She stumbled through the trees, feet bruising on the rough ground, toes breaking against gnarled roots. Her feet were a disturbing shade of purple, but she did not notice.
She wandered between trees, some normal, others covered in fungus. Eventually, the flora gave way to drooping mushrooms, with caps so wide that the forest floor saw no sunlight. A carpet of glowing moss covered the ground, cushioning her bludgeoned feet, but she did not notice this, either.
She passed a myriad creatures, some stumbling along with her, others lying on the ground, and even some stuck to mushroom stalks, as if they had grown into them.
Every creature was possessed of some horrible deformity, whether a head that seemed to explode from within, fungal growths emerging from the cavity, or creatures nearly encased entirely by the mycelium.
They all, without exception, ignored her, and she them. She walked for days, neither broken bones nor blood stopping her, until at last, she came to the side of a cliff covered by the glowing moss. Her shaking legs finally gave out, and she collapsed onto the moss-covered wall.
A calm smile overcame her.
“This is where I will die,” she croaked, the words barely intelligible from her hoarse, dry throat.
Suddenly, the wall gave way. She tumbled backward, landing on her back with a thump that was far too light. Her skeletal frame shook, making a series of horrible cracks and pops, as she rose to her knees.
Before her, through the hole in the cliff, stood ruins that must have been untouched for centuries.
Cold blue eyes snapped open, glowing in the dark that surrounded them. With four disturbing cracks, her limbs snapped free from whatever device held them. She hit the floor with a dull thud, landing on her feet, her knees only slightly bent.
Green flames ignited in hanging braziers around the room, illuminating a macabre menagerie of flesh covering the entire wall on one side of this cuboid chamber. She seemed to have detached from four focal points jutting from the flesh wall, sucking sphincters pulsing where her limbs once were, eager for their next connection.
Her flesh crawled across her body, pulsing, writhing, forming itself into a recognizably human form. She emerged into the pale green glow, reflected eerily off her snow-white braid, which hung so low it nearly dragged the ground.
Shadows boiled around the edges of the light, then ran like water, encircling her and clothing her in a robe of darkness, before solidifying into a black silk that seemed to draw the light in. The robe hung loose against her now-still skin, pallid in the ghostly light, draping her feet and dragging behind her as she moved.
She strode over to a dark corner of the room, which began to glow the same color as her eyes as she approached. An orb the size of her head sat on a stand of twisting metal fingers, casting the glow that continued to brighten as she drew closer.
She placed her hand atop the orb, closing her eyes and stilling for long moments. For several seconds, she appeared to have frozen in place, a statue intricately carved in her likeness.
After what must have been minutes of stillness and silence, she removed her hand from the orb, and both it and her eyes pulsed with a rhythmic blue glow.
She turned rigidly, marching toward the door and exiting without a glance back. The blue glow faded, and the green flames died, casting the room into impenetrable darkness once again.
——————————
“They have made fantastic progress, my lady,” Ramose said, his ethereal form bowing slightly.
Tara thrust her fist forward with a grunt, pulling it back and bringing her hands to her face.
“Use your legs. Each punch should involve your entire body, from the ground to your fist,” Nephthys coached, sitting on a barrel near the inn’s back door.
“Any surprises? Anything worth noting beyond their recovery?” she asked, glancing at Ramose’s ghostly visage.
“Hmm, well, although I do not consider it worthy of note, there have been some long-term effects, for which we have had to deploy healing magic,” Ramose replied, his hand on his chin.
“I see. Some are low-level enough that the air itself is toxic?” Nephthys asked, pulling a leg up and hugging it to her chin as she watched Tara punch.
“Indeed. Scarring in the lungs, chronic coughs and sore throats, and various other maladies have affected them, though we are only seeing this right now because the worst has already passed, namely, their states of starvation. Chronic issues are only chronic if they live long enough to feel them.
“Regardless, such trifles have been taken care of, and even the most ill of the bunch is moving about the guild without aid,” he concluded, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Excellent. Thank you for the report and your time, Ramose,” Nephthys said.
With a nod, Ramose vanished, the illusion broken with a wave of Nephthys’ hand.
“Surely,” Tara started, huffing and puffing. She had been at this training for hours now, since dawn first broke. “I should be learning magic, rather than…this.”
“Are you not channeling the body enhancement spell?” Nephthys asked, her eyes beginning to glow, giving Tara’s body a once-over.
“I am! I am. I just don’t get why we’re focusing so much on physical stuff,” Tara replied quickly, sending a right hook as emphasis.
“I have explained this already, but let me try a different way.
“I can, and will, teach you offensive magic. However, consider how long it has taken you to learn circulation. This is not meant as a slight. Learning spells takes time, and you could be attacked at any moment.
“Propping up your physical skills right now is going to do far more to ensure your safety than teaching you a powerful spell that will take weeks to even use.
