Welcome to Gaia! ::

Micah eventually slowed to a walk, twisting back from time to time to make sure none of the people -- had they really been people? -- from the campfire were following. Nobody seemed to be chasing him. He couldn't hear footsteps, and the fog here was thin enough that he could see farther than the thick wall of fog outside allowed. The girl and the fisherman and the dead boy were nowhere to be seen. Had he really seen them at all? Maybe he'd imagined or hallucinated them. He shivered and scratched at his side without noticing the motion.

Nowhere was really safe, probably, he thought. He was tired, but he shouldn't sleep. He couldn't afford to stop paying attention. There were dangers in the fog, and dangers in his head, and he couldn't tell the difference, and if he decided that something wasn't real when it was, he might very well get killed, quick and easy. Killed and eaten. Was it true that eating people would cure the infection? Raw and fresh? He swallowed hard. That was worse than becoming a zombie, maybe. At least if you became a zombie you didn't know you were a monster. He hoped, anyway.

He followed the outer wall along the edge of the grounds, walking slowly now that he was sure enough that he wasn't being chased. Ahead of him, the wall turned a corner. No. Something else was blocking his way. As he got closer, he could see that the wall in front of him was made of vines, not bricks; it climbed over and wove around the outer fence, and blocked the way in both directions. He slowed, not wanting to turn back.

The vines seemed to be moving, growing and slithering like snakes in slow motion. He watched one for a while, waiting until one particular thorn moved past another vine, to be sure it was actually moving; it was. It seemed brighter near the wall, too. He couldn't be sure. It was strangely peaceful, and he breathed deeply, feeling himself calm down, the panicky terror that had driven him away from the campfire fading.

He probably shouldn't feel calm, he thought, confused. The flowers that were beginning to bloom on the wall of vines distracted him from the thought, and he reached out without thinking to touch the petals of the closest one.

He woke from a deep sleep and rose from his pallet, walked slowly and serenely down the center of his chamber where the vines grew all around, on all sides and overhead, keeping him safe, holding him in. This was his place, his own. To either side, the crystals stood, shining and irregular. He reached out his hand and tapped his nails gently against one facet.

The crystal sang, a low deep whining note. He smiled. These were his power, his collection. He had done this. He had gathered these from the living, gathered them from the dead.

Micah stumbled back from the vine wall, the strange calm shattered. "Who," he said, and backed further away. The vision, the hallucination, had felt like himself, but obviously it wasn't. He was tripping, and maybe it'd been the flowers that'd done it, and maybe it hadn't. Maybe it was the fog. Maybe it was just him.

He turned and walked back the way he'd come, his steps quick but not running. His spine crawled, but he refused to look back. If he saw the campfire again, he wasn't going to check on it, but this way was obviously a dead end.