Welcome to Gaia! ::

Batholith leaned forward, pushing his red cape out of the way. Big eyes were watching him, some of them bigger than others. It was a weird situation—the first he could think of in which count-the-eyes-and-divide-by-two did not equal the number of people here. Whatever. There were a bunch of freshlings, and it was his turn to tell a spooky story.

“Denise lived with her grandparents in an apartment in the city, where the plaster on the walls was peeling and flies buzzed on the windowsill until they dropped dead from exhaustion. She would come home from school every day, riding up the rickety elevator that sputtered and stuck and stumbled as it rose up, up, up to her grandparents’ apartment. She would wait until after dark when her grandparents came home. Until then, her only company was her grandmother’s pet parrot.”

Batholith wordlessly picked up a graham cracker, split it in half, and offered it to the freshling roasting marshmallows next to him. “Now, this parrot was quite the bird. It had once been a very beautiful bird, with red and blue plumage. But over time, the blue plumage had faded and fallen out, leaving a bird covered in grey skin and crimson feathers. Its eyes were rheumy with age; it would lift one filthy black talon to its eye and scrape it out, chuckling to itself. It would eat the goo that came out of its own eyes, dark orbs locked onto Denise’s as she watched it eat itself alive.”

He looked around the circle. Everyone’s eyes were locked on him. Good. “Denise never had to deal with the parrot—not directly, anyway. Grandmother would take care of it, and when Denise said she didn’t like the parrot, Grandmother would shrug and say that it was just a fussy old man who never bothered anybody. And whenever she was around, it would coo and play with her hair. Grandfather would smile and joke about petting it, but he never seemed to notice the look that the parrot flashed him. It was an unsettling look, almost as if the bird could feel unconditional hatred. Almost as if it resented his presence.

“She knew the look well. It was the look the bird gave her every time Grandmother hugged her or kissed her goodnight.

“One day in spring, Denise and her grandmother went shopping. They looked at dresses, and they looked at shoes. They looked at flitterrats and nezubats in the windows of the shops, and they told each other jokes that made the other laugh. They came home to their apartment in shock that afternoon to find that Grandfather was dead.”

A gasp went around the circle. Batholith continued the story, leaving out some of the gorier details. The original version he’d heard when he was their age was…not something someone that age should have heard. He’d leave it out. “After that, it was just Grandmother and Denise left in the apartment. And the parrot. Grandmother would wake up early in the morning to go to work, Denise would wake up, eat breakfast, go to school, come home, do homework, and she’d go to bed late. Grandmother went to bed even later. She would come home, eat a very late dinner, and then she would sit up in the living room all night until nearly midnight. Denise thought she must have been thinking about Grandfather—they’d lived together for so long. Grandmother was changing, too—her steps were slower, and her voice quieter. She no longer told jokes. She no longer went shopping or cooked dinner. Denise had to do all of that. But her teachers at school told her that Grandmother would get better. She would learn to live through the pain, and she would be back to her old self again soon enough.

“But Grandmother didn’t get better. A year passed, and then six months, and Grandmother was getting worse and worse. She wouldn’t talk to Denise at all; she wouldn’t kiss her good night. She wouldn’t eat dinner, and soon enough, she wasn’t eating breakfast either. Grandmother got skinnier, and skinnier, and skinnier. The only thing she would do was feed the parrot. She did it automatically; Denise didn’t think she even noticed when she’d done it, or how often she fed the bird. So it was that as she got skinnier and skinnier, it got fatter and fatter.

“Autumn rolled around, nearly Haunted Hallows, and Denise was desperate to make Grandmother better. She sent letters to their relatives, begging them for help. Finally, Grandmother’s brother invited her to join him and his husband in their cottage by the sea. ‘I’ll only be gone for three weeks,’ Grandmother said. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ Then she kissed Denise on the forehead. It had been a long time since she’d done that.”

Batholith accepted a marshmallow from a freshling, stuck it into his own stick, and lowered it over the coals. “Grandmother left in mid-October, just around this time of year. She left Denise with three orders: take care of the bird, stay away from the window, and be good. ‘Please do take care of my fussy old man,’ Grandmother sighed. ‘I almost think he’s the only thing keeping me going…’ Grandmother was off, and Denise was all alone in the apartment with the parrot.

