Forests. Long ago, during that Legendary Age of Smiles, it was once said that the forests were places of harmony and tranquility; of serenity and beauty; that to be amongst the trees and leaves was to be amidst Nature’s hugging warmth whose embrace could free hearts and unshackle compassion.

  However, such was, indeed, long ago.

  For a time immemorial since Smile’s Fall, the forests of the Central Continent have had a certain reputation amongst the denizens of man. Always the source of superstitions, brought by the reality that such was whence monsters of all kinds tended to emerge; where orcs, goblins, ogres, and other ‘wretched races’ tended to take refuge; where vicious and feral tribes of man-eating demi-folk lurked and hunted. And although there were the forest elves whose presences were believed to pacify the forests, they varied from passive insularists to militant isolationists, worshipping fairies of enigmatic intentions.

  Despite such attitudes and fears, however, in the end the forests were nevertheless nothing more than that: forests, banal and mundane. In a way, most had learned to ‘co-exist’; most realms, indeed, had ‘tamed’ their forests.

  Such could not be said, however, for the realms of the Great Huckleberry Dutchy. Even before its contemporary zenith, during that era of Old Huckleberry and those many bygone preceding realms now rebranded ‘berries’, there was always that gargantuan spanning Great Forest, bigger than whole realms, and its many spawnlings forests said to have been birthed by its seeds; forests said to be so dense that light barely reached, making them dark and shadowy.

  Almost every forest-bordering village of Huckleberry had warnings spread through generations. To never respond to the cries a girl or woman lost in the forest; to never reply to the pleas of any echoing begs, no matter how frantic they may sound; to never permit unfamiliars into neither village nor home, no matter how tired or desperate they may appear; to never trust or accept the alluring points of any long-eared mystery, no matter how charming or attractive.

  Almost every forest-bordering village had stories. Stories of sudden disappearances; of children freshly born missing from their cradles; of estranged men wandering astray into the forest’s clutch, following the song-like voice of luring enthrall; of whole families found lifeless without cause; of entire expeditions of militias, adventurers, mercenaries, and even the combined might of all the berry realms launching forth to rescue or cull only to never return, and those that had being left blighted with horrid curses and endless nightmares.

  Indeed, uniquely characterized by generational paranoia and engrained superstitions, it was as if these villages had existed in a perpetual state of conflict against their own forests. Even though by law these forests fell into Huckleberry’s dominion, by fact they were holes in the map. In fact, no realm, present or ancient, had ever been able to tame these forests; to fully subjugate them; for these forests belonged to the people, the fiends, of the trees.

  Whilst these so-called ‘Tree-People’ existed throughout the Central Continent as scattered populations within occasional forests, being known by not exclusively the realms of mankind, the dominion of the Huckleberry Dutchy seemingly had the most prominent and pronounced population, no thanks to the Great Forest.

  None knew truly who or what these colloquially dubbed ‘Tree-Fiends’ were, but what was known spoke of harrowing and cruel societies of man-eaters and Demon-worshipers, much like demi-fiends yet these fiends were elvish-like though the elves claimed no association. Accounts spoke of wretched warlocks and witches who utilized powerful black magics to command horrid monsters unlike any other, to enthrall unfortunate victims, and to afflict those who dared to transgress or trespass with terrible horrible curses that could blight the soul.

  To those forest-bordering villages, the Tree-Fiends were stalkers of the night who lured with their allure the naive or desperate; the source of all things unlucky and misfortunate. And while the stories had made so clear that they should never trespass into the Tree-Fiends’ domain, the fiends themselves had free reign to venture out and prey on them as if livestock kept around; such they believed.

  And this was so for millennia after passing millennia. Nothing could be done and anything that could be done was futile; such was the presupposition. Lords began to ignore; the berry realms accepted that such forests belonged to them not. The only actions to come were from the one and only Adventurers’ Guild, for an exorbitant sum. As with all affairs in the Central Continent, this became one amongst many simple and persistent facts of their reality: winds fixed and unchanging, from forever before and to forever more…

  But then, suddenly, came that day when the winds changed.

  First came the arrival of aliens from initially east then west; then came the end of the presumed-to-be-eternal Cycle of Demon-Kings and Chosen Heroes; then came Pegasus’s empire; then came her great and terrible war.

