Mycology
Author's Note: Enjoy the story and R&R.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of Magic: The Gathering.
Summary:
A trapper pursues evidence of the legendary Shadowbeast on Innistrad, and is trapped by something far, far worse.
Paulin had been chasing the elusive Shadowbeast most of his life, ever since his father, also a trapper, was mauled to death by the beast in the forest when father was teaching his son how to snare his first major game.
The travellers who found the scared young boy hiding under muddy leaves and broken branches didn't believe his story about the Shadowbeast, repeating over and over it was a bear responsible for his father's gory exit. As an adult, however, Paulin had collected testimonies surrounding his father's true killer: A monster consistently described in each sighting as possessing twice the size and strength of the hardiest man, with grey fur covering all but its orangey face, two horns, hooked fingernails, and distinctively big feet that punched the ground loudly as it approached.
"Werewolves leave tracks. Vampires leave wrung-out corpses. This is something else."
At the end of his long search and countless trips through the Somberwald, Paulin couldn't help but feel angry and disappointed.
He'd captured corpse-eating and cottage-eating boars. Lifted a sword against werewolves. Battled demons after the reappearance of Avacyn.
He regarded the Shadowbeast as the Somberwald's chief predator, and the prey that defined his very purpose.
Yet something else other than this something else regarded the Shadowbeast as any other snack on the menu.
That is what Paulin found at the end of his long search: The Shadowbeast, a large animal nibbled down to a rotting carcass like any other large animal, its sown bits left to decompose.
"This is something else indeed."
Aware he was in the scavenger's midst, Paulin loaded his crossbow.
Small mushroom men with humanlike hands wiggled off the trees. Paulin identified them as sprouts of the deathbonnet variety. The wrong mushrooms to pick for the cook pot due to the potent poison they contained.
Sporecaps flowered with the Shadowbeast's blood, they emulated a wakedancer's dance, bobbing on their stipes. A cross section hulked out, sprouting one or two more crowns, fanged rings, and nettle claws.
They grow up so fast.
They had him trapped.
They laughed.
Paulin's weapon dropped without a shot.
He laughed.
These days, the former trapper stays clear of the forest. But the forest, in terrible flashbacks, doesn't stay clear of him.
Paulin has not forgotten the peculiar sounds. The whooping smacks and mumumuhahahahahahahahahahahahaha laughter of the mushrooms.
It wasn't hairy beasts one should be afraid of. The wolves, the werewolves, and the Shadowbeast.
No. It was the forest itself. The forest his father died in. The forest Paulin thought he knew like the back of his hand.
The forest that wouldn't let go. That'd never let the young boy move on, trapping him in its somber wood.
Obsession, growing over everything. A fungus, festering. Feeding off his appetite for vengeance for years.