“For the first day after Grandmother left the parrot just stared at Denise. It did not move from its perch. But whenever Denise stood up from her chair, or moved into the kitchen, it moaned. Its eyes narrowed and it affixed her with a hideous glare. Every time she moved, it got louder and louder and louder. By the time she went to bed, she could hear it from her bedroom. Groaning and moaning and howling, louder, and louder, and louder, and louder.

“The next morning, she couldn’t get out of bed. She couldn’t get out of her room. Because now the bird was howling and moaning and shrieking every time she moved her arms or her legs or her head or her eyes. The door was closed; the parrot lived in the living room down the hall. And yet, every time she twitched her finger, the bird would begin to scream; and every time she laid still, it ceased its sounds.

“She lay like that for two days, too afraid to move, too afraid to get a cup of water, too afraid to feed herself. That night she heard a scratching sound at her door, as if something was trying to get in. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. It kept on scratching, louder, louder, louder, softer. She burrowed under the sheets, and the parrot screamed at her from the other side of the door.

“Finally she couldn’t take it anymore. She leapt from the bed and snatched open the door. The bird stood outside the door, and it was howling and yowling and moaning. She reached out with both hands and snapped its neck in half.”

There was a collective gasp from the freshlings. Their eyes were wide—but none of them was objecting. Bath took that as a sign to go on.

“She opened up the window in the living room and threw the bird’s remains out onto the sidewalk ten storeys below. She ran back to bed and slammed the door, sobbing. She remembered her grandmother’s words…

“He’s just a sweetie. Just a grumpy old man. He’s just fussing. He just wants his momma. She remembered the way the parrot nibbled at her Grandmother’s hair and sang for her grandmother. Denise rolled over in bed to make the thoughts go away.

“From the living room, something shrieked! And there was a scratching at the foot of her bed…”

Batholith popped the toasted marshmallow in his mouth. A little melted and way too sticky, but… He turned to the freshling to his left. “Your turn.”

Claudette sat motionless, stifling a yawn as she waited for all eyes to fall on her.
"Do you want to hear something really, truly terrifying?" She purred, the malice in her tone almost tangible. She hated this little game, but best to tell them something and get it out of the way and she could go back to other, more important things.
"There was once a hotel, renowned far and wide as a 5-star joint; if you were staying within the city walls, you wanted to be there.
One man in particular would stay there about once a month, and he always requested the same room, for a week straight, and had 'exotic' women coming and going all hours of the day to visit. Management never thought anything of it, it was his business what company he kept after all, and did as he asked, and the room was always fresh and clean the next morning, and the maids adored his cleanliness, although there was always a smell in the air they couldn't place." She paused, glancing at her nails and wrinkling her nose about something before continuing, "But one week in particular, the man didn't come down to check out on-time, and the maids took it upon themselves to knock and check to see if he was alright. They opened the door, and instead of finding the man, they found the room spotless.... except." Her eyes flashed. "There was a single drop of red on the floor, at the foot of the bed. Thinking nothing of it, they reported it and got to work cleaning the spot. But being that close to the bed, they started to notice that strange smell again, only this time it was stronger, permeating from the mattress.
One of the more adventurous, younger maids decided to check under the bed, and instead of finding a source of a smell, she saw more red droplets, under the center of the mattress that was starting to stain red.
Quickly, the other maids removed the sheet from the top of the bed, and what they found was a large tear in the middle of the bare mattress, sewn haphazardly with thick thread, with red stains around the edges." She paused, looking for something to sink her teeth into and finding the chocolate being passed around to be the most enticing, chewing with lack of enthusiasm before continuing when her mouth was clear.
"At this point, the police were contacted, and the threads were cut, one by one... revealing more and more red stains in the fabric.
Finally, with one final snip, the sides were pulled apart to reveal the man who had rented the room, his face duct-taped with plastic wrap and gashes running down his arms and legs, like scratch marks. But that wasn't all... apparently, the man had been storing body parts within the mattress all this time, sewing them into the mattress and coming back to either add to his collection or look them over, no one knew... All they knew was that one of the scratches on his forearm had dark green nail polish snagged in the edges of the wound... matching an arm that had been thrown inside the mattress itself." She grinned, chuckling to herself, "A woman's scorn is pretty scary, isn't it?"

Sascha sat among the children in the circle, his gaze moving to his daughter every now and then as the stories went around, and arched his brow when his turn was announced. A scary story, from him? Really? He leaned back, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and sighed. Well, if they wanted a story... He supposed he had one spooky legend that he could spare.