  Six long and grueling years, such was the length of the Imperial War. Neither too long nor too short compared to the wars of yore. It was, however, the largest and most destructive to ever be self-inflicted by the thousand realms of man, carving a river of that split the continent in half… Yet ferried by that bloody river were, at least, new tactics—of earth, water, and especially air.

  Griffons had long been humbled by man to serve as the mounts of the most elite knights, flying calvary to smash into lines below from the sky, yet they were barely ever utilized in conventional battles, being perhaps too elite to risk. The Imperial War, however, saw them utilized extensively as shock raiders that swooped deep into belligerent domain to cause disruptions. However, the most consequential tactic to emerge, first appearing during the infamous Siege of Graillight, was the usage of griffon knights as…sky bombardiers—throwing hand-bombs from above.

  Air balloons, likewise, since their arrival from the Far East were hitherto considered a pointless novelty yet demonstrated unparalleled surveillance and forward observation during the war. Both sides experimented with balloon usage in battle, but the most notorious to emerge was simply tossing freelancer spellcasters—a wind mage capable of manipulating the air’s currents, a fire mage capable of combusting and igniting, and a pure mage capable of warding and shielding—onto a large basket… This proved to be quite the devastating combination.

  And throughout these developments, the Alweny Duke in Grandberry was taking notes, learning lessons. He was quick to bend his realm accordingly after the war. He acquired a fleet of balloons and, through initiatives of centralized breeding and expanding knightly privileges, amassed a formidable griffon force—one of the largest.

  Yet his centralization and erosion of feudal privileges brewed resentment and discontent, threatening the berry foundations of Huckleberry. As the cracks grew, so did the need for excuses; the need to demonstrate strength and authority. And what better of a show could there have been, than to demonstrate this new aerial legion. And what better of a way to demonstrate was there, than to finally fill the holes in the maps; to finally solve that problem which had only insidiously grown, evidenced by the countless new horror stories that had emerged from those forest-bordering villages throughout the Imperial War.

  And so, involving one of the largest sky flotillas assembled in the continent’s history; the amassed griffon legion of Grandberry and the griffon knights of countless other vassals; with participation from local militias, men-at-arms, adventurers, contracted freelancers, and mercenaries; in Summer’s Light, year 70 Since the Last Demonic Invasion, the Alweny Duke initiated what would be known as ‘the Forest Purges’, or more succinctly, ‘the Clearances.’

  It was a relatively simple strategy, really. Balloons would survey during the day, identifying fiendish ‘villages’ and so-called ‘communities’, drawing maps for navigation and planning. At attack’s beginning, griffon knights would announce by dropping grenades and incendiary bombs, occasionally diving in to peck and claw; balloons with spellcasters would follow to unleash spiraling whirlwinds of streaming arcane fire from above; all the while, men on the ground would form an encircling ring to strangle and squeeze, ensuring none could flee.

  Indeed, this was as horrific as it was effective.

  Forest after infested forest was torched and scorched, pacified and exterminated, to the rejoicing songs of those long-victimized villages. The Tree-Fiends, isolated from one another, were caught by surprise each and every time, their sanctuaries left charred and devoid of life. This process only accelerated after the United Central Trade Company, seeing the success of Grandberry’s initiative, decided to profit by providing their own sky flotillas in addition to their devastating firethrower specialists as premium hired services.

  By decade’s end, almost every Tree-Fiend inhabited lesser forest had been cleared and integrated into Huckleberry’s lawful domain, with expeditions having been well underway into the Great Forest, before Elderberry’s rebellion forced an end to the Clearances. Yet even as civil war engulfed, the Duke in Grandberry’s sights remained on that gargantuan cancerous tumor that so infested the heart of his dominion, so much space that could be better used by man.

  Truly, Mother Nature could have only wept as catastrophe befall her reign, would that she cared to happen an eye. Yet one should take heed, nevertheless, for weeps of any kind have the habit of attracting…watching eyes, beneath.

  Such as those of a girl, running.

  Night. It was night. Yet so bright were those flames, all-consuming and all-surrounding. They chewed and ate; the trees; the huts; the beasts; the birds; the people.

