Spirits of the Earth

Northwatch, near the pass



"Stay behind. Mr. Fletcher, STAY BACK."

"I can't, it's pulling me in, I — Lyssy, GO!"

The man in red disappeared before him, and in an instant, so, too, did the world. Sky became ground, ground turned to sky, and the planes swirled and muddied like ink in a glass. They bled in through his periphery and obscured his sight. All went black in that spinning void.

Ven awoke with his face pressed into the moss and duff. He breathed deeply of the earth and the cool air. It smelled like home, but...not home. And what was home? He tried to remember, but his mind was still so foggy, and his thoughts flitted away like clever little birds, ever avoiding his grasp. Perhaps it did not matter anymore. He knew he was hungry — that much was for certain. He knew he must eat. He slid his arms beneath him, dragging fistfuls of detritus, until, finally, he managed to lurch into a kneel. He opened his eyes to a strange forest and a dusk sky above.

Hungry, urged a strange voice from within.

"I know," he rasped back, and his voice came forth like coarse stones. He pressed his slight fingertips to his mouth and found it cold to the touch. Had it always been this way? Had he? But the voice was right. He had to find food, and soon. Slowly, stiffly, Ven rose to his feet. His knees crackled like twigs. I must be old, he thought. The voice within him simply laughed. It pressed up against his consciousness like a prisoner reaching between the cell bars. He almost thought he could feel it sneering.

He didn't like that laugh. Something about this was very dangerous. Something told him that the cell was closed for good reason. That the voice was not his own. But he had to get moving. So he bent. He brushed the dirt and dead leaves from his front. He glanced up at the sky to try to get his bearings.

A crossbow bolt whizzed suddenly past his ear and sunk deep into a nearby tree with a resolute thunk. Ven spun, his hair whipping wildly, his fist clenched to wield a quarterstaff that was not there. He could just make out the thunder of horses' hooves. How had he missed their approach? How could he have allowed himself to be so distracted?

"There he is!" a man bellowed.

"Vampire!" a woman cried. It was not a term Ven knew. He didn't need to. The bolt had sung their intentions quite clearly: they meant to hunt him down like an animal. If they were on horseback, he knew they would easily succeed. Only...that dark thing within him didn't see them as any sort of challenge. No, it watched them from behind his blackened eyes with that same ravenous hunger. It looked at them and it saw food.

Memories assaulted him. All were fragmented beyond repair, but together they were enough to paint a picture: that he would kill them all, and would do it easily, and that the very act would change him. He held his hands up. He began to back away. "Stay back," he called in that same gravelly voice. "Please. For your own sakes. Stay away from me."

The second bolt hit him square in the gut.

It was a good day for business, and a better day still for a walk through the forests afterward. At least, Lars would've said so. Having worked his usual routes earlier in the morning sun, the afternoons outside of harvest days were often the only free time he was allotted to explore the surrounding cities and landscapes-- a favorite pastime of his. Depending on the time of year, he often had far more time for it than not-- his work on the homestead never truly 'done', as it were-- and given how often his old man was beginning to become prone to throwing his back out (or claim to, at any rate) at the first sign of heavy lifting (or clearing last harvest's unusables), Lars never strayed too far from his home. Today was no different, though an adventure was an adventure no matter how you tried to tiptoe around it.

A tried, yet sturdy wooden horsecart sat on the side of the footfall-beaten road which lead twixt Northwatch and Darken Vei. The 'horse' had been pulling it along only moments earlier, returning from a merchant's rest just short of West Northwatch-- a small community of traders that he'd not known was even there, prior-- before commotion amidst the forests surrounding him alerted Lars to some potential danger nearby. He heard yelling, actual horseriding, and claims of monsters about.

How delightful!

The young man was no adventurer. In fact, as he carelessly began to follow the tracks of the horseback hunters into the forests proper, equipped with little more than a white T-shirt and his best pair of jean overalls, he was fairly sure that he was likely running headlong into something life-treatening. His old man would have his head if he found out-- his mother would have his rear end, were she still as deadly with a paddle as she had been 10 years prior. But what his parent didn't know wouldn't hurt them! He had always wondered what sorts of crazy things non-farm-folk got up to when they weren't doing city things, like holding city meetings, or eating city food. Seemed like he was about to find out!

Yes, his foolhearty curiousity had gotten the better of him indeed; And as he stumbled closer and closer toward the central point of the commotion, he could hear voices-- shouts, really-- and a plea. It was all hard to make out, in truth, and while Lars wasn't entirely sure what was going on, he did know he could make out what smelled like blood.

Freshly-drawn blood, even.

"Well. That's... probably not great?" The redhead mumbled to himself, blue eyes glistening through the stray strands of light from the later-day sun as he got a better look at a nearby oak that the horseback riders were beginning to circle... where, at the base of it's trunk, a young man seemed to be pleading for his life... or theirs? It was hard to make out, to be sure-- but one thing was fairly clear, at least to the still-hidden Lars.

He was probably going to die if nothing was done.

"Can't have that on my conscience..." The young man muttered to himself, nodding in agreement with a very half-brained plan he'd thereafter come up with in the span of his moral conclusion. He wasn't sure if the guy was innocent, or condemned for some great big city scheme, but he knew one thing for certain-- Arrows and bows were for hunting, and hunting was what you did to animals-- not people. So, kneeling to the ground, Lars carefully placed his hands onto the forest floor-- softly, calmly stroking the rough dirt through his calloused fingers, almost as if caressing the land itself. "...Sorry, ol' girl, but would you mind helping out that fella over there? Just this once? Preeeeetty please...?"

His voice was so low, so gentle, that it was quite difficult to figure out who he was even talking to-- if anyone. Quite difficult indeed... until the land began to tremble. First a light shift. Then a rumble. The soil softened. The winds changed paths. Something was wrong-- the land itself sought to make that clear, both to the hunters and the hunted. Before long, the fantastical happened; The roots of the old tree that'd been struck with a crossbow bolt ripped clear and free from the ground, causing tremors and terrors alike as the forest itself seemed to shift under the wrath of the unnatural elements at play. The trees branches began to shift and bend; The bark writhing to free more of it's undergrowth. And as it did so, the roots-- like so many large, mighty arms, began to position themselves around the weakened man before them... almost as if poised to protect him from further harm.

Lars, meanwhile, could only watch, amazed; He figured the tree might shoo away the hunters or somesuch-- but geez, the darn thing looked like it was ready to come full to blows with them instead, on the man's behalf! Maybe it saw the crossbow bolt in him, and thought 'Wow, he's just like me, for certain!'?

Who knew trees were such kindred spirits, really?

The pain. Gods, the pain. The bolt had struck him in his old spear wound and buried itself deep in that knotted scar. No blood spewed forth. He wondered why. He tried to recall when he had been run through with the spear in the first place. Then the agony bloomed fresh again, and Ven tilted his face skyward and cried out to the heavens.

The demon within him saw its chance and surged, howling, slavering, bound only by rusty bars that creaked and crumbled under the weight of its power. It smelled the hunters over the stench of horse. It smelled, too, something unfamiliar. Something living, something fresh, something earthy. A new kind of prey. It was intrigued. Distracted. It did not see what Ven saw out of the corner of his eye: that the tree behind him was moving.

This isn't real, he thought. It had to be the pain. He had to be delirious. Roots tore free from the earth beneath his feet and whipped violently forth as though fending off his assailants. Branches groaned and shifted and twisted around him. Cool leaves brushed across his cheek. Something lifted him, ever so slightly, from the ground. Was he dreaming? Were these visions? Had he somehow taken some potent tea and not remembered it? Somewhere beyond his wooden cage, horses whinnied and screamed. He closed his eyes and winced as he waited for this nightmare to crush him, to tear at the bolt in his gut, but the tree was...gentle.

Not a cage, he realized. A shield and sword. The tree had saved him, and now, through the little gaps between the branches, he watched as it swatted at his hunters. One of them — a quick little woman by her shape — dodged and wove and found her way through. "He's here!" she cried. She was the one who had called him "vampire". And now, she was far too close.

"No! Run," Ven rasped. "Get back."

But it was too late. His hunger was too dire. The demon sensed its prey and struck, and the woman's scream shook him to his bones. It seemed to go on for an eternity: the rush. That exhilarating breath of another's life that now filled him and swirled within his chest and seared the clouds from his mind. Then her voice faltered and, like a candle snuffed, she was gone. Her corpse collapsed and slid from view. The feeding was over. And he wanted more.

"Oh, geez! Hey, don't do that!"

Before Lars could actually come to terms with what he was doing, he stood up and took off with a start— heading closer toward the scene of the "crime". That, um... that did NOT turn out how he expected it to, in hindsight; even as he ran, he watched as the lifeless corpse of the woman who'd gotten within chomping range of the lad in the bough fell helplessly to the ground. Yep, that was deeeeefinitely not supposed to happen.

"Yer s'posed to protect him, not let 'em eat outta yer hand!" He couldn't help but complain, his father's poor dialect slipping out in his frustration as he chastised the tree. He always tried so hard to sound like an educated city boy, too... shame. He stopped when he'd gotten a good deal closer to the scene itself, and had a better look at the lay of the land. The great oak still sought to give alms and aid to the wounded stranger, in spite of Lars's nagging— swatting back and sheering off the hunters who got too close.