"This is a story I heard when I was a freshling, so bear with me if I forget any details." He began, leaning forward as he spoke. "Long ago, there was an elderly Geist that lived alone in the mountains of Zephyros. She spoke very little and made meals from the plants she grew out in her front yard. No one lived anywhere close to her, and that seemed to be the way she liked it."

He paused, hoping he'd painted enough of a scene for his audience, and continued.

"However, one evening, a man stopped by with his sick daughter and begged her to make medicine from the plants she grew in her garden. He explained how she'd been battling fevers for months and that he'd heard of the woman's ability to make medicine that would cure anything. To his delight, the old woman agreed without much fuss, and his daughter's ailments were cured.

Years passed by and the man's daughter had grown into a beautiful young woman who caught the attention of everyone in town. Her beauty was rumored to have surpassed that of even the daughters of the royal family. These rumors angered Princess Lorelei, a particularly bitter woman, and she ordered that the man's daughter be killed for being more beautiful than she was. Fearing for her life, her father dressed her in rags and used magic to disguise her as an old woman. Then, he took her away to the mountains as he'd done all those years before.

They spent ages navigating the cliffs together and were forced to settle in a cave when a blizzard made things too hard to see. The father had fallen at some point during the journey and bashed his head open, but with no medical training, the daughter was unable to heal him. Thus, when the storm finally cleared, the daughter carried her father up the mountain and toward a familiar cabin with a snow covered garden. Noticing smoke billowing from the chimney, the daughter knocked frantically on the door, only for it to open seemingly on it's own.

To her surprise, the house was empty, all except for a stove, a lit fireplace, a bookshelf, and a bed set up by the window. The daughter tucked her father into bed, knelt over him, and began to sob.

"Please, if anyone can hear me!" She cried. "Save my father, he was only trying to protect me! I'll do anything you want!"

Then, just as she finished her plea, the old woman appeared at the front door, a grin stretched across her features.

"Anything...?" She asked, her hands clasping together.

"Yes!" The daughter exclaimed. "Just name it, and I'll do it!"

"... Give me your voice." The old woman replied. "And I will heal your father..."

The daughter froze and reached up to touch her throat, but eventually agreed. Losing her voice was worth it if it meant her father would get better. Then, a sudden flash of light enveloped the room and the daughter felt as though her chest were bursting, before she slid to the ground in a heap.

She woke hours later, tucked into the same bed that her father had been in, and found that the disguise her father had given her had faded away. She slid out from under the covers, rubbed her eyes, and looked to the woman making soup on the stove across the room. Something about her seemed familiar, but she wasn't exactly sure what it was, until the woman turned to greet her.

"Oh, my, you're awake already?" The woman asked, her voice an exact mimic of the daughter's. "I was sure you'd sleep another hour or two... How are you feeling?"

The daughter tried to speak, only for the woman to interrupt her with the shake of her head.

"That's right, silly me! You can't talk!" She continued, giving the soup a stir. "... I'll get you a new voice soon, darling, don't you fret!"

The woman paused and turned, her expression as dark as night.

"Your father should be back with it soon, as a matter of fact." She continued, laughing. "And it should be a voice fit for a princess!"

And just as she finished laughing, the father came trudging through the door, dragging none other than an unconscious Princess Lorelei along with him."

Once he'd finished the story, Sascha sat up straight and cleared his throat. Man, even if the crowd had only been Freshlings, it didn't make him any less nervous! They seemed to enjoy it though, judging by how silent and wide eyed they'd gone.

"Uhhh, I've forgotten what this story was called." He began, his brows furrowing in thought. "But it might've been The Haggard of Zephyros or the Beauty of Zephyros. I'm not sure which it was... I hope you guys enjoyed it, though!"

It was long ago that this story was conceived, the tale passed via tongue through the generations. An exact date cannot be procured, but many elders know of it well.

Hunting is one of life's most basic rituals and acts, spanning to those of flesh and blood, to the tender greenery. Herbivore, carnivore, or anything in between, all are privy and none out of bounds. To claim innocence to partaking in it is to be ignorant to its true identity. There is no shame, nor cruelty in gaining nourishment for oneself, in the ancient art... but there are those who tarnish and pervert it. Those who crave more than the simple act of transition, and seek out selfish endeavors.