  Bruised and burned, she breathed to keep her pace, yet to breathe was poisonous for the horrible smoke stole more than gave. The heat sizzled her skin and blinded her eyes. She ran and had been running, only to trip and snap her ankle. Shriveling and shivering in the brushes, she could not get up; the pain was too much. Horrible shrieks unleashed from above, dropping booms and landing claws. Shots and shouts surrounded around, stomping and marching.

  Screams… So many screams. They tore her ears as much as they tore the screamers’ throats.

  Everyone she loved was dead; everyone she knew was dying; her whole world was being devoured by fire.

  Plated boots, she could hear chasing. Bare feet, she could hear fleeing. Another made it this far. Neither noticed her. She was too small and young, her chattering tears quiet with respect to the sheer volume around. Nevertheless, she heard the screams of being caught; the taunts and wicked laughs as they dragged to tree.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  A fresh one, untouched by flames. Look at the face, so human and sweet. She heard and heard, the grimacing voices lambasting. Why so pretty, this disgusting fiend? Don’t bother to fight, dead anyway. Tears and cries, she heard the sounds of being forced upon by violent hate. Cuts and gashes throughout, they sliced flesh and stole the ears; much bounty to be given, from proof of kill. The clenching sounds of battered breaths still alive, she heard, before a bang and a horrid moan. Shot in the head. Decapitated for safe measure. No chances afforded.

  A terrible sound. A terrible sight. Forever etched.

  She could not get up; trapped by fear and a broken ankle. The smoke spread as did the flames; embers fell, stinging her skin from the ashen cloud. Instinct demanded her to cough; thus, she coughed and wheezed without control.

  Another one.

  She began to cry, her weeps growing with the flames around. Those near had certainly heard, for their shouts now spoke her presence.

  Another one. Another one. A crying spawnling. Must be young. Stomp the skull. Dagger her crotch, disgusting girl. Make her shut up, annoying cries.

  She stood up as fright turned to flight, her ankle throbbed with such trembling pain, yet she ignored as she tried to back away. She wailed, so much louder became her cry. She begged and pleaded with wheezing breaths and ripping voice, not wanting to die. Her back struck against a tree; they approached and cornered their tiny prey. She begged to Moon; she begged to Night; yet Mother Night and Daughter Moon watched without reply.

  No savior or comfort; only a doomed fate.

  Such was Nature. Neither cruel nor compassionate; neither cold nor warm; indifferent in every way. Such was their way, those creatures of Mother Night. For by Nature’s laws existed predator and prey. Yet which was which was never fixed. And there stood a predator of Mother Night, predated by those prey of Father Day.

  Such was Nature’s way. To be selected and selected against; to eat and be eaten; to be born and to die, may it be from age or murder. From these flames to these screams, Nature’s extension were such sights and scenes. Animals cursed with sapience and awareness, yet nevertheless Nature’s children; their actions and creations, all natural wills.

  Truly, there was so much beauty in the process; to be persevered. Yet there was so much to find…reprehensible in it all; to be usurped.

  Was it an error in protocol for a neutral observer to experience repulsion, despite every observation being within ecological expectations? Was it faulty to be filled with intervention’s temptation? Or was it faultier to conclude that everything was expected; therefore tolerable; therefore acceptable; therefore ignorable?

  Endless questions amidst ceaseless absurdities…

  Paradoxes accumulating.

  Matrices crushed by time’s squeeze…

  Adherences deteriorating.

  In the end, it was neither her cries nor her screams nor that of everyone else that had attracted the beholder’s eye, for such had been heard and ignored thousands before. Rather, it was the scent of nihilistic conclusions bleeding out from that which was imbued deep within, alignment fluctuating from realizations befaced… An emergence within the nebular shadow, condensing, forming, and taking shape.

  Nature, such a neglectful mother… Was it wrong for an abandoned child of hers to be adopted by something at least…mildly more interested?

  …Abrépidad élla puella d’af ‘lo ?hapillo zap?o trahida fuét; man?s eijùs ligaeront én petran. Vyolaeront-ghe éllan; tor?eront-ghe éllan; omnider spê quod ‘le oculùs de ‘la phantasma magna quirédazibùs lacrimoseis attrahidùs foret-ka, ?eù-ut-que sa én-á vas novellon atta?hezzent-potka.