"Whaddaya mean 'You didn't ask me to protect the other humans'!? You don't gotta tell a dog not to poop where it sleeps, do ya? I— Oh, you've... never seen a dog before?" The tremors of the land and the screaming of coordinated commands from the hunters made for good cover for Lar's admittedly ill-placed conversation with the otherwise-occupied tree. He almost felt out of place— mostly only having gotten as close as he had to attempt preventing anymore tragedies before the hunters— he hoped— gave up the ghost and ran off like he expected them to in the first place. The arrow-shot fella must've gotten into some really bad crowds for folk to chase after him in SPITE of a giant tree protecting him... but then again, given the fact that he totally just killed one of them, that wasn't too surprising.

"Y'know, I'm starting to feel like you really just wanted an excuse to beat on the folks that shot that bolt at you. That's not very honest of you, Y'know! And— huh? ...You thought that was part of the deal? When did I ever say 'please beat the bark off those fellas over there'!?"

A powerful rush swept his senses and lit his veins aflame. Then, just as soon, it was over, and in its place euphoria took hold of him. The pain from the bolt receded. The demon slid into an opiated stupor. Everything came suddenly into overfocus. The sounds of battle sharpened; cries and screams pierced his eardrums, underscored by creaks and groans and the low rumble of the earth itself. Memories flashed before his eyes of a far-flung battlefield. He found himself once again instinctively grasping for a staff. His nails scraped root and bark instead.

Be it real or vivid hallucination: he knew was trapped. He was helpless. He was at the utter mercy of this tree. Ven tilted his head to watch the fight unfold, but the branches whipped and snaked without pause and they fragmented his view. One of the riders had either fallen or dismounted. No — two of them. There they were. They seemed to have given up. They were backing away now. The third tried in vain to calm his steed as it bucked, bolted, and shot into the forest with him still astride it. The fourth...well. Her fingers, now deathly pale, still clung to the roots near his feet. I tried to warn you, he lamented. I am sorry.

Something white flashed behind the branch-cage. Someone's voice — annoyed, yet curiously calm — cut through the din. Ven looked up. At first he didn't believe his eyes. A young man of striking appearance had approached the moving tree, and now held — unless his ears deceived him — a one-sided conversation with it. He was not dressed like the hunters, nor did he bear their urgency. With him came that same new, earthy smell, wafted on the breeze to awaken the demon from its daze. He was the new prey. The new scent. Ven abruptly shook himself. He gritted his teeth and tamped that vile predatory curiosity back from whence it came. He had to warn this stranger before it happened again.

"Do not come any closer!" he called through the cage. "Whomever you are. Whatever your purpose. Keep your distance from me. Please!"

Deep within the confines of the somewhat one-sides conversation being held between Lars and Oaky (which was absolutely not the name of oak tree), a somewhat unfamiliar voice rang out. Lars, who felt as though he were starting to gain the upper hand in the back-and-forth, paused as he listened to the sounds of pleas unbidden from above... and then remembered the entire reason he was even here.

There was a fella hanging up there!

"Give me a sec— I can talk to both you's at once..." The difficulties of talking to a tree, as one might expect, were such that without knowing one was talking to a tree, it was very difficult to discern who exactly one might be speaking with— the tree, themselves, a random passerby, their ancestors... in Lars' case, he was all sorts of bad at keeping track of who he was communing with, so he made it a habit of putting manual pauses on conversations as need be...To keep things in order. Like spacing out crops!

"Okay. You," He began after gathering his wits and, with gleaming blue eyes, looking upward toward the mysterious, root-cradled lad, "Howdy! I don't want no trouble— specifically not after seein' what you went and did to that one there." He gave an informal head gesture toward the fallen body of the woman who'd made the mistake(?) of not heeding a pleading, so to speak. Lars was no stranger to death, but he also wasn't a fighter— optimistic pragmatist that his family business required him to be, he had to assume that, if she really was dead, she died quickly and painlessly.

"Just didn't sit right with me, that whole lot gangin' up on ya. Not sure what ya did, but I'm pretty sure that's not how city folk handle business... usually." As far as Lars knew, anyway. He scratched the back of his head, field-hardened fingers relieving an itch in the back of his crimson mop of unkempt locks as he deliberated on how much he actually didn't know about what really goes on in the bigger cities of Serendipity. He sold mostly to small towns; those towns probably sold to the bigger cities. He barely ever so much as saw the capital, outside of some picture books his mom bought when he was younger. Still had'em, but as he got older, he quickly realized that art made for a child and the real thing were usually worlds apart.

"Aaaaanyway, I asked Oaky here to help you out a bit, drive off those clowns. If you're good, I'm good— I'll tell 'em to let you down." The young man explained with a rather bright smile, as if proud of himself for doing a good deed this day. The tree, by comparison, writhed a bit— keeping the 'captured' man steady, but attempting— and failing— to trip Lars up a little.

"Oh for the love of— Whaddaya mean 'that's not your name'? Y'know I can't pronounce tree names... give me a break. Oh, don't you start with me..."

With his assailants finally out of view, the tree seemed to calm. All fell quiet again but for the occasional shuffling of leaves or creaking of roots. It was just the three of them now in this unfamiliar wood: Ven, that strange man, and the living creature that still held him captive. Were he not still trying to get his bearings, and distracted by the pain that pulsed up his spine, he would find that great oak marvelous.

The man's manner of speech was quite unusual, but Ven followed his meaning well enough. He looked down at the bolt still embedded in him. It did not hurt nearly as much as it should have — a product, it seemed, of his feeding. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward and gripped the branches like cell bars. This stranger was close, but not so close that Ven feared for his safety. He was relieved that the man showed even a modicum of caution. "I want no trouble either, believe me," he replied, grimacing at the thought of what he'd just done. He still didn't understand the full of it. He knew enough, now, though. Enough to listen for the beast within.

"I...it was not my intent to take her life," Ven added. Was it to convince the man, or himself? Perhaps it was both. "I...city folk? I am not from any city." He gingerly craned his neck to look. His pursuers were truly gone. He turned back. "Perhaps they were. I only know that they thought me something worth killing. They called me something unfamiliar. A word. Vem...pyre? Do you know it? I...Hmm."

He realized, just then, the nature of his cage. The man had spoken to this tree. Now that Ven paid closer attention, it appeared that the tree listened. It emoted. It reacted to his words. It was fascinating, and a bit alarming. The tree was not awake and walking of its own volition. The man was a witch, and he had summoned it into being. Ven glanced briefly around him, then released the branches and stepped back. He set one hand to his wound and the other to the tree trunk behind him. "Much as I am at home amongst trees, I'd be grateful to set foot on the ground. Just...please. Keep your distance from me. What dwells within me is...difficult to control."

Lars raised an eyebrow, still fairly unsure of what exactly getting too close to the physically-antisocial fella actually caused to happen... but respecting his wishes all the same. 'What dwelled within him' wasn't exactly on the young farmer's to-do list for the day, anyway. "Allllrighty then— Go on then, Oaky— let 'em down."

Silence. Unnerving silence, this time— as the tree neither bucked nor bowed in response. A gentle breeze swayed the thinnest of its aged branches, but otherwise the oak didn't move. Lars paused, staring dumbfounded at the scene, before letting out a rather boisterous laugh— practically doubled over was he, his finger wicking a single tear from his eye as he recovered.

"Okay, okay— sorry, I didn't mean ta... ahem. You're not gunna believe this, but... heh, ol' Oaky here's taken a likin' to ya!" His voice was filled with equal parts pride and humor, as he grinned happily at the man above, who slowly began to be lowered below. Indeed, the tree itself was, but by bit, beginning to return to its original state; the earth rumbling as its roots slithered back downward into the earth as if it were soft clay; it's branches turning upright, and straightening once more.

"The friends ya make in the most unlikely situations, eh? He says it'd be nice if ya'd come and check back with 'em every so often, see how that wound's doing— he can't really come to you, after all." Lars' tone was filled with ginger and whimsy— such an outlandish statement almost seemed like something a fae would say, and yet Lars was... decidedly human. No weird ears... Not that there was anything wrong with weird ears. They just weren't— Y'know— normal. Which was fine! Scratching the back of his head at the improbability of losing an argument in his own head, Lars shrugged it all off and took another step or so back.

"Welp— I've had enough adventure for one day. Better go get the wagon back home. Y'all take care now, y'hear?" He began to wonder— albeit briefly— about how his mom would react to him bringing home an oak tree. Oaky wasn't exactly going anywhere, sure, but there were plenty of saplings around the for forest floor. Then again, where would he plant it... ah well.

"You're not gunna believe this, but... heh, ol' Oaky here's taken a likin' to ya!"

Ol' Oaky. It was the second time the man had referred to his witch-magicked tree by a name. In stepping back against the trunk, Ven had put this stranger out of view, but he could certainly still hear his voice. His laughter. True, he was quite odd, but he seemed...genuine. Kind. Almost childlike. It was a breath of fresh air from the grit and grime and subterfuge and war that he could still faintly recall. The man was a far cry from the likes of his hunters. "Oaky," Ven repeated to himself, rather bemused at this surreal turn of events. "I...I see."

Then the tree began to move again, though this time it seemed almost reluctant. Ven startled and groped blindly behind him for a handhold. His hand bumped a strange, straight, sticky branch. He glanced down. He frowned. It was the first bolt. Sap had pooled around the wound like blood. He wondered, briefly, if the tree felt pain like he did. But he hardly had time to react, for Oaky had begun to lower him, and the roots beneath his feet were now constantly shifting. Ven grimaced and held fast to the bark. Then, at last, his boots touched land, and the ground beneath him ceased to tremble. No sooner had it done so then the stranger spoke up again.

