From the sound of it, no one was actually asleep. I laid in our tent, backpack tight over my head, per usual - but even the thick wool and burlap couldn't drown out the sounds of rustling, feet shuffling about, the whispered conversations.

Those who were not coming with us, Fr33se included, seemed to be restless and troubled. As if the mood were blanketing the camp like a spell, filling every single one of us with unaccountable dread. Mostly, I just laid there with my eyes closed, trying to quiet my mind and get what rest I could. I think I drifted off, maybe three or four times - though, in the early hours before daylight, it's hard to tell what was remembered and what was only imagined in those eerie hours of night. I was sitting next to the World Tree, waiting, hours before dawn had arrived. But I was not the first, not by a half dozen. A coven of my restless, insomniac brethren. They whispered conversations and clung together, for warmth or comfort it's hard to be sure. But I didn't know them, and most I had recognized only from the council of Threes. So I kept my distance. I put my hand against the bark of the World Tree once, for luck. I'm not sure what I expected to happen. Announcements? New Skills? Buffs from touching a mystical fount? But no, the tree was about as mystical as Niagara Falls back home - somewhat impressive to look at, perhaps, but that was all there was to it. As the sun rose, Olum joined us. Standing on the rocks, forming a little stage for the even littler man. He cleared his throat and the conversation dimmed, though it did not die completely. Our nerves were running too high, and even otherwise seasoned guild members seemed unquiet and anxious. He didn't seem to mind, however, and he raised his voice for all to hear, "Good members of the esteemed guild of the Great Tree of the World, hear me." He began. If this was how the whole speech was going to be, I decided, I was probably going to throw up in my mouth a little. "Good Guild Members and brothers and sisters alike, you are our best. You are our our brightest. And, above all else, I am proud to be standing with you all today. Come what will, there is nowhere else I would rather be. And, if today is my last day alive, I would not take a last meal in Paris, nor a boat ride through Italy, over the chance to stand here all with you. Side by side. In the middle of fucking hell itself." Ya. There it was. Urgh, I took a long swig from my waterskin. And, I noticed, a few of the others here having the exact same idea. "But, our enemy today is ruthless. If we give him but a moment, he will swallow us up. And not even our souls will survive to regret our mistake today. No, in fact, I command you - if one of your brothers is about to be consumed, you are not to jump in the way! You are not to try to free them, nor heal them," his eyes met mine for a moment, with a disturbing intensity, "nor assist them in any other way. What you will do, and I will only say this once, is you will put an arrow between their eyes and pray they die before the beast has had it's way with them. Because at least, then, there is a chance, however small it is, that that soul will return. And some day, months or even years down the line, it will be one less of our own that we will have had to mourn." There was a low murmur at his words, as if the men and women around me were confused. Wondering if he was just talking a good show or if he, in fact, meant what he said. Well, I could tell them. We weren't in Disneyland, after all. No, we were in hell. And I supposed if shooting a friend in the face was the most horrific thing I would have to do today, I should count my blessings and give thanks to the Devil for his mercy. When Olum turned and started marching us toward the forest, the murmuring stopped dead. As if the true gravity of his words and of what we were about to do had stolen the breath from us - and stolen the words from the soldiers that followed. He called a cadence as he lead our march - quietly at first. Building, as we went, into a mournful yet merry tune: "Some where theres a mother She’s crying for her boy He’s an Hellborne Ranger With his orders to deploy Don’t you cry for him He don’t need your sympathy He’s an Hellborne ranger Thats the best that you can be "Some where theres a father He’s crying for his son Son’s an Hellborne ranger With a war on to be won Don’t you cry for him He don’t need you sympathy He’s an Hellborne ranger Thats the best that you can be "Some where there’s a sister She’s crying for her bro Bro’s an Hellborne ranger Thats the only way to go And don’t you cry for him He don’t need your sympothy He’s an Hellborne ranger Thats the best that you can be "Some where theres a daughter She's crying for her dad Dad was an Hellborne ranger Now he’s just a folded flag And don’t you cry for him He wouldn’t want your sympathy He was an Hellborne ranger Thats the best that you could be*

