Gareth woke up in terrible pain, but he was at least somewhat used to that. The strange thing was that he didn't wake up in his cell, actively being cut apart. Instead, he found himself at the bottom of a long tunnel, its entrance only a small moon of light in the pitch above.
He felt a gust of fetid wind sweep down from above and flow deeper into the impenetrable darkness, which meant there was a way out.
He couldn't see his legs, but could feel that they were fucked beyond immediate repair, and if he weren't immortal he would have likely died from shock or blood loss. His left shoulder was dislocated, but that wasn't such big a deal, as he could haphazardly relocate it, and eventually heal from the damage. His arms were scraped to shit, and his ribs likely cracked, but he could still breathe and was absent any wetness in his breathing, which was a good sign. He could see the light above so he wasn’t blind. He could hear the howling of the wind through the tunnel, so he wasn't deaf, all this to say his brain was still functional.
His self-assessment done, he lay back on what felt like loamy dirt, and considered his options.
At this point he really only had two choices: wait here and continually starve to perpetual death, or crawl deeper into the tunnel and see where it led him.
He didn't know whether Ivor had managed to escape the raptors -- he hadn't seemed very confident -- so waiting for him seemed like a waste of time. His only option was to start crawling, and hope he didn't get to any up-hilly bits.
The pain was horrendous, but it couldn't cripple him, so he felt that there was no time like the present to crack on.
He therefore rolled onto his back, stuck his hand into a crack between two rocks he felt, gripped tightly until his shoulder was nice and extended, then wrenched his torso as hard as he could. His shoulder didn't relocate the first time, nor the second, but the third time’s the charm. He felt it pop back in without too many tearing sounds.
He then rolled onto his stomach and started dragging himself deeper into the abyss with one functional right arm, and one somi-functional left.
As he crawled deeper, the damp dirt he was crawling through became blacker and more moist, fertile, and in any other place it would have given him comfort. Underground, in darkness, the smell was starting to become overwhelming, the moisture seeped into his clothes, and the wafting wind made him shiver.
He crawled for maybe thirty minutes when a faint sound travelled down the tunnel. He couldn't tell the exact distance, but in the sound-dampened dirt tunnel, it couldn't have been far. He wanted to know how high the roof of the tunnel actually was but since he couldn't stand on broken legs, he guessed it was only about 4 feet high.
The wind came from behind, and given the bestial predilection this world seemed to have, he was scared that his scent was being carried down the tunnel to whatever thing had dug it in the first place…
He froze when he heard another sound. He listened and identified a strange wheezing, like that of an asthmatic, who caught a lung-infection, and was shot three times in each lung.
The wheezing continued for a few more seconds, but then it seemed to fade away as whatever creature made it moved on.
Fucked if I know where, but I’m starting to actually get scared - because whatever had made that sound didn't sound like a fucken animal. He thought in all seriousness.
So, he gave it an extra minute or two before he once again started dragging himself forward. Right hand, clench, pull. Left hand, clench, pull. On and on he went.
Ugggggg this is so stressful yet so boring and painful. Gareth thought when a breeze from behind blew in.
He froze. The breeze was strange because it only blew on his right shoulder, exposed as it was from a tear created by the sharp rocks he had been thrown through.
He froze even harder as the breeze periodically stopped...and blew.
Inhale....and exhale.
His mouth went dry. He shivered as goosebumps covered his skin. He did not dare to breathe, lest he provoke whatever was breathing on him.
And then it got oh so much worse.
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Blind, in pain, and terrified; right next to him he heard it again. A sickly wheeze, laced with torment and rage..."HheHHaaahHhH....hguaaahhH.”
He had, like a fool, assumed that the danger had passed. He had crawled right up to it, whatever 'it' was, and hadn't even noticed.
A waiting game ensued.
"HhHHhHeeeee".
Who would act first?
He knew of its general vicinity because he could feel its breath but...all- "Hehhhhaaahh" -encompassing darkness really robs you of your senses and reasoning. He knew it was there, he knew it was likely something he could try and- "Hheehhhee" -fight back against but if there is one thing Gareth had learned in his time on Yggdrasil: it wouldn't make a difference if you couldn't hurt the person.
He always reasoned that demons and ghosts were scarier than normal monsters because- "HhghgHhhHhgaagaa" -they were intangible. You couldn’t hurt them and thus couldn’t fight back. But in this black tunnel he realised, even if he could fight back- "hHhHhHeeee" -he would likely lose nevertheless.
Everyone-EVERYONE he had met, in this world was stronger than he was!
The blankets were heavier! The air thicker! The metals harder! The people more deadly!
And he had just seen Ivor Hansen, the guy- "hahhHaaggahhH" -who easily handled a group of guys Gareth couldn't even scratch, likely getting killed by a pack of raptors. – "HhhhHHeeehhgggh"
What hope do I have of fighting off whatever is watching me?!
Breathing on me?!
Ever so slowly, Gareth turned his head. He was terrified out of his mind, but he had to look.
"HhgHghhaahHghH" Curiosity killed the cat and yet… Well...Gareth needed to see what was there.
His darkest, most primal fear came true because Gareth looked into the abyss..and something stared back.
Red hateful eyes glowed in the dark, staring into his soul. Lidless, unblinking orbs, dry and bloodshot. Demonic eyes that glowed with an unnatural ruby light reminiscent of fear, rage, and hatred.
"GGGHHHHHAAAAAA!!! HGMPH, GGHAAEEEE!!!"
Gareth and the monstrosity both screamed for entirely different reasons, as impossibly strong hands wrapped around his broken ankle…and yanked.
He was helpless to resist as the creature dragged him deeper into the dark.
Deeper into its lair.
Deeper into the nest.
Entry #231
By Eric Flamel
The Looming Cliffs…Kimbala… and many other names besides, known and unknown, is a particularly hazardous environment.
On my first expedition to explore its base, nearly a third of my colleagues were eliminated by a rockslide. I would later learn that the local Voliuns call them ‘rock rain’.
A terribly poignant name.
Sadly, the expedition was called off shortly after, with very little research to show for it.
On my second expedition we came across a tribe of priests who seemed to have taken a vow of silence. They steadfastly ignored all methods of communication my party tried to employ, and we saw fit to follow them rather than try and force an interaction. We followed them up a simple winding and twisting path that led higher up the cliff, and through tunnels that seemed to have formed naturally.
We saw many marvels on the way to wherever the monks were leading us. Crystals of metallic ore protruding from rock, ribbons of wind in various colours that disappeared like…well, the wind.
The Voluns reported an extremely dangerous climb fraught with deadly peril and dangerous monsters. But it seemed our silent guides knew a safe path, because we were barely accosted by iron-hide moles, and only had to fight off a few wandering bands of kobolds.
The priests led the expedition to their carved limestone dwellings that seemed to have excellent ventilation, and a complex system ladders going up and down through narrow tunnels – likely to compartmentalise and slow any attacking force.
The priests housed us for a cycle, and even though not a single word was spoken, they were the perfect hosts. They provided us with slabs of white, yet edible, meat. As well as the loveliest wine: made from some form of purple underground root.
We even met what we assumed to be the archbishop, given his mitre, but I could not be sure since he spoke not a word.
My party did not stay long, as we did not want to intrude. We had a mission, as simple as it might sound: to reach the tops of the cliff, and make contact with the fabled city of Lazfeld.
The journey up until meeting the priests had been fraught with danger, and I hazard a guess that it will only continue in this harrowing fashion once we departed.
I do not know what our journey will hold, but I have already filled three other journals with information. I only hope I will survive to publish those journals.
Signing off
Eric Flamell