"Welp— I've had enough adventure for one day. Better go get the wagon back home. Y'all take care now, y'hear?"

"I...what? No. I..."

Ven winced, still clutching his gut with one hand. "That is not what I was... I simply meant that... Wait. Please." He held his other hand up in a sign of peace and implored the man with blackened eyes. "I realize I may be dangerous, but...I think I am lost. I think I may need your help — " His knees buckled without warning. He stumbled but caught himself before he fell. He hunched over his wound. A grunt of pain escaped his throat. "Ah...a moment, if you would."

Ven turned away so as not to subject the stranger to the sight of an open wound. Then, bracing himself against the now lifeless tree, he grasped the bolt, clenched his jaw, and pulled. The projectile came free. There was, as he suspected, no blood — only a brownish paste and the black flecks of old entrails. He had known, somehow. He had long known: he was a dead thing walking. It did not make the sight any easier to swallow, nor did it lessen what remaining pain shot forth from the hole in him.

"Gods," he spat. He threw the bolt aside in disgust and then cradled his stomach for a moment. Already, beneath his fingertips, flesh and muscle began to weave back together. The feeding had spurred an unnatural healing. He had known this, too. Slowly, carefully, he turned to face the man.

"I am sorry," he said. "You should not have had to see that. But...please." He took a deep, shuddering breath. He did his best to straighten his posture. "You've been kind to me. You may well have saved the lives of my pursuers. I am grateful for both. Could you...could you perhaps tell me where I am? For I have never seen such magicks as yours in my life."

Rubbing the back of his head with a look of simplistic confusion that would've made any bumpkin proud, Lars shrugged his shoulders a bit at the strange fella's apology, thinking it more than fine that he'd wanna get rid of the bolt in his bowels. "Don't mention it, yeah? Oaky probably wasn't too happy 'bout getting shot either, but you don't see him apologizing' for it." He chuckled a bit as the oak tree just behind the man shifted on the spot in annoyance. It'd warm up to the name eventually.

Mind, the whole 'rotted insides, dried blood' and whatnot was completely lost on Lars, who hadn't really been looking too closely when the guy pulled the crossbow bolt out of him; All he really paid attention to was the fact that after he did so, he covered his stomach with his hand, and a bit later he seemed to be fine— or finer, anyway. It might've set a Connlaothian off immediately— it probably wouldn't garnered a couple eyebrows from the city folk as well. But Lars was a fairly talented mage in the life attribute by nature— healing oneself was just something he assumed most folks could do. Well, except his old lady. She could heal a sore thumb in cold water on a Snowfall Sunday.

Which Lars would never say aloud for fear of his life.

"Anywhat, you're probably... a half-day'r so from Northwatch, I reckon? This route don't get too much use— dirt roads an' whatnot, no good for wheels. I do a lil' tradin' through here, m'self, but ain't no farmer worth his salt leavin' home without a spare wheel or three for the cart—Least that's what my old man always says! Matter o' fact, I was just on my way back from some business in the city— well, tradin', really— 'business in the city' makes me sound like some kinda big shot, don't it? And it wasn't even really the city proper— Vel Taera, lil' bit East of Darken Vei, that's where I do my work usually, but sometimes I go south too— never north though, not too far anyway. Ain't never had much words with the ironfolk up north, but my old Man's old man's old man's old man's old man knew a fella that served in the Cold War— strange fella, OLD fella was what I heard, and I guess he'd have to be to have served during the border war, y'figure? Anywhat, I was on my way back from over that way, and wouldn't you know the roads were closed for bridge inspections right when I came along? So I go on around, take the dirt roads to the south— tryin' to get round the bend there, Y'know— and o'course I lose a wheel for my efforts! Guess my old man was right after all... lost some good sunlight swappin' that wheel out."

The biggest mistake that Mr. "Vem-pyre" could've possibly made was engage Lars in conversation. The boy could talk for ages on end, and listen to stories for another eon or two further— a result of his relative lack of social interaction at home. He and his dad... and Ol' Gourdy, to some extent, were all the company each other had back on the homestead, and his father wasn't much for wasted words— He was a wise man, and a strong man, one that Lars respected far too much to bother him with small talk that didn't have much to do with the homestead. Someone had to bear the brunt of the resulting buildup of friendship... and today's victim had u fortunately been all but claimed. "Ah, but listen to me rattlin' on like a snake in a boot— all I meant by it is I just call myself just doin' what I figure any Ol' farmer'd do— No need to thank me! And really, my Magic's nothin' special— it helps get the work done on the farm 'fore the harvest season comes 'round, that's about it." He gingerly explained, as if that justified the ability to grant some level of sentience and awe-striking might into an inanimate object.

"Don't mention it, yeah? Oaky probably wasn't too happy 'bout getting shot either, but you don't see him apologizing' for it."

Ven's eyes widened at the mention of Oaky. He knew he had forgotten something: the bleeding wound on the tree. "I don't suppose it...he...did. Still, I should..." he turned and strode back to that massive, gnarled trunk. "...my fault, after all," he muttered to himself. If it was somehow, against all laws of nature, aware, it was the least he could do to remove the offending object. He laid a hand on the bark for support, and with the other, grasped the bolt, twisted, and yanked, freeing it from deep within the wood. "There," he said, and patted Oaky like he might comfort a young patient.

Then he turned, and the strange man began to talk. Ven squinted, trying to hear past his odd way of wording things, trying to understand his meaning. Northwatch. Dirt roads. The man was a farmer. The dirt roads were rough. So he was in the wilderness. Perhaps that was a blessing. He listened on. Vel Taera. Darken Vei. Ironfolk — that seemed familiar. Ven lit up momentarily at the sound of it. In it, he heard home — wherever home was. But something told him that the man's word was not the same as what he knew. No. But for that one, he recognized none of these places. He was as lost as before.

"I...wait." Ven closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and held up a hand. "I think...here. This may be easier, if I could trouble you." He glanced around him, bent, and lifted a stick from the ground. Then he moved in a circle, dragging the side of his boot to clear the leaves and debris from a patch of the forest floor, clutching his abdomen all the while. When he finished, he tossed the stick to his new friend's feet and backed away against Oaky. "Could you show me where these places are? Could you make a map?"

He clutched his arms like a man with a chill and frowned. Northwatch. Vel Taera. Darken Vei. What were these places? Why didn't he know them? Even the words themselves had an unfamiliar ring, as though they came from a language he had never encountered. He really was lost. And, what was more, he was lost in a realm where a thing he knew nothing about was so commonplace that it was not worth even acknowledging. "my Magic's nothin' special," the man said, as if on cue. Ven looked up from pondering.

"Yet it is new to me," he admitted. "And you...grow things with it, you say?" He smiled softly at the idea, carried away quite suddenly by the whimsy of it. "I should very much like to see that."

A genuinely happy smile lit up Lars's face, with such luminescent eminence that it figuratively blinded the foliage around him, providing some much-needed sunshine to the undergrowth of the forest. Some part of him figured it probably wasn't much meant as a compliment, the man's comments on his plantwork, so to speak— but that didn't stop the young farmer from taking pride in it all the same. "Well, shucks," He began, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to downplay his excitement, "I reckon if you've never seen a farm like mine before, I'd be more than happy to show you 'round!" He proclaimed, electing to cut out the part about how he'd be the first friend he'd ever brought back to the farm in the first place. Minor details!

"But let's see here, first... lemme take a look at what ya got there..." The matter of the farm settled, the red-head stooped down and took a look at the circle that his newfound companion had drawn. Where was northwatch, he asked? "Well, my farm's... over here, ish... and Northwatch is... kinda 'round here, and... Vel Taera's.... About there or so..." Lars's absentminded explanation of the geography accompanied a series of scrawlings he made in the dirt below, creating a visualization of the area nearby for the strange fella to relate to.

...Or that was the plan, anyway. Truth was always stranger than fiction, unfortunately, and in this case, Lars's drawings were stranger than truth. There was what looked like a... cat? Drawn halfway inside of the circle the other man had made... there was a rectangle that flanked one of the sides of the circle, while what looked like squiggling lines... waves? Grass?? Was drawn near Lars's feet.

"...Oh, wait, this doesn't make much sense when you put it like that. Hol' on..."

He then scrawled a tail on the 'cat', and put a line under the 'grass', to serve as earth.

"Yyyyyyeah, that's about right now."

Proudly wiping his brow, Lars was pretty sure that his drawing could win him a cityfolk award or two if push came to shove, and awaited praise from his new friend on the efforts with an obviously expectant look in his eyes.

Ven watched on, first with keen interest, and then, as it became apparent that the man was unfamiliar with the very basics of cartography, with mild bemusement. Then his new friend drew a crude depiction of what looked like an animal and he abandoned all hope. His frown grew deeper. He unfolded his arms and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He waited impatiently for the man to finish. Finally, with a flourish not unlike an artist's signature, the stranger underlined the whole thing with the stick and stepped away. He seemed to admire his own work — whatever that work was. Then, to Ven's utter confusion, he looked up expectantly.

Ven cleared his throat and gazed back in alarm. "Ah. Thank you, I...I see."

He didn't see at all.

The man looked very much like a child in need of praise. Or a dog. He was perhaps a bit simple, Ven decided. Nevertheless, he had a soft spot for the kind-hearted, and this strange fellow had put in a great deal of effort on his account. He slowly approached the "map" and tilted his head at it as if to study it with interest. "Thank you, yes. It is a good map."