“Even more than that, magic is a sport of the mind, and the mind and body are inextricably linked. To strengthen one is to strengthen the other, and the same for neglect. Even once you know powerful magic, you must not neglect your physical training,” Nephthys finished.
Tara was silent for several moments, considering. Thinking was slower while she juggled mana, motion, and breath.
“Still, perhaps it is time to move on to something else,” Nephthys eventually said, breaking the silence.
Suddenly, the ground beneath Tara’s feet began to shift, sliding backward at an alarming rate. With a yelp, she jumped forward, but the ground continued crawling away from her. She broke into a run, yet she could only keep pace with the receding ground, not get ahead of it. She was running helplessly in place.
“We will do some training that I am quite fond of called ‘high intensity interval training’. This will boost your heart rate to near its maximum in short spurts. We can handle slower, steady-state cardio on different days,” Nephthys explained lazily from the side.
“What is happening?!” Tara shouted, sprinting, lest the ground take her feet from under her.
“Just getting a read on your maximum sprinting speed, dear. I will adjust it based on what I find. Do not slow down, though. The ground will not harm you on its own, but falling at sprinting speed will not be pleasant,” she said, waving her arm.
She’s evil!
————————————
Clayton rubbed his eyes for what must be the hundredth time today. They seemed to itch in a way that rubbing could only temporarily relieve. The stench of alcohol on breath made his nose crinkle, perhaps due to his own brew failing to transport him to that happy oblivion.
“What’s with the long face, Clay? Ain’t you got enough money to fix whatever the source’a that frown is?” Clint asked, boisterous in his intoxicated stupor.
A silence passed between them, Clayton staring into his cup.
“...Hey, you don’t think those farmers—that couple—died, right?” Clayton asked suddenly.
“Farmers? Who the fuck ya talkin’ bout? I don’t know no farmers,” Clint replied, taking a deep draft from his mug.
“You know, the ones from the farm, from the last job,” Clayton nudged, looking pointedly at the man.
“Fuck if I know. All we did was what the job asked. Anything else tha’ happened ain’t our responsibility, yeah?” Clint responded, his mirth becoming serious for all of two seconds, an obliviated smile once again crawling across his face.
“Guess so…” Clayton replied, stifling a yawn with a pull from his cup.
“Ya alright? I ain’t seen ya this tired since…ever. Ya ain’t growin’ a conscience on me, are ya?” Clint asked, feigning good cheer, yet Clayton had been in this business long enough to recognize the glint in his eye.
“You’ve only known me a week, so it’s no wonder you haven’t seen me tired. If you’d known me longer, you’d know that folk who question my competence don’t last long,” he growled in response.
“Ha! Tha’s the spirit!” Clint replied, banging his mug against the table.
——————————————
Clayton lay in bed, his sheets pulled up to his chin, and his hand under his pillow, tightly clutching his dagger. He had spent a small fortune enchanting it, but its effects would be worth it.
He watched his bedroom door, the deadbolt secured, with bloodshot eyes. Sleep clawed at him relentlessly, yet he constantly swatted it aside. He would not take his eyes off the door.
——————————————
Fire. Ash kicked up around his feet. Char and sulfur stung his nose.
——————————————
Clayton jerked awake, immediately angry with himself. He had fallen asleep, dammit!
His gaze slowly drifted toward the door. A chill ran down his spine, and he could feel a cold sweat forming on his back.
The door was open.
Before it hung a woman, the other farmer. She swayed, hanging by the neck from his ceiling. Her body was limp, her head at an angle that promised a broken neck. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth as her head hung down and to the side, though her eyes were locked on Clayton, her gaze distant, foggy.
With a practiced motion, Clayton withdrew the dagger from underneath his pillow and launched it at the creature. He had purchased enchantments specifically for dealing with both undead and illusions. It had cost him nearly all the money he had, including what he had managed to make from the previous job, but it would be worth it when it destroyed this creature.
The blade passed harmlessly through the creature’s limp head, burying itself in the door behind.
“Impossible!” Clayton whispered so forcefully that spittle went flying.
The creature hung there, unmoving, unchanged.
Watching. Waiting.
“Ha—ha—” Clayton’s breathing quickened, and his mind struggled to put together a plan to escape. He glanced at his nightstand. There was a small knife in there, but it was unenchanted. Surely, it would do no better than his dagger.
Clayton jumped as his eyes returned to the door, crawling backward against the headboard. The woman now hung from the ceiling at the foot of his bed, dangling so closely that her purple feet were brushing the footboard.
“Please please please please please go away!” he shouted, pulling the covers above his head.
How could he end this? How could he make these creatures go away? Why were they here? Did they die in the fire? Why was this woman hanging? Did she hang herself when she discovered her husband had been burned to death? Was that his fault?
What could he do?
Lowering the sheet just enough to peek one eye out, he glimpsed his room, empty. The door was closed, the deadbolt engaged.
He stared at the door, unable to move, unable to think. He simply watched. Waited.
Yet no visitors came to haunt him the rest of the night.
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