A legend was commonly known by the Nightmares of yore, of a beast that roamed the merciless woods of Boreas. A stag said to be blessed by the gods, who protected the foreboding forest, roamed the lands to only be seen in brief glimpses in the dreary windows between trunks. There was something eerie about it, a mixture of unnerving and awe-inspiring that would leave many feeling the shudder inducing chill along their spines. Unease and weariness settles, and while petrified momentarily, ones eyes will always abate from the charges unwavering stare. No one dare grow close to it, nor attempt to venture into the haunting forest, leaving the creature to continue its frequent patrol, undisturbed and unchallenged.

All were told to keep at bay from the dense forest, young and old, new and native. Word traveled of the mystical guardian, the sightings only causing the stories to become more potent. Some were elaborated, romanticized, while others lacked core details, and truth. But as with all things, opposition would eventually rear its head. It came in the form of a hybrid man, seasoned and thoroughly fermented in his years. His pale slate grey skin was tarnished and scored tremendously, holding signatures of heavy battle, hardened body built and sturdy. He was impressive in stature, towering over most, imposing his physical strength obviously even under clad cloth and armor. Face traced with wrinkles, and eyes a lethal acidic green, intimidation was the common affliction brought on by those who were ever in his presence. He exuded an air of danger, and was unperturbed by any in his path. The name he went by was Francis, a well known name amongst those in the hunting circles. Deemed one of the best for the colossal feats he'd gained in his expeditions, he was not one that many--any, rather-- trifled with. It was all a sport for him, a way to prove his dominance, and assure his crippling insecurity that drove him to an oversized ego, and skewed view of the world.

He was known for his overflowing confidence that'd developed into a swollen sense of pride. Infected with such a sin, he took on a god-complex view of himself, feeling invincible, and unable to be stopped. This would translate even to how he treated others, seeing all as beneath him, and not even worth being treated as an equal. Never was Francis called upon, but neither was he ever opposed. When the word of the mythical beast finally reached his ears, the hunter made the trek to Boreas. He was instantly met with those who averted his space, and gaze, whispers cropping up around. But he did not speak, nor acknowledge the inhabitants, his cocky grin plastered on his cracked lips, pressing back and dimpling his cheeks as he stalked straight for the forbidden forest.

Many faces were etched with concern, some even attempting to step after him, but stopping short. It was only a young man who raced after the skilled killer, reaching to grab at his sleeve, to give warning to what lay beyond there.

"Please sir! You mustn't kill it. It could be cursed... The gods have surely blessed it!"

Sunken, acid eyes slid slowly to lock onto the youth that halted his progress, a scoff escaping crooked lips,

"What a load of nonsense, if I've ever heard any.." Francis' gravely voice droned, giving a yank and shove of his arm to dislodge the youngster from him, continuing on his pursuit.

Sturdy boots flattened the short, tender grasses beneath them, as he took the first step into the forestline. Instantly, his posture shifted, features as well, taking on a more alert form. The weapons that hung from his body were only reached for as he began to push through the thickly vegetated woods, a machete-like blade extracted from the sheath at his hip. Using it, he boldly sliced through the hardy foliage, and anything akin. The place was dreary, and drab, depressing in appearance and vibe. There was no green in the flora, only an almost liquid grey, intertwined with inky black that clung like tar to the tips. Not a sound could be heard besides the ones created by him, the air stagnant and stifling, almost suffocating. No echoes sounded with the slices he carved, each whisk of his machete staccato, and clipped... as if the sound waves were engulfed...

The familiar ringing of silence hummed in his head as he listened diligently for anything, eyes flashing at any sign of movement, nostrils twitching for any hint of acrid perfume... but only a must was noticeable. Keeping steady, he knelt to the ground to try and find tracks, but to no avail. Slowly standing again, he could feel the faintest, most brief sensation of air... more so, breath. With surprising speed, he whipped around, machete drawn at the ready, met face to face with the stag. It sported a pure white, unmarred pelt, a matured rack of antlers that were chipped, and a set of eyes that were almost entirely black, save for a sliver of vibrant scarlet that consisted of iris. The beast stood just inches from Francis, unmoving, staring intensely at the hunter before it.