It wasn't.

Ven looked up and beamed. "You are most kind. But, ah..." He thought a moment. "You mentioned a farm. I am loathe to trouble you any further, but...would you happen to have any maps made of paper at this farm? I may need something...more...ah...specific, Mr..."

He tilted his head again. "I don't believe I caught your name."

Lars, in turn, returned the vem pyre fella's positive energy with even more of a surplus, almost visibly shifting on the spot with excitement. He nailed the first impression, for sure! His old man had always said first impressions were like the first yield— The work you put in was always the work you'd get out of the long run, and Lars had lifted a tree out of the ground to make as best a first impression as possible— it was going to be a good harvest, for sure! "The name's Lars! Lars Sycamonia XVII— son of Lars Sycamonia XVI, grandson of Jacob— long story— Sycamonia XV, heir to the Sycamonia Greens business and farm. Put'er there, pal!"

Lars extended a hand in greeting, particularly pleased with his introduction, before remembering being asked to keep his distance literally only a few minutes earlier. "Oh— pardon, already forgot. Hahahaha, don't put'er there, then!" Given that the "joke" was quite literally a reference to someone's apparent defeat— possibly their death?— a few minutes earlier, you'd think the you g farmer would've been a bit less bemused about the situation— but Lars was having far too much fun talking with a new friend to properly understand just how quickly his life could probably end at any moment's notice.

"Anywho, I reckon we've got a few o' those 'proper' maps of the nation back at the farm, yeah. Not sure why the old man keeps'm around— He can find his way in a storm with a blindfold and a bow-legged cattle-mount. Taught me how to navigate, tell you what! But I figure he always was a schemer— 'swhy momma ain't never two steps too far with a cook in' iron..." He couldn't help but laugh a hit more at the mental image that'd been drilled into his mind, of the god-like aim his mother held... old when it came to throwing that damn cooking iron. It was like magic.

...Damn, WAS it magic?

Putting the sudden realization out of his mind for the time being, Lars rocked on his heels as he continued chatting away. "So what do you go by, huh? Didn't sound like you took too well to the uh... whatcha say earlier? 'Vem'-somethin'? 'Ven'-somethin'?"

It was a strange name. The man — Lars — held one calloused hand out. Ven eyed it and took a reflexive step back. "That would not be wise — " he began, but before he could finish, his new friend burst into laughter. He seemed to find the idea amusing in spite of what he'd surely witnessed moments ago. Either this man was quite powerful, or quite simple, to have such confidence in the face of death. Ven considered the magicks that had awoken Oaky. Perhaps both, he realized. It was not a particularly comforting thought.

Lars began to babble again, and Ven fought to discern the meaning between his many words. It seemed that the man did have a map at his farm. Possibly several. But he did not utter an invitation, and it would be rude to ask again. It wouldn't be wise of him to press his luck with such a witch. Ven sighed. He supposed there was little urgency in learning his whereabouts. At least, until those hunters found him again.

"So what do you go by, huh? Didn't sound like you took too well to the uh... whatcha say earlier? 'Vem'-somethin'? 'Ven'-somethin'?"

He startled at the sound of his name. He frowned. Was it his name? He thought it might be one of many. Nightjar, he remembered. Leper Priest. Snowberry. The last one gripped his dead heart, though he did not know why. He winced, brushed it off, and inclined his head in greeting. "Ven will do just fine," he smiled. "I am quite glad to have met you, Mr. Sycamoria-the-Seventeenth."

The redhead stifled a chortle, imagining the speed of the shoe or cooking iron that might've gotten thrown at him just now for being referred to as 'Mr.' While in his working pants and his favorite T-Shirt. That was another thing his mom and dad always fought on— formalities. She was such a 'You behave like cityfolk when you're talking with cityfolk' person— likely because she was from Darken Vei proper, herself. His dad, on the other hand, wouldn't have worn a shirt on a summer Sunday in public if she didn't wrestle him into one.

"All my friends just call me Lars; Mr. Sycamonia's my dad!" He replied, almost as if he was waiting to use that line. Half of it was true, to be fair— Folks did call his dad Mr. Sycamonia, after all! And he was pretty darn sure that if he actually had friends (other than Ol' Gourdy) they'd just call him Lars... or maybe a funny nickname? He'd like a funny nickname.

With introductions out of the way, Lars took a moment to stretch— taking in a deep breath, and loosening up those tight muscles that'd tensed up in his shoulders from pulling the cart to Eastwatch and back. This has been a fun lil' diversion, all in all! "Arright, then, Ven! Nothin' for it. Burning daylight, standing around here— I've gotta check the fields, after all." With that said, and a refreshed spring to his step, Lars turned on his heels and started heading back toward the beaten path where he'd left his cart. Hands in his pockets, a cheerful tune on his lips as he hummed his way back... before thinking to look over his shoulder, at the weird fella trailing behind him.

"Well ain't ya coming with? Can't see the farm from here, can ya?" He asked in a half-teasing, half-concerned tone. Did the guy have something else he needed to do before they left? Sudden cold feet? Heck, he said not to touch him but if he was tired, the least Lars could do was probably carry him back if need be...

Ven blinked and shifted his weight again. "I...yes. Of course. Forgive me. I'm afraid I don't yet know your customs here. Mr. Lars it is." An awkward silence fell between them. Lars stretched. Uncertain what more to add, Ven began instead to get his bearings. He peered up at what little sky filtered between the rustling leaves. The sun was at its zenith now — he could barely make it out. He would have to wait a bit to ascertain which way was North.

He looked back down and scanned the forest floor. Broken branches scattered the ground: remnants of the tree's participation in that fierce skirmish. In that same fight, he had felt quite naked without his staff in hand. He frowned. He strode towards one that looked promising, bent, and lifted it. He tested its heft. It would be crude, but it would do until he could make a proper one. With no further hesitation, Ven began stripping it of leaves and twigs with the nimble and practiced fingers of a man who felt at home in the forest.

"Arright, then, Ven! Nothin' for it. Burning daylight, standing around here— I've gotta check the fields, after all."

Ven startled. He looked up from his work, his black eyes now rather intense from focusing on the branch. Lars Sycamoria-the-Seventeenth had already turned his back and started down the hill. An unfamiliar tune followed in his wake. Uncertain what to make of the abrupt end to their conversation, Ven stood and watched his new friend walk away. He supposed it was better this way. He would not wish to put the man in further danger —

"Well ain't ya coming with? Can't see the farm from here, can ya?"

Lars had stopped and turned back, beckoning for him to follow. Ven raised his eyebrows in surprise. He did very much wish to understand more about this world and its magick, and here was a friendly face offering just such answers. He pushed his worry aside, tempted by promised knowledge and his own unsated curiosity. He nodded, and with one final test of his new staff, and a hand to his near-healed wound, he trotted to catch up to his new traveling companion. He slowed a safe distance away.

"I thank you," Ven breathed. He inclined his head as if to underscore his gratitude. "How many days' journey is it to your farm?" He asked. "And...ah..." He hesitated and peered off into the woods in the direction his attackers had fled. "Do you think we shall pass by any towns, or...other folk, for that matter, such as they who hunted me? For I would not wish to bring such violence to your doorstep."

"We ain't headin' to the city, if you're worried 'bout your, ah, distancin' problems? But I figure we'll see a fella or two on the road, yeah!" What a strange question, Lars had to admit to himself; He never really thought about how few-- or many-- folks he passed on his way in and out of the city, or around the countryside. Everybody had somewhere to be, the way he figured; Some folk were more than happy to tell you where, others were happy to tell you what. You just had to avoid the folk that were way too happy to tell you off, the way he figured...

The duo headed back toward the main road on that note, whereupon they reunited with Lars's beloved pulling cart. "There she is-- safe 'n sound-like. Gotta say, I didn't really think about leavin' 'er behind before I did... Better check 'er out." Mostly mumbling to himself, Lars took the time to walk about his pulling cart, thoroughly examining it from top to bottom, as his dad had always taught him to. Perhaps to Ven, it might've seemed as though he were stressing over nothing, but nothing done half-ass was ever done right-- at least, that was what his dad always taught him.

First, the handles. Taut, with a little bit of wear from his own hands-- looked fine. The handlebars, the wooden levy... Even the bolts that held the cart together. He wanted to be sure it was ready for a nice ride home; If the wedges, bolts or hinges were loose, he'd need to tighten 'em a bit before he could take off. If the wheels had any give, or the wood of them had splintered, he'd probably have to replace them within the hour-- or at least by the time they hit the plain-side nearer to home. It was an intriguing, yet somewhat jarring contradiction in character to see-- the seemingly carefree farmer boy being so detailed in his his examination of the cart.

"Alright... she seems good enough." Lars, satisfied with his inspection, nodded with a smile as he made one last cursory walk around the cart, checking for anything he might've missed. Couldn't waste too much time, though-- they were burning daylight as things were. Which was why, after breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to look in Ven's direction with a bright, proud smile, while slapping the side of his cart with glee. And without so much as a passing explanation, he said the strangest thing he possibly could've said, circumstances given.

"Alright, hop in."

"Distancing...problems," Ven echoed. "I...no. I mean, yes, that is a consideration, but I rather meant that...hmmh. Never mind." He trailed off. Lars-Sycamonia-the-Seventeenth did not seem to be blessed with an overabundance of caution or wisdom. The man did not seem to grasp that any passersby would take one look at his traveling companion and draw swords on the spot. Though he supposed that one who could will the trees to move on command would have little cause for concern in such an event. With the heavy sigh of a man out of his depths, Ven leaned his new staff against the crook of his shoulder and pulled a black cloth mask up over his nose. He yanked his hood over his tangled black hair. It still would not be prudent to invite another attack.

