of the conversation."

"You're kidding..."

"Nope, dead serious. Which is weird, because I'm normally quite observant."

"...You are?"

"Now that's rude! Yesterday, I spotted that horse dung in the path before you stepped in it!"
"I still stepped in it, so thanks for informing me in a timely manner."

"Hey, I washed your boots, didn't I? I think I deserve credit where credit is due."

"Fair enough."

Keltree folds his bedroll and stuffs it in the top straps of his pack. "Still, though...Rowan doesn't seem humble. Perfection seems to be a goal of hers."

Sid folds his arms across his chest with a metallic scrape. "As humble as can be expected of anyone who values themselves above others", he replies, his eyes shifting back to orange. "I sense great pain within her...and I don't think she's one for having personal talks...not with us, at least. Not yet."

Sid turns to face in the direction Rowan departed. "Give her time...she'll open up eventually."

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A calm, cool wind kisses Rowan's face as she parts tree limbs and branches, forging a path through the dense forest. She knew there was a creek nearby, and that deer roamed the area to remain close to their water source. If she could kill one, it would give the group several days worth of rations for their travels; the Dark Oath was keen on their members relying solely on their survival skills to garner supplies and food whilst on their own...but Rowan wasn't on her own. In fact, she preferred solace to crowding. Less complicated.

Half an hour passes, and Rowan begins to hear a familiar sound; a slow-flowing creek, maybe a few hundred feet ahead by her estimate. She reaches back and unshoulders her longbow. Just where I thought it was...

That's when a familiar stench filled her nostrils; she'd smelled it hundreds of times after her daily hunt, when the aroma of a recent kill filled the air...

Blood. Fresh, too. Guess I'm not the only one looking for breakfast out here. Still, better to be cautious. Rowan knocks an arrow, pulling the string back slightly as she focuses the tip in front of her, ready to fire if needed. She crouches and scuttles forward, watching her movements, careful not to make a sound - the fallen leaves didn't help.

The warmth of the sun radiates from above, turning the previous night's rain into a blanket of mist. Rowan breaks through the tree line, bow drawn, spotting the creek several feet in front of her. She crouches stealthily next to a young Hydrangea - despite its intoxicating floral aroma, the scent of blood muddled it. Peering over the bush, she scans the area. Where could it be coming from? Read the wind...

Her nose tracks the scent north, opposite the flow of the creek. She spots a faint outline of a large and horned pale lump lying by the water ten yards upstream - specks of crimson ichor, some the size of pin heads, some as big as her fist, show true on the carcass even through the gathering mists. There. Hunters reap their kill, so what's taking them so long? Could it have been a wolf?...

Rowan steps forward to investigate, pushing past the Hydrangea, stopping suddenly - something was wrong. She hadn't smelled or even seen a wolf since she and the group arrived in the Overpines, even whilst hunting for rations...

An overbearing sense of dread leaks past Rowan's tempered spirit. A branch shuffles; a twig snaps. She shifts her gaze towards the direction of the sounds to see a figure emerge from the trees, mere feet from the fallen animal. Rowan is not certain that she hasn't been seen, so she plants her foot behind her and quietly shifts back behind the bushes to observe.

She could not see a face, as a hood obscured it well. Dark furs adorned the tall and gaunt frame of a sickly man - at least, she thinks it's a man, judging by the thin, pale, and hairy legs that break through the long fur cloak as he steps towards the carcass. Kneeling down at its side, he draws a menacing, blood-stained serpentine dagger from his waist, thrusting it into the chest of the fallen White Elk. Though she was not close enough to hear it, Rowan was familiar with the squish and slip of the disembowelment of a creature; gurgling, sucking sounds of wet. For the skilled hunter, reaping your kill came as second-nature.

After working on the carcass for a moment or two, the man - forearm deep inside the fallen Elk - retracts his bloody hands, holding the creature's still warm heart. He lets out an exclamation of glee - a giddy laughter, so to speak. Standing with a bit of fervor, the man holds the heart up towards the sky as though he idolizes it. Reveres it. Pulling it back to his chest, he cradles the heart like a newborn child and begins to march back towards the tree line, content with his reward.

He's just going to fucking leave the rest of the kill there??!, Rowan fumes internally.

The wind shifts upstream. Moments later, the figure stops abruptly, sniffing the air as a new-found scent piques his curiosity. He turns his head abruptly, meeting Rowan's gaze for a stark moment before she ducks down quickly.

Shit, he spotted me. Rowan - after a moment of unease - finds the courage to peer through the tear-shaped leaves of the Hydrangea, only to find that she has garnered the figure's full attention. He stares intently at her, completely fixated, well aware that she is observing him, too. He flashes a sinister smile, the rot of his teeth disgustingly apparent. Still clutching the heart of the fallen Elk, he turns back to the tree line, his silhouette disappearing into the mist.

Rowan stands up, wiping the moist of the creek from her brow. Keeping her bow drawn, she cautiously approaches the Elk carcass, determined to not let it go to waist. Though she is certain the figure is gone, she continues to steal glances at the trees around her, afraid he may return just for the fun of it.

Drawing her knife, she begins to skin the deer and harvest the meat for rations.

That look...

She couldn't help but think it - she had seen that look before. That crazed look.

That was no hunter...

That was a killer.