In that moment, there was a vague sense of doom that began to creep into the back of the hunters conscious, body stiff and paralyzed unable to react any further as he held the creatures gaze. His own breath shallowed, once steady and unquestioning hands tightly gripped as his psyche was wrought with distress. Voices trickled into the center of his head, muffled, obscured, as if covered up. He began to hear the stags breath in his head, too, or was it his own.... soon enough, a heartbeat started to surface too. It was growing louder, increasing in speed, almost mindnumbing with its repetition. Mouth drying as the insanity seeped into him like a poison, infecting his feeble mind. He couldn't think, he felt weak.... he felt powerless and vulnerable. He felt like he was losing...

"No..." an airy murmur slipped from parched lips.

It was then that a part of his primitive instinct kicked in, bringing forth a mighty gutteral roar from the depths of his lungs. With it came the use of his arms again, allowing him to lurch forward and swing his equipped weapon with all his force. The voices in his head grew frantic, in a frenzy, all tripping over themselves with "stop!"'s and "don't!"'s, desperate to cease what was to come. But it was too late. The contact had been made, the act committed, silence returning and the grip on him abruptly gone. There came the natural, solid thud as the carcass fell to the ground before him, his chest heaving as breath returned to replenish his air. When was the last time he'd felt genuinely fearful...? Not since he was young.... a rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins, making that arrogant smirk return to his ignorant face.

As he proceeded to harvest from his prey, it began to disappear before him, fading away, rendering his efforts useless. Frowning, he stared at his hands that'd been coated in crimson liquid, lacking the heft they'd been holding. A rustle jerked his attention behind him, leaping to his feet and whirling around to find the source. Eyes widening, Francis was met with a frightening sight... of the felled creature in a decaying, disfigured state, piercing eyes honed on him. It was at a distance, a film of mist starting to snake out along the forest floor, aiding in the bone-chilling scene. Francis tried to still his unease and confusion, knowing the weakness that it would provide otherwise. But that entrancing possession started overcoming him again, the whispers coming back. Accusing, they were, questioning and wailing in absolute agony. The heartbeat returned tenfold, louder than before, unnatural rapid, pounding into his skull, making his gut clench with nausea. Dropping his blade, his hands gripped his head, shaking it as he backed away from the stag afar.

"No..... no this... this isn't... poss..ible..." he stammered, each breath growing labored, harder to take in, and even harder to exhale. Sweat beaded along his flesh, eyes growing ragged as the fear and sounds consumed him. The majestic beast approached slowly at first, pelt falling apart and littering the ground, peeling off like a droplet along a leaf. The rest of its body followed suit, the sight ghastly, and gut-wrenching to behold. It was cause enough for Francis to let another forced scream rip from his throat, as he stumbled to turn and run, the madness unbearable as it enveloped him. He tore through the forest, stumbling, running into what ever would give way to his clumsy movements. The voices grew louder, chanting even, "hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt..." the sound of racing hooves encroaching behind him.

But the more he ran, the more lost he became. Everything looked the same... no light shone through the canopies hanging over, not a sliver of air punctured through the lush greenery. There was no way out... he was trapped... encased in his fate. His attempts to hide were futile. Like the many animals he'd done this to times before, it seemed now it was his turn. Now he was the one to be hunted.

The thundering of cloven hooves were rattling and rumbling in his head, making his groans and cries of pain amplify, pleading for the noise to cease. And with a turn of his head to desperately look over his shoulder, he was met with the bare sockets of his kill. They were vacant, the surrounding bone dyed with blotches of red. In that moment, he knew the end was inevitable. Less than a second went by when the surge thrust into his back, penetrating to his very soul, knocking the breath from his body. The splintering and popping of manipulation was horrific, a pain unlike any other, infused with the lives unnecessarily taken by him incorporated into the thick of it. The force sent him flying forward, his scream finally emerging again as he was pushed out from the forest.

His body was still, onlookers keeping far away, safely at their village, but still able to see what occured before them. Many shielded their eyes, or looked away, children's senses also guarded. The fallen hunters form shifted, body elongated, shrinking, and reforming, to take on the appearance of the buck he'd challenged. Like a newborn fawn, he struggled to his hooves, but gained a sudden awareness of functionality. Head lifting, he looked around him, the clothes, and gear he knew well tattered on the ground. And like a cloud veiling the moon, his conscious began to succumb to an unknown presence, losing the thoughts, and memories of the Nightmare he once was. Controlled by something--or someone--else inside of him, he delved back into the forest, adding on another chapter of fear to the story of the haunted woods.