We walked on, somehow both pushed on and yet taking heart in the strange song. It was hours of walking, and the Threes took turns singing their little songs as we went. It made it seem a little bit less torturous, somehow - the little glimpses the songs gave of hope and of who we were. Before we has been consigned into this place, for eternity. After hours of walking, we would take a ten minute break. Threes would pass out flatbread and bring water around for anyone that needed it. I wasn't sure where the water came from, it didn't look like we had anyone rolling a barrel along or wheeling buckets with us, but I was never a one to look a gift horse in the mouth. And I took my bread and refilled my water with a word of thanks to the Threes. None of us were talkative, much. Especially not after the second break that we took. Hour seemed to pass into hour, and Olum lead us deeper and deeper into the darkening forest. As if he was being pulled along by some invisible compass that none the rest of us could see. When we made camp that night, Oluf and the threes assigning guard shifts randomly (though mostly to the other Threes). Honestly, it took the last of my willpower to pull my pack once more over my head. To wrap my woolen blanket around my face. I woke up several times that night, the chill of the forest creeping into my bones and joints as the fur had faded from my body. Leaving me to cycle between growing my thick coat of fur to warm up and get another hour of sleep, and sleeping soundly as the fur, in turn, faded away while the chill of the dirt seeped back into my aching body. It seemed like I hadn't slept at all yet, at the same time, like I had been laying on the stony ground forever, when Olum's voice rang out across the company. The sun hadn't even peaked over the horizen yet, not a single ray of light shown above us, but the crazy Dwarf had already decided that it was time to go. He walked through the camp personally shaking (and sometimes kicking) the sleepers who were loath to rise. It took twenty more minutes for everyone to get their stuff together. Some of us brushing our hair, some of us lacing and relacing our boots to fit over the swelling blisters. But, with Olum in charge, soon enough we were off and trudging into the still dark forest like nothing had happened at all. It was around our first break that we all started to figure out something was up. After the previous day, we could almost feel it when our hour was up - when it was time for us to finally sit again, for a moment, and have those few precious minutes of peace. But this time, instead of slowing down, it seemed like we picked up the pace - moving faster and faster, even while we were hushed into absolute silence. No one dared to utter a cadence, no one, even, dared to utter a word. You would think that would have warned us, that we would have been prepared, but, somehow, even still we weren't. We couldn't have been. Not for what we were blindly, slavishly running toward. No one could. There was no warning, none. Not as it started raining the strange, writhing things. They fell from the trees above us and, without a whisper, they started to latch on to our people with their five, twisted limbs. They were like starfish, I think. Five tentacled limbs surrounding a single hole. A hole with the sharpest, pointed teeth, that was always opening and closing - as if aching for something new to chew. Only these were larger than starfish, and while a starfish had bright, scaly skin, these had only the dull grey flesh of an octopus. They didn't do as much damage when they landed on a shoulder or an arm. They took a few bites before they could be stabbed, over and over again - until all of the creatures arms had been separated from their bodies, and left to twist, futility and menacingly, against the earth. Rather, it was the ones that managed to alight upon some poor soul's head that did the real damage. It never seemed to happen to the defenders, with their shiny metal helmets, but always to the mages or the swordsmen or the thieves. Instantly, the arms would wrap their way around the head, latching at the chin, and the mouth would start burrowing it's way into the delicious grey matter held within. Stabbing them was hard, and we even lost one of our own as someone's sword got overzealous - slamming down on the creature and splitting it's poor victim's skull in two. Most of them, however, fell to the razor strikes of a nearby thief or swordsman. A swordsman, lucky enough to have avoided an attack, separated the creature on his buddy into quarters, before it could get at the brain. After that initial attack though, it didn't stop. I was hard pressed to regenerate so many, and I dipped into my healing spells too when I thought I could spare them. With every step we took, deeper into that wood, it seemed like more and more rained down upon us - until we were holding our packs over our heads as they beat down from the trees like a summer storm. It was during the worst of the insanity that we had lost a second Guildmate to a creature who we just... didn't quite notice in time. Not in time to save him at least. Before I could even take a clipping of him, to try and restore him at some, later, time, before I could even react, there was a thunderous shattering. The trees in front of us splintered, ripped apart, as if with a giant hand. But it wasn't a hand, it was a tentacle. Like the smaller creatures that had been assaulting us non-stop for the last half an hour. It seemed to have five limbs, and where it's mass peeked out from the ruined forest, you could see the waiting teeth between them. Opening and closing. Opening and closing. Like the trees had been assaulted, the giant tentacles darted at us. Our defenders, mostly, managed to deflect the initial assault. But one of the swordsman got hit too - and before I could react, his crumpled, popped body flew far into the woods. Out of sight. It was horrific. Beyond anything that I could have ever imagined, even. But I had spent thousands upon thousands of hours, there in front of my computer... RPGs, my MMOs... well those hours had taught me my role. And I stood there, battered still with the rain of tiny, hungry, writhing limbs, even while restoring the tanks in front of me with an unexpected