Something crackled off the path to his right. Ven's head snapped towards the sound with an uncanny, inhuman jolt. He rolled his staff along his arm and into his ready hand, and then stood still: tensed, listening, and waiting. All the while, his odd friend busied himself with a rather thorough inspection of the wooden cart, oblivious to the world around him. The crackling stopped. Ven stared off into the treeline for a moment longer before relaxing again. It was probably just a bird or a falling twig. And yet...the demon did sense something. "We should be going," he advised, his meandering politeness replaced by the succinct words of someone very much on edge. He turned back to Lars just as the man stood back up from tinkering with a wheel. He was begrudgingly impressed by the fellow's attention to craft and detail. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge Lars as simple.

Lars slapped the side of the cart. "Alright, hop in."

Or perhaps he had not been too quick to judge.

"What?" Ven asked, now looking rather severe. "In the — in the cart?" There was a pregnant pause as he fully processed what he'd been instructed to do. His voice softened, still incredulous but now tinged with slight amusement. "Mr. Lars, I am not a potato to be rode to market. I thank you for your kindness, but I shall walk. Besides, I wish to be ready — "

He stopped mid-sentence. He had just turned back to face the road to find that the two of them were not alone after all. As if summoned by what he'd said, a leather-clad figure had slunk from behind the underbrush and now stood confidently in their way. "Well," she called as she approached with a swagger. Ven looked her up and down. She was tall. Broad. Cocksure. Her hand rested casually on a glinting saber. "I don't think I recognize you boys. And you know what that means?" The woman spat to her side and wiped her chin on her sleeve. "Means you didn't pay the toll."

Lars rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and waited patiently as Ven, at his behest, did the exact opposite of get in. He protested! Nicely enough, mind, but still protested all the same. A potato? He couldn't recall calling Ven a potato, or implying he was one in the first place... not that there was anything wrong with being a potato. Actually, what WAS so bad about being a potato worth being sold!? Folks needed their vittles and stews, and wasn't no stew worth two copper without a good potato!

As riled up as he was confused, Lars waited patiently (with an admittedly hurt look on his face) for Ven to explain his case, so he might explain his own— That turn, however, never came as not even his pale pal got more than a word and a half out edgewise before being interrupted himself.

Lars's eyes looked left and right— his hearing not as good as Ven's, to be fair— before his eyes settled on some... cityfolk? What came strutting from down the road at them like a pair of roosters on the prowl. Your average fella would've been less worried about how poultry-like they looked and more so about the weapon one of them was obviously displaying... But honestly, Lars was a bit too confused to genuinely perceive the threat he was currently under.

Recognize? Toll??

"You ain't lost, are ya, ma'am? Ain't a toll down this way for another... what, 50 miles? By the Northwatch gates, I think— we're closer to Darken Vei, I reckon..." Lars, of course, was all to happy to point them in the right direction, walking over to the two newcomers with a bright smile and a spring to his step. Today was all about finding lost lil' prairies, it seemed! First Ven, then these folks.

"I'm Lars! 'Least, that's what my friends call me. Tell ya what— me and my buddy there, we're head in' back toward Darken Vei— to my farm, see— gunna get him right and proper with a map of the region, and if you want, y'all can tag along! Get y'all all setup with a map too. Heh— Boy I tell ya, y'all cityfolk and not knowing your way out of a brown paper bag with a hole in it go together like right and raisins— but I figure we wouldn't've met if ya didn't!"

Was it actually possible to be too friendly?

"Mr. Lars, I wouldn't — "

He should have expected it. He did not know why he was surprised. The man had, after all, confidently approached a deadly skirmish between a contingent of skilled hunters and a dead man walking. Ven had at first chalked this up to Lars' confidence in his own magicks. But now, as he watched his odd farmer friend stray closer and closer to a heavily-armed highwayman with the same inane chatter as before, he realized that Mr. Sycamonia-the-Seventeenth simply approached everyone he met like this. Regardless, it seemed, of their intent.

There came an almighty crash through the woods behind them. No — to their left. No, Ven realized with a grimace. Of course. This wasn't just some lone wolf trying her luck. It was an ambush. They were surrounded. He counted three — no, four — men. "Mr. Lars..." he warned again. His grip tightened around his staff. He started forward. The demon stirred, sensing prey. Something cold bit suddenly at his neck: a sword. He stopped in his tracks and followed the glinting blade to meet the eyes of the man who wielded it.

"GAH! Fuck!" The man stumbled back, now looking him up and down in equal parts horror and disbelief. "Zale. This one's not right. He looks...dead-like."

The woman snorted. "Quit making excuses. Get your head out your arse and pat him down." She closed the distance between herself and Lars, still all swagger and confidence. "And you." She smiled. She looked him up and down like he was a prize turkey. "Well. Mighty kind of you to offer," she said with a mocking twang. Without warning, she grabbed him, spun him, pulled him to her, and pressed a dagger to his throat. "But I think I'll just take your coin instead." Zale jerked her chin at the man nearest her. "Bartrand! "Inspect" the nice farmer's cart, would you? We wouldn't want him to accidentally forget anything. Would we, darling?"

The sudden exclamation of surprise from behind him— and of a voice he wasn't familiar with, what's more— was the cue that tipped Lars off to the possibility that something wasn't cracking' up to what it should've been. Lars turned his back on the lady instinctively, still not fully aware of how much trouble he and his potato-discriminating partner were truly in at the moment, only to find that they were no longer as alone as they'd been a few moments ago. There was a new fella— though he was right and proper on his bottom at the moment.

What was going on? Ven didn't seem particularly plussed, so neither was Lars— not immediately, anyway. Pat him down? "Ven? These some friends o' yours? Er, yours, ma'am?" He couldn't help but ask as he turned back to the taller woman, confused as to why the new guy had his sword out— having missed the blatant attempt on Ven's life. He didn't have much time to query it in his own head, unfortunately— as before long, he'd turned around once more... Except not by choice this time, and with a knife at his neck.

"Wha—!?" Lars started, only to be silenced by the fear that the dagger at his throat brought. What the heck was going on, here!? One minute these folk were talking about taxes, and the next they were attacking him! "Y'ain't gotta be so rough! I was just tryin' to be nice— hey! Watch the wheels!" Lars complained, seemingly still not fully grasping the situation he was in. Who could blame him? He'd traveled these dirt roads once before, and it was nothing but silence and songbirds... so songbirds.

Now he was being threatened about money and— Wait. Wait...

"...Wait," Lars, with a sudden onset of realization, spoke up once more, mostly to the lady who'd been holding him hostage now— but loud enough for just about anyone to hear. "Could it be... y'all are them, whatcha call'em— bandits? Highwaymen? What come around extortin' folk and beatin' up on 'em?" His voice, as surprising as his rather late eureka moment, was not frazzled at all; In fact, he sounded more curious than anything else. Which... definitely strange, given the knife thing.

"No. They are decidedly not friends of mine," Ven replied crisply. He scanned the scene. The woman — Zale — had ordered the man behind him to ignore his fear, but he still stood at a distance. Good. The second one, Bartrand, hung back by the cart and kicked at the wheels along with a third. The fourth crouched across the path on the other side of Zale and Mr. Lars, an arrow nocked and at the ready.

As for Mr. Lars, he did not seem to grasp the seriousness of their predicament at all.

Ven sighed. He did not want to kill. If he wanted to keep Mr. Sycamonia-the-Seventeenth out of trouble, however, he might have to. He eyed the knife still pressed firmly against his friend's throat. One wrong move and that blade could slip. For now, he would stay his staff. He tucked it into the crook of his arm and raised his hands slowly. "Mr. Lars," he called. "Perhaps we should do as she says — "

CRUNCH.

Ven winced. He glanced over his shoulder just as the cart toppled, now less a wheel. "Nothing here but bits of cabbage," Bartrand grunted. "Damned peasants. Whatever they've got is in their pockets. Check 'em."

CRUNCH.

A wave of shell shock washed over Lars as his body, mind and spirit stilled at the abrupt, almost violent noise. A dull, reverberating silence fell over the forest clearing for the red-headed farmer, the only sound reaching his ears being the echoed symphony of shearing and shattering wood. His eyes hesitated to trace the noise, though his mind knew it well, and his heart would not be quelled by simply averting his gaze. Slowly, in spite of the knife at his neck, his gaze turned toward the source of the noise...

His cart. His now toppled cart. A wheel, under needless scrutiny and strain, having snapped from its wooden axle; A handle, splintered slightly from the force of the impact from its fall. His cart... Vandalized.

A crawling blackness seeped into his mind— into his very sight, blinding him to all but the visage of the treasured wood his father had proudly entrusted him with so many years ago. A dreadful cold flushed his veins, his guts, his lungs— and yet his heart blistered with a thereforeto unforeseen emotion from the young man that threatened to consume even the deluge that he'd been plunged into. It raged from the shadows of his chest, consuming his very being 'ere long, leaving little more than the physical likeness of the cheerfully naive Lars in its place— yet the kindly soul was all but gone.