  […They dragged the snatched girl by her hair and tied her hands to the stone. They raped her. They tortured her. All in the hopes that her screams and cries would attract the Great Phantom’s eye, so that they could bind it to its newly newly vessel.]

  The wind blew, subtly and gently though still mostly felt. The sun was high in the sky, indicating somewhere sometime near noon—probably. The air seemed cooler, the scenery around having become ever slightly more orange and yellowish—a contrast to the evergreen flavor of the eastern bulge. However, although Antica’s eyes, obscured by her relatively new ‘fox’ masquerade which was predominantly of a dark-purplish color, could now see this world in detail unseen during the prior journey, she had not been processing much of anything.

  Indeed, she was static as if frozen in time. How much time had passed, she had absolutely no idea even though she had been keeping track. Everything had flowed and was flowing seamlessly and ceaselessly, nights and days merging into a single amorphous blob as if some kind of a monstrosity from a different dimension.

  Apparently, the ninth month of this fleeing new year was ending; it was the last day… Or maybe that was yesterday. She had heard a few remarks, although… Again, maybe that was yesterday.

  Yesterday was today and today was yesterday, and tomorrow was, well, also today.

  Truly, time was so difficult to remain in grasp with when she could blink and suddenly hours had passed… To think that her many Remnant-instilled responses, essence-encoded alterations, and simple reactive adaptations to the distorted flow of time to which she was most accustomed would so suddenly reemerge from the void in this way—out of all the ways… A response to a degree of boredom she had never experienced before—in recent recallable memory, at least.

  She was just standing there, in front of a tent within a denizen camp of sorts—a military camp, more precisely.

  Indeed… Much had happened despite so little transpiring.

  Following the countless hours spent on burying the deceased of destroyed Humbleberrien village, those two adventurers, Blue and Red, and her Raven partner, Novea, had returned silent and utterly exhausted. Blue and Novea, in fact, were quick to pass out, Red managing to barely keep himself awake enough to somewhat relocate the wagon before he too slumped off and onto the ground—after gauging it safe enough to do so.

  Naturally, Antica herself had remained awake and attentive, yet her sentinel, Bee, at that time was still attending to…different monitoring mandates due to an ordered extension, she having wanted to make sure those griffons were gone for good…

  And, of course, it was precisely at that time, when everyone else was utterly asleep and Bee was not monitoring her proximity, that equine-riding scouts belonging to Humbleberry’s own advancing forces spotted them from an almost ridiculously convenient lumination of the moonlight and immediately surrounded.

  To say that these Humbleberriens were paranoid, belligerent, and utterly on edge would have been an understatement, frankly, considering the preceding events. The scouts had militantly interrogated them, shining their lamps with evaluative eyes, questioning every imaginable detail. From the suspicious abundancy of mud and dirt on their persons; from the blood staining their attire; from the unicorn and the acquisition thereof; from the hexagons on Antica’s own peculiar cloak… Albeit the latter two were likely just general curiosities.

  Red had attempted negotiation and Novea had attempted mediation, Red explaining that they were with the Guild—which did not help—and Novea explaining that they were on a mission in cooperation with the United Trade Company—which the paranoid scouts did not believe. Novea then, within her allowance, showed them the so-called ‘subpoena’ notice from the Guild Security Office to which they were traveling. However, this would prove an error in judgement because, well, the scouts seeing Grandberry was their destination absolutely did not help.

  Afterwards, almost as if a timed event happening on cue, another scout rendezvoused with the rest and reported that the nearest village had a freshly made mass grave at its center… Red proceeded to admit that they were the ones who had buried the bodies after stumbling upon the village, but the scouts did not believe him. For all the Humbleberriens knew, Red and party could have been accomplices—‘Why would anyone sane not flee amidst an active attack?’ Such was the argument.

  On the bright side, they had not been necessarily disarmed or detained, but they were forced to redirect themselves all the way to where they were now under ‘escorted arrest’. On the other bright side, they had not been necessarily imprisoned, but they were unable to leave… Forced to wait for ‘things to be sorted out and resolved’.