focus. My little beams of mist spun through the chaos - a small cloud of life whispering through the splintering wood, and limbs, and teeth... Yet someone was grabbed. Someone died. Not to the chewing mouth, but to a rain of friendly arrows, mercifully sending him to his torment. A few of the mages were not able to both cast and protect themselves from the rain of minions, and down one went; two. With the tiny creatures finally getting their chance, sucking hungrily at the distracted mages' most prized possessions. Dinner, right there in their skulls. Soon, too soon, I ran out of spells to heal. I emptied my staff in the first few minutes, without thinking. I just prayed that we would manage to survive that initial assault. I focused on my regeneration then, putting everything I had into maintaining the focus that I had practiced. But, occasionally, I failed. And we lost a tank to the creatures limbs and chomping jaws. Another one went down. A thief this time... he just couldn't quite dodge fast enough. And I realized, quick enough, that no Healing spell in the world could have saved him. Not from the sickening 'splat', as his body was crushed between the limb and tree. Yet another Tank fell. This time I was channeling everything I had, using every last spell. But it just wasn't enough and so... down he went. Again, the archers (mostly thiefs with bows, in retrospect) took him out before he met his fate, death by way of bestial jaws and teeth. Everything turned into a blur, dodging the little starfish children, yet struggling with everything I had to focus, to concentrate on regenerating the wounds of the too, too many injured in front of me. It could have been another five minutes. It could have been five hundred, for all of it that I remember. All I know is that, eventually, the creature went down. One limb had been torn off, the mages burning the stump. It would regenerate otherwise, we discovered. Another. Another. It seemed like a game of attrition, just a numbers play, where we fought only find out whether it had more arms than we did lives to feed it. I didn't even realize it, at first. Even as the flesh of the creature, of all its fallen children, they burned around me in a dark, purple flame. Status notification, after status notification, flashed in my face, but I couldn't read any of it. My mind just couldn't focus on the words. Rather, I stood there, channeling for all I was worth, even then, trying desperately to see through the cloud of nonsense letters that tried to drown my vision. It was Olum, I know, who finally said the words. Who, finally, stopped swinging his heavy hammer and looked up, looked around him. I remember hearing the words at first, not understanding what they meant, "It's dead..." He said them quietly to himself. As if unsure whether to believe. But then Olum raised his voice and shouted, deep baritone echoing through the devastated wood, "It's fuckin' dead! You fucking did it, boyos!" And we didn't cheer. No one stood up and no one said another word. Rather, it was like a collective sigh went out of us, and we, everyone, collapsed down on the ground in relief and in exhaustion. I ended up dismissing the prompts. My mind wasn't clear enough that I could make any sense of them. It was like I saw the words, but I couldn't figure out quite how to make them go together, how to figure out the sentences. So I put it aside and went through the survivors, healing and curing anyone who I could find. I took the dead too. I managed to convince some Defenders to roll the bodies together, the bodies that were left. I wasn't sure if I could resurrect all of them. I wasn't sure if they, or how many of them, were lost to us. So I just shrugged and bled across the lot of the bastards. Of course, it made it hard to tell, still, which were lost to us and which were just exceeding my spell limit So when four of them did, finally, get back up and look around like they had just awoken from a long sleep, it was as as confusing as it was a relief. I went ahead and took clippings, kept separately, for the ones who failed to rise. I would keep them and, two days from now, I would see who it was that still waited for my call. From the other side of the rift. The thing was... an Aberration. Aberrations... yes. I understood why they were called that now. We spent the rest of the morning in the clearing, resting and tending to our battered equipment. Few of us tended to our notifications. They weren't important. The important thing was only that we had survived. We had won. Olum didn't let us sit idle either. He set off at a brisk pace back toward camp. Back towards his home. And we followed. I'm not sure if it was just because we were so used, now, to following his orders, or whether it was because we knew that if we were left behind we would be utterly and unavoidably lost. Whatever, without a word of complaint, we all found ourselves falling into step behind him. Marching quietly under the sun's warming rays. It wasn't until two hours had passed, until we took our second break and were passing around the bread, that we finally started smiling. Started cheering and singing and chattering like soldiers who had just won their last battle. Someone lead us in a sea shanty, though I can't remember the words, now. It was lively and happy and fun. All the things that it should have been, I thought. And, as Olum stood in front calling us back into our march, we laughed and sung his own cadence back at him. This time, filled with joy and the absolute pleasure of having just survived. "Somewhere theres a mother She’s crying for her boy...