His skin warmed to the touch, the many nicks and scratches he'd acquired over his twenty-some years of life beginning to seethe and smoke, as if a heat unnatural to any living being was soon to burst forth. Perhaps that wasn't so far from the truth, as only moments later those self-same scratches began to glow— a dull gleam, then a deep red, and then near-blindingly white with an intensity that rivaled the striking of blades. Something was changing... something was coming.

The fauna felt it first— the few prey animals in the area evacuating post-haste. What followed was only natural, then, given such a sight— the land began to tremble beneath everyone's feet, escalating horrifically swiftly in magnitude. The trees and bushes by the wayside swayed unnaturally— the winds not nearly strong enough to elicit such motions, and the ground below the group's feet quickly began to give— as if decades of footfalls across the beaten path had been brushed aside and replaced with the most fertile, gentle, and yet non-comforting spreads of soil. And then it happened.

There was no warning— no verbal one, at least. The highwaymen willing to withstand such unnatural conditions were rewarded for their foolishness in kind— for from the very soul that bore no life moments earlier did massive, earth-blackened roots rip and rise forth, lashing and snatching at the legs— and even arms in some cases— of those foolish enough to remain. Like serpents, the trails of life from the very earth coiled and constricted around anything and everything that they could get their hands upon— living or otherwise. Fonts of green vibrantly spread forth across the beaten path as grass near-miraculously sprouted forth and spread like water across marbled plains— and shortly thereafter, weeds followed the grass, and throned, ivy-like vines followed the weeds. The setting itself was awash with life—unbridled, unburdened... and all too willing to ensnare and swallow all who were present within the newly-birthed emerald garden, as the overgrowth of grass quickly coated the entrapped souls within, and the ivy vines climbed the still-growing, uplifted roots, threatening to capture them all within Eden's embrace... permanently.

The woman, Zale, was very quick to decide that the two unlikely friends were much more trouble than what their pockets could pay for. Unfortunately for her, Mr. Lars' magicks were quicker. A vine whipped forth and coiled up her leg, spreading its nodes like accelerated cancer across her chest before diving into her throat. Her screams did not last long. Nor did her body. The earth swallowed her ravenously and grass rolled over her, until in a matter of seconds, she was but a verdant hill. As, it appeared, were her comrades.

Ven beat the ivy from around him with his staff, until it, too, sprouted and threatened to strangle him. He threw it to the ground in a hurry, where it seemed perfectly content to grow a little Oaky. "Mr. Lars?" he called, now fully in a panic. "Lars! LARS!"

But the man was in a trance: his skin like the veins of a mountain erupting, his whole being cloaked in fiery rage. He did not hear his own name. He did not seem to know the terror he had unleashed on this once peaceful forest. He was lost within himself — and it was a place Ven knew all too well.

"Aah!" Something hard and unforgiving grabbed his ankle and yanked. He stumbled, grasping for handholds, but even those turned green and betrayed him. He had no choice. It was all he had left. With as much control as he could muster in his panicked state, Ven opened the gates of his mind and set the hunger free. He focused, razor-sharp, on that which the demon found the most repulsive: all things green and lush. A neat, crisp circle spread forth from beneath him. It crept at first, but as his confidence in his precision grew, it rolled along the earth in a challenge to Lars' incredible magick. Leaves and vines and blades of grass yellowed, shriveled, and crumbled into ashes before him. The roots around his ankle fell free at last, and he clambered out of that premature grave to safety. He scowled at the nausea that surged and wrenched his gut into knots. The demon loathed this. It was like eating fistfuls of dirt. But he had to try and stop this.

"LARS!" he bellowed. "LARS — SYCAMONIA." He stumbled forwards, making his way towards the man, his feet sinking into the soft soil with every step. Before him: the stark barrier between his curse and Lars' primeval force. He stood on an island of rot in a sea of life. But his shield of death would not last forever. Not with how the demon strained towards the smell of his friend. "Argh. LARS," he called again. "Stop this! Remember yourself!"

Ven's voice did not reach him— it could not. Lar's mind— his very soul— was elsewhere occupied. The unchecked verdant flood of wild, raw magic into the land had all but erased mankind's from the surrounding land. All but... for with every fiber of his being, one presence stood in defiance of nature's overbearing grasp. Lars's friend... though he could not know the desperation of his circumstance, nor the consequences of his own actions.

He heard a voice... but it wasn't Ven's. It wasn't the subdued, familiar voice of a friend— it was something... different. Foreign. Alien to Lars's own very-much-human mind— as if the concept of the sounds he heard weren't comprehensive by the ears of men. And yet, he heard it... no, "understood" it.

It was... arithmetic? No... logic? A sequence of recurring loops, with slight deviations and occasional aberrations; Divergent tones which formed new, recurring loops of their own, which branched from older, more robust patterns. The loops of the recursions always lead back to the main node from which they spawned, before beginning another loop; and with each loop, the sequence became more profound... more robust, as if etching its existence further into the greater design that it was a part of.

It was... it was beautiful.

And it was gone— just as suddenly as it came, as Lars's mind was sent reeling back to the waking world in which it belonged. What force could've broken his enraptured concentration, one might wonder, if not even the voice of his friend could not?

Quite simple; a flying pumpkin, of course.

The flood of green ceased; though it did not recede, ivy and brush no longer fought to overtake the dying domain that Ven had created around himself. Lars's eyes flinched closed— primarily out of pain as he slumped to the ground, holding the back of his head with a barely audible "ouch", as the large pumpkin came to a graceless landing near to his side. But perhaps the sudden appearance of a veritably-vast vegetable wasn't as shocking as the fact that... well...

"Cor blimey, lad! What'r ye doin!? Making a right mess the road, ain't ye!? Hells— let ye out o' earshot for a bloody bell 'n a half and lookit y've done, mate!"

"Ow... sorry, Gourdy."

...It had a face carved into it... and that face could speak. And not just to Lars's nature-attuned ears; even Ven would've been able to hear it.

TW: barf

The wild magick stopped at last, though not by his own doing. Past whipping vines and swirling leaves, Ven thought he'd caught a glimpse of something round and orange hurtling towards Lars. Something like a vegetable. A squash, or...

"Hughhh — "

He doubled over before he could even think to make sense of what he'd seen. He heaved violently. Nothing came forth. His empty stomach roiled and nausea crept like insects beneath his skin. His knees were jelly. Suddenly, he fell forward into the detritus and heaved again, this time spewing black bile and rot. He watched, shuddering, as the stuff soaked down into layers of dead leaves. He could not recall feeling this way...so repulsed and weak. Was the demon truly so unfit to consume as he'd consumed?

Ven closed his eyes, still on all fours, and listened to it. Yes. It was weak, too. As weak as he was. It still wanted Lars. It simply lacked the will to lash out and take the man's life...for now, at least. "Hmmh," he grunted. Much as he did not wish to repeat this experience, perhaps it held the key to keeping this monster at bay. He opened his eyes again and stumbled to his feet, wiping the bile from his lips with his thumb. He glanced about him. His staff was gone entirely, as were their attackers. The orange thing, though — the squash —

Spoke.

And he understood it.

It shouldn't have surprised him. After all, "Oaky" had shown some ability to reason. But this was a vegetable, and one disembodied from whatever plant that grew it to maturity. And something about that was quite unnerving. It seemed rather like bringing a dead man's corpse back to life. Ven wasn't certain he wanted to get any nearer, even if his own circumstances were uncannily similar.


He cleared his throat. "Ah...Mr. Lars? Are you...alright?"

Lars sighed, still not fully feeling very much 'himself'. The world was still a mild mire of shapes and color to his eyes; His location, his circumstances, all of it was still little more than figments of a dream outside of a dream that he wasn't sure he'd had. He couldn't quite remember what he was doing before Gourdy snapped him out of it... or even why Gourdy was snapping him out of anything.

"A right bloody mess, for certain. What're ya even doin' out these parts, lad? Yer mum's been lookin' for ye half a morn'. Yer da sent ye east, not 'weast'!"

"Dad was...?" The confuzzled farmer's eyes slowly started to focus, though the surroundings were no less unfamiliar to him in his sharpened gaze than they were prior. Nor was the situation. He DEFINITELY wasn't home. That was certain-- his old man would've killed him if he let the fields get this overgrown. Shuffling through the thicket of brush and grasses (one half roll at a time), 'Gourdy' as the pumpkin was called by Lars let out a relenting sigh of frustration, more than aware of the circumstances-- even when Lars didn't seem to be. Or pretended not to.

It was more than clear that Lars had lost control. Again. And bad things happened whenever Lars lost control. The lantern-like Gourd observed the viscinity-- eying bushes and root-reclaimed landmarks that looked eerily to it like... humans. Yes... bad things happened when Lars lost control.

"Yeast, lad... well, what's done is done. Pick yourself up 'n--"

He-- and Lars's slowly recovering train of though-- were interrupted by a voice. A familiar voice, at least to Lars, as his eyes immediate shot over to a certain very-much not floral friend who, if only to Lars, equal parts more weary and pale than he could very clearly recall. The young man's heart leapt through his chest in surprise-- nearly out of his mouth as, with a shocked and pleasantly surprised cry, he yelled,

"VEN! YOU'RE OKAY!"

Work on the farm and on the road had built a decently solid core set of muscles for the farmboy, which he readily demonstrated by standing, dashing through knee-high foliage, and nearly tackling his companion with a deep, powerful bearhug that he was almost afraid to let go of-- as if the man would dissipate in his grasp otherwise. "Oh, thank goodness you're alright! I remember now, there were bandits, and they had you, and the cart and-- Are you okay? Here, lemme get a good look at you. You look like a ghost! Ghostlier, at least..." He relinquished his hold on the man, only to take his face by both hands-- a practice his mom had practically beaten into him with her fussings-- and bring his face closer to Lars's own, before touching their foreheads together.

