A/N Hi, call me Circa and this is what I splat out after playing this game for three days: Enjoy!
Do feel free to tell me if you spot any grammar mistakes made in here.
Edited: 1/6/15
Cleaned some mistakes here and there
It was a small campfire; cheap, and enough to keep the darkness at bay. Tonight the wind is chilly and you're down to your last two logs, and a twig to poke at the dancing flames. It's difficult, but it's manageable.
The stinging in your side reminds you of that.
Oh, it's definitely easier. And better, you decide. Better than having to face down those mindless beasts. The hunters of this forsaken place, a mixture of fur as dark as a starless night and sickly, pale teeth-
It's getting closer.
A chill drags down your spine as the first howl reaches your ears, ringing and loud and oh-so-near. Something slams into your back, a sickening crunch following and you realized, a second later, that it's your sides stinging and burning with a thousand needles at once. Its maw is foul and rot-warm and you are reaching for your spear when more teeth descends upon you -
You shudder. Nope, it's over. It's already over. You have survived – barely, you corrects – so stop thinking about it.
Think of something else.
It is peaceably quiet for a while before something filters through the fog of your mind. How long has it been, you wonder. Was it a few weeks? One, two- no, more than that. A month. It's been a month since you came here. Or was it more than that?
You've chased rabbits and birds, hands littered with scars from the thorns of berry bushes and gathered sticks.
You fought frogs and ran from the strange, dangerous birds in the stone plains, egg in your arms and angry screeching behind you.
You have collected burns from fires and battered with waves of hunger, clawing and digging into your stomach for endless days and nights, persistent in reminding you of your plight.
You are exhausted.
The fire crackles and pops, embers dancing and the wind whispers. It's a peaceful night. When was the last time you felt like this? To be peaceful. To stare at the pretty light from the flames, to be tired. So tired. You're so exhausted and your eyes drooped, the light is blurring and fading and silence luring you, the darkness creeping upon you is so calmin-
Icy dread stabs right into your heart and you jerked back into consciousness, diving straight for the fire. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong and you don't know why, except that your instincts screams at your mind and your vision tears through the area.
Something flickers at the edge of your eye, right where the light meets the darkness.
A log was flunked into the flames, sending it roaring when it creeps forwards, fast. The spear is already in your hands as blood rushed through your ears and you launched towards the thing. It is writhing and twisting with shadows and you think you hear a hiss as it retracts, terrible claws twitching.
It's shaped eerily similar to a hand.
Or claw, your mind whispers, as it shoots forward again. It wants the fire and there's no way you're letting it win. The thing retreats when you chased it back and another approached from the other side, hideous and grasping for the light.
Fire licks at your shoes when you throw your last log in but you feel nothing because your legs are burning and burning.
You ran and fought the shadows, cold air hitting and releasing your lungs. They are now three instead of two. Sweat stung your eyes but you can make out the numerous eyes far out in the dark; away from the shrinking sphere of bright. They blink and seemed to mock you with their narrow eyes but there is no time to care. Is it dawn yet, the question clawing its way from your panic filled mind. You repeat and repeat it in your mind and it shifted. Changed, to please be dawn soon as you chased the shadow claws. Or night hands. Everything is burning with sweat and exhaustion and it fades into please please please plea-
Your left shoe brushed the edge of the light, and everything goes sideways.
Grass and hard mud slams into your face and you screamed, something dragging you by your ankle. Your hands dig into the earth and does nothing but leave faint imprints. Warm, coppery liquid trickles past from your nose. You are too busy panicking and too occupied with getting free from your attacker - Anything to get away from the dark and get it off getitoff, a mantra falling from your lips. You tore your sight from your attacker and the endless void, toward the safe light.
And that's when you saw it.
Not it, him, you correct yourself. It's horrifying hilarious how you can still think like that. He is watching, dressed in a crisp black vest and white shirt, hair slicked back with some parts untamed. He is indifferent, face stone cold and you want to hit him because why the heck is he just standing there?
The shadows curled around him, malicious but somehow subdued and it hits your mind like a train wreck. But that is the last thing you see as you feel more tendrils wrapping around you. Finally the small, pathetic fire flickers and hisses out like an extinguishing candle, darkness consuming and pulling you away, the sight of him fading with your conscious.
Then there is silence.
(In the haze of terror and desperation, you missed the faint frown marring his lips and the tightening of his fists.)
.
.
.
.
.
''So you did it.''
The flower in her hand is warm. She brushed the imaginary dust off her shoulders before carefully tucking the blossom in her pocket, almost lovingly so. It's always dark in here, but she's used to it now.
If her companion was listening, she doesn't know, but she continue anyway. ''Mister Mime and Miss Firestarter wouldn't be happy. Especially Mister Mime. You know how he hates to send his hounds after nothing.''
The corners of his lips twitched. ''Well, it's a shame. They'll have to try harder next time.'' A pause. ''Should you not be doing the same, Wendy?''
Wendy's expression, if it was possible, became even more deadpan. ''I completed my quota before you did.''
''Ah yes, sorry. I apologize. There's so much going on right now that I lost track.''
The quip back was sharp, but light-hearted. ''Bicker less with Mister Magician and you probably wouldn-.''
She froze, stilling in her actions. The air surrounding them hushed into silence for a moment, eerie and the light seemed to fade. But as quickly as it came it was over, and the girl is already turning away. "Duty calls." Wendy announces, in the same way others would say 'the sky is blue'.
(It's been so long since he heard that phrase, he tells himself.)
'Oh, is it?' He teased. 'I wonder which being will you terrorize with your sister next.'
Giving a short, but respectful nod, Wendy rolls her eyes and steps into the shadows. 'I'll see you later, Mister Higgsbury.'
And she's gone.
The throne against his back feels cold, like always. Soft wisps of darkness, fading in and out of touch gathered around him, the whispers faint and haunting. But he smiles at where the girl disappears, accustomed to the murmurings and the frigid air, before slipping back into a wearied frown and sighs.
'…You too, my dear.'
With that, Wilson leans back and shuts his tired, drained eyes; mind laced with the lack of sleep and regrets from the things he had seen.
And the shadows laughed.
.
.
.
.
.
'Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.
And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.'
- Friedrich Nietzsche