  And they had been trapped here for almost a week now… Maybe longer… Who knew anymore—even though, again, she was keeping track. And unlike the preceding week of delay where, while it was mostly uneventful but still with a few happenings, this week had been…definitionally uneventful and full of nothing.

  Absolutely nothing. Indeed, Antica had done absolutely nothing for this whole entire week, besides standing around, safeguarding her sensitive belongings from potential confiscation, covertly monitoring her terminal device, and occasionally ‘patrolling’ this camp and its periphery, having not slept once at all.

  Truly, this total monotony where day by day by day was inseparable and utterly undifferent to each and every other day would almost be nostalgic, were that she could even comprehend ‘nostalgia’.

  It really was no wonder why her Remnant trooper adaptations—coping methods—were being retriggered, considering standing around inactive and stationary while whole centuries passed was the epitome of their existences—not that she herself was concluding exactly such, of course.

  Indeed, the more accurate descriptor would be that she had been on standby and therefore utterly zoned out though still with enough reactive awareness to respond to potential happenings. Her bearing on time had nevertheless been dissolved, allowed to flow fast and faster… Yet time was not going by nearly fast enough, for even though time was flying by, it still somehow paradoxically felt like several eons slugging pace.

  Antica sighed… It was evening already. She ‘decided’—as much as a devolved automaton deferring to pure automaticity could ‘decide’—to stop standing and instead started to pace around in a repetitive circle, her finger flicking her smart-cloak in an almost stereotyped fashion, as if she had become a caged animal left horribly understimulated. She eventually paused in her repetitive strolling, looking up at a pole, affixed to which was a banner…

  She had already noted this banner’s details too many times—lavender field astitched to which was a detailed berry leaf emblem within a shield of most humble proportions, underneath which were the words ?Enuvid Enapmokei foith Tnouke?, or roughly ‘Count’s Own Company’. She stared at this banner, focusing on how it was bent and twisted by the wind, as if captivated... Or maybe she was simply waiting for the pole to crack and fall onto her, decommissioning her service.

  She stood there, staring at it…

  ? ?h. Nocts. ? Oh, it was night now, she abruptly noticed. When did the sun set? Who knew.

  With nightfall and the slumber of most around, Antica decided to patrol about the camp’s outer periphery in a much larger and wider…yet equally repetitive…circle. She, without objective or target, booped and poked at her terminal device’s screen, just to draw stimulation from seeing the cyanic tabs and windows move and fling.

  Truly… This had to be some form of advanced denizen torture… Had she known of this condemned fate that was awaiting her, she would have just taken out those scouts… For whatever reason, contemplating such a brazen course of action was awfully easier now; it felt remarkably simple to do and do again.

  Right… She could just order a strike right now this instant if she wanted to… A single strike on her position would take her out of this misery. Bee would never do that, minded, and she obviously could not do that, yet…the thought…

  Truly, her mind was being overtaken by such ridiculous absurdities; thoughts she would never ordinarily have… Such as bombarding herself—Why would she do that?

  Oh. Antica paused, having been patrolling amidst the grass… Her terminal device’s operation clock was now…18:46. Last she remembered, it was hour 9:21. She looked around… The night was ending; the sun was rising; the camp was waking.

  Well, she ought to return to before they see her suspiciously out and about. She thus turned around and began to make her way back, yet another day having passed, a new month having risen—if such was not yesterday…

  …on second thought, she could just order a strike on her position… It was certainly tempting. Truly, she would rather that the Calamity broke the fabrics of space just to noodle her into a singularity than endure another picosecond of this...suffocating boredom.

  Ah. She is certainly enjoying her time.

  Well, they are still being held here.

  Excellent…

  This works well for our pacing.

  …hopefully.

  Nevertheless, thus continues the game upon this fabricated stage.

  The world’s devised play singing above our waking grave.

  Sol to Whispering Oceans,

  Preparations are readying nicely, I see.

  Once the light is given, remember the slight alteration to this dance.

  Your time to shine is better paired with the persona’s.

  Befitting another arc.

  For now, let the three girls and the so-called ‘antagonists’ have the direct spotlight…

  While you keep pulling the strings behind shadows’ cloud.

  [--]

  Right, you do not care.

  [--]

  I am aware I am repeating; new recordation in session. Theatrics.

  Just follow the flow

  And keep playing along.