"You're freezing, aren't ya? That'll be the shock setting in-- We definitely have to get you by a proper fire, and put some food in you, yeah?"

The vegetable continued on, and Ven, in turn, continued to be able to understand it. He wondered briefly if he'd been struck upside the head by some errant, lashing vine, and if he was now hallucinating this chatty squash altogether. Or perhaps the entire thing was a dream. It would certainly account for how strange the day's happenings had been. It seemed that, imaginary or no, Mr. Lars' formidable power was kept at bay with an even temper, and was unleashed when that very dam broke.

Well. Frightening as the man's magicks were, Ven could not find his way to being afraid of Lars himself. After all, in keeping a beast contained, the two of them had something in common. Didn't they?

His musings were cut abruptly short as his strange friend cried out to him. "VEN! YOU'RE OKAY!"

"I — yes, I'm fine, I — " But before he could finish, Lars-Sycamonia-the-Seventeenth barreled towards him like a charging bear, picking up an alarming amount of speed in a very short distance. "Lars," Ven warned as he began to step away. He held his hands up, motioning for his friend to stop. "Lars. Wait. Lars. Don't. No. No, no, no, nonononono — LARS — uff!"

The impact would have sent Ven flying if Lars hadn't wrapped his arms around him and trapped him there in a crushing embrace. His spine popped from the pressure. He squirmed. The demon squirmed, too, but it was still so weak, and it felt more like a worm in one's hands than a clawed and toothed beast. "Mister — Lars — " he managed. "This is — not — ergh — "

But Lars was busy babbling and fussing and did not seem to hear him at all. At last, he released Ven, and Ven made to dust himself off and back away, but then he was back in the man's clutches again. "Wait. No. No — " he coughed as Lars intently pulled his face closer for what very much seemed like a kiss. It was not — thank the gods. It was something else entirely. Something parents did with their children, in fact. "Mr. Lars, I really must insist that you — "

But he was interrupted once again.

"You're freezing, aren't ya? That'll be the shock setting in-- We definitely have to get you by a proper fire, and put some food in you, yeah?"

"Mr. Lars, I am dead!" Ven exclaimed, hoping that now, finally, the man would hear him. "I am a corpse walking. Now, if you would please — release me — I really don't think it's wise for you to be — this close." He raised his own hands and tried in vain to pry Lars' calloused fingers from his cheeks. He winced, anticipating the hunger that never came. This newfound freedom had him on edge. He wondered when it would fade. "Please," he implored again. "I don't know how long this will last."

Dead?

Lars, a bit stupefied by the sudden outburst from his friend, was all sorts of confused by the proclamation. Dead? Like... dead, dead? Even Gourdy seemed a bit taken aback in the distant foliage, though the oversized, animated pumpkin saw fit not to respond-- not immedaitely-- without having a solid understanding of the situation at hand. Silently, Lars listened as he was lectured on the particularly unique state of being that his friend existed in, allowing him to remove his hand from his face, before taking it all in and...

"...Well, I gotta tell ya, that don't make a lick o' sense to me! But I don't know much 'bout corpses and whatnot-- 'cept for the blackhill boars my old man used to hunt-- Doesn't hunt'em much no more since we put barbroot out in the outfield 'n they don't much like running through barbroot-- but I reckon them corpses ain't walk'n talk like people-folk do! Just kept runnin' on instinct 'till they can't run no more, tucker out and make for some o' the meanest cutlets ya ever did eat-- But definitely didn't get 'round talkin' and makin' friends like you do, I tell you what!"

Indeed, for someone so simple as Lars, even the bare truth of matters struggled to make it through the thick labyrinth that was his mind.

"Anywhat, my 'pologies for getting a little too touchy there-- I was worried, what with the-- well, y'know, you were there. But, I tell you what," He took a step back, leaned in a bit and delivered a deep, bountiful, toothy smile bright enough to turn the undead and deal a considerable amount of holy damage in another world, "If you ever need a little warming up, you know who gives the best hugs this side of Le'raana! Now c'mon, ma's probably worried sick if she sent ol' Gourdy after me! I'nnat right, sir?"

"Don't ye 'sir' me, ye radish-- Tha's MASTER GOURDY to ye!"

"Yessir, Master Gourdy!" Lars cheerily responded as he went to pick up the grumpy pumpkin from the ground. Granted, Gourdy was more than capable of getting around by itself-- but Lars felt it was the least he could do to carry it back home.

Lars released him at last, and Ven backed away, clutching fistfuls of his own cloak in a strange self-embrace. Somewhere far in the distance, the man chattered away, but it sounded to him like a voice at the other end of a tunnel. He could not discern the words, nor their meaning. The verdant ground beneath Lars' shoes went in and out of focus. His eyes burned as if they strained to produce a thing they no longer could. He suddenly felt so small.

He worked the cloak at his shoulders for a moment longer before snapping to. With an inhuman jerk of the neck, he met Lars' gaze just as the oblivious bumpkin finished a long-winded tangent about boars. He cleared his throat awkwardly and shifted his weight from leg to leg. "Ah...yes. Right. We should...we should be going," he managed. Why was his throat so tight? There was something about that simple act of kindness — and about being embraced — that had broken him down more than he would have expected.

Foolish, really.

He coughed. "Lead the way, then."

"Lead, I will, then! Come on, Gourdy— we've got a guest to feed, ain't we?"

Strewn shrubberies and bunches of bushes— Lars couldn't quite recall when they'd gotten there, but he did his best not to trample all over them as he ran over— moreso danced, given his every other step was plotted around the fervent foliage— to collect Gourdy from the ground. Said grumpy ol' gourd had been more or less quiet while Lars reunited with his friend, likely contemplating the absurdity of it all between every odd grumble or so.

The return from the watch to Lars's family  homestead wasn't short, as Ven would all too soon come to find out; Lars had taken the liberty of retrieving his beloved cart from Mother Earth— this time neither for Ven, nor for potatoes, but for his overgrown pumpkin partner. He could've carried him the entire way— he'd carried him pretty far before, after all— but Gourdy preferred to ride in style. He was a pumpkin who did more wheeling than he did dealing, after all... though the bumpy, beaten road toward the homestead made that seem a bit questionable.

"Bloody hell, lad— Ya tryin' ta throw me off the cart, ain't ye!? My grann'a could pull a bloody boulder up a moun'ain, ye can' never pull a pair a wheels!"

"Sorry Gourdy! I'll be more careful— but Y'know you talk about yer old man a whole lot, but I'un reckon I've ever heard o' no pumpkin da? Ya gotta pumpkin ma, too? Or—"

"Listen ta herself— watch ye grammar, ya lunkhead! Ain't yer ma teach ye ta talk proper Common, somm'at?" Lars couldn't help but giggle a bit at the reprimanding. It was as if Gourdy couldn't hear himself, the pot, calling the proverbial kettle black. For a pumpkin that'd probably outlived more folk than a pair of boots in a coal chute, he was probably every bit as funny today as he was when Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Grandad enchanted him.

Thankfully (for Ven), the banter didn't last much longer— a couple blinks out, down the old trotted road their were headed on, Lars could finally begin to make out what he was almost certain was—

"There she is! Home sweet home!"

Indeed it was. Even at a far gaze, the Sycamonia farmlands were a vast, yet quaint little paradise of slow life in the distant plains of Darken Vei. The tall grass lining the roads made way for barbed fencing a little ways ahead, and just beyond that, rows upon rows of crops— a sea of greens, which surrounded a collection of buildings— one particularly homey-looking. It was fun to travel, to see the surrounding lands and meet new people... but for Lars, there really was no place like home.

It was the strangest journey he could ever recall having — though, as his memory was largely lost to whatever void he had come from, this was not saying much. Ven was still not certain what to make of the animated squash corpse. He did not think he would ever be certain. As it was, what snippets of conversation he caught seemed to indicate that whatever soul lived within the hollowed confines of that enchanted vegetable was curmudgeonly and impatient. He thought it best to simply not engage the creature in conversation.

Finally, after what had seemed like hours of aimless back-and-forth between Mr. Lars and the squash, they broke free from the shadowed understory and stepped into a gilt and sun-drenched field. Ven could not help but smile at the sight of the quaint little farmstead that beckoned them in the distance. It was a beautiful sight — and a welcome one. For perhaps now, he would get some answers. "Gods," he remarked. "It is no wonder at all that you are so cheerful, Mr. Lars. I should be as well, were this my home."

But his relief was short-lived, as a thought nagged at him that he could not ignore. Mr. Lars had been very quick to draw too close and put himself in danger. And, as the apple did not fall far from the tree...Ven grew serious again and turned to his new-found friend. "Your mother. Your father. Are they home?" he asked. "I do not wish to put anyone in harm's way."

"I should sure as southern sunshine hope they're home, yeah!"

Lars, it seemed, still hadn't fully grasped the extent to which Ven took himself-- or at the very least, his condition-- seriously. Like a bolt from the sun itself, he seemed to exude exuberant energy at the idea of his new friend meeting his parents... and why wouldn't he? Lars didn't have many friends, after all. It was a rare enough occasion for him to bring someone home for any non-business-related reason, and rarer still for that someone to be a friend.

"I reckon my old man's probably out in the field, shuckin' corn-- or, is it huskin', I don't-- He don't really like getting the silks all over the kitchen table, yeah? Kinda funny, too, 'cause my ma-- and mind you, my ma's probably every bit a husker as my da-- now, she can make a corn silk sing seven ways to sundown, y'know?" He leaned back against the cart as he continued to explain a topic that literally no one asked about nor implored him to go into further detail on. "See, she does this thing with the silks from the corn-- makes a real nice tea outta 'em, then dip 'em in this here uh, what'd she call it-- liar? Lime? Somethin' like that-- makes the silk sharp, but real brittle-like-- well, more brittle-like than they are after the tea-soakin'-- then she heats 'em up, lets 'em sit for a bit, and I tell ya-- they get as thin as thread! 'Bout as flexible too! She makes these real nice hats and such outta 'em-- Sometimes she threads 'em up tight-like and nips 'em here and there, and we spread it out in the field-- the wild boars don't know the difference 'tween a corn husk and a case o' bricks, see-- And that'll save us a couple huntin' runs when the packs get a little too big, y'know? 'Specially the older ones that--"

"BLOODY 'ELL, LAD! I ain' got ears carved in'a me and yer still barkin' em off the side o' me 'ead!"

That powerful, pained outburst from Ol' Gourdy was enough to not only stop Lars in his verbal tracks, but also cause him to double over a bit in laughter-- amused as always with the gnarly old gourd's grumping about it. "Right, right-- sorry, Gourdy! Anyways! Don't you worry your pale pumpernickel-loaf, Mr. Vem Pyre-- My ma always says I ain't got much of a lick o' sense cause they keep it all safe with them at home-- So I reckon they'll be fine 'round you!" He explained with glee, almost giddy to introduce the man to his parents at this point. The pumpkin merely continued to grumble disconcertingly behind the two.

Mr. Lars gave Ven the answers to many questions that he had never asked the man. Many. Questions. He did finally manage to extract a grain of what he sought: that Lars' parents had more sense than he did. This, at least, according to Lars himself. Ven was not entirely certain that he could trust this information, but he did very much need to know where he was. He resolved that if these kind folk were as...touchy...as their son, to simply run away and create some distance. He would be ready for it. Hopefully.

"... Alright," he replied with a note of unease and a sidelong glance at the squash. "Lead on, then, Mr. Lars."

With a nod, a bright grin, and a sure-enough pep in his step, Lars obliged— lifting back off of the wooden wagon he'd been pulling, and passing the barbed fences into his family homestead. "We're makin' tracks, then! First stop, my old man— he'll probably be down by the silos, this time o' day, I reckon... Oh, watch'er step where y'go, would ya? We get field rodents."

That dreary little detail noted, the group proceeded down the beaten road that led through the cornfields— Lars making sure to stop and have a quick "Hi and bye" with the stalks as he did— before they made their way past the majority of the crops surrounding their humble little abode, emerging near the center of the farmland. True to Lars's word (as well as anyone's eyes even at a distance), a series of silos stood just a few skips east of the farmhouse— 4 rows of 7, painted cornsnake red with steel domes.

It was a rather peaceful sight to take in— not that Ven had long to take it in before everyone's favorite alarm clock broke the silent atmosphere again.

"DAD!!! Y'OUT HERE!? GOT SOM'NE WANNA MEET YOU! NEW FRIEND O' MINE!" Lars practically screeched, ensuring that all of Serendipity knew he was there.

"YEAH! Damn, boy— lungs on you. A'ight, gimme a sec'n, I'm comin' round." Came an older, more gruff than not man's reply, sounding from behind one of the nearer silos. Lars's heart jumped with joy; Gourdy seemed to simply be simply counting his blessings that he wasn't carved with ears.

Sure enough, from around the bend, a large man stepped forth. Had to be about 6 foot, maybe 8 or 9 inches, with a strikingly familiar tone of skin, and a full head of buzz-cut ginger hair, a few weeks due for another touch up. Stone gray eyes and a thick, rugged red beard with a couple touches of silver gave him a resoundingly tough appearance— and that was ignoring the fact that he looked like the human equivalent of a godsdamned brick wall... with a little bit of belly for added support. His overalls and button-up plaid shirt, however, helped to even out that intimidation out with a semblance of belonging. That, and a proud smile on his lips— the kind that belonged to a father.

"Well, well. Yer mother's gunna put a fine leather boot on yer ass, she see you just gettin' back. Ain't you—" The larger man began, his eyes instinctively driven to Lars so quickly that he nearly missed the fact that he wasn't alone. The smile faded from his lips— shortly afterward replaced with a rather slight, yet all-the-same concerned grimace, and an impossibly knowing look as his gaze fell on Ven.

"...This your friend, boy?"

Lars, disregarding the threat to his life for the time being, nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! His name's Vem! Vem Pyre, I think I got that right. Found him getting knocked around out in the forest by Northwatch, some thugs or some thin'— he's lost, sounds like, so I figure we can help out a bit!"

Unsurprisingly, the older man's gaze only narrowed further— though no hostility was raised, in spite of that. Here was a man who was more than in control of his emotions— a boon and a deadly, deadly weapon if he needed to wield it such. "Uh-huh. Well, y'ain't my boy for nothing— wouldn't expect less. But how 'bout you tell me your side of the story... 'Vem Pyre', was it?"

It was a loaded question, of course. The REAL 'Mr. Lars' seemed much, much more intentional about his words than his son, that much was for certain.

"Don't worry. Y'ain't gotta fret about boring' me. I'm real curious 'bout your... particular circumstances."

...As well as his 'demands'.

One thing was for certain: Mr. Lars the senior did not share his son's perplexing blindness and inability to grasp the danger he was in. The massive man peered down at Ven with the suspicion rightly owed to one of his condition, and Ven found himself craning his neck to return that steely gaze. "It...ah..." He trailed off almost immediately, taken aback by the sudden scrutiny he was under. He took a step back, cleared his throat, and tried again. "That is to say...my name isn't Vem-Pyre. It's Ven," he corrected, then thought a moment and added, quite uncertainly, "...sir."

Ven glanced between father and son. Their resemblance was uncanny, though he was grateful that Lars the junior had not entirely inherited his father's build, or he might have cracked several of Ven's ribs and broken his spine in that crushing grip. "Your son was kind enough to rescue me from an attack," he continued carefully. "I am...ah...lost does not quite cover it, I'm afraid. But to know where I am would be a start, at least. Mr. Lars — that is to say, your son — told me I might be able to look at a proper map here. If it wouldn't be too much trouble. Sir."

A single brow raised on the weather-hardened forehead of the mountainous Mr. Lars, a bit of a grimace forming on his lips as he took in the words of his son's newfound companion. There was a beat of silence, following Vem-- or rather, Ven's-- rather lacking explanation of his circumstances, wherein the younger of two present Sycamonia sons leaned back and forth on his heels with a rather proud grin on his face, quite pleased that he'd made himself a man of his word-- bringing his new friend home in an attempt to get him some well-needed help, whilst the elder closed his eyes for a moment (having taken in the aforementioned sight) and sighed heavily, mentally questioning what trouble Lars had inadvertently brought unto their humble doorstep.

He couldn't be mad about it. Boy's heart was always in the right place, that was what mattered-- that was what he always taught him, anyway.
 
"I reckon 'lost' ain't even the worst o' yer problems, by the look of ya. By the feel of ya, even. Hell on a headcollar..."

'By the feel of you'. A most concerning choice of words... Just how much was the elder Lars able to tell at a glance of the man? Was it intuition, or...? Another beat of silence... Before ultimately, Lars Sr. shrugged, opening his eyes once more, and beginning to walk toward the two. "Well, if my boy vouches for ya, probly ain't all bad. I keep a couple maps in the shed, for longer trips. Reckon' yinz'll see what yer lookin' t'see on 'em. Come on, we're headin' round the-- OH HELL--!!"

There was very little warning. Very little cause for panic, save Mr. Sycamonia's instinct-driven activation of every core muscle in his body as he made a last-minute dive to the side of the duo, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins in equal parts. And thank goodness that he did jump-- for in the same moment, from behind, his dearest son was struck full-force with a massive, wood-and-iron-crafted piece of farm machinery, at least twice his size. A wheat thresher-- and not just one that had rolled away from it's user, or slipped down a hill-- one that was thrown at him at the speed of a hunting bird.

To say that the younger redhead didn't see it coming was an understatement. In one instant, he was standing jovially next to Ven, head in the clouds. In the next, he was gone-- practically wiped off the face of the Earth as his body-- bound to the flying thresher by sheer force and wind pressure alone-- was sent on a short trip to the other side of the dirt roads lining the silos, before crashing to the ground, tumbling and rag-dolling to a stop-- Lars and the thresher both. Unmoving. Perhaps, lifeless.

The offender? The monstrosity that had both the strength and the cruelty to do something as horrific as throw a wheat thresher at a human being? Oh, she wasn't too far off. Manicured, sandal-protected feet stamping into the ground with every step she took, azure eyes filled with rage and tears alike, soft, high cheekbones just as flush, golden locks fluttering in the wind with her white and red polka-dot summer dress. From her dainty, petite 5 foot 5 inch frame, came forth the words no son ever conceived on Le'Raana's lands ever, ever hoped to hear.

"LARS HARTHSTON SYCAMONIA! WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT WANDERING OFF BY YOURSELF WITHOUT TELLING ME!?"

Truly, hell hath no fury like a mother scolding her son.